University of Virginia Library

ACT FIFTH.

SCENE I.

The Country—A Battle-Field in the distance.
Moore, Collier.
Moore.
Ah, it has been a day of desperate strife!
Sanguine and stern!—nor is the victory
Yet certain; for I saw our right borne back,
Reeling and cumber'd, to yon hollow dell.
Let henchman speed to Faucet, and return
Swift with the tidings.

Enter Messenger.
Mes.
Captains, the day is ours!
The Scots, for all their desperate might, are foil'd,
And hie them for the Border.

Moore.
Then to the spoil, brave fellow.

Mes.
Spoil, my lord!
They have not left in all their camp one thing
An Englishman would lift—some flabby shoes,
Most villainous of make, with goatskin wallets,
And meazled bags stuff'd with unseemly bran.

Moore.
Ah, they are yare
And hardy knaves!—We are well rid of them.
Is Faucet safe?—And Howard, is he well?

Mes.
Howard is well, and urging the pursuit;
But ah, my lord, it grieves me to inform you,
Brave Faucet is no more.

Moore.
Has Faucet fallen?
'Tis then a costly victory for England!
We have no braver captain left behind.

Mes.
By the resistless Douglas he was slain,
Who bore down all before him.—When they met,
O never was such dread encounter seen!
The ranks paused and look'd on—But Faucet fell!
We bore him off, for at that time our troops
Began to reel amain—I by him stood
Till his last breath, and found him sore amazed,
And grievously perplex'd about somewhat
That did concern yourself, Sir Anthony:
“Ah, could I see him!—One short word with him
Would give my heart relief—But Collier will—
Collier will tell him all—Ah, should he not!—
Say unto Collier, he must tell him all;”
Were the last words he utter'd.

Moore.
What can this mean?—Can'st thou unriddle it?

(Collier beckons to the Messenger, who departs.)
Col.
Full well—Captain, thou hast a tale to hear
Will chill thy heart!—It is of Caroline.

Moore.
Talk not of her.

Col.
Yes, I must talk of her;
For ne'er was beauty, purity, and love
So foully, and so impiously belied.
Ay, thou may'st stare! List me, now thou art calm.
To hide the boldest and the deepest plot
That e'er by man was framed—a plot that brought
Proud Cecil to the dust, and raised up thee
With all thy friends, the falsehood was devised.
I knew it all.

Moore.
Then, Collier, thou art damn'd
If thou knew'st that—Oh, if this tale be true—

Col.
Sooth, my good lord, it is—There is no mind,
Nor mould that love can frame, or fancy draw,
More pure than Caroline Cecil.

Moore.
Then what a dolt, and what a wretch was I!
But I will love her in amends for this,
O doubly dear!—There is no speech nor tongue
Can paint how I will love my injured bride!
And I'll again love all the human race
For sake of Caroline!—Now I can think
With calmness on our nature, which erewhile
For days and nights hath quite unhinged the powers
Of memory, and shook the throne of reason.
Go, Collier, find her out and comfort her:
Say I have labour'd under sad derangement—
Say any thing to cheer her; but do not
Re-wound that kind and virtuous heart, by hint
That I believed her false.—I'll post away
To Benendine, and speed preparative
Such as hath never welcomed English bride.
Now I am well again with all mankind!
Set that intolerant spirit of ambition
Aside, and men are beings of regard.
And woman!—There is not on nature's face
Aught half so pure, so loving, and so sweet,
As I deem woman—and my heart exults
That such a feeling now revisits it.

SCENE II.

The Cottage.
Cecil, Ralph, George, with Artificers and Mourners —A splendid open Coffin is seen—Cecil kneeling beside it—As the Scene draws he rises slowly.
Cecil.
Forgive me, boys—I've play'd the woman here
Haply too long—Close up that gaping urn.
Shut, shut its raven jaws, and spread the pall;
For now the face of my dear child is hid,
I cannot bear to look on't.—All that blaze
Of heraldry o'er its funereal mould
Is hateful mockery—Let it be pall'd
Forthwith, that eye of man may not behold
Such flummery of device.
(To the artificer.)
Hold thee, good friend,
Thy haste's officious—Who bade thee put forth
These knuckled paws upon that sacred bier
With such important bustle?—Stand aside
Till thou art ask'd.

Geo.
My lord and sire, remember
The day wears on apace, the rites are o'er,
And death's pale visage suits not with the eye
Of kindred and the sun—O! it is best
Shrouded from view!—Now the artificer
Must needs have done—Restrain your ire, my lord.

Cecil.
Alas! my ire and pride of heart are o'er!
I cherish neither: I consign them both,
With every earthly passion to that urn.
No more shall nature's bustle trouble me!—
Adieu, my child—a short adieu I bid thee.
So good and so beloved was never yet
So injured and abused—O, I list much
To sit and watch thee still—to look on thee;
But I'm restrain'd and check'd.—I have no ire,
But that I hate to see such knaves as that
Thrust their officious and important snouts
Upon the griefs of men, as much as saying,
Keep all aloof, I'm here—For that you say
That I am ireful.—Ah! you little weigh
The cause I have for other feelings here
Than aught of ire! But it is always thus;
I cannot utter word but I'm in ire,
And check'd by boys.—For failings of old age,
And such misfortunes, some regard is due.
True, I am proud!—O, thou departed saint,
My pride hath kill'd thee! That calm face of thine
Will haunt me on the bed of death.—Farewell!—
This is the last—I cannot bear to see thee
Closed from the light for ever.
Enter Collier.
Whom seek'st thou here, false knight? Thou art abettor
Of low deceit and perjury.—Aroynt!
Thou look'st upon thine enemy.

Col.
I dread
To ask what this may mean.—If that I fear
Has happ'd, then guilt hath wrought its masterpiece.
(Reads the inscription.)
O horror!—Caroline!

Cecil.
Does this suffice thy malice? Is that Moore
Now glutted with revenge? Or is there still
Farther device that may depress old Cecil?
There is but one step lower thou can'st thrust him,
And that's into his grave. If thou hast soul
Or might to do it, both of which thou lack'st,
(Drawing.)
The sooner so the better.

Geo.
Is this becoming, father?—Thou may'st see
Sir Richard grieved as we are.—Why this heat?

Cecil.
Heat! Heat again!—Grieved, did you say?
No, he rejoices in't—he and his friend,
The most redoubted Moore—O, how they joy
In this dear sacrifice!

Col.
Ah! Moore is blameless;
Would Heaven that I were so!—I might have saved
That precious life.

Cecil.
Thou might'st have saved that life,
And yet then did'st not do it!—O, thou fiend,
Does that neglect alone not charter thee
In endless torment?

Geo.
Consider, honour'd sire,
If none else might have saved her.

Cecil.
There struck the pang!—Did'st thou advise it not?
Was it not thine?—O, all of you are blameless,
Save her unhappy father!—all the guilt
Lies heap'd on his grey head!—But short the space
That his worn frame shall totter under it.
Knight, I had boon to ask of your high friend,
That demi-god of England—On my knees
I meant to beg it of him—Can'st thou save
My age the toil—the pleasure—which thou wilt?
My daughter—she that was my daughter there,
That victim of thy malice, did request
With her last breath, her body might be laid
In Moore's own family vault, to save her name
From stain that might attach it.

Col.
I ensure
My hapless friend's assent. Alas! his mind
And frame will never this deep loss survive!
I'll go and warn him.—Is't not meet, my lord,
An husband should be guest, and see deposed
The dust so dear to him?

Cecil.
It is, it is; but let him bring his sword;
She was a warrior's child, and ween'd herself
A warrior's bride, and therefore it is fit.
No words—Bear forth the body—Warn our train,
The day's too far advanced.

SCENE III.

Benendine Castle.
Moore and Page.
Moore.
The time moves heavily!—Are all my halls
And bowers richly bedight?

Page.
They are, my lord.

Moore.
And all my yeomen ready to take horse?

Page.
They're all array'd and tending in the court
With arm on mane.

Moore.
How bears my milk-white steed his new array,
His side-saddle and belts?

Page.
He stands caparison'd in burning gold
And broider'd silk, much wondering at himself.
But ah, how proud!—It is a noble beast!

Moore.
'Tis now high noon, and not a word from Collier!
Nor know I yet the route that we must take!
I cannot brook this pause!—Mount and away;
By the Cross-church we ride, belike that way
We'll meet himself or messenger.

SCENE IV.

A Burial-ground, with an Aisle, Monument, and Escutcheons behind, the Coffin standing covered with a pall.
Cecil, Ralph, George, Mourners, Church-warden, &c.
Cecil.
I tell thee, foolish warden, in that aisle
The body shall be laid—I've warrantise,
Therefore give up the keys without demur,
Or, in one word, I'll twist thy shrivell'd nape,
And force our entrance.

War.
I had no previous note of this, Lord Cecil;
Therefore I dread some plot, and do protest
Against such outrage.—But dispute must cease,
For here our brave young lord is hard at hand,
With nine-score gallant yeomen in his train.

Cecil.
Ha! we're betray'd!—Stand to your arms, young men.
(Looking back as to warriors behind.)
Though twice our number, they shall dearly buy
The last blood of the Cecils.

Geo.
The chief himself approaches, and his train
Are left behind.—Accost him with respect.

Enter Moore.
Cecil.
Comest thou to fight, Sir Anthony? Or comest thou
To mock the funeral in that array?

Moore.
The Cecils here!—My lord, I nothing knew
That any branch of Cecil's noble stem
Was lopp'd by death.—Thus far upon my way
I've come with purpose of the kindest love
To Cecil and his race, and o'er the dust
That once was relative to that, trust me,
I'll shed the kindred tear.

Cecil.
A tear from thee!
No; the ingredient is not in thy nature
From which a tear distils, else we had never
Stood at thy aisle-door begging for admission
To lay our dead.

Moore.
And who is't dares refuse?—
Lord Cecil could not favour ask of me,
Within my power to grant, and be refused.—
Throw ope the aisle.
(The Church-Warden opens the Aisle. They take the pall from the Coffin, in order to deposite it, and Moore sees the inscription.)
Caroline!—O horror!—
O say it is not so, I do conjure you!
This is some snare for an unstable soul—
A hydra sight to wring the troubled mind
And drive to utter madness.—Ah! you weep!
Then well may I.—But my poor brain is seared
Never to weep again.—O every sense
Revolts from the dire tale I now must hear!

Geo.
Reproach from me thou hear'st not, nor from mine,
Which I this time can quell; to thy own heart
And conscience be it left.—Here lies the dust
Of our loved sister, Caroline, who deem'd
Herself thy spouse; and though thou brokest her heart,
It was her last request she might be laid
Here in thy vault, to save her memory.

Moore.
Can you all stand gazing on such a wretch,
And not, with unity of feeling, rush
And hurl him off from nature?—Oh! in ruth,
Plunge all your swords in this devoted breast,
For such a hateful and detested thing
Ne'er crawl'd upon the surface of the world,
Fouling the elements with poison'd breath,
And shaming the blest image of his Maker!
If the earth open not and gorge me down
Into its burning entrails—if the bolt
Sleep still in heaven, and stream not on this head,
There is no eye that overlooks the world,
Nor arm that can avenge the innocent.—
Ah! I forget me!—Death would now be mercy!
'Tis conscious existence is my bane!—
O, Caroline! the heavens and earth shall strive
In vain to sunder us.—In that vault too
With thee in death I'll lie—Thou art my own,
And thou diedst pure, my love, pure as an angel!
Therefore the sacrifice I make is sweet.—
No! I'll not lag behind thee!
(Forcing off the lid.)
I'll but take
One last look of that form I loved so well,
And of that face that I so oft have look'd on
With raptures of delight; and then I'll prove
To all the world how much I loved thee, Caroline.
Calm and serenely sweet!—Who is it says
That death is hideous?—One look on that face
Would make a thousand proselytes to this,
That it is lovely.—There was once a soul
Of such benignant purity and love
Lighted that heavenly face, that yet remain
All the soft lines of beauty!—Pardon me,
Ye weeping friends! My soul clings to that dust,
And I must reave one kiss from those dear lips;
Pale though they be I love them!

(He kisses the Corpse, then, after a solemn pause, starts.)
Cecil.
What moveth thee, thou frantic sufferer,
That thou dost bend thine eyes upon the corse,
And strain them so as if their orbs would burst
From out their sockets?—He is crazed, I ween,
And verging into madness.

Moore.
'Tis the illusion of my aching senses
That mock and tantalize me.—I did think
I saw those rose-leaves heave with earthly breath,
And those cold eye-lids move.—Yes, I am mad.
Nor is it wonderful I should be so!—
It was a strange delusion!—But, alas!
It was no more; for thou art cold and still,
Dear saint, and soon shall this perturbed heart
Be still as thine!—Adieu, my Caroline.
This is the last!—I'll fold the dead robe up,
And hide that wan but comely face for ever.

(He starts with horror, and retires some paces.— Caroline sits up slowly in the Coffin, pulls a white Scarf from her face and breast, and appears in her bridal-robes, pale and quite insensible to all around her. As some of the objects begin to attract her eye, she shrinks down again—feels for some time with her hands, and then, rising a second time, returns gradually to sensation.)
Cecil.
This sight so far transcends all human thought,
That even surmise avoids it.

Geo.
Eternal God! but this is wonderful!
I've heard that death hath yielded up his prey,
In ages long agone, at the behest
Of good men, and of Him who master'd it,
But ween'd I e'er to see it!—No!—
This outdoes calculation!—If 'tis done
By the great Lord of life, in sympathy
Of our deep woe, how ought we all to feel!

Moore.
I've learn'd of late to put discredit on
My every sense, for they have baffled me;
But sure I see those eyes, that late I saw
Stedfast in death, now open to the day;
And that pale cheek, that in the bier I kiss'd,
Regaining fast the hues of virgin-rose;
If this is an illusion, O, kind Heaven!
I have but one request to make of thee—
Let it remain.—O, God! let it remain,
Though but no longer than till I obtain
One kind embrace from those dear arms, and hear
Her speak my name once more in earthly tongue.
Child of amazement, be thou phantasy,
Spirit, or cold reanimated dust,
Thou look'st so like my Caroline, that I
Will raise thee up, and take thee to my heart.
(Lifts her out of the Bier, and leads her forward.)
My life, my wedded spouse, my Caroline,
Dost thou not know me?

Car.
Hush!—I dare not speak.—
I know not if this be a dreadful dream,
Nor in what world I sojourn.—Sure I heard
The sound of my own voice—and feel thine arm—
What being art thou? And what dost thou here?

Moore.
Dost thou not know me, love?—Are all around
Strangers to thee?

Car.
I know thee—thou art he
Who did betray my wareless youth, and left me
To misery and death.—Art thou alive?—
Where am I?—Where is Esther?—Speak to me—
What does this mean?—These monuments of death
And weeds of woe, what do they all portend?
And these wan moveless forms of friends beloved,
What may they be? O speak to me.

Moore.
Speak on, speak on, fair vision, for thy voice
Is music to my soul!—Move, breathe, and look;
Give all thy vital functions exercise,
Lest thou return into thy trance again;
For O, I cannot yield thee back so soon
To death, and to that narrow chilling urn!
Yet I am thine—In life or death I'm thine!
'Tis fix'd and absolute.

Car.
I gather nought from this—All, all is dark,
Dark and uncertain!

Geo.
List me, my sister, but embrace me first;
I'll speak with temperance.—Dost thou remember
The cot of Reldon?—of the farewell kiss
Thou gavest me there?—There did I close thine eyes
In death, and there thy body was enshrined;
And hither, at thy last request, was brought
To Moore's own sepulchre. Him here we met
Upon his way to bear thee home a bride,
With all yon proud array.—In agony
He burst the lid from off thy funeral bier,
And at his plaint of woe and burning kiss
The dead awoke!—The spirit, that had fled
To its unearthly sanctuary, return'd,
And renovated life dawn'd on thy face,
Slowly and pale as opening morn of spring.
Whither by latent searchless work of nature,
Or the immediate influence of Heaven,
He only knows who framed and rules them all;
But never did event so wonderful,
In these late ages, greet the eyes of men.

Car.
O I remember all; and trace it all
In regular consequent.—But never mind
Shall fathom the dark depth, and the extent
Of this strange miracle, but mine alone.
Let never the most wretched soul despond,
Doubting the guidance of th'Almighty arm,
Or take that destiny in his erring hand
That not to him belongs.—He only knows
The woes that he has borne, but little weens
The fortune that awaits him.—When the cup
Of bitterness seems to our eyes most full,
'Tis often nearest out.—O grant me now
Thy blessing, honour'd sire!

Cecil.
Not as a Moore—No!—never!—

Geo.
My father, thou hast seen his poignant grief,
And his exalted love.—Let me entreat thee
To bless his union with thy Caroline,
Thy child to thee so wondrously restored.

Ralph.
Though hitherto I've been a foe to Moore,
I humbly now entreat thy acquiescence
In this desired union.

Moore.
We all entreat thee.
See, we all kneel to thee, and only wish
To call thee father.

Cecil.
Give o'er thy mumbled pesterous requests,
It may not be.—The Moore hath rent my heart,
And ruin'd me and mine.—I'll never yield
To call him son.

Moore.
God is my witness,
I never yet, by action or by word,
Did aught against thy house, nor did I know
Whence grew your deadly hate.—I loved you ever,
And ever did respect you, as my friends,
My bosom friends can witness.

Collier,
(who, during part of the foregoing Scene, has been standing behind.)
Forgive, my lords, your lingering messenger:
I see with wonder what I see; but farther
Not now I question—On this theme I'll speak.
Sir Anthony did ever pay respect
And high regard to you.—The knight is dead
Who practised on your feelings, with effect
To you pernicious. He it was who staid
Your troops from battle, 'gainst the king's command,
By which the realm was put in jeopardy,
And he so much incensed; and every word
Which in unguarded anger you have spoke,
Have all been register'd, and to the king
Sent with high aggravation.—Me he held
So much his friend, and honour'd me with trust,
I never could betray him, though my heart
Abhorr'd his subtle plots.—That this is truth,
I'll make appeal to God, or proof to man.

Cecil.
Faucet!—Ah, I bethink me! and I see
At once the progress, and the moving cause
Of our debasement. It was life to him
This double-working cursed policy,
So potent in the governance of things.
Yet none of you could see it, but went on
Brawling and scheming 'gainst the innocent!
O ye're impediments to all that's great,
Noble, or eminent!—You'll carp and breed
Great coil at fault or failing of old age;
But you lack that; the source of high remead;
Both of you lack it—'tis not here in either!
For thee, my child, my loved, and wronged child,
Thou never gavest offence—My love for thee
Was well requited.—
(Embracing Caroline.)
Though I have misconstrued
Of you, sir, here the blame attaches not.
(Taking his hand kindly, and joining it with Caroline's.
May you be blest as father's heart can wish.
The blame was not with me—'Twas they—'Twas they.

(He strides off deeply affected—They all embrace —Curtain drops.