University of Virginia Library

ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

Hall in a Castle.
Enter Matilda, and Hunters.
Mat.
Well are you met, my noble lords. This day
Of healthful toil will cheer your hearts, and lend
A triple relish to our social glee—
Be boon and happy, all shall yet be well.

Gar.
The day's events are ominous, and warp'd
By some inexplicable mystery.—
One comely page is vanish'd from our troop;
A gallant chieftain fall'n in dark affray;
Another rudely mauled; and, lo! a third,
Our noble host, is missing!—Whereto tends it?

Mat.
My yeomen are dispatch'd to every hill,
With sound of call and bugle, to give voice
To every gale that wanders through the night:—
The woods shall howl their 'larum to the rocks,
The rocks cry to the desart: If the earl
Still lives, he must by this time be discover'd.

Gar.
(To Bad.)
My lord, I hope you two met not again?

Mat.
Met! did you say? not otherwise, I ween,
Than as friends meet: Not otherwise than friends,
I trust, they met?

Gar.
Not otherwise than friends have often met;—
But such damn'd tilting betwixt friends, I hold
More semblative of savages than knights.

Enter Servant.
Ser.
Madam, my master's steed is just come home,
His saddle seemingly bestain'd with blood;
Himself like furnace smoking, cover'd o'er
With clotted foam, snorting and trembling,
As if escaped from mid an host of fiends.

Bad.
(Aside.)
Ah! then the earl is slain indeed; 'tis plain.
I may as well take merit from a conquest
Not hitherto by man achieved.—I'll do it.

Mat.
This bodes not well.—Nay, good my lords, the while
Dismiss your sadness; 'tis of no avail.
Pass to the hall: The banquet chides your stay.
(Exeunt all but Mat. and Bad.)
I hope in Heaven, my lord, you nothing know
Of any foul disaster that has happ'd
To my brave lord?

Bad.
What would I not for thee,
Beauteous Matilda! All the world is naught,
If thou art wanting with it.—Well I knew
Of one great bar 'twixt us and tranquil bliss:
Had he been friend, or brother, 'twas the same;
I'm all for love!—I fasten'd insult on him,
Claim'd his first hit, swore it was mine, and proffered
Decision by the sword. He drew on me
We fought; I drove him round the den, secure
Of conquest; press'd him to the last, and oft
Gave potent mark. It was all o'er with him:
Had not Glen-Garnet, with officious haste,
Rush'd us between, farther he had not stirr'd.
In pride he would not charge his death on me,
But sullenly retired to die unseen.—
Trust me, his gloom will mar our love no more.

Mat.
Thou hast wrought horror, and my soul recoils
From thee and from thy love: I did not ween
That man could match the arm of my Lord Crawford.
O, thou fell fiend! thou hast cut off a knight,
Whom, though I loved not, yet am bold to say,
Scotland bears not his equal. Therefore list,—
Hope not to thrive in my affection hence:
Thou hast effaced thy image in my heart,
And placed before mine eye a soul deform'd,
Bloated and stain'd with blood.

(Exeunt.)
Enter Kilmorack and Coucy.
Kil.
I call'd thee out, to trust thee with a plot
I mean this night to execute. Thou know'st
This morn how we were treated by old Drummond;
Wilt thou lend me thy aid in bearing off
His lovely daughter?

Cou.
There's my hand on't;—aught
To teaze and mortify the old barbarian.
Your plan? Disclose—Hem.—Come.

Kil.
My page is gone, in woful guise, to say,
“My heart, unable to controul my love,
And sunk before her father's stern displeasure,
Hath moved me to abandon friends and sport,
And hide me from her sight: That all I ask
Is one kind last adieu—one short embrace,
Before we part for ever: That I'll wait
Where'er she shall appoint.”—Her heart's so pure,
She weens each man's the same, and straight will come.
The girl affects me:—we have sigh'd and toy'd;
And I have kiss'd her ruby lips, and talk'd
Of flames, and darts, and most intolerant love:—
I even think her simple heart will yield
To go where I shall guide. Should she refuse,
We bear her off by force.

Cou.
Well; some few flagons more of Crawford's wine,
To front our confidence, and throw a mask
O'er the forbidding features of remorse;
Then hie we to fair Annabel.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

The Hall in an old Castle, as in Act I.
Enter Lady Drummond and Annabel.
L. Drum.
What moves thee, daughter? Thou art sad to-night,
Absent, and thoughtful; and I note the tear
Steal sometimes o'er thy cheek.—Art sick, my love?

Anna.
No, I am not sick; but—

L. Drum.
But sad.—In sober sadness, then, what is it ails thee?

Anna.
I think of my late dream.

L. Drum.
Pugh! a vagary.—Rather say, you think
Of those your dream concern'd. You are in love, child!
Your dream shall soon be read as plain to you
As Ave Maria, or meek homily.
Your father, who, for sundry years agone,
Has read the language of each little star
That nightly rings the leaden dome of heaven;
The humid moon, in all her varied moulds,
The gilded crescent, and the full-set orb,
Where frowns the giant sinner 'neath his burden,
Have each to him a converse of their own.
Now fondly would he deem himself a seer,
And to the wizard Merlin's cave is past,
To read with him the book of fate, and learn
Thy fortune, and the fortunes of thy race.

Anna.
I dread he'll stay too late.

L. Drum.
He knows the links of Tallo; and will trace
Each winding path in murkest hour of night.

Anna.
I have no heart nor power with thee to feign;
It is not in my nature.—The young lord
Kilmorack quits the chase for his own home,
And begs of me one private hour to mix
His tears with mine, and say farewell for ever.
His page waits in the hall, and pleads full sore
For gracious answer. Step I cannot move
In this that's not conclusive; and on thee,
My mother, I must lean for instant counsel.

L. Drum.
I knew thou wast in love, for I have mark'd
The languor of thy look: But tell me, child,
Is it the calm, the stately knight, Sir Ronald,
That piece of virtuous cold formality;
Or the untamed, impatient Lord Kilmorack,
Sits imaged in your brain, and thereby holds
O'er your young heart this soft and pleasing sway?
Resolve me this, and I can well advise;
But, ere you speak, my word is for Kilmorack.

Anna.
My heart is more engaged than I approve
To that young violent lord: I never yet
Held slightest dalliance with him, but I felt
As if I were in fault, and sore to blame.
I have resolved to shun him.

L. Drum.
Note me, child:—
Thou art a cold, ill-manner'd, prudish girl.
Remember thou art poor,—so is Sir Ronald,
Even by his own report,—which like is true.
When I was young like thee, O I know well
Which should have been my choice! But take this hint,—
Such wooers come not every day.—Go thou
And say, that thou wilt meet him; send him ring,
Or bracelet, as assurance. Go, I say;
Maids should not, by constrained coyness, lose
Those chances most they covet.

Anna.
Were it Sir Ronald,
Although he moves me not so much, I would
Meet him all dreadless: But I dare not trust
My inexperienced heart with that young lord;
He melts it at his will, and turns it so,
I hold not self-possession. I'll not go;—
These secret, stolen meetings, scarce become
The blush of maidhood. Were my father here,
He would not sanction it; therefore I go not.
What stays my father? it is not his wont
To tarry out so late. I will walk forth
The path to Tallo; haply I may meet him.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

A dark Landscape—Tower behind.
Enter Kilmorack, Coucy, Attendants.
Cou.
Where do you mean to bear the girl, my lord?

Kil.
To the first lonely dwelling we can reach.
Hast thou thy gown, thy breviary, and cowl?

Cou.
Yes; but I little wot how they'll become me.

Kil.
Short be thine office;—join our hands, look up,
And speak in unknown words,—it nought avails
What be the purport. O! without that potion,
That stillient of the soul, which beauty drinks
From churchman's hand, we chevaliers of love
From many a fruitless foray might return!—
She knows not we are here; but she denies
All fix'd appointment. Yet my page assures me
That she is much perplex'd:—Her father absent,—
Her mother's tongue pouring forth advocation
On my behalf,—from such a promised harvest
What man would shrink?

Cou.
My heart misgives me much.
If you affect the dame,—she's nobly born,—
Why not wed her in mode ostensible?

Kil.
God bless the apothegm!—'tis the first breath
That e'er was shaped to semblancy of virtue
By Coucy's lips!—It is sheer envy, knight;
I know thee well. Say, is it not more chivalrous
To bear her off, which not inhibits wedlock,
But often renders it more obligation?
Without some travail and combustion
In the attainment of delight, 'tis nought,—
I would not have it. Ye propitious stars,
I worship you! See who comes gliding here,
Like the mild spirit of the twilight, sent
To shed the odours and the dews of life
On panting nature!—O, ye suasive powers!
That mould the heart of woman by mere sound,
Hang on the evening winds, that every breath
Which my rapt bosom drinks may be thine own,
And flow in strains of wonderful conjurement!—
Retire, good friends; and if my suit avail not,
Which shall be fashion'd to the very frame
Of her kind motion'd soul, then be you ready.

Enter Annabel—Kilmorack steps from the side, and takes her hand.
Anna.
Ah!

Kil.
And art thou come indeed? may I believe it?

Anna.
Kilmorack!—My Lord Kilmorack here!

Kil.
Here, my sweet angel.—Blessings on thy head
For this last kindness!—Here I should have stood
Until the day-beam crested green Carleven,
Ere I had quit my post. O let me kneel,
For I'm unworthy of this holy trust!

Anna.
Trust! my good lord.—I no instruction had,
By word or thought, that thou wast here; and much
It doth amaze me.

Kil.
A resistless hand
Still drags me here. Had I but seen thy form
From yonder casement, I had ween'd my pains
A thousand times o'erpaid, and should have sped
From this beloved retreat more satisfied.

Anna.
I'm truly grieved that you are bound to leave
The chace, the forest, and your friends so soon.

Kil.
'Tis thy divine perfections, peerless maid;—
The chace or forest has no charms for me
Since I'm denied thy presence. I must go
To my own home, and sigh for thee in silence.

Anna.
I could not ween your love for me was such;
But you have said it, and it must be so.
O stay, my lord! stay but a little while;
My father may be won.

Kil.
Before to-morrow's sun hath tipt the cone
Of yon high western hill with burning gold,
Or flung the eastern shadows o'er the vale,
I shall be gone far from these hills, and all
My heart holds dear!—I cannot say the word,
That cutting word, forever!—O, 'tis painful
This last embrace! but yet that pain is sweet.
I see you're moved—One kiss, and then farewell!
Think sometimes of me, Annabel.

Anna.
Farewell, my lord. Are you,—are you then gone?

Kil.
O, I could stay thus till the distant morn,
The last that wakes o'er this devoted world;—
Till the loud peal that waked my kindred dust
Should rouse me from my trance! But what avails?
How proud would I have been, could I have borne
A bride so peerless to my native vale!
The envy of the land!—I'm most unworthy;
But if thou'lt go with me, sweet Annabel,
No lady in our isle in state shall cap
Kilmorack's bride.

Anna.
I have thought of it, my lord; I cannot go.

Kil.
I will not press it, beauteous Annabel;
Thy prudence may judge fairer than my love.
Give me a token—one small lock of hair;
I'll case't in gold, and wear it next my heart,
And press it to my lips each day I live.
When the death-bell hath slowly toll'd me home,
And my last vesper been in requiem sung,
My head upon that precious relic pillow'd,
Will make my sleep more sweet.
(She gives it him, much affected.)
Adieu!—'twill break my heart longer to stay.

Anna.
But think'st thou their's are safe who stay behind?

Kil.
O, stay not then!—Your will's your own, and free
As the dun deer that wanders on the waste,
Or bird that cleaves the firmament: My heart
Is solely yours. The thing most wish'd on earth
By me, is to be one with Annabel.
Should you leave all for me, kindred and friends,
How doubly dear 'twould make thee!

Anna.
(Looking at the castle.)
My father and mother—

Kil.
Think not I urge it, gentle Annabel;
'Twould be too much to say, thou might'st confide
In me, or trust my love and honour.

Anna.
O, I could trust thee with my life, my lord;
And if there's any thing more dear to me,
I could with that, methinks, now trust thee too:
A love so generous has no selfish end!—
I wonder at my heart: It is not right,—
I know I should not go; and yet there is
A little puny elf within, still whispering—
“Go with thy lover, Annabel!”
What does it mean?

Kil.
That thou'rt all innocence and purity,
And must and shall be mine.—Come,—come!

Anna.
(Weeping and looking back.)
I know I'm doing wrong, and yet—Farewell!—
(Stops short and starts.)
Hold, my good lord, a while;
Let me deliberate calmly on this act:
Short conference with my own heart will serve.—
Fair candid maid,—Can'st thou, in time to come,
Answer, with open truth and stedfast look,
To prudence, virtue, parents, and the world,
For this?—Not one:—No; not to one of them!
Ah, what a gulf reflection has unveil'd!—
My lord, I would not thus, in secret guise,
Go with thee to be made this island's queen;
And, ere th'infection catches me again,
I take my leave.—Adieu, my lord!

Kil.
Nay, stay;—I cannot, and I will not lose thee:
Thou needs must go with me.

Anna.
No,—never;
In this clandestine mode I never will.—
I pledge my oath; therefore desist, my lord.

Kil.
Then since it must be so—

(Whistles—Enter Coucy and Attendants.)
Anna.
Ha! is it thus?
Hold off your impious servile palms from me;—
Here do I cling for safety!—My good lord,
Since thus I'm in your power, I'll rather trust
Your honour than my strength.—I go with you.

(Weeps.—Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

The Cave of Merlin.
The Sage is discovered asleep, dressed in a frock of sackcloth, and a white cap on his head; a book lying open before him, with great red characters, and a dim lamp burning beside it.)
Enter Sir John Drummond.
Drum.
Hail to the central habitant, who dwells
In this dread, hallow'd, subterranean home,
Sacred to that which human power transcends!—
Hail to thee, mighty Merlin!—
What!—Asleep!
And ope before him that mysterious book
Which human eye hath never look't upon!
I'll have one peep, though it should freeze my blood.
(He goes to the book, looks at it, then starts, holds his head, and returns to the front of the stage.)
Ah! what is this? methought one single glance
Of these red characters beam'd on my soul
With such refulgence, its whole powers were dazzled;
Its latent principles were waked anew,
Expanded like the halo of the moon
When wading from the dark and folding cloud,
And nigh had melted from my frame for ever!—
(Pause.)
Say that I took that wondrous book a while;
I should be wise as he,—haply much wiser!
'Tis a great prize!—I would not pilfer aught;
But knowledge is a treasure that should charm
All bars that circumscribe it into air.
Say, that no other way remains but this,
Which ever can reveal to mortal man
The mysteries of that book—all argument
Lags impotent!—Haply a week, a day,
May well suffice to open stores of wisdom
Yet seal'd from man—And such another chance
Ne'er to recur again!—I'll take the book.

(As Drummond retires with the Book, thunder and lightning, and shades, like spirits, are seen gliding at the further end of the cave; and a voice is heard in a slow lamentable tone.)
Voice.
Woe be to thee, man, that ever thou wast born!

(Pause. Then groans and low tones of music heard.)
Voice.
(As before.)
Awake!—awake!—O, Merlin awake!
Thou son of a thousand years!

(Groans and tones of music are again heard.)
Enter Crawford.
Cra.
Heavens, what a dreadful coil! Hell has been here!
I heard strange sounds; and lo! a horseman past,
In mad and furious guise, away. The sage
Is fast asleep.—Ho! Merlin, rouse thyself;
The habitants of hell and earth are mix'd
In tournament. Arise, and make division!

Mer.
(Waking.)
Out on thee, knight! What seek'st thou here? Begone.
I pity all thy follies, but to-night
I hold no talk with thy preposterous race.
I know thee; thou art slave unto a woman;—
That thing made up of all the adverse grains
Of jarring elements and steams of hell;—
And thou art come to prate of her to me!—
I say, begone!

Cra.
Great prophet! I'm an injured man, and came
To thee for insight and for counsel.

Mer.
Injured!—By whom?

Cra.
By some mysterious strangers;
But chiefly by a woman, whom I love.

Mer.
Ay, by a woman!—Injured by a woman!
I knew it.—It is very well with thee!
The man who takes that scorpion to his bosom,
Deserves the worst she can inflict.—Begone!

Cra.
I say I will not hence, till thou unfold
The book of fate, and tell me all my doom.

Mer.
(Looking, misses the Book.)
Where is my book?—Wretch! hast thou touch'd that book?

Cra.
I touch'd it not: but ere I enter'd here
I heard unearthly voices, and I saw
A knight, with book in's arms, pass on so swift,
That he outrode the whirlwind, and brought back
The passing gale in's face. Adown the glen
His furious courser dash'd the pebbled path
So fierce, it seem'd to rain red fire around him,
And spatter from the earth.—Your book is gone!

Mer.
Gone! saidst thou? Woe, then, to the hapless man;
And woe to all that touch it!—Woe,—woe,—woe!
Nature will soon be in a stayless uproar,
And all the elements in roaring war.
Oh! there are openings in that volume, knight,
That mortal may not look upon and live!

Cra.
How, then, dost thou?

Mer.
Think'st thou the soul that animates this frame
Is mortal; or came to this world with me?
Ah, no! when first these mysteries I learn'd,
That melted from its earthly tenement,
And left this mould a moving, gaping corpse.

Cra.
O dreadful! dreadful!

Mer.
Seven days I lay or stalk'd in ghastly guise,
Void of all sense, of feeling, or of mind;—
My moveless visage held its ideot gaze,
And my two eyes, like globes of burnish'd glass,
Flung no reflected image inwardly;
They would not wink even in the noon-day sun.

Cra.
How was this vacancy of mind supplied?

Mer.
The spirit that now directs this faded form,
Lived ere the sun or stars of heaven were lighted;
Ere the broad world was in the centre fix'd
Of yon great frame that ever spins around it,
Wheel'd by the polar angels. She has journey'd
O'er the unpaled and diamond floors of heaven;
Has climb'd the steep brows of the summer moon,
To mark her influence on things below
Skimm'd o'er her glossy seas, dream'd in her shades,
Wing'd the blue void, and sung the hymns of God
On yon green glimmering star.

Cra.
Sire, my heart quakes, and all my blood runs cold,
Hearing thy words.—That awful book!—

Mer.
I'll tell thee, knight,
Some pages in that book, if read by man
Unused to guard with spell, will wake the dead!
Yes, you shall see the new-swollen corpses rise;
Unbowell'd forms in bloated winding sheets,
And ribbed skeletons, shall join the array,
With nerveless joints all clattering to the night!
Even the dark aisle and churchyard ground shall stir,
Heaving, like earthquake, with the struggling throes
Of crumbling bones and congregated dust!
(Moans, and tones of music are heard.)
O God! the book is open'd!
(Pause.)
One other page shall rend the firmament.
(Loud thunder, with lightning.)
The tumult spreads amain!—What shall be done?
Where are my lingering spirits?—One leaf more,
And he that looks shall fall a senseless mass;
And yet that mass have motion!
(Loud groans, and tones of music are heard.)
'Tis done! he'll look no more! O hapless man!—
Good knight, if thou hast pity in thy heart,
Or sett'st at aught the miseries of men,
Conduct me through this awful night, that I
That relic may regain.

Cra.
With thee I fear not;
For thou can'st quell the boisterous elements:
But such a night by man was never braved!

(Exeunt.)

SCENE V.

A dark Glen.
Enter Crawford, leading Merlin.
Mer.
Where are we now?

Cra.
We are past the linns of Tallo, and descend
Into the vale. Some habitation's nigh.

Mer.
See'st thou, (for my old eyes are dim,) where yon
Dark cloud impends, and all these thunders jar?

Cra.
'Tis not far hence.

Mer.
There let us bend our course:
My book is there.—The sprites have done their work,
Spite of the fiends and enemies of man.
I'll tell thee, knight,—The great eternal Power
That holds the balance of the universe,
Is this dire night incensed; and sprites, that lie
Chain'd in the burning stars, have dash'd abroad,
And with their bolts, blue-burning from the forge,
Whiz, boom, and rattle through the foldy night.

Cra.
Will they not in that pitchy cloud descend,
And hurl destruction o'er a palsied world?

Mer.
Nay, fear not thou,—
Nature is roused, and musters proud obstruction;
There's opposition in the very winds,
And war along the burning firmament.
I see the angels of the west approach
In shining ranks, on golden chariots borne,
So swift, that scarce the liquid element
Bends 'neath th'array.—O, couldst thou see that sight!
These are their arrows that you see so bright
Gleam through the cloud, and pierce the eastern heaven.
O, for the book!—God! what a coil is here!

(Lightning and thunder.)
(Exeunt.)

SCENE VI.

Discovers the inside of a Cottage; on one side, at the farther end, part of a Bed in a Recess. A Woman is seen kneeling, as in devotion.—She rises slowly, looks with horror to the Bed, and then to Heaven. —Coming forward.
Wom.
Confusion is abroad! The world's last day,
The awful day that terminates our race,
Draws on apace!—Now is the change begun!
Had not the Eternal strengthen'd my weak heart,
That heart had sunk beneath th'united horrors
Of this dire night!—There lies my good old man:
This moment well, the next a ghastly corse!
And none but I, no living creature near me,
To close his eyes, or lay his lifeless form.
Here have we lived these many fleeting years:
We knew we had to part—we talk'd of it—
It came familiar, and we were resign'd,
And loved each other better.—But the time,
And horror of the scene, what heart could brook!
The wandering rack of the night-heaven wheel'd back
To one great vortex o'er my lonely cot;
The thunders pour'd their moddering voices forth,
Till the earth totter'd, and the liquid flame
Hiss'd fluttering o'er the floor!—All this I stood.
Yet, desperately resolute as I was,
Methinks my head grew crazed, and my mind wandered;
For I remember, and the thought distracts,—
'Tis like a cold spear trembling in my breast,—
Methinks I saw the corpse rise from the bed,
And shake its head, and point with sightless gaze.
(Looking at the bed with horror.)
It cannot be! my senses are benumb'd!
But O, that book! that awful book!—It was
No mortal man who left it in such horror.
(Her eye turns to the bed; she starts, stands fixed in terror for some time, then slowly lifts her eyes to heaven.)
O, everlasting Father, what is this?
Is nature all reversed? And shall the dead
Thus rise and motion for their soul's return?—
I will be calm—what's life or death to me?
'Tis nature's last convulsion!
(She kneels. Thunder and lightning. She appears for some time in silent devotion, with her hands and eyes turned towards heaven.—A loud knock at the door.)
If you are beings of this world, approach,—
Uplift the latch, and enter;—All is one!
Or be you summoning angels, you are welcome;
Come in! come in!—All's one! All's one!
Enter Merlin, followed by Crawford.
No, no!—No human being walks to-night!
Whence art thou, grizly form?—Deliver straight
Thy dread commission; I am ready.

Mer.
My name is Merlin—this a friendly knight:
Be not alarm'd.

Wom.
Art thou the old mysterious sage, who dwell'st
Deep cavern'd in the wild, and walk'st the night,
To read the heavens, hold converse with the stars,
And to the dumb and bodiless creation
Give earthly voice and semblancy of frame!
I fear thee not!—All is confusion here.

Mer.
Woman, thy speech is born of agony;
What so distracts thee?

Wom.
There my husband lies,
Struck lifeless in a moment!—That's not all—
Once and again that pallid form arose,
Shook its grey locks, and wagg'd its head at me.

Mer.
O hapless, hapless man!—Saw you a book?

Wom.
Yes; sure I did:—know'st thou aught of that book?

(As she mentions the book, they all start, and look at the bed with horror.)
Mer.
Look there and tremble, knight.—In that same state
Was I for days and nights.—Woman, bring me the book;—
All shall be well.

(As she brings the book, a dressed Corpse is seen to stalk across the farther end of the stage; it goes off a few seconds, then returns to the bed. They seem terrified, and cling to Merlin.)
Cra.
Great sire, can that form live again?

Mer.
Ah, no!—not till the awful day of retribution.
The human soul is from that body fled,
Mix'd with the pure celestial flame that burns
In other worlds, fed by the vital sparks
Which human beings nurse;—from that beatitude
'Tis now inseparable. That walking corse
Breathes not the air, nor hath it soul or sense;
Death moves't in mockery. Should other spirit,
Commission'd, come to animate his frame,
Unhappy he! I would not undergo
That I have done, for empire of the earth.
I've been estranged from this world where I dwell,
Holding communion with another, where
I was not habitant, and with its dwellers,
Of whom I was not one.

Wom.
Hast thou no charm, no power to lay the dead,
And make cold dust lie still?

Mer.
Yes: would to heaven I could as easily
Lay this old form to rest as I can his!
(He takes a cross from under his frock, goes to the bed, and is heard repeating these words:)
Cœli fulgentes domus nondum reclusæ sunt: quiesce,
—dormi, donec te redemptor e tenebris experget.
Peace to his soul!—Now he's at peace for ever.
Good woman, say, how camest thou by that book?

Wom.
Just as the darkness fell, there came one in,
A knight he seem'd, with shuddering horror pale;
No word he spake, but left the book and fled.
The storm was on.—My husband oped the book,
For he could read;—And aye the thunder roar'd—
And aye he read and read. His looks were changed,
And seem'd unearthly;—nigher, nigher still
The storm approach'd; but he regarded not,
But read, and read; till with a cry that spoke
Unbrookable amaze, backward he fell,
And grasping with his hands, as if to hold
Something that would not stay, that instant died.

Mer.
I'm much to blame! But nature must decay.
Woman, the storm is past, and soon will come
Thy inmates, and thy friends, now on their way;
And thou shalt live to see a son arise,
Montgomery named, that all these bounds shall rule.
Knight, thou hast holpen me—Say what thou would'st;
By help of this, three times I'll answer thee—
But look not hitherward.
(Crawford turns round; the Woman retires to the side of the bed, and sits down in sorrow and fear; and Merlin bends over the book.)
Now, art thou ready? ask.

Cra.
Is my Matilda false?

Mer.
(Laying his right hand on the book, and looking up.)
O, thou great guardian of the book of fate,
Give answer just! Is this knight's lady false?
(The book flies open of itself, and Merlin reads.)
“Pure and impure, both in kind;
What boots the body without the mind?
Blind fool! could not ye see,
In the hive of the wasp ye sought for the bee;
The scaithe to her, and the sting to thee.”

(The book shuts with a loud clap—thunder.)
Cra.
'Tis true! 'tis true! Mad is that man, indeed,
Who looks for virtue nourish'd in a court;
And such a court as ours!—
O, I have much to ask; but still my heart
Hankers on that—How shall I be confirm'd?

Mer.
How shall the knight full confirmation gain?
Give answer, spirit, such as man may compass;
For thou in power art perverse.
(The book flies open, Merlin reads.
“The friar he saw, and the friar he knew,
He doff'd the cowl, and the brand he drew,
And the man in weeds the warrior slew;
For a chief may be false though a dame be true.”

Cra.
I understand thee well,—'tis a good hint.
Thanks, thou ingenious sprite.—Shall I o'ercome
The traitor finally?—

(Pause.)
Mer.
I dread the event!—Ask him no more; he's sullen.

Cra.
Shall I o'ercome? Give answer, spirit.
(The book opens, Merlin reads.)
“Thy foes are high, and danger near;
But the ostrich shall perch on the horn of the deer,
And the rampant horse shall quake for fear.”

Cra.
'Tis my own crest! Earl Bute's, and Carrick's too!
I'll find all out but this. O, Merlin, grant me this
One question more!

Mer.
Tempt him no more, good earl;
The book of fate is best unseal'd to man.

Cra.
One, and no more, I earnestly conjure thee.

Mer.
With reverence put thy question.

Cra.
Shall my house long remain, and rule in Crawford?

Mer.
Give answer, spirit.
(The book flies open, Merlin reads.)
“When three times threescore years have been,
That neither a king, nor yet a queen,
Has grass or corn in Scotland seen,
Thy house shall be as it never had been.”

Cra.
'Tis dark; but time may yet unriddle it.
Farewell, old Merlin: I am well resolved
How I shall act by thy familiar's words.

Mer.
Send the old friar of Bield to this good dame
To watch with her the dead.—I must be gone
To my dark home, and wait my welcome change.

Voice.
Merlin, that holy relic thou must yield
To him that gave it: Nature must not be
Again subjected to such dire confusion
By thy neglect.

Mer.
Then I am blest indeed,
And all my woes are past!

Voice.
Before thou yield'st that book, which all commands,
Say, is there aught that we may work for thee?

Mer.
Yes; heave up all the grey mis-shapen rocks
That garnish old Carleven;—bear them high
As the thin cloud that settles o'er the wind,
Then toss them thundering from the verge of heaven
Into yon cavern, till its dew-webb'd roof
And adamantine piles are jamm'd in atoms,
That mortal ne'er may know what it contains:—
Then shall futurity, in dread repose,
Lie undisturb'd, till the slow foot of time
Steal on it, and with heaven-enkindled lamp
Uplight it by degrees.

Voice.
It shall be done.

Mer.
And when this frame is laid in sweet repose
Where I have mark'd, in green Drumelzier vale,
Which thou must do, for man may not behold
The exit, or the lifeless eye of Merlin:
When white and yellow flowrets o'er me bloom,
Come thou on summer eve, and with thee bring
Thy gleesome elves, that carol on the steep,
And fays that love the wan light of the moon;
Tread one slow solemn measure on the sward,
And sing a requiem to the soul of Merlin.

Voice.
It shall be done. Prepare,—thy change is nigh.

(Merlin closes the book, kisses it, and stands bent over.)
Mer.
Farewell, thou dreadful, sacred mystery!
Thou art a charge too high for men to bear:
Without thee I am nought.

(The Book is taken up to Heaven in a flame of fire; voices are heard at a distance, crying, “Farewell, Merlin!”)
Mer.
Farewell!—Now it is o'er!—Come!—O, early, early come!

(He retires to the farther end of the stage, stretches forth his hands in the attitude of supplication, and vanishes.—Scene closes.)