Bir. Indeed 'twas most unjust; but say what follow'd?
El. Why should I dwell on the disastrous tale?
Forbid to see me, Percy straightway join'd
The great crusade against the Saracen.
Soon as the jarring kingdoms were at peace,
Earl Douglas, whom till then I ne'er had seen,
Came to this castle; 'twas my hapless fate
To please him. Birtha; thou can'st tell what
follow'd:
But who shall tell the agonies I felt ?
My barbarous father forced me to dissolve
The tender vows himself had bid me form-
He dragg'd me trembling, dying, to the altar,
I sigh'd, I struggled, fainted, and-complied.
Bir. Did Douglas know a marriage had been
Propos'd 'twixt you and Percy?
El. If he did, He thought, like you, it was a match of policy, Nor knew our love outran our father's prudence. Bir. Should he now find he was the instrument Of the Lord Raby's vengeance?
El. My father lock'd this motive in his breast, And feign'd to have forgot the chase of Cheviot. Some moons have now completed their slow course Since my sad marriage. Percy still is absent.
Bir. Nor will return before his sov'reign comes. El. Talk not of his return! this coward heart Can know no thought of peace but in his absence. How, Douglas here again? some fresh alarm!
Enter DOUGLAS, agitated, with letters in his hand.
Doug. Madam, your pardon
What disturbs my lord? Disturb? I ne'er was more at
These letters from your father give us notice
He will be here to-night; he further adds
The king's each hour expected to return.
The grand crusade's accomplish'd.
And 'tis Lord Raby's pleasure
That you, among the foremost, bid him welcome. You must attend the court.
Doug. Now to observe how she receives th' news!
By the tender love You have so oft profess'd for poor Elwina,
Indulge this one request-O let me stay!
Doug. Enchanting sounds! she does not wish to
[Aside. El. The bustling world, the pomp which waits
Ill suits my humble, unambitious soul ;-
Then leave me here, to tread the safer path
Of private life; here, where my peaceful course
Shall be as silent as the shades around me;
Nor shall one vagrant wish be e'er allow'd
To stray beyond the bounds of Raby castle.
Doug. O music to my ears! (aside) Can you resolve
To hide those wondrous beauties in the shade,
Which rival kings would cheaply buy with empire?
Can you renounce the pleasures of a court,
Whose roofs resound with minstrelsy and mirth?
El. My lord, retirement is a wife's best duty,
And virtue's safest station is retreat.
Doug. My soul's in transports! (aside.) But can you forego
What wins the soul of woman-admiration?
Forego a world, where far inferior charms
Only presume to shine when you are absent ?
Will you not long to meet the public gaze?
Long to eclipse the fair, and charm the brave?
El. These are delights in which the mind par-
takes not.
Doug. I'll try her farther. (Aside.)
(Takes her hand, and looks stedfastly at her as he speaks.)
When you shall hear that England's gallant peers,
Fresh from the fields of war, and gay with glory,
Elate with fame, and vain with victory;
When you shall hear these princely youths contend
In many a tournament for beauty's prize;
When you shall hear of revelry and masking,
Of mimic combats, and of festive halls,
Of lances shiver'd in the cause of love,
Will you not then repent, then wish your fate,
Your happier fate, had till that hour reserv'd you
For some plum'd conqueror ?
My fate, my lord,
Is now bound up with yours, nor do I wish
To gain another heart.
Yes, I will kneel, and gaze, and weep, and wonder; Thou paragon of goodness !-pardon, pardon !
I am convinc'd-I can no longer doubt,
Nor talk, nor hear, nor reason, nor reflect.—
I must retire, and give a loose to joy. [Exit Doug.
Bir. The king returns.
And with him Percy comes!
O never, never, Birtha,
That rock I'll shun. Shall I solicit ruin,
And pull destruction on me ere its time?
I who have held it criminal to name him!
I will not go I disobey thee, Douglas,
But disobey thee to preserve thy honour.
Doug. (speaking as he enters.) See that the traitor
instantly be seiz'd,
And strictly watch'd; let none have access to him.
O jealousy, thou aggregate of woes!
Were there no hell, thy torments would create one.
But yet she may be guiltless-may? she must.
How beautiful she look'd! pernicious beauty?
Yet innocent, as warm, seem'd the sweet blush
That mantled on her cheek. But not for me,
But not for me those breathing roses blow!
And when she wept-what! can I bear her tears!
Well let her weep-her tears are for another;
O did they fall for me, to dry their streams
I'd drain the choicest blood that feeds the heart,
Nor think the drops I shed were half so precious.
(He stands in a musing posture.)
Enter LORD RABY.
Raby. Sure I mistake—Am I in Raby castle?
Impossible! that was the seat of smiles;
There cheerfulness and joy were household gods.
I used to scatter pleasures when I came,
And every servant shar'd his lord's delight.
But now suspicion and mistrust preside,
And discontent maintains a sullen sway.
Where is the smile unfeign'd, the jovial welcome,
Which cheer'd the sad, beguil'd the pilgrim's pain,
And made dependency forget its bonds?
Where is the ancient, hospitable hall,
Whose vaulted roof once rung with harmless mirth;
Where every passing stranger was a guest,
And every guest a friend? I fear me much,
If once our nobles scorn their rural seats
Their rural greatness, and their vassal's love,
Freedom and English grandeur are no more.
Doug. (advancing) My lord, you are welcome.
Raby.
Sir, I trust I am;
But yet, methinks, I shall not feel I'm welcome,
my
Elwina bless me with her smiles:
She was not wont with lingering step to meet me,
Or greet my coming with a cold embrace;
Now I extend my longing arms in vain,
My child, my darling, does not come to fill them.
they were happy days when she would fly
To meet me from the camp, or from the chase,
And with her fondness overpay my toils!
How eager would her tender hands unbrace
The ponderous armour from my war-worn limbs,
And pluck the helmet which oppos'd her kiss!
Doug. O sweet delights that never
Nothing inquire no farther.
Raby. My lord, if you respect an old man's peace:
you doted on my much-lov'd child,
As 'tis most sure you made me think you did;
Then, by the pangs which you may one day feel,
When you, like me, shall be a fond, fond father,
And tremble for the treasure of your age,
Explain what this alarming silence means?
You sigh, yet do not speak; nay, more, you hear
not?
Your labouring soul turns inward on itself,
As there were nothing but your own sad thoughts
Deserv'd regard. Does my child live?
Raby. To bless her father!
Doug.
And-to curse her husband!
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