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And waves the flag of her displeasure o'er me, The tender lamb, that never nipt the grass,

Is not more innocent than I of murder.
Lady R. Of this man's guilt what proof
can ye produce?

1 Serv. We found him lurking in the hol-
low glen.

In his behalf. And shall I thus be brav'd?
Curb'd, as she calls it, by dame Chastity?
Infernal fiends, if any fiends there are
More fierce than hate, ambition, and revenge,
Rise up, and fill my bosom with your fires.
Darkly a project peers upon my mind,
When view'd and call'd upon, amaz'd he fled;
Like the red moon when rising in the east, We overtook him, and inquir'd from whence
Cross'd and divided by strange colour'd clouds. And what he was: he said he came from far,
I'll seek the slave who came with Norval hither, And was upon his journey to the camp.
And for his cowardice was spurned from him. Not satisfied with this, we search'd his clothes,
I've known a follower's rankled bosom breed And found these jewels, whose rich value plead
Venom most fatal to his heedless lord. [Exit. Most pow'rfully against him. Hard he seems,

ACT III.

SCENE I-The same.
Enter ANNA.

Anna. Thy vassals, grief, great nature's or

der break,

And old in villany. Permit us try

His stubbornness against the torture's force.
Pris. Oh, gentle lady! by your lord's dear

life,
Which these weak hands, I swear, did ne'er
assail,

And by your children's welfare, spare my age!
Let not the iron tear my ancient joints,
And my grey hairs bring to the grave with
pain.

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And change the noontide to the midnight hour.
Whilst bdy Randolph sleeps, I will walk forth,
And taste the air that breathes on yonder bank.
Sweet may her slumbers be! Ye ministers
Of gracious heaven, who love the human race,
Angels and seraphs, who delight in goodness, For these, I say: be stedfast to the truth;
Forsake your skies and to her couch descend! Detected falsehood is most certain death.

There from her fancy chase those dismal forms
That haunt her waking; her sad spirit charm
With images celestial, such as please
The blest above upon their golden beds.

Enter Servant.

Sere. One of the vile assassins is secur'd.
We found the villain lurking in the wood:
With dreadful imprecations he denies
All knowledge of the crime. But this is not
His first essay these jewels were conceal'd
In the most secret places of his garment;
B-like the spoils of some that he has murder'd.
Anna. Let me look on them. Ha! here is
a heart,

The chosen crest of Douglas' valiant name!
These are no vulgar jewels. Guard the wretch.

Enter Servants, with a Prisoner. Pris. I know no more than does the unborn

Of what you charge me with. 1 Serv. You say so, sir!

[Exit.

child

Lady R. Account for these; thine own they cannot be :

[Anna removes the Servants, and

returns.

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Pris. Alas! I'm sore beset! let never man,
For sake of lucre, sin against his soul!
Eternal justice is in this most just!
I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal.
Lady R. Oh! Anna, hear!! once more I
charge thee speak
The truth direct; for these to me foretel
And certify a part of thy narration,
With which, if the remainder tallies not,
An instant and a dreadful death abides thee.
Pris. Then, thus adjur'd, I'll speak to you

as just

As if you were the minister of heaven, Sent down to search the secret sins of men. Some eighteen years ago I rented land Of brave sir Malcolm, then Balarmo's lord; But falling to decay, his servants seiz'd All that I had, and then turn'd me and mine (Four helpless infants and their weeping mother), Out to the mercy of the winter winds. A little hovel by the river's side Receiv'd us; there hard labour, and the skill In fishing, which was formerly my sport, Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly liv'd, One stormy night, as I remember well, The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof; Red came the river down, and loud and oft The angry spirit of the water shriek'd. At the dead hour of night was heard the cry speak with him. Your dignity, your fame, Of one in jeopardy. I rose, and ran Are now at stake. Think of the fatal secret, To. where the circling eddy of a pool, Which in a moment from your lips may fly. Beneath the ford, us'd oft to bring within Lady R. Thou shalt behold me, with a des- My reach whatever floating thing the stream Had caught. The voice had ceas'd; the person lost;

Est torture soon shall make you speak the truth.
Erbold, the lady of lord Randolph comes:
Pepare yourself to meet her just revenge.

Enter LADY RANDOLPH and ANNA. Anna. Summon your utmost fortitude, before

perate heart,

hear how my infant perish'd. See, he kneels.

[The Prisoner kneels. But looking sad and earnest on the waters, Pris. Heaven bless that countenance so sweet By the moon's light I saw, whirl'd round and

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Adge like thee makes innocence more bold. A basket: soon I drew it to the bank,

save me, lady, from these cruel men,

Whave attack'd and seiz'd me; who accuse of intended murder. As I hope

mercy at the judgment-seat of heaven.

And nestled curious there an infant lay.

Lady R. Was he alive?

Pris. He was.

Lady R. Inhuman that thou art!

How couldst thou kill what waves and tempests spar'd?

Pris. I am not so inhuman.
The needy man who has known better days,
One whom distress has spited at the world,
Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon
To do such deeds as make the prosperous men
Lift up their hands, and wonder who could
do them.

And such a man was I: a man declin'd,
Who saw no end of black adversity:
Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not
Have touch'd that infant with a hand of harm.
Lady R. Ha! dost thou say so! then per-
haps he lives!

Pris. Not many days ago he was alive. Lady R. Oh, God of heav'n! did he then die so lately?

Pris. I did not say he died; I hope he lives.
Not many days ago these eyes beheld
Him flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty.
Lady R. Where is he now?
Pris. Alas! I know not where.
Lady R. Oh, fate! I fear thee still. Thou
riddler, speak
Direct and clear; else I will search thy soul.
Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must
speak my shame;

Within the cradle where the infant lay,
Was stow'd 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 estate,
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 remain'd the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness lov'd 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 observ'd, 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 talk'd 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!

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The safest friend, the best, the kindest maste But ah! he knew not of my sad estate. After that battle, where his gallant son, Your own brave brother fell, the good old lo Grew desperate and reckless of the world; And never, as he erst was wont, went fort To overlook the conduct of his servants. By them I was thrust out, and them I blam May heav'n so judge me as I judge my maste And God so love me as I love his race!

Lady R. His race shall yet reward the On thy faith Depends the fate of thy lov'd master's hous 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 yout 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 the 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 say The son of Douglas, and sir Malcolm's heir Remember well my words; if thou should

meet

Him, whom thou call'st thy son, still call hi

so;

And mention nothing of his nobler father. Pris. Fear not that I shall mar so fair harvest,

By putting in my sickle ere 'tis ripe.
Why did I leave my home and ancient dame
To find the youth, to tell him all I knew,
And make him wear these jewels on his arm
Which might, I thought, be challeng'd, an
so bring
To light the secret of his noble birth.

[Lady Randolph goes towards th Servants. Lady R. This man is not the assassin yo suspected, Though chance combin'd some likelihoo against him. He is the faithful bearer of the jewels To their right owner, whom in haste he seek 'Tis meet that you should him on his way Since your mistaken zeal bath dragg'd bir

Oh, sovereign mercy! 'twas my child I saw!
Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear,
hither.
Hlave of your words and gestures rightly judg'd,
[Exeunt Prisoner and Sercants
Thou art the daughter of my ancient master; My faithful Anna! dost thou share my joy?
The child I rescu'd from the flood is thine. I know thou dost. Unparallel'd event!
Lady R. With thee dissimulation now Reaching from heav'n to earth, Jehovah's arr
Snatch'd from the waves, and brings me t

were vain.

my son!

I am indeed the daughter of sir Malcolm;
The child thou rescu'dst from the flood is Judge of the widow, and the orphan's father
Accept a widow's and a mother's thanks

mine.

For such a gift! What does my Anna think
Of the young eaglet of a valiant nest?
How soon he 'gaz'd on bright and burning

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,

Spurn'd the low dunghill where his fate had And let thy valour be the shield of Randolph.

thrown him,

And tower'd up to the regions of his sire! Anna. How fondly did your eyes devour the boy!

Mysterious nature, with the unseen cord
Of pow'rful instinct, drew you to your own.
Lady R. The ready story of his birth be-
liev'd,

Suppress'd 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.
Today the baron started at your tears.
Lady R. He did so, Anna: well thy mistress

knows

If the least circumstance, mote of offence, Should touch the baron's eye, his sight would be

With jealousy disorder'd. But the more
It does behove me instant to declare
The birth of Douglas, and assert his rights.
Anna. Behold, Glenalvon comes.
Lady R. Now I shun him not.
This day I brav'd him in behalf of Norval;
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 there valour con-
quers:

Glen. One instant stay, and hear an alter'd

man.

When beauty pleads for virtue, vice abash'd
Flies its own colours, and goes o'er to virtue.
I am your convert; time will show how truly:
Yet one immediate proof I mean to give.
That youth for whom your ardent zeal to-day,
Somewhat too haughtily defy'd your slave,
Amidst the shock of armies I'll defend,
And turn death from him, with a guardian arm.
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. Amen! and virtue is its own reward:
I think that I have hit the very tone
In which she loves to speak. Honey'd assent,
How pleasant art thou to the taste of man,
And woman also! flattery direct
Rarely 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 lull'd awhile; 'tis her alone I fear;
While she and Randolph live, and live in faith
And amity, uncertain is my tenure.
That slave of Norval's I have found most apt;
I show'd him gold, and he has pawn'd his soul
To say and swear whatever I suggest.
Norval, I'm told, has that alluring look,
Twixt man and woman, which I have observ'd
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.
Exit.

ACT IV.

To win a country, or to lose themselves.
A nimble courier, sent from yonder camp,
To hasten up the chieftains of the north,
laform'd me as he pass'd, that the fierce Dane
Had on the eastern coats of Lothian landed.
Lady R. How many mothers shall bewail To wait our pleasure at the castle gate.

SCENE I.-Flourish of Trumpets.
Enter LORD RANDOLPH, attended.
Lord R. Summon a hundred horse, by break
of day,

their sons!

How many widows weep their husbands slain!
Ye dames of Denmark, e'en for you I feel,
Who, sadly sitting on the sea-beat shore,
Long look for lords that never shall return.
Glen. Oft has the unconquer'd Caledonian
sword

Widow'd the north. The children of the slain
Come, as I hope, to meet their fathers' fate.
The monster war, with her infernal brood;
Loud-yelling fury and life-ending pain,
Are objects suited to Glenalvon's soul.
Scorn is more grievous than the pains of death;
Reproach more piercing than the pointed sword.
Lord R. I scorn thee not, but when I ought
to scorn;

Nor e'er reproach, but when insulted virtue
Against audacious vice asserts herself.

own thy worth, Glenalvon; none more apt Than I to praise thine eminence in arms,

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 resolv'd 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 lodg'd

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 Da-Those qualities that should have grac'd a camp? Nor. That too at last I learn'd. Unhappy man!

nish host!

Lord R. Were it as numerous as loud fame

reports,

Returning homewards by Messina's port, An army knit like ours would pierce it through: Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won, Brothers that shrink not from each other's side, A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea And fond companions, fill our warlike files: Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought: For his dear offspring, and the wife he loves, The stranger fell, and with his dying breath The husband, and the fearless father arm: Declar'd his name and lineage. Mighty pow'r! In vulgar breasts heroic ardour burns, The soldier cried, My brother! Oh, my brother! And the poor peasant mates his daring lord. Lady R. His brother! Lady R. Men's minds are temper'd, 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-embitter'd age.
Where is our gallant guest?

Lord R. Down in the vale

I left him, managing a fiery steed,
Whose stubbornness had foil'd 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.
Nor. 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 liv'd; a melancholy man!
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms.
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
With rev'rence 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 display'd
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd 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 show'd his wounds, he'd 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 marshall'd hosts;
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd 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

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

Lady R. In this dire tragedy were there no

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His eldest hope, the valiant John of Lorn,
Now leads his kindred bands.

Lord R. Glenalvon, go;
With hospitality's most strong request
Entreat the chief.
[Exit Glenalcon.
Offi. My lord, requests are vain.
He urges on, impatient of delay,
Stung with the tidings of the foe's approach.
Lord R. May victory sit upon the warrior's

plume!
Bravest of men! his flocks and herds are safe
Remote from war's alarms his pastures lie,
By mountains inaccessible secur'd:
Yet foremost he into the plain descends,
Eager to bleed in battles not his own.
I'll go and press the hero to my breast.

[Exit with the Officer
Lady R. The soldier's loftiness, the prid
and pomp,
Investing awful war, Norval, I see,
Transport thy youthful mind.

Nor. Ah! should they not?
Bless'd 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 sustain'd a prouder fortune.
This way with me; under yon spreading beach,
Unseen, unheard, by human eye or ear,
I will amaze thee with a wond'rous tale.
Nor. Let there be danger, lady, with the
secret,

That I may bug it to my grateful heart,
And prove my faith. Command my sword,
my life:

These are the sole possessions of poor Norval.
Lady R. Know'st thou these gems?
Nor. Durst I believe mine eyes,

I'd say I knew them, and they were my father's. Lady R. Thy father's, say'st thou? Ah, they were thy father's!

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When Douglas died! Oh, I have much to ask!
Lady R. Hereafter thou shalt hear the length-
en'd 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.

Nor. I saw them once, and curiously inquir'd
Of both my parents, whence such splendour But thou shalt not be wrong'd; I have the

came.

power

But I was check'd, and more could never learn. To right thee still. Before the king I'll kneel, Lady R. Then learn of me-thou art not 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,

Norval's son.

Nor. Not Norval's son?

Lady R. Nor of a shepherd sprung.
Nor. Who am I then?

Lady R. Noble thou art,
For noble was thy sire.
Nor. I will believe-

Oh, tell me further! 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!

To wrest thy lands and lordship from the gripe Of Randolph and his kinsman. Yet I think 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!

Nor. You make me tremble-Sighs and tears! The noblest blood of all the land's abash'd, Lives my brave father?

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
constant woe,
Weeping her husband slain, her infant lost.
Ner. You that are skill'd 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 lov'd.
Of, tell me who and where my mother is!
Oppress'd 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-
!r 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 woe-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!

At thou my mother? Ever let me kneel! Lady R. Image of Douglas! fruit of fatal love!

that I owe thy sire I pay to thee. No Respect and admiration still possess me, Gerking the love and fondness of a son: le I was filial to my humble parents.

Having no lackey but pale poverty.

Too long hast thou been thus attended, Douglas; Too long hast thou been deem'd a peasant's child:

The wanton heir of some inglorious chief
Perhaps has scorn'd thee in thy youthful sports,
Whilst thy indignant spirit swell'd 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 chief's 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 conceal'd he lies, A 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 griev'd my heart. Nor. Has he, indeed? Then let yon false Glenalvon

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