Imatges de pàgina
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The soldier's widow lingered in the cot;
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
Through which his wife, to that kind shelter brought,
Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer

He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour he remained

Beneath their roof, but to the open air

A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,

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

February 28, 1842.

ACT I.

SCENE, road in a Wood.

WALLACE and LACY.

Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish foray Of their rich spoil, ere they recross the border.

Pity that our young chief will have no part In this good service.

Wal.

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

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

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Lacy. True; and, remembering how the band have

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

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

[Exit.

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

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

To love him. I remember, when a boy
Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm
That casts its shade over our village school,
'T was my delight to sit and hear Idonea
Repeat her father's terrible adventures,
Till all the band of play-mates wept together;
And that was the beginning of my love.
That which, while it is And, through all converse of our later years,
An image of this old man still was present,
When I had been most happy. Pardon me
If this be idly spoken.
Osw.

Which is your favourite, Oswald?

Osw.

Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal

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

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Sec, they come,

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

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

Her. (after some time.) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.

Idon.

Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,

Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
Her.

Nay, be composed:
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne'er had heart to separate-my grave,
And thee, my child!

Idon.
Believe me, honoured sire!
"Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music, could you see the sun,
And took upon the pleasant face of Nature-
Her. I comprehend thee-I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning.-The bequest
Of thy kind patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?

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

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

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

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

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(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) You seem worn out with travel-shall I support you?

All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks

A deep and simple meekness: and that soul,
Which with the motion of a virtuous act

Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,

Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,

By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.

Her. Unhappy woman! Idon. Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forgetDear father! how could I forget and liveYou and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topnost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant daughter to your heart.

Her. I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, "T were wrong to trouble you. Pea.

God speed you both. [Exit Peasant. Be not alarmed

Her. Idonea, we must part. 'Tis but for a few days-a thought has struck me. Idon. That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength

Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.

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Ile tempted me to think the story true;
'Tis plain he loves the maid, and what he said
That savoured of aversion to thy name
Appeared the genuine colour of his soul-
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her

After his death.

Mar.

I have been much deceived.

Osw. But sure he loves the maiden, and never love
Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
Thus to torment her with inventions! —death
There must be truth in this.

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

Osw.
Strange pleasures
Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!
To see him thus provoke her tenderness
With tales of weakness and infirmity!
I'd wager on his life for twenty years.
Mar. We will not waste an hour in such a cause.
Osw. Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.
Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. A man
Who has so practised on the world's cold sense,
May well deceive his child-what! leave her thus,
A prey to a deceiyer? -no-no-no-
'Tis but a word and then

Osw.

Something is here

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may be,

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

What hast thou heard or seen?

Osw. No-no-the thing stands clear of mystery; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear; - for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be

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[Looking at the dog.

Look,

We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
This charge of thine, then ill befal thee!
The little fool is loth to stay behind.
Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
Take care of him, and feed the truant well.
Host. Fear not, I will obey you; - but one so young,
And one so fair, it goes against my heart
That you should travel unattended, lady!.
I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, sir?)
And for less fee than I would let him run

For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.

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

There was a circumstance, trifling indeed -
It struck me at the time - yet I believe

I never should have thought of it again

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

Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.

Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket,

But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. A look of mine would send him scouring back,

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Unless I differ from the thing I am
When you are by my side.

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

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

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A slight affair,

Did Marmaduke

Be at peace.

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-The tie

Is broken, you will hear no more of him.
Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!
That noise! would I had gone with her as far
As the Lord Clifford's castle: I have heard
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed
Compassion for me. His influence is great
With Henry, our good king;—the Baron might
Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at court.
No matter he's a dangerous man. That noise!
"T is too disorderly for sleep or rest.
Idonea would have fears for me,
Will give me quiet lodging.

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And he must lead me back.
Osw.

the convent

[Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.

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Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them. Host. (to them.) Into the court, my friend, and perch yourself

Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty maids,

Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,
Are here, to send the sun into the west
More speedily than you belike would wish.

SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel-
MARMADUKE and Oswald entering.

Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves:
When first I saw him sitting there, alone,

It struck upon my heart I knew not how.

Osw. To-day will clear up all. You marked a

coltage,

That ragged dwelling close beneath a rock
By the brook-side: it is the abode of one,
A maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
What she had seen and suffered turned her brain.
Cast off by her betrayer, she dwells alone,
Nor moves her hands to any needful work:
She eats her food which every day the peasants
Bring to her hut; and so the wretch has lived
Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
But every night at the first stroke of twelve
She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring churchyard

You have a boy, good host, Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,

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

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She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one-
She paces round and round an infant's grave,
And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn
A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep-
Ah! what is here?

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

I put a slip of foxglove in his hand,

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

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