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LXXI.

alept in peace, — his pulses throbbed and stopped, Bess he gazed upon her face, then took

and in his, and raised it, but both dropped, his own he cast a rueful look.

years were never silent; sleep forsook

burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
gat from time to time under him shook
x as he lay shuddering on his bed;

Af he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

LXXII.

ester's widow lingered in the cot;

v, when he rose, he thanked her pious care

gh which his wife, to that kind shelter brought, "wd a bus arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. De curse interred, not one hour he remained

Beth their roof, but to the open air

Arthen, now with fortitude sustained,

READERS already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.

February 28, 1842.

ACT I.

SCENE, road in a Wood.

WALLACE and LACY.

Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us hie
Back to our post, and strip the Scottish foray
Of their rich spoil, ere they recross the border.
In this good service.
- Pity that our young chief will have no part

Wal.

Rather let us grieve
That, in the undertaking which has caused
His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim,
Companionship with one of crooked ways,
From whose perverted soul can come no good

Hre within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. To our confiding, open-hearted, leader.

LXXIII.

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Lacy. True; and, remembering how the band hav

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Wil. Dear master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud soul. - Nobody loves this Oswald Yourself, you do not love him.

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I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart
Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience
Has given him power to teach: and then for courage
And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned

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Mar.
Peace, my good Wilfred;
Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the band
I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.
Wil. May He whose eye is over all protect you!
[Exit.

Enter OSWALD, (a bunch of plants in his hand.)
Osw. This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.
Mar. (looking at them.) The wild rose, and the
poppy, and the nightshade:

Which is your favourite, Oswald?

Osw.

Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal

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Though I have never seen his face, methinks,
There cannot come a day when I shall cease

To love him. I remember, when a boy

Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm
That casts its shade over our village school,
'T was my delight to sit and hear Idonea
Repeat her father's terrible adventures,
Till all the band of play-mates wept together;
And that was the beginning of my love.

That which, while it is And, through all converse of our later years,
An image of this old man still was present,
When I had been most happy. Pardon me
If this be idly spoken.

[Looking forward.
Not yet in sight! - We'll saunter here awhile;
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.
Mar. (a letter in his hand.) It is no common thing Two travellers!

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Osw.

See, they come,

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Idon.
That dismal Moor-
In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
I never can forgive it: but how steadily

You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!-
I thought the convent never would appear;

It seemed to move away from us and yet,

Ost. Thou know'st me for a man not easily moved, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Yet was I grievously provoked to think

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Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
I spied a covert walled and roofed with sods-
A miniature; belike some shepherd-boy,
Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
And thankfully there rested side by side
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, father,
That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
To fling't away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength;- come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There - indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
On this green bank.
[He sits dou

Ber. (after some time.) Idonea, you are silent, Art I divine the cause.

Do not reproach me: I wedered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, The eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The same of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling Frall the world can give.

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Nay, be composed:
Frxnutes gone a faintness overspread
Xy frame, and I bethought me of two things
i se er had heart to separate-my grave,
And thee, my child!

Jim.
Believe me, honoured sire!
To weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resend with music, could you see the sun,
And kak upon the pleasant face of Nature—
Ber. I comprehend thee-I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My faces, fancies if they be, are such
Acme, dear child! from a far deeper source
Ta bodily weariness. While here we sit
If my strength returning.-The bequest
Of thy kind patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
B: wore thy father must lie down and die,
Hit thou stand alone?
lir.

Her. Thy mother too!-scarce had I gained the door,
I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
I felt thy infant brother in her arms;

She saw my blasted face-a tide of soldiers
That instant rushed between us, and I heard
Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.
Idon. Nay, father, stop not; let me hear it all.
Her. Dear daughter! precious relic of that time-
For
my old age, it doth remain with thee
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told,
That when, on our return from Palestine,

I found how my domains had been usurped,
I took thee in my arms, and we began
Our wanderings together. Providence
At length conducted us to Rossland, — there,
Our melancholy story moved a stranger
To take thee to her home-and for myself,
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's
Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,
And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble cot
Where now we dwell. For many years I bore
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities
Exacted thy return, and our reunion.

I did not think that, during that long absence,
My child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,
Had given her love to a wild freebooter,
Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed,
Doth prey alike on two distracted countries,
Traitor to both.

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Is he not strong?

est valiant!

Am I then so soon

Ftten have my warnings passed so quickly (nt of thy mind! My dear, my only child; The wouldst be leaning on a broken reed — The Marmaduke

O could you hear his voice:

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Im you do not know him. He is one

1 m not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) You seem worn out with travel — shall I support you?

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Truth in his story!

Mar.
He must have felt it then, known what it was,
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
Had been a tenfold cruelty.

Osw.
Strange pleasures
Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!
To see him thus provoke her tenderness
With tales of weakness and infirmity!
I'd wager on his life for twenty years.
Mar. We will not waste an hour in such a cause.
Osw. Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.
Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. - A man
Who has so practised on the world's cold sense,
May well deceive his child-what! leave her thus,
A prey to a deceiver?

-no-no-no

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That may be, I will not play the sluggard.

But wherefore slight protection such as you
Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere. —
I am perplexed.
Mar.

What hast thou heard or seen?

Osw. No-no-the thing stands clear of mystery;
(As you have said) he coins himself the slander
With which he taints her ear; - for a plain reason;
He dreads the presence of a virtuous man
Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart,
Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds

The punishment they merit. All is plain:
It cannot be

Mar.

Osw.

What cannot be?

Yet that a father

Should in his love admit no rivalship,
And torture thus the heart of his own child
Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship!
Osw.

Heaven forbid!·

There was a circumstance, trifling indeed —

It struck me at the time

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yet I believe

I never should have thought of it again

Idon.

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Nay, sit down.

[Turning to Host.

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That should travel unattended, lady!
I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, sir?)

And for less fee than I would let him run

For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.

Idon. You know, sir, I have been too long your guard

Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket,
A look of mine would send him scouring back,

But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. Unless I differ from the thing I am

Mar. What is your meaning?

Osi.
Two days gone I saw,
Though at a distance and he was disguised,

When you are by my side.

Her.
Idonea, wolves
Are not the enemies that move my fears.

lées. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest And, while you take your rest, think not of us;
W bring me back —- protect him, Saints-farewell! We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.
[Exit IDONEA.

5. "Tis never drought with us-St. Cuthbert and

his pilgrims,

Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:

Pay the maiden did not wait a while;

She could not, sir, have failed of company.

Ser. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.

Hist. (calling.) Holla!
Her.

[Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.

Enter Villagers.

Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel.) I have
prepared a most apt instrument

The vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere
About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
By mingling natural matter of her own

No, no, the business must be done. With all the daring fictions I have taught her,
To win belief, such as my plot requires.

at means this riotous noise? Host.

The villagers

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Be at peace.

The tie

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Aceive that letter?

'gen, you will hear no more of him.

Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times! That now! — would I had gone with her as far

the Lord Clifford's castle: I have heard

Tat, in his milder moods, he has expressed
on for me. His influence is great
Henry, our good king;-the Baron might
The beard my suit, and urged my plea at court.
catter- he's a dangerous man. That noise!-
scrderly for sleep or rest.

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[Exit OSWALD.

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That ragged dwelling close beneath a rock
By the brook-side: it is the abode of one,
A maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
What she had seen and suffered turned her brain.
Cast off by her betrayer, she dwells alone,
Nor moves her hands to any needful work:
She eats her food which every day the peasants
Bring to her hut; and so the wretch has lived
Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
But every night at the first stroke of twelve
She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring churchyard
You have a boy, good host, Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one
She paces round and round an infant's grave,
And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn
A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep-
Ah! what is here?

word have fears for me, the convent

W give me quiet lodging.

And he must lead me back.
Ovit

You are most lucky ;
I have been waiting in the wood hard by
Fra companion-here he comes; our journey

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-

*ed repose. Could you but wait an hour?
Dr. Most willingly!-Come, let me lead you in.

[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes:
as if in sleep-a child in her arms.
Beg.
Oh! gentlemen, I thank you;
I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled
The heart of living creature. - My poor babe
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread
When I had none to give him; whereupon

I put a slip of foxglove in his hand,

Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once:

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