 | Earl Goodwin |  |
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ACT II.
SCENE, a small Distance from the Abbey.Enter King Edward, Archbishop of Canterbury, Monks, &c. &c.
Edward.
My Lord Archbishop, I approve your zeal,
Yet must lament the error of a queen.
O feeble woman! lost when unrestrain'd,
And virtuous but from terror, how may man
Believe you innocent? your 'witching smile
We will suspect, your cheerfulness condemn,
Your friendships taint with calumny, and plead
The friend you dare approve is meant for vice:
Thus shall you live suspected, ev'ry joy,
Tho' guiltless, be arraign'd by the hot fiend,
Inhuman Jealousy! your sex's freedom
Be lost, and tyranny alone secure you.
Canterbury
(smiling.)
[Aside.]
The worst security a man may choose.
Edward.
Should this sad punishment now fail our purpose,
How shall we henceforth judge of woman's faith?
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That question kings or bishops ne'er can solve;
For virtue, the divinity within,
Cloath'd in her self-created radiance, smiles
Unseen on human judgment: yet, my liege,
Think woman needs example. Woman falls
If she but doubt our rules are not divine;
Then where's her basis, if we once permit
Her curious mind to stretch beyond our bound?
It must not be! custom and law are ours;
And when frail woman errs, we must enforce them.
Edward.
The work be thine—I'll shun the dreadful scene.
Canterbury.
'Twill ill become you to be absent: vice
Will shrink abash'd and glow with treble shame:
Your subjects will applaud a mind so pure,
So prone to justice; while religion shines
With double splendour, nourish'd by a king.
—Ye holy priests, whose piety can charm,
In scenes like this, the soul to resignation!
Haste to the joyless Emma, guide her on.
And sooth the riotous croud.
1st Priest.
Where may we meet?
Canterbury.
In the outward court, on the wide pavement, there
Lay the red ploughshares. Let the gates be thrown
Back on their hinges, lest the public eye
Meet with obstruction.
[Exit Priests.
Edward.
O thou awful pow'r!
That know'st the secret workings of my soul,
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The praise be thine—but, if I err, forgive me.
Canterbury
(aside, smiling).
How prudently man bargains for his faults!
[Bell tolls.
Edward
(starting).
Why sounds that doleful bell?
Canterbury.
The church must aid
The sad solemnity—at once she blames
And mourns her erring daughter.
Edward.
Lead the way.
[Exeunt.
Enter Alwine.
Alwine.
Be calm, my injur'd soul! no guilt is thine:
Then firmly stand the shame of public clamour
Immoveable as fate hath fix'd its laws.
Ages roll on of man so independent,
That not one hour, strange circumstance, delight,
Nor even ill, he dare pronounce his own.
One suffers for another's act: again
He wins upon a brother's woe. The cause
Of this now-seeming discord is not known;
Yet from these jarring atoms rise a whole
Of harmony complete.—O righteous heav'n!
Strike! strike betwixt vile Canterb'ry and me,
To mock the jear of time; stun loud reproach,
False wit, and laughing insult; or I turn
Bewilder'd from thy justice—Impious thought!
Could man's weak arm arrest event, and turn
Time from progression, what disjointed rage
Would beat the world's fair bosom!—No, my soul
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A life well spent, by nourishing revenge.
[Exit Alwine.
The whole of this speech has a sarcastic, not a serious meaning. Edward's conceptions of female excellence are narrow and resulting from ignorance; the language is accordingly adapted to his blind belief, that despotic rule over woman is infallible. How far the Prince is right, the cunning Prelate seems a proper judge.
Edward.
To what a point of horror am I led!
Here nature shivers, and abjures thy rule,
Unfeeling prelate!
Canterbury.
Punishment refines
The grosser particles of nature, leaves
The spirit justified; so should this act,
That scourges foul corruption, give thee peace.
[Bell tolls.
Hark! this is the dread moment!—silence all!
[From the back part of the stage, through an arch, enter Queen Emma veiled; a Guide attending. The Queen, unconscious of having passed the burning ploughshares, walks solemnly on.]
Emma.
Thou guard of innocence, be near me now,
And point my dang'rous steps!—treat me, just heav'n!
As I deserve, in this imputed guilt.
(To her Guide.)
—Why dost thou pause? I do not ask thy pity;
Then quickly lead me to the fatal irons.
Guide.
They're past, great queen.
(Emma faints. Edward supports her.)
Edward.
Auspicious, awful moment!
Live, virtuous queen! and be thy name enroll'd
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Emma
(reviving).
Unjust thy statutes, Edward.
Edward.
Truth like thine
Shall soar beyond the fetters of the law.
Dear art thou to my conscience, dearer still
To my exulting heart. Now who shall dare,
Ye rigid priests, to violate the name
Of Edward's mother?
Canterbury.
None.
Alwine
(to Canterbury).
But I would dare
To prove thee a most reverend traitor.
Emma.
Where
Shall I retire?—Oh, lead me where the gloom
Of night may wrap me in her thickest shade!
Shame sits upon the wind, makes the sun red,
And bursts the voice of echo. Honour, fame,
Are now no more, but as they rest on chance,
That makes or marrs them.—Edward, henceforth close
Thy lips, nor dare to breathe a mother's name,
Thou parricide of virtue!
Edward.
Hear me yet,
And I will make thee happy.
Emma.
No, fond boy,
The time is past, and thou can'st ne'er recal it.
Go, bring thy ploughshares, hold them to my eyes
Till the dim balls forget thee; bring thy whips,
Thy daggers, poisons fraught with blist'ring death,
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Because, thou art—my son!
Edward.
(aside).
Her words strike deep.
Emma.
Yet let me tell thee, Edward, I defy
Thy keenest torture when oppos'd to virtue,
And scorn thy tutor'd judgment!
Edward.
Pow'r divine!
Acquit my soul, as I design'd it well;
Forget the past, and think thy fame will shine
Thro' dark futurity—Thy former wealth,
Honour, estates, I here restore thee.
Canterbury
(aside).
So—
This shakes my pow'r; but I'll have full return.
Emma.
Where is the man with whom I was accus'd?
(To Canterbury).
Have thy deceitful practices ensnar'd him?
Alwine.
Behold him here!
Emma.
Good Alwine, cheer thy thought,
Nor let the malice of thy foes subdue thee.
I judge thy mind's confusion.
Alwine.
Alwine feels
No anguish for himself; the guiltless cause
He stands of Emma's suff'rings. I deplore
The future pangs thy gentle mind may feel,
When mem'ry paints this sad disgraceful scene.
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How weak the woman who dissolves in tears
At undeserv'd disgrace! Insult, well borne,
Affords a stubborn energy of soul,
When on the wing of purity she soars
Above man's feeble thought. Beware, good Bishop;
Blush not at false opinion, nor confound
Thy theory. Hast thou not strongly taught
The attentive croud to fix on good alone,
Heedless alike of censure or applause,
Each being indeterminate?—Now prove
Virtue is but dependent on itself.
Alwine.
I feel it is; yet shame oft dyes the cheek
Of the suspected innocent: its pow'r
O'erwhelms too soon the female mind.
Emma.
Not so!
When woman dares perfection, on her breast
She wears an ægis, which no poison'd dart
Of calumny can pierce.
Alwine.
I stand reprov'd.
Emma.
Should'st thou be stagger'd by appearance, where
Shall dawning Virtue fix her timid eye,
Or claim example?
Alwine.
Doubly blest by thine,
Thy sex, undaunted queen, shall bear the wrongs
Inflicted by too haughty man, and smile
With secret scorn on each officious fool,
Who, like poor Canterb'ry, shall toil in vain.
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No more! thou may'st repent thy jeer, proud bishop.
I could have ta'en thy life.
Alwine.
Home! home! and bathe
Thy guilt in tears of penitence; thy groan
Of deep contrition yet may sound in heav'n.
But O presume not on its tardy vengeance!
Trifle no more! but leave the horrid path
In which thou'st enter'd, ere thy wand'ring soul
For ever lose her point, and sink beneath
The heavy, heavy cloud of curst despair!
[Exit Alwine.
Emma.
Slander, more dire than poets ever feign'd
The gloomy Cerberus, may ope her jaws
Upon my fame; no lulling potion's mine,
Nor will I sooth the tripple-headed fiend,
But proudly dare opinion. Here I stand
Defam'd with Alwine. Fiery trials hold
No proof, though my weak Edward rests upon them.
But as my soul shall fix by her own law,
Nor rise or fall by others, I bequeath
Nine goodly manners unto Winchester.
Its bishop make my confessor: no thought
Shall rankle in my breast, of guilty hue;
But he shall help me to controul. Now learn,
Thou good archbishop, and thou pious king,
To play your superstitious arts on those
Who dare not think like Emma.
[Exit Emma.
Edward.
With what pow'rs
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Her dauntless spirit! am I not too weak?
That she is chaste, I now could wage my crown.
—O Canterbury! I would yet do right,
Tho' doubts and wild perplexities assail
My yielding mind.
Canterbury.
Have faith, my gracious sire;
Life is a troublous journey; as a king,
Much thou must bear, and much wilt sure obtain.
Edward.
Be it e'en so.
Canterbury.
Earl Goodwin boldly proves
How easily a subject may oppose—
(Aside).
The storm shall yet break on his head.
Edward.
Peace! peace!
We may condemn, not knowing what retards him.
Suspicion makes us cautious; but the breast
Is ne'er at ease in which it dwells. This day
Spend at my palace—much I need thy counsel.
[Exit Canterbury.
Enter Messenger.
Edward.
What answer now from Goodwin and his sons?
Messenger.
My liege, they all refus'd obedience.
[Exit Messenger.
Edward.
Ha!
Is discontent grown busy?
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Leofricke.
Arm, my king!
Earl Godwin is a rebel, and his fleets
Fall upward with the Thames, guided in chief
By furious Tostie: Harold, Swaine, and Girth,
Arrange their troops upon the banks.
Edward.
Their rage
Is vain; crowns are not mortals' dispensations:
Hath e'er the sun or moon's unwearied light
Left me but in a sanctity of thought?
Who better claims a crown? What pow'rs are thine?
Leofricke.
Five thousand vet'rans unto these are join'd,
The strength of Siward of Northumberland,
With valiant Rodulph.
Edward.
Fix thy strongest guard
Around our palace—Are the rebel troops
On Lambeth side?
Leofricke.
They are, my liege.
Edward.
Be swift,
And close each entrance to the town—proclaim
Goodwin a traitor.
Leofricke.
Where may we bestow
The queen Editha, trembling with her fears,
Rais'd by the tumult, she awaits?
Edward.
Away!
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May prove her best protector.
Leofricke.
On my knee
I beg my gracious king will yet accept
Her soft affections! in her father's crime
She bears no part—sweet innocence and beauty
Are hers: then deign to see her.
Edward.
Conscious honour
Forbids that to my bosom I should take
A woman fraught with guilt, whose craft conceals
The deep designs of Goodwin, and her brothers:
Much more I've cause to doubt; nor shall the sun
Sink to the welcome bosom of the west,
E'er frail Editha mourn her shame.—Retire!
Charge Canterbury, with some rev'rend monks,
To usher in the queen.
[Exit Leofricke.
The time ill suits
To hear a woman's plea; in some lone cell
She shall abide till we recal her: Vice
Poisons my private peace, and to the winds
Treason spreads wide his banners. Goodwin brings
A most puissant pow'r to seize my crown.
Forgetful of the pledge I hold, it seems
As he would dare my weakness; but I scorn
To bend, or own the snares of love.
Enter Editha, Canterbury, Alwine, and Monks.
Editha
(taking the hand of Edward).
My lord!
This awful day hangs on the wing of time,
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Each sigh that 'scap'd your heart, when Nature's voice
Oppos'd the iron rod of Law.
Edward.
What law
Of Edward's dare Editha deem so hard?
Editha.
A mother's suff'rings must affect my Edward.
Alas! why sternly thus withdraw your hand
From your Editha? why that frown? my heart
Already beats too heavily—your scorn
Will quickly bid its motion cease for ever!
—Have I deserv'd your hate?
Edward
(sternly).
Hast thou a soul
In which sincerity or conscience lives?
If so, throw by dissimulation, charge
Each practis'd poor assistant of thy sex
To sleep awhile; and answer me—how came
That Saxon minion, Nervi, in thy chamber,
Whence, flying thro' a secret door, he brav'd
Conviction?
Editha.
Where is he that dares avow it?
—I fear, my Edward, thou hast much more cause
To summon truth and candour to thy aid,
Than thy much-injur'd wife!
Canterbury
(aside).
Now for a cheek,
Of hue unchangeable as death!
Edward
(to Editha).
Thou wear'st
A necessary front of steady guilt:
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Stands thy accuser.
Editha.
Good Archbishop, say
It is not so.
Canterbury.
I dare not—nor do I
Accuse directly: but that I did see
The Saxon Nervi stealing from your chamber,
I must avow.
Editha.
Where are thy light'nings, Heav'n!
That this too-impious wretch so boldly braves them?
—Oh Edward! shake suspicion from thy soul,
That gnaws the root of happiness. Revenge
Chills not my bosom's tenderness—I look
With eyes of pity on thee, feel the storm
That ravages thy inward peace:—yet hear
The voice of truth, of innocence and love
In thy Editha; suffer me to heal
The pangs this holy hypocrite hath caus'd.
Edward
(enraged).
Presumptuous woman, hence! stubborn in guilt,
Thou willingly would'st throw thy load of shame
On this most worthy prelate. Edward's arm
Protects him; nor shall thy rebellious brothers,
Or traitor Goodwin, with infernal rage,
Insult his holy spirit.—Fathers! bear
The queen to Waltham Abbey—bid her fast,
Turn penitent, and pray till passion lose
Its burning empire in her breast—Away!
(Edward going, Editha holds him, kneeling.)
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Nay, go not yet! ah! hear, my much-lov'd lord—
My husband—king—by ev'ry name that's dear
To my fond heart! forego this horrid thought!
Give me not up to these unfeeling priests,
Who laugh at woe like mine! I know no crime!
Yet love—
Edward.
She owns it—
Editha.
Can it be a crime
To love my Edward! I will weep and pray
For thy repose; and, when the cares of state
Weigh down thy gentle spirit, I will cheer
The lonely hour—Oh! take me with thee!
Edward.
No;
Thy craft, thy father's treason, and my scorn,
Plead loud against thy pray'r. Unhand me!—Priests,
Obey my order.
Canterbury
(aside).
Thus far all goes right.
[Edward breaks from Editha, exit with Canterbury. Editha fainting, is supported by Alwine.]
Alwine.
Thou injur'd, innocent, ill-fated queen!
This vile injurious wretch, cas'd thick in guilt,
Bears much too pow'rful on thy soul and mine—
She lives!—Fathers, to you I must resign her;
Be tender of her, if your hearts are human.
My tears forbid my stay.
[Exit Alwine.
Editha.
Where is my Edward?
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To Waltham Abbey we must quickly guard
Your sacred person.
Editha.
Turn my ling'ring soul
From life's vast scene! farewel, my tender father!
In whose warm bosom I was nourish'd long,
Fearless of future ill, till fell ambition,
That bane of soft tranquillity, beguil'd
Thy love, and thou didst give thy child to Edward.
O fatal change! O diff'rence most accurst
Betwixt a father's and a husband's love!
—Too happy maid, who 'mid the rural throng
May'st chuse the object of thy guiltless heart,
Each loving and belov'd; while queens like me
Gaze thro' the horrid grate, with wishing eye,
To catch the beams of day—Tremendous gloom,
Where souls impatient mourn, but never lose
The image they adore—How shall I hail thee?
How waft that sigh to heav'n which Edward claims?
Yet—lead me on, ye scourges of the world,
Who teach seclusion benefits the soul,
I must obey, tho' reason scorn your pow'r.
[Exeunt.
End of Act II.
| Earl Goodwin | |