Drop every star from his etherial height,
Ere I forget thee, source of every good!

Lord Sal. Friends, I am much beholden to you all.

My love! the gloom that overspread our morn,
Is now dispersed; our late mishaps,
Recalled, shall be the amusing narrative,

And story of our future evening, oft
Rehearsed. Our son, too, he shall hang upon
The sounds, and lift his little hands in praise
To heaven: taught by his mother's bright exam-
ple,

That, to be truly good, is to be blessed.

[Exeunt omnes.

THIS virgin author's such a blushing rogueWhat! no gay, lively, laughing epilogue? Madam,' says he, and looked so wise! Greece'

in

(Greece, that's their cant) no jesting closed the piece.

Play, epilogue, and all were grave and solemn'Then, sir, the town were fools that did not maul

-Laugh'd, danc'd and sported it till spouse came

over,

Then kissed my dear-while Betty hid the lover. But here again our poet checks my flight: Nay, madam, you mistake the matter quite. My heroine liv'd in ancient, honest times; Cards were unknown, and gallantries were crimes !'

Psha! what if females then were seldom rovers ? Husbands (aye, there's the cause) were warm as lovers.

Their warlike days indeed were spent in killing; But then at night-no turtles were so billing.

Well-though he gives me no smart things to say,

I wish this begging face may save his play:
The thing may mend, and learn to please you bet-

ter

Do then-nay, pray you shew him some good

nature.

SCENE I.-The Platform before the Castle. Enter FLORIAN.

Flor. WHAT awful silence! how these antique

towers

And vacant courts dull the suspended soul,
Till expectation wears the cast of fear;
And fear, half-ready to become devotion,
Mumbles a kind of mental orison,
It knows not wherefore:

What a kind of being is circumstance!
I am a soldier, and were yonder battlements
Garnish'd with combatants, and cannon-mounted,
My daring breast would bound with exultation,
And glorious hopes enliven this drear scene.
Now dare not I scarce tread to my own hearing,
Lest Echo borrow Superstition's tongue,
And seem to answer me, like one departed.

him.

'Would these old arms, that serv'd his grand

father,

Could once enfold him! I should part in peace. Flor. What if I bring tidings of count Edmund?

Por. Mercy befal me!-Now my dream is out. Last night the raven croak'd, and from the bars Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger

I knew no good would follow-Bring you ill tidings,

Por. I do.

Flor. Belike this castle is not thine.
Por. Belike so:

But be it whose it may, this is no haunt
For revellers and gallants- -Pass your way.
Flor. Thou churl! Is this your Gallic hospi-
tality?

Thy lady, on my life, would not thus rudely
Chide from her presence a bewildered knight.
Por. Thou know'st my lady then!-Thou
know'st her not.

Canst thou in hair-cloths vex those dainty limbs? Canst thou on reeking pavements and cold marble,

In meditation the live-long night?
pass
Canst mortify that flesh, my rosy minion,
And bid thy rebel appetite refrain

From goblets foaming wine, and costly viands? These are the deeds, my youngster, must draw down

My lady's ever heav'n-directed eye.

Flor. In sooth, good friend, my knighthood is not school'd

In voluntary rigours- -I can fast,
March supperless, and make cold earth my pil-
low,

When my companions know no choicer fare.
But seldom roost in churches, or reject
The ready banquet, or a willing fair-one.

Por. Angels defend us! What a reprobate! Yon mould'ring porch, for sixteen years and

I

Flor. Father grey-beard,

[Aside.] Shouldst thou in

Flor. (This is a solemn fool, Or solemn knave.) deed rejoice

To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mis

tress

Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son?

Por. Oh! no, no, no.-He must not here

alas!

He must not here set foot-But tell me, stranger,
I prithee, say, does my old master's heir
Still breathe this vital air? Is he in France?
Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues,
Or fifty? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs,
And I would make a weary pilgrimage
To kiss his gracious hand, and at his feet
Lay my old bones-for here I ne'er must see
him.
[Weeps.

Flor. Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's

mirth. But, say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands

Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother?

Por. Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed-but spare his

mother;

Such virtue never dwelt in female form.
Count Edmund-but he was indeed a stripling,
A very lad-it was the trick of youth,
And we have all our sins, or we have had ;
Yet still no pardon-Think'st thou not, my lord,
My late kind master, ere he knew my lady,
Wist not what woman was?-I warrant him-
But so- -Count Edmund being not sixteen,
A lusty youth, his father's very image
Oh! how he has play'd me many a trick-good

sir,

Does my young master ever name old Peter?
Well! but I prate you must forgive my age;
I come to the point-Her name was Beatrice;
A roguish eye-she ne'er would look on me,
Or we had sav'd full many a woeful day.
Mark you me well?

Flor. I do.

Por. This Beatrice

But hark! my lady comes-retire a while
Beyond these yews-anon I'll tell you more.
Flor. May I not greet her?

Por. For my office, no: 'Twere forfeit of my badge to hold a parley With one of near thy years. [FLORIAN withdraws. [The Countess in Weeds, with a Crucifix in her

hand, issues from the Castle, accompanied by
two Maidens, and passes over the Stage.
When she is gone, FLORIAN returns.
Por. [Continues] 'Tis ever thus.
At break of morn, she hies to yonder abbey,
And prostrate o'er some monumental stone,
Seems more to wait her doom, than ask to shunit.
The day is past in minist'ring to wants
Of health or means; the closing eve beholds
New tears, new pray'rs, or haggard meditation.
But if cold moonshine, deepening every frown
Of these impending towers, invite her steps,
She issues forth.-Beshrew me, but I treinble,
When my own keys discharge the draw-bridge
chains,

And rattle through the castle's farmost vaults.
Then have I seen this sad, this sober mourner,
With frantic gesture and disordered step-
But hush-Who moves up yonder avenue?
It is-no-stay-i'faith! but it is he,
My lady's confessor, with friar Martin.
Quick, hie thee hence-should that same med-
dling monk

Observe our conf'rence, there were fine work toward.

Flor. You will not leave your tale unfinished?
Por. Mass! but I will-a tale will pay no sti-
pend.

These fifty winters have I borne my staff,
And will not lose my porridge for my prating.
Flor. Well! but count Edmund-Wo't not
hear of him?

Por. Aye, bless his name! at any leisure hour.
This evening, ere the shutting of the gates,
Loiter about yon grange; I'll come to thee.
So now, begone-Away! [Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

BENEDICT and MARTIN.

Ben. - -Ay: sift her, sift her

As if I had not probed her very soul,

Chaf'd by the hounds, with sudden onset slew Th' adventurous count.

Ben. 'Twas so; and yet, my brother, My mind has more than once imputed blood To this incessant mourner. Beatrice, The damsel for whose sake she holds in exile Her only son, has never, since the night Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of. Mart. 'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her pru dent tongue

Accuse its owner.

Ben. Judge not rashly, brother.

I oft have shifted my discourse to murder:
She notes it not. Her muscles hold their place
Nor discomposed, nor firm'd to steadiness.
No sudden flushing, and no fault'ring lip:
Nor, though she pities, lifts she to her eyes
Her handkerchief, to palliate her disorder.
There the wound rankles not. I've fix'd on
love,

The failure of the sex, and aptest cause
Of each attendant crime.→

Mart. Aye, brother, there

We master all their craft. Touch but that string Ben. Still, brother, do you err. She own'd

to me,

That, though of nature warm, the passion love
Did ne'er anticipate her choice. The count,
Her husband, so ador❜d and so lamented,
Won not her fancy, till the nuptial rites
Had with the sting of pleasure taught her pas-

sion.

This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'd

By conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness,
She utter'd, I would pawn my order's credit
On her veracity.

Mart. Then whither turn

To worm her secret out?

Ben. I know not that.

She will be silent, but she scorns a falsehood, And thus while frank on all things, but her secret,

Nay, not confession, not repeating o'er
Her darling sins, has any charms for her.

I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring thought

Seems to steal meaning from her words-She prays,

Because she feels, and feels, because a sinner. Mart. What is this secret sin, this untold tale,

That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?
Loss of a husband, sixteen years enjoy'd,
And dead as many, could not stamp such sorrow.
Nor could she be his death's artificer,
And now affect to weep it-I have heard,
That chasing, as he homeward rode, a stag,

Murt. Till she disclose it,

Deny her absolution.

Ben. She will take none:

Offer'd, she scoffs it; and withheld, demands

not;

Nay, vows she will not load her sinking soul
With incantations.

Mart. This is heresy,
Rank heresy; and holy church should note it.
Ben. Be patient, brother-Though of adamant
Her reason, charity dissolves that rock,
-And surely we have tasted of the stream.
Nay, one unguarded moment may disclose
This mystic tale-then, brother, what a harvest,
When masters of her bosom-guilt!-Age too
May numb her faculties.-Or soon, or late,
A praying woman must become our spoil,
Mart. Her zeal may faulter.

Ben. Not in solitude.

I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenants To fancy visions, phantoms; and report them.

She mocks their fond credulity-but, trust me,
Her memory retains their colouring.
Oft times it paints her dreams; and ebon night
Is no logician. I have known her call

For lights, ere she could combat its impressions.
I too, though often scorn'd, relate my dreams,
And wond'rous voices heard ; that she may think

me

At least an honest bigot; nor remember

I tried to practise on her fears, and, foil'd, Give o'er my purpose.

Mart. This is masterly.

Ben. Poor mastery! when I am more in awe Of my own penitent than she of me. My genius is command; art, but a tool, My grovelling fortune forces me to use. Oh! were I seated high as my ambition,

I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs, And make them bow to creeds myself would laugh at.

Mart. By humbler arts our mighty fabric rose. Win power by craft; wear it with ostentation; For confidence is half security.

Deluded men think boldness conscious strength;
And grow the slaves of their own want of doubt.
Gain to the Holy See this fair domain;
A crimson bonnet may reward your toils,
And the rich harvest prove at last your own.
Ben. Never, while Edmund lives. This steady

ture,

That speaks in characters of glowing rose
Its modest appetites and timid wishes.
Her sex, she says, when gratified, are frail;
When check'd, a hurricane of boundless passions;
Then, with sweet irony and sad, she wills me
Ask my own breast, if cowls and scapularies
Are charms all powerful to subdue desire ?
Mart. 'Twere wiser school the maiden: lead
the train

Of young ideas to a fancied object.

A mental spouse may fill her hov'ring thoughts, And bar their fixing on some earthly lover.

Ben. This is already done-but Edmund's death

Were hopes more solid

Mart. First report him dead; His letters intercepted

Ben. Greatly thought!

Thou true son of the church!-and lo! where

comes

Our patroness-leave me; I will not lose An instant. I will sound her inmost soul, And mould it to the moment of projection. [Exit MARTIN. BENEDICT retires within the castle.

SCENE IV.

Countess, two Maidens.

Coun. Haste thee, Maria, to the western tower,
And learn if the aged pilgrim dozes yet.
You, Elinor, attend my little orphans,
And, when their task is done, prepare their
breakfast.

But scant the allowance of the red-hair'd urchin,
That maim'd the poor man's cur.-Ah! happy
me!
[The damsels go in.
If sentiment, untutor'd by affliction,
Had taught my temperate blood to feel for others,
Ere pity, perching on my mangled bosom,
Like flies on wounded flesh, had made me shrink,
More with compunction than with sympathy!
Alas! must guilt then ground our very virtues!
Grow they on sin alone, and not on grace?
While Narbonne liv'd, my fully-sated soul
Thought none unhappy-for it did not think!
In pleasures roll'd whole summer-suns away;
And if a pensive visage cross'd my path,
I deem'd the wearer envious or ill-natur'd.
What anguish had I blessedly redressed,
But that I was too bless'd!-Well! peace is fled,
Ne'er to return! nor dare I snap the thread
Of life, while misery may want a friend.
Despair and hell must wait, while pity needs
My ministry-Eternity has scope
Enough to punish me, though I should borrow
A few short hours to sacrifice to charity.