Sedate by use, my bosom maddens not
At the tumultuous uproar of the field.'

Lady Rand. Act thus, Glenalvon, and I am thy friend: But that's thy least reward. Believe

me, sir,

The truly generous is the truly wise;
And he who loves not others, lives unblest.

[Exeunt Lady R. and Anna.

Glen. I think that I have hit the very tone
In which she loves to speak. Honey'd assent!
How pleasing art thou to the taste of man,
And woman also! 'tis to me a key,
And gives possession of a poor frail heart.
How far I have succeeded now, I know not.
Yet I incline to think her stormy virtue
Is lull'd awhile: 'tis her alone I fear :
Whilst she and Randolph live, and live in faith
And amity, uncertain is my tenure.

Disgrace and death are o'er my head suspended
< By that weak hair,* a peevish female's will.
"I am not idle: but the ebbs and flows

Of fortune's tide cannot be calculated.'

That slave of Norval's I have found most apt:
I shew'd him gold, and he has pawn'd his soul
To say and swear whatever I suggest.
Norval, I'm told, has that alluring look,
'Twixt man and woman, which I have observ'd
To charm the nicer and fantastick dames,
Boasting, like lady Randolph, a proud virtue.
In raising Randolph's jealousy I may

(Who knows?) point to the truth. At least, let men
-Like me think not too well of womankind.

[Exit.

Alluding to the sword suspended over the head of Damocles, at

a banquet, by Dionysius.

ACT IV.

The SCENE continues. A Flourish of Trumpets.

Enter Lord RANDOLPH attended.

Lord Rand. Summon an hundred horse, by break of To wait our pleasure at the castle gate.

Enter Lady RANDOLPH.

[day,

Lady Rand. Alas! my lord! I've heard unwelcome The Danes are landed.

Lord Rand. Ay, no inroad this

Of the Northumbrian bent to take a spoil:
No sportive war, no tournament essay,

Of some young knight resolv'd to break a spear
And stain with hostile blood his maiden arms.
The Danes are landed: we must beat them back,
Or live the slaves of Denmark.

Lady Rand. Dreadful times!

[news:

Lord Rand. The fenceless villages are all forsaken; The trembling mothers and their children lodg'd In well-girt+ towers and castles; whilst the men Retire indignant. Yet, like broken waves, They but retire more awful to return.

Lady Rand. Immense, as fame reports, the Danish host! Lord Rand. Were it as numerous as loud fame reports, An army knit like ours would pierce it thro': Brothers, that shrink not from each other's side, And fond companions, fill our warlike files: For his dear offspring, and the wife he loves, The husband and the fearless father arm.

In vulgar breasts heroic ardor burns,

And the poor peasant mates his daring lord.

Lady Rand. Men's minds are temper'd, like their swords, for war;

'Lovers of danger, on destruction's brink 'They joy to rear erect their daring forms.

+ The 12mo. reads wall-girt,

Hence, early graves; hence the lone widow's life;
And the sad mother's grief-embitter'd age.'
Where is our gallant guest?

Lord Rand. Down in the vale

I left him, managing a fiery steed,

Whose stubbornness had foil'd the strength and skill
Of every rider. But, behold, he comes,
In earnest conversation with Glenalvon.

Enter Young NORVAL and GLENALVON.
Glenalvon! with the lark arise; go forth,
And lead my troops that lye in yonder vale:
Private I travel to the royal camp;

Norval, thou goest with me. But, say, young man!
Where didst thou learn so to discourse of war,
And in such terms, as I o'erheard to-day?
War is no village science, nor it's phrase
A language taught amongst the shepherd swains.

Y. Norv. Small is the skill my lord delights to praise
In him he favours.-Hear from whence it came.
Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible by shepherds trod,

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,

Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,

Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms.
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And, ent'ring on discourse, such stories told
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led*
Against th' usurping infidel, display'd
The cross of Christ,† and won the Holy Land.

* Jerusalem was taken by Godfrey of Boulogne, July 5, 1100. This date therefore fixes the period of this drama to the 12th century. + The 12mo, reads, The blessed cross.

Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake
His years away, and act his young encounters:
Then, having shew'd his wounds, he'd sit him down,
And all the live-long day discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts;
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm.
For all that Saracen or Christian knew

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.

Lord Rand. Why did this soldier in a desart hide Those qualities, that should have grac'd a camp?

Y. Norv. That, too, at last, I learn'd. Unhappy man !
Returning homewards by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea

Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought:
The stranger fell, and with his dying breath
Declar'd his name and lineage. Mighty God!*
The soldier cried, my brother! Oh! my brother!
Lady Rand. His brother!

Y. Norv. Yes; of the same parents born;
His only brother. They exchang'd forgiveness:
And happy, in my mind, was he that died :
For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd.
In the wild desart on a rock he sits,

Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind,
Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;
And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,
To make sad orisons for blood-stain'd hands.

[born!

Lady Rand. To what mysterious woes are mortals In this dire tragedy were there no more Unhappy persons? did the parents live?

*The 12mo, reads Power.

Y. Norv. No; they were dead: kind Heav'n had clos'd

their eyes

Before their son had shed his brother's blood.

Lord Rund. Most pitiable! Well might he mourn the deed

His ignorant sword had done.- -From whence these [Trumpets at a distance.

sounds?

Enter an Officer.

Offic. My Lord, the trumpets of the troops of Lorn: Their valiant leader hails the noble Randolph.

Lord Rand. Mine ancient guest! does he the warriors lead?

Has Denmark rous'd the brave old knight to arms?

Offic. No; worn with warfare, he resigns the sword. His eldest hope, the valiant John of Lorn, Now leads his kindred bands.

Lord Rand. Glenalvon, go.

With hospitality's most strong request

Entreat the chief.

Offic. My lord, requests are vain.

He urges on, impatient of delay,

[Exit Glenalvon.

Stung with the tidings of the foe's approach.

Lord Rand. May victory sit on the warrior's plume!* Bravest of men! his flocks and herds are safe;

Remote from war's alarms his pastures lye,

By mountains inaccessible secur'd:
Yet foremost he into the plain descends,
Eager to bleed in battles not his own.
Such were the heroes of the ancient world:
Contemners they of indolence and gain ;
But still for love of glory, and of arms,
Prone to encounter peril, and to lift
Against each strong antagonist the spear.
and press the hero to my breast.

I'll go

[Exit with the Officer. Lady Rand. The soldier's loftiness, the pride and pomp

"Fortune and victory sit on thy helm."

Rich. III. A. v. S. 3.