The Mysterious Mother

Front matter

THE

MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

A

Preface

T Author of the following Tragedy is so far from thinking it worthy of being offered to the Public, that he has done every thing in his power to prevent the publication—in vain. It is solely to avoid its being rendered still worse by a surreptitious edition, that he is reduced to give it from his own copy. He is sensible that the subject is disgusting, and by no means compensated by the execution. It was written several years ago; and to prevent the trouble of reading it, or having it transcribed, a few copies were printed and given away. One or two have been circulated, and different editions have been advertised, which occasion the present publication. All the favour the Author soli- cits or expects, is, to be believed how unwillingly he has submitted to its appearance: he cannot be more blamed than he blames himself for having undertaken so disagreeable a story, and for having hazarded the publicity by letting it go out of his own hands. He respects the judgment of the Public too much to offer to them voluntarily what he does not think deserves their approbation.

April 29, 1781.

Persons

PERSONS.

COUNTESS of Narbonne.

Count EDMUND, her Son.

FLORIAN, his Friend.

ADELIZA, an Orphan.

|BENEDICT, | Friars.

MARTIN,

PETER, Porter of the Castle.

|MARIA, | Damsels attending the Countess. Mutes.

ELINOR,

Chorus of Orphans.

Chorus of Friars.

|

The Scene lies at the Castle of Narbonne; partly on a Platform before the Gate, partly in a Garden within the Walls.

Act I, Scene I.

THE

MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

A

TRAGEDY.

ACT the FIRST.

SCENE I.

A Platform before the Castle.

<>FLORIAN. What awful silence! How these antique towers And vacant courts chill the suspended soul, Till expectation wears the cast of fear; And fear, half-ready to become devotion, Mumbles a kind of mental orison, It knows not wherefore. What a kind of being Is circumstance! I am a soldier, and were yonder battlements Garnish'd with combatants, and cannon-mounted, My daring breast would bound with exultation, And glorious hopes enliven this drear scene.

Now dare not I scarce tread to my own hearing, Lest echo borrow superstition's tongue, And seem to answer me, like one departed. I met a peasant, and enquir'd my way: TheItalianv1ch9The carle, not rude of speech, but like the tenant Of some night-haunted ruin, bore an aspect Of horror, worn to habitude. He bade God bless me; and pass'd on. I urg'd him farther: Good master, cried he, go not to the castle; There sorrow ever dwells, and moping misery. I press'd him yet—None there, said he, are welcome, But now and then a mass-priest, and the poor; To whom the pious Countess deals her alms, On covenant, that each revolving night They beg of heav'n the health of her son's soul And of her own: but often as returns The twentieth of September, they are bound Fast from the midnight watch to pray till morn.— More would he not disclose, or knew not more. —What precious mummery! Her son in exile, She wastes on monks and beggars his inheritance, For his soul's health! I never knew a woman But lov'd our bodies or our souls too well. Each master whim maintains its hour of empire, And obstinately faithful to its dictates, With equal ardour, equal importunity, They teaze us to be damn'd, or to be sav'd. I hate to love or pray too long.

Act I, Scene II.

SCENE II.

PORTER of the Castle, FLORIAN.

<>PORTER. Methought I heard a ftranger's voice—What lack you, sir?

<>FLORIAN. Good fellow, who inhabits here?

<>PORTER. I do.

<>FLORIAN. Belike this castle is not thine.

<>PORTER. Belike so But be it whose it may, this is no haunt For revellers and gallants—pass your way.

<>FLORIAN. Thou churl! Is this your Gallic hospitality? Thy lady, on my life, would not thus rudely Chide from her presence a bewilder'd knight.

<>PORTER. Thou know'st my lady then!—Thou know'st her not. Canst thou, in hair-cloths vex those dainty limbs? Canst thou on reeking pavements and cold marble, In meditation pass the livelong night? Canst mortify that flesh, my rosy minion, And bid thy rebel appetite refrain From goblets foaming wine, and costly viands? These are the deeds, my youngster, must draw down My lady's ever-heav'n-directed eye.

<>FLORIAN. In sooth, good friend, my knighthood is not school'd In voluntary rigours—I can fast, March supperless, and make cold earth my pillow, When my companions know no choicer fare. But seldom roost in churches, or reject The ready banquet, or a willing fair one.

<>PORTER. Angels defend us! what a reprobate! Yon mould'ring porch for sixteen years and more Has not been struck with such unhallow'd sounds. Hence to thy lewd companions!

<>FLORIAN. Father greybeard, I cry you mercy; nor was't my intention To wound your reverence's saint-like organs. But come, thou hast known other days—canst tell Of banquettings and dancings—'twas not always thus.

<>PORTER. No, no—time was—my lord, the count of Narbonne, A prosperous gentleman, were he alive, We should not know these moping melancholies. Heav'n rest his soul! I marvel not my lady Cherishes his remembrance, for he was Comely to sight, and wond'rous goodly built. They say his son count Edmund's mainly like him. Would these old arms, that serv'd his grandfather, Could once enfold him! I should part in peace.

<>FLORIAN. What, if I bring thee tidings of count Edmund!

<>PORTER. Mercy befall me! now my dream is out.

Last night the raven croak'd, and from the bars Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger— I knew no good would follow—bring you ill tidings, Sir gentleman?

<>FLORIAN. (This is a solemn fool, Or solemn knave.) Shouldst thou indeed rejoice To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mistress Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son?

<>PORTER. Oh! no, no, no.—He must not here—alas! He must not here set foot—But tell me, stranger, I prithee say, does my old master's heir Still breathe this vital air? Is he in France? Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues, Or fifty? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs, And I would make a weary pilgrimage To kiss his gracious hand, and at his feet Lay my old bones—for here I ne'er must see him.

<>FLORIAN. Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's mirth. But say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother?

<>PORTER. Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed—but spare his mother; Such virtue never dwelt in female form. Count Edmund—but he was indeed a stripling, A very lad—it was the trick of youth, And we have all our sins, or we have had; Yet still no pardon—Thinkst thou not, my lord, My late kind master, e'er he knew my lady, Wist not what woman was?—I warrant him—

But so—count Edmund being not sixteen, A lusty youth, his father's very image— Oh! he has play'd me many a trick—good sir, Does my young master ever name old Peter? Well! but I prate—you must forgive my age; I come to th' point—Her name was Beatrice; A roguish eye—she ne'er would look on me, Or we had sav'd full many a woeful day! Mark you me well?

<>FLORIAN. I do.

<>PORTER. This Beatrice— But hark! my lady comes—retire a while Beyond those yews—anon I'll tell you more.

<>FLORIAN. May I not greet her?

<>PORTER. For my office, no: 'Twere forfeit of my badge to hold a parley With one of near thy years.

'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 pass'd in ministring to wants Of health or means; the closing eve beholds New tears, new pray'rs, or haggar'd meditation. But if cold moonshine, deep'ning ev'ry frown

Of these impending towers, invite her steps, She issues forth.—Beshrew me, but I tremble, When my own keys discharge the drawbridge chains, And rattle thro' the castle's farmost vaults. Then have I seen this sad, this sober mourner, With frantic gesture and disorder'd step— But hush—who moves up yonder avenue? It is—no—stay—ifaith! but it is he, My lady's confessor, with friar Martin— Quick hie thee hence—should that same medling monk Observe our conf'rence, there were fine work toward.

<>FLORIAN. You will not leave your tale unfinished?

<>PORTER. Mass! but I will—a tale will pay no stipend. These fifty winters have I borne this staff, And will not lose my porridge for my prating.

<>FLORIAN. Well! but count Edmund—wo't not hear of him?

<>PORTER. Aye, bless his name! at any leisure hour. This ev'ning, e'er the shutting of the gates, Loiter about yon grange; I'll come to thee. So now, begone—away.

Act I, Scene III.

SCENE III.

BENEDICT, MARTIN.

<>BENEDICT. Ay! sift her, sift her— As if I had not prob'd her very soul, And wound me round her heart—I tell thee, brother,

This woman was not cast in human mould. Ten such would foil a council, would unbuild Our Roman church—In her devotion's real. Our beads, our hymns, our saints, amuse her not: 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.

<>MARTIN. TheItalianv1ch1What 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 rode, a stag, Chas'd by the hounds, with sudden onset flew Th' adventurous count.

<>BENEDICT. '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.

<>MARTIN. 'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongue Accuse its owner.

<>BENEDICT. Judge not rashly, brother. I oft have shifted my discourse to murder: She notes it not. Her muscles hold their place,

Nor discompos'd, nor firm'd to steadiness. No sudden flushing, and no falt'ring lip: Nor, tho' she pities, lifts she to her eyes Her handkerchief, to palliate her disorder. There the wound rankles not.—I fix'd on love, The failure of the sex, and aptest cause Of each attendant crime—

<>MARTIN. Ay, brother, there We master all their craft. Touch but that string—

<>BENEDICT. Still, brother, do you err. She own'd to me, That, tho' 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 passion. This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'd By conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness, She utter'd, I would pawn my order's credit On her veracity.

<>MARTIN. Then whither turn To worm her secret out?

<>BENEDICT. I know not that. She will be silent, but the scorns a falshood. And thus while frank on all things, but her secret, I know, I know it not.

<>MARTIN. Till she disclose it, Deny her absolution.

<>BENEDICT. She will take none: Offer'd, she scoffs it; and withheld, demands not. Nay, vows she will not load her sinking soul With incantations.

<>MARTIN. This is heresy; Rank heresy; and holy church should note it.

<>BENEDICT. Be patient, brother—Tho' of adamant Her reason, charity dissolves that rock, —And surely we have tasted of the stream. Nay, one unguarded moment may disclose This mystic tale—then, brother, what a harvest, When masters of her bosom-guilt!—Age too May numb her faculties.—Or soon, or late, A praying woman must become our spoil.

<>MARTIN. Her zeal may falter.

<>BENEDICT. Not in solitude. I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenants To fancy visions, phantoms; and report them. She mocks their fond credulity—but trust me, Her memory retains the colouring. Oft times it paints her dreams; and ebon night Is no logician. I have known her call For lights, e'er she could combat its impressions. I too, tho' 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 practice on her fears, and foil'd, Give o'er my purpose.

<>MARTIN. This is masterly.

<>BENEDICT. 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 groveling 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.

<>MARTIN. By humbler arts our mighty fabric rose. Win pow'r 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.

<>BENEDICT. Never, while Edmund lives. This steady woman Can ne'er be pious with so many virtues. Justice is interwoven in her frame; Nor will she wrong the son she will not see. She loves him not; yet mistress of his fortunes, His ample exhibition speaks her bounty. She destines him whate'er his father's love Gave blindly to her will. Her alms, her charities, Usurp'd from her own wants, she sets apart A scanty portion only for her ward, Young Adeliza.

<>MARTIN. Say her son were dead, And Adeliza veil'd—

<>BENEDICT. I press the latter With fruitless ardour. Often as I urge it, She pleads the maiden's flushing cheek, and nature, 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?

<>MARTIN. '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.

<>BENEDICT. This is already done—but Edmund's death Were hopes more solid—

<>MARTIN. First report him dead, His letters intercepted—

<>BENEDICT. 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.

Act I, Scene IV.

SCENE IV.

COUNTESS, Two Maidens.

<>COUNTESS. Haste thee, Maria, to the western tower, And learn if th' aged pilgrim dozes yet. You, Elinor, attend my little orphans, And when their task is done, prepare their breakfast. But scant th' allowance of the red-hair'd urchin, That maim'd the poor man's cur—Ah! happy me!

If sentiment, untutor'd by affliction, Had taught my temperate blood to feel for others, E'er 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-fated 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 redress'd, But that I was too bless'd!—Well! peace is fled, 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, tho' I should borrow A few short hours to sacrifice to charity.

Act I, Scene V.

SCENE V.

BENEDICT, COUNTESS.

<>BENEDICT. I sought you, lady.

<>COUNTESS. Happily I'm found. Who needs the widow's mite?

<>BENEDICT. None ask your aid. Your gracious foresight still prevents occasion: And your poor beadsman joys to meet your presence; Uncumber'd with a suit. It pains my soul, Oft as I tax your bounty, lest I seem A craving or immodest almoner.

<>COUNTESS. No more of this, good father. I suspect not One of your holy order of dissembling: Suspect not me of loving flattery. Pass a few years, and I shall be a corpse— Will flattery then new cloath my skeleton, Fill out these hollow jaws? Will't give me virtues? Or at the solemn audit pass for truth, And varnish o'er my stains?

<>BENEDICT. The church could seal Your pardon—but you scorn it. In your pride Consists your danger. Your's are Pagan virtues: As such I praise them—but as such, condemn them.

<>COUNTESS. Father, my crimes are Pagan; my belief Too orthodox to trust to erring man. What! shall I, foul with guilt, and self-condemn'd, Presume to kneel, where angels kneel appal'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.

<>BENEDICT. Is he to blame, trusting to what he grants?

<>COUNTESS. Am I to blame, not trusting what he grants?

<>BENEDICT. Yet faith—

<>COUNTESS. 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.

<>BENEDICT. Last night I dreamt your son was with the blessed.

<>COUNTESS. Would heav'n he were!

<>BENEDICT. Do you then wish his death?

<>COUNTESS. Should I not wish him blest?

<>BENEDICT. Belike he is: I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.

<>COUNTESS. Nor I knew superstition in the right.

<>BENEDICT. Madam, I must no longer hear this language. You do abuse my patience. I have borne, For your soul's health, and hoping your conversion, Opinions most deprav'd. It ill beseems My holy function to give countenance, By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets. The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head May reach ev'n 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!

<>COUNTESS. Father, we no prophetic dæmon bear Within our breast, but conscience. That has spoken Words more tremendous than this acted zeal, This poetry of fond enthusiasm Can conjure up. It is the still small voice That breathes conviction. 'Tis that voice has told me, 'Twas my son's birth, not his mortality, Must drown my soul in woe.—Those tears are shed.

<>BENEDICT. 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 pray'rs shall still be yours.

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

<>BENEDICT. 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.

<>COUNTESS. Alas! till reconcil'd with my own breast What peace is there for me!

<>BENEDICT. In th' neighb'ring district There lives a holy man, whose sanctity Is mark'd with wond'rous gifts. Grace smiles upon him; Conversion tracks his footsteps: miracles Spring from his touch; his sacred casuistry Pours balm into despair. Consult with him. TheItalianv1ch4Unfold th' impenetrable mystery, That sets your soul and you at endless discord.

<>COUNTESS. Consult a holy man! Inquire of him! —Good father, wherefore? What should I inquire? 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 juglers. Me, nor oracles, Nor prophets, death alone can certify, Whether, when justice's full dues exacted, Mercy shall grant one drop to flake my torment. —Here, father, break we off; you to your calling; I to my tears and mournful occupation.

End of the First Act.

Act II, Scene I.

ACT the SECOND.

The SCENE continues.

Count EDMUND, FLORIAN.

<>EDMUND. Doubt not, my friend; Time's pencil, hardships, war, 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, Thro' 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.

<>FLORIAN. If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred. Those jarring passions spring from the same source: Hate is distemper'd love.

<>EDMUND. 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.

<>FLORIAN. 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.

<>EDMUND. 'Tis true—and thou, sage monitor, dost thou Hold love a crime so irremissible? Wouldst 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 appriz'd, I know not: but her heart, Never too partial to me, grew estrang'd. 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 lewdness, A profanation of my father's ashes. I knelt and wept, and, like a puling boy, For now my blood was cool, believ'd, confess'd My father's hov'ring spirit incens'd against me. This weak confession but inflam'd her wrath; And when I would have bath'd her hand with tears, She snatch'd it back with horror.

<>FLORIAN. '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?

<>EDMUND. Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery, 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.

<>FLORIAN. Why set them on the hazard then, when she, Who deals them may revoke? Your absence hence The sole condition.

<>EDMUND. 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 now? Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult, That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homage Of neighb'ring barons? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul, Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors, Creep like a spy, and watch to thrid your gates Unnotic'd? No; with martial attributes, With waving banners and enlivening fifes, They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws, And welcome them and triumph.

<>FLORIAN. True, my lord; They reign'd the monarchs of a score of miles; Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottage Within their cannon's mandate. Deadly feuds For obsolete offences, now array'd Their livery'd banditti, prompt to deal On open vallies and unguarded herds, On helpless virgins and unweapon'd boors, The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they dar'd To scowl defiance to the distant throne, Imprison'd, canton'd inaccessibly In their own rock-built dungeons—Are these glories

My Edmund's soul's ambitious to revive? Thus would he bless his vassals!

<>EDMUND. Thy reproof, My friend, is just. But had I not a cause, A tender 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 Magdalen enjoins my courage To emulate my great forefathers' deeds. Tells me, that shame and guilt alone are mortal; 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?

<>FLORIAN. 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 mother May, by cowl'd sycophants and canting juglers, Be hail'd, be canoniz'd a new Teresa. Pray be not seen here: let's again to th' wars.

<>EDMUND. 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—

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

<>EDMUND. 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.

<>FLORIAN. This is a lover's language—Is she kind?

<>EDMUND. Cold as the metal bars that part her from me; She listens, but replies not to my purpose.

<>FLORIAN. How gain'd you then admittance?

<>EDMUND. 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 splendor. O Florian, union with that favour'd maiden Might reconcile my mother—Hark! what sound—

<>FLORIAN. A summons to some office of devotion. My lord, weigh well what you project—

<>EDMUND. I hear Voices that seem approaching—huh! they sing. Listen!

<>FLORIAN. No; let us hence: you will be known.

<>EDMUND. They cannot know me—see!

Act II, Scene II.

SCENE II.

FLORIAN, EDMUND, MARTIN, Orphans.

<>I. Throne of justice! lo! we bend. Thither dare our hopes ascend,

Where seraphs, wrapt in light'ning rays, Dissolve in mercy's tender blaze.

<>II. Hear us! harmless orphans hear! For her who dries our falling tear. Hush her sorrows; calm her breast: Give her, what she gives us, rest.

<>III. 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!

<>EDMUND. I'll speak to them. Sweet children—or thou sanctified conductor, Give me to know what solemn pilgrimage, What expiation of offences past, Thus sadly ye perform? In whose behoof To win a blessing, raise these little suppliants Their artless hands to heav'n? Pray pardon too A soldier's curiosity.

<>MARTIN. The dew Of grace and peace attend your steps. You seem A stranger, or you could but know, sir knight, That Narbonne's pious countess dwells within; A lady most disconsolate. Her lord, Her best-beloved, by untimely fate Was snatch'd away in lusty life's full 'vantage— But no account made up! no absolution! Hence scant the distance of a mile he fell. His weeping relict o'er his spot of doom

A goodly cross erected. Thither we, At his year's mind, in sad and solemn guise, Proceed to chant our holy dirge, and offer Due intercession for his soul's repose.