Transplanted now to the gay sunny vale,
Like the green thorn of May my fortune flowers.
Ye glorious stars! high Heaven's resplendent host!
To whom I oft have of my lot complain'd,
Hear and record my soul's unaltered wish!
Dead or living, let me but be renown'd!
May Heaven inspire some fierce gigantic Dane,
To give a bold deance to our host:
Before he speaks it out I will accept;
Like Douglas conquer, or like Douglas die.
Enter Lady RANDOLPH.

Lady R. My son! I heard a voice-
Dou. The voice was mine.

Lady R. Didst thou complain alone to nature's

ear,

Dou. First, let me tell

What may the tenour of your counsel change.
Lady R. My heart forebodes some evil!
Dou. 'Tis not good-

At eve, unseen by Randolph and Glenalvon,
The good old Norval in the grove o'erheard
Their conversation: oft they mentioned e,
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 Heaven! we are betray'd;

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!

Dou. And leave you here?

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 these spoilers from my father's house.
Lady R. O 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 see'st a broad and beaten way,
Which, running eastward, leads thee to the camp;
Instant demand admittance to Lord Douglas;
Show 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.

Dou. 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 1 read
Of wond'rous deeds by one bold arm achieved.
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 rever 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,
In a most fearful season. War and battle

I have great cause to dread. Too well I see
Which way the current of thy temper sets;
To-day I've found thee. Oh! my long-lost 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,
Sustain'd my life when thy brave father fell.
If thou shalt fall, I have not love nor hope
In this waste world! My son, remember me!
Dou. 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 amongst 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 invaders' 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 liv'd not honour'd, 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.
[Embracing.
And as high Heav'n hath will'd it, all must be.
Gaze not on me, thou wilt mistake the path:
I'll point it out again.

[Exeunt. [Just as they are separating,

Enter from the Wood, Lord RANDOLPH and
GLENALVON.

Lord R. Not in her presence

Now

Gle. I am prepar'd.

Lord R. No: I command thee, stay:

I 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.
Gle. Demons of death, come settle on my sword,
And to a double slaughter guide it home!
The lover and the husband both must die.
Lord R. [Behind the scenes.] Draw, villain! draw!
Not as thou lov'st thyself.
Dou. [Without.] Assail me not, Lord Randolph;
[Clashing of swords.
[He runs out.

Gle. Now is the time

Enter Lady RANDOLPH, faint and breathless. Lady R. Lord Randolph, hear me; all shall be thine own;

But spare! O spare my son!

Enter DOUGLAS, with a sword in each hand.

Dou. My mother s voice!

I can protect thee still.

Lady R. He lives! he lives!

For this, for this, to Heav'n eternal praise !
But sure, I saw thee fall.

Dou. It was Glenalvon.

Just as my arm had master'd Randolph's sword,
The villain came behind me; but I slew him.
Lady R. Behind thee! Ah! thou'rt wounded!
Oh, my child,

How pale thou look'st! And shall I lose thee now?
Dou. Do not despair: I feel a little faintness;
I hope it will not last. [Leaning on his sword.

Lady R. There is no hope!
And we must part! The hand of death is on thee!
O, my belov'd child! O, Douglas, Douglas!
[DOUGLAS growing more and more faint.
Dou. 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?

Lady R. [Recovering.] Where am I now? Still in this wretched world!

Grief cannot break a heart so hard as mine.
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 it.
Lady R. Of thee I think not: what have I 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.
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, make a woman bold.

[Runs out. Lord R. Follow her, Anna; I myself would follow,

But in this rage she must abhor my presence.

[Exit ANNA. 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!

Lord R. Matilda?

Anna. Is no more :

She ran, she flew like lightning up the hill, Nor halted till the precipice she gain'd, Beneath whose low'ring top the river falls Ingulf'd in rifted rocks.

Oh, had you seen her last despairing look! Upon the brink she stood, and cast her eyes

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.

And her white hand: 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.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

Count BALDWIN.

BIRON.

BIRON'S Son.

CARLOS

VILLEROY,

MAURICE.

BELFORD.

Officer.

SAMPSON.

ISABELLA. Nurse.

ACT 1.

SCENE I-A Street.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS.

at last. That favour comes at once; and sometimes when we least expect it.

Vil. I shall be glad to find it so. [Going.] I'm going to visit her.

Car. What interest a brother-in-law can have with her, depend upon.

Vil. [Turns.] I know your interest, and I thank

you.

Car. You are prevented; see the mourner comes: She weeps, as seven years were seven hours; So fresh, unfading is the memory

Of my poor brother's, Biron's death;

I leave you to your opportunity. [Erit VILLEROY. Though I have taken care to root her from our house,

I would transplant her into Villeroy's-
There is an evil fate that waits upon her,
To which I wish him wedded - only him:
His upstart family, with haughty brow,

(Though Villeroy and myself are seeming friends,)
Looks down upon our house; his sister too,
Whose hand I ask'd, and was with scorn refused,
Lives in my breast, and fires me to revenge.

Vil. I have followed her these seven years, and now but live in hopes.

Car. But live in hopes! Why hope is the ready road, the lover's baiting place; and, for aught you know, but one stage short of the possession of your mistress.

Vil. But my hopes, I fear, are more of my own making than hers; and proceed rather from my wishes, than any encouragement she has given me. Car. That I can't tell the sex is very various: There are no certain measures to be prescribed or followed, in making our approaches to the women. All that we have to do, I think, is to attempt them in the weakest part. Press them but hard, and they will all fall under the necessity of a surrender

What serve the goods of fortune for? To raise My hopes, that you at last will share them with me. Isa. I must not hear you.

Vil. Thus, at this awful distance, I have served
A seven years' bondage. Do I call it bondage,
When I can never wish to be redeem'd?
No, let me rather linger out a life

Of expectation, that you may be mine,
Than be restored to the indifference

Of seeing you, without this pleasing pain:
I've lost myself, and never would be found,
But in these arms.

Isa. Oh, I have beard all this!

But must no more the charmer is no more: My buried husband rises in the face

Of my dear boy, and chides me for my stay:
Canst thou forgive me, child! [Embracing Child.
Vil. What can I say!

The arguments that make against my hopes
Prevail upon my heart, and fix me more;
When yet a virgin, free, and undisposed,
I loved, but saw you only with mine eyes;
I could not reach the beauties of your soul:
I have since lived in contemplation,
And long experience of your growing goodness:
What then was passion, is my judgment now,
Through all the several changes of your life,
Confirm'd and settled in adoring you.

Isa. Nay, then I must begone. If you are
friend,

If you regard my little interest,

No more of this.

I'm going to my father: he needs not an excuse To use me ill: pray leave me to the trial.

forget their acquaintances; especially such as we are never to be the better for.

[Going to shut the door.

Nurse appears at the door.

Nurse. Handsomer words would become you, and mend your manners, Sampson: do you know who you prate to?

Isa. I am glad you know me, Nurse.

Nurse. [Coming out.] Marry, Heav'n forbid, madam, that I should ever forget you, or my little jewel: pray go in. [ISABELLA ¿es in with her Child.] Now my blessing go along with you, wherever you go, or whatever you are about. Fie, Sampson, how could'st thou be such a Saracen? A Turk would have been a better Christian, than to have done so barbarously by so good a lady,

Samp. Why, look you, Narse, I know you of old: by your good will, you would have a finger in every body's pie, but mark the end on't: if I am called to account about it, I know what I have to say.

Nurse. Marry come up here; say your pleasure, and spare not. Refuse his eldest son's widow and poor child the comfort of seeing him? She does not trouble him so often.

You

Vil. I'm only born to be what you would have

me,

[Erit.

The creature of your power, and must obey,
In every thing obey you. I am going:
But all good fortune go along with you.
Isa. I shall need all your wishes-
[Crosses to Count BALDWIN's house.-Knocks.
Lock'd! and fast!

Where is the charity that used to stand
In our forefathers' hospitable days

At great men's doors,

Like the good angel of the family,
With open arms taking the needy in,

To feed and clothe, to comfort and relieve them?
Now even their gates are shut against the poor.
[Knocks again.

SAMPSON opens the door and comes out. Samp. Well, what's to do now, I trow? You knock as loud as if you were invited; and that's more than I heard of; but I can tell you, you may look twice about for a welcome in a great man's family, before you find it, unless you bring it along

with you.

Isa. I hope I bring my welcome along with me: Is your lord at home?

Samp. My lord at home!

Nurse. Why, I tell you, Sampson, more or less. I'll tell the truth, that's my way, you know, without adding or diminishing.

Samp. Aye, marry, Nurse.

Nurse. My lord's eldest son, Biron by name, the son of his bosom, and the son that he would have loved best, if he had as many as king Pyramus of Troy-this Biron, as I was saying, was a lovely sweet gentleman, and, indeed, nobody could blame his father for loving him: he was a son for the king of Spain; Heaven bless him, for I was his nurse. But now I come to the point, Sampson; this Biron, without asking the advice of his friends, hand over head, as young men will have their vagaries, not having the fear of his father before his eyes, as I may say, wilfully marries this Isa.

bella.

Samp. How, wilfully! he should have had her consent, methinks.

Nurse. No, wilfully marries her; and which was worse, after she had settled all her fortune upon a nunnery, which she broke out of to rou away with him. They say they had the church's forgiveness, but I had rather it had been his father's.

Samp. Why, in good truth, I think our young master was not in the wrong but in marrying without a portion.

Nurse. That was the quarrel, I believe, Sampson, upon this, my old lord would never see him: disinherited him; took his younger brother, Carlos, into favour, whom he never cared for before; and, at last, forced Biron to go to the siege of Candy, where he was killed.

have seen

Samp. Alas, poor lady; she has suffered for it; she has lived a great while a widow.

Nurse. A great while indeed, for a young woman, Sampson.

Samp. Gad so; here they come; I won't venture to be seen.

[They retire and confer in the back ground. Enter from the door Count BALDWIN, followed by ISABELLA and her Child.

C. Bald. Whoever of your friends directed you, Misguided and abused vou-There's your way: [Pointing to door.

What could you expect from me?

Isa. Oh, I have nothing to expect on earth!
But misery is very apt to talk :
I thought I might be heard.

C. Bald. What can you say?

Is there in eloquence, can there be in words,
A recompensing pow'r, a remedy,

A reparation of the injuries,

The great calamities, that you have brought

On me and mine? You have destroyed those hopes
I fondly raised, through my declining life,
To rest my age upon; and most undone me.
Isa. I have undone myself too.

C. Bald. Speak it again;

Say still you are undone; and I will hear you,
With pleasure hear you.

Isa. Would my ruin please you?

C. Bald. Beyond all other pleasures.

Isa. Then you are pleased-for I am most undone.
C. Bald. I pray'd but for revenge, and Heav'n
has heard,

And sent it to my wishes: these gray hairs
Would have gone down in sorrow to the grave,
Which you have dug for me, without the thought,
The thought of leaving you more wretched here.
Isa. Indeed I am most wretched-
I lost with Biron all the joys of life:
But now its last supporting means are gone.
All the kind helps that Heav'n in pity raised,
In charitable pity to our wants,

At last have left us: now bereft of all,
But this last trial of a cruel father,
To save us both from sinking. Oh, my child!
Kneel with me, knock at nature in his heart:

[Both kneel to him.
Let the resemblance of a once-loved son
Speak in this little one, who never wrong'd you,
And plead the fatherless and widow's cause.
Oh, if you ever hope to be forgiven,
As you will need to be forgiven too,
Forget our faults, that Heaven may pardon yours!
C. Bald. How dare you mention Heaven? Call
to mind

Your perjured vows; your plighted, broken faith
To Heav'n, and all things holy; were you not
Devoted, wedded to a life recluse,

The sacred habit on, profess'd and sworn,
A votary for ever? Can you think

The sacrilegious wretch, that robs the shrine,
Is thunder-proof?

Isa. There, there, began my woes.
Oh! had I never seen my Biron's face,
Had he not tempted me, I had not fall'n,
But still continued innocent and free
Of a bad world, which only he had pow'r
To reconcile, and make me try again.
C. Bald. Your own inconstancy
Reconciled you to the world:

He had no hand to bring you back again,

But what you gave him. Circe, you prevail'd
Upon his honest mind; and what he did
Was first inspired by you.

Isa. Not for myself-for I am past the hopes
Of being heard—but for this innocent-
And then I never will disturb you more.

C. Bald. I almost pity the unhappy child: But being yours

Isa. Look on him as your son's; And let his part in him answer for mim. Oh, save, defend him, save him from the wrongs That fall upon the poor!

C. Bald. It touches me

And I will save him.-[Snatches the Child': hand.] -But to keep him safe,

Never come near him more.

Isa. What! take him from me?

No, we must never part;-[Pulls the Child away from him.] 'tis the last hold

Of comfort I have left; and when he fails
All goes along with him: Oh! could you be
The tyrant to divorce life from my life?
I live but in my child.

No, let me pray in vain, and beg my bread
From door to door, to feed his daily wants,
Rather than always lose him.

C. Bald. Then have your child, and feed him with your prayers. Away!

Isa. Then Heaven have mercy on me!

[Exit, with Child. C. Bald. You rascal slave, what do I keep you for? How came this woman in ?

Samp. [Both advance.] Why, indeed, my lord, I did as good as tell her before, my thoughts upon

the matter

C. Bald. Did you so, sir? Now then tell her mine: tell her I sent you to her. There's one more to provide for. Begone, go all together. Take any road but this to beg or starve in, but never, never see me more. [Exit into his house.

[Exeunt SAMPSON and Nurse, weeping,

ACT II.

SCENE I.-The Street.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS.

Vil. My friend, I fear to ask-but IsabellaThe lovely widow's tears, her orphan's cries, Thy father must feel for them?—No, I read, I read their cold reception in thine eyesThou pitiest them-though Baldwin-but I spare him

For Carlos' sake; thou art no son of his. There needs not this to endear thee more to me. [Embrace

Car. My Villeroy, the fatherless, the widow,
Are terms not understood within these gates-
You must forgive him; sir, he thinks this woman
Is Biron's fate, that hurried him to death-

I must not think on't, lest my friendship stagger.
My friend's, my sister's mutual advantage,
Have reconciled my bosom to its task.
Vil. Advantage! think not I intend to raise
An interest from Isabella's wrongs.
Your father may have interested ends