University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE, The Palace, Throne, Chair of State, &c.
Enter King Edward and Queen Emma.
Emma.
Thy zeal, my son, is as a guideless flame,
Whose infant spark was only meant for comfort.
False are the shades of sickly fancy, ting'd
With hot enthusiasm. Thou oft dost mew
Thyself within thy closet; while thy people
Complain aloud of public ill, thine ear
Is never tun'd to their complaint: the Monks
Confine thee to themselves, nor give thee time
For even moral action.

Edward.
Can'st thou place
An isthmus in the soul, divide her joys,
Reduce her highest hope to poor convenience,
And teach the spirit's extacy to move
Mechanically to the times?—O no!
External good is nought, for Edward scorns
The transient joys of life; beyond the grave
His views dare reach; there is his lasting good.

Emma.
Like some rapt visionary, thou dost plead,
Who hopes to gain a distant scene of bliss,
Forgetful of the means. What hast thou done,
With means so amply given? What mourner, rais'd
From mis'ry's flinty bed? What son of woe,
Led from the dreary prison, and wip'd off
Its damps from his pale forehead? Thou can'st pray,
And pray most loudly; but an act like this
Shall blazon in the eye of Heav'n, whilst thou
Shalt whine unnoticed.

Edward.
Dost thou scorn devotion!

Emma.
No, but I scorn the form without the essence.
Serve, love thy people; bid thy Monks kneel down
To pray for thee: then, should their voices fail,
Remember the lone widow's blessing—smiles
Of grateful orphans and of trembling age
Shall plead for Edward.

Enter Lodowicke, with a Paper.
Edward
(reads.)
Thou art commended here, as one of worth,
To be my ghostly confessor: be it so,
Now Canterbury's gone, who seem'd to me
The spirit of faith. Did I not weep and kneel
Observant to his rule, till this frail flesh
Seem'd lost to all its purposes? Bright visions
To my strong fancy stood reveal'd; while scenes
More bright than Mahomet hath form'd his bow'rs,
Struck on my ravish'd sense.

Lodowicke.
Ha! this works well.
[Aside.
My liege, this righteous man must yield; his foes
Strike hard for this world's 'vantage; let them take it,
He waits a better state—Ah! how unlike
The stubborn Alwine!

Emma.
Holy raven, peace!
Thou that can'st croak and flutter round the church,
Scaring the vulgar with thy direful sound,
Till their thick fancies dress the midnight shade
In images of horror, death, and woe.
The soul of Alwine sits upon his tongue,
And his pure practice holds a mirror, where
The semblance of his virtues shine too bright
For eyes like thine to fix on.—So the sun
In his meridian glory dares mankind,
Who close the lid on his effulgence. Weak
And false is thy corrupted judgment. Errors,
Unnumber'd as the atoms which compose thee,
Rise to obstruct thy mental optics: these
Thou dost mistake for blemishes and spots,
Fix'd 'mid expressless glory. Clear thy soul
From mists of pois'nous quality, or turn
Thine eye from Alwine.

[Exit Emma.
Edward
(to Lodowicke).
Grieve not, gentle priest;
Queen Emma may be rash, yet is her mind
Endu'd with strength more firm than manly wisdom.
Retire! this is the hour when dove-ey'd peace
Shall spread her shining pinions o'er the land.

[Exit Lodowicke.
Enter Siward with a Paper—He presents it to the King, who sits.
Edward.
These are our terms of peace—Where is the Earl?

Siward.
Adjusting his white locks, my liege. He swears
The world was never honest till this hour.
No knave, he says, can taste our English air;
But, like a frog in Ireland, he expires.
No husband murmurs at a wife that's old,
No minister loves pelf.

Edward.
His anxious heart,
By thy description, is releas'd from care.

Enter Goodwin, Swaine, Leofwine, and Leofricke.
Edward gives the Paper to Goodwin.
Edward.
May this our league for ever last! nor grief
Corrosive prey upon my people. Say,
Earl Goodwin, if yet any act remains,
Whereby King Edward may relieve his subjects.

Goodwin.
Where is Queen Emma, and my dear Editha?
Goodwin, without their presence, is unjoyful.
My child, I think, is tardy.

Edward.
If thy daughter
Receive thee not, the fault is hers.

Goodwin.
By hea'vn,
She ne'er was guilty of a fault like this!
And if she now assume a stubborn spirit,
It cannot be her own; for she is mild
As Zephyr, when he dances on the leaf
With scarce discerned motion. Much I fear
Thou dost mistake Editha.

Edward.
She was sent
This morn to Waltham Abbey.

Swaine.
Wherefore, King?

Leofwine.
My sister's wrong'd! King Edward, prove my fears
Are false, or our conditions may not stand.

Goodwin
(to Leofwine.)
Whom would'st thou teach? Be calm!—Thy sister's wrongs,
If wrong'd she be, shall claim as good a sword
As thine, tho' passion ne'er directs its point.
Hence, boys, to Waltham Abbey; bring her to me,
That I may hold her to my bosom—Why
Was she sent thither?

Edward.
Goodwin, search no more
The wounds my fond credulity hath made.
Young Leofwine and Swaine, conduct her hither,
And gay festivity shall crown the night.

[Exit Swaine and Leofwine.
Goodwin.
Now, chearful Siward, am I proud to meet thee
Where the hoarse growl of discontent is lull'd,
And peace and social friendship warm the heart.
Had war's impetuous fury rais'd our swords
Against each other's breast, one must have fallen.

Siward.
And that odd one been luckless Siward.

Enter Harold hastily.
Harold.
War!

Goodwin.
How? War! Who leads it at this ill-tim'd hour,
When ev'ry wound is healing?

Harold.
Tostie.

Goodwin.
No!
Thou art affrighted, Harold.

Harold.
He hath slain
My servants, and hath sent the gory head
Of my old faithful steward, with this message,
That Harold's head shall fit his steward's shoulders.

Goodwin.
What cause hath he?

Harold.
Wild with reproachful rage,
He swears himself dishonour'd by our peace.

Edward.
Ungen'rous youth! Where are his forces, Harold?
In single combat will I meet his shock,
And save my people. Goodwin, if I stand
The mark of treason, and thou think'st my death
Will prove a blessing to the realm, strike here;
But lure me not with prostituted friendship.

Siward.
Goodwin is no assassin, I'll be sworn.
Nature, when blind and drowsy, made him honest;
Nor can he do the drudgery of treason—
O! he is idle in vile matters.

Harold.
Girth
Bars Tostie's passage toward the palace—

Goodwin.
Hence!
Fly, Leofricke, to arms! Strangely severe
Seems Justice, when she bids a father throw
The gauntlet to his child.—Ah, weary age!
—Come on, brave Siward.

Siward.
Trust me, I'll not fly
Till heav'n shall deem my spirit worth acceptance.

Goodwin
(to Edward).
Then follow me—Risk not thy valu'd life,
But trust this guideless tumult to thy friends;
Once quell'd, the charm of confidence shall bind
The ardent soul of Goodwin to his King.

[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a Wood.
Enter Canterbury.
Canterbury.
Thro' these lone woods I singly take my way;
Nor dare I at yon distant village rest—
So much I fear the fierce plebeian throng:
Their threats have pierc'd my ear—But gaudy pow'r
Secur'd me long from vengeance; that I've lost—
All pow'r disowns me now, save what this arm,
And this poor dagger can afford. May war,
Loud uproar, and wild anarchy, conspire
With ev'ry dreadful engine to destroy
The peace of Goodwin.—Who comes here?—His face,
Who comes in furious sort, I've somewhere seen.
I'll hide me in the covert of this wood.

Enter Tostie and Soldiers.
Tostie.
Curse on your dastard souls! you want my wrongs
To nerve your arms. Did I not see you shrink
From furious Harold?—Sound a swift retreat,
And with your terrors aid the blast. My troops,
Placed on the summit of yon hill, remain
Unbroken. Bid them quickly fill my ships,
Whose helms are turn'd for France—Away!
Exit Soldiers.
This land
Shall on her breast feel iron-footed war,
Till with the horrid pressure she atone
For Tostie's injuries. Triumphant Harold,
Most bitter art thou to my soul. Revenge
For my insulted honour shall bring back
Thy foe to England; if I conquer, then
My only meed shall be the crown of Edward.

[Exit.
[Tostie goes off near the Place of Canterbury's Concealment.
SCENE changes to a farther Part.
Enter Alwine and Attendants, on their way to Winchester.
Alwine.
How chearfully the birds from ev'ry bough
Chaunt down the sober evening in her course.
These scenes seem hallow'd to fair contemplation;
For here the soul may sit upon her wing,
And, like the dauntless gazer of the sun,
Behold the tumults of a world below.
Yet we have stray'd too far into this wood:
More to the left lies our true path.
[A Groan is heard behind.
Good Heav'n,
Defend us!—Whence that deathful groan?

[Attendants go to the Entrance of the Wood.
Attendant.
My lord,
Return!—Here bleeds a man.—Take either path—
We may be murder'd here.

Alwine.
Quick bring me to him:
Thou merciless and cold as poor self-love
Can make a human heart.

Canterbury led on mortally wounded, a Shepherd supporting him: he sinks down.
Canterbury.
Here let me rest.
Life flutters in my veins. My frighted soul
Seems busy, like a prodigal, too late.—

[Faints.
Alwine.
Quick raise him up.—Ah, life declines too fast!—
What, wretched Canterbury! Where could Heav'n
Strike with more dreadful justice? Yet its law
We must not question. Partial is vain man;
Too blind to judge event.—He breathes!—Revive,
Thou helpless suff'rer! and we'll bear thee on
To some near cottage.

Canterbury.
Agony like this
Is truly dying. Then what's death? What sleep
Shall heavily hold down the spirit?—Death,
Art thou but lasting slumber, and no more?
If so, I long to be at rest. Good friends,
Ye do o'erstrain the knotty thread of life,
Adding to ling'ring woe.

Alwine.
Be of good cheer;
Thy wounds may not be mortal. Lay thy head
Against my bosom. We'll convey thee hence,
O Canterbury!

Canterbury.
Ha! who names him?

Alwine.
One
That fain would bid thee live, ease all thy care,
And crown thy age with comfort, could'st thou own it.

Canterbury.
Weep not for me—I am not worth thy tear.
Yet let me view thee.—Take me, Death! thy sting
Can never wound like Alwine.—'Tis my soul
He tortures!—Hence! and let me die in peace.

Alwine.
Be calm, nor heed the past. Thy wounds bleed fresh
From these fierce conflicts of the mind.

Canterbury.
Cease! cease!
I cannot live!—Thy sight is painful.—Hence!
Mem'ry is yet too strong—Oh Alwine! fly,
Save Goodwin's life, nor swell my load of guilt!
By Tostie's hand I die!—Save, save his father,
Whose life is in the pow'r of—Oh!—

Alwine.
He's gone,
Severely conquer'd by triumphant Death—
Dread proof of human glory!—Viewing thee,
Thou pale archbishop, on thy bed of turf,
What heart would not be soften'd? Gaudy pomp
Would here resign her col'ring, while thy cheek
Disputed lasting victory. Thou art fled.
May Alwine's friendly pray'r assist thy soul,
When she would plead for bliss. Had'st thou not rov'd
Too far from rectitude, thy mind's bright pow'rs
Might have illum'd the ignorant, nor sunk
Thus terribly in woe.—Say, honest friend,
(To the Shepherd).
Wert thou a witness to this dreadful scene?

Shepherd.
Only the cares of rural life are mine,
Nor till this hour have my sad eyes beheld
A fellow-creature's murder. Thro' these woods
This rev'rend father sighing won his way,
And, whilst to heav'n he cast a joyless look,
My heart to him grew pitiful—in vain;
For suddenly a youthful warrior came,
Gaz'd on his face, started, and term'd him villain!
His aged spirit blaz'd, boldly he drew
A dagger from his bosom, with intent
To stab the furious soldier—effort weak!
The soldier bid him think of wrong'd Editha,
Goodwin, and Emma—wrench'd the dagger from him,
And in his bosom hid the sanguine steel.

Alwine.
Take up the body. A few paces hence
A venerable convent stands. Fear not;
I will direct you in your pious deed.
This done, I haste to London. On my ear
Yet hangs the eager accent broke by death,
“Save Goodwin's life!” I shudder! for to me
The pow'r of saving him is yet unknown.
May Heav'n direct us thro' its wond'rous path,
Open a scene of rapture to our view,
And save him whom a dying foe could pity.

[Exeunt.
SCENE London, after the Flight of Tostie.
Enter Goodwin and Harold.
Goodwin.
Harold, thy brother's treachery deeply strikes
My wounded heart, chilling its strongest force.
Unnatural boy! how hast thou soil'd my fame,
My age of hard-earn'd virtue! but for thee,
Had Goodwin's name to after ages borne
Sweet music to the ear.

Harold.
Forget his fault;
Tostie may yet subdue himself, and bless
The evening of thy life with peace.

Goodwin.
O Harold!
I am not used to mourn o'er sudden ills,
Or give a loose to private sorrow. Tears,
When unavailing, shame the eye.—Yet think
How we have struggl'd, triumph'd, sav'd our country,
Pluck'd off the galling chain of proud oppression,
And bade the bending wretch look up to freedom;
While glory, sitting in the nearest heav'n,
Smil'd on our labours. Now our foes will hold
The fault of Tostie to the eye of Fame,
When she would wrest our actions from oblivion.

Harold.
'Twill keep our foes from idleness, my lord.
Things grow by opposites. If future ages,
Thro' narrow ignorance, zeal, or party rage,
Convert the glorious deed to shame, while truth
Scorns the black record, shall we tremble now,
And shrink from virtue's standard? I confess
We do not hold th'advantage. Our good swords
Were never meant, like monkish pens, to cut
Deep channels for a lie.

Goodwin.
It must be so,
Within our bosoms must we find reward,
Nor dream of future commendation. Priests
Will damn Earl Goodwin, while they saint, King Edward;
And the weak million yield their reason.

Harold.
Where
Can be th'essential odds, my lord?—In title?
Why let them saint King Edward, swear he sprang,
Like Romulus, in a light mood, to heav'n;
No matter, we may take a better road.

Goodwin.
Thy wit is lively; but we'll to the king.
My heavy heart forebodes some unknown ill:
I'll not indulge it; 'tis the spirit's doubt,
Oft too creative when her bliss or woe
Suspended lingers for the future hour.

Exeunt.
SCENE, The Palace.
Enter King Edward, Emma, and Lodowicke.
Edward.
Good father, let Te Deum sound in the morn
Thro' all our churches: my internal peace
Is wrought to strong perfection. We must wait
The coming of our friends; well do they claim
Our grateful salutation. But be near,
Soon to retire with me. Thy fervent pray'r
Shall give new vigour to my humble thanks.

Lodowicke
(designingly).
My king shall be attended. I have heard
Our holy priests complain with gentle sighs,
As tardily they walk'd, of fees unpaid,
Of this world's lux'ry, tythes too low in Kent,
Of Goodwin's wide possessions, which the earl
Would never yield to our church strictures: true,
We ever were a most abstemious tribe.

Edward.
Be't thine to silence their complaints.

Emma.
Beware
How thou dost charge thy people.

Lodowicke.
Gracious queen,
The people are voluptuous, high in spirit,
No rule subdues their passions, they do loathe
The day set by for fasting.

Emma.
Should we judge
From thy fresh countenance, officious priest,
Thou dost choose wisely more substantial blessings.
Enter Editha, Swaine, and Leofwine.
Welcome, Editha! Love and lasting joy
Shall bless each time-born hour; thy tears no more
Wash the cold pavement of a cloister. Truth
Plants bright conviction in thy Edward's heart,
Bidding the chain of superstition fall.

Editha.
In Edward's love centers my ev'ry wish;
But he contemns my tender lost affections.
Edward, thy looks congeal me. Goodwin's eye
Will shine with fondness on his lov'd Editha.
Brothers, away! my dignity of soul
Shall ne'er be lost. I willingly exchange
Edward for such a father.

Edward.
Talk not thus;
I do confess me late the prey of art,
And sudden dark suspicion. We'll forget it,
Our days to love and piety devote;
Nor will I leave thee but when duty bends
My knee with Lodowicke.

Leofwine.
Where is my father?
Troops of warm soldiers passing on, was heard
Discoursing loudly of my brother Tostie.

Edward.
Brave Goodwin, and his sons, Harold and Girth,
Will soon be here: Tostie is fled to France,
Having assaulted Harold, and condemned
Thy father's league with us.

Swaine.
His restless spirit
My father never could subdue or sooth
To manly pity.

Editha.
Youth has many pleas
To kind indulgence in a brother's heart.
I must deplore Tostie's ungovern'd temper:
Yet do I hope it is not so debas'd,
As to grow hard and stubborn with his years.

Swaine.
I am not his accuser.

Edward.
Tostie's warmth
Luxurious France may soften. Mirth this night
Shall here take boundless pleasure, bright-ey'd joy
Snatch off the rein of care, and lull the soul
With nature's truest melody.

Editha.
My mind
Seems lost in an unusual transport. Heaven,
Thy wise decrees mortals should never scan,
Since thy rich compensations truly prove,
Each woe a blessing, born of endless love.

[Exeunt.