How couldst thou kill what waves and tem
Pris. I am not so inhuman.
Pris. Bless'd be the hour that made me a poor man;
My poverty hath sav'd my master's house! The needy man who has known better days, Lady R. Thy words surprise me: sure thou One whom distress has spited at the world, Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon To do such deeds as make the prosperous men Lift up their hands, and wonder who could do them.
And such a man was I: a man declin'd,
Who saw no end of black adversity:
Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not
Have touch'd that infant with a hand of harm.
Lady R. Ha! dost thou say so! then per-
haps he lives!
Pris. Not many days ago he was alive.
Lady R. Oh, God of heav'n! did he then
die so lately?
Pris. I did not say he died; I hope he lives.
Not many days ago these eyes beheld
Him flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty.
Lady R. Where is he now?
Pris. Alas! I know not where.
Lady R. Oh, fate! I fear thee still.
riddler, speak
The tear stands in thine eye; such love from
thee
Sir Malcolm's house deserv'd not; if aright
Thou told'st the story of thy own distress.
Pris. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the
flower;
The safest friend, the best, the kindest master.
But ah! he knew not of my sad estate.
After that battle, where his gallant son,
Your own brave brother fell, the good old lord
Grew desperate and reckless of the world;
And never, as he erst was wont, went forth
To overlook the conduct of his servants.
By them I was thrust out, and them I blame :
May heav'n so judge me as I judge my master!
And God so love me as I love his race!
Lady R. His race shall yet reward thee.
On thy faith
Thou Depends the fate of thy lov'd master's house.
Rememb'rest thou a little, lonely hut,
That like a holy hermitage appears
Among the cliffs of Carron?
Direct and clear; else I will search thy soul.
Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must
speak my shame;
Within the cradle where the infant lay,
Was stow'd a mighty store of gold and jewels;
Tempted by which, we did resolve to hide,
From all the world this wonderful event,
And like a peasant breed the noble child.
That none might mark the change of our estate,
We left the country, travelled to the north,
Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought
forth
Pris. I remember the cottage of the cliffs.
Lady R. 'Tis that I mean:
There dwells a man of venerable age,
Who in my father's service spent his youth:
Tell him I sent thee, and with him remain,
Till I shall call upon thee to declare,
Before the king and nobles, what thou now
To me hast told. No more but this, and thou
Shalt live in honour all thy future days!
Thy son so long shall call thee father still,
And all the land shall bless the man who sav'd
The son of Douglas, and sir Malcolm's heir.
Remember well my words; if thou shouldst
Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye
Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore:
For, one by one, all our own children died,
And he, the stranger, sole remain'd the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness lov'd the boy,
Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth, And mention nothing of his nobler father.
With his own secret: but my anxious wife,
Foreboding evil, never would consent.
Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and
beauty;
Him, whom thou call'st thy son, still call him
Pris. Fear not that I shall mar so fair a
harvest,
By putting in my sickle ere 'tis ripe.
Why did I leave my home and ancient dame?
To find the youth, to tell him all I knew,
And make him wear these jewels on his arm;
Which might, I thought, be challeng'd, and
so bring
And, as we oft observ'd, he bore himself,
Not as the offspring of our cottage blood;
For nature will break out: mild with the mild,
But with the froward he was fierce as fire;
And night and day he talk'd of war and arms. To light the secret of his noble birth.
I set myself against his warlike bent;
But all in vain; for when a desperate band
Of robbers from the savage mountains came-
Lady R. Eternal Providence! What is thy
Lady R. 'Tis he! 'tis he himself! It is my son!
[Lady Randolph goes towards the Servants.
Lady R. This man is not the assassin you suspected,
Though chance combin'd some likelihood
against him.
He is the faithful, bearer of the jewels
To their right owner, whom in haste he seeks.
'Tis meet that you should put him on his way,
Since your mistaken zeal hath dragg'd him
Oh, sovereign mercy! 'twas my child I saw!
Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear,
Have of your words and gestures rightly judg'd,
[Exeunt Prisoner and Servants.
Thou art the daughter of my ancient master; My faithful Anna! dost thou share my joy?
The child I rescu'd from the flood is thine. I know thou dost. Unparallel'd event!
Lady R. With thee dissimulation now Reaching from heav'n to earth, Jehovah's arm
Snatch'd from the waves, and brings me to
my son!
I am indeed the daughter of sir Malcolm;
The child thou rescu'dst from the flood is Judge of the widow, and the orphan's father, Accept a widow's and a mother's thanks
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,
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
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
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.
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:
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 haughtily 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 Ludy 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,
Twixt 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.
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.
Lady R. How many mothers shall bewail To wait our pleasure at the castle gate.
SCENE I.-Flourish of Trumpets.
Enter LORD RANDOLPH, attended.
Lord R. Summon a hundred horse, by break
of day,
How many widows weep 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,
Loud-yelling 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
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'come news;
The Danes are landed.
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 forsaken; 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 camp? nish host! Nor. That too at last I learn'd. Unhappy
Lord R. Were it as numerous as loud fame
Returning homewards by Messina's port,
An army knit like ours would pierce it through: Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
Brothers that shrink not from each other's side, A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
And fond companions, fill our warlike files: Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought:
For his dear offspring, and the wife he loves, The stranger fell, and with his dying breath
The husband, and the fearless father arm: Declar'd his name and lineage. Mighty pow'r!
In vulgar breasts heroic ardour burns, The soldier cried, My brother! Oh, my brother!
And the poor peasant mates his daring lord. Lady R. His brother!
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
Nor. Yes; of the same parents born;
His only brother. They exchang'd forgiveness;
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 banks,
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind,
Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;
And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,
To make sad orisons for him he slew.
Lady R. In this dire tragedy were there no
Offi. My lord, the trumpets of the troops of Lorn!
The valiant leader hails the noble Randolph. Lord R. Mine ancient guest! Does he the warriors lead?
Has Denmark rous'd the brave old knight to arms?
Offi. No; worn with warfare, he resigns 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,
Now leads his kindred bands.
Lord R. Glenalvon, go;
With hospitality's most strong request
Entreat the chief.
[Exit Glenaloon.
Offi. My lord, requests are vain.
He urges on, impatient of delay,
Stung with the tidings of the foe's approach,
Lord R. May victory sit upon the warrior's
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against the usurping infidel display'd
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,
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:
For all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.
Lord R. Why did this soldier in a desert
plume!
Bravest of men! his flocks and herds are safe;
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 Officer.
Lady R. The soldier's loftiness, the pride
and pomp,
Investing awful war, Norval, I see,
Transport thy youthful mind.
Nor. Ah! should they not?"
Bless'd be the hour I left my father's house!
I might have been a shepherd all my days,
And stole obscurely to a peasant's grave.
Now, if I live, with mighty chiefs I stand;
And, if I fall, with noble dust I lie.
Lady R. There is a generous spirit in thy breast,
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 lengthen'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
But I was check'd, and more could never learn. Lady R. Then learn of me-thou art not Norval's son.
Nor. Not Norval's son?
Lady R. Nor of a shepherd sprung.
Nor. 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 right thee still. Before the king I'll kneel, 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,
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
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
Bewail 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,
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?
Enter LORD RANDOLPH and GLENALvon.
Lord R. Yon gallant chief,
Of arms enamour'd, all repose disclaims.
Lady R. Be not, my lord, by his example
sway'd.
Arrange the business of to-morrow now,
And when you enter, speak of war no more.
[Exit.
Lord R. 'Tis so, by heav'n! her mien, her
voice, her eye,
And her impatience to be gone, confirm it.
Glen. He parted from her now. Behind the
mount,
Amongst the trees, I saw him glide along. Lord R. For sad sequester'd virtue she's renown'd.
Glen. Most true, my lord,
Lord R. Yet this distinguish'd dame
Invites a youth, the acquaintance of a day,
Alone to meet her at the midnight hour.
This assignation [Shows a Letter] the assas-
sin freed,
Her manifest affection for the youth,
Might breed suspicion in a husband's brain,
Whose gentle consort all for love had wedded:
Much more in mine. Matilda never lov'd me.
Let no man, after me, a woman wed,
Whose heart he knows he has not, though
she brings
A mine of gold, a kingdom for her dowry.
For let her seem, like the night's shadowy queen,
Cold and contemplative-he cannot trust her;
She may, she will, bring shame and sorrow
on him;
The worst of sorrows, and the worst of shames!
Glen. Yield not, my lord, to such afflicting
thoughts,
But let the spirit of a husband sleep,
Till your own senses make a sure conclusion.
This billet must to blooming Norval go:
At the next turn awaits my trusty spy;
I'll give it him refitted for his master.
In the close thicket take your secret stand;
The moon shines bright, and your own eyes
may judge
Of their behaviour.
Lord R. Thou dost counsel well.
Glen. Permit me now to make one slight
essay;
Of all the trophies, which vain mortals boast,
By wit, by valour, or by wisdom won,
The first and fairest in a young man's eye
Is woman's captive heart. Successful love
With glorious fumes intoxicates the mind,
And the proud conqueror in triumph moves,
Air-borne, exalted above vulgar men.
Lord R. And what avails this maxim?
Glen. Much, my lord.
Withdraw a little; I'll accost young Norval,
And with ironical derisive counsel
Explore his spirit. If he is no more
Than humble Norval, by thy favour rais'd,
Brave as he is, he'll shrink astonish'd from me:
Lov'd by the first of Caledonia's dames,
He'll turn upon me, as the lion turns
Upon the hunter's spear.
Lord R. "Tis shrewdly thought.
Glen. When we grow loud, draw near.
But let my lord
[Exit Randolph.
His rising wrath restrain.
'Tis strange, by heaven!
That she should run full tilt her fond career
To one so little known. She, too, that seem'd
Pure as the winter stream, when ice, emboss'd,
Whitens its course. Even I did think her chaste,
Whose charity exceeds not. Precious sex!
Whose deeds lascivious pass Glenalvon's
thoughts!
His port I love: he's in a proper mood
To chide the thunder, if at him it roar'd.-
[Aside.
Has Norval seen the troops?
Nor. The setting sun
With yellow radiance lighten'd all the vale;
And as the warriors mov'd, each polish'd helm,
Corslet, or spear, glanc'd back his gilded beams.
The hill they climb'd, and, halting at its top,
Of more than mortal size, tow'ring, they seem'd
A host angelic, clad in burning arms.
Glen. Thou talk'st it well; no leader of our
host
In sounds more lofty speaks of glorious war.
Nor. If I shall e'er acquire a leader's name,
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful ad-
Vents itself freely; since no part is mine
Of praise pertaining to the great in arms.
Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir, your
martial deeds
Have rank'd you with the great. Bụt mark
me, Norval:
Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth
Above his veterans of famous service.
Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you.
Give them all honour: seem not to command;
Else they will scarcely brook your late sprung
Which nor alliance props, nor birth adorns.
Nor. Sir, I have been accustom'd all my days
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth:
And though I have been told, that there are men
Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their
Yet in such language I am little skill'd.
Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel,
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind
Me of my birth obscure? Why slur my power
With such contemptuous terms?
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!-
|