Who pour'd her sorrows on Horatia's bier,
That still retains so much of flesh and blood,
She'd fairly hang her brother, if she could.
Why, ladies, to be sure, if that be all,
At your tribunal he must stand or fall.
Whate'er his country, or his sire decreed,
You are his judges now, and he must plead,
Like other culprit youths, he wanted grace;
But could have no self-interest in the case.
Had she been wife, or mistress, or a friend,
It might have answer'd some convenient end:

Org. How nobly does this venerable wood,
Gilt with the glories of the orient sun,
Embosom yon fair mansion! The soft air
Salutes me with most cool and temp'rate breath;
And, as I tread the flow'r-besprinkled lawn,
Sends up a gale of fragrance. I should guess,
If e'er Content deign'd visit mortal clime,
This was her place of dearest residence.
Grant, Heav'n, I find it such! 'Tis now three
months,

Since first earl Athelwold espous'd my daughter.
He then besought me, for some little space,
The nuptials might be secret: many reasons,
He said, induc'd to this: I made no pause,
But, resting on his prudence, to his will
Gave absolute concurrence. Soon as married,
He to this secret seat convey'd Elfrida;
Convey'd her as by stealth, enjoy'd, and left her:
Yet not without I know not what excuse
Of call to court, of Edgar's royal friendship,
And England's welfare. To his prince he went:
And since, as by intelligence I gather,
He oft returns to this his cloister'd wife;
But ever with a privacy most studied,
Borrowing disguises till inventive art
Can scarce supply him with variety.

His visits, as they're stol'n, are also short;
Seldom beyond the circuit of one sun;

Then back to court, while she his absence mourns 4

Full many a lonely hour. I brook not this.
Had Athelwold espous'd some base-born peasant,
This usage had been apt; but when he took
My daughter to his arins, he took a virgin,,
Through whose rich veins the blood of British
kings

Ran in unsullied stream. Her lineage sure
Might give her place and notice with the noblest
In Edgar's court. Elfrida's beauty too
(I speak not from a father's foolish fondness)
Would shine amid the fairest, and reflect
No vulgar glory on that beauty's master.
This act bespeaks the madman. Who that own'd
An em'rald, jasper, or chrysolite,

Would hide its lustre, or not bid it blaze
Conspicuous on his brow? Haply Athelwold
May have espous'd some other. 'Sdeath, he
durst not!

My former feats in arms must have inform'd him,

That Orgar, while he liv'd, would never prove
A traitor to his honour. If he has-
This aged arm is not so much unstrung
By slack'ning years, but just revenge will brace it.
And, by yon awful heav'n-But hold, my rage!
I came to search into this matter coolly.
Hence, to conceal the father and the earl,
This pilgrim's staff, and scrip, and all these marks
Of vagrant poverty.

morn!

All hail thy roseat ray!

Org. But hark, the sound of sweetest minstrelsy

Breaks on mine ear. The females, I suppose, Whom Athelwold has left my child's attendants; That, when she wails the absence of her lord, Their lenient airs, and sprightly-fancied songs, May steal away her woes. See, they approach: This grove shall shroud me till they cease their strain;

Then I'll address them with some feigned tale. [He retires.

ODE.

Cho. Hail to thy living light,
Ambrosial morn! all hail thy roseat ray:

That bids young Nature all her charms display
In varied beauty bright;

That bids each dewy-spangled flowret rise,
And dart around its vermeil dies;
Bids silver lustre grace yon sparkling tide,

That winding warbles down the mountain's side.
Away, ye goblins all,

Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt;
Whose vagrant feet have trac'd your secret haunt
Beside some lonely wall,

Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tow'r,

Where at pale midnight's stillest hour, Through each rough chink the solemn orb of night Pours momentary gleams of trembling light. Away, ye elves, away:

Shrink at ambrosial morning's living ray;
That living ray, whose pow'r benign
Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye,

Where, thron'd in artless majesty,

The cherub Beauty sits on nature's rustic shrine.→ CHORUS, ORGAR.

Cho. Silence, my sisters.-Whence this rude-
ness, stranger,

That thus has prompted thine unbidden ear
To listen to our strains?

Org. Your pardon, virgins:

I meant not rudeness, though I dar'd to listen;
For ah! what ear so fortify'd and barr'd
Against the force of powerful harmony,
But would with transport to such sweet assailants
Surrender its attention? Never yet
Have I pass'd by the night-bird's fav'rite spray,
What time she pours her wild and artless song,
Without attentive pause and silent rapture;
How could I then, with savage disregard,
Hear voices tun'd by nature sweet as her's,
Grac❜d with all art's addition?

Fills (as loud fame reports) right royally;
I then, unfit for pageantry and courts,
Sat down in peace among my faithful vassals,
At my paternal seat. But ah! not long
Had I enjoy'd the sweets of that recess,
Ere, by the savage inroads of base hinds,
That sallied frequent from the Scottish heights,
My lands were all laid waste, my people murder'd;
And I, through impotence of age, unfit
To quell their brutal rage, was forc'd to drag
My mis'ries through the land, a friendless wan-
d'rer.

Cho. We pity and condole thy wretched state, But we can do no more; which, on thy part, Claims just returns of pity: for whose lot Demands it more than theirs, whom fate forbids To taste the joys of courteous charity;

To wipe the trickling tears, which dew the cheek
Of palsy'd age; to smooth its furrow'd brow,
And pay its grey hairs each due reverence?
Yet such delight we are forbid to taste!
For 'tis our lord's command, that not a stranger,
However high or lowly his degree,
Have entrance at these gates.

Org. Who may this tyrant

Cho. Alas, no tyrant he; the more our won-
der

At this harsh mandate: Tenderness and pity
Have made his breast their home. He is a man
More apt, through inborn gentleness, to err
In giving mercy's tide too free a course,
Than with a thrifty and illiberal hand

S

To stint its channel. This his praise you'll hear
The universal theme in Edgar's court:
For Edgar raks him first in his high favour;
Loads him with honours, which the earl receives,
As does the golden censer frankincense,
Only to spread a sacred gale of blessings
Around on all.

Org. Methinks, this pleasing portrait
Bears strong resemblance of Lord Athelwold.
Cho. Himself: no Briton but has heard his
fame.

Org. 'Tis wondrous strange; can you conceive

no cause

For this his conduct?

Cho None, that we may trust.

Org. Your garbs bespeak you for the fair at

tendants

Of some illustrious dame, the wife or sister
Of this dread earl.

Cho. On this head too, old man,

We are commanded a religious silence:
Which strictly we obey; for well we know
Fidelity's a virtue that ennobles

Even servitude itself: farewell, depart
With our best wishes; we do trespass much
To hold this open converse with a stranger.
Org. Stay, virgins, stay; have ye no friendly
shed,

But bordering on your castle, where these limbs
Might lay their load of misery for an hour?
Have ye no food, however mean and homely,
Wherewith I might support declining nature?
Even while I speak, I find my spirits fail;
And well, full well, I know, these trembling feet,
Ere I can pace a hundred steps, will sink
Beneath their wretched burthen,

Cho. Piteous sight!

Org. Kind Heaven!

| Implores your aiding hand,
Let not a partial faithfulness,
Let not a mortal's vain command
Urge you to break the unalterable laws
Of heaven-descended Charity.
Ah! follow still the soft-ey'd Deity;
For know, each path she draws,
Along the plain of life,

Meets at the central dome of heartfelt joy.
Follow the soft-ey'd Deity;

She bids ye, as ye hope for blessings, bless.
Aid then the general cause of general happiness.
Semicho. Humanity, thy awful strain
Shall ever greet our ear,

Sonorous, sweet, and clear.

And as amid the sprightly-swelling train
Of dulcet notes, that breathe
From flute or lyre,

The deep base rolls its manly melody,
Guiding the tuneful choir;

So thou, Humanity, shalt lead along
The accordant passions in their moral song,
And give our mental concert truest harmony.
Cho. But see, Elfrida comes.

Should we again resume our former strain,
And hail the morn that paints her waking beau-
ties;

Or stay her gentle bidding? Rather stay;
For, as I think, she seems in pensive mood:
And there are times, when, to the sorrowing
soul,

Even harmony is harshness.

ELFRIDA, CHORUS.

Elf. O my virgins,

With what a leaden and retarding weight,
Does expectation load the wing of Time?
Alas, how have these three dull hours crept on,
Since first the crimson mantle of the morn
Skirted yon gay horizou? Say, my friends,
Have I miscounted? Did not Athelwold
At parting fix this morn for his return?
This dear long-wish'd-for morn? He did, he did,
And seal'd it with a kiss; I could not err.
And yet he comes not. He was wont outstrip
The sun's most early speed, and make its rising
To me unwish'd and needless. This delay
Creates strange doubts and scruples in my breast.
Courts throng with beauties, and my Athelwoid
Has a soft, susceptible heart, as prone

To yield its love to every sparkling eye,
As is the musk-rose to dispense its fragrance
To every whispering breeze; perhaps he's false,
Perhaps Elfrida's wretched.

Must greatly fear.

Cho. Yet whence the cause? Your earl
Has ever yet (this little breach excepted)
Been punctual to appointment. Did his eye
Glow with less ardent passion when he left you,
Than at the first blest meeting? No! I marked
him,

His parting glance was that of fervent love,
And constancy unalter'd. Do not fear him.
Elf. I should not fear him, were his present
stay

The only cause. Alas, it is not so!

Why comes my earl so secret to these arms!
Why, but because he dreads the just reproach
Of some deluded fair one? Why am I
Here shrouded up, like the pale votarist,
Who knows no visitant, save the lone owl,
That nightly leaves his ivy-shrouded cell,
And sails on slow wing through the cloister'd isles,
Listening her saintly orisons? Why am I
Deny'd to follow my departed lord
Whene'er his duty calls him to the palace?
Cho. Covet not that; the noblest proof of love
That Athelwold can give, is still to guard
Your beauties from the blast of courtly gales.
The crimson blush of virgin modesty,
The delicate soft tints of innocence
There all fly off, and leave no boast behind,
But well-rang'd, faded features. Ah, Elfrida,
Should you be doom'd, which happier fate forbid !
To drag your hours through all that nauseous

scene

Of pageantry and vice; your purer breast,
True to its virtuous relish, soon would heave
A fervent sigh for innocence and Harewood.

Elf. You much mistake me, virgins; the
throng'd palace

Were undesired by me, did not that palace
Detain my Athelwold. If he were here,
His presence would convert this range of oaks
To stately columns; these gay-liv'ried flowers
To troops of gallant ladies: and yon deer,
That jut their antlers forth in sportive fray,
To armed knights at joust or tournament.
If Athelwold dwelt here, if no ambition
Could lure his steps from love, and this still fo-

The youth, who bathes in pleasure's tempting

stream

At well-judg'd intervals, feels all his soul
Nerv'd with recruited strength; but if too oft
He swims in sportive mazes through the flood,
It chills his languid virtue. For this cause
Your earl forbids, that these enchanting groves,
And their fair mistress should possess him wholly.
He knows he has a country and a king,
That claim his first attention; yet be sure,
'Twill not be long, ere his unbending mind
Shall lose in sweet oblivion every care,
Among th' embow'ring shades that veil Elfrida.
Elf. O be that speech prophetic; may he soon
Seek these embowering shades! Meanwhile, my
friends,

Sooth me with harmony. I know full well
That ye were nurs'd in Cornwall's wizard caves,
And oft have pac'd the fairy-peopled vales
Of Devon, where posterity retains
Some vein of that old minstrelsy, which breath'd
Through each time-honour'd grove of British oak.
There, where the spreading consecrated boughs
Fed the sage misletoe, the holy druids
Lay wrapt in moral musings; while the bards.
Call'd from their solemn harps such lofty airs,
As drew down fancy from the realms of light
To paint some radiant vision on their minds,
Of high mysterious import. But on me
Such strains sublime were wasted: I but ask
A sprightly song to speed the lazy flight
Of these dull hours. And music sure can find
A magic spell to make them skim their round,
Swift as the swallow circles. Try its power:
While I, from yonder hillock, watch his coming.
[Exit ELFRIDA.

ODE.

Cho. The turtle tells her plaintive tale,
Sequester'd in some shadowy vale;
The lark in radiant æther floats,
And swells his wild extatic notes:
Meanwhile on yonder hawthorn spray
The linnet wakes her temp'rate lay;
She haunts no solitary shade,
She flutters o'er no sunshine mead,
No love-lorn griefs depress her song,
No raptures lift it loudly high,
But soft she trills, amid th' aerial throng,
Smooth simple strains of sob'rest harmony.

Sweet bird! like thine our lay shall flow
Nor gaily brisk, nor sadly slow;
For to thy note, sedate and clear,
Content still lends a list'ning car.
Reclin'd this mossy bank along,
Oft has she heard thy careless song:
Why hears not now? What fairer grove
From Harewood lures her devious love?
What fairer grove than Harewood knows,
More woodland walks, more fragrant gales,
More shadowy bowers, inviting soft repose,
More streams slow wand'ring through her wind-
ing vales?