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 foresec.1 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. --Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service.
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 To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.
Lacy. True; and, remembering how the Band have proved
That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain.
Of some dark deed to which in early life
His passion drove him-then a Voyager
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing
In Palestine?
Lacy. Where he despised alike
Mohammedan and Christian. But enough;
Let us begone-the Band may else be foiled.
[Exeunt.
Peace, my good Wilfred ; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band
Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED. Wil. Be cautious, my dear Master! Mar.
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.
That which, while it is
Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal-
[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 when one like you
Performs these delicate services, and therefore
I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald:
'Tis a strange letter this!-You saw her write it?
Osw. And saw the tears with which she blotted
it.
Mar. And nothing less would satisfy him?
Osw.
For that another in his Child's affection
Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery,
He seemed to quarrel with the very thought.
Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
Which you've collected for the noblest ends,
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
To guard the Innocent-he calls us "Outlaws;'
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
This garb was taken up that indolence
Might want no cover, and rapacity
This day will suffice
But if the blind Man's tale
Would it were possible!
Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself,
And others who survived the wreck, beheld
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves
Upon the coast of Cyprus?
Osw.
Yes, even so,
And I had heard the like before: in sooth
The tale of this his quondam Barony
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail
To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;
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I thought the Convent never would appear;
It seemed to move away from us: and yet,
That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
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.
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 down.
Her. after some time). Idonea, you are
silent,
And I divine the cause.
Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,
Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: 'tis The name of Marmaduke is blown away: much
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
Her.
Nay, be composed:
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne'er had heart to separate-my grave,
And thee, my Child!
Idon.
Believe me, honoured Sire!
'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music; could you see the sun,
And look upon the pleasant face of NatureHer. 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 fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel 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;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?
Idon.
Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child: Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reedThis Marmaduke
O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you)
All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks
A deep and simple meekness: and that Sol, ‘
Which with the motion of a virtuous act
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,
Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.
Her. Unhappy woman!
Idon.
Nay, it was my duty
Thus much to speak; but think not I forget-
Dear Father! how could I forget and live-
You and the story of that doleful night
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers,
You rushed into the murderous flames, returned
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me,
Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.
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 thou-
sand.
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.
Idon.
Oh, could you hear his voice!
I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me,
But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.
Enter a Peasant.
Pea. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide,
Let me have leave to serve you!
Idon. My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome.
Pea. Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs ; You seem worn out with travel-shall I support The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man,
For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction,
He tempted me to think the Story true;
'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said
That savoured of aversion to thy name
Appeared the genuine colour of his soul-
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her
After his death.
Mar.
I have been much deceived.
Osw. But sure he loves the Maiden, ard
never love
Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
Thus to torment her with inventions !—death--
There must be truth in this.
Mar.
Truth in his story!
He must have felt it then, known what it was,
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
Had been a tenfold cruelty.
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
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
When these old limbs had need of rest,-and
I will not play the sluggard.
Idon.
Nay, sit down.
[Turning to Host.
Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
From your own Children, if yourself were sick,
Let this old Man find at your hands; poor
Leader,
[Looking at the dog.
We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!-Look,
The little fool is loth to stay behind.
Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
Take care of him, and feed the truant well.
Host. Fear not, I will obey you;-but One
And One so fair, it goes against my heart
That you 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
Yet that a Father For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too long
your guard
Should in his love admit no rivalship,
And torture thus the heart of his own Child-
Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship!
Osrv.
Heaven forbid!
There was a circumstance, trifling indeed-
It struck me at the time-yet I believe
I never should have thought of it again
But for the scene which we by chance have
witnessed.
Mar. What is your meaning?
Ost.
Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose
Resembled much that cold voluptuary,
Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
Why, ifa wolf should leap from out a thicket,
A look of mine would send him scouring back,
Unless I differ from the thing I am
When you are by my side.
Her.
Idonea, wolves
Are not the enemies that move my fears.
Idon. No more, I pray, of this. Three days
at farthest
Will bring me back-protect him, Saints-farewell! [Exit IDONEA. Host. "Tis never drought with us-St Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,
The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:
Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good King ;-the Baron inight Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter he's a dangerous Man.-That noise!
"Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest.
Idonea would have fears for me,-the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host,
And he must lead me back.
Osw.
You are most lucky;
I have been waiting in the wood hard by
For a companion-here he comes; our journey
Enter MARMADUKE.
Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.
Her. Alas! I creep so slowly.
Osw.
We'll not complain of that.
Never fear: My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour? Osw. Most willingly !-Come, let me lead you in,
And, while you take your rest, think not of us;
We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.
[Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit
MARMADUKE.
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About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires. [Exit OSWALD. Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them.
Host (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself
Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,
Are here, to send the sun into the west
More speedily than you belike would wish.
SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel-MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering. Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves:
When first I saw him sitting there, alone,
t struck upon my heart I know not how.
Osw. To-day will clear up all. You marked
a Cottage,
That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
By the brook-side: it is the abode of one,
Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, ho 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: he eats her food which every day the peasants ring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived en years; and no one ever heard her voice; ut every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard
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?
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
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,
Trotting alone along the beaten road,
Came to my child as by my side he slept
And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head :
But here he is, [kissing the Child ] it must have
been a dream.
Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
And put your head, good Woman, under cover. Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you
What life is this of ours, how sleep will master
The weary-worn.-You gentlefolk have got
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be
A stone than what I am.-But two nights gone,
The darkness overtook me-wind and rain
Beat hard upon my head-and yet I saw
A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze,
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky:
At which I half accused the God in Heaven.-
You must forgive me.
Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint-no matter-this good day Has made amends. Beg. Thanks to you both; but, O sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes?
Beg. Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one-it cuts me to the heartWell! they might turn a beggar from thei
But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it:
This they can do, and look upon my face-
But you, Sir, should be kinder.
Mar.
Come hither, Fathers,
And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch!
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