University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The King's Bedchamber.
The King, starting from his Couch; Herbert asleep.
King.
Herbert! Is't time to rise? He sleeps. What sounds
Were those that roused me? Hark again! The clang
Of hammers! Yet the watch-light burns; the day
Is still unborn. This is a work of night,
Of deep funereal darkness. Each loud stroke
Rings like a knell, distinct, discordant, shrill,
Gathering, redoubling, echoing round my head,
Smiting me only with its sound amid
The slumbering city, tolling in mine ear—
A passing bell! It is the scaffold. Heaven
Grant me to tread it with as calm a heart
As I bear now. His sleep is troubled. Herbert!
'Twere best to wake him. Herbert! rouse thee, man!

Herb.
Did your Grace call?

King.
Aye; we should be today
Early astir. I've a great business toward,
To exchange the kingly wreath, my crown of thorns,
For an eternal diadem; to die—
And I would go trim as a bridegroom. Give me
Yon ermined cloak. If the crisp nipping frost
Should cause me shiver, there be tongues would call
The wintery chillness Fear. Herbert, my sleep
Hath been as soft and balmy, as young babes
Inherit from their blessed innocence,
Or hardy peasants win with honest toil.
When I awoke thy slumbers were perturbed,
Unquiet.

Herb.
Vexed, my liege, with dreams.

King.
Of what?

Herb.
So please you, Sire, demand not.

King.
Dost thou think
A dream can vex me now? Speak.

Herb.
Thrice I slept,
And thrice I woke, and thrice the self-same vision
Haunted my fancy. Seemed this very room,
This dim and waning taper, this dark couch,
Beneath whose crimson canopy reclined
A form august and stately. The pale ray
Of the watch-light dwelt upon his face, and showed
His paler lineaments, where majesty
And manly beauty, and deep trenching thought,
And Care the wrinkler, all were blended now
Into one calm and holy pensiveness,
Softened by slumber. I stood gazing on him
With weeping love, as one awake; when sudden
A thick and palpable darkness fell around,
A blindness, and dull groans and piercing shrieks
A moment echoed; then they ceased, and light
Burst forth and musick—light such as the flood
Of day-spring at the dawning, rosy, sparkling,
An insupportable brightness—and i'th' midst,
Over the couch, a milk-white dove, which soared
Right upward, cleaving with its train of light
The Heavens like a star. The couch remained
Vacant

King.
Oh that the spirit so may pass!
So rise! Thrice did'st thou say?

Her.
Three times the vision
Passed o'er my fancy.

King.
A thrice-blessed omen!
Herbert, my soul is full of serious joy,
Content and peaceful as the Autumn sun,
When, smiling for awhile on the ripe sheaves
And kissing the brown woods, he bids the world
A calm goodnight. Bear witness that I die
In charity with all men; and take thou,
My kind and faithful servant, follower
Of my evil fortunes, true and tender, take
All that thy master hath to give—his thanks,
His poor but honest thanks. Another King
Shall better pay thee. Weep not. Seek the Bishop;
And if thou meet with that fair constancy,
My mournful Henrietta, strive to turn
Her steps away till—I'm a coward yet,
And fear her, lest she come to plunge my thoughts
In the deep fountain of her sad fond tears,
To win me—Ha! can that impatient foot,
That hurrying hand, which shakes the door—

Enter the Queen.
Queen.
My Charles!

King.
Haste to the Bishop.

(Exit Herbert.)
Queen.
Charles!

King.
Already here!
Thou did'st fall trembling in my arms, last night,
Dizzy and faint and spent, as the tired martlet,
Midway her voyage, drops panting on the deck,
And slumbers through the tempest. I kissed off
The tears that hung on those fair eyelids, blessing
Thy speechless weariness, thy weeping love
That sobbed itself to rest. Never did mother
Watching her fevered infant pray for sleep
So calm, so deep, so long, as I besought
Of Heaven for thee when half unconscious, yet
Moaning and plaining like a dove, they bore thee
With gentle force away. And thou art here
Already! wakened into sense and life
And the day's agony.

Queen.
Here! I have been
To Harrison, to Marten, to Lord Fairfax,
To Downes, to Ireton,—even at Bradshaw's feet
I've knelt to day. Sleep now? shall I e'er sleep
Again!

King.
At Bradshaw's feet! Oh perfect love
How can I chide thee? Yet I would thou had'st spared
Thyself and me that scorn.

Queen.
Do Hunters scorn
The shrill cries of the lioness, whose cubs
They've snared, although the Forest-Queen approach
Crouching? Do seamen scorn the forked lightning
Albeit the storm-cloud weep? They strove to soothe;
They spake of pity; one of hope.

King.
Alas!
All thy life long the torturer hope hath been
Thy master!—Yet if she can steal an hour
From grief—whom dost thou trust?

Queen.
Thyself and Heaven
And a relenting woman. Wrap thyself
Close in my cloak—Here! here!—to Lady Fairfax!
She's faithful; she'll conceal thee. Take the cloak;
Waste not a point of time, not whilst the sand
Runs in the glass. Dost fear its shortness? See
How long it is!
On with the cloak. Begone!

King.
And thou?

Queen.
My post is here.

King.
To perish

Queen.
No,
To live to a blest old age with thee in freedom.
Away my Charles, my King! I shall be safe—
And if I were not could I live if thou—
Charles, thou wilt madden me. 'Tis the first boon
I ever craved; and now, by our young loves,
By our commingled griefs, a mighty spell,
Our smiling children and this bleeding land,
Go! I conjure thee, go!

King.
I cannot.

Queen.
King
Begone! or I will speak such truth—and truth
Is a foul treason in this land—will rain
Such curses on them, as shall force them send me
To the scaffold at thy side. Fly!

King.
Dost thou see
Fierce soldiers crowded round, as if to watch
A garrisoned fort, rather than one unarmed
Defenceless man, and think'st thou I could win
A step unchallenged? Nor though to escape
Were easy as to breathe, the vigilant guard
Smitten with sudden blindness, the unnumbered
And stirring swarms of this vast city locked
In charmed sleep, and darkness over all
Blacker than starless night, spectral and dim
As an eclipse at noontide, though the gates
Opened before me, and my feet were swift
As the Antelope's, not then if it but perilled
A single hair of friend or foe would I
Pass o'er the threshold. In my cause too much
Of blood hath fallen. Let mine seal all. I go
To death as to a bridal; thou thyself
In thy young beauty was not welcomer
Than he. Farewell, beloved wife! My chosen!
My dear-one! We have loved as peasants love,
Been fond and true as they. Now fare thee well!
I thank thee, and I bless thee. Pray for me,
My Henrietta.

Queen.
Charles, thou shalt be saved.
Talk not of parting. I'll to Fairfax; he
Gave hope, and hope is life.

King.
Farewell!

Queen.
That word—
I prythee speak it not—withers me, lives
Like a serpent's hiss within mine ear, shouts through
My veins like poison, twines and coils about me
Clinging and killing. 'Tis a sound accurst,
A word of death and doom. Why shouldst thou speak it?
Thou shalt be saved; Fairfax shall save thee. Charles,
Give me a ringlet of thy hair—No, no,—
Not now! not now! Thou shalt not die.

King.
Sweet wife,
Say to my children that my last fond thought—

Queen.
Last! Thou shalt live to tell them of thy thoughts
Longer than they or I to hear thee. Harken
Promise thou wilt await me here! Let none—
They will not dare, they shall not. I but waste
The hour. To Fairfax, the good Fairfax! Charles
Thou shalt not die
(Exit Queen.)

King.
Oh truest fondest woman!
My matchless wife! The pang is mastered now,
I am Death's conqueror. My Faithfullest!
My Fairest! My most dear! I ne'er shall see
Those radiant looks again, or hear the sound
Of thy blithe voice, which was a hope, or feel
The thrilling pressure of thy hand, almost
A language, so the ardent spirit burned
And vibrated within thee! I'll to prayer,
And chase away that image! I'll to prayer,
And pray for thee, sweet wife! I'll to my prayers.

(Exit.)