For such a gift! What does my Anna think |And be the echo of thy martial fame.
Of the young eaglet of a valiant nest? No longer vainly feed a guilty passion:

How soon he 'gaz'd on bright and burning Go and pursue a lawful mistress, glory.
Upon the Danish crests redeem thy fault,

arms,

Spurn'd the low dunghill where his fate had And let thy valour be the shield of Randolph. Glen. One instant stay, and hear an alter'd

thrown him,

And tower'd up to the regions of his sire!
Anna. How fondly did your eyes devour
the boy!

Mysterious nature, with the unseen cord
Of pow'rful instinct, drew you to your own.
Lady R. The ready story of his birth be-
liev'd,

Suppress'd my fancy quite; nor did he owe
To any likeness my so sudden favour:
But now I long to see his face again,
Examine every feature, and find out
The lineaments of Douglas, or my own.
But, most of all, I long to let him know
Who his true parents are, to clasp his neck,
And tell him all the story of his father.
Anna. With wary caution you must bear
yourself

In public, lest your tenderness break forth,
And in observers stir conjectures strange.
To-day the baron started at your tears.
Lady R. He did so, Anna: well thy mistress

knows

If the least circumstance, mote of offence,
Should touch the baron's eye, his sight would

be

With jealousy disorder'd. But the more
It does behove me instant to declare
The birth of Douglas, and assert his rights.
Anna. Behold, Glenalvon comes.
Lady R. Now I shun him not.

This day I brav'd him in behalf of Norval;
Perhaps too far; at least my nicer fears
For Douglas thus interpret.

Enter GLENALVON.

Glen. Noble dame,

The hovering Dane at last his men hath landed:
No band of pirates; but a mighty host,
That come to settle where there valour con-
quers:

To win a country, or to lose themselves.
A nimble courier, sent from yonder camp,
To hasten up the chieftains of the north,
Inform'd me as he pass'd, that the fierce Dane
Had on the eastern coats of Lothian landed.

man.

When beauty pleads for virtue, vice abash'd
Flies its own colours, and goes o'er to virtue.
I am your convert;, time will show how truly:
Yet one immediate proof I mean to give.
That youth for whom your ardent zeal to-day,
Somewhat too haughtify defy'd your slave,
Amidst the shock of armies I'll defend,
And turn death from him, with a guardian arm.
Lady R. Act thus, Glenalvon, and I am thy
friend;

But that's thy least reward. Believe me, sir,
The truly generous is the truly wise;
And he, who loves not others, lives unblest.
[Exit Lady Randolph.

Glen. Amen! and virtue is its own reward:
I think that I have hit the very tone
In which she loves to speak. Honey'd assent,
How pleasant art thou to the taste of man,
And woman also! flattery direct
Rarely disgusts. They little know mankind
Who doubt its operation: 'tis my key,
And opes the wicket of the human heart.
How far I have succeeded now, I know not;
Yet I incline to think her stormy virtue
Is lull'd awhile; 'tis her alone I fear;
While she and Randolph live, and live in faith
And amity, uncertain is my tenure.
That slave of Norval's I have found most apt;
I show'd him gold, and he has pawn'd his soul
To say and swear whatever I suggest.
Norval, I'm told, has that alluring look,
Twist man and woman, which I have observ'd
To charm the nicer and fantastic dames,
Who are, like lady Randolph, full of virtue.
In raising Randolph's jealousy, I may
But point him to the truth. He seldom errs,
Who thinks the worst he can of womankind.
Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.-Flourish of Trumpets. Enter LORD RANDOLPH, attended. Lord R. Summon a hundred horse, by break of day,

Lady R. How many mothers shall bewail To wait our pleasure at the castle gate.

their sons!
How
widows weep
many
their husbands slain!
Ye dames of Denmark, e'en for you I feel,
Who, sadly sitting on the sea-beat shore,
Long look for lords that never shall return.
Glen. Oft has the unconquer'd Caledonian
sword

Widow'd the north. The children of the slain
Come, as I hope, to meet their fathers' fate.
The monster war, with her infernal brood,
Load-velling fury and life-ending pain,
Are objects suited to Glenalvon's soul.
Scorn is more grievous than the pains of death;
Reproach more piercing than the pointed sword.
Lord R. I scorn thee not, but when I ought

to scorn

Nor e'er reproach, but when insulted virtue
Against audacious vice asserts herself.
I own thy worth, Glenalvon; none more apt
Than I to praise thine eminence in arms,

Enter LADY RANDOLPH.
Lady R. Alas, my lord, I've heard unwel-
The Danes are landed.

come news;

Lord R. Ay, no inroad this
Of the Northumbrian, bent to take a spoil:
No sportive war, no tournament essay,
Of some young knight resolv'd to break a spear,
And stain with hostile blood his maiden arms.
The Danes are landed: we must beat them back,
Or live the slaves of Denmark.
Lady R. Dreadful times!

Lord R. The fenceless villages are all for-
saken;"'
The trembling mothers, and their children
lodg'd

In wall-girt towers and castles! whilst the men
Retire indignant: yet, like broken waves,
They but retire more awful to return.

Lady R. Immense, as fame reports, the Da-Those qualities that should have grac'd a cam Nor. That too at last I learn'd. Unhap man!

nish host!

Lord R. Were it as numerous as loud fame

reports,

An army knit like ours would pierce it through:
Brothers that shrink not from each other's side,
And fond companions, fill our warlike files:
For his dear offspring, and the wife he loves,
The husband, and the fearless father arm:
In vulgar breasts heroic ardour burns,
And the poor peasant mates his daring lord.
Lady R. Men's minds are temper'd, like
their swords, for war;

Lovers of danger, on destruction's brink
They joy to rear erect their daring forms.
Hence, early graves; hence, the lone widow's
life;

And the sad mother's grief-embitter'd age..
Where is our gallant guest?

Lord R. Down in the vale

I left him, managing a fiery steed,
Whose stubbornness had foil'd the strength
and skill

Of every rider. But behold he comes,
In earnest conversation with Glenalvon.

Enter NORVAL and GLENalvon.
Glenalvon, with the lark arise; go forth,
And lead my troops that lie in yonder vale:
Private I travel to the royal camp:

Norval, thou goest with me. But say, young
man!

Where didst thou learn so to discourse of war,
And in such terms, as I o'erheard to-day?
War is no village science, nor its phrase
A language taught amongst the shepherd swains.
Nor. Small is the skill my lord delights to
praise

Returning homewards by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely wo
A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they foug
The stranger fell, and with his dying breat
Declar'd his name and lineage. Mighty pow
The soldier cried, My brother! Oh, my broth
Lady R. His brother!

Nor. Yes; of the same parents born;
His only brother. They exchang'd forgivene
And happy in my mind was he that died;
For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd.
In the wild desert on a rock he sits,
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden bar
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind,
Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's gho
And oft each night forsakes his sullen cou
To make sad orisons for him he slew.

Lady R. In this dire tragedy were there

Offi. My lord, the trumpets of the tro of Lorn!

The valiant leader hails the noble Randolp Lord R. Mine ancient guest! Does he warriors lead?

Has Denmark rous'd the brave old knight arms?

Offi. No; worn with warfare, he resi the sword.

In him he favours. Hear from whence it came.
Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible by shepherds trod,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man!
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms. His eldest hope, the valiant John of Lorn,
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd Now leads his kindred bands.
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake, Lord R. Glenalvon, go;
And, entering on discourse, such stories told, With hospitality's most strong request
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
Entreat the chief.
[Exit Glenalo
For he had been a soldier in his youth; Offi. My lord, requests are vain.
And fought in famous battles, when the peers He urges on, impatient of delay,
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, Stung with the tidings of the foe's approa
Against the usurping infidel display'd
Lord R. May victory sit upon the warrio
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire
His speech struck from me, the old man would
shake

His years away, and act his young encounters:
Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him
down,

plume!
Bravest of men! his flocks and herds are sal
Remote from war's alarms his pastures lie,
By mountains inaccessible secur'd:
Yet foremost he into the plain descends,
Eager to bleed in battles not his own.
I'll go and press the hero to my breast.

[Exit with the Office
Lady R. The soldier's loftiness, the pri
and pomp
Investing awful war, Norval, I see,
Transport thy youthful mind.

And all the live-long day discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts;
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm: Nor. Ah! should they not?
For all that Saracen or Christian knew
Bless'd be the hour I left my father's house
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. I might have been a shepherd all my days,
Lord R. Why did this soldier in a desert And stole obscurely to a peasant's grave.
Now, if I live, with mighty chiefs I stand;

hide

That could have well sustain'd a prouder fortune.
This way with me; under yon spreading beach,
Unseen, unheard, by human eye or ear,
I will amaze thee with a wond'rous tale.
Nor. Let there be danger, lady, with the
secret,

That I may hug it to my grateful heart,
And prove my faith. Command my sword,
my life:

These are the sole possessions of poor Norval.
Lady R. Know'st thou these gems?
Nor. Durst I believe mine eyes,

I'd say I knew them, and they were my father's.
Lady R. Thy father's, say'st thou? Ah, they
were thy father's!

When Douglas died! Oh, I have much to ask!
Lady R. Hereafter thou shalt hear the length-
en'd tale

Of all thy father's and thy mother's woes.
At present this-Thou art the rightful heir
Of yonder castle, and the wide domains,
Which now lord Randolph, as my husband,
holds.

Nor. I saw them once, and curiously inquir'd
Of both my parents, whence such splendour But thou shalt not be wrong'd; I have the

came.

power

But I was check'd, and more could never learn. To right thee still. Before the king I'll kneel, Lady R. Then learn of me- thou art not And call lord Douglas to protect his blood. Nor. The blood of Douglas will protect itself. Lady R. But we shall need both friends and favour, boy,

Norval's son.

Nor. Not Norval's son?

Lady R. Nor of a shepherd sprung.
Ner. Who am I then?

Lady R. Noble thou art,
For noble was thy sire.
Nor. I will believe-

Oh, tell me further! say, who was my father!
Lady R. Douglas!

Nor. Lord Douglas, whom to-day I saw?
Lady R. His younger brother.

Nor. And in yonder camp?

Lady R. Alas!

To wrest thy lands and lordship from the gripe
Of Randolph and his kinsman. Yet I think
My tale will move each gentle heart to pity,
My life incline the virtuous to believe.

Nor. To be the son of Douglas is to me
Inheritance enough! Declare my birth,
And in the field I'll seek for fame and fortune.
Lady R. Thou dost not know what perils
and injustice

Await the poor man's valour. Oh, my son!

Nor. You make me tremble-Sighs and tears! The noblest blood of all the land's abash'd, Lives my brave father?

Lady R. Ah! too brave, indeed!
He fell in battle ere thyself was born.

Nor. Ah me, unhappy! ere I saw the light!
But does my mother live? I may conclude,
From my own fate, her portion has been sorrow.
Lady R. She lives; but wastes her life in
constant woe,

Weeping her husband slain, her infant lost.
Nor. You that are skill'd so well in the sad
story

Of my unhappy parents, and with tears
Bewall their destiny, now have compassion
Upon the offspring of the friends you lov'd.
Oh, tell me who and where my mother is!
Oppress'd by a base world, perhaps she bends
Beneath the weight of other ills than grief;
And, desolate, implores of heaven the aid
Her son should give. It is, it must be so-
Your countenance confesses that she's wretched.
Oh, tell me her condition! Can the sword-
Who shall resist me in a parent's cause?
Lady R. Thy virtue ends her woe-My son!
my son!

I am thy mother, and the wife of Douglas!
[Falls upon his Neck.
Nor. Oh, heaven and earth! how wond'rous
is my fate!

Art thou my mother? Ever let me kneel! ́
Lady R. Image of Douglas! fruit of fatal
love!

All that I owe thy sire I pay to thee.
Nor. Respect and admiration still possess me,
Checking the love and fondness of a son:
Yet I was filial to my humble parents.

Having no lackey but pale poverty.

Too long hast thou been thus attended, Douglas;
Too long hast thou been deem'd a peasant's
child:

The wanton heir of some inglorious chief
Perhaps has scorn'd thee in thy youthful sports,
Whilst thy indignant spirit swell'd in vain.
Such contumely thou no more shalt bear:
But how I purpose to redress thy wrongs
Must be hereafter told. Prudence directs
That we should part before yon chief's return.
Retire, and from thy rustic follower's hand
Receive a billet, which thy mother's care,
Anxious to see thee, dictated before
This casual opportunity arose
Of private conference. Its purport mark;
For, as I there appoint, we meet again.
Leave me, my son; and frame thy manners still
To Norval's, not to noble Douglas' state.
Nor. I will remember. Where is Norval
now,

That good old man?

Lady R. At hand conceal'd he lies,
A useful witness. But beware, my son,
Of
yon Glenalvon; in his guilty breast
Resides a villain's shrewdness, ever prone
To false conjecture. He hath griev'd my heart.
Nor. Has he, indeed? Then let yon false
Glenalvon

Which in the breasts of his forefathers burn'd: But if he be the favourite of the fair,
Set him on high, like them, that he may shine
The star and glory of his native land!—
Yonder they come. How do bad women find
Unchanging aspects to conceal their guilt,
When I, by reason and by justice urg'd,
Full hardly can dissemble with these men
In nature's pious cause?

To gall your pride, which now I see is great
Nor. My pride!

Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake
I will not leave you to its rash direction.
If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men,
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn?
Nor. A shepherd's scorn!

Glen. Yes; if you presume

To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes,
What will become of you?
Nor. If this were told!—

Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? | The private quarrel.

Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me?

Nor. Didst thou not hear?

Glen. Unwillingly I did; a nobler foe Had not been question'd thus.

Glen. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous
condescending!

Mark the humility of shepherd Norval!
Nor. Now you may scoff in safety.
[Sheathes his Sword.

Lord R. Speak not thus,
Taunting each other; but unfold to me
The cause of quarrel, then I judge betwixt you.
Nor. Nay, my good lord, though I revere
you much,

My cause I plead not, nor demand your judg-I