University of Virginia Library

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.

Dark Mountains, &c. Pavilion, and Tents.
Enter Garnet and Kilmorack.
Gar.
This is a dull retreat!—What seek we here
Amid this waste, where desolation scowls,
And the red torrent, brawling down the linn,
Sings everlasting discord? where the mists,
Drizzily and dank, hang lingering on the bosom
Of the bleak wilderness; and winter's flag,
White as the speck upon the North's cold cheek,
Scutcheons the hill for ever?—Are our minds
Estranged from reason's guidance, thus to tilt
Against each principle and bold appeal
She makes to manhood?—Say, Duke Albany.

Kil.
Duke Albany! What do you mean? Beware.

Gar.
Sooth, I forgot, and ever shall;—these pranks
Go sourly down with age. Tell me the cause
Why we are here, and why our names are changed?
I like not this disguise.

Kil.
I'll tell thee all:—
These hills are wild, 'tis true; but the dun deer
Run there in thousands—they are gloss'd and shy,
Fleet and high-fed; we shall have royal sport.
And then the maids! the blooming mountain maids!
Ah! they're so lovely clean bedight, and sweet,
'Tis pleasant to be nigh them.

Gar.
I like the maids!

Kil.
Dost thou indeed, old warrior?
I bless thee for it; but I fear the maids
Will ne'er like thee. A lip so sweet as one
Of Crawford, or of Campdale maidens,
A graybeard must not mar.—Did'st thou e'er see
A fair green stem, in all its blushing hues,
Cling to the bosom of a wither'd oak?

Gar.
Hence, scoffer, with thy jargon: True it is
I like these country maidens. From the hall,
The steading, and the cot, constant they look
To see the green-coat hunter's stately form;
Their fair blue eyes, like morning's softest beam,
And ruddy lips, opening in cherub smile,
Courting in simplest guise the words of love.

Kil.
'Tis meet we take false names—things may be blabb'd
At which our courtly dames at home would jeer.
We're all unknown, and these wild northern titles
Will blind the country knights to our degree,
Prove but our pages faithful.—Sure they must;
Each has his rustic sweetheart too,—save one.
Hast thou not noted one fair page, Glen-Garnet,
Too lovely for a boy?—I have strange fancies,
Which time will soon unravel.—Soft! Here comes
The new redoubted Lord of Badenoch.
Enter Badenoch,
Hail, gallant brother! Thou sit'st king to-day,
And we must wait thy orders. Sooth, yon aim
I have not seen outdone.

Bad.
'Twas a good hit,
But marr'd a noble chase. The stag had sprung;
Open'd at once the pack with notes so loud,
The breeze of heaven was broke, and seem'd to roll
In wavy folds, like billows of the ocean:
The mellowed echoes so distinctly spoke,
I ween'd that viewless beagles mouth'd the wind,
And sung from every hill.

Gar.
Say how he reach'd
The goal so soon.

Bad.
At first his horns I saw,
Between me and the welkin, cut the wind;
So swift, they whistled in't, and play'd and toss'd
As light as the tall branchy fern, when waved
By summer gale.—My heart with ardour heaved!
Anon he came, and belted the green hill
Swifter than ever raven swoop'd the air!
Proud of his matchless speed, he snuff'd the wind,
And bore his brow so high, as he disdain'd
The earth and heaven. I aim'd afar before him;
Just in the shadow of his bawsin'd ear
The arrow stuck—headlong he fell; then, rising,
Bolted aloft in air, as he would scale
The barriers of the firmament. The bounds
He made adown the steep were aimless quite;
'Twas the last burst of life; the last exertion.
He founder'd oft, till in the mead below
Grovelling he lay.—His slender limbs, convulsed,
Paw'd the green sward, still struggling to proceed,
But his fair head, disgraced and crimson-dyed,
Refused to leave its flowery pillow more.

Kil.
He shall be mated. With the Lord of Crawford
We hunt to-day. If the dun deer do sleep,
And if their sleep is haunted, Crawford hinds
This morn may quake in sad foreboding dreams.

Bad.
I dreamt of one last night, and her alone;
I hope she dream'd of me.

Kil.
Ah! well I noted
Your glances to Lord Crawford's blooming bride,
And her's to you.—But, brother, pray beware:
I know him well; he's brave and generous,
But passion's self is not more violent.
His love, his hate, revenge, and jealousy,
Run in extremes: And he is jealous, trust me,
Of you and his fair spouse.

Bad.
O, brother! if I gain her not, I die—

Gar.
What? The earl's own wife?—you will not—

Bad.
Or die of love—my heart is on the rack.

Gar.
What is't you would!—say, wilt thou bear her off,
And marry her a second time?—or—surely not!
You wont seduce her?

Bad.
Wont I?—Art thou serious?
Thou once wert young like me—In those sweet days
When pleasure beckon'd thee with seraph smile,
And passion urg'd thee on, did no sweet maid,
With burning cheek, and eye more moist and bright
Than dew-drop on the hyacinth; whose breast
Was fairer than the moving lawn that veil'd it;—
Did no such maid ever seduce Glen-Garnet?

Gar.
No!—never!—Shame on this lax age, and thee,
That set'st so light by female innocence!—
My youth was spent in arms:—For Scotland's right
I've stood in many a well-fought field; my hand
Glued to the hilt with foeman's blood; my heart
Faint, faint, and weary!—I have seen my friends
Fall thick; yet every groan that past we deem'd
A pledge of freedom. O'er their mangled forms,
And wading through a crimson tide, we've vow'd
The vow to Heaven,—to stand or fall with Scotland!
Was that a time for pleasures? Have we bled
For such as thee?—Shame! shame! Lord Badenoch!

(Exit.)
Kil.
I love to hear him scold.

Bad.
Old crusty fool!
I'll gain that lady, brother: Give me joy;
Did'st ever woman see so truly lovely?

Kil.
Yes; Annabel—

Bad.
No, no.

Kil.
Far, far outdoes her!

Bad.
Yes, as a taper's light the noon-day sun.

Kil.
Give me leave
To paint the two in fair and just comparison.
Matilda's elegant, comely, and tall
As is the poplar's stem; and her dark locks,
Half curling o'er her eagle eye, appear
Like ebon wreaths on polish'd ivory.
Her dimpled cheek, like pale rose in the shade;
Her lady hand, round arm, and polish'd neck,
So fair and pure, they almost seem transparent.
But what a heart's within! How proudly cold;
How dead to gratitude and virtuous love!
If ever vanity appear'd on earth
In form of woman, 'tis in your Matilda's.
Would she not pawn her honour, nay, her soul,
For admiration?—But, my Annabel!
The simple, fair, and spotless Annabel!
O she outshines the morning!—The chaste snow
That falls o'ernight, when neither smoke nor steam,
No, not the smallest atom, is afloat
To grime its breast, is not more pure than she.
Go to thy loved Matilda, if thou wilt;—
But list me, brother, when you sit at table,
Do not as heretofore; sit not by her,
The lady's hand in your's, whispering, smiling,
Unheeding all things else. While her own lord
Sits with a burning face and sullen brow,
Talking he knows not what. And when she goes
From table to her chamber, sit not thou
Listening our talk, without hearing a world.
And harkee, brother, go not out at dusk
To watch a bower, or haunt the doors and windows.
Or if you do, beware; some one may follow!—
Your course I cannot stay, but pray of you
That prudence may direct—Knows she our secret?

Bad.
She knows it all: But she is close; you may
Rely on her. It could not hap else: She
Was rear'd at court. I mark'd her rising beauty,
And had resolv'd to win her to my will;
But this great hectoring lord came in, and wed
Her without dowry; doats on her to madness.
But well I ween she cares as much for him
As I do for the cloak that covers me:
Her choice had been, rather to live my mistress
Than Crawford's spouse.

Kil.
Thy mistress! Truly I should like to know
How many such thou hast.

Enter Sir Ronald, Garnet, Squires, and Pages. Elenor dressed as one of them.
Ron.
Master, we wait thy orders.

Bad.
To Crawford all, man, horse, and hound, away!

Kil.
I'll first go see the lovely Annabel.

Ron.
No; not to-day, so please you, sir.

Kil.
To-day thou art not master—I will go.
(Exeunt Bad. and Attendants.)
(Kilmorack lays gently hold of Elenor's hand.)
Stay, pretty boy, I want to speak with thee.

Elen.
Say on, my lord.

Kil.
Whose page art thou?

Elen.
Lord Badenoch's, sir.

Kil.
Lord Badenoch's!—Indeed!
Thou art a pretty boy—dost sleep in's tent?—
What?—No answer!—My page sleeps at my feet.

Elen.
What would you more, my lord? Pray let me go.

Kil.
What is thy name?

Elen.
Allan, my lord.

Kil.
Allan—'tis a fair name; thou art a pretty boy.

Elen.
I must begone—what would you more, my lord?

Kil.
Only a kiss, that's all.

Elen.
A kiss? Oh me!

(She struggles, disengages herself, and exit in confusion.)
Kil.
Mark you that, my lords?

Ron.
Ha! is it thus?

(Exit.)
Garnet.
We're in a hopeful way!

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

A poorly furnished Hall in an old Baronial Castle.
Enter Sir John Drummond, leading Annabel.
Drum.
No, no, no, no. I tell thee, they're impostors;
You must dismiss them. I have made enquiry,
And no such knights exist.

Anna.
Their breeding speaks their rank—It cannot be
That men so gallant, polished, and free—

Drum.
Hold, girl!—you are bewitch'd!—you're mad!—keep clear!
The very air they breathe's infectious;
The dew of heaven that falls round their pavilion
Has something blasting in't.—The bane has reached thee;
It settles round thy wareless heart, and soon
Will make it bleed. Base valets! lacqueys!
That mimic their superiors. If thus
They haunt my child, I'll make foul work with them;
The next that comes to flaunt and flourish here,
I'll take him by the beard.

Anna.
Hush!—calm thee, father, you do wrong them much.

Enter Kilmorack.
Kil.
Give thee good day, sir; Heaven bless thee, Annabel.

Drum.
Amen, say I.

Kil.
Amen, say you!

Drum.
I say, amen. Is it not well?
And more I say.—Fair sir, what seek you here?
Is that not Scottish?
Dost thou not understand it?

Kil.
I came, sir knight, to ask if you would join
The hunt to-day?

Drum.
You know I will not; a feint!—come, come; go on.

Kil.
And—

Drum.
And—

Kil.
Pay my devotions to fair Annabel.

Drum.
Come hither, child—it seems thou'rt a divinity;
Will't hear the poor man's prayer? Do, I beseech thee.
Kneel, sir, I'll teach thee how to pray; for well
I know thou'rt little used to't.

Kil.
That will I do with my whole heart and soul.
(Kneeling at Annabel's feet.)
Most lovely! most divine!—

Drum.
Nay, hold!—that's wrong.—I knew thou could'st not pray.
Say after me, thus:—
Fair Annabel,—

Kil.
Fair Annabel,—

Drum.
Thou art unsuspecting as open truth,—

Kil.
Thou art unsuspecting as open truth,—

Drum.
And innocent as the lamb that gambols on the sward,—

Kil.
And innocent as the lamb that gambols on the sward,—

Drum.
Even though the guileful fox,—

Kil.
Even though the guileful fox,—

Drum.
Lies watching to devour it;—

Kil.
Lies watching to devour it;—

Drum.
Therefore, sweet maid, if you would ward the eye,—

Kil.
Therefore, sweet maid, if you would ward the eye,—

Drum.
That blights thy bloom for ever;—would you save,—

Kil.
That blights thy bloom for ever;—would you save,—

Drum.
Thyself from shame, thy parent from distraction,
(Kilmorack pauses, and looks at Drummond.)
Spurn off this foul impostor from thy sight.

Kil.
(Starting up.)
Sir!

Drum.
Thou'st not half done yet;—down again, sir, down;
I'll wring the truth from out thy guileful heart,
Of schemes so rank, so fraught with injury,
The very winds that kiss thy shameless cheek
Shall flush the air with red.

Kil.
What bear'st thou on?
Said'st thou the tinted winds should fly my cheek?

Drum.
Ay, tinted deep as blood, and bear the dye
Far to yon orient, till the blush of heaven
Crimson the morn.

Kil.
Or you are barely civil,
Or I do wrong your meaning much, Sir John.

Drum.
You need not, sir; my words are heralds aye
To my free thoughts.—Would every one's were so!
I've been too downright for this fawning world.
Thou too art honest, and wilt prove it now:
Tell me, then, who, or what you are?

Kil.
That you knew well before—The Lord Kilmorack.

Drum.
You lie.

Kil.
In your own hall you stand; 'tis like you ween
The place is sanctuary; but beware!
Say but that word again, and all the shields—

Drum.
You lie, sir; you lie—
(Kilmorack draws his sword half out—Drummond takes hold of his wrist and prevents him.)
Keep down thy sword, young man: 'tis good for nought;
It cumbers thee; 'twill turn upon thyself,
And never wound the breast of honesty.
Look at this letter.—

(Kilmorack looks at the letter for some time, and starts.)
Kil.
Give it no credit, sir; 'tis all imposture.

Drum.
It looks not like it.—Ah! how thou art caught!
Come, sir, this work brooks not delay—'tis stale.
There, go thy ways, my lord!
(Pushing him out.)
What ails my Annabel?

Anna.
You have
Abused the noble youth, and wrung my heart.
You may repent it: For, if well I judge,
He is not one to cope with.

Drum.
Peace, my loved Annabel; a father's eye
Is more to trust than your's.—O, I would brave
The Scottish throne, to save thy peace and honour.—
Ha! who comes here?—another!

Enter Coucy.
Cou.
Sir knight, in proud and liberal commendment
Of such high worth and deep research as your's,
I give you kindest greeting.—This fair lady
Honour and manhood teach me to survey,
As one to whom my sword and life's devoted.
For such a peerless maiden I would sojourn
O'er half the burning zone; then in a moment
Pass to extremes, and split the winter storm
Of polar seas, unsandall'd on the ice.
Nay, more, I would even—

(Drummond lays his hand upon Coucy's mouth.)
Drum.
One moment give me leave, till I enquire
Of your commands—With me, or with my daughter?

Cou.
Both, courteous knight—my reverence is to you;
To such unquestion'd lore I shall be proud
To pay repeated homage.—For this maid,—
The fair, the gentle, blooming Annabel,—
O, purity of beauty! I could fold thee
Thus, thus for ever, to—

Anna.
Most worthy, most refined, and courteous sir,
Square your approaches by the standard line
That civil modesty and right defines.

Cou.
Pardon, angelic maid; and I will kneel,
For thou art all divine, and worship thee!

Drum.
That well becomes thee.—In approval, I
Will lesson thee; I erst have done such things,
And thou may'st profit by it. Thus proceed,—
Fair maiden! Thou art beauteous as the rose
Unblemish'd by the suns or winds of heaven,
While yet the dew quakes on its virgin breast,
As if afraid to soil it. Thou'rt so fair,—
Say on.

Cou.
Thou'rt so fair,—

Drum.
So lovely to my eyes, that I would give—

Cou.
So lovely to my eyes, that I would give—

(With rapture.)
Drum.
My very soul,—

Cou.
My very soul,—

(With rapture.)
Drum.
To ruin thee for ever.
(Coucy pauses, and fixes his eyes on Drummond.)
For I'm a fool, vain and unprincipled,—
Why dost not say it?

Cou.
(Starting up.)
Sir,
Such prayers I understand not.

Drum.
Seest thou that door? Good sir, 'tis like the air
Of this fair morn may clear your understanding.
Good morning, sir; make the experiment,
(Pushing him out.)
But let me see that hemlock face no more.

Anna.
That was well done, I blame thee not for it.

Drum.
Thou'rt playing with the asp, my Annabel;
I charge thee for my sake, avoid these men.
I tremble for thee; and I must be rude
To drive them hence.—Another yet!—Good heaven!
The men are mad, conspicuously mad;
The point admits not argument.

Enter Ronald; who salutes them respectfully at a distance.
Ron.
Your pardon, sir, for this untimely visit;
'Twas kindly meant to you, and your fair daughter.

Drum.
Sir Ronald, I respect you.—Would you hold
That due regard at aught, come not to talk
Of love to Annabel. My mind's made up:
I'll know you first.

Ron.
I said I loved your daughter,—
It is my pride. I love fair Annabel
Dear as the soul that animates this frame;
Not with that frantic passion of the blood,
Lighted by novelty and beauty's glow,
Which calm reflection deadens, and the bourn
Of hope when gain'd, extinguishes for ever.
With no such flame do I love Annabel;
But with a sweet and cherishing esteem,
Which beauty, innocence, and simple truth
Have shed upon my soul, like dew on flowers,
Or like the first beam of the blessed sun,
Which, after lowering storm, lights on the world.

Drum.
Sir Ronald, thou'rt a man which honour fits;
'Tis throned upon thy brow, beams in thine eye,
And flows in genial current from thy tongue.

Ron.
And never will I favour ask of her
Which you approve not. Never will I use
Concealment, falsehood, or deception;
Nor slightest witchery of guileful love.

Drum.
Would God I knew that you were nobly born!

Ron.
Noble I am, knighted by majesty;
But Scotland holds no poorer knight than I.

Drum.
Alas! look round you.

Ron.
All I see is well:
Not rich, indeed; but then 'tis all your own.
It is not so with me:—My halls are gay;
The stag bells in my forest, and the flocks,
Like thousand specks of snow, rest on my hills;
But nought of all's my own.

Drum.
Indebted! Then I pity you. I've been so too:
'Tis a bad case; my daughter must eschew it.

Ron.
We'll speak of that anon. With your good leave
She shall not.—To my errand. I have heard
A plot amongst my friends, for which I blush.
Fair Annabel, I warn you to beware;
It points at you, dear maid; your all's at stake:
Your peace, your beauty, honour, every thing.

Anna.
And you're not in the plot, Sir Ronald?

Drum.
My life for't, he is not.

Anna.
Whence grows his knowledge then?
Is't likely that a rival should be trusted?
No; 'tis the counsel of some selfish motive:
I'll not believe it.

Ron.
Thou hast judged hardly of me, Annabel—
Come near, I'll tell a simple tale to thee:
Once on a lovely day—it was in spring,
I rested on the height of that dread cliff
That overlooks old Stirling. All was gay;
The birds sung sweet; the trees put forth their leaves,
So pale, that in the sun they look'd like blossoms:
The wild thyme and the violet deck'd the sward
On which I lay, scenting the air with sweets.
Some children wander'd careless on the hill,
Selecting early flowers. My heart rejoiced,
For all was glad around me. One sweet maid
Came tripping near, eyeing, with gladsome smile,
Each little flower that bloom'd upon the hill;
Nimbly she pick'd them, minding me of swan
That feeds upon the waste. I blest the girl!
She was not maid, nor child; but of that age
'Twixt both, when woman nears unto the list
Where angels stand smiling on thing so sweet.
Deep in a little den, within the cliff,
A floweret caught her eye—it was a primrose
Fair flaunting in the sun. With eager haste,
Heedless of risk, she clamber'd down the steep,
Pluck'd the wish'd flower—and sigh'd; for when she saw
The depth she had descended, then she woke
To sense of danger. All her flowers she dropt,
And tried to gain the height; but tried in vain!
I hasted to her rescue; but, alas!
I came too late!

Anna.
O God! and did she fall?

Ron.
Yes, lady; far, far, down on rocks below,
Her lovely slender form was found at rest!
I saw her, middle air, falling like star
From out the firmament. The rooks and daws,
That fled their roost in thousands at the sight,
Curtain'd her exit from my palsied eye
And dizzy brain. O! never will that scene
Part from my heart; whene'er I would be sad
I think of it.

Anna.
O! it is piteous—past all endurance!
Why did you tell it?

Ron.
Because, my Annabel,
You mind me of that child. You walk the verge—
Take care how you descend; it may prove hard
To gain the height you left. Your danger's great—
Greater than her's. Last night I dream'd of it:
The scene was all renew'd to fancy's eye,
With woe redoubled, all but this one item,
That I thought you were she.

Anna.
Ah, you astonish me!—Now I remember—
Father, I'll tell thee something when alone.

Ron.
I must begone, my friends wait my return.
Think better of me, Annabel—your hand, sir.

Drum.
Good sport to you, Sir Ronald; you alone,
Of all the rout, I long to see again.
(Exit Ronald.)
He is a generous youth; nay, on my soul,
I do think well of Ronald.—Had you aught
To say, my Annabel?

Anna.
He talk'd of dreams—I had a dream last night,
And such a one! something it must portend.
Grant it may come to good!—Wilt' hear it, sir?

Drum.
Doubtless I will.

Anna.
I thought I lay upon a lowly bank,
Hid from the world's wide eye: A wandering brook
Sung its soft music to the wilderness;
The tiny daisies bloom'd around my head
With little snowy breasts and pinken fringe;
And the wild heath-flower purpled all the hill.
Amid that still untrodden scene I lay,
And O my heart was glad!—Till by there came
A—a— (Hesitating and blushing.)
I cannot tell't;
I'll tell it to my mother.

Drum.
Nay, tell it me; I have some faith in dreams.

Anna.
She has more skill than you—I'll tell it her.

Drum.
More skill than I! 'Tis an ungracious jest.
I, who have spent so many weary nights
Reading the stars, and pondering on the way
How habitants of incontiguous worlds
Are link'd together, and may hold communion.
But here she comes—Now let us hear it out.

Enter Lady Drummond.
L. Drum.
What coil you hold! Pray, what has been to do?
I've heard the tramp of steeds, the bay of hounds,
Strange voices, oaths, and all the gates and doors
In thundering motion.

Anna.
Good mother, you have lost,
By your long slumber, what you hold a treat,—
Three wooers have been here this morn already.

L. Drum.
What! from the noble train that hunt the deer?

Anna.
Even they.—And I've had such a dream last night!
Will you interpret it to me, good mother?

L. Drum.
That can I well; but I must hear it first.

Anna.
I do not like to tell it to my father;
Because,— (Whispers her mother.)


L. Drum.
Well! what of that? 'tis but a dream.

Drum.
Yes, what of any thing? I did not think
You had one thought you could not tell to me.

Anna.
Nay, nay, my father.

Drum.
(Aside.)
I wish to hear her dream; it may discover
More than she is aware of—Say on, my daughter.

Anna.
Well, mother, I was lying all alone,
And very, very happy! Yea, so glad,
I almost wept for joy, I knew not wherefore;
Till up there came a knight—

(Blushing.)
Drum.
Well, what of that? it was most natural.

Anna.
He raised me—held me in his arms—and gave me
A most kind kiss.

Drum.
Sure, for such rudeness you were angry with him?

Anna.
O! angry!—that indeed—No—no.
I near had lied—I was not angry.

Drum.
Well, well, 'twas but a dream—go on.
(Aside.)
Not angry!—
(To her.)
But it imports much in th'interpretation,
Who was this knight?

Anna.
It floats on my remembrance
But half conceivable. Pray, cannot you
Unwind the mystery without that item?

Drum.
Nay, we must have the man in our mind's eye,
Or known by name or pointed definition.

Anna.
Perhaps it was not he; but sure 'twas like
The young—
(Pauses.)
Now I bethink me, it might not be he.

Drum.
Who, pray?

Anna.
The Lord Kilmorack.

Drum.
(Aside.)
Good heaven!—'tis as I fear'd—my daughter's lost!

Anna.
He chided me for lying in the wild,
And pointed to a bower that seem'd aloft,
Shining in all the beauties of the rainbow;—
A new delight—a thrill unfelt before
Seized on me as he led me toward it.
But when we reach'd the place—'tis strange indeed,
'Tis wondrous strange!—no rainbow bower was there,
But verging on a precipice I stood,
To which I saw no base!—My lover seem'd,
I know not what, a thing austere and rough,
And strove to push me down the steep for ever.

Drum.
O dreadful! it is bad!—If it mean aught,
'Tis bad in the extreme!

L. Drum.
It is not evident:
Dreams all are dark, and often contrary.

Anna.
Just at that moment there came one, whose face
Was mild as summer sky, when on its breast
All slumbering lie the moveless clouds of amber:
He snatch'd me from my savage love, and bore
Me to the wilderness, where I became
A beauteous hind; and all the forest deer
Came round to do me homage. Nay, my dream
Went on to future ages; for I saw
Our progeny extended in a line
Farther than eye could reach; and still they grew
In grandeur and in glory, till at last
Their branchy curving horns hoop'd the wide world.

Drum.
One thing you miss'd: Who was the man that saved you?

Anna.
'Twas like Sir Ronald.

Drum.
I'm glad of that. It is a wondrous vision!
If in deep sleep, that temporary death,
Congenial spirits, lingering nigh in love,
With our free souls hold converse; then it seems
Some great events hang on thy fortune, daughter,
And dangers great as they.—'Tis a short ride,
I'll to the Cave of Merlin. If the sage
Is not enwrapt in previous fit, he will
Demonstrate all, by vision'd glance alone,
Easy as I can see the coming storm,
The winds, or showers, by dyes that gild the morning.
When strangers haunt our home, and spirits warn
Our minds in slumber by accordant visions,
Caution is prudence.—Come with me—I long
To ponder o'er this dream; then visit Merlin.
(Exeunt Lady and Annabel.)
O, I have journey'd through this little world
Amid contending elements, and seen
The right outfaced, and ruthless, rank oppression
Rise from obscurity.—Once and again
I've seen the noxious weed upgrow the myrtle;
And the wild bramble overtop the oak.
My house is fall'n! extinct!—I scarcely hold
Semblage of knighthood!—All my sons are slain!
I've had poor thanks. Intrigue is prevalent,
The bane of courts, that turns fair loyalty,
Truth, candour, to the door; while fawning knaves,
With glib formality and specious guise,
Hold all the sway, and merit pines indignant.
There is an ancient oak stands on yon hill;
I've seen it cap the forest: Now its boughs
Are all lopt off, and its old fading trunk,
Shrivell'd and gray with moss, stands bent, alone,
Loud groaning to the blast!—One little sprout
Alone remains, nursed in its scanty shade:
'Tis emblem of myself!—One slender stem
Alone remains of all the goodly bush
That round me grew! Should that too fall or fade,
Farewell to every hope beneath high heaven.

(Exit.)