He said, "the pangs that to my conscience | Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought came Out of the deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" LXXIV. His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:-no one on his form or face By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. 1793-4. Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognize, in the following composition, some eight or ten fines which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stond. It is proper, however, to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had oreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy. February 28, 1842. ACT I. SCENE-Road in a Wood. WALLACE and LACY. Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. -Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service, To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. For that another in his Child's affection Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent-he calls us "Outlaws; " And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one helpless as he is. Osw. Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Her. Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child. Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reedThis Marmaduke Idon. O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Which with the motion of a virtuous act Nay, It was my duty Thus much to speak, but think not I forget Dear Father! how could I forget and liveYou and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart. Her. Thy Mother too!-scarce had gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw her arms up on me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all. Her. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that timeFor my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when on our return from Palestine, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger Supplied my helplessness with food and rai ment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.-For, many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long ab sence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Idon. 1 Oh, could you hear his voice! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. Enter a Peasant.' Pea. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you! Pca. The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with, travel-shall I support you? Her. I thank you: but, a resting-place |