Struck with the horror of Statira's fate, But what, I fear, most deeply will affect you, Alex. Dead! then he is bless'd! But here, here lies my fate. Hephestion! Clytus! My victories all for ever folded up In this dear body. Here my banner's lost, 'Tis, sure, the arm of death. Give me a chair; The war grows wond'rous bot;-hey for the Tygris! My standard's triumphs gone.-Oh, when, Oh, For the best horse the sun has in his stable; when, Shall I be mad indeed? [Exeunt all but Cassander and Thessalus. Cas. He's gone-but whither?-follow, Thessalus, Attend his steps, and let me know what passes. SCENE II.-An Antichamber in the Palace. Cas. Vengeance, lie still, thy cravings shall be stated. Death roams at large, the furies are unchain'd, Enter POLYPERCHON. Saw you the king? He parted hence this moment. Thes. Hence, hence, away! Cas. Where is he, Thessalus? Thes. I left him circled by a crowd of princes, The poison tears him with that height of horror, E'en I could pity him; he call'd the chiefs; Embrac'd 'em round-then, starting from amidst 'em [it. Cried out, I come-'Twas Ammon's voice; I know Poly. No more-I hear him-we must meet anon. Cas. In Saturn's field, there give a loose to rapture, Enjoy the tempest we ourselves have rais'd, And triumph in the wreck which crowns our vengeance. [Exeunt. SCENE III.-The Palace. ALEXANDER, LYSIMACHUS, EUMENES, PERDICCAS, Officers, Guards, and Attendants, discovered. Alex. Search there; nay, probe me; search my wounded reins Pull, draw it out. Lys. We have search'd, but find no hurt. Alex. Oh, I am shot!-a forked, burning arrow Sticks 'cross my shoulders; the sad venom flies, Like lightning thro' my flesh, my blood, my marrow. Lys. How fierce his fever! Alex. Ha! what a change of torments I endure! A bolt of ice runs hissing through my bowels; For they are hot, their mangers full of coals; Their manes are flakes of light'ning, curls of fire; And their red tails, like meteors, whisk about. Lys. Help, all! Eumenes, help. Alex. Ha ha! ha! I shall die with laughter. Parmenio, Clytus, do you see yon fellow, That ragged soldier, that poor tatter'd Greek! See how he puts to flight the gaudy Persians, With nothing but a rusty helmet on, through which The grizly bristles of his pushing beard Drive 'em like pikes-ha! ha! ha! Per. How wild he talks! Lys. Yet warring in his wildness. Alex. Sound, sound! keep your ranks close; ay, now they come. Oh, the brave din, the noblest clank of arms!Charge, charge apace; and let the phalanx move; Darius comes-ay, 'tis Darius: I see, I know him by the sparkling plumes, He tumbles, take him, snatch the imperial crown. (Throws himself into the arms of the Soldiers.) Per. Let's bear him softly to his bed. Alex. Hold; the least motion gives me sudden death; A MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.-BY SAMUEL BIRCH. ACT I. SCENE I.-An old Hall in Milford Castle. Enter RECORD and LUCY. Lucy. I tell you once more, Mr. Record, I won't stay any longer in this place, to be frightened to death every hour of my life, night and day. Rec. Poh! Poh! why you are a silly girl:childish apprehensions! You have been reading some foolish stuff or other to put such notions into your head: what is there in this venerable building to frighten such a sweet innocent little girl as you, most timid? Lucy. What is there? Why, a'n't I oblig'd to cross those long cloisters I don't know how many times a day, where my own steps clatter like twenty people besides myself; and when 'tis dark, to go to bed in that frightful room of tapestry, where those horrid creatures with nodding plumes are galloping upon their large horses, and the wind whistles all night as loud as thunder along the gallery; and to be all alone too! Or if I do see any body, is it not you, Mr. Record? Rec. Well; and is there anything so frightful in me, most insulting! Whom would you see? Lucy. Why something human, something like myself, that I could talk to. O! when shall we have a master and mistress come to this place? Rec. You must put up with me as master; and as to a mistress, if I can do very well without one, surely you may. Our old gentleman's relations are on their road from Spa, and we shall soon be all alive again. Lucy. What, will not Sir Edmund come back again? Rec. Never! but thank heaven, my accounts are all clear enough: his old complaint; but his relations have one consolation left, however. Lucy. What is that, pray, Mr. Record? Rec. The physicians all agree, that notwithstanding the obstinacy of his complaint in his life-time, he certainly died cur'd. Lucy. Why then, would it not have been better that he had never been cured, and perhaps the poor soul might have lived? Rec. We are not such good judges as they, most presumptuous! But mind me, I'm now going down to Michael's at the ferry, and don't you let a soul in under any pretence whatever. Lucy. I won't if I can help it; but indeed 'tis very dismal to be left here so many hours by one's self, while you are at the ferry. I can't think what you are so fond of them for? Rec. Why, I love Michael, because he would do no wrong to man, woman, or child; and besides, he has seen better days. Lucy. And what do you love Michael's wife for? Rec. Because she loves Michael, and makes all his friends welcome; and that's a note of admiration in the wife of any man. (A loud knocking without.) There! There! There's a pretty racket at this early hour! Go round by the south gallery, and open the wicket, and then you'll see who it is. Lucy. What, by myself? No; if I must go, I'll go the direct road to the gate, and let them in; for I dare say they have buisness here, by the loud knocking. [Knocking again. Exit Lucy. Rec. Those who have the least business generally make the greatest disturbance every where. Now to my accounts: I begin very much to suspect that Sir Edmund's title here was a little doubtful, and an old parchment I was turning over mentions something of the succession of the old Baron's male issue, if living: I shall keep possession of these till opportunity serves. Enter LUCY, with SPRUCE. Lucy. Nobody here, but our Mr. Record, sir: he'll answer any questions- Rec. Nobody here! why the girl's a fool; she means nobody that can give a proper answer but me; she forgot the keepers of the armoury above, and the porters and mastiff's below. (Aside to Lucy.) What, do you mean to have our throats cut? Lucy. I'm sure he don't look as if he would do anybody harm. Rec. Your business here, if you please, most impatient! By the knocking at the gate, I should have thought my master had arrived. Spruce. Not much out, old one, for he'll soon be here. Rec. Who? my master? I thought they had buried him at Parma. Spruce. He that was your master lies there: but our present master is just here; I have left him at the ferry, and am come to put every thing in order for him. We shall give the old walls a warming, I promise you; take all the mildew out of the tapestry, and put a little flesh upon your bones. Rec. O! you will, most audacious! Why, then as you are a stranger, I had better shew you the house first. Will you be pleased to walk in and try our old fare, that you may be the better able to make comparison with the new? [Exeunt Record and Spruce. Lucy. When things come to the worst, they say, we must mend. I think that has been my case a long time, and the blessed proverb seems now about to be fulfilled. He's a very smart fellow indeed, and I dare say won't forget me in the promised alteration of affairs. Why be coy detain me? When bridal joy Strives to entertain me? Time has wings, and soon will flee, Enter RECORD, with a large key. Lucy. What have you done with the gentleman? Rec. Lock'd him in the refectory, most inquisitive! that nobody may disturb him: to give him an opportunity of arranging his plans of improvement here, whilst I go down to Michael to see whether he's an impostor or no. Confine yourself in the chapel till I return, and don't you open the door, if they knock the very walls down. Lucy. Sha'n't I take him a tankard of October first? Rec. No! Put a little flesh upon my bones, will he, an impudent varlet? My bones have never yet been ashamed of what covers them, and I must take care that the future covering don't blush for the bones. [Exit. Lucy. 'Ifegs! but I'll have another peep at him. He may like to go to chapel with me, and if he does, I can get him out. What then? the chapel is a very good place; but there will be no parson there. That's no fault of mine; well, we can read the ceremony without him. [Exit. SCENE II.-Michael's Hut at the Ferry.-Mountains in the back view. Enter SIR BERTRAND and LE SAGE. SONG. LE Sage. Down the rugged mountain's steep, Enter MICHAEL to them. Sir Ber. We are not very particular: the country seems most beautiful, and the delay of a day or two will make no difference. Mich. If you are fond of fishing, we have some rare sport a mile or two up the stream. You do us great honour to put up with our little place. Here, Nell! The best brown bread of our own making, and honey from our own hives. Homely fare, but ↑ sweet!-Stoop your head, your honour, our hats are but low. [Exeunt. SCENE III.-The Garden of an old Convent. Cla. The long absence of Sir Edmund, Jannette, fills my mind with strange apprehensions for his safety. Jan. The charms of foreign travel, madam, are great. Cla. Under his protection, Jannette, you know, I have lived here, secluded from the hated passion of Sir Bertrand. Nothing do I dread equal to his death; and then, his precarious state of health when he went to Parma Jan. Madam, do not give way to such melancholy. You strangely discourage my labours to amuse and please you. I have just finished the grotto; the further end of it opens secretly to the forest. Cla. Indeed I am to blame. How beautiful it is! what a heavenly retirement from the vicious pursuits of man!— Jan. From a seat within it, you command the surrounding country, and in the distance, a view of Milford Castle. Cla. O name it not for though living here by favour of Sir Edmund, I can never forget it once belonged to my ancestors; and have great reason to believe it would have returned again to our possession, after a time, had not the cruel ocean deprived me both of a father and infant brother at a stroke. SONG.-CLARA. In Seclusion's sacred bower, So, sweet bird! thy lonely sorrow [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-Michael's House. Mich. Notice him, do they? Where is he now? Nell. At his old employment, his pencils and his compasses, and I don't know what, pothering his poor little brains. Mich. I'm not very easy about that boy; he advances in life apace, and we are very laborious we have but little leisure-to be sure you teach him to read ; Nell. Read! ay, that I do: and he spells to a miracle. Mich. Well, I know he does: but if I could any how give him a little more learning, I'm sure he'd make an excellent scholar. Nell. A scholar quoth'a? fine doing to make poor people scholars! and when he has got it, I wonder who's to mind the Ferry. Mich. Does a man make the worse seaman, think ye, Nell, because he understands his compass? But come, come, sit down, and I'll tell you a secret, and you shall advise Nell. Now, Michael, you love me indeed: and will you trust me with a secret? Mich. I will: you have always thought him a boy of mine; but I am not his father. Nell. No! About eight Mich. No but you shall hear. years since, I had been out all night fishing; and, about a league from hence, was hauling close in shore, with a stiff gale, when I heard to windward a signal gun fire of a ship in distress. I could see nothing; but presently heard another, and then, the piercing shrieks of some poor souls in their last extremity. That was enough for me so I luffed and stood out to sea again. The gale increased, and it was my duty, Nell, you know, and danger was no object, when I could save the life of a fellow-creature. Nell. I never would have had you, if you could have deserted them. Mich. Well, the moon every now and then peeped from underneath a pitch black cloud. I crowded sail, and soon made the wreck, just time enough to take out a gentleman and this little boy, with a trunk, and she went to pieces. I was endeavouring to make port again, when the poor gentleman, quite exhausted, told me he was dying, and begged I would run in upon the beach, as he had something to say. Cheerly, says I, cheerly; a glass of grog will soon right you again: so he tasted it, but it would not do: his spirits were ebbing apace, His and I run into the first creek I could see. distress had made him my commander, you know, and I was not to disobey orders. Nell. What could you do with him, poor creature? Mich. I struck a light, and seated him in a small cavity of the cliff upon the best jacket I had got; made a small fire to leeward, of as many sticks as I could scramble together, and sat down beside him, with the little boy upon my knee. "You seem an honest fellow," says he, " and I will trust you:" "My commander often has," says I," and I think you may but take another sup of grog:" he tried again, but could not; then shivering all over, he said, "I must be brief." I wrapped some old sail-cloth round him, put some more sticks upon the fire, and wiped the tears from the little boy's check, which seemed to grow to my bosom. "Take care of my boy," says he, "and don't desert him." "I'll be d- - if I do," says I; though to speak nearly choaked me. "Do not lose the trunk, perhaps it may one day reward you."-"I am rewarded already, says I;" for at that moment I felt something at my heart, that was quite enough! Nell. But where is the trunk, Michael? Mich. "Promise me one thing," added he; "his life is sought secretly: keep him as your own, and when you shall hear of the death of Sir Edmund of Milford Castle, then open the trunk. The poor soul reached out his hand, which the boy kissed as he dropped. The day-break gave me light enough to sink a grave for him in the sand. He went peacefully home; the salt tear of a sailor seemed to satisfy him of his boy's safety; and the trust was more binding than if all the lawyers in the universe had been by; for the seal is here. (Laying his hand upon his heart.-They retire.) Enter Boy. SONG. At evening, when my work is done, All is dark, and all is mute, (After the song, they meet him.) Boy. Here, father! these good gentlemen have given me-O! see here! it will buy for me plenty of pencils and colours for drawing, when you can spare me: 'tis a great deal of money though, and I won't keep it if you don't like it. Mich. They are returned, then. See, Nell, they want nothing. [Exit Nell.] What, give you gold! impossible! Come, come, tell me fairly where you got this, and I won't be angry. Tell me the truth. Boy. When did I ever tell you a lie? You know I scorn it. Mich. That's true, that's true; I am too hasty. Boy. O! they asked me if I should like to go with them, and said that they would give me a horse to ride upon; but I told them no, I would not, I was very happy: and so I am too; for you know I could not leave mother and you. Mich. No, no, to be sure you could not. This is very strange! (Aside.) Boy. They asked me who gave me this rosary, and they took a great deal of notice of it; they are very kind gentlemen, indeed; but you would not part with me, would you? Mich. Part with you! no; never till death slips the cable. (Aside.) That rosary was his father's; given to him on the sand just before he died; it has, I fear, betrayed him. Stay by me, and don't run about so much by yourself. (Aside.) O! they're coming; I must not seem surprised. (Speaking | loud to the boy.) We must down to the boat, boy, more passengers are waiting to cross, and the tide is making in apace. Take the flask aboard. (Boy brings the flask.) Stay! there is but a little in it. Well, well, if we can't bring our means up to our wishes, we can keep our wishes down to our means, and that comes to the same point-content. Enter SIR BERTRAND and LE SAGE, in tion, on the opposite side. out, right worshipful! to guard against impostors, Mich. (Aside to Nell.) Sir Edmund dead! Sir Ber. Le Sage, give him the papers; his formalities must be indulged. (Le Sage gives him conversa-papers.) In that parcel you will see every thing you want. I shall not visit the castle till evening. To Michael in parting.) Think of what I've said to you, and give me an answer. Sir Ber. There cannot be a doubt of it: here are the very features, line for line. (Looking at a miniature.) We must get possession of him by courtesy, if possible, and that will hoodwink suspicion. The disposal of him we'll settle after. Mich. (Aside.) They are very intent upon the boy. Le Sage. Had you not better speak to the man? ferryman. Mich. Yes, sir, I believe the boy's well enough. pass Mich. Why, as to that, few fathers, I believe, could take upon them to say: 'tis useless to fathom beyond the depth of the line: 'tis sufficient for me that he is cast under this roof to lay claim to my protection. Sir Ber. Will you part with him? He can have no great instruction here; I'll see his genius attended to; what can he learn of you? [Exeunt Sir Bertrand and Le Sage. Mich. I hope I shall have an answer for you. Rec. What a sudden alteration of affairs! Come, Michael, give me a draught of your ale; I'll sit down and chat with you a little. Mich. I thank you, I thank you.--And so, Sir Edmund is certainly dead, is he? Poor man!--I am very heartily glad to see you.-How the devil shall I get him out of the house? (Aside.) Nell, go and draw a mug of ale, child; take the boy with you. Michael, can't you give me the key of the trunk, live here, are they? Upon my soul, I'm heartily Rec. O! no! not in the least, not in the least: Enter NELL, with ale. Mich. Nature's independence-honesty! Labour-Yes! he's dead and--but where's the ale? to procure his meal of content, and gratitude to Him that sends it! He may see, perhaps, an example to resent injury or insult. What would you teach him more? Le Sage. A purse, Sir Bertrand, may alter this tone. Sir Ber. Come, come, I have a fancy to see him educated; there's earnest of what more I intend for you. (Offering a purse.) Mich. I'll starve first! (Throwing it away.) Le Sage. Do you know whom you are insulting by this behaviour? Mich. What, because I won't sell my boy? I don't know who his honour may be; but if he is in great power, he ought to know that it was given him to protect, and not to oppress those below him. Enter NELL. and RECORD. Nell. These are the gentlemen, Mr. Record. Mich. (Aside.) Record here, and knows them! then I'm ruin'd. Rec. Most high and mighty! you see your faithful servant bow before you; you are coming to Milford Castle, I suppose; you bring credentials with you. I am the old steward of the place, and must render proper accounts: I keep all under lock and key, most accurate! and am very particular whom I let in during my master's absence. Sir Ber. Did not my servant arrive before you left the Castle? Rec. He did. Sir Ber. Where is he now? Rec. Under lock and key, most noble! Sir Ber. What, have you made a prisoner of him? Rec. He is very safe, till I return with proper authority to let him loose. His companions are two thirds of a peck loaf, the carcase of a cold turkey, and a Chedder cheese: so there's no danger of his breaking out. Sir Ber. An odd fellow this! but come, sir, why did you lock him in? Rec. For the same reason that I have locked you Nell. Here it is. Rec. There's a fine head to it. Our last brewing did not turn out quite so well; what's your proportion? I shall mend our receipt. Ay! it should be deeper coloured than this. (Drinks.) Delicious, in good truth! Did I never tell you of Sir Edmund's pedigree? Mich. My impatience almost choaks me! (Aside.) Here's to you! here's to you! (Drinks.) Rec. Why, you are in a d- hurry. What's the matter with you? I came to gossip half an hour or so. cord, good morning! good morning! (Drinks.) Nell. He has a number of things to do; Mr. Re Rec. Good morning! What the devil, are you drinking me out of the house? Mich. I've a great mind to tell him, but—(Aside.) Well, good by'e, we shall meet in the evening, as I see you're in such a hurry now; I'm sure you must be wanted. Rec. Well, I'm going! I'm going! Lackaday! this is the strangest kind of hospitality, to turn your old friend out of doors. Some family secret, I suppose Mich. Well, now, do go; make haste, will you? Nell. Well, now for it. Nell. The trunk, to be sure. Sha'n't we open it! Mich. We open it? I've divulg'd the secret to you, Nell, and of course we are embarked; but, do you know the danger of two commanders in one bottom? If we mean to come safe to shore, we must have only one pilot; and as I'm best acquainted with the coast, you must trust the helm to me: so as there may be some difficulty in the steerage, I'll go first and reconnoitre, and then Nell. What, then, you shut me out from the secrets of your heart! Have I deserved this, Michael? |