University of Virginia Library

Enter Constance meeting Mabel.
Constance.
Alone, good Mabel? Hath not our fair lady
Won homeward from the chase?

Mabel.
But now I left her
In the great hall, prattling right merrily
To Pierce the white-haired forester, the old
And merry forester. Hark! thou may'st hear
Her sweet wild laughter now, echoing along
The gallery. Hark! hark! How like a gay
And reckless child! and how the old man's voice
Comes chuckling in between!

Constance.
What makes he here?

Mabel.
He came to warn our lady to retire
Within her secret bower, and triply guard
The outer gate. He dreads a quick surprise
From powerful foes.

Constance.
And Reginald Fitz-Urse,
The valiant captain of the guard, hath gone
This very morn to Warwick, to attend
His dying father. None remain save raw
And ignorant striplings. What hath scared old Pierce?

Mabel.
A clerk of Oxford passing through the chase
Brought tidings that last night a royal train
Reposed within the city, he believed
The Queen herself—but Lady Rosamond
Had yester-eve fond missives from the king
Whom she expects at noon; and makes a mock
Of Pierce's warning, mimicking the dull
And purblind scholar who mistook her bright
And peerless Henry for the stiff and gaunt
And withered Eleanor; dancing for glee,
Clapping her hands and laughing at each turn
Of her quick fancy, gentle as young lambs
Midst all her gambols, and more beautiful
Than blossoms of the field. 'Tis a light heart.

Constance.
Think'st thou so?

Mabel.
Surely.

Constance.
Hast thou dwelt with her
A two months' space, and deem'st her light of heart?

Mabel.
Full surely. Grant that sometimes she will weep
The long day through, and watch the tedious night,
Yet soon the veriest trifle will relume
Her smile of joy.

Constance.
Ay, for an hour, and then
To tears again. She bore a light heart, Mabel,
When I first knew her in her father's halls.
Oh what a peerless flower the spoiler's hand
Marred in the cropping!—poor, poor Rosamond!

Mabel.
Sure she is happy when king Henry comes.

Constance.
Ay then, for with idolatry so blind
She loves her royal lover, that each look,
Each thought, each feeling is absorbed in that
Fond worship. In those brief and stolen hours
Fair Rosamond is happy; but they leave
Remorse behind. She comes.

Enter Rosamond.
Rosamond.
How now, good maidens!
Ye are sad to-day. Constance, hath Mabel told thee
Of Pierce and that same learned clerk? I've laughed
Till I'm a-weary, girl.

Constance.
Yet, gracious lady,
Were it not wiser to withdraw awhile
Within the secret bower?

Rosamond.
Dost thou believe
That legend, Constance? Hath thy woman's fear
So mastered thee that thou too dost mistake
King Henry's plumed helm for the starched coif
Of haughty Eleanor? And yet I thank thee,
Thy fears spring from thy love. Go take my purse
To good old Pierce; the faithful wretch is full
Of honest care.
[Exit Constance.
Now reach my broidery, Mabel,
The flowered scarf. Last night I dreamt of flowers,
What may that dream denote?

Mabel.
Good, surely madam.

Rosamond.
Chiefly of roses.

Mabel.
Certes, lady, good.

Rosamond.
'Twas looking on the scarf reminded me
Of that gay dream. Methought I was a spirit
In a bright world made up of sun and flowers,
A lonely spirit, and my task to deck
A vast triumphal temple, such as pilgrims
Tell of in far-off countries, to entwine
Rich garlands round its thousand fluted shafts
Of whitest alabaster. There I sate
Framing my wreaths profuse of various flowers—
For every flower was there of every hue
And of all seasons;—there I sat and sang,
Bathed in the fragrance of light sunny showers,
And plied my joyful task; or gladlier rose
And flitted on light pinions, round and round
The snowy columns twisting single wreaths,
Or richly interlacing, or from shaft
To shaft suspending the superb festoon
Like an inverted rainbow. There they hung
Unwithered, fresh, as on the parent bough,
Nourished by the sweet air; and there I plied
My task unwearied—till the robin's song
Rang through the casement and awakened me:
Now what may that dream bode?

Mabel.
Good, good, dear lady.

Rosamond.
Say'st thou so, wench? 'Tis a fair augury.
Where hast thou laid the threads of gold? Will that
Be like the Pensée?—So the Normans call
The pretty blossom, but our English maids
Give it a dearer name, the sweet heart's-ease;
This scarf is for king Henry. I must not
Forget the heart's-ease.—Constance loiters long.

Mabel.
Shall I go call her?

Rosamond.
No. When she returns
We'll ask her for some merry roundelay,
Some pleasant ditty of Provence; for Constance,
Staid and demure although she be, hath store
Of mirthful minstrelsy. I would beguile
The hour till Henry comes,—my princely Henry,
My king, my love.

Mabel.
He comes to-day?

Rosamond.
To-day,
At noon to-day—Oh how I love to speak
Over and over the glad words which tell
His coming, as if that blest time were made
By every repetition doubly sure.
He comes at noon—when yonder shadow cast
From the rich oriel window, even lies
Upon the floor, thou'lt hear the tramp of steeds
And clang of trumpets and the rapid tread
Of his light foot. At noon—not sooner, wench;
For he is punctual as beseemeth one
Whose will is clock to many, nor foreruns
The hour of meeting though 'tis me he meets.
At noon, when yonder sluggish shadow—surely
'Tis fixed in one eternal slope!—lies straight
Upon the floor. How blest shall I be then!—
Till then how slow and weary is the pause,
How long the last sad melancholy hour
Of expectation!

Mabel.
'Twill soon pass, dear lady!

Rosamond.
Pass! Look how yonder shadow sleeps! 'T had past
More lightly in the woods midst falling leaves
And short quick flight of birds—But then I might
Have missed him, and so lost sweet precious minutes
Of his brief stay, or have encountered him
Midst the keen gazes of his knightly train,
And so have lost the o'erflowing gush of joy
At our first meeting. In this oriel chamber
He looks to find me still; I'll wait him here.
The shadow stirs not.

Mabel.
If thou would'st but cease
To watch it, gentle lady, or could'st think
On any theme save one—

Rosamond.
Could think on aught
Save him!—Oh thou hast never loved!—Could speak
Of aught save Henry, when each moment brings him
Nearer to these fond arms. If thou had'st loved
Thou would'st have known that I must talk of him
And of him only.

Mabel.
Not of thy fair children?

Rosamond.
Not even of them. Yet would that they were here
My pretty gentle Geoffrey, and that boy
Elder and bolder, my stout William,—he,
Who at some six years old already draws
His father's sword, already flashes forth
His father's spirit—my brave knightly boy!
Oh would that they were here, to shed fresh charms
On this blest meeting! to make wholly perfect
Their mother's happiness!

Mabel.
They dwell apart
By the King's orders?

Rosamond.
Ay, for their more safety.
The jealous Queen in her stern cruelty
Threatened to seize the innocent babes; and he,
My Henry—Oh with what a tenderness
He won me to resign them! My own Henry!
Lies not the shadow straighter?

Mabel.
Somewhat, madam.

Rosamond.
'Twill soon be even. Did I never tell thee
The story of his wooing? Listen, girl,
Sit here and listen. 'Twas a glorious day,
A glorious autumn day, as bright and clear
As this, the small white clouds now softly sailing
Along the deep blue sky, now fixed and still,
As the light western breeze, arose or sank
By fits—A glorious day! I and my maids
Sat by the lakelet in my father's park
Working as we do now; right merrily,
For young and innocent maids are in their nature
Gay as the larks above their heads. The scene
Was pleasant as the season; not a spot
Of the Lord Clifford's wide demesne could vie
With this in beauty. Woods on every side
Ash, oak, and beech, sloped downward to the clear
And quiet waters, overhung by tufts
Of fern and hazel and long wreaths of briars,
Only one little turfy bank was free
From that rich underwood—there we sate bending
Over a tapestry loom, until we heard
A horn sound right above us, and espied
A hunter threading the rude path which wound
To our sequestered bower. Oh what a sight
It was! the managed steed, white as the foam
Of some huge torrent, fiery, hot, and wild,
Yet reined into a tameness by his bold
And graceful rider, winning with slow steps
His way mid those huge trees; now seen, now lost,
Now in bright sunshine, now in deepest shade;
The red autumnal tints of those old woods
Contrasting well the huntsman's snow-white steed
And garb of Lincoln green. No sign bore he
Of prince or king, save in the sovran grace
Of his majestic port, his noble brow,
His keen commanding eye. My maidens fled
Soon as they saw the stranger.

Mabel.
And thou, lady?

Rosamond.
Why I too thought to fly, but loitered on
Collecting the bright silks and threads of gold,
Careful excuse that to myself I made
For lingering there, till he approached; and then
When I in earnest turned to go, he stayed me
With such a smile and such a grace, and craved
My aid so piteously, for he had lost
Comrades and hounds and quarry and himself
In that morn's chase, that I was fain to proffer
Guidance to our old castle.

Mabel.
He went with thee?

Rosamond.
No. At Lord Clifford's name he started.—Mabel,
Shun thou the lover that shall start to hear
Thy father's name.—With slight excuse he rode
To seek his partners of the chase. But oft
From that day forth we met beside the lake;—
And often when November storms came fast,
Driving against the casement, I have wept
Drop for drop with the sky, if my dear father
In his fond care forbad his Rosamond
To brave the raging tempest; all my heart
Was in that bare damp wood and on the bank
Of that dark water, where my lover stood
To wait my coming, patiently as sits
The nightingale beside his brooding mate.
How could I chuse but love him?

Mabel.
Didst thou know
Thy lover for the king?

Rosamond.
Not till my love
Had been confessed; then he in turn confessed
The fatal secret. What a coil of wild
And desperate passions woke within my heart
Fear, shame, and pride, and anger, but true love
O'ermastered all; we fled, and I am here.

Mabel.
Alas!

Rosamond.
Nay, wherefore cry, Alas?—My Father—
I must not think of him—Out on thee, wench!
That sigh of thine hath saddened me, hath brought
Fond thoughts of days of old—the blessed days
When I was innocent and happy! Girl,
Thou hast a father, an old white-haired man
Who loves thee. Leave him not, I charge thee, Mabel!
Bring not those white hairs to the grave with shame
For thy foul sin!

Mabel.
Oh weep not, dearest lady!
Look how the shadow hath crept on! and surely
I hear a clamour at the gate—
(Noise without.)
A tumult
Even in the Hall. Dost thou not hear?

Rosamond.
'Tis he,
My king! my Henry! Quick, let's meet him!—No,
I must first dry my tears—Yet did I ever
Meet Henry without tears?—Where loiters he?

Mabel.
And what may mean that cry? The noise comes near;
Heaven grant that all be well!

Enter Constance.
Rosamond.
Hath aught befallen
The King? Is Henry safe? Speak! Speak!

Constance.
Fly, Madam,
Fly to the secret chamber. Our brave knights
Are overpowered; and we undone. The Queen
Approaches.

Enter Queen Eleanor, Guards, &c.
Eleanor.
Minion, she is here. Fly not,
Proud concubine.

Rosamond.
I think not of it.

Eleanor.
Guard
Each entrance well that she escape not. Women,
Stand from about her. Wherefore kneel'st thou there?

Rosamond.
For mercy—Oh thy looks are terrible—
For mercy and for pardon.

Eleanor.
Dar'st thou kneel
To me for pardon? Dost thou know me?

Rosamond.
Yes;
Thou art a Queen, a mighty Queen, but still
A woman!—Women should be pitiful,
Great Queens should pardon.

Eleanor.
I am Henry's wife.
Dost ask for mercy now? Aye sob, and shiver,
And dash thy face against the ground, and lie
Prostrate before me, minion. 'Tis my hour—
(To one of her attendants.)
Bring in the bowl, good Hubert!—I have been
A mockery of a Queen, whilst thou hast borne
The power, the state, the reverence; enshrined
Within thy bower, like some vile Indian Idol,
Partner of Henry's heart, and more than partner
Of the fool people's love. The very courtiers
Grey-bearded counsellors, and valiant knights
And learned Bishops all have brought their suits
To Rosamond, fair Rosamond—I'll mar
That boasted beauty.—Bring the bowl, I say.—
Where be her sons?

Rosamond
(starting up).
Oh Heaven is merciful!
They are not here! They are safe! Their innocent lives
Are spared! I thank thee, Lord, that in thy pity
Refused the mother's prayer. My boys are safe!

Eleanor.
I'll reach them, harlot, yet.

Rosamond.
Oh no, thou wilt not.
Thou art a mother; thou hast boys as young
As mine, aye, and as fair. I saw one once,
A sweet and gracious child, he smiled upon me—

Eleanor.
He knew thee not.

Rosamond.
He smiled upon me, Queen,
And in my heart I blest him. 'Twas thy Geoffrey.
If e'er thou meet my children, think on him,
And thou'lt not harm them. Not to be in truth
King Henry's wife, could I have injured him.

Eleanor.
Peace! smooth and wily serpent! I came hither
Not to hold parley, but to execute
A needful justice on a desperate sinner.

Rosamond.
We are all sinners.

Eleanor.
Bring the cup. Drink that,
Or bare thy bosom to the sword.

Rosamond.
'Tis poison!

Eleanor.
Swift sudden poison. Drink!

Rosamond.
Not yet! Not yet!
The sternest justice yields some little pause
Betwixt the sentence and the death. Grant thou
Some respite for dear charity. An hour!
Only an hour!

Eleanor.
Drink, minion.

Rosamond.
I must die,
I knew that when I saw thee; but unshriven,
Without the rite of holy Church, or prayer
Of pious priest! I ask thee not for life,
Albeit life is precious, I but crave
Such ghostly comfort as is given to thieves
And murderers on the scaffold.

Eleanor.
Drain the bowl—
Or seize her, archers, and with your sharp swords
Let out her life.

Rosamond.
Alas! for womanhood
Yield me not up to these stern men! I'll drink
The poison. Now farewell to hope, and joy,
And love the latest passion.

(She drinks the poison and a trumpet is heard without.)
Eleanor.
Hark! that trumpet!

Rosamond.
I know the sound—The King! the King! Too late
Thou com'st, my Henry.

Eleanor.
Aye! The bowl is drained.
I am triumphant—Let King Henry come,
My great revenge is sure, and for my fate
I reck not.

(Enter King Henry, and Guards.)
Henry.
Wherefore be the warders changed
And Reginald Fitz-Urse—Queen Eleanor!
I read the riddle now—but I am here
To guard thee, Rosamond, and clear thy bower
Of these stern visitants. Avoid the castle
All ye of the Queen's train! Sir Hugh de Clinton,
See that my bidding be obeyed, and line
The courts with my stout yeomen.
[Exeunt the Queen's guards.
So! Fair Madam
I prythee back to Windsor! I am loath
To use a husband's power—ay or a king's—
But tempt me not!—I know thee, Eleanor,
And so far can endure—no farther. Back
To Windsor, Queen! Yon gentle trembler sits
Shivering like a new caged bird—Depart
I warn thee, Madam! For as I'm a knight,
As I'm a man, I cannot chuse but soothe
The lovely wretch that suffers for my sin.
Wilt thou not bid me welcome, sweet? nor thank
The precious chance that brought me here to change
Hatred and malice into love and joy?

Rosamond.
Joy!

Henry.
Did she speak? Her gladsome voice is changed;
And that sweet word rang like a knell! Take comfort,
My Rosamond.

Rosamond.
Comfort! But 'tis a comfort
To see thee once again, once ere we part.

Henry.
Who hath dared speak of parting? Who could part
Two hearts that loved like ours? Who dare to sever
King Henry from his love?

Eleanor.
A mightier king,
The mightiest of the mighty—Death. Yon bowl
Hath well avenged me.

Henry.
Poisoned! Fiend accurst,
Full of all vice that woman ever knew,
Wanton in youth, and jealous in thine age,
And now a murderess, look to find a vengeance
Stupendous as thy crimes!

Rosamond.
Henry!

Henry.
My Rose,
My murdered Rose, how could I waste a thought
On aught save thee! Go ransack all the land
For costly antidotes, search all the earth
For skilful leeches! Say, I'll give my crown
To him that saves my Rosamond. My fairest,
Thou shalt not die.

Eleanor.
The crowns of the whole earth
Could not preserve her life an hour. The draught
Was deadly. Thou wilt see her boasted charms
A loathsome mass in thine embraces.

Henry.
Slay
Yon fiend! She maddens me.

Rosamond.
Nay, touch her not.
Forgive me, 'tis the first time I e'er crost
A wish of thine—She must not die.

Henry.
Had she
A heart, those words would kill her.—Oh my Rose,
That I could die with thee!

Rosamond.
No! thou must live
For England, for thy children. My poor boys!
Could I have seen them—send not, 'tis too late!
A little space, and thy poor Rosamond
Shall join her kindred clay. My boys! say to them
That with her parting breath their mother blessed—
Oh no! no! no! I have no right to bless
As virtuous mothers have. I am a curse
To all my kindred, even to them who drew
Their being from my crime. Let them forget
Their mother's very name; and breed them humbly—
Promise me that, my Henry.

Henry.
Rosamond
They shall be bred as Princes.

Rosamond.
Oh no! no!
Humbly, most humbly. I was ne'er ambitious
'Midst all my sins. I loved thee for thyself
Not for thy rank. 'Twas not the king I worshipped,
But Henry, mine own Henry! Breed them humbly
And say to William (for his mounting spirit
Already fears me) that he take no vengeance
For this rash deed.

Henry.
He shall not need. That task
Is mine.

Rosamond.
That task is one forbid by Heaven.
I do conjure thee, Henry, by the love
Thou bear'st me, for the weal of thine own soul—

Eleanor.
Go to, I fear him not.

Henry.
I thought to slay her,
But that were mercy. She shall live.—Why leave
My circling arms, my Rosamond? Why drag
Thy trembling form toward yonder murderess?

Rosamond.
Madam!
Nay, stay me not—'twill ease my heart. I am dying
Untimely midst my sins, unshriven, unblest,
By priest or bell, a sinner! yet one duty
Even I may fill at this last hour, to part
In charity.

Eleanor.
Dar'st thou to pardon me,
Harlot, adulteress?

Rosamond.
Queen, for that foul sin
I crave thy pardon! Oh forgive me, Madam,
As I forgive—

Henry.
She sinks! Off with yon fiend,
To prison! quick! off with her!
(The guards take Eleanor away.)
My beloved,
How art thou?

Rosamond.
Easier.

Henry.
Oh she'll live! She'll live!
No; no. Her cheeks grow whiter; and her hands
Cold, cold; and scarce my trembling arms sustain
Her sinking form.

Rosamond.
I'm easier.

Henry.
Is there aught
That I can do to pleasure thee? My sweet one,
Speak to me.

Rosamond.
My poor children!

Henry.
Are they not
My children, Rosamond? Those boys will be
My only comfort. I shall love them, dearest,
Too fondly.

Rosamond.
And my father, my poor father!

Henry.
He shall be mine.

Rosamond.
I'm easier. Turn my face
Toward the south. The sunshine from the oriel
Lies straight upon the floor! 'Tis noon.—The hour
I longed for, and I've heard thy voice and felt
The pressure of thy lip, aye and been clasped
To that fond heart! We have been sinful, Henry,
And therefore are we doomed; have loved too well,
And therefore—Oh that this poor life of mine
May expiate our crimes! that thou may'st be
Happy and fortunate!

Henry.
Pray for thyself,
Sweetest! What happiness is left for me
When thou art gone? Think but of thee.

Rosamond.
I cannot
If sin it be to love, that sin cleaves to me—
Henry! my king! I'm faint.

Henry.
She falls! she dies!
Aye wet her temples with that essence.—Rosamond!
Is she gone, Constance? Is the spirit fled?
My eyes are dizzy. One kiss more! Her breath
Is gone; her lips are cold;—She's dead, quite dead;
And I am left alone and desolate.
My Rosamond, my love!