9L 
 
 : k 
 
4b' : 
 
THE 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 AND 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 FREDERICK EARL OF CARLISLE 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, 
 foe. foe. foe. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY W. BULMER AND CO. 
 
 CLEVELAND-ROW, ST. JAMES'S, 
 
 FOR J. WRIGHT, PICCADILLY. 
 1801. 
 
P/?ft/7 
 .C3 
 
 0&610 
 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 In ancient times, when Edward's conquering son. 
 O'er prostrate France his glorious course had run; 
 'Midst clashing arms, and 'midst the din of war, 
 Meek Science follow' d not the Victor's car. 
 Though Gower and Chaucer knelt before her shrine, 
 And woo'd, on British ground, the tuneful Nine, 
 Yet she, to climes congenial to her soul, 
 Fled from our chilling blasts, and northern pole. 
 'Twas there she waved her universal wand, 
 And led, o'er classic fields, her learned band; 
 There, as a model to this distant age, 
 With language pure adorn' d Boccacio's page. 
 While all around us here was cold and dark, 
 While chieftain dunces set their peasant mark, 
 The Muse was stringing Dante's sounding shell, 
 Bade him, inspired, of things sublime to tell, 
 And, to his proud demand, expanded heaven and hell; 
 O'er the soft lute taught Petrarch's hand to move, 
 And give his years to szveetest song, and love. 
 
 Yet here, though late, zvhen milder life began 
 To spread its influence, and to soften man; 
 A 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 When, as the castle sunk, the rampart fell, 
 
 And struggling reason burst the monkish cell, 
 
 Young Industry rush 'd forth, the desart smiled, 
 
 And Ceres triumph' d o'er the heathy wild. 
 
 Hither the Muse would sometimes bend her way, 
 
 Willing to loiter, but afraid to stay ; 
 
 Until bright spirits of ether ial fire 
 
 Raised the charm? d note, and waked the British lyre, 
 
 Shakspeare and Milton ! Listening to their lays, 
 
 How soon unfelt were Albion's clouded days. 
 
 Pleased, too, she followed where her Cowley led, 
 
 O'er Waller's tongue her choicest honey spread, 
 
 Nor let that garland fade she wove for Spenser's head. 
 
 These knew to tempt her stay ;—from soil she loved, 
 Hither her plants, and favourite flowers removed ; 
 Taught the sweet sounds that roll'd o'er Arno's wave, 
 Again to vibrate in their Thames' s cave. 
 
 Such sacred labours to pursue with care, 
 Dry den, to all their skill and science heir, 
 Caught from their mighty hands the magic power, 
 And fix' d her empire on Britannia's shore. 
 He, from It alia' s fount, would frequent bring 
 The dismal tale, the tender heart to wring ; 
 Each stormy passion of the breast to move, 
 By Guiscard'sfate, and Sigismonda's love. 
 If, following him, a Bard should dare explore* 
 And search that mine which had been pierced before ;■ 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 If, on the Stage, he now presumes to shew, 
 
 By such great masters touch! d, dark crimes and woe ; 
 
 The bold attempt forgive, the Poet spare, 
 
 Nor, though you wept before, deny the tear. 
 
 And if, in varied form, and order new, 
 
 He brings again the wretched to your view> 
 
 'Tis to those masters but fresh worship paid, 
 
 And added incense on their altars laid. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 MEN. 
 Tancred. 
 
 Archbishop of Salerno. 
 Manfred, Prince of Benevento. 
 Guiscard. 
 
 MoNFORTI. 
 
 Hassan. 
 
 Anselmo. 
 
 Bender. 
 
 Raimonik 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 SlGISMONDA. 
 SlBILLA. 
 
 Scene, Salerno, 
 
THE 
 
 FATHER'S REVENGE 
 
 nr an murium mBKM-irti 
 
 ACT L 
 
THE 
 
 FATHER'S REVENGE 
 
 ACT I. SCEJVE I. 
 
 A CLOISTER IN THE ARCHBISHOP^ PALACE, OPENING IN 
 FRONT TO A DISTANT VIEW OF MOUNT VESUVIUS. A 
 FLIGHT OF STEPS ON THE SIDE LEADING TO THE CHAPEL. 
 THE ORGAN AND VOICES ARE HEARD FROM WITHIN. 
 
 Enter the Archbishop, Anselmo, and Monks * in 
 procession. 
 
 Archbishop. 
 Move forward to the chapel — you, Anselmo, 
 Remain with me — I'll speedily attend you; 
 For yet cold age must not retard my duty. 
 
 [Exeunt all but the Archbishop and Anselmo. 
 Fearless of death, and careless when ye hide 
 These wearied bones beneath your holy pavement, 
 Too weak to struggle for an injured people, 
 And rush between my brother's wrath and them, 
 
10 THE FATHER'S REVENGE, 
 
 What charm has life for me ! I view the bourn, 
 Its welcome limitation, and fain would, 
 Fatigued, worn down, shape a near course to- 
 wards it. 
 
 Ansel. What means my lord? On that un- 
 ruffled brow, 
 By holy patience smooth'd, i ne'er beheld 
 Such marks of rooted care. 
 
 Archb. Alas ! Anselmo, 
 Little thou know'st the horrors of last night! 
 Terrors are surely made for guilt \ you'd think 
 That Virtue would, like our tall Pharos, stand, 
 Which spurns the waves that dash in vain below, 
 And, midst the war of jarring elements, 
 Maintains its pure and salutary light. 
 Yet, tho' in peace with God and man, when late 
 I laid me down to take a short repose, 
 Fears, I'm ashamed to own, did banish sleep. 
 Almighty powers ! what must the accursed feel, 
 The shrouded murderer at his final doom, 
 When, bursting from his charnel-house, he meets 
 The accusing angel ? He, alas ! weigh'd down 
 With the foul burden of repeated sin ; 
 I, wash'd from guilt, and blameless: Yet I felt 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE, H 
 
 Horror past utterance ; the pealing noises 
 Still din upon my ear. 
 
 Ansel. Most reverend father, 
 It was my duty, all the livelong night, 
 To watch before our altar. Solemn stillness 
 Hush'd the whole convent ; e'en Vesuvius, 
 In dying thunders, seem'd to court repose. 
 
 Archb. Anselmo, mark my words, and I be- 
 seech thee, 
 Think not 'twas dotage wove this airy vision. 
 A thousand footsteps seem'd in haste to pass 
 Close by my chamber door :— strange whisper- 
 ings- 
 Then horrid shrieks : — and some, methought, did 
 
 laugh; 
 But with a mirth so terrible, the groans 
 Which follow'd e'en gave respite to my fears, 
 A hollow voice upon my brother call'd, 
 And, in the tumult, Sigismonda's name 
 Struck on my ear. I started from my bed, 
 And, by a hand invisible impell'd, 
 Through these lone mansions of the dead, survey 'd 
 That royal tomb, exposing, in sad show, 
 The nauseous remnants of all worldly grandeur, 
 
12 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 And gaping wide in sad expectancy 
 Of some new victim from our falling house. — 
 — Hadst thou, Anselmo, in that hour beheld me 
 Sinking to earth, thou surely would'st havedeem'd 
 Some foul and secret guilt had bade these terrors 
 Brood o'er my sleepless head. 
 
 Ansel, O no, my master, — 
 Is not that restless angel Charity 
 Ever on wing for thee, midst lonely streets, 
 And solitary places, in her search 
 To give new objects to thy endless bounty ; 
 To bear with thee to Misery's humble dwelling 
 Peace and sweet comfort, and unloose with thee 
 The chain of captive innocence and virtue? 
 
 Archb. O that proud-hearted men but once 
 could know 
 The penetrating throb, one generous pang 
 Of the breast heaving at the poor man's blessing, 
 Or at the ill-articulated thanks 
 Of modest worth relieved! Would they not own 
 That love, ambition, grandeur, wealth, and power, 
 Only amuse them with the names of pleasures, 
 Play with the senses, trifle with the passions, 
 And mock them with the semblance of delight ! 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 13 
 
 Little the merit in the willing offer 
 Of my best services, but in the omission 
 Real offence and shame.— What mean these 
 •shouts ? 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. Manfred's victorious fleet, with Pagan 
 spoil, 
 Now makes Salerno's harbour. The glad people 
 Rush to the shores, impatient to behold 
 Those gallant leaders, by whose righteous arms 
 All Syria bends before our holy cross. 
 
 Archb. They are most welcome. But how 
 
 wears the morn ? 
 Ansel. So quick, that, ere our rites shall be per- 
 form'd, 
 Your brother's crowded palace will receive 
 The adulating herd, prepared to light 
 Their pois'nous incense on his natal day, 
 Striving who first shall change the rising curse 
 Into base flattery, and impious worship. 
 Archb. You do forget he was great William's son. 
 Ansel. In truth I do : I would that Tancred's 
 virtues 
 
14 THE FATHER'S REVENGE, 
 
 Would oftener call that God-like hero back t 
 Tis better to forget those happier days ; 
 Our people's chains sit lighter, when they cease 
 To dream of freedom past : the night of hell 
 Was doubly black to the rebellious angels, 
 Because they once had shared the radiant blaze 
 Of heaven's eternal day* 
 
 Archb. You're too severe ; 
 Yet I will own that brooding discontent 
 Casts a sad gloom amongst us, and I fear 
 My brother fails in his harsh scheme of rule, 
 Nor leads his people through so smooth'd a way, 
 As would a child clothed in gentleness, 
 Beckoning them where to follow. In our streets, 
 I've trembled to behold his subjects meet, 
 Each, by his look and gesture, fathoming 
 The other's will ; reading each others thoughts ; 
 Then, with their eyes cast up, they witness heaven 
 To some strong oath ; and altogether grasp 
 Their ready swords, abruptly finishing 
 The ambiguous conference* 
 
 Ansel. This is too true ; 
 Tancred, I trust, is still secure from danger; 
 For, without conduct, secrecy, and caution, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 15 
 
 The people's rage, like an old warrior's dart, 
 Falls short, and only marks the bold intent. 
 They have no chief, nor is there one amongst them 
 To whose authority they dare commit 
 The enterprising hour assign'd to vengeance ; 
 Fear not the vain attempt. 
 
 Archb. I fear it not, 
 But arm my breast with confidence in heaven. 
 He who can quell the fury of yon mountain, 
 When from the molten stream of liquid fire 
 The astonish'd deep shrinks back, 'tis he alone 
 Can bend and soften Tancred's iron sceptre. 
 Disarm a furious people of their rage, 
 And ward the impending dangers that await us. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A VIEW OF THE PORT OF SALERNO. 
 
 Manfred, Guiscard, Slaves, Attendants. 
 
 Manf. Welcome, my Guiscard, to thy native 
 land! 
 When, from our ship, we first Salerno spied, 
 
16 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 I could at times perceive the glow oflife 
 Fade in thy cheek, and then return again. 
 
 Guise. Well, well, my lord, I freely own the 
 
 sight 
 Of this loved country did affect me greatly. 
 You mark'd how from the mast a captive Turk, 
 With a loud shout, proclaim'd the lengthening 
 
 shore. 
 If fortune frown'd upon his early youth, 
 When fighting bravely he became my slave, 
 Yet for the boy she had a smile in store; — 
 I gave him, for that shout, his liberty. 
 
 Manf. 'Twas like thy generous nature. True 
 
 compassion 
 Attends the soldier to the embattled field. 
 And, in the din of roaring war, she sues 
 For bleeding youth, and shields exhausted age. 
 But now, my Guiscard, (how the thought afflicts 
 
 me!) 
 I must resign thee, as by promise bound, 
 To Tancred's earlier right. He lent thee to me, 
 And I must give thee back : with joy he'll hear, 
 That his young soldier was the first to plant 
 Our holy standard on the Syrian walls. 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 17 
 
 Guise, Could I do less than follow thee ? The 
 price 
 Of glorious danger was thy envied praise. 
 'Twas at thy side, in the long waving shadow 
 Of those black plumes, I first by thee was taught 
 To stain my novice sword in Pagan gore. 
 
 Manf. And well you proved its edge. — And 
 yet, my Guiscard, 
 Thus sever'd, never more must we again, 
 Roused by the neighing of impatient steeds 
 Rattling their iron harness, bear together 
 The dreadful vengeance of our righteous swords 
 Up to Norredin's throne? Shall these bright arms, 
 This batter'd casque and shield, this well-tried 
 
 lance, 
 Serve only, hanging in our castle halls, 
 To damp the joys of feast and revelry ; 
 And, as we eye them, draw from our full hearts 
 The sigh of shame, to view them useless there, 
 Upbraiding our cold spirits ?— 
 
 Guise. O ! my prince, 
 Such words distract my soul : the aguish frame, 
 The sleepy blood of cowards may require 
 Such stimulating med'eine ; to the brave 
 
 c 
 
18 THE FATHER'S REVENGE, 
 
 Tis poison, lights up madness in the brain, 
 And forces sense and reason from their seats. 
 Raise but thy standard in an honest cause, 
 Thy honour injured, and our cross insulted, 
 If Guiscard is not canopied the first 
 Beneath its sacred shade, may dastard fear 
 Unstring his sinews in the day of battle; 
 Or, if he fall, may not one virtuous wound, 
 Plain in his bosom, plead for his interment ! 
 
 Man/. Guiscard, I doubt thee not; but will 
 not Tancred, 
 Though honour calls, detain thee from the field, 
 While thy fair fame shall bleed, a sacrifice 
 To his false kindness and pernicious love ? 
 
 Guise. Tancred has ever loved me; can I 
 think 
 He would debase me so ? In early years 
 Inured to arms, he knows that youthful courage, 
 Ev'n as a pinion'd eagle sits and frets, 
 Will pine and sicken in inglorious ease. 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 19 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Bender. 
 
 Bend, [to Guise] A Turk, to whom, in pity 
 of his age, 
 You gave permission to ascend our bark, 
 Demands a moment's audience. 
 
 Guise. Tell him, Bender, 
 I must attend the prince. 
 
 Bend. Alas ! my master, 
 (I love the name, and thus must ever call you) 
 This poor old man has never ceased to grieve, 
 Since first we sail'd. There was a dignity 
 In his grave sorrows, that our roughest sea-boys, 
 With folded arms and sympathizing silence, 
 Wept as he wept, unconscious of the tears 
 That glisten'd on their sun-burnt cheeks : — you 
 
 cannot 
 Refuse this comfort to afflicted age. 
 
 Guise. Cold is the winter of our closing days ; 
 The cheerful blaze, which ease and affluence light 
 In that hard season, cannot drive its heat 
 
30 THE FATHER^ REVENGE. 
 
 Through the iced channel of our veins ; ala$, 
 
 If penury is added, then, indeed, 
 
 The imbitter'd cup runs o'er. Know you his 
 
 business ? 
 Requires it quick dispatch ? 
 
 Bend. All that I learn 
 Is, that to Tancred you must be his suitor. 
 Guise. Does he attend? Say, is he near at 
 
 hand? 
 Bend. He still remains on board; our fleet is 
 moor'd 
 Near to that point ; I fly to bring him to you. 
 
 [Exit Bender. 
 
 SCEJfE IV. 
 
 Manfred^ Guiscard. 
 
 Guise. 'Tis said, that Nature has not form'd 
 the heart 
 Of Tancred of her softest clay : in me 
 Behold an instance of his clemency. 
 Where Reggio's rocky cliffs the surge defy, 
 There was I found, inhumanly exposed, 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE, 2,1 
 
 (By whom, and whence, uncertain) there I lay 
 
 An infant helpless, in my cradle pent, 
 
 Left to the mercy of a rising sea. 
 
 'Twas in that season, in this perilous state, 
 
 Tancred espied me as he chanced to pass, 
 
 Just as the favouring tide, by Heaven directed, 
 
 Heaved me on shore. My plaintive cries so 
 
 moved 
 Salerno's prince, that carefully, in his robe, 
 He wrapt me round, and bore me to his palace ; 
 Where, from that moment, I have ever shared 
 His fatherly affection. 
 
 Man/. Tis most strange, 
 That on thy head the shower of Tancred's kind- 
 ness 
 Should all be spent, and not a stream of pity 
 Left to assuage his people's sufferings ; 
 That he, accustom'd to the piercing shrieks 
 Of tortured criminals, should turn aside 
 To thee, and let thy childish eloquence 
 Invade a breast so fenced against compassion. 
 
 Guise. Imperious in his nature, wrong'd by 
 those 
 Whom he most trusts, instructed from his youth 
 
22 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 To esteem the people but as instruments 
 Of his ambition, or capricious will, 
 Yet, sir, believe me, Tancred still has virtues, 
 Which might in public blaze, but are obscured 
 By the dim clouds of passion that eclipse them, 
 And intercept their lustre from mankind. 
 
 Manj. Tis true, indeed, he rears that tender 
 plant, 
 His beauteous daughter, with unwearied care, 
 In spotless innocence, and purest virtue ; 
 Ne'er has he sufFer'd the infectious gale 
 Of vice to breathe upon her tender ear : 
 In this, he shews a softness in his nature 
 That almost blunts the dart of accusation. 
 
 Guise. Named you his daughter, lovely Sigis- 
 monda ? 
 O ! I have seen him sit and gaze upon her, 
 Till down his manly cheeks the scorching tears 
 Have flow'd so fast, that on his iron corselet 
 Were mark'd their rusty channels. Innocence 
 Like her's is watch'd by all the host of angels ; 
 The fiends of this licentious court obey 
 The fascination of her eyes, though meek 
 As gentle Mercy's at the throne of Heaven. 
 
the father's revenge. 2,3 
 
 Man/. And the soft graces of her outward form 
 Keep equal pace with all her soul's perfections. 
 Guise. The amorous winds, sure, never in 
 their sport, 
 From such a forehead stirr'd the waving tresses, 
 To give more beauty to the gazing world. 
 
 Man/. But you, my Guiscard, witness to the 
 spring 
 When first these beauties budded to the morn, 
 Arm'd with its gentler warmth, and gradual 
 
 fires, 
 Faint not like those that feel the summer's gleam. 
 Guise, [aside.] Ah ! that in truth it were so ! 
 — But behold 
 The minister of Tancred, with his train. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Enter Monforti, Raimond, Guards, Atten- 
 dants, &c. 
 
 Monf. Great prince, the firm supporter of our 
 cross, 
 Religion's boast, ordain'd by Heav'n the scourge 
 
%i THE FATHER^ REVENGE. 
 
 Of Mahomet's proud sons, imperial Tancred, 
 With open arms, and never-ceasing friendship, 
 Greets your arrival. — And to you, young warrior, 
 
 [to Gulscard. 
 Pleased with the embassy, I am charged to bear 
 A father's welcome from our gracious lord 
 
 Guise. His goodness overcomes me. 
 
 Man/. Say, if health 
 Still crowns your royal master's honour'd age, 
 And adds new beauties to his lovely daughter? 
 
 Atonf. Prop of his age, and solace of his toils. 
 She knows to smooth each hidden festering care 
 That drags the worn-out body to the tomb. 
 She sits at his full board like Health's young 
 
 goddefs, 
 And, from the sickening feast, and poisonous 
 
 revel, 
 Charms him to temperate slumbers ; it should 
 
 seem 
 That age, in pity to her pious cares, 
 Meant not to touch the venerable fabric, 
 But leave it unimpair'd for ever. 
 
 Guise. Guard her, 
 Ye angels, and ye saints ! Let no foul weed 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 25 
 
 Rear its dark leaves among the flowers that 
 
 paint 
 Her youthful way ! O ! may she still continue 
 The envy of her sex, the joy of ours, 
 The pattern of an imitating world! [Aside. 
 
 Man/. To our brave knights, who, from the 
 Holy Land, 
 Have follow'd me, their chief, bear these my 
 
 wishes ; 
 That each, with due attention, do observe 
 The conduct of their vassals, ever mindful 
 We are no longer 'midst the plunder'd walls 
 Of sack'd Aleppo ; each in that strict guise 
 Himself demeaning, as should best become 
 The gallant wearer of that blushing cross 
 Which beams upon his mail. — Guiscard, be this 
 Thy care, and then rejoin me at the palace. 
 
 [Exeunt Manfred, Monforti, ire. 
 
2,6 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Enter Bender to Guiscard. 
 
 Guise, Say, Bender, does the Turk attend? 
 Bend. He does. 
 
 Guise. Inform him of my haste, and lead him 
 hither. 
 
 Re-enter Bender, with Hassan. 
 
 Hass. Young soldier, if I am rightly taught, 
 you share 
 The prince's confidence. 
 
 Guise. Too certain envy- 
 Attends a favourite's lot : I'm grieved to hear 
 That I am so esteem'd. Tell me, can I, 
 My honour safe, with strict regard to justice, 
 Serve thee, old man? 
 
 Hass. Thou can'st ; let but my fate 
 On these depend, and I am safe. To Tancred 
 Deliver this ; know, 'tis a dreadful web, 
 Wrought in the loom of anguish and despair : 
 If, with a favouring eye, he views the tale, 
 I shall be found to thank you — but if not — 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 2,1 
 
 Guise. If not — what then? 
 
 Hass. No matter — from those walls 
 Each friendly eye is watching this delay — 
 My life is in thy hands. [Exit Hassan. 
 
 Guise. I know not whether 
 His honest bluntness wins me to his cause, 
 Or there is something in his air and voice, 
 Which has so quickly changed a cold compliance 
 Into the warmest zeal to do him service. \Exeunt. 
 
THE 
 
 FATHER'S REVENGE 
 
 ACT II. 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 31 
 
 ACT II. SCENE L 
 
 AN APARTMENT IN TANCREd's PALACE. 
 
 Enter Tancred, Manfred, Guiscard, Monforti, 
 Raimond, Guards ', &c. 
 
 Tanc. Gods! how seducing is the breath of 
 Fame! — 
 The very winds that pass'd o'er Syria's plains 
 Were but your messengers, to scatter round 
 The wondering land the terrors of your name : 
 O now I feel my years — once, from the backs 
 Of pressing hosts, I'd vaulted like this boy 
 
 [turning to Guiscard. 
 O'er foss and battlement. — But now, alas — 
 
 Man/. Shipwreck'd by many a boisterous 
 storm of life, 
 Tancred may sure his votive tablet hang 
 In the still temple of rewarding Peace. 
 Has not the God of War placed round those brows 
 The last full chaplet of progressive honours? 
 Receive that glorious meed which few attain. 
 
32, the father's revenge. 
 
 Guise. The war-worn standard, waving o'er 
 the dust 
 Of other heroes, who have fought like thee, 
 The long inscription of their godlike actions, 
 Teaching us how they bled, and where they fell, 
 The envied victims to their country's safety, 
 Light as they may the sparks of martial fury, 
 Or wring our hearts with sorrow ; yet the 
 
 groans, 
 The tears of millions, on their cold heads fall 
 Unnoticed, and unthank'd. Reflect, O Tancred, 
 How glorious, and how rare, the lot of those 
 Who have, like thee, walk'd hand in hand with 
 
 death, 
 To w r hom 'tis given, in the calm vale of ease, 
 To unrivet their bright mail, and there receive 
 The lull reward of virtue and renown. 
 
 Tanc. There are, I know, so basely cast, who'd 
 spin 
 Their mortal thread, till, worn by lingering time, 
 'Tis fretted to a hair. A soldier's life 
 Is only measured by its course of glory : 
 That past, who would be left the mockery 
 Of slaves, the babbling bed-rid jest of women ? — 
 
the father's revenge. 33 
 
 Just Heaven avert such shame !— No more of 
 
 this. — 
 Salerno's custom dedicates this day 
 To glad festivity and sport. And see, 
 The morning-star which ushers in our joy, 
 The lovely Sigismonda ! — 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Sigismonda and Sibilla. 
 
 Sigis. Health, and Content 
 The soul's sweet comforter, whate'er can smooth 
 And solace age, wait on my dearest father ! 
 Through the revolving year, may all his hours, 
 Like the mix'd colours of the rainbow's arch, 
 Unite and flow together ; only varied 
 By the bright change of fresh succeeding joys ! 
 May Sigismonda long, O long, be suffer'd, 
 Borne on the wings of duty and of love, 
 Thus, thus to light on her fond father's bosom ! 
 Tanc. And, for this single blessing which is 
 left me, 
 To press thee to it, life is worth a prayer. 
 
 D 
 
34 THE FATHER^ REVENGE. 
 
 Forgive this weakness, — ye too may have chil- 
 dren, [to Manfred and Guiscard, 
 Who will so twine themselves, and cling about 
 Your hearts, that ye will wonder how fond Na- 
 ture 
 Should vanquish all the manly pride within you, 
 And make you dote as I do. — O my child, 
 Long as these eyes, unveil'd with clouds, may 
 
 gaze 
 Upon thee ; long as my dull'd hearing wakes 
 To that enchanting voice, a little sunshine 
 Still faintly trembles on my evening landscape.-— 
 But see, my daughter, Manfred has restored 
 Our Guiscard, rich in honours and in spoils. 
 Can Sigismonda call to mind, as once 
 I told her how I found this orphan, dancing 
 On the rough billows in his cradle vessel., 
 She wept, and thought I mock'd her, when I 
 
 bade 
 Her lisping tongue no longer call him brother. 
 Sigis. O happy ignorance ! dear childish 
 vision ! 
 Had ye, bless'd powers, but still prolonged the 
 cheat ! [Aside* 
 
the father's revenge. 35 
 
 Manfred, accept my thanks, a sister's thanks 
 I may not call them ; those fond dreams are o'er ; 
 That you, who taught him all the ways of glory, 
 Till round our cross he bound the wreath of con- 
 quest, 
 Yet have not left him a poor mangled corse, 
 A prey to vultures, where he fought so well. 
 Guise. Down, down thou busy heart, [aside,! 
 —What can I say ! 
 All language is too weak ; words are but sha- 
 dows, 
 The feeble outlines of our thoughts ! — I sink 
 Beneath the weight of joy and gratitude. 
 
 Tanc. Come, these unmeaning speeches are 
 the growth 
 Of Asiatic softness, — -fit for slaves. — 
 The morning wears : — my brother was not wont 
 To be thus tardy in his salutations ; — 
 This absence might impeach his love. 
 
 Manf. Great sir, 
 Consider how far distant is his palace ; 
 The crowded streets may interrupt his train. 
 Tanc. Those humble saints, o'er whose devoted 
 bones 
 
36 the father's revenge. 
 
 We bend, were not impeded in their way 
 By the meandring of a monk's procession : 
 Their mules were not weigh'd down with golden 
 
 trappings, 
 But nimbly moved beneath their easier load. 
 They had no censers to perfume the air, 
 Extinguishing the morning fragrance, nor 
 Bore they their diamond crosiers through the 
 
 streets, 
 To mock the sun, and give a prouder day. 
 
 Manf. 'Tis by such pomp your brother means 
 to honour 
 The morn which gave you birth. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Anselmo. 
 
 Ansel. My holy master, 
 With serious thoughts and cares oppress'd, that 
 
 make 
 Tumultuous noise, and the loud people's joy, 
 Sad music to his harass'd senses, prays 
 He may withhold his brotherly embrace, 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 31 
 
 Until an hour more suited to his temper 
 Admit him to your privacy. 
 
 Tanc. He is 
 For ever full of needless cares. Know'st thou 
 This urgent business, whose intruding form 
 Would mar the day's festivity ? For this — 
 Be it as seems him best. — Do you, Monforti, 
 The sports being ended, by the private way 
 Conduct him to us. 
 
 Ansel. — And till then, each blessing 
 That pure Religion can call down from Heaven, 
 With unremitted vows for Tancred's safety, 
 He fervently invokes. 
 
 Tanc. Lead to the square ; 
 The stagnant mist that hangs upon the cloister 
 Must not obscure the splendour of this day. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Monforti and Raimond. 
 
 SCENE IF. 
 
 Monf. Hast thou, throughout this murmuring 
 city, spread 
 The hopes of vengeance, and redress of wrongs ? 
 
38 the father's revenge. 
 
 Raim. The leafless oak, crumbling to dust 
 with age, 
 Fires not so quickly in the lightning's course, 
 As our brave citizens, whene'er I point 
 The path to great revenge. 
 
 Motif. Say, hast thou ventured 
 To hint that I partake their just resentments, 
 Approve their rage, and weep at their oppres- 
 sion? 
 Raim. I even whisper'd, you would not be 
 wanting 
 To guide them through the danger. 
 
 Monf. The gull'd fools 
 Believe I love them. They are, indeed, the waves, 
 And, while they bear us, we must court their 
 
 favour, 
 Until we gain the port ; unheeded then, 
 To the wide ocean they again may flow, 
 Lost and forgotten midst their kindred waters. 
 Raim. You will admit the leaders to your 
 
 presence? 
 Monf. We'll meet this night. * 
 Raim. And why so late, when darkness, 
 That precious cloak of mischief, should be worn 
 
the father's revenge. 39 
 
 For execution? — Day-light is for council: 
 We want the sun, with all his beams, to read 
 If the firm soul recoils not in dismay, 
 At the loud thunder of the boasting lip. 
 The favouring night can better be employ'd 
 Than in cold conference. 
 
 Monf. This very night ? 
 
 jRaim. The prostituted voice of hireling crowds 
 Charms to more death-like sleep a tyrant's senses 
 Than Hermes' fabled rod, or all the juice 
 Of Anatolian poppies. His guards, too, 
 Will be all hush'd, and drown 'd in wine ; to- 
 morrow 
 We may salute thee monarch of this land ; 
 Tancred in chains, and haughty Sigismonda 
 Repaying all thy sufferings with her charms. 
 
 Monf. What! Sigismonda? And shall that 
 proud beauty 
 Then deign to purchase with her lovely self, 
 A respite for her father's life? Great Gods, 
 How glorious is the thought ! Come, fierce Am- 
 bition, 
 And slighted Love, come arm my desperate 
 hands, 
 
40 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 And, in the horrors of the midnight gloom, 
 Steel my firm soul 'gainst pity or remorse ! 
 Yet be we careful of the powers, this morn 
 Arrived with Manfred. 
 
 Raim. Sir, be that my care : 
 Their chiefs are lodged within the town; with 
 
 ease 
 We may secure their persons. 
 
 Monf. Two hours hence, 
 In the long gallery which o'erhangs the river, 
 Deserted since the death of Tancred's queen, 
 (You know the secret door,) the chosen band 
 Shall there be taught their lesson. — Now fare- 
 well ! [Exeunt . 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Sigismonda and Sibilla. 
 
 Sibil. Why does my mistress seek this lone 
 retreat ? 
 The knights are all in steel; you know whose 
 
 hands 
 Must place the laurel on the champion's head. 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 41 
 
 Your father ill will brook this want of duty, 
 And think you do not share the general joy: 
 O ! tempt not his displeasure. 
 
 Sigis. No, Sibilla, 
 'Twas fearing his displeasure, that I left him. 
 
 Sibil. It is your absence, that will move his 
 anger. 
 
 Sigis. My presence rather might excite his 
 care. 
 
 Sibil. What mean those eyes of grief? 
 
 Sigis. O, was it fit 
 Those eyes should meet my father's searching 
 glance ? 
 
 Sibil. I understand you not. 
 
 Sigis. Thy ignorance 
 Tells me, Sibilla, I am not betray 'd. 
 And may I trust thee ? This oppressive load 
 That bends my heart, grows heavier every hour; 
 Tis thou must help me to support its weight. 
 
 Sibil. Can Sigismonda doubt my secresy? 
 
 Sigis. O, secresy, thou common household god, 
 Received by all, but worship'd by how few ! 
 What, though in chains thou bind'st the captive 
 tongue, 
 
42 the father's revenge. 
 
 That dangerous foe subdued, how many more 
 Hast thou to conquer yet, — imprudent blushes, 
 Expressive throbbings, and revealing eyes ! 
 A single look consigns a virgin's fame 
 To endless censure, and the public scorn. 
 Yet I will trust thee : — Hast thou, then, ob- 
 served 
 That this poor breast e'er harbour'd aught but 
 
 ease, 
 And calm tranquillity? 
 
 Sibil. To me it seem'd 
 The seat of mild serenity. 
 
 Sigis. That's well ; 
 O were it ever such ! And yet, my friend, 
 The hall of ^Eolus, when, from their chambers, 
 The fierce winds meet to rush upon the world, 
 Is not distracted with such various rage 
 As this sad bosom. Here Religion's fire, 
 Here female pride, and filial duty strive ; 
 Here virgin modesty, and raging love, 
 Contend for empire. 
 
 Sibil. Am I in a dream ? 
 Love, did'st thou say?" — for whom? 
 
 Sigis. Ah ! my Sibilla, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 43 
 
 And can'st thou ask? — Can there be more than 
 
 one? 
 Are there two Guis cards to undo our sex? 
 
 Sibil. Guiscard! — if e'er thine eyes in ten- 
 derness 
 Were cast on him, suspicion never yet 
 Pursued the secret glance. 
 
 Sigis. That, too, is well : 
 But yet methinks 'tis wonderful, Sibilla, 
 That jealousy ne'er set its spies on me ; 
 For, have I not a watching, hating rival, 
 In every beauty that adorns this court ? 
 Who, who can gaze on Guiscard, and not love? 
 Is he not all that Heathen fiction drew ? 
 For, let him snatch the silver lyre and bow, 
 O he is lovely as the God of Day. 
 If thou would 'st view the wondrous charms, that 
 
 caused 
 The wife of Theseus to forget her woe, 
 Bid Guiscard round his ruddy temples twine 
 The vine's curl'd tendril. — Who can still deny 
 That heavenly spirits take the form of men, 
 And triumph as they will ? 
 
 Sibil. Ah ! calm these transports ; 
 
44 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 If the warm air of a suspicious sigh 
 
 Should light on Tancred's ear, too well thou 
 
 know'st 
 How rudely he would tear the secret from thee. 
 Compose that ruffled look, rejoin your father ; — 
 Till you approach him, leave me to excuse 
 This strange delay. [Exit Sibilla. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Enter Guiscard. 
 
 Guise. Princess, I plead 
 Your father's orders for this boldness ; anxious 
 He seeks the cause of Sigismonda's absence. 
 
 Sigis. Guiscard, that cause Tancred must 
 never know. 
 
 Guise. And may I profit of this golden hour? — • 
 Again renew my vows ? But you are silent : — 
 Perhaps 'tis me you shun. — Ah ! Sigismonda, 
 Tell me, O tell me, if perfidious Love 
 Ne'er yet has taught those roving eyes to turn 
 To some more favour'd youth, to light in him 
 The scorching blaze of love, driving him mad, 
 
the father's revenge. 45 
 
 Like me. A whole eventful year hath pass'd, 
 A livelong year hath roll'd its various course. 
 Since, to our lessening bark, from yonder point, 
 With your loose veil you waved a long farewell. 
 Fool that I was, to think the wind, that blew 
 From shore, came fraught with constancy and 
 
 truth, 
 And, warm from those enchanting lips, convey 'd 
 The vow of faith and ever-during love! 
 
 Sigis. Alas, have I not more to fear than thou? 
 A youthful conqueror in a land of beauty ! 
 Each female trick and artifice employ 'd 
 To vanquish him who had subdued their country : 
 And could I hope these little charms would shield 
 My Guiscard's bosom 'gainst such dangerous 
 
 shafts ! 
 Guise. Transporting words! O! 'twas thy 
 lovely form 
 That floated round me wheresoe'er I went. 
 It trod on the light surge ; the silent moon 
 Was conscious of our fond discourse; whole 
 
 nights, 
 As in the trenches thou hast watch'd beside me, 
 I've held sweet converse with thee, 'till the camp,' 
 
46 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Roused at the morn, hath scared thy fluttering 
 
 spirit, 
 Destroy'd the dream, and left me to despair. 
 
 Sigis. Dost thou remember, Guiscard, it was 
 near 
 This very spot, that we together read 
 Of two young lovers who scarce knew they 
 
 loved ; 
 (Two infant flowers, that, like us, had grown 
 In the same border,) when a sudden blush 
 At the same instant seized our guilty cheeks ; 
 Alike our trembling tongues refused their office, 
 The book was flung aside, — we both retired, 
 Fearful to meet each other's conscious eyes. 
 
 Guise. Forget that hour! — that all-revealing 
 blush !— 
 Here they are chisel'd, Love's eternal work, 
 Beyond the reach of Time's erasing hand. 
 
 Sigis. But yet, my Guiscard — 
 
 Guise. Why, O Sigismonda, 
 That rising sigh ? 
 
 Sigis. My joy at seeing thee 
 A little had dispersed the clouds around me : 
 Joy, like a meteor in a wintry night, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 41 
 
 Brighten'd the landscape for a moment ; now 
 All is forlorn again, dismay, and terror. 
 
 Guise. Thou hast a soul superior to thy sex; 
 In thee, proud man's perfections all unite : 
 No common cause demands that look of care. 
 
 Sigis. I have no tears to give to needless woe ; 
 Imaginary sorrows flutter round 
 The mansions of the happy, but pass by 
 The gate that's watch'd by real misery : 
 When next we meet, prepare thy soul to bend, 
 Prepare to yield, where madness must obey. 
 
 Guise. Am I not bless'd beyond my warmest 
 wish ? — 
 True to thy faith — 
 
 Sigis. Guiscard, my boding heart 
 Informs me — but ere long dread certainty 
 Will take the place of miserable doubt ; 
 Till then be patient.— Soon, I fear, the sun 
 Of all our happiness must set for ever! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE 
 
 FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 51 
 
 ACT III. SCEJVE I. 
 
 tancred's palace. 
 Tancred, Archbishop, Guiscard. 
 
 Tanc [with Hassans petition in his hand.] 
 No — he refused us homage, and denied 
 Himself a vassal ; from his towers display 'd 
 Rebellion's standard, and against our arms 
 Let down his strong portcullis of defiance. 
 
 Guise. His sufferings, sure — 
 
 Tanc. He was so proud a traitor, 
 He never sued for mercy, though his walls 
 Were level with the earth ; we found him sit- 
 ting 
 Amidst a heap of fallen followers, 
 Contemplating his sad work ; he scarce deign'd 
 To utter word, till scornfully he bade me 
 Finish the scene, a place of honour yet 
 Remain'd for him upon that bloody couch. 
 
52 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Archb. And did that courage, that contempt 
 of death, 
 That spirit unsubdued, that noble pride, 
 Excite your anger ? You had then a moment, 
 Heaven's choicest gift, doubly to overcome, 
 First by your sword, and then by your forgive- 
 ness. 
 Guise. Think, that, in twenty years of misery, 
 Of abject servitude, his soul has bow'd 
 To the harsh orders of a foreign master ; 
 His silver head, uncover'd through the waste, 
 Has felt the scorching dog-star ; and his hands, 
 111 suited to the slavish toil, have led 
 The burthen'd camel through the tedious way. 
 How changed from him, lord of a proud domain, 
 Slaves at his nod, and plenty at his board ; 
 Where nightly revel lit its festive taper, 
 Mirth's hospitable beacon, to call in 
 The wandering knight, and pilgrim, to his hall ! 
 All now is desolation. 
 
 Tanc. Mark me, boy, 
 If, lingering in these walls, to-morrow's sun 
 O'ertake the slave, that moment is his last. 
 Inform the traitor of our fix'd resolves. 
 
the father's revenge. 53 
 
 Begone — How's this ? What ! am I not obey'd? 
 Why does he thus unwillingly retire ? 
 
 [Exit Guiscard with marks of unwillingness. 
 
 SCEJVE II. 
 
 Tancred and Archbishop. 
 
 Archb. Because he is a man — and, being 
 such, 
 Feels all the weakness of his humble nature ; 
 Lets foolish pity, with infectious grief, 
 Dissolve his soul in tenderness. Tis not 
 For princes, sure, — we intermediate beings 
 'Twixt God and man, — to feel the mockery 
 That waits on such infirmity ! 
 
 Tanc. Know, brother, 
 These taunts but ill become you. Must I kneel 
 'Fore a monk's consist'ry ? Is that the bar 
 Where I must plead, and justify my actions? 
 
 Archb. No, Tancred, no ; yet there's a judg- 
 ment-seat 
 Where purple kings, high as their full-blown 
 pride 
 
54 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Or flattery can set them, must be summon'd : 
 Tis in their subjects' rigorous inquisition 
 They may forestall the more tremendous process 
 That waits beyond the grave. — Think'st thou thy 
 
 people, 
 Because they bear, don't feel their injuries ? 
 Tanc. There spoke the restless spirit of the 
 church : — 
 And does Sedition's larum-bell become 
 Those pious hands ? Is it for thee to bawl 
 Resistance to the mob ; for thee to seek 
 Sad grievance, where no grievance is, and 
 
 sow, 
 Hid in that sacred garb, the seeds of discord, 
 Which, once dispersed through the prolific air, 
 Not all your holy witchcraft can recall ? 
 
 Archb. Tancred, you are my sovereign ; as 
 your subject, 
 I bear this ill construction of my actions. 
 I am your brother too ; as such I dare 
 Encroach upon a servant's low obedience, 
 Nor fear to warn you, though you bind the 
 
 pilot 
 Who would direct you through a sea of danger. 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 55 
 
 Tanc. What are these dangers but some new 
 creation 
 Of a distemper'd brain, and feverish night ? 
 
 Archb. A dying wretch, whose pangs to sooth 
 this morn 
 One of our order watch'd with pious office, 
 Disclosed this plot against your sacred life : 
 Death dropp'd his javelin, 'till the sick mau 
 
 drew 
 From underneath his languid head this list 
 Of foul conspiracy. [giving a paper. 
 
 Tanc. What's this I see? 
 Monforti's name? 
 
 Archb. Yes. In the assassin's roll 
 He has the bright pre-eminence. 
 
 Tanc. Base fiction, 
 To undo the man I love ! — Where are Salerno's 
 Poisons ? — Has she not one, among her sons, 
 Who knows the fittest moment of the night 
 For undiscover'd murder, that ye fling 
 This net of accusation o'er so many ? 
 
 Archb. Pray Heaven the charge prove false, 
 by jealousy 
 Forged, to divert the streams of royal favour ! 
 
56 the father's revenge. 
 
 Yet stand upon your guard, recall the troops 
 That fill your frontier towns, and O let caution — 
 Tanc. Where reason cannot prop the dark 
 suspicion, 
 Caution is cowardice ; prudence but a name, 
 A pompous title dignified to hide 
 Mean apprehensions, and unmanly doubts. 
 Tore Heaven ! the knife that drinks my heart's 
 
 best blood 
 Would pain me less, than, living, still to hear 
 The just upbraidings of dishonour'd friendship. 
 Archb. There's virtue in those words : and yet, 
 to borrow 
 The specious veil of justice, and to breathe 
 Her rigorous dictates, for no better end 
 Than from thyself- — nay, shrink not — from thy- 
 self 
 To hide a favourite's guilt ; in her fair temple, 
 To seek asylum 'gainst the pointed shame 
 That needs must follow such misplaced affec-' 
 
 tion ; — 
 Fie, fie — 'tis much beneath you. — The insect 
 
 tribes 
 That, at the night-fall, buzz about the lake, 
 
the father's revenge. 57 
 
 Are less in number than the perilous chances 
 That hover round your couch. Think, think on 
 
 this : 
 And yet you'd fling your armour in a corner, 
 And sleep as if your rule had been so pure 
 As did from all men challenge watch and guard. 
 
 Tanc. Are not the chambers of this palace 
 fill'd 
 With veteran chiefs, of valour well approved, 
 And unsuspected faith ? will such men join 
 Sedition's short-lived rabble? will they bear 
 To view their honourable scars, obtain'd 
 At their old master's side, thus meanly Blended 
 With the foul scratches of rebellion's sword? 
 Trust me, they will not : and, if danger, like 
 An incorporeal spirit, can glide through 
 The slender crevice of all earthly shelter, 
 Where is a prince in safety ? — where secure? 
 
 Archb. In the strong fortress of his people's 
 love; 
 That is the citadel for kings : 'tis there, 
 Safe as our Alpine eagle, who looks down 
 On storms that combat in the ethereal plain, 
 May 'st thou look down upon all worldly mischief. 
 
58 the father's revenge. 
 
 ,Tis from that height, thou'lt see the storms of 
 
 envy, 
 The plots of desperate guilt, the assassin scheme 
 Of disappointed pride, and all the rage 
 Of frustrated ambition, break beneath thee. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Anselmo. 
 
 What tidings of conspiracy's foul aim 
 
 [to Anselmo, 
 Have reach'd thy ear, Anselmo ? of its leaders 
 What notice learn'st thou from the spies assign'd 
 To watch their secret motions? 
 
 Ansel. More I learn not, 
 But that, ere long, Monforti has appointed 
 To meet a chosen band in the long gallery, 
 Well suited to their treason, which, remote 
 From all observers' eyes, o'erhangs the river. 
 
 Archb. Lo ! Tancred, now, what, blindly, men 
 call chance, 
 The secret purpose of Heaven's guardian care 
 Affords a fit occasion to convince you, 
 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 59 
 
 My fears were built not on the groundless base 
 Of loose suspicion. 
 
 Tanc. Yet, I must have proof 
 Clear as the noontide light, ere in my breast 
 One thought be harbour'd of Monforti's falsehood. 
 
 Archb. Let us be present at the appointed 
 place, 
 And let your eyes give credit to the scene 
 Themselves shall witness. 
 
 Tanc. Yes, I will attend you, 
 Not to detect my servant's guilt, but prove 
 The steady zeal of his unshaken virtues. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 THE STREET BEFORE TA^CREd's PALACE. 
 
 Hassan, solus. 
 
 How often have I, from rny fix'd resolve, 
 Been strongly tempted — Yes, the very hour ; 
 The place where Tancred found him ; his story, 
 The common theme of gossipping discourse ; 
 Oh all, yes all proclaim him mine. — If spurn'd 
 An outcast and a beggar, why to him, 
 
60 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 To mar his blooming fortunes, should I leave 
 The dangerous duty to avenge my wrongs ! 
 But tyrants are capricious, and will sometimes 
 Turn to sweet mercy for a change — Happy 
 Who seize on that rare interval. — See, he comes. 
 
 Enter Guiscard. 
 
 Guise. Hassan, I grieve to tell thee, thy 
 offences 
 Have sunk so deeply into Tancred's bosom, 
 'Twere vain to hope for pity or forgiveness. 
 
 Hass. What is my sentence ? is the rack to tear 
 These sinews ? is my blood to stain the scaffold ? 
 Or must I, clasp'd in famine's icy arms, 
 Whole days and nights in vain solicit death ? 
 
 Guise. Not so : — but yet, old man, prepare to 
 meet 
 The fiercest vengeance, if thou'rt found to-morrow 
 Within these walls. 
 
 Hass. Thy slumbers will be soft 
 For this fair deed, this good intent, though 
 
 cross'd : 
 I will intrude no longer. [g°i n g ou t- 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 61 
 
 Guise. Hassan, see, * 
 
 These tears shall witness that I share thy sorrow ! 
 Hass. Farewell ! 
 
 Guise. Ah ! whither dost thou bend thy steps ? 
 Hass. Ask not ; the ties that would have fix'd 
 me here, 
 And made me brave, perhaps, the tyrant's fury, 
 Are broken, and dissolved : — Excuse this weak- 
 ness : — 
 I had a wife and child !— [weeping. 
 
 Guise. And do they not 
 Remain, to lock thee in their fond embraces, 
 Hang on thy neck, repaying tears with tears, 
 To kneel at Tancred's feet, and by the magic 
 Of wringing hands, and sobs, and cries, avert 
 Thy cruel doom? 
 
 Hass. Alas ! they are no more : 
 O'er their loved heads the gloomy waves have 
 
 spread 
 Their watery curtains. — Angels, guard his 
 
 youth ! — 
 Farewell ! — 
 
 Guise. Where did'st thou learn their dismal 
 fate? 
 
 * 
 
62 the father's revenge. 
 
 Hass. Already I have gone too far — Sweet 
 youth, 
 What can'st thou have to do with woe. — Hear me, 
 Thou servest a tyrant, be not prodigal 
 Of grief for others : 
 I would not rob thee of a single tear 
 That thou may'st want, perhaps, before to- 
 morrow, 
 To wash away the stinging recollection 
 Of royal favour lost, and perjured greatness. 
 
 Guise. You but increase my eagerness to hear 
 The horrors of your fate. 
 
 Hass. Know then, young soldier, 
 (And yet I feel unwilling) 'twas my lot, 
 Amidst a strange variety of woes, 
 Flying this country, to become the slave 
 Of a Sicilian pirate, then returning 
 From lawless ravage on Calabria's shores : 
 It was his boast, e'en at the gates of Tancred, 
 Who, in that season, held his court at Reggio, 
 Without resistance to have borne away 
 A beauteous female ; one, whose humble rai- 
 ments 
 But ill conceal'd her dignity of charms, 
 
the father's revenge. 63 
 
 Telling a tale of altered fortunes, 
 
 And affluence changed to want. At this, my 
 
 heart 
 Sunk dead within my bosom ; for 'twas there 
 My wife had fled, to rear her infant son 
 In virtuous privacy. Her form he drew 
 With so much circumstantial cruelty, 
 That lively hope grew wither'd while he spoke. 
 
 Guise. I blame my curiosity ; indeed 
 I did not think to touch the fatal string 
 Of such accumulated woes. 
 
 Hass. In truth, 
 I doubt it not. — He, with a brutal sigh 
 Of disappointment, not of pity, added, 
 That, as they made from land, a sudden storm 
 Drew all attention from their sacred prize : 
 She, in that moment, plunged into the deep, 
 And thus, escaping with her honour, made 
 Self-murder lovely. 
 
 Guise* And thy infant son ? 
 
 Hass. Oh I can tell no more. Let me retire — 
 
 Guise. Gods ! the Calabrian shore ! a drowned 
 mother ! 
 
 Hass. Let me depart, young man — 
 
64 the father's revenge. 
 
 Guise. How pale you look ! 
 
 Hass. Let me depart, I say. 
 
 Guise. Not till you clear 
 These agonizing doubts — Thy little child ! 
 Thy helpless son ! 
 
 Hass. [after muck hesitation.] O I am lost, 
 undone ! 
 They tore him from his mother's arms, and left 
 The smiling cherub on the rocky strand ; 
 And here I find him. 
 
 Guise. O it must be so — 
 For, when did Nature suffer other powers 
 To share her empire, or what spirit dares 
 To steal her pangs, her wondrous sympathies, 
 Or ope the sacred source of tears like these. 
 
 Hass. Was it to Tancred that I owe my 
 child? 
 
 Guise. To him we are indebted for this joy. 
 
 Hass. Recall that word; it could not be to 
 Tancred : 
 Say, that some monster from the pitying deep, 
 Or the shag'd queen of the impervious forest, 
 Was thy strange fostering nurse, and I'll believe 
 thee. 
 
THE father's revenge. 63 
 
 Guise. Alas ! 'twas Tancred saved your help- 
 less orphan. 
 Hass. 'Tis false — he has no softness in his 
 nature : 
 Hell's ministers are truer to their charge, 
 Nor e'er will suffer pity to o'erleap 
 The circle of their damned powers : — for tell me, 
 Am I not driven to want, debasing want? 
 O ! grant me patience ! — 'tis not age alone 
 That blanches this sad head ; 'tis my foul wrongs ; 
 'Tis Tancred's cruelty.— And wert not thou, 
 My virtuous Constance, left without a guard ! 
 Thy charms inviting insult, yet deprived 
 Of a fond husband's arm to shelter thee ! 
 Are Heaven's own lightnings then no longer 
 
 deem'd 
 The fiery javelins of a vengeful power, 
 That Tancred's head ne'er felt the scorching blast ? 
 If [kneeling.] Hell hath torments in her sulphu- 
 rous womb, 
 If Heaven loves justice ! — [rising.] But he saved 
 
 my boy, 
 He saved my orphan, and I cannot curse him. 
 
 [embracing Guiscard. 
 
 F 
 
66 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 Guise. Let us, I pray thee, sir, retire within. 
 Hass. Lend me thine arm : these aged limbs 
 had borne me 
 To the extremest ridge of Caucasus ; 
 Nay, I had journey 'd through all Lybia's sands, 
 And had not felt such weariness. — [embracing 
 
 his son.] O Gods ! 
 I could have borne my woes ; that stranger Joy 
 Wounds while it smiles. The long-imprison'd 
 
 wretch, 
 Emerging from the night of his damp cell, 
 Shrinks from the sun's bright beams, and that 
 
 which flings 
 Gladness o'er all, to him is agony. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCEJVE V. 
 
 Enter Manfred and Bender. 
 
 Man/. Was't not thy master parted hence ? — 
 recall him, 
 I have some business for his private ear — 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE, 67 
 
 Re-enter Guiscard. 
 
 Guiscard, I long have sought thee ; fain I would 
 Divide this flood of joy, and let one stream 
 Direct its laughing course to thee : that breast 
 Still, as it shared, hath lessen'd all my woes, 
 And shall it not, when Manfred tastes of bliss, 
 Partake the golden gift ? 
 
 Guise. Speak, Manfred, speak. 
 
 Man/. Guiscard, be then infbrm'd, 
 The hour may come when this imperial city, 
 These powerful realms, the nations that now own 
 Tancred's extensive sway, shall be ordain'd 
 To hail me lord of all Sicilia's land. 
 The nobles have approved the choice, and sworn, 
 On their bright swords, to see their prince obey'd. 
 
 Guise. Is not by this his daughter foully 
 wrong'd ? 
 She, who is fit to bear all earthly crowns, 
 And see the world beneath her rule, must she, 
 Must she be cheated of her little portion, 
 This atom of the globe? — Manfred, refuse 
 The dangerous offer ; for should she unveil 
 
68 the father's revenge. 
 
 Her face in tears, but raise her magic voice, 
 And plead her cause before a weeping people, 
 Thy empire's at an end : the very swords, 
 On which to thee allegiance is engraved, 
 Would all be drawn to force thee from that seat 
 Where usurpation, not fair right, had placed 
 thee. 
 Man/. Guiscard, I little understand this 
 warmth : — 
 Hear then : no princess wails her lost dominions ; 
 Nor I from thee deserve the hard aspersion. 
 Tell me, I pray thee, tell me, have I robb'd, 
 Or clipp'd from merit's brow, one leaf of laurel, 
 To add to those I have so fairly won? 
 And, if I have not pilfer'd for renown, 
 Nor let that syren, Opportunity, 
 Allure me from the path which Justice treads, 
 Why should I now begin to play the villain, 
 And spoil that sex a soldier lives to guard ? 
 Besides, if crowns and realms have such allure- 
 ments, 
 How many trembling monarchs of the east 
 Did pluck their proud tiaras from their brows, 
 Baring their foreheads to the sun, and strove 
 
THE FATHERS REVENGE. 69 
 
 Who first should cheat us with their glittering 
 
 baubles ! 
 No — Sigismonda is, of all the mine, 
 The only jewel that endears this gift. 
 
 Guise. Is it to try me, that you tell me this ? 
 Or, is it to chastise the only crime 
 That on our friendship cast a shade? By Heaven 
 I swear, my heart ne'er held a secret thought 
 Before unknown to thine. 
 
 Man/. I do not want 
 To cloak my meaning in ambiguous, terms ; 
 Be plain in speech, as I am : Tancred gives 
 This day his daughter to my arms, and with her, 
 For her fair portion, half his mighty realm. 
 Guise. Manfred, thy frankness calls for mine ; 
 I tell thee, 
 And in as loud a voice as thou canst raise, 
 That Sigismonda never must be thine. 
 Her vows of plighted constancy and faith, 
 Those sacred vows of truth, are mine, and 
 
 Heaven's. 
 And will't not irk thee, though her father drag 
 The struggling victim to thy hated bed, 
 To hear thy murmuring words of love repaid 
 
70 the father's revenge. 
 
 With bitter loathings and reproaching tears ? 
 But let me warn thee, at such rites as those 
 Tis Death, not Hymen, lights the fatal torch. 
 
 Manf. Could I believe it possible — methought 
 Those words did wear the ugly shape of menace : 
 And, could I credit more amazing things, 
 In thee I am to view a dangerous rival ! 
 
 Guise. Yes, Manfred, yes, I am that dange- 
 rous rival ; 
 And, by this bold confession, though I drag 
 All plagues, and every mischief on my head, 
 That humbled pride and disappointment know, 
 Yet, 'twere as easy for me to renounce 
 My love, as to conceal its raging power. 
 
 Manf. Shameless presumption ! am I then to 
 fear 
 That Sigismonda has bestow'd a thought 
 On one of doubtful birth ? 
 
 Guise. 'Tis false : — of that 
 No more: — but were it true, the charge were 
 
 base, 
 Base as thy foul ingratitude ; for, say, 
 Was't not this arm that snatch'd thee from thy 
 fate? 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 71 
 
 And, when the Turk had struck thee to the 
 
 ground, 
 Who was it then stepp'd in 'twixt death and thee, 
 And laid the fierce barbarian at thy side ? — 
 I ne'er should speak of this, but that you tempt 
 
 me 
 Beyond all human bearing. Then you did not, 
 You did not ask, if 'twere my vulgar birth, 
 My coarse extraction, that so strung my nerves, 
 And gave the lightning to my hand ; nor truly, 
 If it were peasant's blood which stream'd so fast 
 From the wide wound that fortune meant for you; 
 You did not then enquire — 
 
 Manf. O spare me, Guiscard, 
 I have been much to blame. 
 
 Guise. Indeed you have ; 
 For you have forced me to despise myself, 
 The mean recorder of my own deserts. 
 Know, what I did for thee, I would' have done 
 For the most low and abject wretch that fought 
 Beneath our banners; yet, in that poor wretch, 
 In that mean slave, I might have found a virtue, 
 Which grandeur should not blush to wear, a true, 
 A generous recollection of the service. 
 
12 THE FATHER'S REVENGE, 
 
 Man/. Yet, Guiscard, hear me. 
 
 Guise. Hear you ! bid me hear you ! — 
 Be patient in my wrongs, and, with a meekness 
 Well suited to my low estate, pour forth 
 My blessings, with the fawning crowd, when you 
 Bear, through Salerno's streets, your perjured 
 bride ! 
 
 Manf. Now, by our order's holy saint, I mean 
 To cancel all I owe thee — I renounce 
 All claim to Sigismonda's charms, and brave 
 A father's anger for his slightedoffer. 
 
 Guise. What's this I hear? — you do not mean 
 to mock me ? 
 
 Manf. Nay more ; my ample realms shall be 
 the asylum, 
 Where persecuted love and truth shall find 
 A safe retreat : — and this I swear to do. — 
 Now, Guiscard, tell me, am I still thy debtor? 
 Nor rate too high this sacrifice : the heart 
 That's lock'd in others' bonds, for me has lost 
 Its fascinating powers ; I freely yield it. 
 
 Guise. O, generous Manfred, raise me not from 
 earth ! 
 Rage freely vents itself in proud defiance, 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 13 
 
 Grief has its milky tears, Despair is lost 
 
 In all-forgetting madness ; but alas ! 
 
 What secret source of ease has Gratitude ? 
 
 Nothing but cold unsatisfying thanks ; 
 
 Actions and deeds are fruits which wait the 
 
 spring 
 And warmth of slow occasion for their birth; 
 Words never can unload this breaking heart. 
 Man/. Thus let us ever hide each other's 
 weakness ! [embracing. 
 
 I have not time for more ; for, at this hour, 
 Salerno's prelate, in the palace garden, 
 Awaits my coming : something, the holy brother, 
 Who did impart his wishes, seem'd to hint 
 Of schemes and plots : he earnestly entreated 
 Our captains might have orders to repair 
 With speed on board the fleet ; and there to wait 
 Their chief's commands. — This, Guiscard, see 
 
 perform'd. [Exeunt, 
 
THE 
 
 FATHER'S REVENGE 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 11 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 A PART OF THE PALACE WHICH OPENS INTO A 
 GARDEN. 
 
 Enter Sigismonda and Sibilla. 
 
 Sigis. How changed is all around me ! — the 
 black vapour, 
 That rises from my brain, has tinged each object 
 With its funereal dye. The plants and flowers 
 Fade as I stoop to crop them ; and, even now, 
 The sun, who, with his golden lips, saluted 
 The trembling bosom of the lake, did hide 
 His beams at my approach. — Methought the herd 
 Changed, as I pass'd along, their cheerful lowings 
 To sounds most terrible. No bird appear'd, 
 Save such as, sitting on the castle's height, 
 Seem'd, with their clamorous tongues, to talk of 
 
 things 
 Where pain and death had part ! — 
 
 Sibil. Ah ! feed not thus 
 
78 the father's revenge. 
 
 Your inward grief with dreams of fancied sor- 
 rows ; 
 Too much of real anguish doth afflict 
 Your tortured bosom. 
 
 Sigis. — What ! — to marry Manfred ! — 
 This night ! — And then, did he refuse to hear me ? 
 Did Tancred turn away ?— Did Tancred leave 
 His once-loved daughter prostrate on the ground ? 
 
 Sibil. Comfort! my mistress, all may yet be 
 well ! 
 
 Sigis. Ye heavenly powers ! what horrors 
 hourly wait 
 To blast compulsion's execrated vow ! — 
 Round the domestic hearth, how soon may rise 
 Hatred, with its fell scorpion sting ! — -to that 
 What woes succeed ! — 'tis then, the adulterous 
 
 fiend 
 Dares whisper in the ear but ill seal'd up 
 'Gainst his pestiferous voice ! — and then it is, 
 O horrible ! that murder has been known, \ 
 Giving the lamp of night its steadiest flame, 
 To mark where a remorseless wife should drive 
 The assassin knife, and, with a husband's blood, 
 Redden the marriage-bed. Have there not been 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 79 
 
 Who, in the hate of those they call'd their hus- 
 bands, 
 Did wreak fierce vengeance on their helpless 
 
 offspring, 
 And, deaf to nature, with a madden'd rage, 
 While their poor babes were slumbering in their 
 
 laps, 
 Have stabb'd the little innocents? — And yet, 
 Ye cruel parents, sooner ye'd endure 
 Your children blacken'd with the foulest sins 
 Of those detested mothers, than that they 
 Should shun the choice which pride and avarice 
 Have made so dear to you ? — 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Guiscard. 
 
 Sigis. My Guiscard here ! 
 
 Guise. Yes, I am come, but not to see thee 
 
 break 
 Thy plighted vows, and be the wife of Manfred, 
 Sigis. What means my Guiscard ? — Say, can 
 
 he bring comfort 
 
80 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 In this dark hour of grief? He knows my father, 
 He knows his hard commands. 
 
 Guise. He does ; ytt it 
 Depends on thee, whether those hard commands, 
 That power which Heaven ne'er gave, shall be 
 
 obey'd 
 Or boldly set at naught. 
 
 Sigis. On me? 
 
 Guise. On thee : 
 For Manfred, generous friend ! the man I deem'd 
 My hated rival, (and in rage did that 
 For which my cheek must ever wear a blush,) 
 Him I upbraided with my services; 
 Yet he has given thee back, resists thy beauty, 
 Thy wondrous charms, and, like another Scipio, 
 Suffers his friend to lead away the prize. 
 Nay more, his fleet shall guard thee from these 
 
 lands 
 To love and safety in his powerful realms. 
 
 Sigis. Alas ! what Sciy'st thou? — leave my 
 father's palace ? 
 My honour tainted, and my name aspersed ! 
 
 Guise. Honour shall have its right. — A hus- 
 band's title 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 81 
 
 Shall be the bulwark of thy fame. All's lost 
 If you resolve not quickly : — This hour, Tancred 
 Gives to repose : this hour must make you mine, 
 Or we must part for ever. In that chamber, 
 Where your loved mother dwelt, a reverend priest 
 Attends my orders. — Dangers fly around us. 
 For, if we yet should linger here, the eye 
 Of piercing curiosity will search 
 Our very looks, and through our inmost souls 
 Dart its quick beam. — My life — but what of 
 
 that — 
 It is not worth a thought — - 
 
 Sigis. Not worth a thought ? — 
 Thy precious life? — My care for that bears down, 
 Like an impetuous torrent, all before it ; 
 Thy life, — thy safety asks the dangerous tribute : 
 'Tis paid, and I am thine ! — [kneeling.] Shade 
 
 of my mother, 
 I here invoke thee ! — 
 And, if the solemn deed I'm now to act, 
 Has, as I deem it has, its sacred source 
 In honour, virtue, constancy, and truth, 
 Look down, and bless it from thy heavenly man- 
 sions ! 
 
82 the father's revenge. 
 
 Guise. O generous Sigismonda ! — but what 
 words 
 Can duly thank you ? 
 
 Sigis. Wonder not, my Guiscard, 
 That, in the tumult of conflicting passions, 
 I had forgot thy letter, which instructs me 
 In the strange story of thy noble birth. 
 And now, perhaps, my Guiscard thinks to watch 
 The wild effusions of a joyful bosom ; 
 Expects to hear me thank abundant Heaven, 
 That his fair birth is equal to his virtues. 
 But what has birth, or titled "parentage, 
 A long-drawn lineage, or a proud descent, 
 To do with real love? — Disclaim thy birth, 
 For that, methinks, deprives me of a proof 
 Of what I dare for thee. 
 
 Guise. You, then, must swear 
 That secret never shall escape your lips. 
 
 Sigis. O, why must it be seal'd in endless 
 night ? 
 
 Guise. A father, guiltless of his son's offence, 
 May live to share his punishment. 
 
 Sigis. Oh ! guard him, 
 Ye saints, and, though we fall, may he be left 
 
the father's revenge. 83 
 
 To steal, unnoticed to our hapless graves, 
 And give his tears to our ill-fated loves ! 
 
 Guise Banish such thoughts: next moment 
 makes thee mine : 
 And, when the morning breaks, Salerno's towers 
 May faintly glimmer in the distant prospect. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE HI. 
 
 Monforti and Redmond, meeting. 
 
 Raim. Stop, stop, my lord, — the path you 
 would pursue 
 Leads far away from love, revenge, and power: 
 That vision 's past : — it points but to the abode 
 Of death. — All is discovered : even now, 
 Behind the arras as I stood conceal'd, 
 I heard the king direct his chosen guard 
 To seek the spot where we had fix'd our meeting, 
 And, when the appointed signal should be thrown 
 From the west tower, quick to rush forth at once, 
 And act as then commanded. 
 
84 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 Monf. Calmly, then, 
 Let's meet our fate, my friend : to escape — to fly, 
 Impossible : — no more of that. — And yet — 
 
 Raim. [after musing an instant.~\ — O yet, there 
 is a way, 
 And only one, which, like a thawing flood, 
 This fatal moment must be cross'd, or never. 
 
 Monf. O name it straight. 
 
 Raim. Be it for us, my lord, 
 To intercept our friends, ere they draw near 
 The horrid brink, where Fate and Ruin beckon : 
 If they've the souls of men, they will not fall 
 Ere yet the thirst of great revenge be sated, 
 And Tancred's palace flow with blood. — Their 
 
 arms 
 Are all at hand. — -Lead them to instant action ; 
 Safety and conquest still may smile upon us. 
 
 Monf You give me hope ; the pit, indeed, is 
 dug, 
 But yet the lion may escape the snare. [Exeunt, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. Ba 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 THE VESTIBULE TO THE GALLERY. 
 
 Enter Tancred, Archbishop, Attendants, Guards. 
 
 Tanc. By Heavens ! it half repents me to have 
 come 
 Thus far : all here is quiet — not a foot-fall. — 
 Where lurks this treason ? — Nay, I do beseech 
 
 you, 
 Another time, good brother,, as you love us, 
 Give poppies to your sick : — record no more 
 Such boding dreams, as is your trade to invent, 
 Cheating the fond credulity of women. 
 
 Archb. O, you are merry, brother; but restrain 
 Your triumph till the danger's o'er; — as yet, 
 We have not reach'd the appointed place of guilt. 
 Tanc. Come then, let's on, you shall indulge 
 
 your humour. 
 Archb. Methinks, beyond that pillar, some- 
 what seems 
 To glide, of human form. 
 
86 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 Tanc. Truly, 'tis one 
 In holy vestments ; he appears to shun us : 
 Seize quickly on the slave. 
 
 [a friar is brought in* 
 
 Archb. What art thou, man, 
 That, in these solitary regions, prowl'st 
 Far from all human converse? — does thy zeal 
 For our religion prompt thee to this gloom 
 Of meditation? — would not holy thoughts 
 As well illume the night of thy own cloister, 
 And cell recluse? 
 
 Tanc. See, he turns pale. Know, friar, 
 Thy errand is betray'd ; — confess thy crime, 
 Reveal thy foul conspiracy ; or death, 
 In its worst shape — 
 
 Friar. O ! my good lord, be patient ! 
 I am no traitor, no conspirator. 
 
 Tanc. Then bear him to the rack, and try if 
 torture 
 Can draw the secret from him. 
 
 Friar. Grant me life, — 
 I can unfold a dismal tale : — but yet 
 Expect to hear that, which may make life's 
 current 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 87 
 
 Stop in its course, never, perhaps, to gain 
 Its channel more ! 
 
 Tanc. Friar, speak on, and fear not. 
 Friar. Gold, which I did not want, that curse 
 the earth 
 Flings back on man for raking in her bowels, 
 Has damn'd my honesty, and ruin'd thee. 
 Tanc. What can this mean ? — Proceed. 
 Friar. Connubial rites 
 This hour has seen perform'd : the horrid omens 
 Are now too well explained : Grief and Despair 
 Stood screaming by the altar ! — ghastly Death 
 Witness'd the lovers' oath, and, in his tablets, 
 Wrote their sad names in blood! — Now, Tan- 
 
 cred, mark me, 
 Guiscard and Sigismonda — 
 Tanc. Raven, cease, 
 
 And, for this hellish falsehood [runs at him 
 
 with his dagger, but is stopped by the 
 Archbishop. 
 Ansel. O, restrain 
 Your rage ! 
 
 Tanc. Adders twist round his tongue! — Vile 
 wretch, 
 
88 the father's revenge. 
 
 If this were true, the utterance of such crimes 
 Dissolves all compact with thee. 
 
 Archb. This is madness — 
 A prince's word, like the all-glorious sun, 
 When little planets vagrant roll, should stand 
 Immutable, and fix'd for ever. — Fear not, 
 Finish this killing tale. 
 
 Friar. The bark unbends 
 Her sails, which, through the favour of the night, 
 Is to transport the destin'd pair. — They tarry- 
 In the adjoining chamber. 
 
 Tanc. [going out.] This the way 
 That leads me to them. . 
 
 Archb. [stopping him.] Yet one moment, 
 Tancred, 
 One moment give to temperate thought. Consider 
 What wrongs provoke thee — then, into what 
 
 abyss 
 Of woes, thy thirst of vengeance and of blood 
 May plunge us all ; I have no hope that Pity 
 Dare, midst such horrors, shew her face to plead 
 For the poor victims. Tancred, yet be calm, 
 And, with a soul unbow'd beneath affliction, 
 Approve thyself a man. 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 89 
 
 Tanc. Yes, yes, my brother, 
 I will be patient ; and I will dam up 
 The torrents of my rage ; I'll feel no shame 
 To weep, and play the woman ! — O ! my child, 
 O Sigismonda, thou hast kill'd thy father ! — ■ 
 Am I not calm? — This, this is not the hour 
 Of angry purposes : — revenge and hatred, 
 In this fierce tempest of conflicting passions, 
 Assume a thousand different shapes at once, 
 Puzzling my senses, like a troop of spectres, 
 Which flit so quick before me, I can seize 
 On none. — Alas ! was not her virgin soul 
 Whiter, far whiter, than the ivory throne 
 Of sainted Innocence, till this cursed deed? — 
 To let that bramble twist its baleful leaves 
 Round her fair stem ! — [after some pause. ~\ Ah ! 
 
 I've a thought— -'twill do — 
 'Tis great, — and yet^ if I approach these serpents, 
 My fury damns the project : — take my dagger — 
 [gives his dagger to an attendant. 
 And, though I should command their instant 
 
 death, 
 Obey me not. — Then, have I not her tears 
 To combat too ? — yet shall those very tears 
 
90 the father's revenge. 
 
 But minister to vengeance : — yes, I'll use 
 Those drops — her cries for mercy — shrieks of 
 
 fear — 
 Only to blunt my rage, and, for a while, 
 To lull the storm ; so that my slow revenge 
 Shall be as ample as a father's wrongs. — 
 Lead to this wanton bower of guilt and shame. 
 Archb. [to one of the guard.] Here take thy 
 
 stand, observant of each step 
 That passes near the palace, and impart 
 The earliest notice of suspected treason. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 THE GALLERY. 
 
 Guiscard, Sigismonda, Hassan^ Sibilla, Bender. 
 
 Guise. Let me speak comfort to thee ; — Ah ! 
 
 why beats 
 This little heart so quick? why glance thine eyes> 
 Now to the vault of heaven, now fixed down, 
 As they would pierce the earth?— My love, my 
 
 wife, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 91 
 
 My beauteous Sigismonda, here repose 
 
 Thy fluttering soul ; this chamber is the abode 
 
 Of safety, and of silence. 
 
 Sigis. O ! you err, 
 You sadly err: — such fears may come hereafter. 
 A father's grief comes with the whirlwind's sweep, 
 And carries all before it. 
 
 Hass. Ye just Gods ! 
 That this can be the child of tyranny ! 
 
 Sigis. O Tancred, author of my being, thus, 
 Thus I reward thy love ! — Withheld by Time, 
 When Death did stand as at a distance from 
 
 thee, 
 I've dragg'd the unwilling minister of fate 
 Towards thy sacred head ! — 'Tis, 'tis too much. 
 Nay, [turning to Guiscard.] when we plough 
 
 the sea, though your fond arms, 
 Shield me from angry waves, and whistling 
 
 winds, 
 Though from my cheeks you wipe the tears away, 
 And murmur in my ear such tender words 
 As only I may hear, and you can utter, 
 Ev'n then a father's threatening form may rise, 
 From the black deep, to blast our guilty joys. 
 
92 the father's revenge. 
 
 Guise. O ! no, kind Venus shall direct our 
 bark ; 
 The astonish'd deep shall wonder how we cleave 
 His glassy bosom ; — unperceived, the Loves 
 Shall waft us on, and, mindful of the charms 
 Of Egypt's lovely Queen, confess how far 
 Thy beauty shines above her! — Then arrived 
 Where Manfred's friendship shall securely place us, 
 Far from the noisy world, in some lone castle, 
 Encircled with impenetrable shades, 
 Each golden day we'll consecrate to love ; 
 There, every hour shall witness some contrivance, 
 Some new device to please you, till invention 
 Itself shall be no more, and nothing left 
 But iterated joy, delight, and fondness. 
 
 Hass. [starting.] Ha ! whence those sounds ? 
 — alas ! my wretched children. 
 [While he speaks these words ', the folding 
 doors in the back of the stage suddenly 
 open, and enter 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 93 
 
 (SCENE VI.) 
 Tancred) Archbishop, Friar, Attendants. 
 
 Sigis. My father — and the priest! nay then, 
 all's lost ! [running into Guiscard's arms. 
 There's only time for this. — Now, Tancred, now 
 Cleave with one stroke two faithful hearts at once. 
 Guise, [embracing Sigismonda.] Here take, 
 thou prodigy of love and courage, 
 A husband's first, a husband's last embrace ! 
 Tanc. [recovering from his surprise.] What — 
 in my sight ! — O ! horror, guilt, and shame ! 
 What, not restrain your strong libidinous wills, 
 But, in the presence of the conscious day, 
 Imbrute ! — Though bestial sensuality 
 Had hurried half the sex to the embraces 
 Of all that's monstrous of earth, air, or sea, 
 Still had I deem'd, (but how deceived and 
 
 cheated!) 
 That this sweet wax, unmelted, had retain'd 
 Its virgin purity! 
 
94 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Sigis. Tancred, I know my offence, and, see- 
 ing too 
 The hideous garb in which it meets your eyes, 
 Hope not for pardon, but, as most befits me, 
 Submit with meek, though not repentant soul, 
 To all your rage may dictate. If your vengeance 
 Points its just aim to blast the guiltiest head, 
 Here, Sigismonda stands prepared to meet it. 
 'Twas I, not he, that cut the fatal isthmus, 
 Which birth, and rank, and pride, had placed 
 
 between us, 
 Flung down the sandy barriers, and at once 
 Let the two eager torrents rush together. 
 
 Guise. This is too much. — Tancred, believe 
 her not, 
 Reject the generous fiction ; satiate here 
 Your utmost fury. 
 
 Tunc. Gods ! can I give credit 
 To all I see, and hear ! and yet 'twas well 
 I gave away my poniard, or this moment 
 Had been their last. 
 
 Sigis. I had stretch'd this willing neck 
 To have met the axe, and smiled upon its edge ; 
 I had felt the rude assassin's griping hand 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 95 
 
 Buried in these poor ringlets, nor had heaved 
 A sigh, nor utter'd weak complaint ; while pity 
 For thee, my father, (who art doom'd to drag 
 Thy woes about the world, when we may sleep 
 In our cold graves,) and the extatic thought 
 Of being borne again to those dear arms, 
 In regions where we ne'er shall part, had chec- 
 
 quer'd 
 My few remaining hours of life ! — But now, 
 To hear my honour murder'd, and pure modesty 
 So coarsely blasted by a parent's breath, 
 This is most hard, indeed ! 
 
 Tanc. Ye holy spirits ! 
 Is this my child, or not? — That syren tongue, 
 That face of innocence, so like her mother's, 
 Bespeak her Sigismonda. — But alas ! 
 Where is that chaste reserve, that sweet ac- 
 quaintance 
 With all which duty prompts, and virtue acts ? 
 Some [turning to Guiscard.] daemon sure, in 
 
 mischief exquisite 
 Above his fellows, takes that villain's shape 
 Thus to undo me ! — Thou insidious reptile, 
 That keep'st thy poison for the hand that feeds thee, 
 
96 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Worm, that wast writhing out thy hateful life, 
 Till I recall'd it back, say, what excuse 
 Has falsehood for this monstrous treachery? 
 Guise. Where there's no crime, there needs be 
 no defence. 
 To shelter Virtue, Falsehood need not ope 
 The treasure of her arts, nor will fair Truth 
 Clothe that in armour which may naked pass, 
 And brave, with conscious innocence, the world. 
 Excuse I have none. If Tancred would be taught 
 The cause of what injustice terms a crime, 
 Learn, then, 'twas Love, almighty, glorious Love ; 
 Love, that so long has torn this restless planet, — 
 Love, in whose cause, oceans of blood have 
 
 flow'd, 
 And ne'er shall cease to stream, while man re- 
 tains 
 His form, an image of his God, and keeps 
 
 One atom of his heavenly nature perfect. 
 
 As for my birth — of that mistake, O ! witness 
 This sad refuter ! [pointing to Hassan.} — Know, 
 
 your daughter loved me, 
 Loved, when she deem'd me low as your reproach 
 Can make me ! — Humbler in my own esteem, 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 91 
 
 And meaner still, I dared, an earth-born reptile, 
 To gaze on that celestial orb. 
 
 Hass. See, Tancred, 
 In me, the injured Conrad, and the sire 
 Of Guiscard. Heaven, in justice, has repaid 
 Thy wrongs of me, in him I proudly call 
 My son. 
 
 Tanc. His destiny were happier, had he been 
 The vilest slave, the base-born, grovelling, off- 
 spring 
 Of rags, disease, and beggary, than sprung 
 From thy rebellious loins. Contempt, perhaps, 
 Had pour'd its dull allay upon my vengeance, 
 And mitigated torture ; — now, thank Heaven ! 
 His birth has made him worthy of my rage. 
 
 Archb. O Sigismonda ! — lost, undone for 
 ever! 
 That those rare beauties, mild engaging manners, 
 The spring of softness, and the golden summer, 
 Rich with all Nature's fruits, and ripe perfections, 
 Should be the harbingers of so much ruin ! 
 Still art thou dear! — ah! that this faultering 
 
 voice 
 Had but a sound of comfort, or of hope ! 
 
 H 
 
98 the father's revenge. 
 
 Sigis. Talk not to me of hope : the drowning 
 wretch, 
 When all the ocean's level with his eyes, 
 May be buoy'd up by hope : — that poor deceiver 
 Shall find no welcome in this breast. — -Despair 
 Enter'd the portal with you : — she, who's wont 
 To plough up all things with her driving share, 
 Making a chaos of the human breast, 
 Has cut the thriving root of every hope, 
 That fear may grow the stronger. 
 
 Tanc. Ah, I knew 
 What needs must follow all thy boasted firmness ; 
 I thought how long the victim would remain 
 Thus patient, and submissive, at the altar ! 
 It is your sex's great prerogative 
 To do superior ill, and it is one,, 
 Midst Nature's hidden laws, never to make you 
 Cowards, until the daring sin's committed : 
 She gives you fears for torment, not prevention. 
 Sigis. Yes, Tancred, yes, I do confess that 
 fear 
 Rends and distracts me. O ! it is most horrible 
 To think, when Guiscard's blood shall have ap- 
 peased 
 
the father's revenge. 99 
 
 A portion of your rage, (when all that's godlike, 
 When honour, virtue, truth, and generous love, 
 In his cold bosom are entomb'd,) that you, 
 To me more cruel than to him, may shew 
 Scorn'd and detested mercy. 
 
 Tanc. I'll hear no more — this throbbing brain 
 will burst- 
 Quick to their dungeons bear the scorpions from 
 me. 
 Sigis. O ! moment worse than death ! O wild 
 distraction ! 
 Support me, holy sir, or I shall sink — 
 
 [she leans , fainting, upon the Archbishop. 
 Your arm — O ! this is kind indeed. 
 
 Archb. Good Heaven, 
 My child, support thee in this hour of trial ! 
 Guise, [breaking from those who attempt to 
 hold him.] Ruffians, 1 stand by — respect a 
 husband's woe. 
 O ! she is breathless : — are those marble cheeks 
 Thus blanch'd for ever ? — to eternal grief 
 Then may she never wake ! Help to unlock 
 Her clenching hands. — Yet she revives — O 
 agony ! 
 
100 THE FATHER'S REVENGE* 
 
 Tanc. Tear them asunder. 
 Sigis. Where, O where's my husband?— 
 Is he not dead ? — Let me but look upon him-— 
 But one short instant, — -and 'tis all I ask. 
 
 Guise. O! you shall never— never part us — • 
 Sigis. Hark ! 
 Do not I hear his voice ? — My life, my Guiscard, 
 Thy Sigismonda calls* — I see him not — 
 
 Tanc. Furies and death ! will none obey the 
 king? 
 Why lingers still the traitor in our sight? 
 Guise. Off — murderous hell-hounds. 
 Guard. 'Tis our duty, sir ; 
 'Twere vain to struggle. 
 
 Guise. O ! remorseless tyrant ! 
 
 [they tear him off by force* 
 Sigis. His voice again! — and now it dies 
 away — 
 Tis heard no more — Hush— hush— it was from 
 
 thence 
 It came .'—alas ! all's silent !■< — and you weep ! 
 
 [turning to the Archbishop. 
 Now by the God of truth, whom you adore, 
 Tell me, O quickly, I conjure you, tell me, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 101 
 
 Are GuiscarcTs sufferings at an end ? — You sigh, 
 And shake your head— O! then I know the 
 
 worst — 
 You have a tender heart, a gentle soul, 
 And tears for grief like mine : pray bear with 
 
 me, 
 I hardly know what's past. 
 
 Archb. Guiscard still lives.— 
 But— 
 
 Sigis. O that ##£,— 
 Returning reason gives it all its horrors. 
 
 Tanc. [to Sigismonda.'] Back to thy chamber : 
 ere the sun shall hide 
 His beams, in shame of such detested crimes, 
 Uncertain of thy fate, expect my coming. 
 I shall have business with thee, that will try 
 Thy soul's best powers ; — seek not, till then, to 
 
 measure 
 The vast extent of vengeance that may suit 
 An injured father, and an injured king ! 
 
 [Exeunt ornnes. 
 
*\ 
 
 THE 
 
 FATHER'S REVENGE 
 
 ACT V 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 105 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 A PRISON. 
 
 Hassan and Guiscard, both chained. 
 
 Hass. These mansions of distress, of deep 
 despair, 
 This blood-stain'd pavement, heaps of dead men's 
 
 bones, 
 Where ours must soon be added, (there to blanch 
 And take their silver polish) groans and screams, 
 That wind so sharply through these caves of 
 
 night,— 
 Such are thy nuptial honours ! — Ah ! — how fair 
 The morning broke, when, smiling, first it 
 
 view'd 
 These aged arms infold a long-lost child, 
 And crown'd thee with the joys of faithful love! 
 Heavens ! what a change ! — But soft — no more 
 
 of this, 
 Lest, for the poor unmanly occupation 
 
106 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Of brooding o'er such wither'd hopes, we suffer 
 A dastard wish of life to steal upon us. 
 
 Guise. O ! Sigismonda, I could wish for life, 
 To be the thing, the creature, most exposed 
 To human hate, contempt, and injury, 
 That I might still be near thee, still gaze on 
 
 thee ; — 
 But, to have life without thee — horrid thought ! — - 
 O ! let not that, by some avenging fiend, 
 Be whisper'd in his tyrant pupil's ear ! — 
 His frantic rage, his pride inexorable, 
 Ensure a kinder lot. — The unrudder'd vessel, 
 All leak and foundering, with less joy descries 
 A sail emerging from the bright horizon, 
 Than I now welcome my approaching fate. 
 Hass. Nobly resolved ; and, for this strength 
 
 of soul, 
 With more true joy I'll press thee to my heart, 
 Than when I first pour'd forth the sacred tribute 
 Of my paternal fondness : — I'd forgot 
 
 [attempting to rise, he is impeded by his 
 
 chains, and bursts into tears. 
 My chains. — What folly this, to let a trifle 
 Unman me thus ! alas ! I was entrench'd 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 107 
 
 'Gainst pain, and death, and all such open foes : — 
 Tis past, and you shall blush for me no more. 
 Guise. But, to have drawn this ruin on thy 
 
 head- — 
 Hass. Waste not a thought on me. — Sapless 
 and old, 
 Yielding nor shelter, fruit, nor foliage, 
 Nature will sue the winds to clear her forests 
 Of such unprofitable loiterers ; 
 They fall, and are not miss'd.— That the rude 
 
 blasts 
 Should single out the pride of all the grove — 
 There, there's the grief! — without accusing 
 
 Heaven, 
 May we not ask why such things are ? — 
 
 Guise. Methinks, 
 Through the arch'd labyrinth, I hear the sound 
 Of distant footsteps ; and, from yon dark aile, 
 Lo ! ever and anon, a light breaks forth, 
 And then is lost again. 
 
 Hass. Now let me watch thee : — 
 The blood still keeps thy cheek, thy eyes still 
 
 roll 
 With wonted freedom, and I view no tears ; — 
 
108 THE FATHER S REVENGE. 
 
 Those chains would tell me if thy nerves but 
 
 shook — 
 Thou art my son ; thou art the child of Conrad. 
 Guise. Lo ! they approach — men all well 
 pick'd and chosen 
 For such a solemn embassy. 
 
 Enter Ruffians. 
 
 Hass. Remember, boy, that nature Icnows not 
 pain 
 Beyond a certain point ; and that the soul 
 Will rush to Heaven, e'en from the smallest 
 
 crevice, 
 Where least her flight is look'd for. The stretch'd 
 
 nerves 
 May throb long after life is done, the heart 
 May toss in palpitation, as the waves 
 After a storm, though all is hush'd above. 
 1 Ruff, [to Guiscard.] Our business is with 
 
 you — unloose him first. 
 Guise. Your visages and garbs want no decy- 
 phering. 
 Dispatch me quick, and, while I yet have life, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 109 
 
 Remember I'm a soldier ; one who fears 
 More the rude license of a ruffian's tongue, 
 Than all his equipage of death, 
 
 Hass. Alas ! 
 You do not, cannot, mean to slay a son, 
 And shed his blood before his father's eyes. 
 
 1 Ruff. — Then this way with him. 
 
 [they whisper together. 
 
 3 Ruff, [to Hassan.] You awhile may wait, 
 Then hence before the king. 
 
 Guise. I once had thought 
 To have met my fate without a parting look, 
 This dear embrace, — but that had been unkind- 
 ness. [after a long embrace. 
 
 One pang remains behind. — Poor Sigismonda ! 
 Sustain her, Heaven ! infuse into her heart 
 Some balm of comfort ; and, if woes like these 
 Must kill her reason, as I think they must, 
 O ! let her visions all be calm and peaceful ! 
 Quench in her soul the torch of faithful love ; 
 And when, with puzzled view, and feeble sense, 
 She'd fain recall things past, let Guiscard's 
 
 truth, 
 Without his sufferings, grief, despair, and end, 
 
110 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 Stand singly planted on her weaken'd mind ! 
 
 Now, sirs, conduct me. [he is borne off. 
 
 Manet Hassan. 
 
 Hass. [after a long silence.'] Perhaps, by this, 
 'tis o'er. — Ye gracious powers, 
 For what do you reserve me ? — better fortunes, 
 And less of sorrow, had been now a curse. — 
 Adversity, I thank thee ; I've been dragg'd 
 Up to thy top-mast rock, far, far beyond 
 Where miserable man e'er trod before. 
 What is to come, compared with what is past, 
 Must be all rest and ease. — Tarry bless'd spirit, 
 Bear witness how I'll emulate thy virtue ; 
 O ! view in me again thy glorious firmness, 
 Thy patient mind, unconquerable soul, 
 Thy scorn of tyrants, and contempt of death! 
 
 [he is taken out at the opposite side oj the stage > 
 
 Monforti and Raimond brought in. 
 
 Monf. Say, by what sanction of authority, 
 Whose order, you conduct us ? 
 Jailor. See this warrant ; 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 1 1 I 
 
 Let this suffice ; it bears a signature 
 
 Stamp 'd by Salerno's bishop : 'tis for us 
 
 To execute his mandate ; and ev'n now 
 
 All Manfred's troops are planted round the walls 
 
 Of your associates. 
 
 Monf. Baffled by my rival ! 
 The man whose daring enterprize shall claim 
 A proud reward in Sigismonda's love ! 
 This points Affliction's keeenest shaft, and gives 
 A wound before unfelt :- — You speak not, Rai- 
 
 mond ; 
 Hast thou no words for Fortune when she frowns? 
 
 Raim. All words are loathsome — I renounce, 
 abhor 
 Their idle use. Had we employ'd our hands, 
 And not our tongues, Monforti, at this hour 
 We had in safety stood beyond the reach 
 Of all the tyrant's rage. But, yet in vain, 
 I seek to trace the cause, nor can unfold 
 This treachery. 
 
 Monf. 'Twere fruitless to unfold it. 
 Death noWj and death in all its shapes of terror, 
 Must be our only thought. And O ! my friend, 
 What torments wait us ! will not coward Nature 
 
112 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 Shrink at the nice and exquisite improvements 
 That art shall add to butchery ? — the sharp 
 But lingering knife — the slow-consuming fire — 
 The nerve-distending rack — do not all these 
 Appal thee, Raimond ? 
 
 Raim. These indeed are tortures 
 That might appal the dying saint. — 'Tis now 
 The rage of disappointment that to death 
 Gives tenfold horrors, and inflicts a torment 
 Beyond what all the tyrant's studied arts 
 Of cruelty can reach. 
 
 Monf. And, add to this 
 The stings of conscious guilt ! — O Raimond had I 
 Been never born, Salerno's realms had known 
 A milder sway. I poison'd Tancred's nature, 
 Dash'd the fair scale of Justice on the ground, 
 Scourged Mercy from his throne, and placed 
 
 about it 
 The weakest centinels a prince can trust to, — 
 Hate, Fear, and Pride. I was that envious shade, 
 Through which the sun-beams never pierced — 
 
 the night, 
 In whose thick damp all the foul passions 
 gender 'd, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 113 
 
 That, with the adder's venom'd tooth, crept forth, 
 And stung an injured people into madness. 
 I was that wizard, conjuring up all ill, 
 Myself invisible, while Tancred drew 
 On his less guilty head his people's hatred. 
 But now I fall, in my own wiles ensnared, 
 The victim of my guilt. 
 
 Jailor. You'll wonder not, 
 The purport of my warrant should demand 
 Your close confinement. — You'll retire within. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCEJVE II. 
 
 sigismonda's apartment. 
 Sigismonda and Sibilla. 
 
 Sigis. Does not the solemn hour approach, 
 that brings, 
 Robed in paternal awfulness, my judge, 
 My king, my father ? 
 
 Sibil. Haply, he revolves, 
 
*14 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 In his repentant heart, past hours of joy, 
 The summer of his reign, when you and Guiscard 
 Shared the mild influence of its genial beams. 
 Ev'n now, perhaps, he figures to his mind 
 The state of helpless infancy that first 
 Gave the loved orphan to his fostering care ; 
 While pity may revoke the bloody sentence 
 That lately seal'd his doom, 
 
 Sigis. Away, away, 
 Trifle no longer with me ; 'twas but now, 
 (Yourself the witness) near his dungeon gate, 
 Men with sad aspects, and with cautious tread, 
 Were seen to take their way. — Had this a shew 
 Of mercy ? — No — they were the slaves to dress 
 His funeral couch — and Guiscard rests in peace ! 
 How long am I still destined to endure 
 This curse of life, this insult to my love ! 
 But here comes one who can unfold the mystery. 
 
 Enter Tancred, with a vase in his hand. 
 
 Tanc. All void the chamber — leave us to be 
 
 private. 
 Sigis. Low at your feet see Sigismonda falls ! — 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 115 
 
 No hand is stretch'd to raise her from the dust, — 
 No glance, inspiring confidence ! — Alas ! — 
 He heeds me not — 
 
 Tanc. Let none approach our presence. 
 Sigis. Then must thy daughter grow for ever 
 
 here ! 
 Tanc. Rise: these are idle forms, mere mock- 
 eries ; 
 They please me not. What boots the bended 
 
 knee, 
 When the proud stubborn heart derides such 
 
 crouchings ? 
 Behold this vase ! 
 
 Sigis. I know its dreadful import. 
 Tanc. Alas ! alas, thou know its import ! — 
 thou! 
 The babe of ease and joy! — Leave those who've 
 
 press'd 
 The milkless breast of want, who have been 
 
 scared, 
 On the first step of life, with famine, war, 
 The gangrened plague, or massacre ; leave those, 
 With all their skill in horrors, to divine 
 Its foul contents — But thou — 
 
116 THE FATHER'S REVENGE- 
 
 Sigis. I know 'tis poison : 
 A welcome present, worthy of my father. 
 You tremble ; give it to my steadier hand. 
 Tanc. No, let it rest awhile. — [places it on a 
 table.] Now hear me, daughter. 
 Thou dost not, sure, forget that horrid night, 
 When, circled in these arms, you watch'd in 
 
 silence 
 Your mother's parting breath : the expiring saint, 
 Fixing her eyes on thee, thus faintly cried, 
 Almighty Powers ! preserve yon blooming in- 
 fant, 
 Make her the comfort of her father's age, 
 Nurse of his sickness, pleasure of his health; 
 And, ere she swerve from Virtue's arduous path, 
 Take her, O ! take her, pure and innocent, 
 To your immortal selves ! 
 Short-sighted state of man, unjust and vain 
 In all his reasonings ! — if death had hasten'd 
 His well-timed course, to save thee from this 
 
 ruin, 
 Still I had wept ; with partial cruelty 
 Had tax'd high Heaven — perhaps, had follow'd 
 thee • 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 117 
 
 To the cold grave, in the fond doating error 
 Of thy bright excellence, that fence impregnable 
 'Gainst wantonness and vice. 
 
 Sigis. Tancred, I make 
 No empty vaunt ; I boast not, that, since first 
 This tongue knew utterance, this brain con- 
 ception, 
 This bosom sense and feeling, I have loved thee 
 Beyond a father's poor prerogative, 
 Or the cold tribute of a daughter's duty. — 
 My mother's prayer was heard ; she pray'd that 
 
 Virtue 
 Should point my dubious way. 'Twas by that 
 
 light 
 I steer'd ; and fix'd on that, on that alone, 
 I found it led to Guiscard, and to truth. — 
 This to his manes ! [seizing the vase. 
 
 Tanc. O ! — yet hold, my daughter. 
 
 Sigis. Idle delay : — the drug may lose its force. 
 
 Tanc. Art thou prepared to view — 
 
 Sigis. Speak — what? [she removes the lid.] 
 
 ! horror ! 
 What's this that meets my eyes ? 
 
 Tanc. Thy husband's heart — 
 
118 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 His rebel blood — my exquisite revenge. 
 
 Dost thou approve the gift? 
 
 Sigis. [after a long struggle to speak.] I now 
 have strength 
 To thank you as I ought ! — Do I approve it ? — 
 Thou true, thou honest heart ! O sad, O poor 
 Remains of all my soul held dear ! thus, thus 
 I press thee to this throbbing breast ! 
 
 Tanc. [aside.] I fear 
 I've gone too far — behold how eagerly 
 She grasps the fatal cup. — Forbear, my child, 
 Forbear. 
 
 Sigis. I am conversing with the dead, 
 And must not be disturb'd. — Alas ! poor heart, 
 And wilt thou ever sleep inanimate 
 Within thy narrow sepulchre ! — Vain shadow 
 Of that which once was Guiscard ! where are all 
 Thy fine sensations — thy tumultuous pulse ? 
 Spark of ethereal fire, how art thou quench'd ! 
 Region of honour, courage, truth, and love, 
 All, all laid waste !— Tis strange I am not mad ; 
 Perhaps I shall not be. — It matters not, 
 For the short space that's left me. — For, there's 
 something 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 119 
 
 That from within whispers my quick releasement. 
 Methinks I feel like one worn out with age, 
 Tottering, and weak, — though, at the evening 
 
 bell, 
 (And night's not fallen yet) I had the nerves 
 Of playful youth. 
 
 Tanc. [half aside.] O ! my lost child, too 
 late, 
 Too late, alas ! I wish the deed undone.— 
 Resign the cup — it is a sight too horrible 
 For mortal vision. 
 
 Sigis. Never but with life. — 
 Swear that no ruffian force shall tear it from me. 
 But let it thus be lock'd in my embrace, 
 The partner of my grave ! To heaven I'll bear it 
 With me, the passport to eternal peace ! 
 
 Tanc. Who talks of peace and heaven ! — O 
 damning guilt ! 
 O sharp remorse ! the sounds of peace and heaven, 
 Harrow my soul with fears : — -and, to complete 
 My woes, thou'rt ready with thy dying curse. 
 
 Sigis. I pray come nearer to me. — Thus I 
 curse thee — [embracing him. 
 
 Thus, on thy neck, pour forth the only tears 
 
12,0 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 I've shed in all my grief. — Horror, before, 
 Dried up their source. 
 
 Tanc. And can those injured hands, 
 That should have sent a poniard to my bosom, 
 Entwine me thus within them? — I, all stain'd 
 With blood — ah ! and whose blood ! 
 
 Sigis. That's true : impure 
 
 [starting from him. 
 Is thy embrace, and 'tis an impious deed 
 To approach my husband's murderer. Let me 
 hence. 
 
 Enter to them hastily, the Archbishop and 
 Manfred. 
 
 Here comes a holy man, who'll not refuse me 
 A refuge in my miseries, a corner 
 Where I may lay this hapless head in quiet, 
 Where, till my grave is ready, I may hide, 
 And watch this treasure with a miser's care. 
 
 Tanc. Why break you in upon us ? 
 
 Archb. This intrusion 
 May find its pardon, when unhoped-for joy 
 Bids zeal outstrip the tardy pace of form. 
 
THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 121 
 
 Man/. For that I've saved thy royal house 
 from ruin, 
 Thy breast from the assassin's knife, thy crown 
 From beaming on a traitor's brow, I ask 
 No thanks, no recompence, but Guiscard's life. 
 
 Sigis. O miserable error ! — Why to this 
 
 [pointing to the vase which she holds. 
 Do I my eye-balls glue ? and wherefore thus 
 Imprint these kisses on its surface ? and 
 All this without a cause? 
 
 Tanc. Better — far better, 
 For her, for me, for all, to have sunk at once 
 Together in our country's general ruin, 
 Than to have life to tell thee, that thou ask'st 
 Too late. — The sacrifice is made — enquire 
 No further — 
 
 Man/. What — be dumb ! — Inhuman tyrant — 
 But thou shalt rue the deed. Vengeance shall 
 
 shake 
 O'er Guiscard's mangled corse her flaming torch: 
 I will pursue its light where'er it leads me. 
 
 Tanc. I am not worth thy rage ; and much too 
 wretched 
 To keep a sense of fear, or heed such threats : 
 
15>2 THE FATHER'S REVENGE. 
 
 O ! look on that poor wretch, and let, I pray thee., 
 Thy meaner grief give place, nor dare to force 
 Their trifling forms amidst her sacred woes. 
 
 [Sibilla whispers the Archbishop and 
 Manfred, aside. 
 Archb. O Heavens, it cannot be ! 
 Manf. Accursed deed ! 
 
 Sigis. Perhaps I touch another spring of grief: 
 But Guiscard had a father, one much wrong'd 
 By fortune and by thee. 
 
 Tanc. Thanks be to Heaven ! 
 Conrad still lives: of all his large possessions 
 Full restitution shall be quickly made, 
 His broken shield shall,, to his arm restored, 
 Be blazon'd with new honours. — Hence with 
 speed, [to an attendant. 
 
 Tell him our fair designs, and bear his age 
 Far from these scenes of wretchedness and guilt. 
 Sigis. I am too near my end, and have no voice 
 To thank you as becomes me. 
 
 Tanc- O ! my full heart. 
 
 [turns away in tears. 
 Sigis. You turn away: you surely will not 
 leave me : 
 
the father's revenge. 123 
 
 Desert me not. — Soon will my soul take wing, 
 Ah ! now I feel that Death hath icy fingers, — 
 And round my shivering limbs he seems to fling 
 A dripping shroud of snow!— The vase — re- 
 member — 
 Look where it's fix'd — your oath, that no rude 
 
 hand — 
 Mercy ! — what's this I feel ? — it throbs — it beats 
 As it would burst its monument. — I come — 
 'Thy summons is obey'd. — If I delay, 
 'Tis to forgive, to bless — to bless my father. 
 
 [sinks into Tailored* s arms, and dies. 
 Tanc. Did you not note those sounds ! O all 
 bear witness, 
 She did not curse me with her parting breath. 
 But give her air; perhaps she may but faint; — 
 Soft — bend her forward ; — Medicine may have 
 powers — 
 Archb. Vain is thy fond attempt; no art can 
 break 
 That everlasting sleep. Mark'd ye, how death 
 Gently enticed away her willing spirit ? 
 
 Tanc. I will not add to the enormous weight 
 Of my foul acts, to wish thee breath, and misery. 
 
124 the father's revenge. 
 
 Farewell! — farewell! — While I preserve my 
 
 senses, 
 Manfred, to thee I yield the reins of empire. 
 Deprived of this, yet I have other children, 
 A numerous people ; take them to thy bosom ; 
 Rule with a gentler hand ; for my misdeeds 
 Make reparation — -When your locks, like mine, 
 Are white with age, O ! may you have no cause 
 To pluck them thus by the roots ! — Here turn 
 
 thine eyes ; 
 Is't not a sight to move a moment's pity, 
 To see an aged soldier, once a brave one, 
 Worn down, unmann'd by sorrow, shame, and 
 
 guilt, 
 Look on his sword, yet be afraid to strike ; 
 And, as the only refuge in his miseries, 
 Hide, like a coward, thus his hated head ? 
 
 [he falls on the dead body of his daughter. 
 
 Archb. Forbid the impious despicable thought, 
 
 That prompts the murderous act. — Dastards and 
 
 infants 
 Fly any where from pain, the patient Brave 
 Defy its power ; and, ev'n for wounds like thine, 
 From the same plants which innocence has rear'd, 
 
THE FATHER S REVENGE. 125 
 
 Repentance draws a strength-restoring balm. — 
 Now gently loose the bonds that thus infold 
 
 The living with the dead. Manfred, in you 
 
 Centre a nation's hopes : on the wide ruins 
 
 Of our once-splendid house you place your 
 
 throne. 
 Drive from your thoughts all fierce designs of 
 
 vengeance, 
 And guard from insult that unhappy father. 
 Just punishment is heaven's prerogative ; 
 But erring pity is for erring man ! [Exeunt. 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 TRAGEDY. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Without presuming to arraign the popular 
 taste on the subject of theatrical performances, 
 or to hint any opinion of my own on the Ger- 
 man Drama, (with which I profess to be but 
 little acquainted,) I flatter myself, no candid 
 British critic will be offended by the acknow- 
 ledgment, that, in the construction of the fable, 
 or in the conduct of the following scenes, re- 
 course has not been had to recorded history, or 
 to the invention of cotemporary writers. Their 
 works, in this instance, have not been trans- 
 lated, their style of colouring has not been 
 copied, and their plots have been safe from 
 violation. 
 
 This attempt, however feeble its execution, 
 to recall the attention of the Public to our own 
 
 K 
 
130 PREFACE. 
 
 fcesources, instead of turning for supplies to 
 foreign warehouses of dramatic treasure, may 
 not be without its use, if it stimulate more 
 active industry, and better ability, to ascertain 
 the fact, whether our own native mines of poe* 
 tical riches have, in reality, been exhausted ; 
 or whether they have not been capriciously 
 neglected* 
 
 To those who may possibly take exception 
 at the adventurous introduction of supernatural 
 agency, of beings, who, it may be said, should 
 own no mastery after that of our immortal 
 Shakspeare, I can only apologize by a fair con- 
 fession of the truth. It appeared to me, that 
 a Tragedy formed upon the strict dramatic 
 model, and without any thing that might sup- 
 ply, in a certain degree, the absence of accus- 
 tomed noise, machinery, and splendid decora- 
 tion, would, at this moment, want the power, 
 even in much abler hands than mine, either to 
 invite attention, or to detain curiosity. In a 
 choice of difficulties, therefore, I have risked 
 the charge of presumption, by again bringing 
 
PREFACE. 131 
 
 forward those aerial beings, whose powers, as 
 described in the songs of the ancient northern 
 nations, were first employed by our Bard ; and 
 I have endeavoured to avail myself of the 
 variety and relief which their appearance may 
 give to these scenes, 
 
 I am perfectly aware of the forbearance, 
 which I ought further to bespeak, for the intru- 
 sion of characters approaching to the Comic. 
 It is true, indeed, that the great Painters in 
 treating sublime subjects,, have produced, on 
 canvas, objects nowise allied to those subjects, 
 and even of a much inferior description. The 
 practice was doubtless adopted, in order to 
 familiarize the spectator's attention, and thus, 
 by the attraction of customary views, however 
 humble and domestic, to carry him forward to 
 the great business of their pencils. In thitf 
 honest artifice have the Painters allowably in- 
 dulged. But when I reflect upon the sentence 
 of the master of dramatic criticism,* who, in 
 rigorous disregard of his own practice, has 
 
 # Dry den. 
 
132 PREFACE. 
 
 pronounced the English Tragi-Comedy to be 
 " wholly Gothic," I have little hope of deriving 
 any defence from the Sister Art. It is safer, 
 I believe, to solicit, at once, the reader's indul- 
 gence, and to remind him, that the characters 
 in question obtrude but seldom on the scene ; 
 and that those of the lowest cast might perhaps 
 be expunged, without occasioning any material 
 chasm, or even interruption, in the general 
 composition. 
 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 When all the Fiends, that Hell before confined, 
 
 Bursting their chains, had leagued against mankind ; 
 
 From Gallia's cliffs their brands of vengeance toss'd, 
 
 And, with proud vaunts, insulted Albion's coast ; 
 
 No wonder that our Muse should drop her lyre, 
 
 And, mute with fear, to hidden caves retire. 
 
 For she had witness 'd from her rocky strand, 
 
 The deluge that o'erwhelm'd the neighbouring land ; 
 
 Heard, from her heights, the atheist's horrid yell ; 
 
 Seen, by foul murder, what sad myriads fell; 
 
 The giant Anarch raise his crest on high, 
 
 And rule, and order, in his frowns defy ; 
 
 Heard him invite Britannia's sons to share 
 
 The impious triumphs of Rebellion's war : 
 
 Or bid them, trembling at his tyrant nod, 
 
 Crush their loved Monarch, and abjure their God. 
 
 No wonder then, to distant climes we turn'd, 
 
 And sought that aid, which heretofore we spurrid; 
 
 Open'd our ports to new poetic wares, 
 
 And, from strange sources, drew both smiles and tears'. 
 
 But since a People's sense has nobly shown, 
 
 Hozo they might guard their rights, sustain the Throne, 
 
 Avert the course of slaughter from their shores, 
 
 And shun that plague, zohich other realms devours ; 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 In the returning sunshine of our day, 
 When brighter hopes about our bosom "play ; 
 Our Sovereign safe, # (for Heaven itself has spread 
 "No common shelter round his sacred head;) 
 Unchanged our laws, our altars left to stand, 
 And Concord breathing patience o'er the land; 
 Then may we not invite the Muse again, 
 To tread her stage, and reassume her reign ? 
 To deal her riches from her own full store, 
 And, on unborrowed pinions, proudly soar ? 
 
 * Referring to the attempt on the King's life, I8OQ0 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN 
 
 Count Casimir. 
 
 Frederick. 
 
 Adolphus. 
 
 Henry, Count of Bosinia. 
 
 Peres. 
 
 Abbot. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 Gotherd. 
 
 Servants of Count Casimir. 
 
 WOMEN, 
 
 Countess Casimir. 
 
 Louisa. 
 
 Isabella. 
 
 The Fatal Sisters of the North, 
 
 Scene, Poland; chiefly in the Castle of Count Casimir. 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER 
 
 ACT I. 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 A DREARY SPOT IN A FOREST, AMIDST ROCKS AND PINE 
 TREES, WHERE THE FATAL SISTERS ARE DISCOVERED.— 
 THE CASTLE OF COUNT CASIMIR SEEN AT A DISTANCE* 
 
 Chorus of the Fatal Sisters. 
 
 Summon'd from the realms of air, 
 
 To this spell-defended place , 
 
 Let us to man's devoted race 
 Thus eternal hatred swear. 
 
 1 Sist. Before our rites shall be begun, 
 Sisters, tell me what you've done. 
 Before, on man's devoted head, 
 We new-invented torments shed, 
 Torments he can never shun, 
 Sisters, tell me what you've done. 
 
 / 
 
140 THE STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 5> Sist. Did I do well to snatch 
 A pregnant snake, with threatening crest, 
 Hissing o'er its venom'd nest ? 
 
 Where do you think I laid it down, 
 
 Its slimy eggs to hatch ? 
 
 All Where? O where? 
 
 2 Sist. In a tyrant's ermined crown. — 
 
 you had smiled with me to have stood, 
 Arming with double stings the brood : 
 
 For, from these spring each sick'ning care, 
 
 Cares that to mortals are not known, 
 
 Unless they fill a despot's throne. 
 
 From these each ill that shortens life, 
 
 Public troubles, private strife ; 
 Contempt from peace, from war despair, 
 
 Hatred of foes,, of friends distrust ; 
 
 And thus I lay the proud in dust. 
 Did I do well ? 
 
 All Well ! O well ! 
 
 3 Sist. I caught a mother standing on a height, 
 
 Doting on her infant's charms ; 
 Hid by our power from human sight, 
 
 1 pluck'd her darling from her arms. 
 She heard its cries, she saw it sink; 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 141 
 
 Then rushing to the fatal brink, 
 She would have follow'd to the gulph below ; 
 I held her back — ihus perfect was her >voe. 
 Did I do well ? 
 
 All. Well ! O well ! 
 
 4 SisL In the battle's bloody strife, 
 Thrice I drew the fatal knife, 
 Young Fred 'rick's thread to have cut in twain, 
 And heap his corse upon the slain ; 
 But he's reserved for greater woe ; 
 So Hela bids, as well you know. 
 Did I do well ? 
 
 All. Well ! O well ! 
 
 1 Sist. Now break we off, and let's disperse, 
 We've to prepare a funeral hearse ; 
 For, ere the day his course shall run, 
 Much in yon castle's to be done. 
 Death's sable goddess meets us there : 
 Sisters, disperse, and plunge in air. 
 
 Chorus of all the Sisters as they rise. 
 Summon'd from the realms of air 
 
 To this spell-defended place ; 
 
 Let us to man's devoted race, 
 Again, eternal hatred swear. [Exeunt. 
 
143 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A WOOD. THE MORNING BREAKING. A VIOLENT 
 
 STORM. 
 
 Enter Francis and Gotkerd- 
 
 Fran. O mercy, what a night ! Surely the 
 storm 
 Don't mean to leave a stick in all the forest, 
 To make a bonfire for our glad return ! 
 
 Goth. Now this comes of your night-work — 
 travelling thus 
 In bold defiance of sweet sleep and nature. 
 Lord ! Lord ! to have left the Vicar's fire- 
 side — 
 Fran. Aye, and his down-beds too — that 
 vexes me 
 'Bove all the rest. 
 
 Got. What will a man not do, 
 When, by a quicker beating of the heart, 
 And by a certain lusciousness of the air t 
 He feels that he approaches a sweet mistress. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 143 
 
 Would our young master, with his devilish 
 
 haste, 
 Had been but married, and before he went 
 To these confounded wars, and then, perhaps, 
 His hurry had not set us all a scampering 
 To lose our way, like madmen, in the forest. 
 Fran. That's very true, good friend. Between 
 ourselves, 
 I feel no more impatience — oh J no more 
 Than one of our tired mules, to fill again 
 The arms of my incomparable Dorcas. 
 Tore death, I can't help thinking but the elements 
 Have hired her tongue to save themselves the 
 trouble 
 
 Of thundering. 
 
 [From within.] — Holla ! where are you, knaves ? 
 
 Enter Frederick, Adolphus, Peres, Attendants. 
 
 Fred. Well, gentlemen, have you not found 
 
 our horses ? 
 Fran. We have lost ourselves, and have found 
 
 nought so good. 
 Got. They cannot yet have reach'd the hill — 
 
 our path 
 
144 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Brought us a nearer road. 
 
 Fred. Tell us, where are we ? 
 Got. Let's look about — another hour will bring 
 us 
 Clear of this cursed wood ; for surely this 
 Must be the very spot where the boar kill'd 
 Your Honour s dog, poor Blanch. These distant 
 
 lights 
 Stream from the castle windows, or I'm blind. 
 Fred. Now may I ask, why have we left our 
 
 horses ? 
 Adolph. By thy advice. They fell at every step. 
 Fred. I would the tempest, that seems to have 
 flung 
 All things unto the moon, had made as free 
 With my advice. — Now, plague upon these 
 
 horses. 
 Here the road's plain and smooth, and we could 
 
 make 
 Good expedition. 
 
 Adolph. I don't marvel much, 
 To see thee fret and fume thus, when, perhaps, 
 A little league is all 'twixt thee and heaven. 
 My Isabella ought to take it ill, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 145 
 
 That I'm not leaping like a goat, from crag 
 
 To crag, to break my neck, and prove my ardour too. 
 
 And ytt, perchance, my love's as true as thine. 
 
 But there is ever something so forbidding 
 
 In that dark witch the Countess, that, though love 
 
 Would push me on, yet her inveterate face 
 
 Bids me recoil. 
 
 Fred. My father's wife ! consider — 
 
 Adolph. But not thy mother. — Hang her ! She 
 loves thee 
 As I love her — I never can approach her, 
 But, in a moment, something that she says 
 Or does, raises my bile, and, for a fortnight, 
 Spoils my digestion. 
 
 Fred. O my friend, be patient, 
 For my sake, and my father's, I entreat you ; 
 We have not long to suffer from her temper. 
 — The storm; methinks, increases ! 
 
 Peres. There's a crash ! 
 That monarch oak fell as a king should fall — 
 No mean surviver of his people's ruin ! 
 
 Fred. Mercy, good Doctor — to be moralizing 
 Thus in a whirlwind ! 
 
 Peres. This same storm reminds me — 
 
146 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Just in so rude a night — of an occurrence 
 The most remarkable. I'll tell you, Sir, 
 All the particulars 
 
 Fred. Not for the world, Sir ! 
 Some other time — some other time, 
 
 Peres. Well, well— 
 'Tis a sad pity, 'tis not somewhat lighter. 
 A dainty spot for botanizing this. 
 I've heard it said, that great Professor Boreman — 
 
 Fred. He's off again — Of this there is no end. 
 Peres, good night ! — If here you mean to sleep, 
 I am not of your party. — On, Adolphus. 
 
 [Exeunt all, except Peres and Francis. 
 
 Peres. My good friend, Francis, you perhaps 
 would choose 
 To hear about Professor Boreman ? Truly, 
 'Tis a most sad and interesting story. 
 
 Fran. O dear ! not I, Sir. — Will you jog on, 
 Doctor, 
 Or, by yourself, be frozen here to death ? 
 Surely, the man is deaf! — Why, what can you 
 Be thinking of? 
 
 Peres. Why, I was thinking what 
 Professor Boreman's age might be, when 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 147 
 
 Fran. Heavens ! 
 This fool will lose himself, and, what's much 
 
 worse, 
 Me too ! — For God's sake, Doctor, come away ! 
 
 [Pushing him off. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 THE COUNTESS CASIMIr's APARTMENT. 
 
 Countess ', Henry. 
 
 Countess, [reading a paper.] Tis well i ex- 
 ceeding wel 1 ! — This his last wish 
 Mark what a web of poverty is spun 
 For me ! Thus, thus am I repaid for years 
 Of bitter pain and suffering ! — Whence this paper? 
 
 Hen. Forever watchful where your interests 
 point, 
 Of late I've mark'd, about the castle skulking, 
 That human vampire, the attorney, Peter. 
 Unnoticed, I soon traced the subtle mischief 
 Up to your husband's closet, there took leave 
 
148 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 To listen, but to hear if aught was brewing 
 Injurious to a cause to me so dear; 
 Enough I gain'd to make me seize th' occasion, 
 Afforded by the night, to search his cabinet — 
 You know I am expert — and there I found 
 This plan of future ruin. 
 
 Countess. O how just ! 
 He in his grave, and blasting, by this act, 
 All the bright hopes on this side mine! — He 
 
 leaves me 
 The scanty means of wearing out my years 
 In this detested land — the noble gift ! 
 Furies and death ! observe the disposition — 
 Here to waste half my life, and then to view 
 The termination of this lively prospect 
 Closed in by beggary ! 
 
 Hen. Tis a foul wrong. — 
 You, who, by splendid talents, first procured 
 Honours and wealth ; gave to his lavish hand 
 Extensive territories ; thus repairing 
 The gaping chasms that wild extravagance 
 Had worn in all his tatter'd fortunes — truly 
 You are most injured ! 
 
 Countess. Look but at these walls — 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 149 
 
 You can remember, how I lived at Warsaw ! 
 What fiird my chambers there ! What hourly 
 
 crowds, 
 Wearing the pavements of my palace courts ! 
 Crosiers, and truncheons, glitt'ring orders, bending 
 The marble stair-case ! Merit and Disgrace, 
 Ambition, Interest, Power — struggling, all, 
 For the short heaven of a toilet-whisper ! 
 Envoys and ministers from every state 
 That had a name in the globe ! Ephemeral 
 
 beings, 
 Opening their gawdy pinions as I smiled, 
 Or to my frown yielding their flutt'ring lives ! 
 Hen. Long on that glorious pinnacle, I view'd 
 thee 
 Sublimely seated ; (and I knew its price.) [Aside. 
 Countess. Behold me here, sad partner of a 
 bed 
 Haunted by all the daemons of disgust, 
 Contempt, and hate ! — daily condemn'd to hear, 
 Not what rival Eagles of the North 
 Are rip'ning into form ; — not, if the Turk 
 Bursts his seraglio stupor; — not, if Spain, 
 With France, is stealing, with insidious step, 
 
150 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 On unsuspecting Europe— nor, if England 
 Rears her proud trident on her rocky cliffs, 
 And bids the universal world obey ! — 
 Instead of these,— the poacher's war, the intrigues 
 And plots of village against village ! or 
 The deep caballings of a convent parlour ! 
 Then, that eternal, horrible detail 
 Of mountain-chases ! — Was I made for this ? 
 Hen. I own it is too much for human bearing. 
 Countess. And now the glow-worm Hope, that 
 sometimes cast 
 Its trembling rays upon this horrid night, 
 And whisper'd, that, when riot and debauchery 
 Had much advanced what Nature's common 
 
 course 
 Had placed at no great distance, I should then 
 Regain my lost condition ; — by this work — 
 This work of hell — -this fatal instrument — 
 Is utterly destroy 'd — oh ! dead, for ever ! 
 What's to be done? 
 
 Hen. Suppose another deed, 
 Aping this villainy, but with th' inverse 
 Of the accurs'd intention — it were easy 
 To make it take the place of this. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 151 
 
 Countess. But stay ! 
 Should he detect the forgery, we're lost, 
 For ever lost. What if he die intestate ? 
 
 Hen. By Poland's law, then all you brought 
 your Lord 
 Reverts to you again. 
 
 Countess. And say you so ? 
 Henry, — he never makes another will. 
 
 Hen. Prithee, explain ! 
 
 Countess. How dull ! — Thus, with its merits — 
 
 [tearing the will. 
 My husband must not make another will. 
 But soft, we're interrupted ! — Quick ! be gone ! 
 You know the private way. Be not seen here. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Enter Louisa and Isabella. 
 
 Countess. O my young friends, how beauteous 
 you appear, 
 When every rising sun adds but fresh fragrance 
 To my sweet opening roses ! [embracing them. 
 
152 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Isa. Here's base flattery ! 
 Her compliments are pioneers, but sent 
 To cut a road before the approaching censure. 
 I tremble for the sequel. [Aside. 
 
 Louisa. O, good madam, 
 You are too partial. Tis this easy life, 
 This castle's wholesome site, and — 
 
 Countess- Why avoid 
 Praise you deserve ! here, I confess, you're match- 
 less. 
 But don't mistake me so, to think I mean, 
 Leaving this solitude, as leave you will, 
 And, much too soon for happiness, engage 
 In the world's dang'rous paths, that you'll not 
 
 meet 
 Faces as fair as yours, and graceful forms 
 Of most refined elegance, of which 
 You yet, indeed, have small conception. 
 
 Louisa. Truly, 
 We do not doubt it. 
 
 Isa. Answer for yourself, 
 My meek Louisa ; I'll stay to be convinced. 
 
 Countess. 'Tis there, my friends, I speak it for 
 your good, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 153 
 
 (Not that I think the case will e'er be yours,) 
 That many a husband, some that pass for 
 
 good, 
 Breaking the chains that rural beauty twines, 
 Forget the vows, that woods and streams have 
 
 witness'd ; 
 You deem me now severe — but 'tis my love 
 Dictates this caution. [embracing them again. 
 
 Isa. Here's our beauty gone ! 
 Our husbands too are false, and ere we have 
 them ! [Aside. 
 
 Countess. This day, our letters teach, Lord 
 Frederick comes, 
 Cover'd with well-earn'd laurels, to receive 
 His dearest recompence, Louisa's hand. 
 What praise of spirit, modesty, and skill, 
 Fill'd each dispatch from our victorious army ! 
 
 Louisa. I knew it would be so. 
 Is there a virtue, 
 
 Truth, honour, firmness, pure ambition's fire, 
 That share not empire in my Frederick's breast ! 
 But are these all ! Ah, no — each gentler feeling, 
 Which clear unspotted courage dares give way 
 to, 
 
154 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 When more suspicious valour loudly boasts, 
 It sheds no tears of weakness* 
 
 Countess. You but speak 
 All that I think; nay, know, of his perfections : 
 And though I own his excellence beyond 
 All general rule, that your young soldiers prove 
 But faithless mates, not quitting their wild pranks; 
 Yet, to ensure your comfort, I had wish'd 
 He'd taken another walk Df life, not risking 
 The heart, that should be yours, amidst the 
 
 wiles, 
 Of ambush'd syrens in those dangerous climes ; 
 To which, alas ! sweet innocence like yours, 
 In fancy ne'er has reach'd. But, dearest child, 
 You seem unwell — what have I said ! 
 
 Louisa. Indeed, 
 I did not look for being vex'd to-day — 
 To-day, that brings my Frederick to us all. 
 
 Countess. You much mistake me ; 'twas my 
 tender care 
 That warn'd you of a storm that might arise, 
 And spoil the surface of a summer sea, 
 On which your novice bark glides unprepared 
 For change of seasons. But I leave you now — 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 15 5 
 
 The hour arrives, when, with my vows to hea- 
 ven, 
 I scatter, o'er the neighbouring village poor, 
 That charitable aid, than which God's altars 
 Receive not sweeter incense. All the saints 
 Have you in their good keeping ! 
 
 [Embracing them. Exit Countess, 
 Isa. There she goes, 
 To make e'en charity itself disgusting ! 
 Her charity's too like our litter mules, 
 That sound their bells along the public way, 
 To attract the notice of the gaping hamlet : 
 While thine, with dove-like flight, on noiseless 
 
 wing 
 Skims o'er each cottage, and on each roof drops, 
 In secret, its sweet balm. — But, dear Louisa, 
 Let not her malice grieve you. Your loved 
 
 Frederick 
 This day returns : our odious narrow cage 
 Will soon fly open ; we no more the sport 
 Of that strange woman's humour ! 
 
 Louisa. Isabella, 
 We must not, cannot part ! We know, Adol- 
 phus 
 
156 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Is not forsworn : one house may surely stretch 
 Its walls to hold four friends like us. 
 
 Isa. Be that 
 As Heaven ordains ! and should he prove un* 
 
 true, 
 I'll bear it as I may ; and from thy friendship 
 Taste as much bliss as love may have to give 
 
 me. 
 No, no ! we will not part. I can be useful ; 
 Attend thee like a nurse, when Frederick's 
 
 duty 
 Shall tear him from thy arms ; then conjure 
 
 down 
 Ill-founded fears ; foretell the hour, the minute, 
 Of his return ; scold thee, or laugh thee out of 
 The visionary wounds thy love provides him. 
 1 may instruct thy children ; and each day 
 Light, in their little hearts, the noble flame 
 Of emulating thee. So, sweetest friend, 
 If I'm condemn'd to twine the willow-garland, 
 I'm not without resources. 
 
 Louisa. Isabella, 
 Without thy cheerful aid, thy poor Louisa 
 Shrinks like the tenderest flower at ev'ry wind ; 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 157 
 
 And, even now, she has a puzzled sense 
 Of coming evils — oh ! too much like that 
 Which a sick, feeble mem'ry loves to hang on, 
 When struggling to recall past woe. Come, laugh, 
 Or scold her, as thou wilt, for this sad weakness. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER 
 
 ACT II. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 161 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 A HALL IN CASIMIR's CASTLE. 
 
 Servants, meeting Gotherd and Francis. 
 
 1 Serv. Welcome, most welcome, Gotherd 1 
 Welcome, Frank ! 
 Where is our dear young master? How's his 
 
 wound ? 
 He is not lame? He does not halt? God bless him, 
 Though he should come on crutches ! 
 
 Got. If I had 
 A thousand voices, I would answer you 
 While he alights from horseback. Come, dis- 
 patch ; 
 Acquaint Lord Casimir we're all arrived ; 
 And fail not to say all. He must have been 
 In sad alarm, lest some of our wise heads 
 Had been left grinning o'er a Turkish gate-way. 
 Serv. Art thou for grinning, thou hadst better 
 taken 
 
 M 
 
162, THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 That Eastern mode than any thou'lt find here. 
 To tell thee a great secret, we've forgot 
 All of us how to grin. There's Madam Countess 
 Cannot away with mirth ; wit's contraband; 
 We dare not smuggle it with our gin and brandy ; 
 And so we all get drunk in sober sadness. 
 
 Fran, Alas! alas! that's much — -but times 
 x will change : 
 These things must all be alter'd. How's the vin- 
 tage? 
 Cellars well stock'd ? — Though, as the poets say, 
 We soldiers love the roaring of great guns, 
 The neighing of war-horses, and of matrons 
 Violated, and all such martial noises ; 
 Yet I can so accommodate my senses, 
 As, in the drawing of a cork, to find 
 A very comely sound. What say you, lads ? 
 
 Enter other Servants. 
 
 Serv. As I do live, they're met on the hall- 
 steps, 
 And now hard at it, pulling, kneeling, kissing, 
 Questioning, answering ; and the old house-dog 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 163 
 
 Knows our young Lord, and seems more glad 
 
 than any* 
 Saving our sweet young lady. — Here they come ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Casimir, Frederick, Adolphus, Peres> 
 Countess, Louisa, Isabella, Attendants* 
 
 Cas. YouVe made good haste. I was afraid 
 the letter, 
 That must have reach'd you, as you pass'd through 
 
 Warsaw,, 
 Might, for some days, have given you employ- 
 ment 
 With our first Minister. 
 
 Fred. He was then absent. 
 And his arrival for this month postponed, 
 I deem'd it not your pleasure, I had waited. 
 Cas. [aside.'] O that you had ! thus I had 
 gain'd some days 
 Of value beyond measure. 
 Louisa. But this wound ! 
 
164 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 You hardly mention'd it ; then the fatigue, 
 The weather, and the roads ; alas ! you should 
 Have travell'd slower. 
 
 Peres. Soft. — As for the wound, 
 / can best speak to that : I can describe 
 Most accurately the nature of the hurt. 
 But first, young lady, you must learn the course 
 That a ball took in Marshal Mouskin's hip ; 
 Almost a homogenous case, except 
 With the nice difference of the injury 
 To the os pubis, and the great trochanter — > 
 
 Fred. O this abuses all indulgence ! Peace, 
 As you respect clean straw and hellebore. 
 The man is surely crazed ! Is this a season — - 
 
 Cas. If you would hear of wounds, of perilous 
 chances, 
 Of valour and of strength, of men whose sinews 
 Were twisted, like a cable, by the hand 
 Of Nature, and were fbrm'd by her to bend not 
 Under such iron coats as now would crush 
 To atoms all the modern pigmy race, 
 You must look back to seasons, when our 
 
 Poles 
 Had men to struggle with ! 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 165 
 
 Sons of our northern Serpent, Swedes and Rus- 
 sians, 
 Another race ! How different from your Turk, 
 Reeling and nerveless from his haram-conflicts, 
 Ill-stomaching the change of the down sopha 
 And scented bath, for the straw-litter'd tent ! 
 And still you call yours — War ! 
 
 Adolph. You much mistake, 
 My Lord ; granting, that, since your famous 
 
 times, 
 The human race has undergone a sweating:, 
 As has our coin, and now has little value ; 
 Vet, had you witness'd — 
 
 Fred. O no more of this ! 
 Indulge his humour. 
 
 Adolph. 'Tis a cursed one : — 
 But, for thy sake — 
 
 Countess. We're wont to hear, all things, 
 In his conceit, are verging to decay. 
 The very ice is not with equal thickness 
 Ribb'd, as in his good days : the sun itself 
 Now yields, in potency of heat and splendour, 
 To the poor peasant's stove. Excuse this fancy ; 
 I know he means you no ungracious welcome. 
 
166 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Adolph. [aside.] As hearty as your own, or 
 
 I'm mistaken. 
 
 / 
 
 Cas. Let us retire. Our northern air must 
 
 needs 
 Affront the nerves, distended and untuned 
 By Asia's steaming winds. Prithee, let's in. 
 I know your modern traveller wants recruits 
 That nature formerly could well dispense with. 
 
 [Exeunt, excepting Adolphus and Isabella. 
 
 SCEJVE III 
 
 Adolphus and Isabella. 
 
 Adolph. One word, for mercy, dearest Isa- 
 bella! 
 Isa. Be quick — I tarry but a moment : use it 
 With your old frankness ; and pray tell me fairly, 
 Without a prologue of esteem and friendship, 
 And such most wintry terms, that you adore 
 
 me- — 
 O more than all our lovely sex besides, 
 One, only one, excepted ! — Is't not so? 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 167 
 
 Adolph. O no, my charming mistress ! Do but 
 hear me. 
 I now can tell you, that the heart, which swell'd 
 With bitterest anguish, when first banish'dhence 5 
 Returns to be restored to happiness, 
 To love, delight, and thee. 
 
 Isa. All this is fine, 
 O very fine to hear ! But yet, methinks, 
 You might as well have made me guess your 
 
 meaning 
 A little sooner. 
 
 Adolph. I confess a weakness ; 
 But, while the Countess' present, nor my thoughts, 
 Nor are my words my own. I feel quite lost 
 In that dark maze, whose windings I pursue, 
 Without a thread to catch her secret meanings. 
 Forgive me, Isabella ; I'm ashamed, 
 In such a fruitless inquest to be occupied. 
 Why do I yield to this antipathy ? 
 
 Isa. To feel it for a toad or spider — creatures 
 That, for the humble place where Nature's placed 
 
 them, 
 Bespeak our pity rather than our hate — 
 Is most preposterous ! But for that woman, 
 
168 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Heaven gives us hate, for instinct, to avoid her. 
 I feel, before I see her, like the bird 
 That, trembling at the rising storm, would fain 
 House any where to shun its distant fury. 
 
 Adolph. Then I am not so singular in this — 
 Isa. I and my dear Louisa, in your absence, 
 Have vegetated here ; if sometimes warm'd 
 By the false heat of her officious kindness, 
 Yet quickly to be crush'd, like hateful weeds 
 That curse the pasture. Wanting other food 
 To satiate her intriguing appetites, 
 She seeks dominion o'er each neighb'ring castle ; 
 And, with her Warsaw maxim, to divide 
 And rule, spreads every where domestic jars ; 
 In the calm bosom of each peaceful family 
 Lights the curst torch of discord. — Now no more : 
 We are here alone ; we soon may be enquired 
 
 for. 
 Our conference will excite her jealousy, 
 And we shall feel her vengeance. — Follow me. — 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 169 
 
 SCEjVE IV. 
 
 A long Gallery in Casimirs Castle. 
 
 Cas. [solus.] To turn to death for aid, rather 
 than wait 
 Age or disease's course ; and any where 
 To fix the point of fortune's compass, rather 
 Than watch with throbbing breast, and straining 
 
 eyes, 
 The irritating tremblings of its needle, 
 (Though hope should sink for ever) is far happier 
 Than on such waves of doubt to toss ! The child 
 Who, with his irresolute foot, first touches 
 The chilling ripplings of the stream, from shame 
 Calls up a soul, and plunges in. Shall man, 
 Proud man, stand undecided on the bank ? 
 Forbid it, courage ! — Ere the sun decline, 
 I must resign for ever young Louisa, 
 Or make her mine— Mine she shall be ! — Be still, 
 Compunction's cozening voice ! — Is it for me, 
 With all a mountain's weight of sins upon me, 
 
HO THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 To shrink before this ant-hill of offence ! 
 Mine she must be — but how f — O by what 
 means ? 
 
 First Sister entering from the Bottom of the 
 
 stage 
 
 1 Sist. By prompt decision. 
 
 Cas. What do I behold ! 
 A female form ! Could a substantial being, 
 Encumber'd with our clay, glide through the 
 
 crevice 
 Of this thick masonry ? For, from that quarter, 
 No mortal can approach ! 
 
 1 Sis. That I do hold 
 The master-key of all thy secret purposes, 
 And have in solemn keep the visitation 
 Of thy heart's inmost cell, will by thyself 
 Be freely own'd.— Listen ! — to me is known 
 The very hour when, first, Sense, Reason, Pru- 
 dence, 
 Impeird by Love's hot breath, mounted the air 
 And, like the silky gossamer, appear'd 
 No more. — Was not the Turkish war a scheme 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 1 y I 
 
 To profit of thy son's and rival's absence ? 
 And he returns too soon — Is it not so ? 
 
 Cas. What answer can I make, but that, in 
 hell, 
 Thou hast seen blazon'd all my deep intents ! 
 No tenant of our planet has access 
 To what lies darkly buried in this bosom. 
 
 1 Sist. Enquire not what I am. If a thin spirit, 
 Permitted here to take my fancy's range ; 
 Or, if these marble walls expand and close, 
 As I do bid them, from a magic power ; 
 Or if, without such supernatural aid, 
 I have contrived to break upon thy privacy ; 
 Still view me thy protecting Genius. Long, 
 Long I have watch'd thy bolder walk through life, 
 And seen thee snap the chains which others 
 
 bind; 
 Bound o'er the loftiest fence, to win the joys 
 That heaven has made for man ; nor turn aside 
 To shun the nothings of a monkish censure, 
 Does it become thee, Casimir, now to pause, 
 And not pursue the noblest, easiest prey ! 
 
 Cas, Say'st thou — Louisa easy to be won ! 
 Whene'er I venture to approach, her innocence 
 
172 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Ruins my uttVance. Though in thy strange pre- 
 sence, 
 I own I stand not inaccessible 
 To an unusual awe ; yet something still 
 Of Casimir remains. — Tore her, he's fled, 
 And coward dotage takes the shape he leaves ! 
 1 Sisl. O these are love-sick scruples, idle 
 qualms. 
 Are there no other means to gain on beauty 
 But distant sighs and tears ; losing this hour, 
 And thinking that to-morrow will expressly 
 Rise more propitious for the soft disclosure ? 
 Away ! away, Lord Casimir ! This want 
 Of enterprizing fire renders my aid 
 Of no avail. Let, then, the glorious harvest 
 Of sweet Louisa's charms be borne away 
 To fill another's garner, while tame Casimir 
 Dares not dispute the prize within his reach. 
 Cas. Within my reach ! Will youth and beauty 
 turn, 
 When Saturn wooes, from a young Phoebus 5 
 prayer ? 
 1 Sist. But, strength and power w r ould seize the 
 destined prey, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. I 75 
 
 And leave a novice boy to whine his loss. 
 'Tis force must make her your's — 
 
 Cas. Ah ! what say'st thou ? 
 Force ? And what hope from that ? 
 
 1 Sist. We know, all women 
 Do not abhor ther ravishers. Is not 
 The neighb'ring country thine ? Madness dares 
 
 not 
 Oppose a Polish mandate. 
 
 \While Casimir is plunged in thought, 
 the first Sister retires by the way she 
 entered. 
 Cas. [not perceiving that she is gone.] But what 
 if I attempt? By heaven, she's fled! 
 And by the road she seem'd at first to enter ! 
 She this way passed not by. The known entrance 
 Is here, and only here. Perhaps I've been 
 Conversing with some damned soul, that buys 
 An absence from its prison-house, on the bond 
 Of bringing others to its fiery mansion, 
 And I must be the pledge ! Yet to resign her, 
 To give her up, to hear no more her voice ! 
 Never again to view those beaming eyes 
 Chase, like another sun, the night that hangs 
 
114 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 On war-worn towers like these ! nor Nature watch 
 At her best, proudest work, swelling each charm 
 Till healthful, full-blown youth expand no further ! 
 To have that beauteous idol far removed, 
 That, while I gazed and worshipp'd, made me 
 
 bear 
 With unmoved soul, and inattentive ear, 
 The constant din of keen connubial rancour! 
 How to recede !— The Indian, on the brink 
 Of the immense Canadian cataracts, 
 Could easier stem those waters, and return, 
 Than I can travel back. Inhabitant 
 Of this or other worlds, thou art obey'd ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 AdolphuS) Peres. 
 
 Adolph. Peres, well met ! How like you your 
 
 abode ? 
 Peres. It speaks magnificence and strength. 
 
 The mead, 
 That spreads its velvet level far below, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 175 
 
 I do conjecture, teems with many a plant 
 Most welcome to a stranger's eye ; besides, 
 Yon mountains, doubtless, are possess'd of stores 
 Of mineral treasures, hidden yet from man. 
 
 Adolph. I'm speaking of the castle — the pos- 
 sessors : 
 What think you of our noble hosts ? 
 
 Peres. Most luckily, 
 I am read in physiognomy : a science 
 Well worthy cultivation ; which protects us 
 From many a mischief and disgrace, that flow 
 From too much confidence in words and actions. 
 Steering by this, in silence, I avoid 
 The rocks that others split on in their course. 
 
 Adolph. If you're so wise, I would be fain in* 
 form'd 
 What you pronounce of the Lord Casimir ? 
 
 Peres. Judging like vulgar men, I should de- 
 cide, 
 He was imperious, proud, cruel in nature, 
 Prompt to offend, implacable in anger — 
 Would govern all things with a master's rule, 
 Except his passions. 
 
 Adolph. [aside.] He has hit the mark, 
 
176 THE STEP-MOTHER" 
 
 And could not have said better, had he lived 
 Whole years beneath this roof. 
 
 Peres, But, by my art 
 And nearer inquest, in his nether lip 
 I do perceive benevolence. His nostrils 
 Do not expand with a contemptuous snort 
 Of proud disdain, but with a lively breathing, 
 Impell'd by love of all the human race. 
 His eyes, to some may flash with sparks of rage \ 
 Not so to me. Their fury is directed 
 But to the foes of virtue. Thus I learn, 
 And do aver, he is a worthy gentleman. 
 
 Adolph. A famous end hast thou, in truth, made 
 of it, 
 And to a fair commencement : now, good Doctor, 
 Show equal knowledge of his better half. 
 
 Peres. That is an easy task ; for here no art 
 Spreads its thin lawn o'er the small specks and 
 
 foibles 
 Most are constraint to hide; much less is wanted 
 The thicker veil to cast o'er grosser stains. 
 
 Adolph. O Lord ! O Lord ! — The penetrating 
 skill— 
 
 Peres, A novice in our science would discover 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER, 177 
 
 In the convexity of the forehead, 
 
 A store-house of deep thought; but that thought 
 
 given 
 To things of heavenly kind, to lovely charity, 
 To penitence and prayer. The nose might lead 
 To an ill-founded fear, that stiff disdain 
 And vain conceit sat on its rising arch ; 
 But then the sweet formation of the mouth 
 Proves, nought but meekness, gentleness, and 
 
 truth, 
 Harbours in her fair bosom. — Then her ear : 
 Mark'd you the tip of her left ear ? 
 
 Adolph. Enough, 
 Enough ! — You clearly show, beyond dispute, 
 The excellence of your art. 
 
 Peres. Truly, I knew 
 I should convince you. 
 
 Adolph. Well,— I'll be your pupil. 
 In the mean time, we will go in to dinner. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 \- 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER 
 
 ACT III. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 181 
 
 ACT III SCENE L 
 
 The Countess's Apartment. 
 
 Countess, [alone.] Had he but cast into my 
 drinking-cup 
 The deadly nightshade— had he but let out, 
 With his avenging sword, my heart's warm blood, 
 And so at once had crush'd his enemy — 
 Might well, when nature pleaded for itself, 
 Admit of pardon. But, rotting in the tomb, 
 And, when the glorious sense of great revenge 
 Was felt no more — to rob me from the grave — 
 To subject me to pain — 'midst provinces, 
 Abundant farms, and populous cities, 
 All which I gave; to make me crouch in the hut 
 Of beggary, a mendicant's asylum — 
 And, when his shrouded eyes no more could 
 
 feast, 
 With execrable joy, on the oppression, 
 Still to oppress — O this dissolves all ties ! 
 Makes vengeance righteous ! — Now, Lord Casimir, 
 
182 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 It is become a striving race between us : 
 
 One, and one only, can enjoy the prize ; 
 
 That prize is life ; — and death must have a victim ! 
 
 Enter Lord Henry. 
 
 Countess. Welcome, Lord Henry ! Since the 
 fresh coming 
 Of our new guests, say, what has thy keen 
 
 search 
 Collected for our use ? Know, circumstances, 
 That, single, trifling seem, together heap'd, 
 Become a mass for notice. 
 
 Hen. In that spot, 
 Where we all met this morning, you'll believe 
 The observer glean'd but little. — 'Twas a scene 
 To raise one's mirth. — Mark'd you your hus- 
 band's joy, 
 How real, how sincere? All the hasty questions, 
 That saved the answerer's breath? Can you 
 
 divine, 
 Why Frederick's presence could be well dispensed 
 with? 
 Countess. The parent's hate of every thing allied 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 183 
 
 To virtue or fair conduct, conjures up * 
 
 A stern upbraider of his life, in all 
 
 Who wallow not in his polluted litter: 
 
 And in this son he views a censurer 
 
 Of all his actions. Where is then the wonder 
 
 His absence had been pardon'd ? 
 
 Hen. Something yet 
 Remains to be explain'd. Late, I've remarked 
 The various altars, which your Lord had raised 
 Around this place to wild unlicensed love, 
 All have been neglected — *No presents now, 
 In secret, are dispatch'd, as formerly, 
 Each morning, to the city. What's more — safely, 
 The village beauty meets him in her path ; 
 Nor has, some nine months after, to deplore, 
 She took that dang'rous road. This sudden 
 
 change 
 I've well observed. Say, have you not suspected, 
 Some new attraction draws him from his haunts ? 
 
 Countess. If I esteem'd him, then, perchance, I 
 could 
 Be jealous for his honour, and be studious 
 To hide such brutish weakness from the world ; 
 Or if the trembling flame of foolish fondness 
 
184 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Still warm'd this injured heart ; why then, indeed, 
 I might employ a leisure hour to note 
 The fleeting, quick succession of my rivals ! 
 Where no affection warms the lifeless soil, 
 How can the roots of jealousy be cherish'd ? 
 
 Hen. If, in the course he steers, should be con- 
 ceal'd 
 Whirlpools and rocks, and dangers big with 
 
 death, 
 Should we the Pharos light, and from the shore 
 Direct him safe, nor feast our eager view 
 Upon his certain ruin, while we aloof 
 Stand safe and unsuspected ?— Now, attend — 
 If, in the riot of distemper'd blood, 
 He lifts his eyes to young Louisa's charms, 
 To tear her from his son's and rival's bosom ! 
 When once love's fire is kindled in his veins, 
 We know the ravage that it makes. — Observe, 
 To what this leads. 
 
 Countess. I can imagine peril, 
 The vengeance of her kindred, proud and power- 
 ful, 
 Bloodshed, and death, to follqw in the train 
 Of such outrageous acts ! Yet these may be 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 185 
 
 Far at a distance placed-— He may escape— 
 What then becomes of us? Besides, how know 
 
 you, 
 That he conceives a project so atrocious ? 
 
 Hen. Soon as the return of Frederick was an- 
 nounced, 
 He could contain no longer ; an hour since, 
 Of all the caskets to repose the treasure 
 Of his oppressive secrets, chose my bosom. 
 You may be certain, that I urged not aught 
 To bend him from his purpose, when th' attempt 
 Might quickly draw on an event, in which 
 All your fall'n hopes would rise again from dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Countess. I have not now the time, to weigh 
 the advantage 
 All this may offer — and yet 'tis a tree, 
 On which may ripen most important fruit, 
 Though now 'tis but in blossom. O reflect, 
 How ev'ry moment crumbles off a fragment 
 From the thin edge we stand on ! If he find 
 We havcpurloin'd the paper — 
 
 Hen. Well I know, 
 Our lives must be the forfeit. 
 
186 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Countess. O Lord Henry ! 
 The time has been, when thy intrepid soul, 
 Thy executing hand — Is there no way, 
 To shun our danger ? 
 
 Hen, Ah ! how wild that look ! 
 How thy breast labours with some dreadful pro- 
 ject ! 
 What would'st thou have me do ? 
 
 Countess. Hast thou forgot 
 Henriques ? Fear we now, the indiscretion 
 Of his incautious tongue ? Did we much err 
 When we agreed, the dark cemented tomb 
 Was fitter to entrust with certain secrets, 
 Than that light babbler's breast? Alas, for shame ! 
 Why, at that name, does such a creamy paleness 
 Chase from thy manly cheek its better hue ? 
 Hen* [turning aside.] I would not understand 
 
 you. 
 Countess. Come, Lord Henry, 
 Affect not dulness thus ! What would'st thou do, 
 Wert thou to find another on a plank, 
 And the wide ocean ready to receive thee ? 
 Would'st thou not seize the place, where only 
 one 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 187 
 
 Could ride in safety, and dislodge the wretch, 
 Hadst thou the power ? And does Lord Casimir 
 Deserve that we should sink for him ? — for him 
 Who works our ruin ? — when the slightest push 
 Conveys us into safety ? What, resign 
 For him, wealth, honour, pleasures, life itself! — 
 By whose hand fell Henriques ? 
 
 Hen. O, by mine ! 
 By mine ! 
 
 Countess. And, if by thine, has coward Nature 
 Howl'd, from her frighten'd caverns, condemna- 
 tion 
 Of that surprizing deed ? How many thousands 
 Are daily from life's muster-roll struck off, 
 To fix some base usurper on a throne ? 
 Our sacrifice was one — one for our safety : 
 War sweeps its millions to secure a tyrant, 
 Or prop a falling minister ! — The sun 
 Rises, to my perception, as he did, 
 In wonted majesty — the sable night, 
 In cold indifference to our simple act, 
 Flings the same cloak about her. I have heard 
 Of no convulsive heavings of the tomb, 
 To set its tenant free, and scare our slumbers. 
 
188 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Hen. Thy rest, then, has been tranquil? calm 
 thy nights 
 And days ? 
 
 Countess. What shotild disturb them ? 
 
 Hen. The pale form 
 That's never absent from these tortured eyes. 
 
 Countess. O childish vision ! — And you view 
 this spectre ? 
 
 Hen. Oh ! I have seen it take all shape and 
 size ! — 
 Sometimes, as it did fill the mortal case 
 That nature gave to it — Anon, 'twould dwindle 
 Into so small a speck, that I have marvell'd, 
 How, with my eyes, I have pursued its changes ! 
 And yet, in that apalling miniature, 
 Most horribly distinct ! — Lady, have done 
 With blood ! — Again ; it was but yesterday, 
 As I do live, it met me like a giant, 
 Striding the valley's space ! — 'Twas outline all, 
 For substance it had none : through its grey film, 
 I view'd the distant prospect ; yet there was 
 One spot opake — one spot that sadly marked 
 Where once a noble heart had beat — but now, 
 Wither'd and gone ! In that dark bed of gore, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 189 
 
 You might have found the dagger that you lent 
 
 me. 
 Lady, no more of blood ! — no more of blood ! 
 Countess. O ! — to have trusted to this baby 
 
 man 
 
 Henriques knew too much, and therefore died ! 
 
 This slave is deeper taught, and, from his bed, 
 
 Still hopes to be dismiss'd into his grave 
 
 Secure, though well he knows this daring hand. 
 
 But I, a prophetess of certain skill, 
 
 Tell him, his days are numbered — [Jside. 
 
 I was thinking, 
 
 My good Lord Henry, of all thou hast urged, 
 
 And, in my own sad bosom, find the seeds 
 
 Of strong compunction. Oh ! thou hast cleft my 
 
 heart, 
 Struck thy keen arrow in the destined mark, 
 And touch'd a fiery nerve that stings my brain 
 With agony ! — We'll turn to milder courses ; 
 And, when we dare, we'll sue to heaven for 
 
 mercy ! [Exit Countess. 
 
i90 THE STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Hen. I like not this quick turning. — Souls, 
 like her's, 
 That have so long been plunged in the murky 
 
 night 
 Of barbarous crimes, endure not, on the sudden, 
 The dazzling rays of virtue, but must pass 
 Through purifying stages of repentance,. 
 The tardy-paced gradations of contrition, 
 Before, towards the glorious luminary, 
 They venture to look up. Alas ! this truth 
 Lies here too deep ! 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Enter Abbot and Attendants. 
 
 Abbot. Peace to these ancient walls ! 
 Blest peace to all beneath this ample roof, 
 Prosperity, and happiness ! 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 191 
 
 Hen. Most welcome, 
 Good father ! — Many a long day has pass'd, 
 Since, last, you graced this mansion. 
 
 Abbot. Such an absence 
 I had not deem'd observed — Age, and my duties, 
 Confine me to a narrow space. Besides., 
 Here, the divisions of the day and night 
 111 suit the fashions of our formal house. 
 When I am watching, in the freshen'd air, 
 Day's splendid rise ; the renovated taper, 
 For the continued revel, cheats my sense ; 
 I view a double morning. — O, believe me, 
 I'm better at a distance — Own, Lord Henry, 
 Things which I cannot mend, I must not witness. 
 I mean you no offence. Old age is stubborn. 
 This day, I learn, returns my dearest Frederick, 
 My pupil, and my pride. Once more again, 
 Fd clasp him in these arms. — Is he arrived ? 
 
 Hen. A few hours since he gladden'd this 
 abode ; 
 And, if I know him, will not be found tardy 
 To prove he's mindful of your tender care, 
 Nor wanting, for your sage instruction, grati- 
 tude. 
 
192 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Abbot. I labour'd hard, and have reap'd golden 
 fruit. 
 Men of the world think the foundation weak, 
 On which I raised in him the superstructure 
 Of scholar and of gentleman. I own 
 It was Religion ; and, without a blush, 
 I here confess it— deem'd it such a rock, 
 As would defy, unshaken, all assailants ; 
 Not only proof 'gainst the light scoffing gales 
 Of modern pert philosophy, but a match 
 For all the deeper howlings and foul noises, 
 That, from the unbeliever's portico, 
 Rush on the astonish'd world. 
 Twas from this adamantine base, I view'd 
 Unshaken honour, and aspiring science, 
 Take their proud spring ; and, providence be 
 
 praised, 
 Hopes of a sanguine mind have not been blasted ! 
 Himself has added to the unfinish'd work 
 A well-wrought pinnacle of martial glory. 
 
 Hen. O good Lord Abbot ! — ifyoulove young 
 Frederick 
 
 Abbot. Do I exist! you know how well I love him, 
 And with paternal fondness. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER* 193 
 
 Hen. You are apprized, 
 Ere long he weds the beautiful Louisa? 
 
 Abbot. A jewel for a prince's diadem ! 
 How much a nobler portion in her virtue 
 And blushing modesty, than all she bears 
 Of her extensive fortunes ! 
 
 Hen. Would you be 
 His guardian angel, snatch him quick from ruin; 
 Pursue him till he yield to your entreaties — ■ 
 Hastening the nuptial rites — to bear away, 
 From this infected air, his lovely treasure ! 
 
 Abbot. You speak in riddles. Why this haste ?— * 
 this caution ? 
 
 Hen. I can explain no further— -But, remem- 
 ber, 
 To-morrow should not break, and find him here. 
 
 [Exit Henry, 
 
 Abbot. I know this man, and never could ap- 
 prove him. 
 Banish'd to this retreat, he keeps the practice 
 Of his old rules of cunning and design ; 
 Lest, when returning to the world, he should 
 Have the first elements of artifice 
 To study o'er again. — But, he was moved ; 
 
 o 
 
194 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Nay, and the intruder Honesty seem'd bustling 
 In its new lodgings, an old courtier's bosom.— 
 But here's my boy ! 
 
 Enter Frederick, 
 
 Fred, [kneeling.] Your blessing, honour'd fa- 
 ther. 
 Abbot. That to this hour I've lived ! that I 
 behold thee ! 
 Thus press thee to this bosom ! I feel grateful 
 To Him to whom all gratitude is due ! 
 O tell me — it will please me — had I died 
 During thy absence, and that chance had led thee 
 Where thy old master slept, thou would'st not, 
 
 Frederick, 
 Have pass'd his grave without a moment's pause, 
 The pause of dear affection — nature's pause — 
 Time for the heart to heave, and sink again ? 
 This is not wholesome talk. I need not weep : 
 . True, I'm fatigued; and my weak, trembling 
 flame 
 Can only burn where all is hush'd and quiet. 
 Sorrow and joy are both for me too mighty : 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 195 
 
 I'm chaff before such whirlwinds. — I pray you, 
 Conduct me to that seat. 
 
 Fred. You want the balm, 
 The cordial of your friend's officious care; 
 These will preserve you for us. My Louisa 
 Shall fling into your cup the soft ingredients 
 Of never-ceasing kindness ; and with prayers, 
 That must reach heaven, you'll repay her love. 
 
 Enter Louisa. — Kneels to the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. Arise, my child. In these few words, 
 accept 
 Th' extent of all my vows — May'st thou, in soul, 
 Continue thus of saint-like purity, 
 For that will flourish when those roses fade ; 
 And time, that must not even spare those charms, 
 Will steal them, unperceived, away, if that 
 Retain its ermine whiteness. — Though I'm not 
 Often here found, yet I remark thy steps, 
 And watch thy cherub flight. Is there a cheek, 
 Late pale with grief, that glows again with 
 
 crimson — 
 Is there a hovel, where late squalid poverty 
 
196 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Lay rolling in the straw of loathsome sickness, 
 
 That smiles again in health and comfort ? Turn 
 
 Where'er I will, thy care, thy generous care, 
 
 I find, has been before me ! If I visit 
 
 The debtor's sad abode, thy hand, unseen, 
 
 Has paid his hard inexorable lord. 
 
 The bankrupt tradesman, by a seeming magic, 
 
 Opens again his merchandize to view. 
 
 I become useless, and have no employment. 
 
 Louisa. Not my deserts, but your loved Fre- 
 derick's choice, 
 Shows me thus worthy in your eyes. Th^t pre- 
 ference, 
 That would make vain all womankind, swells out 
 My dwarfish merits, till they take a form 
 Of magnified importance. Propp'd by the arm 
 Of this affection, I feel less presuming 
 To stand before such holiness. 
 
 Abbot. My children, 
 The happiness this day presents is fleeting ; 
 No sooner tasted, than snatch'd quick away I 
 I must resign you — Dangers, I am told, 
 Lie thick in ambush here — you must depart 
 (Hastening your nuptials) to some distant safety. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 197 
 
 Fred. Slow is the march of conscious innocence : 
 It flings not back its head to trace the cause 
 Of such imagined dangers ; nor hastes on, 
 With coward eagerness, though real mischief 
 Should clatter at its heels. This was your 
 
 lesson. — 
 Why should we fly ! Who is the wise adviser ? 
 
 Abbot. You saw who just now left me — the 
 Lord Henry. 
 
 Fred. Here, I detect the Countess' artful hand : 
 He is a mill, that turns but to the air 
 She gives to his obsequious sails. Indeed, 
 It may suit well the scheming of such souls, 
 That all observance of their twisted conduct, 
 With us should be removed. Good father Abbot, 
 Let us retire within, and weigh with care 
 The importance of this counsel ; there, to measure 
 The portion of obedience that should follow. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2Q1 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 Louisa and Isabella. 
 
 Louisa, [reading a letter.] Detested paper!— 
 Learn its foul contents — 
 As it has mine, let horror seize thy soul ! 
 
 better had my clay been cast in the mould 
 Of worst deformity — better had sickness 
 Mark'd me, at life's first dawn, the palest child 
 Of all her ghastly family, than to fire 
 
 Thus, in the impious breast of Casimir, 
 The torch of fatal passion ! 
 Isa. Though my tongue 
 Refused to utter the oppressive fear, 
 
 1 saw too much, and dreaded every hour 
 The explosion of the mine. 
 
 Louisa. Read, I beseech thee, 
 To what he dares invite me — To nought less 
 Than to a base, adult'rous flight with him ! 
 For., am I not his son's betrothed wife ? 
 Observe the cruel menaces that follow 
 
502 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Here let me pour my tears in Pity's bosom, 
 For thine is ever such to me !-~ O gentlest, 
 Of friends the best, counsel thy poor Louisa! 
 
 Isa. Chiefly from Frederick, in the earth's deep 
 centre, 
 Bury the awful secret. Well thou know'st 
 His humour. O he'll madden at the tale ! — 
 Advise with the good Abbot. Let discretion — 
 
 Louisa. At crimes like these, at such atrocities, 
 Will patient Nature cautiously assume 
 A mien of tutor'd prudence — hush her voice 
 In her own heaving bosom — give her tears, 
 Lest they be noticed, to the rushing torrent — 
 And seize upon no hour for lamentation, 
 For righteous sorrow, and for just complainings — 
 Save when in roaring winds all sounds are buried? 
 Insulted thus, thus outraged, must she pace 
 In cold discretion's circle, nor start up, 
 Like an avenging power, to plead her cause 
 Before a fair, a sympathising world, 
 Marshalling millions on her side? Can I, 
 Not train'd in falsehood's arts, first practise them 
 On him, who is the image of all truth ? 
 
 Isa, Yet, on my knees, I ask thee to suspend 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 203 
 
 The horrible disclosure, till removed 
 
 Far from these scenes of guilt, lest Frederick fall 
 
 A victim to his justified resentment. 
 
 Think on a father's power, and weigh the rage 
 
 That then may plunge in blood that human tiger ! 
 
 Thy innocent hands may themselves forge the 
 
 fetters 
 Of Frederick's bondage. He may be hid for ever, 
 The lingering ghastly tenant of a cell. 
 Nay, while, with fruitless tears, thou art bewail- 
 ing 
 His sad captivity, he may long since 
 Have found a grave beneath his prison pavement. 
 Louisa. Such thoughts have render'd this 
 strange task of secresy 
 So strong a duty, that all other things 
 Are borne away before it. As I value 
 My Frederick's precious life, our general wel- 
 fare, 
 No force, I swear, shall wrest this horror from 
 
 me. 
 I am prepared to meet the worst of torments, 
 The rack of Frederick's questions 
 ha. Lo ! my friend, 
 
204 THE STEP-MOTHER- 
 
 He bends his steps this way. Hide from his view 
 These lines with mischief teeming; and remember 
 
 What rests upon the honest artifice 
 
 [Exit Isabella, 
 
 Enter Frederick. 
 
 Fred. To find thee thus unchanged in every 
 thing, 
 Save in augmented charms, repays the pangs, 
 All the sad hours of absence. Why look back 
 On the long dreary vale, nor raise our view 
 Up to the sunny prospect now before us ? 
 But sure I err, or tears, with caustic dews, 
 Have on those eye-lids left a coral stain. 
 Just as I enter'd, you perused a letter. 
 
 Louisa. I did peruse a paper. 
 
 Fred. O ! a scroll 
 Of slight importance ! — yet, if in that bosom 
 It has insinuated afflictions venom, 
 Can I, without impeachment of my love, 
 Deem it of trifling import ? Perhaps, Louisa, 
 Some other cause, and not that paper, damps 
 All the light joys that, when we met this morning, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,05 
 
 Sat on thy open brow — and yet that paper 
 You seem'd to hide as I approach'd. 
 
 Louisa. Yes, Frederick ! 
 That letter was the cause — Thus far I own. 
 Press me no further now. Trust me, hereafter 
 All — all shall be reveal'd, 
 
 Fred. And why not now ? 
 Oh ! if you knew the brood of ugly spirits 
 That, while you speak, are warming into life, 
 Are gaining strength to poison all our bliss ; 
 Rather than view me crazed, you'd crush them 
 
 all, 
 Ere they were busy at their dreadful work 
 
 Louisa. I conjure you, spare me 
 
 Fred. Oh, Louisa J 
 Time was, when the electric spark of joy 
 Or sorrow, at the same instant, visited 
 The inmost cell of both our hearts, and touch'd 
 Each quiv'ring fibre with the same vibration. 
 We seem'd but one — one soul to animate 
 Our separate frames ; so that all confidence 
 Between us became needless. Do I live 
 To say those hours are past and gone ? Alas ! 
 The dreadful change ! It rests with you to tell, 
 
206 THE STEP-MOTHER* 
 
 What niche in all this strange, much - alter'd 
 
 building, 
 I am to fill 
 
 Louisa. That of the proudest place ; 
 That, where the incense of the tenderest love 
 Shall ever smoke ; that, where the lamp of truth 
 Shall shed its holiest light — for that shall be 
 Thy proper station. There shall be laid open 
 Thy poor Louisa's breast — each separate leaf 
 Of that pure volume willingly expanding 
 To thy severest search, — Believe me, Frederick, 
 No blot will there be found — no, not a speck 
 On its transparent surface. Hear, Ungrateful, 
 Tis for thy sake, thy safety, I am silent. 
 
 Fred. For me, you may relax these anxious 
 fears : 
 I can command my temper, though I meet 
 The man, who suns in the more genial warmth 
 Of your affections. — Nay, perchance those fears 
 
 Are not confined to me But be at rest : 
 
 A soldier's sword will hardly try its edge 
 To spoil the features of the favour'd youth 
 Who may be found my rival. 
 
 Louisa. Oh, unjust ! 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 507 
 
 How much you will repent., perhaps too late, 
 Thus sowing noxious plants, and cankering 
 
 thorns, 
 Where, at your will, the sweetest flowers might 
 
 bloom ! — 
 I tell thee, Frederick, that thou'lt die with shame : 
 Ages of kindness, gentleness, and love, 
 Thou'lt think too short to atone for this harsh 
 
 usage. 
 Have I — have I deserved such base suspicions ? 
 
 [weeps. 
 Fred. Though I've an JEtnz. here, that stream- 
 ing shower 
 Quenches its boiling fury. Dry those tears ; 
 Those drops are large — each has sufficient power 
 To wash away poor, weak, resistless manhood. 
 Oh, my Louisa ! e'en jealousy itself 
 Has lost its massive weight, and, like a straw, 
 Rides buoyant on the bosom of that stream. 
 
 Louisa. Then is my Frederick again himself 
 Kind, just, and generous. — Behold this arm, 
 Tis not Herculean, yet shall find the strength 
 To hold the pond'rous rudder of his safety. 
 
 [Exit Louisa. 
 
208 THE STEP-MOTHER. , 
 
 Fred, [solus.] What can this mean ! I could 
 not see her weep. 
 How, while I gazed on her, did I forget 
 That vulture at my heart, the guilty hiding 
 Of that cursed letter — Oh ! she hid it from me, 
 Or I had found the spring, and master-key 
 Of all these mysteries. — Shame on my dotage, 
 Thus to have swoln the rank list of those, 
 Who, down to me, from first created man, 
 Have drawn the scorn of ev'ry age upon them, 
 Gulfd by a few salt tears, and silly prayers ! 
 
 Enter Adolphus. 
 
 Adolph. My friend, well found ! I eagerly have 
 sought you. 
 You've seen our good Lord Abbot ? 
 
 Fred. Not long since, 
 Has he departed hence 
 
 Adolph. Then, prithee, tell me, 
 Has he not strongly urged your quick depar- 
 ture ? 
 
 Fred. He has 
 
 Adolph. No longer you resist his counsels ? 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 209 
 
 • Fred. Why not resist them ? — he assign'd no 
 
 motive. 
 Besides, Lord Henry was his oracle. 
 Perhaps, with you he has been more explicit : 
 Bless'd in his confidence, you, perhaps, make one 
 Of that grave parliament, which has pronounced 
 The sentence of my banishment. 
 
 Adolph. Thy happiness, 
 Nay, life itself, depends on thy obedience. 
 
 Fred. So, so — I'm glad to find my friend 
 Adolphus 
 Thus well instructed. — Now, let's learn the cause. 
 
 Adolph. I know it not 
 
 Fred. What ! ignorant, and yet 
 So eager for this flight ! a step not quite 
 Indifferent — to shun a father's presence — 
 To forfeit all fair title to the canopy 
 Of this paternal roof, and use the wings 
 That those would use who do some shameful act ; 
 And when I'm ask'd, what dangers I am shun- 
 ning, 
 To say, another told me there was peril — 
 You are not wont to trifle with your friend ? 
 
 Adolph. This instant I have left my Isabella"; 
 
210 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 And, had you witness'd her distracted soul, 
 With fears for you , and for Louisa, you'd deem'd 
 No trivial cause had work'd the deep distress. 
 Fred. Then, here's another added to the roll 
 Of tame and credulous good souls, who, if 
 Made but for little use, still are the stuff 
 From which the best of husbands are cut out.- — 
 
 [Aside. 
 Adolphus, thou hast known me from my youth ; 
 What hast thou seen in me, to make thee think, 
 That, happily not yet deprived of vision, 
 I should commit my footsteps to the care 
 Of some sagacious dog to lead me safe, 
 Rather than trust my own observances ? 
 Or, hearing with the sense of common men, 
 I should, for the perception of all sound, 
 Depend upon my neighbour's organs ? — For, 
 What is it you propose, but that I seal 
 A resignation of my faculties, 
 And put my mind and limbs in tutelage, 
 Following as others beckon ? 
 
 Adolph. Now pray Heaven, 
 The apprehensions of thy friends prove ground- 
 less ! 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 211 
 
 
 Foreboding thoughts, which I would only own 
 To thee, because thou know'st I'm not a coward, 
 Haunt me where'er I turn. The air I draw 
 Sits a perpetual night-mare on my breast. 
 I hate the place, and stop, with shameful pause, 
 Whene'er I lift the arras of the doors, 
 Lest one should there be hid with murd'rous pur- 
 pose. 
 Till now, I never entertain'd such fancies. 
 
 Fred. Peres will tell thee, that thy body's sick ; 
 He'll exorcise these demons with a drug. 
 And now adieu — Let Peres quick be sent for : 
 Adolphus is not well. [Exit Adolphus, 
 
 [As Frederick is going out at the opposite 
 door, he meets the Fatal Sister. 
 
 Sist. Stop, stop, Lord Frederick- — 
 Wherefore this haste ? 
 
 Fred. The question, and the arrest 
 Bespeak a right, a stranger, as thou art 
 To me, may find not easy to maintain. 
 I would pass on 
 
 Sist. I'll charm thee with a word, 
 And fix thee, like a statue, to this place. 
 Know, thy admonish'd flight is ignominy : 
 
212 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Thou'rt much abused — Trust not the treach'rous 
 
 shell, 
 But pierce into the kernel, where thou'lt find 
 An eating maggot, preying on the food 
 That ought to be thy nourishment of life. 
 
 Fred. What cari'st thou be, that seem'st to 
 know so much, 
 And yet, like all the rest, add'st to the fever 
 Of my distracted brain ? 
 
 Sist> Inquire no further. 
 The hour's not yet arrived for explanation. 
 Follow me not ; we soon may meet again. 
 Pursue me not a step — Th' attempt to gain 
 The knowledge of the place I here may occupy, 
 Will blast my power hereafter to assist thee. 
 
 [Exit Sister. 
 
 Fred. Amazement chills my soul ! — Why am 
 I thus 
 The sport of all, strangers as well as others ? 
 I will be fool'd no longer — this mystery 
 Must from its hiding place, be pluck'd by force, 
 For it has yielded to no soft persuasion. 
 'Tis true, Fm much abused. Fll to the Countess : 
 As all fair dealing has deserted those 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 213 
 
 Who formerly abhorr'd dark, crooked ways, 
 Perhaps, for change, it takes up its abode 
 With our dear Step-mother. — They'll drive me 
 mad ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Countess s Apartment. 
 
 Countess, [alone.] Now, by my wrongs, since 
 squeamish Henry's arm 
 Is ague-struck and palsied ; trembling shrinks 
 From wonted enterprize and noble daring ; 
 Be it for me, to show I w can dispense 
 With such white-liver'd agents. — This dark 
 
 juice, [showing a phial. 
 
 These deadly drops, in failure of the projects 
 That now are swarming in the steaming hive 
 Of my conceiving brain, must be my last, 
 Infallible resource. — But try we first, 
 Whether, possessed of these important secrets, 
 We may not, by contrivance and safe means, 
 Tempt him, without my aid, to seek the cave, 
 The silent cave, of everlasting sleep. 
 
214 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Enter Louisa. 
 
 Louisa. I am inform'd, that I am summoned 
 
 here. 
 Countess. Tis true, Louisa, I would speak 
 with thee. — 
 See ! [aside.] how she stands before me, pure and 
 
 innocent, 
 Unconscious of the ills that hover o'er her, 
 As, at its play, the thoughtless infant. Would 
 That this poor lamb were driven far aside, 
 And set apart from slaughter — from the ruin 
 That must indeed spread wide t' ensure my safety. 
 Louisa. I wait thy pleasure. — Sure she hears 
 
 me not. 
 Countess, [aside.] Ye powers ! how comes it, 
 that such gentleness 
 Holds o'er the world a more commanding sceptre 
 Than I can hope to grasp, although install'd 
 By hell itself in worldly power — There's something 
 In the free-rolling eye of virtue, that 
 Arrests the furtive glance of guilt, and chains it 
 To the ground — I hardly dare look up to her — 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 215 
 
 Louisa. Alas ! what means this humour !— ■ 
 Ne'er before 
 I view'd her thus* 
 
 Countess. Excuse me, dear Louisa, 
 I was absorb'd in thought — a heavy grief 
 Makes me thus absent, and distracts my mind. 
 My sorrow is for thee* 
 
 Louisa. For me ! what cause, 
 I do entreat thee, raises this emotion ? 
 
 Countess. Go ! thou'rt a poor dissembler.™ 
 This sad morning, 
 That should have danced upon its feet of down, 
 Hailing the hymeneal torch that leads it ; 
 That from those chambers should have stoln the 
 
 gloom, 
 And made a pause, a sort of holiday, 
 In this most dismal sameness ; lour'd and frown 'd 
 When most it should have smiled. — Come, come, 
 
 I know 
 What strings are at thy heart. — Start not, but listen. 
 Louisa. And how have I betray'd a mind 
 
 disturb'd !— 
 Countess. I'll save thee all the pain of a con- 
 fession — 
 
216 THE STEP-MOTHEfc. 
 
 I am no stranger to my husband's passion : 
 Long used to his hard treatment, in the range 
 He gives to his unbridled lusts, I grieve 
 That his incestuous eyes are fix'd on thee. 
 Louisa, O horror ! O disgust ! 
 Countess. I echo back 
 Those sounds : thy virtuous hate, and natural 
 
 loathing, 
 Secure in me a friend. — My care shall be 
 To shelter thy sad head from this foul storm, 
 From all the rage of disappointed passion ; 
 Though I should be the victim of its fury. 
 
 Louisa. What can I say ? — How thank thee ? — 
 By what words 
 Express my grateful feeling ? 
 
 [kneels to the Countess. 
 Countess. Rise, Louisa ; 
 I am o'erpaid.— - The mode by which we may 
 Elude the present danger, has not ta'en 
 Its perfect shape. — Thou know'st the shaded walk 
 That leads to the pavilion ; in an hour 
 Thou'lt find me there ; there will we plan together 
 Thine and thy dearest Frederick's preservation. 
 Till then, resume thy wonted chearfulness ; 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,11 
 
 And mark my words, dear child, all shall be well. 
 Be punctual to the time. — No thanks — farewell. 
 
 [Exit Louisa. 
 If thou art punctual to the time, so shall 
 Another be ; not I, but thy new lover. 
 There, too, must Frederick be found. — Most, 
 
 strange, 
 If such a meeting end not to our wish ! 
 First, how to draw Lord Casimir to the spot — 
 Giving him hope, will lead him to the snare ; 
 For will not driv'ling age send out its sparks 
 Like youth itself, if struck upon by hope — 
 Making itself a pointed mockery ! 
 By what slight causes, are the great events 
 Of this strange planet govern'd ! — By four lines 
 Of artful imitation, must this hand 
 Form a dire spell, that, from the realms of death, 
 Shall call the murdVous fiends t* assemble near 
 
 me ! 
 Then give me, sacred Vengeance, to assume 
 The noble semblance of the ruling fury, 
 To teach them where to strike, and how to lay 
 My hard oppressor lifeless at my feet ! 
 
 [Exit Countess. 
 
THE 
 
 STEP-MOTHER 
 
 
 ACT V. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 221 
 
 ACT V. SCENE L 
 
 AN APARTMENT OF THE CASTLE. 
 
 Countess and Frederick. 
 
 Countess. Frederick, I hail, with a fond 
 mother's joy, 
 Your glad return, which promises a change, 
 A softening of condition, to the wretched 
 Whom these sad walls imprison. 
 
 Fred. Has there, then, 
 During our absence, been no change worth notice? 
 Have all things, then, obey'd their former laws, 
 And in the same mark'd circles roll'd? No loops 
 Of deviation? What, no lively flights, 
 Merely to vary the old tedious paths, 
 And make the blood flow quicker? As Constancy 
 Seems to have quarrell'd with its old ally, 
 Pure Love, and their ill-sorted league's dissolved; 
 No wonder, then, that she has turn'd to dulness, 
 And here they reign together 
 
222 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Countess, Ah ! — Those words 
 Should be explain'd ! something, I see, has 
 
 touch'd 
 A chord, that must be struck on to th' utterance 
 Of a much louder sound. — [Aside. 
 
 What change, I pray you, 
 Was to be look'd for here? — Time has not added 
 Wings to his limping gait. The sullen bell 
 Swings* out its mandates, both for prayer and 
 
 food, 
 As it has done for ages. — All the night, 
 The same intemperate orgies tear the hall, 
 And, to my grief, menace your honour'd father 
 With premature abridgment of his days. 
 
 Fred. But, for your wards — have they sat 
 moping too, 
 Weeping their absent mates ? No mirth to cheer 
 
 them ? 
 No company of youth, as does befit them?— 
 'Tis well we are return'd ! 
 
 Countess. You know, Louisa 
 In kindred is as rich as in possessions. 
 Such visit at their will — some strangers, too, 
 Young officers of the adjoining garrison, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,2,3 
 
 Would, in their pity, sometime come, to checquer 
 Our heavy hours with partial rays of gaiety. 
 
 Fred. Do I know any of these visitors ? 
 
 Countess. The greater number — and, among 
 the many, 
 The young Prince Stanislaus. 
 
 Fred. What, he who did 
 Such able service at the siege of Bender^ 
 In the last year's campaign ? 
 
 Countess. The same. 
 
 Fred. In form, 
 And in accomplishments, we might search far, 
 Before we found his equal. — Came he often? 
 Oftener, perhaps, than others ! 
 
 Countess. Oh ! 'tis there, 
 The pois'nous seed lies hid ! — It shall be ripen'd— - 
 
 Now, I begin to tread a smoother road. 
 
 [dside. 
 Under this roof, all found a constant welcome ; 
 Our living more adapted to the ways 
 Of some than others. 
 
 Fred. And this beauty man! — 
 I mean him no disparagement — I know 
 Him brave, and courteous, highly skill'd in arms. 
 
2,2,4 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 From liveliness of temper, wit, and frolic, 
 He must have suited Isabella's fancy. 
 Adolphus dreams not of his near escape ; 
 For that young soldier has a witching tongue. 
 
 Countess. This might have been his former 
 disposition; 
 But, for her wildness, he was much too sacl. 
 He seem'd to affect a melancholy air, 
 Books of a serious turn, grave reasonings ; 
 Scattering before our little tender fawns 
 Such food of science, as, when I was young, 
 I had not stoop'd to browse on. 
 
 Fred. Both, I ween, 
 Were the attentive pupils of this sage ? 
 
 Countess. I say not so of Isabella 
 
 Fred. Torture ! — 
 And did these lectures frequently prevail, 
 You, Madam, always present ? 
 
 Countess. Could that be ? 
 Could I pursue them o'er the mountain's ridge, 
 To seek for some rare fossil ? or could I 
 Pass evenings in the forest, to detect 
 Some plant of curious growth. — But you seem 
 moved ; 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 225 
 
 You surely don't suspect Louisa's truth ? 
 
 Living for you, what matters it with whom, 
 
 Or where, she ran ? — Have you not, long since, 
 
 gain'd 
 The empire of her heart ? I'm confident, 
 You've yet no ground for jealousy. Causeless 
 Suspicion will call up, in woman's breast, 
 A hate too exquisite for man's conception. — 
 I do entreat thee, if thou find'st that canker 
 Has, with its sharp, corroding tooth, begun 
 To prey upon thy heart, quickly tear out 
 The morbid portion, and, O ! cast it from thee. 
 Rather, call down from th' air the famish'd 
 
 kites, 
 And bid them battle for the carrion banquet, 
 Than suffer it to rot within thy bosom. 
 
 Fred. O rack me not with doubts ! — Those 
 words you utter'd 
 Have, from the viper's gum, pluck'd out its bag, 
 And squeez'd it on my brain. 
 
 Countess. Yet still be patient. 
 
 Indeed, I think Louisa may be true. 
 
 Some things I have not lik'd — but, these were 
 
 trifles. 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 I found them both in tears. But, tears might flow 
 From a sad tale, read in some doleful volume. 
 
 Fred. O no ! — I see it all — all is discover'd, 
 Clear as the light. My friends suspect her failings, 
 But dare not think she is thus plunged in guilt ; 
 So tempt me to bear off the glorious prize, 
 Ere one should come, with a superior claim, 
 And ravish it away. — The Innocent, 
 That has been scorch'd by an illicit fire, 
 E'en in its progress up the altar's steps ! 
 Who, when she yields her to the nuptial-bed, 
 In her rank mind, is by another clasp'd ; 
 And who, perhaps, hastens herself these rites, 
 To hide the babe, now moving in her womb, 
 In a wife's holy mantle. 
 
 Countess. I may err : — 
 But from the love I bear thee, and, what's more, 
 From stronger ties of duty to thy father, 
 Could I, with patience, view the son deceived ? 
 Would'st thou be satisfied ? 
 
 Fred. Be satisfied ! — 
 I would, indeed, nay, must be satisfied. 
 
 Countess. Then be attentive, and observe this 
 mode — 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,2,7 
 
 If they hold meetings, this must be the practice. 
 Thou know'st the walk that leads to the pavilion : 
 I've marvell'd wherefore, at a certain hour, 
 In spite of drizzling rains, and boist'rous winds, 
 Louisa ever does frequent that spot. 
 The hour's at hand ; and I would pledge my life, 
 That, thou wilt there, at least, exchange suspense 
 For certainty. — Thou wilt not go unarm'd. 
 O promise me, thou wilt not go unarm'd ;— 
 Whate'er thou may'st conceive of that young 
 
 soldier's 
 Virtue, and bright honour, a rival's sword, 
 At such intrusion, would not long repose 
 Within a peaceful scabbard. — Now, farewell. 
 
 [ Exit Countess. Frederick /lings himself 
 into a chair^ in extreme agitation. 
 
 Enter Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. Good heavens, what means this agony 
 of soul ! 
 Speak to me, Frederick ; I may have the power 
 To exorcise the demons, who, by spells, 
 And dark contrivances, in hell engender'd, 
 Have cast down all our edifice of joy. 
 
22S THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 I'm come to take my leave — for still your friends 
 Insist upon your flight with your Louisa. 
 
 Fred. I heard you but imperfectly — my 
 Louisa ! — 
 What's mine to-day, to-morrow is another's ; 
 And, by the quicker shifting of the coin 
 From palm to palm, the learned writers say, 
 The state becomes more flourishing. Something 
 Was said of flight. / have much business here — 
 Abbot. This talk is naught. — Those friends, 
 whom you despise, 
 All dread some coming ill ; their cares, their 
 
 kindness 
 
 Fred. There is a most strange cozenage in such 
 kindness ; 
 I'm tired of their emollient cares. We've heard, 
 That, unctuous liquor, on the ocean cast, 
 Will still the waves that curl their heads to 
 
 heaven : 
 But, should a slabbering ideot pour the same 
 Upon a raging fire, you'd grant, good father, 
 That were a mighty error. Know, the oil, 
 Which these officious friends so kindly bring, 
 They sprinkle on a furnace. Feel this pulse i 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,2,9 
 
 Does it not beat as it would wake the dead ? 
 And yet I am not sick, unless the quackery 
 Of those, who say they love me, make me so. 
 
 Abbot. These are the first harsh words I ever 
 heard 
 Disgrace those gentle lips. 
 
 Fred. Harsh words to you ! 
 You surely must mistake. What have I said? 
 Next to the God, whose essence I adore, 
 And to whose judging bar, quick as the march 
 Of morning light, I, wretch, maybe convey'd; 
 Next to the worship at his sacred altars ; — 
 Oh ! I have ever deem'd it not impiety 
 Thus, thus to kneel to thee. 
 
 Abbot. Arise, my son. 
 How can I soothe the tempest of thy mind ? 
 
 Fred. If we e'er meet again 
 
 Abbot* If meet again ! 
 
 Fred. I know I shall not sink in thy esteem ; 
 And, if condemn'd a fugitive to roam 
 Far, far from hence, O judge me not with rigour ! 
 For, I have crying wrongs — Of these no more. — - 
 Or, should I be embraced by death's cold hand, 
 And if there be an interposing space 
 
230 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Between the resignation of the breath 
 And being called before the Almighty's throne, 
 Sure, I should feel thy censure in the tomb ; 
 Whereas, from thy pure sentence of acquittal, 
 I might foretaste the anticipated bliss 
 
 Of Heaven's approving mercy. Hark ! that 
 
 sound — [the Castle clock strikes. 
 
 That bell is mystical ! — O say, is life, 
 Or death, employ 'd in rolling on that sound ! 
 
 [wildly. 
 I'm warned hence — With this dear, dear em- 
 brace, 
 Oh, most revered of men, farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 [Exit Frederick. 
 Abbot. Great God ! restore his sense. Ye 
 heavenly spirits, 
 Direct his frantic steps ! 
 
 Enter Adolphus. 
 
 Now, whence come you ? 
 
 Did you not meet our Frederick ? Speak — 
 
 Adolph. Himself, 
 Or fleeting shadow, for it pass'd so quickly, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 231 
 
 Shunn'd me, in crossing the adjoining hall. 
 Does he retain his obstinate intent 
 Of braving here the dangers that are menaced? 
 Abbot. The last night's tempest was a zephy- 
 rous gale, 
 To the rough storm that tears his frame to atoms : 
 Rage in his glowing eyes, and on his lips 
 A babel of strange words, which always rung 
 Of insults, wrongs, and griefs. — Then, at the 
 
 sounding 
 Of the sixth hour, he sprang from me away; 
 But temper'd, suddenly, his last adieu, 
 With such sweet milk of kindness, as unmans 
 
 me, [weeps. 
 
 Yet nourishes the hope, that the proud structure 
 Of his exalted mind is not for ever 
 Ruin'd.— Adolphus, quick pursue your friend ; 
 He ill will brook observance — but be near, 
 To shield his unprotected head from danger ; 
 But most, too horrid thought ! prevent an act 
 Of fatal rage ! — O guard him from himself! 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
23% THE STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Count Casimir^ Lord Henry. 
 
 Cas. [with a letter.] Peruse this scroll. — 
 How like you the contents? — 
 
 Hen. Amazement chills my heart. It cannot 
 be, 
 Though like Louisa's hand. I've seen twin 
 
 infants, 
 Asunder, almost cheat the parent's eye ; 
 But, when together, show, with glaring marks, 
 How much they differ. — Nay, a single word, 
 Traced by her pen, would prove the counterfeit. 
 
 Cas. You seem incredulous. 
 
 Hen. In truth, I am so ; 
 To find such innocence, and modesty, 
 Melt, on a sudden, like a shrinking snow 
 Upon a southern bank, and turn her cheek, 
 With the lewd sun-flower, to the first hot ray 
 That rushes forth to meet it. 
 
 Cas. The miracle, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,33 
 
 To view a woman won by flattery ! 
 What think you of the proffer d assignation ? 
 Is not the place of meeting named ? the spot 
 A private one ? — Say, do I dream all this ? 
 
 Hen. Regard it still a trick of some sworn foe, 
 Some foul assassin's scheme. — You have escaped 
 More than one murd'rous project 'gainst your life. 
 O be upon your guard ! 
 
 Cas. Your friendly prudence 
 Might much avail with those you're used to herd 
 
 with, 
 Important seigniors of an anti-chamber, 
 Whose souls of enterprize have ne'er been found, 
 But in the glorious contest for a door-way, 
 Whose shoulder should be first advanced. — Talk 
 not • v 
 
 To me 
 
 Hen. Can you believe, the young Louisa 
 Turns from your son to you ? 
 
 Cas. I caution you 
 To silence — I'm not used to be thus tutor'd. 
 
 Hen. Must I, then, see you rush on certain 
 ruin, 
 And not endeavour to impede your course ? 
 
234 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Cas. Impede my course ! Move but a limb, 
 that motion 
 Will cost thee dear. — Endeavour to prevent 
 My fix'd designs, or but divulge the secret, 
 With which thou art entrusted, and, by Heaven, 
 Some dungeon-door shall close on thee for ever ! 
 Centuries shall pass away, before th' exposure 
 Of thy uncoffin'd bones shall mark the hole 
 Where, and in what twisted form of agony 
 Thou yielded'st to thy fate. — Remember, Sir, 
 That I am master here. [Exit Casimir. 
 
 Hen. What's life to me ? 
 Vain are such threats ! — The hell I suffer now, 
 Defies hereafter all increase of torment. 
 If I provoke my end, let my last act, 
 O God ! — my first ! — be such, as pitying angels 
 May dare to look on. Haste we, then, to snatch 
 This virtuous, injured pair, from their destruction; 
 Expose this sensual tyrant's black intent, 
 And quickly circumvent a subtler fiend, 
 Whose cursed foot-steps I begin to follow 
 In this mysterious sand. [Exit Henry, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 235 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A WALK IN A GROVE. 
 
 Louisa. 
 
 The evening's cold and dreary: the dull clouds 
 Cling to the mountain's side. The baffled sun 
 Calls in his beams, and hies him to the west ; 
 No longer struggling with the thick'ning vapour. 
 How many of this world must never view 
 His rise again ! — Alas ! methinks, these oaks 
 Spread a sepulchral shade — I never liked 
 The spot. The silly servants of the castle 
 Ever avoid it ; for they say, they walk 
 On drops of blood, which neither snows nor 
 
 rains 
 Can e'er efface. — Indeed, 'tis strange the Countess 
 Could find no private chamber in that edifice . 
 More fit for conference ! But I've obey'd 
 
236 THE STEP-MOTHER- 
 
 Enter Casimir, wearing his cloak as a disguise. 
 
 Louisa. Eternal powers ! What's this ? — A 
 man disguised ! 
 
 [Casimir discovering himself. 
 Lord Casimir ! — Quick, tell me, where's the 
 Countess ? 
 Cas. Tisnot her custom, thus to risk her health, 
 Amidst such rising dews. You could not hope 
 To meet her here. 
 
 Louisa. Whom came I here to meet ? 
 Cas. One, in whose bosom those transcendant 
 charms 
 Have lit a torch of everlasting love ; 
 Who, in the lowest cavern of despair, 
 Found in that darkness, by thy lovely aid, 
 How to bind on the crimson wings of hope. 
 Louisa. My Lord, I comprehend you not— 
 
 My aid ! 
 Cas. [showing a letter.] Does not the extatic 
 bliss, herein contain'd, 
 Spring from thy magic touch ? — This letter wills 
 That I attend you here. By this inform'd, 
 I come not to be chid for owning, that 
 
THE STEP MOTHER* 237 
 
 I love, how long, how truly, IVe adored ; 
 Rather to watch compassion's milky stream 
 Burst from its source, and hear that angel voice 
 Confirm the pardon of the rash avowal. 
 For what can we demand of saints in heaven, 
 But first to listen, then bestow their pity? 
 
 Louisa. If I have listen'd, without calling down 
 The execration of the world upon thee ; 
 If I have listen'd, and not fiercely roused, 
 In my just cause, the rage of all my kindred ; 
 And, if IVe been thus patient, midst my 
 
 wrongs ; — 
 Know, 'twas for Frederick's sake, I wore the mask 
 Of honest simulation ; boldly risk'd 
 All that I now endure, sooner than drive 
 Him crazed about the earth, and hold the knife, 
 That cuts, at once, all bands of filial piety, 
 Which, sever'd thus, no art can ever knit 
 Again in union. 
 
 Cas. Have I not clear proof, 
 Most damning proof, of a much softer temper, 
 Of gentler thoughts ? — You cannot, sure, deny 
 This writing 
 
 Louisa. O, I do ! and swear, by Him 
 
238 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Who is all truth, that you are much abused. 
 Save then your son—yourself— from endless misery* 
 And suffer me to quit these scenes for ever ! 
 
 [Offering to go, is prevented by Casimir. 
 
 Cas. Tis like you all — from fancy, sport, caprice, 
 Pure love of change, mere curiosity, 
 There is no peril that ye will not face ; 
 Attempt the skies, or dive into th* abyss 
 Which fathom has not sounded ; ever trusting, 
 That falsehood will be ready at your call, 
 And free you from the jeopardy. — You have 
 Allow'd me hope ; what's more, have met me here : 
 The appointment yours. I'll not be trifled with, 
 Nor moved by your denial — not hell itself 
 Shall scare me from my purpose ! 
 
 Louisa. Ah ! — what purpose ? 
 
 Cas. You know the house in the forest — and 
 'tis there 
 That I expect, you will not long retain 
 This peevish mood, but soon again incline 
 To former gentleness. — The carriages 
 Are close at hand ; these will convey you quickly— 
 
 Louisa. What, to depart with you ! — fly from 
 your son ! 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 239 
 
 My life ! my husband! — If ever, when an infant 
 Clasp'd in thy arms, with his dear, cherub tongue, 
 He forced, into thy vanquish'd eyes, the dew, 
 The honied dew of tenderness ; if, since, 
 Thy pride, a father's honest pride, has swell'd 
 At his bright deeds ; thy renovated glory 
 Beaming anew beneath my Frederick's laurels ; 
 O spare him ! — spare us both ! 
 
 Cas. Nay, then, we must 
 Resort to force — resistance all is vain. 
 
 [Endeavouring to draw her towards the 
 bottom of the stage. 
 
 Louisa. Sweet Heaven ! if innocence was ever 
 shielded — 
 Is no one near at hand ? 
 
 Frederick enters, disguised in his cloak ; Casimir 
 immediately runs at him with his sword. 
 
 Cas. Whoe'er thou art, 
 Take this, accursed intruder ! — 
 
 [Frederick draws to defend himself and 
 Casimir instantly falls. — Louisa has sunk 
 on the ground with terror. 
 
2,40 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Fred. O Louisa ! 
 Whate'er have been thy failings, can I bear 
 To see thee thus — then speak, and tell me quick, 
 What I have done. A valuable man, 
 Perhaps, has fallen by my hand ; one who, 
 By your approval of his love, may have 
 Excuse for this mad act. Is it young Stanislaus? 
 I'm sorry for his fate ; and though my rival, 
 He merited a better. 
 
 Louisa, [after a long effort?^ Oh ! no, no ! 
 
 Fred. Who, then, could rush thus frantic on 
 my sword ? 
 
 Louisa. The miserable deed! — It was thy 
 father — 
 And there he lies, deprived of life by thee ! 
 
 Fred. Merciful God ! — then here I stand, 
 before thee, 
 A murd'rer, and a parricide ! 
 
 Louisa. The fault 
 Was mine, was mine ! and all this woe has follow 'd 
 From my erroneous silence. — But, my Frederick, 
 Thou,- too, art bleeding ! 
 
 Fred. True— at first, I thought 
 The hurt was slight — but I begin to feel, 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,41 
 
 It may be such as may remove from th' earth 
 A wretch, the foul destroyer of his father ! 
 Look on that lifeless corse : — after that work, 
 That work of blood, could even you, Louisa, 
 Wish me to drag on life ? — 
 
 [sinks withfaintness* 
 Louisa. O horror ! — O despair! 
 
 Enter Abbot, Isabella, Adolphus, Henry, 
 Servants. 
 
 Abbot. Cries of distress, 
 And Frederick wounded ! 
 
 Adolph. And the father slain ! 
 Fred, That deed was mine ! — If I had strength, 
 I'd show, 
 I am not quite so guilty as I seem. 
 Had I but known him, I'd not raised my arm 
 
 E'en in my own defence. 
 
 [sinks again, supported by Louisa and Isabella. 
 Hen. [picking up the letter which Casimir has 
 let fall.]. This may explain. 
 O here she reigns confess'd ! — The sorceress — 
 
 R 
 
242 TH£ STEP-MOTHEIt. 
 
 How dext'rous was this subtle scheme of blood ! 
 How, from her hateful entrails, has she spun 
 This glewy web ! — What victim could elude her ! 
 Then, though I stand a self-accused felon, 
 In sight of all men, she shall not escape, 
 If Poland has a law for crimes like these. 
 O Frederick ! — O dear unhappy youth ! 
 And could she find no other hand but thine, 
 To minister to such atrocious guilt ? — 
 But, here she comes. 
 
 Enter Countess. 
 
 Fred. The dark, infernal scheme, 
 Requires no comment — all is now unravell'd. 
 Pray, let her not approach me— and prevent her 
 From pois'ning the few moments I've to live, 
 By tempting me to curse her. — Those few mo- 
 
 ments 
 Should all be thine, Louisa. 
 Countess. O cruel sight ! 
 What's here ? — our Fred'rick fallen ! — my hus- 
 band slain ! 
 Ah me ! whose are these deeds ? 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 243 
 
 Hen. And dost thou ask? 
 l)ost thou enquire who dyed this ground with 
 
 blood ? 
 Know 'twas thyself— and Poland too shall know 
 The female wolf, that ravaged all this land. 
 I am prepared to hold up to its view, 
 A tissue of such crimes, as scarce have names 
 In the black chronicle of hell ! 
 
 Countess. Thou art 
 
 Hen. I am, inhuman woman ! — though I see, 
 That we must fall together* 
 
 Countess. Abject slave .' 
 Thou worst of villains ! white-lip'd, dastard villain! 
 But still I'll triumph o'er thee — meet my fate, 
 With such a soul thou can'st not imitate. 
 Oh ! it will soothe my dying hour, to watch 
 Thee, standing pale and trembling on the scaffold, 
 Shrink from the wheel, and howl before the torture. 
 Of this thou can'st not rob me. — Give me way. 
 
 [rushes out. 
 
 Abbot. Pursue and guard her in the castle 
 towers, 
 Until a stronger prison shall receive her. 
 
 Louisa. You do not look so ghastly as you did — • 
 
244 THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Perhaps your pains are less. Shall we attempt 
 To bear you from this spot. 
 
 Fred, No, dear Louisa, 
 I'm past such care — that pang was terrible ! 
 It was the gripe of death ; his icy fingers 
 Are busy at my heart. — Come near, good Abbot — 
 
 comfort this poor mourner, and convince her, 
 
 1 should have lived, the horror of the world — 
 Tis better as it is. — Thy aid, Louisa, 
 
 A minute more, and I shall be at rest. 
 Farewell ! farewell ! — [dies. 
 
 Louisa. O agonizing words ! — 
 Isa. Angels of mercy, he is gone for ever ! 
 Abbot. A purer spirit never wing'd its flight 
 To heaven's bless'd mansions. How shall we 
 
 divide 
 The living from the dead ? Use gentle means — 
 
 Isa. Herhandisclench'dinhis; and, of the two r 
 Her's has the deadliest coldness — every sense 
 Seems failing. Ere the sad return of reason, 
 Let us entice her from this fatal spot. 
 
 [Louisa appears recovering., and suffers 
 herself to be raised without speaking, but 
 looking wildly. 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 2,45 
 
 Isa. This way, sweet friend. 
 Louisa. Ah ! that way leads, I know, 
 To Frederick's chamber — This glad morn, I fill'd it 
 With sweetest flowers — He'll guess who gather'd 
 
 them. 
 But have there not been combats, wounds, and 
 
 deaths ? 
 And yet you all seem well — Then, where is 
 Frederick ? — 
 [she breaks from them, and runs to Frederick. 
 There, there he is ! I hold him in my arms ! 
 He has been hurt, and you conceal'd it from 
 
 me ; 
 But presently he'll speak to me— indeed, 
 Indeed, he will ; and we shall both be happy. 
 [Flings herself on Frederick's body, and the 
 Curtain falls . 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 JjEFORE their trial at your awful bar, 
 Our saucy Bards appear to tread on air ; 
 Puff'd up with pride, and mad zvith distant fame, 
 No voice can stop them, and no. counsel tame. 
 While in their breasts delicious fancies glow, 
 For them the earth's too small, the sky's too low ; 
 Visions of laurel crowns, before their sight, 
 Fleet in succession, till the fatal night ; 
 The fatal night, when all their courage flies, 
 And hope itself with the first music dies. 
 Soon, all the flimsy structure of their bliss 
 Shakes at a yawn, bufs levelTd by a hiss. 
 At last, off! off! decides their final doom, 
 And, from the rack, conveys them to the tomb. 
 But yet, before they sink in endless night, 
 On our bad acting vent their furious spite ; 
 Swear were the cause and authors of their shame, 
 Leanu'd with the envious town to blast their name, 
 host in amaze, perplexed with dire dismay, 
 They know not how to fly, or how to stay. 
 Till, from the green-room, rushing to the street, 
 They kick the first poor link-boy that they meet. 
 
 So, from the City, starts some dashing spark, 
 Eyes his nezc chariot, and cries out, " Hyde Park I 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 From the small window pokes his Jewish nose, 
 And thinks he charms the public as he goes ; 
 Till some rude dray -man nips him in the bud, 
 And rolls the whisker 'd coxcomb ir the mud : 
 Who, cursing those that snatch him from the wreck, 
 Swears they're alike combined to break his neck. 
 
 Should you to-night our Poet but endure. 
 You'll fix his frenzy, and beyond all cure. 
 Lord ! how he'll vapour, and how domineer I 
 
 How little in his eyes shall we appear ! 
 
 God knows but he'llattempt, in desperate rage, 
 
 To amend the taste, and fashion of the age, 
 
 And, grown quite wild, blaspheme the German stage ! 
 
 Scout all the rules which teacji us how to move, 
 
 To walk, to stand, to wear a hat, or glove ! 
 
 How for each crime, that Nature stains, prepare 
 
 To draw from Pity's eye the holy tear ! 
 
 How for the charming villain make you feel ! 
 
 How to wear one shoe up, one down at heel ! 
 
 Then bid us break these foreign chains, and dare 
 
 Fix for our elves a table or a chair ! 
 
 This, you'll confess, is folly in the extreme; 
 O do not then improve his dangerous dream; 
 But, damning him, decree it be his fate, 
 Twelve plays, a-year, from Kotzebue to translate. 
 
POEMS 
 
ODE 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF GRAY. 
 
 1771 
 
ODE, &c s 
 
 What Spirit's that which mounts on high. 
 Borne on the arms of every tuneful Muse? 
 His white robes flutter to the gale : 
 They wing their way to yonder opening sky; 
 In glorious state, through yielding clouds 
 they sail, 
 And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse. 
 
 II. 
 
 What avails the Poet's art ? 
 
 What avails his magic hand ? 
 Can He arrest Death's pointed dart, 
 
 Or charm to sleep his murderous band ? 
 Well I know thee, gentle shade, 
 
 That tuneful voice, that eagle eye. 
 
 Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade, 
 
 The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die ; 
 With every honour deck his funeral bier, 
 For He to every Grace, and every Muse was dear ! 
 
254 poems. 
 
 III. 
 
 The listening Dryad, with attention still* 
 
 On tiptoe oft would near the Poet steal, 
 To hear him sing, upon the lonely hill, 
 
 Of all the wonders of the expanded vale ; 
 The distant hamlet, and the winding stream, 
 
 The steeple shaded by the friendly yew, 
 Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam, 
 
 The gray-robed landscape stealing from the view* 
 Or, wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe,* 
 
 O'er each low tomb he breathed his pious strain, 
 
 A lesson to the village swain, 
 
 And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow ! 
 
 But soon, with bolder note, and wilder flight,* 
 
 O'er the loud strings his rapid hand would run ;— 
 Mars hath lit his torch of war, 
 
 Ranks of heroes fill the sight ! 
 Hark, the carnage is begun ! 
 And see the Furies through the fiery air, 
 O'er Cambria's frighten'd land, the screams of 
 horror bear ! 
 
 * Elegy written in a Country Church-yard. 
 t The Bard, a Pindaric Ode. 
 
poems* 255 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now, led by playful Fancy's hand,* 
 O'er the white surge he treads with printless feet) 
 
 To magic shores he flies, and Fairy-land, 
 Imagination's bless'd retreat. 
 
 Here roses paint the crimson way, 
 No setting sun, eternal May, 
 Wild as the priestess of the Thracian fane, 
 When Bacchus leads the maddening train, 
 His bosom glowing with celestial fire, 
 To harmony he struck the golden lyre.; 
 To harmony each hill and valley rung I 
 The bird of Jove, as when Apollo sung, 
 To melting bliss resign'd his furious soul : 
 With milder rage his eyes began to roll, 
 The heaving down his thrilling joys confess'd, 
 Till, by a mortal's hand subdued, he sunk to rest. 
 
 O guardian angel of our early day,* 
 
 Henry, thy darling plant must bloom no more ! 
 
 # The Progress of Poetry, a Pindaric Ode. 
 t Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College, 
 
256 poems. 
 
 By thee attended, pensive would he stray, 
 
 Where Thames, soft murmuring, laves his 
 winding shore. 
 Thou bad'st him raise the moralizing song, 
 
 Through life's new seas the little bark to steer ; 
 The winds are rude and high, the sailor young, 
 
 ' Thoughtless he spies no furious tempest near ; 
 Till to the Poet's hand the helm you gave, 
 From hidden rocks an infant crew to save ! 
 
 VI 
 
 Ye fiends who rankle in the human heart,* 
 Delight in woe, and triumph in our tears, 
 Resume again 
 Your dreadful reign ; 
 Prepare the iron scourge, prepare the venom'd dart. 
 Adversity no more with lenient air appears ; 
 The snakes that twine around her head, 
 Again their frothy poison shed, 
 For who can now her whirlwind flight control f 
 
 Her threatening rage beguile ? 
 He, who could still the tempest of her soul, 
 And force her livid lips to smile, 
 To happier seats is fled ! 
 
 * Hymn to Adversity. 
 
POEMS. 25 7 
 
 
 Now, seated by his Thracian sire, 
 At the full feast of mighty Jove, 
 
 To heavenly themes attunes his lyre, 
 And fills with harmony the realms above ! 
 
TRANSLATION 
 
 FROM 
 
 DANTE, 
 
 CANTO XXXIII. 
 
 Dante, being conducted by Virgil into the infernal regions, 
 sees a person devouring a human skull, and, struck by so 
 horrid a sight, enquires into his history, and receives the 
 account contained in the following lines. 
 
TRANSLATION, 6-c. 
 
 JNow from the fell repast r and horrid food, 
 The Sinner* rose ; but, first, (the clotted blood 
 With hair depending from the mangled head) 
 His jaws he wiped, and thus he wildly said— • 
 
 Ah ! wilt thou then recall this scene of woe, 
 And teach my scalding tears again to flow ? 
 Thou know'st not how tremendous is the tale, 
 My brain will madden, and my utterance fail. 
 
 * Count Ugolino, a nobleman of Pisa, entered into a con- 
 spiracy with the Archbishop Ruggiero, of the Ubaldini family, 
 to depose the governor of Pisa ; in which enterprise having suc- 
 ceeded, Ugolino assumed the government of the city ; but the 
 Archbishop, jealous of his power, incited the people against 
 him ; and, gaining the assistance of the three powerful fami- 
 lies of the Gulandi, Lanfranchi, and Sismondi, marched, with 
 the enraged multitude, to attack the house of the unfortunate 
 Ugolino, and, making him their prisoner, confined him in a 
 tower with his four sons : at length refusing them food, and 
 casting the key into the river Arno, he left them, in this 
 horrible situation, to be starved to death. 
 
262 poems. 
 
 But could my words bring horror and despair 
 To him whose bloody skull you see me tear, 
 Then should the voice of vengeance never sleep, 
 For ever would I talk, and talking weep. 
 
 s 
 
 Mark'd for destruction, I, in luckless hour, 
 Drew my first breath on the Etruscan shore, 
 And Ugolino was the name I bore. 
 This skull contain'd a haughty prelate's brain, 
 Cruel Ruggiero's ; why his blood I drain, 
 Why to my rage he's yielded here below, 
 Stranger, 'twill cost thee many a tear to know. 
 Thou know'st, perhaps, how, trusting to this slave, 
 I and my children found an early grave. 
 This thou may'st know., the dead alone can tell, 
 The dead, the tenants of avenging hell, 
 How hard our fate, by what inhuman arts we fell 
 Through the small opening of the prison's height, 
 One moon had almost spent its waneing light ; 
 'Twas when short sleep had lull'd my pangs to 
 
 rest, 
 And wearied grief lay dozing in my breast ; 
 Futurity aside her curtain drew, 
 And thus, the troubled vision rose to view. 
 
 i 
 
poems. 2,63 
 
 On those high hills, it seem'd, (those hills which 
 hide 
 Pisa from Lucca) that, by Sismond's side, 
 Guland and Lanfranc, with discordant cry, 
 Rouse from its den a wolf and young, who fly 
 Before their famish'd dogs ; I saw the sire 
 And little trembling young ones, pant and tire ; 
 Saw them become the eager blood-hounds' prey, 
 Who soon, with savage rage, their haunches flay. 
 I first awoke, and view'd my slumbering boys, 
 Poor hapless product of my nuptial joys, 
 Scared with their dreams, toss o'er their stony bed, 
 And, starting, scream, with frightful noise, for 
 bread. 
 
 Hard is thy heart, no tears those eyes can 
 know, 
 If they refuse, for pangs like mine, to flow. 
 My children wake ; for now the hour drew near, 
 When we were wont our scanty food to share. 
 A thousand fears our trembling bosoms fill, 
 Each, from his dream, foreboding some new ill. 
 With horrid jar, we heard the prison door 
 Close on us all, alas ! to ope no more. 
 
264 poems. 
 
 My senses fail, absorb'd in dumb amaze, 
 Deprived of motion, on my boys I gaze : 
 Benumb'd with fear, and harden'd into stone, 
 I could not weep, nor heave one easing groan. 
 My children moan; my youngest, trembling* 
 
 cried, 
 " What ails my father ?" still my tongue denied 
 To move ; they cling to me with wild affright : 
 That mournful day, and the succeeding night, 
 We all the dreadful horrid silence kept ; 
 Fearful to. ask, with silent grief they wept. 
 
 Now, in the gloomy cell, a ray of light 
 New horrors added, by dispelling night ; 
 When, looking on my boys, in frantic fit 
 Of maddening grief, my senseless hands I bit. 
 Alas ! for hunger they mistake my rage, 
 " Let us," they cried, " our father's pains assuage 
 " Twas he, our sire, who call'd us into day, 
 " Clad with this painful flesh our mortal clay 
 " That flesh he gave he sure may take away." 
 
 But why should I prolong the horrid tale ?- 
 Dismay and silent woe again prevail. 
 
 i 
 

 poems. 265 
 
 No more that day we spoke ! — Why, in thy womb, 
 Then, cruel earth, did we not meet our doom ? 
 Now, the fourth morning rose ; my eldest child 
 Fell at his father's feet ; in accent wild, 
 Struggling with pain, with his last fleeting breath 
 " Help me, my sire," he cried, and sunk in death 
 I saw the others follow, one by one, 
 Heard their last scream, and their expiring groan 
 And now arose the last concluding day ; 
 As o'er each corse I groped my stumbling way, 
 I call'd my boys, though now they were no more 
 Yet still I call'd, till, sinking on the floor, 
 Pale hunger did what grief essay 'd in vain, — 
 For ever seal'd my eyes, and closed the scene of 
 pain. 
 
TO A LADY, 
 
 WITH 
 
 A PRESENT OF FLOWERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. 
 
TO A LADY. 
 
 Ju itted to grace imperial Beauty's hand, 
 
 And, at thy bidding, shed our sweets around, 
 We come, wild children of a distant land, 
 
 Where monsters share, with wretched man, the 
 ground. 
 We've seen the buffalo rushing from the wood, 
 
 The march of elephants, the lion's war, 
 The sea-cow starting from the marshy flood, 
 
 Deep in the thicket shine the tiger's glare. 
 
 'Midst these soft groves though no hyaena lies, 
 
 No fell rhinoceros commands the plain, 
 Yet much we fear, though hidden from our eyes. 
 
 A fiercer monster holds his dreadful reign. 
 Wings on his back, and arm'd with poisonous 
 tongue, 
 
 Quick as our wolf, and cunning as the snake, 
 These scenes he's said to haunt : sweet lady, shun 
 
 At twilight hour, the valley and the brake : 
 
370 POEMS. 
 
 In ambush here he lies ; his easiest prey 
 
 Young Health, and careless Beauty, as they 
 
 roam ; 
 Sweet lady, fly, gain thy protecting home ; 
 Safer on Afric's burning plains to stray,, 
 Less mischiefs there obstruct the dangerous way. 
 
TO 
 
 MRS. ISABELLA PITT. 
 
 It appears, by the pleadings relative to the will of Charles 
 Mellish, Esq. (1786), that he had made this Lady the offer 
 of succeeding to his estates, in prejudice of his natural heirs. 
 To this offer she instantly returned this firm and dignified 
 answer : " I hope there is nothing on earth could induce me 
 " to accept an estate that I certainly have no right to, and 
 " which my honour and conscience tell me belongs to others. 
 " Let me, therefore, prevail with you to make a fresh will 
 " immediately ; for, I must acquaint you, were this you 
 tl mention to take place, I should think myself bound, not 
 " only by every tie of justice and equity, but even to secure 
 " my own peace of mind, to resign every advantage I might 
 '** receive by it, in favour of those who are much nearer re- 
 " lated to you, and are really descendants of the Mellish 
 " family." Finding, however, at this gentleman's decease, 
 that, contrary to her remonstrances, he had persisted in 
 bequeathing his estates to her, she immediately resigned 
 them to his niece, the person naturally entitled to the 
 inheritance. 
 
TO MRS. ISABELLA PITT. 
 
 A stranger Bard, turning from pomp and power, 
 Sits at the threshold of thy calm retreat ; 
 
 While, through the windings of thy peaceful 
 bower, 
 Of harmless age,* and innocence the seat, 
 
 By the soft magic of a willing lute 
 
 He leads the stream of harmony along, 
 
 Truth shall the subject to the measure suit, 
 Honour and justice shall inspire the song. 
 
 Then shall thy conscious breast, thy generous 
 heart, 
 From pride, from interest, each mean passion 
 free, 
 
 * In her letter to Mr. Mellish, Mrs. Pitt, declining to 
 become either his executrix or heires?, says, " My true cha- 
 " racter is that of a silly, ignorant, old woman (and being 
 " harmless is as much as can be said in my praise), and not at 
 " all fit to be employed in business." 
 
 T 
 
274 poems. 
 
 When steady virtue claims the minstrel's art, 
 Challenge the note, and feel he sings to thee. 
 
 The gifted mansion, and the village cell, 
 ^Where rest the sick, the crippled, and the 
 poor, 
 Where Age, by Charity is led to dwell, 
 And wear out life, in sunshine, at the door; 
 
 How often raised to soothe the bed of care, 
 How often plann'd by malady's last breath, 
 
 To force a smile from horrible despair, 
 A cheat for terror, and a bribe for death ! 
 
 Not such thy acts ; — nor pains, nor fears, com- 
 bined 
 
 To bid thee turn the golden stream aside, 
 And, where immortal justice had design'd, 
 
 To its true channel lead the erring tide. 
 
 For virtues less than thine, had Athens raised 
 The letter'd column to thy spreading fame; 
 
 On Roman altars votive fires had blazed, 
 
 And mix'd with holy rites thy honour'd name, 
 
POEMS 275 
 
 If these, a niggard country should deny, 
 
 Something, O Pitt! the Muse has yet to give, 
 
 When the stone crumbles, and the flame shall 
 die, 
 Such worth as thine in lasting verse may live. 
 
TO 
 
 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS 
 
 ON HIS 
 
 RESIGNATION OF THE PRESIDENTS CHAIR 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 MDCCXC. 
 
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 1 00 wise for contest, and too meek for strife, 
 Like Lear, oppress'd by those you raised to life, 
 Thy sceptre broken^ thy dominion o'er, 
 The curtain falls, and thou 'rt a king no more. 
 Still, near the wreck of thy demolished state, 
 Truth, and the weeping Muse, with me shall wait ; 
 Science shall teach Britannia's self to moan, 
 And make, O injured Friend! thy wrongs her 
 own. 
 
 Shall we forget when, with incessant toil, 
 To Thee 'twas given to turn this stubborn soil; 
 To Thee, with flowers to deck our dreary waste, 
 And kill the poisonous weeds of vicious taste; 
 To pierce the gloom where England's genius slept, 
 Long of soft love and tenderness bereft ; 
 From his young limbs to tear the bands away, 
 And bid the infant giant run and play? 
 
280 POEMS. 
 
 Dark was the hour, the age an age of stone, 
 When Hudson claim'd an empire of his own; 
 And, from the time, when, darting rival light, 
 Vandyke and Rubens cheer'd our northern night, 
 Those twin stars set, the graces all had fled, 
 Yet paused to hover o'er a Lely's head ; 
 And sometimes bent, when won with earnest 
 
 prayer, 
 To make the gentle Kneller all their care : 
 But ne'er with smiles to gaudy Verrio turn'd ; 
 No happy incense on his altars burn'd. 
 O witness, Windsor, thy too passive walls, 
 Thy tortured ceilings, thy insulted halls ! 
 Lo ! England's glory, Edvvard's conquering son, 
 Cover'd with spoils from Poictiers bravely won ; 
 Yet no white plumes, no arms of sable hue, 
 Mark the young hero to our ravish'd view ; 
 In buskin trim, and laurell'd helmet bright, 
 A well-dress'd Roman meets our puzzled sight. 
 And Gallia's captive king, how strange his doom, 
 A Roman, too, perceives himself become! 
 > 
 
 See, too, the miracles of God profan'd, 
 By the mad daubings of this impious hand. 
 
POEMS. 2,81 
 
 For, while the dumb exult in notes of praise, 
 While the lame walk, the blind in transport 
 
 gaze, 
 While vanquish'd demons Heaven's high man- 
 dates hear, 
 And the pale dead spring from the silent bier ; 
 With laced cravat, long wig, and careless mien, 
 The painter 's present at the wondrous scene ! 
 
 Vanloo and Dahl, these may more justly claim 
 A step still higher on the throne of fame; 
 Yet to the west their course they seem to run, 
 The last red streaks of a declining sun. 
 
 And must we Jervas name? so hard and cold, 
 In ermined robes, and perukes, only bold ; 
 Or, when inspired, his rapturous colours own, 
 The roll'd-up stocking, and the damask gown, 
 Behold a tasteless age in wonder stand, 
 And hail him the Apelles of the land ! 
 And Denner too; — but yet so void of ease, 
 His figures tell you they're forbid to please ; 
 Nor in proportion, nor expression nice, 
 The strong resemblance is itself a vice. 
 
282 POEMS. 
 
 As wax-work figures always shock the sight, 1 
 Too near to human flesh and shape, affright, 
 And when they best are form'd afford the least 
 delight. J 
 
 Turn we from such to Thee, whose nobler art 
 Rivets the eye, and penetrates the heart ; 
 To Thee whom nature, in thy earliest youth, 
 Fed with the honey of eternal truth; 
 Then, by her fondling art, in happy hour, 
 Enticed to Learning's more sequester'd bower. 
 There, all thy life of honours first was plann'd, 
 While Nature preach'd, and Science held thy 
 
 hand. 
 When, but for these, condemn'd, perchance, to 
 
 trace 
 The tiresome vacuum of each senseless face, 
 Thou, in thy living tints, hadst ne'er 'combined 
 All grace of form, and energy of mind 
 How, but for these, should we have, trembling, 
 
 fled 
 The guilty tossings of a Beaufort's bed ; 
 Or let the fountain of our sorrows flow 
 At sight of famish'd Ugolino's woe ? 
 
poems. 283 
 
 Bent on revenge, should we have pensive stood 
 O'er the pale cherubs of the fatal wood, 
 Caught the last perfume of their rosy breath, 
 And view'd them smiling at the stroke of death ? 
 Should we have question'd, stung with rage and 
 
 pain, 
 The spectre line, with the distracted Thane? 
 Or, with Alcmena's natural terror wild, 
 From the envenom'd serpent torn her child ? 
 
 And must no more thy pure and classic page 
 Unfold its treasures to the rising age? 
 Nor from thy own Athenian temple pour, 
 On listening youth, of art the copious store; 
 Hold up to labour independent ease, 
 And teach ambition all the ways to please ; 
 With ready hand neglected genius save, 
 Sickening, o'erlook'd in Misery's hidden cave : 
 And, nobly just, decide the active mind 
 Neither to soil nor climate is confined ? 
 
 Desert not then thy sons, those sons who 
 soon 
 Will mourn with me, and all their error own. 
 
284 poems. 
 
 Thou must excuse that raging fire, the same 
 Which lights their daily course to endless fame ; 
 Alas ! impels them, thoughtless, far to stray 
 From filial love, and Reason's sober way. 
 Accept again thy power, resume the chair, 
 " Nor leave it, till thou place an Equal there." 
 
SONG 
 

 SONG. 
 
 Oh fling away that foolish flower, 
 Spoiling the perfume of a breast 
 
 That wants no scent of meaner power, 
 To make its sweetness be confess'd. 
 
 From the Spice Isles, delicious gales 
 (Long after land is lost to view) 
 
 With odours fill the swelling sails, 
 And many a league the bark pursue. 
 
 Thy fragrance, thus, when from thee torn, 
 On magic wing pursues my way ; 
 
 Still, in each gale, thy breath is born, 
 And absence steals not all away. 
 
 Thy form still glides before my eyes, 
 I almost press thee to my heart, 
 
288 poems. 
 
 If I entreat, thy voice replies- 
 
 Fancy, such joys can still impart. 
 
 Tis thus you cheer my melancholy way; 
 And cruel absence steals not all away. 
 
ON 
 
 OCCASION OF A 
 
 FRIENDS CONTENDING FOR BEAUTY, 
 
 AND 
 
 BEAUTY ALONE. 
 
ON OCCASION OF A 
 
 FRIEND'S CONTENDING FOR BEAUTY, 
 AND BEAUTY ALONE, 
 
 A noisy, laughing Cupid, I detest; 
 Give me the Boy with look intent, 
 Big with grave care, as though he meant 
 
 Some mighty work, when he besieged my breast. 
 
 Not, that a whining love has charms for me; 
 Yet there's a tenderness that wears 
 A serious robe, and drinks the tears 
 
 Soft gushing from the eye of Sympathy. 
 
 The charitable gift, the pitying hand, 
 The soul that melts at sight of woe, 
 Strike on the breast the hardest blow, 
 
 And join esteem to Passion's looser band. 
 
 Hence true affection, hence refined desire 
 Feel their full right to nobler joy, 
 
293 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 To bliss that is too dear to cloy, 
 For it is purified by Reason's fire. 
 
 Lovely thy nymph ! but will she e'er incline 
 O'er the sick bed, or sorrow's chair? 
 O ! light and giddy, would she bear 
 
 One sober flower in Pleasure's wreath to twine ! 
 
 If, by the moon, through silent groves ye go, 
 Midst scenes which Nature forms for Jove, 
 Where does her restless fancy rove? 
 
 To riot, fashion, and the public show. 
 
 If, on the roaring beach ye take your way, 
 Fears she, for foundering barks, the storm? 
 O no ! she sighs, so fair a form 
 
 Is not reflected in so rude a sea. 
 
 But is there one, would joy with thee to seek 
 The widow's shed, the labourer's door, 
 Forget her lover for the poor, 
 
 Nor know thou'rt near, when age and sickness 
 speak ? 
 
poems. 293 
 
 Shoukfst thou officious point the lucky aid, 
 Quick draw thee to her generous breast 
 With firmer clasp ; then,, if possess'd 
 
 Of worlds, — those worlds should at her feet be 
 laid. 
 
 Such is the Fair that claims my friend's pursuit : 
 Leave perfect charms to others' choice, 
 Attend no more to Passion's voice, 
 
 But gather thus from love its sweetest fruit. 
 
NA WORTH CASTLE ; 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 

N A WORTH CASTLE.;* 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O Naworth, monument of rudest times, 
 When Science slept intomb'd, and o'er the waste, 
 The heath-grown crag, and quivering moss, of old 
 Stalk'd unremitted war ! The call for blood 
 A herd purl oin'd, perchance a ravaged flock ; 
 For this, how often have thy dungeons, caves 
 Of sad despair, been fed with those, whose hands, 
 More fit to wield the scythe or spade, uprear'd 
 The enormous pike. While all, in iron clad, 
 As plunder tempted or their chieftain led, . 
 Join'd the fierce rout of predatory force, 
 Making our Border tremble. Ah, how oft 
 These oaks, that fling their leafless arms so high, 
 And warn the traveller erring from his way, 
 (Best office of their age) have pitying heard 
 The veteran's dying groan ; beheld him dragg'd 
 To an unworthy death, and mark'd the voice 
 
 * In Cumberland. 
 
298 poems. 
 
 That, to a long descent, and distant time, 
 
 Left the dire legacy of deep revenge. 
 
 If, on yon mountain's slippery ridge, where once, 
 
 From man's annoyance safe, the wild stag browsed, 
 
 Lord of this heathy world ; and where the eagle 
 
 Defied the invader of his rocky bed ; 
 
 Now, the plantation, gay with different tints, 
 
 Drives its new shadow o'er the wondering lake ; 
 
 If now, the waving corn has dared to hide 
 
 Within its yellow breast, the proud remains 
 
 Of Roman toil, magnificence, and power ;* 
 
 If now, the peasant, scared no more at eve 
 
 By distant beacons, and compell'd to house 
 
 His trembling flocks, his children, and his all, 
 
 Beneath one crazy roof, securely sleeps ; 
 
 Yet all around thee is not changed ; thy towers, 
 
 Unmodernized by tasteless Art, remain 
 
 Still unsubdued by Time 
 
 * The Roman wall. 
 
LINES 
 
 FOUND WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW 
 
 AT CALAIS. 
 
LINES 
 
 FOUND WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW 
 
 AT CALAIS. 
 
 JlLiURe veni, tua jamdudum exoptata morantur 
 Flamina : te poscit votis precibusque Viator 
 Impatiens, qui longa morae fastidia sentit. 
 Interea ad curvas descendens ssepius oras, 
 Prospicit in patriam, atque avidis exhaurit ocellis, 
 Illic Dubrenses ad coelum ascendere colles 
 Aspicit, excelsasque arces, grandesque ruinas, 
 Et late ingentes scopulorum albescere tractus; 
 Nequicquam videt hsec, nee fas attingere visa, 
 Obstat Hyems inimica, et vis contraria venti. 
 
TRANSLATION 
 
 OF THE FOREGOING LINES. 
 
 V-/OME,Eurus,come; long, long hast thoudelay'd 
 Thy friendly succour, and propitious aid. 
 The impatient Traveller at thy altar bows, 
 Sick with delay, pours forth his ceaseless vows ; 
 Who, here detain'd, oft seeks the winding shore, 
 With straining eyes his country to devour; 
 Sees Dover's height the dashing waves defy, 
 Rear its broad breast, and meet the neighbouring 
 
 sky; 
 Its mighty bastions to his view expand, 
 Long length of walls, and towers, and chalky land. 
 In vain on these he casts his longing eyes, 
 Fierce Winter howls, and adverse winds arise. 
 
 Printed by W. Bulmer and Co. 
 Cleveland-row, St. James's. 
 
tr/ 
 
 tt 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724) 779-2111