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!"
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.
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
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.
Lacy. True; and, remembering how the band hav
Wil. Dear master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud soul. - Nobody loves this Oswald Yourself, you do not love him.
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
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?
Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal
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!
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
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.
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.
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:
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?
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?
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
Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own child Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship! Osw.
There was a circumstance, trifling indeed —
I never should have thought of it again
Nay, sit down.
[Turning to Host.
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,
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
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.
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.
'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.
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
*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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