University of Virginia Library

SCENE—The Wood.
Raymond and Bramville.
BRAMVILLE.
The chace, my Lord, now sounds among the hills,
That bound the forest on the western edge:
But other toils will soon demand the field:
The van of Bourbon's host draws on to battle.
The camp is all in tumult, and the King
Prepares to meet him.

RAYMOND.
Now, now, my heart: Oh how it pants for something
That might relieve it. That poor wild fire, Reason,
Mocks me; it glimmers now on this side, now
Flits to the other, ever vanishing
As I approach it! What an awful gloom
Surrounds me! not a choice left to my action,
Not one my heart approves. Dreadful condition,
Where every principle that stirs within me
Burns to act nobly, yet some act of meanness,
Turn where I will, of madness or of meanness,
Obtrudes upon me! A stern Judge that never
Will pardon me; myself, bids me beware—

RONSARD.
Away these doubts: when Prudence weighs an action
Her cold blood slumbers o'er it 'till the time
Of action flies. Your awful sword was brandish'd
At the King's breast. I saw him join his bands.
I heard your fate pronounc'd. This is the moment
To shun the dreadful scaffold. Let the rage
Of injur'd honour guide you: mark the Tyrant,
And meet him in the flight with sword to sword,
And leave the event to Heaven.

RAYMOND.
It was my country,
'Twas her great cause disarm'd me, when my sword
Was pointed at the trembling heart! then what
Alone remains I'll do. Leave me, my friends;
I am mark'd out for vengeance: would you give
New tortures to my woes by falling with me?

RONSARD.
Thy blood must soon secure the Tyrant's rapine,
Unless—Ah me, and shall I leave thee now!
No; by thy wrongs I will not—Give the rein
To manly indignation, and atone
Thy wounded honour: let thy wrongs have vengeance.
Heavens, were thy wrongs but mine!—Yes; they are mine,
They are my friend's. The moment flies, my Lord.

BRAMVILLE.
O my fallen country! Raymond's gallant arm
Guards thee no more: upon the King's own valour
Rests all thy hope: And shall my Raymond's wrongs
In these most sacred moments cry for vengeance,
And blunt the sword that guards his native land?
Should the King fall—

RAYMOND.
The King!—My vengeance rouses,
My sword plung'd in his heart were not to wrong him.

BRAMVILLE.
But it would stab your country.

RAYMOND.
Gracious Heaven!
This, this at last must heal my woes—

[drawing his sword.
RONSARD.
What! die!
And leave th' Adulterer in triumphant riot
In your love bed, drunk with Erminia's charm's?

RAYMOND.
Speak it no more—Oh 'tis a glympse of heaven
Shewn to the damn'd.

RONSARD.
Then o'er the Tyrant's heaven
Pour hell's black shades. But speak the word, my Lord.
Then let her die.

RAYMOND.
O God! the dreadful issue
My thoughts avoided—Let her die—O Tyrant,
What horrid ruin hast thou brought on me!
Yes; let her die—

RONSARD.
Now at the chace we'll-find her.
Hark! 'tis the horn: the chace draws near. Amidst
His triumph, heavy shall our vengeance fall.

RAYMOND.
Then shall my trampled honour yet erase
My name's disgrace, and tear hot breath'd pollution
From its rank soil; then shall the exulting Tyrant,
Amid the triumph of his pride, behold
His lustful bed chang'd for her ghastly shroud.
Horror now has steel'd me:
Yes, I could smile, then drop the yearning tear;
To see Erminia breathless at my feet.
But to behold her in th' Adulterer's bed,
To see her but in fancy there—O Hell,
It strikes with madness!

RONSARD.
We'll tear her thence, my Lord.

RAYMOND.
My hand shall strike the blow: No other sword
Shall touch her faithless breast. I cannot leave
That dreadful office to another's rage.
Yes; I shall drop the tear in luxury
Of raging grief, and kiss the hands that mangle
Her faithless bosom. O my friends, how lovely,
How flush'd with ev'ry graceful seeming virtue,
Shone my Erminia! and shall this hand—
Oh burning anguish still the dear idea
Obtrudes upon me, when each happy moment
Led on another happier, till at last
Came one curst hour, and darken'd all the rest,
And lost the world to me.

BRAMVILLE.
Hear'd you that echo?
It is the huntsman's voice: the chace turns hither.

RONSARD.
Then stand to arms.

RAYMOND.
And thus an happy death
May close my woes. But should I fall, my wish.
Unsatisfied, by all your dearest hopes,
Oh soothe my ghost, and blast the Tyrant's revels!

RONSARD.
I swear, my Lord, my sword waits the fair time.

[Ex. Ronsard.
BRAMVILLE.
And mine, my Lord.

RAYMOND.
Oh my friends indulge me!
I have been rudely waken'd from a dream
Of more than human bliss and extacy,
To all the horrors of the madman's cell.
Heaven try'd on me what bliss a man could know,
But gave the keeping of it to a Woman;
And that false-hearted woman has betray'd it,
To one who boasts of faithlessness to woman;
To one who holds the character of woman
Worthless and vain; despising what he conquers.
O I could weep for that unhappy man
Whose heart's sole treasure is embark'd in Woman;
Just when he thinks his halcyon days are come,
When on the smooth calm tide of life, his joys
Securely glide, poor man, what storms rush in,
What dreadful ruin! And oh cruel wound,
He feels that flaunting baseness, thinly gilded
With gallantry, gay trifling, oaths and flattery
Have had more graceful charms than all his merit.
Alas, this is but weeping for myself!
What now, brave youth?—

Ronsard re-enters hastily.
RONSARD.
The moment sacred to thy injur'd honour
Is now on wing,—The royal camp
Is all in tumult: thither the King has sped;
The ladies with the huntsmen chase the deer
On yon nigh dale: 'ere now by the forests edge
May we surprise them, and atchieve our purpose,

RAYMOND.
My spirit rises as the dreadful hour;
Rises in horror!

RONSARD.
Righteous heaven, my Lord,
Itself is party in our just attempt,
And on my sword, I swear—

BRAMVILLE.
And on my sword, I swear,
All that an old man's wither'd arm can do,
This arm shall do!—I will not boast, my Lord;
Yet still there's warm blood here that shall flow freely.

RAYMOND.
From yonder dark brow'd glade the prospect opens
In wide extent. Thither with speed, my friends.

RONSARD.
And mark the Lady in the silk of white,
Arm'd like the sylvan Goddess of the chace,
With bow and quiver—

RAYMOND.
Hah! the false Erminia—

RONSARD.
Erminia's graceful port, and noble mien
Seem'd to adorn her; but the distance veil'd
Her smiles accurs'd—

RAYMOND.
Horror now strengthens me.
Eternal justice, be my sword thy minister,
To pour thy vengeance on triumphing guilt!
Yes; Heaven's own vengeance points my thirsty sword.
Hither with speed, my friends!

[Exeunt.