 | Alasco |  |
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ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A Hall in Baron Hohendahl 's Castle.Enter the Baron, Swartsburg , Officers and Attendants.
HOHENDAHL.
To blame! you're all to blame! more zealous service
Had used a better speed, and pounced upon him.
SWARTSBURG.
My Lord, we used all diligence, but he
Was absent on suspicion of our purpose.
HOHENDAHL.
“I tell thee, Swartsburg, there's within these walls,
“Some treasonous leak that lets out all our counsels.
“He must have had some wind of our intent,
“To foil it thus, and with such sweeping haste,
“Withdraw him, and his household from our grasp.
“You say they all escaped you.
SWARTSBURG.
“All, my Lord!
“We found his halls dispeopled—half dismantled.
“In every room, Disorder's hurried hand
“Had scattered round her spoils,—no life appeared—
“So absolute—so blank the solitude.
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“Against an ambush.”
HOHENDAHL.
Curse upon his caution!
By Heaven! this daring Count Alasco galls me,—
Baffled—disgraced—surprised upon my post!—
Braved in the very jaws of my authority,
By a base rabble!—what boots it me I say!
“That you've made war upon his empty walls,
“And sacked his cellars, till your reeling wrath,
“Turned all around to smoking desolation,
“Since he has escaped my vengeance?—Other means
“Must reach him. Where's Rudolpho?
SWARTSBURG.
“He has paid
“His forfeit in a game he loved too well.
“'Twould seem, that in some desperate scuffle foiled,
“His tyger spirit failed him.
HOHENDAHL.
“Is he dead?
SWARTSBURG.
“E'en so! we found him in the forest slain,
“With one of his assistants lying near;
“Both pierced with many wounds.
HOHENDAHL.
“Then his attack
“On Walsingham has failed! (aside)
Some forest fray,
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“He was a genuine blood hound, fierce and faithful!
SWARTSBURG.
“His savage nature stirred up many foes.”
But were it not well, my Lord, to sound th' alarm,
And reinforce the guard?
HOHENDAHL.
What wouldst thou, Swartsburg?
Are we not here,—aroused from our first sleep,
Like monks at matins, yawning on our posts,
To satisfy thy fears?
SWARTSBURG.
My fears, my Lord!
Precaution is not fear, but vigilance,
“A virtue not unworthy of a soldier.”
The movements I've reported speak some danger.
HOHENDAHL.
Movements! “what movements have in Swartsburg roused
“This vaunted soldier's virtue?
SWARTSBURG.
“Such as mark
“Too plain, th' approach of tumult: as we passed,
“We could perceive each village broad awake,
“As in mid day—lights glimmered to and fro,
“And bustle hurried on from house to house,—
“Low murmurs filled the air—as every wind
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“The unusual agitation: beacons blazed
“On every hill—while, from the horizon's line,
“As if in concert kindled, sudden stars
“Shot forth their answering fires: as morning neared,
“Commotion heaved around us, like a sea,
“That wave o'er wave impelled, seemed rushing on,
“To break against our bulwarks.
HOHENDAHL.
“Then shall our bulwarks dash them back again!”
By Heaven! it shames me Swartsburg that a soldier,
Who knows the face of danger, and has braved
Its most appalling aspect, should thus swell,
To such a perilous shape and magnitude,
This plough-tail tumult—this insurgency
Of hostile boors, and mobs in martial movement:
I know the slaves are mutinous, and love
A riot dearly—mischief is their element,
And plunder the sole privilege they desire;
But when our bull-dogs bark, they're soon sent scampering.
Enter a Guard in haste.
Well, Sir! the news!
GUARD.
My Lord, reports have reached
The outer guard, that all the peasantry
Are up in arms.
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In arms, thou slave, in arms!
What! flourishing their flails, and shouldering pitch-forks!
Thou lookest in no small dread of those dire instruments.
Enter a Second Guard .
What! rumours still of war!—come, Sir, your tale!
SECOND GUARD.
My Lord! the rebel standard has been raised:
Ere dawn, th' insurgents met in multitudes,
Behind the abbey church; a scout reports,
That they've already seized the arsenal,
And led by Count Alasco, now in force,
Are marching on the castle.
HOHENDAHL.
Seized the arsenal!
Why this is well!—this looks like business, Swartsburg!
Perdition catch the cowards, who could yield
To such assailants!—Sir, there's treachery here,
As well as tumult.—Seized the arsenal have they?
Ring loud the alarum—call out all the guards;
Although they come unasked, we'll forth to welcome them.
By Heaven! we'll lash these raggamuffins home,
And score them such a reckoning on their backs,
As they shall long remember o'er their cups,
To pay for this day's frolic.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE II.
An open Country—the Castle seen in the distance.Enter Alasco, Conrad, Rienski, Braniki , and the other Chiefs of the Insurgents, with a body of armed peasants, shouting.
Several voices.
Alasco, and liberty—hurra!—hurra!
ALASCO.
Thus far, my friends, has fortune graced our cause,
And given good earnest of her future favors.
In braver hands, the arsenal might have held
Our force at bay, and in its outset check'd
Our gallant enterprize.
CONRAD.
They never dream'd
That we should have the boldness to attack them;
And when they found their error, we contrived
To puzzle them in their panic.
ALASCO.
Now, thank Heaven!
Each patriot hand may grasp a goodly sword,
And try its temper on our country's tyrants.
Have you supplied the different corps with arms?
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They're all provided nobly:—we've exchanged
Our armoury, for tools of better fashion.
Each man has match'd him to his heart's content,
“And now our war looks gay in golden hilts,
“Well burnish'd blades, and rich accoutrements.
“There was a rare assortment for our purpose;—
“Sabres to suit all fancies—cut or thrust;
“Ferraras fit to slice you like a cucumber;
“Toledo-temper'd points, to pick out life,
“Without a twitch, a wriggle, or a wry face;”
Guns, pistols, pikes, and poignards, weapons all
So rich emboss'd in curious workmanship,
It were almost a compliment to kill
With such rare instruments.
ALASCO.
An idle coxcombry!
But thus it is, we garb in gayest trim
The monster, War, and decorate Destruction.
“Befurr'd and feather'd—mask'd in pomp and show,
“The gaudy pageant struts, in folly's eye,
“As he were meant a toy for pleasure deck'd,
“And mountebank amusement.
CONRAD.
“O! severe!
“You would not, surely, mantle him in a shroud,
“And manœuvre him to the tune of a dead march—
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“Or trim his coat to the cut of a skeleton?
“No, no—our soldiers must be gay and gorgeous;
“Gaiety is the bosom-friend of valour—
“The very soul of war—the antidote
“To fear—the softener of ferocity.
“How oft, as to a ball, we've gone to battle!
“Without one ruffled feeling towards the foe,
“Save what our duty call'd for!
ALASCO.
“True, my friend!
“His generous enmity, and gallant spirit,
“Mark the brave soldier from the brutal savage,
“Who thirsts for blood, and counts his scalps as trophies.
“We fight to conquer, not to kill our enemy;
“And should appeal to war, but as the great
“Corrective of the world—the caustic cure
“Of ills too obstinate for milder treatment.
“But let the giant of calamity
“Put on his proper visage, and look grim,
“As when of old, in flashing armour clad,
“Or garb'd in grave habiliments, to suit
“His stern authority, and direful office.”
Enter a Guard.
My Lord, the chief, Malinski, has betray'd
His post, and fled.
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I thought 'twould come to this.
“When cowardice and cruelty unite,
“They're sure to breed a traitor.”
ALASCO.
Who have shared
In his defection?
GUARD.
Few of his own corps;
But some marauding stragglers from the hills,
Have join'd his flight.
ALASCO.
I would that every knave
He has left behind, might strip the patriot cloak,
And follow him. Such ruffian spirits taint
The cause of freedom. They repel its friends,
And so disfigure it by blood and violence,
That good men start, and tremble to embrace it.
But now, my friends, a sterner trial waits us.—
Within yon castle's walls we sleep to-night,
Or die to-day before them. Let each man
Preserve the order of advance, and charge,
As if he thought his individual sword
Could turn the scale of fate. String every heart
To valour's highest pitch;—fight, and be free!
This is no common conflict, set on foot,
For hireling hosts to ply the trade of war,—
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“What king, or priest, or faction, shall prevail.”
Our's is a nobler quarrel—we contend
For what's most dear to man, wherever found—
Free or enslaved—a savage, or a sage;—
The very life and being of our country.
'Tis ours, to rescue from the oblivious grave,
Where tyrants have combined to bury them,—
A gallant race—a nation—and her fame,—
To gather up the fragments of our state,
And in its cold, dismember'd body, breathe
The living soul of empire. Such a cause
Might warm the torpid earth, put hearts in stones,
And stir the ashes of our ancestors,
Till from their tombs our warrior sires come forth,
Range on our side, and cheer us on to battle.
Strike, then, ye patriot spirits, for your country!
Fight and be free!—for liberty and Poland.
[Exeunt
The author cannot forbear to direct the attention of the reader to the suppressed passages of this page: the discriminating taste with which the poison of patriotism is detected, in seditious syllables, hemistiches, and half sentences, very strikingly illustrates the utility of a licenser of plays.
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SCENE III.
A Field of Battle—Armed Parties pass over the distant part of the Stage.Amantha enters hastily, in great disorder, followed by Jerome.
JEROME.
Return, my child—return; where wouldst thou fly?
Madness alone, in such a fearful scene,
Would wander thus.—O! hear, Amantha!—hear me!
AMANTHA.
Away! away!
[Runs out.
JEROME.
My aged limbs refuse
To follow her. Good angels guard her innocence!
To what is she exposed!
Amantha enters wildly at another part of the Stage.
AMANTHA.
Where!—where! good Heaven!
O cruel, cruel father! my Alasco too!
Where shall I seek?—O! God! where shall I find them?
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On mutual slaughter bent.
JEROME.
Patience, my child!
AMANTHA.
Urge me no more, old man—no more, I tell thee!
Alas! I'm harsh,—good father, heed me not,
“For I grow wild, and feel my nature changed,
“That I could almost quarrel with thy kindness.”
But leave me to myself—I have business here.
JEROME.
Alas! alas! I tremble for thy wits.
“Thou hast no business in a scene like this.
“Death flies around us here.”—Return, my child—
Our safety's in the Abbey.
AMANTHA.
Safety! Friar!
Thou call'st it safety, to be shut secure
From all that harms the body; and, indeed,
'Tis such to thee, for thy calm spirit knows
No other dangers. I have that within,
Which scorns the body's perils; at my heart
A giant horror sits, that suffers not
Th' approach of pigmy fears.
JEROME.
Alas! what thought!
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That thus, with nerve unshaken, thou canst brave
Such perils as thy gentle nature else
Had shudder'd but to think on?
AMANTHA.
Such a thought,
As, were it but in action verified,
Would dash distemper'd reason from her seat,
And shut my soul from this world's peace for ever!
JEROME.
Good Heavens! what horrid image thus—
AMANTHA.
Last night!
Last night, I saw my mother in my sleep!
“If sleep it can be call'd, which seem'd in consciousness,
“Intense and quick as waking agony.
“Nay, start not as incredulous, but hear!
“A close, half-whispering motion at my side,
“Dispersed the vague and shadowy forms that roll
“In slumber's common chaos, and appear'd
“As summoning all the evidence of sense,
“To mark, with thrilling eagerness and awe,
“An agency more real and mysterious.”
Instant, in breathless terror as I lay,
My mother's sainted image stood before me—
Clear as in life—so plain—so palpable—
Had I the power to move, I could have touch'd her.
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And laid her wither'd hand upon my heart.
O! God! the chill that shiver'd through my frame,
From that cold hand!
JEROME.
And can a dream, my child,
Have power to move you thus?
AMANTHA.
A dream! but hear!
A moment fix'd she stood, and gazed upon me,
With looks of woe and pity, past all utterance;
Then, bending forward, press'd her clammy lips
To mine. She spoke—I heard her well-known voice;
But though her words seem'd whispering in my ear,
And all my soul stretch'd gasping for their purport,
I caught no sound articulate of speech.
She then, with solemn action, motioned me,
To rise, and follow her;—compelled by some
Resistless impulse, I obeyed;—she led
Through lonely avenues and gloomy groves;—
O'er wild and waste;—through dismal church-yard paths,
Where moaning winds, and muttering sounds of night,
Make up the talk of tombs.—At length, a grave,—
A yawning grave, before me, stopped our course,
And shewed, half buried in its loathsome jaws,
Two desperate men, with most unhallowed rage,
Contending o'er the uncoffined corse within.
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“Snatched from the mouldering fragments of the dead,
“His weapon of assault and sacrilege,
“In fiend-like profanation.”—All aghast!
I turned me, shuddering, from the hideous sight,
To seek my mother's shade;—but she had vanished:
'Twas then I felt, her presence which before
Appalled me, had been now a refuge to me;—
And I seemed lost in losing it. Again,
I fearful turned to that dread spectacle;—
It was my mother's grave!—the uncoffined corse
Was her's,—the furious men—O God! I saw,
In those ferocious—frantic—fiend-like men,
Who tore her sacred relics from the earth,
My father and my husband!—Powers of mercy!
JEROME.
Be calm, be calm, my child!—
AMANTHA.
At sight of me,
Though writhing—raging in each other's grasp,
They ceased their horrid strife, and both at once,
Combining all their wrath, rushed forth to seize me;
I gasped—I struggled—but my cries gave out
No sound—my limbs benumbed and powerless, seemed
As life had left them;—with united strength,
They dragged me down to that dark cave of death,
Where my poor parent lay, and were about
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In one wild shriek of horror, burst its way,
From out my quivering lips, and left me senseless.
Returning reason found me in my chamber,
Exhausted—weak—and wondering at my safety.
JEROME.
O! my poor child! regard not these illusions.—
Disturbed by life's events, our minds in sleep,
Work out most strange chimeras of the brain,
And all we suffer mix with all we fear,
In combinations wild and monstrous.
AMANTHA.
Aye,
I know what 'tis to dream;—to whirl and toss
In the wild chaos of distempered sleep;—
“To pant and suffocate, in horrid strife,
“Shaking the monster night-mare from the breast.
“I have been pursued by goblins,—hideous forms,
“Agape to swallow me;—have breathless hung
“Upon the slippery verge of some vast precipice,
“And sliding down, have grasped, in thrilling agony,
“Some slender twig, or crumbling fragment there,
“To save me from the yawning gulph below;”
But such a dream as this, I have not known—
“So stamp'd with truth—so certified to sense—
“So charactered in all that marks to man,
“Life's waking dreams, from sleep's close counterfeit.”
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Disturb the tests of strong reality,—
Confound the forms, and substances of things;—
Astonish truth herself, with her own attributes,
And shake the heart of daring incredulity
JEROME.
All, all, the wild creation of your fears—
The idle phantoms of a feverish brain,
Rejected by religion, as by reason.
AMANTHA.
Have I not waked to dreadful certainty?—
To worse conviction of substantial horror?—
“Have they not rushed with most unnatural rage,
“To realize my fears—to verify
“The visions of despair?”—Hark! hark! that sound,
That dreadful sound recals me to my purpose!
E'en while I speak, perhaps my father bleeds!—
And by my husband's hand!—Madness and horror!
Hold! hold, Alasco!—hold thy barbarous hand!—
Respect his whitened age—he is my father!—
Oh, God!—that blow has felled him to the earth!—
Murder!—give me way!—I will not be restrained—
Save him! save him, Alasco!—Oh, mercy! mercy!—
[Runs out distracted.
JEROME.
Almighty powers! her reason has given way:
Heaven grant me strength to follow and preserve her!
[Exit.
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SCENE IV.
Another part of the Field—the Castle appearing in the distance—Soldier's of Hohendahl's party appear crossing the stage in flight and confusion, followed by the Baron, Swartsburg, Malinski , (who had deserted from the Insurgents) and other officers.HOHENDAHL.
Slaves! stand your ground!—may all you fear confound ye!
A panic palsy shake you through your lives!
Ye souls of shreds and remnants!
Speed, Lindorf! to the castle, and command
That every man who has a limb to move,
Be mustered to our aid.—You, Sir, collect
[to another officer.
Those rascal runaways that stain the name
Of soldier. Swartsburg! I shall burst with rage!—
The cowards! Hell's hot blisters on the backs
They turn so basely!
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We must better estimate
Our enemy. My Lord, these clodpoles give us
Rough encounter.
HOHENDAHL.
By Heaven! they fight as if
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And taught them all his tactics.
SWARTSBURG.
“Thrice, their leader
“Charged on our line, and forced it like a wedge.
HOHENDAHL.
“Base rebel! he shall rue his generalship.”
MALINSKI.
I fear we've not yet felt his utmost strength.
Perhaps 'twere wise to wait for succour, and
Withdraw within the castle.
HOHENDAHL.
What!—withdraw?
Retreat before the sweepings of our fields?
“The very dregs of tumult, stirred by knaves,
“To foam in frantic uproar for a day!—”
Who is the quaking renegade that dares
Insult us with such counsel?—our new ally!—
The loyal chief, Malinski!—you would, Sir,
Entrench your prudent valour, and peep out
From parapets, and loopholes on the foe.
MALINSKI.
My Lord, you wrong me;—
HOHENDAHL.
Caitiff! hast thou come
To breathe around the infection of thy fears!
I shall observe thee well;—by this good sword!
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I'll have thee scourged, and hooted back to those,
From whom thou fled'st, because they scorned thee, coward!
MALINSKI.
My Lord! my loyalty deserves—
HOHENDAHL.
A halter!
Thy loyalty!—he who has been once a rebel,
Is not less stained for being twice a traitor!
Enter an Officer.
OFFICER.
My Lord, some skirmishers have just brought in
Two prisoners;—one, 'tis said, the Lady Walsingham.
HOHENDAHL.
Kind fortune, thou'rt my friend!
OFFICER.
“They found her wild,
“And wandering o'er the field, careless of danger;
“The Friar Jerome feebly following her.”
HOHENDAHL.
Conduct her to the castle instantly!
And charge they guard her as they would their lives.
“Dismiss the priest.”
[Exit Officer.
Now! now, my soul! will victory
Be doubly sweet, thus seasoned by revenge!
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I ask no farther favour!—hark!—their trumpets!
[Alarum.
Soldiers! prepare to charge—retrieve your honour!
If you have hearts, in furious onset, urge
Your weapons home;—
And drive these mongrels howling to their kennels.
[Exeunt.
Hell's hot blisters
“Let hell make crooked my mind to answer it.”
“Hell! hell!
“Burst from the centre, rage and roar aloud
“If thou art half so hot, so mad as I am.”
Scene continued.
The official critic here takes new ground—his delicacy rejects this expression as a matter of taste; he being one of those scrupulous observers of decorum—
“That would not mention hell to ears polite.”It is to be hoped his zeal will induce him to employ some of that “otium cum dignitate,” which his new office provides for him, in giving to the world an “editio expurgata” of our principal dramatists: a “Shakspeare” reformed, according to the official standard of politics and politeness, would be a great acquisition to the stage. We should then be no longer shocked by such naughty illustrations of passion, character, and situation, as the unpolished and uncourtly bard of Avon has supplied, in the following instances.
Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 2.
“The devil damn thee black! thou cream-faced loon.”
Richard 3, Act 1, Scene 3.
“Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither.”
Ditto.
“Then since the heavens have shaped my body so,
“Let hell make crooked my mind to answer it.”
Indeed the whole play of “Richard the Third,” must be considered as little better than a standing outrage on the new principle of dramatic propriety, and doubtless, our loyal licenser will proceed forthwith, to expel it from the stage,—since the bare word tyrant is no more to be endured there, his respect for the “Divinity which doth hedge a king,” will no longer tolerate such a representation of “the Lord's anointed,” as Shakspeare has presumed to draw in the character of “crooked-back Richard.”
Venice Preserved, Act 5. Scene 4.
Belvidera.
“Hell! hell!
“Burst from the centre, rage and roar aloud
“If thou art half so hot, so mad as I am.”
The battle rages—trumpets sound, and parties engaged pass over the stage.—The Baron and Alasco appear entering at the back scene, and skirmish to the front.
HOHENDAHL.
I asked of fate to meet thee.
ALASCO.
Then, thou'rt gratified.—
Before we part, you'll find the boon is fatal.
Come on!—
HOHENDAHL.
“My soul is thirsty for thy blood—
“Else should I leave thee, traitor! to the laws,
“And not defraud the scaffold.”
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Villain! no more!
“Thou art too base for parley—defend thyself!
“My country's wrongs cry out for vengeance on thee,
“And make my sword the instrument of justice.”
HOHENDAHL.
Yet one word more—I would not have thee die,
Till thou hast drain'd, e'en to the very dregs,
The cup of my revenge.—Hear, and despair!—
Thy lov'd Amantha's lodged within the castle;
Prepared, like Venus, to receive her Mars,
And crown, this night, my triumph o'er Alasco.
ALASCO.
Wilt thou, just Heaven! permit this violation!—
Monster abhorr'd! thou hast o'ercharged my heart,
And thus the double vengeance bursts upon thee!
[They fight—the Baron falls.
HOHENDAHL.
Furies confound thee! shalt thou thus prevail?
ALASCO.
Thank Heaven! once more, Amantha, thou art rescued.
HOHENDAHL.
Baffled in love and vengeance!—Fiends and devils!
Could I but close thee in this hug of death,
And disappoint thy raptures!
ALASCO.
Bear him from the field.
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Slave, strike again!—I will not be thy prisoner—
E'en with this remnant of a life, I dare thee!
[Attempts to rise, but falls again, and is borne off.
ALASCO.
Shall guilt and rage, grimacing valour thus,
Profane the courage that belongs to virtue!
Now, gallant friends! press boldly on the foe.
Ere victory crown our banners, they must wave
O'er yon proud castle's walls. On, to the assault!
There is a treasure there, that fires my soul,
And to the patriot's, adds the lover's ardour.
[Trumpets sound retreat.
Ha! the signal of retreat! it cannot be!
Enter Conrad, hastily.
CONRAD.
Fly! fly, my Lord Alasco! all is lost!
If you would live to save or serve your country,
Fly!
ALASCO.
Such counsel's somewhat new from Conrad.
CONRAD.
“He had not given it, if to fight or die
“Could now avail.”
ALASCO.
What sad reverse confounds thee?
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A sudden force has poured into the field,
And swept it like a tempest. Panic struck,
E'en in the moment of our victory,
At such unlook'd-for onset, all our bands,
Broken and scatter'd, fly like frighted hares,
Before the lion, Walsingham.
ALASCO.
What! he!
Is Walsingham already in the field?
CONRAD.
He leads their charge, and in his prowess, quite
Forgets his age.
ALASCO.
Then all is lost indeed!
I fear'd this cloud might burst upon our heads,
But not so suddenly. Disastrous chance!
CONRAD.
The foe draws near; I fear not for myself;
But thou art all the hope that's left for freedom,
Or for Poland.
ALASCO.
Brave Conrad! thou and I
Were early tutor'd in the schools of war,
And went through some hard lessons; but to fly
Was not amongst them: shall we now begin
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There is but one resource for him whose sword
Has fail'd to free his country—'tis—to die!
CONRAD.
To die!—agreed—I had almost forgot
That game was on the cards.
ALASCO.
It is, my friend,
And we will play it nobly.
CONRAD.
Then, lead on!
To life or death; Alasco gives the word,
And when or where has Conrad failed to follow him?
ALASCO.
Let us then boldly rush upon our fate,
Like soldiers, sword in hand. Our names shall live
With honor in the records of the brave,
And tingle in the startled ear of tyrants.
[As Alasco is going off, he is met by Walsingham, who enters at the head of an advanced party of the victors. They regard each other with great emotion, as they come forward to the front of the stage—Conrad escapes.
WALSINGHAM.
And is it thus we meet, unhappy boy!
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We meet like men, whose fortune has prescribed
Hard duties—You, Sir, know yours.
WALSINGHAM.
I do—I do.
'Tis mine to strike rebellion to the earth,
Nor spare a traitor, though my heartstrings break,
To find one in Alasco!
ALASCO.
But for thee,
Success had stamp'd on him a different title,
And a freed people hail'd him as a hero.
Now—no matter!—this is no time for controversy.
A generous soldier will not wound with words,
When his good sword may serve him.
WALSINGHAM.
Mine has spill'd
No blood that shames it—these are rebel drops.
[Shewing his sword.
ALASCO.
They're tears that patriots weep when tyrants triumph;
For freedom shed;—they blister where they fall.
WALSINGHAM.
O! fatal, fatal phrenzy!—“I've pursued
“With steady step, the course mark'd out by duty:
“A rigid course! that brings me hopeless here,
“To struggle in a crisis of my fate,
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Sustain me now, ye idols of my life!
My honor and my fame!—Thou shouldst have died.
Alasco, in the field.
ALASCO.
'Twas my intent,
And may be still accomplish'd; but, perhaps,
Thy loyal zeal may deem Alasco's blood
Were on the public scaffold better shed,
In fit atonement for the crime of him
Who would have freed his country.
WALSINGHAM.
Cruel thought!
Thou shouldst have spared this aching heart that image.
“Just Heaven! am I reserved for this?—decreed
“To be the instrument of such a fate,
“To him whom I have cherish'd as my child!”
Let me not think, lest madness seize my brain—
Lest my enfeebled spirit swerve at last,
And tarnish in its close, a life of honor.
Rebellion has been foil'd—thy followers
Dispersed in flight, or stretch'd upon the field,
Sad victims of thy mad ambition! rue
Their folly and their crime. 'Midst such disaster,
Say, hast thou still a hope from farther contest?
ALASCO.
My hope was for my country. 'Twas a light
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A dawn of glory!—thou hast extinguish'd it.
As for myself—I neither hope nor fear.
WALSINGHAM.
Surrender, then, thy sword.
ALASCO.
Yes, with my life!
The sole condition upon which a soldier
Should require it. Nor will thy spirit shrink,
When thus Alasco calls thee to complete
The sacrifice that loyal duty claims
From Walsingham.
WALSINGHAM.
God of my fathers! What!
Wouldst thou then spill more blood?—still urge the combat
Against this aged breast, and rush on death,
To take thy chance of parricide? Most horrible!
Well, then, come on—thou hast already fix'd
A dagger here, that makes thy weapon pointless.
[Walsingham and Alasco rush towards each other, as if with hostile intentions; when each, at the same moment, presents his breast to the sword of the other; they pause for an instant—drop their swords, and rush into each other's arms.
WALSINGHAM.
My son! my son!
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My father! O! my father!
Forgive—forgive me, if I seem'd to urge
Thy gallant nature thus to mortal contest!
Death from thy hand had been received with joy,
And deem'd a boon of kindness to Alasco.
WALSINGHAM.
Alasco, thou hast raised a conflict here—
A warfare, where all griefs and agonies
Have met, and mingled their severest pangs,
To shake the soul of Walsingham. But 'tis past—
The voice of honor still is strong within him—
[Turning to his soldiers.
Brave comrades! you behold a weak old man,
Whose worn-out spirit has but ill sustain'd
A trial too severe. But though o'erborne
A moment in the struggle—though unmann'd—
“His tortured soul confess'd a father's anguish,”
Think not the soldier can forget his duty:—
“To its last throb, this heart must still be loyal;
“Although it feels, 'tis firm!”—Seize the Count Alasco!
He's your prisoner.
ALASCO.
Nay, hang not back—Behold!
I offer no resistance. Thus subdued,
Alasco yields him on a father's summons;
Else had he sought to purchase from your swords
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Think not of me, my father, nor deplore
Thy part in this sad scene. “On duty's path
“We have cross'd, with rough collision, and our hearts
“Have felt the shock. My fate appals me not.”
The scaffold strikes no terrors to his soul,
Who mounts it as a martyr for his country!
[Exeunt.
It is unnecessary to comment farther on the peculiar spirit which appears to have actuated the licenser in his censures of “Alasco”— had he anticipated the possibility that an unhappy dramatist could have the hardihood to rebel against his mandate, and lay open the nature and object of his operations, it is probable he would have been more on his guard, and might have qualified a little that eager hostility to every sentiment of patriotism and public virtue which he has so pointedly displayed; a hostility which must be as congenial to the feelings, as it is consistent with the interests, of a free people.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
| Alasco | |