 | Earl Goodwin |  |
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.
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,
66
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
67
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!—
68
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;
69
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.
| Earl Goodwin | |