University of Virginia Library

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.)