His fame shall add new glories to a house, Where never maid was false, nor knight disloyal.

_Sir H._ You do embalm him, lady, with your tears: They grace the grave of glory where he lies-- He died the death of honour.

_Elw._ Said'st thou--died?

_Sir H._ Beneath the towers of Solyma he fell.

_Elw._ Oh!

_Sir H._ Look to the lady.

[_Elwina faints in her father's arms._

_Raby._ Gentle knight, retire---- 'Tis an infirmity of nature in her, She ever mourns at any tale of blood; She will be well anon--mean time, Sir Hubert, You'll grace our castle with your friendly sojourn.

_Sir H._ I must return with speed--health to the lady. [_exit._

_Raby._ Look up, Elwina. Should her husband come!

Yet she revives not.

_Enter Douglas._

_Dou._ Ha----Elwina fainting!

My lord, I fear you have too harshly chid her.

Her gentle nature could not brook your sternness.

She wakes, she stirs, she feels returning life.

My love! [_he takes her hand._

_Elw._ O Percy!

_Dou._ [_starts._] Do my senses fail me?

_Elw._ My Percy, 'tis Elwina calls.

_Dou._ h.e.l.l, h.e.l.l!

_Raby._ Retire awhile, my daughter.

_Elw._ Douglas here, My father and my husband?--O for pity-- [_exit, casting a look of anguish on both._

_Dou._ Now, now confess she well deserves my vengeance!

Before my face to call upon my foe!

_Raby._ Upon a foe who has no power to hurt thee-- Earl Percy's slain.

_Dou._ I live again.--But hold-- Did she not weep? she did, and wept for Percy.

If she laments him, he's my rival still, And not the grave can bury my resentment.

_Raby._ The truly brave are still the truly gen'rous; Now, Douglas, is the time to prove thee both.

If it be true that she did once love Percy, Thou hast no more to fear, since he is dead.

Release young Harcourt, let him see Elwina, 'Twill serve a double purpose, 'twill at once Prove Percy's death, and thy unchang'd affection.

Be gentle to my child, and win her heart By confidence and unreproaching love.

_Dou._ By Heaven, thou counsel'st well! it shall be done.

Go set him free, and let him have admittance To my Elwina's presence.

_Raby._ Farewell, Douglas.

Shew thou believ'st her faithful, and she'll prove so. [_exit._

_Dou._ Northumberland is dead--that thought is peace!

Her heart may yet be mine, transporting hope!

Percy was gentle, even a foe avows it, And I'll be milder than a summer's breeze.

Yes, thou most lovely, most ador'd of women, I'll copy every virtue, every grace, Of my bless'd rival, happier even in death To be thus loved, than living to be scorn'd. [_exit._

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I. A GARDEN AT RABY CASTLE, WITH A BOWER.

_Enter Percy and Sir Hubert._

_Sir H._ That Percy lives, and is return'd in safety, More joys my soul than all the mighty conquests That sun beheld, which rose on Syria's ruin.

_Per._ I've told thee, good Sir Hubert, by what wonder I was preserv'd, though number'd with the slain.

_Sir H._ 'Twas strange, indeed!

_Per._ 'Twas Heaven's immediate work!

But let me now indulge a dearer joy, Talk of a richer gift of Mercy's hand; A gift so precious to my doating heart, That life preserv'd is but a second blessing.

O Hubert, let my soul indulge its softness!

The hour, the spot, is sacred to Elwina.

This was her fav'rite walk; I well remember, (For who forgets that loves as I have lov'd?) 'Twas in that very bower she gave this scarf, Wrought by the hand of love! she bound it on, And, smiling, cried, Whate'er befal us, Percy, Be this the sacred pledge of faith between us.

I knelt, and swore, call'd every power to witness, No time, nor circ.u.mstance, should force it from me, But I would lose my life and that together-- Here I repeat my vow.

_Sir H._ Is this the man Beneath whose single arm an host was crush'd?

He, at whose name the Saracen turn'd pale?

And when he fell, victorious armies wept, And mourn'd a conquest they had bought so dear?

How has he chang'd the trumpet's martial note, And all the stirring clangor of the war, For the soft melting of the lover's lute!

Why are thine eyes still bent upon the bower?

_Per._ O Hubert, Hubert, to a soul enamour'd, There is a sort of local sympathy, Which, when we view the scenes of early pa.s.sion, Paints the bright image of the object lov'd In stronger colours than remoter scenes Could ever paint it; realizes shade, Dresses it up in all the charms it wore, Talks to it nearer, frames its answers kinder, Gives form to fancy, and embodies thought.

_Sir H._ I should not be believ'd in Percy's camp, If I should tell them that their gallant leader, The thunder of the war, the bold Northumberland, Renouncing Mars, dissolv'd in amorous wishes, Loiter'd in shades, and pin'd in rosy bowers, To catch a transient gleam of two bright eyes.

_Per._ Enough of conquest, and enough of war!

Ambition's cloy'd--the heart resumes its rights.

When England's king, and England's good, requir'd, This arm not idly the keen falchion brandish'd: Enough--for vaunting misbecomes a soldier.