The fatal discovery. A tragedy. As it is performed at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury-Lane

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- PROLOGUE.

- [play]

- 1

- ACT II.

- ACT III.

- ACT IV.

- ACT V.

- EPILOGUE.

THE FATAL DISCOVERY. A TRAGEDY. AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, IN DRURY-LANE.

—Moriens animam abstulit hosti,

Tum super exanimem sese projecit amicam,

Consossus, placidaque ibi demum morte quievit.

Fortunati ambo!—Si quid mea carmina possunt

Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo.

VIRG.

LONDON: •RINTED FOR T. BECKET AND P. A. DE HONDT IN THE STRAND. M DCC LXIX.

[Price One Shilling and Six Pence]

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mr. BARRY.

WHEN first the children of the Muse began

To try their magic on the mind of man,

Astonish'd mortals saw, with wond'ring eyes,

The fair creation of the bard arise.

Hence is deriv'd the Poet's lofty name,

For Poet and Creator mean the same;

He, from his fancy, where the seeds of things

As in a chaos lie, to order brings

Worlds of his own and builds the lofty rhyme

Whose polish'd strength defies the rage of time.

Such were the bards, whom we too call divine,

Homer the father of the godlike line,

The Mantuan bard, whom all mankind admire

For sweet expression and for vestal fire.

Shakespear and Milton, both in England born,

Whose glorious names the Queen of Isles adorn,

Who, proudly sitting on her azure throne,

In arts and empire will no equal own.

Thus far our Author as a Prologue writ,

And would have been, I think, a-writing yet,

Enamour'd of his theme.—But I drew near,

And whisper'd that of him you wish'd to hear.

'Twas difficult he said—in such a case

He could have wish'd another in his place;

To tell, with what alternate hopes and fears,

An anxious Author on the Stage appears;

For, like the nightingale, he hath addrest

Himself to sing—a thorn at his fond breast.

If, like the native warbler of the grove,

His plaintive notes are full of tender love;

Your hand may pull the thorn that caus'd his pain

And give him spirit for a nobler strain.

〈1 page missing〉

KATHUL.

My faithful Euran!

Those dastards left their master in the storm

That rose at eve: my son hath pass'd the night

Alone upon the hill beyond the lake.

EURAN.

Of him no fear; both hill and dale he knows,

Cavern and cave and every shelter'd spot!

Of the wide forest.

KATHUL.

Not one moment's peace

Have I enjoy'd, since to the Pictish king

I gave my daughter's hand. Unhappy she,

In secret anguish pines her life away!

My son, afflicted, shuns his father's sight,

And, in the woods and forests, wastes his days,

A lonely hunter. To complete my woes,

Our new ally keeps not his promis'd time;

Is this his Pictish faith?

EURAN.

Doubt not, O king!

Doubt not the faith of Durstan, nor the love

He bears his queen.—Soon shall you see his sails

Rise on the distant wave, white as the fowls

That chase the flying shoals.—When he arrives,

Let not indulgence grant the least delay,

But waft Rivine to the Pictish shore.

When she has left the place, where every tree

And rock and haunted stream recal the memory

Of what she should forget, her grief will fly

Like mist before the wind.

KATHUL.

Rather the mist

Will thicken into darkness. Euran, my heart

Misgives and chides itself. Sprung as I am

From ancient Albion, in her evil days

I left her shatter'd side. By passion sway'd

And rage at perjur'd Ronan, I forsook

The stock of which I came, and join'd myself

By strict alliance to her mortal foe;

To him, whose arm had hew'd her branches down.

From deeds, like this, in wrong of nature done,

Observers date commencement of decay,

And strange disafter to the guilty line.

EURAN.

Disaster seize on him who broke his faith,

And threw away the pearl of womankind!

O! could my wish recall that signal hour

When Elig's hall blaz'd with a thousand shields

Of kings and heroes. Emulous to please

The all-admired daughter of the Isles!

Rivine, partial to her brother's friend,

Preferr'd the prince of Morven; tho' by far,

In wealth and power, inferior to the Pict,

And other royal suitors for her love.

Yet he, distinguish'd, favour'd, honour'd thus,

Ungrateful man! forsook the matchless maid,

Without complaint, pretence, abandon'd her,

To wed the queen of Erin. [*]—In my mind

Most happily for thee, and for thy house;

Else thou, the friend of vanquish'd Albion, still

Hadst shar'd the fortunes of a ruin'd people.—

KATHUL.

Not ruin'd yet—

EURAN.

Expell'd their native land,

Their king and more than half his princes slain.

KATHUL.

Another king succeeds: Congallus claims

His right of blood.—Here in the bay last night

A rover of the main his vessel moor'd;

He told me he had seen on Norway's coast

A fleet immense: far off, it seem'd a wood,

Stretching from cape to cape; as if the firs

From their eternal mountains had come down,

To grow amidst the waves.

EURAN.

Was this huge fleet

Prepar'd against the Pict?

KATHUL.

It was; and charg'd

With mighty armies: both the kings were there

Of [†] Lochlin and of Norway—On the deck

Of one, the headmost ship, Congallus stood,

Wooing the winds to fill his hoisted sails:

With him, a multitude of warriors, born

In various climes, of the Albanian race;

Who, though they never saw their father's land,

Call it their country too. The foremost they,

The fiercest in her cause.

EURAN.

'Tis Ronan's cause!

For him the sons of Erin lift the spear;

For him the kings of Scandinavia arm.

But let them come, the pirates of the North!—

Strong is the Pict, and mighty his allies!

Who can resist the Romans?

KATHUL.

By their force,

And not his own, tho' he is great in arms,

The Pict o'er Albion's warlike sons prevail'd;

But now the Roman eagle southward flies;

The dark-ey'd chief his legions has withdrawn,

To quell the Britons; nor can Durstan hope

Their present aid.—

EURAN.

—I trust he shall not need!

Behold Rivine comes.—

[Looking towards the wood.

KATHUL.

—Entranc'd in thought—

See how she tosses to the skies her arms,

Now wrings her folded hands! Thus is she wont

To wander thro' the woods, ever alone,

And ever mourning. Like a wounded deer,

Apart she stalks and seeks the darkest shade

Of hanging rocks, and melancholy boughs,

To hide and nourish her determin'd sorrow.—

Let us avoid her. O! unhappy child!

I fear thy father's counsel has undone thee!

[Exeunt.

Enter RIVINE.

RIVINE.

How soon is evil done! The sycamores,

The pines, whose bulk successive ages rear'd,

The tempest of one night hath overthrown!

Thou too art fallen, thou fair and stately oak,

Beneath whose pleasant shade Rivine sate,

When first she listen'd to false Ronan's love.

O! thou expressive emblem of my state!

Like thee, the chief in beauty and in place,

I flourish'd once; now rooted up like thee,

I wither on the field. Daily I die!

Delighted, I perceive my swift decay.

There will I make my grave; under that rock,

In peace shall rest the daughter of the Isles,

Who, 'till she's laid in earth, no peace can know,

No peace for me! O! how I envy you,

Ye lovelorn maids! who, slighted and forsaken,

Yet entertain no motion of revenge,

But mildly bear your wrongs, decline and die,

The blameless victims of inconstant man!

Enter CONNAN.

Ha! does my brother come to see Rivine!

What has procur'd me this unwonted favour?

CONNAN.

Perhaps, in prudence and in love to thee,

I should conceal my tidings; but my heart

Cannot contain them. Tho' it make thee wretched,

Yet I must tell thee, that my friend is wrong'd.

Ronan is innocent; he loves thee still;

He never ceas'd to love thee!

RIVINE.

I believe it.

He never ceas'd to love, who never lov'd.

But why pretend, why counterfeit again?

Has Erin's queen found out how false he is,

And thrown the specious traitor from her arms?

And does he think once more to find Rivine

Free, credulous and fit to be deceiv'd?

But me he thinks not of; he courts thy aid;

He needs the valour of his partial friend.

A stranger still to what his crimes have done,

He knows not who I am; he does not know,

That Connan's valour guards the Pictish throne.

CONNAN.

This flash of indignation, O! my sister!

Gleams for a moment o'er thy troubled mind;

But darkest woe shall shortly close around thee.

I have a dreadful story for thine ear.—

RIVINE.

A dreadful story! how can he be wrong'd,

Who publicly renounc'd his plighted faith,

Plighted a thousand times?

CONNAN.

He never did:

He sent no message to renounce thy love.

RIVINE.

What then was Valma?

CONNAN.

An unhappy wretch,

The slave of gold; gain'd by the worst of men,

To work thine overthrow.

RIVINE.

Leave me to judge

Of my condition. Tell me what thou know'st.

CONNAN.

I need not tell Rivine why I shunn'd her,

Since Durstan was her husband; I have fled

The human race, distracted in my mind,

With grief and shame and anger: oft my soul

Resolv'd revenge on Ronan. By-and-by

Something would whisper that we were deceiv'd;

That noble Ronan never could be base.

Perplex'd with thoughts like these, I rang'd the woods,

And heeded not the game my dogs pursu'd.

The storm of yesterday surpriz'd me, stray'd

Beyond my usual bounds; nor could I find,

Amidst the darkness of the driving blast,

A path to guide aright my doubtful steps.—

As night came on, more furious grew the storm.

The thunder bellow'd and the lightning glanc'd

Along the dreary heath: before, behind

And on each side, the sudden torrents roar'd.

I wander'd on and frequently I thought,

The world without was like my troubled mind.

At last, far in the east, whence the wind blew,

• heard the howling of a shepherd's dog;

With lighter steps, I turn'd me to the sound

And heard it oft repeated. As I hop'd,

It led me to a hut—I entered there;

And, by the embers of a fire of turf,

I saw a ghastly man stretch'd on a bed

Of sticks and heath compos'd. Come near, he said,

And listen to the dying voice of Valma.—

RIVINE.

Of Valma!—

CONNAN.

Valma, whom I had not seen

Since he, for Erin, with his master sail'd:

I found he did mistake me for his host,

And silent listen'd with a beating heart.

Your charitable cares, he said, are vain;

My hour draws nigh.—Good shepherd, you have lodg'd'

Under your blameless roof, the basest wretch

That ever liv'd on earth. My name is Valma,

The favour'd servant of the prince of Morven.

My master sent me, from green Erin's shore,

With tokens and a message to his love,

The fair Rivine: but a tempest drove

My luckless vessel on the Pictish coast.

Durstan, the king, by promises and threats,

Compell'd me to deceive the constant maid,

And falsely to report, that my brave lord

Renounc'd her love.—Rivine, thou grow'st pale!

Lean on my arm.—.

RIVINE.

No: I have strength enough!

Lead me, my brother! lead me to the place

Where Valma is.

CONNAN.

At midnight he expir'd—

RIVINE.

Would he had liv'd one other day for me!

O! I had much to ask him: did not Ronan,

With eyes of love behold the beauteous queen?

So I have often heard and that was told

Long before Valma came.—

CONNAN.

Ay, so it was

Contriv'd and told, on purpose to prepare

Thy mind, thus tainted, to receive the tale.

But know, for I explor'd the heart of Valma,

The noble Ronan, in the hall of kings,

Who sought alliance with so brave a chief,

Fondly display'd—his passion for Rivine.

With gems of thine he deck'd his conq'ring arms,

And rais'd the song of beauty to thy praise!

Such ostentation wither'd the desire

And kill'd the hope of every blushing maid.

The hero comes, unalter'd in his love,

And finds thee—

RIVINE.

Connan! me he shall not find!

We ne'er shall meet again—when does he come?

CONNAN.

Be-like to-morrow, or perhaps to day.

This is the appointed time, the season meet

For enterprize of arms. Now the mild moon

Of autumn rises when the sun descends,

And at the self-same hour, for many a night,

Lifts her fair head, to bless with light the world.

I mean to share the perils of my friend;

Nor shall Rivine as an hostage go

Against her brother's and her Ronan's sword.

RIVINE.

Would that the swords of both were in my b east!

Ye winds, that I have wish'd should sleep for ever;

Ye southern winds! from Etha's mountains blow,

And waft to Elig's bay the Pictish fleet!

I go to Durstan's kingdom—

CONNAN.

Go, and perish!

Hast thou no rage, no indignation in thee?

No generous drop in thy exhausted veins?

Art thou so tame, so vile, so base of soul,

To bear the sight of Durstan? Crimes like his

Dissolve all ties. Besides his wrongs to thee,

He murder'd Valma on the lonely heath;

Murder'd the traitor to conceal the treason.

RIVINE.

Yes, I am base and vile; my soul submits

To each opprobrious name from Ronan's friend;

But I am not so tame: my heart is full

Of rage, of anger and of mortal hatred!—

CONNAN.

To whom?

RIVINE.

To Durstan's wife.

CONNAN.

Renounce the name,

And thou may'st still—Thy brother will defend,

And save thee from his power.

RIVINE.

O! save not me

From any misery! But tell me rather,

How I may be more wretched than I am:

If thou can'st tell. Farewel my native land!

Ye woods and streams of Elig's vale, farewel!

Rivine leaves you with a broken heart,

To waste her days in horror and despair,

With the detested author of her woes.

But welcome woe to me! Fool that I was,

A wretch unworthy of a hero's love,

Who readily believ'd a lying tale,

Against the honour of the first of men:

Then in the cursed hour of jealous rage,

Gave up myself to misery and Durstan.

Enter MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

The fleet, so long expected, comes at last.

One lofty vessel far outsails the rest

And bears the colours of the Pictish king.

CONNAN.

'Tis well. [Exit Mess.] Bethink thee, sister!

RIVINE.

'Tis too late!—

I should have thought before I wedded Durstan.

Now would'st thou have me stay till Ronan comes?

'Tis not his anger, nor his hate I fear;

No, nor his scorn. My just desert is scorn;

But hide me, rocks and mountains, from his pity!

As the fond parent to the child relents,

When sore affliction lays th' offender low;

So would his generous soul to pity melt,

Should he behold the ruins of Rivine!

Come, Pictish Durstan! bear me from his sight,

To die unpitied in thy hated land!—

[Exit.

CONNAN.

She's desperate—and what will Ronan be,

When, high in hope, he hears she's lost for ever?

His words, his gestures I remember well,

When last we parted at the vessel's side:

From his embrace I turn'd me to the shore:

His arm he stretch'd, and caught my hand again;

He press'd it to his breast, he wrung it hard;

And, with a look of infinite affection,

Connan! he said, my king commands; I go:

To thee, my friend, I leave my love in charge!

Fondly I promis'd to defend the maid.

What shall I answer when he claims his bride?—

She must not go with Durstan. O! my sire!

Thy wrath I fear, and not the Pictish sword!

But Ronan has my faith. Where is my page,

So swift of foot? Thy master calls thee, Calmar.

Enter CALMAR.

CALMAR.

What would my lord?

CONNAN.

Now, Calmar, win my favour;

I have a message for the eagle's wing,

Or the swift pinions of the wind, to bear;

Exert thy utmost speed!

CALMAR.

Speak, and I fly,

Swift as the arrow from my master's bow.—

CONNAN.

Here lies thy way: come on, and mark my words.

[Exeunt.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE, the Palace of Kathul

EURAN alone.

EURAN.

I HAVE been sleeping on a hollow bank,

Above a flood unfathom'd.—O! those slaves!

Who gave assurance of the death of Valma,

And boasted each that his good sword dispatch'd him.

The blame as yet on Durstan only falls.

Would I had never join'd my hand to his,

Nor touch'd the proffer'd gold!—Oft have I heard,

And now at last believe, 'tis safer far

To deal deceitfully with crasty men,

Than practise art on unexperienc'd youth,

Whose passions sally out beyond conjecture,

And, by extravagance, confound the wise.

The passions of this prince are like the wind:

The Pictish name is odious to the tribes,

Whose hearts still sway to Albion's kindred race.

If Connan calls to arms, enrag'd they rise,

Like billows when the furious tempest blows.—

The kings have met: how shall I warn the Pict

Without alarming Kathul?—Here they come.

Enter KATHUL, DURSTAN and several Pictish Chiefs.

DURSTAN.

Excuse my long, involuntary absence!

Uncertain is his hour whose work is war,

Who takes his way across the changeful main.

Euran, thou faithful servant of thy lord,

I greet thee well.

EURAN.

With joyful heart, O king!

I see thee in the wish'd for hour return.

DURSTAN.

Soon must I quit again this friendly shore;

For I am doom'd to pass my life in arms.—

The wandering heir of Albion's vanquish'd line,

Congallus, threatens to invade my kingdoms.

This on the seas I learn'd.

KATHUL.

I can confirm

The truth of that report.—

DURSTAN.

King of the Isles!

I'll give those bold invaders warlike welcome!

At eve, with favouring tide, I sail again.

The radiant moon, with all her splendor, shines

To light my vessel thro' the watery way.

Impart my purpose to thy beauteous daughter,

And tell the urgent cause.

KATHUL.

—Urgent, indeed;

Unwilling as we are so soon to lose thee;

Tidings like these admit of no delay.

But let us spread the feast and raise the song,

Whilst yet thy steps are here. Sweet to the ear

Is melody and pleasant to the soul

The tale of battles fought and woes endur'd,

By chiefs, who long have ceas'd from war and woe.

We, in our turn, O King! shall pass away,

And in the song be found.—

EURAN.

The Queen draws near.

Enter RIVINE. [Kathul advances towards her.

EURAN. [To Durstan.]

Stay not the feast, there's danger in the hall;

Demand thy queen; her brother knows too much.

KATHUL.

Now, as becomes thee, meet thy husband's love,

And look complacent on the Pictish chiefs;

Through many dangers they have reach'd the shore.

DURSTAN.

Cold is my welcome! slowly she approaches,

Silent and sad, fix'd on the earth her eyes.

With such reluctance, such averted looks,

In bitterness of soul, a captive comes

Before the conqueror, whose hands are red

With her dear kindred's blood.

RIVINE.

King of the Picts,

Thou read'st my thoughts aright, within thy breast

Dwells an interpreter that cannot err.—

DURSTAN.

To these injurious words, I know not, Queen!

What answer best belongs. Thy gloomy mind

Some foul suspicion of thy husband stains,

Changing to hatred and to harsh disdain,

That melancholy and that cold reserve,

Which I regretted once. Unfold thy thoughts!

And show the viper that has stung thy soul.

She heeds me not. Ha! wherefore dost thou tremble,

And stare so wildly on a stranger's face?

RIVINE. [to one of the Picts.]

Permit me, stranger, to behold that sword,

Trust it, I pray, one moment to my hand.

[The Pict gives the sword.

It is, it is his sword. I know it well,

This jewel once was mine!

KATHUL.

What means my daughter?

RIVINE.

Behold the sword of Ronan. O! my father!

Too certain sign the hero lives no more.

Is this thy nuptial present, cruel king!

But I accept it for it suits our love.

DURSTAN.

Not in the hearing of these gallant chiefs,

Whom I would wish to hold thee high in honour,

Will I reply to passion. Thou hast nam'd

The owner of the sword. His it may be;

But whose it was, I never knew before.

RIVINE.

Thou can'st no more deceive me. The long train

Of treachery and lies, the murder too

Has been detected. Miserable Valma

Liv'd only to reveal it.—Now thou com'st,

With this proud trophy of thy work complete.

O! thou sole relique of the first of men!

Signal of death! memorial of the brave!

Companion of my woes, perhaps the end!

Why didst thou thirst, O! Durstan for his blood?

Hadst thou not wrong'd him, was not that enough

But thou didst wisely, to consult thy safety,

For conscience told thee, whilst the warrior liv'd,

The robber was not safe.

DURSTAN.

Thy words are madness;

If I had kill'd him, was he not my foe?

RIVINE.

How did the hero fall?—By fraud he fell!

For he was still invincible in arms,

Alone a match for many in the field.

DURSTAN.

That sword, the sight of which disturbs thy soul,

Is not the trophy of a hero slain;

In evil hour I sound it.

RIVINE.

Found it, where?

Was not its owner near?

DURSTAN.

If he was near,

Thou hast conjectured right, he lives no more:

For where I found it death and horror reign'd.

RIVINE.

Now, I believe thee, Durstan! Tell me, Pict!

How, when, without a master too thou found'st

His sword who never yet was foil'd in arms?

DURSTAN.

As in our way to thee we crost those seas,

Whose rage scarce summer tames, a tempest rose,

A dreadful one, as ever swept the main.

All night we labour'd in the jaws of death.

But, when the morning dawn'd, the tempest ceas'd;

Red, on the troubled deep, the sun arose,

And shew'd a dismal object to our eyes;

Fast, on a ridge of rocks, a wreck appear'd,

Which seem'd the ruin of a noble vessel;

Near as our safety would permit we sail'd,

And view'd the fate, which might have been our own.—

The ship was broken, by the heavy seas

Parted in two; and all about the rocks

Dead bodies floated, on the tossing waves.

RIVINE.

Was there no living creature?

DURSTAN.

No, not one,

Low are the rocks; their ragged tops are seen,

And barely seen above the smoothest sea;

But in a storm their place is known afar,

By the white waves, that rage, and swell, and break

Like mountains o'er them; there no man could live.

Who'er aboard that luckless vessel sail'd,

Embrac'd the same inevitable doom.—

RIVINE.

Was the sword there?

DURSTAN.

It was. About to leave

The wreck, we sought some token of the dead

By which they might be known, that sword we spied,

Caught in the cordage of a mast it hung

And glitter'd through the water.—

RIVINE.

'Tis enough!

If at my feet his breathless body lay,

I could not be more certain of his fate.

In those wild waves the chief of warriors died;

To me he hasten'd through the seas and storms;

Unknowing of his wrongs for me he died.

KATHUL.

Forbear, my daughter! for my sake forbear!

DURSTAN.

And for thine own, O queen! respect thyself.

RIVINE.

I will. For ever I renounce thee, Durstan!

To Ronan's memory I devote my days!

Few are the days that of my life remain.

Hear me, amaz'd spectators! ye who think

Rivine has forgot her sex's shame;

And judge me with more justice. In my hand

I hold the sword of Ronan. Who he was,

And of what high renown, is not unknown;

For thro' the kingdoms of the North his name

Flew on the wings of Fame.—His love to me

And mine to him, for I avow my love,

My sire approv'd.—To him I was betroth'd,

But in his absence, Durstan did seduce,

A faithless servant to betray his master.

He fram'd a message from the noble Ronan,

Rejecting me, and setting free my faith;

Then urg'd a fond exasperated maid,

And with the help of her deceived father,

Precipitated her disorder'd mind,

To yield a rash consent.—That was my crime,

Which I deny not; nor refuse to bear

My punishment, which, like my crime, is great.

Despair consumes me! wither'd like the leaf

Of autumn is my beauty. Now I stand

On the dim threshold of the house of darknes;

Remorse pursues Rivine to the tomb.

DURSTAN.

Who with a woman's frenzy can contend?

Thou hast avow'd thy hatred to thy husband,

And to another own'd thy guilty love:

For loss of him thou rav'st—

Enter MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

King of the Isles!

On Mora's top the fiery signal burns.

I saw a troop, in shining steel array'd,

Descend the hill, by active Calmar led.

KATHUL.

Whose hand presumes to light the warning fire

That never burns in peace? Where is my son?

The feet of Calmar fly at his command.

MESSENGER.

To war they fly. On the high-pointed rock

That runs into the bay, Connan himself

Stands like a tower. His angry voice he sends,

Along the roaring waves, and shakes his spear

Against the Picts approaching to the shore.—

DURSTAN.

I am betray'd

KATHUL.

Of me distrustful too?

DURSTAN.

The son my enemy, I dread the sire.

My brave companions, whose renown in arms,

Rose on the ruins of a greater foe

Than Connan is, or those who swell his pride,

Now let your valour shine. At bay we stand,

But not like timid deer.

FIRST PICT.

Our lives are thine:

With thee we conquer, or with thee we fall.—

KATHUL.

Some angry spirit hovers in the air,

And scatters rage and fury. Hear me, Pict!

Suspicion argues oft a guilty mind;

A noble spirit never. Sheath your swords!

I am your guard in Elig. To the shore

I go to quell the tumult, and receive

Thy people as my friends.—My daughter! hear

Thy father's counsel. Never was a child

To a fond parent dearer. O! Rivine!

Much of my hope is lost; but do not thou,

In rash resentment, throw the rest away.

Think who thou art! the daughter of a king,

And of a king the wife! the pledge of peace

Among the nations; be not thou the cause

Of war and mortal strife! thy name shall go,

To furture times for good, or ill renown'd,

The curse or blessing of thy native land,

And of thy father's house. My child be wise!

Forget the past, which cannot be recall'd;

And arm thyself with patience.—

[Exit Kathul and Euran.

DURSTAN.

Sweet the voice

Of those that counsel peace. Rage was not made

Nor lasting anger for a gentle breast.—

My soul is innocent of Ronan's fate;

And if I used some art against a rival,

Ascribe it only to excess of love.—

Wise are thy father's words. Forget the past,

And be hereafter happy.—

RIVINE.

Leave me, Pict!

I hate the present; I abhor the past!

The time to come, Durstan, is not for me.

I hasten to the tomb! There I shall find

Forgetfulness. O! leave me to my sorrows!

Leave me to die here in my native land,

Where once with peace and innocence I liv'd

(Companions whom my soul shall know no more)

Till thou cam'st hither. Thou hast made me wretched

Beyond all utterance, example, thought

Or stretch of fancy. When the mournful bard

Seeks a sad subject for the midnight song,

He shall reject the woes of other times,

And choose Rivine for the tale of tears.

DURSTAN.

Forbear such fond complaints, and henceforth, Queen,

Think of the duty which thy state requires.—

RIVINE.

'Tis my chief duty to renounce that state,

And thee for ever.

[Going.]

DURSTAN.

Hence thou must not go.

I will not trust thee to thy own disposal.—

RIVINE.

Am I a captive?

DURSTAN.

No, nor art thou free

To cast thy husband off. Foul shame it were

For me to suffer such contempt from thee.

Willing or not, forthwith thou must embark;

Thy prudent father yielded his consent;

Be thou persuaded rather than compell'd.

RIVINE.

I shall be neither; my deliverer comes!

Enter CONNAN.

CONNAN.

Unhand my sister! else—

DURSTAN.

Thou guard'st thyself

By mixing with thy threats a name of safety.

CONNAN.

My safety, Pict, depends not on thy will.

Behold my force, to thine superior far.—

[Calmar appears, with the warriors of Connan.

But fair and equal, man to man, I meet thee,

I use no vile deceitful arts like thee.

I take no base advantage of a foe.—

DURSTAN.

Am I thy foe?

CONNAN.

Hast thou not wrong'd my friend?

And dost thou ask if Connan be thy foe?

RIVINE.

Alas, the friend of Connan lives no more!

Behold!—

CONNAN.

'Tis Ronan's sword; with life and this

At once the hero parted. Ah! my sister!

How came it hither?

RIVINE.

Durstan!

CONNAN.

Ha! the spoils

Of Ronan by his foe in triumph borne!

No tears I shed: red are thy drops, revenge!

Durstan, call up thy courage; rear thy crest,

And to bold defiance, boldly answer.

I charge thee first with treachery and falsehood,

Crimes that strike down the warrior's gallant plumes:

With murder next, for wretched Valma's death;

For Ronan last; for Ronan, basely slain;

By hands like thine, he could not else have fallen.

With mortal hate I call thee to the combat.

RIVINE.

My Brother, hear me! Not by Durstan's hand,

Nor by the arm of man, did Ronan fall.

Far from the shore, amidst the stormy waves,

Amongst the cordage of a vessel wreck'd

The sword was found.—Forgiven be my wrongs,

And to his kingdom let the Pict return.

DURSTAN.

Great is thy clemency! Permit the Pict,

Injur'd, defy'd, dishonour'd, to be gone.—

Is Durstan's name of such account in Elig?

Are these the terms on which he quits the field?

Connan, thy challenge and thy wrath I scorn;

Thy sister, as my queen, I justly claim:

If she's with held, I shall lay waste your Isles,

And to my kingdom's add one sceptre more.

CONNAN.

If she desires to pass her days with thee,

She is not worth the splinter of a spear.

But if her soul reveres her lover's shade,

And flies from thee to solitude and sorrow,

My sword from insult shall the mourner guard.—

Thy threats I laugh at; thou unwarlike king,

To boast of conquest and refuse the combat.

Wilt thou not fight, thou chief without a soul?

Then fly without delay. Now make thy choice;

Begone or draw thy sword!

DURSTAN.

Vain-glorious youth!

Thou fit companion of the boaster Ronan,

Whom I could wish this moment in thy place!

I'll seek the king. If he denies me justice,

Unworthy as thou art of Durstan's sword,

Expect me soon.

CONNAN.

Thou wilt not come so soon

As Connan wishes.—

[Exit Durstan and Picts.

RIVINE.

Why this strife for me?

Who should be shunn'd like the infectious blast,

Which, where it takes, destroys. Ronan is dead.

Let not the friend of Ronan fall for me.

I have a refuge sure. Behold yon cliff,

Whose summit, jutting o'er its wave-worn base,

Darkens the deep below.

CONNAN.

Fly from despair!

And seek the shelter of thy brother's love.—

The friend of Ronan will protect Rivine.

If the pale ghost that dwells amidst the storm.

Retains th' affections of its former state,

O'er us the ghost of Ronan shall rejoice.—

To Elig's towers thou must not now return.

Come on; I'll lodge thee in a place of safety,

The cave of sad Orellan: now the tide,

Retiring, leaves a passage cross the bay.—

RIVINE. [To Calmar.

Go to the hall of Elig. Tell the maid

Omazia to give out that there I rest,

And watch as if she guarded my repose.

[Exeunt.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

SCENE, a Cliff on the Sea-shore, with a Cave.

RIVINE and ORELLAN.

ORELLAN.

BEHOLD the habitation of Orellan!

For threescore years and ten this rock has been

My dwelling-place; and here I sit in sorrow,

Silent and motionless from morn to eve;

'Till the sea-fowl, that skim along the shore,

Fearless alight, and, sitting at my feet,

Scream their wild notes, as if I was a stone

Or senseless trunk, that could not do them harm.—

It was not always thus; I was not born

To misery; nor in the wild woods bred

Of savage race; fair was my morn of youth!

With thy brave grandsire I was train'd to arms,

His chosen warrior, and his trusted friend.

But love and jealousy surpriz'd my soul,

Drove me from men, and blotted out my name.

This arm slew Namora.

RIVINE.

Father, forgive

My importunity! Vouchsafe to tell

What I in part have heard.

ORELLAN.

My story's old,

Thy sorrow recent: but to hear my woes

Will teach thee patience. Such as thou art now,

Or as thou wast, e'er grief had made thee wan,

Namora was. Like thine, her beauty charm'd

Contending princes; but the generous maid

Preferr'd to princes fond Orellan's love.

Daily we met in woods, in groves, in glades,

Remote and secret. One unhappy time,

Returning from the chace, I sought the grove.

Ent'ring, I saw Namora; her white arms

Embrac'd a youth; her lips were join'd to his.

My bow was in my hand; I bent it soon,

And pierc'd them with one arrow. Ere I reach'd

The spot on which they fell, Namora's eyes

Were clos'd for ever. The expiring youth

Was her brave brother, to his native shore

That day return'd. His sister's steps he trac'd,

To perish in her arms. I kneel'd me down,

And begg'd the warrior, if he yet had strength,

To give me death. He heard me not, he died,

And left me living.—This bleak cave I chose,

My everlasting mansion. In those days

The hollow shore resounded with my cries.

Often the hunter hasten'd from the hill,

And oft the mariner steer'd from the deep,

And wonder'd at me. Time, that rage subdued

To milder grief. My tears incessant flow'd

Like waters from the rock. Here have I mourn'd

An age of man compleat. Alike to me

Summer and winter, autumn an the spring,

And night and day the same.—

RIVINE.

Thus would I wish

To waste my days, a spectacle of woe!

Without or change or interval. I feel

Within myself a source and spring of sorrow,

That ne'er will cease to flow, 'till death shall stop it.

Surely the spirits of the dead delight

To be remember'd, and lamented, father.

ORELLAN.

Daughter, they do—my own experience tells.—

Once every year, that day Namora died,

A wondrous vision comes. In the still air

(For not a breath then stirs the silent bay)

Are heard the saddest, yet the sweetest sounds,

That ever touch'd the ear or heart of man,

The melody of woe.—Then from the skies

Descend the shadows of the murder'd pair,

Pale as the colours of the lunar bow.

Hov'ring before the cavern's mouth they spread

Their arms; they fix on m• their pitying eyes,

And, with a shriek, they vanish into air:

Does hoar tradition tell a tale like this?

Was ever mortal destiny like mine?

RIVINE.

Could I but hope to see my love arise,

And look on me with pity; I would live

In the vast ocean on a rock alone.

But Ronan's injur'd ghost detests Rivine.—

In the dark world of spirits thou shalt join

Thy dear Namora's shade; but far from mine

The angry spirit of my love will fly.—

ORELLAN.

I have another charge besides thee, daughter!

Within my cave a wretched stranger lies,

Who tasted all the bitterness of death;

But scarce yet knows his wonderful escape.

RIVINE.

Escape from what?

ORELLAN.

From shipwreck in the storm

That raged last night upon the rocky shore.

RIVINE.

From shipwreck! ha! Is he a man in years,

Or of the youthful time?

ORELLAN.

In prime of youth,

And beautiful he seem'd, tho' in the arms

Of death upon the naked beach he lay.

I found him there. Attentive I perceiv'd

That the warm life was not wholly fled.

I call'd a shepherd swain to give me help,

Who from a neighbouring hill survey'd the deep.

He came, and willing in his arms he bore

The youth insensible; he brought him hither.

Within he lies, stretch'd on the skins of deers;

A sleep profound has seiz'd him; when he wakes

He will not know, if in a friendly place,

Or in the dwelling of his foes he lies.—

I'll go—

RIVINE.

Not yet a while.

ORELLAN.

Thy colour shifts

From pale to red, from red to pale again.

What dost thou hope or fear?

RIVINE.

A strange event!

Yet, like the fate and fortune of my life,

Wild and incredible. Perhaps this youth

Sav'd from the wreck, and sleeping in thy cell,

Is Ronan.

ORELLAN.

No; delusive are thy hopes;

The various vest and floating robe I know

Of Albion's warlike race. He wore not those.

His dress is splendid, bright with foreign gold,

And marks the chieftain of a distant land.

RIVINE.

Enter, and if he sleeps, to me return,

I will behold and bless him where he lies;

Then from his presence fly, if it is Ronan.

ORELLAN.

I hear a noise within; the stranger comes;

His steps sound on the rock.

RIVINE.

Now, now my heart!

Thy moment this.

[Rivine retires to the side-s••••. [The stranger from the inner part of the cave sees Orellan.

STRANGER.

Thou venerable man,

Preserver of my life! for so methinks

I ought to call thee: tell me on what shore

The waves have thrown me? For the place imports

Almost as much as life.

RIVINE.

'Tis he! 'Tis Ronan!

RONAN.

Rivine's voice! I am where I would wish;

My love is here!

RIVINE.

Thy love! approach me not!

Thou noble youth! nor call Rivine thine.

RONAN.

Not call thee mine!

RIVINE.

No, never, never more!

I am unworthy of thy least regard;

Unworthy of the air that Ronan breathes.

When thou shalt know what cannot be conceal'd

Thou must abhor me.

RONAN.

I abhor Rivine!

Ah! thou art chang'd indeed since I beheld thee!

Anguish gleams in thine eye, and wild despair

Contends with shame.—Rivine, speak and save me

From horrible conjectures.

RIVINE.

Spare a wretch,

Whose heart is breaking! Fain, fain wou'd I speak,

And tell thee how Rivine was betray'd.

RONAN.

Betray'd! to what betray'd?

RIVINE.

Will not the rock

Fall down and cover with a heap my shame.

Follow me not! this hoary sire will tell

My crime; my misery cannot be told!

[Runs into the cave.

RONAN.

It must be so. Thou confident of guilt,

Perhaps the counsellor!

ORELLAN.

Young man! attend

To every circumstance of this misfortune,

And thou wilt pity her whom once thou lov'd'st.

RONAN.

Tell me one circumstance, I ask no more;

Is she not wedded?

ORELLAN.

Listen to my words,

And thou shalt have an answer to thy question.

RONAN.

I have no patience for a tedious tale;

Answer at once: is she not wedded, say?

Then I may hear thy story.

ORELLAN.

It were better,

Better for thee, rash youth! to let me tell

How this disaster did o'ertake thy love.—

RONAN.

Wilt thou not say what the disaster is?

How tedious, hard, and obstinate is age!

ORELLAN.

Unless I should deceive thee to thy hurt,

I can no longer hide from thee the truth.

RONAN.

Then she is wedded?

ORELLAN.

Yes.

RONAN.

Dost thou say yes?

ORELLAN.

Unwillingly I speak the painful truth:

My soul is griev'd for thee.

RONAN.

Thou art the cause

Of what I suffer. Thy officious hand

Sav'd me from death, to make me perish worse.

My latest thought when sinking in the storm

Was of Rivine; of her love, her truth,

Her grief eternal for her Ronan lost.—

And now I find her in another's arms;

Of me regardless, though my faithful heart,

Full of her image, for her sake despis'd

The beauteous queen of Erin's warlike land.

ORELLAN.

Young man! thou wrong'st Rivine.—

RONAN.

Wou'd that thou

Who say'st I wrong her were a young man too,

And strong and valiant to defend her cause!

Let me behold the trait'ress, and confound

Her guilty soul.—

ORELLAN.

Go, give thy passion way,

Pursue and seize her in thy frantic arms;

Then throw her headlong from the airy cliff!

I kill'd the maid I lov'd; I thought her false,

But she was truth itself.

RONAN.

And wedded too?

But who is he that durst invade my right?

What is his name? She says she was betray'd.

Who of mankind is he?

ORELLAN.

Her husband!

RONAN.

Oh!

ORELLAN.

The Pictish king.

RONAN.

Durstan, my mortal foe!

The curst oppressor of my native land!

From all mankind has she selected him,

Whom most my soul abhorr'd?

ORELLAN.

She never chose:

She was betray'd, deluded, and compell'd.

Thy servant Valma, gain'd by Durstan's gold,

Deliver'd to Rivine a false message;

Cold and contemptuous, full of slight excuse,

For breach of faith confest, and worst of all

Fraught with the praises of the beauteous queen,

Whose love had made thee lord of Erin's land.

RONAN.

Could she believe him?

ORELLAN

The bold traitor swore,

That he was witness to the proud espousals.

RONAN.

O! villain! villain! Did she credit this?

ORELLAN.

How could she doubt it?

RONAN.

Ha! did she not know me?

Did not each action of my life belie

The monstrous tale?

ORELLAN.

Long before that, the Isles

Resounded with the fame of thy great acts

In Erin's wars perform'd; and rumour spread

Abroad the story of the grateful queen.

RONAN.

Where was my friend?

ORELLAN.

When Durstan came to Elig,

Connan was absent in the distant isles;

His faith to thee this day of danger proves.

RONAN.

This day!

ORELLAN.

The fraud of Durstan was detected,

And from presumption strong thy death believ'd;

Rivine, who till then conceal'd her anguish

And veil'd with sickly smiles her broken heart,

Then own'd her love and publish'd her despair.

With threats the Pict requires his wedded wife:

Connan defies him, and demands the combat.

RONAN.

I knew he wou'd; my brave, my faithful friend!

But mine the cause, and mine shall be the combat.

ORELLAN.

The tribes are up in arms; for strong the host

That haughty Durstan leads.

RONAN.

I have no arms,

The deep hath swallowed up my sword and shield.

ORELLAN.

Here is a sword.

RONAN.

A sword! It is my own.

Never more welcome to thy master's hand.

I'll trust thy temper tried. This on the shore

Didst thou not find?

ORELLAN.

Rivine brought it hither,

And bath'd it with her tear.—

RONAN.

Did she, Rivine?

Of her I must not think while Durstan lives;

Father, farewell.—

Enter RIVINE.

RIVINE.

Yet stay and hear me, Ronan.

Behold Rivine, prostrate at thy feet!

I know I never must behold thee more;

And from that certainty derive the boldness

To offer to thine ear my last request.

When I am dead, as I shall shortly be,

Think not too hardly of me. By the ghosts

And spirits of the air that wait for me,

I never ceas'd to love thee. My fond heart,

Ev'n when I thought thee false, and strove to hate thee,

Ev'n then my tortur'd heart was full of thee.

Tis this that sends me to an early grave;

I could not bear to be and not be thine.—

O Ronan! Ronan! when in dust I lie,

And thou art wedded to some lovely maid,

Worthy of thee, unlike the rash Rivine;

Then let thine anger cease! my fleeting ghost

For ever near thee shall some pleasure know.

RONAN.

May Durstan's jav'lin nail me to the ground,

And may my dying eyes behold thee borne

Aboard his vessel, if I do not love thee!

Then of my pity judge.—

RIVINE.

Thou giv'st too much.

First let the earth receive my lifeless clay,

Before thou pitiest me. My fate is fix'd,

The place is chosen, where my tomb shall rise:

A little hillock in the narrow plain,

Beside the rock, fast by the water-fall,

Where in my better days we oft have met.

•un not the place which thou wast wont to love:

But come alone, come when the mourner's voice

For me hath ceas'd and silent is the vale;

Then if thy soul is willing to be sad,

Look on my grave.

RONAN.

Thy grave! thou shalt not die

My soul is in my voice; forgive thyself,

What Ronan has forgiven. Speak not of death,

Let me not hear thee utter such a sound,

Unless thou mean'st to send me to the field

Subdu'd by thee, dishearten'd and unman'd,

An easy prey to some inglorious arm,

The conquest of a coward. Dost thou hear,

And not reply to this? No, not one word!

But sullen silence, and a down-cast eye.

Thy will shall be obey'd: when I am slain—

Within thy destin'd grave let me be laid,

If the stern umpire of thy fate and mine,

Permit so much and thou dost not disdain

To rest beside the victim of thy pride.—

RIVINE.

To what a narrow ridge thou driv'st Rivine!

A dreadful precipice on either hand!

And I can only chuse which way to fall.

I've wrong'd thee much, let me not wrong thee mo••

Nor come a dark eclipse across thy fame.

Go where thy valour bids; go in full strength

And confidence; let not a fear for me,

Unnerve thy mighty arm. I will endure

The load of life: embrace all shame and sorrow;

Rather than thou should'st bow thy noble head,

Beneath the sword of an insulting foe.—

RONAN.

Now I am strong!

ORELLAN.

A nimble foot descends

The winding path.—

RIVINE.

'Tis Calmar's airy gait.

Enter CALMAR.

CALMAR. [sess Ronan.]

come in haste to warn—

RONAN.

Be not afraid!

Believe thine eyes; the friend of Connan live .

CALMAR.

Friend of my master's soul, for whom he mourns,

• prince of Morven! like the morning beam

Thou com'st to chace the heavy night of woe

That darkens Connan; hasten to his aid,

Many the foes whom he for thee defies.

RONAN.

Where is thy lord?

CALMAR.

On the wood-skirted lawn

Beyond the hill of pines his warriors stand;

•he Pictish army covers all the shore.—

•aw our aged king tear his grey locks,

〈◊〉 he implor'd them to forbear the fight.—

RONAN.

Shame to my soul! why do I tarry here?

Farewell! farewell! Rivine!

[Exit.]

RIVINE.

To the field,

Rejoicing in his might the hero goes,

And so he should; from me he parted well.—

I see, I see the path that I must follow,

Bright as the starry way that shines above,

When the blue frost is beautiful in Heaven.

Thy tydings, Calmar?

CALMAR.

Your retreat is known.

RIVINE.

To Durstan?

CALMAR.

No, but to your troubled sire,

Who partial to the Pict his daughter blames.

Connan intreats you to forsake this place,

And seek the shelter of the inland vale.

I am your guide and guard.

RIVINE.

I'll leave this place,

And thou shalt be my guide. Father, farewell!

[To Orellan.]

The joy that dwells with tender grief be thine,

To me alas! denied.—No pleasant ray

Can ever reach the dark abode of shame.

One issue yet is left.—

ORELLAN.

I read thy thoughts,

Hadst thou been silent I had known thy purpose.

Thy port exalted, thine enlightened eye,

Denote the pitch of thy determin'd mind;

The storm-toss'd vessel seeks a shore unknown.

I blame thee not, O! daughter of affliction.

Strange is thy destiny! thyself alone

Can be thy counsellor.—

RIVINE.

Affliction's friend!

Devoted vassal of eternal sorrow,

Thanks for thy gentle sympathy, if thou

Should'st give a tear to me or my sad story,

Namora's memory wou'd not be wrong'd.

ORELLAN. [Exit Rivine and Calmar.]

Bright star! that hastes to set. O child of youth,

Like the green oak, before its head is bare,

Untimely torn from some high mountain's brow.

So shalt thou fall, but not without thy praise.

This cave, a while the mansion of thy woes,

Those hoary cliffs, and yon resounding bay,

Shall often echo thy lamented name.

My voice shall pierce the stillness of the morning,

And evening's milder calm, bewailing thee.

Namora's gentle shade will love the song

That joins her sister-memory to thine.—

END OF THE THIRD ACT.

ACT IV.

SCENE, a Thick Wood.

Enter KATHUL and CONNAN.

CONNAN.

MY friend is dead. But friendship never dies.

Remember, Sir, how Ronan fought for me.

The youth were met in the sequester'd vale,

And held a feast of joy. The bards arose,

And sung heroic deeds atchiev'd of old.

Rous'd with the song the chiefs began to boast

Their own exploits in arms. Above the rest

Proud Armor vaunted, trusting in his strength;

Truth he regarded not; he told how once,

In Ardven's vale he met the blue-ey'd maid,

Old Alpine's daughter; Connan was her guard,

Who shun'd the combat, and resign'd the maid.

Silent and pale my sad companions heard;

But from the banquet generous Ronan rose,

And dar'd the giant to maintain his words,

By combat on the plain. Furious they met,

Like two strong bulls contending for the herd;

They fought from mid-day 'till the setting sun

Gilded the vale; then Ronan's arm prevail'd,

And Armor bit the ground. Fast by the lake,

Mark'd with a stone, is seen his lengthen'd grave;

Eternal monument of Ronan's faith

And of his glory; but of shame to me,

If e'er my soul forgets the hero's love.

KATHUL.

Ha! who comes yonder rushing from the wood,

Swift as the roe? see at one bound he leaps

From bank to bank the brook. Connan, beware!

His ready weapon glitters in his hand.

CONNAN.

Spirits of earth and air! 'tis Ronan's form!

Thus have I seen him hasten to the field,

Thus spring exulting when the foe drew near.

KATHUL.

Oft have I heard the voice of mournful ghosts,

Borne on the wings of the careering winds,

But ne'er 'till now beheld—It stops and glares

With angry eyes on me. Speak thou, my son!

For ye were one.

Enter RONAN.

CONNAN.

O spirit of my friend!

Com'st thou to urge thy Connan to revenge?

RONAN.

I am no spirit: come, my faithful friend,

And in my arms feel that thy Ronan lives.

Now art thou satisfy'd?—

[They embrace.]

CONNAN.

I am transported!

Ronan to life restor'd and at my side,

When in despair against his foes I arm'd!

I have a thousand questions, but not now.

I must be sudden and abrupt, my friend!

The times are so.—Sad tidings thou must hear.

But let resentment chase thy grief away:

The salve of sorrow is a brave revenge.

RONAN.

I come to seek revenge; my wrongs I know,

For I have seen Rivine. Where is Durstan?

I hop'd to meet him in the battle's front;

But peace is here.

KATHUL.

No, prince of Morven, no!

Peace dwells not here. Between the swords I came

Of raging warriors and obtain'd a truce

Until to-morrow's dawn. Altho' my hope

Of reconcilement at thy presence fades,

My troubled soul rejoices in thy safety.

Thy timeless death I mourn'd.

RONAN.

King of the isles!

Why didst thou give thy daughter to the Pict?

KATHUL.

Ronan, I was deceiv'd. I hold thee dear,

And wish—But nothing can recal the past.—

RONAN.

Recal the past!

CONNAN.

Ronan!

RONAN.

Be not alarmed!

O! King! thou art the father of my friend,

The father of my lov'd my lost Rivine.

And that restrains my tongue. Yet I must say,

Hadst thou been constant to thy old allies,

Hadst thou been faithful, and preserv'd my bride,

This day had crown'd thy hoary head with joy.

Impatient to behold my love, I fail'd

And left behind the Scandinavian fleet

Of warriors full. With these lerne's sons

And Erin's chiefs for injur'd Albion arm.

Selma shall rise again.

KATHUL.

May Selma rise,

And Albion's honour'd race for ever reign.

Yet hear me Ronan! from my heart I speak;

Thou bear'st a noble mind; thy fame is great

For justice as for valour; with the Pict

Thou hast a rightful quarrel; but respect

This hospitable shore; contend not here,

Nor fight with Durstan for his wedded wife.

RONAN.

Not fight with Durstan! then let Durstan fly

And I shall follow, to whatever shore

He takes his flight.

KATHUL.

I understand thee well.—

My son do thou regard thy sister's fame!

〈◊〉 fairer aspect much her conduct wore,

When thy lov'd friend was number'd with the dead,

Than now, when he in arms her husband braves.—

I go to meet the antients of the land,

The hoary counsellors, who can compare

The present trouble with the times of old,

And call experience to vouch their counsel.

Under the spreading beech that shades the brook

They sit and ruminate.

[Exit.

RONAN.

Their thoughts I know.

Cold are the counsels of inactive age,

Patient of injury, averse to arms.

I long for vengeance and my soul is sick

Of this delay. But why shou'd I defer

My just revenge? no truce was made for me;

I'll send him a defiance.—

CONNAN.

Not to day,

Nor yet to morrow do I wish the Pict

By Ronan's hand to fall.—

RONAN.

If he should fall

By any other hand, I'm not reveng'd.

We're interrupted. Ha! what man is that,

Who steps so haughtily before the rest?

CONNAN.

It is the Pict.—

RONAN.

I thought so.

CONNAN.

Yet be calm!

Your eyes flash fire; your heart beats in your breast

As it would burst your bosom.

RONAN.

Mark me, Connan!

This hour let my own spirit guide itself.

He knows me not. Beware of naming me,

I'll take my time to speak.

[Walks aside.]

Enter DURSTAN attended.

DURSTAN.

I sought the king—

But thou, who hast usurp'd thy father's power,

May in his absence answer.—

CONNAN.

What's thy question?

DURSTAN.

A plain one, whither was the vessel bound,

That left the shore just now with crouded sails?

CONNAN.

I know not what she is, nor whither bound.

Why dost thou ask of me?

DURSTAN.

I do suspect,

She is dispatch'd to summon to your aid,

The warriors of the isles.

CONNAN.

Perhaps she is;

Credit thy worst suspicion; break the truce

And I will thank thee. I desir'd no truce

And never will have cordial peace with thee.

DURSTAN.

My faith, young man, is plighted to thy father,

And he shall own, to vindicate my fame,

That Durstan sought not to lay waste his isles,

Nor stay his people.—

CONNAN.

If thou art sincere,

And tender of the lives of blameless men,

With me decide the quarrel; shou'd I fall,

Rivine's dowry is a kingdom then.

DURSTAN.

Not that I fear thine arm, do I decline

To answer thy proud challenge; but thou art

The brother of Rivine.

RONAN.

Wise thy words,

And just the reason thou assign'st, O! King!

But I am not the brother of Rivine;

And I accuse thee; I defy thee too!

DURSTAN.

Thou! who art thou!

RONAN.

Not less in blood and birth

Than Durstan is; of royal lineage born,

To Ronan near allied. Ha! dost thou start

And tremble, Pict, at injur'd Ronan's name?

DURSTAN.

Boaster, I know no fear; but thee I scorn.

Who vaunts his lineage and conceals his name,

Is of his race the stain.

RONAN.

Soon shalt thou know,

Perhaps, somewhat too soon, the name I bear;

But, first, I'll tell thee thy detested deeds,

And gall, if possible, thine iron heart.—

Unlike a prince, a warrior and a man,

Meanly thou didst seduce a servile soul

To wrong his master's honour and his love;

And by the blackest artifice betray'd

To endless misery, a royal fair,

Who dies of grief and hate to the assassin!

And still thou dost presume—

DURSTAN.

Away! begone!

RONAN.

I will not; nor shalt thou, from Ronan go.—

DURSTAN.

Thou, Ronan!

RONAN.

I! now, robber, dost thou tremble?

Unsheath thy sword! Each moment seems an age

'Till I avenge on thee my mighty wrongs,

And give thy spirit to the winds of heav'n.

DURSTAN.

So confident! Behold this sword I draw,

'Tis stain'd with blood of Albion's vanquish'd kings,

To Ronan near allied: I lift it now

To send thee to thy fathers.—

RONAN.

Take my answer.—

[They engage.

FIRST PICT. [Interposing.

Let kings with kings contend and subjects meet

A subject's arm.—

CONNAN.

If thou lov'st honour, Pict,

Or fear'st eternal shame, command these men,

Thy subjects, to retire.—

FIRST PICT.

Should he command,

It is our duty now to disobey.

RONAN.

Let us assail them all!

CONNAN. [Advancing.

Ronan, my friend!

Step not before me; let me guard thy side.—

Enter KATHUL, and EURAN.

[Kathul, coming between their swords.]

KATHUL.

My guests, forbear! and thou rebellious boy,

Put up thy sword, or shed thy father's blood!

RONAN.

Why dost thou guard my foes, King of the isles!

What is thine aim? This is no sudden strife,

Sprung from a light and accidental cause;

It is a mortal quarrel founded deep

On wrongs not to be borne. Let honour'd age

Avoid the sight of blood.—

KATHUL.

Hear me, rash youth!

My aim is to be just, and to prevent

A combat, whose event must fatal prove

To my allies, my children and my fame.

Do thou hereafter, on some distant shore,

Pursue thy quarrel with the Pictish king,

And bear the cause of Albion on thy sword.

Now I forbid the war and will propound

Impartial terms of peace. He who believes

His cause is just, will readily assent.

DURSTAN.

Altho' with us the odds of combat lie,

Not less in valour, and in number more;

If full assurance that my cause is good

Implies assent, on mine thou may'st depend.

RONAN.

May my sword shiver, when it strikes thy helm,

If it does not defend the better cause.

KATHUL.

Thy soul is like the torrent of thy hills!

O! chief of desart Morven! Fierce thy words,

But confident and suited to my purpose.

Behold where yonder white and ragged cliff

Points the long ridge and terminates the bay;

There, in a cave, the sea-mark of the main,

A man unlike the rest of mortals dwells!

Once great in arms, a-breast of mighty chiess,

The brave Orellan trod the paths of Fame:

But strange misfortune crost the warrior's way.

In early youth he kill'd the fair he loved,

Then left mankind, to live alone with sorrow!

Bare is his bosom to the howling winds,

And wet his hoary head, with foam that flies

From the resounding surges of the main;

The coot, the cormorant are his companions.

Sometimes, he says, his cries bring from her cloud

The pallid image of the murdered maid!

RONAN.

I know the sad Orellan. To what end

Dost thou describe to us the man of sorrow?—

KATHUL.

He is the judge who cannot be unjust;

For his pure mind no partial passion knows:

The sole affection of his breast is pity;

The man of sorrow feels for human woes!

To him submit the cause of doubtful strife,

And let his voice determine of Rivine.

RONAN.

Is this thy counsel, king? and dost thou think

That it will be regarded? Shall Rivine,

Like flocks or herds in contest, be adjudged?

No. Whilst I live, Rivine shall be free;

Rivine shall determine of herself.

She has determin'd never to behold

The face of Durstan and I will defend

The resolution which my soul approvies

DURSTAN.

Art thou the judge?

RONAN.

I am, and thou shalt find so;

Follow my steps. In such a strife as this

The valiant know no umpire but the sword—

[Exit.

[Kathul stops Connan.]

KATHUL.

By all the reverence thou owest thy father

And by the love thou bear'st thy native land,

Stay 'till thou hear'st the Pict—

[While Kathul speaks, Euran whispers Durstan.

CONNAN.

What can he say?

Who still, tho' oft defy'd, declines the combat.

DURSTAN.

Kathul, I speak to thee. In just respect

To thy fair conduct and thy chosen judge,

To his decision, conscious of my right,

I would submit my cause. But since the pride

Of haughty Ronan to the sword appeals,

I answer him—His challenge I accept;

And will to morrow, with the rising sun,

Meet him in arms. Here, where we first encounter'd.

Tis thine, O King! to regulate the combat.—

KATHUL.

Durstan, I disapprove—

DURSTAN.

I know thou dost;

But thou can'st not prevent. It must be so:

King of the isles, farewel!

KATHUL.

Tarry a while;

Enter my hall, and of the feast partake.

The hall of Semo shines with many fires.

DURSTAN.

Fast by my ships, upon the sandy shore,

I'll pass the night. The feast of foes I shun.—

Oft, when the circling shell awakes the soul,

Like flints the words of enemies strike fire.

Forth comes the hasty steel. Whoe'er prevails

A doubtful fame th'inglorious strife attends.

[Going.

KATHUL.

Let me conduct thy footsteps to the shore,

And shew our people that in peace we part.—

[Exeunt all but Connan.

CONNAN.

'Tis not what I desir'd—'Twas my prime wish

To meet the Pict and to revenge my friend.

Yonder he comes impatient—

Enter RONAN.

RONAN.

Ha! they're gone!

What said the Pict?

CONNAN.

Thy challenge he accepted.

RONAN.

Did he?

CONNAN.

He did; to-morrow is the time,

And this the appointed place.

RONAN.

Why not to-day?

CONNAN.

It is too late, sunk in the western wave,

The sun but half his glorious circle shews,

Soon will the splendor of his path be dim,

And his pale sister rule the silent world.

RONAN.

O, thou fair light! whose beams rejoice the heart

Of him whose thoughts are open as his deeds!

In thy dark chamber do not tarry long:

But, with unwonted speed, thy course pursue,

Till the grey eastern cloud grows red again,

Before thy flaming steps.—

CONNAN.

My warriors wait.

Some care the business of to-morrow claims;

An equal number drawn from either host

Must guard the lists! Oh! were the combat mine;

My dearest friend once for his Connan fought—

RONAN.

When Connan was not there.

CONNAN.

Go to the hall.

RONAN.

Where is Rivine?

CONNAN.

To some place remote,

•ar in the forest, Calmar has convey'd her.

Uncertain is the spot, and vain it were

To seek her at this hour. Turn to the hall,

And for my sake speak gently to my father.

[Exit Connan.

RONAN.

I wish I could avoid the sight of him

And every person. When the heart is full

Of its own swelling thoughts, society

Is molestation. Solitude is best.

Ye woods and groves! where I was wont to roam

With her I lov'd; I left you in your glory!

Fair as the grove of June I left my love!

Not long my absence, yet the leaf is fallen.

Trees of the forest! you shall hear again

The voice of spring and cloath yourselves anew

In the green robe you lost—But never more

Shall bud or blossom—Ha! what new event

Brings this keen messenger.

Enter EURAN hastily.

EURAN.

O prince of Morven!

Thy haughty courage and thy upright heart

Expose thee to the snafts of secret fraud

Which Durstan aims.

RONAN.

At me!

EURAN.

Of that be judge.

Whilst every eye, secure of peace, is clos'd,

Amidst the darkness of the night he means

To bear Rivine from her father's house,

And sail e'er morning rise.

RONAN.

Ha! I believe it.

This is the secret which explains his conduct.

Has he abettors in the house of Kathul,

Or does the robber trust in force alone?

EURAN.

He trusts in me.

RONAN.

In thee!

EURAN,

I plant the watch

Which guards the hall of Kathul; that he knows,

And with immense rewards assail'd my faith.

I seem'd to yield; and thus the plan is laid:

The youth that watch to-night, by me assur'd

That they obey in mine their king's command,

Seize the princess. One bold and faithful Pict

Waits near the northern gate to give the word,

And lead them safely through the Pictish host:

That office Durstan chose.

RONAN.

Durstan!

EURAN.

Himself!

Wrapt in the shades of night, alone in arms.—

RONAN.

I have my soul's desire! ghost of my king!

Ghosts of my kinsmen, slain that evil day

When Albion fought without her Ronan's arm.

Leave the dark mountains where you mourn your fate

Not yet reveng'd and see me meet your foe!

Euran! whate'er the lavish Pict has promis'd

To tempt thee to betray thy master's house,

Tenfold I'll give thee to preserve thy faith.

But let no man, not Kathul, Connan know;

The wrong is mine, and vengeance is my right.—

The northern gate! what is the appointed time

Of his approach?

EURAN.

The time that's most remote

From the sun's rising or his setting beams,

When o'er the castle, red Tonthena burns.—

Shall I thy steps attend?

RONAN.

Not for the world!

The moon, the stars, the spirits of the night,

They only shall behold the rough encounter.

[Exit Ronan.

EURAN.

There goes the chief whose arm in battle rules,

Whose name alone brings nations to the field.

Yet, simple as the fry, he takes the bait:

Beyond my hopes this last device succeeds.

One night of care, then I shall shake no more.

[Exit.

END OF THE FOURTH ACT.

ACT V.

SCENE, a Wood.

Enter RONAN.

RONAN.

TWICE have I made the circuit of the wood,

To waste the weary interval; and now

Right o'er the castle red Tonthêna burns.

Ye fleecy clouds that sail along the sky,

Come not too near the moon, to spread a veil

Tho' transient o'er her face. Lift up your heads,

Ye stars of heav'n! and light the listed field.

Methinks I see the figure of a man

Moving this way; within the shade he keeps,

A little onward, and the shade will fail.

'Tis he; his armour shines, he draws his sword,

And resolute advances. Here I'll stand

'Till he comes nearer; then I spring upon him.

Now robber, villain, Durstan!

[Runs to the side-scene.

Enter CONNAN.

CONNAN.

Ronan, stay

Thy furious arm, 'tis Connan bids thee stay.

RONAN.

Connan, what strange encounter!

CONNAN.

Strange it is,

And fatal might have been; but let us trace

This error to its source. You call'd me Durstan,

When rushing on my shield: if I had spoken,

I should have call'd thee by no other name.

RONAN.

Did'st thou come hither too, to meet the Pict?

CONNAN.

I came to meet the Pict. Now answer me,

Who gave the information of his purpose?

RONAN.

Euran.

CONNAN.

The traitor! 'tis as I suspected.

That villain is confederate with Durstan,

To you, to me, he told the self-same tale,

And sent us forth, to shock, and sink together,

Like vessels in a storm.

RONAN.

It must be so;

The circumstances banish every doubt.

This is another plot of that dark brain

Whose cruel guile at first o'erthrew my love.

Am I a beast of chace, a harmless deer,

For whom the hunter plants his mortal toils,

Himself secure and safe?

CONNAN.

One silent shaft,

Wing'd like the bird of night, hath o'er us slown.

Another's on the string—if right I judge,

Durstan is near and many are our foes.

RONAN.

Would I could see them.

CONNAN.

We may feel them first,

If on this spot unguarded you remain.

RONAN.

Shall they not feel us too?

CONNAN.

My friend, be calm.

Not far from hence, a little to the left,

There is a dell, whose sloping sides are rough

With thick-grown hazel.—In that place obscure

The best and bravest of my warriors lie.

Mistrustful of the Pict, I plac'd them there.

Now let us join them and explore with steel

Each angle of the wood.

RONAN.

Prince of the people!

Valour and wisdom hand in hand advance,

When thou dost guide the war—let us divide

Thy band and, parting, sooner sweep the vale.—

[Exeunt.

Enter RIVINE and CALMAR.

RIVINE.

Did'st thou not hear a voice?

CALMAR.

It was the wind

•f midnight in the trees and hollow rocks.

This is no place of safety.

RIVINE.

Yes—it is

• place of safety, and of rest for me.

Calmar, begone, and leave me to myself.

Why stand'st thou motionless? Dost thou not hear?

I bad thee leave me.

CALMAR.

Oh! I heard too well!

I have observ'd the tossing of your mind

E'er since we parted from Orellan's cave.

I led you to the forest dark and wild,

Full of sequester'd and secure retreats:

But you dislik'd each one, and roam'd about,

'Till dewy night descended on your head.

Then all at once, with a determin'd tone,

You bad me follow you; and here you are

Between the towers of Elig and the shore.

What sort of rest, Forlorn!—

RIVINE.

Dost thou presume

On my distress? and am I fall'n so low

That thou controul'st me. Go—

CALMAR.

I must obey—

But full of sorrow is the soul of Calmar.—

[going

RIVINE.

Farewel! true-hearted Calmar! But thy truth

And loving service are intruders here,

The part I've taken I must act alone.

CALMAR.

I fear her much. I'll hasten to the hall,

And bring her brother or her father hither.

[aside.

[Exit.

RIVINE.

It is but weakness, when on death resolv'd,

Fendly to seek for easy ways to die.

Yet it is nature. Thrice I lifted up

The steel against my life, and thrice let fall

Mine arm, afraid to strike the fatal blow.

I see the oak beside the froth-clad pool,

Where, in old time, as I have often heard,

A woman desperate, a wretch like me,

Ended her woes; her woes were not like mine.

I love thee, Ronan! love thee to excess,

Nor am I less belov'd. Who hears me now?

Silence, and night, and death, dumb as you are,

I will not utter more. Ronan will know

When he beholds me floating on the stream,

His heart will tell him why Rivine died.—

[Running off.

Enter DURSTAN and EURAN.

DURSTAN.

Stop!

RIVINE.

Ah!

DURSTAN.

Again thou'rt found. I'll hold thee now,

Outrageous woman.

RIVINE.

Durstan, from thy mouth

Reproaches please me best. Thou hast o'erheard

A portion of my words and needs must know

I am above thy threats, beyond the reach,

The aim of human power.

DURSTAN.

That shall be tried.

I'll bear thee hence, confine and watch thee close,

Lest thy wild frenzy work thine own perdition.

Thy shatter'd judgment shall have time to join,

And to unite again. Then thou wilt bless

Thy husband's lenity, which could forgive

Offences gross as thine—This is the path

That thou must walk in.

RIVINE.

Never will I walk

In the same path with thee.

DURSTAN.

Thou hast no choice.

I have a right to rule thee—and the power

Is in my hands. I'll use it.

RIVINE.

Right! what right,

Deceiver and betrayer of my soul,

Hast thou? But it were madness, I confess,

With thee to argue. For thy heart obdured

Admits no plea of reason or of nature.—

But Durstan this at least may comprehend,

I am resolv'd, immutable, to die.

And who can hinder me? Aboard thy fleet,

Amidst thy warriors, in the field, the hall,

In the dark dungeon or the vaulted cell,

Alike my soul is free to take its flight.

No chains, no fetters, can the spirit bind;

Which makes each instrument of opposition

The weapon of its will. Art thou convinc'd?

Or would'st thou have me call those horrors forth

Which here inhabit and to thy confusion

Blazon and vindicate my just despair?

Tell thee, if words can tell—

DURSTAN.

'Tis loss of time

To listen to thy words—

[Lays bold of Rivine.

RIVINE.

Is there no help? what will my brother think,

And Ronan, when they hear I am with Durstan?

Tear me in pieces.—

[Struggling.

[Ronan behind the scenes.]

RONAN.

Villain, quit thy prey,

And guard thyself.—

DURSTAN.

Euran, bring up my men:

I'll stop his course.—

[Exit Euran.

[Durstan holding Rivine with one hand, and drawing his sword with the other.]

Enter RONAN.

DURSTAN.

Halt. If thou dost advance

One step, Rivine on the motion dies.

RONAN.

Inhuman murderer! withdraw thine arm

And drop thy point. Thou see'st I do not stir.

DURSTAN.

Keep farther off; bend not thy body forward,

As if preparing to spring in upon me,

And I will talk with thee. What would'st thou have?

Why comest thou with thy weapon ruffian like,

To rob a husband of his wedded wife?

Is she not mine?

RONAN.

No, traytor! robber, no!

Fraud is the sole foundation of thy right,

And therefore thou hast none. If thou dar'st trust

Thy valour, or thy cause, let go her arm,

And in her presence with thy sword defend

Thy title like a man. Ha! dost thou smile

And mock at me? Thou coward! thou assasim!

Basest of men! less valiant than the deer

That graze the hills. They for their mates will bleed

And in their sight are bold.

DURSTAN.

Rage on, rail on,

Thy ineffectual passion I enjoy.—

Our nations, Ronan, ever have been foes.

In enmity our fathers liv'd and dy'd,

And we were born and nurs'd in mortal hate

Hereditary, ne'er to be appeas'd.—

To fill the measure up—Thou wast my rival,

I triumph'd o'er thee, and I triumph now.

Behold this woman here! is she not fair?

Tho' frowardness has somewhat marr'd her beauty.

Thou doat'st upon her, and she loves thee too.

But I—

RONAN.

Insulting villain!—

DURSTAN.

If thou lift'st

Thine arm, she dies.

RIVINE.

Advance and let me die,

For I have liv'd too long.—Ah! dost thou shrink,

Lean on thy sword and gnaw thy quivering lip?

More tender of my life than of my fame

Or peace of mind. Thou but prolong'st the term

Of shame and anguish. Know I was resolv'd

(Tho' I dissembled to appease thee, Ronan)

Before this dreadful parley, not to live.

That Durstan knows full well.

DURSTAN.

I know not that.

I know the nature of a woman's mind,

Direct in passion for a moment only,

And shifting like a whirlwind as it flies

To every point of heav'n—

RIVINE.

Thou speak'st the truth.

I change my purpose now. And be assur'd

If I escape from thee, I shall return

To him, to Ronan, to the rightful lord

Of me and my affections. Do not risk

By frivolous delay thy dear revenge:

Wer't thou stuck round with eyes on ev'ry side,

And hung with hands to wield a thousand swords,

Yet thou might be surpriz'd: strike, while thou canst

And disappoint thy rival.—

DURSTAN.

Tho' indeed,

I seldom do believe what women say,

Yet, from my soul, I do believe thee now.—

This rage of death, this fury, this despair

Are but the smoke and vapor of that fire,

That amorous fire which in your bosom burns.

Give it the air of hope.

RONAN.

Curse on thy tongue:

What dost thou mean in such discourse as this,

Self-loving Durstan, to consume the time?

Thou can'st not scape from hence. Connan is near,

With all the youth of Elig at his side.

E'er he arrives, once more I offer thee

The equal combat. If thou doubt'st thine arm

Commit Rivine to her father's care.

DURSTAN.

Commit Rivine to her father's care,

To Ronan's care, to her dear lover's care!

He will be tender of her and perhaps

May reconcile her to the love of life.

[Looking to the side scene.]

Now mighty warrior, of thy valour vain,

And trusting for success to force alone,

I have amus'd thee, till the hour is past.

The moment of equality between us:

For tho' I deem mine arm as strong as thine,

Chance might have thrown the advantage on thy side.

Behold—

RIVINE.

Ha! Euran with the Picts returns.

Now let the spirit of her race inspire,

In this extreme, the daughter of the Isles.

O prince of Morven! guard thy noble life.

From shame, from Durstan, this shall save Rivine.

[Stabs herself.

RONAN.

O dreadful act!

[To Durstan.]

On thee, thou wretch accurs'd!

Auther of all our woes, I'll be reveng'd

[They fight, and are both wounded.]

This to thy heart, and this—down to the ground.

[As Durstan falls, Euran enters with the Picts, and receives him in his arms.]

DURSTAN.

•hou hast it too. I leave thee to enjoy

•hy conquest and thy love.

FIRST PICT.

Hence; Connan comes.

[They bear him off.]

RONAN.

••'s dead—Dishonour rest upon his name,

•y love! my love!—How couldst thou?—But 'tis done.—

•hall not long survive thee, that's my comfort.—

RIVINE.

•hat's the torture which I cannot bear,

•as prepar'd for death, but not for thine.

〈◊〉 me there was no refuge but the tomb:

〈◊〉 thee I could not, nor without thee, live.

RONAN.

•o not speak so tenderly, nor look

〈◊〉 such heart-piercing eyes.

RIVINE.

I had one hope

On which I lean'd, now I am all despair.

I thought (when I was dead) that from the cloud

Of grief, my hero would break forth again:

And run his course of glory and of fame.—

But thou art snatch'd away, I have undone thee,

Blasted thy youth, cut short thy noble life,

This is the fruit that thou hast gather'd, Ronan!

The only fruit of curst Rivine's love.

RONAN.

O! I could speak such things, but not to thee,

Whose generous heart, regardless of thyself,

Amidst despair and death for Ronan mourns.—

'Tis not thy fault. Fortune has cross'd our love,

But I wou'd rather be what now I am,

Than love thee less, or yet be less belov'd.

RIVINE.

Belov'd thou art. I die, give me thy hand.—

RONAN.

My heart my soul are thine.—

RIVINE.

O! best of men!

And best belov'd! farewel, farewel for ever!

[Dies.]

RONAN.

Flow fast my blood—why dost thou linger, death?

My heart is torn with agonizing thoughts.

O! memory would I could fly from thee!

And give my moments to a softer sorrow.—

Caught in an eddy, up and down the stream

I drive and wheeling to one point return.

That monster there! that villain! land of ghosts!

Shall I forget it there?

[Dies.]

Enter CALMAR hastily.

CALMAR.

Alas! my lord!

Too true the traitor's words.

Enter CONNAN with his warriors.

CONNAN.

Oh! Ronan! Ronan!

O! my ill-fated sister! love of thee

Brought down the towering eagle of the war,

From his high rock of fame. Let me not blame,

Pity forbid that I should blame the dust

Of poor Rivine—Bear the bodies hence,

Let not old Kathul see his daughter's blood:—

I left him standing by the corse of Euran.

O'erwhelm'd and dumb with grief.—

Enter KATHUL.

KATHUL.

I am the cause

Of all that has befallen. Thy father's steps

Turn to his hall no more: deaf is mine ear

For ever to the voice of youth and joy.

Orellan's lonely cave shall hide my grief.

There we will dwell together and decay

Like two old trees, whose roots hang uppermost

On some bare mountain's side, from which each storm

Wasteth a portion of the mould'ring soil

'Till down they fall.

CONNAN.

Do not indulge

Such melancholy thoughts.

KATHUL.

I am resolv'd:

To thee, my son, the sceptre I resign;

I trust 'twill prosper in thy stedfast hand.

Thou wilt not listen to the tale of lies,

Nor in rash mood forsake thine antient friends.

Oh! friend of Ronan! be the peoples friend.

Still let thy open gate receive the stranger,

Who from the hill or from the ship descends,

So shall thy name like grateful odour spread

From thy own dwelling to far distant lands.

I have no other wish. My son farewel!

[Exit Kathul.

CONNAN.

To morrow we a monument shall raise

To mark the place where mighty Ronan rests

With fair Rivine, in the house of death.

If right my soul forebodes they shall not lie

In dark oblivion; on their buried woes

The light refulgent of the song shall rise

And brighten the sad tale to future times.

The brave, the fair shall give the pleasing tear

Of nature, partial to the woes of love.

FINIS.

Notes

*
Ireland.
↵

†
Denmark.
↵

EPILOGUE.

Written by Mr. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

[Enters in a Hurry.]

FORGIVE my coming thus, our griefs to utter—

I'm such a figure!—and in such a flutter—

So circumstanc'd, in such an aukward way,

I know not what to do, or what to say.

Our bard, a strange unfashionable creature,

As obstinate, as savage in his nature,

Will have no Epilogue!—I told the brute—

If Sir, these trifles don't your genius suit;

We have a working Prologue-smith, within,

Will strike one off, as if it were a pin.

Nay, Epilogues are Pins,—whose points, well-plac'd,

Will trick your Muse out, in the tip-top taste!

〈◊〉 Pins, madam! (frown'd the Bard) the Greeks us'd none,

(Then mutt'ring Greek—something like this,—wenton)

Pinnos, painton, patcheros, non Graeco Modon."

coax'd, he swore—"That tie him to a stake,

He'd suffer all for Decency's fair sake;

No Bribery should make him change his plan."

••ere's an odd mortal. Match him if you can.

•h, sir! (said I)—your reasoning is not deep,

〈◊〉 when at Tragedies spectators weep,

They oft, like children, cry thems elves asleep.

〈◊〉 if no jogging Epilogue you write,

〈◊〉 Box, and Gallery, may sleep all night:

"Like harmless infants mourn themselves asleep. ALEX.

"Better (he swore)—a nap should overtake ye,

"Than Folly should to Folly's pranks awake ye;

"Rakes are more harmless nodding upon benches,

"Than ogling to insnare poor simple wenches;

"And simple girls had better close their eyes,

"Than send 'em gadding after butterslies.

"Nay, should a statesman make a box his nest;

"Who, that his country loves, would break his rest?

"Let come what may, I will not make 'em laugh,

"Take for an Epilogue—This Epitaph.

"For as my lovers lives, I would not save,

"No pois'nous weeds shall root upon their grave."

Tis thus these pedant Greek-read poets vapour—

Is it your pleasure I should read the paper?

Here, in the arms of death, a matchless pair,

A young-lov'd hero, and beloved fair,

Now find repose.—Their virtues tempest-tost,

Sea-sick, and weary, reach the wish'd-for coast.

Whatever mortal to this spot is brought,

O may the living, by the dead be taught!

May here Ambition learn to clip her wing,

And Jealousy to blunt her deadly sting;

Then shall the Poet every with obtain,

Nor Roman and Rivine die in vain.

Information about this book

Title statement

The fatal discovery. A tragedy. As it is performed at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury-Lane

Home, John, 1722-1808.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3977

ID [isbn10]

1106009762

ID [isbn13]

9781106009760

ID [TCP]

K037293.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310244920

ID [ECLL]

0152601500

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The fatal discovery. A tragedy. As it is performed at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury-Lane, Home, John, 1722-1808.. [4],76,[4]p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for T. Becket and P. A. De Hondt,. 1769.. [Anonymous. By John Home.- With two final leaves each containing an epilogue.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT35427.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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