Classic Poem

Doug. See that the traitor instantly be seiz'd,
And strictly watch'd; let none have access to him.
O jealousy, thou aggregate of woes!
Were there no hell, thy torments would create one.
But yet she may be guiltless — may! she must.
How beautiful she look'd! pernicious beauty!
Yet innocent, as warm, seem'd the sweet blush
That mantled on her cheek. But not for me,
But not for me those breathing roses blow!
And when she wept — what! can I bear her tears!
Well — let her weep — her tears are for another;
O did they fall for me, to dry their streams
I'd drain the choicest blood that feeds the heart,
Nor think the drops I shed were half so precious.

Raby. Sure I mistake — Am I in Raby castle?
Impossible! that was the seat of smiles;
There cheerfulness and joy were household gods.
I used to scatter pleasures when I came,
And every servant shar'd his lord's delight.
But now suspicion and mistrust preside,
And discontent maintains a sullen sway.
Where is the smile unfeign'd, the jovial welcome,
Which cheer'd the sad, beguil'd the pilgrim's pain,
And made dependency forget its bonds?
Where is the ancient, hospitable hall,
Whose vaulted roof once rung with harmless mirth!
Where every passing stranger was a guest,
And every guest a friend? I fear me much,
If once our nobles scorn their rural seats,
Their rural greatness, and their vassal's love,
Freedom and English grandeur are no more.
Doug. My lord, you are welcome.
Raby. Sir, I trust I am;
But yet, methinks, I shall not feel I'm welcome,
Till my Elwina bless me with her smiles:
She was not wont with lingering step to meet me,
Or greet my coming with a cold embrace;
Now I extend my longing arms in vain,
My child, my darling, does not come to fill them.
O they were happy days when she would fly
To meet me from the camp, or from the chase,
And with her fondness overpay my toils!
How eager would her tender hands unbrace
The ponderous armour from my war-worn limbs,
And pluck the helmet which oppos'd her kiss!
Doug. O sweet delights that never must he mine!
Raby. What do I hear?
Doug. Nothing: inquire no farther,
Raby. My lord, if you respect an old man's peace:
If e'er you doted on my much-lov'd child,
As 'tis most sure you made me think you did;
Then, by the pangs which you may one day feel,
When you, like me, shall be a fond, fond father,
And tremble for the treasure of your age,
Explain what this alarming silence means!
You sigh, yet do not speak; nay, more, you hear not!
Your labouring soul turns inward on itself,
As there were nothing but your own sad thoughts
Deserv'd regard. Does my child live?
Doug. She does.
Raby. To bless her father!
Doug. And — to curse her husband!
Raby. Ah! have a care, my lord; I'm not so old —
Doug. Nor I so base that I should tamely bear it;
Nor am I so inured to infamy,
That I can say without a burning blush,
She lives to be my curse.
Raby. How's this?
Doug. I thought
The illy op'ning to the heav'n's soft dews,
Was not so fragrant, and was not so chaste.
Raby. Has she prov'd otherwise? I'll not believe it.
Who has traduced my sweet, my innocent child?
O she's too good to 'scape calumnious tongues.
Detraction ever loves a lofty mark;
It saw her soar a flight above her fellows,
And hurl'd its arrow to her glorious height,
To reach her heart, and bring her to the ground.
Doug. Had the rash tongue of slander so presumed,
My vengeance had not been of that slow sort,
To need a prompter; nor should any arm,
No not a father's, dare dispute with mine
The privilege to die in her defence.
None dare accuse Elwina, but —
Raby. But who?
Doug. But Douglas.
Raby. You? O spare my age's weakness!
You do not know what 'tis to be a father,
You do not know, or you would pity me
The thousand tender throbs, the nameless feelings,
The dread to ask, and yet the wish to know,
When we adore and fear; but wherefore fear?
Does not the blood of Raby fill her veins?
Doug. Percy! — know'st thou that name?
Raby. How! what of Percy?
Doug. He loves Elwina, and, my curses on him!
He is belov'd again.
Raby. I'm on the rack!
Doug. Not the two Theban brothers bore each other
Such deep, such deadly hate, as I and Percy.
Raby. But tell me of my child.
Doug. As I and Percy!
When at the marriage rites, O rites accurs'd!
I suiz'd her trembling hand, she started back;
Cold horror thrill'd her veins, her tears flow'd fast.
Fool that I was, I thought 'twas maiden fear.
Dull, dating ignorance! beneath those terrors,
Hatred for me, and love for Percy, lurk'd.
Raby. What proof of guilt is this?
Doug. E'er since our marriage
Our days have still been cold and joyless all;
Painful restraint, and hatred ill disguis'd,
Her sole return for all my waste of fondness. —
This very morn I told her 'twas your will
She should repair to court. With all those graces,
Which first subdued my soul, and still enslave it,
She begg'd to stay behind in Raby castle,
For courts and cities had no charms for her.
Curse my blind love! I was again insnar'd,
And doated on the sweetness which deceiv'd me.
Just at the hour she thought I should be absent,
(For chance could ne'er have timed their guilt so well,)
Arriv'd young Harcourt, one of Percy's knights,
Strictly enjoin'd to speak to none but her:
I seiz'd the miscreant; hitherto he's silent,
But tortures soon shall force him to confess.
Raby. Percy is absent — They have never met.
Doug. At what a feeble hold you grasp for succour?
Will it content me that her person's pure?
No; if her alien heart dotes on another,
She is unchaste, were not that other Percy.
Let vulgar spirits basely wait for proof,
She loves another — that's enough for Douglas.
Raby. Be patient.
Doug. Be a tame convenient husband?
And meanly wait for circumstantial guilt?
No — I am nice as the first Caesar was,
And start at bare suspicion.
Raby. Douglas, hear me;
Thou hast nam'd a Roman husband; if she's false,
I mean to prove myself a Roman father.
This marriage was my work, and thus I'm punish'd!

El. Where is my father? let me fly to meet him;
O let me clasp his venerable knees,
And die of joy in his belov'd embrace.
Raby. Elwina!
El. And is that all? so cold?
Raby. Elwina!
El. Then I'm undone indeed! How stern his looks!
I will not be repuls'd, I am your child,
The child of that dear mother you ador'd;
You shall not throw me off; I will grow here,
And, like the patriarch, wrestle for a blessing.
Raby. Before I take thee in these aged arms,
Press thee with transport to this beating heart,
And give a loose to all a parent's fondness,
Answer, and see thou answer me as truly
As if the dread inquiry came from heav'n —
Does no interior sense of guilt confound thee?
Canst thou lay all thy naked soul before me?
Can thy unconscious eye encounter mine?
Canst thou endure the probe, and never shrink?
Can thy firm hand meet mine, and never tremble?
Art thou prepar'd to meet the rigid judge?
Or to embrace the fond, the melting father?
El. Mysterious heav'n! to what am I reserv'd?
Raby. Should some rash man, regardless of thy fame,
And in defiance of thy marriage vows,
Presume to plead a guilty passion for thee,
What wouldst thou do?
El. What honour bids me do.
Raby. Come to my arms!
El. My father!
Raby. Yes, Elwina,
Thou art my child — thy mother's perfect image.
El. Forgive these tears of mingled joy and doubt;
For why that question? who should seek to please
The desolate Elwina?
Raby. But if any
Should so presume, canst thou resolve to hate him,
Whate'er his name, whate'er his pride of blood,
Whate'er his former arrogant pretensions?
El. Ha!
Raby. Dost thou falter? Have a care, Elwina.
El. Sir, do not fear me; am I not your daughter?
Raby. Thou hast a higher claim upon thy honour;
Thou art Earl Douglas' wife.
El. I am indeed!
Raby. Unhappy Douglas!
El. Has he then complain'd?
Has he presum'd to sully my white fame?
Raby. He knows that Percy —
El. Was my destin'd husband;
By your own promise, by a father's word;
And by a tie more strong, more sacred still,
Mine, by the fast, firm bond of mutual love.
Raby. Now, by my fears, thy husband told me truth.
El. If he has told thee that thy only child
Was forc'd, a helpless victim to the altar;
Torn from his arms who had her virgin heart,
And forc'd to make false vows to one she hated,
Then, I confess, that he has told thee truth.
Raby. Her words are barbed arrows in my heart.
But 'tis too late Thou hast appointed Harcourt
To see thee here by stealth in Douglas' absence.
El. No, by my life! nor knew I till this moment
That Harcourt was return'd. Was it for this
I taught my heart to struggle with its wrongs?
Was it for this I bore my woes in silence?
When the fond ties of early love were broken,
Did my weak soul break out in fond complaints?
Did I reproach thee? Did I call thee cruel?
No — I endur'd it all; and wearied Heaven
To bless that father who destroy'd my peace.

Mes. My lord, a knight, Sir Hubert as I think,
But newly landed from the holy wars,
Entreats admittance.
Raby. Let the warrior enter.
All private interests sink at his approach;
Ye selfish cares, he for a moment banish'd!
I've now no child; my country claims me all.
El. Weak heart, be still, for what hast thou to fear?

Raby. Welcome; thou gallant knight, Sir Hubert, welcome!
Welcome to Raby Castle! — In one word,
Is the king safe? Is Palestine subdued?
Sir Hub. The king is safe, and Palestine subdued.
Raby. Blest be the god of armies! Now, Sir Hubert,
By all the saints, thou'rt a right noble knight!
O why was I too old for this crusade?
I think it would have made me young again,
Could I, like thee, have seen the hated Crescent
Yield to the Christian cross. How now, Elwina!
What! cold at news which might awake the dead!
If there's a drop in thy degenerate veins
That glows not now, thou art not Raby's daughter.
It is religion's cause, the cause of heav'n!
El. When policy assumes religion's name,
And wears the sanctimonious garb of faith,
Only to colour fraud and license murder,
War then is tenfold guilt.
Raby. Blaspheming girl!
El. 'Tis not the crosier, nor the poatiff's robe.
Nor outward show, nor form of sanctity,
Nor Palestine destroy'd, nor Jordan's banks
Delug'd with blood of slaughter'd infidels,
No, nor th' extinction of the Eastern world,
Nor all the wild, pernicious, bigot rage
Of mad crusades, can bribe that Pow'r, who sees
The motive with the act. O, blind to think
Fanatic wars can please the Prince of peace!
He who erects his altar in the heart,
Abhors the sacrifice of human blood,
And hates the false devotion of that zeal
Which massacres the world he died to save.
Raby. O impious rage! If thou wouldst shun my carse,
No more, I charge thee. Tell me, good Sir Hubert,
Say, have our arms achieved this glorious deed,
I fear to ask, without much Christian bloodshed?
El. Now Heaven support me!
Sir Hub. My good lord of Raby,
Imperfect is the sum of human glory!
Would I could tell thee that the field was won
Without the death of such illustrious knights,
As makes the high-flush'd cheek of victory pale.
El. Why should I tremble thus?
Raby. Whom have we lost?
Sir Hub. The noble Clifford, Walsingham, and Grey.
Sir Harry Hastings, and the valiant Pembroke.
All men of choicest note.
Raby. O, that my name
Had been enroll'd in such a list of heroes!
If I was too infirm to serve my country,
I might have prov'd my love by dying for her.
El. Were there no more?
Sir Hub. But few of noble blood.
But the brave youth who gain'd bright glory's palm;
The flower of knighthood, and the plume of war,
Who bare its banner foremost in the field,
Yet conquer'd more by mercy than the sword,
Was Percy.
El. Then he lives?
Raby. Did he? Did Percy?
O, gallant youth, then I'm thy foe no more;
Who conquers for my country is my friend!
His fame shall add new glories to a house,
Where never maid was false, nor knight disloyal.
Sir Hub. You do embalm him, lady, with your tears:
They grace the grave of glory where he lies.
He died the death of honour.
El. Saidst thou — died?
Sir Hub. Beneath the towers of Solyma he fell.
El. Oh!
Sir Hub. Look to the lady.
Raby. Gentle knight, retire —
'Tis an infirmity of nature in her.
She ever mourns at any tale of blood;
She will he well anon — meantime, Sir Hubert,
You'll grace our castle with your friendly sojourn.
Sir Hub. I must return with speed — health to the lady!
Raby. Look up, Elwina. Should her husband come!
Yet she revives not.

Doug. Ha! — Elwina fainting?
My lord, I fear you have too harshly chid her.
Her gentle nature could not brook your sternness.
She wakes, she stirs, she feels returning life.
My love!
El. O, Percy!
Doug. Do my senses fail me?
El. My Percy, 'tis Elwina calls.
Doug. Hell, hell!
Raby. Retire awhile, my daughter.
El. Douglas here?
My father and my husband! — O, for pity.

Doug. Now, now confess she well deserves my vengeance!
Before my face to call upon my foe!
Raby. Upon a foe who has no power to hurt thee.
Earl Percy's slain.
Doug. I live again. But hold —
Did she not weep? She did, and wept for Percy.
If she laments him, he's my rival still,
And not the grave can bury my resentment.
I can be jealous of the dead.
Raby. No more.
The truly brave are still the truly gen'rous;
Now, Douglas, is the time to prove thee both.
If it be true that she did once love Percy,
Thou hast no more to fear, since Percy's dead.
Release young Harcourt, let him see Elwina,
'Twill serve a double purpose, 'twill at once
Prove Percy's death, and thy unchang'd affection.
Be gentle to my child, and win her heart
By confidence and unreproaching love.
Doug. By Heav'n, thou counsel'st well: it shall be done.
Go, set him free, and let him have admittance
To my Elwina's presence.
Raby. Farewell, Douglas.
Show thou believ'st her faithful, and she'll prove so.
Doug. Northumberland is dead — that thought is peace!
Her heart may yet be mine; transporting hope!
Percy was gentle, ev'n a foe avows it,
And I'll be milder than a summer's breeze.
Yes, thou most lovely, most ador'd of women!
I'll trace each virtue, copy every grace,
Of my bless'd rival, happier in his death
To be thus lov'd, than living to be scorn'd.