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THE COUNT OF NARBONNE, A TRAGEDY.
[Price 1 s. 6 d.]
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THE COUNT OF NARBONNE, A TRAGEDY.
As it is acted at the THEATRE ROYAL In COVENT GARDEN.
By ROBERT JEPHSON, Eſq
LONDON: Printed for T. CADELL, in the Strand. MDCCLXXXI.
[][]
TO THE HONOURABLE HORACE WALPOLE, THIS TRAGEDY IS INSCRIBED, WITH THE GREATEST RESPECT AND GRATITUDE, BY HIS MOST OBLIGED AND VERY OBEDIENT HUMBLE SERVANT,
ROBERT JEPHSON.
Dublin Caſtle, Nov. 17, 1781.
PROLOGUE.
[]OF all who ſtrive to pleaſe the publick car,
Moſt bold is he who dares attempt it here;
Where four tribunals, a tremendous ſhow,
Plain folk above, and finer folk below,
All ſit to try an anxious Author's cauſe,
Each by its own, and all by different laws.
This beauteous circle, friends to poliſh'd verſe,
Admires ſoft ſentiments in language terſe;
While the ſtern Pit all ornament diſdains,
And loves deep pathos, and ſublimer ſtrains.
The middle order, free from critick pride,
Take genuine nature for their faithful guide;
At ears and eyes they drink the full delight,
And judge, but as they feel, of wrong and right:
While thoſe above them, honeſt ſouls! delight in
Proceſſions, buſtle, trumpets, drums, and fighting.
Hard as it is, we think our Play to-night
Has ſomething fit for every appetite.—
For tender ſouls are tender griefs prepar'd,
To the Boxes.
And ſcenes of direr woe for breaſts more hard;
To the Pit.
By intereſting your paſſions, we muſt try
To the Middle Gallery.
To bribe the heart while we defraud the eye;
And though no trumpets ſound, nor drums will rattle,
You, friends, ſhall hear of a moſt deſperate battle.
To the Upper Gallery.
[]
Thus provident for all, we truſt you'll own,
Our poet's zeal may for ſome faults atone:
In this, at leaſt, he hopes you'll all agree,
To ſhield him from the critick's treachery;
Who, with ſly rules upon your judgement ſtealing,
Would ſet your pride againſt your honeſt feeling;
Would ſhame the generous drops that ſwell your eyes,
And teach you your own virtues to deſpiſe.
Permit me, ere I go, one ſhort relation,
And juſt three words by way of application.
A home-ſpun country 'ſquire, who took his ſtand
To ſee a dex'trous juggler's ſleight of hand,
Was thus accoſted by an envious wight,
Who ſought to hurt the artiſt from pure ſpight:
"Sir, for theſe tricks I'll preſently expoſe them;
"There's nothing in't, I'll ſhow you how he does "them."
How think you the propoſal was receiv'd?
"No, (ſays the 'ſquire) I pay to be deceiv'd."
Thus Criticks, when poor Authors they condemn,
Mean nothing kind to you, but ſpleen to them:
Then ſtill miſtruſt, whate'er he may profeſs,
The friend who ſtrives to make your pleaſure leſs.
Perſons Repreſented.
[]- Raymond, Count of Narbonne. Mr. WROUGHTON.
- Auſtin, a Prieſt. Mr. HENDERSON.
- Theodore, a Peaſant. Mr. LEWIS.
- Fabian, an old Servant of the Count. Mr. THOMPSON.
- Hortenſia, Counteſs of Narbonne. Miſs YOUNGE.
- Adelaide, Daughter of the Count and Counteſs. Miſs SATCHELL.
- Jacqueline, her Attendant. Mrs. MORTON.
Officers, Attendants, &c.
SCENE, Narbonne Caſtle, and the Monaſtery of Saint Nicholas, adjoining to the Caſtle.
THE COUNT OF NARBONNE, A TRAGEDY.
[]ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Hall.
Count, as he enters, ſpeaking to an Officer; Fabian following.
COUNT.
—NOT to be found! is this your faithful ſervice?
How could ſhe paſs unſeen? By hell, 'tis falſe;
Thou haſt betray'd me.
OFFICER.
Noble ſir! my duty—
COUNT.
Your fraud, your negligence,—away, reply not.
Find her within this hour; elſe, by my life,
The gates of Narbonne ſhall be clos'd againſt thee;
make the world thy country.
Exit Officer.
Fabian, ſtay!
[2]Misfortunes fall ſo thick upon my head,
They will not give me time to think, to breathe.
FABIAN.
Heaven knows I wiſh your peace; but am to learn,
What grief more freſh than my young lord's deceaſe
(A ſorrow but of three days paſs'd) can move you.
COUNT.
O bitter memory! gone, gone for ever!
The pillar of my houſe, my only ſon!
FABIAN.
'Twas terrible indeed.
COUNT.
Ay, was it not?
And then the manner of it; think on that:
Diſeaſe, that robb'd me of two infant ſons,
Approaching ſlow, bade me prepare to loſe them;
I ſaw my lilies drooping; and, accuſtom'd
To ſee them dying, bore to ſee them dead:
But O my Edmund!—Thou remember'ſt, Fabian,
How blithe he went to ſeek the foreſt's ſport.
FABIAN.
Would I could not remember!
COUNT.
That curs'd Barb
(My fatal gift) that daſh'd him down the cliff,
Seem'd proud or his gay burden.—Breathleſs, mangled,
They bore him back to me. Fond man! I hoped
This day his happy match with Iſabel
Had made our line perpetual; and, this day,
The unfruitful grave receives him. Yes, 'tis fate;
That dreadful denunciation 'gainſt my houſe
No prudence can avert, nor prayers can ſoften.
FABIAN.
[3]Think not on that; ſome viſionary's dream.
What houſe, what family could e'er know peace,
If each enthuſiaſt's ravings were believ'd,
And frenzy deem'd an inſight of the future?
But may I dare to aſk, is it of moment
To ſtir your anger thus, that Iſabel
Has left the caſtle?
COUNT.
Of the deepeſt moment;
My beſt hope hangs on her; ſome future time,
I may inſtruct thee why.—Theſe cares unhinge me.
Juſt now, a herald from her angry father
Left me this dire election,—to reſign
My titles, and this ample ſignory,
(Worthy a monarch's envy,) or to meet him,
And try my right by arms. But pr'ythee tell,
(Nor let a fear to wound thy maſter's pride
Reſtrain thy licens'd ſpeech,) haſt thou e'er heard
My father Raymond—caſt not down thine eye—
By any indirect or bloody means
Procur'd that inſtrument, Alphonſo's will,
That made him heir to Narbonne?
FABIAN.
My beſt lord,
At all times would I fain with-hold from you
Intelligence unwelcome, but moſt now.
At ſeaſons ſuch as this, a friendly tongue
Should utter words like balm; but what you aſk—
COUNT.
—I aſk to be inform'd of. Haſt thou known me
From childhood up to man, and canſt thou fear
I am ſo weak of ſoul, like a thin reed,
[4]To bend and ſtagger at each puny blaſt?
No; when the tempeſt rages round my head,
I give my branches wider to the air,
And ſtrike my root more deeply.—To thy tale:
Away with palliatives and compliment;—
Speak plainly.
FABIAN.
Plainly then, my lord, I have heard
What, for the little breath I have to draw,
I would not, to the black extent of rumour,
Give credit to.—But you command me ſpeak—
COUNT.
Thy pauſes torture me.—Can I hear worſe
Than this black ſcroll contains; this challenge here
From Iſabella's father, haughty Godfrey?
In broad and unambiguous words he tells me
My father was a murderer, and forg'd
Alphonſo's teſtament.
FABIAN.
From Paleſtine
That tale crept hither; where, foul ſlander ſays,
The good Alphonſo, not, as we believe,
Died of a fever, but a venom'd draught,
Your father, his companion of the croſs,
Did with his own hand mingle; his hand too
(Aſſiſted by ſome cunning practiſers)
Model'd that deed, which, barring Godfrey's right,
And other claims from kindred, nam'd Count Raymond
Lord of theſe fair poſſeſſions.
COUNT.
Ha! I have it;
'Tis Godfrey's calumny; he has coin'd this lie;
And his late viſit to the holy land,
[5]No doubt, has furniſh'd likelihood of proof,
To give his fiction colour.
FABIAN.
Sure 'tis ſo.
COUNT.
He too has forg'd this idle prophecy,
(To ſhake me with falſe terrors) this prediction,
Which but to think of uſed to freeze my veins;
"That no deſcendant from my father's loins
"Should live to ſee a grandſon, nor heaven's wrath
"Ceaſe to afflict us, till Alphonſo's heir
"Succeeded to his juſt inheritance."
Hence Superſtition mines my tottering ſtate,
Looſens my vaſſals' faith, and turns their tears,
Which elſe would fall for my calamities,
To gloomy pauſe, and gaping reverence:
While all my woes, to their perverted ſenſe,
Seem but the marvellous accompliſhment
Of revelation, out of nature's courſe.
FABIAN.
Reaſon muſt ſo interpret. Good my lord,
What anſwer was return'd to Godfrey's challenge?
COUNT.
Defiance.
FABIAN.
Heaven defend you!
COUNT.
Heaven defend me!
I hope it will; and this right arm to boot.
But, hark! I hear a noiſe.—Perhaps my people
Have found the fugitive.—Haſte; bid them enter.
Exit Fabian.
SCENE II.
[6]COUNT,
alone.
She eyed me with abhorrence; at the ſound
Of love, of marriage, ſled indignant from me.
Yet I muſt win her: ſhould ſhe meet my wiſh,
Godfrey would prop the right he ſtrives to ſhake,
Securing thus to his fair daughter's iſſue
All that now hangs on the ſword's doubtful point.
Her beauty too, each ſoft attractive grace,
I ſaw with jealous pleaſure, even when deſtin'd
To my ſon's arms. His death removes one bar;
And, fortune to my double aim conſpiring,
I'll ſilence ſaucy conſcience.
SCENE III.
To the Count, Fabian, Officer, and Attendants bringing in a young Peaſant.
Now, what tidings?
Where is the lady?
OFFICER.
We have ſearch'd in vain
The caſtle round; left not an aile or vault
Unviſited.
COUNT.
Damnation!
OFFICER.
Near the cloiſter,
From whence, by the flat door's deſcent, a paſſage
Beneath the ground leads onward to the convent,
[7]We heard the echo of a falling weight,
And ſought it by the ſound.
COUNT.
Well, and what then?
OFFICER.
The unſettled duſt left us no room to doubt
The door had juſt been rais'd.
COUNT.
She has eſcap'd,
And by confed'racy: to force that bar,
Without more aid, had baffled twice her ſtrength.
Go on.
OFFICER.
We enter'd; with reſiſtance bold,
This peaſant puſh'd us backward from the ſpot.
My arm was rais'd to ſmite him, but reſpect
For ſomething in his aſpect check'd the blow.
He, chiding, parlying by turns, gave time
For whoſoever had deſcended there
(The lady doubtleſs) to elude our ſearch:
The reſt himſelf will tell.
COUNT.
To the Peaſant.
Ha! what art thou?
PEASANT.
It ſeems thy priſoner: diſengage me firſt
From their rude gripe, and I may tell thee more.
COUNT.
Unhand him. I ſhould know thee; I have ſeen
Features like thine. Anſwer me, wert thou found
As theſe men ſay?
PEASANT.
I was.
COUNT.
[8]And what thy purpoſe?
PEASANT.
Chance brought me there.
COUNT.
And did chance lead thee too
To aid a fugitive?
PEASANT.
They ſaw not that.
COUNT.
They ſaw it not! How! could her delicate hands,
Weak, ſoft, and yielding to the gentleſt touch,
Suſtain that pond'rous maſs? No; thoſe tough arms,
Thy force, aſſiſted; elſe, thou young diſſembler—
PEASANT.
She had been ſeiz'd, and by compulſion brought
Where I ſtand now.
COUNT.
Thou doſt avow it then,
Boaſt it even to my face, audacious ſtripling!
Such inſolence and theſe coarſe ruſtick weeds
Are contradictions. Anſwer me, who art thou?
PEASANT.
Leſs than I ſhould be; more than what I ſeem.
COUNT.
Hence with this ſaucy ambiguity.
What is thy name, thy country? That mean habit
(Which ſhould teach humbleneſs) ſpeaks thy condition.
PEASANT.
My name is Theodore, my country France;
My habit little ſuited to my mind,
Leſs to my birth; yet ſit for my condition.
COUNT.
[9]O, thou art then ſome young adventurer,
Some roving knight, a hero in diſguiſe,
Who, ſcorning forms of vulgar ceremony,
No leave obtain'd, waiting no invitation,
Enters our caſtles, wanders o'er our halls,
To ſuccour dames diſtreſs'd, or pilfer gold.
Where are your train, your pages, and your ſquires?
Perhaps but poorly lodg'd! I am to blame;
But muſt excuſe my ſcanted courteſy,
By ignorance of your high character.
PEASANT.
There is a ſource of reverence for thee here,
Forbids me, though provok'd, retort thy taunts.
COUNT.
If I endure this more, I ſhall grow vile
Even to my hinds—
PEASANT.
Hold, let me ſtop thy wrath.
I ſee thy quivering lip, thy firy eye,
Forerun a ſtorm of paſſion. To prevent thee
From terms too harſh, perhaps, for thee to offer,
Or me to hear (poor as I ſeem) with honour,
I will cut ſhort thy interrogatories,
And on this theme give thee the full extent
Of all I know, or thou canſt wiſh to learn.
COUNT.
Do it.
PEASANT.
Without a view to thwart thy purpoſe
(Be what it might), was I within thy walls.
In a dim paſſage of the caſtle-ailes
Muſing alone, I heard a haſty tread,
[10]And breath drawn ſhort, like one in fear of peril.
A lady enter'd, (fair ſhe ſeem'd, and young,)
Guiding her timorous footſteps by a lamp:
"The lord, the tyrant of this place (ſhe cried)
"For a deteſted purpoſe follows me;
"Aid me▪ good youth:" then, pointing to the ground,
"That door (ſhe added) leads to ſanctuary."
I ſeiz'd an iron hold, and, while I tugg'd
To heave the unwilling weight, I learn'd her title.
COUNT.
The lady Iſabel?
PEASANT.
The ſame. A gleam,
Shot from their torches who purſued her track,
Prevented more; ſhe haſten'd to the cave,
And vaniſh'd from my ſight.
COUNT.
And did no awe,
No fear of him ſhe call'd this caſtle's lord,
Its tyrant, chill thee?
PEASANT.
Awe nor fear I know not,
And truſt ſhall never; for I know not guilt.
COUNT.
Then thou, it ſeems, art maſter here, not I;
Thou canſt control my projects, blaſt my ſchemes,
And turn to empty air my power in Narbonne.
Nay, ſhould my daughter chooſe to fly my caſtle,
Againſt my bidding, guards and bolts were vain:
This frize-clad champion, gallant Theodore,
Would lend his ready arm, and mock my caution.
PEASANT.
[11]Thy daughter! O, I were indeed too bleſs'd,
Could I but live to render her a ſervice!
COUNT.
My daughter would, I hope, diſdain thy ſervice.
PEASANT.
Wherefore am I to blame? What I have done,
Were it to do again, again I'd do it.
And may this arm drop palſied by my ſide,
When its cold ſinews ſhrink to aid affliction!
COUNT.
Indeed!
PEASANT.
Indeed. Frown on. Aſk thy own heart,—
Did innocence and beauty bend before thee,
Hunted and trembling, would'ſt thou tamely pauſe,
Scanning pale counſel from deliberate fear,
And weigh each poſſibility of danger?
No; the inſtinctive nobleneſs of blood
Would ſtart beyond the reach of ſuch cold ſcruples,
And inſtant gratify its generous ardour.
COUNT.
Aſide.
I muſt know more of this. His phraſe, his look,
His ſteady confidence, raiſe ſomething here,
Bids me beware of him.—I have no time
To bandy idle words with ſlaves like thee.
I doubt not thy intent was miſchievous;
Booty perhaps, or blood. Till more enquiry
Clear or condemn him, hold him in your guard.
Give none admittance—Take him from my ſight.
PEASANT.
[12]Secure in her integrity, my ſoul
Caſts back thy mean ſuſpicions, and forgives thee.
Theodore is led out.
SCENE IV.
Count, Fabian.
COUNT.
Away with him.—What means this heavineſs?
My heart, that, like a well-trimm'd, gallant bark,
Was wont to mount the waves, and daſh them off
In ineffectual foam, now ſeems to crack,
And let in each aſſailing tide to ſink me.
I muſt not yield to this dull lethargy.
Good Fabian, hie thee to Saint Nicholas';
Bid holy Auſtin ſtraight repair to me.
Exit Fabian.
SCENE V.
Count
alone.
His ſanctity, and reverend character,
His pious eloquence, made engines for me,
Might ſave a world of anguiſh to my ſoul,
And ſmooth my unwelcome purpoſe to Hortenſia.
But how prevail with him!—Ambition?—No;
The world is dead in him, and gold is traſh
To one who neither needs nor values it.
Intereſt and Love ſhall wear the guiſe of conſcience;
I muſt pretend nice ſcruples which I feel not,
And make him mediate for me with the Church.
Yet he reveres the Counteſs; and, I fear,
Will ſpy more ſin in doubts that wound her quiet,
[13]Than in my ſtifling them. But ſee, ſhe comes,
With downcaſt eye, and ſad dejected mien.
I will not yet diſcloſe it.
SCENE VI.
To him the Counteſs.
Where's my child,
My all of comfort now, my Adelaide?
COUNTESS.
Dear as ſhe is, I would not have her all;
For I ſhould then be nothing. Time has been,
When, after three long days of abſence from you,
You would have queſtion'd me a thouſand times,
And bid me tell each trifle of myſelf;
Then, ſatisfied at laſt that all were well,
At laſt, unwilling, turn to meaner cares.
COUNT.
This is the nature ſtill of womankind;
If fondneſs be their mood, we muſt caſt off
All grave-complexion'd thought, and turn our ſouls
Quite from their tenour to wild levity;
Vary with all their humours, take their hues,
As unſubſtantial Iris from the ſun:
Our boſoms are their paſſive inſtruments;
Vibrate their ſtrain, or all our notes are diſcord.
COUNTESS.
O why this new unkindneſs? From thy lips
Never till now fell ſuch ungentle words,
Nor ever leſs was I prepar'd to meet them.
COUNT.
Never till now was I ſo urg'd, beſet,
Hemm'd round with perils.
COUNTESS.
[14]Ay, but not by me.
COUNT.
By thee, and all the world. But yeſterday,
With uncontrolable and abſolute ſway
I rul'd this province, was the unqueſtion'd lord
Of this ſtrong caſtle, and its wide domains,
Stretch'd beyond ſight around me; and but now,
The axe, perhaps, is ſharp'ning, may hew down
My periſh'd trunk, and give the ſoil I ſprung from,
To cheriſh my proud kinſman Godfrey's roots.
COUNTESS.
Heaven guard thy life! His dreadful ſummons reach'd me.
This urg'd me hither. On my knees I beg,
(And I have mighty reaſons for my prayer,)
O do not meet him on this argument:
By gentler means ſtrive to divert his claim;
Fly this deteſted place, this houſe of horrour,
And leave its gloomy grandeur to your kinſman.
COUNT.
Riſe, fearful woman. What! renounce my birth-right?
Go forth, like a poor friendleſs baniſh'd man,
To gnaw my heart in cold obſcurity!
Thou weak adviſer! Should I take thy counſel,
Thy tongue would firſt upbraid, thy ſpirit ſcorn me.
COUNTESS.
No, on my ſoul!—Is Narbonne all the world?
My country is where thou art; place is little:
The ſun will ſhine, the earth produce its fruits,
Chearful, and plenteouſly, where'er we wander.
In humbler walks, bleſs'd with my child and thee,
I'd think it Eden in ſome lonely vale,
Nor heave one ſigh for theſe proud battlements.
COUNT.
[15]Such flowery ſoftneſs ſuits not matron lips.
But thou haſt mighty reaſons for thy prayer:
They ſhould be mighty reaſons, to perſuade
Their rightful lord to leave his large poſſeſſions,
A ſoldier challeng'd, to decline the combat.
COUNTESS.
And are not prodigies then mighty reaſons?
The owl miſtakes his ſeaſon, in broad day
Screaming his hideous omens; ſpectres glide,
Gibbering and pointing as we paſs along;
While the deep earth's unorganized caves
Send forth wild ſounds and clamours terrible;
Theſe towers ſhake round us, though the untroubled air
Stagnates to lethargy:—our children periſh,
And new diſaſters blacken every hour.
Blood ſhed unrighteouſly, blood unappeas'd,
Though we are guiltleſs, cries, I fear, for vengeance.
COUNT.
Blood ſhed unrighteouſly! have I ſhed blood?
No; nature's common frailties ſet aſide,
I'll meet my audit boldly.
COUNTESS.
Mighty Lord!
O! not on us, with juſtice too ſevere,
Viſit the ſin, not ours!
COUNT.
What can this mean?
Something thou would'ſt reveal that's terrible.
COUNTESS.
Too long, alas! it has weigh'd upon my heart;
A thouſand times I have thought to tell thee all;
But my tongue falter'd, and refus'd to wound thee.
COUNT.
[16]Diſtract me not, but ſpeak.
COUNTESS.
I muſt. Your father
Was wiſe, brave, politick; but mad ambition,
(Heaven pardon him!) it prompts to deſperate deeds.
COUNT.
I ſcarce can breathe. Pr'ythee be quick, and eaſe me.
COUNTESS.
Your abſence on the Italian embaſſy
Left him, you know, alone to my fond care.
Long had ſome hidden grief, like a ſlow fire,
Waſted his vitals;—on the bed of death,
One object ſeem'd to harrow up his ſoul,
The picture of Alphonſo in the chamber:
On that his eye was ſet.—Methinks I ſee him,
His aſhy hue, his grizzled briſtling hair,
His palms ſpread wide. For ever would he cry,
"That aweful form, how terrible he frowns!
"See how he bares his livid leprous breaſt,
"And points the deadly chalice!"
COUNT.
Ha! even ſo!
COUNTESS.
Sometimes he'd ſeize my hands, and graſp them cloſe,
And ſtrain them to his hollow burning eyes;
Then falter out, "I am, I am a villain;
"Mild angel, pray for me; ſtir not, my child!
"It comes again; oh! do not leave my ſide."
At laſt, quite ſpent with mortal agonies,
His ſoul went forth; and heaven have mercy on him!
COUNT.
Enough. Thy tale has almoſt iced my blood.
[17]Let me not think. Hortenſia, on thy duty,
Suffer no breath like this to paſs thy lips:
I will not taint my noble father's honour,
By vile ſuſpicions ſuck'd from nature's dregs,
And the looſe ravings of diſtemper'd fancy.
COUNTESS.
Yet O decline this challenge!
COUNT.
That hereafter.
Mean time prepare my daughter, to receive
A huſband of my choice. Should Godfrey come,
(Strife might be ſo prevented) bid her try
Her beauty's power. Stand thou but neuter, Fate!
Courage and art ſhall arm me from mankind.
Exeunt.
End of the Firſt Act.
ACT. II.
[18]SCENE I.
A Chamber.
Fabian, Jaqueline.
FABIAN.
NO, no, it cannot be. My lord's commands
Were abſolute, that none ſhould viſit him.
JAQUELINE.
What need he know it?
FABIAN.
But perchance he ſhould.
The ſtudy of my life has been his pleaſure;
Nor will I riſk his favour, to indulge
Such unavailing curioſity.
JAQUELINE.
Call it not ſo; I have kind counſel for him;
Which, if he follow it, may ſerve to ſpeed
The hour of his deliverance, and appeaſe
The unjuſtly-anger'd Count.
FABIAN.
Pray be content;
I dare not do it. Have this caſtle's walls
Hous'd thee nine years, and art thou yet to learn
The temper of the Count? Serv'd and obey'd,
There lives not one more gracious, liberal;
Offend him, and his rage is terrible;
I'd rather play with ſerpents. But fair Jaqueline,
[19]Setting aſide the comelineſs and grace
Of this young ruſtick, which I own are rare,
And baits to catch all women, pr'ythee tell,
Why are you thus ſolicitous to ſee him?
JAQUELINE.
In me 'twere baſe to be indifferent:
He was my life's preſerver, nay preſerv'd
A life more precious: yes, my dear young miſtreſs!
But for his aid, the eternal ſleep of death
Had cloſed the ſweeteſt eyes that ever beam'd.
Aloof and frighted ſtood her coward train,
And ſaw a furious band of deſperate ſlaves,
Inur'd to blood and rapine, bear her off.
FABIAN.
What! when the gang of outlaw'd Thiery
Ruſh'd on her chariot near the wood of Zart,
Was he the unknown youth who ſuccour'd her?
All good betide him for it!
JAQUELINE.
Yes, 'twas he.
From one tame wretch he ſnatch'd a half-drawn ſword,
And dealt ſwift vengeance on the ruffian crew.
Two at his ſeet ſtretch'd dead, the reſt amaz'd
Fled, muttering curſes, while he bore her back,
Unhurt but by her fears.
FABIAN.
He ſhould be worſhip'd,
Have ſtatues rais'd to him; for, by my life,
I think there does not breathe another like her.
It makes me young to ſee her lovely eyes:
Such charity! ſuch ſweet benevolence!
So fair, and yet ſo humble! prais'd for ever,
Nay wonder'd at, for nature's rareſt gifts,
Yet lowlier than the loweſt.
JAQUELINE.
[20]Is it ſtrange,
Fair Adelaide and I, thus bound to him,
Are anxious for his ſafety? What offence
(And ſure 'twas unintended) could provoke
The rigorous Count thus to impriſon him?
FABIAN.
My Lord was ever proud and cholerick;
The youth, perhaps unuſed to menaces,
Brook'd them but ill, and darted frown for frown;
This ſtirr'd the Count to fury. But fear nothing;
All will be well; I'll wait the meeteſt ſeaſon,
And be his advocate.
JAQUELINE.
Mean time repair to him;
Bid him be patient; let him want no comfort,
Kind care can miniſter. My lady comes.
May I aſſure her of your favour to him?
FABIAN.
Aſſure her that the man who ſav'd her life,
Is dear to Fabian as his vital blood.
Exit.
SCENE II.
To Jaqueline, Adelaide.
ADELAIDE.
I ſent thee to his priſon. Quickly tell me,
What ſays he, does he know my ſorrow for him?
Does he confound me with the unfeeling crew,
Who act my father's bidding? Can his love
Pity my grief, and bear this wrong with patience?
JAQUELINE.
I ſtrove in vain to enter. Fabian holds him,
By the Count's charge, in ſtricteſt cuſtody;
[21]And fearful to awake his maſter's wrath,
Though much unwilling, bars me from his preſence.
ADELAIDE.
Unkind old man! I would myſelf entreat him,
But fear my earneſt look, theſe ſtarting tears,
Might to the experience of his prying age
Reveal a ſecret, which in vain I ſtrive
To hide from my own breaſt.
JAQUELINE.
Alas, dear lady,
Did not your tongue reveal it, your chang'd mien,
Once lighter than the airy woodnymph's ſhade,
Now turn'd to penſive thought, and melancholy,—
Involuntary ſighs,—your cheek, unlike
Its wonted bloom, as is the red-vein'd roſe
To the dim ſweetneſs of the violet,—
Theſe had too ſoon betray'd you. But take heed;
The colour of our fate too oft is ting'd
Mournful, or bright, but from our firſt affections.
ADELAIDE.
Foul diſproportion draws down ſhame on love,
But where's the crime in fair equality?
Mean birth preſumes a mind uncultivate,
Left to the coarſeneſs of its native ſoil,
To grow like weeds, and die, like them, neglected;
But he was born my equal; lineag'd high,
And titled as our great ones: then his ſoul—
The blood of Valois, circling in his veins,
Could add no jot to its true royalty.
JAQUELINE.
How eaſy is our faith to what we wiſh!
His ſtory may be feign'd.
ADELAIDE.
[22]I'll not miſtruſt him.
Since the bleſs'd hour that brought him firſt to ſave me,
How often have I liſten'd to the tale!
It varies not, for truth 's invariable.
He needs no vouchers. Gallant, generous youth!
Thy ſport, Misfortune, from his infant years!—
Wilt thou purſue him ſtill?
JAQUELINE.
Indeed 'tis hard.
ADELAIDE.
But oh the pang, that theſe ungrateful walls
Should be his priſon! Here if I were aught,
His preſence ſhould have made it feſtival;
Theſe gates untouch'd had leap'd to give him entrance,
And ſongs of joy made glad the way before him.
Inſtead of this, think what has been his welcome!
Drag'd by rude hands before a furious judge,
Inſulted, menac'd, like the vileſt ſlave,
And doom'd unhear'd to ignominious bondage.
JAQUELINE.
Your father knew not of his ſervice to you.
ADELAIDE.
No, his indignant ſoul diſdain'd to tell it.
Great ſpirits, conſcious of their inborn worth,
Scorn by demand to force the praiſe they merit;
They feel a flame beyond their brighteſt deeds,
And leave the weak to note them, and to wonder.
JAQUELINE.
Suppreſs theſe ſtrong emotions. The Count's eye
Is quick to find offence. Should he ſuſpect
This unpermitted paſſion, 'twould draw down
[23]More ſpeedy vengeance on the helpleſs youth,
Turning your fatal fondneſs to his ruin.
ADELAIDE.
Indeed I want thy counſel. Yet, oh leave me!
Find if my gold, my gems, can ranſom him.
Had I the world, it ſhould be his as freely.
I would go kirtled like a village-maid,
Plain all my life, in nature's ſimpleſt dreſs,
Rather than deck'd with proud ſuperfluous wealth,
While one more worthy, wanting life's poor means,
Upbraids the inſulting ſplendour of abundance.
JAQUELINE.
Truſt to my care. The Counteſs comes to ſeek you;
Her eye is this way bent. Conceal this grief;
All may be loſt, if you betray ſuch weakneſs.
Exit.
SCENE III.
ADELAIDE,
alone.
O Love! thy ſway makes me unnatural.
The tears, which ſhould bedew the grave, yet green,
Of a dear brother, turning from their ſource,
Forget his death, and fall for Theodore.
SCENE IV.
To her, the Counteſs.
COUNTESS.
Come near, my love! When thou art from my ſide,
Methinks I wander like ſome gloomy ghoſt,
Who, doom'd to tread alone a dreary round,
[24]Remembers the loſt things that made life precious,
Yet ſees no end of cheerleſs ſolitude.
ADELAIDE.
We have known too much of ſorrow; yet 'twere wiſe
To turn our thoughts from what miſchance has raviſh'd,
And reſt on what it leaves. My father's love—
COUNTESS.
Was mine, but is no more. 'Tis paſs'd, 'tis gone.
That ray at leaſt I hoped would never ſet,
My guide, my light, through Fortune's blackeſt ſhades:
It was my dear reſerve, my ſecret treaſure;
I ſtored it up, as miſers hoard their gold,
Sure counterpoiſe for life's ſevereſt ills:
Vain was my hope; for love's ſoft ſympathy,
He pays me back harſh words, unkind reproof,
And looks that ſtab with coldneſs.
ADELAIDE.
Oh, moſt cruel!
And, were he not my father, I could rail;
Call him unworthy of thy wondrous virtues;
Blind, and unthankful for the greateſt bleſſing
Heaven's ever-bounteous hand could ſhower upon him.
COUNTESS.
No, Adelaide; we muſt ſubdue ſuch thoughts:
Obedience is thy duty, patience mine.
Juſt now, with ſtern and peremptory briefneſs,
He bade me ſeek my daughter, and diſpoſe her
To wed by his direction.
ADELAIDE.
The ſaints forbid!
To wed by his direction! Wed with whom?
COUNTESS.
[25]I know not whom. He counſels with himſelf.
ADELAIDE.
I hope he cannot mean it.
COUNTESS.
'Twas his order.
ADELAIDE.
O madam! on my knees—
COUNTESS.
What would my child?
Why are thy hands thus rais'd? Why ſtream thine eyes?
Why flutters thus thy boſom? Adelaide,
Speak to me; tell me, wherefore art thou thus?
ADELAIDE.
Surpriſe and grief—I cannot, cannot ſpeak.
COUNTESS.
If 'tis a pain to ſpeak, I would not urge thee.
But can my Adelaide fear aught from me?
Am I ſo harſh?
ADELAIDE.
Oh no! the kindeſt, beſt!
But, would you ſave me from the ſtroke of death,
If you would not behold your daughter, ſtretch'd,
A poor pale corſe, and breathleſs, at your feet,
Oh, ſtep between me and this cruel mandate!
COUNTESS.
But this is ſtrange!—I hear your father's ſtep:
He muſt not ſee you thus: retire this moment.
I'll come to you anon.
ADELAIDE.
[26]Yet, ere I go,
O make the intereſt of my heart your own;
Nor, like a ſenſeleſs, undiſcerning thing,
Incapable of choice, nor worth the queſtion,
Suffer this haſty transfer of your child:
Plead for me ſtrongly, kneel, pray, weep for me;
And angels lend your tongue the power to move him!
Exit.
SCENE V.
COUNTESS,
alone.
What can this mean, this ecſtacy of paſſion!
Can ſuch reluctance, ſuch emotions, ſpring
From the mere nicety of maiden fear?
The ſource is in her heart; I dread to trace it.
Muſt then a parent's mild authority
Be turn'd a cruel engine, to inflict
Wounds on the gentle boſom of my child?
And am I doom'd to regiſter each day
But by ſome new diſtraction?—Edmund! Edmund!
In apprehending worſe even than thy loſs,
My ſenſe, confuſed, reſts on no ſingle grief;
For that were eaſe to this eternal pulſe,
Which, throbbing here, ſays, blacker fates muſt follow;
While Reaſon juſt has power enough to whiſper,
Poor wretch! thy peace may come, when death comes with it.
SCENE VI.
[27]To her, Count, Auſtin.
COUNT.
I ſought thee, and thou doſt prevent me, Auſtin!
Welcome, thrice welcome! By our holy mother,
My houſe ſeem's hallow'd, when thou enter'ſt it.
Tranquillity and peace dwell ever round thee;
That robe of innocent white is thy ſoul's emblem,
Made viſible in unſtain'd purity.
Once more thy hand.
AUSTIN.
My daily taſk has been,
So to ſubdue the frailties we inherit,
That my fair eſtimation might go forth,
Nothing for pride; but to an end more righteous:
For not the ſolemn trappings of our ſtate,
Tiaras, mitres, nor the pontiff's robe,
Can give ſuch grave authority to prieſthood,
As one good deed of grace and charity.
COUNT.
We deem none worthier. But to thy errand!
AUSTIN.
I come commiſſion'd from fair Iſabel.
COUNT.
To me, or to the Counteſs?
AUSTIN.
Thus, to both.
For your fair courteſy, and entertainment,
She reſts your thankful debtor. You, dear Lady,
[28]And her ſweet friend, the gentle Adelaide,
Have ſuch a holy place in all her thoughts,
That 'twere irreverence to waſte her ſenſe
In wordy compliment.
COUNTESS.
Alas! where is ſhe?
Till now I ſcarce had power to think of her;
But 'tis the mournful privilege of grief,
To ſtand excus'd from kind obſervances,
Which elſe, neglected, might be deem'd offence.
AUSTIN.
She dwells in ſanctuary at Saint Nicholas':
Why ſhe took refuge there—
COUNT.
Retire, Hortenſia.
I would have private conference with Auſtin,
No ſecond ear muſt witneſs.
COUNTESS.
May I not,
By this good man, ſolicit her return?
COUNT.
Another time; it ſuits not now.—Retire.
Exit Counteſs.
SCENE VII.
Count, Auſtin.
COUNT.
You come commiſſion'd from fair Iſabel?
AUSTIN.
I come commiſſion'd from a greater Power,
The Judge of thee, and Iſabel, and all.
[29]The offer of your hand in marriage to her,
With your propos'd divorce from that good lady,
That honour'd, injur'd lady, you ſent hence,
She has diſclos'd to me.
COUNT.
—Which you approve not:
So ſpeaks the frowning prelude of your brow.
AUSTIN.
Approve not! Did I not proteſt againſt it,
With the bold fervour of enkindled zeal,
I were the pander of a love, like inceſt;
Betrayer of my truſt, my function's ſhame,
And thy eternal ſoul's worſt enemy.
COUNT.
Yet let not zeal, good man, devour thy reaſon.
Hear firſt, and then determine. Well you know,
My hope of heirs has periſh'd with my ſon;
Since now full ſeventeen years, the unfruitful curſe
Has fallen upon Hortenſia. Are theſe ſigns,
(Tremendous ſigns, that ſtartle Nature's order!)
Graves caſting up their ſleepers, earth convuls'd,
Meteors that glare, my children's timeleſs deaths,
Obſcure to thee alone?—I have found the cauſe.
There is no crime our holy Church abhors,
Not one high Heaven more ſtrongly interdicts,
Than that commixture, by the marriage rite,
Of blood too near, as mine is to Hortenſia.
AUSTIN.
What! when the avenging arm is ſtretch'd abroad,
Angry and red at man's enormities,
Can more audacious ſin diſſolve the bolt,
To healing dews of peace and bleſſedneſs?
Too near of blood! oh, ſpecious mockery!
Where have theſe doubts been buried twenty years?
Why wake they now? And am I cloſetted,
[30]To ſanction them? Take back your haſty words,
That call'd me wiſe or virtuous; while you offer
Such ſhallow fictions to inſult my ſenſe,
And ſtrive to win me to a villain's office.
COUNT.
The virtue of our churchmen, like our wives,
Should be obedient meekneſs. Proud reſiſtance,
Bandying high looks, a port erect and bold,
Are from the canon of your order, prieſt.
Learn this, for here will I be teacher, Auſtin;
Our temporal blood muſt not be ſtirr'd thus rudely:
A front that taunts, a ſcanning, ſcornful brow,
Are ſilent menaces, and blows unſtruck.
AUSTIN.
Not ſo, my Lord; mine is no prieſtly pride:
When I put off the habit of the world,
I had loſt all that made it dear to me,
And ſhook off, to my beſt, its heat and paſſions.
But can I hold in horrour this ill deed,
And dreſs my brow in falſe-approving ſmiles?
No; could I carry lightning in my eye,
Or roll a voice like thunder in your ears,
So ſhould I ſuit my utterance to my thoughts,
And act as fits my ſacred miniſtry.
COUNT.
O father! did you know the conflict here;
How Love and Conſcience are at war within me;
Moſt ſure, you would not treat my grief thus harſhly.
I call the ſaints to witneſs, were I maſter,
To wive the perfect model of my wiſh,
For virtue, and all female lovelineſs,
I would not rove to an ideal form,
But beg of heaven another like Hortenſia.—
Yet we muſt part.
AUSTIN.
[31]And think you to excuſe
A meditated wrong to excellence,
By giving it acknowledgement and praiſe?
Rather pretend inſenſibility;
Feign that thou doſt not ſee like other men;
Hear'ſt with peculiar organ; haſt no reliſh
For all the good and wiſe admire in woman;
So may abhorrence be exchang'd for wonder,
Or men from curſing fall to pity thee.
COUNT.
You ſtrive in vain; no power on earth can ſhake me.
I grant my preſent purpoſe ſeems ſevere,
Yet are there means to ſmooth ſeverity,
Which you, and only you, can beſt apply.
AUSTIN.
Oh no! the means hang there, there by your ſide:
Enwring your fingers in her flowing hair,
And with that weapon drink her heart's beſt blood;
So ſhall you kill her, but not cruelly,
Compar'd to this deliberate, lingering murder.
COUNT.
Away with this perverſeneſs! Get thee to her;
Tell her my heart is hers; here deep engrav'd
In characters indelible, ſhall reſt
The ſenſe of her perfections. Why I leave her,
Is not from cloy'd or fickle appetite
(For infinite is ſtill her power to charm);—
But Heaven will have it ſo.
AUSTIN.
Oh, name not Heaven!
'Tis too profane abuſe.
COUNT.
Win her conſent,
[32](I know thy ſway is boundleſs o'er her will,)
Then join my hand to blooming Iſabel.
Thus, will you do to all moſt worthy ſervice;
The curſe, averted thus, ſhall paſs from Narbonne;
My houſe again may flouriſh; and proud Godfrey,
Who now diſputes, will ratify my title,
Pleas'd with the rich ſucceſſion to his heirs.
AUSTIN.
Has paſſion drown'd all ſenſe, all memory?
She was affianced to your ſon, young Edmund.
COUNT.
She never lov'd my ſon. Our importunity
Won her conſent, but not her heart, to Edmund.
AUSTIN.
Did not that ſpeak her ſoul pre-occupied?
Some undivulged and deep-felt preference?
COUNT.
Ha! thou haſt rous'd a thought: This Theodore!
(Dull that I was, not to perceive it ſooner!)
He is her paramour; by heaven, ſhe loves him.
Her coldneſs to my ſon; her few tears for him;
Her flight; this peaſant's aiding her; all, all,
Make it unqueſtionable;—but he dies.
AUSTIN.
Aſtoniſhment! What does thy frenzy mean?
COUNT.
I thank thee, prieſt! thou ſerv'ſt me gainſt thy will.
That ſlave is in my power. Come, follow me.
Thou ſhalt behold the minion's head ſtruck off;
Then to his miſtreſs bear the ghaſtly preſent.
Exeunt.
End of the Second Act.
ACT III.
[33]SCENE I.
A Hall.
Adelaide, Jaqueline following.
JAQUELINE.
WHERE do you fly? Heavens! have you loſt all ſenſe?
ADELAIDE.
Oh, would I had! for then I ſhould not feel;
But I have ſenſe enough to know I am wretched,
To ſee the full extent of miſery,
Yet not enough to teach me how to bear it.
JAQUELINE.
I did not think your gentleneſs of nature
Could riſe to ſuch extremes.
ADELAIDE.
Am I not tame?
What are theſe tears, this wild diſhevel'd hair?
Are theſe fit ſigns for ſuch deſpair as mine?
Women will weep for trifles, bawbles, nothing,
For very frowardneſs will weep as I do:
A ſpirit rightly touch'd would pierce the air,
Call down inviſible legions to his aid,
Kindle the elements.—But all is calm;
No thunder rolls, no warning voice is heard,
To tell my frantick father, this black deed
Will ſink him down to infinite perdition.
JAQUELINE.
Reſt ſatisfied he cannot be ſo cruel
(Raſh as he is) to ſhed the innocent blood
Of a defenceleſs, unoffending youth.
ADELAIDE.
[34]He cannot be ſo cruel? Earth and heaven!
Did I not ſee the dreadful preparations?
The ſlaves, who tremble at my father's nod,
Pale, and confounded, dreſs the fatal block.
But I will fly; fall proſtrate at his feet;
If nature is not quite extinguiſh'd in him,
My prayers, my tears, my anguiſh, ſure will move him.
JAQUELINE.
Move him indeed! but to redoubled fury:
He dooms him dead for loving Iſabel;
Think, will it quench the fever of his rage,
To find he durſt aſpire to charm his daughter.
ADELAIDE.
Did I hear right? for loving Iſabel?
I knew not that before. Does he then love her?
JAQUELINE.
Nothing I heard diſtinctly; wild confuſion
Runs thro' the caſtle: every buſy fool,
All ignorant alike, tells different tales.
ADELAIDE.
Away, it cannot be. I know his truth.
Oh! I deſpiſe myſelf, that for a moment
(Pardon me, Love!) could ſuffer mean ſuſpicion
Uſurp the ſeat of generous confidence.
Think all alike unjuſt, my Theodore,
When even thy Adelaide could join to wrong thee!
JACQUELINE.
Yet be advis'd—
ADELAIDE.
Oh, leave me to my grief.—
To whom ſhall I complain? He but preſerv'd
My life a little ſpace, to make me feel
The extremes of joy and ſorrow. Ere we met,
My heart was calm as the unconſcious babe,
[35]That ſlumbers cradled 'tween the mother's breaſts.
From him I learn'd new wiſhes, new affections;
To hope, to fear, to dread enquiring eyes,
To find no reliſh in what pleas'd before,
And ſigh for bliſs that's unattainable.
SCENE II.
To them Fabian.
FABIAN.
Madam, my lord comes this way, and commands
To clear theſe chambers; what he meditates,
'Tis fit indeed were private. My old age
Has liv'd too long, to ſee my maſter's ſhame.
ADELAIDE.
His ſhame, eternal ſhame! Oh, more than cruel!
How ſhall I ſmother it! Fabian, what means he?
My father—him I ſpeak of—this young ſtranger—
FABIAN.
My heart is rent in pieces: deaf to reaſon,
He hears no counſel but from cruelty.
Good Auſtin intercedes, and weeps in vain,
JAQUELINE.
There's comfort yet, if he is by his ſide.
Look up, dear lady! Ha! that dying paleneſs—
ADELAIDE.
It is too much—Oh Jaqueline!
JAQUELINE.
She faints;
Her gentle ſpirits could endure no more.
Ha! paler ſtill! Fabian, thy arm; ſupport her.
She ſtirs not yet.
FABIAN.
Soft, bear her gently in.
Adelaide is carried out.
SCENE III.
[36]Fabian,
alone.
looking after her.
Fair creature! if this counterfeit of death
Could lie like lead upon thee, till this deed,
That cries ſo loud 'gainſt Narbonne, were forgot,
Thou would'ſt be happier far than we who wake,
Wiſhing in vain for blindneſs and oblivion.
Exit.
SCENE IV.
Count, followed by Auſtin.
AUSTIN.
I do believe thee very barbarous;
Nay fear thy reaſon touch'd; for ſuch wild thoughts,
Such bloody purpoſes, could ne'er proceed
From any ſober judgment;—yet thy heart
Will ſure recoil at this.
COUNT.
Why think ſo ſtill;
Think me both ruffian-like, and lunatick;
One proof at leaſt I'll give of temperate reaſon,—
Not to be baited from my fix'd deſign
By a monk's ban, or whining interceſſion.
AUSTIN.
Thou canſt not mean to do it.
COUNT.
Truſt thine eyes.
Thybalt! bring forth the priſoner; bid my marſhal
Prepare an axe. The ceremony's ſhort;
One ſtroke, and all is paſt. Before he die,
He ſhall have leave to thank your godlineſs,
For ſpeeding him ſo ſoon from this bad world.
AUSTIN.
Where is the right, the law, by which you doom him?
COUNT.
My will's the law.
AUSTIN.
[37]A venerable law!
The law by which the tyger tears the lamb,
And kites devour the dove. A lord of France,
Dreſs'd in a little delegated ſway,
Strikes at his ſovereign's face, while he profanes
His functions, truſted for the general good.
COUNT.
I anſwer not to thee.
AUSTIN.
Anſwer to heaven.
When call'd to audit in that ſacred court,
Will that ſupremacy accept thy plea,
I did commit ſoul murder; for I might?
COUNT.
Soar not too high; talk of the things of earth,
I'll give thee ear. Has not thy penitent,
Young Iſabel, diſclos'd her paſſion to thee?
AUSTIN.
Never.
COUNT.
Juſt now, her coldneſs to my ſon,
You ſaid, beſpoke her heart preoccupied.
The frail and fair make you their oracles;
Pent in your cloſe confeſſionals you ſit,
Bending your reverend ears to luſcious ſecrets;
While with their heaving breaſts, and love-fraught eyes,
Devoutly they ſigh out each amorous wiſh;
Till fleſh and ſpirit mingling flame with flame,
Their glowing ſenſes fix at laſt on man,
And prieſts may quench the fire a lover kindled.
AUSTIN.
Scoffer, no more! ſtop thy licentious tongue;
Turn inward to thy boſom, and reflect—
COUNT.
[38]That is, be fool'd.
Yet will I grant his life,
On one condition.
AUSTIN.
Name it.
COUNT.
Join my hand
To Iſabel.
AUSTIN.
Not for the world.
COUNT.
He dies.
SCENE V.
To the Count and Auſtin, Theodore brought in.
Come near, thou wretch! When call'd, before me firſt,
With moſt unwonted patience I endur'd
Thy bold avowal of the wrong thou did'ſt me;
A wrong ſo great, that, but for fooliſh pity,
Thy head that inſtant ſhould have made atonement;
But now, convicted of a greater crime,
Mercy is quench'd: therefore prepare to die.
THEODORE.
Indeed! and is this all?—'tis ſomewhat ſudden.
I was a captive long 'mongſt infidels,
Whom falſely I deem'd ſavage, ſince I find
Even Tunis and Algiers, thoſe neſts of ruffians,
Might teach civility to poliſh'd France,
If life depends but on a tyrant's frown.
COUNT.
Out with thy holy trumpery, prieſt! delay not;
Or, if he truſts in Mahomet, and ſcorns thee,
Away with him this inſtant.
AUSTIN.
[39]Hold, I charge you!
THEODORE.
The turban'd miſbeliever makes ſome ſhow
Of juſtice, in his deadly proceſſes;
Nor drinks the ſabre blood thus wantonly,
Where men are valued leſs than nobler beaſts.—
Of what am I accuſed?
COUNT.
Of inſolence;
Of bold preſumptuous love, that dares aſpire
To mix the vileneſs of thy ſordid lees
With the rich current of a baron's blood.
AUSTIN.
My heart is touch'd for him.—Much injur'd youth,
Suppreſs awhile this ſwelling indignation;
Plead for thy life.
THEODORE.
I will not meanly plead;
Nor were my neck bow'd to his bloody block,
If love's my crime, would I diſown my love.
COUNT.
Then, by my ſoul, thou dieſt.
THEODORE.
And let me die:
With my laſt breath I'll bleſs her. My ſpirit, free
From earth's encumbering clogs, ſhall ſoar above thee.
Anxious, as once in life, I'll hover round her,
Teach her new courage to ſuſtain this blow,
And guard her, tyrant! from thy cruelty.
COUNT.
Ha! give me way!
AUSTIN.
Why this is madneſs, youth:
You but inflame the rage, you ſhould appeaſe.
THEODORE.
[40]He thinks me vile. 'Tis true indeed I ſeem ſo:
But, though theſe humble weeds obſcure my outſide,
I have a ſoul diſdains his contumely;
A guiltleſs ſpirit, that provokes no wrong,
Nor from a monarch would endure it offer'd:
Uninjur'd, lamb-like; but a lion, rous'd.
Know, too injurious lord, here ſtands before thee
The equal of thy birth.
COUNT.
Away, baſe clod.—
Obey me, ſlaves.—What, all amaz'd with lies?
AUSTIN.
Yet, hear him, Narbonne: that ingenuous face
Looks not a lie. Thou ſaid'ſt thou wert a captive—
Turn not away! we are not all like him.
Something, I know not what, moſt friendly to thee,
Nay, more than friendly, like a parent's care,
And anxious, even to pain, bids me enquire—
THEODORE.
My ſtory's brief. My mother, and myſelf,
(I then an infant) in my father's abſence,
Were on our frontiers ſeiz'd by Saracens.
COUNT.
A likely tale! a well-devis'd impoſture!
Who will believe thee?
AUSTIN.
O deceiving hope!
A gleam ſhoots through me; and my ſtartled ſoul,
Fearful and eager, ſhrinks from its own wiſh:
I ſhake, and ſcarce have power enough to beg thee,
Go on, ſay all.
THEODORE.
To the fierce Baſhaw, Hamet,
[41]That ſcourge and terrour of the Chriſtian coaſts,
Were we made ſlaves at Tunis.
AUSTIN.
Ha! at Tunis!
Seiz'd with thy mother? Lives ſhe, gentle youth?
THEODORE.
Ah no, dear ſaint! fate ended ſoon her woes,
In pity ended. On her dying couch.
She pray'd for bleſſings on me.
AUSTIN.
Be thou bleſſed!
O fail not nature, but ſupport this conflict!
'Tis not deluſion ſure. It muſt be he.—
But one thing more;—did ſhe not tell thee too
Thy wretched father's name?
THEODORE.
The lord of Clarinſal.
Why do you look ſo earneſtly upon me?
If yet he lives, and thou know'ſt Clarinſal,
Tell him my tale.
AUSTIN.
Myſterious providence!
COUNT.
Aſide.
What's this? the old man trembles and turns pale.
THEODORE.
He will not let his offspring's timeleſs ghoſt
Walk unappeas'd, but on this cruel head
Exact full vengeance for his ſlaughter'd ſon.
AUSTIN.
O giver of all good! eternal Lord!
Am I ſo bleſs'd, at laſt, to ſee my ſon?
THEODORE.
Let me be deaf for ever, if my ears
Deceive me how! did he not ſay his ſon?
AUSTIN.
[42]I did, I did; let this, and this convince thee.
I am that Clarinſal; I am thy father.
COUNT.
Aſide.
Why works this fooliſh moiſture to my eyes?
Down Nature! what haſt thou to do with vengeance?
THEODORE.
Oh ſir! thus bending, let me claſp your knees;
Now, in this precious moment, pay at once
The long, long debt of a loſt ſon's affection.
COUNT.
Aſide.
Deſtruction ſeize them both! Muſt I behold
Their tranſports, ne'er perhaps again to know
A ſon's obedience, or a father's fondneſs!
AUSTIN.
Dear boy! what miracle preſerv'd thee thus,
To give thee back to France?
THEODORE.
No miracle,
But common chance. A warlike bark of Spain
Bore down, and ſeiz'd our veſſel, as we rov'd
Intent on ſpoil: (for many times, alas!
Was I compell'd to join their hated league,
And ſtrike with infidels.) My country known,
The courteous captain ſent me to the ſhore;
Where vain were my fond hopes to find my father;
'Twas deſolation all: a few poor ſwains
Told me, the rumour ran he had renounc'd
A hated world, and here in Languedoc
Devoted his remains of life to heaven.
AUSTIN.
They told thee truth; and heaven ſhall have my prayers,
[43]My ſoul pour'd out in endleſs gratitude,
For this unhoped, immeaſurable bleſſing;
But thou ſhalt have my care, my love, my life.
COUNT.
Thus far, fond man! I have liſten'd to the tale;
And think it, as it is, a groſs contrivance,
A trick, devis'd to cheat my credulous reaſon,
And thaw me to a woman's milkineſs.
AUSTIN.
And art thou ſo unſkill'd in nature's language,
Still to miſtruſt us? Could our tongues deceive,
Credit, what ne'er was feign'd, the genuine heart:
Believe theſe pangs, theſe tears of joy and anguiſh.
COUNT.
Or true, or falſe, to me it matters not.
I ſee thou haſt an intereſt in his life,
And by that link I hold thee. Would'ſt thou ſave him,
(Thou know'ſt already what my ſoul is ſet on,)
Teach thy proud heart compliance with my will:
If not—but now no more.—Hear all, and mark me—
Keep ſpecial guard, that none, but by my order,
Paſs from the caſtle. By my hopes of heaven,
His head goes off, who dares to diſobey me.
Farewel!—if he he dear to thee, remember.
Exit Count.
SCENE VI.
Auſtin, Theodore.
AUSTIN.
If he be dear to me! my vital blood!
Image of her my ſoul delighted in,
Again ſhe lives in thee. Yes, 'twas that voice,
That kindred look, rais'd ſuch ſtrong inſtinct here,
And kindled all my boſom at thy danger.
THEODORE.
[44]But muſt we bear to be thus tamely coop'd
By ſuch inſulting, petty depotiſm?
I look to my unguarded ſide in vain;
Had I a ſword—
AUSTIN.
—Think not of vengeance now;
A mightier arm than thine prepares it for him.
Paſs but a little ſpace, we ſhall behold him
The object of our pity, not our anger.
Yes, he muſt ſuffer; my rapt ſoul foreſees it:
Empires ſhall ſink; the pond'rous globe of earth
Crumble to duſt; the ſun and ſtars be quench'd;
But O eternal Father! of thy will,
To the laſt letter, all ſhall be accompliſh'd.
THEODORE.
So let it be! but if his pride muſt fall,
Ye ſaints who watch o'er lovelineſs and virtue,
Confound not with his crimes her innocence!
Make him alone the victim; but with bleſſings
Bright, and diſtinguiſh'd, crown his beauteous daughter!
AUSTIN.
Well ſhe deſerves all bleſſings; nor is he
Exempt from every touch of manly virtue:
The natural current of his ſoul is noble;
But paſſion ſometimes will run contrary,
As drives the furious eddy 'gainſt the ſtream.—
But doſt thou know the maid?
THEODORE.
You much ſurpriſe me:
Did you not hear, but now, my love confeſs'd?
Avow'd, even at the peril of my life?
Yes, charming Adelaide, my heart's firſt paſſion,
[45]Here thy dear image lives. If I renounce her,
Let Miſery hunt my footſteps thro' the world,
And heaven's bright portals ſhut me out hereafter.
AUSTIN.
Oh moſt diſaſtrous love! My ſon, my ſon,
Thy words are poniards here. Alas! I thought
(So thought the tyrant, and for that he rag'd,)
The vows exchang'd 'tween Iſabel and thee,
Thwarted the iſſue of his wild deſigns.
THEODORE.
I knew not Iſabel, beyond a moment
Paſs'd in ſurpriſe and haſte. But thanks to fortune!
Let him be ſtill deceiv'd. Our loves unknown,
My gentle Adelaide eſcapes his harſhneſs.
Some ſmiling chance again may bring me to her;
The ſame bleſs'd walls encloſe us; here, perhaps,
She walk'd, and here even now I tread her footſteps;
She ſpoke, ſhe ſigh'd; I draw the air ſhe breath'd;
And with ſuch gales ſhould holy ſhrines be incens'd.
AUSTIN.
O, had malignant fortune toil'd to blaſt him,
Thus had ſhe ſnar'd him in this fatal paſſion!—
And does young Adelaide return thy love?
THEODORE.
Bleſs'd powers, ſhe does! How can you frown, and hear it?
Her generous ſoul, firſt touch'd by gratitude,
Soon own'd a kinder, warmer ſympathy.
Soft as the fanning of a turtle's plumes,
The ſweet confeſſion met my enraptur'd ears.
AUSTIN.
What can I do?—Come near, my Theodore!
Doſt thou believe my affection?
THEODORE.
[46]Can I doubt it?
AUSTIN.
Think what my boſom ſuffers when I tell thee,
It muſt not, cannot be.
THEODORE.
My love for Adelaide!
AUSTIN.
Deem it delicious poiſon; daſh it from thee:
Thy bane is in the cup.
THEODORE.
O bid me rather
Tear out my throbbing heart; I'd think it mercy,
To this unjuſt, this cruel interdiction.
That proud, unfeeling Narbonne, from his lips
Well might ſuch words have fallen;—but thou, my father—
AUSTIN.
—And fond, as ever own'd that tender name.
Not I, my ſon, not I prevent this union,
(To me 'tis bitterneſs to croſs thy wiſh,)
But nature, fate, and heaven, all, all forbid it.
Oh, when thou know'ſt what yet is hid in darkneſs,
When the deep myſtery of thy birth's unfolded,
Thy tears indeed may fall for Adelaide,
(And I will mingle mine) but from that hour,
As thou would'ſt ſhun perdition, muſt thou fly her.
THEODORE.
Impoſſible!—and why not now reveal it?
Buſy imagination tortures worſe,
[47]Forming conceits more grim and terrible,
Than fate can ſhape in direſt certainty.
AUSTIN.
Not now;—ill ſuited is the time, the place.
We muſt withdraw, where heaven alone can hear us:
Then muſt thou ſtretch thy ſoul's beſt faculties;
Call every manly principle to ſteel thee;
And, to confirm thy name, ſecure thy honour,
Make one great ſacrifice of love to juſtice.
Exeunt.
End of the Third Act.
ACT IV.
[48]SCENE I.
A Chamber.
ADELAIDE,
alone.
WOE treads on woe.—Thy life, my Theodore,
Thy threaten'd life, ſav'd from the impending ſtroke,
Juſt gave a moment's reſpite to my heart;
And now a mother's grief, with pangs more keen,
Wakes every throbbing ſenſe, and quite o'erwhelms me.
Her ſoul wrapt up in his, to talk thus to her!
Divorce her, leave her, wed with Iſabel,
And call on heaven to ſanctify the outrage!
How could my father's boſom meditate
What ſavage tongues would falter even to ſpeak?
But ſee, he comes—
SCENE II.
To her Auſtin, Jaqueline.
O let me bend to thank you;
In this extreme diſtreſs, from you alone
(For my poor art is vain,) can ſhe hope comfort.
AUSTIN.
How heard ſhe the ill tidings? I had hopes
His cooler reaſon would ſubdue the thought;
And heaven, in pity to her gentle virtues,
Might ſpare her knowing, how he meant to wrong them.
JAQUELINE.
The rumour of the caſtle reach'd her firſt;
But his own lips confirm'd the barbarous ſecret.
[49]Sternly, but now, he enter'd her apartment,
And, ſtamping, frown'd her women from her preſence;
After a little while they had paſs'd together,—
His viſage fluſh'd with rage and mingled ſhame,
He burſt into the chamber where we waited,
Bade us return, and give our lady aid;
Then, covering his face with both his hands,
Went forth like one half craz'd.
ADELAIDE.
Oh good, kind father!
There is a charm in holy eloquence
(If words can medicine a pang like this,)
Perhaps may ſooth her. Sighs, and trickling tears,
Are all my love can give. As I kneel by her,
She gazes on me, claſps me to her boſom;
Cries out, my child! my child! then, riſing quick,
Severely lifts her ſtreaming eyes to heaven;
Laughs wildly, and half ſounds my father's name;
Till, quite o'erpower'd, ſhe ſinks from my embrace,
While, like the graſp of death, convulſions ſeize her.
AUSTIN.
Remorſeleſs man! this wound will reach her heart,
And when ſhe falls, his laſt, beſt prop falls with her.
And ſee, the beauteous mourner moves this way:
Time has but little injur'd that fair fabrick;
But cruelty's hard ſtroke, more fell than time,
Works at the baſe, and ſhakes it to the centre.
SCENE III.
To them, the Counteſs.
COUNTESS.
Will then theſe dreadful ſounds ne'er leave my ears?
"Our marriage was accurs'd; too long we have liv'd
"In bonds forbid; think me no more thy huſband;
[50]"The avenging bolt, for that inceſtuous name,
"Falls on my houſe; and ſpreads the ruin wide,
"For our offence, o'er this afflicted land."
Theſe were his words.
ADELAIDE.
O ponder them no more!
Lo! where the bleſſed miniſter of peace,
(He whoſe mild counſels wont to charm your care,)
Is kindly come to cheer your drooping ſoul;
And ſee, the good man weeps.
COUNTESS.
What! weep for me!
AUSTIN.
Ay, tears of blood from my heart's in moſt core,
And count them drops of water from my eyes,
Could they but waſh out from your memory
The deep affliction you now labour with.
COUNTESS.
Then ſtill there is ſome pity left in man:
I judged you all by him, and ſo I wrong'd you.
I would have told my ſtory to the ſea,
When it roar'd wildeſt; bid the lioneſs,
Robb'd of her young, look with compaſſion on me;
Rather than hoped in any form of man
To find one drop of human gentleneſs.
AUSTIN.
[approaching her.]
Moſt honour'd lady!—
COUNTESS.
—Pray you, come not near me.
I am contagion all; ſome wicked ſin,
Prodigious, unrepented ſin, has ſtain'd me.
Father, 'twould blaſt thee but to hear the crimes,
[51]This woman, who was once the wife of Raymond,
This curs'd forſaken woman here, has acted.
AUSTIN.
What ſlanderous tongue dare thus profane your virtue?
Madam, I know you well; and, by my order,
Each day, each hour of your unſpotted life,
Might give as fair a leſſon to the world,
As churchmen's tongues can preach, or ſaints could prac⯑tiſe.
COUNTESS.
He charges me with all—Thou poor Hortenſia!
What guilt, prepoſt'rous guilt, is thine to anſwer!
ADELAIDE.
In mercy wound not thus your daughter's ſoul.
AUSTIN.
A villain or a madman might ſay this.
COUNTESS.
What ſhall I call him? He, who was my huſband;
My child, thy father;—He'll diſclaim thee too.
But let him caſt off all the ties of nature,
Abandon us to grief and miſery,
Still will I wander with thee o'er the world:
I will not wiſh my reaſon may forſake me,
Nor ſweet oblivious dulneſs ſteep my ſenſe,
While thy ſoft age may want a mother's care,
A mother's tenderneſs, to wake and guard thee.
ADELAIDE.
And, if the love of your dear Adelaide,
Her reverence, duty, endleſs gratitude
For all your angel goodneſs, now can move you,
Oh, for my ſake (leſt quite you break my heart,)
Wear but a little outſide ſhow of comfort;
A while pretend it, though you feel it not,
And I will bleſs you for deceiving me.
COUNTESS.
[52]I know 'tis weakneſs, folly, to be mov'd thus;
And theſe, I hope, are my laſt tears for him.
Alas, I little knew, deluded wretch!
His riotous fancy glow'd with Iſabel;
That not a thought of me poſſeſs'd his mind,
But coldneſs and averſion; how to ſhun me,
And turn me forth a friendleſs wanderer.
AUSTIN.
Vain were the attempt to palliate injuries,
Too foul in their own nature to receive
Whiteneſs from words: but, lady, for your peace,
Think, conſcience is the deepeſt ſource of anguiſh:
A boſom, free like yours, has life's beſt ſunſhine;
'Tis the warm blaze in the poor herdſman's hut;
That, when the ſtorm howls o'er his humble thatch,
Brightens his clay-built walls, and cheers his ſoul.
You pay the forfeit of the aggreſſor's wrong,
Suffering the pangs, which guilt alone ſhould ſuffer.
COUNTESS.
O father, reaſon is for moderate ſorrow;
For wounds which time has balm'd; but mine are freſh,
All bleeding freſh, and pain beyond my patience.
Ungrateful! cruel! how have I deſerv'd it!—
Thou tough, tough heart, break for my eaſe at once!
AUSTIN.
I ſcarce, methinks, can weigh him with himſelf;
Vexations ſtrange have fallen on him of late;
And his diſtemper'd fancy drives him on
To raſh deſigns, where diſappointment mads him.
COUNTESS.
Ah no! his wit is ſettled, and moſt ſubtle;
Pride and wild blood are his diſtemper, father.
[53]But here I bid farewel to grief and fondneſs:
Let him go kneel, and ſigh to Iſabel;
And may he as obdurate find her heart,
As his has been to me!
AUSTIN.
Why that's well ſaid;—
'Tis better thus, than with conſuming ſorrow
To feed on your own life. Give anger ſcope:
Time then at length will blunt this killing ſenſe;
And peace, he ne'er muſt know again, be your's.
COUNTESS.
I was a woman, full of tenderneſs;
I am a woman, ſtung by injuries.
Narbonne was once my huſband, my protector;
He was—what was he not?—He is my tyrant;
The unnatural tyrant of a heart that lov'd him.
With cool deliberate baſeneſs he forſakes me;
With ſcorn as ſtedfaſt ſhall my ſoul repay it.
AUSTIN.
You know the imminent danger threatens him
From Godfrey's fearful claim?
COUNTESS.
Too well I know it;
A fearful claim indeed!
AUSTIN.
To-morrow's ſun
Will ſee him at theſe gates; but truſt my faith,
No violence ſhall reach you. The raſh count
(Loſt to himſelf) by force detains me here.
Vain is his force:—our holy ſanctuary,
Whate'er betides, ſhall give your virtue ſhelter;
And peace and piety alone approach you.
COUNTESS.
[54]O that the friendly boſom of the earth
Would cloſe on me for ever!
AUSTIN.
Theſe ill thoughts
Muſt not be cheriſh'd. That all righteous power
Whoſe hand inflicts, knows to reward our patience:
Farewel! command me ever as your ſervant,
And take the poor man's all, my prayers and bleſſing.
Exit Auſtin.
SCENE IV.
Counteſs, Adelaide.
ADELAIDE.
Will you not ſtrive to reſt? Alas! 'tis long,
Since you have ſlept. I'll lead you to your couch;
And gently touch my lute, to wake ſome ſtrain
May aid your ſlumbers.
COUNTESS.
My ſweet comforter!
I feel not quite forlorn when thou art near me.
ADELAIDE.
Lean on my arm.
COUNTESS.
No, I will in alone.
My ſenſe is now unapt for harmony.
But go thou to Alphonſo's holy ſhrine;
There, with thy innocent hands devoutly rais'd,
Implore his ſainted ſpirit, to receive
Thy humble ſupplications; and to avert
From thy dear head, the ſtill-impending wrath,
For one black deed, that threatens all thy race.
Exit Counteſs.
SCENE V.
[55]Adelaide,
alone.
For thee my prayers ſhall riſe, not for myſelf,
And every kindred ſaint will bend to hear me.
But O my fluttering breaſt!—'tis Theodore!
How ſad, and earneſtly he views that paper!
It turns him pale. Beſhrew the envious paper!
Why ſhould it ſteal the colour from that cheek,
Which danger ne'er could blanch? He ſees me not.
I'll wait; and ſhould ſad thoughts diſturb his quiet,
If love has power, with love's ſoft breath diſpel them.
Adelaide retires.
SCENE VI.
Theodore,
with a paper.
My importunity at laſt has conquer'd:
Weeping my father gave, and bade me read it.
'Tis there, (he cried) the myſtery of thy birth;
There view thy long divorce from Adelaide.
Why ſhould I read it? Why with rav'nous haſte
Gorge down my bane? The worſt is yet conceal'd;
Then wherefore, eager for my own deſtruction,
Enquire a ſecret, which, when known, muſt, ſink me?
My eye ſtarts back from it; my heart ſtands ſtill;
And every pulſe, and motion of my blood,
With prohibition, ſtrong as ſenſe can utter,
Cries out, beware!—But does my ſight deceive?
Is it not ſhe? Up, up, you black contents:
A brighter object meets my raviſh'd eyes.
Now let the preſent moment, Love, be thine!
For ill, come when it may, muſt come untimely.
SCENE VII.
To him, Adelaide.
ADELAIDE.
Am I not here unwiſh'd for?
THEODORE.
[56]My beſt. Angel!
Were ſeas between us, thou art ſtill where I am.
I bear thy precious image ever round me,
As pious men the relicks they adore.
Scarce durſt I hope to be ſo bleſt to ſee thee,
But could not wiſh a joy beyond thy preſence.
ADELAIDE.
O Theodore! what wondrous turns of fortune
Have given thee back to a dear's parent's arms!
And ſpite of all the horrours which ſurround me,
And worſe, each black eventful moment threatens,
My boſom glows with rapture at the thought
Thou wilt at laſt be bleſs'd.
THEODORE.
But one way only
Can I be bleſs'd. On thee depends my fate.
Lord Raymond, harſh and haughty as he is,
And adverſe to my father's rigid virtue,
When he ſhall hear our pure unſpotted vows,
Will yield thee to my wiſhes;—but, curs'd ſtars!
How ſhall I ſpeak it?
ADELAIDE.
What?
THEODORE.
That holy man,
That Clarinſal, whom I am bound to honour,
Perverſely bids me think of thee no more.
ADELAIDE.
Alas! in what have I offended him?
THEODORE.
Not ſo; he owns thy virtues, and admires them.
[57]But with a ſolemn earneſtneſs that kills me,
He urges ſome myſterious, dreadful cauſe,
Muſt ſunder us for ever.
ADELAIDE.
Oh, then fly me!
I am not worth his frown; be gone this moment;
Leave me to weep my mournful deſtiny,
And find ſome fairer, happier maid, to bleſs thee.
THEODORE.
Fairer than thee! Oh heavens! the delicate hand
Of nature, in her daintieſt mood, ne'er faſhion'd
Beauty ſo rare. Love's roſeate deity,
Freſh from his mother's kiſs, breath'd o'er thy mould
That ſoft ambroſial hue.—Fairer than thee!
'Twere blaſphemy in any tongue but thine,
So to diſparage thy unmatch'd perfections.
ADELAIDE.
No, Theodore, I dare not hear thee longer;
Perhaps indeed there is ſome fatal cauſe.
THEODORE.
There is not, cannot be. 'Tis but his pride,
Stung by reſentment 'gainſt thy furious father—
ADELAIDE.
Ah no; he is too generous, juſt, and good,
To hate me for the offences of my father.
But find the cauſe. At good Alphonſo's tomb
I go to offer up my oriſons;
There bring me comfort, and diſpel my fears;
Or teach me, (oh, hard thought!) to bear our parting.
Exit Adelaide.
SCENE VIII.
[58]Theodore,
alone.
She's gone, and now, firm fortitude, ſupport me!
For here I read my ſentence; life, or death.
Takes out the paper.
"Thou art the grandſon of the good Alphonſo,
"And Narbonne's rightful lord"—Ha! is it ſo?
Then has this boiſt'rous Raymond dar'd inſult me,
Where I alone ſhould rule:—yet not by that
Am I condemn'd to loſe her. Thou damn'd ſcroll!
I fear thou haſt worſe poiſon for my eyes.
"Long were the champions, bound for Paleſtine,
"(Thy grandſire then their chief,) by adverſe winds
"Detain'd in Naples; where he ſaw, and lov'd,
"And wedded ſecretly, Vicenza's daughter;
"For, till the holy warfare ſhould be cloſed,
"They deem'd it wiſe to keep the rite conceal'd.
"The iſſue of that marriage was thy mother;
"But the ſame hour that gave her to the world,
"For ever cloſed the fair one's eyes who bore her.
"Foul treaſon next cut ſhort thy grandſire's thread;
"Poiſon'd he fell—
Theodore pauſes, and Auſtin who has been ſome time behind, advances.
SCENE IX.
Auſtin, Theodore.
AUSTIN.
By Raymond's felon father,
Who, adding fraud to murder, forged a will,
Deviſing to himſelf and his deſcendants,
Thy rights, thy titles, thy inheritance.
THEODORE.
Then I am loſt—
AUSTIN.
[59]Now think, unkind young man,
Was it for nought I warn'd thee to take heed,
And ſmother in its birth this dangerous paſſion?
The Almighty arm, red for thy grandſire's murder,
Year after year has terribly been ſtretch'd
O'er all the land, but moſt this guilty race.
THEODORE.
The murderer was guilty, not his race.
AUSTIN.
Great crimes, like this, have lengthen'd puniſhments.
Why ſpeak the fates by ſigns and prodigies?
Why one by one falls this devoted line,
Accompliſhing the dreadful prophecy,
That none ſhould live to enjoy the fruits of blood?
Why (owning every virtue in the maid)
When thou but talk'ſt of this prepoſt'rous union,
Feels my divining ſoul ſuch chill reluctance?
They are not ſent in vain, ſuch aweful warnings!
But waive this argument.—Thou wilt be call'd
(I know him well, all proceſs he diſdains
But violence and war,) to prove thy right,
By combat with the Count.
THEODORE.
In arms I'll meet him;
To-morrow; now.—
AUSTIN.
And, reeking with his blood,
Offer the hand, which ſhed it, to his daughter?
THEODORE.
Ha!
AUSTIN.
[60]Does it ſhake thee? Come, my Theodore,
Let not a guſt of love-ſick inclination
Root, like a ſweeping whirlwind, from thy ſoul
All the fair growth of noble thoughts and virtue,
Thy mother planted in thy early youth;
All that good man, companion of thy bonds,
Thy better father, father of thy mind,
Whoſe worth ſo late was witneſs'd by thy tears;—
O raſhly tread not down the promis'd harveſt,
They toil'd to rear to the full height of honour!
THEODORE.
Would I had liv'd unknown in penury,
Rather than thus! Diſtraction!—Adelaide!
SCENE X.
To them Adelaide, Fabian.
ADELAIDE.
Oh, whither ſhall I fly!
THEODORE.
What means my love!
Why thus diſturb'd?
ADELAIDE.
The caſtle is beſet;
The ſuperſtitious, fierce, inconſtant people,
Madder than ſtorms, with weapons caught in haſte,
Menace my father's life; rage, and revile him;
Call him the heir of murderous uſurpation;
And ſwear they'll own no rightful lord but Godfrey.
AUSTIN.
Blind wretches! I will hence, and try my power
To allay the tumult. Follow me, my ſon!
Exit Auſtin.
SCENE XI.
[61]Adelaide, Theodore, Fabian.
ADELAIDE.
Go not defenceleſs thus; think on thy ſafety:
See yonder porch opes to the armoury;
There coats of mailed proof, falchions, and caſques,
And all the glittering implements of war,
Stand terribly arranged. Fabian will guide,
And aid to arm thee.
THEODORE.
Heavens! 'twas what I wiſh'd.
Yes, Adelaide, I go to fight for him:
Thy father ſhall not fall ingloriouſly;
But, when he ſees this arm ſtrike at his foes,
Shall own, thy Theodore deſerv'd his daughter.
Exeunt Adelaide at one door, Theodore and Fabian at the other.
End of the Fourth Act.
ACT V.
[62]SCENE I.
A Hall.
Count, Auſtin, Fabian, Attendants with priſoners. Theodore in armour behind.
COUNT.
HENCE to a dungeon with thoſe mutinous ſlaves;
There let them prate of prophecies and viſions;
And when coarſe fare and ſtripes bring back their ſenſes,
Perhaps I may relent, and turn them looſe
To new offences, and freſh chaſtiſement.
FABIAN.
You bleed, my lord!
Priſoners led out.
COUNT.
A ſcratch—death! to be bay'd
By mungrels! curs! They yelp'd, and ſhow'd their fangs,
Growl'd too as they would bite. But was't not poor,
Unlike the generous ſtrain of Godfrey's lineage,
To ſtir the rabble up in nobles' quarrels,
And bribe my hinds and vaſſals to aſſault me.
AUSTIN.
They were not ſtirr'd by Godfrey.
COUNT.
Who then ſtirr'd them?
Thyſelf perhaps. Was't thou? And yet I wrong thee;
Thou did'ſt preach peace; and ſtraight they crouch'd and ſhrunk,
More tam'd by the cold med'cine of thy tongue,
Than loſing the hot drops my ſteel drew from them.
AUSTIN.
I might perhaps have look'd for better thanks,
Than taunts to pay my ſervice.—But no matter.—
[63]My ſon too ſerv'd thee nobly; he beſtrode thee,
And drove thoſe peaſants back, whoſe ſtaves and clubs,
But for his aid, had ſhiver'd that ſtout frame:
But both, too well accuſtom'd to thy tranſports,
Nor aſk, nor hope thy courteſy.
COUNT.
Your pardon!
I knew my life was ſaved, but not by whom;
I wiſh'd it not, yet thank him. I was down,
Stun'd in the inglorious broil; and nought remember,
More than the ſhame of ſuch a paltry danger.
Where is he?
AUSTIN.
Here.
Theodore advances.
COUNT.
ſtarting.
Ha! angels ſhelter me!
THEODORE.
Why ſtarts he thus?
COUNT.
Are miracles renew'd?
Art thou not riſen from the mould'ring grave?
And in the aweful majeſty of death,
'Gainſt nature, and the courſe of mortal thought,
Aſſum'ſt the likeneſs of a living form,
To blaſt my ſoul with horrour?
THEODORE.
Is he mad?
Or means he thus to mock me?
COUNT.
Anſwer me!
Speak ſome of you, who have the power to ſpeak;
Is it not he?
FABIAN.
[64]Who, good my lord?
COUNT.
Alphonſo.
His form, his arms, his air, his very frown.
Lord of theſe confines, ſpeak, declare thy pleaſure!
THEODORE.
Doſt thou not know me then?
COUNT.
Ha! Theodore?
This ſameneſs, not reſemblance, is paſt faith.
All ſtatues, pictures, or the likeneſs kept
By memory, of good Alphonſo living,
Are faint and ſhadowy traces, to this image.
FABIAN.
Hear me, my lord, ſo ſhall the wonder ceaſe.
The very arms he wears, were once Alphonſo's.
He found them in the ſtores, and braced them on,
To aſſiſt you in your danger.
COUNT.
'Tis moſt ſtrange.
I ſtrive, but cannot conquer this amazement:
I try to take them off; yet ſtill my eyes
Again are drawn, as if by magick on him.
AUSTIN.
aſide to Theodore.
Hear you, my ſon?
THEODORE.
Yes, and it wakes within me,
Senſations new till now.
AUSTIN.
[65]To-morrow's light
Will ſhow him wonders greater.—Sir, it pleas'd you,
(Wherefore you beſt can tell) to make us here
Your priſoners; but the alarm of your danger
Threw wide your gates, and freed us. We return'd
To give you ſafeguard.—May we now depart?
COUNT.
Ay, to the confines of the fartheſt earth;
For here thy ſight unhinges Raymond's ſoul.
Be hid, where air or light may never find thee;
And bury too that phantom.
Exit Côunt with his Attendants.
SCENE II.
Auſtin, Theodore.
THEODORE.
Inſolence!
Too proud to thank our kindneſs! yet, what horrour
Shook all his frame, when thus I ſtood before him!
AUSTIN.
No wonder. A prediction terrible,
Not yet in all fulfill'd, hangs over him;
And, if the preſage of my breaſt deceive not,
In thee 'twill be accompliſh'd. He affects
To call it viſionary fear, and ſcorn it;
But, like a curb in the fierce courſer's jaw,
The ſtrong controlment, mightier than his force,
Reins in his pride.
THEODORE.
'Tis fate then ſtirs within him;
[66]And darkly intimates his hour draws near.
But was this all?
AUSTIN.
The ſtatue of thy grandſire
(Thy very figure as thou ſtood'ſt before him,
Arm'd juſt as thou art,) ſeem'd to move, and live;
That breathing marble, which the people's love
Rear'd near his tomb, within our convent's walls.
Anon I'll lead thee to it.
THEODORE.
Let me hence,
To ſhake theſe trappings off.
AUSTIN.
Wear them, and mark me.
Ere night thy kinſman, Godfrey, will be maſter
Of all thy ſtory: a tried meſſenger
Bears my diſpatch to him; not far from hence,
Advancing with his train to meet Lord Raymond,
He reſts till morning. He is brave, and juſt,
And will ſupport thy claim. Should proof and reaſon
Fail with the uſurper, thou muſt try thy ſword
(And heaven will ſtrike for thee) in combat with him.
The conſcious flaſh of this thy grandſire's mail,
Worſe than the horrours of the fabled Gorgon,
That curdled blood to ſtone, will ſhrink his ſinews,
And caſt the wither'd boaſter at thy feet.
THEODORE.
Grant it ye powers! but not to ſhed his blood:
The Father of my Adelaide, that name—
AUSTIN.
Is dearer far than mine;—my words are air;
My counſels paſs unmark'd. But come, my ſon!
[67]To-night my cell muſt houſe thee. Let me ſhow thee
The humble manſion of thy lonely father,
Proud once, and proſperous; where I have wept, and pray'd,
And loſt, in cold oblivion of the world,
Twice nine long years: thy mother, and thyſelf,
And God, were all my thoughts.
THEODORE.
Ay, to the convent!
For there, my love, my Adelaide expects me.
Aſide.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Count, Fabian.
COUNT.
By Hell, this legend of Alphonſo's death
Hourly gains ground.
FABIAN.
They talk of nought beſides;
And their craz'd notions are ſo full of wonder,
There's ſcarce a common paſſage of the times,
But ſtraight their folly makes it ominous.
COUNT.
Fame, that like water widens from its ſource,
Thus often ſwells, and ſpreads a ſhallow falſehood.
At firſt, a twilight tale of village terrour,
The hair of boors and beldams briſtled at it;
(Such bloodleſs fancies wake to nought but fear:)
Then, heard with grave deriſion by the wiſe,
And, from contempt, unſearch'd and unrefuted,
It paſs'd upon the lazineſs of faith,
Like many a lie, groſs, and impoſſible.
FABIAN.
[68]A lie believ'd may in the end, my lord,
Prove fatal as a written goſpel truth.
Therefore—
COUNT.
Take heed; and ere the lightning ſtrike,
Fly from the ſulphurous clouds.—I am not dull;
For, bright as ruddy meteors through the ſky,
The thought flames here, ſhall light me to my ſafety.
Fabian, away! Send hither to me ſtraight
Renchild, and Thybalt.
[Exit FA.]
They are young and fearleſs.
SCENE IV.
Count,
alone
Thy flight, ungrateful Iſabel, compels me
To this rude courſe. I would have all with kindneſs;
Nor ſtain the ſnow-white flower of my true love
With ſpots of violence. But it muſt be ſo.
This lordly prieſt, this Clarinſal, or Auſtin,
Like a true churchman, by his calling tainted,
Prates conſcience; and in craft abets Earl Godfrey,
That Iſabel may wed his upſtart ſon.
Let Rome dart all her lightnings at my head,
Till her grey pontiff ſinge in his own fires:
Spite of their rage, I'll force the ſanctuary,
And bear her off this night, beyond their power;
My bride, if ſhe conſents; if not, my hoſtage.
SCENE V.
[69]To the Count, two Officers.
Come hither, Sirs. Take twenty of your fellows;
Poſt ten at the great gate of Nicholas'
The reſt, by twos, guard every avenue
Leads from the convent to the plain or caſtle.
Charge them (and as their lives ſhall anſwer it,)
That none but of my train paſs out, or enter.
FIRST OFFICER.
We will, my lord, about it inſtantly.
COUNT.
Temper your zeal, and know you orders firſt.
Take care they ſpill no blood:—no violence,
More than reſiſting who would force a paſſage:
The holy drones may buzz, but have no ſtings.
I mean to take a bawble from the church,
A reverend thief ſtole from me. Near the altar,
(That place commands the centre of the aile)
Keep you your watch. If you eſpy a woman,
(There can be only ſhe) ſpeed to me ſtraight;
You'll find my ſtation near Alphonſo's porch.
Be ſwift as winds, and meet me preſently.
Exeunt ſeverally.
SCENE VI.
[70]The inſide of a Convent, with ailes and Gothick arches, part of an altar appearing on one ſide; the ſtatue of Alphonſo in armour in the centre. Other ſtatues and monuments alſo appearing. Adelaide veiled, riſing from her knees before the ſtatue of Alphonſo.
ADELAIDE.
Alas! 'tis mockery to pray as I do.
Thoughts fit for heaven, ſhould riſe on ſeraphs' wings,
Unclog'd with aught of earth; but mine hang here,
Beginning, ending all in Theodore.
Why comes he not? 'Tis torture for the unbleſs'd,
To ſuffer ſuch ſuſpenſe as my heart aches with.
What can it be,—this ſecret, dreadful cauſe,
This ſhaft unſeen, that's wing'd againſt our love?
Perhaps—I know not what.—At yonder ſhrine
Bending, I'll ſeal my irrevocable vow:
Hear, and record it, choirs of ſaints and angels!
If I am doom'd to ſigh for him in vain,
No ſecond flame ſhall ever enter here;
But, faithful to thy fond, thy firſt impreſſion,
Turn thou, my breaſt, to every ſenſe of joy,
Cold as the pale-ey'd marbles which ſurround me.
Adelaide withdraws.
SCENE VII.
Auſtin, Theodore.
AUSTIN.
Look round, my ſon! This conſecrated place
Contains the untimely aſhes of thy grandſire.
With all the impious mockery of grief,
Here were they laid by the dire hand which ſped him.
[71]Since that black hour, the thunder ſcarce has ſlept;
Nature ſeem'd fearful of her wonted courſe;
As if the angry ſpirit of Alphonſo,
Driving the looſen'd orbs in ſtorm and fire,
Wreck'd all this elemental, vaſt machine,
To break the tenour of men's peaceful ſouls.
There ſtands his ſtatue; were a glaſs before thee,
So would it give thee back thy outward ſelf.
THEODORE.
And may the power which faſhion'd thus my outſide,
With all his nobler ornaments of virtue
Suſtain my ſoul! till generous emulation
Raiſe me by deeds to equal his renown,
And—
AUSTIN.
—To avenge him. Not by treachery,
But caſting off all thoughts of idle love,
Of love ill-match'd, unhappy, ominous,—
To keep the memory of his wrongs; do juſtice
To his great name, and prove the blood you ſpring from.
THEODORE.
O, were the bold poſſeſſor of my rights
A legion arm'd, the terrours of his ſword
Reſiſtleſs as the flaſh that ſtrikes from heaven,
Undaunted would I meet him. His proud creſt
Should feel the dint of no unpractis'd edge.
But, while my arm aſſails her father's life,
The unnatural wound returns to my own breaſt,
And conqueſt loſes Adelaide for ever.
AUSTIN.
The barbarous deed of Raymond's father loſt her.
THEODORE.
[72]Pierce not my ſoul thus. Can you love your ſon,—
Can you behold theſe eyes, that ſtream for her,—
Know every hope or wiſh my breaſt can form,
My waking thought, the murmur of my dreams,
All, all are Adelaide,—and coldly tell me,
Without one tear unmov'd thus, I muſt loſe her?
But where, where is ſhe?
[looking out.]
Heavenly innocence!
See the dear ſaint kneels at the altar's foot;
See her white hands with fervent claſps are rais'd;
Perhaps for me. Have you a heart, my father,
And bid me bear to loſe her?—Hold me not—
I come, I fly, my life, my all! to join thee.
Exit.
SCENE VIII.
Auſtin,
alone.
Return, return, raſh boy! Pernicious chance!
One glance from her will quite deſtroy my work,
And leave me but my ſorrow for my labour.
Follows him.
SCENE IX.
Count,
alone.
Am I turn'd coward, that my tottering knees
Knock as I tread the pavement?—'Tis the place;
The ſombrous horrour of theſe long-drawn ailes.
My footſteps are beat back by nought but echo,
Struck from the caverns of the vaulted dead;
Yet now it ſeem'd as if a hoſt purſued me.
The breath that makes my words, ſounds thunder-like.
Sure 'twas a deep-fetch'd groan—No;—hark, again!—
[73]Then 'tis the language of the tombs; and ſee!
Pointing to the ſtatue of Alphonſo.
Like their great monarch, he ſtands rais'd above them.
Who's there?
SCENE X.
To the Count, two Officers.
FIRST OFFICER.
My Lord, where are you?
COUNT.
Here—ſpeak, man!
Why do you ſhake thus? Death! your bloodleſs cheeks
Send fear into me. You, Sir, what's the matter?
SECOND OFFICER.
We have found the lady.
COUNT.
My good fellows, where?
FIRST OFFICER:
Even from this ſpot you may yourſelf behold her,
Though dim the light; but from a winking lamp,
A woman's form and habit both are plain.
Her face is towards the altar.
COUNT.
looking out.
Blaſts upon me!
Wither my eyes for ever!—Ay, 'tis ſhe;
Auſtin with Theodore; he joins their hands:—
Deſtruction ſeize them! O dull, tardy fool!
My love and my ambition both defeated!
A marriage in my ſight! Come forth, come forth!
Draws a dagger.
Ariſe grim Vengeance, and waſh out my ſhame!
[74]Ill-fated girl! A bloody Hymen waits thee.
Ruſhes out.
SCENE XI.
Two Officers.
FIRST OFFICER.
His face is black with rage, his eyes flaſh fire;
I do not like this ſervice.
SECOND OFFICER.
No, nor I.
But, if 'tis ſin or ſacrilege, not we,
But he who ſet us on, muſt anſwer it.
FIRST OFFICER.
Heard you that ſhriek?—It thunders. By my ſoul,
I feel as if my blood were froze within me.
Speak to me. See he comes.
Officers retire.
SCENE XII.
Count, with a bloody dagger.
COUNT.
The deed is done.
Hark, the deep thunder rolls. I hail the ſign;
It tells me in loud greetings, I'm reveng'd.
SCENE XIII.
Theodore, with his ſword drawn.
THEODORE.
Where, where's the aſſaſſin?
AUSTIN.
[75]Boy, the avenger's here.
Behold, this dagger ſmokes with her heart's blood!
That thou ſtand'ſt there to brave me, thank that mail,
Or, traitor, thou had'ſt felt me.—But 'tis done.
THEODORE.
Oh, monſtrous! monſtrous!
COUNT.
Triumph now o'er Narbonne;
Boaſt how a ſtrippling and a monk deceiv'd
The eaſy Count; but, if thou lov'ſt thy bride,
Take that, and uſe it nobly.
Throws down the dagger.
THEODORE.
'Gainſt thy heart,
Barbarian, would I uſe it,—but look there;
There are ten thouſand daggers.
AUSTIN, without.
Ring out the alarm,
Fly all; bring aid, if poſſible, to ſave her.
SCENE XIV.
To them, Adelaide wounded, and ſupported by Auſtin. Theodore advances to her, and aſſiſts in ſupporting and bringing her forward. Some of the Count's Attendants enter from the Caſtle with lighted torches.
COUNT.
Ha! Lightning ſhiver me!
ADELAIDE.
[76]My Lord; my father!
Oh, bear me to his feet.
AUSTIN.
Thou man of blood,
Paſt utterance loſt, ſee what thy rage has done!
COUNT.
Ruin! deſpair! my child, my Adelaide!
Art thou the innocent victim of my fury?
ADELAIDE.
I am indeed. I know not my offence;
Yet ſure 'twas great, when my life anſwers it.
Will you forgive me now?
COUNT.
Oh miſery!
Had I unnumber'd lives, I'd give them all,
To lengthen thine an hour. What frenzy ſeized me!
That veil, the glimmering light, my rage, deceived me.
Unnatural wound! deteſted parricide!—
Good youth, in pity ſtrike this monſter dead!
ADELAIDE.
Liſten not to his ravings.
To Theodore.
THEODORE.
My heart's treaſure!
Is this the iſſue of my promis'd joys?
'Tis my black deſtiny has murder'd thee;
The ſtroke was meant for me: but my quick hand
Shall ſpeed it home; and thus I follow thee—
AUSTIN.
Hold, deſperate boy!
ADELAIDE.
[77]Alas, my Theodore!
I ſtruggle for a little gaſp of breath;
Draw it with pain, and ſure, in this laſt moment,
You will obſerve me.
THEODORE.
Torture!
ADELAIDE.
Live, I charge you:
Forget me not, but love my memory.
If I was ever dear to thee, my father,
(Thoſe tears declare I was,) will you not hear me,
And grant one wiſh to your expiring child?
COUNT.
Speak, tell me quickly, thou dear ſuffering angel!
ADELAIDE.
Be gentle to my mother; her kind nature
Has ſuffer'd much; ſhe will need all your care:
Forſake her not; and may the All-merciful
Look down with pity on this fatal errour;
Bleſs you—and—oh—
Dies.
COUNT.
She dies in prayer for me;
Prays for me, while her life ſtreams from my ſtroke.
What prayers can riſe for ſuch a wretch as I am?
Seize me, ye fiends! rouſe all your ſtings and torments!
See, hell grows darker, as I ſtalk before them.
THEODORE.
After looking ſome time at Adelaide's body.
She's gone—ſtand off—no, think not I will live.
This load of being is intolerable;
And, in a happier world, my ſoul ſhall join her.
Ruſhes out.
AUSTIN.
[78]Obſerve, and keep him from all means of death.
SCENE XV.
Counteſs with Women, Fabian, and other Atten⯑dants. Auſtin runs to her.
COUNTESS.
Whence were thoſe cries? what meant that fearful bell?
Who ſhall withhold me? I will not return.
Is there a horrour I am ſtranger to?
AUSTIN.
There is; and ſo beyond all mortal patience,
I can but wiſh you ſtripp'd of ſenſe and thought,
That it may paſs without deſtroying you.
COUNTESS.
What is it? ſpeak—
AUSTIN, looking towards the body.
Turn not your eyes that way,
For there, alas—
COUNTESS.
O Lord of earth and heaven!
Is it not ſhe? my daughter, pale and bleeding?
She's cold, ſtark cold:—can you not ſpeak to me?
Which of you have done this?
COUNT.
'Twas eaſe 'till now;
Fall, fall thick darkneſs, hide me from that face.
AUSTIN.
Riſe, Madam, 'tis in vain.—Heaven comfort her!
COUNTESS.
Shall I not ſtrive to warm her in my breaſt?
She is my all; I have nothing left but her.
You cannot force me from her. Adelaide!
My child, my lovely child! thy mother calls thee.
[79]She hears me not;—ſhe's dead.—Oh God!—I know thee—
Tell me, while I have ſenſe, for my brain burns;
Tell me—yet what avails it? I'll not curſe—
There is a power to puniſh.
COUNT.
Look on me!
Thou had'ſt much cauſe to think my nature cruel;
I wrong'd thee ſore, and this was my laſt deed.
COUNTESS.
Was thine? thy deed? Oh, execrable monſter!
Oh, greatly worthy of thy blood-ſtain'd ſire!
A murderer he, and thou a parricide!
Why did thy barbarous hand refrain from me?
I was the hated bar to thy ambition;
A ſtab, like this, had ſet thee free for ever;
Sav'd thee from ſhame, upbraiding, perjuries;—
But ſhe—this innocent—what had ſhe done?
COUNT.
I thank thee. I was fool enough, or coward,
To think of life one moment, to atone
By deep repentance for the wrongs I did thee.
But hateful to myſelf, hated by thee,
By heaven abandon'd, and the plague of earth,
This, this remains, and all are ſatisfied.
Snatch [...] up the dagger, and ſtabs himſelf.
Forgive me, if 'tis poſſible—but—oh—
Dies.
COUNTESS,
after looking ſome time diſtractedly.
Where am I? Ruin, and pale death ſurround me.
I was a wife; there gaſping lies my huſband;
A mother too; there breathleſs lies my child.
Look down, oh heaven! look down with pity on me!—
I know this place; it is the houſe of prayer:
Here, in my days of happineſs, I have kneel'd,
[80]Pouring my praiſe for all the good that bleſs'd me.
I'll kneel once more. Hear me, great God of nature!
For this one boon let me not beg in vain;
Oh, do not mock me with the hopes of death;
Theſe pangs, theſe ſtruggles, let them be my laſt;
Releaſe thy poor, afflicted, ſuffering creature;
Take me from miſery, too ſharp to bear,
And join me to my child!
Falls on the body of Adelaide. *
AUSTIN.
Peace reſt upon her!
Hard was your lot, you lovely innocents;
But palms, eternal palms, above ſhall crown you.
For this raſh man,—yet mercy's infinite.
The Count.
You ſtand amaz'd. Know, this diſaſtrous ſcene,
Ending the fatal race, concludes your ſorrows.
To-morrow meet we round this ſacred ſhrine;
Then ſhall you hear at full a tale of wonder;
The rightful Lord of Narbonne ſhall be own'd;
And heaven in all its ways be juſtified.
Curtain falls.
COUNTESS.
—Take me from miſery to [...] ſharp to bear,
And join me to my child!
Swoons in the arms of her attendants.
AUSTIN.
Heaven ſupport her!—
Hard was thy lot, thou lovely innocent;
Looking at the body of Adelaide.
But palms, eternal palms, above ſhall crown thee.
For this raſh man, &c.
Appendix A EPILOGUE.
[]OF all the laws by tyrant cuſtom made,
The hardeſt ſure are thoſe on authours laid.
No eaſy taſk, in this enlighten'd time,
It is, with art "to build the lofty rhime;"
To chooſe a fable, nor too old nor new;
To keep each character diſtinctly true;
The ſubtle plot with happy skill combine,
And chain attention to the nervous line;
With weighty, claſhing intereſts, to perplex,
Through five—long acts,—each perſon—of each ſex;
And then at laſt, by dagger or by bowl,
With poignant grief to harrow up the ſoul.—
All this achiev'd, the bard at eaſe carouſes,
And dreams of laurels and o'erflowing houſes.
Alas, poor man! his work is done but half;—
He has made you cry—but he muſt make you laugh;
And the ſame engine, like the fabled ſteel *,
Muſt ſerve at once to wound you and to heal.
Our Bard "of this had ta'en too little care,"
And by a friend beſought me to appear.
"Madam," he ſaid, "ſo oft you have grac'd the "ſcene,
"An injur'd princeſs, or a weeping queen;
"So oft been uſed to die, in anguiſh bitter,
"And then ſtart up—to make the audience titter,
[]"That, doubtleſs, you know beſt what is in vogue,
"And can yourſelf invent an epilogue:
"You can ſupply our authour's tardy quill,
"And gild the ſurface of his tragick pill;
"Your ready wit a recipe can bring,
"For this capricious, ſerio-comick thing."
A Recipe for epilogues!—"Why not?
"Have you each vaunting Chronicle forgot?
"Have we not recipes each day, each hour,
"To give to mortal man immortal power?
"To give the ungraceful, timid ſpeaker, breath,
"And ſave his quivering eloquence from death †?
"Have we not now a geometrick ſchool,
"To teach the croſs-leg'd youth—to ſnip by rule? ‡
"When arts like theſe each moment meet your eyes,
"Why ſhould receipts for Epilogues ſurpriſe?"
Well, Sir, I'll try—I firſt advance with ſimper,
(Forgotten quite my tragick ſtate and whimper)—
"Ladies, to-night my fate was ſurely hard:
"What could poſſeſs our inconſiderate bard,
"A wife to baniſh—that his miſs might wed,
"When modern prieſts allow them both one bed."
Thus I'll begin—But it will never do,
Unleſs ſome recent anecdotes enſue.—
Has no frail dame been caught behind a ſcreen?
No panting virgin flown to Gretna Green?—
Have we no news of Digby—or the Dutch?—
At ſome rich Nabob can't I have a touch?
Or the fam'd quack, who, but for duns terreſtrial,
Had gain'd the Indies by his bed celeſtial §?
[]"Bravo, Miſs Younge; the thought my friend will bleſs;
"This modiſh medley muſt enſure ſucceſs."
Won by this ſmooth-tongued flatterer, I've dar'd
To do what ev'n our fluent anthour fear'd.
If I ſucceed to-night, the trade I'll follow,
And dedicate my leiſure to Apollo:
Before my houſe a board ſhall ſtraight be hung,
With—Epilogues made here by Dr. Younge;
Nor will I, like my breth'ren, take a fee;—
Your hands and ſmiles are wealth enough for me.
Appendix B
THE following EPILOGUE, which was ſpoken on the firſt two nights of the exhibition of this tragedy, was obligingly written by R. J. GOODENOUGH, Eſq who did not know that an Epilogue had been prepared for it by Mr. Malone, at the Author's requeſt.
'TIS an old maxim with dramatick ſages,
To draw their tragick lore from diſtant ages.
The ruder manners, and impetuous vein,
Which no trim rules of etiquette reſtrain;
The gen'rous plainneſs of th' unpractis'd heart,
Nature's free powers yet unſubdued by art;
The rough ſimplicity,—the darkſome time,—
Improve the pathos,—heighten the ſublime:
While all the Poet's deepeſt ſkill might fail,
If us'd to decorate ſome modern tale.
In me you've ſeen a wife—who, though abhorr'd,
Abandon'd, threaten'd by her tyrant Lord,
[]Did patient long her firm affection prove,
'Midſt the keen tortures of inſulted love.
You've ſeen a maiden—fair, and nobly born,
Attach'd to merit, wretched and forlorn;
And then, her lover, in a mean diſguiſe,
In native worth above all titles riſe.
A prieſt—with zeal and holy ardour fraught,
Practiſe the leſſons which his preaching taught.
—But while at ſcenes like theſe your boſoms glow,
You'll recollect, they happen'd—long ago.
In our gay times, a wife forſaken, ſcorn'd,
Had ne'er in doleful guiſe her fortune mourn'd;
But with frail ſchemes; in faſhionable courſe,
Had been the firſt to furniſh a divorce.
The maiden had her peaſant ſwain deſpis'd,
And ſtars, and lace, and liv'ries, more had priz'd.
Nor could, in this, perhaps, her choice be blam'd;
For ſay, what lover now had other merit claim'd?
As for our prieſts—in rev'rence let them reſt;—
On modern ſaints—the leaſt that's ſaid, is beſt.
Of manners, then, ſo different in their kind,
The old are rude—the new are too refin'd.
That author well deſerves our warmeſt praiſe,
Who thoſe examples which we need diſplays.
Who, 'midſt the placid murmurings of Ton,
Rolls the rough tide of Gothick force along;
And when true worth ſeems withering at the root,
Turns the rich ſoil whence towering virtues ſhoot.
Ne'er can the Muſe be more our nature's friend,
Than when ſhe ſtrives its wide extremes to blend;
Bids ſimple truth with poliſh'd faſhion join,
And ancient ſtrength with modern grace combine.
FINIS.
Notes
*
A ſlight alteration having been made in the repreſentation of the laſt ſcene of this tragedy, by the friends of the author, in his abſence, it has been thought proper to print the text exactly according to his copy, and to exhibit here the lines as they were ſpoken on the ſtage.
*
The Spear of Achilles.
Myſus et Aemoniâ juvenis qua cuſpide vulnus
Senſerat, hac ipſâ cuſpide ſenſit opem.
PROPERT. Lib. II. El. 1.
†
A quack medicine has been long recommended, in a printed advertiſement, for its efficacy in compoſing the agitated nerves of thoſe who ſpeak in publick.
‡
A tailor has lately informed the publick in moſt of the news⯑papers, that he ſits his cuſtomers by geometrick rules.
§
"If he were not prevented by unprecedented cruelty, he would in a few years have become one of his majeſty's richeſt and moſt reſpectable ſubjects." Dr. Graham's Advertiſement from the Temple of Hymen.
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3953 The Count of Narbonne a tragedy As it is acted at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden By Robert Jephson Esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-57E2-3