Virginia. Do you go from me! Do you leave! Father! father! Virginius. No, my child! No, my Virginia-come along with me. Virginia. Will you not leave me? Will

you take me with you?

Will you take me home again? Oh, bless you, bless you!

My father! my dear father! Art thou not My father?

[Virginius, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously around the Forum; at length his eye falls on a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it.]

Virginius. This way, my child--No, no! I am not going

To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave thee.

App. Keep back the people, soldiers!

Let them not

[back! Approach Virginia. Keep the people [Virginius secures the knife. Well, have you done? Virginius. Short time for converse, Appius;

But I have.

A week, a day, an hour! Grant but such respite

As the poor sentenced criminal may claim
When he craves time for prayer. -Oh, go
not yet!
Not yet! not yet!

Albert.

Is this the soft relenting Of woman's tender heart to all whom pain Or danger threaten? Didst thou thus

implore

Henry of Cassel? or the gentle boy, Young Rudolf of Thuringia?

Nor turn away thy head, nor snatch thy hand

From mine! They knew the peril that

they braved,

And they would brave that peril. Canst

thou blame me

That I ne'er loved afore? that I love now? Oh, go not, Albert?

Albert.

Lady I am bound By a strong fettering vow.-If I return This hand is mine?

Cunigunda. Ay, hand and heart. Yet

go not!

Beseech thee, stay with me!

Albert.

'Thou art wholly mine?

When I come back

Cunigunda. Ay, ay. But go not yet! Albert. Mine to dispose even as I will? Cunigunda.

Even as thou wilt.

awhile! Stay! stay!

Ay, dearest,

But stay with me

[Exit Albert.

He'll perish.

Ernest. I beheld the manèged steed Ascend the steep and narrow stair; a steed Of Araby, light-limbed and fine, with eyes Of living fire half starting from his slim And veiny head; a hot and mettled steed; Yet trained to such obedience, that each motion

Of the swift foot seemed guided by the will Of the bold rider, even as they had been One and incorporate. If man may achieve This perilous deed, the Falcon Knight alone

Cunigunda. Ernest, thou shalt have lands enow to make

Thyself a belted knight! Now blessings on thee

That bring'st me hope!-But Edith, Gertrude, Otto,

Why come they not? I could have won to Prague

And back, in half the time. Why come they not?

Good tidings find swift messengers. Alas!
I fear, I fear !

Ernest. Shall I go seek them?
Cunigunda.

No.

So blest before! The Falcon Knight is mine,

Mine own, and I am his. Oh, thanks to Heaven!

Now, ye that called my vow cruel and rash, What say ye now?

Ernest.

Alas! dear lady, still grieve for them that

Cunigunda. Talk not of them. Think What were a thousand such as they, compared

With the bold Falcon Knight!-Editha, Gertrude,

Albert will come to claim his bride; wipe off These blistering tears, braid this dishevelled hair,

Adjust my wimple and my veil; - my knight

Will come to claim his bride.

Enter Sir Albert and a Page.
He comes! away!

I was a fool to think of vanity.
He will not love his Cunigunda less
That she hath lain on the stone floor in

When he's cooler, bid Thy comrade, Jerome, ride him back to Prague.

Bring thou another courser straight. The

day

Wears on. Cunigunda. Albert. Cunigunda.

A word for Cunigunda? Dost thou stand There, like some breathing marble in thy

cold,

Stern, haughty beauty, mute and motionless,

With arms close-folded and down-gazing

eyes,

No thought for Cunigunda, not a word For her whom thou hast won, not even a

look?

Dost thou not claim me, Albert?

Talk of thy stately charms! At Ida's side Thou would'st show coarse and sunburnt, as the brown

And rugged elm beside the shining beech. Ay, shrink and tremble! hide thy burning cheeks

Within thy quivering hands !-Wilt thou hear more ?

This lovely loving wife, my three years' bride,

And twice a mother, -oh, none ever bent With such a grace as she o'er sleeping babes,

Nor ever youthful mother bent o'er babes So like the Cherubim !-This wife, so fair, So sweet, so womanly, whose pitying heart Would ache to see a sparrow die, this wife I love.

Cunigunda. Why, then-oh, cruel!

Albert.

Dar'st thou talk Of cruelty, proud murderess, whose meed For true love hath been death? Whose sinful vow

Slew the most gracious boy of all the earth, The hope and pride and joy of his high

line

Young Rudolf of Thuringia, my dear brother,

My dear and only brother?
Ernest.

'Tis Duke Albert ! Yet pity her! See how she smites her brow,

And tears her raven hair!

Albert. Where was her pity When that fair boy-Murderess, 'tis Rudolf's brother

That speaks to thee, When first I heard that tale,

Several revenges-deadly, bloody, fierce,
All that the body can endure of keen
And lengthened agony, the rack, the
wheel

Rufus. Where are the lords?

Tyrrel. Gone past your grace, bareheaded,

And falling in the rear.

Rufus.

Well, prick them on. I care but little for the chase to-day, Although the scent lies sweetly. To knock down

My paling is vexatious. We must see Our great improvements in this forest; what

Of roads blockt up, of hamlets swept away, Of lurking dens called cottages, and cells,

And hermitages. Tyrrel! thou didst right And dutifully, to remove the house

Of thy forefathers. 'Twas an odd request To leave the dovecote for the sake of those Flea-bitten blind old pigeons. There it stands !

But, in God's name! what mean these hives? the bees

May sting my dogs.

Tyrrel. They hunt not in the summer. Rufus. They may torment my fawns. Tyrrel. Sir! not unless Driven from their hives; they like the flowers * much better.

Rufus. Flowers! and leave flowers too? Tyrrel. Only some half-wild, In tangled knots; balm, clary, marjoram. Rufus. What lies beyond this close briar hedge, that smells

Through the thick dew upon it, pleasantly? Tyrrel. A poor low cottage: the dry marl-pit shields it,

And, frail and unsupported like itself,

cottage!

Only a poor low cottage! where, I ween,
A poor low maiden blesses Walter Tyrrel.
Tyrrel. It may be so.
Rufus.
No; it may not be so.
My orders were that all should be removed;
And, out of special favour, special trust
In thee, Sir Walter, I consigned the care
Into thy hands, of razing thy own house
And those about it; since thou hast
another

Fairer and newer, and more lands around. Tyrrel. Hall, chapel, chamber, cellar, turret, grange,

Are level with the grass.
Rufus.

What negligence

To leave the work then incomplete, when little [and start Was there remaining! Strip that roof, Thy petty game from cover. Tyrrel.

Command not this!

Rufus.

Oh, my liege!

Make me no confidant

Tyrrel. Nor you, my liege, nor any: None such hath Walter Tyrrel. Thou'rt at bay; Thou hast forgotten thy avowal, man! Tyrrel. My father's house is (like my father) gone;

But in that house, and from that father's heart

Mine grew into that likeness, and held thence

Its rich possessions--God forgive my boast!
He bade me help the needy, raise the low-
Rufus. And stand against thy king!
Tyrrel.
How many yokes
Of oxen, from how many villages
For miles around, brought I, at my own
charge,

To bear away the rafters and the beams
That were above my cradle at my birth,
And rang when I was christened to the

Is the churchyard thou speakest of?

Tyrrel. Among Yon nettles; we have levelled all the graves. Rufus. Right! or our horses might have stumbled on them.

Tyrrel. Your grace oft spares the guilty; spare the innocent!

Rufus. Up from the dew! thy voice is hoarse already.

Tyrrel. Yet God hath heard it. It entreats again,

Once more, once only; spare this wretched house.

Rufus. No, nor thee neither.

Tyrrel. Speed me, God! and judge O Thou! between the oppressor and opprest!

[He pierces Rufus with an arrow.