With broken voice, clasped hands, and streaming eyes,
She called upon her father, called him cruel,
And said her duty claimed far other recompense.
Ed. Perhaps the absence of the good Lord Raby,
Who, at her nuptials, quitting this fair castle,
Resigned it to Elwina, thus afflicts her.
Hast thou e'er questioned her, good Birtha?
Bir.

But hitherto in vain, and yet she shows me
Th' endearing kindness of a sister's love;
But if I speak of Douglas-

Ed.

See! he comes.

It would offend him, should he find

you here.

Enter DOUGLAS.

Often;

Doug. How! Edric and his sister in close conference?

Do they not seem alarmed at my approach?

And see how suddenly they part! Now, Edric, [Exit BIRTHA.
Was this well done? or was it like a friend,
When I desired to meet thee here alone,
With all the warmth of trusting confidence,
To lay my bosom naked to thy view,
And show thee all its weakness; was it well
To call thy sister here, to let her witness

Thy friend's infirmity ?—perhaps to tell her—

Ed. My lord, I could not tell; I nothing know.

Doug. Nay, then, thou dost suspect there's something wrong!

Ed. If we were bred from infancy together,

If I partook in all thy youthful griefs,
And every joy thou knew'st was doubly mine,
Then tell me all the secret of thy soul.
Or have these few short months of separation,
The only absence we have ever known,
Have these so rent the bands of love asunder,

That Douglas should distrust his Edric's truth?

Doug. My friend, I know thee faithful as thou'rt brave, And I will trust thee-but not now, good Edric; 'Tis past, 'tis gone, it is not worth the telling; 'Twas wrong to cherish what disturbed my peace; I'll think of it no more.

Ed.
O, most wise promise!
I feared some hidden trouble vexed your quiet.
In secret I have watched-

Doug.

Ha! watched in secret?

A spy? employed, perhaps, to note my actions?
What have I said? Forgive me; thou art noble:
Yet do not press me to disclose my grief,

For when thou know'st it, I perhaps shall hate thee
As much, my Edric, as I hate myself

For my suspicions; I am ill at ease.

Ed. How will the fair Elwina grieve to hear it! Doug. She grieve? Elwina grieve? thou'st touched the string

That wakes me into madness. Hear me, then,

But let the deadly secret be secured

With bars of adamant in thy close breast.

Think of the curse which waits on broken oaths;
A knight is bound by more than vulgar ties,
And perjury in thee were doubly damned.
Well, then, our gallant king—

Ed.

From distant Palestine.

Is soon expected

For see, Elwina's here.

Retire, my Edric;

When next we meet, thou shalt know all. Farewell.

Now, to conceal with care my bosom's anguish,
And let her beauty chase away my sorrows!
Yes, I would meet her with a face of smiles-
But 'twill not be.

El.

Enter ELWINA.

[Exit EDRIC.

Alas, 'tis ever thus! Thus ever clouded is his gloomy brow. (aside.) Doug. I were too blest, Elwina, could I hope You met me here by choice, or that your bosom Shared the warm transports mine must ever feel At your approach.

El.

My lord, if I intrude,

The cause which brings me claims your gentle pardon. 1 fear you are not well, and come, unbidden,

Except by faithful duty, to inquire,

If haply in my power, my little power,

I have the means to minister relief

To your affliction !

Doug.

What unwonted goodness!

O, I were blest above the lot of man,
If tenderness, not duty, brought Elwina;
Cold, ceremonious, hard, unfeeling duty,
That wretched substitute for love: but know,
The heart demands a heart; nor will be paid
With less than what it gives.
E'en now,
The glistening tear stands trembling in your eyes,
Which cast their mournful sweetness on the ground,
As if they feared to raise their beams to mine,
And read the language of reproachful love.

Elwina,

El. My lord, I hoped the thousand daily proofs Of my obedience

Doug.

Death to all my hopes!
Heart-rending word! obedience! what's obedience?
'Tis fear, 'tis hate, 'tis terror, 'tis aversion;
'Tis the cold debt of ostentatious duty,
Paid with insulting caution; paid to tell me
How much you tremble to offend a tyrant
So terrible as Douglas.-O, Elwina-
While duty portions out the debt it owes,
With scrupulous precision and nice justice,
Love never measures, but profusely gives,
Gives, like a thoughtless prodigal, its all,
And trembles then, lest it has done too little.
El. I'm most unhappy that my cares offend.
Doug. True tenderness is less solicitous,
Less prudent, and more fond; th' enamored heart,
Conscious it loves, and blest in being loved,
Reposes on the object it adores,

And trusts the passion it inspires and feels.-
Thou hast not learnt how terrible it is

To feed a hopeless flame.-But hear, Elwina,
Thou most obdurate, hear me.-

El.
Say, my lord,
For your own lips shall vindicate my fame;
Since at the altar I became your wife,
Can malice charge me with an act, a word,
I ought to blush at? Have I not still lived
As open to the eye of observation,

As fearless innocence should ever live?
I call attesting angels to be witness,
If in my open deed, or secret thought,

My conduct, or my heart, they've aught discerned
Which did not emulate their purity.

Doug. This vindication ere you were accused,

This warm defence, this warding off attacks
Ere they are made, and construing casual words
To formal accusations,―trust me, madam,—
Shows rather an alarmed and vigilant spirit,
Forever on the watch to guard its secret,
Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence.
Who talked of guilt? Who testified suspicion?

El. Learn, sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from blame, Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming;

Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness
Behind the studied pomp of boastful phrase,
Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters;
But when this virtue feels itself suspected,
Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stained,
It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth,
And rates itself above its real value.

Doug. I did not mean to chide! But think, O think,
What pangs must rend this fearful, doting heart,
To see you sink as if in love with death;

To fear, distracting thought, to feel you hate me!
El. What if the slender thread by which I hold
This poor precarious being soon must break;
Is it Elwina's crime, or Heaven's decree?
Yet I shall meet, I trust, the king of terrors,
Submissive and resigned, without one pang,
One fond regret at leaving this gay world.

Doug. Yes, madam, there is one, one man adored,
For whom your sighs will heave, your tears will flow,
For whom this hated world will still be dear,

For whom you still would live

El.

What may this mean?

Doug.

Hold, hold, my lord;

Ah! I have gone too far.

What have I said?—Your father, sure, your father,

The good Lord Raby, may at least expect

One tender sigh.

El.

Alas, my lord, I thought

The harmless incense of a daughter's sighs

Might rise to heaven, and not offend its Ruler.
Doug. 'Tis true; yet Raby's self is less beloved
Since he bestowed his daughter's hand on Douglas:
That was a crime the dutiful Elwina

Can never pardon; and believe me, madam,
My love's so nice, so delicate my honor,

I am ashamed to owe my happiness
To ties which make you wretched.

El.

[Exit.

Ah! how's this?

Though I have ever found him fierce and rash,

Full of obscure surmise and distant hints,
Till now he never ventured to accuse me.
“Yet there is one, one man beloved, adored,

For whom your tears will flow: "-these were his words-
And then the wretched subterfuge of Raby—
How poor th' evasion!-But my Birtha comes.

Enter BIRTHA.

Bir. Crossing the portico I met Lord Douglas.
Disordered were his looks; his eyes shot fire;
He called upon your name with such distraction,
I feared some sudden evil had befallen you.

El. Not sudden; no; long has the storm been gathering, Which threatens speedily to burst in ruin

Your gentle soul so ruffled; yet I've marked you,
While others thought you happiest of the happy,
Blest with whate'er the world calls great or good,
With all that nature, all that fortune gives,
I've marked you bending with a weight of sorrow.

El. O, I will tell thee all! Thou couldst not find
An hour, a moment in Elwina's life,

When her full heart so longed to ease its load,
And pour its sorrows in thy friendly bosom :
Hear, then, with pity hear my tale of wo.
And O let filial piety forgive,

If my presumptuous lips arraign a father!
Yes, Birtha, that beloved, that cruel father

Has doomed me to a life of hopeless anguish,
Doomed me to die e'er half my days are numbered,
Doomed me to give my trembling hand to Douglas:
'Twas all I had to give: my heart was-Percy's.
Bir. What do I hear?

ᎬᏓ.
My misery, not my crime.
Long since the battle 'twixt the rival houses
Of Douglas and of Percy, for whose hate
The world itself 's too small a theatre;
One summer's morn my father chased the deer
On Cheviot hills, Northumbria's fair domain-