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Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,

That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling 't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength ;-come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There-indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile [He sits down. Her. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.

On this green bank.


Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,

Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.
Nay, be composed :
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne'er had heart to separate-my grave,
And thee, my Child !

Believe me, honoured Sire!
"Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music, could you see the sun,
And look upon the pleasant face of Nature-

Her. I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such

As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning.-The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone ?

Is he not strong?

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Which with the motion of a virtuous act
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,
Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.
Her. Unhappy Woman!
Nay, it was my duty
Thus much to speak; but think not I forget-
Dear Father! how could I forget and live—
You 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 I gained the door,

I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
I felt thy infant brother in her arms;
She saw my blasted face-a tide of soldiers
That instant rushed between us, and I heard
Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.
Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it ail
Her. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time
For 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,
I found how my domains had been usurped,
I took thee in my arms, and we began
Our wanderings together. Providence
At length conducted us to Rossland,—there,
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger
To take thee to her home-and for myself,
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's
Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,
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 absence,
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter,
Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed,
Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries,
Traitor to both.

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such wise to rack her gentle heart

Eat been a tenfold cruelty.

Strange pleasures
De por mortals cater for ourselves!
T. we hum thus provoke her tenderness
tales of weakness and infirmity!

a't wager on his life for twenty years.
Fr. We will not waste an hour in such a cause.

Why, this is noble ! shake her off at once. War. Her virtues are his instruments.-A Man Was so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child-what! leave her thus, Arey to a deceiver ?-no-no-noTs in a word and then

Something is here

More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales

have reached his ear-you have had enemies.

Nr. Enemies 1-of his own coinage.

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That may be,

be wherefore slight protection such as you

This last request.

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Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
From your own Children, if yourself were sick,
Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader,
[Looking at the dog.

We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
This charge of thine, then ill befal thee !—Look,
The little fool is loth to stay behind.
Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
Take care of him, and feed the truant well.

Host. Fear not, I will obey you ;-but One so

And One so fair, it goes against my heart
That you should travel unattended, Lady!—
I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad

Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir ?)
And for less fee than I would let him run
For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too long your

Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket,

A look of mine would send him scouring back,
Unless I differ from the thing I am

When you are by my side.

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Will bring me back-protect him, Saints-farewell! [Exit IDONEA. Host. "Tis never drought with us-St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,

Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:
Pity the Maiden did not wait a while;
She could not, Sir, have failed of company.

Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.
Host (calling). Holla!

Her. No, no, the business must be done.What means this riotous noise ?

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Is broken, you will hear no more of him.
Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousani
times !-

That noise !-would I had gone with her as far
As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed
Compassion for me. His influence is great
With Henry, our good King ;-the Baron might
Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court.
No matter he's a dangerous Man.-That noise!—
"Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest.

Idonea would have fears for me, the Convent
Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good

And he must lead me back.

You are most lucky;

I have been waiting in the wood hard by
For a companion-here he comes; our journey


Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.
Her. Alas! I creep so slowly.

We'll not complain of that.

Never fear;

Her. My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour!

Osw. Most willingly!-Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm. [Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE,

Enter Villagers.

Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel). I have prepared a most apt InstrumentThe Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering some


About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
By mingling natural matter of her own
With all the daring fictions I have taught her,
To win belief, such as my plot requires.


Futer more Villagers, a Musician among them.

And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,

Hat (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and Trotting alone along the beaten road,

perch yourself

theft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids,
Carlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,

Are bere, to send the sun into the west
More speedily than you belike would wish.

Scans hanges to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—

MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering.

Var. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: first I saw him sitting there, alone, lisack upon my heart I know not how.

One To-day will clear up all. You marked a Cottage,

That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock

the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Malen mnocent till ensnared by Clifford, We soon grew weary of her; but, alas!

she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cat off by her Betrayer, she dwells alore, A moves ber hands to any needful work: Size eats bez food which every day the peasants bragt her but; and so the Wretch has lived Tears; and no one ever heard her voice; Ba every night at the first stroke of twelve

quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard

puo the self-same spot, in rain or storm,

paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and oneshe paces round and round an Infant's grave, And the churchyard sod her feet have worn A how ring; they say it is knee-deep—— An! what is here !

14 male Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in storp a Child in her arms.

By Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled beart of living creature.-My poor Babe Varying, as I thought, crying for bread

I had none to give him; whereupon, asp of foxglove in his hand,

⚫ prased him so, that he was hushed at once: , into one of those same spotted bells

I became darting, which the Child with joy ord there, and held it to his ear,

And mddenly grew black, as he would die.

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Came to my child as by my side he slept
And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head :
But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have
been a dream.

Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
And put your head, good Woman, under cover.
Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew
What life is this of ours, how sleep will master
The weary-worn.-You gentlefolk have got
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be
A stone than what I am.-But two nights gone,
The darkness overtook me-wind and rain
Beat hard upon my head-and yet I saw
A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze,
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky :
At which I half accused the God in Heaven.-
You must forgive me.


Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint-no matter-this good day Has made amends.

Beg. Thanks to you both; but, O sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes ?

Beg. Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one-it cuts me to the heartWell they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my faceBut you, Sir, should be kinder.

Come hither, Fathers,
And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch !
Beg. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us.
Why now-but yesterday I overtook

A blind old Greybeard and accosted him,
I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass
He should have used me better !—Charity !
If you can melt a rock, he is your man;
But I'll be even with him-here again
Have I been waiting for him.

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I'll tell you:

I was saying, Sir

He has the very hardest heart on earth;
I had as lief turn to the Friar's school
And knock for entrance, in mid holiday.
Mar. But to your story.
Well! he has often spurned me like a toad,
But yesterday was worse than all ;--at last
I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I,
And begged a little aid for charity:
But he was snappish as a cottage cur.
Well then, says I-I'll out with it; at which
I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt
As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.
Osw. I think, good Woman, you are the very person
Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale,
At Herbert's door.


Ay; and if truth were known
I have good business there.

And he seemed angry.

Mar. Your life is at my mercy.

And I will tell you all!-You know not, Sir,
What strong temptations press upon the Poor.
Osw. Speak out.


Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.

Osw. Nay, but speak out!


He flattered me, and said

What harvest it would bring us both; and so,
I parted with the Child.


Parted with whom?

Beg. Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl
Is mine.

Mar. Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife!
Beg. Wife, Sir! his wife-not I; my husband,

Was of Kirkoswald-many a snowy winter
He has been two years in his grave.
We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred!



Osw. We've solved the riddle-Miscreant !

Do you,

I met you at the threshold, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait
For my return; be sure you shall have justice.
Osw. A lucky woman!-go, you have done good

Angry! well he might;
And long as I can stir I'll dog him.-Yesterday,
To serve me so, and knowing that he owes
The best of all he has to me and mine.
But 'tis all over now. That good old Lady
Has left a power of riches; and I say it,
If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave
Shall give me half.


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What's this?—I fear, good Woman, In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns

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