University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in the Tower.
Babington
alone. He starts from his couch.
Ha! burn the stars not dim?—What is the hour?
Surely, methought, I heard the midnight toll.
Wild fantasies spring in the troubled breast
As meteors from the fen. Did I not dream
I saw my mother married; and she stood
Deck'd for the bridal in her winding sheet?—
—The tapers flicker'd bluely—and, e'en yet,
The choral voices ring within mine ear!
Methought they issued from the vaults below,
And not the holy choir; and, when they ceased,
Died into sounds unearthly—horrible—
That were not music—'Twas a ghastly dream—
I'll walk and watch awhile to calm myself.
This is the time, when round a wretch like me,
Will hover those ill beings, whose bad pastime
Is human ruin—such as crowd, they say,
To new-made graves; or, like a wandering fire,
Flit round the spot where murder hath made feast;
Or shroud them in the cloud, whose smouldering bolt
Hath struck to earth the thunder-blacken'd wretch;
Or, with unnatural fears and fiendish promptings,
Infect the restless sleep of those who wake
To suicide.—
Doth not the lamp was pale? sure morning nears.
Well; let it come. Haply they think to scare me
By bringing death o' the sudden 'fore my face,
As they would fright a child. 'Tis baffled malice.
Had not his visage been familiar to me,
I had not been thus. I am now calm again
As yesternight, when at my grated window
I watch'd the sun go down, lovely as e'er
He did in happier days—ere I knew sorrow,
Yet did not shed one tear. Let them deny
A friendly voice to smooth my waning hours,
And work my death with more of cruelty,
And less of sympathy, than they'd bestow
Upon a thievish cur—I can bear all.
Nor shall a dying eye, 'mid all their tortures,
Ask, “How can ye do this?”
How now?
Enter Gaoler.
I come
To say that one would be admitted to you.

BABINGTON.
One? Who?

GAOLER.
She will not say her name.

BABINGTON.
Her name!
Admit her straight, whoe'er she be; and who
That bears a woman's heart, can seek this den
At such an hour as this?
[Gaoler retires.
Enter Agnes.
Whoe'er thou art,
That in an hour when others would forget,
Dost think of Babington—Welcome; and, lady,
Let me in pity see one face whereon
Sure pity must be writ.
Look down, ye powers,
Sure I do know this hand. Oh speak! unveil!
That I may know what I must yet endure.

AGNES.
(Faintly.)
Babington!

BABINGTON.
Agnes, speak! Alas! she's pale
As death were on her brow. What! have they sent thee
That it might kill thee, and thine innocent breath
Be added to my debt.
Look up, dear saint,
Unless I may die too.

AGNES.
Where am I?—Babington!
I shall be strong anon. 'Tis past; forgive me
If, when I look'd upon this place, my heart
Did die within me—but forgive me, sir,
It was a woman's weakness.

BABINGTON.
Thou art all good—
But who did guard thee here? Why would'st thou come?
This is no place for gentleness like thine.

AGNES.
Ask'st thou who guarded hither, Babington?
Heaven! Wherefore I would come, oh ask me not!—

BABINGTON.
And wherefore not, dear child?

AGNES.
(Solemnly.)
Because that wherefore
Is nothing now either to thee or me.—
No breath hath ever known't, and, therefore, henceforth,
Let it remain unbreathed, till breath goes too—
God grant not long—no matter. Only say
My presence comforts you—say, that to see me,
Or hear my voice, gives but a single ray
Unto the darkness of extremity;—
Then you are answer'd, why I would come here.

BABINGTON.
Comfort me!—yea, I am amazed, blest creature,
Wrapt and uplifted, at the very thought
That excellence like thine should dare these horrors
For my poor—ruin'd sake. O! I do see
A glimpse—a ray, to which I have been blind,
Even like the fool, that gazing at the sun
O'ertrod the precious jewel at his feet.—
Look down, great God! But one half hour ago,
The name of comfort to my loneliness
Were as a very echo, but the shadow
Of that which in itself was scarce a sound.
—Oh! what an hour of contrarieties!
Speak to me, Agnes.

AGNES.
And what should I say?
What contrarieties?

BABINGTON.
Ay, what indeed?
Time is too short, e'en to o'errun them now.
To seek for love, there, where it might not be;
And to o'erpass it, there, where it hath been;
To live long, watching hope which ne'er could bloom;
To die, with hope unlook'd for, yet fulfill'd,—
Is't not an hour of contrariety?
Answer me Agnes, is it not?

AGNES.
Oh! what—
What can I answer?

BABINGTON.
What can'st thou, indeed?
Nor would I have thee. Only answer this,
Ere darkness hath made vain the utterance—
—Dost thou not love me?
See how forward, Fate
Can make a reckless wretch.

AGNES.
Let my tears fall—
Believe me they are cold. Yes! I have loved thee;
That is the word,—and will—thy memory.

BABINGTON.
I die content. I will not utter more;
Fate and the hour forbid. I must not take
Those thoughts that should be God's, not even to give them
To thee. So be't. Yet never, therefore, deem
That priceless love hath all been cast away.
Half of my life thou hast preserved, which else,
Alas! perchance had died.—List to me, Agnes,
I do bequeath thee a dear legacy,
A rich one—for my sake, oh! cherish it!
My mother—
Ha! why has thy colour fled?
What spell enchains thine utterance? what is this?
Thou shudderest—as if thine eyes could see
The hell that's here. Agnes, my blood is curdling—
My heart is shrunken up, as by fierce fire,
Even at my horrible imaginings;
Before its strings have snapp'd, speak but one word—
Although its sound shall be too desolate,
Ev'n for the fiends to laugh at. Thou speak'st not,
But turn'st away thy face, and wring'st my hand.
I'll say it for thee then—My mother's dead!
Sign to me; is't not so?—Hold up, my heart;
This is thy latest pang.—My mother—dead?
(Passionately.)
And wherefore should she live? is it not better
That her old eyes are blinded in the dust,
Than left to be put out by sights like this?
Thank God. For her 'tis better, howe'er Heaven
May judge for me. Unto this latest trial,
As unto all gone, or that yet may come,
I bow—'Tis o'er—thank God!
Enter Gaoler.
How now! what would ye?

GAOLER.
The time is over which is meted out
For such a conference.

BABINGTON.
But one half hour more.
And it is ended.

GAOLER.
Sir, it pities me,
For that mine orders are most peremptory.
I cannot dare to do what fain I would.

BABINGTON.
What! would ye tear my heart out ere my time?
I tell thee, fellow, were thy masters here,
Methinks a sight like this might move e'en them,
Not to molest my few, short, ending hours.

GAOLER.
Sir, I shall wait here for a half hour more,
But, trust me, at my peril.

BABINGTON.
I'll not betray thee;
A traitor as I am.
[The Gaoler retires.
Oh! how time flies—
E'en to the wretched, when they'd have him stay.
Agnes, we must be brief. With iron hand
Fate tears our hearts asunder. We must part;
And let me part as doth become a man.
Oh! could I crowd into a few sad minutes,
A smiling summer's day, I might say much—
Much! ah! how much! Let me quit that. I know not,
Why thou hast loved a wretch, whose dazzled sight,
Blind with a fatal passion, hath betray'd
His steps into destruction—I know't not—
Unless that extreme coldness, as they say,
Can burn like fire. It is enough for me,
To feel what thou hast given, and I have lost.
Let it be comfort yet, that thine affection
Is so far happy, that it brings to me
One beautiful recollection, which shall gild
My passage. It shall dwell on thee in dying,
And smile away my pain.
(A distant bell tolls.)
Our hour is come.—
Oh! let us part as those alone should part
With nothing of remorse, and therefore nothing
Of fear. 'Tis fit we should be firm, my Agnes,
Who are unfortunate, but innocent.
Malice may gnaw my name; but thou shalt know
I gave my breath but for my country's weal.
This is the last; and we must say—farewell!

AGNES.
No—not farewell! Say not farewell; we may
Meet ONCE again; thou see'st how firm I am.

BABINGTON.
No! not again—not again!
Beseech thee, do not
Breathe such a thought. Wast thou all angel, yet
Thy ministry ends here. What is to come,
No eye should see, save One above—and THEIRS!—
Hear my last blessings—but before I breathe them,
Gaze for one passing moment in my face.—
Now turn away those eyes. They do awake
Thoughts—oh! too sweet not to be alien
To such an hour as this. Give me thine hand,
And when I say farewell, leave me at once.
Thy hand—not yet—be firm, and tremble not. (He puts a ring on her finger.)

Wear this, dear saint, for Babington's poor sake,
And let it wed thee to his memory.
Live thou to think that, dying, he was thine;
And shall be thine again!
And now to Heaven,
Where, let me humbly hope I shall soon be,
I do commend thine innocence. God keep thee;
God watch o'er thee—support thee—guard thee—save thee;
And, ere my voice is choken, and my tongue
Doth lose its office—oh! farewell! farewell!
Heaven bless thee! oh! Heaven bless thee!
(She runs out.)
The last string
Is crack'd at length, that held me to the world;
And welcome, death and darkness.

[The scene closes.