when dead,

Which may suffice to cover me.

Forgive me that I caused your brother's

death;

And I forgive thee the injurious

terms

With which thou taxest me.

LIN. Take worse and blacker! Murderer, adulterer!

Art thou not moved yet?

BER. Do not press me further. The hunted stag, even when he seeks the thicket,

Compell'd to stand at bay, grows dangerous!

Most true thy brother perish'd by my hand,

And if you term it murder-I must

bear it.

Thus far my patience can; but if thou brand

The purity of yonder martyr'd saint, Whom then my sword but poorly did avenge,

With one injurious word, come to the valley,

And I will show thee how it shall be answer'd!

NIN. This heat, Lord Berkeley, doth but ill accord

With thy late pious patience.

BER. Father, forgive, and let me stand excused

To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks

no more.

I loved this lady fondly-truly lovedLoved her, and was beloved, ere yet

her father

Conferr'd her on another. While she

lived,

Each thought of her was to my soul as hallow'd

As those I send to heaven; and on

her grave,

poor hand

chase,

Now to their mates the wild swans row,

By day they swam apart;
And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side,
Twitters his closing song;
All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tarries long.

[KATLEEN has come out of the Castle while FLORA was singing, and speaks when the song is ended. KAT. Ah, my dear coz!-if that your mother's niece

May so presume to call your father's daughter

All these fond things have got some home of comfort

From you my sire can ask no filial duty. KAT. No, thanks to Heaven!

No noble in wide Scotland, rich or poor,

Can claim an interest in the vulgar blood

bower,

The shepherdess's hut, the wild swan's couch

Among the rushes, even the lark's low

wed

Beyond the verge of our unhappiness,
Which, like a witch's circle, blights
and taints
Whatever comes within it.
KAT.

Ah! my good aunt!

mouse,

prudent,

Ff3

In all but marrying a ruin'd baron, When she could take her choice of honest yeomen;

And now, to balance this ambitious error,

She presses on her daughter's love the suit

Of one who hath no touch of nobleness,

In manners, birth, or mind, to recommend him,

Sage Master Gullcrammer, the newdubb'd preacher.

FLO. Do not name him, Katleen! KAT. Ay, but I must, and with some gratitude.

I said but now, I saw our last of fagots Destined to dress our last of meals,

but said not

That the repast consisted of choice dainties

Sent to our larder by that liberal suitor, The kind Melchisedek.

FLO. Were famishing the word, I'd famish ere I tasted them-the fop,

The fool, the low-born, low-bred, pedant coxcomb!

KAT. There spoke the blood of long-descended sires!

My cottage wisdom ought to echo back

O the snug parsonage! the well-paid stipend !

The yew-hedged garden! beehives, pigs, and poultry!

But, to speak honestly, the peasant Katleen,

Valuing these good things justly, still would scorn

To wed, for such, the paltry Gull

crammer,

As much as Lady Flora.

FLO. Mock me not with a title, gentle cousin,

Which poverty has made ridiculous. [Trumpets far off.

[Exeunt KATLEEN and BLACKTHORN into the Castle. More shooting-then a distant shout. Stragglers, armed in different ways, pass over the Stage, as if from the Weaponshaw.

FLO. The prize is won; that general shout proclaim'd it.

The marksmen and the vassals are dispersing. [She draws back. FIRST VASSAL (a peasant). Ay, ay, 'tis lost and won,-the Forest have it.

'Tis they have all the luck on 't. SECOND VAS. (a shepherd). Luck,

sayst thou, man? 'Tis practice, skill, and cunning.

THIRD VAS. 'Tis no such thing. I

had hit the mark precisely But for this cursed flint; and, as I fired,

A swallow cross'd mine eye too. Will you tell me

That that was but a chance, mine honest shepherd?

FIRST VAS. Ay, and last year, when Lancelot Blackthorn won it, Because my powder happen'd to be damp,

Was there no luck in that? The worse luck mine.

SECOND VAS. Still I say 'twas not

chance; it might be witchcraft. FIRST VAS. Faith, not unlikely,

neighbours; for these foresters Do often haunt about this ruin'd castle. I've seen myself this spark, young Leonard Dacre,

Come stealing like a ghost ere break of day,

And after sunset too, along this path; And well you know the haunted

towers of Devorgoil

Have no good reputation in the land. SHEP. That have they not. I've heard my father say