[Title Page]
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Charlotte Payne
Copyright ©2006, University of California
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Charlotte Payne
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December 1, 2006
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Title Page]
You are yet too young to find pleasure in the little volume which I inscribe to you; but as you advance in life and mix in the world, I am chiefly anxious to warn you against that kind of scepticism which is so often mistaken for wisdom and discernment—I mean a doubt of the existence of generosity, or disinterestedness in the motives of human action. It is the practice of a worldly spirit to bring down all motives to its own low standard; and hence the majority of mankind treat with scorn and derision all that is elevated and unselfish. Our great poet Milton, in his " History of England," gives the story of Archil-
THIS little volume is not intended for the public eye; but, since it has the presumption to appear in print, it may require some introduction or apology. In the summer of 1820, I spent some months in the neighbourhood of Callender; the novelty and beauty of that magnificent scenery, the refreshment of a country life, and the enjoyment of leisure, conspired to produce a tone of mind favourable to poetical association. Under these circumstances my youngest daughter happened to read to me an extract from the prose works of Milton; the same which I have prefixed to the play of Elidure.
ELIDURE, the next brother, surnamed the pious, was set up in his place; a mind so noble and so moderate as almost is incredible to have been ever found. For having held the sceptre five years, hunting one day in the forest of Callater, he chanced to meet his deposed brother wandering in mean condition, who had been long in vain beyond the seas importuning foreign aids to his restorement, and was now in a poor habit, with only ten followers, privately returned to find subsistence among his secret friends. At the unexpected sight of him, Elidure, himself also then but thinly attended, runs to him with open arms, and after many dear and sincere welcomings conveys him to the city and there hides him in his own bed-chamber. Afterwards feigning himself sick, summons all his peers, as about greatest affairs, where, admitting them one by one, as if his weakness endured not the disturbance of more at once, causes them, willing or unwilling, once more to swear allegiance to Archillego, whom, after reconciliation made on all sides, he leads to York; and from his own head places the crown on the head of his brother, who, thenceforth, (vice itself dissolving in him, and forgetting her firmest hold, with the admiration of a deed so heroic), became a true converted man, ruled worthily ten years, died, and was
ROWENA and BERTHA discovered conversing.
ROWENA.
THOU speak'st of life as of a flowery path—
But mine has been so thick bestrewn with thorns,
I am a sad foreboder of the future!
Thou know'st the noble Edric was my sire,
Northumbria's king; rough as a mountain blast
His martial spirit was,—to those he loved
Mild as the breathings of a summer's eve.
And had his wide dominion grasped the world,
He would have prized it less than his Rowena.
BERTHA.
Lived not your mother, then, to share his love?
ROWENA.
No; at my birth she died, and his lorn heart
Lived in her cherished image. To the chase
My bounding steed, gayly caparisoned,
Pranced by his side; then at his board I sate,
And at grey twilight sang him to repose.
BERTHA.
When martial feuds drew the brave monarch forth,
Then did you not in safety rest behind?
ROWENA.
No, Bertha, no! 'twas with a warlike host
I followed Edric to the field of death.
As on a height I stood, and watched the fight,—
Watched how his waving plume and brazen shield
Marked where the thickest of the fight was found,—
Sudden a band encompassed me; and seized,
I shrieked aloud for mercy. "Fear not, maid!"
The foremost warrior said, "a hostage thou
For peace, long sought: thy haughty father now
Shall in his turn for peace and safety sue."
Nor prayers nor tears prevailed; a deafening shout
Resounded o'er the thick embattled plain.
Wild with affright, they hurried me away,
And in a castle widely moated round
Lodged me a captive.
BERTHA.
What did the noble Edric in his grief?
ROWENA.
Alas, I knew not! Many moons wore on
Ere I had tidings from him.—One blest eve,
As from the turret's height I watch'd that star
That guides the seaman o'er the stormy deep,
And poured my orisons to Him whose hand
Lighted the lamp of night, a rustling sound
Broke the deep stillness: up the ivied tower
I marked a youth scaling the dangerous steep.
In gentlest voice, approaching, "Maid," he said,
"Thy father lives and greets thee with his blessing."
Methought the joyful sound had dropped from heaven!
BERTHA.
Who was the gallant youth that nobly dared?
ROWENA.
My Bertha, 'twas indeed a gallant youth.
Oh! hadst thou known him—seen his graceful form!—
But thou hast seen it in the sons he left me.
BERTHA.
Was this your noble husband Ethelbert?
ROWENA.
Yes, Bertha, it was he;—the youngest born
Of that bold chief who basely held me captive.
Oft had he listened to my midnight prayers,
My sighs of anguish and my chanted hymn,
That sought of Heaven a refuge from my sorrows.
'Twas he who sang responsive to my griefs,
And gathered wild flowers to adorn my cell:
But more than all, to Edric's court he went,
Regardless of his safety.
BERTHA.
And did he guide thee to King Edric's court?
ROWENA.
Yes; as his page, and clothed in hunting garb,
I followed where my brave deliverer led.
Of love he spoke not, for his generous soul
Scorned to ask recompense of one he served:
Silent and humble was the courteous youth,
As if he waited on a throned queen—
Not as a conqueror who his captive led.
BERTHA.
Arrived at Edric's castle, what befel you?
ROWENA.
Time has not calmed the anguish of that meeting.
—Yes, even now, methinks I see my father,
His white head bowed with sorrow more than age!
Dim was his wandering eye, and his wild laugh
Of maniac horror thrilled my inmost soul.
He cast on me one look of piteous love,
Then sank into my arms, and breathed no more.—
BERTHA.
Oh, my loved mistress, what a fate was thine!
ROWENA.
Thou marvell'st that I live to tell the tale:
All wept who heard it; our assembled elders
Mourned their lost chief: but Edric's virtues held
A sway so absolute, that in that hour
Me they proclaimed successor to his throne.
I loved the people,—loved them for his sake,
And for their own, so generous was their faith:
But Ethelred, they willed not he should share
BERTHA.
You could not choose but yield you to their claim.
ROWENA.
Yield! didst thou say? I gloried in their choice.
Yes! that of all my days the brightest rose,
BERTHA.
Did Ethelbert live long to grace the throne?
ROWENA.
No, Bertha, no! it was too bright to last.
Methinks the fulness of delight on earth,
Like the gay sunshine that precedes the storm,
Is only felt to make the dark more drear!
My husband fell by an assassin's hand,—
A creature of Ethelheard's, whom he spared!
BERTHA.
Lady, spare thy sorrows.
ROWENA.
The nation shared my anguish,
For he was loved and honoured by them all.
There was not one, the meanest of the people,
To whose complaints he turned a deafened ear:
So just, so brave, so generous.—Yet I lived—
BERTHA.
Oh! thou hadst sacred duties to fulfil.
ROWENA.
Ay, Bertha, they were sacred: my two boys—
Heavens! how they clung with frantic sorrow round me,
BERTHA.
Did you take part in this disastrous feud?
ROWENA.
No, Bertha; 'twas my part to stand aloof.
He was my eldest born, my much beloved:
I bowed me to the earth to change his purpose,
Fell on my knees, and prayed that he would pierce
My bleeding heart, ere I should see my people
Crushed by the rigour of his tyrant reign.
He spurned me from him,—bade me quit his presence,
BERTHA.
And didst thou?
ROWENA.
What? ask a noble nation to be slaves,—
To crouch and fawn beneath a tyrant's feet,
Because he was my son? My heart disowned him,
Not as a child, hut surely as a sovereign.
I bade the nation choose a worthier king,
For I was sick of empire, loathed e'en life,
Degraded by the vices of my son.
The choice then fell on Elidure; and he,
For five short years, has swayed Northumbria's sceptre,
Mildly and justly swayed.—But who comes here?
Let us retire awhile.
[Exeunt.
ELIDURE.
I tell thee, Emerick, they worship best,
Who on their path of life reflect that beam
EMERICK.
Have not the legends of our fathers taught
That sacrifice is pleasing to the gods?
ELIDURE.
Look at yon glorious sun's departing beam:
What a bright radiance does it shed around—
Tinging the thin light clouds with burnished gold,
And pouring down yon mountain's craggy cliff
A flood of light! Think'st thou, my zealous friend,
That He who formed yon bright and dazzling orb
Can love the dark and gloomy sacrifice—
The writhing victim, or the dreadful rite?
No; 'tis the homage of the human heart,
The sacrifice of passion and of pride.
—This is the only worship meet for him.
EMERICK.
I marvel that your highness sees no peril
In the free license of such dangerous thoughts:
Your sacred person will be honoured less,
If priestly ordinances may be slighted.
ELIDURE.
I shall be honoured, if I well deserve.
A time will surely come,—prophetic hope!—
When the just gods, in pity to mankind,
Will send a heavenly messenger on earth
To tell of what's to come.
EMERICK.
These are high mysteries, not made for man.
ELIDURE
Yes, Emerick! they are his soul's best food.
What! should he always grovel on the earth,
For sordid projects and uncertain ends?
His duties here are offices of love;
His privilege, to commune with his spirit,
And fit it for a brighter world hereafter.
EMERICK.
Behold, my liege, here comes your royal mother.
ELIDURE.
Welcome her steps. Leave us, good Emerick.
[Exit EMERICK.
Enter ROWENA.
ROWENA.
Thou joy of life! my only comforter.
When grief had bowed my spirit to the earth,
Thy tenderness preserved me from despair;
Taught me to hold my firm belief in virtue,
And made amends for all that I had suffered.
ELIDURE.
Alas! I could but share thy bosom's anguish,
ROWENA.
Where is the hope of such a blessed change?
ELIDURE.
I find it in the memory of his youth.
Hast thou forgot, while yet a stripling boy,
He scaled the cliff that o'er the torrent hung,
And seized an eaglet from its towering nest;
Then bore to me the prize, coveting nought
But the wild joyance of his daring sport?
ROWENA.
Ambition was the passion that destroyed him
ELIDURE.
Ay; but rememberest thou that summer's eve,
When, rambling on the mountain's rocky edge
Which rose above the lake, we saw below
A tottering lamb fall down the dizzy steep?
Instant he flew, and plunged into the lake,
And with his bleating burthen reached the shore.
ROWENA.
I well remember all his noble seemings:
Like dreams of joy they haunt my waking grief,
But have no power to kindle hopes like thine.
[Looking off the stage.
Bellarno comes to call thee to the council:
[Exit ELIDURE.
Enter a SERVANT.
SERVANT.
Madam, a stranger, and of foreign aspect,
Craves audience of your highness.
ROWENA.
Good Velmont, give him entrance. Enter STRANGER.
What would'st thou, noble stranger?
STRANGER.
Madam, the exiled prince your aid implores.
His high renown in arms, and lofty bearing,
Have won him honour at the Gallic court.
To his lost throne restored, their boldest legions
Would follow where his matchless spirit led;
And neighbouring nations at your feet should pay
Obsequious homage.
ROWENA.
Then farewell hope! I deemed adversity
Should probe his soul, to cleanse it of its foulness;
That, in the agony of deep remorse,
He would at length seek peace in righteous deeds.
STRANGER.
Nay, lady, much he trusted in your love:
ROWENA.
Oh, profanation of a mother's love!
What! make it pander to his daring crimes?—
No: had he bid me nightly tend his couch,
While plague, or wild delirium bound him there;
Or had he asked me to some loathsome cell,
To share his mouldy crust, though steeped in tears,
I would have gone, and, kneeling at his side,
Have wearied Heaven with prayers for his repose.
STRANGER.
He asks no penance such as you describe.
ROWENA.
He asks such penance as I dare not make.
Where in his mother's heart found he a spot
So black with perfidy and foul dishonour,
That she should break the nation's plighted faith,
Deluge a neighbouring kingdom with its blood,
Only to gratify a mean ambition?—
STRANGER.
Archillego pants to retrieve his fortunes,
And by heroic deeds win fresh renown.
ROWENA.
Saidst thou renown? Oh, wild and impious thought!
What is renown if rooted in injustice?
One victory yet he dares not even attempt.
STRANGER.
Name it.—
ROWENA.
A victory o'er himself;
O'er his wild passions, and his vast ambition.
STRANGER.
Madam, time presses my departure hence.
Hast thou no greeting for Archillego?
ROWENA.
Tell him his father's son must still be dear;
And that not all the years of bitter anguish,
Not all the tears and sorrows he has cost me,
Have blotted out the memory of his youth
From my grieved heart.—Stranger, fare thee well.
[Exeunt severally.
ARCHILLEGO, alone .
ARCHILLEGO.
O thou pale moon! that look'st so calmly down—
Would I could hide me in thy quiet orb!
In all thy wanderings round this world of grief,
Thou shed'st not thy mild beam on one so lost,
So abject as Archillego.—
Methinks the very night-fly drones more deep:
The screeching owl and flapping bat conspire
To grate harsh music on my listening ear.
What if the ravening wolf should greet me next,
And tear me, piece-meal, for his nightly sport?—
I fear him not!—within my tortured breast
A fiercer foe than he my peace devours.
Cruel remorse! Oh, could the yawning earth
Bury me deep within her hollow womb!
Could forked lightnings blast me in my prime!
So that thy gnawing agony was past.
Where can I look for comfort?—where for hope?
Sometimes I think to cast me on the love
Of those whom I have wronged.—No! thou proud heart,
[Throws himself passionately on the ground
Enter SHEPHERD and BOY.
SHEPHERD.
This way I heard a noise.
BOY.
See there a man, stretched on the mossy bank.
SHEPHERD.
Stranger, who art thou? Hast thou missed thy way?—
ARCHILLEGO.
I have, indeed; mine was a path of light,
But now 'tis dark and drear.
SHEPHERD.
Take comfort, man.—Come with us to our shed.
ARCHILLEGO.
Thanks, honest shepherd.—Sure my heart is human,
For still it throbs to hear the voice of kindness.
SHEPHERD.
I'll make thee such a bed of birchen leaves
As e'en a king might sleep on.
BOY.
They say kings do not sleep so sound as shepherds.
ARCHILLEGO.
Boy, they say true, for kings oft lie on thorns.
BOY.
Then would not I, for all this goodly island,
Be for one night a king.
ARCHILLEGO.
By Heaven! thou school'st me more than wiser men.
What! art thou happy, boy?
BOY.
Ay, happy as the lark, that soars so high
It almost seems to rest its weary wing
On the light clouds, and downward warbling comes,
As if it learned its music in the sky!
ARCHILLEGO.
Would thou couldst teach me to be happy too!
BOY.
Why you must rouse you with the crowing cock,
And brush with early feet the morning dew.
In summer you must lave your weary limbs
In running waters, or the glassy lake—
Follow your flock, pluck nuts and berries sweet;
Sing the wild airs our mountain echoes love;
And, with your faithful sheep-dog by your side,
Stretched on a hill, lie gazing at the clouds:
What happier life could you desire?
ARCHILLEGO (looking at him with surprise).
Why,—none.
SHEPHERD.
Come let us to our hut.
[Exeunt.
ELIDURE on the Throne.—Counsellors assembled.
ELIDURE.
Most honoured Fathers, let me crave your patience:—
'Tis now five years since first your willing suffrage
Confided to my hands the sacred trust
Which still I hold. If I have held it rightly,
If liberty and peace have blessed my reign;
If the just laws have curbed all fierce oppression,
And dealt with even hand the common good;
Then to your will may I, with bold presumption,
Prefer my claim to a most dear reward.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
What! more reward than our continued trust?
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
More power might make thee, prince, forget thy duty.
ELIDURE.
It might indeed, and therefore ask I less.
THIRD COUNSELLOR.
Less, didst thou say?—explain thyself more freely.
ELIDURE.
I fain would ask you to restore my brother—
Try him who has been tried by adverse fortune:
If from that furnace his most sterling metal,
Cleansed of its dross, excel not common natures,
Why then again depose him.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
What! when the nation has begun to breathe,
Relieved of all the hard and grievous burthens
He laid upon it, wouldst thou have us madly
Bind our own chains; place in his iron hand
The knotted scourge, and crouch beneath the lash?
ELIDURE.
I know he wrong'd you. He deserved to feel
The vengeance of an injured people's ire;
But, having felt it, will you not relent?
Will you for ever doom his lofty nature
To exile, penury, and sharp contempt?
Think how he led your armies to the field:
How nobly fought, how gloriously conquered!
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
War was his idol. 'Twas the sport he loved!
ELIDURE.
Have you not seen a glorious summer's day
Blackened by clouds that spit sulphureous fire,
While the loud thunder bellowed as 'twould rive
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
But while thy spirit loathes the weight of empire,
Why lay the hated burthen on thy brother?
ELIDURE.
A hated burthen! No! to no one else
Would I resign the duties of my office;
Nor even to him but to retrieve his honour:
With my best blood I would defend the throne.
But to redeem his forfeit, to wipe out
The heavy stain on his impeached honour,
What would I not forego—what not encounter?
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
Prince, we must take this business to our thoughts:
Not rashly grant nor hastily refuse
Thy first petition to a grateful people.
ELIDURE.
I bow me to your wisdom. Now my Fathers,
The prisoners taken in that last wild feud,
Methinks to hold them in our servile bonds
Is an ignoble use of prosperous war:
Let us restore them, upon ransom paid.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
Why thus recruit their nation's hostile force?
ELIDURE.
We may repel them with a stronger power.
COUNSELLORS.
Prince, we assent to this thy generous purpose.
ELIDURE.
Thanks, honoured Fathers! Now I leave the council,
And wait with patient hope your high resolve.
[Exit ELIDURE.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
What think you, Fathers, of our prince's counsel?
Had Elidure less loved the people's good,
Or honoured less the laws, then might we risk
The change he seeks. 'Tis rash—'tis hazardous.
THIRD COUNSELLOR.
Call we his noble mother to our presence,
And make her umpire 'twixt her princely sons.
[Two of the Counsellors leave the assembly to call ROWENA.
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
I marvel at the greatness of his virtue:
Nature in him seems so sublimely gifted,
That selfish purposes and private ends
Have no conception in his mighty mind.
If, as some think, the gods in human shape
Walk this dim earth, surely a heavenly guest
Is Elidure: if such, he has foreknowledge of events,
And it were wisdom to fulfil his purpose.
THIRD COUNSELLOR.
Wouldst thou so deify him in his presence?
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
No, by the gods! I dared not, if I would.
The modest dignity of his high spirit
Rebukes the voice of flattery. I have seen
His eye repel the homage of the knee;
That of the heart he prizes.
Enter ROWENA, attended .
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
Most honoured lady, tell us if 'twere safe
From exile to recall our banished prince,
And, at his own entreaty, free the king
From heavy cares of empire:—tell us truly.
ROWENA.
I tell you, honoured Fathers, 'tis not safe.
Much would it joy my soul once more to see
The banished man resume that honour'd trust—
But not till we have proof of his deservings.
I can endure his sorrows and misfortunes,
Though they press hardly on me;
But his misrule would torture me to madness,
And send me down, heart-broken, to the grave.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
Thy judgment, lady, most accords with ours.
We grieve to ratify thy noble sentence,
And bid thee bear it to the generous king.
[Scene closes.
Enter ARCHILLEGO and SHEPHERD BOY.
BOY.
Come, let us climb the mountain's ridge, and see
If the white sail thou look'st for hovers near.
ARCHILLEGO.
The mountain top is hid in misty wreaths.
BOY.
Ay, but the sun will roll those waving scrolls
Up to the sky, and hide them in thick clouds.
Oft in my morning rambles with my sheep
Those misty wreaths have lain beneath my feet,
Like drifts of new fallen snow. Uprose the sun,
And my dark shadow seemed, of giant length,
To stalk before me on the sailing cloud.
ARCHILLEGO (smiling
).
Didst fear the phantom, wandering there alone?
BOY.
At first I did: but what had I to fear?
I had wronged no man. When my mother died
She bade me only fear to grieve the gods
By doing wrongfully to other men.
ARCHILLEGO.
And thou observedst her saying? Happy boy!
[Sighs.
BOY.
Seest thou yon cave, that in the craggy rock
Lies deeply hidden? Ah! thou little know'st
What a bright treasure that lone spot contains.
ARCHILLEGO.
What treasure, boy? I see yon mountain pine
Hang drooping o'er a cavern's rocky edge:
Is that the spot thou point'st at?
BOY.
Yes, even there. 'Tis eighteen months or more,
Since in a bleak December's howling storm,
My father homeward coming, heard the sound
Of human voices: quick he scaled the cliff,
And saw a ship, driven by the furious blast,
Then dashing on the rock; beneath his feet
It split asunder. All the crew were lost
Save an old man, and a young maid: these two,
Borne by the waves, were washed upon the shore.
Lifeless long time they seemed: at length with hope
We bore them to yon cave, and lighted there
The blazing faggots, chafed their frozen limbs,
Brought simple viands from our winter store,
And fleeces to prepare their nightly conch.
We tended them all night. They rose refreshed;
And after thanks to the protecting gods,
Repaid our cares with tears of grateful joy.
ARCHILLEGO.
And do they still inhabit that lone cave?
BOY.
Yes, ever since! But now, like thee, they wait
ARCHILLEGO.
Did all their comrades perish—was all lost?
BOY.
All lives save theirs were lost, but from the wreck
We day by day brought fragments of the freight.
A harp of sweetest chords, unbroken found,
Green Erin's harp: softly the maiden touched
The deep-toned strings—it seemed like angel sounds.
ARCHILLEGO.
'Tis passing strange. Methinks that shipwrecked pair
May feel some pity for a man in grief,
More wrecked, more lost than they.
Wilt lead me to them?
BOY.
Gladly I wilt. Methinks thy stately form
Bespeaks, like theirs, a race of nobler sort;
Such as fair Hilda's fancy loves to paint
In high heroic song, or tales of love.
ARCHILLEGO.
Indeed! Lead on, I pray thee.
[Exeunt.
Enter ARCHILLEGO and SHEPHERD BOY, meeting RODERICK and HILDA.
RODERICK.
Shepherd, where leadest thou this noble stranger?
BOY.
Straight to your cave. The stranger longs to greet you.
RODERICK.
Meeting 'mid scenes so lonely and so drear,
Life's idle forms seem mockeries; and the welcome
That the heart prompts flows freely from the tongue.
ARCHILLEGO.
Thanks for thy courtesy is all my payment.
RODERICK.
Nay, this poor shepherd hath instructed us
That hospitality repays itself.
ARCHILLEGO (bowing respectfully to
HILDA, who looks at him with surprise
).
Lady, methinks thou scorn'st this bold intrusion:—
'Tis misery makes me bold.
HILDA.
Thou much mistak'st me. Pity for thy sorrows
(For grief has set its stamp upon thy brow)—
That, and not scorn, has checked my ready welcome.
[RODERICK and SHEPHERD BOY converse apart .
ARCHILLEGO.
I'm much beholden to thee. Oh, 'tis sweet
To feel the throb of gratitude; to hear
A voice that has not learned to curse me!
HILDA.
Is there a heart so hard, a tongue so foul,
As to heap curses on a man in grief?
ARCHILLEGO.
Ay, lady, if that man is stained with crime.
HILDA.
Crime, didst thou say? 'Tis false—it cannot be!
A life of crime leaves traces deep and foul
Of its deformity; blots out the lineaments
And fashion of nobility.
ARCHILLEGO.
Alas! if any trace of virtue lives
In the marred lines of this sad countenance,
'Tis by reflection from your gracious self.
HILDA.
Stranger, there is a mystery in thy grief;
But sorrow has so trained me in her school,
That I can read the characters she traces
With curious skill; erring, perhaps, thou may'st be,
But basely criminal thou surely art not.
ARCHILLEGO.
Heaven grant thou may'st predict my future life,
And would thou couldst obliterate the past!
[RODERICK and SHEPHERD BOY advancing .
RODERICK.
Stranger, methinks the messenger thou look'st for
May speedily be here: a ship's in sight.
Enter our cave, nor scorn a rugged home,
Whose host affords a frank and guileless welcome.
[Exeunt into the Cave.
ARCHILLEGO.
O my lorn heart! Heavens! what a blessed fate
Mine might have been, if madness had not marred it.
Still in the region of my inmost soul
There is a ray of hope and comfort left:
But, if she knew my monstrous misdeeds,
Could she look kindly on me? Public crimes,
Urged on by wild, ambitious, fierce desire,
She might forgive, but did she know how basely
I had requited all that store of love,
The unmatched tenderness of such a mother—
No, by the gods! such parricidal crimes
Are not to be forgiven. How dare I,
Lost in mine own esteem, an abject man,
Look in fair Hilda's face, where radiant truth
Beams with the mildness of the morning light?
Her voice is music, and its soothing tone
Comes on my soul even as a summer's breeze
Steals through a dismal dungeon's grated bars;
Revives and almost tortures with its sweetness.
But, here comes Randolph—More I dread his message
Than if sick hope were wholly dead within me.
Enter RANDOLPH.
RANDOLPH.
My Lord, I saw, and with fit reverence gave
Your mission to Rowena.
ARCHILLEGO.
What said my royal mother—looked she kindly?
RANDOLPH.
She looked like one so overwhelmed with sorrow,
That not the royal majesty and state
So much as the great dignity of grief
Did overawe me.
To thy proposed invasion, she returned
A high indignant answer. When I asked
Her greeting to thee—"Tell him," she gently said,
(While tears gushed forth), "not all that I have suffered
Can from my grieved heart raze out the remembrance
Of his first promise in its early bloom."
ARCHILLEGO.
Too kind and generous mother!
And what of Elidure—saw'st thou him too?
RANDOLPH.
No! but I heard the free and generous people
Exulting in his virtues, laud his reign,
And bless the very earth on which he treads.
ARCHILLEGO.
Give me thy hand! thou think'st me not so vile
But that I can endure to hear of goodness,
Even though it blast my hopes of future empire?
So let it be—There was a time, my Randolph,
Thy words had raised a scorpion in my bosom;
But now a passion much allied to virtue
Transforms me from a monster to a man,
And I can listen to my brother's praise
With gladness, so he comes not near to Hilda.
RANDOLPH.
What sayst thou?
ARCHILLEGO.
Why, I have met a spirit in my wanderings;
And she has taught me goodness is no cheat,
That there is truth in virtue, peace of soul
'Midst sharpest trials of disastrous fortune,
And that all else is but a fevered dream—
What do I owe to her who taught this lesson?
RANDOLPH.
A life of adoration!
ARCHILLEGO.
Thou sayst well:
And I will pay it with as true a soul
As e'er the gods have fashioned. From this hour,
I do abjure all selfish low ambition;
I will revenge my proud heart on itself
By falling at the feet of those I wronged:
Their just displeasure will I quickly drown
RANDOLPH.
Thou, ardent youth! alas, I tremble for thee!
ARCHILLEGO.
Thou canst not trust in my returning virtue:
No! for thou hast not seen the beauteous Hilda.
Thou dost not know, that, without truth and honour,
I might as well attempt to scale high heaven
As to obtain her love.—O Randolph, Randolph!
I know 'tis passion that transports me thus;—
But 'tis a passion purer than till now
Burned in my wayward heart!
RANDOLPH.
May it but prove as constant!
ARCHILLEGO.
Fear not, my friend; I've been the fool of passion.
Did empire give me joy? No; for I yearned
For kingdoms more extended, rule more wide:
And, when a banished man, I roamed the world,
Had not remorse pursued me like a fiend,
Oft had I sounder slept than on a throne.
But I will take thee to my Hilda's presence,
And thou shalt tell her all.
[Exeunt
Enter ROWENA and ELIDURE.
ROWENA.
Blame them not, Elidure; their patriot bosoms
Bleed for their country: still its gaping wounds
Are scarcely closed—wounds, given by mad ambition.
Of him whom fondly thou would'st still reclaim.
ELIDURE.
On this sad subject we will speak no more;
And much I honour thy heroic temper,
That can subdue the weakness of affection,
And make the people's good thy dearest care!
ROWENA.
More should I honour thy surpassing virtue,
That thus prefers his greatness to thy own;—
But, Elidure, I oft have thought to chide thee,
For that thou shun'st the cheerful sports of youth—
The sprightly dance, and all the gay resorts
Of youthful beauty. My too anxious love
Would fain betroth thee to some favourite fair;
That, when the grave has closed upon my age,
Thou in the tender joys of wedded love
May find sweet solace from the cares of empire.
ELIDURE.
Alas, my mother! then thy searching eye
Has not discerned the secret of my soul.
Didst thou not know, that many years are past
Since my love died with gentle Ethelburga?
ROWENA.
I know she was the playmate of thy youth;
And that thou didst attend on her sick couch,
And sing to her, and gather flowers to deck
Her auburn tresses, when the hectic flush
Crimson'd her pallid cheek: and many a tale
Of heroes and fair damsels hast thou told,
While the big tear rolled from her mild dark eye,
At the sad fiction that thy fancy framed.
All this I knew, but thought not till this hour
Thy love was buried in her early grave.
Alas, my son! too soon thy heart was widowed!
ELIDURE.
Thinkest thou that empire can have charms for me,
When she is gone that might have shared it with me?
The lost Archillego! By Heaven! till then
I knew not with what tenderness I lov'd him.
Could I forget how, on that night of horror,
When death tore from me my betrothed bride,
He watched beside me,—bathed me with his tears,—
Seized my rash hand that grasped the pointed steel,
And turned its edge from my distracted bosom?
He loved my Ethelburga as a brother.
Thy sorrows roused me from my frenzied grief,
And public duties calmed my mind to peace.
ROWENA.
My best beloved! all, wherefore not till now
Didst thou confide this secret to my bosom?
ELIDURE.
When I beheld thee rise, in calm endurance,
Above the wreck of all thy cherished hopes,
How durst my coward heart betray its weakness!
No! had I failed thee in that hour of trial,
I were unworthy her who bade me live
For thee, and for my country.—
Now is my bosom lighter; and we'll talk
Of Ethelburga all the livelong day:
Thou shalt describe her playful infancy,
Her matchless sweetness, her enchanting smile;
And I, who knew her lofty nature well,
Will tell thee how her purity and truth
With heavenly aspirations filled my soul.
ROWENA.
Alas! thou hast been covetous of grief,
But now I'll share it with thee.
ELIDURE.
She shall be with us in our evening walk;
And when the rising moon, with silvery beam,
Gleams on the troubled waves, we'll sit us down,
And mark how bright her path, from night's black shroud
Emerging, like a happy spirit freed
From the dark conflicts of a toilsome world.
Enter EMERIC.
EMERIC.
I have deep matter for the royal ear.
ELIDURE.
Speak freely then.
EMERIC.
My anxious terrors for thy kingdom's safety
Have made me seek a trusty servitor,
Whose prying eye will bring dark deeds to light.
ELIDURE.
Well, Emeric, and what hath he detected?
EMERIC.
Most deep designs and foul conspiracies,
Which, if not crushed i' the bud, will ripen soon,
And bring the nation to extremity.
ELIDURE.
Thy fears, old man, impose upon thy judgment:
'Tis only slaves that plot conspiracies—
Free men disdain projects so cowardly.
EMERIC.
Pardon, my liege; 'tis freedom gives them birth.
ELIDURE.
Beware thou speak'st not treason 'gainst the people.
EMERIC.
My liege, would you not hear what trusty Conalt
Can testify against them?
ELIDURE.
No, not a word! The wretch who is so base
As to lend out 'his soul for filthy hire,
That he may creep into the open breast
Of his companion, to betray his thoughts—
Think'st thou not such a treacherous reptile
Would, like the spider, weave his crafty web,
To catch the simple fool he marks his prey?
EMERIC.
I think the faithful services of Conalt
Deserve just compensation.
ELIDURE.
Just compensation! my indignant scorn
Is all the recompense such service merits.
Show me the man I've wronged; him will I fear,
But no one else.—Emeric, no more of this,
As thou dost hope to share thy prince's counsel.
[Exit EMERIC.
ROWENA.
This Emeric, I hope that he is honest.
ELIDURE.
As honest as a mind so paralysed
With bigot rage, and servile fears, can be.
Did not his age bespeak our great indulgence,
He had less access to the royal ear.
[Exeunt .
ARCHILLEGO and HILDA discovered .
ARCHILLEGO.
Has Randolph told thee all my truant tongue
Dared not unfold?—and yet, methinks, fair Hilda,
That he would try to cover my misdeeds
With friendship's veil impervious.—I should rather
Have bared my naked heart to thy inspection,
But love has made a coward of me, Hilda.
HILDA.
Yes, he has told me all; has made me weep
Tears sweet and bitter o'er thy mournful story.
Oh! what a noble ruin grief and passion
Have made of thy great nature!—But, thou'rt young:
Patience and virtue will repair it all.
ARCHILLEGO.
Dost think so, love? Why, then, I will be patient,
And, loving thee, I surely must love virtue.
Wilt thou commit the treasure of thy heart
To such a spendthrift of all gracious gifts
As I have been?—Nay, turn not from me, Hilda;
If I lose thee I lose the only anchor
HILDA.
Nay, thou hast cast a spell upon my fate;
And, whether bright or drear thy onward path,
I needs must tread it with thee.
ARCHILLEGO.
My generous Hilda!—O ye gracious gods!
How can I e'er deserve this wond'rous blessing?
May your red lightnings strike me instant dead,
If e'er I wrong such dear confiding goodness!
My Hilda, thou shalt shape my every purpose—
Shalt be my guide, my counsellor, my friend.
Heaven will direct us. But thy father, Hilda,—
What says the noble Roderick to my hopes?
HILLDA
.
Alas! Archillego, my father's eye
Looks darkly on his child:—I fear his sternness—
And, deeper still, I fear to grieve his heart
With my rash love, unhallowed by his blessing.
But when he knows all that my loved one suffered;
How that remorse consumed thy youthful prime,
That, blighted by despair, thou roamed the world;
He surely will forgive thy Hilda's pity.
But see, he comes; I dare not 'bide his presence.
[Exit HILDA.
RODERICK.
Prince, these lone meetings with the youthful Hilda
Are not a fair requital of the friendship
That hospitality too frankly offered.
ARCHILLEGO.
By Heaven! I will deserve thy generous kindness—
I am not now the wretch thy pity fostered;
Then, unsubdued, my proud heart had not learn'd
To loathe the fiend ambition that destroyed me:
Now I am happier than worlds could make me.
RODERICK.
Happy—as is the wolf whose ravening fangs
Have seized a helpless lamb! But know, bold man,
A faithful shepherd folds his tender flock;
And rather would himself be piece-meal torn,
Than they should suffer wrong.
ARCHILLEGO.
Rather would I expire on torturing racks,
Than wrong the gentle lamb thy care has reared.
But Hilda says, I must be patient, father;
And I will meekly bear thy keen reproaches—
Give thee my prayers for curses, tears for taunts,
And melt thy heart by my unmatched endurance.
RODERICK.
Where is my child? Why does she fly my presence,
But that foul shame has cast its spotted shroud
O'er her once open and ingenuous nature?
ARCHILLEGO.
Old man; she is as spotless as the light.
Thou dost not think I could have breathed dishonour
In her most sacred presence? No, by Heaven!
That she doth love me I do bless the gods!
And could I wrong her by unhallowed thoughts,
I were the veriest wretch that blackest hell
E'er groaned withal. I tell thee, noble Roderick,
I can bear all but thoughts of wronging her.
RODERICK.
Why, has she madly linked her fate with one
Whose hateful crimes have leagued the frighted earth
In enmity against him? But I will tear her from thee,
Or perish in the conflict!
ARCHILLEGO.
No, let me perish rather! thou art safe:
My Hilda's father needs no mightier shield.
I would not hurt a hair of that white head—
No, not for worlds!—Vent all thy rage on me,
But spare!, Oh, spare thy daughter!
Enter HILDA.
HILDA.
My father, at thy honoured feet, I crave
Pity and pardon!—Leave us, Archillego.
[Exit ARCHILLEGO reluctantly .
RODERICK.
Hilda, what sorcery has this dark magician
Practised on thy young heart? What devilish spell
Hath wrought such desperate madness in my child,
That she, in whom my age so fondly trusted,
Should make me hate the hour that she was born?
HILDA.
Hear me, my father! When that honest shepherd
First brought the noble stranger to our presence,
His dark mysterious fate most strangely moved me.
Thou know'st with what indifference I beheld
The youths of Erin, in our prosperous days,
Flock round our castle; with obsequious service
In vain they strove to win thy Hilda's smile:
Oh! what a different feeling this lorn man
Waked in my heart! 'Twas pity mixed with reverence.
He spoke of misery deserved by crime—
I trusted not detraction of himself;
Or if I did, it made him seem more noble,
Who could disdain to steal my simple faith.
He bade Lord Randolph tell those tales of horror,
Which his own faltering tongue dared not to name,
That, so acquainted with his sad misrule,
I might control those tones of tender pity
Which calmed the fever of his troubled soul,
And bade it be at peace. Was this like art?
No! 'twas the frankness of a noble nature;
For had he told me he was virtue's self,
Clothed in the semblance of a human form,
I fear I had believed him.
RODERICK.
Thou hast not given him thy plighted faith?
HILDA.
Yes, for he knows how tenderly I love him;
And what is plighted faith but love exchanged,
And ratified by honour's sacred vow?
RODERICK.
Canst thou, then, see thy fond and aged father,
Sink to the grave o'erwhelmed by thy disgrace?
HILDA.
Say not disgrace! for had he, proud of heart,
Defied the misery that his deeds had wrought;
Had he by sophistry and artful reasoning
Bade me think lightly of his former doings,
I might have grieved, and wept the mighty ruin:
But I had ne'er give my devoted heart
To one who gloried in, or glossed his crimes.
No, my dear father, his repentant heart,
And that alone, doth consecrate my love.
RODERICK.
Had he been born of lowly peasant kind,
So that his soul had borne no stain of guilt,
I then could have endured thy fate with patience;
But now the very light is hateful to me:
It shows me there's no hold of human kindness,—
No peace but in the grave!
HILDA.
Oh, do not break my heart with thy reproaches!
I will not wed, Archillego, till thou
[They embrace .
RODERICK.
O my loved child, now thou indeed subduest me!
Well, Hilda, well, thou wilt not quit thy father:
He will watch o'er thee and protect thee still.
HILDA.
Yes; and thou shalt direct the banished man
How to reclaim some quiet lonely spot
In his once wide dominion. There we'll dwell,
And covet no man's empire.
[Exeunt.
Scene changes to another part of the Island.
ARCHILLEGO and SHEPHERD BOY.
BOY.
A dark Northumbrian, plaided like a shepherd,
But yet methinks not of a shepherd's blitheness,
Asks greeting of thee. Shall I bring him hither?
ARCHILLEGO.
Ay, gentle youth.
Stranger, whence comest thou?
CONALT.
From far Northumbria; but my cause is private.
[ARCHILLEGO makes a sign to the BOY to withdraw. He goes out.
ARCHILLEGO.
Give me thy errand without further preface.
CONALT.
My liege, the people, faithful to your house,
Consider Elidure a bold usurper,
And long to place you on your rightful throne.
ARCHILLEGO.
The people, sayst thou? No, it cannot be!
Was I not banished by the Council's will?
And are not they the guardians of the land?
CONALT.
The people fondly cherish the remembrance
Of your great prowess in those gallant feuds,
Where, led by you, they trod the paths of glory;
They long to see your glittering blade unsheathed,
And once more follow your victorious banners.
ARCHILLEGO.
Ha! wouldst thou rouse the quenched fire within me?
My gallant people! do they pant for glory,
And shall I not awake me at their call?
But no; thou dost but mock my kindling fancy.
Speak out; what mean'st thou?
CONALT.
If fit reward awaits the gallant daring,
I would with this right hand pierce the proud heart
Of Elidure, and hurl him from thy throne.
ARCHILLEGO.
Oh thou insidious, villanous, impostor!
Thou fiend of hell, sent hither but to tempt me!—
But I am proof against thy monstrous baseness;
And, wert thou not too vile for human touch,
I would shake out thy grovelling soul, assassin!
CONALT.
This the reward of my great proffered service?
ARCHILLEGO.
No! Elidure, he shall reward thee;
In fetters to his footstool thou shalt go,
And there reveal the baseness of thy purpose.
What! Randolph, Shepherd, ho!
Bind fast that miscreant; his audacious tongue
Has uttered treason 'gainst my royal brother.
How am I fallen! when even this vile assassin
Should deem me base enough to screen his crime;
Nay, sanction it with proffers of reward!
This is among the cruel retributions
Injustice oft prepares against itself.
Take thou that traitor to safe keeping, Randolph,
As thou dost hold mine honour in esteem.
[Exit RANDOLPH and SHEPHERD, dragging out CONALT.
ARCHILLEGO.
Now does my soul recoil from this man's baseness;
Enter RODERICK and HILDA.
HILDA (advancing eagerly to
ARCHILLEGO.)
Come, my brave soldier, my victorious lord!
Thou hast gained conquest in no vulgar fight;
Dearer to me in this thy noble warfare,
Than if thou laidst whole kingdoms at my feet.
ARCHILLEGO.
Oh, Hilda! I am humbled by thy praise.
Thou couldst not think so poorly of me, love,
That I should whet a vile assassin's dagger
Against my noble brother's valiant heart?
HILDA.
No; but I glory in this well tried proof
Of thy proud honour, and thy scorn of falsehood.
ARCHILLEGO.
To-morrow, if the wind sets fair for Cumbria,
We'll bid farewell to this lone island, Hilda;
Then bend our way, in fearless constancy,
To that lov'd land where generous Freedom proves
Misfortune's sanctuary.
[Exeunt .
Enter ROWENA and BERTHA.
BERTHA.
Madam, the King and all his gallant train
Of youthful nobles, clad in hunting garb,
Chase the fleet stag to-day. Methinks 'twill be
A cheering sight. Where shall we take our stand,
To see the prancing steeds toss high in air
Their flowing manes, their graceful riders bent
In salutation to your Majesty?
ROWENA.
Why, Bertha, much I joy to see the King
Take pleasure in this gallant exercise.
Too seldom he unbends his pensive mind;
And care, which sits so lightly on gay youth,
Furrows his brow already.
And though the clanging horn comes to my ear
Like the faint echoes of youth's cheerful tone,
Striking a chord of sadness on its way,
Yet will I with thee, Bertha, to the show,
And cheer me in thy smiles. Cold is the heart
That catches not a spark from youth's bright eye,
Lighted with joy like thine.
[Exeunt .
FIRST HUNTSMAN.
This way the stag did speed; heard ye the shout?
[Exeunt.
After a pause, enter ARCHILLEGO alone .
ARCHILLEGO.
Methought I heard a distant sound of horns,
Such as did oft salute my youthful ear
When Elidure and I, to the blithe chase,
Sped like fleet arrows from the bended bow.
But now I hear them not.—Not far from hence
Lies that old city, on the banks of Ouse,
Where now my royal brother holds his court.
Till nightfall, I will rest me in this forest,
And then, with all the speed I may, betake me
To crave a secret audience of the King.
My gentle Hilda! many an anxious thought
Will this night's mission bring to thy fond heart.
Did Elidure but know thy tender truth,
Even for thy sake he surely would forgive me.
[He sleeps.
Enter ELIDURE.
ELIDURE.
'Mid this majestic forest's towering oaks,
Fain would I lose an hour of idle pomp,
Forget my kingly state, and talk with nature.
Why clings my soul to solitude's wild haunts?
'Tis that her image, consecrated there,
Lives unprofaned in my devoted heart.
All hollow, heartless, forms of life shut out,
Existence seems but memory of the past.
Oh, blessed memory! thy treasured stores
Make me a miser, bankrupt as I am
Of hope and joy.—When will this weary strife,
This every-day remembrance of lost bliss,
Come to its close?
My brother, too, where wanders he forlorn?
Oh could I hope his wayward fate to cheer!
But who lies here so still and free from care?
[He lifts the cloak that covers
ARCHILLEGO'S face
.
Heavens! can it be?—Archillego! my brother!
Archillego! my lost, my dearest brother!
ARCHILLEGO (awakening
.)
Nay, Hilda, nay;—he will not drive me from him:
My Elidure will give me kindly greeting.
ELIDURE.
He knows me not: by heaven, he is distracted!
Will give thee kindly greeting, didst thou say?
Ay, my Archillego; my heart's best blood
Should at this instant flow to do thee service.
ARCHILLEGO (starts up and kneels to
ELIDURE.)
My royal brother!
Look'st thou so kindly on a banished man?
ELIDURE (raising him tenderly
.)
No! let me fold thee to my beating heart;
Ne'er wert thou banish'd thence, but held'st a place
Dear as thy fate was wretched.—
Tell me whence comest thou? for much I've sought thee.
But thou art here; and if the righteous gods
Grant me the blessing of another day,
Thou shalt be hailed Northumbria's rightful king.
ARCHILLEGO.
Nay, Elidure; thou wouldst not mock my grief:
I come not here, with traitorous purposes,
To interrupt the quiet of thy realm;
I come to throw me on thy generous nature,
Ask an asylum, search Rowena's heart,
If haply I could find a mother there;
And then the remnant of my life look on
In peace, not envy, of thy noble deeds.
ELIDURE.
Thou generous spirit! if another hour
ARCHILLEGO.
My big heart swells too much for utterance;
But, Elidure—Oh! I have much to tell thee,
Of all my wanderings and my sorrows past.
ELIDURE.
Yes! we will note it as a tale gone by,
Yet full of matter for our future warning.
Thou shalt instruct me how calamity
Tutors the soul;—I knew that it would make thee
The wisest, purest, best, of human kind.
But now, Archillego, we'll to the palace,
Ere yet the chase is finished; there shalt thou
Pass unobserved; a private postern gate
Admits us to my chamber.—To the Queen
I will repair, and gladden her sad heart
With tidings that might rouse her from the dead.
[Exeunt.
ROWENA alone .
ROWENA.
'Tis five years past;—his keen indignant eye
Shot fire, when, rushing furious to my presence,
He told me he was come, a banished man,
To take farewell of peace and of Rowena.
I strove to soothe him; vowed I would partake
His banishment; but, no, I could not melt him;
His pride o'erpowered his tenderness; he fled
I know not whither; nor will these sad eyes
Ever behold his graceful form again.
Enter ELIDURE.
ROWENA.
My son, so soon return'st thou from the chase?
Hadst thou brave sport to-day?
ELIDURE (speaking with suppressed agitation
.)
Ay, my good mother, I had gallant sport.
I met a wounded and forsaken deer,
And thy kind care must stanch his bleeding heart.
ROWENA.
Alas! I know too much of bleeding hearts
To hope such tide will cease.
ELIDURE.
If that fate's hidden book 'twere thine to find,
What wouldst thou seek within its folded page?
ROWENA.
Why, tidings of Archillego! [Looking earnestly at ELIDURE.
Thou hast not heard of him.
ELIDURE.
I have both heard and seen.
ROWENA.
Whom didst thou see?
ELIDURE.
My brother! [ROWENA shrieks and falls into his arms.
Nay, calm thee, lest this agony of joy
Should ruin all.
ROWENA.
Save, save him from the people!
ELIDURE.
Fear not! he's hidden in my chamber here.
ROWENA.
O bring me to him! let him in my heart
Find safe asylum from indignant foes.
[Exeunt.
ARCHILLEGO in a musing posture.
Enter ROWENA, led by ELIDURE. She rushes into the arms of ARCHILLEGO.
ROWENA.
O my recovered child! my loved, long lost!
ARCHILLEGO (kneeling.
)
Will you revoke the curse my foul misdeeds
Wrung from your generous and indignant soul?
Have patience, till you read my changed heart,
And find repentance deeply graven there.
ROWENA.
Thy scorn of falsehood ever was my pride.
Thou wouldst not feign thee an amended man
To gain ten thousand kingdoms.
My Elidure, thou sharest this transport with me.
ELIDURE.
Yes! thou shalt swell my triumph, thou shalt hail
Archillego our king. We fellow subjects
Shall love obedience more than we loved rule.
ROWENA.
Alas! thou fright'st me with thy sudden purpose:
ARCHILLEGO.
It has been one who dearly loved his country.
ROWENA.
It was thy mother!
ARCHILLEGO.
Ne'er didst thou love me with more generous truth
Than when thou cast me on a rugged path,
And leagued me with adversity awhile.
ROWENA.
How wilt thou gain the council—win the people?
ELIDURE (smiling affectionately
.)
Why, I will feign me sick, and in this chamber
Will plead so earnestly my righteous cause,
That one by one the noble counsellors
Will yield to my strong urgency. They have
The people's confidence, and I their love.
ARCHILLEGO (earnestly.)
Oh no! thou shalt not—Not to claim a throne
Came I rebellious here:
'Twas but to seek some far secluded vale,
Where with two dear companions in misfortune
I might find peace!
ROWENA.
Companions in misfortune didst thou say?
ARCHILLEGO.
O my loved mother! a long summer's day
Would be too brief to tell thee of my Hilda;
ELIDURE (sighing
.)
Ah! now, indeed, thy fate seems dearly blest.
ARCHILLEGO.
When first I saw this lovely generous maid,
She brought to mind thy gentle Ethelburga,
And for her sake alone I could have loved her.
ELIDURE.
Nay, spare me this! thou dost unman my spirit,
And I have need of courage.
ROWENA.
Where left'st thou this fair maid?
ARCHILLEGO.
I' the forest, with her father and Lord Randolph,
My trusty friend, through whose well-feigned disguise
Thou didst not know the messenger I sent.
It was to try if haply there still lived
Some trace of thy fond love.
ROWENA.
Didst thou not, then, in truth, frame wicked purpose
To desolate the neighbouring land with blood?
ARCHILLEGO.
No, in good sooth! nor means, nor hope, were mine.
ROWENA.
What roused thee from the lethargy of grief?
ARCHILLEGO.
'Twas Hilda's pity; like a dove it came
And fed my soul with hope of brighter days:
ROWENA.
Enough, my son; for see thy noble brother
Wrapt in deep thought.
[Exeunt ROWENA and ARCHILLEGO.
ELIDURE.
Yes; for this once I'll stoop to crafty arts;
For, though I hate the sophist's subtle plea,
That ends will ofttimes sanctify the means,
Yet would I not subject Archillego
To the stern censure of the haughty council,
In its assembled state.
[Exit.
RODERICK, RANDOLPH, and HILDA.
RANDOLPH.
Archillego has told thee, then, how nobly
His brother abdicates for him the throne?
HILDA.
And he will fill it nobly, gallant Randolph!
RODERICK.
Say, Randolph, does he bring the foul assassin
Before the offended justice of the laws?
RANDOLPH.
No; for he scorns to bribe the nation's love,
And wills that Elidure's renunciation
Be prompted by his generous heart alone,
Not claimed by him as debt of gratitude.
HILDA.
In all things he feels highly. Oh, my father!
Is this the artful man thou bad'st me shun?
RODERICK.
I am converted to thy faith, my Hilda,
And fondly do partake in all thy triumph.
RANDOLPH.
But I must speed me to the haughty council.
I saw them singly quit the palace gate,
And bend towards the place of their high meeting;
Thither I'll go; and should they doubt his truth,
I will a startling proof before them bring,—
The wretch who would have robbed him of his brother.
HILDA (eagerly
.)
Fly, Randolph. [She detains him as he is going out .
But respect his noble pride,
And rather let him lose the glittering crown
Than sully the bright honour of his soul.
[The scene closes.
COUNSELLORS assembled .
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
So strong his arguments, and keenly urged,
With importunity and zeal so moving,
I pledged me to support his honour'd suffrage.
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
And so did I. It was perhaps a shame,
But I confess the starting tears that chased
Like rain-drops down his manly face, more moved me
Than all his reasoning.
THIRD COUNSELLOR.
That were a woman's argument, not fit
To sway grave counsellors, or move the people.
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
By heavens! it would have moved them to a man.— But who comes here? It is the noble Randolph, Enter RANDOLPH.
The faithful follower of the banished prince,
Whose counsels, ever honest, had he followed,
RANDOLPH.
I come no spy upon your solemn councils,
But to discern if yet my honoured lord
A favoured place finds in your high resolves.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
Canst thou give proof that he deserves our trust?
RANDOLPH.
I will, though he forbade me. [Looking round.
Is Emeric in this august assembly?
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
Look where he comes!
Enter EMERIC.
RANDOLPH.
Didst thou employ a trusty spy, old man,
To dog our heels, and pry into our thoughts,
When we were exiled hence?
EMERIC.
I did, Lord Randolph; one whose loyal heart
And love to Elidure stands unimpeached.
RANDOLPH.
Then I impeach him as a foul assassin;
One who for hire would rive his father's heart,
Or plunge the murderous blade into his infant.
Would'st thou believe this miscreant dared to breathe
His horrid purpose to my master's ear,
That he would rid him of Prince Elidure,
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
What said Archillego?
RANDOLPH.
Why, had his breath been lightning
He would have blasted that accursed traitor.
Bound fast in fetters, we have brought him hither.
SECOND COUNSELLOR.
Produce him; let us hear who urged him on.
[RANDOLPH goes out, and returns with CONALT guarded .
EMERIC.
Conalt; is't possible!
RANDOLPH.
Oh yes! to spies baseness is possible;
Nay, 'tis the very spirit of their trade.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
Speak, man, canst thou defend thyself?
COBALT sullenly
.
'Twas Emeric that first preferment offered,
And lured me to this service.
EMERIC.
And did I bid thee forge a damning plot?
CONALT.
No; but thou promisedst splendid recompense
If I could find one.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
And had the prince received thy foul suggestion
Would'st thou have treacherously informed against him,
Or ta'en his recompense and killed the king?
CONALT.
I should have done what seemed most fit
For my advancement.
RANDOLPH.
Out upon thee, miscreant!
Does not Archillego deserve your thanks
For bringing villany like this to shame?
COUNSELLORS.
He does, he does: we will proclaim him king!
The Scene closes.
ROWENA, RODERICK, ARCHILLEGO, and HILDA.
ROWENA to HILDA.
Yes; thou must tell us of green Erin's isle,
And of that gallant strife where Roderick lost
All but his honour?
RODERICK.
Ay, many a winter's night we'll tell these tales.
[Shouts heard from without, Long live ARCHILLEGO Long live the KING.
HILDA listening eagerly
.
Did they not cry Long live Archillego?
ROWENA.
Ay, Hilda, 'tis a sound the gods might envy;
And here comes Elidure to share our joy.
ARCHILLEGO.
Oh! 'tis a sound that lifts his name to heaven.
ELIDURE entering
.
The people come to crown thee, my Archillego;
Now could I die with this excess of joy.
ARCHILLEGO.
Nay, thou must live to guide me by thy counsel,
And bless me with thy love.
Enter COUNSELLORS followed by a crowd of people.
FIRST COUNSELLOR.
On thy bent knee receive this kingly crown;
The free-will offering of a loyal people.
[ARCHILLEGO kneels to receive the crown .
ARCHILLEGO.
My brother is the surety for my honour;
Oh make him swear he will resume the gift
When I no more deserve to wear it here.
Shouts of Long live ARCHILLEGO, Long live the KING.
Edward was monarch of all England, and succeeded his father, the glorious King Edgar, in 975. He followed in all things the councils of St. Dunstan, whilst, by his modesty, clemency, prudence, charity, and compassion to the poor, he was the blessing and the delight of his subjects. His step-mother, Elfrida, had attempted to set him aside, that the crown might fall on her own son, Ethelred. Notwithstanding her treasonable practices, and the frequent proofs of her envy and jealousy, Edward always paid her the most dutiful respect and deference, and treated his brother with the most tender affection. But the fury of her ambition made her insensible to all motives of religion, nature, and gratitude. The young king had reigned three years and a half, when, being one day weary with hunting in a forest near Wareham in Dorsetshire, he paid a visit to his step-mother in Corfesgate, now Corfe Castle, in the Isle of Purbeck, and desired to see his young brother at the door. The treacherous Queen caused a servant to stab him, while he was stooping out of courtesy after drinking.
This happened on the 18th of March, 979.
Butler's Lives of the Saints.DUNSTAN and ANSELM discovered conversing .
DUNSTAN.
What has he done so to provoke a hate
That seems unwomanly? his gentleness
Subdues all hearts but hers.
ANSELM.
Even from his childhood, mild he met reproof,
And sought by courtesy and winning ways
To gain Elfrida's love: not cunning he,
Nor of the fawning spaniel's subtle kind;
DUNSTAN.
And is he still an alien from her heart?
ANSELM.
Since the mourned death of Edgar his great father
The queen has openly avowed her hate,
And sought by artifice to gain for Ethelred
The suffrage of the people: Edward's virtues
Have bid defiance to her crafty wiles.
DUNSTAN.
And what of Ethelred? resembles he
In gracious qualities his noble father?
ANSELM.
More he resembles her whose weak indulgence
Has marr'd the manly features of his soul:
More of Elfrida's cruelty and pride
Lurk in his soul than Edgar's princely virtues.
DUNSTAN.
If it be grief to mark the sightless eye
Wander o'er Nature's loveliness unblessed
With vision of delight, is't not more sad
When truth and goodness in their angel forms
To the dark soul become invisible?
ANSELM.
Sooner may'st thou dispense the thunder's cloud,
Or bid the roaring ocean's waves be still,
DUNSTAN.
By the false legends of the Danish gods
Elfrida's mind, undisciplined, was fed
With tales of horror; direful is their creed:
Could she with meekness bow before the cross,
Not slaughtered enemies her offerings then,
But the deep sorrows of a broken heart.
But here comes Editha;—retire awhile.
[Exit ANSELM.
Enter EDITHA.
DUNSTAN.
My child, why leav'st thou thy refreshing couch,
While morning scarce has streaked the eastern sky?
Hast thou with lowly spirit earnest dwelt
On all my holy office bade thee seek?
EDITHA.
Yes, Father, deeply have I searched my heart;
Much have I prayed it were a temple meet
For those most sacred and soul-healing truths
Which thy persuasive speech has sweetly taught;
But oh, I find if I would grasp the cross
I must forsake the world's enticing snares,—
Shut out the pomp and pride of courtly life,
And fly to gloomy solitudes.
DUNSTAN.
Why gloomy solitudes? there is no gloom
EDITHA.
Oh, Father! didst thou know the cruel strifes,
The crafty wiles, and dark insidious thoughts
That dwell within the palaces of kings,
Thou wouldst forgive and pity my weak faith.
DUNSTAN.
Nay, freely tell thy griefs; haply my age
And holy office may fit counsel find
How to assuage thy sorrows.
EDITHA.
Thou know'st that early from the Danish court
I came betrothed, unknowing and unknown,
To wed young Ethelred, Elfrida's son;
Much did I strive to bend me to my fate,
And sought such graces in my destined lord
As might awaken tenderness and truth
In my young heart: but no, it could not be.
Harsh is his nature, obdurate and proud,
Sordid and selfish; thou wouldst not, holy Father,
Condemn me to a fate so full of horror.
DUNSTAN.
Has no one else touched thy young heart with love?
EDITHA.
No, Father, not with love; the royal Edward
Has touched my heart with reverence and with pity;
Reverence for his great virtues, pity for
The cruel malice of his stepdame's hate.
DUNSTAN.
When didst thou see the king, to mark his virtues?
EDITHA.
Ere Edgar died 'twas to his royal court
I came adopted as Elfrida's daughter;
Edward was then the playmate of my youth;
So sweet his nature, and so noble minded,
When Ethelred and I in childish sport
Wrangled for straws, his gentle spirit soothed
Our kindling anger, turned the strife to mirth,
Or wiped my flowing tears.
DUNSTAN.
Since Edgar died saw you the noble Edward?
EDITHA.
Seldom I've seen him; while his father lived
Elfrida dared not trample on his rights;
But now she holds herself an alien from him,
And bids defiance to his proffered kindness.
He knew I was betrothed to Ethelred;
And if a tenderer feeling than a brother's
Played round his heart, he struggled to subdue it:
I've seen his breast heave with indignant sorrow,
When the proud queen with keen and angry scorn
Flung harsh reproaches at my cold return
To Ethelred's rude courtship,—
DUNSTAN.
Know'st thou, fair Edith, that the noble Edward,
With all his princely train of gallant youths,
Hunts in the neighbouring forest?
EDITHA.
What saidst thou, Father! Now by all that's sacred
I do conjure thee tell the gracious king
Not to approach Elfrida's hostile towers:
There treason lurks,—ay, most perfidious treason!
Bid him far hence; though Heaven, that knows my heart,
Knows with what anguish I forbid his coming.
DUNSTAN.
Maiden, I will forewarn the youthful king,
Who fearless comes, with unsuspecting nature,
To seek his brother.
EDITHA.
Thou mak'st me tremble with sad boding fears;
I'll to the castle.—See thou warn'st the king.
[Exit EDITHA.
DUNSTAN.
Now do this maiden's sorrows touch my heart:
Would I could guard her from Elfrida's power,
And place her where her virtues would adorn
The pious court of the converted king.—
What sound is that! Methinks the king approaches.
EDWARD.
Ere the rude huntsmen rouse them for the chase,
Dunstan, I come to hold sweet converse with thee.
But thou look'st sad; is not my coming welcome?
DUNSTAN.
Right welcome, gracious prince, if my sad heart
Harbour'd no fear; but listen, caution whispers
That in Elfrida's castle treason lurks;
And thou must straight, with hasty speed, depart,
Nor rashly covet danger.
EDWARD.
Caution is oft a liar, bred by fear.
No, Father; well I know Elfrida's hate
Is open and implacable, and thus
Less to be feared than more insidious foes;
Yet may I see my brother, and unfold
A cherished purpose to his listening ear.
Soon will he wed the gentle Editha:
He shall have surety of her promised dower,
For much as she transcends all earthly good,
She will not in his house be honour'd less
For bringing princely gifts.
DUNSTAN.
Most noble king, 'twas Editha, that maid
Thy generous care would portion, it was she
That bade thee to beware of Elfrid's towers.
EDWARD.
Ah! was it she? What said that gentle maid?
Why does my heart rebel against her bidding?
Speak, Dunstan, I am greedy of her words;
Did she care for me? 'twas a sister's love,
And I will ever hold it in remembrance.
DUNSTAN.
Bid Ethelred, my liege, to greet thee here,
Secure in this asylum from thy foes.
EDWARD.
No, for I once more must behold those towers;
'Twas there I sojourned in my happiest days,
When Edgar my brave father chased the deer
In Wareham's ample forest, Corfe his home.
There first I saw great Ocean's mighty waves
Rise like vast mountains o'er a level plain;
While foaming billows caught the setting sun,
And the white spray, toss'd in a flood of light,
Descended like a host of glittering stars.
There first I met that timid blushing maid,
Betroth'd to Ethelred. A brother's love
Could ill express the tenderness I felt
When in my ear her early griefs she poured:
How the proud queen would chide, when choicest gifts
Were saved for Edward from her little store!
DUNSTAN.
My liege, methinks 'twere safer to depart.
EDWARD.
I will not enter that once dear retreat
[Bell sounds for prayers.
DUNSTAN.
That sound, my liege, should calm thy troubled thoughts.
Enter our chapel—'tis the hour of prayer.
[Exeunt .
Scene changes to Corfe Castle.
ELFRIDA and ETHELRED.
ELFRIDA.
I tell thee, Ethelred, this monkish king
Should doff the crown, and take the cowl instead,
'Twill suit him better: he's not formed for war.
Those glorious deeds that blazon the renown
Of his forefathers kindle not his soul.
Before this Dunstan with his idle legends
Taught the bold Saxons of Judæa's cross,
Edward had bowed to its pacific creed;
Now, he embraces it with fervent zeal:
Keep thou the Danish gods, resentful hate
Is not displeasing to them.
ETHELRED.
My father did not counsel me to hate
A brother who ne'er wronged me, nor do I
Own such resentful spirit,—'tis his right
To rule—mine to obey.
ELFRIDA.
O that I could infuse my spirit in thee!
Then wouldst thou o'erleap right, and, towering, seize
The sceptre his weak arm dared not defend:
A warlike people might'st thou bravely sway,
And crush contending foes.
ETHELRED.
I care not for the sceptre; chase of boar
Or the wild stag delights my fancy most,
And the full board with foaming goblets crowned
Brings me more joy than empire's racking cares.
ELFRIDA.
Dost think that Editha will yield her love
To one who covets such ignoble sports
More than the blaze of empire? Out upon thee!
ETHELRED.
If Editha refuse to yield her love,
Some kinder fair shall be my willing bride;
Alike to me, so that the flowing bowl
Crown the day's sport and evening's rich repast.
Know'st thou that Edward hunts in Wareham woods?
ELFRIDA.
What said'st thou, boy! hunts in the forest here?
ETHELRED.
Ay, madam, and to-night he comes to take
His last farewell of Corfesgate's ancient towers.
ELFRIDA (after a pause
.)
'Twill be a last farewell—Is he alone?
ETHELRED.
Some youthful nobles of his princely train
Are his attendants.—Shall we bid him welcome
To share our evening feast?
ELFRIDA.
Such welcome as the hawk doth give the dove,
Or lioness the lamb.
ETHELRED.
Not I—I have no liking for such feuds.
ELFRIDA.
Shame on thy dastard soul! go, get thee hence.
What, Oswald!
[Exit ETHELRED.
Enter OSWALD.
OSWALD.
Go, bring that prisoner from the dungeon keep
Quick to my presence here.
[Exit
OSWALD.
This wretch who holds his life from day to day
Dependant on the sentence of my will,
May be fit instrument to suit my purpose.
[Re-enter Oswald with prisoner.
ELFRIDA.
What would'st thou bravely dare to save thy forfeit life?
PRISONER.
Why, any thing, for much I cherish life!
ELFRIDA.
Wilt plunge this knife into the coward heart
Of him, our house's foe, who comes this night
To hold base parley with Corfesgate's vassals?
The western gate his entrance, near that postern
There is a dark recess—there lie concealed,
And as he enters——
PRISONER.
I will use thy dagger.—
But tell me, lady, by what outward sign
I may discern the man thy vengeance aims at.
ELFRIDA.
He wears a goodly seeming o'er his brow;
The dark hair clusters, but his cheek is pale;
His garb a hunter's, and his bugle horn
Of fretted gold, while on his broidered vest
Glitters the crown of England.—Take this dagger—
Bright the reward that waits thy daring service.
[Exit PRISONER after receiving the dagger .
ELFRIDA alone
.
Methinks these Christians will east off their meekness
When they shall prove the might of Danish gods.
I hate a creed that teaches to forgive—
Relentless Hate, be thou my god!
What though he did endow me with domains
Ample and wide, does he not hold the sceptre?
His noble seemings and his princely grace
Dunstan's Chapel at a distance.
Enter KING EDWARD and ANSELM conversing .
EDWARD.
Nay, my good Anselm, sooner would I perish;
A Christian who would persecute or slay
A Danish worshipper, is more debased
Than he who bows to images of stone:
Himself is his own idol.
ANSELM.
Leav'st thou the Saxon and the Danish priests
In undisturbed profession of their faith?
EDWARD.
Most surely. Oh! good Anselm, what am I
That I should with presumptuous power constrain
The free-born spirits of my fellow men?
Were he that rules this universal world
Extreme to mark and punish erring man,
Who could escape his ire? He manifests
His power in blessings.
ANSELM.
Long may his power preserve our gracious king!
EDWARD.
Thanks, kind old man, thou wert my father's friend,
And to thy love I claim inheritance.
Much shall I need thy counsel; for bad men
Creep near a throne to undermine the rock
On which it should be founded, justice, truth,
And public faith. Young as are my years,
My soul loathes flattery; 'tis the curse of monarchs
To breathe an air so pestilent to truth
That honest men flee from it in affright,
Lest it should taint their honour.
ANSELM.
Oft was your royal father wont to say,
That his best friends in hours of greatest peril
Were those who fearlessly would give their lives
To serve their country, but would proudly scorn
A faithless act to save it.
EDWARD.
Thou say'st well; find me such noble spirits,
And I will hold them in my heart of hearts.
Anselm, this eve I go to Corfesgate castle,
To take a last farewell of its loved towers:
My soul is sick to think that Editha
Must wedded be to one that lacks those virtues
Her noble heart would prize. Methinks if Ethelred
Deserved her matchless worth, I could endure
The agony to know she were another's.
ANSELM.
My liege, it hath been whispered in mine ear
Fair Editha prefers a nobler lord;
Her sick heart pines in secret at her fate:
Would'st thou risk peril then to snatch her from it?
EDWARD.
Risk peril, said'st thou? What is outward peril
To that deep passion I have cherished here?
Oh! it has madly grappled with despair:
Grief has devoured the freshness of my spirit,
Like the first blight in spring; and hope, the star
Of youth, is quenched in tears. Tell me the man
That Editha prefers to Ethelred?
ANSELM.
Thyself, young prince!
EDWARD.
Now, Anselm, on my life, thou dost but mock me:
Beware, old man, I love thee passing well,
And could forgive thee any thing but this.
ANSELM.
By righteous heaven 'twere weakness to forgive
If I dared trifle with so true a passion!
Oh, heavens! if I could hope that Editha
Loved me with other than a sister's fondness,
What brightness would it give to dawning life!
Yes, I will hope; can I forget that night?
Pale gleamed the moon upon the curling wave,
As homeward swift our slender bark returned;
While Edith sang the evening hymn of praise
[Exeunt.
Scene changes to Corfesgate Castle.
ELFRIDA and EDITHA.
ELFRIDA.
They say the king hunts near in Wareham forest?
EDITHA.
Ay, madam.
ELFRIDA.
Dost think we should invite him to the banquet?
EDITHA.
I fear he would not be a welcome guest.
ELFRIDA.
Thou fear'st! then wouldst thou wish that he were welcome?
EDITHA.
Ay, if your majesty would bury hate,
And feel for Edgar's son more like a mother,
I would with gladness hail him at the banquet.
ELFRIDA.
Much thou provok'st me, Edith, for methinks
My Ethelred's high spirit pleases less
Than the soft temper of the monkish king.
EDITHA.
Madam, his spirit is as high as gentle;
If 'twere not so, would he not crush your hate?
Instead of large domains his bounty yielded,
Would he not shut you in a prison's cell?
What but his generous soul restrains resentment
For injuries deep and frequent? Oh, Elfrida!
[Throws herself on her knees.
By all the Danish gods thou hold'st in honour,
Touch not this noble prince with murderous hand!
Much do I fear a treacherous purpose lurks
In that stern smile that told me of his coming.
ELFRIDA.
Rise, simple maid! this savours more of liking
Than is becoming Eth'red's bride betrothed.
EDITHA.
Oft have I told thee that betrothed bride
Should ne'er be Eth'red's wife; nay, hear me further,
Sooner would I, from yon high turret plunged,
ELFRIDA.
Ha! has the king, has Edward basely then
Seduced thy plighted faith, thou perjured maid?
EDITHA.
I am not perjured. Heaven my witness is,
When Danish councils sent me here a child,
Enthrall'd by bonds, I never ratified
With impious oaths the unhallowed sacrifice.
ELFRIDA.
Curse on thy shallow scruples! force may wed thee.
EDITHA.
Harsh as his nature is, I think not Eth'red
So lost to honour, so debased and vile,
That he would force me to become his wife.—
If my harsh uncle ruled not Danish councils
I had ere this returned to northern climes.
ELFRIDA.
Eth'red to-night invites the princely nobles
That hunt with Edward to a gallant feast.
Go, then, prepare thee for the splendid banquet.
[Exit
EDITHA.
Now would this froward maid provoke my ire
But that if Ethelred ascend the throne
Some loftier partner, graced with larger dower,
Must share it with him. In this night's great business
Lie all my glorious projects hidden deep;
If but the prisoner do the deed, most surely
To-morrow's sun shall shine no more on Edward.
[Exit ELFRIDA.
EDWARD alone
.
Now if that Edwin, faithful to his trust,
Gives to her hand my packet, there she'll read
My inmost soul; and should her own respond
With tenderness and truth to love like mine,
Soon will she with confiding fondness meet me.
How bright yon star! Fair planet of the night!
Lovers have oft invoked thy silvery beam
To light them on to bliss; ne'er didst thou guide
A more devoted pilgrim to the shrine
Of all that love holds sacred:
The flitting lights that blazon yon high towers,
They seem a beacon to aspiring hope;
Oh, Editha! methinks thy slender form,
[Exit .
Enter ANSELM and DUNSTAN.
ANSELM.
Yes, let us follow; in the battle's throng
I ever near him stood, and this weak arm,
That age has palsied, yet is strong to save
In danger's hour: his father's latest words,
"Watch o'er him, Anselm," press upon my heart
With a sad boding,—quickly let us follow
His fearless steps to these unfriendly towers.
DUNSTAN.
Yes, if by this dim light I mark aright,
It is his form that scales the rocky steep
Near to the western portal—Heaven be with him!
[Exeunt .
ELFRIDA, EDITHA, and ETHELRED, with Nobles, seated at the Banquet.
ELFRIDA.
Welcome, brave nobles! 'tis not the first time
The queen has welcomed ye to Corfesgate castle.
FIRST LORD.
No, madam, but one guest is wanted still
To make your hospitable board more cheer.
ETHELRED.
I wished the king to be our guest to-night.
ELFRIDA.
The king and I have had much cause of quarrel,
But, had he come, unbidden guests are welcome.
[More Nobles enter.
Welcome, gallant nobles! we pledge you, lords.
[Takes a goblet.
EDITHA (rises and speaks aside to one of the Lords .)
EDITHA.
Saw ye the king to-day?
EDWIN.
Ay, lady, half an hour has not gone by
Since him I left at Dunstan's holy chapel.
EDITHA.
I hope he comes no nearer to Corfe-castle?
EDWIN.
By faith, I know not, this I only know,
He bade me give this packet to thy hand
With secrecy and sure despatch. The queen
Observes our converse—Health to your majesty!
[Turning to ELFRIDA.
EDITHA takes the packet eagerly, and retires to the back of the stage, and reads it. A loud cry is heard. Enter Warder, Herald, and Attendants, dragging in the prisoner, with a bloody dagger in his hand. All the guests rise in consternation.
WARDER.
Murder, most foul!—The King is basely murder'd.
EDITHA shrieks, and runs off the stage with several more .
ELFRIDA.
Said'st thou the King? Who did the horrid deed?
WARDER.
This wretch! [Pointing to the prisoner. The QUEEN rushes forward, and, with a poniard, stabs the prisoner to the heart; he falls instantly dead .
ELFRIDA.
Die, base assassin, for thy daring crime!
My lords, 'tis horrible! but vengeance sleeps not,
It has o'erta'en the murderous deed already.
SECOND LORD.
Thou should'st have spared the wretch, to tell who urged
The damned deed.—Is the King dead?
WARDER.
Alas! we know not. With two followers more,
Anselm and Dunstan, he approached the castle;
He called for Ethelred, his princely brother,
And, as we thought, he came to grace the banquet:
The bridge was lowered at the western gate,—
He and his followers entered, when that miscreant,
Hid in a dark recess, sprang foully on him,
And in his noble breast plunged that fell knife.
Sudden he fell, but instant his two friends
Conveyed him 'cross the bridge, and we flew hither
To tell the horrid tale.
FIRST LORD.
Where have they ta'en him?
WARDER.
We know not, but 'tis like to Dunstan's chapel.
ELFRIDA.
Draw up the bridge! this cowardly assassin
Has gained forced entrance in the King's own train.
ETHELRED.
I know not but to-morrow's sun will throw
Light on this murky business; it has spoil'd
The festive mirth of this night's gorgeous banquet.
[Exeunt, all but the QUEEN and ETHELRED.
ELFRIDA.
Now, Ethelred, glows not thy soul with fire,
To think that ere to-morrow's sun shall set,
ETHELRED.
I owe her nothing, but to spurn her rule.
I would not, for the finest hunting plain,
Have killed the king; but, since the deed is done,
Think not to curb me with thine iron hand:
No woman shall rule me! I hate their thrall!
To some far northern castle thou may'st go,
And leave me free to range the southern realm
In pleasure's wide pursuit.
ELFRIDA.
Thou craven fool—is this then my reward?
Was it for this I steeped my soul in blood?
Would Edward thus have scorned my proffer'd love?
Fool that I was, to hope thy selfish spirit
Could grasp ambition in its narrow range!
No; thou art formed for sports, and strifes ignoble.
But I will teach thee what it is to rule
With iron sceptre—not a Christian church
Shall henceforth stand within this Saxon realm.
ETHELRED.
Alike to me all churches and their rites,
So merry Bacchanalian sports are mine:
Talk not to me of rule; what if the king
Should still survive this outrage on his life?
Dost think his milky nature will forgive?
ELFRIDA.
Did I not kill the man who aimed the blow?
What could I more, to prove my loyal love?
ETHELRED.
Enough: thy fierceness is of tigress kind,
I'll hence and learn how fares my royal brother.
[Exeunt.
The KING brought in wounded, and laid on a Couch, by DUNSTAN and ANSELM.
EDWARD.
There lay me down, and stanch the streaming tide,
If haply I may live—but I grow faint.
DUNSTAN.
Heaven bless your majesty, and pardon those
That did this traitorous deed!
EDWARD.
Amen! good Dunstan. If 'tis Heaven's high will
That I must die, may Heaven enable me
To fill these minutes with the use of years:
Anselm, convene the council;
Bid them to guard their rights, nor to relax
In those just laws by glorious Alfred framed.
O my brave people!
Graft in your hearts the love of generous freedom.
Hate war, save war defensive; 'tis the people's bane.
Corruption feeds on blood; bad men grow rich,
[DUNSTAN gives the drink .
DUNSTAN.
Your majesty exhausts your failing strength.
EDWARD.
Oh! with what thankful and o'erflowing heart
I do perceive the influence of that cause
Thou hast so mildly pleaded!
Do not disgrace with bigotry and pride
The sacred cross: bid all thy followers tread
In the blest steps of him who, dying, prayed
Even for his enemies.
DUNSTAN.
Instructed by thy piety and faith,
I will observe thy sayings, Heaven-inspired.
EDWARD.
Now, Dunstan, but one care remains on earth—
My gentle Editha; oh! soothe her spirit,
For she will grieve that not a last farewell
Was granted to my prayers; but if averse
She seems to this sad marriage, swear, I charge thee,
Swear to protect her. Anselm, swear thou too,
As thou dost love me, as thou hop'st for heaven,
That she shall not be forced to wed with Eth'red.
DUNSTAN and
ANSELM.
We swear, most solemnly. See where she comes,
With speed, and look distracted.
[EDITHA rushes in .
EDITHA.
Where is the King?
[Throws herself on the couch beside him .
EDWARD (folding her tenderly in his arms
).
Leave us, my friends. [Exeunt DUNSTAN and ANSELM.
Oh! Editha, beloved, my more than sister,
Com'st thou to close my eyes, and fondly take
A last embrace?
EDITHA.
Ah! thou speak'st faintly, and thy cheek is pale;
Heavens! can it be? thou wilt not leave me, Edward?
EDWARD.
'Tis hard indeed to die; but oh! this moment
More precious is than all of life beside—
For thou art mine; beyond the power of fate,
Do I not see how tenderly thou lovest me?
EDITHA.
Love thee, my Edward! it was woman's pride
Bade my young heart strive to conceal its fondness,
And, with a sister's love, veil the proud hope
Thy lofty state forbade me to aspire to.
Thou wert my only bliss; but not till now
Did I know how devotedly I loved thee.
EDWARD.
Didst thou receive my packet?
EDITHA.
Yes; while with greedy transport I devoured it,
Cries of thy murder met my frighted ear,
EDWARD.
My own best love, will it not soothe thy grief
That thou hast been to me a beam of light?
All I have known of joy sprang from thy love;
Thy generous sympathy taught my young heart
Its first pure feeling of confiding trust
In human kindness. From my boyish days
I knew of one whose smile hailed my return;
Thy cheerful brow and gentle voice beguiled
The sorrows of my youth. When my brave sire
Sank to his grave, thou didst divide my grief,
And teach me to aspire to lofty deeds;
And bid me scorn to bear the name of king,
Unless enthroned in my people's hearts.
EDITHA.
Ah! if to live I still am sadly doomed,
In holy cloisters and religious rites
My soul will find its only consolation.
Then may thy spirit mix with all my orisons,
And teach me how to pray.
EDWARD.
In holy cloisters and religious rites
Thou wilt do well to calm thy frensied grief—
They are the sick soul's medicine;
But its best food and healthiest exercise
Is to do good to every living thing.
Love to man
Is the best service to the God of love.
EDITHA.
The light of inspiration is upon thee:
I will devote me to the life thou point'st at,
Believing 'tis the blessed path to heaven.
EDWARD.
Now I am satisfied: these cold damp dews,
I scarce would change them for a sparkling crown;
And yet my soul yearns with such fondness o'er thee,
That I could drown thee with my parting tears.
Take comfort, love, our meeting will be joyful:
Call Anselm hither and the pious Dunstan.
[EDITHA beckons them from a distance, unable to speak. They come in, followed by several Lords and Attendants of EDWARD. The KING raises himself, supported by EDITHA.
EDWARD.
Here, Dunstan, give thy heavenly benediction
To this our marriage in the hour of death?
[DUNSTAN takes their joined hands and blesses them
.
My friends, I charge you by the love you bear me,
To honour Editha as England's Queen;
I do endow her with all such domains
As appertain
not
to my royal state.
She will a kind and gracious mistress prove
To all who loved her lord.
Omnes.
We will defend her to our latest breath!
EDWARD.
I charge ye to abstain from fierce revenge
'Gainst those who compassed my untimely fate.
Let Ethelred ascend his father's throne;
And, as ye honour my last earnest hope,
Let not the people groan beneath the curse
Of civil warfare.
FIRST LORD.
My liege, your word shall be the law that guides us.
EDWARD.
And Editha, my love, that haughty Queen,
Whose hate hath fatally prevail'd against me,
Let not her enmity distract thy soul:
The time may come when she will need thy pity;
And by the cross, to which thou look'st for mercy,
Refuse her not forgiveness.
ANSELM.
O Edward! canst thou too forgive the Queen?
EDWARD.
Yes, from my soul, I pity her hard nature:
She never knew the bliss of tenderness—
The joy to be beloved.
[He becomes more faint .
ANSELM.
My liege, your strength is wasted—short repose
Will give exhausted nature some relief.
EDWARD.
Dear Anselm, mine will be a long repose;
DUNSTAN.
Thy head reclines upon her faithful breast.
EDWARD (lifting up his clasped hands in an attitude
of prayer
).
Oh, Editha! my love, 'tis past, 'tis past. [Dies.
[EDITHA falls insensible on the body . ANSELM and DUNSTAN endeavour to support her .
FIRST LORD.
Oh! what a noble spirit took its flight,
In that last sigh! To Alfred's gifted mind
This youthful King joined gentleness and grace,
And every princely virtue, yet all could not preserve
From the dark malice of his cruel foes.
Enter ELFRIDA.
ELFRIDA.
Yes, she has fled!—How now, my aching heart,
What means this tumult?—on the turret's height
I marked grey morning doff her misty shroud,
And the bright sun shoot forth his garish beams:
Why did they cheer me not? Why to my inward sense
Seemed this fair world black as the gulf of hell?
Methought when once I knew his struggles o'er,
My heart would riot in the vast delight:
What is it that hath turned that heart to stone,
So heavy and so cold? The sleeping babe
Of yon poor vassal, on its bed of straw,
Seemed now to tell me I should sleep no more:
I could have hid my dagger in its breast,
Enraged by its serenity.
ELFRIDA.
Heard'st thou, my son, that Edward breathed his last?
ETHELRED.
Ay, madam; wherefore doth your cheek turn pale?
Why rove your eyes, as if in vacancy
You searched for some dark and unseen thing?
I thought you would exult in Edward's death.
ELFRIDA.
I thought so too; I know not why this chillness
Comes o'er me; but 'twill pass. Know'st thou that Edith
Escaped our vigilance, and soothed the king
In his last moments?
ETHELRED.
'Tis true; and Dunstan's holy benediction
Hallowed their marriage vows, ere the pale bridegroom
Sank to his clay-cold bed.
ELFRIDA.
Now once I thought it would have joyed my spirit
That the proud maid's aspiring hopes should sink,
Crushed by my powerful might; and yet, methinks,
I breathed more freely ere the deed was done.
Why should I tell thee? When I watched the toil
Of Dunstan's chapel, as the signal sure
Of Edward's mortal hour, the deep-toned bell
Struck on my heart with such a moaning sound,
And waked such demons in my slumbering soul,
ETHELRED.
Thou pay'st the purchase—I shall wear the prize:
For here comes Manfred and the nation's council,
To hail me king.
Enter MANFRED, with LORDS.
LORDS.
Long live King Ethelred!
MANFRED.
The Queen looks sorrowful.
THIRD LORD.
Hail to your majesty!
ELFRIDA.
Thanks, noble lords—told ye the dying king
I stabbed his murderer?
FOURTH LORD.
I know not, madam; but the pious King
Prayed for his murderers with his latest breath.
ELFRIDA.
Thou dost not say so?—Ah, that racking pang!
It pierces more than all!
[Aside
.
THIRD LORD.
My liege, to Winchester you must repair,
There to be crowned.
ETHELRED.
Much time I cannot give to pageantries,
Or courtly pomp.
FOURTH LORD.
The kingdom under Edward's virtuous rule
Was so well ordered, empire's rugged cares
Will weigh more lightly on you.
[The QUEEN sighs deeply .
ELFRIDA.
Come, let's to Winchester.
[Exeunt.
Several LORDS, in deep mourning, discovered, conversing.
SECOND LORD.
It is not possible the Queen contrived it.—
Didst thou not mark how prompt the vengeance taken
On the foul murderer?
FIRST LORD.
This youthful prince, though far beneath his brother
In lofty qualities and gracious parts,
Has given no proof of his unworthiness
To wear the crown.
SECOND LORD.
Did we not pledge our faith to royal Edward,
lSolemn music is heard from the monastery.
FIRST LORD.
But, hark! a sadder office calls us now
Along the cloister'd aisle; the steps are heard
Of the sad mourners, to his lowly grave
That bear those loved remains, dear even in death!
SECOND LORD.
Was it King Edward's wish that royal state
Should thus be wanting to his obsequies?
FIRST LORD.
Even so; for those who shared his private thoughts
Full oft have heard exprest his pious wish
That Dunstan's chapel, where the holy faith,
That he so loved, first dawned upon his soul,
And where, in childhood, burst his song of praise,
Should last receive him as a home of rest:
All kingly honours, in an hour like this,
He held as mockeries;—but soft, they come!
[As he is speaking, the funeral of King EDWARD appears, attended by a small train , EDITHA, as chief mourner; she leans upon DUNSTAN and ANSELM. The Lords bow to her in silence, and then join the procession, which crosses the stage, and enters the small arched door of the chapel, at the furthest end—the monks chanting.
Gently sinks the young, the brave,
To his dark and lowly grave;
And when steps of love shall tread,
Mournful o'er his narrow bed,
Thou who art in mercy near,
Watching o'er the loneliest tear,
Cast thy ray of blest relief
On the clouded soul of grief.
Quench'd in death, that spirit high;
Darkly sleeps the beaming eye:
Early fallen, the closing night
O'er his morn of radiant light.
But 'tis past, the shadowy vale,
Regions bright his coming hail!
Angels speed his joyful way
Onward to eternal day!
Enter ELFRIDA and MANFRED.
ELFRIDA.
Well, Manfred, what says Edith to our message?
MANFRED.
Madam, when I approached St. Dunstan's chapel,
Instead of solemn requiems for the dead,
I heard a chanted anthem rise to heaven,
With notes triumphant. Then came vestal choirs,
Clad in white garments, strewing beauteous flowers
On the paved cloister. Covered with a veil
That swept the ground, the lovely Edith next
Walked feebly, led by Dunstan to the cross;
Where prostrate long she lay,—then, throwing hack
Her flowing vestment, east an upward look,
Such as a sorrowing angel might have sent—
No, never never shall I lose that look!
Deep is it graven in my memory's page:
'Twas solemn, not severe; mild, yet intense,
ELFRIDA.
Didst thou not speak to her?
MANFRED.
By heaven! I dared not, for my very life.
I oft have met the battle's hottest brunt,
Have sealed the ramparts of a hostile tower,
And ta'en my stand where thickest spears whizzed round,
But never felt I fear or awe till then:
My trembling knees refused to do their once;
I almost sank into the earth before her,
So awful was her presence!
ELFRIDA.
Would she had known I offered her protection!
What! will she bury then her youthful beauty
In that grim cloister? will she spurn a throne?
And didst thou say, her look, though pale, was peaceful?
MANFRED.
Peaceful and still as is a quiet lake
Reflecting the pale light of summer's eve,
When not a breeze ruffles its calm serene.
ELFRIDA.
There must be more in Nazarean creed
Than fiction's idle tale; else why this peace,
This calm submission to o'erwhelming fate—
This inward quiet? Oh! could thousand sceptres
MANFRED.
Alas! he did not bear himself so gently
As Edward's custom was. The murmuring crowd
Made harsh comparisons. He would not wait
The meeting of the council,—hastening back
To Corfesgate Castle, where unseemly gambols
Hold their rude sport, befitting not a king.
ELFRIDA.
Thou driv'st me mad! Why, this exceeds all patience
To Corfesgate Castle, ere the sun be set
That saw him crowned! O foolish, foolish youth!
His weakness will defeat my boasted strength.
I'll after him to Corfesgate;—but I dread
These gloomy towers, they mind me of sad things.
[Exeunt.
Enter GERTRUDE the Abbess, and EDITHA habited as a Nun .
GERTRUDE.
I fain would yield to thee the convent's rule;
Such sacrifice gives thee pre-eminence.
EDITHA.
Nay, holy Abbess, nought of sacrifice
Have I to boast: the world was one vast blank,
Cheerless and void to me. Thou say'st I sin not
In cherishing some sweet and tender thoughts
Of him who is no more? Had this been sin,
I were of all thy convent most unworthy.
GERTRUDE.
His virtues were the theme of every tongue:
Well may the chosen of his heart deplore
His early fate, and cherish his remembrance!
EDITHA.
Yes! had thy creed, with strict unbending sternness,
Forbade such sweet indulgence, I had ne'er
Become an inmate of this holy place:
But here, with sisterly affection cherished,
To Heaven devoted, life will not be waste.
Unwearied exercise in holy deeds
Is what my Edward bade me firmly seek,
And I will do his bidding.
GERTRUDE.
Did I not tell thee, ere thou took'st the vow,
That Manfred, sent here by the haughty Queen,
Offered thee Eth'red's crown?
EDITHA.
Heaven pardon me the unforgiving thoughts
That even her name, far more her hated message,
Roused in my soul! Now can I think of her
With pity such as Edward, dying, felt?
GERTRUDE.
Forgiveness is the test of Christian grace:
'Tis nature's hardest trial.
Enter DUNSTAN and ANSELM.
ANSELM.
I could not 'tend his coronation, Dunstan,
Or bend the knee to one who rose so soon
Upon our noble Edward's ruined hopes;
Nor would I see the Queen, whose vengeful ire
DUNSTAN.
Oh, the brave people came, with heavy hearts,
To see, not make the show. A courtier band
Surrounded the young prince, with servile smiles
Pampering his pride; but the grieved people felt
Reft of their hopes, and Edward's sudden death
Came o'er each English heart like that sick blow
That lays a cherished child in the dark grave.
ANSELM.
Ah! see how Editha devours thy words:
'Tis a sad theme for her.
EDITHA.
Nay, Anselm; for his words, like morning dews
To the parched desert, do refresh my soul.
[Thunder is heard.
DUNSTAN.
Marked ye the lightning's flash? The stormy clouds
Seem gathering for a tempest. Dark's the night;
And roaring thunder, with incessant peal,
Bursts on my ear. Let us to vespers, friends.
Enter MANFRED, in haste .
MANFRED.
O father! if kind pity in thy heart
Finds place, take 'neath thy roof a houseless wretch,
EDITHA (springing forward
).
Where is this houseless wanderer?
MANFRED
I' the porch that fronts the chapel,
On the cold earth, she lies.
EDITHA.
O take me to her, Father;—Gertrude, where
Shall this forlorn one be most kindly sheltered?
DUNSTAN.
Haste, bring her hither! we will see her state.
MANFRED, EDITHA, DUNSTAN, and GERTRUDE, go out and return with a woman muffled up, her face covered—they place her upon a couch— DUNSTAN holds a lamp to her face —EDITHA lifts the covering, and perceives it is ELFRIDA—EDITHA shrieks, and falls on her knees by the Couch —ELFRIDA seems roused from a state of stupor .
ELFRIDA.
Where am I, Manfred? Sure it was a dream—
A hideous dream. Methought that Ethelred
Denied me entrance to Corfesgate Castle;
O tell me, Manfred, was it not a dream?
MANFRED.
'Tis true, alas! thy most unnatural son
Did drive thee from the castle, 'midst the storm.
ELFRIDA.
Did he say so? Give me a dagger, Manfred,
That I may free him from his mother's curse!
EDITHA.
O Elfrid'! if distraction hath not seized thee,
Stay thy rash hand, nor plunge into perdition.
Deeper and deeper still.
ELFRIDA (looking at her with amazement
).
Ha! Edith, is it thou? Yes, thou wilt kill me!—
Death will be tenfold welcome from thy hand:
It will be just and righteous retribution.
EDITHA.
No, vengeance is not mine. Unhappy Queen!
Still thou must live; and by long years of sorrow,
And tears of penitence, wash out the stains
That so defile thy soul!—I will pray with thee—
Thou wilt have many conflicts with thy spirit,
So haughty and untamed.
DUNSTAN.
If deep contrition bow thy grieved spirit,
Still may'st thou hope forgiveness.
ELFRIDA.
Oh, could'st thou give it! there's no earthly penance
I would not undergo, though my hacked limbs
Were stretch'd on racks, and burning pincers tore
Piecemeal my flesh, 'twere light to what I suffer.—
Edith, I killed the King! This savage heart
EDITHA.
I dare not. O compose thy frenzied passion!
Thine is not penitence—'tis proud defiance
Of outraged conscience. Prayer alone can heal thee:
Not reason's voice can penetrate those depths
Of grief and guilt which pious sorrow finds.
Like a bright angel visitant it comes,
And whispers peace to the distracted bosom.
ELFRIDA.
It ne'er can whisper peace to one so lost!
No; Ethelred hath sent the barbed shaft
Of black ingratitude straight through my heart,
And severed all of hope I had to cling to.—
Edith, my head is dizzy—my breath thick.
I fain would pray, but cannot. Wilt thou for me?
EDITHA.
Ay, madam, fervently,—as Edward prayed
In the last moments of his parting life.
ELFRIDA.
Did he? Nay, then, there must be truth, indeed,
In all that Dunstan teaches.—Hope I dare not.
Thick coming death-damps creep about my heart.
To die is dreadful—But 'twas Eth'red killed me.
EDITHA.
Thy pangs are terrible. Would it not soothe thee,
ELFRIDA.
Forgiveness, say'st thou? Would I could forgive him!
Remorse and vengeance tear my soul between them!
No; I will never see his face again.
Was't not for him I steeped my soul in blood?
And what is my requital? From the castle,
Given me by Edward, this unnatural boy
Drives me an alien.—Oh, my heart is broken!
EDITHA.
Compose thyself; sleep would refresh thy nature.
ELFRIDA.
Sleep, Edith! No, there is no sleep for me!
When wearied nature fain would court its calm,
Then Edward's ghastly form, in shrouded vestments,
Seems gliding near me, or the heavy bell
That toll'd his death strikes on my frighted soul,
And wakes me up to madness. Thou too, Edith,
That look'st so mildly on me; thee I wronged,
For that I saw thy soul was knit to Edward's,
And sought to tear the tender cords asunder.
EDITHA.
Thou didst but bind them firmer.
ELFRIDA (wildly
).
Was it not Ethelred that spurned me from him?
And see those hissing spectres, how they haunt me!
I come, I follow to yon blazing gulf.
O Edward! Ethelred!
[Dies
.
[EDITHA bends over her in terror and amazement .
DUNSTAN.
Is't not a sorrowing sight? Her spirit's flown!
ANSELM.
Her death has, like her life, sad warning given.
That selfish fondness for the son she cherished,
Was the foul root of all her cruel arts:
Oh, what a blot to poor humanity
Is love! when it o'ermatches truth and honour.
EDITHA.
Remove this wreck of her that once was royal.
O pride! how little, shrunk to that small space,
Seem all thy strivings! Let us shroud her crimes,
Even as her form is shrouded.
GERTRUDE.
This awful scene, my Editha, will prove
Subject for musing in our lonely hours;
And oftentimes, to youthful novice here,
We will relate the cruel woes that rise
From strong temptation and ungovern'd will.
EDITHA.
But oftener will we dwell on that loved theme,
The virtues that adorn aspiring youth:
And mark how surely all-approving Heaven
Calls the pure spirit to its early rest.
MANFRED.
I will to Corfesgate. Sure 'twill move the King
To hear how thus his mother's desperate heart
Burst with remorse, and grief—by him inflicted.
DUNSTAN.
Farewell! most noble Manfred. When thy hour
[Bell sounds for prayers.
MANFRED.
Thanks, holy father.
ANSELM and DUNSTAN begin to lift the body .
Curtain falls.
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