Direct and clear; else I will reach thy soul. Anna. Permit me, ever honoured! Keen impatience,

Though hard to be restrained, defeats itself.
Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue,

To the last hour that thou didst keep the child,
Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak

my shame;

Within the cradle where the infant lay,

Was stowed 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 es-
tate,

We left the country, travelled to the north, Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth

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 remained the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness loved the boy,
Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth,
With his own secret: but my anxious wife,
Foreboding evil, never would consent.
Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and beauty;
And, as we oft observed, 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 talked of war and arms.
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
name?

Pris. My name is Norval; and my name he
bears.

Lady R. 'Tis he! 'tis he himself! It is my
son!

Oh, sovereign mercy! 'Twas my child I saw !
No wonder, Anna, that my bosom burned.
Anna. Just are your transports: ne'er was

woman's heart

The child I rescued from the flood is thine. Lady R. With thee dissimulation now were vain;

I am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm;
The child thou rescued from the flood is mine.
Pris. Blest be the hour that made me a poor
man!

My poverty has saved my master's house!
Lady R. Thy words surprise me: sure thou
dost not feign!

The tear stands in thine eye; such love from thee

Sir Malcolm's house deserve not; if aright
Thou told'st the story of thy own distress.

Pris. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the

flower;

The fastest 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 Heaven 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

Depends the fate of thy loved master's house.
Rememb'rest thou a little lonely hut,
That like a holy hermitage appears
Among the cliffs of Carron?"

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 saved
The son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir.
Remember well my words; if thou should'st meet
Him whom thou call'st thy son, still call him so;
And mention nothing of his nobler father.

Pris. Fear not that I shall mar so fair an har

To their right owner, whom in haste he seeks. 'Tis meet that you should put him on his way, Since your mistaken zeal has dragged him hither.

[Exeunt Stranger and Servants. My faithful Anna! dost thou share my joy? I know thou dost. Unparallelled event! Reaching from heaven to earth, Jehovah's arm Snatched from the waves, and brings to me my son!

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
Of the young eaglet of a valiant nest?

How soon he gazed on bright and burning arms, Spurned the low dunghill where his fate had thrown him,

And towered up to the region of his sire!

Anna. How fondly did your eyes devour the boy!

Mysterious nature, with the unseen cord
Of powerful instinct, drew you to your own.
Lady R. The ready story of his birth believed
Supprest 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.
For, if a cherub in the shape of woman
Should walk this world, yet defamation would,
Like a vile cur, bark at the angel's train.
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,

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 their valour conquers:
To win a country, or to lose themselves.

Lady R. But whence comes this intelligence,
Glenalvon?

Glen. A nimble courier, sent from yonder
camp,

To hasten up the chieftains of the north, Informed me, as he passed, that the fierce Dane Had on the eastern coast of Lothian landed, Near to that place where the sea-rock immense, Amazing Bass, looks o'er a fertile land.

Lady R. Then must this western army march

to join

The warlike troops that guard Edina's towers?
Glen. Beyond all question. If impairing time
Has not effaced the image of a place,
Once perfect in my breast, there is a wild
Which lies to westward of that mighty rock,
And seems by nature formed for the camp
Of water-wafted armies, whose chief strength
Lies in firm foot, unflanked with warlike horse:
If martial skill directs the Danish lords,
There inaccessible their army lies
To our swift-scouring horse; the bloody field
Must man to man, and foot to foot be fought.

Lady R. How many mothers shall bewail their

sons!

How many widows weep their husbands slain! Ye dames of Denmark, even for you I feel, Who, sadly sitting on the sea-beat shore, Long look for lords that never shall return.

Glen. Oft has the unconquered Caledonian sword

Widowed the north. The children of the slain Come, as I hope, to meet their fathers' fate.

With jealousy disordered. But the more

It does behove me instant to declare
The birth of Douglas, and assert his rights.
This night I purpose with my son to meet,
Reveal the secret, and consult with him:
For wise he is, or my fond judgment errs.
As he does now, so looked his noble father,
Arrayed in Nature's ease: his mein, his speech,
Were sweetly simple, and full oft deceived
Those trivial mortals who seem always wise,
But, when the matter matched his mighty mind,
Up rose the hero; on his piercing eye
Sat observation; on each glance of thought
Decision followed, as the thunderbolt
Pursues the flash.

Anna. That demon haunts you still :
Behold Glenalvon.

Lady R. Now I shun him not.

This day I braved him in behalf of Norval:

Loud-yelling fury and life-ending pain,
Are objects suited to Glenalvon's soul.
Scorn is mere grievous than the pains of death:
Reproach more piercing than the pointed sword.
Lady 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,
And be the echo of thy martial fame.
No longer vainly feed a guilty passion:
Go and pursue a lawful mistress, Glory.
Upon the Danish crests redeem thy fault,
And let thy valour be the shield of Randolph.
Glen. One instant stay, and hear an altered

man.

When beauty pleads for virtue, vice, abashed, Flies its own colours, and goes o'er to virtue.

I am your convert; time will shew how truly:
Yet one immediate proof I mean to give.
That youth, for whom your ardent zeal, to-day,
Somewhat too haughtily defied your slave,
Amidst the shock of armies I'll defend,
And turn death from him, with a guardian's arm.
Sedate by use, my bosom maddens not
At the tumultuous uproar of the field.
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. [solus.] Amen! and virtue is its own
reward!

I think that I have hit the very tone
In which she loves to speak. Honeyed assent,
How pleasant art thou to the taste of man,
And woman also! flattery direct

Barely 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 lulled awhile; 'tis her alone I fear;
Whilst she and Randolph live, and live in faith
And amity, uncertain is my tenure.
Fate o'er my head suspends disgrace and death,
By that weak air, a peevish female's will.
I am not idle; but the ebbs and flows
Of fortune's tide cannot be calculated.
That slave of Norval's I have found most apt :
I shewed him gold, and he has pawned his soul
To say and swear whatever I suggest.
Norval, I'm told, has that alluring look,
'Twixt man and woman, which I have observed
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.

SCENE I.-Flourish of trumpets. Enter Lord RANDOLPH attended. Lord R. SUMMON an hundred horse, by break of day,

To wait our pleasure at the castle gate.

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 resolved 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 lodged 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 Danish 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 dying lord.

[Exit.

Lady R. Men's minds are tempered, 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-embittered age.
Where is our gallant guest?

Lord R. Down in the vale

I left him, managing a fiery steed,

Whose stubbornness had foiled 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. Non Small is the skill my lord delights to praise

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 lived: a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wandering swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,

Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms,

I went to see him, and my heart was touched
With reverence 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 displayed
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleased 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 shewed his wounds, he would 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 marshalled hosts;
Described the motions, and explained the use,
Of the deep column, and the lengthened 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
hide

Those qualities, that should have graced a camp?

Nor. That too at last I learned.

man!

Unhappy

Returning homeward by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
A rude and boisterous captain of the sea
Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
The stranger fell, and, with his dying breath,
Declared his name and lineage. Mighty power!
The soldier cried, my brother! Oh, my bro-
ther!

Lady R. His brother!

Nor. Yes; of the same parents born; His only brother. They exchanged forgiveness: And happy, in my mind, was he that died; For many deaths has the survivor suffered. 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 loved brother's ghost; And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch, To make sad orisons for him he slew.

Lady R. To what mysterious woes are mortals born!

In this dire tragedy were there no more
Unhappy persons? Did the parents live?

plume!

Bravest of men! his flocks and herds are safe;
Remote from war's alarms his pastures lie,
By mountains inaccessible secured :
Yet foremost he into the plain descends,
Eager to bleed in battles not his own.
Such were the heroes of the ancient world;
Contemners they of indolence and gain ;
But still, for love of glory and of arms,
Prone to encounter peril, and to lift,
Against each strong antagonist, the spear.
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?
Blessed 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 sustained a prouder for

tune.

This way with me; under yon spreading beech, Unseen, unheard, by human eye or ear,

I will amaze thee with a wond'rous tale.

Nor. Let there be danger, lady, with the se

cret,

That I may hug it to my grateful heart,

closed their eyes,

life:

These are the sole possessions of poor Norval.
Lady R. Know'st thou these gems?

Nor. Durst I believe mine eyes,

I would say I knew them, and they were my father's.

Lady R. Thy father's, say'st thou? Ah, they were thy father's!

red

Oh, tell me farther? 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!

Liker the dove's; and, as he pleased, he won All hearts with softness, or with spirit awed.

Nor. How did he fall? Sure 'twas a bloody field

When Douglas died. Oh, I have much to ask! Lady R. Hereafter thou shalt hear the lengthened 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.
But thou shalt not be wronged; I have the power
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

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 con

stant woe,

Weeping her husband slain, her infant lost.
Nor. You, that are skilled 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 loved.
Oh, tell me who, and where, my mother is!
Oppressed 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 woes-
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. But did my sire surpass the rest of men, As thou excellest all of womankind?

Lady R. Arise, my son. In me thou dost be-
hold

The poor remains of beauty once admired.
The autumn of my days is come already,
For sorrow made my suminer haste away;
Yet in my prime I equalled not thy father:

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!
The noblest blood of all the land's abashed,
Having no lacquey but pale poverty.

Too long hast thou been thus attended, Douglas,
Too long hast thou been deemed a peasant's

child.

The wanton heir of some inglorious chief,
Perhaps, has scorned thee in the youthful sports,
Whilst thy indignant spirit swelled 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 chiefs 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 concealed he lies, An 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 grieved my heart. Nor. Has he, indeed? Then let yon false Gle

nalvon Beware of me!

[Exit.

Lady R. There burst the smothered flame. Oh, thou all-righteous and eternal King! Who Father of the fatherless art called, Protect my son! Thy inspiration, Lord!