1 Wom. Drifted snow no more is seen;
Blust'ring Winter passes by;
Merry Spring comes clad in green,
While woodlarks pour their melody.
I hear him! hark!
The merry lark,
Calls us to the new mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.
2 Vil. When the golden sun appears,
On the mountain's surly brow;
When his jolly beams he rears,
Darting joy—behold them now!—
Then, then, oh, hark!—
The merry lark
Calls us to the new mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.
3 Vil. When the village boy, to field,
Tramps it with the buxom lass,
Fain she would not seem to yield,
Yet gets her tumble on the grass:
Then, then, oh, hark!
The merry lark,
While they tumble in the hay,
Pipes alone his roundelay.
4 Vil. What are honours? What's a court?
Calm content is worth them all:—
Our honour lies in cudgel sport;
Our brightest court a green-sward ball.
But then—oh hark!
The merry lark,
Calls us to the new mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An old fashioned Apartment, in Barton's House, in the Village. Rusty Arms, and other Military Paraphernalia hanging up, in different Parts; &c.
La Varenne and Barton.
Barton. Nay, sir, thank not me:
I am no trader, I, in empty forms;
In neat congees, and kickshaw compliments;
In your,—"Dear sirs," and "Sir, you make me blush;"—
I'm for plain speaking; plain and blunt; besides,
I've been a soldier:—and, I take it, sir,
You, who are still in service, are aware
That blushing seldom troubles the profession.
La Var. Still, friend, I thank thee.—Thou hast shelter'd me,
At a hard trying moment, when the buffets
Of tainting fortune rather would persuade
Friends to shrink back, than serve me.
Barton. 'Faith, good sir,
I know not how you have been buffetted:—
But this I know,—at least I think I know it—
If there's a soldier, in the world's wide army,
Who will not, in the moment of distress,
Stretch forth his hand to save a falling comrade,
Why, then, I think, that he has little chance
Of being found in Heaven's muster-roll.
La Var. I like thy plainness well.
Barton. Nay, sir, my plainness
Is such as Nature gave me: and would men
Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work
Is pretty equal;—but we will be garnishing;
Until the heart, like to a beauty's face,
Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it,
Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense,
That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines.
La Var. Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle
Have shelter'd here among the villagers?—
Canst tell their names?
Barton. Ay, marry, can I, sir.
But can and will are birds of diff'rent feather.
Can is a swan, that bottles up its music,
And never lets it out till death is near;
But will's a piping bullfinch, that does ever
Whistle forth every note it has been taught,
To any fool that bids it. Now, sir, mark;—
Whoever's here, would fain be private here;
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I can;—
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I will not.
La Var. Why, this is over-caution!—would not they
Rejoice as readily at seeing me,
As I at seeing them?
Barton. I know not that:
I am no whisper-monger;—and if, once,
A secret be entrusted to my charge,
I keep it, as an honest agent should,
Lock'd in my heart's old strong box; and I'll answer
No draught from any but my principal.
La Var. If now thou hast a charge, old trusty, I,
(Believe me), am next heir to't.
Barton. Very like.
Yet, sir, if heirs had liberty to draw
For what is not their own, till time shall give it them,
I fear the stock would soon be dry;—and, then,
The principals might have some cause to grumble.
La Var. Thou art the strangest fellow! What's thy name?
Barton. Barton;—that I may trust you with.
La Var. No more?
Barton. No, not a pin's point more. Pshaw! here comes one,
To let all out. Children, and fools, and women,
Will still be babbling.
Enter Prince Edward.
Prince. Oh! my lord, is't you!
La Var. Oh, my young sir! how my heart springs to meet you!
Where is your royal mother? is she safe?
Prince. She's in this house, my lord.—Last night,
This honest man received us:—and another,—
His friend—not quite so honest as he might be—
Did bring us hither;—'twas a rogue, my lord;—
Yet no rogue neither;—and, to say the sooth,
The rogue, my lord, 's a very honest man.
Lord, how this meeting will rejoice my mother!
And she was wishing, now, within this minute,
To see the Seneschal of Normandy.
Barton. So!
This is the Seneschal of Normandy!
Here is another secret.—Plague take secrets!
This is in token of their liking me;—
Just as an over hospitable host,
Out of pure kindness to his visitor,
Crams the poor bursting soul with meat he loaths.
La Var. I cannot blame thee, friend;—thou knew'st me not:
And, thou hast, now, a jewel in thy care,
Well worth thy utmost caution in preserving.
Barton. I need not to be told the value on't.
I have been sworn his mother's subject, sir; and since
My poor house has been honour'd with her presence,
The tender scenes, I've been a witness to,
'Twixt her, and this young bud of royalty,
Would make me traitor to humanity,
Could I betray her. There is a rapturous something,
That plays about an English subject's heart,
When female majesty is seen employ'd
In these sweet duties of domestic love,
Which all can feel,—but very few describe!
La Var. Oh! how thou warm'st me, fellow, with thy zeal!
Come, my young lord!—now lead us to her majesty. [To Barton.
Barton. Why, as things are, I'll lead you where she is:—
But were they otherwise, and you had not
Discover'd where she is—you'll pardon me—
But I had led you, sir, a pretty dance
Ere I had led you to her. Come, I'll conduct you. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Another Apartment, in Barton's House.
Enter Gondibert and 1st Robber.
Gondi. Away all night! What then? Am not I their leader? Do they begin to doubt me? Am not I, as it were, wedded to the party?
Rob. Very true, noble captain: and we have treated you as a wife would a kind husband:—but when a husband is out all night—why—
Gondi. Well, sir;—what then?
Rob. Marry, then, the wife is apt to grumble a little; that's all.
Gondi. Go to;—I had reason. What's the news?
Rob. The news is, we have taken some stragglers, in the forest.
Gondi. Are they of note?
Rob. 'Faith, we have some of all qualities;—gentle and simple mixed:—we had no time to stand upon the picking:—they're all penn'd up in the back cavern;—and you must e'en take 'em like a score of sheep—fat and lean together. But, there is a beardless youth, follow'd by a cowardly serving man, who presses hard to see you.
Gondi. What would he?
Rob. 'Faith, sir, he would be a noble fellow. I take it he has a great soul, too large for the laws;—he has questioned me plentifully concerning you.
Gondi. Concerning me?
Rob. Yes; he inquired if you were married; how long you had been with us; your age; your stature; nay, he was particular enough to ask what sort of a nose stood on your face.
Gondi. Wherefore these questions?
Rob. Troth, I think he would like well to serve in our band; for he seems to have a marvellous nice notion of honour. He took up your dagger, of curious workmanship, that lies on your table, in the cave, and did so study the dudgeon on't!—Marry, the boy knows how to handle a weapon, I'll warrant him.
Gondi. Where have you bestowed him?
Rob. Why, he was so importunate, that I have brought him, and his man, hither along.—The man, I feared, might babble: so, I've entrusted him to your friend Barton, here; and he, finding he has been a butler, has locked him in the cellarage.
Gondi. Conduct the youth hither.
[Exit Robber.
Then why should I repine? since there are others,
Who, in the early spring, and May of life,
Behold the promised blossoms of their hope
Nipt in the very bud. Here comes the youth;—
And bears a goodly outside;—yet 'tis a slender bark,
That Providence ne'er framed for tossing much
In a rough sea of troubles.
Enter Robber with Adeline.
Rob. Here, youth; this is our captain. Cheer up now, and speak boldly. You need not fear.—A raw youth, captain, but a mettled one, I'll warrant him.—A word with you. [Takes Gondibert apart.
Adeline. It is, it is my lord!—Oh Heaven! my heart!—to find him thus, too!—Yet, to find him any how is transport.
Rob. I shall look to it.—You would be private now, I take it.—Now, youth, plead, cleverly, to get admitted among us, and your fortune's made. Be but a short time with us, and it will go hard, indeed, if all your cares, in this world, are not shortly at an end. [Exit.
Gondi. Now to your business, youth.
Adeline. 'Tis brief.—I have been sorely wrung, sir, by the keen pressure of mishap.—I once had friends: they have left me. One whom I thought a special one—a noble gentleman—who pledged himself, by all the ties that are most binding to a man, to guard my uninstructed youth—even he, to whom my soul looked up; whom, I might say, I loved as with a woman's tenderness,—even he has, now, deserted me.
Gondi. Then he acted basely.
Adeline. I hope not so, sir.
Gondi. Trust me, I think he did, youth; for there is an open native sincerity that marks thy countenance, which I scarce believe could give just cause to a steady friend to leave thee.
Adeline. Now, by my holy dame, he had none to suspect me. Yet, from the pressure of the time,—some trying chance—but, I am wandering. This is my suit to you.—If you should find me fit to be entrusted with the secrets of your party, I could wish to be enrolled among you.
Gondi. Hast thou well weigh'd the hardships which our life
Constrains us to? Our perils; nightly watchings
Our fears, disquietudes; our jealousies,
Even of ourselves?—which keep the lawless mind
For ever on the stretch, and turn our sleep,
To frightful slumbers;—where imagination
Discovers, to the dull and feverous sense,
Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;—
And mixes, in the chaos of the brain,
Terrors, half real, half unnatural;—
Till nature, struggling under the oppression,
Rouses the sleeping wretch,—who starts, and wipes
The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples;
And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter,
But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck!
Adeline. Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd.
Yet there is one soft tie, which, when I think
The cruel edge of keen necessity
Has cut asunder, almost bursts my heart.
Gondi. What is it, youth?
Adeline. That, which from my youth,—
For I have scarcely yet told one and twenty,—
Might, haply, not be thought;—yet so it is;—
Know, then, that I am married.
Gondi. Married, didst say?
And dost thou love——
Adeline. Oh! witness for me, Heaven!
The pure and holy warmth that fills my bosom.
Gondi. Nay then, my heart bleeds for thee! for thou mightst
As easily attempt to walk unmov'd,
With all the liquid fires which Ætna vomits
Pour'd in thy breast, as here to hope for happiness.
Oh! what does the heart feel, that's rudely torn
From the dear object of its wedded love!
And, still, to add a spur to gall'd reflection,
That very object, whom the time's necessity
Mads you to part with, witless of the cause,
Arraigns your conduct.
Adeline. And have you felt this! [With emotion.
Gondi. I tell thee wretched youth—fie! thou unman'st me.—
Pr'ythee, return, young man!—I have a feeling,—
A fellow feeling for thee;—if thou hop'st
For gentle peace to be an inmate with thee,
Turn thy steps homeward;—link not with our band.
Adeline. Wherefore should I return? return to witness
The bitter load of misery, which circumstance
Has brought upon my house? My infant children—
Gondi. And hast thou children then?
Whose innocence has oft beguil'd thy hours;
Who have look'd smiling up into thy face,
Till the sweet tear of rapturous content
Has trickled down thy cheek?—Thou trying for tune!
Mark out the frozen breast of apathy,
And tho' 'twere triple cased in adamant,
Throw but this poisonous shaft of malice at it,
'Twill pierce it thro'and thro'.
Adeline. An if I thought 'twere so?—
Gondi. Hear me, young man:—
Thou wring'st a secret from me, which, till now,
Was borne in silence here; while, vulture-like,
It preys upon my vitals.—I am married:—
I have a wife—and one whom kindly nature
Form'd in her lavish mood:—Oh! her gentle love
Beam'd through her eyes, whene'er she turn'd them on me,
With such a mild and virtuous innocence,
That it might charm stern murder!—and yet I
Have wounded, villain like, her peace. Even I,—
In whom her very soul was wrapt—
Turn'd coward with the time, have basely left her.
But I am punish'd for't:—day, night,—asleep,
Awake,—still, or in action,—bleeding fancy
Pictures my wife, sitting in patient anguish;
Pale; mild in sufferance; mingling meek forgiveness
With bitter agony;—blessing him who wrongs her;—
While my poor children, my deserted little ones,
Hang on her knees, and watch the silent drops
Steal down her grief-worn face!—Yea, dost thou weep?
Shape thy course homeward then; for pangs like mine,
Would so convulse thee, youth, that, like an engine,
'Twould wrench thy tender nature from its frame,
And pluck life with it.
Adeline. Oh! my dear, loved lord!
Here cease those pangs;—here, in the ecstacy of joy,
Behold your Adeline, now rushing to the arms
Of a beloved husband. [Running into his Arms.
Gondi. Merciful Heaven!
My Adeline! And hast thou!—Oh, my heart!
This sudden conflict!—thus let me clasp thee to it;
Ne'er to part more, till pangs of death shall shake us.
What hast thou suffer'd, sweet!—for me to cause—
And are our children——?
Adeline. Well, and in safety.
Gondi. And, to leave them too!
Adeline. Nay, pr'ythee, now, no more of this:—
Blot from thy memory all former sorrow:—
Or, if we think on't, be it at some moment,
When calm content smiles round our happy board.
And, trust me, now, I think our storms are over:—
For, on my way, I learn, the House of York
Has now sent forth free pardon to all those,
Who, long attach'd to the Lancastrian party,
Have not engaged in their late enterprise.
Gondi. Blessed chance,
That now constrain'd me to inaction! Adeline!
Once more to hold thee! to return to happiness—
To see our children!—
Enter First Robber.
How now! What's the matter?
1 Rob. Marry, the matter is, with the oaf in the cellar; the fool shakes as though he were in an ague; we may e'en turn him adrift any how, for he will no how turn to our profit. He's cowardly and poor; he can neither rob, nor be robbed.
Adeline. Oh! 'tis my man: I pray you conduct him hither.
1 Rob. I'll trundle him in; but you will make nothing of him. I have been trying to talk him into service, and make him fit for our party; but there are some manner of men 'tis impossible to work any good upon. [Exit.
Adeline. Poor simpleton! 'tis Gregory, who, in pure zeal, and honest attachment, has followed me.
Enter Gregory.
Gregory. Mercy on us! this is the great cock captain of the whole brood of banditti! 'Tis all over! and I have been shut up, these two hours, like a calf for killing. Lord! lord! if calves did but know the reason for their being stalled, as I have been, they'd so fall away with fear, that veal would not be worth the taking to market.
Gondi. Why, how now, man?
Gregory. Oh lud! I am a poor fellow, sir; that shall be a longtime getting rich, and would fain not die till I am so. Take my life, sir, and you take all;—I carry it about me, as a snail does his house:—and, truly, sir, you'll find that time has a mortgage upon it of forty-two years, and the furniture, of late, is so worn with ill usage, that the remainder of the lease is not worth your acceptance:—if, sweet, noble, sir, you would but——
[During this Speech, Gregory has been gradually raising his Eyes from the Ground, till he fixes them on Gondibert's Face.
Eh!—Oh!—O, the father!—No!—Yes—Oh lud—Oh lord!
Gondi. Why, dost not know me, Gregory?
Gregory. Huzza!—He's found! [Capering.] Dear my lord, I never was happier since I was born, at the sight of you.
Gondi. Trust me, I think so, Gregory. Come, love;
Let's in for calmer conference. Follow, good Gregory.
[Exeunt Adeline and Gondibert.
Gregory. Here's a simple change in a man's fortune! Now might I, when I say 'tis he—were it not as plain 'tis he as a nose is a nose—swear that my eyes were putting a lie in my mouth, in very spite of my teeth.—Oh, the quiet, comfortable days that I shall see again! Mercy on me! 'Tis enough to make a coward tremble, to think on the battles my valour has been put to. Nothing, now again, but old fare, old rubbing of spoons, and a cup of old sherry, behind the old pantry door, to comfort my nose, in a cold frosty morning.
SONG.
"Moderation and Alteration."
In an old quiet parish, on a brown healthy old moor,
Stands my master's old gate, whose old threshold is wore
With many an old friend, who for liquor would roar,
And I uncork'd the old sherry—that I had tasted before.
But it was in Moderation, &c.
There I had an old quiet pantry, of the servants was the head;
And kept the key of the old cellar, and old plate, and chipp'd the brown bread.
If an old barrel was missing, it was easily said,
That the very old beer was one morning found dead:—
But it was in Moderation, &c.
But, we had a good old custom, when the week did begin,
To show, by my accounts, I had not wasted a pin;—
For my lord, tho' he was bountiful, thought waste was a sin;
And never would lay out much, but when my lady lay-in.
But still it was Moderation.
Good lack! good lack! how once Dame Fortune did frown!
I left my old quiet pantry, to trudge from town to town;
Worn quite off my legs, in search of thumps, bobs, and cracks on the crown,
I was fairly knock'd up, and very near foully knock'd down.
But now there's an Alteration,
Oh! it's a wonderful Alteration!
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
The Village.
Enter Margaret, La Varenne, and Prince.
Marg. The northern coast beset!
La Var. Close watch'd with enemies:—'twere too bold a risk,
That way to seek the sea: then bend your course
Thro' Cumberland, so please you.——
At Solway Frith, we have warm friends, to favour
Your embarkation—Sailing, thence to Galloway,
With all convenient speed, we march towards Edinburgh;
And thitherward, I learn, the king has fled:
Where, in the bosom of the Scottish court,
You may in safety sojourn, till the succour
Which noble Burgundy, warm in beauty's cause,
Once more, no doubt, will lend, again shall plume
The wing of majesty.
Marg. Then, let sharp injury
Subdue base minds alone; its scalding spirit,
Pour'd in a royal breast, will quicken vengeance.
Why, worthy Seneschal, there's hope in't still!
Holds it not likely,
When our dispersed nobility shall hear,
We are again on foot, our royal standard
Will be so flock'd with friends!——
Here comes the fellow, whom I told you of.
Enter Gondibert, Adeline, and Gregory, behind.
Now, good friend, the news?
Gondi. Thus, as my spies inform me, madam:—Montague
Has march'd right north; towards Dunstaburgh; hoping
There to surprise your Majesty—
Marg. Let the fool on.—
This favours our intended march, through Cumberland.
What else?
Gondi. No more; but that some twenty,
Or thereabout, of your dispersed soldiers
Are fall'n into my power. I have ventured,
Finding, that, here, the village is attach'd,
In honest bonds of loyalty, to direct
My men to march them hither: if your course
Should need a secret guard, these few will serve,
When more were dangerous.
Gondi. The subject, madam,
Who, in his poor endeavour, can relieve
A sovereign from distress, they, who are loyal,
Will pour down blessings on him; that requital
Threefold o'erpays his services. But here,
Heaven has, in pity of me, now pour'd balm
Upon my bleeding sufferings.
Marg. What, my young warrior!
Adeline. A weak one, madam;—and a woman too.
Your pardon, madam, if, to seek a husband,—
Happy has been my search—more than the cause,
Altho' my heart is warm in't—brought me hither.
Gondi. Your guard approaches, madam, and the villagers,
Enter Knights and Soldiers.
Anxious, in zeal, to see their royal mistress,
In throngs have follow'd.
Enter Villagers, Male and Female, on each Side.
Marg. This is a cheering sight!
Soon may this warmth be general; and may Henry
Bask in its genial sunshine.—England, awhile, farewell!
And if in future times—no doubt 'twill be so—
Thy King unite his people to his confidence,
And his commanding virtues, mild, yet kingly,
Shall draw the breath of rapturous loyalty
From the gilt palace to the clay-built cottage,
Then will thy realm, indeed, be enviable.
Strike!——Then on.
Procession of Soldiers, and Grand Chorus of Villagers.
Sea-girt England, fertile land!
Plenty, from her richest stores,
Ever, with benignant hand,
Her treasure on thy bosom pours.
England! to thyself be true;
When thy realm is truly blest,
'Tis when a monarch's love for you
Is by your loyalty confest.