Enter Lady RANDOLPH.
Lady R. My son! I heard a voiceDaug. The voice was mine.
Laly R. Didst thou complain aloud to Nature's ear,
That thus in dusky shades, at midnight hours,
By stealth the mother and the son should meet?
[Embracing him.
Doug. No; on this happy day, this better
birth-day,
My thoughts and words are all of hope and joy.
Lady R. Sad fear and melancholy still divide
The empire of my breast with hope and joy.
Now hear what I devise-
Doug. First, let me tell
What may the tenor of your counsel change.
Lady R. My heart forebodes some evil.
Doug. 'Tis not good-
At eve, unseen by Randolph and Glenalvon,
The good old Norval in the grove o'erheard
Their conversation; oft they mentioned me,
With dreadful threatenings; you they sometimes
named.
'Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discovery;
And ever and anon they vowed revenge.
Lady R. Defend us, gracious God! we are
betrayed:
They have found out the secret of thy birth:
It must be so. That is the great discovery.
Sir Malcolm's heir is come to claim his own,
And they will be revenged. Perhaps even now,
Armed and prepared for murder, they but wait
A darker and more silent hour to break
Into the chamber where they think thou sleep'st.
This moment, this, Heaven hath ordained to
save thee!
Fly to the camp, my son!
Doug. And leave
No: to the castle let us go together.
Call up the ancient servants of your house,
Who in their youth did eat your father's bread.
Then tell them loudly that I am your son.
If in the breasts of men one spark remains
Of sacred love, fidelity, or pity,
Some in your cause will arm. I ask but few
To drive those spoilers from my father's house.
Lady R. Oh, Nature, Nature! what can
check thy force?
Thou genuine offspring of the daring Douglas!
But rush not on destruction: save thyself,
And I am safe. To me they mean no harm.
Thy stay but risks thy precious life in vain.
That winding path conducts thee to the river.
Cross where thou seest a broad and beaten way,
Which, running eastward, leads thee to the camp.
Enstant demand admittance to lord Douglas;
Shew him these jewels which his brother wore.
Thy look, thy voice, will make him feel the
truth,
Which I, by certain proof, will soon confirm.
Doug. I yield me, and obey: but yet my heart
Bleeds at this parting. Something bids me stay,
And guard a mother's life. Oft have I read
Of wondrous deeds by one bold arm atchieved. Our foes are two; no more: let me go forth, And see if any shield can guard Glenalvon!
Lady R. If thou regard'st thy mother, or re-
ver'st
Thy father's memory, think of this no more.
One thing I have to say before we part:
Long wert thou lost; and thou art found, my
child,
War and battle
Too well I see
temper sets:
Oh! my long-lost
In a most fearful season.
I have great cause to dread.
Which way the current of thy
To-day I've found thee.
hope!
If thou to giddy valour giv'st the rein,
To-morrow I may lose my son for ever.
The love of thee, before thou saw'st the light,
Sustained my life when thy brave father fell.
If thou shalt fall, I have nor love nor hope
In this waste world! My son, remember me!
Doug. What shall I say? How can I give you
comfort?
The God of battles of my life dispose
As may be best for you! for whose dear sake
I will not bear myself as I resolved.
But yet consider, as no vulgar name,
That which I boast, sounds among martial men,
How will inglorious caution suit my
claim?
The post of fate unshrinking I maintain.
My country's foes must witness who I am.
On the invader's heads I'll prove my birth,
Till friends and foes confess the genuine strain,
If in this strife I fall, blame not your son,
Who, if he lives not honoured, must not live.
Lady R. I will not utter what my bosom feels. Too well I love that valour which I warn. Farewell, my son! my counsels are but vain,
And as high Heaven hath willed it, all must be.
[Separate. Gaze not on me, thou wilt mistake the path; I'll point it out again.
[Just as they are separating.
Enter from the wood Lord RANDOLPH and GLENALVON.
Lord R. Not in her presence.
Glen. I am prepared.
Lord R. No: I command thee stay.
go alone: it never shall be said
That I took odds to combat mortal man.
The noblest vengeance is the most complete.
[Exit.
[GLENALVON makes some steps to the same
side of the stage, listens and speaks.
Glen. Demons of death, come, settle on my
sword,
And to a double slaughter guide it home!
The lover and the husband both must dic.
Lord R. Behind the scenes.] Draw, villain! draw!
Doug. [Without.] Assail me not, lord Randolph;
Not as thou lov'st thyself, [Clashing of swords.
Glen. [Running out.] Now is the time.
Enter Lady RANDOLPH, at the other side of
the stage, faint and breathless.
Lady R. Lord Randolph, hear me, all shall be thine own!
But spare! Oh, spare my son!
Enter DOUGLAS, with a sword in each hand. Doug. My mother's voice!
I can protect thee still.
Lady R. He lives, he lives!
For this, for this to Heaven eternal praise !
But sure I saw thee fall.
Doug. It was Glenalvon;
Just as my arm had mastered Randolph's sword, The villain came behind me; but I slew him. Lady R. Behind thee! ah! thou art wounded! Oh, my child,
How pale thou look'st! And shall I lose thee now?
Doug. Do not despair: I feel a little faint
I hope it will not last. [Leans upon his sword. Lady R. There is no hope!
And we must part! The hand of death is on thee!
Oh! my beloved child! O Douglas, Douglas!
[DOUGLAS growing more and more faint.
Doug. Too soon we part: I have not long
been Douglas;
O destiny! hardly thou deal'st with me!
Clouded and hid, a stranger to myself,
In low and poor obscurity I've lived.
Lady R. Has Heaven preserved thee for an
end like this!
Doug. Oh! had I fallen as my brave fathers fell,
Turning with fatal arm the tide of battle,
Like them I should have smiled and welcomed death:
But thus to perish by a villain's hand!.
Cut off from nature's and from glory's course,
Which never mortal was so fond to run.
Lady R. Hear, justice, hear! stretch thy a-
venging arm!
[DOUGLAS fulls.
Doug. Unknown I die; no tongue shall speak
of me.
Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,
May yet conjecture what I might have proved,
And think life only wanting to my fame:
But who shall comfort thee?
Lady R. Despair, despair!
Doug. Oh, had it pleased high Heaven to let me live
A little while!—my eyes, that gaze on thee, Grow dim apace! my mother-O! my mother!
Enter Lord RANDOLPII and ANNA. Lord R. Thy words, thy words of truth, have pierced my heart;
I am the stain of knighthood and of arms.
Oh! if my brave deliverer survives
The traitor's sword-
Anna. Alas! look there, my lord.
Lord R. The mother and her son! How curst
I am!
Was I the cause? No: I was not the cause.
Yon matchless villain did seduce my soul
To frantic jealousy.
Anna. My lady lives:
The agony of grief hath but suppressed
Awhile her powers.
Lord R. But my deliverer's dead;
The world did once esteem lord Randolph well,
Sincere of heart, for spotless honour famed;
And, in my early days, glory I gained
Beneath the holy banner of the cross.
Now past the noon of life, shame comes upon
Reproach and infamy, and public hate,
Are near at hand: for all mankind will think
That Randolph basely stabbed Sir Malcolm's
heir.
Lady R [recovering.] Where am I now!-
Still in this wretched world!
Grief cannot break a heart so hard as mine.
My youth was worn in anguish: but youth's
strength,
With hope's assistance, bore the brunt of sorrow:
And trained me on to be the object now,
On which Omnipotence displays itself,
Making a spectacle, a tale of me,
To awe its vassal man.
Lord R. Oh, misery!
Amidst thy raging grief I must proclaim
My innocence.
Lady R. Thy innocence!
Lord R. My guilt
Is innocence compared with what thou think'st Lady R. Of thee I think not: what have! to do
With thee, or any thing? My son! my son!
My beautiful! my brave! how proud was I
Of thee and of thy valour! my fond heart
O'erflowed this day with transport, when I
thought
Of growing old amidst a race of thine,
Who might make up to me their father's child-
hood,
And bear my brother's and my husband's name;
Now all my hopes are dead! A little while
Was I a wife! a mother not so long!
What am I now ?--I know.--But I shall be
That only whilst I please; for such a son
And such a husband drive me to my fate.
Lord R. Follow her, Anna: I myself would follow,
But in this rage she must abhor my presence. Erit ANNA
Old Nor. I heard the voice of woe: Heaven guard my child!
Lord R. Already is the idle gaping crowd, The spiteful vulgar, come to gaze on Randolph. Begone.
Old Nor. I fear thee not. I will not go.
Here I'll remain. I'm an accomplice, lord,
With thee in murder. Yes, my sins did help
To crush down to the ground this lovely plant.
Oh, noblest youth that ever yet was born!
Sweetest and best, gentlest and bravest spirit,
That ever blest the world! Wretch that I am,
Who saw that noble spirit swell and rise
Above the narrow limits that confined it,
Yet never was by all thy virtues won
To do thee justice, and reveal the secret,
Which, timely known, had raised thee far above
The villain's snare. Oh! I am punished now!
These are the hairs that should have strewed the
ground,
And not the locks of Douglas.
[Tears his hair, and throws himself upon the body of DOUGLAS.
Lord R. I know thee now: thy boldness I forgive:
My crest is fallen. For thee I will appoint
A place of rest, if grief will let thee rest.
I will reward, although I cannot punish.
Cursed, cursed Glenalvon! he escaped too well,
Though slain and baffled by the hand he hated.
Foaming with rage and fury to the last,
Cursing his conqueror, the felon died.
Enter ANNA.
Anna. My lord! My lord!
Lord R. Speak: I can hear of horror.
Anna. Horror, indeed!
She ran, she flew like lightning up the hill,
Nor halted till the precipice she gained,
Beneath whose lowering top the river falls
Ingulphed in rifted rocks: thither she came,
As fearless as the eagle lights upon it,
And headlong down-
Lord R. 'Twas I, alas! 'twas I
That filled her breast with fury; drove her down The precipice of death! Wretch that I am!
Anna. Oh, had you seen her last despairing
Upon the brink she stood, and cast her eyes Down on the deep: then, lifting up her head And her white hands to Heaven, seeming to say, Why am I forced to this? she plunged herself Into the empty air.
Lord R. I will not vent,
In vain complaints, the passion of my soul.
Peace in this world I never can enjoy.
These wounds the gratitude of Randolph gave;
They speak aloud. I am resolved. I'll go
Straight to the battle, where the man that makes
Me turn aside must threaten worse than death.
Thou, faithful to thy mistress, take this ring,
Full warrant of my power. Let every rite
With cost and pomp upon their funerals wait:
For Randolph hopes he never shall return.
[Exeunt omnes.
AN Epilogue I ask't; but not one word
Our bard will write. He vows 'tis most absurd
With comic wit to contradict the strain
Of tragedy, and make your sorrows vain.
Sadly he says, that pity is the best,
And noblest passion of the human breast:
For when its sacred streams the heart o'erflow,
In gushes pleasure with the tide of woe:
And when its waves retire, like those of Nile,
They leave behind them such a golden soil,
That there the virtues without culture grow,
There the sweet blossoms of affection blow.
These were his words; void of delusive art,
I felt them: for he spoke them from his heart.
Nor will I now attempt, with witty folly,
To chase away celestial melancholy,
BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.-SPOKEN BY MR ROSS.
"TWAS once the mode inglorious war to wage With each bold bard that durst attempt the stage, And prologues were but preludes to engage. Then mourn'd the muse not story'd woes alone, Condemn'd to weep, with tears unfeign'd, her
Past are those hostile days: and wits no more
One undistinguished fate with fools deplore.
No more the muse laments her long-felt wrongs,
From the rude licence of tumultuous tongues:
In peace each bard prefers his doubtful claim,
And as he merits, meets, or misses, fame,
'Twas thus in Greece (when Greece fair science
blest,
And Heav'n-born arts their chosen land possest)
Th' assembled people sate with decent pride,
Patient to hear, and skilful to decide;
Less forward far to censure than to praise,
Unwillingly refus'd the rival bays,
Yes; they whom candour and true taste inspire,
Blame not with half the passion they admire;
Each little blemish with regret descry,
But mark the beauties with a raptur'd eye.
Yet modest fears invade our author's breast,
With Attic lore, or Latian, all unblest;
Deny'd by Fate through classic fields to stray,
Where bloom these wreaths which never know
decay;
Where arts new force from kindred arts acquire,
And poets catch from poets genial fire.
Not thus he boasts the breast humane to prove,
And touch those springs which generous passions
move,
To melt the soul by scenes of fabled woe,
And bid the tear for fancy'd sorrows flow;
Far humbler paths he treads in quest of fame,
And trusts to Nature what from Nature came,
SCENE I.-A Room in Sifroy's House.
Enter GLANVILLE and ISABELLA. Glan. WHAT means this diffidence, this idle fear?
Have I not given thee proof my heart is thine?
Proof that I mean to sanctify our joys
By sacred wedlock! Why then doubt my truth?
Why hesitate, why tremble thus to join
In deeds, which justice and my love to thee
Alone inspire? If we are one, our hopes,
Our views, our interests ought to be the same.
And canst thou tamely see this proud Sifroy
Triumphant lord it o'er my baffled rights?
Those late acquir'd demesnes, by partial hand
Consign'd to him, in equity are mine.
Isab. The story oft I've heard: yet sure Sifroy Hath every legal title to that wealth
By will bequeath'd; and childless should he die, The whole were thine. Wait then till timeGlan. Art thou,
My Isabella, thou an advocate
For him whose hand, with felon arts, with-holds Those treasures which I covet but for thee? Where is thy plighted faith?-thy vows?-thy truth?
Isab. Forbear reproach !-O Glanville, love to thee
Hath robb'd me of my truth-seduc'd me on From step to step, till virtue quite forsook me. False if I am, 'tis to myself, not thee;
Thou hast my heart, and thou shalt guide my will,
Obedient to thy wishes.
Glan. Hear me then
Dear Ragozin? How did Sifroy receive
My letters? Speak-My vast impatience would
Know all at once.-What does his rage intend?
Rag. All you could wish. A whirlwind is but weak
To the wild storm that agitates his breast.
At first indeed he doubted-swore 'twas false-
Impossible-But as he read, his looks
Grew fierce; pale horror trembled on his cheek;
O she is vile!-It must, it must be so-
Glanville is just, is good, and scorns to wrong
I know his friendship, know his honest heart— Then falling, sobb'd in speechless agony.
Glan. Good, very good!--I knew 'twould gall-proceed.
Rag. His smother'd grief at length burst forth in rage.
He started from the floor-he drew his sword---
And fixing it with violence in my grasp
Plunge this, he cried, O plunge it in the heart
Of that vile traitor, Paulet !--Yet forbear---
That exquisite revenge my own right hand
Demands, nor will I give it to another!
This said---push'd on by rage, he to her sire
Dispatch'd a letter, opening to him all
Her crime, and his dishonour. This to you.
[Gives a letter.
Glan. How eagerly he runs into the toils,
Which I have planted for his own destruction!--
Dear Ragozin, success shall double all
My promises; and now we are embark'd,
We must proceed, whatever storms arise.
Isab. But read the letter.
[GLANVILLE opens the letter and reads. "Though thou hast stabb'd me to the heart, I cannot but thank thy goodness for the tender regard thou hast shewn to my honour. The traitor Paulet shall die by my own hand: that righteous vengeance must be mine. Mean time, forbi
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