Page images
PDF
EPUB

Without the mind; but passion 's in the soul,

And always speaks the heart.

Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him from me?

I know his voice; my life, upon the wing,

Hears the soft lure that brings me back again;

"Tis he himself, my Biron,

Do I hold you fast,

Never to part again?

If I must fall, death 's welcome in these arms.

Bir. Live ever in these arms.

Isa. But pardon me;

Excuse the wild disorder of my soul;

The joy, the strange surprising joy of seeing you,

Of seeing you again, distracted me.

Bir. Thou everlasting goodness!

Isa. Answer me:

What hand of Providence has brought you back

To your own home again?

Oh, tell me all,

For every thought confounds me.

Bir. My best life! at leisure all.

Isa. We thought you dead; killed at the siege of Candy.
Bir. There I fell among the dead;

But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,

I was preserved but to be made a slave.

I often writ to my hard father, but never had

An answer; I writ to thee too.

Isa. What a world of woe

Had been prevented but in hearing from you!

Bir. Alas! thou could'st not help me.

Isa. You do not know how much I could have dore;

At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all;

I would have sold myself to slavery,

Without redemption: given up my child,

The dearest part of me, to basest wants.

Bir. My little boy!

Isa. My life, but to have heard

You were alive.

Bir. No more, my love; complaining of the past,

We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price

Of all my pains, that thus we meet again!

I have a thousand things to say to thee.

Isa. Would I were past the hearing.

Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too?

I hear he 's living still.

Isa. Well, both; both well;

And may he prove a father to your hopes,

Though we have found him none.

Bir. Come, no more tears.

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss

Have mourned with me.

Bir. And all my days to come

Shall be employed in a kind recompense

For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy?

[Aside.

Isa. He's gone to bed; I'll have him brought to you.
Bir. To-morrow I shall see him; I want rest
Myself after this weary pilgrimage.

Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you?

Bir. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family:

I see my nurse is with you; her welcome

Would be tedious at this time;

To-morrow will do better.

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing

As you would have it.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends;

And let me then forget her, if I can.

Oh! she deserves of me much more than I

Can lose for her, though I again could venture

A father and his fortune for her love!
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons.
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold,
Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness?
What has she, in my absence, undergone?
I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all.

[Enter Isabella.]

Isa. I have obeyed your pleasure; Every thing is ready for you.

Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim

Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,

But to continue still this blessing to me;

I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound.

Isa. Shall I attend you?

Bir. By no means;

I've been so long a slave to others' pride,

To learn, at least, to wait upon myself;

You'll make haste after?

Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you.
My prayers! no, I must never pray again.
Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes,
But I have nothing left to hope for more.
What Heaven could give I have enjoyed; but now
The baneful planet rises on my fate,

And what's to come is a long life of woe;

Yet I may shorten it.

I promised him to follow-him!

Is he without a name? Biron, my husband

My husband! Ha! What then is Villeroy?

[Exit.]

[Exit Biron.]

Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner!
What's to be done? for something must be done.
Two husbands! married to both,

[Weeping.]

And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain

Ha! a lucky thought

Works the right way to rid me of them all;
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,

That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions

But keep me warm; no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow; yet I will see him first,

Have a last look, to heighten my despair,
And then to rest forever.

Comic scenes are interspersed throughout Southerne's tragedies, which, though they relieve the sombre coloring of the main action and interest of the piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant.

NICHOLAS ROWE, one of the most successful tragic poets of the present period, was descended from ancestors who distinguished themselves in the Holy Wars, and born at Little Beckford, Bedfordshire, in 1673. The first years of his classical study were passed at a private grammar-school in Highgate, after which he was sent to Westminster, where he attained to great excellence in classical learning, under the direction of the celebrated Busby. To his skill in Latin and Greek he is said to have added very considerable knowledge of the Hebrew, but from childhood poetry was his passion. His father, who was himself a lawyer, designed him for the legal profession; and with this view he took him from school at the age of sixteen, and entered him as a student in the Middle Temple. Being capable of acquiring with facility, any branch of knowledge, Rowe made great proficiency in the law, and would doubtless have risen to distinction in that profession, had not the softer graces of the muses drawn him from so laborious a pursuit. When in the twenty-fifth year of his age, he produced his first tragedy, The Ambitious Stepmother, the representation of which was attended with such marked success, that he at once relinquished the law, and resolved to devote himself to the drama. 'The Ambitious Stepmother' was followed by Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Grey. He also wrote a comedy, The Biter, which proved a failure.

Rowe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronized. The Duke of Queensberry appointed him secretary for public affairs; and on the accession of George the First, he was made poet laureate, and surveyor of the customs. The Prince of Wales also appointed him clerk of his council, and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of secretary for the presentations. One of the secrets of his success was, in all probability, his great personal popularity. It is remarked that his voice was so uncommonly sweet, his observations so lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, among whom were Addison, Swift, and Pope, always delighted in his society. With all his attractive traits of character, Rowe was a man of superficial feelings, and hence Pope declared that he had no heart. He

died on the sixth of December, 1718, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, opposite the tomb of Chaucer.

Rowe's tragedies are passionate and tender, with a smooth and easy style of versification, not unlike that of Ford. His 'Jane Shore,' written professedly in imitation of Shakspeare, is still occasionally performed, and is very effective in those pathetic scenes which exhibit the sufferings of the heroine. "The Fair Penitent,' was long a popular drama, and the 'gallant gay Lothario' was the prototype of many profligate and romantic heroes. Richardson elevated the character in his Lovelace, giving, at the same time, a purity and sanctity to the sorrows of Clarissa, which leaves Rowe's Calista immeasurably behind. 'Tamerlane' was the favorite tragedy of the author; but as the principal characters were local, the hero being intended for King William, and Bajazet, for Louis the Fourteenth, its interest has long since passed away. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for stage effect, and were adapted to the taste of the age. His plays are, however, at present but little read. We present the following death-scene from 'Jane Shore:'

JANE SHORE, HER HUSBAND, AND BELMOUR.

Bel. How fare you, lady?

Jane S. My heart is thrilled with horror.

Bel. Be of courage;

Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend.

Jane S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover round me?

Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade!

Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up.

Jane S. I dare not.

Oh, that my eyes could shut him out forever!

Shore. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee,

To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I'm grown

A burden to the world, myself, and thee,

Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more.

Jane S. Oh! thou most injured-dost thou live, indeed?
Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head!

Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;

Cast thy black vail upon my shame, oh, night!

And shield me with thy sable wing forever.

Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus ?

Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair

Abandon thy distracted soul to horror?

Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee,

And let 'em never vex thy quiet more.

My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee,

To bring thee back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond forgiving love.
Let us haste.

Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us,

Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter.
Jane S. What shall I say to you? But I obey.
Shore. Lean on my arm.

[ocr errors]

Jane S. Alas! I'm wondrous faint:

But that's not strange, I have not ate these three days.

Shore. Oh, merciless!

Jane S. Oh! I am sick at heart!

Shore. Thou murderous sorrow!

Wo 't thou still drink her blood, pursue her still?
Must she then die? Oh, my poor penitent!

Speak peace to thy sad heart: she hears me not:
Grief masters every sense.

[Enter Catesby with a Guard].

Cates. Seize on 'em both as traitors to the state!
Bel. What means this violence?

[Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour.]

Cates. Have we not found you,

In scorn of the protector's strict command,
Assisting this base woman, and abetting
Her infamy?

Shore. Infamy on thy head!

Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority!

I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous,
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her.

Cates. You'll answer this at full: away with 'em.
Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court?
What honest man would live beneath such rulers?
I am content that we should die together.

Cates. Convey the men to prison; but for her-
Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may.

Jane S. I will not part with him: for me!-for me!

Oh! must he die for me? [Following him as he is carried off-she falls.]

Shore. Inhuman villains!

Stand off! the agonies of death are on her!

[Breaks from the guards.]

She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand.

Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin?

Oh! let me go, ye ministers of terror.

He shall offend no more, for I will die,

And yield obedience to your cruel master.
Tarry a little, but a little longer,

And take my last breath with you.

Shore. Oh, my love!

Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me

With such an earnest, such a piteous look,

As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thou could'st not speak?

Jane S. Forgive me! but forgive me!

Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host,

Such mercy and such pardon as my soul

Accords to thee, and begs of heaven to show thee,

May such befall me at my latest hour,

And make my portion blest or curst forever!

Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace;

'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now:

Was there not something I would have bequeathed you?
But I have nothing left me to bestow,

Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, heaven!

[Dies.]

« PreviousContinue »