 | Sir Anthony Moore |  |
SCENE I.
An open Country.Caroline, Esther, in mean tattered habits.
Est.
Oh! I am ruin'd!—Hapless, wayworn Esther!
'Tis hard that thou should'st victim fall to love,
Now when so far beyond his arrow's range!
Car.
Be comforted, dear Esther; better days
Await us nigh.—'Tis but a pilgrimage,
A short one, and will end in happiness.
Est.
Ah me! I sorely dread the event, my Caroline!
My race is nearly run, and for myself
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I see nought but mishap and misery
Awaiting on us.—What are we two like?
I've studied all this day for simile,
But none can find so low.—Once on a time
I cross'd the Stanmore waste; the day was cold,
Chill, chill and barren, for the eastern blast
Was hazed with driving hail; a feeble ewe,
Outworn with age and famine, had sunk down
By the way side.—Such look of misery
And hagard want in brute I never look'd on.
A pretty lamb stood hanging over her,
A mute meek innocent, that seem'd to share
In all her sufferings; and I ween'd her looks
Betray'd that half her pains were not her own;
For ever and anon, as we drew nigh,
These looks were rueful turn'd upon her lamb.
She could not rise, for she had sunk to earth
To rise no more; but, lifting her lean limb,
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Fond it assayed—but vainly—for alas!
No kindly juice remain'd!—With hopeless eye
It turn'd around and patted on its dam,
As urging her to rise.—All unavailing,
It tried to pick the scanty frozen shrubs,
Then crept down in its feeble parent's bosom,
With her to die.
Car.
Did you not rescue them?
Ah, Esther! could you leave the hapless pair
To perish thus?
Est.
Anon there came a hind
Of brown uncourteous mein—he pass'd the dam
With slight regard, but took the yeanling up
Below his plaid, while the old dying thing
Look'd after him with many a tremulous bleat.
“Thou most unfeeling boor!” enraged I cried,
“Can'st thou thus leave the feeble of thy flock,
Ruthless, to perish?” Mildly he replied:
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And I must needs her little orphan save.
Poor beast!—'Twas a good sheep to me and mine;
Not nice of food, but pick'd upon this waste
For many a year, and I will miss her sore.
But she has served her time to us.”—The tear
Stood in the good lad's eye when he said this.
Car.
Prithee give over, Esther. Whether 'tis
My poignant feelings at this time, I wot not,
Or the incitement of your simple tale,
But never did I feel so much disposed
To play the child and cry.
Est.
And well thou may'st—
And well may I—it is our archetype.
Here we are on the waste—the world's wide waste,
Turn'd out to pine with famine and repentance.
Some pitying hind, when we are far from hence,
And sinking under misery, will come,
And, seeing thee so young and beautiful,
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And shield thee in his bosom; but poor Esther
He'll scarcely deign to look on, but pass by,
Saying the while, in feigned mournful mood,
“Ay, let her lie there—she has served her time.”
Car.
No more, dear Esther.
Know'st thou that I rejoice in this?
Est.
I give you joy on't then,
With all my heart.—But lately you did wish
That you had more to give and more to suffer,
In token of your love to your dear lord;
As to the giving part, 'tis somewhat baulk'd,
For neither of us two can give one mite
To save us from perdition; but no lack
Of suffering presents—You shall have roth
Of that indulgence, I stand warrantise.
Car.
'Tis sweet to suffer ill for those we love.
O it will make me doubly dear to him!
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You dared to doubt of constancy in love.
Est.
God grant my fears are vain.
Car.
Where shall we go to wait his coming, Esther?
Think'st thou that he will place me in the north,
Where he has lands and towers, that I may be
Nigh him in this approaching northern war?
Or leave me with my retinue at home
At beauteous Castle-Benendine?
Est.
Then list:—First I arrede you haste
From off your sire's domain, for we are watch'd,
And none dare shelter us or give us bread.
Come, Caroline, we must, like other beggars,
Take rest a while—complain—and journey on.
(Exeunt.)
| Sir Anthony Moore | |