What is your boast ?-Would you, like me, have And let me hint the only way to keep it.
To free a captive wife, or save a son? Rather than run such danger of your lives, You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives. When with your noblest deeds a nation rings, You are but puppets, and we play the strings. We plan no battles-true-but those of sight, Crack goes the fan, and armies halt or fight! You have th' advantage, ladies, wisely reap it,
Let men of vain ideas have their fill,"
Frown, bounce, stride, strut,-while you, with happy skill,
Like anglers, use the finest golden thread; Give line enough-nor check the tugging head: The fish will flounder-you with gentle hand, And soft degrees, must bring the trout to land: A more specific nostrum cannot be- Probatum est-and never fails with Me.
SCENE I.—MATILDA's Tent, with a View of the | The flowery path, that tempts our wandering
distant Country.
MATILDA, BERTHA.
Thy honour and thy life.
Mat. I told thee truth. Beneath my father's hospitable roof I spent my earlier, happier days, in peace And safety: When the Norman conqueror came, Discord, thou know'st, soon lit her fatal torch, And spread destruction o'er this wretched land, The loyal Ranulph flew to William's aid, And left me to a faithful peasant's care, Who lived, sequestered, in the fertile plains Of rich Northumbria: There, awhile, I dwelt In sweet retirement, when the savage Malcola Rushed on our borders.
Ber. I remember well
The melancholy hour. Confusion raged On every side, and desolation spread Its terrors round us. How didst thou escape? Mat. A crew of desperate ruffians seized upon
A helpless prey: For, O! he was not there, Who best could have defended his Matilda. Then had I fallen a wretched sacrifice To brutal rage, and lawless violence, Had not the generous Morcar interposed
To save me: Though he joined the guilty cause Of foul rebellion, yet his soul abhorred Such violation. At his awful voice, The surly ruffians left me, and retired. He bore me, half expiring, in his arms, Back to his tert; with every kind attention There strove to sooth my griefs, and promised,
As fit occasion offered, to restore me To my afflicted father.
Ber. Something, sure,
Was due to generous Morcar for his aid, So timely given.
Mat. No doubt: But mark what followed. In my deliverer, too soon I found
An ardent lover, sighing at my feet.
Ber. And what is there the proudest of our sex Could wish for more? To be the envied bride Of noble Morcar, first of England's peers In fame and fortune.
Mat. Never trust, my Bertha,
To outward shew. 'Tis not the smiles of fortune, The pomp of wealth, or splendour of a court, Can make us happy. In the mind alone Rests solid joy, and true felicity, Which I can never taste: For, oh, my friend! A secret sorrow weighs upon my heart. Ber. Then pour it in the bosom of thy friend; Let me partake it with thee.
Know, then, for nought will I conceal from thee, I honour Mercia's earl, revere his virtues, And wish I could repay him with myself: But, blushing, I acknowledge it, the heart His vows solicit, is not mine to give.
Ber. Has, then, some happier youth— Mut. Another time
I'll tell thee all the story of our loves. But, oh, my Bertha! didst thou know to whom My virgin faith is plighted, thou wouldst say I am, indeed, unhappy.
The noble Edwin! Often have I heard My father
Mat. Did lord Edrick know him, then? Ber. He knew his virtues, and his fame in arms, And often would lament the dire effects Of civil discord, that could thus dissolve The ties of nature, and of brethren make The bitterest foes. If right I learn, lord Edwin Is William's firmest friend, and still supports His royal master.
Mat. Yes, my Bertha, there
I still find comfort: Edwin ne'er was stained, As Morcar is, with foul disloyalty,
But stands betwixt his sovereign and the rage Of rebel multitudes, to guard his throne. If, nobly fighting in his country's cause, My hero falls, I shall not weep alone; The king, he loved and honoured, will lament him,
And grateful England mix her tears with mine. Ber. And doth earl Morcar know of Edwin's love?
Mat. Oh, no! I would not, for a thousand worlds,
He should suspect it, lest his fiery soul Should catch the alarm, and kindle to a flame, That might destroy us all.
Ber. I know his warmth
And vehemence of temper; unrestrained By laws, and spurning at the royal power, Which he contemns, he rules despotic here.
Mat. Alas! how man from man, and brother oft
From brother, differs! Edwin's tender passion Is soft and gentle, as the balmy breath Of vernal zephyrs; whilst the savage north, That curls the angry ocean into storms, Is a faint image of earl Morcar's love: 'Tis rage, 'tis fury all. When last we met, He knit his angry brow, and frowned severe Upon me; then, with wild distracted look, Bade me beware of trifling with his passion, He would not brook it-trembling I retired, And bathet my couch in tears.
But time, that softens every human woe, Will bring some blest event, and lighten thine. Mat. Alas! thou know'st not what it is to
Haply thy tender heart hath never felt The tortures of that soul-bewitching passion. Its joys are sweet and poignant; but its pangs Are exquisite, as I have known too well: For, oh, my Bertha ! since the fatal hour When Edwin left me, never hath sweet peace, That used to dwell, with all its comforts, here, E'er deigned to visit this afflicted breast.
Ber. Too plain, alas! I read thy sorrows; grief Sits in sad triumph on thy faded cheek, And half obscures the lustre of thy beauties.
Mat. Talk not of beauty, 'tis our sex'an, And leads but to destruction. I abhor The fatal gift. Oh! would it had pleased Heaven To brand my homely features with the spark Of foul deformity, or let me pass
Unknown, and undistinguished from the herd Of vulgar forms, save by the partial eye Of my loved Edwin; then had I been blest With charms unenvied, and a guiltless love. Ber. Where is thy Edwin now? Mat. Alas! I know not.
'Tis now three years, since last these eyes beheld Their dearest object. In that humble vale, Whence, as I told thee, Malcolm's fury drove me, There first we met. Oh! how I cherish still The fond remembrance! There we first exchanged
Our mutual vows; the day of happiness Was fixt; it came, and in a few short hours He had been made indissolubly mine, When fortune, envious of our happiness, And William's danger, called him to the field. Ber. And since that parting have ye never met?
Mat. O never, Bertha, never but in thought. Imagination, kind anticipator
Of love's pleasures, brings us oft together. Oft as I sit within my lonely tent,
And cast my wishful eyes o'er yonder plain, In every passing traveller I strive
To trace his image, hear his lovely voice In every sound, and fain would flatter me Edwin still lives, still loves his lost Matilda.
Ber. Who knows but fate, propitious to thy love,
May guide him hither?
Mut. Gracious heaven forbid! Consider, Bertha, if the chance of war Should this way lead him, he must come in arms Against his brother: Oh! 'tis horrible
To think on. Should they meet, and Edwin fall, What shall support me? And if victory smiles Upon my love, how dear will be the purchase By Morcar's blood! Then must I lose my friend, My guardian, my protector-every way Matilda must be wretched.
Mean time, One hope remains, the generous Siward-he Might save me still. His sympathetic heart Can feel for the afflicted.-I have heard, (Such is the magic power of sacred friendship) When the impetuous Morcar scatters fear And terror round him, he, and he alone, Can stem the rapid torrent of his passion, And bend him, though reluctant, to his will- And see, in happy hour, he comes this way. Now fortune, be propitious! if there be, As I have heard, an eloquence in grief, And those can most persuade, who are most wretched,
I shall not pass unpitied.
Matilda! What new grief, what cruel foe To innocence and beauty, thus could vex Thy gentle spirit!
Mat. Canst thou ask the cause, When thou behold'st me still in shameful bonds, A wretched captive, friendless and forlorn, Without one ray of hope to sooth my sorrows?
Sia. Can she, whose beauteous form and fair demeanour
Charm every eye, and conquer every heart, Can she be wretched? can she want a friend, Whom Siward honours, and whom Morcar loves! Oh! if thou knew'st with what unceasing ardour, What unexampled tenderness and truth, He doats upon thee, sure thou might'st be wrought At least to pity.
Mat. Urge no more, my lord,
The ungrateful subject; but too well I know How much thy friend deserves, how much, alas, I owe him!-If it be earl Morcar's wish To make me happy, why am I detained A prisoner here; spite of his solemn promise He would restore me to my royal master, Or send me back to the desiring arms Of the afflicted Ranulph, who, in tears Of bitterest anguish, mourns his long-lost daugh ter?
Surely, my lord, it ill becomes a soldier To forfeit thus his honour and his word.
Siw. I own it; yet the cause pleads strongly
If, by thy own too powerful charms misled, He deviates from the paths of rigid honour, Matilda might forgive. Thou know'st he lives But in thy smiles; his love-enchanted soul Hangs on those beauties, he would wish to keep For ever in his sight.
Mat. Indulgent Heaven
Keep me for ever from it! Oh, my lord! If e'er thy heart with generous pity glowed For the distressed; if e'er thy honest zeal Could boast an influence o'er the man you love: Oh! now exert thy power, assist, direct, And save thy friend from ruin and Matilda. There are, my lord, who most offend, where most They wish to please. Such often is the fate Of thy unhappy friend, when he pours forth His ardent soul in vows of tenderest passion; 'Tis with such rude and boisterous violence, As suits but ill the hero or the lover.
Siw. I know his weakness, know his follies all, And feel them but too well: He loves with tran
With such a sweet contrition, as would melt The hardest heart to pity and forgiveness. Oh! he has virtues that may well atone For all his venial rashness, that deserve A sovereign's love, and claim a nation's praise; Virtues, that merit happiness and thee. Why wilt thou thus despise my noble friend? His birth and fortune, with the rank he bears Among the first of England's peers, will raise thee As far above thy sex, in wealth and power, As now thou art in beauty.
"Tis not the pride, the luxury of life, The splendid robe and glittering gem, that knits The lasting bonds of mutual happiness: Where manners differ, where affections jar, And will not kindly mix together, where The sweet harmonious concord of the mind Is wanting, all is misery and woe.
Siw. By Heaven! thou plead'st thy own and virtue's cause,
With such bewitching eloquence, the more Thy heart, alarmed by diffidence, still urges Against this union with my friend, the more I wish to see him blest with worth like thine. Mat. My lord, it must not be; for grant him all The fair perfections you already see, And I could wish to find, there is a bar That must for ever disunite us-Born Of Norman race, and from my earliest years Attached to William's cause, I love my king, And wish my country's peace: That king, my lord,
Whom Morcar wishes to dethrone; that peace, Which he destroys: Had he an angel's form, With all the virtues that adorn his sex, With all the riches fortune can bestow, I would not wed a traitor.
Siw. Call not his errors by so harsh a name; He has been deeply wronged, and souls, like his, Must feel the wounds of honour, and resent them.
Alas! with thee I weep my country's fate, Nay wish, perhaps, as well to William's cause, And England's peace, as can the loyal daughter Of gallant Ranulph; and would, therefore, joy To see Matilda lend a gracious ear
To Morcar's suit. Thy reconciling charms Might sooth his troubled soul, might heal the
Of bleeding England, and unite us all In one bright chain of harmony and love. The gallant Edwin too-
Mat. Ha! what of him?
Know'st thou that noble youth?
Siw. So many years
Have past since last we met, by different views And our unhappy feuds so long divided, I should not recollect him; but report Speaks loudly of his virtues. He, no doubt, If yet he lives
Mat. Yet lives! why, what, my lord? Siw. You seem much moved.
Mat. Forgive me, but whene'er
This sad idea rises to my mind,
Of brother against brother armed, my soul Recoils with horror.
Siw. 'Tis a dreadful thought:
Would I could heal that cruel breach! but then, Thou might'st do much; the task is left for thee. Mat. For me? Alas! it is not in my power. Siw. In thine, and thine alone. O think, Matilda!
How great thy glory, and how great thy praise, To be the blessed instrument of peace;
The band of union 'twixt contending brothers. Thou see'st them, now, like two descending floods, Whose rapid torrents meeting, half o'erwhelm The neighbouring plains: thy gentle voice might still
The angry waves, and bid their waters flow, In one united stream, to bless the land.
Mat. That flattering thought beams comfort
Amidst my sorrows; bear me witness, Heaven! Could poor Matilda be the happy means Of reconcilement; could these eyes behold The noble youths embracing and embraced In the firm cords of amity and love, Oh! it would make me ample recompense For all my griefs, nor would I more complain, But rest me in the silent grave, well pleased To think, at last, I had not lived in vain.
Siw. Cherish that virtuous thought, illustrious maid!
And let me hope my friend may still be happy. Mat. I wish it from my soul: but see, my
Earl Morcar comes this way, with hasty steps, Across the lawn. I must retire: farewell! You'll not forget my humble suit.
I will do all that loveliest innocence And worth, like thine, deserve. Farewell: mean time,
Remember, Siward's every wish, the bliss Of Morcar, Edwin's life, the public peace, And England's welfare, all depend on thee. [Exit MATILDA.
There's no alternative but this; my friend Must quit Matilda, or desert the cause We have lavishly promised to support-perhaps The last were best-both shall be tried-he
Enter MORCAR.
Mor. O Siward! was not that
The fair Matilda, whom you parted from? Siw. It was.
Mor. What says she! the dear, cruel maid Is she still deaf? inexorable still?
Siw. You must not think of her. Mor. What say'st thou, Siward? Not think of her!
Siw. No. Root her from thy heart, And gaze no more. I blush to see my friend So lost to honour: Is it for a man
On whom the fate of England may depend,
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