hand, issues from the Castle, accompanied by two Maidens, and passes over the Stage. When she is gone, FLORIAN returns. Por. [Continues] 'Tis ever thus.

At break of morn, she hies to yonder abbey,
And prostrate o'er some monumental stone,
Seems more to wait her doom, than ask to shun it.
The day is past in minist'ring to wants
Of health or means; the closing eve beholds
New tears, new pray'rs, or haggard meditation.
But if cold moonshine, deepening every frown
Of these impending towers, invite her steps,
She issues forth.-Beshrew me, but I tremble,
When my own keys discharge the draw-bridge
chains,

And rattle through the castle's farmost vaults.
Then have I seen this sad, this sober mourner,
With frantic gesture and disordered step-
But hush-Who moves up yonder avenue?
It is-no-stay-i'faith! but it is he,
My lady's confessor, with friar Martin.
Quick, hie thee hence-should that same med-
dling monk

Observe our conf'rence, there were fine work toward.

Flor. You will not leave your tale unfinished?
For. Mass! but I will-a tale will pay no sti-
pend.

These fifty winters have I borne my staff,
And will not lose my porridge for my prating.
Flor. Well! but count Edmund-Wo't not
hear of him?

Por. Aye, bless his name! at any leisure hour.
This evening, ere the shutting of the gates,
Loiter about yon grange; I'll come to thee.
So now, begone-Away! [Exeunt severally.

Nay, not confession, not repeating o'er
Her darling sins, has any charms for her.
I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring
thought

Seems to steal meaning from her words-She prays,

Because she feels, and feels, because a sinner. Mart. What is this secret sin, this untold tale,

That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?
Loss of a husband, sixteen years enjoy'd,
And dead as many, could not stamp such sorrow.
Nor could she be his death's artificer,
And now affect to weep it-I have heard,
That chasing, as he homeward rede, a stag,

Chaf'd by the hounds, with sudden onset slew Th' adventurous count.

Ben. 'Twas so; and yet, my brother, My mind has more than once imputed blood To this incessant mourner. Beatrice, The damsel for whose sake she holds in exile Her only son, has never, since the night Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of. Mart. 'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongue

Accuse its owner.

Ben. Judge not rashly, brother.

I oft have shifted my discourse to murder:
She notes it not. Her muscles hold their place
Nor discomposed, nor firm'd to steadiness.
No sudden flushing, and no fault'ring lip:
Nor, though she pities, lifts she to her eyes
Her handkerchief, to pailiate her disorder.
There the wound rankles not. I've fix'd on
love,

The failure of the sex, and aptest cause
Of each attendant crime.-

Mart. Aye, brother, there

We master all their craft. Touch but that stringBen. Still, brother, do you err. She own'd

to me,

That, though of nature warm, the passion love
Did ne'er anticipate her choice. The count,
Her husband, so ador'd and so lamented,
Won not her fancy, till the nuptial rites
Had with the sting of pleasure taught her pas-

sion.

She mocks their fond credulity-but, trust me,
Her memory retains their colouring.
Oft times it paints her dreams; and ebon night
Is no logician. I have known her call

For lights, ere she could combat its impressions.
I too, though often scorn'd, relate my dreams,
And wond'rous voices heard; that she may think

me

At least an honest bigot; nor remember

I tried to practise on her fears, and, foil'd, Give o'er my purpose.

Mart. This is masterly.

Ben. Poor mastery! when I am more in awe Of my own penitent than she of me. My genius is command; art, but a tool, My grovelling fortune forces me to use. Oh! were I seated high as my ambition, I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs, And make them bow to creeds myself would laugh at.

Mart. By humbler arts our mighty fabric rose. Win power by craft; wear it with ostentation; For confidence is half security.

Deluded men think boldness conscious strength;
And grow the slaves of their own want of doubt.
Gain to the Holy See this fair domain;
A crimson bonnet may reward your toils,
And the rich harvest prove at last your own.
Ben. Never, while Edmund lives. This steady

That speaks in characters of glowing rose
Its modest appetites and timid wishes.
Her sex, she says, when gratified, are frail;
When check'd, a hurricane of boundless passions;
Then, with sweet irony and sad, she wills me
Ask my own breast, if cowls and scapularies
Are charms all powerful to subdue desire ?
Mart. 'Twere wiser school the maiden: lead
the train

Of young ideas to a fancied object.

A mental spouse may fill her hov'ring thoughts, And bar their fixing on some earthly lover.

Ben. This is already done-but Edmund's death

Were hopes more solid

Mart. First report him dead; His letters intercepted

Ben. Greatly thought!

Thou true son of the church!-and lo! where

comes

Our patroness-leave me; I will not lose An instant. I will sound her inmost soul, And mould it to the moment of projection. [Exit MARTIN. BENEDICT retires wila the castle.

SCENE IV.

Countess, two Maidens.

Coun. Haste thee, Maria, to the western tower,
And learn if the aged pilgrim dozes yet.
You, Elinor, attend my little orphans,
And, when their task is done, prepare their
breakfast.

But scant the allowance of the red-hair'd urchin,
That maim'd the poor man's cur.-Ah! happy
me!
[The damsels gom.
If sentiment, untutor'd by affliction,
Had taught my temperate blood to feel for others,
Ere pity, perching on my mangled bosom,
Like flies on wounded flesh, had made me shrink,
More with compunction than with sympathy!
Alas! must guilt then ground our very virtues!
Grow they on sin alone, and not on grace?
While Narbonne liv'd, my fully-sated soul
Thought none unhappy-for it did not think!
In pleasures roll'd whole summer-suns away;
And if a pensive visage cross'd my path,
I deem'd the wearer envious or ill-natur'd.
What anguish had I blessedly redressed,
But that I was too bless'd!-Well! peace is fed,
Ne'er to return! nor dare I snap the thread
Of life, while misery may want a friend.
Despair and hell must wait, while pity needs
My ministry-Eternity has scope
Enough to punish me, though I should borrow
A few short hours to sacrifice to charity.

Your pardon-but you scorn it. In your pride Consists your danger. Yours are Pagan virtues : As such I praise them-but as such condemn them.

Coun. Father, my crimes are Pagan; my belief
Too orthodox to trust to erring man.
What! shall I, foul with guilt, and self-con-
demn'd,

Presume to kneel, where angels kneel appall'd,
And plead a priest's certificate for pardon?
While he, perchance, before my blasted eyes
Shall sink to woes, endless, unutterable,
For having fool'd me into that presumption?
Ben. Is he to blame, trusting to what he
grants?

Coun. Am I to blame, not trusting what he grants?

Ben. Yet faith

Coun. I have it not-Why shakes my soul With nightly terrors? Courage such as mine Would start at nought but guilt. 'Tis from within I tremble. Death would be felicity, Were there no retrospect. What joys have I? What pleasure softens, or what friendship sooths My aching bosom?-I have lost my husband: My own decree has banish'd my own son.

Ben. Last night I dreamt your son was with
the blessed.

Coun. Would heaven he were!
Ben. Do you then wish his death?
Goun. Should I not wish him blest?
Ben. Belike he is :

I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.
Coun. Nor I knew superstition in the right.
Ben. Madam, I must no longer hear this lan-
guage;

You do abuse my patience. I have borne,
For your soul's health, and hoping your conver-

sion,

Opinions most deprav'd. It ill bescems
My holy function to give countenance,
By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.
The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head
May reach even me-I see it! I am wrapt
Beyond my bearing! my prophetic soul
Views the red falchion of eternal justice
Cut off your sentenc'd race-your son is dead!
Coun. Father, we no prophetic dæmon bear
Within our breast, but conscience. That has

Must drown my soul in woe.-Those tears are shed.

Ben. Unjust, uncharitable as your words, I pardon them. Illy of me you deem; I know it, lady. 'Tis humiliation: As such I bow to it-yet dear I tender Your peace of mind. Dismiss your worthless

servant:

His prayers shall still be yours.

Coun. Forgive me, father: Discretion does not guide my words. I meant No insult on your holy character.

Ben. No, lady; chuse some other monitor, Whose virtues may command your estimation. Your useless beadsman shall behold with joy A worthier man mediate your peace with heav'n. Coun. Alas! till reconcil'd with my own breast,

What peace is there for me!

Ben. In the neighb'ring district
There lives a holy man, whose sanctity
Is mark'd with wondrous gifts. Grace smiles
upon him;

Conversion tracks his footsteps: miracles
Spring from his touch; his sacred casuistry
Pours balm into despair. Consult with him.
Unfold the impenetrable mystery,

That sets your soul and you at endless discord.
Coun. Consult a holy man! inquire of him!
-Good father, wherefore? What should I in-
quire? †

Must I be taught of him, that guilt is woe?
That innocence alone is happiness?

That martyrdom itself shall leave the villain
The villain that it found him? Must I learn
That minutes stamp'd with crimes are past recall ?
That joys are momentary, and remorse
Eternal? Shall he teach me charms and spells,
To make my sense believe against my sense?
Shall I think practices and penances
Will, if he say so, give the health of virtue
To gnawing self-reproach ?—I know they cannot,
Nor could one risen from the dead proclaim
This truth in deeper sounds to my conviction.
We want no preacher to distinguish vice
From virtue. At our birth the God reveal'd
All conscience needs to know. No codicil
To duty's rubric here and there was plac'd
In some saint's casual custody. Weak minds
Want their soul's fortune told by oracles
And holy jugglers. Me, nor oracles,
Nor prophets, death alone can certify,
Whether, when justice's full dues exacted,
Mercy shall grant one drop to slake my torment.
-Here, father, break we off; you to your calling;
I to my tears and mournful occupation. [Exeunt.

13

Some taste of pleasure too, have chas'd the bloom Of ruddy comeliness, and stamp'd this face With harsher lineaments, that well may mock The prying of a mother's eye.-A mother, Through whose firm nerves tumultuous instinct's flood

Ne'er gush'd with eager eloquence, to tell her, This is your son! your heart's own voice proclaims him.

Flor. If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred.

Those jarring passions spring from the same

source;

Hate is distempered love.

Edm. Why should she hate me?

For that my opening passion's swelling ardour
Prompted congenial necessary joy,

Was that a cause?-Nor was she then so rigid.
No sanctified dissembler had possess'd
Her scar'd imagination, teaching her
That holiness begins where nature ends.
No, Florian; she herself was woman then,
A sensual woman. Nor satiety,
Sickness and age, and virtue's frowardness,
Had so obliterated pleasure's relish-
She might have pardon'd what she felt so well.
Flor. Forgive me, Edmund; nay, nor think I
preach,

If I, God wot, of morals loose enough,
Seem to condemn you. You have often told me,
The night, the very night that to your arms
Gave pretty Beatrice's melting beauties,
Was the same night on which your father died.
Edm. 'Tis true-and thou, sage monitor, dost
thou

Hold love a crime so irremissible?

Woudst thou have turn'd thee from a willing girl
To sing a requiem to thy father's soul?
I thought my mother busied with her tears,
Her faintings, and her masses, while I stole
To Beatrice's chamber.-How my mother
Became apprized, I know not: but her heart,
Never too partial to me, grew estranged.
Estrang'd!-aversion in its fellest mood
Scowl'd from her eye, and drove me from her
sight.

She call'd me impious: nam'd my honest lewd

And when I would have bath'd her hand with

tears,

She snatch'd it back with horror.

Flor. 'Twas the trick

Of over-acted sorrow. Grief fatigues;
And each collateral circumstance is seiz'd
To cheat th' uneasy feeling. Sable chambers,
The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe
Are but a specious theatre, on which
Th' inconstant mind with decency forgets
Its inward tribute. Who can doubt the love
Which to a father's shade devotes the son?

Ironically

Edw. Still must I doubt; still deem some mys
tery,

Beyond a widow's pious artifice,
Lies hid beneath aversion so relentless.
All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,
My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.
Chose she some second partner of her bed,
Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints,
And rogues that act contrition, it were proof
Of her hypocrisy, or lust of fame
In monkish annals. But to me her hand
Is bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,
Bating enjoyment of my native soil,
Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,
As if I held them by the strength of charters,
Flor. Why set them on the hazard then, when
she

Who deals them may revoke? Your absence hence

The sole condition.

Edm I am weary, Florian,
Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,
Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,
To lend my casual arm's approved valour
To quarrels, nor my country's nor my own!
To stain my sword with random blood!-I
fought

At Buda 'gainst the Turk-a holy war,
So was it deem'd-I smote the turban'd race:
Did zeal or did ambition nerve my blow?
Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domes
Whether the crescent or the cross prevail'd?
Mean time on alien climes I dissipated
Wealth from my subjects wrung, the peasant's

tribute,

Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laid My mould'ring castles-Yes, ye moss-grown walls!

Ye tow'rs defenceless! I revisit ye

Shame-stricken-Where are all your trophies

My friend, is just. But had I not a cause,
A teuder cause, that prompted my return?
This cruel parent, whom I blame, and mourn,
Whose harshness I resent, whose woes I pity,
Has won my love, by winning my respect.
Her letters! Florian; such unstudied strains
Of virtuous eloquence! She bids me, yes,
This praying Magdalene enjoins my courage
To emulate my great forefathers' deeds:
Tells me, that shame and guilt alone are mor-
tal;

That death but bars the possibility
Of frailty, and embalms untainted honour.
Then blots and tears efface some half-told woe
Lab'ring in her full bosom. I decypher'd
In one her blessing granted, and eras'd.
And yet what follow'd mark'd anxiety
For my soul's welfare. I must know this riddle.
I must, will comfort her. She cannot surely,
After such perils, wounds by her command
Encounter'd, after sixteen exil'd years,
Spurn me, when kneeling-Think'st thou 'tis
possible?

Flor. I would not think it; but a host of
priests

Surround her. They, good men, are seldom found

To plead the cause of pity. Self-denial,

Whose dissonance from nature's kindest laws
By contradicting wins on our perverseness,
Is rank fanaticism's belov'd machine.
Oh! 'twill be heroism, a sacrifice,

To curb the torrent of maternal fondness!
You shall be beggar'd, that the saint your mo-
ther

May, by cowl'd sycophants and canting jugglers, Be hail'd, be canoniz'd a new Teresa.

Pray be not seen here: let's again to the wars. Edm. No, Florian; my dull'd soul is sick of

riot,

Sick of the thoughtless jollity of camps, Where revelry subsists on desolation,

And shouts of joy contend with dying groans. Our sports are fleeting; snatch'd, perhaps not granted.

'Tis time to bid adieu to vagrant pleasure, And fix the wanderer love. Domestic bliss

Flor. Yes, your fair pensioner, young Adeliza, Has sober'd your inconstancy. Her smiles Were exquisite to rule a family! [Ironically. So matron-like an air-She must be fruitful.

Edm. Pass we this levity-'Tis true, the
maiden

Is beauty's type renew'd. Like blooming Eve
In nature's young simplicity, and blushing
With wonder at creation's opening glow,
She charms, unknowing what it is to charm.
Flor. This is a lover's language-Is she kind?
Edm. Cold as the metal bars that part her from
me;

She listens, but replies not to my purpose.
Flor. How gain'd you then admittance?
Edm. This whole month,

While waiting your arrival, I have haunted
Her convent's parlour. 'Tis my mother's wish
To match her nobly. Hence her guardian abbess
Admits such visitors as claim her notice
By worthy bearing and convenient splendour.
O Florian, union with that favour'd maiden
Might reconcile my mother--Hark! What sound---
[A chapel bell rings.
Flor. A summons to some office of devotion.
My lord, weigh well what you project--

[Singing within.

Edm. I hear Voices that seem approaching--hush! they sing. Listen!

Flor. No; let us hence: you will be known. Edm. They cannot know me-see!

Throne of justice! lo! we bend,
Thither dure our hopes ascend,
Where seraphs, wrapt in lightning rays
Dissolve in mercy's tender blaze.

Hear us! harmless orphans hear!
For her who dries our falling tear.
Hush her sorrows: calin her breast i
Give her, what she gives us, rest.
Guard our spotless souls from sin !
Grant us virtue's palm to win!
Cloath the penitent with grace;
And guilt's foul spots efface! efface!

Edm. I'll speak to them.

Sweet children--or thou sanctified conductor,