SCENE I.-Matilda's tent, with a view of the Earl Morcar loves me. To the generous mind
distant country.
MATILDA, BERTHA.
The heaviest debt is that of gratitude,
When 'tis not in our power to repay it.
Ber. Oft have I heard thee say, to him thon
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 Malcolm
Rushed on our borders.
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 tent; with every kind attention
There strove to soothe 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-
Mat. 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.
Ber. Could Matilda
Bestow the treasure of her heart on one Unworthy of her choice?
Mat. Unworthy! No.
I glory in my passion for the best,
The loveliest of his sex. Oh! he was all
That bounteous nature, prodigal of charms,
Did on her choicest favourite e'er bestow.
His graceful form, and sweet deportment, spoke
The fairer beauties of his kindred soul,
Where every grace and every virtue shone.
But thou wilt tremble, Bertha, when I tell thee,
He is earl Morcar's brother.
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
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 bathed 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 love,
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's bane,
And leads but to destruction. I abhor
The fatal gift. Oh! would it had pleased Heaven
To brand my homely features with the mark
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
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,
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 soothe my sorrows?
Siw. 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 mightst 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
for him.
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.
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 transport,
And hates with fury. Warmed with fierce desire,
Or strong resentment, his impetuous soul
Is hurried on, till reason quits her seat,
And passion takes the loosely-flowing rein;
Then all is rage, confusion, and despair.
And yet, when cool reflection hath removed
The veil of error, he will weep his faults
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.
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, Ma-
tilda!
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,
Siw. By Heaven! thou plead'st thy own and In one united stream, to bless the land.
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 soothe his troubled soul, might heal the
wounds
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. 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 froin my soul: but see, my
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,
To quit the dangerous post, where duty calls,
And all the business of the war, to sigh
And whine in corners for a captive woman?
Resume the hero, Morcar, and subdue
This idle passion.
Mor. Talk not thus of love,
The great refiner of the human heart,
The source of all that's great, of all that's good;
Of joy, of pleasure—if it be a weakness,
It is a weakness, which the best have felt:
I would not wish to be a stranger to it.
Siw. Let me entreat thee, if thou valuest life, Or fame, or honour, quit Matilda.
I thank you for your counsel. 'Tis the advice
Of cold unfeeling wisdom, kindly meant
To make me prudent, and to leave me wretched:
But thus it is, that proud exulting health
Is ever ready to prescribe a cure
For pain and sickness, which it never knew.
Siw. There, too, thou err'st; for I have known
its joys
And sorrows too. In early life, I lost
The partner of my soul. E'er since that hour,
I bade adieu to love, and taught my soul
To offer her devotions at the shrine
Of sacred friendship; there my vows are paid:
Morcar best knows the idol of my worship.
Mor. I know and love thee for it: but Oh!
my friend,
I cannot force this tyrant from my breast;
E'en now I feel her here, she sits enthroned
Within the foldings of my heart, and he,
Who tears her thence, must draw the life-blood from me.
My morning slumbers, and my midnight dreams, Are haunted by Matilda.
Whilst I have life, or power, I will not see
Matilda wronged.
Mor. You are her champion, then,
It seems, her favoured, happy friend, perhaps
Her fond admirer, too. Ill-fated Morcar!
I see it but too well. I am lost, abandoned;
Alike betrayed by friendship, and by love.
I thank you, sir, you have performed your office,
And merit your reward.
Did I for this desert my sovereign's cause,
My peaceful home, and all its joys, to serve
Ungrateful Morcar? Why did I rebel?
The haughty William never injured me.
For thee alone I fought, for thee I conquered;
And, but for thee, long since I had employed
My gallant soldiers to a nobler purpose,
Than loitering, thus, in idle camp, to hear
A love-sick tale, and soothe a madman's phrenzy.
Mor. You could? Away, and leave me, then:
withdraw
Your boasted aid, and bid Northumbria's sons
Bend to the tyrant's yoke, whilst I alone
Defend the cause of freedom, and my country.
Here let us part. Remove your loiterers,
And join the usurper.
Sia. Mark the difference, now,
Betwixt blind passion and undaunted friendship:
You are impatient of the keen reproof,
Because you merit: I can bear it all,
Because I've not deserved it.
Of. Good my lords, Forgive this rough intrusion; but the danger, I trust, will plead my pardon. As I watched From yonder tower, a dusky cloud appeared, As if from distant troops advancing; soon I saw their armour glitter in the sun; With rapid motion they approached; each mo
We must expect them here.
Siw. Why, let them come! Already I have ordered fit disposal
Of all our little force. Away, good Osmond, Be silent and be ready. [Exit officer.
I will enjoy the glorious prize; she's mine,
By right of conquest, mine. I will assert
A victor's claim, and force her to be happy.
Siw. That must not be. It ill becomes the
man,
Who takes up arms against a tyrant's power,
To adopt a tyrant's maxims; force and love
Are terms, that never can be reconciled.
You will not, must not do it.
Mor. Must not! who
Shall dare oppose me?
Siw. Honour, conscience, love,
Thou art as welcome to thy Siward's breast,
As dear as ever. When the man I love
Walks in the paths of error, I reprove hin
With honest freedom; but when danger comes
Upon him, I forget his faults, and flee
With all a lover's ardour to his rescue ;
His sorrows and his wants alone remembered,
And all his follies buried in oblivion.
Mor. Thou hast disarmed me now.
pierces more
Than all the bitter poison of reproach,
Which thou hast poured upon me. Oh! 'twas
The sense of shame, your virtue, and your friend. Against the sacred majesty of friendship,
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