University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE near Lambeth, London.
Enter Goodwin, Harold, Girth, Tostie, Swaine, Leofwine, and Soldiers; Drums, &c.
Goodwin.
Strike up the sounds of war, till they awake
The drowsy spirit of the land! Arise,
Great genius of our isle! breathe thy fierce fires
Strongly into our bosoms!—Warm'd by thee,
My sons and fellow-soldiers shall despise
Each hour of vulgar circumstance, their hearts
Pant quick for action, only dar'd by those
Who stretch the thought thro' endless time. Despair
Bends down our sons of industry, pale want
Robs the young cheek of ruddy hue; while craft,
In venerable trimming, chains our king
To tyrant superstition. Then befriend,
Thou great unknown, our arms, if just; if rage,
Or private grief, malice, or cruel pride,
Be our incentives to this war, O wrest
Each sword from its fast hold, or turn the point
On ev'ry guilty breast.

Harold.
Hear, gracious Heav'n,
And aid our gen'rous cause. What is the word?

Goodwin.
Redress for England—Trumpets sound! strike loud,
Ye soul-reviving drums! till Edward feels
His frozen pow'rs dissolve, and boldly meets
Our army like a king.

[Drums beat, Soldiers shout, “Redress for England!” As they prepare to march, Trumpets are heard at a distance.]
Goodwin.
Hark! Edward's pow'r is near—Now, now, my sons,
May glory lift your souls beyond the stars,
Till you forget mortality! may life
Be deem'd no more than a rich spark, that glows
With brightness and must out. I'll lead you on
Amid their thickest troops: but—if I drop,
O do not pause, or pay the filial tear,
Till you have time to weep!—Fall on, and strike
For England's wrongs—for Emma! Think not then
On Goodwin's lost Editha.

Harold.
We'll forget,
At that great moment, nature's soft'ning plea,
Nor list to aught but justice.

All going, enter an Officer from the King's Army.
Officer.
I am sent
As th'ambassador of peace.

Tostie.
Thy errand
Is now ill tim'd—On!—on—

Officer.
Our gen'ral claims
A parley with Earl Goodwin.

Goodwin.
Be it so.

Tostie.
Nay, let it not be so, my noble Lord—
Lead on to vengeance.

[Goodwin confers with the Officer apart.
Harold.
Tostie, thou art fierce
As the untutor'd Arab—Shall we tear
The father from his child, the blooming youth
From his lamenting mother, forcing them
To bare their bosoms to our swords, if peace
May be obtain'd with honour?

Tostie.
Coward!—

Harold.
How!
Dar'st thou defend that word? if so—but hold—
The hour may come, when thou wilt not condemn
A father thou should'st much revere.

Tostie.
By heav'n!
I will condemn a father if he shake.
But for a dastard brother, who can sit
On the warm lap of time, mouthing event
With poor grimace, then shrink, and mercy beg.
Why, Harold, know, such tremblers ask me nothing,
Such fathers, such loud brothers, throw away
Tostie's affections for his lasting scorn.

Harold
(enraged).
Arrogant vaunter! try—

Goodwin
(coming up to them.)
What answer, Harold,
To Leofricke?

Harold
(aside to Goodwin).
How my heart swells!—We'll hear him—
Our troops may here be cautiously arrang'd
O'er Lambeth fields, our choicest men drawn out;
Meanwhile the fleet of Tostie shall not move.

Tostie
(aside).
Am I thus curb'd?—shall I obey the rein,
Like a reluctant steed that beats the dust,
While kept but in the view of enterprise?

Goodwin
(to the Officer).
Thus much to your right valiant gen'ral say,
That hostages on either side be given,
And we will meet him with our force in part
Near Westminster; conditions shall be signed
By England's king, or he must meet the war.

Officer.
My lord, this message shall in full be given.

[Exit Officer.
Goodwin.
This slumb'ring monarch is so dead to glory,
So chill'd by pennance and abstemious rule,
That his weak spirit dares not look abroad,
Or soar thro' wide creation. Could he burst
Beyond those useless forms, shake off the chain
With which these crafty priests have bound his soul,
Like us he'd fear but one immediate cause,
Nor deem a pope more welcome than himself
To bright Omnipotence;—but Edward bends
A people's blessings to his private good,
Scorning the heav'nly attribute of mercy.

[Exeunt.
SCENE The Palace.
Enter King Edward and Archbishop of Canterbury.
Edward.
Goodwin's bold daring does not much surprize me;
For he's of sullen and ungodly spirit:
But that my people in such num'rous throngs
Should join the rebel, grieves me. I have reigned
By thy strict rule—my wealth I do not hold
But to the glory of the church—her wants
I have supply'd with willing hand—her sons
I do esteem my brethren: then will Heav'n
Leave me to my licentious foes?

Canterbury.
Rely
On Heav'n with strongest faith, and murmur not;
For discontent is oft times reprobation.

Enter Leofricke.
Leofricke.
My gracious liege, I must attend you where
The Saxon duke with all his daring sons
Await your presence: hostages are given,
Tend'ring your safety.

Edward.
What are their conditions?

Leofricke.
We know not yet.

Edward.
Are all thy pow'rs compleat?

Leofricke.
They are, great Sire—but all your Nobles wish
To spare th'effusion of your subjects blood.

Edward.
I yield to Heav'n! and now if horrid war
Sweep off whole millions, I should think it meant
But as a chastisement for our great sins.
The body of my people is too proud,
Voluptuous to excess; nor e'er content
With necessary comfort.

Canterbury.
No—they call
Loudly for liberty: their threats have reach'd
Our pious King; and monarchy now reels.

Leofricke.
May I conduct your Majesty.

Edward.
Lead on.

[Exeunt.
SCENE, Westminster.
Goodwin, Harold, Tostie, Swaine, Girth, and Leofwine, with Soldiers, on one Side; Siward, Rodulfe, with the King's Party, on the other.
Goodwin.
Why stays the King leaving us time to doubt?
—The hour's expir'd.

Siward.
Not so, brave Earl—for me,
I'd rather join the ring with village maids,
And skip to the wild music of a reed,
Than aid this war:—I would not kill thee, Goodwin,
So much I love thy virtues: but should rage
Bid thee oppose thy sword to Siward's heart;
Why then, would Nature, in her saving mood,
Rouze Siward's spirit to that furious charge
Which fools term honour, wise men folly.

Goodwin
(smiling.)
I'll shun thee in the combat.

Siward.
Then I'll say,
Goodwin doth from a coward run away.

Goodwin.
Thou art not so, I've seen thee fight.

Siward.
I've seen
Prodigious and old-fashion'd things: a King
So good his people bless'd him; women wise;
A fop at pray'r; and once I did observe
A courtier ceas'd to fawn; an aged statesman,
With head of silver foliage, spurn'd the block,
Yea threw the ax on his good Prince's toes;
—Then smil'd at legal murder: Such strange things
Have no accompt, like Siward's valour.

Harold.
Hold!—

Enter Edward and Canterbury, with Leofricke.
Edward.
Now daring Saxons, why are you aggriev'd?
Speak loud your injuries, if such you feel,
But weigh your clamours against truth.

Goodwin.
I dare,
And truth shall sound my clamours with a voice
That shall apall thee! England speaks by me,
Pleading her public funds are deeply drain'd
To swell the priestly revenue. Her sons
Oppress'd, till they forsake the glebe untill'd,
And stand like statues stiffen'd by despair.

Edward.
And whither tends thy bold harrangue?

Goodwin.
Yet hear,—
Relieve thy people's burthen.—Why affright
The simple mind from honest toil, or charge
The clown with ghostly cumbrance? If thy priests
Act for the Deity, ah, bid them spare,
Like him, a pow'rless race!

Edward.
Thou'rt bold and rash.—
But on,—one remedy may serve for all.

Goodwin.
Thy mother, by the influence of thy monks,
And wily Canterbury, was to shame
A public sacrifice.

Edward.
Why wilt thou err?
—It cleared her from imputed guilt.

Goodwin.
Not so,
The black suspicion still remains! What law,
What vulgar scourge, or burning iron clears
The tainted thought o' the people?

Edward.
Should a woman,
Once nam'd unchaste, oppose our priest's example?
That were to give the reign to vice.

Goodwin.
When priests
Can fright a King from her he ought to love,
Their precepts must be holy! Hear me yet,
—The sum of all our troubles shall be brief:
First, thou the heavy tribute shall remit
Of forty thousand pounds, now yearly paid
Under the term of Dane-gelt, by thy clause
The clergy being exempt. Thou next shalt own
Thy wife Editha as a Queen, and take
The guiltless mourner to thy arms; then curb
The monkish pow'r; vile Canterbury banish;
And we will claim no more.

Edward.
He shall not go!
I will not banish him.—

Goodwin.
Strike up the drum!

Siward.
Stay, noble Goodwin!—be not rash.

Goodwin.
Return
Our hostages, and take your own!

Leofricke.
My Leige,
Why do you pause? The horrors of a war
Are dreadful: join with him, his claims are good;
—He may yet benefit your land.

Edward.
Shall I
Yield to a subject?

Leofricke.
Pow'r so great as his,
May scarcely own subjection.

Canterbury.
Send him hence!
His troops shall scatter, with affrighted thought,
When pure religion o'er the million rears
Her aweful standard. Subjects long inured,
Long check'd by conscience, dare not aid his cause;
My pow'r shall weaken the proud Traytor!

Goodwin
(enraged).
Fly!
Thou vulture, feeding 'mid a nation's woe!
Let me not shed the venom of thy heart
On th'innocent bosom of the earth. My sons,
Here is no hope—we must away.

Tostie.
O shame
On wordy combat!—hence!— (aside tauntingly)
Now, gentle Harold,
May th'untutor'd Tostie fight?

Goodwin.
Farewel,
Unthinking Edward! Ghastly visag'd war
Shall soon o'erwhelm thy land, and teach thee justice.

Edward
(scornfully).
Go, vaunting Saxon! When didst thou subdue
A British King by threats?

Goodwin.
Threats I despise:
Nor would I kindle fury or revenge
Within thy bosom.—Let me then persuade
I am thy subject, love thee as a man;
In gen'ral prize my fellow creature's lives,
And would increase their earthly joys, nor lead
Their minds from truth. Yet when a num'rous throng
Of wretches groan beneath the scourge of craft,
I dare oppose thy rule, and bid them live.

Edward
[Aside.]
Where are my resolutions!

Goodwin.
Own, my son,
The godlike pow'r of blessing; millions trust
To thee, and thy award despotic stands,
Tho' thousands in a long succession fall
From thy dread laws effect: soft peace is thine
And on her lap thy poorest slave may rest.
Plenty is thine; nor should her fruitful store
Be thus divided by a Sovereign's hand
Among the lazy few. Oh, Edward, think
A King is of dire import to the world
When he unjustly, or unwisely acts.

Enter the Pope's Legate, with pomp.
Edward, confused, bows abjectly.
Legate.
Why do the cries of mis'ry break the air,
Sounding most loudly from the lowly cell
Where lank obscurity would freeze the heart?
The laws of England cool the peasant's hearth,
Whilst in the cradle his weak offspring dies!
What may we call thee, Edward? dar'st thou stand
'Gainst pow'r infallible, and shake the charm
Of holy vassalage from thy weak soul?
Know, King, within that charm lies hidden strength.
“How comes it then, his Holiness demands,
“That his most just observances are strain'd
“To general torture?” When he bade thee use
The ordeal fire, he meant not that the heat
Should reach a Queen.

Goodwin.
Beware, most rev'rend Legate.—

Edward.
The oath of Canterbury solv'd my doubt,
Nor did he teach the diff'rence.

Goodwin.
He was right.
Dare Queen's plead a prerogative to sin?
Or Princes give their precedent to break
Statutes they have (howe'er unwisely) form'd?
The ordeal law swells with contagion,—ills,
Minute as particles of poison, grow
To instantaneous magnitude within it:
But if enforced by Edward's sov'reign hand,
Let Queen and Cottager yield to the plague.

Legate.
Be calm, good Earl, my errand is to thee,
And England's King.—Our Bulls have been misused
To sanctify false deeds: deeply profan'd
Are our indulgences and absolutions:
While to this Prelate, ripe in dark misdoing,
We trust the guidance of this pious Monarch.
Therefore his Holiness by me presents,
Unwillingly, this list of many errors
Committed by weak Canterbury.

[Presents a paper.]
King reads.
Edward.
Shame
Await the haughty Monarch who shall turn
From sounds of Truth? Conviction struggles here
And long-establish'd confidence is fled.
O Canterbury! had'st thou ever borne
The weight of empire, thou had'st ne'er aspir'd
Beyond the sweet serenity that dwells
Within the cloyster. Contemplation there
Bears the kind spirit o'er a toiling world,
While from the speculative draught she throws
Benevolence and pity on the wretched.
But me!—thou hast deceiv'd! Me, thou hast led
From pale affliction's plaintive voice! Oh pomp!
What hast thou in exchange for one man's truth?
—How shall I act?—

Goodwin.
Reflect one moment, Edward!
Avow strong virtue thine. Open thine arms,
And take thy honest subjects to thy heart.

Legate.
First take this man that pleads not for himself.

Edward
(embracing Goodwin.)
It must, it shall be so, O father! friend!
Trembling confusion crubs my tongue; yet take
My soul in silent transport! Henceforth prove
The guide of Edward; to thy prudent hand
I trust the wide direction of my realm.

Canterbury
(aside).
My sun of glory rushes from his sphere
Nor takes a slow decline:—why what a gloom
Doth nature in one moment seem to wear!

Goodwin.
Blest hour that seals mine and my country's peace,
Crushing fell discord, e'er her venomn'd sting
Could strike our hardy Britons! Harold, haste
With Tostie, and our party thro' the gates:
Without the town I'll meet you, first this peace
We'll ratify by oath.—For You Arch-Bishop,
No more we'll meet within this sea-girt isle;
Thou art a deep-disease, a growing-evil,
Which must be cut from out the heart o' the King,
Who else might perish with thee.

Canterbury.
Haughty Duke!
Tempt not my vengeance! here I stand the mark
Of laughing-insult: so disgrac'd and fall'n,
That the loud-many hooting as I pass,
Shall cause more pennance to my wounded soul
Than might obtain a heav'n! yet do I scorn
Thy settled malice.

Edward.
Then hear my command:
Which is, that singly thou dost leave this town.
If thou'rt disguis'd thy person may be safe.
This paper holds a list of thy extortions
From the poor peasantry, throughout my realm,
And many clamours from my people rise
Respecting thy misdeeds. If true religion
Be thine, it may support thee:—man's short life
Is but a sojourn, change of place ensues,
And no one spot without its sorrows. Thought
Hangs back upon the past, bringing the shades
Of those lov'd objects we must clasp no more;
Awhile they rend the soul, but lenient-time
Steals gently o'er the ravages they make,
Till ev'ry storm is lull'd to calm content.

Canterbury.
Mistake me not, good King, firm, undismay'd
I leave thy kingdom: Canterbury's soul
Can ne'er, by man, be humbled; distance, time,
Heav'n's promised bliss or threaten'd pangs of hell,
Shall never make me aught but Goodwin's foe.

[Exit Canterbury.
Edward.
What pride supports him!—Leofricke, our troops
May haste unto their sev'ral homes, and taste
Soft comfort lately left: my rev'rend friend,
With this good Earl, his sons and valiant Siward,
Some few hours hence will at our palace meet.

Goodwin.
Harold and Tostie, join our troops; while Girth
Brings on the rearward; near the close of eve
I will attend you.

(Exit all but Harold and Tostie.
(As Harold is following the Party).
Tostie.
Harold!

Harold.
Speak thy wish.—

Tostie.
I wish thee instantly to prove thy right
Of acting proud dictator; checking me,
And jeering my opinion. Were my troops
With vast expence brought hither for thy mirth?
—This suits not Tostie.—

Harold.
Did it suit thee well,
When I but calmly spake, to term me coward?

Tostie.
I nam'd thee justly:—go—bring on our army
To seal a vile inglorious peace: no tongue
But thine, whose soul is chill'd by sudden fear,
Would dare to move upon so vile a subject.

Harold.
Farewel, thou valiant but ferocious Saxon!

Tostie.
Nay stay! tho' Tostie's rage should from his cheek
Throw one deep blush on ocean's gen'ral bosom,
He could not change the colour of thy lip.
Snow-drops look whiter as the welkin rears
Unnotic'd; while the spirits of the air
Imbrown with freezing blast the infant spring.
O thou art cold as winter, pale as light,
And dastardly as woman!

Harold.
Must I act
Beneath humanity, tho' thou art mad?
Tostie, thou art of fierce and cruel nature,
And pleas'd with horror: in thy youthful hours
I've seen thee pluck the feathers of a dove,
While she was rich with life. Ah, Tostie, learn
Barbarity is cowardice!

Tostie
(draws).
Then dare it.

Harold.
Thou art my brother!

Tostie.
No, thy mother wrong'd me.
Thou canst not be the son of noble Goodwin!

Harold
(draws.)
Irrev'rend traytor! Mother stretch thine eye
Down from thy seat of bliss; while, for thy sake,
I do chastise thy wild degen'rate boy.

Tostie.
Perdition seize thee, lazy trifler! Fly!
Or guard thyself.

Harold.
Most willingly to guard
A mother's fame, and Goodwin.

[They fight, Tostie is disarm'd by Harold].
Tostie.
Cursed chance!

Harold.
I will not take thy life, but for thy sword
I'll keep it till thou hast more cause to pierce
A brother's breast.

[Exit Harold.
Tostie.
Rise dæmons of despair!
Ye, who are wont to sting the suff'ring soul!
Chiding fair patience till her heav'nly breath
Cools not the burning agony.—Oh shame,
Surround me with thy bluest sulphur!—Life!
What are thy charms weigh'd now with endless sleep?
I will not hold thee in! Do I not blaze
In hottest infamy? Perish ye ties
Of nature: father! brother! I renounce
All pleas but those of firm and lasting rage.
Tostie shall with an hideous ruin fall!

[Exeunt.
SCENE the Outside of the Archbishop of Canterbury's Palace.
Enter Canterbury disguised as a Monk.
Canterbury.
An exile!—banish'd! my astonish'd soul
Dwells on the sound, as if it held a depth
Of horror still unknown! Banish'd! it strikes
Most forcibly.—O Goodwin, thou hast lash'd
Thy steeds of glory, till thou hast o'er-reach'd me;
And now I fall more helpless than the babe.
Revenge, where art thou? on the pow'rful arm
Thou own'st success, while I am driv'n forth
Thro' woods and dreary deserts to lament
My fate without thee! Could my dagger's point
But meet the throat of Goodwin ere I go,
My soul would still retain her pride. O Heav'n!
Add a few hours unto my bounded time
Of tarrying here, and welcome may'st thou cut
Double the number off my brittle life,
And this world's reck'ning! Time thou art the steed
On which fools ever sleep laden with schemes,
Dull fears, and lazy wishes.—To the wise,
Thou art the light'ning of o'ertaken-thought,
Embodying and throwing into act
The mind's more cool and latent meaning.—I
Have giv'n a loose far on, yet might I hold
One chance; upon it would I darkly force
Such circumstance as would avenge my wrongs.
[Enter Lodowicke passing hastily].
Hoa! Lodowicke!

Lodowicke.
That voice I sure have heard.
What would'st thou stranger?

Canterbury.
Quarrel with disguise
That hides lost Canterbury from thy view.
But time suits not, I must be brief: thou'rt come
To take a long farewel.

Lodowicke.
Of whom, my lord?

Canterbury.
Of me; thou hast not fail'd in secret furth'rance.
But we've a foe.

Lodowicke.
What foe?

Canterbury.
Earl Goodwin.

Lodowicke.
There
We've ever felt a curb: but why disguis'd?

Canterbury.
Goodwin's opinions flash on Edward's mind.
Teach him to doubt; while doubting, lead him on
To seek the grand original of things.
Rome's powerful legate seals my deep disgrace,
While for eternal banishment I yield
To this proud Earl my honours.

Lodowicke.
Banishment!
Thou dost confound my sense—How may I prove.
My friendship for thee?

Canterbury.
Friendship knows no law,
No bound in nature; 'tis the soul's fierce flame,
That in itself absorbs a deed, and turns,
By its dissolvent principle, the essence
Of vice to mildest virtue.

Lodowicke.
Why so cool?
Hast thou a doubt?

Canterbury.
I have.—Granting I had not,
What would'st thou do to prove thy boasted friendship?

Lodowicke.
Occasion is a loit'rer to my will,
Nor can my knowledge serve: instruct me—

Canterbury.
Swear!

Lodowicke.
Ye pow'rs of justice! if—

Canterbury
(hastily interrupting.)
Hah! saving clause
Of mungrel villany! What simple wretch
Would meekly bear pride's wounding insult, if
He dar'd avenge himself? What lovely maid
Would virtue fix on self-denial, if
She dar'd be less severe? What hungry knave
Would thriveless spread the snare of cunning, if
He boldly dar'd to give a master-stroke,
And foil by craft, rogues richer than himself?
—Go, thou art timid to a fault.

Lodowicke.
Thou'rt wrong;
I yet would serve thee.

Canterbury.
Swear thou wilt obey
My deep instruction, should'st thou be absolv'd
From guilt.

Lodowicke.
What may I swear by?

Canterbury.
By that pow'r
Thou hast most cause to fear.

Lodowicke.
By that sole cause
Who sits decisive as the judge of man.

Canterbury.
Goodwin must die!

Lodowicke.
Hah! murder?

Canterbury.
Wilt thou start
At one convenient act?—Remember, Monk,
The blooming Arthur, rich in ev'ry claim
Of interceding youth, did'st thou not wrest
His spirit from her mansion? Did'st thou not
(I privy to the guilt) accuse this Earl,
And poison his fair character, full charg'd
With the young prince's murder? Why did we
Dare thus the troubled sea of damning pride,
If not resolv'd to reach the glitt'ring shore?
What's life without pre-eminence? What slave,
Doom'd to throw pebbles at the changeful moon
(For such is man's great farce) would ceaseless drudge,
Could he lure fool-created Edward on,
And scourge him to the office? I am hurl'd
From heights on which my firmest virtues broke:
But with me thou shalt perish—Farewel priest.

[Exit Canterbury.
Lodowicke.
O guilt! till now I never felt thy snares.
Retreat is death—He's gone!—Where may we pause,
When once launch'd forth in evil? Should the king
Have knowledge of our crimes, his doom is seal'd,
Mine yet to come with full exposure. Shame!
Thou limping substitute of the soul's worth,
Thou com'st not but in secret to our aid,
Nor aid'st us till we're lost!—I must obey.

[Exit after Canterbury.
Enter Alwine and Attendants.
Alwine.
Here stands the unhappy Canterbury's palace,
Within whose walls sat purple-vested Guile,
Planning her persecutions. All is still:
No more the doors turn swiftly to receive
The might minister of England's ruin;
No more shall Wisdom's unsupported son
Here seek preferment with an honest blush,
That spake his soul invaluable, and sham'd
The haughty donor. See, my friends, how soon
Fade life's external beauties.

Attendant.
We are late:
I fear, my lord, the roads to Winchester
Are filled with riotous troops.

Alwine.
Lead thro' the woods;
Confusion roars but round the city. Blest
Is the poor villager, now toiling far
In the deep bosom of some flow'ry vale;
His brow wears sweet content, his guileless heart
Beats true to nature's transport; while his hearth,
Surrounded by his happy offspring, shines
More enviable than Edward's throne. Haste on,
For I am out of humour with the day,
That yields no vict'ry but to horrid guilt.

[Exeunt.
SCENE, at a trifling Distance from the Palace of Canterbury.
Lodowicke and Canterbury.
Lodowicke.
I would 'twere done! it lies oppressive here,
[Laying his hand on his bosom.
Tho' wrapp'd in thin design. How are we form'd,
That, while we start, e'en at the horrid purpose,
We do the deed accurst?

Canterbury.
Mere fancy all:
Men are machines, nor act by nice precision;
Necessity of circumstances bind
The will upon the act, or we should sleep
Dispirited life away—Unruly passions,
Dissolving wishes, appetites, and wants,
Are springs that move stupendous order.

Lodowicke
(holding a paper.)
Go!
And leave me to fulfil this dreadful oath.

Canterbury.
Give me that paper—my revengeful soul
Shall feed on its contents: this oath will sooth
My unappeased spirit as I move
Insulted thro' the world. Retire with me,
And I'll absolve thee from the sin, but leave
Thee pow'r to execute. O fell despair!
When innocence is lost, we fly to thee.

[Exeunt.