University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Another part of the Glen.
Enter Elenor in a fantastic russet dress, carrying some flowers; she looks ruefully upward, and motions as with intent of extinguishing a light.
Elen.
Will none take pity on me, and put out
That little lamp, or turn it to one side?
Wilt thou not do it? Were't in other point
Than just the zenith, I could bear with it;
But there it burns, and burns, and burns,
And my poor head burns with it!
Who hung it there, or how it comes suspended
So close above my head, I cannot learn;
But it torments me. Oh, sway it aside
One little inch! That is a small request,—
Yet none will do it!—Yes, I know thou wilt;
For thou art kind,—kind,—kind,—kind!—
Now,—now,—now,—now,—now;—
Uh!—uh!—uh!—There it is off.
Now I am well;—quite well!—O, what a weight
Is from my heart! 'Tis light,—light!
(Laughs feebly and franticly—It dwindles to a kind of crying—Comes forward, and sits down in a feeble convulsion of laughter.)

I cannot help laughing at the conceit of the poppy
being a lord. It was so like!— (Laughs, and selects a daisy.)

It was in hard circumstances the little
virgin flower, for it had no one to defend or protect
it.—It said, no; and the tear was in its eye.—
What could it do more, when it said no, no, to the
last? And it wept too. (Weeps.)
—Then it laid down
its head, and died!

(Weeping and sobbing.)
Enter Shepherd and Friar.
Shep.
Elen!—Why sit'st thou weeping here alone
Over a faded flower?

Elen.
Dost thou not see
How all the virgin gold within its bosom
Is stolen away; and all the blushy hues
That tinged its cheek? O, I must weep for it!

Friar.
Kind heaven restore her! She's a gentle dame.
And is't all true that thou hast said of her?
Seduced, maltreated, spurn'd away indignant
For a new flame! Her father foully murder'd!

Shep.
All by this upstart lord, who governs here.
O sire, hast thou no influence with heaven,
Whose justice stands arraign'd by such misdeeds?
Canst thou not bring the forked bolt adown,
Or make the earth to ope her furnaced jaws,
And gorge him to the centre?

Friar.
No; but I've power on earth that soon shall make
His guilt fall triple on his dastard head.

Enter Badenoch, who turns aside and speaks.
Bad.
A maiden all distract! and the bold hind
Who saw old March's death!—If aught on earth
Could mar my pleasures, it would be his face.
It shall not!—Clown, who brought that creature here?
I list not that such maniacs thus should haunt
My private walks. Go, take her hence, I say.

Shep.
Dost thou not know this creature, sir?

Bad.
How should I know her? Lead her straightway hence,
Else slaves shall drag you both into the dungeon.
No reply—go off.—
(Exit Badenoch.

(Elenor views him with a vacant pitiable look;

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and when he retires, she plays franticly with her hands.)
Shep.
O, sire, let me come at him.

Friar.
No, hold, not yet; his cup of wickedness
Wears to the brim apace, and he shall drink it.

Shep.
(Aside to the Friar.)
—See, he returns: O, let me kill him now!
I'll do it forthwith; he shall not escape me.

Friar.
Peace, peace, I say.—Wait the event;—be calm.

Re-enter Badenoch.
Bad.
Who is this maiden, hind? is she thy sister?
Some feature sought my heart so forcibly,
Missing my recollection, that it drew me
To read the trait once more.
(Elenor turns round, and looks ruefully in his face.)
O soul of agony!
Has the eternal and avenging spirit
Another shaft like this?—No, no; 'tis past!
I have outstepp'd the bounds of nature here,
Wounding her finest chords, which all the balm
Of worlds can never heal.—O God! O God!

(Exit.)
Friar.
Ay, thou may'st groan and howl. It is begun;
The worm that gnaws the conscious soul has there
Begun its work; and never shall it end!

Shep.
(Weeping.)
I saw him weeping,—and—I—will—not—kill him.
No—I have determined not to kill him;
Nor any man—that—weeps—for any thing!

Elen.
Did he not say, that it would never heal?
'Tis false—he would deceive me; for I dress'd it
So painfully that it must quickly heal.
These hands have often bound my father's wounds,
And they grew well anon. I had a brother,
A beauteous brother, and they wounded him
But he lay down to rest, and there was blood
Came streaming from the wound—he felt it warm
As it crept down his breast; his eyes grew heavy;
But he beheld the grass before he slept,
And it was wet and growing, but not green.—
Tis all false—all false!

Shep.
Wilt thou go home with me, sweet Elenor?

Elen.
Yes, yes;
(As they are going out, she shrinks back.)
Oh, there it is! there it is!—I can't go now.
Put it out, good youth; put it out.

Shep.
What is it pains thee, gentle sufferer?

Elen.
Dost thou not see that little golden lamp
That burns above my head, dazzling my brain?
I cannot bear it!—O put it aside!
Put it in any place but that.

Friar.
O, this is pitiful! It is a ray
Of dire remembrance warring with distraction:
That lamp that sears her brain is memory.
Reason is veering on a verge, and soon
Will gain the empire of her wounded breast,
And she may live a holy penitent.

Elen.
Live—live!—No, that cannot be!
The poor babe has neither father nor mother—

He cannot live! For if they carry him, the wind
will blow in his face,—the sun will parch his lips,
and the rain will fall down upon his head!—And
his thin auburn locks will be all dripping, dripping
wet!

(She strikes slightly at her locks, and strains them, as with intent to put wet from them.)
Shep.

Wilt thou go home with me, sweet Elenor?

Elen.

Yes, yes;—come—come—come—come.

(Exeunt.)