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ALBINA, Counteſs RAIMOND; A TRAGEDY, By Mrs. COWLEY: As it is Performed at the THEATRE-ROYAL IN THE HAY-MARKET.

LONDON: Printed by T. SPILSBURY; For J. DODSLEY, Pall-Mall; R FAULDER, New Bond-Street; L. DAVIS, Holborn; T. BECKET, in the Strand; W. OWEN, T. LOWNDES, and G. KEARSLY, Fleet-Street; W. DAVIS, Ludgate-Hill; S. CROWDER, and T. EVANS, Pater-noſter-Row; and Meſſrs. RICHARDSON and URQUHART, Royal-Exchange. M,DCC,LXXIX.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HARROWBY.

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MY LORD,

ALBINA had the honour of being known to your Lordſhip, almoſt from her infancy. Her faults, and her graces, You are already acquainted with, as ſhe grew up in ſome meaſure beneath your Lordſhip's eye. She is now arrived at maturity; and if in her preſent ſtate, my Lord, you ſhould find her more poliſhed, than when ſhe had laſt the honour of your attention, it is chiefly owing to the hints with which you then favoured me.

I have the honour to be, My LORD, Your Lordſhip's grateful, And obedient humble Servant, H. COWLEY.

PREFACE.

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THE very favourable reception with which the Pieces I have preſented to the Stage, have been honoured by the Public, has given them the appearance of great ſucceſs; and it is probable that thoſe who were witneſſes of their reception, will be ſurpriſed to find this Tragedy prefaced by complaints of hardſhip and injury, and to know that it has been productive of a train of mortifications and diſappointments to its Author.

It is with the utmoſt reluctance that I feel myſelf compelled to enter into the diſagreeable circumſtances which preceded the repreſentation. This is however neceſſary, as I now preſent a Tragedy, which I preſume to call original, to the cooler inſpection of the Reader, though I know that the principal circumſtances of the plot, and the leading traits of character, have appeared in other Plays, previous to the repreſentation of this.

The idea of writing for the Stage ſtruck me by mere accident, and the Runaway was my firſt literary attempt of any kind. I am as ready, as the ſevereſt Critic can wiſh, to admit that it has all the crudeneſs of a firſt attempt. It ſucceeded however, on the Stage, far beyond my moſt ſanguine expectations; and during its run, which was ſtopped by the Benefits, was one of the moſt profitable Plays, both to the Author and Manager, that appears on the records of the Treaſury-books at either Houſe.—A ſucceſs ſo encouraging opened a new proſpect of advantage to my Family, which I have ſince purſued with alacrity; but this ſucceſs cloſed with the unfortunate period in which Mr. Garrick reſigned the management of Drury-Lane.

When Mr. Sheridan obtained a ſhare of the Patent, I flattered myſelf that I had ſome right to his attention, as Author of the laſt piece which was produced by his able Predeceſſor; but the firſt Winter in which he commenced the management, my Comedy, to uſe the technical term, was ſhelf'd. The vanity of a young Author was piqued; and I wrote to Mr. Sheridan, in the civileſt terms I could, to remonſtrate on the occaſion; but of my letter not the leaſt notice was taken. As I was not then informed of Mr. Sheridan's general neglect of letters, I conſidered this ſlight as a particular inſult to me, eſpecially as the Comedy was not played again that year, but by command of their Majeſties, and for the benefit of Performers. I therefore ſelt myſelf under a [] neceſſity of preſenting my Tragedy at Covent-Garden; but, as I had ſome reaſon to dread Mr. Harris's opinions, it was preſented to him, in the Summer of 1777, by a Lady of Rank, with the name and ſex of the Author concealed. After ſeveral weeks of anxious expectation, it was returned, peremptorily rejected. I then waited on him, and avowed the unfortunate Piece, but had little reaſon to flatter myſelf with the circumſtances of my reception: Mr. Harris to d me, that there was no hope from alteration; that the Play was unfit for the Stage, and that he was convinced it never could be made fit: he diſliked the whole idea of Gondibert's ſituation; and thought every incident of the Fifth Act inadmiſſible, as he believed no audience would hear it. The laſt part of this opinion ſurpriſed me, as I had conceived the Fifth Act was the principal ſtrength of the Piece; but I was compelled to ſubmit: Nor is its rejection the injury of which I complain; had the aſhes of my Tragedy reſted undiſturbed, I might have mourned over them; but I would have mourned in ſilence.

The Tragedy of Percy was ſoon after announced. I attended its repreſentation with anxious curioſity, at this Play had been approved by that judgement which had decided ſo ſeverely on mine. At the opening of the Piece, I was much concerned to ſee an old Engliſh ſtory attempted, though it bore little reſemblance to the legendary tales of Percy and Douglas; and that ſo much was ſaid of Chivalry, and of expeditions to the Holy Land—circumſtances which, though finely calculated for the Stage, had been much neglected by our Poets, in favour of the tales of Greek and Roman antiquity. Yet, as the Cruſades are common hiſtorical facts, I could only conſider my being in ſome meaſure anticipated, as unfortunate. But I can hardly deſcribe my aſtoniſhment, or diſtreſs, when I ſaw Raby, the Father of the Heroine, appear in almoſt the ſame ſituation with Weſtmoreland; and reſent his Son-in-law's imputation on the honour of his Daughter, in a train of ideas exactly ſimilar to thoſe which I had given to the Father of Adina; and that he even ſpoke ſeveral lines nearly verbatim; which will be found on comparing the two Tragedies.

I learnt from the Papers of next day, that Percy was a Tranſlation from a Tragedy called Gabrielle de Vergy, written by M. Belloy. I was ſoon after informed, by perſons who had read the original, (for I am unacquainted with the language) that in M. Belley's Tragedy there is no Father. I had remarked, indeed, during the repreſentation, that Raby ſeemed to have no connection with the plot; he was out of the way during all the buſineſs of the Play, and returned juſt time enough to challenge the defamer of his Daughter, and to call himſelf her Champion; which however neither introduces, nor retards a ſingle event,

[iii] Various were my conjectures on this occaſion; but prudence ſuggeſted a cautious ſilence, as I had ſtill hopes at Drury-Lane. Mr. Sheridan received me infi [...]itely better than I expected, and regretted that I had not brought my Piece before, as Mr. Jephſon and Mr. Craddock had each a Tragedy promiſed for the next Winter, (1778-9) which muſt put it off another Seaſon; but aſſured me, in the moſt explicit terms, that no other Tragedy ſhould come before it, provided it was proper for the Stage; which, he added in a very polite manner, he had no doubt of. He ſoon after received my Farce of Who's the Dupe? with equal frankneſs, and promiſed that it ſhould be brought out in the beſt part of the Seaſon, as ſome recompence for the delay of my Tragedy. More than ſatisfied, happy with my proſpects, I had only to regret that I had miſapprehended his neglect of my letter, and cauſed myſelf ſo many uneaſy hours.

The Law of Lombardy was ſoon after put into Rehearſal, and I learnt, with great ſurpriſe, that it bore a reſemblance to Albina in the conduct of the Piece, though not in the Story or Characters. I was greatly alarmed at the idea of more anticipation; which, whether accidental or otherwiſe, was deſtructive of every proſpect of reputation or advantage to me. This reſemblance was mentioned to Mr. Sheridan; and I thought myſelf happy when, by his interpoſition, Mr. Harris was prevailed on to read the Tragedy, on the ſuggeſtion that ſome alteration had been made; and they acknowledged that, if both Pieces were entitled to the Stage, the only means of doing juſtice to both, was to bring them out, at the ſame time, at different Houſes; otherwiſe the novelty of one of them muſt be deſtroyed—and the idea of Rival Tragedies might be as advantageous as that of Rival Actors had been on ſome particular occaſions. This matter, of very anxious expectation, was ſuſpended near a month, as Mr. Sheridan met with great difficulty in finding the Copy of the Tragedy. In the mean-time, the ſpeaking Pantomime of the Touchſtone was brought out; and, as I was then in great good-humour with Mr. Harris, I had a pleaſure in endeavouring to ſuggeſt ſome uſeful alterations, and was happy when he accepted the new ſcene of Lady Faſhion's Rout, which I conſidered as an earneſt that he intended to accept the Tragedy. Mr. Sheridan at length found Albina, and I attended him by appointment. On this occaſion I waited three hours, (which was rather longer than he had ever made me wait before): he came at length with the Tragedy in his hand; and I feel myſelf too much flattered by what he then ſaid, to omit it, whatever length it may add to my tale.

He made a thouſand apologies, (and in apologies for negligence Mr. Sheridan is remarkably eaſy and ſucceſsful) but ſaid he had brought the beſt in his hand, which was my Tragedy, ſaying, ‘"I have now read every word of it. I was determined [iv] not to ſee you 'till I had; and this it is that has kept me ſo long. Before I enter into particulars, I will tell you that I think your Tragedy a very good one; it will do you much honour, and be of ſervice to the Theatre."’On my acknowledgements, he added, ‘"Upon my word, I really think what I ſay; and, without a compliment, I am ſurpriſed that ſuch a Tragedy could have been refuſed. Mr. Harris muſt have ſeen it when his head was full of other buſineſs: if he had read it attentively, he could not have refuſed it. This Tragedy has a right to the Stage: it muſt and ſhall be done."’

The Tragedy was then opened, and Mr. Sheridan ſhewed me ſeveral indentings againſt lines which he wiſhed me to conſider. He ſaid the Characters were very ſtrongly drawn, and the Story intereſting; and frequently pointed out paſſages, which, on account of the Poetry, or the Thought, he was pleaſed to admire. The only objection of importance was, that he thought Gondibert ſhould not ſee, or mention, the Bridal Bed, in the laſt Scene: but, on my attempting a timorous defence, he added, ‘"Don't alter this, or any other paſſage, unleſs it ſtrikes you as it does me; you ought to be tenacious: every original Writer muſt give up paſſages with difficulty: it is only Tranſlators, and Borrowers, who are ſo ready to comply with every hint that is propoſed."

The judgement pronounced by Mr. Sheridan made me particularly happy, as Mr. Harris had promiſed, the ſame morning, that he would be guided by Mr. Sheridan's opinion, who ſaid he would give the Tragedy to Mr. Harris himſelf, and tell him what he thought of it. This was adding favour to favour; and my thanks, I believe, ſufficiently expreſſed my ſentiments.

Mr. Harris, a few days afterwards, took my Tragedy, as he imagined, into the country; but, on opening it, found that Mr. Sheridan had, by miſtake, given him a Comedy. This occaſioned another week's ſuſpence: it was then however obtained and read; and I had ſcarce a doubt, conſidering every circumſtance, that it would be put into immediate Rehearſal.

All my hopes were however confounded by Mr. Harris's perſevering with inflexible ſteadineſs in his former opinion. He ſaid, there had been no material alterations, (which was certainly true;) and that it was ſtill his opinion, that the Tragedy could never be made fit for the Stage. When he was reminded that Mr. Sheridan entertained a very different opinion of it, he replied, ‘"I don't believe he has read it: he may have dipped into it; but I am convinced he has not read it through."’ This was afterwards diſcuſſed in the preſence of both, when Mr. Sheridan aſſured Mr. Harris that he had read the whole, and that it was his opinion it ought to be done; but Mr. Harris remained inflexible.

[v] When I next ſaw Mr. Sheridan, it was on the ſubject of my Farce. He obſerved me diſpirited, and kindly taking my hand, ſaid, ‘"Never mind 'em; you and I will ſhew that we know a good Tragedy."’

This Farce Mr. Harris had offered to take, and put into immediate Rehearſal; but, as I had then no doubt of its being played in an advantageous part of the ſeaſon at Drury-Lane, I had no inducement to change the Houſe for which it was intended. Who's the Dupe, however, in conſequence of repeated breaches of appointments and promiſes, was not produced till the middle of the Benefits, when it could not have a regular run; and I was then to pay an Hundred Guineas (Thirty of which had been added by the preſent Managers) for the chance of a Benefit, at a time when the current buſineſs of the Theatre would not produce that Sum.

The pecuniary diſappointment I did not conſider as material in this inſtance, as I hoped that the applauſe with which the Farce was uniformly received, would have put an end to the difficulty of getting my Pieces on the Stage, which was infinitely more harraſſing to my mind than the labour of producing them. I was however ſoon after greatly hurt, to hear that Mr. Sheridan evaded the ſubject when it was accidentally men [...]ioned, and adviſed me to write a Comedy.—It was neceſſary, for this purpoſe, that I ſhould have ſome Comic ideas; and they were all completely driven from my mind by the vexations I had undergone. I had indeed made ſome progreſs in writing a Piece founded on Turkiſh manners, the Scene of which is laid in Aſia, and ſlattered myſelf with ſucceſs from the novelty of the attempt; but it lies, and muſt lie, in its preſent ſtate, till I have reaſon to believe it will meet with a fair and candid reception from the Theatres.

Mr. Craddock's Tragedy was then preparing for rehearſal, and the parts given out; but another Play of Miſs More's was diſcovered to be nearly finiſhed; and Mr. Harris was ſo eager to bring it out, though it was then near the concluſion of the ſeaſon, that ſhe has ſaid he would hardly give her time to finiſh it. There was only one capital Actreſs at either Houſe, who would undertake a new part in May; and, though ſhe belonged to Drury-Lane, ſhe was caſt in Miſs More's Pray at Covent-Garden, in conſequence of the levelling power of the Coalition; and Mr. Craddock's Play was put off 'till next ſeaſon.

Another Play by Miſs More alarmed me greatly. The terror of ſuffering again what I had felt at Percy, induced me to write to her in much agitation; a d I am ſorry that I was prevented f [...]om ſending that Letter, and induced to believe it was impoſſible that the ſame palpable reſemblance could again happen. Under this conviction I attended the repreſentation, and heard with aſtoniſhment, [vi] what appeared to me to be every eſſential circumſtance in the Plot, and Character, of my Play; and to obſerve, that it was changed principally in thoſe places which had been objected to in mine. In Orlando, as in Gond [...]bert, the action ſprings from Love, which took its riſe in a ſituation wherein Hope was impoſſible; though the object is changed, from the Widow of his Brother, to the betrothed Miſtreſs of his Friend.

The character and offices of Editha were given, though the ſex was changed. From the ſame motive of aggrandizing his fortune, though without the ſame ſtimulus of a degraded ſituation, he worms himſelf into the conſidence of the deſpairing Lover, and perſuades him that he is ſecretly beloved by Iſabella, whilſt ſhe receives the addreſſes of another. Orlando breaks into a rhapſody ſimilar to that of Gondibert, perſuades himſelf he had ſeen many proofs of that concealed paſſion, and gives himſelf up to the guidance of his artful Counſellor; which produces a cataſtrophe that is nearly the ſame. Orlando, in the dark, intending to ſtab Rivers, by a fortunate miſtake ſtabs Bertrand; and the principal ſituation of the cataſtrophe is produced exactly in the ſame manner in both Plays; which is, by the critical entrance of the perſon ſuppoſed to be murdered. The greater part of this, however, paſſes behind the ſcenes in Fatal Falſehood; by which the dramatic effect is weakened; but the principal objections made to mine, are removed. The character of the Siſter of Rivers, and other parts of the Play, differ from mine; but there is a ſcene between the Father and his Daughter, on her being rejected by Orlando, that bears the ſame reſemblance, in the literal expreſſion, to the ſcene between Weſtmoreland and Albina, in the fourth Act of this Play, as the ſcene in Percy did to that between him and Edward.

How all theſe wonderful reſemblances happened, it is impoſſible for me to know—nor do I know that Miſs More ever ſaw my Tragedy—it was in Mr. Garrick's poſſeſſion (under the name of Edwina) ſoon after the concluſion of the ſeaſon in which he he left the Stage; about which time, I have ſince been informed, Miſs More was an inmate at Hampton, and that the Play, afterwards called Percy, was then tranſlating. My Tragedy was afterwards in Mr. Harris's Cloſet, at the ſame time with Percy, and again nearly at the ſame time with Fatal Falſehood. I know that Managers are continually employed in giving advice, and in ſuggeſting alternations to Authors; and I have frequently heard, before I had any experience in this anxious warfare, of the danger when once an idea is afloat in the Theatrical Hemiſphere, of its getting into other plays. Amidſt the croud of Plots, and Stage Contrivances, in which a Manager is involv'd, recollection is too frequently miſtaken for the ſuggeſtions of imagination.

[vii] Should it, after all, appear to the Public, that there is nothing more in theſe repeated reſemblances, than what may be accounted for by ſuppoſing a ſimilarity in our minds; and that, by ſome wonderful coincidence, Miſs More and I have but one common ſtock of ideas between us, I have only to lament that the whole misfortune of this ſimilarity has fallen upon me: and, as in this caſe, we muſt continue writing in the ſame track, it ſeems reaſonable that we ſhould have our productions brought forward in turn; inſtead of which Miſs More has had two Tragedies brought out, both of which were written ſince mine, whilſt I ſtruggled for the repreſentation of this, in vain. But, as there ſeems to be little hope of my obtaining this, or any other favour, from the Winter Managers, I preſume at leaſt, that, as I do not pretend to prove—what it is impoſſible for me to know—that Miſs More ever read, or copied me, that it will be admitted that I have not copied her; had I not been able to aſcertain the fact, that my Tragedy was written long before Percy and Fatal Falſehood appeared, no proof would have been required, beyond their extreme ſimilarity, that I had been guilty of the groſſeſt Plagiariſm.

I now found myſelf deprived of all hope of Albina's appearing to the Public as an Original Play; yet I ſtill conceived myſelf ſure of its being repreſented at Drury-Lane the next Seaſon: but I ſoon after accidentally learnt, that Mr. Sheridan had promiſed another Tragedy; and, as Mr. Craddock's had been put off, I well knew that three would not be done:—this, with his evading the ſubject, and ſaying that he thought Mr. Harris would ſtill do it, reduced me to the diſagreeable neceſſity of aſking an explicit declaration, when I heard with inexpreſſible aſtoniſhment—‘"That he neyer intended to do the Play at Drury-Lane, and that the next Seaſon was engaged to Mr. Craddock, and another Gentleman."’On being reminded of his promiſes and encomiums, he ſaid—‘"It was ſtill his opinion, that the Tragedy was a very good one, that it ought not to have been refuſed, and that he had propoſed to prevail on Mr. Harris after all to bring it out; but, as this had been improperly mentioned to Mr. Harris, there was now an end of it."’ I was then charged with having pieced converſations together, which Mr. Sheridan ſaid ſhould never happen again; and, from the whole of his behaviour, it appeared to me that he meant this to cloſe his doors againſt me.

This moſt injurious and unaccountable conduct appears to me to be the effect of that coalition of the Theatres, which, by uniting the intereſts and prejudices of the Managers, deprives an Author of all hope, after a Piece has been rejected by one. Had Mr. Sheridan been unconnected with Covent-Garden, I have no doubt, from the opinion he conceived of my Tragedy, but that it would have been brought out in a moſt advantageous [viii] manner. Ideas of rivalſhip, which is the natural and proper effect of two Houſes, would have been as favourable to me, as their union has been ruinous.

The morning ſucceeding my interview with Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Colman was aſked to bring out a Tragedy for me, at the Haymarket, which both the Winter Managers had refuſed. His anſwer was—When an Author of reputation thinks proper to bring me a Piece, I don't think I have a right to deliberate. If Mrs. Cowley invites the Town to a Tragedy at the Haymarket, I am only the Midwife, to give it a ſafe delivery to the World; when one does not know a Writer, it is different.

This candid and liberal anſwer I have great pleaſure in recording. The Tragedy, when read, drew an approbation not leſs warm from Mr. Colman, than from Mr. Sheridan: and it was not merely praiſe; Mr. Colman put it into immediate rehearſal, for which I think myſelf under the higheſt obligation, as Tragedy is inconſiſtent with the ſportive Genius of the Haymarket; and there was little hope of advantage equal to the expenſive preparation of a regular Tragedy. It was however preſented, with no other alteration than the curtailments, which were neceſſary, on account of the length, where the time of repreſentation is ſhorter than in the Winter Theatres—and with the diſadvantage of having one of its principal * Characters performed in a ſtyle which excited laughter; yet it was received with a degree of applauſe, for which I ſhould be ungrateful, were I not vain of it.

Had I taken up my pen merely in purſuit of applauſe, I ſhould have been completely gratified; but this, though ſo oſtentatiouſly held out as the motive for productions in the Poetic line, has ſeldom, in any age or country, produced works of any conſiderable reputation. Dramatic Writers, in particular, have always ſought for ſupport from their labour, which is too great to be undertaken for amuſement. This may appear a vulgar topic; but to me it is a very ſerious ſubject of complaint, that, by the conduct of the Winter Managers, I have been deprived of a reaſonable proſpect of ſeveral hundred pounds, and have ſpent years of fruitleſs anxiety and trouble. My productions have been uniformly received by the Public with applauſe; yet I find the doors of the Winter Theatres ſhut againſt me.—To this ſevere fate I moſt reluctantly ſubmit.

PROLOGUE. *

[]
[Prompter, ſpeaking without.]
PRAY, Sir, come back—come back—The Author ſwears,
That, if you ſpeak—
Hang Authors, and their airs!
I ſay I will ſpeak, though ſhe burſt with rage:
What right has She upon our Summer Stage?—
—With diſmal Stories, and long Acts in verſe,
Solemn, and ſlow-paced, as a midnight herſe?
Hey-dey! from floor to roof, diſplay'd in rows,
As though we ſhiver'd in December ſnows!
'Tis dev'liſh odd!—Beneath a burning ſky
Who'd crowd it here, to pant, and ſob, and cry,
Whilſt Madmen ſwagger, or their Madams die?
'Twas my advice to keep theſe Doors cloſe ſhut
Againſt that ranting, bloody-minded Slut,
Melpomene. I never yet could ſee
Thoſe charms of hers—I'm ſure ſhe's none for me.
My Miſtreſs—little Thal—you know I mean,
The laughing Princeſs of the Comic Scene—
—She ſent me here, and dubb'd me Plenipo.
"Dear PARSONS! Quick!" ſhe cry'd, "this inſtant go!
"Fly to yon Audience, who in judgement ſit,
"And plead our cauſe before the Jury Pit.
"Tell 'em this Authorling abjures my reign,
"To fill my haughty Siſter's ſanguine train;
"A lawleſs Rebel, from my Banner flown—
"—I call for juſtice—juſtice from the Town!"
[] I'll do't, ſaid I; and then, in aid of you,
My wrongs I'll uſher to their Worſhips' view.
Me ſhe forſakes; her little Doily ſlights,
He who hath toil'd ſo many weary nights,
And talk'd of Algebra, and Greek, and Latin,
Till larned Scholards could no word ſqueeze pat-in.
Down with her Tragedy! down, down, ye Wits!
For me, and Thal. the fickle Baggage quits.
Spoil her Heroics! her new buſkins doff!
And then—
Monſter!
[Enter Mrs. Maſſey.
You there! oh, oh, I'm off, I'm off!
[Exit.
Not write in Tragic ſtile!—Pray tell me why?
Sure thoſe who made you laugh, may make you cry.
WHEN the light Scenes, our Author's pencil drew,
Extorted—all ſhe aſk'd—a ſmile from You;
Her grateful mind a new-born ardor caught,
A loftier fancy, and ſublimer thought;
To her rapt eye the Martial Ages roſe;
And, as her Muſe impell'd, her Story flows.
'Tis true, ſhe calls you from the tempting ſhade,
The zephyr'd meadow, and the leafy glade;
And not to cheer with Satire's poignant hit,
Ironic Humour, or the flaſh of Wit.
Her wand ſhe waves; and, inſtant to your eyes
Tempeſtuous paſſions, guilty deeds, ariſe!
For theſe our Author's magic line was drawn;
For theſe ſhe bids you from the fragrant lawn:—
To rend with fear, to melt with tender woe,
And bid the graceful drops of pity flow.
Majeſtic Nature's plan ſhe follows there,
Who, when thick vapours clog the ſultry air,
[] When glowing Sirius, from his fervid eye,
Sends noxious languors through the ſick'ning ſky,
Arous'd—amidſt her THUNDERS ſhe appears,
And in terrific grandeur ſtrikes our ears!
The wide-ſtretch'd concave blackens with her ire;
Through lab'ring aether darts the living fire;
The heav'ns, the earth, all aid her mighty rage,
And elements with wrathful elements engage!
Then—whilſt the trembling world is loſt in fears—
She melts the lurid clouds in healthful tears.
Your tears we mean to prompt, whilſt You, ſecure
Amidſt the coming ſtorm, the wreck endure:
Harmleſs our tempeſt roars within this pale,
Whilſt ventilators catch the cooling gale.
But, ſhould a tempeſt in your quarter riſe,
'Twould ſcare us more than thunder in the ſkies
Guiltleſs to You the ſtorm within theſe doors;
Do You then ſave us harmleſs, Sirs! from yours.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA,

[]
MEN.
KING
Mr. Uſher.
WESTMORELAND
Mr. Digges.
EDWARD
Mr. Dimond.
GONDIBERT
Mr. Palmer.
EGBERT
Mr. Aicken.
OFFICER
Mr. Egan.
OSWALD
Mr. R. Palmer.
STEWARD to Weſtmoreland
Mr. Gardner.

WOMEN.
ALBINA
Mrs. Maſſey.
EDITHA
Miſs Sherry.
ADELA
Mrs. Pouſſin.
INA
Mrs. Le Fevre.

Guards and Attendants.

[]ALBINA, Counteſs RAIMOND, A TRAGEDY,

ACT I.

SCENE, A magnificent Hall in the Gothic ſtyle.
Enter the Earl of Weſtmoreland, and a Gentleman.
WESTMORELAND.
BEAR back my duty to my royal Maſter;
Tell him I will obey his gracious ſummons,
And meet the Council at th'appointed hour:—
—Yet would I hope the flying rumour falſe.
GENTLEMAN.
Too well, my Lord, the tidings are confirm'd;
Again the ſacrilegious Turk hath broke
The peace he aſk'd—again the Creſcent's rear'd
Upon the Holy Plains, whilſt yellow ſtreamers,
Fann'd by the wanton air, which late embrac'd
The Chriſtian ſtandard, to the world proclaim
The impious war.
WESTMORELAND.
Give back the years, O Time!
When ſuch a tale as this had fir'd my ſoul,
And ſped me to th'unrighteous camp, on wings
Of holy zeal! The fire's not yet extinct,
But cank'ring age the ſinews of my youth
Hath eat away.
GENTLEMAN.
[2]
Be not thus thankleſs to an age,
Which in its ſlow advance, to gain a welcome,
Brought honours, triumphs, and a nation's love!
WESTMORELAND.
Forbear! Thou com'ſt a meſſenger of war;
Away then with the flatt'ring arts of peace,
And deal in words more ſuited to the times!
GENTLEMAN.
Your pardon, Lord! Know then, the King in haſte
Orders his vet'ran Nobles to attend him.
A powerful army he'll in perſon lead
To Aſia's plains. Ten thouſand choiceſt warriors
Mean time are his precurſors to the field,
Led on by him they love—the gallant Edward—
Who, ere the down of youth forfook his cheek,
Deeds had perform'd that laurell'd age might envy.
WESTMORELAND.
His manhood will fulfill his youth's fair promiſe—
—A ſtar, or I miſtake, which roſe in ſplendor,
And will in glory ſet. Had Heaven beſtow'd
On me a ſon like him, without regret
I'd ſink into the arms of nerveleſs age;
Count his exploits, grow vain upon his conqueſts;
And, when my Country claim'd her ancient warrior,
I'd proudly ſhow my Son.
GENTLEMAN.
Though from your prayers a Son hath been witheld,
A Daughter was beſtow'd, ſo rich in graces,
So excellent in mind—
WESTMORELAND.
She's my heart's darling—
—My only pledge of chaſte connubial love!
Her mother's beauty, and her mother's worth,
Survive the grave—They live in my Albina!
[3]Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
The Lord Edward, with earneſtneſs, demands
An audience of your grace.
WESTMORELAND.
Inſtant admit him.
[Ex. Serv. and Gent.
He comes, to boaſt a Soldier's happineſs.
Enter Lord Edward.
WESTMORELAND.
Welcome, young Hero! I partake the tranſports
Which this high honour, this unſought command,
Muſt give a heart—panting, like yours—for Glory.
EDWARD.
My Lord!
[confuſedly.
WESTMORELAND.
How's this! have I miſread your heart?
Now, whilſt our fiery youth are all in arms,
And martial ardors dart from ev'ry eye;
Edward, as if oppreſs'd with maiden ſhame,
Bluſhing, averts his head—
EDWARD.
Well may I bluſh!
The Soldier, choſen by the King, to lead
His warlike bands, and carry Britain's thunder
To holy Zion's gates—he whoſe rapt boſom,
No flame, but glory, ſhould confeſs—
—He ſtands before you, with a fainting heart,
To tell a tale—of love.
WESTMORELAND.
The time's unapt;
Yet 'tis a tale at which a Soldier needs not bluſh.
He, who moſt ardent in the ſanguine field,
Contemning danger, braves the whizzing ſtorm;
He is moſt fit to ſtorm a Maid's reluctance,
He beſt deſerves the happineſs of love.
EDWARD.
[4]
This, from a Hero's mouth, warrants my ſighs.
Edward no longer then ſhall fear to own
The power of ſilken treſſes, and fair eyes:
But, Weſtmoreland! with equal patience hear
That ſhe, who in my heart hath rais'd this flame—
—She, who doth pityleſs receive its ſighs,
Is matchleſs Raimond—is thy beauteous Daughter!
WESTMORELAND.
Heaven, I thank thee!
[aſide.]
Is this a ſudden paſſion,
Bred from the fever of hot youthful blood?
Or kindled by ſome caſual glance?
EDWARD.
Oh no!
A faithful Love—with my exiſtence twiſted;
Nor know I when th'attachment firſt began.
Deep in my heart ſhe'd fix'd her beauteous image
When, by my father ſent, I England left
For diſtant lands.
WESTMORELAND.
So early!
EDWARD.
E'en ſo early.
Ere glory or ambition touch'd my breaſt,
Albina fill'd it with reſiſtleſs love.
WESTMORELAND.
Had you diſclos'd your paſſion to my Daughter?
EDWARD.
If the unartful language of mine eyes
Diſclos'd the tale, ſhe knew I was her ſlave;
But youthful baſhfulneſs ſeal'd up my lips:
And when I left—reluctant—Albion's ſhores,
Not one ſoft glance my longing eye could catch
To ſooth the raging paſſion in my breaſt.
WESTMORELAND.
[5]
But Gallia's ſhores a ready cure beſtow'd:
Her beauties kindly heal the wounds they give,
Nor let their lovers languiſh in their chains.
EDWARD.
In vain the beauties of the Gallic Court
Spread out their nets—In vain the dames of Italy
Diſplay'd their charms—Impatient I return'd
To lay my heart at your Albina's feet—
—Oh day of horror! She was wife of Raimond!
Fury, deſpair, ſeiz'd my diſtracted mind—
I curs'd his fortune, curs'd myſelf, and loath'd
His hated name—
WESTMORELAND.
Young Lord, you do forget
Earl Raimond was my Son—the choſen Huſband
To whom I gave Albina.
EDWARD.
Oh pardon, Sir, the tranſports of my grief,
Which, at this diſtant period, ſhake my frame,
And gueſs from them what Edward hath endur'd!
Earl Raimond's arms, and mine, againſt the Saracens
Our monarch did command—and then I prov'd
That I was worthy of Albina's hand.
WESTMORELAND.
Your valiant acts by fame have been proclaim'd.
EDWARD.
Of fame, of valour, 'tis not that I boaſt,
'Tis not the proweſs of my arm in war,
'Tis of a deed a Roman might have claim'd,
And you will thank—
WESTMORELAND.
You warm my expectation.
EDWARD.
'Twas on a day, when truce had been proclaim'd,
I paſs'd beyond the lines t'obſerve the foe.
[6] Directed by the gleams of burniſh'd mail,
Within the boſom of a tufted thicket,
Three Saracens, waging unequal fight
Againſt one Engliſh warrior, I eſpy'd.
My bounding courſer bore me to the ſpot—
There Raimond I beheld, o'erpow'r'd and prone:
Lifting this temper'd ſword, I cleft the arm
Which, aiming at his heart, had inſtant pierc'd it—
He roſe with ſtrength renew'd, and we grew victors.
WESTMORELAND.
Talk not of Roman, 'twas a Briton's act,
And well became a Chriſtian warrior.
Go to Albina—boldly ſpeak your paſſion—
She muſt, ſhe ſhall, reward thy truth and honour!
Tell her, her Father doth approve thy ſuit,
And ſpeeds thee, with his wiſhes, to her heart.
EDWARD.
For this, O noble Weſtmoreland! I thank thee;
But vainly I've aſſail'd with warmeſt vows
Albina's heart: Sorrow, like a chill atmoſphere,
The beauteous dame ſurrounds, quenching each dart—
Each burning dart of love.—
WESTMORELAND.
Oh, you've not yet been vers'd in women's ways.
You, who can brave Bellona, when ſhe ſhakes
Her iron locks, I warrant, are diſmay'd
At Beauty's frown, and tremble if ſhe ſweeps
Her train in ſcorn: But you muſt learn t'o'erlook
An hundred follies—vanity behold
In every ſhifting form, and yet be pleas'd—
Still patiently admire, or never hope
to win fantaſtic woman.
EDWARD.
Oh, ſuch ſervices
Albina never claim'd; yet, if ſhe did,
Whole years I'd ſpend to gratify her taſte,
[7] And would be any thing to pleaſe her phantaſy—
But now, to thoſe ſweet homages which Love
Delights to pay, a cruel period's fix'd—
Within three days, England I quit for Paleſtine.
WESTMORELAND.
'Tis a ſhort period. It will ſcarcely ſerve
To break a piece of gold, or carve her name,
With your's entwin'd, on ſome young willow's bark.
EDWARD.
Ah, my good Lord, treat not my griefs thus lightly!
For if I leave your Daughter, Raimond's widow,
I go to certain death—if Edward's Bride,
I will return in triumph to her arms,
Lay my proud laurels at Albina's feet,
And ſeek no future glory, but her love.
WESTMORELAND.
Well, to my Daughter I will plead your cauſe.
This do I owe the love your Father bore me,
And to the fame your virtues have attain'd—
Here meet me in an hour, and hope ſucceſs.
EDWARD.
This—this, O Weſtmoreland! I dar'd to hope;
Yet joy and gratitude, like fires confin'd,
Struggle within my heart for room—for utterance—
My tongue, unus'd to deſcant on felicity,
Denies its words—yet truſt to me—
WESTMORELAND.
Nay keep them
For purpoſes more fit; words may win Ladies,
But Soldiers muſt be won by deeds!
[Exeunt ſeverally.
[8]
SCENE, A Garden belonging to Albina.
Enter Editha followed by Adela.
EDITHA.
Why ſhines the ſun thus gaily on the world?
Why do the feather'd habitants of air
With melody, and cheery ſongs, inſult me?
Is it to prove that, 'mongſt all Nature's beings,
I am the moſt unbleſt? Th'unconſcious birds
Chant ſongs of gratitude for good poſſeſs'd;
I know no good—I feel no gratitude—
—An outcaſt, and undone!
ADELA.
Your ſorrows, Madam,
Seem to gain ſtrength with time!
EDITHA.
To griefs like mine,
Time brings no lenient balm. Each dawning day
Is a freſh witneſs of my abject ſtate.
Born, Adela, to an exalted rank,
Bright pomp attending on my early years,
And bleſſings ſpringing round me as I trod—
—Oh! thou ſhould'ſt wonder that my ſwelling ſoul
Can ſtoop a moment to this vile dependence—
—It cannot ſtoop! Misfortune bears upon me,
But my aſpiring mind is unſubdu'd.
ADELA.
You think too deeply; ſorrows keen as yours
Are frequent in the page of human life.
EDITHA.
'Tis from our feelings ſorrows take their force—
—And what are mine? State, fortune, rank, with all
The joys they bring, torn from my eager graſp—
—Torn from my graſp, ſtill preſent to my thoughts;
Their ſhadows haunt me, whilſt I bend my knee,
And humbly take, with thanks, my daily bread!
ADELA.
[9]
Alas! you think unjuſtly of the Counteſs:
Still amiable and good, ſhe ſooths your griefs,
And, with unceaſing kindneſs—
EDITHA.
Hah! her kindneſs!
And was I born to bear Albina's kindneſs?
Thou, who art left the ſole remaining wreck
Of my loſt grandeur, knew'ſt me once her equal.
Her goodneſs tortures me—Earl Sibald's heir
Should grant, and not receive; ſhe ſhould protect,
Not ſeek protection.
ADELA.
Though now dependent,
Yet ſtill ſuch bleſſings do attend your ſtate—
EDITHA.
Thou, Adela! to low dependence born,
Enjoy'ſt its little comforts; me they torture—
—The height from which I fell, I muſt reclimb—
—The tow'ring Eagle builds not with the Thruſh,
Nor ſtoops to batten with the lowly Wren.
ADELA.
Why ſtruggle thus with fate? The noble Counteſs
Studies your welfare, and deſerves your love.
EDITHA.
Had I ne'er fall'n, and were I not dependent,
I might perhaps eſteem, nay, I might love her;
But now!—hear my whole ſoul—then think, my Adela!
How I muſt love her! Know that 'tis through Edward,
Through Edward only, I can hope to gain
The glorious ſteep from which my fate has caſt me—
But this Albina—ſhe whom I muſt love,
Hath caught his ſordid vows in nets of gold.
ADELA.
Is't poſſible? Lord Edward!
EDITHA.
[10]
Even him.
ADELA.
Sure 'twas his Father that brought woe on yours;
He wing'd the ruin that o'erwhelms your Houſe—
—He caus'd the ills you mourn.
EDITHA.
Have I forgot it?
No.—His ſtern loyalty made me an orphan,
And Edward ſhall repair my bitter wrongs.
The only good Editha can accept,
Is to partake his greatneſs, and his name.—
—That would be bliſs; all leſs than that is inſult.
ADELA.
Will then Lord Edward—will this bliſs be yours?
EDITHA.
The Counteſs ſtands 'twixt me and all my hopes.
Had Fortune ſmil'd jeſs laviſhly on her,
Edward's whole heart had been reſign'd to me—
And I reſtored to all my native honours.
ADELA.
And why not ſtill? for ſhe, reſerv'd and cold,
With unſelecting eye, beholds her lovers,
And Edward ſinks unmark'd amidſt the crowd.
EDITHA.
So may he ſtill!
Raimond ſcorn Edward! and thou, Edward, know
That all my native hate is but ſuſpended—
—My mind's in equipoiſe, ready alike
To hold thee as my Lover, or my Foe!
ADELA.
The Counteſs and her Father come this way.
EDITHA.
Hah! then retire unſeen
[Exit Adela.]
My low eſtate
May make me deem'd obtruder on their privacy—
—This bow'r conceals me.
[Enters the Bower.
[11]
SCENE continues.
Enter Weſtmoreland and Albina.
ALBINA.
Oh, my good Lord, urge not your daughter thus!
Ne'er be it ſaid of noble Raimond's widow,
That ſhe grew ſick of weeds in one ſhort year,
And lightly chang'd them for the bridal veſt.
WESTMORELAND.
Full fourteen months have led their penſive hours,
Since the ſad obſequies of your dead Lord:—
He was the Huſband of my choice, whom you
In duty took—
ALBINA.
And will in duty mourn.
Nay, had Albina's heart forgot the virtues,
Which made her Lord ſo worthy of its love;
Yet ſtill ſhe dares not ſlight the laws of cuſtom,
Nor to licentious tongues give themes for ſlander.
WESTMORELAND.
Enough to cuſtom, and to grief, thou'ſt giv'n.
Wilt waſte thy blooming youth in widowhood,
Becauſe ſome months you bore the name of Wife?
ALBINA.
I have not ſworn to know no ſecond love.
To Raimond's mem'ry grant another year;
And then—in truth, my Lord, you prompt my tongue
Beyond diſcretion's bounds.
WESTMORELAND.
Come, come, Albina;
Though to a Lover you might wear this guiſe,
Of coy reſerve, yet, to a Father's eye,
Your mind ſhould now appear as legible
As in the days of prattling infancy.
Raimond deſerv'd the tribute of your tears,
And you have wept a deluge to his manes.
[12] Conſider now, the brave, the youthful Edward—
The prize for whom contending beauties ſtrive!
His name and wealth amongſt the firſt are rank'd,
And he ſtands high in royal Henry's favour.
ALBINA.
I know his merits, and I know his love;
Nay, I will own that when my dying Lord
From Paleſtina wrote, he gave me charge,
That if again the holy marriage bonds
I e'er ſhould wear, that I ſhould chuſe—beyond
All others chuſe—his Friend, the noble Edward;
But did not bid me hymeneals ſing
Upon his turfleſs grave.
WESTMORELAND.
Then ſing his dirge,
And with it join Lord Edward's, who'll perchance
Be ſoon entomb'd—victim alike of love
And war.
ALBINA.
Say you, my Lord!
WESTMORELAND.
I ſay, my Lady,
That in three days Edward returns to Paleſtine.
Our Royal Maſter hath on him beſtow'd
The levies for the Holy War; from which
He'll ne'er return, ſave he leaves you his Wife.
ALBINA.
Can this be true?—Or do you mean to try
If in my heart there is not hid more love
For Edward, than modeſty would own?
WESTMORELAND.
Truly not:
Modeſty hath not wove ſo thick a ſhade
[13] As to conceal your love. To Holy Land
He ſurely goes—In triumph to return,
Or hopeleſs die—Albina muſt decree.
ALBINA.
Then coy reſerve, and women's arts, adieu!
Danger tears off the veil—
Oh, ſpare my burning bluſhes whilſt I own,
Edward is dearer to Albina's heart
Than fame or conqueſt to the bever'd ſoldier.
WESTMORELAND.
Well ſaid, my child!—
ALBINA.
When on Lord Raimond you beſtow'd my hand,
E'en then the image of the blooming Edward
Made duty—to my heart—an arduous taſk;
But virtue aided my devoted mind,
Whilſt Raimond's worth, and manly tenderneſs,
Had, I believ'd, converted all my love—
—'Till freedom taught that virtue had but hid,
Not raſed, the deep impreſſion.
WESTMORELAND.
Well may my heart be proud of ſuch a daughter!
Oh, the pute tranſport!—The exalted joy!
By fav'ring Heaven for parents minds reſerv'd,
When in the fiery combat of the paſſions,
Their children riſe, victorious from the trial!
By honour led—by ſacred virtue crown'd!
To thee I give a Child's moſt glorious meed,
[to Albina.
To thee I give a Father's grateful thanks.
ALBINA.
Alas! my Lord, you much o'errate a duty,
In which to fail, were groſs—were deadly ſhame.
WESTMORELAND.
[14]
The beſt reward, Albina, now awaits thee;
Thy Edward loves thee—loves with fervent truth—
—Yield then thy hand, to him who wears thy heart;
Let me, to-morrow, greet Lord Edward—Son!
ALBINA.
Oh grant a longer ſpace—a few ſhort days,
To cheer the ſadneſs from my widow'd brow,
Leſt I inſult the bliſsful marriage feaſt
With penſiveneſs, ill-ſuited to the day!
WESTMORELAND.
Within three days, Edward muſt England quit,
—Muſt quit the land where Peace and Beauty reign,
For hoſtile camps, and ſcenes of ſavage war!
To-morrow, then, conſent to be his Bride—
—To-morrow, bleſs the Man thy Country honours!
A Father—'tis a Father aſks the boon.
ALBINA.
The boon my Father aſk'd, my heart or lips
Have never yet denied; to-morrow, then—
—Since you, my Lord, command—to-morrow's ſun
Beholds Lord Raimond's Widow, Edward's Bride.
WESTMORELAND.
Then all that's good, ſhine doubly in its beams!
Ye paſſing moments, bear away her ſorrows;
Ye which approach, come fledg'd with young delights.
—Lead on the dawn that crowns her truth and virtue;
Be it diſtinguiſh'd in Time's circling ring,
Mark'd out with bleſſings and peculiar joys—
—The favor'd morn that makes Albina happy!
[Exeunt.
Enter Editha from the Bower.
EDITHA.
Be it accurſt! Oh torture! are my hopes,
Like airy viſions, fled? The darling hope,
[15] Which hath enrich'd life's barren ſcenes, is vaniſh'd,
And I awake to horror! mad'ning thought!
Albina triumphs—and Editha's ſcorn'd!
All that remains of yeſterday's gay dream
Is to behold a haughty rival's bliſs—
At grov'ling diſtance, ſee her tow'ring fate,
And pine away a hated life in envy.
Enter Albina.
ALBINA.
In tears, Editha! Whence ſuch marks of woe,
Whilſt joy and happineſs beam forth on me?
EDITHA.
When I have cauſe, I too ſhall boaſt of joy,
And brave the miſchiefs of the ſcorning world.
ALBINA.
Hear then a cauſe! You know, with ardent paſſion,
The noble Edward long hath ſought my love—
Now know, that, though conceal'd, the tender flame
Within my boſom glow'd; and that, to-morrow,
The holy rites will ſanctify our love.
EDITHA.
You, therefore, may rejoice—but on Editha
What glorious fortune beams, that ſhe muſt yield
Her heart to joy, and dreſs her face in ſmiles?
ALBINA.
What bliſs e'er ſhone on me, that reach'd not you?
Come, chaſe away this unavailing gloom!
Albina is your friend; and, in her love,
Thou ſhalt find ſhelter from the world's cold frowns.
EDITHA.
More hateful is this inſolence of goodneſs,
More cutting, than contempt.
[Aſide.]
I thank you, Madam.
Well do I know, I am your bounty's creature:
Your table feeds me, and your coſſers clothe.
[16] I, who boaſt anceſtry as great as yours,
Am now dependent on your charity.
ALBINA.
And blame you me for this, unjuſt Editha?
Your ruin'd fortunes often have I mourn'd,
And ſooth'd your ſorrows with a ſiſter's kindneſs.
Methinks you lack your uſual courteſy.
EDITHA.
Your pardon, Lady!—
You know I am not faſhion'd like my ſex;
I have no ſympathy for Lover's feelings;
Their hopes, their fears, their ſoft ſollicitudes,
Have here no uniſon—the fire which animates
My breaſt, is a true flame—'tis bright ambition!
ALBINA.
Ambition was not meant ſor feeble woman.
Leave it the boiſt'rous ſex, whoſe minds capacious
Are aptly fited to ſo proud a gueſt!
A ſweeter province Nature gave to us—
—As a fond parent to its laſt-born child,
For woman ſhe reſerv'd her choiceſt gift,
And call'd the bleſſing—Love—
EDITHA.
Love! be thou ever ſtranger to my heart!
Thee, more than age, or uglineſs, I dread!
Who gives thee place, a ruthleſs ſerpent boſoms
To poiſon her repoſe, and ſnare her virtue!
Thou mercileſs doſt wreck the virgin's fame,
Shadowing all her chearful morn of life,
As dreary vapours veil the bright Aurora,
Folding in diſmal gloom the ſpringing day.
The curſe pronounc'd on diſobedient woman
In love is wrap'd, inflicted, and fulfill'd.
ALBINA.
Oh, 'tis all falſe! Thou doſt profane the ſource
From whence our bleſſings ſpring.—
[17] The heart untouch'd by love, is like a lute,
Whoſe pow'rs the maſter never hath call'd forth,
Or with unſkilful finger ſtruck harſh diſcords;
Yet touch with truth the ſtrings, and harmony will flow,
And tones mellifluous enchant the ear,
Filling with melting muſic empty ſpace.
When theſe effuſions of a female heart
Thou canſt with patience bear—Editha, find me!
[Exit
EDITHA.
Firſt will I find Lord Gondibert.—
What revolutions hath this love accompliſh'd!
And ſhall leſs power belong to bright ambition?
Ambition! thou whoſe hallow'd flame can live
Only in minds refin'd from the groſs elements
Of which the herd of human kind are made!
This Deity of Fools ſhall yield to thee.
I'll ſtrait to Gondibert, whoſe long-pent paſſion
Will, like a torrent, from its mound break forth,
O'erwhelming its oppoſers: his fierce tranſports
With the ſoft voice of Friendſhip I will meet,
And guide them to my purpoſe.
END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

[18]
SCENE, A Gothic Colonade.
Enter Gondibert, followed by Egbert.
EGBERT.
MY Lord, your ſorrows pierce my aged heart;
But I entreat you lend an ear to reaſon!
GONDIBERT.
Reaſon! Diſtraction!
EGBERT.
When you, my Lord, did ſtudy in the ſchools,
I've heard you much of Reaſon talk, Philoſophy,
And Virtue—now, when all their force you want,
You ſpurn them, with a blind contempt, away.
GONDIBERT.
They have no force, no pow'r, beyond the ſchools
Where they are taught. Doſt think the fools who preach'em
E'er felt, like me, the energies of paſſion,
Or the keen torture of an hopeleſs Love?
EGBERT.
That it is hopeleſs, is a cauſe—
GONDIBERT.
For madneſs—Ceaſe, Egbert—thy chilly blood,
Creeping with torpid motion through thy veins,
Ill ſuits thee for a counſellor to me.
Give me one made of fire! one whoſe high mind,
Superior to the bugbears of his childhood,
Makes Virtue and Philoſophy his ſervants;
Not ſtoops to be their ſlave!
EGBERT.
[]
Think on the bars,
Th'eternal bars, that Heav'n hath plac'd between you!—
Think—ſhe's your Siſter!
GONDIBERT.
Curſes on the word!
It is a viper's ſting—an incantation,
That conjures up an hundred fiends to rack me.
Oh! were ſhe not my Siſter!—Egbert, Egbert!
I could turn girl, to think on what I've loſt—
—But two ſhort days before my Brother's marriage,
I from the war return'd; and the firſt hour
She met my raviſh'd eyes—was at the altar.
EGBERT.
It was, in truth, my Lord, a trying moment.
GONDIBERT.
Oh! ſhould the curtain'd ſun, in full refulgence,
Dart through the ſhadows of the night his beams;
Not more amaze would ſeize the minds of mortals,
Than ſeiz'd on me when I beheld Albina.
Oh, my curſt fortune! one ſhort week had ſav'd me.
For ſure the ardors of my burning love—
The pow'rful pleadings of my youth, and form,
Muſt ſoon have taught the timid, beauteous Maid,
That Raimond were for Gondibert well chang'd.
EGBERT.
Your ſorrow, then, you virtuouſly o'ercame;
Why ſhould it now break out with ſtrength renew'd?
GONDIBERT.
Will ſhe not wed again?—
I could have borne my life without more bliſs
Than the ſoft rights which cuſtom gives a Brother;
To ſee her ev'ry day—to fix my eyes,
Whole hours, with doating love, upon her face—
To feaſt my ears with the bewitching muſic
Of her ſweet voice—Oh, 'twas a mine of happineſs!
EGBERT.
[20]
It was a ſnare that might have plung'd you both
In irremediable woe!
GONDIBERT.
Impoſſible!
For I do ſwear, ſuch maſt'ry of my paſſion
Had I obtain'd, to ſuch refinement rais'd it,
Angels with greater purity ne'er lov'd:
No wiſh unhallow'd liv'd within my breaſt.
But ſhall ſhe to another yield her heart—
Yield her whole ſelf!—
Earth open firſt, and ſwallow me! Or ſnatch him—
Oh ſwift perdition!—ſnatch him from his joys!
EGBERT.
Oh, yield not thus, my Lord, to your wild paſſions!
Like calentures, they will miſlead your reaſon,
With images that no where do exiſt,
But in their own falſe colours.
GONDIBERT.
He—this Edward,
As my ill ſtar, doth ever croſs my fortune.
His headlong valour in the field my name
Obſcur'd; and in the tournament at Orleans,
In th'eye of France, he bore from me the crown:
And now he tears away the ſcanty bliſs,
Which whilſt I did poſſeſs, I envy'd not
His trophies, or his fame.
EGBERT.
Then be reveng'd!
Strive to regain the fame of which he robs you—
Court Glory—woo her in the fields of Death!
She's the fit miſtreſs for your rank and years!
Oh, ſhame! to waſte thoſe days in languid ſighs,
In which your mighty Anceſtors obtain'd
Their deathleſs names—by deeds of hardy valour,
In guarding their dear Country's precious rights.
GONDIBERT.
[21]
Albina wed! No,—
All arts I'll try; and, if they fail, this arm—
This arm ſhall drench their marriage-torch in blood!
[Exit.
EGBERT.
How do rude paſſions the fair mind deſtroy,
Beſtow'd by Heaven from the all-perfect ſource!
This Gondibert would once have ſhrunk from vice,
As the chaſte plant that bears no mortal touch.
From infancy I've watch'd his ſpringing virtues;
Seen him beat back misfortunes when they clung,
Like wary Cowards, on each other's ſkirts;
And bear, with fortitude, Affliction's ſtripes.
But now, unhallow'd Love the pile deſtroys;
And Vice will triumph o'er the noble ruin.
Still muſt I ſave him. If one ſpark of virtue
Yet hovers in his mind—Oh, grant me, Heaven!
To kindle it afreſh, and be the flame immortal!
[Exit.
SCENE, An Apartment.
Edward and Albina diſcovered ſitting on a Couch.
EDWARD.
[riſing.
Bleſt be the orders which thou deem'ſt ſo cruel.
But for the King's command, more irkſome years
I might have ſigh'd, without a gleam of hope,
Nor known—Oh tranſport! I was dear to thee.
That rapt'rous thought is preſage ſure of vict'ry—
—'Twill give thy Edward's arm reſiſtleſs force,
And fire his ſoul with more than mortal valour.
ALBINA.
Ah! Love, that fill'd your breaſt, whilſt doubts and fears
Did feed its flame, already yields to glory.
[22] Your eye, by ſtrong imagination fir'd,
Impatient glances through the burniſh'd field—
—The clang of arms arouſes ev'ry ſenſe,
The ſongs of triumph vibrate on your ear—
—Love and Albina are alike forgot,
And you're again the Hero!
EDWARD.
Then may cowardice
Enerve this arm, when with our valiant hoſts
I ſhall oppoſe the Mockers of our Faith!
May I forſake, in ſight of armed nations,
The Holy Croſs, and trembling, plead for mercy
If for one moment I forget Albina!
'Tis o'er thy charms mine eye impatient roves—
—The ardors of my love, that you accuſe.
ALBINA.
Will you i'th' battle's conflict think on me?
And will you, when ſeducing glory prompts
To ſome advent'rous charge—remember then,
That 'tis Albina's life which you expoſe?
EDWARD.
O Glory! Conqueſt! what are ye to this?
Yes, I do ſwear, thou Miſtreſs of my Fate!
Thy bright enchanting image ſhall with-hold me,
When a raſh enterpriſe may court my daring.
Mine is no common life—to thee united;
Mark'd out for bliſs extreme, and boundleſs joy,
As thine I will preſerve.
ALBINA.
Here is my picture.
When the ſhrill trumpet gives the aweful ſignal—
Ere, in the dreadful ardour of the fight,
Reflection's loſt—Oh bind it on your arm!
When you do look on't, think you ſee its ſmiles
To horror turn'd; the chearful eye bedimm'd
[23] With ceaſeleſs tears; its lips reproaching you
With deeming lightly of the life to her
Engag'd, whoſe form it bears.
EDWARD.
How ſhall I thank thee
For this rich gift? It is a taliſman
Which will protect me when hemm'd in by dangers,
And turn aſide Death's blunted arrows.
Enter a Female Attendant.
ATTENDANT.
Lord Gondibert, if it ſo pleaſe you, Madam,
Hath weighty matters for your private ear.
[Exit.
EDWARD.
Lord Gondibert!
ALBINA.
He hath a Brother's right;
And doth regard me for his Brother's ſake.
Indulge us now, my Lord, with privacy!
'Tis the ſole day—oh, may the ſound delight thee!
In which thou wilt not claim all embaſſies to me.
EDWARD.
Farewell then, ſweet! farewell, my ſweet Albina!
How dear, how precious, doth the time become,
Enrich'd with happineſs like mine! To leave thee
A moment now, ſeems a loſt age in love.
[Exit.
Enter Gondibert.
GONDIBERT.
Pardon th'obtruder, Madam, who unbidden
Breaks on your happy hours—
ALBINA.
This ſtern excuſe,
And that impaſſion'd air, ſeem meant for chiding;
Such looks ſit ſtrangely on a Brother's brow—
They're moſt unkind!
GONDIBERT.
[24]
Smiles, and unruffled looks,
Become thoſe favour'd youths, who at the feet
Of rigid Beauty may—oh! Raimond, bear with me!
Fain would I ſpeak to thee with angel's ſoftneſs,
But tides of paſſion bear my wiſhes down!
ALBINA.
Of what would'ſt ſpeak?
GONDIBERT.
Of Him.
ALBINA.
Of whom? Lord Edward?
GONDIBERT.
Yes, he—Edward—your Paramour!
ALBINA.
How's this!
Is this—this rude reproof, from Gondibert!
GONDIBERT.
From whom then ſhould it, Madam, but his Brother,
Whoſe memory you wear ſo light? Theſe ſables
Ill ſuit the wanton ſpirit of your eyes;
Your air, as ill, the ſober guiſe of widowhood.
ALBINA.
Surely, my Lord, you ſtretch a Brother's privilege
Beyond its bounds. Doth Gondibert preſume—
Doth he Albina dare accuſe, in words
That would befit the looſeſt of her ſex?
[Weeps.
GONDIBERT.
Would all your paſſions might thus melt in tears,
And weep themſelves away! The probe of truth
Doth touch you, Lady—you muſt bear it ſtill.
The public voice condemns your eager marriage;
And maidens bluſh, that ſhe, who lately ſhone
The bright, the envied ſample of their ſex,
Now ſudden, like a panting fawn, o'erſprings
The fence—that painfully ſhe hath endur'd.
ALBINA.
[25]
Tears would diſgrace me now. Bethink you, Sir,
'Tis Raimond's Widow whom you thus inſult—
'Tis his—your Brother's honour, which you wound
With theſe baſe taunts. I do believe you're falſe.
The public voice dares not arraign my conduct—
—Or, if it did—the Brother of Lord Raimond
Should ſurely puniſh, not avow their ſlanders.
GONDIBERT.
Oh, he would trample on the ſlanderer
Of Raimond's faithful Widow—with his blood—
With life itſelf, defend her name, and honour;
But the coarſe ſlanders thrown on Edward's Wife,
He can behold unmov'd, and unreveng'd.
ALBINA.
The Wife of Edward needs no other arm;
He will protect me; he's my guard, and champion.
GONDIBERT.
Then arm him! and in me behold the guard,
The champion, of dead Raimond's memory—
Diſhonour'd by your paſſion.
ALBINA.
Hah! diſhonour'd!
Where's the proud Dame, whoſe glory would not be
Lord Edward's love? Is there a fame ſo bright
In Henry's court? His noble birth is vulgar,
Placed by his nobler qualities. His mind
Knowledge illumines, and bright Virtue loves.
GONDIBERT.
Periſh his fame—his virtues!—I abhor him.
ALBINA.
He who abhors my Edward, muſt ſhun me.
Farewell, my Lord! Henceforward he alone
Can meet a welcome here, who pays juſt tribute
To Edward's worth.
[Exit.
GONDIBERT.
[26]
Oh, ſtay—Albina, ſtay!
Hah, gone! Curſe on my fierce impetuous paſſions!
What have I done? I've work'd her up to hatred—
In the ſole moment that my fate allow'd
To win her from the purpoſe which undoes me.
Fool! fool! were ſuch the arts I had devis'd?
Fury, and threats, are ye the wiles of love?
Oh, I have fix'd my fate!—Albina will be Edward's.
Hold, hold, thou cracking brain!—one hope's ſtill left—
One road's ſtill open, to prevent their marriage,
Or to eſcape the woe.—I'll challenge Edward:
He falls, or I; and which, to me is equal.
[Going.
Enter Editha.
EDITHA.
Thou child of fury! Victim of blind paſſions!
Why challenge Edward?
GONDIBERT.
Why! becauſe I hate him.
My vengeance and my love demand the trial—
Both he muſt ſatisfy, or both deſtroy.
EDITHA.
Obey their impulſe—Be reveng'd and happy!
But riſk not on a rival's ſword thy life.
GONDIBERT.
Ha! how?—what, meanly ſteal a coward's triumph;
Snatch a vile conqueſt that my ſword might purchaſe—
—Creep, an Aſſaſſin, on his guardleſs hours—
EDITHA.
Still wilfully, my Lord, you wreſt my words.
No plot upon his life I've form'd—Then hear me!
On what pretences canſt thou challenge Edward?
Wilt thou proclaim thy love for Raimond? No.
Love ſo unſanction'd ſtarts from human cuſtoms,
And from all human laws. Yet ſtill methinks
He ſhould not win the Counteſs.
GONDIBERT.
[27]
Should not! ſhall not.
EDITHA.
With what an inſolent content he left her,
He paſs'd me! but too full of bliſs was he,
To ſee an object leſs than his Albina.
Sudden it ſtruck me—now, with how much eaſe
This haughty joy might be transform'd to woe!
Thy heart now ſwelling with triumphant paſſion,
A little word, that touch'd it with ſuſpicion,
Would, with a ſerpent's tooth, its raptures cure.
—Suſpicion, once awaken'd, never ſleeps.
GONDIBERT.
Suſpicion! of Albina!
EDITHA.
Yes—ſuſpicion.
Infuſe its poiſon!—'twill be balm to thee.
GONDIBERT.
Impoſſible!—
Reſplendent lilies, that in deſerts bloom,
Where man's licentious eye hath never roam'd,
Boaſt leſs unſullied pureneſs than her mind.
EDITHA.
Though to the world ſhe ſpotleſs may appear
As mountain ſnow, yet can no doubtful tint
By a ſuſpicious Brother be diſcern'd?
Lord Raimond may have truſted Gondibert
With fears that he kept chary from the world;
Or, may not you in ſome unguarded moment—
—Admitted by a Brother's rights, have caught
Her frigid virtue melting at the ſuit
Of ſome young Paramour?
GONDIBERT.
Hah!
EDITHA.
Your tried honour
Muſt ſtamp the ſtory with the face of truth,
[28] And force conviction on his heart, in ſpite
Of all the doubts which paſſion may retain
To plead in Beauty's cauſe.
GONDIBERT.
Oh, ye juſt powers!
What muſt the paſſion, what, be the deſpair
That prompts my haughty ſoul to ſuch mean arts?
Deceit! till now, a ſtranger to my heart,
Welcome! with all thy wiles—
Upon my tongue diſtil thy ſubtile poiſon
To bliſter Edward's peace! Yet 'tis not poſſible;
One look, one tone of her's, would controvert
The blackeſt tales that malice could ſuggeſt.
EDITHA.
Let him but feel the ſting of jealouſy,
And every tone, and look, will fix it deeper.
GONDIBERT.
Should he be wrought to ſuch accurſt belief,
Not he alone, but all mankind would ſcorn her—
The antiquated Maid, the Wife, the Hypocrite,
Whilſt the looſe Wanton hails, with impious joy,
A Siſter in Albina. Horrid thought!
That form, beheld by the admiring world
With chaſte reſpect—ſhall it with looſe contempt
Be gaz'd on?—ſhall the angelic mind of her
My ſoul adores, e'er feel the ſtings, the bitterneſs
Of ſcorn!
EDITHA.
Be it thy prayer, thy hope, thy comfort!
Think on the riches of that bounteous hour
When Raimond, drooping, ſunk beneath the ſhame
The world will pour upon her guiltleſs head—
—By Edward left—abandon'd by her Father;
The eye of Nature, Virtue, Friendſhip, ſhut;
In thee alone, ſhe finds reſpect and love!
Beholds thee weep her woes, and ſhare her anguiſh—
—Accompliſh this, and thank thy lib'ral ſtars!
GONDIBERT.
[29]
Oh, 'twere a boundleſs luxury of bliſs!
I'd ſteal her ſorrows, rob her of her griefs,
And give her, in exchange, ſoft peace and love.
Yet, oh! it cannot be—me ſhe'd regard
With a cold Siſter's brow.
EDITHA.
Lovers, 'tis ſaid,
Have eagles' ſight, that can interpret glances,
And the ſoft language of a bluſh explain;
But eyes and bluſhes ſpeak in vain to you—
Or you have read them backwards.
GONDIBERT.
Ha! what ſay'ſt thou?
Lead not, I charge thee, to ſuch dang'rous heights!
Yet tell me—
EDITHA.
Tell thee! Strange, that Gondibert,
He who can penetrate the veil of policy,
Detect the ſophiſt's arts, and trace the chain
Whoſe hidden links controul the will of man,
That he ſhould need be told, what not to know
Argues groſs blindneſs, or determin'd error.
GONDIBERT.
Blindneſs to what? Editha, ſpeak.—Explain!
EDITHA.
Recall then to your mind the marriage months
Of the deceaſed Lord.—Did no complaint,
No word ambiguous, e'er eſcape his lips,
Reflecting on the coldneſs of Albina?
GONDIBERT.
Her coldneſs!—Ha!—What then?
EDITHA.
Nay, anſwer me.
Can you remember?
GONDIBERT.
[30]
Yes, I've ne'er forgot,
That, as he feaſted once my greedy ear
With praiſes of his Bride, he ſudden ſtopp'd,
And with a ſigh—a ſigh which ſeem'd t'eſcape
From hidden ſtores—exclaim'd—Yet Gondibert,
All good and beauteous as ſhe is, not yet
Have I inſpir'd her icy heart with love.
EDITHA.
Then hear! She is not ice. Albina's boſom
Glows with all Nature's ſympathetic fire.
Know too, that when a Wife untouch'd appears
By a fond Huſband's tender, anxious love,
'Tis not becauſe ſhe's form'd of flint or ſnow.
Albina's heart was to her Huſband cold,
Becauſe ſome happier youth engroſs'd its fire.
Some happy Youth, unconſcious of his fate,
The Counteſs lov'd, and thou—yes, thou wert he.
GONDIBERT.
Then I am moſt accurſt! It cannot be!
Albina lov'd not me—or, if ſhe did,
Tell me, perfidious Woman!—cruel! tell me,
Why did'ſt 'till now conceal the glorious ſecret?
Why now reveal it?
EDITHA.
To confirm your purpoſe,
Compaſſion to your ſorrows hath impell'd me
Now to reveal a confidence repos'd—
—No, not repos'd; to chance I owe the tale.
GONDIBERT.
Editha! thou haſt caught my liſt'ning ſoul—
Her faculties, her every ſenſe, ſhe crowds
To one; I am all ear.
EDITHA.
Oppreſs'd with cares,
As once upon a couch I had reclin'd,
[31] To woo a ſhort repoſe, Albina enter'd.
Tender her look, deep thought was in her eye,
Which penſively upon the vacant air
She fix'd—then turn'd it eager on the portrait,
Where you, a Mars, the living canvas ſhews;
And for a while, with ardent gaze, ſurvey'd it—
Saying, "Had I the pencil held, that helmet
Had been Love's chaplet; and the uncouth armour
Upon thoſe graceful limbs, bright Hymen's flow'ry robe".
I ſtarted—ſhe eſpied me; and overcome
With ſhame, and ſinking e'eu to earth with fear,
Conjured me, by the love I bore her fame,
By all the ſacred honour of our ſex,
Ne'er to divulge—ne'er whiſper to my heart,
The fatal ſecret, which through chance was mine.
GONDIBERT.
It is enough—ſhe loves—Albina loves!
The truth divine ſwift ruſhes on my heart,
And all its pow'rs confeſs the rapt'rous gueſt.
Thouſand ſweet tokens now afreſh ſtart up,
Darting like hidden ſun-beams on my mind,
And make it drunk with bliſs. But Edward—Edward!
Blind fool! to feaſt on ſhadows—dream of happineſs,
Whilſt one more daring boldly aſks the ſubſtance,
And bears it from my arms—my hopes, forever!
EDITHA.
Truſt me, my Lord, if you can thwart their marriage,
She will again return with height'ned ardor
To her firſt love; and with ſweet chidings meet
The tardy vows, that gave another leave
To aſk the heart ſhe'd fain have giv'n to thee.
GONDIBERT.
Oh, 'tis a bribe would tempt my ſoul to earth,
If at the gates of Paradiſe. Thou phantom,
Honour! hide thy ſtern head; Conſcience! go ſleep;
'Till ſated Love ſhall give thee leave to prate;
Then will I hear thee—wail in a friar's cowl
[32] The precious ſin, and think monaſtic rigours
Too ſlight—too poor a penance for my joys.
EDITHA.
To 'ſcape Suſpicion's prying eyes, we'll part.
When night's kind ſhades ſhall wrap all mortal things
In doubtful ſemblance, meet me in the garden;
There Edward you ſhall ſee, and frame his mind
To ſuch conviction as I mean to give it.
GONDIBERT.
Commands like myſtic oracles you give,
Hiding in doubtful words a glorious fate.
To thee, ſweet Prieſteſs! I reſign my faith,
Nor dare, beyond what you reveal, enquire.
Ye hours! wear wings, 'till we ſhall meet again.
[Exit.
EDITHA.
So!—
To mould the frenzy of deſpairing love,
Is no leſs eaſy than to wind the Jealous.
Oh, that man—
A being form'd, as if in Nature's vanity,
To ſhew how great, how exquiſite her ſkill,
Should be the ſlave of ſuch an abject paſſion!
To a mere humour thoſe vaſt pow'rs ſhould yield,
By which he graſps Creation's mighty ſcheme,
And emulates Omniſcience.—
END of ACT II.

ACT III.

[33]
SCENE, The Garden.
Editha ſeated.
EDITHA.
LORD Gondibert, methinks, is ſlow. The ſun
Darts his laſt beams from the embroider'd Weſt,
Pale twilight leads the penſive evening on,
And he's not yet arriv'd! Oh! did he feel
The keener jealouſies Ambition gives,
He would outſtrip a bridegroom in his haſte,
And think each moment ſtretch'd into a day,
That lent not phyſic to his boſom'd grief.
[Riſing.
A ſtep advances!—this muſt ſure be he.
O Fortune! ſhield me in th'approaching conflict!
My fate is buſy; and preſiding ſpirits
Now weave the hiſt'ry of my future life.
Whate'er th'events, I have a mind to meet them.
Fearleſs I truſt my bark, at once to ſink,
Or ride triumphant through the coming ſtorm.
Enter Egbert.
EGBERT.
Pardon me, Lady, if I have diſturb'd,
With ſtep unwiſh'd, your evening meditations!
But ſure I may, without offence to Heaven,
Draw down your pious thoughts to earth awhile,
To miniſter to Virtue.
EDITHA.
[34]
Egbert! be brief.
EGBERT.
My tale, alas! is ting'd with ſhame and ſorrow;
Sorrow, that I muſt yield up him to ſhame,
Whom to behold on Glory's pinnacle,
All that remains to me of health and life
I'd freely ſpare. I pray you now conduct me
Strait to Lord Edward and the beauteous Counteſs.
EDITHA.
Lord Edward, and the Counteſs! Ha! ſay wherefore?
EGBERT.
A ſtory to divulge, that in their ears
Alone ſhould be repos'd.
EDITHA.
Methinks your errand
Wears a ſuſpicious face; ſurely its purport
With me may be entruſted.
EGBERT.
Lady, I know
You have been long the Counteſs's try'd friend,
And that no ſecret in her breaſt ſhe locks
From you. This then to you ſhall be diſclos'd,
Though of much weight, and muſt be chary kept.
EDITHA.
Prithee be quick.—
EGBERT.
Lord Gondibert, not bearing to behold
The much-lov'd Widow of his Noble Brother,
So ſoon forget his death, and light again
The nuptial torch—diſcord reſolves to ſhed
Betwixt Lord Edward and his promis'd Bride;
And to this purpoſe hath fram'd tales that—
EDITHA.
Ha!
EGBERT.
[35]
Start not, nor blame too deeply, gentle Lady,
This firſt, this only error of his life!
When time hath bruſh'd away the miſts of paſſion,
He'll then rejoice we've ſav'd him from an act
Which all his future days would mark with horror.
EDITHA.
With this deſign did, Gondibert truſt you?
EGBERT.
Not with the circumſtance he means to urge:
I from disjointed converſe drew his purpoſe.
Ere morning dawns he hopes to diſunite
The noble Pair.
EDITHA.
So!—this is then your errand?
EGBERT.
This is my errand; to preſerve their hearts
From fierce diſtraction's pangs, when they hear things
That elſe might ſhake their faith.
EDITHA.
'Tis well, Old Man!
I will acquaint the Counteſs with your meſſage,
And bring you, here, her orders.
[Exit.
EGBERT.
Gracious Heaven!
Pardon, if I do break my faith to him,
Whom I am bound to ſerve! I ſerve him now.
I drag him from a deep abyſs of guilt;
Which all his future days, in deep remorſe,
And acts of virtue ſpent, would hardly purify.
Repentance calls not back the deed it mourns;
And years of penitence will not raſe out
The marks that ſin hath graved.
[36] Enter Editha, with Servants.
EDITHA.
Seize that Old Traitor,
And inſtant in the deepeſt dungeon plunge him.
The Counteſs orders this.
EGBERT.
Horror! For me?
EDITHA.
For thee; who falſely haſt defam'd thy patron,
And ſtain'd the honour of Lord Gondibert.
Away! nor liſten to his prayers.
EGBERT.
Oh, Lady,
Be not ſo cruel to my hoary years!
Egbert did never caſt a ſtain—
EDITHA.
'Tis falſe;
For thou, with rude and moſt unſeemly ſpeech,
Didſt paraphraſe upon the deeds of him
Whoſe errors ſhould by thee be cloak'd, and ſcreen'd
From mortal eyes. Why ſtand ye loit'ring thus?
'Tis from your Miſtreſs theſe commands I bring—
If you obey them not, 'tis at your peril.
EGBERT.
Oh! hear me! hear for the ſake of him!—
[They drag him off.
EDITHA.
When fools, like you, will prate, ye muſt be cag'd;
Leſt ye ſhould babble to the gaping world
Of things ye have not pow'rs to comprehend.
To chuſe that dotard for a confidant!
Better have told the ſtory at the mart,
Or to the mummers, who infeſt our halls;
To be by them perſonify'd, on eves
[37] And holidays. Of his impriſonment
His Lord muſt not be told. Should he ſurvive
Theſe days of trouble, he ſhall be releas'd;
Mean time he'll learn diſcretion.
[Exit.
SCENE, Another part of the Garden.
Enter Egbert, and Servants.
EGBERT.
Oh, wonder not that I ſhould move thus ſlow,
Toward ſo ſad an home!—If I might plead—
SERVANT.
Maſter, fear nought! thou ſhalt taſte ſleep to-night
More ſweet than hers—not in a loathſome dungeon,
But in repoſe, upon thy downy couch.
EGBERT.
I thank thee; this is kind and chriſtianly.
I fear'd you too were leagu'd for my deſtruction.
SERVANT.
Didſt thou then think I had forgot the hour,
In which from my poor infant eyes you wip'd
The ſtreaming tears—cheriſh'd my grief-ſwoln heart,
And plac'd me in Earl Raimond's family—
Wherein to youth and manhood I have grown?
Thou, then, wert my preſerver—now, I'm thine.
EGBERT.
In truth, ſurpriſe and terror ſo diſmay'd me,
I knew you not; now that I do, I bleſs you.
SERVANT.
Such orders from the Counteſs ne'er were given;
But proud Editha's power made it unſafe
To thwart her. In that grotto thou may'ſt bide
'Till the ev'ning grows more dark—then uſe this key;
It leads you to the grove. Farewell, good Egbert!
[Exit.
EGBERT.
[38]
Farewell, my Friend!—to-morrow, better thanks
I will preſent thee—Heav'n! 'twas not thy will,
That I ſhould baſely periſh in my duty.
Forgive me, that my confidence did fail,
And, for a moment, gave me to deſpair!
[Enter the Grotto.
Enter Gondibert and Editha.
GONDIBERT.
It is beyond my hopes! 'tis a deſign,
Which ſure ſome pitying ſpirit did inſpire,
Who, once enrob'd in fleſh, felt Paſſion's ſting—
And, ſympathetic ſtill to human ſorrows,
Beſtow'd the viſion on thy quick'ning brain!
But, how requite thee for thy gen'rous aid?
For me thy fame, thy welfare, thou doſt hazard.
EDITHA.
To your great Brother I indebted ſtand,
That I have now exiſtence.—'Tis but juſt,
That I ſhould riſk for you, the welfare he beſtow'd.
GONDIBERT.
But where is he—this Edward—who hath thruſt
'Twixt me, and my felicity, his claim?
Though now thou'rt perch'd upon the giddy wheel,
And thank'ſt thy fate for ſuch a glorious ſtand,
Edward, beware! for I will have thee down,
Though thou doſt cruſh me in thy fall! Where is he?
EDITHA.
With Raimond; rioting, perchance, his fancy
On the bright proſpect of to-morrow's bleſſings.
GONDIBERT.
Ne'er ſhall that morrow come—or, if it doth,
The courſing ſun, that lights them to the altar,
Shall finiſh his diurnal round in blood.
EDITHA.
[39]
Try bloodleſs means—give circumſtance and proof.
GONDIBERT.
Aye, ſtunning proof; ſuch as would ſhake a faith
Grav'd on the heart, ere its firſt pulſes beat.
No tale, though varniſh'd with the deepeſt ſkill,
No circumſtance, though guided by the hand
Of art, can ſhade, or for a moment throw
The ſlighteſt cloud on Counteſs Raimond's fame.
But demonſtration—demonſtration, ſpeaking
To his groſs ſenſe! that, Edward! that, ſhall force thee
To curſe the paragon of Nature's works,
And yield thee to thy raptur'd Rival's arms.
EDITHA.
Yet tale and circumſtance will have their weight;
They'll mould his mind for the broad proof; which elſe,
Like arrows ſtriking 'gainſt a marble rock,
Will ſhiver, or rebound. I go to watch
When he retires, and to direct him hither.
Beſure you mark each motion of his heart;
Catch ev'ry paſſion on a barbed hook,
And torture him, 'till he, with agony,
Shall hate her!—
GONDIBERT.
The fierce tranſports of his rage
May prompt him on the inſtant to accuſe her.
EDITHA.
To counteract his tranſports be my care.
This lab'ring head, my Lord! hath not ſo fram'd
The cloſe deſign, for blund'ring chance to mar.
May we depend upon your ſervants faith?
GONDIBERT.
They are devoted to my will.
EDITHA.
Enough!
The dreſs prepar'd you'll find within my cloſet;
[40] The antichamber enter, at the ſignal,
And inſtantly the private ſtairs deſcend—
—The reſt, kind Fortune to our wiſhes guide!
[Exit.
GONDIBERT.
Painful the race! but Raimond is the prize!
Ye Beings! who, ſuperior to humanity,
Behold, with ſupercilious eye, our ſlidings;
Oh, blame not me, thus tempted, if I yield.
Not Man, but thriftleſs Nature, be accus'd,
Who to ſeductions left our minds a prey—
—Nay more, who doth herſelf enſnare us;
Hath hung us round with ſenſes exquiſite,
Hath planted in our hearts reſiſtleſs paſſions,
The firſt to weaken, and the laſt to war
On poor, defenceleſs, naked Virtue!
How dark the night! The moon hath hid her head,
As ſcorning with her lucid beams to gild
This murky buſineſs. Thro' umbrageous trees
The whiſtling Eurus ſpeaks, in hollow murmurs;
And diſmal fancy, in yon ſhadowy ailes,
Might conjure up an hundred phantoms.
How ſtrong th'impreſſion of our dawning years!
The tales of ſprites and goblins, that did awe
My infancy, all ruſh upon my mind,
And, ſpite of haughty reaſon, make it ſhrink.
Who is't approaches?
[Enter Edward.
EDWARD.
Edward.
GONDIBERT.
Gondibert.
EDWARD.
What means this ſummons, at ſo late an hour?
I ſought you here—ſent by the fair Editha,
For the relation of important ſecrets,
Which to my private ear you mean t'intruſt.
GONDIBERT.
[41]
Could I intruſt them, Edward, to your ear,
Without the poiſon of the words I utter
Diſtilling to your heart, I would with boldneſs
Speak them—
EDWARD.
Surely a tale thus guarded, and hemm'd in
With words ſo circumſpect, muſt have much weight;
But heavy matters ſuit not hours like theſe;
My ſoul, now banqueting on its felicity,
And all her faculties abſorb'd in bliſs,
Looks down from an exalted height, and ſcorns
So low a thought as care—Farewel, my Lord!
You'll be our gueſt to-morrow—welcome gueſt,
Upon the happieſt morn old Time e'er brought
To ſupplicating man.
[Going.
GONDIBERT.
I charge thee, ſtay—thou arrogant of bliſs,
My tale perhaps may end in gueſt forbidding,
In the poſtponing th'hymeneal feaſt.
EDWARD.
Sayſt thou! poſtponing th'hymeneal feaſt?
By heav'n, in the wide circle of events
That poſſibility may teem with, one
Shall not be found, to make me for a day
Suſpend the bliſs of calling Raimond mine!
GONDIBERT.
Blind and preſumptuous!—
The paſſing air hath borne away thy vow,
And in its track thy recantation follows.
Edward! Albina never can be thine.
Amazement ſits upon thy brow; I ſwear
That, had the Counteſs kept her ſingle ſtate,
My ever-cautious tongue had ne'er divulg'd
What it muſt now reveal—But on the edge
[42] Of ſudden ruin, Edward! I behold thee,
And now extend my arm to ſnatch thee from it.
EDWARD.
Thy words have form'd a chaos in my ſoul;
Something there lurks beneath their doubtful phraſe,
I dread to hear—yet aſk thee to unfold.
GONDIBERT.
Then ſteel your mind, to bear the ſtory's horror.
Call up your fortitude—
EDWARD.
Thou tortur'ſt me—ſpeak it!
GONDIBERT.
The Widow of my Brother—is a Woman—
Mere Woman—weak Woman; of mould ſo tender,
It can't reſiſt a Lover's melting plea—
Nor bear ſo harſh a charge as cruelty.
EDWARD.
Do I not know that ſhe is tender? ſoft
As dreams of cradled infancy, or note
Of Philomel—whoſe muſic in the ear
Of the benighted traveller, makes beams
Of roſeate morn unwelcome to his eye.
Why then to me myſteriouſly deſcant
Upon her gentleneſs?
GONDIBERT.
'Cauſe more than thee,
Her gentleneſs with healing pity views;
And to benighted Lovers, makes the beams
Of roſeate morn unwelcome.
EDWARD.
Villain, thou lieſt!
[Drawing.
GONDIBERT.
Come, come, this female rage ill ſuits a ſoldier.
EDWARD.
Ill ſuits thy blaſphemy, baſe Coward!
GONDIBERT.
[43]
Coward!—
Edward, thou dareſt not, ſhalt not, think me Coward.
EDWARD.
Then guard thee, or I'll write it in thy heart!
GONDIBERT.
Hah! come on then, plunge in thy weapon deep;
Beſure take heed thou doſt not miſs the ſpot,
Where ill-judg'd friendſhip, in that heart, for Edward,
Tranform'd him into Gondibert's aſſaſſin.
EDWARD.
Oh!—
GONDIBERT.
Shrink not; appeaſe your anger with my blood;
Then to Albina, boaſt of having ſlain
The man who had unveil'd her to your eyes.
She'll fawn upon thee—cozen thee—and gull thee,
With the fond vows that have in other ears
Shed their ſweet poiſon.
EDWARD.
Should my Father's ſpirit
From heav'n deſcend, t'abet thee in this tale,
I'd ſwear it ly'd.
GONDIBERT.
Nay then, I crave your pardon!
Think it rank ſalfehood—phantom of my brain;
Raimond was guil'd when he believ'd her naught.
Good-night, my Lord.
[Going.
EDWARD.
Hold! O ſtay, Gondibert!
Why, what a frame is mine to ſhake thus! Raimond
Didſt ſay?
GONDIBERT.
Yes—Raimond. But I ſee too well
You can't ſupport it. Prithee aſk no more.
EDWARD.
[44]
Nay, but I will aſk, though each word you utter
Steals like a chilly poiſon through my veins,
And binds my blood in froſt. Say, did your Brother—
Oh, anſwer—anſwer me!—I cannot ſpeak it.
GONDIBERT.
He did; my Brother oft hath call'd her—wanton,
And, in the anguiſh of his ſoul, hath curs'd her.
The Roman Julia, he would ſay, to her
Was chaſte, whoſe looſe deſires—
EDWARD.
Now thou doſt lye;
By Heaven, ſuch purity was never dreſs'd
In frail mortality. Her govern'd paſſions
Are the ſoft zephyrs of a vernal morn,
That breathe their perfume on the bluſhing roſe.
GONDIBERT.
The zephyrs of a vernal morn may ſwell
To hurricanes—Such undiſcerning tumults
Her paſſions know—This piece of pure mortality!
EDWARD.
Draw, villain!—
Or I will plunge my dagger in thy throat,
And bear thy lying tongue upon its point.
Enter Editha.
EDITHA.
What horrid noiſe breaks through the ſober night?
Shield me!—A naked ſword!
GONDIBERT.
You'll not fight
Before a Lady, Sir!—I'th'morning meet me—
Meet me, before the hour the Prieſt expects thee;
That, at the altar, when thou'lt eager join
[45] Thy chiding Bride, thou may'ſt atonement make;
And, with the marriage-ring, preſent the heart—
His bleeding heart, who, with ungentle truths,
To rob her of her Huſband—vainly ſtrove.
[Exit.
EDWARD.
Perdition catch thy breath!—
Knew you, Editha, when you ſent me hither,
The purport of that villain's tale?
EDITHA.
Your looks
Affright me ſo, my Lord! Pray ſheathe your dagger!
Fain, fain would I eſcape this dreadful taſk!
My duty to the Counteſs binds my tongue—
Excuſe me then, my Lord.
EDWARD.
I charge thee ſpeak!
By all the friendſhip which I bear to thee,
By thy own high regard to truth and honour,
I charge thee, ſpare me not—tell all, tell all!
EDITHA.
Then I confeſs me privy to the counſel,
Which Gondibert, to you, deſign'd to offer;
And for your honour 'twere, that you ſhould heed it.
EDWARD.
Again thou bring'ſt me back to all my horror.
Doſt thou ſay this, Editha! thou, who know'ſt
Each ſecret winding of her heart!
EDITHA.
I do!—
And what I've ſaid, I'll back with proof.
EDWARD.
What proof!
EDITHA.
That if you wed her, you will be undone;
That you will only ſhare Albina's love.
[46] Unfair ſhe deems it, having ſov'reign beauty,
To ſcant its bleſſings to a ſingle object;
Like the univerſal ſun, ſhe ſheds her glories—
—Beaming impartially on all mankind.
EDWARD.
Vile ſlanderer! yet hold. There have been women,
Whoſe boſoms with licentious hell have burn'd;
But theſe were monſtrous, and of actions horrible!
Theſe did not wear the hallow'd looks of virtue—
The ſoul of chaſteneſs breath'd not in their words:
Were Raimond, then, like thoſe—
EDITHA.
Hah, my good Lord!
You know not our deceitful, dang'rous ſex!
Thoſe minds imbued by vice, with deepeſt ſtains,
Are often maſk'd in forms almoſt divine—
Deck'd forth in words, and looks, that Virtue's ſelf
Might challenge for her own. Such is Albina;
Such did Albina to her Lord appear:
What cauſe, ſave that, ſent him to Paleſtine?
Why went he there, for honourable death,
But that her faults did ſurfeit him of life?
EDWARD.
If this is truth, oh, Truth, be thou accurſt!—
—Falſehood's from Heaven—Deceit! wrap me again
In thick impervious folds! Thou buſy wretch!
Why rouſe me from a lethargy of bliſs?
Yet I'll have truth—if thou haſt proof, preſent it;
If not, fly ſwifter than the lightning's fork,
Leſt, like the lightning, I transfix thee! Oh no.
Swear thou art falſe, I'll twiſt thee round my heartſtrings.
EDITHA.
I will abide the proof. Know that a youth,
Of birth obſcure—in mien, a bright Adonis,
[47] Hath long poſſeſs'd Albina's ſecret hours—
—That theſe laſt hours, ſhe will devote to him,
And in her chamber you ſhall ſee him lodg'd,
When ſhe retires to reſt.—
EDWARD.
Nay, now thou weigh'ſt me down. Oh! oh!
EDITHA.
If it o'ercomes you thus, my Lord, go home.
EDWARD.
Home! I'll go howl in deſerts with the wolves,
Forſake ſociety, curſe human kind,
But chiefly woman.
EDITHA.
Nay, come with me, my Lord,
I'll lead you to the hall, where you'll obſerve
The doings of our houſe.
EDWARD.
Thou art a fiend,
And tempting me to hell.
EDITHA.
Nay then.
EDWARD.
Oh, parden me!
Conduct me to my woe.
[Exeunt.
Enter Egbert.
EGBERT.
Go, ſenſeleſs lamb,
And meet the ſanguine knife. Oh, merciful!
And is't a Woman I have ſeeh? Woman!
On whom thou haſt beſtow'd Nature's beſt feelings,
With nerves of fineſt tone, to catch each woe,
And ſtrike it on the heart! Oh, I'm aſham'd
That I ſtand kindred, in creation's ſcale,
[48] With ſuch a being! Haply am I witneſs
To the baſe league. Now in the toils, Editha,
Which thou didſt ſpread for me, thyſelf art fallen.
Thus Heaven doth puniſh with our own acts,
And makes our crimes our woe.
SCENE, A Hall, with a Stair-caſe, and Gallery.
Enter Edward and Editha from the Garden.
EDITHA.
Stand here, my Lord. The hour is now arriv'd
In which the Counteſs uſually retires.
Yet, oh, be patient! and I pray behold
With fortitude this ſample of her faith,
Which I, alas! unwillingly diſcloſe.
[Exit.
EDWARD.
Now Heaven!—I cannot pray—My ſinking heart
Scarce yields me life to breathe; and dizzy images
Before my eyes ſwim in imperfect ſhape;
She comes!—
Behold her, Slander!—and withdraw thy ſhaft.
Her chaſtity is evident as truth;
It glows, it animates each ſpeaking line
Of her enchanting face.—
Enter Albina, Editha, and Attendants.
EDITHA.
Shall I attend you, Madam, to your chamber?
ALBINA.
Not now, Editha, for you need repoſe.
Your penſive mind hath ſuffer'd much ſince morn,
From the ſad image of long paſt afflictions:
Forget them now, and may ſweet ſleep attend you!
[Albina aſcends the Stairs, and enters her Apartment.
EDWARD.
[49]
There's the rich temple that conceals my Love:
If ſhe be naught, Nature's in league with Vice,
And pour'd on Raimond ſuch a waſte of charms,
To draw from ſainted Virtue her diſciples.
[Attendants leave the Apartment.]
Silence prevails—
Oh, on this ſpot I will with patience count
The lagging moments of the night, to triumph
In the ſure failure of their promis'd proof.
Hah!—hark! methought there was a noiſe. Alas!
The clicking death-watch, or the paſſing air,
Hath now a ſound to freeze me.
[A Pauſe.]
[Gondibert enters at one End of the Gallery, and goes into the Chamber.]
Hah! ſtay, villain; ſtay!
Editha enters, and flings herſelf before the Stairs.
EDITHA.
Ah, ceaſe! ceaſe, my Lord—you will undo me!
EDWARD.
I am undone—but I will drag the villain—
I'll tear him from her arms.
[Enter Servants of Gondibert.]
EDITHA.
Help me—aſſiſt me!
Oh! drag him from the ſpot. Nay, go, my Lord!
Why wilt in humanly deſtroy Editha?
[They force him off, Editha following.]
'Tis finiſh'd!—
The lion's caught, and ſtruggles in his toils, in vain.
END OF ACT III.

ACT IV.

[50]
SCENE, An Apartment in Weſtmoreland's Palace.
Enter a Steward, with Servants.
STEWARD.
HASTE to Paul's Croſs, and be you ſure, at ſeven,
The fountain ſpouts with wine—ſpouts in full ſtreams,
As copious as the Noble Donor's bounty.
Obſerve, when weak, or aged folk you ſee,
Preſs'd by the boiſt'rous multitude, aſſiſt them,
And let not ſturdy ones take double ſhares.
FIRST SERVANT.
I will be mindful.—
[Exit.
STEWARD.
You, Edric, for the populace, take care
The ox hath been well fed. Let not the poor
Dine on poor food, for a rememb'ring token
Of this moſt happy day.
SECOND SERVANT.
I'll chuſe the beſt.
[Exit.
STEWARD.
Have the old penſioners receiv'd their raiment?
THIRD SERVANT.
Marry they have, and with o'erflowing hearts.
STEWARD.
'Tis thus our Noble Maſter doth rejoice!
Whate'er brings joy, or happineſs to him,
[51] Is pledge of joy to all within his reach.
Were his lands bounded only by the ſeas
That girt our iſle, he hath a heart as wide.
See, he approaches! with a face as gladſome,
As though he had redeem'd from glutton Time
His own bleſt nuptial morn.
Enter Weſtmoreland.
WESTMORELAND.
Come, come; no mirth,
No buſtling with ye? Are the cooks all buſy?
Is the hall trimm'd, and ready for the gueſts?
STEWARD.
All's as you wiſh, my Lord.
WESTMORELAND.
Then all will feel content this happy morn,
And the dejected eye of ſorrow
Be rais'd, with ſparkling gratitude, to Heaven.
But where's thy joy? Thou art as old and grey
As if this only was a common morn.
Is't not Albina's wedding-day? Caſt off
Thy age, and be a boy! Not ſportive youth
Shall go beyond old Weſtmoreland to-day
In all the rounds of gay feſtivity.
STEWARD.
My heart doth take its part, my honour'd Lord,
In all the happineſs that beams around you.
Behold the ſov'reign of the feaſt—Lord Edward!
[Exit.
Enter Edward.
WESTMORELAND.
Hail to my ſon! Hail to this choſen morn—.
This morn of bliſs! Theſe are a Bridegroom's hours:
—Thou ſeem'ſt impatient of the lazy clock.
EDWARD.
[52]
Sorrow, like joy, 's impatient of the hours,
And preſſes forward to untaſted time.
WESTMORELAND.
Who talks of ſorrow on a bridal morn?
Your tones, methinks, ill ſuit the occaſion.
EDWARD.
They ſuit too well the tenor of my mind!
Edward, alas! thou ſeeſt, no happy Bridegroom,
With ardor waiting, and impatient joy,
To hail his bluſhing Bride—but a ſad wretch,
Who hates the day, for breaking on his woe,
And longs for endleſs night.
WESTMORELAND.
Surely my joy
Hath been too powerful for my frail age.
Thy words do ſtrike mine ear; but Reaſon
Her faculty with-holds, nor ſhews their import.
EDWARD.
Oh, look not thus! My tale will rive thy heart.
WESTMORELAND.
Albina!—my Child!
EDWARD.
Dread the worſt;
That when the worſt doth come, you may ſupport
Its horror!
WESTMORELAND.
Speak quickly—Is my Child well?
EDWARD.
She is.
WESTMORELAND.
Then what keen ſtroke hath Heaven in ſtore?
Through her alone I can affliction know—
If ſhe be well, what ill can light on me?
EDWARD.
Oh!
WESTMORELAND.
[53]
I prithee ſpeak—what labours in thy breaſt?
EDWARD.
A deadly poiſon!—I can hold no longer—
Laſt night—oh, laſt night!
WESTMORELAND.
Hah! what of laſt night?
[Impatiently.
EDWARD.
Memory! thou'rt a ſcorpion. To forget!
'Twere eaſier to blot out the horrid'ſt crimes.
The wrath of Heav'n's by penitence appeas'd.
But what, O Memory! can raſe from thee
The ills that thou haſt regiſter'd? Albina!
My heart its vital ſtream ſhould yield, to expiate
Thy guilt.
WESTMORELAND.
Guilt! Doſt thou join her name with guilt?
EDWARD.
Yes; with moſt foul diſhonour—blackeſt guilt!
WESTMORELAND.
Thou, then, art he—the villain who haſt ſtain'd her;
And, by the Croſs, thou ſhalt repair her ſhame;
Wed her this day—make her this hour thy Wife,
And then I'll poniard thee, for having dared
Think lewdly of her.
EDWARD.
Thy rage I do reſpect;
And, whilſt my heart with agony is torn,
I pity thee. Unhappy Weſtmoreland!
Albina had been chaſte as cloiſter'd ſaints,
Had all, like me, believ'd her honour ſacred.
WESTMORELAND.
What! with another—another! Doſt accuſe her?
EDWARD.
[54]
I do!—Laſt night—oh!—I will find the villain,
If Earth doth not conceal him in her womb,
Or Heav'n work miracles to ſave him—
WESTMORELAND.
He is already found. Thy thin-drawn arts
Leave thee expos'd, in all thy native guilt.
Thou'ſt ta'en advantage of relying Love—
—On one baſe hazard, ſtak'd a boundleſs treaſure,
And now art Bankrupt, both of bliſs and honour.
This wretch art thou, or a moſt foul deceiver!
EDWARD.
This rude, intemp'rate anger, will not heal
Thy Daughter's ſhame. I tell thee, thou fierce Lord?
Theſe eyes beheld him hous'd, within her chamber,
At th' hour when Virtue and Suſpicion ſleep,
And Lewdneſs riots in the maſk of Night.
WESTMORELAND.
Whom ſayſt thou, thou beheld'ſt?
EDWARD.
I knew him not.
Wrapt in Night's ſooty liv'ry, like hot Tarquin
To the fair Roman's bed, He ſoftly ſtole—
—But, oh! he was not greeted like a Raviſher.—
WESTMORELAND.
Ceaſe!—ceaſe thy impious, thy licentious tongue!
Its venom thou ſhalt purify. Nay, mark me!
Tho' thou haſt been deceiv'd; and tho', to guile thee,
Each art that wickedneſs could frame, were practis'd;
On thee alone my chaſtiſement ſhould fall.
Thou ſhould'ſt have queſtion'd ev'ry teſtimony;
Doubted each ſenſe; and, though they all combin'd,
Contemn'd them all—ere thou had'ſt dared to caſt
On Chaſtity the ſtains that, once infix'd,
Are never purg'd away.
[55]
Thou art the ſland'rer of my widow'd Daughter;
Her Huſband dead, her Father is her Champion—
—I dare thee to the field—
EDWARD.
And I refuſe
Thy daring challenge—weak, yet good, old Earl!
What! prove Albina in the face of day
A wanton!—Her, on whoſe pure chaſtity,
Within a few ſhort hours, I would have ſtak'd
My everlaſting weal!—Oh, thou fallen Angel!
I'll mourn thy fault, but in my heart 'tis buried!
WESTMORELAND.
All this might cozen a fond female's anger;
But, Edward! I am Weſtmoreland!—
In our long line of noble anceſtry,
Not one baſe act e'er ſpotted the fair name,
Or ſlander dared to breathe on't!
Unſullied I receiv'd the glorious heritance,
And will, untarniſh'd, bear it through the world.
Thou haſt defam'd my child—Her who will bear
The name, and princely fortunes, of our houſe—
—Thy blood muſt do away the damning ſtain!
EDWARD.
Would'ſt thou oppoſe thy waning life to mine?
Thou doſt forget, old Lord! how many Winters
Have left their hoary fleeces on thy head,
Since thou wert a fit match for one who boaſts
Th' unſlacken'd nerves of youth.
WESTMORELAND.
Thy vaunted ſtrength
I do deſpiſe. Was e'er the nerved arm
Of Youth triumphant on the ſide of falſehood?
This wither'd arm, in my Albina's cauſe,
Shall cover with diſgrace the budding laurels
That ſcarcely yet are fitted to thy brow.
EDWARD.
[56]
Diſgrac'd indeed! if ſpotted with thy blood;
And therefore I refuſe thy proffer'd gauntlet.
If 'tis my life you ſeek, I ſhall, this day,
For Paleſtine embark, and die more gloriouſly
Than by a froward old Man's petulance.
WESTMORELAND.
Inſolent Boy! I'll force thee do me right.
I'll inſtant to our Sov'reign, and demand
The law of honour. Ere thou doſt embark,
Thou ſure ſhalt prove my Daughter what thou ſaid'ſt,
And leave theſe wintry locks drench'd in my blood—
—Or I will write thee lyar, in thy heart.
[Exit.
EDWARD.
Is this my bridal morn?—
Oh, ye ſoft budding joys!—ye tender ſympathies!—
—Ye offices of Love!—ye thouſand nameleſs ties!
Where are ye ſled?—
The Sun of Happineſs, that blaz'd but yeſterday,
And promis'd through Eternity to light me—
Is extinguiſh'd!—
Then, Life, be thou extinguiſh'd too; but not
Ingloriouſly—To Holy Land I'll ſpeed,
And bear me as a Soldier. Oh, Albina!
The ſword that muſt be buried in my heart,
Thy hand will ſtrike—A Saracen may wound—
—'Tis Raimond kills.
[Exit.
Enter Weſtmoreland, leading Albina.
WESTMORELAND.
Ha, my poor Child! home—thou muſt home again.
Put off thy bridal veſt, reſume thy weeds,
For thou muſt be a Widow ſtill.
ALBINA.
My Lord!
WESTMORELAND.
[57]
Why, why didſt yield to thy weak Father's ſuit?
He pleaded for a Villain.
ALBINA.
For a Villain!
What mean thoſe dreadful ſounds? Edward a Villain!
WESTMORELAND.
He is. Thou too ſhalt think him ſo.
ALBINA.
Impoſſible!
Lord Edward's breaſt is Honour's ſacred temple!
In him, 'tis not a ſcope of moral words,
Or ſchoolmen's ſpeeches—but a living ſoul
That ſtarts from baſeneſs, as annihilation.
WESTMORELAND.
Alas! my Child, I judge him from himſelf.
How ſhall I tell thee—
ALBINA.
What?
WESTMORELAND.
Thou art—rejected.
Yes, he rejects thee. Nay, he hath accuſed—
Weſtmoreland lives to hear his child accuſed—
ALBINA.
Support, me Heaven! Of what am I accuſed?
WESTMORELAND.
The ſhame will burn thy modeſt cheek—he terms thee—wanton.
ALBINA.
Me! Edward deem me—Oh!
WESTMORELAND.
Yes, thee!
Thee, in whoſe boſom Chaſtity is thron'd:
Thou, the bright pattern of each female virtue,
By Edward art accus'd of vile licentiouſneſs.
ALBINA.
[58]
Oh, horrible!
[Sinking into her Father's arms.
WESTMORELAND.
Support thyſelf, my Child!
On thy baſe ſlanderer thou ſhalt have juſtice.
ALBINA.
Laſt night, I well remember, when he left me,
And paſs'd beyond the reach of tender ſounds,
Straining his eyes, he ſtopt—then towards Heaven,
With emphaſis of action, rais'd his hands,
Seeming t'invoke its bleſſings on Albina—
Had he conceiv'd a doubt—
WESTMORELAND.
He has no doubt—
He dares not doubt the honour of my Daughter—
But the rich prize, which, whilſt at diſtance, plac'd
Almoſt beyond the ſtretches of his hope,
Seem'd worthy his ambition to attain—
Now, view'd at hand, palls on his ſickly taſte,
And he contemns the bleſſing he aſpir'd to.
ALBINA.
Oh! is't for this I roſe with early dawn
To bleſs perfidious Edward? Is't for this
I gave conſent, ere cuſtom might allow,
To be again a Bride? Baſe, baſe ingratitude!
WESTMORELAND.
Take heart, my Girl! thy Father ſwears thy innocence
Shall not be wrong'd.
ALBINA.
Ah! what avails my innocence?
My lot is wretchedneſs. Condemn'd by him
To whom I'd giv'n my heart—and in whoſe love
I'd treaſur'd ages of untaſted bliſs—
Forſaken! ſcorn'd! left like a loath'd diſeaſe!
[59] Oh, to ſome convent's dreary cell I'll fly,
And there forever hide my ſhame, and miſery!
WESTMORELAND.
Firſt ſhall be ſacrific'd a thouſand Edwards;
Thy virtue ſhall be prov'd; and my Albina
Live through a race of bliſsful years, in honour:
E'en now I haſten to the King, to claim
The ſacred rights of Knighthood.
ALBINA.
Hah! what ſay you,
My Lord!
WESTMORELAND.
Edward I've challeng'd to the liſts;
There to give teſtimony, that thy virtue
Is ſpotleſs, is unqueſtion'd as thy beauty.
ALBINA.
What do I hear? My Father yield his breaſt
To Edward's ſword! Edward! whoſe ſkill in arms
Leaves him unrivall'd in the voice of Fame!
Oh, ſhield me from the horror of the thought!
WESTMORELAND.
Diſmiſs thy fears. Thy Father's arm hath humbled
Mightier men than he. This breaſt wears marks—
—Honourable marks, grav'd by the ſword of heroes;
And ſhall a Boy with contumely uſe me?
ALBINA.
Horror! diſtraction! Oh,
[kneeling]
if my ſoul's peace
Be dear to thee, avoid this cruel combat.
My mighty wrongs I will with patience bear;
But, Father! heap not ſorrows on my head—
Riſk not ſuch precious lives! Whoe'er doth vanquiſh,
Makes me the wretched victim of his proweſs!
WESTMORELAND.
Doſt Edward's life, beyond thine honour, prize?
ALBINA.
[60]
Oh, frown not thus! I'll tear him from my heart;
I'll ſhun him, as I would the haunts of vice—
—But, oh! make not thy Child a Murderer!
A Paricide!
WESTMORELAND.
Thy innocence inſures
Thy Father's life. In chaſte Gunhilda's cauſe
A ſtripling triumph'd o'er a mighty giant,
Who ſeem'd the Atlas of a trembling world;
Thus arm'd by thee, I'd dauntleſs meet a legion.
ALBINA.
Canſt thou demand a miracle to ſave thee!
As Man thou'lt periſh—oh! or ſhould, indeed,
A miracle be wrought to prove my truth,
Then Edward dies!
WESTMORELAND.
Ah! could'ſt thou wiſh thy ſlanderer—
Thy fame's aſſaſſin, to ſurvive his crime;
I would diſclaim thee. Shall the child of Weſtmoreland—
She, who doth carry in her veins the blood
Of royal houſes—whoſe high Anceſtors
Gave honour to the ſceptres which they bore—
—Shall ſhe, when thus accus'd, be unreveng'd?
No more, no more—leſt I think thy chaſte Mother
Did play the wanton, and gave me the daughter
Of ſome ignoble hind.
ALBINA.
Wound me not thus!
My ſainted Mother, from thy bleſt abode,
Look with compaſſion on thy wretched Child!
Suſtain me, help me, in this trying hour,
Leſt horror ſhould uproot my tott'ring reaſon,
And inſtant plunge me in the depths of madneſs!
WESTMORELAND.
[61]
This keen, tumultuous ſorrow miſbecomes thee;
It miſbecomes thy rank, thy wrongs, thy virtue:
Recall thy fortitude; think what thou art,
And prove thee worthy of the ſpace thou fill'ſt!
ALBINA.
Oh Father! Heaven! where ſhall I turn for ſuccour?
A Father ſteels his heart, and Heaven forſakes me.
All things are wild—'Tis ſurely Nature's wreck!—
—Theſe fierce contending ſtruggles are too big,
They'll burſt the little manſion that confines 'em,
And I ſhall feel—ſhall agonize no more.
[Exit.
WESTMORELAND.
Oh Honour! Nature! how ſhall I decide?
Obeying one, I may deſtroy my Child,
And yielding to the other's powerful claims,
I give her up to ſhame. Muſt I do this?
Thy Father yield thee to diſhonour! No.
Firſt I'll purge off the venom of black Slander,
Reſtore its wonted luſtre to thy fame;
Then, if thou dieſt—ſink with thee to the grave.
SCENE, An Apartment in Gondibert's Palace.
Enter Gondibert.
GONDIBERT.
O Day! with heart appall'd I meet thy beams.
Thou racking conſcience! wherefore torture thus
The breaſt where thou haſt lightly reign'd till now?
A ſleepleſs night I've paſt—Or, if perchance
A ſlumber for a moment clos'd mine eyes,
Sad images of woe convey'd ſuch horror,
That better 'twere to wake to real miſery.
And whence theſe new-born torments? What! have I
Depriv'd the weeping Orphan of his bread?
Imbrued my hands in murder? Or look'd down,
[62] With chilly eye, upon a boſom friend,
Beneath Oppreſſion's iron gripe? Oh, no.
I've been a child, and ly'd to keep a toy
Of which another would have robb'd me.—
I'm even leſs than Woman—Not a Female
Who would not laugh at ſuch o'er ſtrain'd nice feelings,
For crimes 'mongſt Lovers put in daily practice.
Hah! my bright Genius!—
[Enter Editha.
That ſmile muſt be the herald of good news;
Misfortune ne'er was couch'd beneath an air ſo ſweet.
EDITHA.
There ſpoke thy coz'ning ſex. Deceit and flattery
Hang all their witchery upon your tongues;
Whilſt Maidens, like poor birds, by keen-ey'd baſiliſks
Allured, behold their danger, yet are charm'd
To their deſtruction.
GONDIBERT.
Talk not of Man;
But ſov'reign Woman—Tidings of Albina!
EDITHA.
Array'd in bridal pomp, light in her ſteps,
Joy beaming from her eye, and happineſs
Exulting on her brow, ſhe left the palace;
But ſoon return'd—a truly mournful Widow.
GONDIBERT.
Be quick.—
EDITHA.
Edward, in perfect faith of laſt night's guile,
Reſigns his willing Bride—Returns her back
To lonely Widowhood, or the ſoft cares
Of ſome more happy Lover.
GONDIBERT.
Oh, be that Lover me!
Strait will I haſten to the charming Mourner—
Help her to curſe perfidious, changing Man—
[63] Damn my whole ſex to gratify her ſpleen—
And, when her hatred to a frenzy mounts,
Seize on the inſtant of tumultuous paſſion,
To lure her back again to Love and Gondibert.
EDITHA.
Hold, hold, my Lord! ſuch raſhneſs would undo us.
Beware of proud vindictive Weſtmoreland!
A ſingle glance to his ſuſpicious eye,
Would be a clue to ravel out our ſecret.
He hath a faculty to ſee men's ſouls,
As though their lineaments were written characters,
By which he reads their ſcarce-exiſting thoughts—
Fly from the danger, then, if you are wiſe.
GONDIBERT.
Seek Wiſdom in the ſqualid Monks' abode,
Where lean and ſallow, by the mould'ring lamp
She grows—In me the paſſions are wound up
To Nature's higheſt pitch—impulſe, my law;
That impulſe leads to Raimond.
[Still going.
EDITHA.
Still I muſt
Reſtrain you. I will home, my Lord, to watch
The motions of our houſe, and give you tidings
When ev'ry danger's paſt. Thou call'ſt me Friend,
Yet wilt not truſt to my ſollicitudes.
GONDIBERT.
Nay then, I yield—farewell, my Guardian Spirit—
Oh, count the moments by the Lover's dial,
Where hours are ages!—
EDITHA.
Till he doth backward on the dial count,
Then ages ſhrink to points.
[Exit.
GONDIBERT.
Now then, for Edward,
And for art! art, to hide my doating thoughts,
[64] And deck'em in the ſullen guiſe of hatred.
Only a few ſhort hours theſe ſhores confine him;
—Theſe ſhores may never greet his eyes again.
Mean time, that he and his Albina meet not
T'exchange reproaches, is my only care:
That point attain'd—and all the reſt is rapture.
[Going.
Enter Egbert.
EGBERT.
I come, my Lord, th'unwilling Meſſenger
Of heavy tidings. Hoary Earl Weſtmoreland
Hath challeng'd Edward, in the field to prove
His calumny againſt his Daughter.
GONDIBERT.
Confuſion!
EGBERT.
This day they enter on the ſolemn trial.
The King himſelf will judge the dreadful combat;
And the whole court, in wond'ring ſorrow wrapt,
E'en now are haſt'ning to attend the iſſue.
GONDIBERT.
Iſſue! 'tis well—'tis well. Leave me, good Egbert!
Oh! 'tis too much—this is too keen a ſtroke!
How ſhall I ſteer me in this fatal tempeſt?
Confeſs my wiles?—Horror! leave me, I ſay—
Why ſtand'ſt thou thus, with ſuch exploring eyes,
As if thou'dſt read the workings of my brain?
EGBERT.
If right I read, your mind in balance hangs
'Twixt the oppoſing principles of good
And ill. Between theſe two the Pow'r that made us,
Beſtow'd free-will to chuſe: Oh, let me then
Direct your choice! Let him, whoſe tongue inſpir'd
The early love of virtue, once more—
GONDIBERT.
[65]
Canſt thou
Preach calmneſs to the furious ſea? Wilt bid
The whirlwind, that doth break the tow'ring ſpire,
And in its vortex hurls the foreſt oaks,
Reſtrain its rage?—When they obey thee,
Then Gondibert ſhall be again a child,
And take inſtructions from the virtuous Egbert.
EGBERT.
Oh, that theſe hours had not ſo ſudden paſt!
I can recall, when this deſpis'd Old Man
Was dear to you—when, hanging on my neck,
You'd liſten to—
GONDIBERT.
No more! I do ſtill love thee,
Still reverence thy virtues—But oh, Egbert!
I ſee them as the humid arch of Heaven,
That diſtant, in bright order glows, and beautifies
The ſcene—yet doth impart to Man no influence,
Nor yields him more than empty ſplendor.
EGBERT.
Thus do Men talk, who'd rather ſhine in words,
Than ſeek for truth. But, oh, my Lord! this once
Let me reſume my wonted place. This hour—
GONDIBERT.
Hie to thy chamber, Egbert, and make prayers.
Such holy Men as thou art, have no call
In theſe rude times. The world is headſtrong grown,
And needs a firmer curb than thine to guide it.
EGBERT.
Since only one way I can gain your ear,
Know, thou raſh Lord! I'm privy to the plot—
Th'inhuman plot by female cunning fram'd,
In which you have moſt wickedly concurr'd.
GONDIBERT.
[66]
Hah!—how—when?
EGBERT.
I was a hidden witneſs of the ſcene
That paſs'd, laſt night, within Albina's garden—
—How I came there, will make another tale.
GONDIBERT.
That thou wert there, thou prying, liſt'ning Varlet,
Is thy deſtruction—
[Half-drawing.
Yet hold—fly me, whilſt I command my rage—
—Fly from thy wrong'd Maſter, into whoſe ſecrets
Thou haſt, indecent! forced thyſelf.
EGBERT.
I fear not
Your anger, Lord!—nay, I will gladly die,
If, dying, on your mind I can impreſs
Juſt horror for the—
GONDIBERT.
Pedagogue! ceaſe prating;
And know a duty thou haſt yet to learn—
To treat the ſlidings of thy Betters with reſpect;
Nor dare to comment on the will of thoſe,
Who, ſeen by thee from ſuch a tow'ring diſtance,
Should make thee jealous of thy own diſcerning,
And keep thy rude, preſumptuous judgement down.
Go—begone!—
[Puſhing him off.]
What curſt, untoward chance, made him a witneſs?
No matter—keener ſorrows now ſurround me.
Oh, Weſtmoreland! why muſt I tear the pillow,
Thus cruel, from thy time-blanch'd head?—Why drag thee
From age's ſoft repoſe, to give thy boſom
To the inhuman ſpear? No—periſh firſt.
I'll go, and to the King relate the crimes
To which a furious paſſion drove a wretch,
[67] Who ſaw the only treaſure of his ſoul
Torn from his graſp—to bleſs the Man he hates.
[Going.
What! and thus mark—thus ſtamp myſelf a villain,
To aid the tranſports of triumphant Edward?
Oh! 'twere a ſuicide that Honour claims not,
That Nature would abhor. What then?
Oh! guide me, Heaven! or, inſtruct me, Hell!
I can't recede; and, to go on, is horror.
In what a ſea of crimes hath one ſhort day
Immers'd me! Vice, oh, thou fierce whirling eddy—
Touch but the outmoſt circle of thy ring,
Thy ſtrong, reſiſtleſs current, drags us in;
Torn from the ſhore, deſpairing we look back,
And, hurried on, are whelm'd, ingulph'd, and—loſt.
END OF ACT IV.

ACT V.

[68]
SCENE, The Liſts.
On one ſide are ranged the King and Court; on the other, a Multitude, with Officers. Weſtmoreland and Edward appear, in Armour, attended by 'Squires, each under a Banner, on which are emblazoned their Arms, with Devices; their Lances and Helmets borne.
A Herald advances.
HERALD.
GUTHBERT, Earl of Weſtmoreland!
And noble Edward of Somerſet!
The King commands that ye do now advance,
And, in the preſence, openly declare
The cauſe for which a combat ye have aſk'd—
—Riſking, in private feuds, the precious blood
Which for your Country only ſhould be ſpilt.
WESTMORELAND.
My Liege! I anſwer the demand. Lord Edward
Did yeſterday, with humble ſuit, entreat
That in his favour I would move my Daughter—
—Feigning true paſſion, and unequall'd love.
With warm regard I did accept the charge,
And—not without ſome difficulty—won her.
This morn was fix'd, by hymeneal rites
To ſanctify the paſſion they avow'd.
[69] This very morn, whilſt I, with joy impatient,
Prepar'd to hail him Son—
He came, with ſlander charg'd—breathing baſe falſehoods
To ſtain her name, and gloſs the violation
Of his pledg'd faith—Therefore I challenge Edward!
KING.
This charge, by Weſtmoreland's good Earl alledg'd,
We have, with wonder and concern, attended.
'Mongſt the bright Ladies who adorn our court,
Not one ſo peerleſs ſtands as Counteſs Raimond;
Not one whoſe fame more fitly ſuits her birth;
Nor one whoſe honour more becomes her fame.
Why then, Lord Edward, haſt thou, cauſeleſs, ſtain'd it?
Why thrown away a gem that throned monarchs
Might have beheld thee wear with envy?
EDWARD.
Be witneſs for me, Heaven! You, my dread Sovereign!
And ye, aſſembled People—bear me witneſs!
That Raimond's chaſtity I held unqueſtion'd,
As the high myſt'ries of our holy faith.
I lov'd her with moſt honourable love,
And to have worn with her the marriage-chain,
More glorious deem'd it, than imperial crowns.
I, who would, yeſterday, againſt a legion
Her honour have maintain'd, muſt now—oh horrible!
Here, in the bluſhing face of day, ſtand forth
The forc'd accuſer of undone Albina!
KING.
Some wrong interpretation ſeems to lurk,
And to have caus'd this miſchievous diſpute.
We do adviſe ye, Lords, to take more time.
If, in ſhort ſpace, the knot doth not unfold,
We do conſent that ye again ſhall meet,
And prove, at point of ſword, whoſe is the error.
WESTMORELAND.
[70]
This ſword, my Liege! hath taught the Eaſtern world
Submiſſion to your laws. Its faithful point
Hath prob'd the hearts of Infidels and Rebels—
May its good ſervice to confuſion turn,
And may this arm cling nerveleſs to my ſide,
If I depart the liſts, ere I have prov'd it
On the defamer of my ſpotleſs Child!
KING.
In this nice point, we only with advice
Would interpoſe, not fetter with commands.
If this be your matur'd reſolve, purſue it;
Though deeply we lament, that two ſuch Heroes
Should 'gainſt each other's boſom turn the lance.
Sound to the combat!
[Trumpet ſounds, Herald advances.]
HERALD.
Ye Knights! who gave and have accepted challenge,
—Lords, Weſtmoreland and Edward, your career
Begin! not doubting but his arm will vanquiſh
Who lifts it on the ſide of ſacred truth.
God ſpeed the right!
WESTMORELAND.
Now, Edward! the grey locks that thou didſt taunt
Shall prove a wreath victorious.
[Goes eagerly towards his horſe.
EDWARD.
Since thy fierce ſpirit will with blood alone
Be ſatisfied, O Weſtmoreland! I follow thee.
But, righteous Heaven! direct my erring arm,
That, whilſt it guards the life thou bidſt me keep,
It may not injure his, who thirſts for mine!
[71] Enter Egbert, ruſhing from the crowd.
EGBERT.
Hold—oh, hold! ſtay, my Lords! ere ye commit
A deed, that leads to horror, and repentance.
I have a tale that will unfold—
Gondibert ſpringing forward.
GONDIBERT.
Villain!
Thou ly'ſt! it choaks thee in the utterance.
KING.
Whence this irreverence? Diſarm Lord Gondibert!
And know, bold Man, that in the eye of Kings
All hold an equal place. I bear a ſceptre
Which is my People's ſtaff, and ſhall ſupport
Alike, the Peaſant and his Lord. Speak, old Man;
Whate'er thy tale, thou ſhalt have patient hearing.
EGBERT.
Moſt gracious Liege! to ſave the precious blood
Of theſe much-injur'd Lords, with deepeſt ſorrow
I witneſs bear, that in a ſnare they've fall'n,
Moſt wickedly devis'd for their deſtruction,
KING.
Whom doſt accuſe of this atrocious crime?
EGBERT.
There are, my Liege, who have with groundleſs jealouſy
Poiſon'd Lord Edward's mind, and work'd on him
To yield to infamy his ſpotleſs Bride.
EDWARD.
Bleſt old Man! prove me, oh! that monſter prove me!
KING.
Thou ſay'ſt there are, but nam'ſt not thoſe in fault.
EGBERT.
Hard taſk!—in truth, the chief in fault is—
GONDIBERT.
[72]
Daſtard!
Speak out; nor dare inſult me with thy mercy.
'Twas I—I am the chief in fault—if fault
It be. I practis'd on a Fool's credulity,
Shew'd him an Angel in the garb of hell,
And he believ'd the cheat'ry.
EDWARD,
Oh! thy words
Are barbed arrows. I am ſick at heart.
GONDIBERT.
'Twas me thou ſaweſt in Albina's chamber.
The tales, to which thou liſt'nedſt of her falſhood,
Were all impoſture—and this I did, becauſe
I love her.
EDWARD.
Love her!
GONDIBFRT.
Aye! and wherefore—
—Say wherefore, but the caſual name of Brother,
Should not I boaſt my Love? But for that cauſe,
Thou, Edward, had'ſt not dar'd to think upon her.
WESTMORELAND.
Impious—moſt impious paſſion!
GONDIBERT.
Even now
I will maintain it. Inſtant will I arm,
[To Edward.
And meet thee in the Liſts—and, ſince the laws
Ordain my Love a crime, there thou may'ſt rip it
From my heart.
[Going.
KING.
Stay, I do command thee, ſtay!
Thou haſt no longer title to the rights
Allow'd to thoſe, who, in the path of Honour,
[73] Have, perſevering, ſhap'd their brilliant courſe:
Thy crimes beneath our yeomanry degrade thee;
And we decree, that whoſoe'er accepts
From thee a challenge, be unworthy held
To try his lance with honourable Knights.
GONDIBERT.
My Liege!
[Reſentfully.
KING.
Nay, deem not this an injury,
Nor this thy puniſhment—
When men of ſuch exalted rank as thine,
Submit to crimes, to treachery, and baſeneſs,
Juſtice, unſhaken, on your heads ſhould pour
The vial of her wrath; that ye may ſtand
As dreadful beacons to the world beneath.
Hear then thy doom!—We baniſh thee our realm.
If in twelve hours thou ſhalt be found within
The precincts of our Court, or in three days
Within our Kingdom—be it at thy peril!
Nor frame an anſwer—but begone.
[Exit Gondibert, Egbert following.
Stay, old Man!
Thou, to whoſe love of ſacred truth we owe
This happy change, by us ſhalt be retain'd;
Thy King will anſwer for thy fortunes.
EGBERT.
Oh, gracious Liege! unworthy I ſhould be
To tread the earth, could I accept of bleſſings
From ſuch a ſource as my lov'd Lord's deſtruction:
It is a horrid duty I've fullfill'd!
To ſome forſworn abode I'll now retire,
Waſting the cheerleſs remnant of my days
In ſorrow for his fault; and weary Heaven
With prayers for his repentance.
WESTMORELAND.
[74]
Thy retirement
Is my care. Go, good Egbert, to my palace,
And wait my coming.
[Exit Egbert.
EDWARD.
Injured Weſtmoreland!
How—how ſhall I approach thee? Shame, deſpair,
Do rend my breaſt; nor dare I lift my eyes
To thine, leſt I ſhould read my ſentence there.
KING.
Come, my good Lord! let me for Edward plead—
For him, whoſe virtues, glory, and deſcent,
Demand an advocate not leſs than royal.
Surely, if fair Albina now beheld him,
With eyes in deep contrition bent on earth,
Pity would rob her anger of its ſting—
She too would plead; and, in the voice of Love,
Extort a pardon for her Country's Hero.
WESTMORELAND.
Though high in ſpirit, proud, and quickly mov'd
With aught that glances on my precious honour—
Yet, gracious Sovereign! I can pardon too.
Theſe public proofs of my Albina's virtue,
Reſtore my boſom to its wonted calm,
And thee, Lord Edward, to thy wonted place.
—Again I thus embrace thee as my Son.
[Shout.
EDWARD.
O great, tranſporting, unexampled goodneſs!
KING.
This then is ſtill the wedding-day—the rites
Be inſtantly perform'd. That no regret
May poiſon ſuch an hour, we do recall
The order of your ſervice in the Eaſt,
'Till we ourſelf ſhall in the Orient Sea
[75] Lave our proud oars; and with Britannia's ſword,
Blazing deſtruction, like the guardian Seraph's,
Drive from bleſt Zion's walls the humbled Infidel.
EDWARD.
My Prince, my Guardian, and my royal Maſter!
With rapture I accept the leave you grant,
And give my helmet, to the God of Love.
[Weſtmoreland and Edward kneel at the foot of the throne, and the Scene cloſes.]
SCENE, An Apartment in Gondibert's Palace. Enter Gondibert, followed by Editha.
EDITHA.
'Tis thus that men, when ſinking, from the ruin
Which their own folly bred, accuſe the heavens,
And execrate their ſtars. Curſe not thy fate,
Nor Egbert; 'tis thyſelf on whom thou ſhouldſt
Revenge thine injuries.
GONDIBERT.
Editha, ſpare me!
My mind, with wild contending paſſions torn,
Now, like a hart by worrying dogs forſook,
Sinks into apathy.
EDITHA.
Hear then a tale,
Will rouſe thee from thy lethargy—this night
Albina will be Edward's Wife.
GONDIBERT.
This night?
EDITHA.
This hour!
GONDIBERT.
It is enough. My wrongs awake
In all their ſtrength, and cry aloud for vengeance.
There is an inſult in this over-haſte,
[76] That finiſhes the whole.
[Pauſing.]
Editha, leave me.
On dreadful things I now would ruminate!
EDITHA,
On what? Impart to me thy thoughts—Inſtruct me.
GONDIBERT.
No. Leave me.
EDITHA.
Ha! I ſee his mind is full
Of ſome important deed. His low'ring brow,
And that fix'd eye, beſpeak ſome latent miſchief.
Miſchiefs, awake! to ye alone my ſoul
Bears uniſon. I'll urge him to the quick.
Conceive the tranſports of victorious Edward!
Conceive his triumph—triumph over thee!
That, e'en in Raimond's arms, points every bliſs—
Makes rapture ſweeter—
GONDIBERT.
Fiend! haſt thou no mercy?
Doſt riot in my woes? Are theſe the gifts
Of friendſhip?
EDITHA.
No—the gifts of wild deſpair.
Oh, wert thou ſuch a dotard to believe
That pity—pity to thy woes, e'er prompted me
To ſteep my ſoul in crimes?
GONDIBERT.
What is't I hear?
EDITHA.
That I aſpir'd to greatneſs, and perceiv'd
No road to reach my hopes, but through Lord Edward;
That to behold another in his arms,
Is madneſs; and that thee I made my tool
To interrupt their hated loves.
GONDIBERT.
Perdition!
Fly me, thou Monſter! leſt thy womanhood
[77] I ſhould forget, and ſcatter thee in atoms
To the tempeſtuous winds!—
[Exit Editha, with an air of menace.
[Muſing.]
Be firm, my ſoul! nor let unworthy weakneſs
Deſtroy the vengeful purpoſe thou haſt fram'd.
Baniſh'd—robb'd of my country, and my name;
Yet they have left a mind defies their vengeance—
Which, though theſe limbs were lock'd in bolts of ſteel,
And darkneſs wrapt theſe precious founts of light,
Would riſe ſuperior to their bounded power,
And ſcorn alike their fetters, and their laws.
He for whom I'm exil'd, for exil'd Gondibert
Shall weep with his heart's blood; and ev'ry vein
Pour tribute to my mighty ſorrows. Edward!
This night, in which thy pulſe beats high to tranſport,
Thy ſenſes giddy with approaching bliſs—
—This night beholds thee in Death's icy bands;
Thy ſhroud ſhall fold thee, not Albina's arms!
[Exit
SCENE changes to Albina's Garden.
Enter Adela.
ADELA.
Alas! my Miſtreſs! vainly have I ſought her
Through ev'ry gloomy, ſolitary walk,
To give the tidings that will kill her peace.
Ah! ſhe is here. How mournful is her air!
Enter Editha.
The ceremonial's paſt—unhappy Lady!
Lord Edward and the Counteſs now are one.
EDITHA.
'Tis well! I hear thee, Adela, unmov'd!
Can one grow callous from repeated woes?
Shall the ſcourg'd wretch not feel the added ſtripe?
ADELA.
With decent pride, and with affected anger,
The Counteſs long her Lover's prayers withſtood.
[78] At length, the King—to ſave her from the ſhame
Of yielding to her heart's moſt eager wiſh—
Commanded ſhe ſhould take Lord Edward's hand,
And he himſelf would join them at the altar.
EDITHA.
Daemons preſide o'er the deteſted nuptials!
ADELA.
I was preparing to attend you here,
When the Lord Edward met me. Go! ſaid he,
Seek out your Miſtreſs. Much oppreſs'd ſhe ſeems,
And overcome with care. Bear her theſe lines—
—Her anguiſh they'll relieve.
EDITHA.
To me, a letter!
Reads.
"The injuries the Counteſs hath received, cannot
"be pardon'd, yet I'll not expoſe you. Leave
"Albina's caſtle, yet leave it as your voluntary
"act. The ills his family hath brought on
"you, Edward will not increaſe, but ſtudy to
"relieve. A ſtipend, ſuited to your rank, ſhall
"be aſſign'd you; but you muſt live at diſtance
"from Albina.
Inſolent!
[flinging away the letter.
Shall Edward, then, preſcribe my breathing-place?
Shall he point out the ſpot, where I muſt eat
The morſel he aſſigns me? Sibald! Sibald!
Will it not rack thee, even in thy tomb,
That thy Editha muſt depend for bread
On his curſt Son, who brought thee to the block?
ADELA.
Be not thus mov'd, but rather, Madam, think—
EDITHA.
I think on nothing but my wrongs.
ADELA.
The Counteſs
Commanded me to ſeek her Friend, and chide
An abſence—ſo unkind!
EDITHA.
[79]
Muſt I return,
To witneſs her extravagance of bliſs;
With gratulations meet whom I'd deſtroy?
Yes; ſuch the joys, Dependence! thou beſtow'ſt;
Such the diſtinctions that adorn thy ſlaves!
[Exeunt.
Enter Gondibert.
GONDIBERT.
Receive, ye bowers, ye ſacred ſolitudes!
A Murd'rer to your ſhades. Riſe, riſe, ye horrors!
A Murderer is here—yet Nature ſhrinks not!
In ſuch an hour no ſtar ſhould ſhed its rays,
Nor planet gliſten in the low'ring ſky.
Pale ſpectres now ſhould dart athwart the gloom,
Whoſe hideous ſhrieks, tearing th'affrighted ear,
Would heighten horror into madneſs.—
But, hark! how melting ſounds of muſic float
On th'air, and hang upon Night's drowſy boſom!
To the chamber—to teach a wanton Bridegroom
That Death's ill-manner'd, or too proud to wait
'Till he hath ſurfeited on bliſs.—Yet, hold!
Yet let me pauſe upon this deed of horror!
Murder! Is Murder then ſo light a thing?
Can I become a bloody, cool Aſſaſſin?
Religion! Nature! Oh, thou common Mother!
Thus on thy flinty boſom do I fling
[Throwing himſelf on the Earth.
A pond'rous weight of woe. Take me—oh, hide me!
Hide from the radiant eyes of Night, a Wretch—
Whoſe perſevering crimes ſhould they behold,
Would blot with horror their celeſtial orbs!
Hah—'tis too late; Repentance comes too late!
[Starting up.
See, ſee, my hands already dy'd in blood!
He falls, he gaſps—in agonies he writhes!
[80] That groan!—death's in that groan—Oh, it has pierc'd
My brain—my brain's on fire! the tempeſt rages—
Come on, ye Furies! I can match ye here—
Here are ſuch tortures as ye never gave.
[Much agitated, and ſtarting with a diſtracted air.]
O blaſting ſight! 'tis Raimond—'tis Albina!
Graſp'd by a blooming Youth—another Lover!
She pulls him to her heart—Nay, then for this—
Vainly thou flieſt—I'll ſtab thee in his arms.
Hah! 'twas an empty ſhade—A ſhade?—a viſion.
Though Edward bleeds, will not a thouſand rivals
Spring, like the hydra, from his grave, and one
At length be bleſt? O glorious thought! I'll die—
I'll die—and bear Albina with me to the grave!
[Runs wildly off.
SCENE changes to Albina's Anti-chamber.
Enter Albina with Attendants.
INA.
Permit us, Madam, to perform our duty.
Unuſual weight hath ſudden ſeiz'd my ſpirits,
And ſomething here forbids me to obey you.
ALBINA.
Such penſiveneſs oft follows, when the mind,
Surcharg'd with joy, hath yielded all her pow'rs
To the inſidious gueſt. But leave me, Ina;
My nightly duty is not yet perform'd.
Mean time, Editha ſend; ſome ſecret grief
Preys on her mind, and fain I would relieve
Her boſom'd anguiſh.
[Exeunt Attendants, leaving two Candles on a diſtant Table.
Now, whilſt giddy mirth
Shakes the high dome, and feſtive merriment
Expands the heart—let me awhile retire,
And offer up my grateful thoughts to Him,
[81] Who hath through ſnares and wond'rous perils led me
—Led me, ſecure, to happineſs and love.
[Exit, taking one of the Candles.
After a pauſe, enter Gondibert.
GONDIBERT.
Mad Riot ſpreads her banners o'er the houſe,
Whilſt, unperceiv'd, Death, to the Bridal Room
Hath work'd his way. His way—alas! for whom?
Wilt thou not ſhrink?
[Looking on his Dagger.
Wilt thou not turn and ſting me,
Rather than touch her living alabaſter?
The Bed!—The Marriage-Bed!—Ariſe, ye Furies!
Light your infernal fires within my breaſt!
Drain from my veins each drop of human blood,
Leſt it return, unbidden, to my heart,
And check my arm i'th'act of holy vengeance!
O Jealouſy! more fell than the mad tigreſs
Who roars in anguiſh for her raviſh'd young—
To what would'ſt thou tranſport me?—Aſk not—think not—
This moment gives Albina's wondrous beauties,
Her heav'n of charms, to Edward—or to Death!
To Death—to Death—'Tis fixt. Here will I ſeek her.
[Exit.
Enter Editha.
EDITHA.
Was not the triumph of Albina finiſh'd
'Till loſt Editha witneſſes the ſcene?
Still with officious goodneſs doth ſhe haunt me—
Me, who ne'er ſought, but hate compaſſion. Pity!
Why do men call thee gentle? Thou'rt an aſp
Within a roſe—thy breath is perfume, and thy words
Sweet bloſſoms, that contain a venom'd ſting—
Kindlier is Hatred in her honeſt garb,
Than ſtinging Pity in her meek-ey'd maſk.
[82]
How gay, how full of bliſs, is all around me!
But, oh! within is an abyſs of wretchedneſs,
Which the bright beams of Joy can never reach—
And this, O Raimond! do I owe to thee!
Ha! had my wiſhes but the force of ſpells,
That Bridal couch ſhould be a bed of thorns—
Thy dreams be cloth'd with images of horror—
—With images ſo ſtrong, they'd ſeize thy brain,
Drag Reaſon from her throne, and bind her ſlave
To furious phantaſies—then would'ſt thou wake
Unconſcious of thy bliſs, and execrate,
Like me, the happineſs thou could'ſt not taſte.
She comes! to meet my curſes in the teeth—
Ha! no, 'tis Edward.
[Going.
Enter Edward.
EDWARD.
Thou wilt not fly me!
Turn, my heart's treaſure!—to thy Huſband turn!
EDITHA.
Torture! I am not ſhe!
[Aſide.
EDWARD.
What ſays my charmer?
Why doſt thou cruelly avert the eyes
Whoſe glance is tranſport to thy Edward's heart!
Come, my Albina! come; too long thou'ſt kept me
From the bleſt circle of thy arms.
GONDIBERT.
[Ruſhing in.]
Stay longer!
[Plunges his Dagger into Editha, who ſcreams and ſinks.
Stay my leave!—'Tis Gondibert who wills thy fate.
He whom thou'ſt ſcorn'd—in love and glory vanquiſh'd,
—Confeſs him, now, thy conqu'ror! See at his feet
Thy vaunted bliſs! But where's the tow'ring joy
That, yeſterday, did madden in thy veins,
And bore thy haughty ſoul beyond humanity?
[Edward ſtands in an attitude of horror and amazement; then drawing his Dagger, ruſhes on Gondibert.
EDWARD.
[83]
This for Albina!
GONDIBERT.
Fool! the ſtroke of death
Is mine.
[Arreſts Edward's arm, whoſe breaſt is expoſed to his dagger.
This for Albina—this!
[Stabs himſelf, and falls.]
Now, Edward,
She is my Bride!
EDWARD.
Villain! devil! I cannot ſtay to curſe thee.
Albina! my ſweet Bride! my murder'd Wife!
The tomb muſt now be our cold nuptial bed.
[Kneeling by the body.]
A moment ſtay—I follow thee—I come!
[As Edward lifts his arm to ſtab himſelf, Albina enters on the oppoſite ſide.
ALBINA.
What mean theſe dreadful ſounds? Oh, ſight of horror!
'Tis death!—a ſea of blood!—O Edward! come,
And catch me ere I fall.
EDWARD.
She lives! ſhe lives!
[Throwing away the Dagger, claſps her in his arms.
GONDIBERT.
[feebly.
Albina living! Whom, then, have I ſlain?
Oh, Heav'n! thy hand was here.
WESTMORELAND.
[without.
This way, this way
Lead to my Daughter's chamber—there's the noiſe.
[Enter, preceded by lights, follow'd by Gueſts.]
Oh, diſmal ſight!—
GONDIBERT.
A moment ſtill is ſpared me to unfold.
The madneſs of deſparing Love, impell'd me
[84] To kill Albina—But in her ſtead—oh!—
—My life doth flow too faſt!—Pity—forgive me!
My guilty paſſion, even, now expires—
It ruſhes from my heart, in crimſon ſtreams,
And mingles with the duſt. My crimes alone
Remain—they'll not forſake—they'll never quit me.
And now I'm ſummon'd—where—
[Dies.
ALBINA.
May mercy meet thee!
My Brother! I forgive, and mourn thy errors,
As I adore His hand, who hath preſerv'd me.
EDWARD.
Accept, high Heav'n! my penetrated heart.
This day, in each revolving year, I'll celebrate.
The Debtor ſhall behold his bonds fall off,
The Poor rejoice, the Orphan's tears be dried—
—Nor ſighs, nor tones of woe, profane the day—
The hallow'd day! on which thou ſay'dſt Albina.
WESTMORELAND.
[Speaking to the Gueſts.
Oh, mark th' effect of paſſions unreſtrain'd!
Within the boſom of this noble Youth
Bright virtues ſprung, as in their native bed;
'Till Vice—alluring in the ſhape of Love—
Crept ſilent to his heart—there ſpread her poiſons—
There her black empire fix'd; then dragg'd her ſlave
Through infamy, to death.
THE END.
Notes
*
Editha; ſince given to Miſs Sherry.
*
The firſt part of this Prologue, which was intended for Mr. Parſons, was not ſpoken on the Stage.
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4282 Albina Countess Raimond a tragedy by Mrs Cowley as it is performed at the Theatre Royal in the Hay Market. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5C62-F