Trade rotted in your marts, your Armies mutinous, Sire, I know Your smoother courtiers please you best-nor measure Could leave such legacies to kings! LOUIS appears irresolute.] Baradas [passing him, whispers]. But Julie, Shall I not summon her to court? Louis [motions to BARADAS and turns haughtily to the Cardinal]. Enough! Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience. To your own palace:-For our conference, this Richelieu. Good my liege, for Justice Though loathed by Charity, might ask for justice! Of some I see around you-Counts and Princes Kneeling for favors;-but, erect and loud, As men who ask man's rights! my liege, my Lords, Do you refuse me justice-audience even In the pale presence of the baffled Murther? Louis. Lord Cardinal-one by one you have severed from me The bonds of human love. All near and dear Marked out for vengeance-exile, or the scaffold. My closest kindred;-you would tear them from me; Enough of plots and treasons for one reign! Home! Home! and sleep away these phantoms! I patience, heaven! sweet heaven! Sire, from the foot And worshipped by their awe-before the foot Of that high throne,-spurn you the gray-haired man, Louis. No:-when we see your Eminence in truth From "Richelieu." THE SEAMAN'S PRIDE. BULWER. Norman. Well met, lads! beshrew me but the sound of your jolly welcome is the merriest music I've heard since we parted. Have ye spent all your doubloons? First Sailor. Pretty nearly, Captain. Norman. That's right--we shall be all the lighter in sailing! Away to the town-and get rid of these pieces for me. Off; but be back an hour before sunset. [Exeunt SAILORS. What should I do with all this prize-money Falkner. All well! my poor old father, bless him, And crops had failed. Oh, man, I was so happy And cry "Your sailor son has come to drive Want from his father's door!" Norman. That hour were worth A life of toil!-well, and thy mother?—I A man's eye moisten and his color change Falkner. Scarce with words; but tears MOTHER!" And lifted hands, and lips that smiled dear thanks To the protecting heaven-these blessed me! Norman. Friend, I envy thee! Falkner. Enough of me-now for thyself, what news? The maid we rescued from the Afric corsair Norman. No!-I had, more wisely, saved [Going out. Falkner. Hold-but the priest, thy foster-father, OnslowHast thou sought him? Norman. Thou dear old man, forgive me! I do believe as whirlpools to the sea Love is to life!-Since first I leapt on land I have had no thought-no dream-no fear-no hope On the far seas his foster son recalled The words he taught my infant lips,--and prayed Falkner. I'll do thy bidding. Falkner. Hark !--thy men are true- Thy ship at hand: if she say "ay"-hoist sail, Norman. Her sire died poor-thank Heaven, she is not rich! Norman. The sea! No-not for Beauty's self! the glorious sea- Of air, our lamps;-our floors the crystal deep From "The Sea Captain." CONSCIENCE TRIUMPHANT, G. LILLO. Barnwell. How strange are all things round me! Like some thief who treads forbidden ground, and fain would lurk unseen, fearful I enter each apartment of this well-known house. To guilty love, as if that were too little, already have I added breach of trust-A thief! -Can I know myself that wretched thing, and look my honest friend and injured master in the face? Though hypocrisy may a while conceal my guilt, at length it will be known, and public shame and ruin must ensue. In the mean time, what must be my life? Ever to speak a language foreign to my heart; hourly to add to the number of my crimes, in order to conceal them. Sure such was the condition of the grand apostate, when first he lost his purity. Like me, disconsolate he wandered; and, while yet in heaven, bore all his future hell about him. [Enter TRUEMAN. Trueman. Barnwell, oh, how I rejoice to see you safe! So will our master and his gentle daughter; who, during your absence, often inquired after you. Barn. Would he were gone! His officious love will pry into the secrets of my soul. [Aside.] True. Unless you knew the pain the whole family has felt on your account, you can't conceive how much you are beloved. But why thus cold and silent? When my heart is full of joy for your return, why do you turn away; why thus avoid me? What have I done? How am I altered since you saw me last? or rather, what have you done; and why are you thus changed? for I am still the same. Barn. What have I done, indeed! [Aside.] True. Not speak!-nor look upon me!— Barn. By my face he will discover all I would conceal; methinks already I begin to hate him. [Aside.] True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; one whom till now I ever found so loving; whom yet I love; though this unkindness strikes at the root of friendship, and might destroy it in any breast but mine. Barn. I am not well. Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes since you beheld them last. True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swollen with tears!-now they overflow. Rightly did my sympathizing heart forebode last night, when thou wast absent, something fatal to our peace. Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. My troubles, whatever they are, are mine alone: you have no interest in them, nor ought your concern for me to give you a moment's pain. True. You speak as if you knew of friendship nothing but the name. Before I saw your grief, I felt it. Since we parted last, I have slept no more than you, but pensive in my chamber sat alone, and spent the tedious night in wishes for your safety and return; even now, though ignorant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the heart. Barn. 'T will not be always thus. Friendship and all engagements cease, as circumstances and occasions vary; and since you once may hate me, perhaps it might be better for us both that now you loved me less. True. Sure I but dream! without a cause would Barnwell use me thus? ungenerous and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall endeavor to follow your advice. [Going.] Yet stay, perhaps I am too rash, and angry when the cause demands compassion. Some unforeseen calamity may have befallen him too great to bear. [Aside.] Barn. What part am I reduced to act? 'tis vile and base to move his temper thus, the best of friends and men. [Aside.] True. I am to blame: prithee, forgive me, Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind; and let me know the cause that thus transports you from yourself; my friendly counsel may restore your peace. Barn. All that is possible for man to do for man, your generous friendship may effect; but here even that's in vain. True. Something dreadful is laboring in your breast: oh, give it vent, and let me share your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it admit no cure, and make it lighter by the part I bear. Barn. Vain supposition! my woes increase by being observed; should the cause be known, they would exceed all bounds. |