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 JULIAN THE APOSTATE 
 
 AND 
 
 THE DUKE OF MEKCIA
 
 JULIAN THE APOSTATE 
 
 AND 
 
 THE DUKE OF MEKCIA 
 
 HISTOEICAL DRAMAS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 SIE AUBEEY DE VEEE 
 
 LONDON 
 BASIL M. PICKERING 
 
 1858
 
 EDMOND HENRY, 
 
 EAKL OF LIMERICK, 
 IN TESTIMOKY OF AFFECTION AND EESPECT, 
 
 THIS POEM 
 
 IS DEDICATED BY HIS NEPHEW, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 2030062
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 JULIAN the Apostate was originally pub- 
 lished in the year 1822, and the Duke of 
 Mercia in the year 1823. They are now 
 republished, after having been many years 
 out of print.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 JR AUBREY DE VERE was born 
 at Currah Chase, in the county of 
 Limerick, on the 28th of August, 
 1788. He received his school edu- 
 cation at Harrow, where he was the contemporary 
 of Lord Byron and Sir Robert Peel. On the 1 2th 
 of May, 1807, he married Mary, eldest daughter 
 of Stephen Edward Rice, Esq. and sister of 
 Lord Monteagle, his enduring affection for whom 
 exceeded that which commonly unites brothers, 
 and constituted the great friendship of his life. 
 In his boyhood he had been placed at Amble- 
 side, under the care of a private tutor, the Rev. 
 John Dawes ; and the beautiful scenery of the 
 lake country, his visits to which were among 
 the happiest incidents of his maturer years, 
 early taught him that appreciation of Nature 
 which marked his poetry at a time when the 
 power of describing natural beauty with truth
 
 Viii PREFACE. 
 
 and freedom were less valued than they have 
 been in later days. Walking, after the lapse of 
 forty years, beside one of the clear streams of 
 that country, he recognized with delight the rock 
 from which he had first cast his line into the 
 water. A scene once beheld, indeed, he never 
 forgot : and, as was remarked by a painter, it 
 might have been delineated from his description. 
 Of this faculty his Sonnets on Castleconnel, 
 Adare, Kilmallock, and Cashel, are illustrations, 
 as well as many other Sonnets written at later 
 periods, while sitting amid the ruined abbeys, 
 or wandering beside the iron-bound coast of his 
 native land. The Sonnet was with him a fa- 
 vourite form of composition : he was attracted 
 to it by its majestic completeness, its severity, 
 and perhaps by its difficulty. This taste was 
 fostered by the noble Sonnets of Wordsworth, 
 whose genius he had hailed from the first, and 
 whose friendship he regarded as one of the chief 
 honours of his life. For his earlier Sonnets he 
 found a model chiefly in the Italian Poets, espe- 
 cially Petrarch and Filicaja. Like Filicaja also, 
 who so well deserved the inscription graven on 
 his tomb, " qui gloriam literarum honestavit," 
 he valued the Sonnet chiefly because the auste-
 
 rity of its brief and pregnant form fits it in a 
 peculiar sense for the loftier themes of song. 
 
 The truthfulness of his poetry will be best 
 understood by those who knew its author best. 
 None of his poems are more marked by it than 
 the Sonnets which record, with a manly pathos, 
 his devotion to those linked to him by domestic 
 bonds, or by early association; some early re- 
 moved, and one his survivor for nearly ten years. 
 It was as an expression of our spiritual and intel- 
 lectual being that he chiefly reverenced poetry ; 
 and an unusual proportion of his works is an 
 utterance of the writer's convictions and sym- 
 pathies, religious, moral, and political. His 
 " Historical Sonnets" were inspired by a deeply- 
 rooted chivalrous sentiment, by his respect for 
 monarchical and ecclesiastical institutions, and 
 by his reverence for the past ; but they illustrate 
 not less forcibly the compatibility of the most 
 zealous loyalty with a genuine love of liberty, 
 and breathe the spirit of an age when no one 
 supposed the regal and the popular principles 
 to be at variance, and when nobility stood 
 remote from exclusiveness. Many of the Politi- 
 cal Sonnets, such as those on the " Battle of 
 Waterloo," the "Death of the Princess Charlotte,"
 
 the " Liberty of the Press," and the " Basis of 
 Power," rose out of contemporary events; and his 
 especial attachment to the country of his birth, 
 for the religious freedom of which he had early 
 contended, and with the honour and interests of 
 which he deemed those of the British Empire 
 to be inseparably entwined, found an expression 
 in his " Lamentation of Ireland." " Julian the 
 Apostate" was published in 1822, and dedicated 
 to the Earl of Limerick, brother of his mother, to 
 whom he was profoundly attached, and who had 
 resided with him during the years of her widow- 
 hood. In 1823 the" Duke of Mercia" appeared, 
 a drama, the form of which was suggested by the 
 old Chronicle Plays. 
 
 Sir Aubrey de Vere published nothing more, 
 with the exception of a few translations from the 
 Italian and the Greek, till the year 1842, when 
 the " Song of Faith" appeared. The cause of 
 this long silence is to be found partly in his 
 singular modesty, partly in the duties which 
 belong to a country gentleman and resident pro- 
 prietor, and partly in the fact that his mind 
 found sufficient to occupy, though not to en- 
 gross it, in superintending the education of his 
 children, in the formation of a good library, and in
 
 PREFACE. Xi 
 
 the cultivation of the Fine Arts, his attention to 
 which was not diminished by the seclusion in 
 which he lived. In his hands, indeed, the adorn- 
 ment of his family residence became one of the 
 Fine Arts, and was carried out with the eye of a 
 painter. The love of fame was not one of his 
 more urgent affections, though he was not with- 
 out a natural desire to illustrate his name. His 
 reading, moreover, was discursive, military works 
 interesting him not less than poetry, or history. 
 From his boyhood he had approached military 
 subjects with the ardour of a soldier, studying 
 campaigns, ancient and modern, with the aid 
 of maps as well as books, a habit to which he 
 probably owed his minute geographical know- 
 ledge, and a singular power of realizing, as a 
 tactician might, the relative position of remote 
 places. Probably not more than ten or twelve 
 months of his life, scattered over its various por- 
 tions, were spent in the composition of his larger 
 works ; but when he wrote, it was with rapidity 
 though with the conscientious carefulness of a 
 scholar likewise. His most considerable work, 
 " Mary Tudor," was his latest. He had early 
 been struck by the special aptitude of its prin- 
 cipal character for dramatic purposes. Accident
 
 Xii PREFACE. 
 
 had prevented him on various occasions from 
 proceeding with the subject; but the fulfilment 
 of his early intention, and the impartial delinea- 
 tion of a character the finer traits of which had 
 early vanished from the popular tradition, though 
 they have been preserved by history, he re- 
 garded as the discharge of a debt. The drama 
 was written during the years 1844-5, in intervals 
 of severe illness, and published after his death. 
 He died at Currah Chase, on the 28th of July, 
 1846, in the 58th year of his age.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE House of Constantine gave eleven 
 ' Sovereigns (including the associate Caesars) 
 to the Roman Empire, and terminated with 
 Julian the Apostate. Its greatness was sullied 
 by domestic crimes, which gradually produced 
 its extinction. 
 
 Julian, and his elder brother Gallus, were the 
 offspring of Julius Constantius, the patrician, 
 brother to Constantine the Great; and were 
 withdrawn from successive proscriptions, so fatal 
 to the imperial race, by the efforts of Mark, 
 bishop of Arethusa a service but ill requited 
 in after-days. 
 
 The brothers were eventually adopted by their 
 uncle, the Emperor Constantius, at the instance 
 of his wife, Eusebia a woman gifted with many 
 noble qualities. It was vainly, and perhaps 
 absurdly, hoped, that the youths would, in the 
 enjoyment of Imperial favour, forget the wrongs 
 of their family, and the death of their father, 
 who had perished by the hands of an assassin, 
 b
 
 Xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Gallus was created Caesar, and was united in 
 marriage to a sister of the Emperor. He speedily 
 fell a victim to his own folly and the unruly 
 passions of his wife ; not long surviving the 
 suspicions of a sovereign never appeased without 
 blood. 
 
 Julian succeeded to the vacant dignity, appa- 
 rently ill-suited to habits formed in the schools, 
 and on which courtiers and philosophers pro- 
 nounced widely differing opinions. At Athens 
 his education was completed, and his proficiency 
 in all mental accomplishments gave proof of 
 genius and unwearied perseverance. 
 
 Among the philosophers with whom he there 
 became intimate, Maximus obtained the chief 
 hold of his affections, and established a decided 
 influence over his imagination. Under his 
 tuition, doubts of the truth of that religion in 
 which he had been early trained, were artfully 
 suggested. It was the faith of his household 
 oppressors, and gradually gave place to the 
 seductive delusions of pagan worship, in a mind 
 dangerously gifted with an irregular enthusiasm. 
 At length he was allowed to participate in the 
 Eleusinian mysteries; when, it is asserted, he 
 consented to his uncle's death: an act suitable 
 to his vengeance and to his ambition, and the 
 appropriate consummation of his apostacy. At 
 this period my drama commences, for I have
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 not dared to detail in language the progress of 
 impiety, or to array the arguments that seduced 
 a Christian from his God. 
 
 Julian had been invested by Constantius with 
 the sovereignty in Gaul: a splendid but difficult 
 command, in the course of which an unexpected 
 military genius developed itself. At the mo- 
 ment of his colleague's reverses in the East, he 
 was victorious in the West. Thus the advance- 
 ment of his reputation became a source of con- 
 trast and the foundation of jealousy : add, too, 
 that as the idol of the army he was dangerous. 
 His humiliation was decreed ; and the very mo- 
 ment of triumph was rashly selected to separate 
 a general from troops that adored him, and to 
 tear those troops from the scene of their suc- 
 cesses, in order to recruit a distant and a dis- 
 graced army. 
 
 These were mandates dangerous to resist, but 
 fatal perhaps to obey. The army of Gaul re- 
 garded them as a violation of its compact of 
 service, and was probably not ill prepared for 
 a crisis. A tumultuous assembly of the soldiers 
 pronounced the reign of Constantius at an end, 
 and hastily invested Julian with the Imperial 
 titles. At a critical moment Constantius died, 
 and his nephew ascended the throne, now his by 
 the undisputed right of succession. 
 
 Julian, with all his faults, was unquestionably
 
 XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a great man, and, though an Apostate, possessed 
 many noble qualities. No man had warmer 
 partisans or severer enemies ; consequently no 
 one has been more variously represented. His 
 vengeance was not unnatural in times of extreme 
 peril, of unbridled passion, and bloody prece- 
 dent ; and his apostacy, real or affected, placed 
 him at the head of a party panting for change. 
 As to his real creed, it is difficult to imagine a 
 man surrendering his senses to the delusions of 
 the pagan mythology, yet the fact is not im- 
 possible. I am disposed to regard him as, at 
 heart, a deist ; making use of popular supersti- 
 tions for the attainment of political objects. 
 
 In the following drama I have not sought to 
 observe the unities. It would be alike presump- 
 tuous in me to plead the example of our great 
 national school, or to argue a point on which the 
 best critics are at variance. It, however, does 
 appear to me sufficient for dramatic purposes 
 to connect, in a consecutive chain of action, 
 visible effects derived from intelligible causes. 
 That I have failed in accomplishing my own 
 ideas is a fact I cannot hide from myself; but 
 the present is a first effort, and may, I would 
 hope, lead to better things. 
 
 A. DE V.
 
 Conclusion of the Life of Julian, from " Speed's 
 Historic.'" Edit. 1632. 
 
 " But now one errour, his apostacie, disroabing him of 
 all his morall vertues, leaves him an object naked to the 
 vulgar eie, but a monster of men, and marke qfinfamie. 
 I holde it thereforejitting no lesse the use, than the justice, 
 of a story, to doe him (as 1 have done} all his right: since 
 in him we learne thatt all those admirable endowments of 
 nature, embellished with all the morall and internall graces 
 that art could adds, are not the base of holinesse, without 
 divine grace : nor dalliaunce of fortune and Jullnesse of 
 empire (that made this man wanton and forgettfulC) is the 
 center of security and happinesse, without heavenly protec- 
 tion: since from the sense of sacred piety hee fell to pagan 
 superstition: for many are called, but few are chosen; 
 and in the seat of Presumptuous Majesty hee felt the rod 
 of Divine Revenge"
 
 PEESONS OF THE DEAMA. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 MAXIMUS, Chief Priest. 
 
 NEVITTA, General of the Gauls. 
 
 SALLUST, Prefect of the East. 
 
 ANATOLIUS, Master of the Palace. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 MARK, Bishop of Arethusa. 
 
 HORMISDAS, an exiled Persian Prince. 
 
 SAPOR, King of Persia. 
 
 MERANES, \ Pergim QevraU. 
 
 NOHOHDATES, j 
 
 ETJSEBIA, Widow of the Emperor Cowtantius. 
 
 CON STANTI A HELENA, Wife of Julian, sister of Con- 
 
 stantius. 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 Roman and Persian Officers. Priests of Eleusis. 
 Priests of Mars. Ladies of the Court, Sfc.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Interior of the Cavern of Eleusis. Night. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 j!H,ye mysterious and invisible beings 
 That throng this palpable darkness, 
 
 and do give 
 
 These tombs of earth awful vitality! 
 I hear the rushing of your viewless wings 
 Sweep, with an unimaginable speed, 
 Around this mortal substance ! Vault of dark- 
 ness, 
 
 Thou gloomy mother of all hideous shadows, 
 Thy void is pregnant with a phantom life ; 
 Thy vast receptacles are filled with breathings, 
 Cold expirations, that stir up my hair 
 And cling to my damp forehead. Haply I stand
 
 2 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Within the portal of Eternity, 
 Amid death's heavy atmosphere environed 
 By th' incorporeal essence of past life, 
 And souls that wait their advent ! Awful beings ! 
 Impetuous and incessant travellers ! 
 Swift couriers of two worlds ! Connecting stream 
 'Twixt corruptible man and the pure Gods ! 
 Here I confront you firm, yet not unmoved. 
 Oh, ye inscrutable company, vast tide 
 Of spirits, in your mighty ebb and flow, 
 Here, in the midst of you I stand, and shrink 
 not! 
 
 Enter MAXIMUS behind, in his sacerdotal vestments, 
 and stands some time contemplating JULIAN. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 Julian ! 
 
 JULIAN (with a start). 
 Who calls? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 Julian ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Or man, or spirit, 
 
 I answer thee ! Behold me here behold me ! 
 Ha ! art thou there, Maximus ? 'Twas startling 
 To hear thy sudden voice in such a place
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 3 
 
 A voice too, such as thine, caught by the echoes 
 
 That have their dwelling 'neath these arched 
 roofs 
 
 And long evolving chambers. I was musing 
 
 On things that are not of this world : aye, dally- 
 ing 
 
 With dreams that others shrink from ; com- 
 muning 
 
 "With disembodied Nature, in her den 
 
 Of lonely desolation, silent and dark. 
 
 I am not sorry, Man, to see thee here ; 
 
 Thou hast left me to unwelcome company, 
 
 My own poor thoughts. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Lord Julian, I have prayed 
 In thy behalf with fervour, that hath power 
 To reach the ear of Heaven zeal that controlled! 
 The world of spirits. A deep trance came o'er 
 
 me 
 
 Beneath the altar of great Cybele. 
 I saw the Berecynthian Mother rise 
 Awful before me: her habiliments 
 As in the Phidian marble : crowned with towers, 
 The Lion-drawn stood in her brazen chariot. 
 What passed I may not tell thee. The bright 
 veil
 
 4 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 That shrouds those forms ineffable no hand 
 Of mortal mould may raise. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Old Maximus, 
 
 I reverence much thy character, and gaze 
 Upon thy countenance and ethereal eye, 
 As on a page where holiest things are writ, 
 As on a beacon whence the light of Heaven 
 Looks out. I've heard from thee, doctrine be- 
 yond 
 
 The ken of common minds, and do believe 
 Have hearkened with intelligence. I came 
 To be resolved on matters of high import, 
 And will not now depart unsatis6ed. 
 Lead on ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Oh, worthy of thy destinies ! 
 Canst thou with heart undaunted, brain unseared, 
 Peruse the mystic leaves, wherein are graven 
 The lessons of eternity ? Canst thou behold 
 The presence and the glory, nor dissolve 
 Like Semele ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 My heart is firm : 
 
 There's nought within the compass of humanity 
 But I would dare and do.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 5 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Nay, pause, reflect 
 
 I would not lead aught of mere earthly dross 
 Into our hidden shrine and sanctuary. 
 Once there, thou art no longer man. The cloak 
 Of human thoughts and passions must fall from 
 
 thee: 
 
 Thou must decay, to be reanimate 
 With fires of loftier life. Thou must transmute 
 Thy baser mould to a more noble metal 
 Ore more divine. Thy soul then must imbibe 
 The light, and take the stamp of fate, and be 
 Her minister, albeit of good or evil ; 
 Her delegate, to execute or die ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I am resolved. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Then follow me.
 
 6 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Interior of the Cavern, hung loilh stalactites, 3fc. 
 fyc. At the extremity an Altar, on which lies a 
 scroll. Two Priests standing on each side. 
 
 Enter JULIAN and MAXIMUS. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 This silence, and these shadows, and cool air, 
 Impress the heart with reverence. The calm 
 Simplicity and the majestic repose 
 Of these eternal chambers, at the root 
 Of mortal habitation, that regard not 
 Time, but exist as if time had no lapse, 
 Do fill the mind with awe, and hold the senses 
 More anchored in the placid calm of faith, 
 And unresisting fealty to Heaven, 
 Than the more gorgeous fanes of upper air ; 
 The monumental temples and proud palaces, 
 Where, on her throne of clay, sits militant 
 Awful Religion ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Tread softly and with reverence. We are now 
 Before a present Deity. These halls 
 Are unprofaned with human workmanship : 
 All that thou see'st those fretted roofs high 
 arching
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 7 
 
 From their vast pillars, those broad coigns and 
 
 friezes, 
 And sculptured pomp grotesque, and marble 
 
 floors, 
 
 And roofs of pendulous chrystal : these are all 
 Nature's primeval architecture. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Gods! 
 
 How glorious are ye in your earthly dwelling ! 
 Here let me kneel ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Julian, dost thou believe 
 The mystery of that world of spirits divine, 
 The everlasting conclave, who sit throned 
 In Heaven, and rule the air and earth and waters ; 
 Aye, and the penal caverns of deep Hell ? 
 The sublimated essences, whence man 
 Takes his mixed character of good and evil : 
 Imperfect 'midst perfection ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Pray you, pardon me : 
 My soul is like a steed in act to spring 
 Hot expectation swelling every vein, 
 The course before him and the goal in sight. 
 This is no place to lecture points abstruse ; 
 I stand at gaze. Who shall withhold me ?
 
 8 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Boy! 
 
 Thy mettle shall be tried. Who slew thy father ? 
 Knock at thy heart and ask what Vengeance says. 
 Is there no name stored in its inmost core 
 No execrated memory that smoulders, 
 Like a pent flame, within thy seething brain ? 
 The book of fate lies open to thee. Read. 
 Thy glory and Heaven's will, vindictive daemons 
 Therein have graved in bloody characters ! 
 Ha ! does the light beam on thee ? Thou art 
 
 busy 
 Now with ten thousand thronging thoughts, dim 
 
 gliding 
 
 Before the glass of apt imagination. 
 Do'st start? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thy dark surmises make the blood 
 Rush refluent to my heart. Shuddering I hear. 
 No, not for empires ! But, go on 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 'Twere vain. 
 
 Those prodigies, those mysteries, those omens, 
 That should have nerved, have daunted thee. 
 
 Away, 
 Thou art unworthy !
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Art thou mad? unworthy ! 
 Oh, yes ! most weak, most impotent, to stand 
 Thus parleying with dishonour ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Be it so 
 
 Then die theslave thou art. Nay,frown notonme. 
 I am an old man, and am sick of life : 
 My country was my all : she is betrayed ; 
 And gladly would I die upon her bosom, 
 Kissing the wounds her worthless sons have made. 
 Yet had I hoped, oh ! Julian, thou wert the stem, 
 To whose precocious growth and branching 
 
 vigour, 
 
 I, and some millions of despairing souls, 
 (Now withering in the tempest of bad times) 
 Have long looked up for shelter. Thou wert 
 
 the bow 
 
 Arching in beauty o'er our sullen skies 
 The little cloud upon the desert's edge, 
 Feeding our faintness with fore-tasted showers. 
 But now come, come, we'll talk no more on't. 
 
 Well, 
 
 Go, stagnate in thy apathy. My lot 
 Is cast for death : / cannot sit beneath 
 The poison-tree and live.
 
 10 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Is there no way, 
 
 No unpolluted pass, to Fame, unpaved 
 With human bones? 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 Too scrupulous boy ! Thou hast bruised the 
 
 serpent's tail, 
 
 And wilt thou spare his head to bite thee ? Fie 
 Thou art a feeble reasoner. The tree, 
 Whence all our sprouting woes rankly have 
 
 sprung, 
 
 Must be uprooted. It were vain to prune 
 The branches, when the stem is in its prime, 
 And the root vigorous. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I would have mercy, 
 
 That, like the sweet bird in the depth of oaks, 
 Hath dwelling in heroic hearts. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 No doubt. 
 
 Yet mercy oft hath but a feeble judgment. 
 I would not kill, but execute. Remember, 
 Crime makes the felon, and pronounces that 
 Which else were murder, expiation. 
 Evil and good cannot be co-existent. 
 But your mind wanders from me.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 1 1 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Nay, I listen 
 With a most rapt attention. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Why should he live ? 
 They, who would wish him well, should wish 
 
 him dead, 
 
 Not as a King, but an undoubted Tyrant ; 
 Not as his brow usurps another's crown, 
 (And that it does, thou art a living witness,) 
 But that his evil passions do pervert 
 Heaven's attributes, and his accursed deeds 
 Soil his else god-like presence with the stain 
 Of earth, and leave him the vile slave of guilt. 
 His death will be th' acquittance of our wrongs ; 
 The balance of much evil : to it men look 
 For their withheld inheritance as robbed heirs 
 Towards unjust guardians. Now, but a thread 
 
 upholds 
 
 The axe of justice over him : who cuts it 
 Shall be his country's saviour. Thus did Brutus, 
 Even on the blood that sprung from his own 
 
 veins, 
 
 Execute justice: when his country's good 
 Demanded the great sacrifice, he made it. 
 So shouldst thou too be honoured.
 
 12 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 My chafed spirit 
 Hath dallied with such thoughts : too deeply 
 
 plunged 
 In the vague abyss of thy dark counsels. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Why should he wish to live ? He will be happier 
 In the sealed chambers of the silent tomb, 
 Than on a sapped and tottering throne ; 'mid 
 
 guards, 
 
 Whose fawning knees and sycophantic tongues 
 Stir thoughts of bloody treason. Now, he dies 
 The death by inches every hour brings with it 
 The anticipated torture. He regards 
 All seasons, and all places, and all men 
 With undisguised and irrepressible horror. 
 There's suffocation for his bed, swift arrows 
 For his high throne of grandeur, sudden daggers 
 In his close walks, and poison at his board. 
 Where'er he moves destruction follows him, 
 A blood-hound on his track, and keen Dismay 
 With her hawk's wing o'ershadows him. I tell 
 
 thee 
 
 He will be better in the grave : the curses 
 That shall accompany his obsequies 
 Will find no echo in the house of death
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 13 
 
 His clay will be as callous to our strokes 
 
 As now his evil heart is to our prayers. 
 
 We shall look round for once, and say, where is 
 
 he? 
 And then forget for ever ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 How tuneably 
 
 My soul, like a touched instrument, responds 
 Beneath thy master-hand ! Aye, I have shaken 
 Allegiance from my heart ; but, Maximus, 
 He is my blood 'twere parricide ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Oh, Thou 
 
 Great Spirit, that do'st haunt these sacred caves, 
 And fillest with vengeance my unshrinking 
 
 soul, 
 
 Even as a sacriBcial cup with blood, deign visit 
 His fainting resolution ; and light up 
 His veins and vaulting mind with thine own 
 
 lightning. 
 
 Julian ! must all our wrongs die unrevenged ? 
 What, in the very presence of the Gods, 
 Wilt thou renounce their delegation ? Go ! 
 Go, bind the chains thou'st sworn to sever ! Go, 
 Fawn at the despot's footstool ! Supplicate 
 Pardon, and say, " Behold thine enemies ! "
 
 14 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 There is no middle course. Thy steps must 
 
 mount 
 
 On his neck, or on ours ; or, failing both, 
 Die, like thy father, and be so forgotten. 
 Ah 1 art thou moved? that name hath stirred 
 
 thee up 
 
 With memory of intolerable wrong. 
 Think of his bleeding corpse, crushed by that boar 
 That broke into his vineyard and assailed him, 
 Even as he sat in sunny confidence 
 In the sweet garden of his family ; 
 With all his flowers around him, and no thought 
 But of domestic love and privacy. 
 Behold his spouting wounds, his dying eyes, 
 His moving, voiceless lips : thy maddening 
 
 mother 
 
 With her fixed look : the murderer o'er his prey, 
 And turning from his victim and his vengeance 
 With the cold languor of satiety. 
 Think on it all and thou, like Hannibal, 
 Lifting thy little hands, vowing revenge ! 
 
 JULIAN (walking aside with agitation). 
 Just Gods! Just Gods! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Ay call, and they shall answer thee. 
 All laws of God, of Nature, and of Nations
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 15 
 
 Devote such, like the savage beasts of prey, 
 At any time, by every hand to perish I 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Oh ! that the curse that strangles at my heart, 
 Might find a voice and die not ! Oh, that the 
 
 fury, 
 
 That maddens in my pulses and my brain, 
 Could take a palpable form, a vital nerve, 
 To tread him down and stamp him into dust ! 
 
 MAXIMUS (aside). 
 
 Hot spirit, art thou roused ? Now be thy ven- 
 geance 
 
 Pander to cloaked ambition, and so work 
 The unseen will that rules thee ! 
 JULIAN. 
 
 May all the pangs 
 Of dying guilt, anticipating Hell, 
 Glare on his tossing slumbers, and tear out 
 .Rest from his eyes, till madness sears his brain, 
 And preys upon the ashes of his heart I 
 Oh ! when he dies, may the infernal fiends 
 Smile hideous from the dim depths of his 
 
 chamber 
 Upon his eye, when coming Death hath purged 
 
 it- 
 May no sweet thought of recollected good
 
 16 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Slake his last burning thirst; but thronging 
 
 visions 
 Of terrible conscience scare him ! Hear me ! 
 
 hear me ! 
 
 [During the I alter part of this speech, the Priests 
 bring forward the Altar and the parch- 
 ment, upon a signal from MAXIM us. 
 
 MAXIM US. 
 
 Thou art thyself again ! Now, Julian, now, 
 While the divine wrath triumphs in thy veins, 
 Be thy great curse accomplished. Take this pen ; 
 His fate is in this scroll sign, and he dies ! 
 
 [JULIAN eagerly signs. MAXIMUS gives the 
 paper to a Priest, who departs ivith it 
 instantly. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Now are the gods of Rome avenged ! Con- 
 
 stantius, 
 Thy hours are numbered these few lines have 
 
 slain thee. 
 Thou art arraigned and judged I Thy power 
 
 gone by, 
 As a forgotten storm ! Thou wert, and art not! 
 
 [ Turning to JULIAN, who appears agitated, 
 But how is this, my sov'reign? Why dost thou 
 
 look
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 17 
 
 So pallid, and thus gaze on vacant air? 
 Thy foot is in the flood fear not to trust 
 Thy bark upon the mountain wave ; 'twill bear 
 
 thee, 
 
 With thy magnificent freightage, to fair shores 
 And happy harbours. Fear it not. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I fear! 
 
 It is a word unwritten in my heart ! 
 But something (a delusion of the brain) 
 Something hath shook me. As I signed just now, 
 A form of mild and melancholy beauty 
 Stood by my side and frowned. When I had 
 
 signed, 
 
 I looked the place was void ! I do believe 
 That shape my guardian spirit and good genius; 
 And that he hath passed from me! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Pshaw ! such dreams 
 
 Are all unworthy of thy manhood. Let us 
 Return from these deep vaults to the pure air : 
 The uncertain flicker of our torches gives 
 A body to these vapours, and creates 
 Shadows like substances. We'll think not on 
 
 them. 
 
 Now, champion of the gods, attend me. Now 
 c
 
 18 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Thou art worthy of the deep and awful rites 
 That veil our Eleusinian mysteries. 
 Knowledge and power the future and the past 
 Are henceforth thine. One hour, and thou shall 
 
 quaff 
 Deep from the cup of immortality ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Camp in Gaul. 
 MUTIUS and other Soldiers. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Heard you the news ? 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 No, what is't ? 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Heard you not? 
 You should know then ; and every man, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 
 Who boasts the name of Roman or of soldier, 
 Should have his heart in mutiny. 
 
 2ND SOLDIER. 
 
 Ay, Mutius? 
 
 Why, what's the matter now, man? There is not 
 A rumour, on its swallow wing, that flits 
 About our summer camp, but you attend 
 Its idle flight.
 
 JUILAN, THE APOSTATE. ID 
 
 3RD SOLDIER. 
 
 'Tis true, your mouth is ever 
 The herald of bad tidings. Scarce a week 
 Has passed since thou didst tell a ghastly tale 
 Of pillage, rape, and murder: some wild tribe, 
 Some locust horde of Belgians, that thou saidst 
 Had swam the Rhine at night, and like a tempest 
 Swept in our rear. Oh ! 'twas most circum- 
 stantial. 
 Shame ! shame ! 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Kind Sirs, have mercy. I confess 
 Sometimes too zealously I do interpret 
 Rumours that lack precision, and have been 
 To fame a hasty midwife; but just now 
 The jade hath brought a brat forth, whose shrill 
 
 cry 
 Will fill the world with wailing yet. 
 
 1ST SOLDIER. 
 
 Nay, Mutius ; 
 
 Thou hast a quick ear and a ready tongue, 
 Prithee expound. What is the news? 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 No matter : 
 
 I'm but an idle loiterer at the skirts 
 Of rumour, the mere mouth-piece of false fame.
 
 20 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 I'll not disturb your equanimity 
 With my vain breath. 
 
 2ND SOLDIER. 
 
 Good Mutius, think not so. 
 In truth we meant no imputation : 
 Twas but the jesting of good fellowship. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Methinks you love the Caesar? 
 IST SOLDIER. 
 
 Ay, Heaven guard him I 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 1 take it too, that he acquits his debt 
 Of love to you with interest. He pays back 
 Your service with good deeds, and deals to all 
 The glory he but shares. 
 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 Ay, bless him! bless him ! 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Why have you left your homes, your bridal beds, 
 The hearths on which you played in infancy ? 
 Your vineyards are unpruned, your leas un- 
 
 ploughed, 
 Your pastures run to waste. Your wives sit 
 
 weeping 
 
 'Neath the neglected porch, and watch in vain 
 The wished return, till they are sick with longing.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 21 
 
 Why have ye not returned? Did you not pro- 
 mise, 
 
 When you had chased the spoiler from your 
 gates, 
 
 When you had freed your country (as you have 
 done 
 
 Beneath his glorious guidance), did you not 
 promise 
 
 Back to return in triumph and in peace? 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 'Twas our assurance. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Ye are trusty fools. 
 Go to we are betrayed. Caesar and people. 
 
 SOLDIERS (tumultuously). 
 Betrayed ? speak out, speak out ! 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Ay, that I will. 
 
 There is an old man on a tottering throne, 
 An Emperor in the east, who thinks our lives 
 
 here 
 
 Too much secluded ; we must see the world ; 
 And, at his will, track half its zone, to make 
 Acquaintance with the bears of Caucasus. 
 
 SOLDIERS (tumultuously). 
 1st. 'Tis false, he dare not do it.
 
 22 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 2nd. We would not go. 
 
 3rd. By Hercules, I would not move a foot. 
 4th. Nay, we would march with arms in our 
 
 good hands. 
 
 1st. Our contract's broke. 
 2nd. 'Tis manifest. 
 
 1st. Let's run 
 
 To our ffood Caesar's tent and ask redress. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 'Twere vain. We have seen him lately as a man 
 
 Fretted by some immedicable ill, 
 
 Worn down by care. He hath estranged himself 
 
 From all old haunts, customed society. 
 
 And whence is this ? Say, they break faith with ns, 
 
 Then are they false to him. If they forget 
 
 Our service, they neglect his fame and blight 
 
 Hishonour. We are linked by fate : our sacrifice 
 
 Unites him as a victim. 
 
 IST SOLDIER. Haste to the Caesar. 
 
 We'll know the worst at once. 
 
 2nd. We're but the sport 
 
 Of women and smooth eunuchs. 
 
 3rd. 'Twere as well 
 
 To owe allegiance to the Antipodes! 
 
 1st. Would that our own brave Julian were 
 our Emperor!
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 23 
 
 2nd. Huzza, huzza! 'Tis a brave thought! 
 3rd. Away ! 
 
 Run and salute him at his tent. [Exeunt. 
 
 Interior of JULIAN'S tent. 
 
 JULIAN on a couch in the back ground. 
 
 Enter MAXIM us. 
 MAXIM us (gazes some time on JULIAN). 
 
 O paltry human nature ! What, must I mount 
 
 By such poor things as these? Thou woman- 
 hearted ! 
 
 Thy veins run milk not blood. Would 'twere 
 slow poison, 
 
 So might'st thou be short prologue to my drama ! 
 
 Shrink'st thou from crimes that other hands 
 commit? 
 
 Ere I have done with thee, thy soul shall drink 
 
 Deep of that draught ! Thy lips shall smack of 
 blood I 
 
 That hand shall smell of slaughter ! that weak 
 heart 
 
 Pant in the chains of an evil conscience ! 
 
 Oh ! I shall link thee with the daemons yet, 
 
 And make thee all infernal ! What if he fail ? 
 
 What if I lose this goodly stake? Why then,
 
 24 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 On earth, in Hell, thou shalt partake perdition. 
 
 [Aloud. 
 Ix>rd Julian ! be a man ; awake, arise ! 
 
 [JULIAN slowly raises himself on his elbow, sur- 
 veys MAXIM us, waves him to depart, and 
 sinks down again. 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 How shall we rouse him from this lethargy ? 
 The tide of opportunity ebbs quickly. 
 Who waits there ? Ho ! [Enter a Soldier. 
 
 Know'st thou the Lord Nevitta ? 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Ay, my good Lord. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 The Caesar needs his presence. 
 [Exit Soldier. 
 My plot hath been well weighed, well timed, 
 
 and hath 
 
 Conspiring agents in thy breast, Constantius. 
 But, ere thou diest, thy own rash choice must 
 
 give 
 
 A colourable motive and just purpose 
 To such bold actions. Thus we reconcile, 
 Ay league, opinion to our enterprise. 
 
 Enter NEVITTA. 
 Nevitta, brave Nevitta ! souls like thine
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 25 
 
 Spurn the delays of cautious policy. 
 In truth it irketh me too. But, Nevitta, 
 Lives must be spared : we shed no innocent 
 
 blood ; 
 And therefore plot before we strike. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Good Priest, 
 
 I am a soldier, rough of soul and limb, 
 And, in a good cause, care not where I strike. 
 The skilful leech spares not his probe. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 'Tis true. 
 
 And yet, we must be scrupulous, if only 
 For virtue's sake ; nor incompatible 
 With valour and the law of soldiership : 
 And therefore have we plotted ere we strike. 
 The messengers from that poor cozened fool 
 Constantius must arrive soon. That will rouse 
 Our splenetic warrior there. But, my Nevitta, 
 Hast thou sent airy Fame forth through our 
 
 camp 
 To blow strange rumours in affrighted ears? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Even so : a trusty representative ; 
 
 A tall, gaunt soldier, with a querulous eye, 
 
 That ever spies round discontentedly ;
 
 26 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Restless of limb, and restless in his tongue : 
 A man too modest for the naked truth. 
 In short, a very poet, who can make 
 Marvels seem facts, and all facts marvellous. 
 
 MAXIM US. 
 
 Right, right. This sows the seeds of discontent 
 Coming events shall ripen. What's his name? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 An old centurion, Mutius. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 'Tis well. 
 Enter an OFFICER. 
 How goes the camp ? Thy steps are hasty. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Sir. 
 
 A sudden mutiny has ta'en men's minds, 
 I know not wherefore. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Well, we have heard some rumour; 
 What hast thou seen, what heard ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Some, with wild cries, 
 Run to their arms ; some, like men roused from 
 
 sleep, 
 
 Half-naked, spring on their unharnessed horses: 
 Here's one, on the sudden snatches a trumpet up,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 27 
 
 And sends a dissonant blast through its hoarse 
 
 throat, 
 Then bellows ' Treason.' There, on a heap of 
 
 armour, 
 
 With looks of lean dismay, anight-worn sentinel 
 Limps up and plays the demagogue, thick crowds 
 Hemming him round with their up-gaping faces. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Hear'st thou, Nevitta ? Thou hast loosed a mad 
 
 dog 
 Amongst our sober legion'ries. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Brave Mutius ! 
 
 It is in truth a cunning hound, and keen too; 
 No nose like his to hunt a cool scent up ; 
 He hath the natural aptitude. 
 
 Enter another OFFICER. 
 
 2ND OFFICER. 
 
 My Lords, 
 
 The camp is all in motion : hither tending 
 Some unexpected pageant. Legates, they say, 
 From the Emperor. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 So soon, so very soon ? 
 The Gods promote our enterprise. Nevitta, 
 To thy post : be circumspect.
 
 28 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 I say, be bold. 
 [Exeunt NEVITTA and OFFICERS. 
 
 Enter ANATOLIUS, introducing JOVIAN, HORMIS- 
 DAS, and BISHOP OF ARETHUSA, as from a 
 Journey. 
 
 MAXIMUS (aside). 
 True, yet my mind misgives me. 
 
 [Glancing at JULIAN'S couch. 
 He's not himself now : 
 These moments are as ages ! 
 
 [Aloud, as if on the sudden perceiving them. 
 
 Ha ! dear friends, 
 Lord Prefect Jovian Prince Hormisdas. Thou 
 
 too, 
 
 Most reverend Mark of Arethusa ! Welcome. 
 We had some foretaste of your coming : men 
 Cooped up in idle camps, having quick ears, 
 Catch the faint echo of approaching footsteps. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Thanks, Maximus, and many greetings. Truly, 
 Our coming seemed to stir men's minds : me- 
 
 thought 
 
 Your warriors hemmed us in so surlily, 
 We men of peace half liked it not.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 29 
 
 MAXIM US. 
 
 Regard them 
 As wild beasts but in bondage: they were be- 
 
 neath 
 The keeper's eye, and knew it. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 'Twas our surety. 
 But say, Sir, is the Prince well ? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Holy prelate, 
 
 Your presence is a cordial which he needs. 
 Doubtless ye come kind messengers; and trust 
 
 me, 
 
 Tis best so : he's much changed. But pardon me, 
 Your presence comes so gratefully upon us, 
 Cheering our faintness like a spring i' th' desert, 
 That I forget my duties, and postpone 
 My customed loyal thoughts to courtesy. 
 How is my much-loved and imperial Master? 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Well yet not well : and,Maximus, it grieves me 
 To see the Caesar thus : much do I fear 
 My errand 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Soft, 'tis right he be apprised 
 (And quickly, or he'll chafe else) of your mission.
 
 30 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Excuse me, Sirs. [He approaches June's couch. 
 My Lord! Here's news of one 
 You value much, Constantius. 
 
 JULIAN (starting up violently). 
 
 Say'st thou so? 
 Is the deed done ? Let's see thy hands : they 
 
 have 
 
 No stain : they want the livery of slaughter. 
 Go, go. Thou temptest me, I am a man yet, 
 A slave but yet a man, a guiltless man ! 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 My Lord, you do mistake. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ay, 'tis gone forth, 
 The fiat, and the deed of wickedness 
 Hath had its consummation in the will ! 
 Oh, that the thoughts were sealed, or had no 
 
 record ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Sir, this is not a time for idle qualms ; 
 Arouse your mind. Behold what eyes are on 
 
 you. 
 
 JULIAN (stepping fiercely forward). 
 Whom have we here unbidden ? I did abjure 
 The presence of my species. I have no kindred 
 Feeling with any of your race : my heart
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 31 
 
 Dwells lonely in its scorn of earth and man : 
 Why am I thus intruded on ? Away ! 
 
 MARK. 
 
 Julian, 
 
 Not all ignoble pilgrims, to a shrine 
 Of many noble attributes we journey 
 On a forced errand. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ha ! what voice is that ? 
 It hath the spell of oracles ; it wakes 
 The murmurs of departed memory 
 Within my anxious brain ! Thou good old man, 
 What dost thou here P Alas, this is no home 
 For piety and virtue. Why art thou here? 
 Eyes should not meet, when hearts are far 
 
 asunder. 
 
 MAXIMUS (aside). 
 This must not be : there's danger in these 
 
 thoughts. 
 My Lords, our conference must close. Some 
 
 rumours 
 
 Have got into this busy heart, our camp, 
 Doubtless of weak invention, yet sufficing 
 To peril the realm's peace. Ambassadors, 
 You may perhaps appease this troubled spirit.
 
 32 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Enter NEVITTA, MUTIUS, and crowd of angry 
 Soldiers. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 I can restrain this mob no longer. 
 There's not a tuneless throat in our wild army 
 But clamours for their General. Here they press 
 Like jackals that do bay the moon. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Kind friends, 
 
 I can appreciate your zeal, and am not 
 Blind to affection ; yet it pains me. Pray you 
 Rein in your passions with discretion. Men 
 Who know us not, to such a scene as this 
 Might give a strange interpretation. 
 Pray you retire. 
 
 IST SOLDIER. General, you are betrayed. 
 2nd. They have deceived us, Caesar. 
 3rd. What are these men ? 
 
 1st. What purpose ye? 
 
 2nd. (In an altitude of menace.) Speak, speak, 
 or 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hold, my friends : 
 
 On your allegiance on yourlove ! Good Jovian, 
 You hold the clue here. Solve it, I beseech you.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 33 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Romans, you were not wont to soil your steel 
 With old men's blood, or trample the white hairs 
 Of a defenceless veteran in the dust. 
 If haply I'm a messenger of evil, 
 (And keep in mind, I'm but a messenger) 
 Yet, must I shrink back from a solemn duty, 
 Because the task is perilous? Oh, no! 
 I fear not, for I know you. 
 
 MUTIUS (from the crowd). 
 
 Worthy Sir, 
 To the point. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Prince Julian, 'tis the imperial will 
 That you forthwith repair to Thrace ; meanwhile 
 Those legions too march eastward. 
 
 [Soldiers rush forward, JULIAN throws 
 himself before JOVIAN. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Touch him not : 
 
 Touch him not, Soldiers he is innocent. 
 This tent is sacred as the hallowed altar; 
 Our presence is a sanctuary. 
 
 MUTIUS (from the crowd, who fall back). 
 
 General, 
 We must obey you. Yet, by Mars! no matter
 
 34 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Doubtless you know best : so, fall back, brave 
 
 comrades, 
 Stir not a finger. 
 
 IST SOLDIER. Hark-ye, old man, I would 
 We had you to ourselves. 
 
 2nd. Ay, by the Gods ! 
 We have met, but have not parted. 
 JULIAN. 
 Faithful companions 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Silence, ye snarling knaves. Have ye no sense? 
 Our General would be heard. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Old comrades ! hear me. 
 I have fought too many fields with you, and 
 
 braved 
 
 Death in too many shapes with you, and tried 
 Your valour by its true test mercy ; proved 
 Your faith by patience in adversity ; 
 Your just affection by your firm obedience ; 
 And cannot now mistrust you. See you here 
 These two old men (and worthier never yet 
 Grew grey in their ungrateful country's service) 
 Is it their fault their master does a wrong ? 
 Is it their folly that he is not wise? 
 Must they await the penance of his crime ?
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 35 
 
 No more, no more of this. Already in 
 
 Your altered eyes I read your better judgment. 
 
 Now let me touch more pressing topics. Here, 
 
 In Gaul, our rescued country, a poor remnant, 
 
 After much toil, much glory, many dangers, 
 
 We rest at last : it was the promised goal 
 
 To which we rushed through death. Shall we 
 
 resign 
 
 Ourhopes, renounce our rights, forget our wrongs, 
 Because an impotent lip beneath a crown 
 Cries " Be it so." Oh, shall our shattered barks 
 Drive at the mercy of a man's weak breath? 
 We, that had looked to dedicate our wounds, 
 And hang our bruised armour up, proud trophies, 
 'Neath the dear roofs of our domestic Gods 
 What ! are we doomed to rot piecemeal away 
 On far Euphrates' marshes ? Must we whiten 
 The deserts of Arabia with our bones? 
 Comrades, 'tis thus the Emperor wills. For me, 
 Were disobedience death, / disobey. 
 
 NEV1TTA. 
 
 [Stepping forward in front of soldiery. 
 Excuse my abrupt speech ; in the name of all 
 (For I know all ; each individual heart, 
 Lip, eye, and casual change of countenance, 
 Have in this bosom true interpreters ; )
 
 36 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 I answer. You are our old General, 
 
 And we will have no other General. 
 
 You are our Sovereign, throned in our strong 
 
 hearts, 
 
 And we will have no other Sovereign. 
 As freemen, we reject unlawful bonds ; 
 As just men, we will not forego our rights ; 
 As brave men, we will fence them with our 
 
 swords. 
 
 This is our creed, Sir : this all hearts will ratify : 
 For this we are prepared to die I 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 All, all ! 
 
 MAXIMOS. 
 
 My friends, if after words like these, 'twere 
 
 prudent 
 
 To venture somewhat couched in calmer spirit, 
 I might perhaps suggest, too much is purposed, 
 Or else too little done. You have passed the line 
 Of strict allegiance ; and the penalty 
 Tyrants have seldom practised to remit. 
 Think of Coriolanus, and with him 
 Contrast the Caesar of the Rubicon. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Thanks for the hint, old Maximus ; we hav e 
 tried
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 37 
 
 The water's depth, and we will swim the stream. 
 Caesar! our country has been stabbed through us; 
 Be thou the healer of our wounds. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Speak out : 
 
 We have cast the die, and must not lose the stake. 
 Speak, Julian, speak Wilt thou be Emperor? 
 IST SOLDIER. Ay, that's my mind. 
 2nd. And mine. 
 
 3rd. And mine. 
 
 4th. And mine. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Then give a general shout, and send scared Echo 
 Even to the frighted ears of Tyranny. 
 No longer Caesar now, all hail Augustus ! 
 Julian Augustus, Julian Augustus, hail ! 
 
 [JULIAN cavers his face with his hand as the 
 Soldiers repeat this cry. They press cla- 
 morously round him. 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 My prince, consent: 'tis death or empire. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Well, 
 
 This is no time for thought ; no choice ! so be it ! 
 Comrades, I thank you ! as you will. 
 
 [General shout.
 
 38 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 Huzza! . 
 Huzza, huzza ! Long live the Emperor ! 
 
 [The Soldiers lift JULIAN on their shields and 
 bear him out triumphantly. 
 
 Manent MARK, JOVIAN, HORMISDAS. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Bishop of Arethusa, do we dream ? 
 Or has some sudden shadow of the brain 
 Obscured our just perceptions? Oh! is this 
 The Julian thou didst wrap thy fancy round, 
 And solace our slow way with picturing? 
 Saidst thou his soul was eagle-winged ? In sooth 
 It hath the talon and the beak the wing 
 Daring in flight, and the eye of empery. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 My Lord, in very truth I'm sick to the soul ; 
 Bewildered stunned ; struck to the feeble spring 
 Of my old blood. Excuse my fainting spirit ; 
 My vigour hath collapsed I am a child now. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Yet was there never need of manlier counsel ; 
 A judgment, calm, clear, deep, like a hushed lake 
 Before the storm hath stirred its anger up.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 39 
 
 What think'st thou, Prince Hormisdas ? Nay, 
 
 my Lord, 
 Hath thine eye caught the fascination ? 
 
 HORMISDAS 
 
 Gods! 
 
 There is some hope for Persia yet ! Behold him, 
 How graciously, yet with what noble air, 
 That master-spirit rides on their stout shoulders^ 
 How on their necks, that feel nor weight nor yoke, 
 (Even like caparisoned steeds that snuff the 
 
 battle,) 
 
 He plantshis firm foot ! See,his outstretched arm 
 Draws out his mantle's lordly drapery ! 
 He speaks the sun hath touched his fine-turned 
 
 head 
 
 (Bare, and his black locks shook out in the wind) 
 With a new glory. Beautiful ! 
 
 MARK. 
 
 Alas! Sir, 
 You see, as once / saw, with youthful eyes. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Oh, if it be the sin of youth to yield 
 
 The fresh heart to its ecstacy, and clothe 
 
 Man's mortal mould in garniture of Gods, 
 
 The visionary garb of divine virtue, 
 
 May I ne'er pass this noon of life, nor mourn
 
 40 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 The twilight of an earth-worn spirit ! 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Prince, 
 
 Thou look'st to the fair side of things ; perhaps 
 With more of wisdom, deeper philosophy, 
 Than they who bind down reason to vain schools, 
 And chain kind feelings to the formula 
 
 Of habit. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 Nay, Sir, worldly experience hath 
 Yielded to man maxims, that have the force 
 Of solemn revelation. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 I know not. 
 Reason lends small aid in a case like this. 
 
 MARK. 
 Conscience and faith lend much. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 My mind misgives me, 
 Julian hath cause to be dissatisfied : 
 Much scope for sorrow ; ample precedent 
 For hatred ay, for fear. The name of traitor 
 Suits notwith his past actions traitorous thoughts 
 Were not the aliment of his young hopes. 
 We cannot stem this current : it were better 
 To be partakers of its vigour.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 41 
 
 Surely 
 
 To argue with a heart conflicting thus 
 Were a vain effort : time be our judge. Come, Sir, 
 Let us depart. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Ay, in the Caesar's train : 
 
 My mind's resolved. Now his, and his for ever. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Chamber in the Palace. 
 
 CONSTANTIA and her Women at domestic em- 
 ployments. 
 
 CONSTANTIA (laying down her embroidery). 
 'Tis a vain strife : my hand obeys me not. 
 I cannot bind my mind to useful thoughts, 
 Or mould my limbs to steadfast occupation. 
 Oh, little heart, lie still ! Virgilia ! 
 
 V1RGILIA. 
 
 Madam ? 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 'Tis strange, is't not? no tidings yet 
 
 Have reached me from my husband. Know you 
 
 aught 
 Aught that can comfort me ?
 
 42 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 Madam, 'tis said 
 The Caesar hath fresh victories in Gaul. 
 
 CONSTANT1A. 
 
 I hate to hear of battles. This rude glory 
 Looks upon woman with a mournful eye; 
 Telling of blood-dissevered ties; sad stories 
 Of widows weeping by lone sepulchres, 
 And orphans flinging flowers on obscure graves. 
 Oh, Julian ! where art thou ? 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 Dear Madam, surely, 
 
 Surely the Prince is well ; to-night, believe me, 
 Glad tidings of home-bending steps shall greet 
 you. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 My good Virgilia ; gentle comforter ! 
 Thou art most soothing ever. I believe, 
 In spite of this strange flutter at my heart, 
 These bodings, that, like frightful dreams, oppress 
 
 me, 
 
 These fretful visions, dull anxieties, 
 That make me start at every noise and tremble, 
 I do believe alas ! my heart again 
 Hath got the evil spirit in it, throbbing 
 As if the very blood would burst its channel,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 43 
 
 Then sinking, faint, and sickly. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 Would to Heaven 
 
 We were once more at Athens. I remember 
 When you were yet unwedded 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Say not anything 
 
 Slighting the bliss of wedlock : I would cherish 
 That as my greatest good. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 We were both girls ; 
 
 You, like a vine, swelling your half-ripe clusters 
 Beneath the mellowing sun ; we, like the leaves, 
 Thick-clustering round to shelter you : nor 
 
 wholly 
 
 Without appropriate beauty ; yet most noted 
 As setting you off freshly. What a pleasure 
 When morning emptied his great urn of light 
 On top of grey Hymettus, or when evening 
 Pillowed her cheek upon the glossy wave, 
 With purple shadows curtained how delicious 
 Was't then to mount that old Acropolis, 
 And pace along the marble ramparts, viewing 
 Whate'er of nature or sublimest art 
 Stands beautiful around : things, though of earth, 
 That have an intellectual language !
 
 44 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 CONSTANT1A. 
 
 Sweetly 
 We passed our clays there. It was there I saw 
 
 first 
 
 My Julian : he was standing in the Stoa, 
 Wrapped in his academic robe, amidst 
 A group of awful men, earth-honoured sages, 
 Discoursing deep philosophy. Go on. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 I call to memory too, the pleasant hours, 
 When, in the noon-tide, like gay butterflies, 
 We revelled in the sunshine or, like bees, 
 Went culling the sweet flowers. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Or sat beneath 
 
 The temple-crowned height of Sunium. Oh, 
 I loved to stand on some high beetling rock, 
 Or dusky brow of savage promontory, 
 Watching the waves, with all their white crests 
 
 dancing, 
 
 Come, like thick-plumed squadrons, to the shore 
 Gallantly bounding. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 We had a sweet companion, 
 (Alas ! now dead,) Tithona. She was fraught 
 As a full fountain with its sparkling waters,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 45 
 
 From youth with exquisite thoughts those 
 
 graceful fables 
 
 (For fables they are surely) of old times, 
 When, as they said, the air, and earth, and sea, 
 Were peopled with divinities. You've not 
 Forgotten yet, how prettily she told 
 Her little stories, still embellishing 
 (As she proceeded with her fond enthusiasm 
 And memory of youthful tutelage,) 
 With eloquent mystery and most pagan fancy ? 
 You have not these forgotten ? 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Could I forget ? 
 I hear with tears : proceed I love to listen. 
 
 VIRG1LIA. 
 
 What strange adventures she would tell: of 
 
 Nymphs 
 
 Beloved of Satyrs; and transformed maids 
 Wooed by the Tritons in the deep sea-cave, 
 Or sporting in their innocent coquetry 
 On dolphins' backs, round shell-borne Amphi- 
 
 trite, 
 
 Along the heaving billows. There was not 
 A sun-beam, or a cloud, or casual shadow, 
 But had a tale, wild, sweet, imaginative, 
 To account for it ; some illustration apt,
 
 46 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Some link that bound inanimate nature with 
 Her breathing soul. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 It was her custom thus; 
 When clouds were swift careering through the 
 
 sky, 
 And lights and shades shot o'er the mountain's 
 
 side, 
 
 Then would she say the spirits of the air 
 Held their deft revels 'twixt the earth and sun, 
 Casting light shadows downward. Was't not so ? 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 Ay, and the Nereids saw she often. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 True; 
 She loved to tell, how, when the wind blows 
 
 strong 
 
 Ashore, the Nereids then do love to gather 
 Their flocks from the green deep of troubled 
 
 ocean ; 
 
 Then might you see the fleecy fools all hurrying, 
 Crowding, and tumbling one a-top the other, 
 Into some sheltered cove, or sunny basin ; 
 Rank after rank still rushing up the shore, 
 Leaving their white coats tufting every rock, 
 Then vanishing.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 47 
 
 VIRGJLIA. 
 
 I well remember too, 
 She told me of a mermaid once, that lay 
 Along the scooped side of a hollow wave, 
 Singing such dulcet music, that the ear, 
 Like a wooed damsel, trembled with delight. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 I thank thee, sweet Virgilia, for these thoughts : 
 Thou hast weaned me from unprofitable sorrow, 
 At least for the moment and Heaven knows, 
 
 this life 
 Should not be preyed upon by phantoms. 
 
 Welcome, 
 
 [To EUSEBIA, entering. 
 
 My sister, mother, friend I welcome, oh welcome ! 
 I stand in need of comfort. It is good 
 To see some face we love, to press some hand 
 That hath the warmth of kindred feeling in it 
 When we feel desolate. But why is this? 
 Thy hand withdrawn, thy face averted from me ? 
 Art thou a messenger of grief Eusebia? 
 Eusebia, speak to me my Julian ? speak ! 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Appease your vain alarm. He lives, is well : 
 But
 
 48 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, delay me not : this long pause kills me. 
 Speak, speak ! 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Constantia, I have loved him with 
 A love that few but wives or mothers feel : 
 I loved him, for the life I saved : I loved him 
 For the proud structure of his fame and fortunes, 
 Raised by my skill : I loved him, as he grew 
 Blessed in your loving him ('twas my work also), 
 And now How can I hate ? 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Hate ! good Heaven ! 
 Whither does all this tend ? 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 I dare not tell thee. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Knowest thou, Virgilia? Ah ! thy face looks 
 
 sad : 
 
 All faces are turned from me. Oh, I knew 
 Some terrible misfortune overhung me 
 I had prophetic warnings. 
 
 \_Enter an OFFICER, who whispers EUSEBIA. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 What's to be done? so near ! terrible conflict ! 
 Nay, nay, no compromise with duty. No :
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 49 
 
 At any price the rebel must be stopped. 
 
 CONSTANT1A. 
 
 Rebel ! my brain will burn. All, all, I see it. 
 
 Rebel I then fratricide ! It cannot be. 
 
 Oh, thrones are built on graves. He dies who 
 
 falls I 
 
 Who what art thou ? say quickly. 
 Enter MAXIMUS. 
 MAXIM us. 
 
 Hail, Augusta I 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Behold the Empress there : be her's the greeting. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Julian, the Emperor bade me thus salute 
 His wife Constantia. Therefore hail, Augusta ! 
 The circle of the diadem is narrow 
 And will not fit two heads. I kiss thy hand. 
 
 \_Kneeling. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Off, off, there's spotted pestilence upon thee. 
 I dare not touch thee. Rebel 1 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Madam, that title 
 
 The event alone determines. Honour at times 
 Looks doubtfully on points at issue but 
 I humbly think that when the die is cast,
 
 50 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 And the game won, the goodly stake and glory 
 May stand conceded to the conqueror. 
 
 CONSTANT1A. 
 
 Traitor ! 
 
 MAXIMDS. 
 
 Recall the name, lady if mine, 
 At least I bear it in good company. [Rising. 
 'Tis not for me, the Pontifex of Gods, 
 To kneel at human feet. The Emperor bade me 
 Deliver these few lines, penned in some haste : 
 He will be presently here. Madam, be comforted, 
 [Turning to EUSEBIA. 
 The heart of memory is soft, yet bears 
 Indelible impressions. You have done 
 Deeds that have stood in good report kind 
 
 services 
 
 To Julian, when he needed them, that live, 
 Stored in his treasury of grateful thoughts. 
 For your sake hath Augustus bade me say, 
 The slayer shall be spared. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Away, away I 
 
 I know thee, Maximus : beneath that mantle 
 Thou hid'st a dark hypocrisy. Ambition 
 Within those philosophic folds lies watching, 
 Even like the ambushed wolf, in act to spring.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 51 
 
 Priest of the Pagan Gods, in other ears 
 Distil thy poison ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Empress, (as thou wert, 
 
 And shalt be yet, spite of false fate,) directress 
 Of man's more feeble judgment ! Well I know 
 The love thou bear's! to Julian, and the sway 
 Thy counsel should have o'er him. Hear me 
 
 then 
 I've owed thee something. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Else those preaching lips 
 Had now been mouldering in the elements ; 
 And the wind singing through thee. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Even so. 
 
 I kept my faith and live I thank thee for it 
 My turn comes now : I rule, and I would save thee 
 For better days. Bend to the blast and live 
 Resist, and be uprooted I 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Tempter, away ! 
 
 Enter SALLUST as from a journey. 
 Worthy old man, good Sallust, thou arrivest 
 Most opportunely. Saucy traitors tread 
 Thy master's hearth with insolent defiance :
 
 52 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Rebellion starts us in our very palace, 
 
 Nay grasps with impious hand our awful person. 
 
 In good time dost thou come. Nay, Sir, how's 
 
 this? 
 
 Thine eyes are wet : thy furrowed cheek is pale 
 With more than time : even as a ravelled page 
 Where sorrow writes dim characters. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, Sallust ! 
 
 What new misfortune waits us ? What of my 
 brother ? 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 Mother of Rome, thou art a widow ! Princess, 
 Thou hast no brother ! 
 
 [CONSTANTIA and EUSEBIA throw themselves 
 into each other s arms. 
 MAXIMUS (to the attendants). 
 Bear in those royal mourners to their chamber. 
 Weak, shallow women I fathomless and witless, 
 You see the way, yet fear to tread it ; long 
 With full as deep desires as men, yet shrink 
 From the accomplishment. You would be great, 
 Yet lack the daring ; and when nobler hands 
 Have toiled for you, your appetite grows 
 
 squeamish, 
 And, with grave histrionic, you reject
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 53 
 
 That which you crave. \Turning to SALLUST. 
 Why, Sallust, 'tis auspicious news. 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 Not so. 
 Though it relieves thee from the garb of treason. 
 
 MAXIM US. 
 
 Add, too, it gives some breathing time for prayer 
 To certain grey-beards, and saves heads on 
 
 shoulders 
 
 That else had made acquaintance with the scaffold. 
 How died he? 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 At Tarsus suddenly. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 No matter : 
 
 That he is dead suffices but behold, 
 Here comes the reaper of the harvest. 
 
 Enter JULIAN attended, 
 
 (Both kneeling). Caesar, 
 
 Julian Augustus, hail ! 
 
 JULIAN (with agitation}. 
 
 Where is Constantia ? 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 I gave your letter to the Empress ; bending 
 In homage as became me. She thereat 
 Seemed moved, and honoured me with epithets,
 
 54 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Excuse me that I blazon not abroad. 
 
 Then came this messenger of your good fortune, 
 
 Sallust, from Tarsus ; where your enemy, 
 
 The shedder of your household blood, lies dead. 
 
 'Tis not for me to judge or censure but 
 
 If Julian pushes yori closed door aside, 
 
 He'll gather his Constantia's thoughts, and hear 
 
 How wives discuss the actions of their husbands, 
 
 In no equivocal language. 
 
 [JULIAN rushes into the inner chamber. 
 Exeunt. 
 
 The Imperial Chamber, immediately before 
 day-break. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I cannot sleep ! Ten thousand, thousand thoughts 
 
 Crowd in my restless bosom. Phantasy 
 
 At this lone hour invokes her spectral train, 
 
 Shadowy suggestions incontrollable. 
 
 A fearful Hope is busy here, and Memory 
 
 Sits like a pallid mourner at my side : 
 
 My heart is swollen with expectations large; 
 
 I know not wherefore a dull weight is there 
 
 Sighing I heave it off, but it returns. 
 
 My eyes are dim with watching : a broad seal 
 
 Pressed on my brow by some invisible hand,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 55 
 
 Scdrches my brain. Oh, sleep ! Oh, gentle sleep ! 
 Would I might court thee on a peasant's pallet : 
 I have not slumbered since I wore a crown I 
 
 CONSTANTIA (entering). 
 Julian, my husband ! 
 The morning light has dawned. Where hast 
 
 thou been ? 
 These vigils will destroy thee. 
 
 JDLIAN. 
 
 Ay, my love, 
 The brain hath need of rest : the limbs are 
 
 strong 
 
 In spite of many hardships ; but the mind 
 The mind should have repose. Constantia, 
 
 wherefore 
 
 Is sleep an alien to these royal chambers ? 
 I cannot find beneath this purple robe 
 On all the down of the imperial pillow, 
 Even with thy form of beauty stretched beside 
 
 me, 
 
 One natural slumber: my eyes are ever open 
 Upon the past and future. I am denied 
 Oblivion ! It was not so, Constantia 
 It was not so ! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 My Lord, forbear these thoughts.
 
 56 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 We have been happy ; we again shall be so: 
 You will redeem all yet I 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 It cannot be. 
 
 My subjects in revolt, my crown at stake, 
 My glory questioned ; the bright world of fame 
 For which my very soul was bartered, all 
 Trembling like foam upon the stormy waters I 
 I have defied my God, and will not now 
 Strike my proud banner to audacious man ! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Julian, the empire of the earth is yours, 
 What would you more ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 The Roman Capitol 
 
 Contains the shrines of many demigods, 
 Mortals, by human worship deified. 
 They trod this world in glory therefore man 
 Hath clothed them with immortal attributes. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 My husband, come to rest ; these watchful nights 
 Disturb you. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 You believe me mad ? Is't so ? 
 Call me ambitious, say, that I despise 
 The folly that has made me so, and scorn
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 57 
 
 The ministering wickedness that crouches round 
 
 me 
 Your eye distresses me. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, Julian, why 
 
 Should wisdom and infirmity be brothers ? 
 Virtue and vice both wedded to one heart 
 Do breed a hell on earth. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I know it feel it. 
 
 I have not trod in vain the crooked ways : 
 I have not trampled down opposing nature 
 Unwitting of the peril and the penance. 
 I have attained that height to which the eye 
 Looks with a stupid wonder. I have felt 
 The longings, and enjoyed the full fruition ; 
 And what the price? He that has scaled steep 
 
 mountains, 
 
 And walked the misty precipice's edge 
 On loose and slippery rocks, hath felt the danger 
 Press, like a giant hand, his shivering heart, 
 Till drops of ice would start. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 But you have reach'd 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Reach'd what ? a lonely pinnacle, from whence
 
 58 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 The earth looks boundless, but without a feature. 
 There do I stand, a mark for every storm 
 To hiss around or, haply, seen as one 
 Whose darkened outline moves along a height 
 Spotting the evening's glow. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, do not say 
 
 The lot of greatness cannot be a happy one. 
 Good deeds make happy hearts. The monarch's 
 
 crown 
 
 Encircles a vast sphere : 'tis his to raise 
 Unheeded worth from base obscurity ; 
 To soothe the sorrow-laden ; to crush oppression ; 
 Reform the profligate manners of bad times 
 Oh, 'tis a glorious office. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Know you not, 
 
 How monarchsare oppressed by stately burdens? 
 They have not leisure for mere private good. 
 The lowly station can alone recall 
 The flying hour by its appropriate virtue, 
 And make for memory paths of pleasantness. 
 But see, through yonder casement, the young 
 
 sunbeam 
 
 Looks in with salutation beautiful type 
 Of those great aspirations that subdue,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 59 
 
 Mould, and exalt, this mortal case of man 
 
 To that which makes him more than man ; which 
 
 filling 
 
 His perishable veins with fire from Heaven 
 Clothe him i' th' immortality of fame ! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 How cool and moist comes in this morning 
 
 air: 
 
 Nature awakens with a sigh, and tears 
 Are on her beautiful countenance : a veil 
 Of tender mist partially hangs around her, 
 As if to hide some sorrow ere she smiles. 
 Surely there is infection in these objects ; 
 Gazing, a tender pleasure steals upon me, 
 Yet could I weep. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 All natural objects have 
 An echo in the heart. This body thrills, 
 And has connexion by some unseen chain 
 With its original source and kindred substance. 
 The mighty forest, the proud tides of ocean, 
 Sky-cleaving hills, and, in the vast of air, 
 The starry constellations ; and the sun, 
 Parent of life exhaustless these maintain 
 With the mysterious mind and breathing mould 
 A co-existence and community.
 
 60 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 CONSTANT1A. 
 
 Julian, in our first love you talked to me 
 Thus, and I never feel the morning air, 
 Or look upon the rising of the sun, 
 Without some sweet associate emotion. 
 Our early love was happy. Was it not ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Happy ? Oh, yes, most innocently happy I 
 (Sweet woman, thou hast always been so.) 
 
 Happy ? 
 
 Would I had only studied thy sweet looks, 
 Had sought Divinity but on thy lips, 
 Had asked no other empire but thy beauty 
 But I have been beset by ravenous appetites ; 
 Passions have preyed upon my heart and thriven; 
 The ladder of a limitless ambition 
 Hath yielded steps for evil thoughts to mount. 
 Happy ? even thou hast almost lost the charm, 
 (And how I love thee, witness all ye powers 
 Divine or fabled,) thou that wert once my all 
 I am a ruin. [He walks apart abstractedly. 
 
 CONSTANTIA (aside). 
 My unhappy Julian ! 
 Ah, what a wreck is that majestic mind ! 
 Thy very features are not what they were, 
 Then were thy beauties shadows, and the light
 
 JULTAN, THE APOSTATE. 61 
 
 That cast them from thee, is it all departed ? 
 
 [JULIAN throws himself upon a couch. 
 He sinks upon that couch oh, weary, weary ! 
 Last night he slept not: haply he may sleep 
 Now and be soothed. Perhaps the breath of 
 
 music 
 
 May prove more eloquent than my poor words : 
 It is the medicine of the breaking heart. 
 
 [Music plays, she approaches him. 
 His eyes are closed. Thou art indeed a ruin, 
 But grand and glorious in thy desolation, 
 Like a decaying temple. I would be 
 The weed that gathers round thy broken pillars, 
 The bird that nestles in thy lonely chambers, 
 The pilgrim kneeling at thy shattered altar, 
 The faithful light that shines with equal warmth 
 On the deserted arch and festal palace. 
 How pale he is, and yet how beautiful ! 
 I'll kiss him as he dreams. 
 
 {Music again and song. 
 What is Power ? Tis not the state 
 Of proud tyrants, whom men's hate, 
 To worse than death, 
 Can level with a breath 
 Whose term the meanest hand can antedate
 
 62 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 The peasant with a heart at ease, 
 Is a greater man than these. 
 
 What is Grandeur ? Not the sheen 
 Of silken robes ; no, nor the mien 
 And haughty eye 
 Of old nobility 
 
 The foolish thing that is not, but has been. 
 The noblest trophies of mankind 
 Are the conquests of the mind. 
 
 What is Beauty ? Not the show 
 Of shapely limbs and features. No. 
 These are but flowers 
 That have their dated hours 
 To breathe their momentary sweets, then go. 
 'Tis the stainless soul within 
 That outshines the fairest skin. 
 
 What is Love? 'Tis not the kiss 
 Of a harlot lip the bliss 
 That doth perish, 
 Even while we cherish 
 
 The fleeting charm : and what so fleet as this? 
 He is blessed in love alone, 
 Who loves for years, and loves but one.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 63 
 
 What is Glory ? Not the breath 
 Of vain, venal crowds nor death 
 Amid the cry 
 Of vaunting victory : 
 
 Nor on the living brow war's sanguine wreath. 
 He who maintains his country's laws 
 Alone is great; or he who dies in the good 
 
 Enter EUSEBIA. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, art thou come ? my best Eusebia. 
 
 Thy very step brings strength and peace. See 
 
 there, 
 
 My hope, my fear, my love, my all I Behold him 
 How desolate desolate. He has not slept : 
 There is no comfort for him. In his bosom 
 Lurks a coiled adder ; and that golden crown 
 Presses his temples like a ring of fire. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Let me approach softly, I will not wake him. 
 Pale countenance, I would peruse thee ! No, 
 Thou'rt guiltless of that deed if that in truth 
 He died by any mortal hand. No, No ! 
 Thou hast been full of guilt, but not of that ; 
 And strangely wert thou tempted
 
 64 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Enter MAXIMUS. 
 
 There, alas ! 
 
 The tempter comes ill omens follow him. 
 What does this bad man here? 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 He has strange influence 
 Over his mind, and ever like a fiend 
 Exerts it for his torture. He is to me 
 Courteous, but never meets my eye ; and yet 
 I oft feel his on me scowling, and tremble. 
 
 MAXIMUS. [Approaching. 
 
 Ladies, an humble subject proffers duty. 
 You taste the breath of the morn's infancy : 
 'Tis healthful in its sweetness. Have I licence 
 To see the Emperor ? 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 He has but just wooed sleep : 
 Disturb him not it were unkind. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Nay, Madam, 
 
 My errand, like the heel of Mercury, 
 Hath a swift wing on't, and may not delay. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Do thou then, dear Eusebia, since it must be, 
 Breathe on him softly and so awaken him. 
 
 [EUSEBIA stoops and kisses his forehead.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 65 
 
 JULIAN (awakening). 
 
 Oh, world ! 
 
 Must I again look on thee ? Who art thou? 
 My mother ? for by that name I must call thee, 
 The willing slave of custom, duty, and love 
 Thou art most welcome. After tedious vigils, 
 The sight of such a morning face as thine is, 
 (Pale, though it be with sorrow, yet most fresh 
 In the kind streaks of womanly affections) 
 Braces the spring of the mind : for 'tis with me, 
 As with a sick man, viewing once again 
 Fields, waters, woods, and the blue bending 
 
 skies 
 
 Or traveller cooled by shadow of a cloud, 
 With its light breeze just starting on the wing, 
 Upon a sultry day. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Julian, 'tis true, 
 
 My womanly affections have subdued me 
 (Mysterious in their mastery) to follow 
 The triumph of thy chariot-wheel but, nay, 
 I come for mutual comfort, and renounce 
 These sad reflections. Pray you, look cheerfuller, 
 Methought you did just now. Are you not 
 
 satisfied ? 
 
 I cease vain murmuring. 
 F
 
 66 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 'Twere best, 'twere best ! 
 
 But whom hast thou brought here ? Like a con- 
 spirator 
 He stands i' th' shade, wrapped in his silent 
 
 cloak : 
 
 It is not safe when eyes like his Oh, pardon 
 Pardon, Lord Pontifex, I do confess 
 At such an hour thou wert (with shame I own it) 
 An unknown apparition, and unlocked for. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 And yet, Sir, I would flatter me, there is 
 That intimate intelligence of minds, 
 That interchange of thought, identity 
 Of habits, recollections, and resolves, 
 That we should know each other? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ay, true, true ! 
 
 But why thus early must we slight our pillows ? 
 Sleep's but a feeble foretaste of calm death, 
 Yet half partakes oblivion. Why should we 
 
 wake 
 To stretch the mind out on untimely racks ? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 It grieves me, Sir, to be the messenger 
 Of evil.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 67 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thereat ease your mind : I care not. 
 The current of my blood's tempestuous, 
 And, like the air, I'm liveliest after storms. 
 Does disaffection take a tangible shape? 
 A head this sword can reach ? If so, 'tis well. 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 No, Sir, your enemies are circumspect, 
 And rather show like th' unsubstantial shadows 
 That mock the traveller in the desert. Truly 
 These Nazarenes are hydra-headed. Nay 
 Their very blood hath seed in't, and springs up 
 A crop of holy disputants; hot zealots 
 Armed at all points. The old tale was no fable. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 Is this all? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 No ; they've vowed for their new altar 
 A victim ; not redress, but stern revenge. 
 They seek not vantage of encountered arms 
 On a fair field, allies and friends beside them, 
 But, added to that chance, the slow, sure step 
 Of the assassin. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ha ! 'tis indeed a sure step 
 A short solution of much strife. Oh, Maximus,
 
 68 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Eaise not those thoughts of horror. They awake 
 All deadly passions in me. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 So, let it be. 
 
 These are not common rebels, they assail 
 By fraud and force our awful laws, dear habits, 
 Ancient religion, chosen sovereign. 
 They have won the Persian Sapor too. Read there : 
 This paper, black with well-known signatures, 
 Divulges terrible truths peruse and judge. 
 Meanwhile I venture to retire. I need not 
 Point out what is inevitable. [Exit. 
 
 JULIAN (after perusing with violent agitation). 
 There is no penalty that earthly mould 
 Can bear, or wit devise, or wrath inflict, 
 Commensurate with their crime. Down, damned 
 
 thought ! 
 
 It is not retribution ! No, no, no. 
 I never did a deed like this. Away, 
 Vain spectres of the brain ! I slew no friend; 
 I trampled down no benefactor. Hence ! 
 I will not now look back. 
 
 CONSTANTLY (timidly approaching}. 
 
 My lord ! my husband ! 
 JULIAN (not heeding her). 
 Thou too, old Mark ?
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 69 
 
 Oh, treachery, treachery ! my earliest friend I 
 Nay then one wide proscription strike ye all ! 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Turn not away turn not away, my love : 
 I would approach thee in the humbleness 
 And sorrowful abasement of bruised love, 
 Gently to probe thy griefs and so to cure them. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thou, thou, my wife, his sister ? Get thee gone, 
 Fair woman : touch not madness in his mood. 
 Go, go ! 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Retire, Constantia; press him not 
 Be blind to this, or seem so. (Aside.) [Exeunt. 
 JULIAN (alone). 
 
 Why have I made 
 
 This heart the lair of passion ? wherefore trained 
 My soul to lion-like ambition ? Thus 
 To be the chase of jackals ! Read, proud spirit 
 Read, who and what thy pitiful hunters are. 
 Nature, why hast thou shaped me thus? Thou 
 
 shouldst 
 
 Have cased my heart in iron ; trained my lip, 
 Even at my mother's breast, to blood ; and leagued 
 My spirit with the vulture. Be it so. 
 Just kings make happy subjects so, conversely,
 
 70 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Bad subjects cause the tyranny they curse. 
 Why am I thus enforced ? Weak, wretched vic- 
 tims! 
 
 My life ye aim at, reckless of your own : 
 Ye play deep stakes, nor calculate the loss. 
 Vain plotting knaves ! Chartered conspirators, 
 That sit in mockery of justice; thus 
 Dispensing doom when you yourselves are 
 
 judged. 
 
 Ripe though ye be to shedding, justice must be 
 A long-armed reaper to embrace you all. 
 Great Gods ! what names are here ? Mercy, 
 
 farewell ! 
 
 In vain ye shall not paint me thus a monster : 
 Ye make the tyrant that ye feign now tremble ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Street in Constantinople. 
 A Crowd pass with uproar. 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Here, neighbour, here we'll take our station 
 
 here. 
 2nd. Ay, there is vantage for the eye here. 
 
 How now? 
 Press not upon us so unmannerly !
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 71 
 
 3rd. We have as good right to press here as 
 
 you have. 
 Make way, make way. 
 
 1st. Good neighbours, do not quarrel, 
 
 Good mob, be peaceable. Hark, there's a 
 
 shout, 
 
 Be quiet, friends you'll hear and see the better. 
 [MuTius passes, affecting a pompous man. 
 ner. 
 
 A SOLDIER. 
 
 Hollo there, Mutius ! why, man, thou wert used 
 To have a quick ear at a comrade's service 
 Mutius, I say. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 What manner of man art thou ? 
 Whom dost thou take me for ? I know thee not. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 How now, how now ! thou dusty specimen 
 Of an extenuated mummy. What ! 
 Thou shadow, thou 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Enough 
 
 [Drawing, the crowd interposes. 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Put up your swords, 
 Untimely brawlers.
 
 72 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Nay, his plebeian breath 
 Hath tainted my gentility. 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Fie, fie ! 
 
 We shall have need soon of our swords and 
 courage. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Prithee expound ; I have indeed heard rumours, 
 Good man of peace thrice honoured citizen, 
 Be circumstantial and explicit. 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Well, Sir, 
 
 We shall have war, methinks. Ambassadors 
 From Sapor, King of Persia, have arrived, 
 With grave remonstrance, sharp-edged question- 
 ings, 
 
 To stir our choleric Emperor. 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 There's hope then 
 I'm glad on't glad on't. Comrade, here's my 
 
 hand. 
 
 We'll fight together bravely yet. Why, gentle- 
 men, 
 
 I would not boast much what I've known or done : 
 But I have done some service which he knows of
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 73 
 
 The Emperor ay, and hath rewarded too. 
 And I can tell you he won't stand much chafing. 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Well, we shall see. Th' Ambassadors just now 
 Have wound their brave procession by the 
 
 Hippodrome, 
 And doubtless will demand free audience. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 Humph ! they'll have sorry satisfaction, Sirs ! 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 Centurion ! 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Sir, accommodate your speech 
 To the advancement of my dignity, 
 I now command a cohort. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Pardon, brave Captain. 
 'S blood : why not say so sooner? 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Circumscribe 
 
 Thy terror, thou art awe-struck : I am placable. 
 Be satisfied we shall have sport enough yet. 
 I'm an old soldier and have swum the Tigris, 
 And I can tell you, there is that beyond 
 Would make the blood dance in an old man's 
 vein.
 
 74 JOLIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Boy ! there is store of golden booty viands 
 That my teeth water but to think on : then 
 What delicate girls oh, they're delicious crea- 
 tures! 
 
 Look-ye, I've dealt with learning in my day, 
 And read the glorious tale of Helena ; 
 But never Paris plucked so fair a fruit, 
 Nor when on Ida's top he gave the apple 
 To the divine shape then unveiled in beauty, 
 Marked he such loveliness. 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Your melting phrase 
 Hath much infection in it. 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Oh, I can tell you, 
 For I have had experience: there are your 
 
 Georgians, 
 
 Great Juno ! what a race of glorious creatures, 
 Goddesses rather ! Oh, their shapely limbs 
 And airy presence ; and the melody 
 Of their rich, melancholy voices, like 
 The breath o* the wind upon a harp ! and then 
 How rosily their blushing cheeks bloom over 
 Their lily bosoms, and they breathe of flowers. 
 Their eyes have got the tint of the atmosphere, 
 And Heaven looks through them ! Hymenaeus, oh !
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 75 
 
 There are your loosely-vested Persians too, 
 With their dark tresses, and their eyes, oh, 
 
 Venus ! 
 
 How beautiful their eyes are : black as a fawn's 
 And sparkling as a sun-beam on a spring, 
 Or stars at midnight. Then their wild expres- 
 sion 
 The wicked things ! 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Your eloquence is tempting. 
 On the strength oft I could fancy me a man 
 Of war you lead fine lives campaigning. 
 
 MUTICS. 
 
 So so; 
 
 But passable upon my reputation. Why, Sir, 
 This life of ours is like an April day, 
 Sunshine and tempest interchangeably. 
 'Tis good when comrades gather round the board 
 And dip their jests in rosy wine : 'tis good 
 When at the close of a well-foughten field, 
 The unharmed victor counts the goodly spoil : 
 'Tis good when the strained limbs expatiate 
 On a down cushion, or a couch of heather : 
 'Tis good to dance a laughing girl on knee 
 Ay, ay, you take me there ; but see the obverse. 
 'S death, Sir, what say you to a midnight march,
 
 76 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Through snow and sleet no fire, no food, no 
 
 wine : 
 
 To plunge into a quagmire for a bed, 
 Change female laughter for the cry of battle ; 
 For amorous encounters ambushed foes ; 
 Groans for soft sighs, and sudden blows for kisses ! 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 Methinks 'twere best to stay at home. 
 
 MUT1US. 
 
 Fox you, Sir, 
 
 A most sagacious choice, and argues much 
 Self-knowledge, meekness, and a sound discre- 
 tion. 
 
 For us but pardon me, too long I lecture- 
 It is a science abstruse and complicate, 
 And needs the true vocation. 
 
 [ Crowd rushes past. 
 CITIZEN (in passing). 
 
 Haste, boys, haste, 
 The Emperor hath passed the Hippodrome. 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Good Captain, wilt thou see th' Ambassadors' 
 
 audience ? 
 'Twill be a goodly show. 
 
 2ND CITIZEN. 
 
 Ay, and there is
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 77 
 
 A grand procession of the Nazarenes. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 The Nazarenes ? Oh, ay, they would implore 
 Augustus for indulgence. 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 That is their purpose ; 
 
 And Bishop Mark, the Emperor's old tutor, 
 Walks at their head, armed with a stout remon- 
 strance. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 I know him well, good masters. He should be- 
 ware! 
 
 When we saluted Julian first as Emperor, 
 He somewhat stood in the way. I can't afford 
 To save his life twice. Sirs, lead on : I follow. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 78 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Hall of Stale. 
 
 JULIAN on his Throne. MAXIMUS, ANATOLIUS, 
 
 NEVITTA, JOVIAN, SALLUST, HORMISDAS, 
 
 and OFFICERS. 
 
 Enter at one side NOHORDATES and MERANES, 
 Persian Ambassadors, attended. At the other 
 side, MARK, Bishop of Arethusa, with ecclesias- 
 tics, in mourning, 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Pass to the business of the day. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Sundry petitions straight demand your care : 
 Some trivial, some of weight and moment : each, 
 As leisure serves, demanding scrutiny. 
 Here's one from Caius Galba, a centurion, 
 In the Praetorian band, seeking redress 
 For loss in the popular tumults. Here's another 
 From the sixth legion, just arrived from Gaul, 
 Craving free quarters in the suburbs. This 
 Records complaint from Spain 'gainst the Pro- 
 consul, 
 
 And there are many more here ; a mixed multi- 
 tude
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 79 
 
 That may await more leisure. There are, how- 
 ever, 
 
 Two of most pressing import : one, a memorial 
 And solemn protest of the Christian church, 
 Assembled here in Synod. They have deputed 
 As advocate, Mark, Bishop of Arethusa. 
 Here too are letters from the King of Persia 
 Demanding audience for Ambassadors. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Let Caius Galba have some recompense 
 From our peculiar purse. The legion'ries 
 Must take free quarters from an enemy : 
 Pass them across the Hellespont. My Lords, 
 I well believe that the Proconsul is 
 A brave man and an honest : this complaint, 
 Therefore, dismiss. Let the Ambassadors 
 Of Sapor, King of Persia, speak their purpose. 
 [Ambassadors approach in a haughty manner. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 These, my imperial liege, are noble Satraps : 
 Meranes, Nohordates ; they are known 
 In Roman story with advantage. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Sirs, 
 
 Your Persian air is sovereign for stiff necks ; 
 AtCtesiphon methinks you bow much lower:
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 'Tis needful and exacted too. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ambassadors, 
 
 Speak quickly to your errand : we await, 
 Being in haste, a speedy exposition. 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 The King sends greeting to Rome's General. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Slave ! dost not know the title that earth's lord 
 Bears on his throne ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 My good Nevitta, nay, 
 It but awaits a bloody blazonry. 
 Proceed 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 We speak, Sir, but as messengers. 
 Sapor demands why Julian hath transgressed 
 The truce signed by the dead Constantius? 
 Why Roman soldiers, from our swords redeemed 
 To heal their wounds upon the lap of Peace, 
 Affront our borders with their ransomed banners ? 
 Our Persian earth is sullied by their tread ; 
 Our Persian air is tainted by their breath. 
 Lastly, we ask, (if Rumour's voice speak truly,) 
 Why is the Nazarene disfranchised? Wherefore 
 His altar and his home proscribed ?
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 81 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Pause there, Sir : 
 
 You have been forward in your questioning; 
 Our answer shall be made in Ctesiphon. 
 Yet say thus much : Rome to her chariot-wheel 
 Hath bound barbarian Kings ere now. 
 
 Enough 
 Begone. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 We go, Sir: but it first becomes us, 
 Who in true custody do hold the keys 
 Of war and peace solemn depositaries 
 To lift the veil that blinds you. Sir, I say 
 It well accords with valour to unfold 
 Its armoury of strength, ere yet it strikes; 
 And therefore we would open spread the book 
 Of time, and point the lessons of the past, 
 And bid you read and profit ere we part. 
 
 N E VITTA (springing forward} . 
 Ha, Caitiff I say'st thou ? 
 
 JULIAN (interposing'). 
 
 Nay, discourteous friend, 
 Commit not thus our honour. 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 Roman Em peror ! 
 Wilt not vouchsafe reply P 
 
 G
 
 82 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ay, my good Lords 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 How, Sir ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 In blood and flames at Ctesiphon. 
 [jSkoutfrom the populace. 
 
 AMBASSADORS. 
 
 We ask safe-conduct. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Tis not needed. 
 
 AMBASSADORS. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 We know not that. Our pledge? 
 JULIAN. 
 
 That you still live. 
 [Populace shout again the Ambassadors 
 
 retire. 
 
 And now my friends, our hands are full methinks 
 Of that we sought not, nor would shun. This 
 
 enemy 
 
 Hath a brave bearing, and is worth our pains. 
 I love an open foe, in whose stem eye 
 I read a character my own replies to. 
 It is a stirring sight to see the sun 
 Start back from some score thousand burnished 
 helms,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 83 
 
 And angry flash from off the bright spear heads ; 
 
 And therefore I rejoice at this, and see in't 
 
 Glory, and large advantage to the State. 
 
 And what, my Lords, advantages a State 
 
 Like glory ? 'Tis the very breath by which 
 
 Society exists : the unseen bond 
 
 That holds man to his duties : the bright chain 
 
 That links him with a nobler nature. Fame 
 
 Is not a faithless echo ; not the cry 
 
 Of a vain moment, dying at the birth ; 
 
 But a celestial herald, like the bow 
 
 That looks out beautiful from desolate skies 
 
 The sun that aye renews the youthful year, 
 
 And gives the promise of a harvest-home. 
 
 Ah ! these are thoughts to make our pulses play 
 
 As Roman pulses should do. Ye Gods of Rome ! 
 
 Where do I lead? Why do I thus enkindle 
 
 The generous glow I yet must damp ? Oh, grief! 
 
 Oh, shame! What shall I say ? How teach my 
 
 tongue 
 
 To link our Roman names with treachery? 
 Oh, foul, foul, foul ! sold for barbarian gold, 
 They give the kiss of peace with lying lips : 
 They drug the bowl of revelry with poison : 
 They walk with daggers 'neath their cloaks, and 
 
 pledge
 
 84 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Friendship and faith, with hands upon the hilt ! 
 How shall we face the foe, when at our back 
 Steals like a wolf the crouched domestic traitor? 
 Thou, Maximus, can'st speak to this. 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 My voice is needless to expose the traitors : 
 Their own damn'd acts have damning witnesses. 
 They'll not impugn the evidence. My Lords, 
 'Twere fit the Bishop Mark had audience : 
 He waits : the fulness of his time hath come. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Call forth the Bishop of Arethusa. 
 
 MAXIMUS. [MARK enters. 
 Well, Sir, 
 Your business, and that quickly : th' Emperor 
 
 Sir, I have waited long on him ere now, 
 
 And as I hope, not all unprofitably. 
 
 Young thoughts work channels in the mind, and 
 
 leave 
 Impressions that years find indelible. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Pray you, good Bishop, we're on business : wear 
 not
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 85 
 
 Our time in idle declamation. 
 MARK. 
 
 Maximus, 
 With thee I combat not. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Bishop, be satisfied : 
 
 I waste not strength on shadows, nor tread out 
 The expiring embers of a sinking flame. 
 We have no thesis for dispute : the past 
 To thee is a closed volume. 
 MARK. 
 
 Wretched man ! 
 
 Thou say'st right well the past to me is nought, 
 Yet is it much to thee : an awful book 
 Which thou shalt read by life's decaying lamp. 
 But when the flame just brightens ere /die, 
 My hope shall be the future. Thine oh, where? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 When you have done with wrangling, Sir, re- 
 member 
 Whose time you waste : I'm sick of this. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 Augustus ! 
 
 My heart was busy with too many sorrows 
 To bear this vain man's taunting as I ought; 
 As the humility of our faith commands.
 
 86 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 JULIAN (not heeding Mm). 
 'Tis well remembered, Maximus. The fine 
 Imposed on Antioch's contumacious prelate, 
 See that 'tis levied. We have sudden need : 
 This war begets much haste. 
 MARK. 
 
 Alas, alas ! 
 
 I come here sorrow-laden ; in mine age 
 Bowed down by more than age inflicts, to be 
 The advocate of those who needed none, 
 When I was young, and Julian poor, yet vir- 
 tuous 
 
 Oh, Sir! 
 
 JULIAN (not heeding hiirt). 
 
 Nevitta, hearken : it were well 
 To have a stout arm there at Antioch. 
 Direct our Gallic legionaries thither 
 Under brave Dagalaiphus. 
 
 MARK (in agitation). 
 
 Sir, my Sovereign ! 
 
 Oh, by a name yet dearer, my loved pupil, 
 (If grandeur may remember infancy,) 
 Here I kneel down to thee before I die, 
 Here I adjure thee, as thou too must die, 
 Add to the hour of death no horrors! Pity 
 Thy subjects and thyself!
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 87 
 
 JULIAN (not heeding him}. 
 
 That Persian madman 
 
 Will show his mettle early. Jovian, go thou 
 And from Sinope move our armaments 
 Upon Trapezium. That disturbs their flank ; 
 We meet then on th' Euphrates. 
 MARK. 
 
 Nay, proud Monarch ! 
 May not I hold thine ear and altered eye 
 With better hope than this ? If thou art deaf 
 To a nation's cry and blind to old affection, 
 And lost to manhood's courtesy, I but 
 Profane the habit that I wear, the symbol 
 Beneath which martyrs die to live, thus tamely 
 To kneel to a clay idol ! I pollute 
 The fair fame of a Roman citizen 
 Thus truckling to a tyrant. Draw your poniards, 
 Slaves, worthy of your master ! Consummate 
 Your infamy with cowardice, ye butchers 1 
 I know ye now : your shafts have struck the eagle ! 
 Why shrink ye from a wren ? 
 
 JULIAN (to his Officers). 
 
 Put up your swords ; 
 Your passionate zeal outruns your reason. 
 
 What! 
 Slay him beneath my eye ? Men call that murder.
 
 88 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Enacted thus with violence, which just judgment 
 Might give a nobler name to. Hoary traitor, 
 Know'st tbou that paper? Read, and be dumb. 
 MARK (reads}. 
 
 I know not, 
 
 Yet is my name in signature. I wrote it not. 
 Can Maximus suggest? perchance 
 
 MAXIM US. 
 
 Thou liest ! 
 What, shall I stand thus taunted by a traitor? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 A paltry subterfuge ! 'Tis but the struggle 
 Of a condemn'd man. Now, my Lords, fare- 
 well- 
 Make stern inquiries here. I must attend 
 Subjects of deeper import. [Exit, attended. 
 
 Manent MARK, MAXIMUS, NEVITTA, and Soldiers. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 Julian, my prince ! 
 
 Abandon not my grey hairs to these blood- 
 hounds. 
 Oh, stay : desert me not ! He's gone. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Ay, priest, 
 But fear not I am merciful : the account
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 89 
 
 Between us, as thou know'st, is long : thy fate 
 Shall not be lingering. Methinks, Nevitta, 
 Augustus hath a conscience tender-edged, 
 And scrupulous as befits a diadem. 
 Beneath his eye no criminal must perish. 
 Oh, no : thus would he seem unto the world 
 Constructive executioner. 'Tis best thus. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Yet he admits the treason. 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 And the judgment! 
 
 He hath recorded judgment. Good Nevitta, 
 He said departing that he left this traitor 
 To a condemned man's struggle. Said he not ? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 In truth I cannot charge my memory 
 
 With the exact words : such they were, or seemed 
 
 To that effect. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 We do interpret so. 
 Heaven send us firmness in our duty ! 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Well, well, 
 
 My path lies here: I doubt not, Maxiraus, 
 Thou wilt acquit thy charge with prudence. 
 Prisoner,
 
 90 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Commend thee to thy gaoler. [Exit. 
 
 MAXIMUS (aside). 
 
 Now must I do 
 
 An act that Julian will not thank me for. 
 His doubtful words are my sufficient warrant. 
 This old man is a Christian, shrewd and virtuous, 
 And holds strong place in his affection ; there- 
 fore 
 Must be removed, and quickly. Soldiers, seize 
 
 him. 
 Old man, move forward. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 Whither ? 
 
 MAXIMDS. 
 
 To a cell, 
 
 Deep, dark, and narrow ; yet a quiet one 
 A peaceful home. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 I understand : lead on. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 91 
 
 Antioch Portico of the Temple of Mars. 
 Enter Crowd of Citizens 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Well, neighbour, when d'ye think the show will 
 come ? 
 
 2nd. Oh, soon : I heard but now the swell of 
 
 music 
 
 Move faintly up the street. It is so winding 
 We catch but snatches: at the next turn you'll 
 
 hear 
 A glorious burst of sound. 
 
 1st. 'Tis a good deed 
 
 Thus to revive our warlike ceremonies. 
 
 3rd. Like you this war, good neighbour ? 
 
 1st. Nay, not I : 
 
 Howbeit I come a gazer here. Not I 
 I have a son with the army ; when he left me 
 A raven flew thrice round his head. His mother 
 Hath ever since been drooping. 
 
 3rd. And my daughter 
 
 Is well nigh mad, at parting yesternight 
 With her fond spouse, new wedded : there they 
 
 loitered 
 Beneath the cypress grove, bounding my garden,
 
 92 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 (Juno avert the omen,) till their young hearts 
 Half broke with pain of parting. 
 
 2nd. Well, Sirs, for me 
 
 I'm well content : being but a bachelor. 
 I have small cares to thwart me. I am, there- 
 fore, 
 
 Well pleased to hear of battles, and love glory. 
 1st. Has blood been spill'd yet? Heard you, 
 
 friend ? 
 
 3rd. Tis likely. 
 
 The Prefect's vanguard had just passed the bor- 
 ders, 
 
 Pushing for Perisabor. So said the messengers. 
 2nd. Then shall we hear of blows soon : I 
 
 would wager 
 
 By this our Cretan archers have essayed 
 Their strong bows and our horse of Thessaly 
 Put forth their paces on the Syrian plains. 
 
 [.4 sudden sound of music. 
 3rd. Gods ! what a crash of music : here they 
 
 come! 
 
 Fall back, fall back, keep silence, and make way. 
 {Enter JULIAN and Officers, MAXIMUS as 
 Pontifex, with Priests, c. fyc. in proces- 
 sion. They enter the Gate of the Temple.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 93 
 
 Interior of the Temple of Mars. 
 
 MAXIMUS as Chief Priest before the Altar in- 
 ferior Priests ranged at each side JULIAN on the 
 steps of the altar behind him Officers, Citizens. 
 
 Chorus of Priests. 
 
 Thou God of our battles, and Lord of the war, 
 Arise from thy slumber, awake in thy star! 
 Come down in thy whirlwind of anger, and tread, 
 Like a vision of wrath, o'er the field of the dead. 
 
 The vulture is up on his shadowy wings, 
 His plume like a hero's, his eye like a king's : 
 The raven flies after with flap and with croak; 
 He hath sprung from his branch of the blasted 
 oak. 
 
 Give breath to your trumpet, proud horseman, 
 
 for, lo ! 
 
 Your war-steed hath started at sound of the foe ; 
 His nostrils are arched with impatience ; his eye 
 Hath a fire that will bear thee to conquer or die. 
 
 Oh, lives there the recreant would linger? 
 Avaunt !
 
 94 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 O'er the wide earth we'll hunt thee, with scoff 
 
 and with taunt. 
 
 Give death to the coward ! yet no let him live : 
 What more to the good and the brave can we 
 
 give? 
 
 Then hail to thee, hail to thee, God of the brave ! 
 Firm trust of the Freeman, last hope of the Slave ; 
 Come down like a vision of wrath, and appear 
 As the frown of the sea when the tempest is near. 
 
 Descend in thy garment of doom and dismay, 
 Like the pounce oftheeaglethatstoops to his prey, 
 Like the flash that shoots down through the 
 
 shadowy air, 
 Like the spring of the lion when roused from his 
 
 lair! 
 
 MAXIMUS (as Pontifex Maximus). 
 Victorious Mars, bright God armipotent! 
 Where'er thine eye looks terrible, where'er 
 Thy blazing helm affrights the human heart, 
 Avenger, hearken ! For thy Julian kneels 
 Kneels at thy shrine. The sacrificial blood 
 Steams grateful, as of old, upon thine altars. 
 Lo, once again the renovated rites
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 95 
 
 Once more the vast procession throngs thy gates 
 With angry shouts, to martial music marching. 
 We cry for vengeance hear, avenger, hear ! 
 He comes, he comes, amid yon golden clouds 
 I see his glorious presence in the air. 
 He comes, he comes ! Lo, how his coursers strain 
 Upon the impalpable air their sinewy limbs. 
 Their eyes and swelling nostrils breathing fire. 
 
 [Addressing JULIAN. 
 
 Thou chosen warrior of the insulted Gods, 
 Julian, imperial lord, receive the omen ! 
 Voices supreme are murmuring in mine ear, 
 Prophetic visions rise upon mine eye, 
 And my heart swells with solemn auguries. 
 The Gods themselves look down from high 
 
 Olympus, 
 
 And smile upon thy battle ; as of old 
 By bards and prophets noted, still they mingle 
 Their divine nature in our mortal wars, 
 And vindicate their majesty on earth I 
 Go, give thy bloody banners to the winds, 
 Strew the polluted land with victims, crush 
 With memorable vengeance! Thee, our temples 
 Insulted and defiled, our dear Penates 
 Majestic oracles, and trampled altars, 
 Invoke, and constitute their sacred champion !
 
 96 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Arise, destroy. 
 
 (People shout.) Long live the Emperor ! 
 Long live our General ! Julian lead to conquest. 
 [JULIAN comes forward slowly. 
 (People shout.) Kind master, generous friend ! 
 God save thee, Julian ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 My friends, I thank you : yes, my friends ye are, 
 To you I owe my throne ye have preserved it. 
 Nor have I been ungrateful : bear me witness, 
 When all our barriers, guarded by faint hearts, 
 Were broken and advantaged by the times 
 The wild barbarian came like a flood upon ye, 
 Whose standard then was foremost to the rescue ? 
 Whose red right hand redeemed your wasted 
 
 fields 
 Your smoking homes? Who struck from savage 
 
 grasp 
 The uplifted sword, even at your children's 
 
 throat ? 
 
 Tore from his arms the un violated wife, 
 And daughter still a virgin ? Yes, they fled 
 Our banners, as the vapour flies the sunbeam. 
 And, oh ! when gentle peace came like a bird, 
 And spread her fond wings over us, my sway 
 Fell on you lightly, as the wholesome dew
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 97 
 
 Where'er the yoke lay sore, old imposts pressed, 
 I smote them with reforming zeal, and poured 
 Oil on your wounds, and cherished you to 
 
 health. 
 
 Now once again iron necessity 
 Clothes us in sullen armour. Gods approve 
 Our enterprise. Long-silent oracles 
 Have spoken with the voice of destiny ! 
 You too, my people, by this acclamation 
 Fiat our purpose, and invest your prince 
 With more than regal terrors. Is't not so ? 
 
 [People shout. 
 Draw then your swords, bold youth to arms, to 
 
 arms 
 
 As ye do trust to clasp unravished brides, 
 As ye do hope to see connubial pledges, 
 As ye would still inherit from your sires 
 Sweet homes, untrodden by tumultuous war, 
 I call ye forth to arms. 
 
 (People shout.) Lead on, lead on 
 
 To victory Julian and victory ! 
 
 [JULIAN comes forward with his train. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 And now, kind friends, (how pleasant 'tis to be 
 Environ'd by a living ring of friends) 
 We have begun with glorious presages.
 
 98 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Call in the Prefect's messenger. Well, Sir, 
 
 [Enter Messenger. 
 Announce your errand. How stand our armies ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Bravely. 
 
 The Master-General of the frontier, Jovian, 
 Hath joined our Prefect, Sallust, with his 
 
 power, 
 
 And crossed the border merrily. We've had 
 Some sharp encounters ; struck some strokes of 
 
 valour ; 
 
 Made many captives and much booty : gained 
 Opinion, confidence, and happy omens. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 What say you to the foe ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 They've lost all heart, 
 And, loosened by the terror of our name, 
 Retreat distractedly ; abandoning 
 Honour and hope, with more substantial things. 
 'Tis thought, brave Dagalaiphus, by his march 
 Toward th' Euphrates' springs threatning their 
 
 rear, 
 Secured our daring progress. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 'Twas foreseen, Sir ;
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 99 
 
 And now, good comrades, to your posts. My 
 
 people, [altars 
 
 When you kneel down at your dear household 
 Remember those who fight for you. Farewell I 
 [Exeunt, populace shouting. 
 
 The Mines under Perisabor Workmen hewing the 
 rock the roof supported by a large pillar of 
 rough wood. 
 
 Enter NEVITTA and OFFICERS. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Is your work finished yet? 
 
 WORKMAN. 
 
 To say truth, Sir, 
 'Twas a hard job, but there's the finishing stroke. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Then is our battle-hour arrived call forward 
 The gallants that lead up the storm. 
 
 [Enter Soldiers,with battle-axes andshields,fyc. 
 After them JULIAN, MAXIM us, fyc. fyc. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 The moments press when shall we give the 
 signal ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hold ! I have sent in a last summons. Jovian 
 Returns on the instant : here he comes.
 
 100 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Enter JOVIAN. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Alas I Sir, 
 
 These men are mad most obstinately mad I 
 They yield not, but return us wild defiance. 
 Yet are they worn to phantoms. Empty streets 
 And grass-grown portals are more eloquent 
 Than any language ; and the lean, shadowy 
 
 shapes, 
 
 That glance at times across the silent courts, 
 Make most emphatic comment. 
 
 MAX1MCS. 
 
 Why, 'twould be mercy 
 To terminate their misery. 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 And yet, 
 
 There are some that still cling to life. I passed 
 The gate of a temple : it was thronged with 
 
 maidens 
 
 Worn out with famine doubtless, but still lovely. 
 And there they sat, and sang, and wept, and told 
 Sad stories, and then wept again. I saw 
 In an open hall, an old man of fourscore 
 By his daughter fed on their last loaf their last : 
 Ay, o'er that meal he blessed her, and held up 
 His aged hands, and wished her length of days,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 101 
 
 And health, and happiness : thus on the edge 
 Of a sure grave ! I turned away mine eyes, 
 And in a corner saw a young man steal 
 The cool spring draught from his faint, dying 
 
 mother, 
 And drink : thus misery deforms our nature ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Nay Jovian, nay time presses with your 
 
 pardon 
 
 We can hear this at leisure : and, if you please it, 
 Weep till our hearts break, at your dolorous 
 
 stories. 
 Pathos can wait. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Priest ! you may have no heart ; 
 / have : Jovian proceed. Aught else ? 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 We soldiers 
 
 Have but hard hearts at best ; yet there was one 
 That grated on my pity a poor female. 
 Famine had preyed upon her, and it seemed 
 As if some grief had left her desolate. 
 She had a baby in her arms, and moved 
 Slow, with unsteady step, her head declining. 
 She heard me as she passed, and languidly 
 Stopped, and, all trembling, turned aside to gaze.
 
 102 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Oh, what a look she gave then ! her dim eyes, 
 Sunk in their livid chambers, and half hid 
 'Neath the incumbent lids, were fixed on me 
 With most intense, painful anxiety. 
 Tears started, and she turned unto her child, 
 Kissed it and wept ; then turned to me again, 
 And seemed with her disparted lips to drink 
 E'en the least word I uttered. There was about 
 
 her 
 
 An air that showed she had been beautiful, 
 And knew it and a something that denoted 
 Station and breeding ; and she still was youthful. 
 But Nature vainly wars with sickness : thus 
 Want had anticipated time the sear 
 Of sallow winter crept upon her roses, 
 And hunger made her soft cheek hollow and wan. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Oh, war, remorseless war ! poor gentle creature, 
 Did she not shrink from thee at last? 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 Despair and sensibility soon sever. 
 Squalid had grown her dress herbreast was bare, 
 That infant's fount of life and only pillow. 
 As thus she looked on me, her baby cried, 
 (Haply at being unnoticed,) and stretched out
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 103 
 
 His little hands, and wound them round her 
 
 neck, 
 And stroked down her poor cheek. Thereat she 
 
 turned 
 
 And gazed upon it wildly, and sank down 
 Upon her knees and prayed ; and to her bosom 
 Clasped it, and hung her head and wept aloud. 
 [JULIAN sits down and covers his face with his 
 hand. 
 
 MAXIMUS (regarding JULIAN). 
 Nay, if he feels it thus, we are ruined. Give me 
 The axe and I will tear the mine down. 
 
 [He takes the axe. 
 Soldiers ! 
 Remember how you are moulded. Youth of 
 
 Greece, 
 
 Fight for the honour of old Hellas. Think 
 Of Marathon in th' onset ; and if any 
 But name retreat, cry out Thermopylae. 
 And you, Pretorians ! now your Thracian wives 
 Are gather'd in the Hippodrome, high vaunting 
 The prowess of their husbands. Men of Italy ! 
 Inheritors of victory ! Proud Romans ! 
 Your country eyes you from the Capitol ! 
 Charge, and the Gods be with you.
 
 104 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 \_He strikes the base of a column, which giving 
 way, the mine falls in, and above the mass 
 of ruin the interior of the city is seen. 
 Citizens rush to the breach with wild 
 cries. Assault and repulse. JULIAN 
 starts up, drawing his sword. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Is the deed done? 
 
 Then Romans do your duty. 
 
 \_The breach is at length won. The troops 
 pour into the city. 
 
 View of Ctesiphon. Troops pass. 
 Enter NEVITTA, ANATOLIUS, HORMISDAS, 4fe. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 We have had stout marches and a gallant 
 
 struggle ; 
 
 But there's the goal at last. Hail, Ctesiphon ! 
 In sooth, Hormisdas, you have more taste, you 
 
 Persians, 
 Than I had credited. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 'Tis a fair prospect; 
 
 Those temples standing out in light, from groves, 
 With all their pediments and porticos
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 105 
 
 Glowing amid the sober cypresses, 
 Look from their hills into the glassy river 
 Like beauty on her mirror ! With what grace 
 Those accidental shadows from light clouds 
 Partially veil the distant mass o' the city, 
 Breaking it to intelligible parts ; 
 Each by its dome, column, or arch of triumph, 
 ReveaPd to the discriminating sun 
 With an appropriate beauty ! 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 My eyes fill 
 To see thee thus, and hear thee praised my 
 
 country ! 
 Yet hast thou been a step-dame unto me. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Why dost thou look with that sardonic smile, 
 Nevitta, on this goodly scene ? Why, man, 
 If 'twere a virgin trembling on thy knee 
 Thy leer could scarce be more portentous. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Thou talk'st oracularly. It is a scene 
 
 That stirs up my barbarian blood within me ; 
 
 My Gallic veins this hour 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 I take it now,
 
 106 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Tby thoughts are with forlorn hopes, hot onsets, 
 Bloody repulses, glorious rallyings; 
 Torn standards, flying foes, victorious cries ; 
 The strife from street to street, and foot to foot ; 
 And then the final sack red tongues of fire 
 Licking the fair walls of yon' palaces 
 Their steps well strewn with the rich harnessed 
 
 dead, 
 Their portals thronged with booty. Then, fair 
 
 matrons 
 
 Clinging to altars, with their timorous brood 
 Of loose-haired virgins crouching down around 
 
 them, 
 Like scared birds, when the hand is on the 
 
 nest. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Soothsayer ! thou read'st my eyes, like stars ; 
 
 Hormisdas 
 Thou tak'st this gloomily. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Would'st have me smile 
 Upon my country's desolation ? Think thou 
 Picture Lutetia thus. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Well, Sir, suppose it 
 And sixty thousand Persians at the leaguer.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 107 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Would you then smile ? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Ay, Sir, and that I should ; 
 To think how the accommodating fools 
 Had come so far to take our yoke recruits, 
 Anticipating slaves, to man our gallies. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Hold ! though I be an exile, a poor orphan, 
 Untimely severed from my parent soil ; 
 Think you that I'm so heartless as to hear 
 The voice of scorn unmoved ? Am I so mean 
 Of lip and arm not to resent it ? Gaul ! 
 I had a country, and I have a sword 
 That shall protect us both from insult ! 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Give me 
 
 Thy hand, brave man : I wronged thee, and re- 
 pent it. 
 
 But see here's Maximus, that prince of plotters. 
 I ne'er can read him rightly : he is ever 
 Clothed in his natural shadows. What now 
 
 conceits him ? 
 Good day t'ye, Priest : what news hast thou ? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Rough soldier,
 
 108 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 None that conceraeth thee. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Whence com'st thou, 'prithee ? 
 
 MAXIM US. 
 
 From the Emperor's quarters. 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 How doth the Emperor ? 
 MAXIMDS. 
 
 Well, Sir. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Why, Priest, thou hast been tutor* d by an augur. 
 Thou art as economical of words 
 
 As any oracle. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 His mind is full then. 
 
 When stars are thick in the sky, then is there 
 silence. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Hast heard of this new Persian fugitive P 
 Hormisdas ! crave your pardon : I was ignorant 
 Of your much-honoured presence. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Be at ease, Sir ; 
 You touch not me. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 What ! he that hath the bloody scalp ? Oh, ay,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 109 
 
 This new Zopyrus? He has been closetted 
 These two hours with the Emperor. A spy ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Humph ! say you so ? Caesar thinks otherwise. 
 There's mischief in that firebrand soldier's eye. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Nevitta, I would speak with you. My Lords, 
 Behold how beautiful is Ctesiphon ! 
 That treasury of unimagined sweets. 
 Whose very key we hold : the consummation 
 That tip-toe hope steps up to like a bridegroom. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Most eloquent prophet ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Nay, Nevitta, these 
 
 Are juvenile temptations. Let us to council. 
 The Emperor may need advice : his sorrows 
 Grow thick upon him. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Ah, the poor Empress ! soon 
 Her xveariness will find a bed of rest : 
 We pitch her tent this evening here. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Perhaps 
 
 For the last time the last ! This grief o'er- 
 whelms him,
 
 110 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Shadowing the light of his mind. Now, Sirs, 
 
 these moments 
 
 Are pregnant with Rome's fate. Again I say 
 There lies fair Ctesiphon but, shall we plant 
 The limits of our conquest here ? or rather 
 Shall we not bravely pluck the Persian down 
 From his last hold of refuge ? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Is it not there 
 The last, the noblest? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Oh, Sirs, do you dream 
 
 That Sapor there coops up his hopes? Even now 
 His march is in the desert. Far he flies, 
 Wild as the tiger from the toils : and shall not 
 The hunter track his foot-prints? Ay, 'tis his 
 
 hope 
 That Ctesiphon may prove our Capua. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Why speak you thus? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 This spy this new Zopyrus, 
 As you are pleased to call him, but, as Julian 
 (Wherefore I need not now descant upon) 
 Deems, a most trusty witness : (and his wrongs 
 Speak in his favour) this poor fugitive Persian
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. Ill 
 
 But last night saw their rear-guard pass the gate 
 
 And there were troops of virgins in their train, 
 
 (Mark that, Nevitta,) and rich caravans, 
 
 Piled with the wealth o' the city : which now lies 
 
 A cheat, a sorry trap, a rifled coffer, 
 
 A cup, whereof the very lees are drained. 
 
 You muse, Nevitta. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 At your story, Maximus 
 
 If it be true 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 If but in part 'tis true 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 I know a soldier's duty. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Come to the Emperor. 
 Rome conquers Sapor now, or fails for ever. 
 
 [Exeunt NEVITTA, ANATOLIUS, fyc, 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Now is the bark of Maximus afloat, 
 Cresting ambition's topmost wave and bravely 
 Doth she acquit her to the insulting storm ! 
 Yet is th' adventure dangerous, and needs 
 A bold and wary pilotry. Take counsel 
 Take counsel, Maximus, with thy subtle 
 thoughts.
 
 112 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 How stand thy fortunes ? What I seem, I am 
 
 not; 
 
 Nor am I what I was, and shall be. Men 
 Envy my greatness, nor conceive it frail. 
 Yet many wish it so : therein lies danger. 
 If I once fall, how many knees, now bending, 
 Would stamp the heel of hate into my breast ! 
 How many spit their venom on this form ! 
 Take counsel, Maximus ! Thy lofty stand 
 Is as the eagle's, in the eye o' th' sun. 
 But is't secure? Or, rather, know'st thou not, 
 That even now it fails thee? Julian no matter 
 Whether it be he needs me not or whether, 
 Even in the full fruition of the crime, 
 Guilt fears his tempter: or (why, what's'tto 
 
 me?) 
 
 But, ever since I did that deed on Mark, 
 I have been shunned. Sapor, what sayest thou ? 
 " He need not seek the favour of a king 
 That may be king himself.'' Subtle barbarian ! 
 Yet was not this my aim : I sought but power ; 
 I grasped not at the vanity of things : 
 I leant on Julian with his growth I grew : 
 ('Twas my best hope of rising) now am I shorn 
 Of that which had contented me, and therefore 
 Again take counsel for advancement. Sapor
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 113 
 
 Yes, I will lead this Julian to thy toils. 
 So, if he triumphs, I partake the glory, 
 And re-assume my sway : but if he fails 
 Oh ! if there's faith in plots, or zeal in men 
 For their imagined interests then, Julian, 
 The laurel that now wreaths thy warrior-brow, 
 Shall make pacific diadems for mine. [Exit. 
 
 Banks of the Tigris Distant View ofCtesiphon. 
 
 Enter CONSTANTIA, borne on a litter. With her, 
 EUSEBIA and Ladies of the Court, fyc. To them 
 ANATOLIUS, and OFFICERS meeting. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Set down the litter gently: much I fear 
 
 The length and heat of this day's march too 
 rudely 
 
 Have shaken her soft frame. Madam, the Em- 
 press [To EUSEBIA. 
 
 Is much too slight a flower for these rough days. 
 
 Her head bows down, untimely withering, 
 
 Like a displanted herb in summer drought. 
 
 These warlike toils and strange disquietudes 
 
 Suit not her tender nature. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Tis too true, 
 i
 
 114 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 How wan she looks how falteringly she moves. 
 Mark too her eye there, where the buoyant 
 
 spirit 
 Should glance his radiant banner, the drooped 
 
 fringes 
 Hang like the scutcheons of a broken heart. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Then is she broken hearted ! The night star 
 Looks not more faded when the morning dawns, 
 Than she, thus at the gate of opening Heaven. 
 The heaviness of doom is on her. Oh, 
 Fate hath a solemn language speaking thus I 
 Madam, will't please you to alight ? We've now 
 
 [ To CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Closed our day's journey. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Thou say'st true : our journey 
 (And mine has been a weary and a sad one,) 
 Is like to have swift termination. 
 Let me look round once more : from this high 
 
 seat 
 
 The eye hath Vantage. 'Tis a goodly scene 
 Yon river, like a silvery snake, lays out 
 Its coil i* th' sunshine lovingly it breathes 
 Of freshness in this lap of flowery meadows. 
 How call you this, my lord P
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 115 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 The famous Tigris. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 'Tis worthv of report: worthy to have been 
 The site of empire, nurse of the human race, 
 Birth-place of mighty actions ! Was it not here 
 The fathers of mankind, the Patriarchs, 
 Dwelt with their flocks Abraham and Israel? 
 Was it not here the wise Chaldean shepherd 
 Leaned on his staff and watched the stars at 
 
 night? 
 
 Here too (as holy legends tell) stretched beautiful 
 The paradise of innocence, the home 
 Of Eve and Adam, ere they sinned and here 
 The iron age had birth. Power first put on 
 His gauntlet, and earth shook beneath his 
 
 tread. 
 
 This is the soil of tyranny : the land 
 Is rank with much pollution. Proud Assyrian, 
 Where is thy Babel now thy Nineveh? 
 Thy temples and thy palaces, and gates 
 That poured the tide of men? It is the tomb 
 Of nations that we tread on : the vast charnel 
 Of grandeur yet without a monument! 
 The works of man are like himself, vain dust: 
 Nothing but fame, or good or ill, endures.
 
 116 JDLIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Oh, hear her look on her! so sad, so earnest. 
 How grand, yet awful, is decaying nature ! 
 Conscious of fate, yet fearless casting on all 
 A light, like that of evening, when the shades 
 Lie deepest. Sweet Constantia, sit you down : 
 So, they have smoothed your mantle on this 
 
 bank 
 
 Here, in the sun for you. Are you not tired ? 
 This rest is sweet. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, I am sick at heart ! 
 My spirit like its feeble frame. Yes, yes, 
 The bed of rest is smoothed for me. I never 
 Shall taste of trouble more. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Nay, now you trifle 
 With our affections, dearest. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Think not so. 
 
 Look on me as a prophetess. My sight 
 Is purged : gleams of another world pass over 
 
 me, 
 
 And I am as the dead. I know it know it. 
 Already half the vital heat is gone 
 Look on me as a prophetess : Cassandra,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 117 
 
 Unheeded in her wilderness of mind ; 
 In her extreme despair cut off; yet truly 
 Telling of woe and ruin I shall be 
 Deep in the ground and feel it not. 
 
 EDSEBIA. 
 
 Sweet daughter, 
 Pray you suppress these thoughts. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Where lingers Julian ? 
 Mine eyes have not looked on him as they should 
 
 do, 
 
 Now that they have not long to look. His duties 
 Are not so pressing, but that he might give 
 Some hours of comfort to a parting soul, 
 Who for his sake alone loves life. Where is he? 
 I have the fearful longing my short breath 
 Comes quick with much anxiety. Sweet angels I 
 Take me not to you till my soul hath seen him, 
 And poured its bitterness forth in parting tears 
 Upon his neck, forgiving, blessing, comforting ! 
 Send for him ; send for him : my heart is faint, 
 Lead me to shade, the sun is hot, fatigue 
 Hath shaken me send quickly. 
 
 [ They carry her into the tent. Exeunt.
 
 1 18 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 A wood Camp in distance Moonlight. 
 
 Enter MAXIMUS. 
 
 The moon descends apace ; the hour is past 
 That Nohordates pledged : would it were over ! 
 How calm it is ! no sounds come through the 
 
 air, 
 
 Though they might pierce theimpalpable element 
 Like light that cleaves the deep of waters. I 
 Would rather front the whirlwind of the desert, 
 Or voice of thunder w ith its wild concomitants, 
 Lightning and swelling winds and sheeted 
 
 rains, 
 
 Than this placidity of Nature. Gazing 
 Thus on yon steadfast stars I could half fancy 
 That supernatural eyes looked down on me 
 From the calm depth of Heaven : and this 
 
 breathless 
 
 Pause in the world's life, seems as if all earth 
 Lay hushed, that not a sound might interrupt 
 The ear of the omnipresent Deity. 
 Why is it thus with me? I have been wont 
 To meet all dangers with an equal eye. 
 I have been steadfast to my mighty aim ; 
 I have made kings my'puppets; and religion 
 A game, through which I grasp a glorious stake.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 119 
 
 I have well-weighed my species, and assayed 
 Their worth, and coined them for mine own 
 
 good ends. 
 
 All are my tools, and I have laughed at all ! 
 Then wherefore do I feel oppressed ? That mad- 
 man, 
 
 Cyrus in aim, shall be in fate Cambyses : 
 And like a skilful alchymist, I shall draw 
 Good from his evil from his woe my weal ; 
 From Rome's debasement my advancement: 
 
 Good. 
 
 So I am fortune's minion, and hold fate 
 Reined like a mettlesome steed. I do but lack 
 This consummation, and the world is mine ! 
 What care I for opinion ? He that rules 
 Is master of opinion ay, is't so 
 Indeed ? thence hangs much controversy. They 
 Who doubt, dispute by times, and disputation 
 Hath other weapons than the tongue. [Muses. 
 Enter NOHORDATES (muffled). 
 
 MAX1MUS. 
 
 Ho, friend ! 
 
 Who art thou ? speak. [NOHORDATES uncovers. 
 Persian, I welcome thee. 
 
 Thou hast been spendthrift of good time, thine 
 hours
 
 120 JCLIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Are most improvident loit'rers. 
 
 NOHORUATES. 
 
 Curses on him 
 
 That guide but he has paid his penalty. 
 This hour, the ill-conditioned slave has led me 
 Through fen and forest, like an ignis fatuus. 
 Yet my debt's paid. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 How so, my Lord ? 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 I slew him ! 
 Ay, ay, I deemed him treacherous. Nay start 
 
 not, 
 
 We're hasty reasoners in this land o' th' sun ; 
 Quick in our passions, sudden in our anger. 
 Why muse you? he was but a bondsman. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Satrap, 
 
 I will be plain : 'tis not the deed disturbs me, 
 Nor the condition of the victim, but 
 The breach of faith this argues. I could pardon 
 A salutary violence for great ends ; 
 But petty treachery, to wreak despite, 
 Or sooth a vain fear, that I cannot brook. 
 Sir, answer not : I'm deep read in men's minds. 
 Excuse I wave your anger I regard not.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 121 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 Well, Maximus, you're master of your thoughts ; 
 Yet let me say, I'd aim my shaft again 
 At higher game, upon less provocation. 
 And now to business. 
 
 MAXIMUS (aside}. 
 
 Raise the earth-worm up, 
 
 And he will threat. Tis his mean nature speaks, 
 And not the King who sent him. Yet, 'twere 
 
 well 
 To pause. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 My Lord, you seem dissatisfied. 
 If aught from my poor lip chafes or offends you, 
 Think it unsaid. Freely do I disclaim 
 Words, that so ill give utterance to my heart. 
 My sovereign sends his gentlest greeting to you ; 
 Health, riches, power, rank, glory ; whatsoe'er 
 Ambition grasps at, or desert secures. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 Much have I now, and thank not him : but 
 
 softly, 
 
 King Sapor promised (for men cannot be 
 Too strict, explicit, circumspect, when matters 
 Of such high import are at issue) Sapor 
 Did pledge his signature on certain points
 
 122 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Conditional to our true amity, 
 
 To save all future cavil. Your credentials? 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 Behold! Peruse these presents; and besides, 
 As earnest of the love he holds you in, 
 He sends this jewel from his hand. 
 
 MAXIM us. 
 
 A bauble ! 
 
 Had I a thought for things like these, the worth 
 Of thrones had decked my person. I seek not 
 The toy whose value is conventional : 
 Power is intrinsic, and commands all else. 
 That is the heaven my eagle-wing ascends, 
 The sun mine eye out-dazzles. (He reads.) Pve 
 
 perused 
 This paper, and am satisfied. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 Then quickly 
 
 Say, for night wanes, have you prepared the 
 troops ? 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Yes, certain officers. The common men 
 Love Julian : but there are some I have found 
 Whose merits, as they judge, have been ill- 
 weighed ; 
 Men of some breeding none more dangerous,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 123 
 
 And ripe for any mischief: they are prepared. 
 
 Now, mark me : he that to our camp this morn- 
 ing 
 
 Came as a fugitive, was well-received. 
 
 He played his hook well, and the bait was 
 swallowed. 
 
 We raise our leaguer of proud Ctesiphon, 
 
 And plunge into the desert after you : 
 
 Be wary and we 'scape not the decoy. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 Oh, fear not we shall fly you like the sand 
 Swept by the breeze ; till, with its mighty arm, 
 The storm collects its pillars. Then we crush 
 you. [Exit. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 I care not whom you crush, so I am raised. 
 Here is my firm assurance 
 
 [Regarding the paper. 
 I have no choice left. 
 I cannot still be as I am : my web 
 Hath been too finely spun with Julian ; soon 
 He cuts it with the sword. And he hath cause, 
 For I have been his evil genius ; made 
 His conscience but a stepping-stool ; and 
 
 fashioned 
 My fortunes by his foibles. He hath been
 
 124 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 My slave mechanical, my artizan, 
 
 Whom now, his labour done, I would discharge. 
 
 The chain hath galled of late, and he bath 
 
 chaf'd, 
 And wreaked on me his humours. Well, he 
 
 hath cause, 
 
 And shall have ere we part. Constantia, ah ! 
 Would thou hadst been less in my light I In 
 
 sooth 
 
 I could have pitied thee. But I have cased 
 My heart in iron proof : who shall withstand me ? 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Camp on the Tigris Fleet at anchor Moonlight. 
 
 Groups of Soldiers in disorder. NEVITTA, SAL- 
 LUST, ANATOLIUS, HORMISDAS, endeavour to 
 appease them. 
 
 MUTIDS. 
 
 I have crossed the Tigris ; but beyond this bank 
 I will not stir a foot that's flat 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Thou whelp 
 
 Of a base jackal, art thou on the scent? 
 Thou'dst best give tongue again thou'dst best, 
 vile cur I
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 125 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 Nay, comrades, where's your Roman discipline? 
 Whom fear you ? I profane your sacred name 
 In giving 1 utterance to the word ! Why, men, 
 I'm old in arms, and have before swam armed 
 These famous waves : ay, and I found these 
 
 Persians, 
 These petticoat warriors, these high-plum'd 
 
 gallants, 
 The self-same scrupulous tillers here, fine 
 
 fencers, 
 
 And delicate dividers of thin air, 
 As you erewhile have known them. Why, 'tis 
 
 but sport, 
 
 Mere holiday pastime, thus with lance in rest 
 To prick them through the meadows : never 
 
 hound 
 And horn went merrier up the green-wood 
 
 glade. 
 
 Fortune of Caesar ! how their Arabs show 
 Their paces at a race I 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Your pardon, Prefect. 
 
 I much applaud your reasoning and your mo- 
 tives, 
 But disallow your facts. I've seen our chivalry,
 
 126 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 In all the glitter of their jewelled mail, 
 Their crests afloat, their banners all displayed, 
 With their wind-footed coursers firm in hand, 
 Sweep like a tempest up the sward ; their manes 
 Erect, their light heads white with foam, their 
 
 tails 
 
 Lashing the hot air with their ample train 
 I have seen them thus facing your Roman 
 
 squadrons ; 
 Ay, by my household Gods ! and charged with 
 
 them 
 
 When they have shown their mettle. 
 SALLUST. 
 
 Gallant Persian, 
 
 I saw you not ; yet in a case like this 
 I do confess I had given my tongue full scope. 
 Yet pardon me ; and, ere you next reply, 
 Consider time and place. We've gallants here 
 Whose valour does not need discouragement. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 I've done; but yet you know my mind believe 
 
 it. 
 
 You may unhorse us often, but on this ground 
 We shall arise refreshed. 
 
 NEV1TTA. 
 
 Then we must strangle you
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 127 
 
 As in the grasp of Hercules Antaeus. 
 
 [Soldiers press forward again. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 We have consulted, Generals, and plant here 
 Our standards. We will go no farther. 
 Enter JULIAN. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Say you so ? 
 
 And who, my talkative friend, art thou ? Nay, 
 
 man, 
 Having o'erleaped the mark, like a shamed 
 
 panther 
 
 Shrink not back, crouching with acowardly growl : 
 Mutius, stand forth. I know you, Sir, of old ; 
 A man of dangerous wit and turbulent speech ; 
 Yet loyal, as I deemed, which your promotion 
 Doth testify. Come, Sir, speak out: I wait. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Caesar, as deputy of these brave comrades, 
 I will speak, and as doth become a soldier. 
 
 [Soldiers shout and clash their arms. 
 We have fought and conquered for you, and we 
 
 think 
 Our toils should have a limit. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Gentle spokesman,
 
 128 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 For Heaven's sake have a care. I'm quick of 
 
 temper, 
 
 And fearless in decision, as you know. 
 I have a private grief too that lies heavy 
 Upon my temper tempt me not. 
 
 SOLDIERS (from the crowd). 
 
 Brave Mutius, 
 Speak to our grievance, we'll support you. 
 
 MUTIUS. 
 
 Emperor ! 
 
 We love you : but our farthest march is made 
 We go no farther. 
 
 JULIAN (drawing his sword, and cutting MUTIUS 
 down). 
 
 Be it so who next 
 Tries the adventure of an orator? 
 
 [_A pause all remain silent. 
 SALLUST (aside}. 
 For Heaven's sake, treat them cautiously. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Away I 
 
 I do despise these demagogues, that fret 
 The angry multitude: they are but as 
 The froth upon the mountain-wave the bird 
 That shrieks upon the sullen tempest's wing. 
 
 [JULIAN whispers NEVITTA, who departs.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 129 
 
 You dreamed I could be scared by words. 
 
 Know, soldiers, 
 
 No mortal voice or arm bas power o'er Julian. 
 In bim Rome strikes! fallback into tbe ranks: 
 Take up your mutinous officer. 
 
 [Two of the Soldiers remove MUTIUS to the 
 side. 
 
 I'm glad 
 You are so changed o' th' sudden : would tbat 
 
 the foe 
 
 Were near us ! By Bellona, I could lead you 
 I^ow 'gainst a host of spears. Ha ! see you 
 
 there ! 
 
 [A sudden flash of fire from a ship. The 
 flame runs from ship to ship till the en- 
 tire fleet is in a blaze. 
 Breathe not a sound, for honour's sake, brave 
 
 comrades ; 
 
 No, not a murmur, on your duty : now 
 You have no choice left, all retreat's cut off. 
 We now must fight our way to peace. Brave 
 
 hearts, 
 
 Are not these Persians and those fields the same 
 That quaked beneath the Boy of Macedon? 
 And what were he (though half our strength) if 
 boldly
 
 130 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 He had not plunged into the dark Granicus? 
 Soldiers of Rome I what, shall our sons grow 
 
 pale 
 
 Reading that Grecian story! then for shame 
 Blush at their fathers' mem'ry ? We can die, 
 And laugh at death upon the field of glory, 
 But live as recreants never ! 
 Good Sallust, see that wounded man hath care. 
 I loved him, though I stabbed him for his crime : 
 I hope not mortally. Soldiers, to arms! 
 Hormisdas, lead them to their quarters. March. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Interior of Imperial tent CONSTANTIA on a couch 
 
 JULIAN kneeling beside her. 
 
 Enter EUSEBIA, cautiously. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Hush ! she sleeps. Hush ! 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Hath she not wakened since? 
 Taken no nourishment ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 No : since you left us 
 
 She hath been thus. She breathes, you see she 
 breathes.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 131 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Faintly and much oppressed. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Yet, yet, she breathes : 
 She lives, I say, Eusebia, and will live. 
 Look not thus on me : make me not mad I nay, 
 
 touch her ; 
 
 You need not fear disturbing her. This stupor 
 Portends a crisis. True, the pulse is feeble, 
 And fluttering but the pulse is there : her hand 
 Is cold and damp, but there is motion in it. 
 She pressed my hand just now as if she knew 
 
 me; 
 Nay, stoop down to her lip kiss, but awake her 
 
 not. [ EUSEBIA kisses her. 
 
 They're cold but have some colour yet ! I 
 
 thought 
 
 This moment as I pressed them, a swift hectic 
 Hurried across her cheek ; but now how pale 
 How deadly wan it looks I 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Indeed 
 'Twere best if you withdrew. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Eusebia, 
 I quit her not while there is breath, pulse, heat !
 
 132 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 [He gazes wildly on CONSTANTIA. 
 I like not the look of her eye, beneath the lid 
 Is your hand cool, Eusebia? Lay it here 
 Upon my brow that burns. My brain is seared, 
 My mind is numbed is numbed. Yet in my 
 
 heart 
 
 There is a recklessness. Why, I could laugh now ! 
 Is it not strange ? 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 For mercy's sake be calm ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Why, so I am. Do you not see me calm ? 
 As cold and passionless as any statue 
 Still, as the breathless pause before an earth- 
 quake. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 She moves thank God, thank God ! Virgilia, 
 Haste with the cordial : it refreshes her 
 Put it again to her lips. Wipe her damp fore- 
 head : 
 She is revived. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Julian ! my husband, Julian ! 
 Oh, Julian, Julian, come to me. Off, off 
 You kill me with this weight.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 133 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 See him, my love. 
 
 Your Julian's at your side; nor hath he quitted it 
 All this long night. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Let me look once more on him, 
 A film is on my sight, [Endeavouring to see him. 
 Oh, my best love ! 
 
 Thy lineaments are in my heart, or scarcely 
 Could I now trace them. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Blessed woman ! tear not 
 My heart with too much fondness now. 
 
 CONSTANTIA (regarding him fixedly). 
 
 Indeed ? 
 
 Then are my moments numbered ! [Pause. 
 
 Let me bethink me 
 Thoughts come on thoughts, crowding across my 
 
 mind 
 
 Like shadows lengthening in the sunset. God ! 
 Must I be gathered in my youth, and lie 
 Lonely, forgotten, in a foreign grave ? 
 And shall I leave none after me, to strew 
 My early tomb with wild flowers, wet with tears? 
 No little hands, no limbs of mine own mould,
 
 134 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Memorials of my lineage, sweet pledges 
 
 Of our affection living comforters 
 
 To him who lives, for her who died ! No, no. 
 
 Barren I sink into this barren clay, 
 
 My worldly pomp cast to a nameless grave, 
 
 My beauty prey to the despoiling worm, 
 
 My human love dead in my mortal dust, 
 
 My heavenly hopes and my immortal soul 
 
 Awaiting the last trumpet ! Yet had I hoped 
 
 (Julian, my husband, kiss me once again) 
 
 Yet had I hoped and oft we talked of this 
 
 To have seen my offspring on its father's knee : 
 
 So had I left a living portraiture, 
 
 Whose instinct of true love had been to thee 
 
 A solace and a memory. 
 
 JULIAN (distractedly). 
 
 I cannot bear this. 
 [He rushes out of the tent, 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Oh, this is worse for him to bear than me, 
 But he will not stay from me ? 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Surely not : 
 
 He will but weep, as we do now, aside ; 
 And so, being calmed, return.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 135 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 My time is short. 
 
 Let him not stay 'twould be an agony, 
 That fruitlessly would haunt his after-thoughts, 
 That he had 'reft my transitory hour 
 Of aught that could have soothed a dying pang. 
 
 VIRGIL1A. 
 
 Already he returns 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Thank God, thank God ! 
 Oh, what a change two years, short years, have 
 
 made ! 
 
 That was my bridal time. We had long loved, 
 But knew it not in both it was love's spring ; 
 And we were young enthusiasts : we felt, 
 As our minds mingled, that our souls were wed. 
 One morn, thus linked in thought, as side by side 
 We sat, his arm around my waist, my hands 
 Clasped on his shoulder, and my tearful eye 
 Looking on his, perchance too lovingly ; 
 He spoke to me of love : and as he spoke 
 Young roses, born of love and modesty, 
 Fell on his cheek : I blushed to see his blushing. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 My child, you seem revived ; a gentle colour 
 Hath touched your cheek o' th' sudden.
 
 136 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Tis the rally 
 
 Of the spirit to support its trial : even -es 
 The last light on the mountain top, before 
 The sun goes down. My maidens, to your 
 
 tenderness 
 
 I yield this mortal form. Regard it as 
 Th' unsullied tenement of a pure mind, 
 If not a strong one. Give it decent rites, 
 And guard it from rude gaze no more, he comes, 
 My Julian I [Tenderly. 
 
 Enter JULIAN. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I could half give way to hope 
 Thus gazing on thee. (Kneels beside her.) Some 
 
 new animation 
 
 Gleams in thy late dim eyes. Speak comfort to 
 me. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 There is no comfort on this earth but one : 
 Wilt thou reject it? There is no hope else, 
 
 Julian, 
 
 For thee and me. 1 will not now deceive thee : 
 Even now, all but my mind and love are dead. 
 The death-chill creeps up gently to my heart 
 And that will soon be cold cold as my limbs. 
 [JULIAN exhibits passionate grief.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 137 
 
 My poor, my desolate love, be calm and hear me. 
 Death to the Christian is not terrible ! 
 The dust may perish, but the nobler essence 
 Hath an eternal surety. Oh, let me 
 Close my poor eyes, in hope to open them 
 With thee in a better world ! Our parting thus 
 Shall lose its sting parting to meet again. 
 Give me this hope, my Julian. It is agony, 
 Even the suspense: oh,thou wert strong in virtue, 
 And shalt be yet. As thou hast fallen, repent! 
 Repent and God is merciful ! 
 One moment more, sweet Heaven I I cannot see- 
 I cannot hear thee give me a sign a kiss 
 
 In token of 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Upon thy dying lips, 
 Thou blessed saint, I pledge my prostrate soul. 
 
 CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Now I die happy remember ! 
 
 [She reclines back, folding her hands as in 
 prayer, her eyes closed. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Sing her that hymn, 
 That she once loved, she yet perchance may 
 
 hear it ; 
 She is not dead, but sleeps.
 
 138 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Chorus of Virgins. 
 Gentle Spirit, that would'st fly, 
 Seraph, through the pathless sky; 
 Winging onward to thy rest, 
 Like a wild bird to its nest ; 
 As thou art without offence, 
 Peaceful be thy passage hence! 
 
 Go, and happy Souls befriend thee, 
 And thy virtues shall attend thee. 
 Now, assoiled from mortal taint, 
 Take thy blessed way, sweet saint, 
 Through the spheres by angels trod, 
 To the presence of thy God ! 
 
 All are doomed to death ; but all 
 Shall wake at the last trumpet call 
 The past recall'd, the dead arrayed ; 
 And then the world itself shall fade 
 But not all with it. The pure Spirit 
 Shall the crown of life inherit ! 
 
 Spirit, in thy virtue free, 
 Peaceful may thy passage be I
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 139 
 
 An open Grove; beyond which, over a screen of 
 underwood, is seen a sandy desert. 
 
 Enter lumultuously groups of Soldiers, worn as if by 
 long travelling. After them, NEVITTA, JOVIAN, 
 and other OFFICERS, expostulating. Then MAXI- 
 MUS. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Shame on you ! 
 
 By glorious Mars ! comrades, I shame to see you. 
 Why, scarce a week since and ye laughed to 
 
 scorn 
 
 These paltry Persians. You were as weary then 
 With toiling through these deserts, as ye now are. 
 Stand to your arms I say, cowards ! or forfeit 
 Your Roman name for ever. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 They are brave, Sir, 
 As you or any man : I will avouch it 
 Spite of your ready frown. Ay, is the scene 
 Unchanged indeed ? These wastes were wild 
 
 and lonely 
 Before, as they are now : but we could brave 
 
 them 
 
 When marching to imagined victory. * 
 
 Now
 
 140 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 A SOLDIER. 
 
 Why, look there, my masters : look yon' track 
 Lined out along the desert by our ruin. 
 What see you there? dead horses, dying men, 
 Women, that to the shattered carriages 
 Cling shrieking and afar the coming spoiler ! 
 Here do we stand the while, poor worn anatomies, 
 Fit for death only. 
 
 MAXIM us. 
 
 'Tis too true, Nevitta. 
 We have been cozened, idiots as we were, 
 By flatterers, madmen, traitors. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Why are we here ? 
 Seek Sapor in the desert ? Ye should have 
 
 known it 
 
 Before ye risked men's lives. A lonely traveller 
 Upon that drear expanse picks up with pain 
 A scanty meal. Ay, the half-loaded camel 
 Staggers beneath the burning atmosphere. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 True, my poor fellow, true. We are stout 
 
 soldiers, 
 But perishable men. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 As soldiers, therefore,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 141 
 
 Hearken to me leave cowards to repine 
 O'er our undoubted evils. Yonder's the foe. 
 Come on, brave hearts: let's toss these baiting curs 
 As bulls do from their horns. 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 My counsel, comrades, 
 Is peace, is peace. Why should we perish ? 
 
 wherefore ? 
 
 To sooth the vanity of one rash man ? 
 The hot air smells of carnage shall we die 
 On points of ceremony ? 
 
 NEV1TTA. 
 
 Art thou mad ? 
 
 Be silent : you unman us when we need 
 Firm courage most. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 I say, 'tis peace we need 
 
 Bread, water, sleep. These now were worth an 
 
 empire. [_A trumpet sounds. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Now, if there's half a Roman heart among you, 
 To arms, to arms 1 stand to the foe. 
 
 [Persian cavalry gallop, shouting beyond the 
 bank of underwood. 
 
 Voices within. 
 
 A spring !
 
 144 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Ah, the hypocrite! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 No more but keep an heedful eye upon him. 
 The day is come, Nevitta, when we shall need 
 Our noblest energies. Then 'ware all traitors ! 
 Here is a glorious field to act war's tragedy. 
 We've won a night of rest : hail to a morning 
 Of final, desperate strife. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Thanks to the Gods ! 
 I hear of battle once more. 
 
 [A Soldier brings water to JULIAN. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Comrade, your hand : 
 I thank you : ay, that draught is pure and 
 
 wholesome. 
 
 I am a man again. Where's Anatolius? 
 Ha, Anatolius ! ( To him, entering.) Dagalaiphus 
 
 all, 
 I'm glad we meet. Eusebia where is she ? 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Her tent is safe beside the welcome springs : 
 She has a noble courage. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 It was ever so.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 145 
 
 Look to her, Anatolius, when I'm gone. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Oh, Caesar, wherefore ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Nay, nay, let that rest. 
 Old Sallust, in these gorges, we confront 
 The peril, like bold Romans. 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 Our thin ranks 
 May here make head here only. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Sallust, I feel 
 
 A weight beyond my sorrows in my heart. 
 If aught befal me well, well only thus much ; 
 Should I fall, choose the worthiest. Now to our 
 
 tent. 
 
 To each I give his charge, and then good night, 
 And may sweet sleep restore you. [Exeunt.
 
 142 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 A spring, a spring ! water a spring, a spring ! 
 
 [Soldiers all rush to the side. 
 Enter JULIAN. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Oh, brave companions I Where would they fly, 
 Nevitta? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 They have found a spring. [MAXIMUS retires. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Is this a time ? hold, hold I 
 Romans! dear comrades of a thousand fields, 
 Return the foe's upon us. Soldiers, soldiers ! 
 Shame not our ancientglories face to the enemy. 
 What, will you leave your General? By the Gods ! 
 I plant my foot here, be't for life or death. 
 Now, if you dare, abandon me. Dear friends, 
 I know you, and'fear nought ! 
 
 [Soldiers gather round him and applaud, clash- 
 ing their arms. 
 
 We'll lash these jackalls 
 
 Back to their desert: then, oh, then! how sweetly 
 Will taste these waters to our weariness. 
 (Tumultuous cry of Soldiery). A charge ! huzza, 
 
 huzza! Julian, Julian ! 
 \_All rash off the scene ; clash of arms and 
 shouts. The Persians Jly back, pursued.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 143 
 
 Ri-enter JULIAN, NEVITTA, fyc. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thanks, gallants, we have bravely chidden 
 
 them 
 Bravely. Now where' s the spring? a clear, 
 
 cool draught 
 
 Of water trickling from a rock, or gushing 
 Its bubbling way through the green grass, were 
 
 worth 
 Beakers of wine at the full board of peace. 
 
 [Soldier brings in walei offers it to JULIAN. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 No, my good friend, no. While a man of you 
 Thirsts, not a drop for me : my brave Nevitta, 
 Drink thou. Nay, I command. You, Anatolius, 
 And you, and you, and youso, my turn 
 
 next. 
 
 A brimming helmet, mind ye. 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Oh, Sir, thus ever 
 
 To our wants you postpone your own : ay, ever. 
 Heaven shield us from ingratitude ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Amen ! 
 
 But some there are I had one in my eye 
 Even as I entered.
 
 146 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Morning a Camp in the mountains. 
 Soldiers before the imperial tent. 
 
 Enter NEVITTA, HORMISDAS, ANATOLIUS, 
 SALLUST. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 The sun will soon arise : yon dusky mountain 
 Lifts his great outline hard against the light. 
 There are no clouds ; the air is crisp and jocund ; 
 And rosy fingers now are shaking out 
 Aurora's golden hair. 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 'Tis strange to think 
 
 With what indifference does our mother Nature 
 Behold this worldly stage. She sits unmoved 
 While nations are extinguished, kings dethroned, 
 The temples of the Gods subverted. Equal 
 To her our joys or sorrows they are but shadows, 
 Passing and passed, upon the glass of time ! 
 Yet, is not this a day when she might drop 
 Some tears, and clothe her limbs in darksome 
 
 weeds? 
 
 For now two nations meet in mortal quarrel, 
 Two crowned brows frown terrible defiance,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 147 
 
 Two mighty armies crowd one narrow field, 
 Two Faiths contend for empire. 
 
 NEV1TTA. 
 
 Hark, I hear 
 
 The adverse trumpets sounding, and the clash 
 Of cymbals, echoing through those winding 
 
 mountains. 
 They speed a gallant summons. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Has the Emperor 
 Yet risen ? Who has seen him ? He should 
 
 wake 
 Haply from his last slumber. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Hush, my lord : 
 
 Great Julian sleeps not ; all this morn I heard 
 His step in motion ; more than once he came, 
 All pale and solemn, to the tent door and gazed 
 Upon the stars. Once, as I paced aside, 
 His eye seemed wet it had a wat'ry sparkle. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 The sentinel that walked the midnight watch 
 Tells a strange tale. The Emperor slept 
 
 alone, 
 
 Yet were two voices heard within the tent 
 At the dead silent hour.
 
 148 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Ay, and he says 
 
 A figure, wrapt in tomb-like vestments, passed 
 Shadowy across the portal, soundless and swift. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 'Tis credibly on record that great men 
 Have had strange warnings that their souls, 
 
 sublimed 
 
 From all mean matter, have held communing 
 With disembodied beings. Brutus met 
 Dead Caesar at Philippi. 
 
 SALLUST. 
 
 If 'tis decreed, 
 
 The summons is for all our web of life 
 Is mingled with his thread ; the gloomy Sisters 
 Will close their shears at once on all. Look round, 
 The mountains hem us in one common tomb 
 We can but choose 'twixt famine and the sword. 
 
 Enter JULIAN. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Hail to thy bright sun, my imperial master ! 
 It lights us to our labours smilingly. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 'Tis a good omen : hail, all-conquering prince ! 
 Shake not thy head all will be well yet.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 149 
 SALLUST. 
 
 Flatterer ! 
 
 This is no time, (albeit our eyes are heavy 
 With watching, pain, and long- anxiety,) 
 To shut them on the danger : it is broad 
 And imminent. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 I am content to die 
 
 For thee, dear sov'reign, and th'old Roman honour, 
 And I rejoice the sun looks out to see us 
 Fall, like the Spartans with Leonidas. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 When men do feel but small hope to confront 
 The sun-set with their living eyes, methinks 
 Good day would be an idle ceremony. 
 Not one of you hath said to me, good day : 
 This saying not, ye mean to say farewell ! 
 
 Enter JOVIAN. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Arm, arm, my prince, around, on every side, 
 The Persian hosts unfold their countless squad- 
 rons, 
 
 From their primeval forests issuing : 
 I think there's not a Parthian bow unstrung, 
 Or an Assyrian cuirassier unhelmed
 
 150 JULIAN', THE APOSTATE. 
 
 For this encounter. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Well, well, be it so 
 We shall have gorgeous rites and many mourners. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Nay, think not thus : our soldiers ere to-night 
 Shall tear rich booty from the runagates, 
 Bright golden comforters from comely corpses. 
 Hark to the Gothic trumpet ! how it starts 
 
 [Sound of Trumpets. 
 
 Thick-coming, on the freshening gusts of air. 
 Anon our Gauls wind their deep cornet's breath 
 With a most manly music. 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Look, my Lord. 
 
 There, by yon point of wood, (the dizzy road 
 Emerging round the cliff) half lost in shadows, 
 The stream of living war rolls slowly on. 
 Their bright array makes the pulse bound again, 
 Havoc ne'er marched 'neath such a panoply. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Gods, what a gleam of armour ! how their crests 
 Toss, and their saucy banners flout the sky. 
 How I do burn to give my horse the rein, 
 And loose my Gallic hounds upon them ! 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Ay,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 151 
 
 They are a noble quarry, meet companions 
 To sleep to-night with us on clay-cold pillows. 
 
 Enter MAXIMUS. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Let those woo death who have in life no hope, 
 And hug the ghastly comforter, Despair ! 
 They fear a fall who take too bold a leap 
 His head grows giddy that is perched too high. 
 The Persian speaks us fair say, shall we fling 
 Our bodies to the trampling elephant, 
 And call it glory to be trod to death ? 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Old priest, I pray thee step aside and tempt not 
 An angry nature in extremity. 
 Thou tread'st upon a serpent. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Man-God ! who 
 
 Shall chide but the infallible ? Art thou 
 So sinless, so omnipotent? Who led 
 Rome's armies to these Caudine forks ? Earth 
 
 yawns : 
 
 Thou should'st leap in, like Curtius and alone. 
 Where is our hope ? If ye join battle now, 
 So shall ye never see your native land, 
 Beside the sunny banks of Hellespont !
 
 152 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 If ye submit, (I speak advisedly, 
 With undefiled honour, sound discretion,) 
 So shall ye clasp your longing wives again 
 And dance light-laughing babes on welcome 
 knees. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Away, I'll hear no more. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 There have been men 
 
 Have seen strange prodigies the sky last night 
 Was flushed with meteors. I myself beheld 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Thou paltering priest, I do reject the omen. 
 Coward ! thou dost betray us : cease, or mark me, 
 I'll hang thee on that blasted tree, thou raven ! 
 Go grovel, slave, before thy recreant Gods, 
 I supplicate from them no hopeless succour. 
 The arrow-flight shall be our lightning's flash, 
 The hoofs of charging squadrons rattling thunder, 
 And, for Jove's eagles, we'll have Roman stan- 
 dards 
 
 Hovering above the foaming surge of battle, 
 To fright the wild eye of pale-visaged war. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Good but when thronging javelins bear thee 
 down,
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 153 
 
 And hunt thee like the lion to the toils, 
 
 How shall thou 'scape the doom ? There is no 
 
 way. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Byzantine! dost not know our Roman way? 
 When Brutus saw his legions at Philippi 
 Broken, he fell upon his sword and died. 
 Cato survived not freedom. Antony 
 Set free his prisoned soul and laughed at bon- 
 dage. 
 
 [Shouts within blasts of trumpets. 
 
 JOVIAN. 
 
 Hark ! th' advanced guards meet. These are 
 their trumpets. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Who leads the Persian host to-day ? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 I saw 
 
 The trappings of the royal elephant 
 Gleam in the sun-set yesterday they rode 
 So close upon our rear, we startled them 
 With a salute of arrows. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Gallant companions, 
 
 This is no time for words : our deeds to-day 
 Shall speak our eulogy or epitaph.
 
 154 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 I need not counsel Romans to be brave. 
 Or lecture veterans on points of duty ; 
 Remember all you fight for think of those 
 You shall re-visit soon, in shame or glory ; 
 Or, dying, leave the hero's heritage 
 Undying reputation. Choose, and nobly, 
 Chains or the arch of triumph death or slavery ! 
 [ The cry of onset heard. 
 Away, away ! 
 
 Field of Battle. 
 
 The Romans fly across the field. 
 Enter ANATOLIUS, wounded. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Leave me, soldiers leave me to die : my sands 
 Ebb quickly, and my sluggard pulse beats faint. 
 Leave me to die. (He falls.) To die ! nay, stand 
 
 not round me, 
 
 You keep my flitting soul in bondage fly 
 To some more hopeful rescue. [ They leave him. 
 
 Treachery ! 
 
 Oh, treachery, treachery ! villainous treachery ! 
 [Enter MAXIMUS, leading a band of Persians, 
 with MERANES.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 155 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Behold the spotted viper ! Maximus ho ! 
 Traitor ! 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Who calls me with that voice of death 
 And contumelious taunting? Anatolius! 
 Ha, art thou scotched, thou snake ? I toss thee 
 
 back 
 
 Th' injurious epithet! Thou smil'dst to-day, 
 When Julian chid me in the midst of you 
 It glutteth me to see thee dying. 
 
 ANATOLIUS. 
 
 Stay! 
 
 Yet ere I die. Oh, fate, a little strength ! 
 And hear me curse thee curse thee, Maximus ! 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 [Enter JULIAN, chasing the Persians. Seizes 
 MAXIMUS and flings him down. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 [Lifting his sword and treading him down. 
 Thou complicated traitor ! have I caught thee ? 
 What ! in the very crime, reeking with guilt, 
 All leprous in thy pestilent infamy ? 
 Ha, hell-hound ! not a word ? 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Spare me, spare me !
 
 156 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Blood-sucking parricide ! with hands just dipped 
 In thy sold country's slaughter, nam'st thou 
 
 mercy ? 
 
 Thou Judas ! purchased with the dross of earth ! 
 Ay, twine thy trembling fingers round my blade 
 And pray to me with thy convulsed lips 
 Stare with distended eye on certain death 
 Writhe in thy pangs, they are my consolation. 
 By all the ghastly spectres of past crimes ! 
 By all the broken hearts thou'st made ! By all 
 The dark mementos of this bosom, standing, 
 Demons of wrath, around us I I devote 
 One sacrifice to vengeance ere I die, 
 One victim more to direful Nemesis. 
 Bear witness, Heaven and Hell I dedicate 
 (Nay, look upon me, wretch, before I kill thee) 
 Thy reeking blood to the infernal Gods. 
 There let me look on thee, poor dog ! now die. 
 [Stabs him. Exit.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 157 
 
 Persian Camp. 
 
 SAPOR. MERANES, NOHORDATES, Generals of his 
 Army. Officers, Satraps, fyc. 
 
 SAPOR. 
 
 Hath Julian 'scaped ? Nay, then this sea of 
 
 slaughter 
 
 Is a vain deluge. Dastards I I had set 
 My heart on caging this vile Roman braggart, 
 Like a wild panther. I would have shown the 
 
 world 
 
 How wild beasts may be tamed. 
 Curse on ye, Dastards! Did I not command 
 All sacrifice, all lavish waste of life, 
 Dead or alive to take him ? 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 Gracious Sovereign, 
 
 Deeds have been done this day that put to shame 
 The Greek romance of Hercules. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 Eyes ne'er saw 
 
 So deathful an encounter as ensued 
 When the Immortals charged : one spirit 
 
 seemed 
 In horse and man they swept the dusty plain
 
 158 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Like the prodigious Centaurs. In the midst 
 These eyes saw Julian fall. 
 
 SAPOR. 
 
 Where is his head ? 
 
 Ifye have killed him, where is his head ? I tell ye 
 I would have had it stuffed with precious spices 
 And stuck upon a pole within my chamber, 
 And solaced me with daily contemplation 
 Ay, laughed to see death incorruptible I 
 Thus would I make mine enemy immortal ! 
 
 [_A wounded Officer brought in. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Great Lord of Earth ! here's one who hath 
 
 escaped 
 
 I' th' heat of battle, from the enemy's ranks ; 
 His tale may chance direct us. 
 
 SAPOR. 
 
 What is he? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 A leader of a gallant band, surprised 
 
 Last night by th' enemy, ambushed near their 
 
 camp : 
 His wounds attest good service. 
 
 SAPOR. 
 
 Speak and quickly, 
 Of Julian speak !
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 159 
 
 WOUNDED OFFICER. 
 
 I saw the great Apostate 
 Gallantly bearing up his fallen fortune 
 Through half the day. 
 
 SAPOR. 
 Speak to the purpose, idiot ! 
 
 WOUNDED OFFICER. 
 
 I stood beneath a rock, a jutting rock, 
 
 That screened the plain on which his vanguard 
 
 formed ; 
 Thither he came, and that proud woman with 
 
 him, 
 
 The Macedonian Queen, Eusebia, 
 Armed like Bellona. He was calm and solemn : 
 She too was pale her white lips were corn- 
 
 While her quick eyes glanced round, 'neath 
 
 lowering brows, 
 Half vengeance, half despair. Just then they 
 
 parted, 
 He sprang upon his horse. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 I marked the despot 
 Even like an arrow on the wind, he rode 
 His winged courser, and with noble daring 
 Swept with his chivalrous escort past our front,
 
 160 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Even at the stormy edge of chafing battle. 
 Our arrows touched him not, his life was 
 
 charmed ! 
 
 Sudden he reined his horse up, raised his helmet, 
 And shouting thrice aloud, waved his bare hand. 
 A chosen troop rushed forward then he turned 
 His charger round, and in short circle wheeling, 
 With a loud cry triumphantly rushed on us. 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 He seemed a super-human presence, fraught 
 With an unearthly valour, demon phrensy ! 
 A fiend was surely in his heart and arm ; 
 Satanic majesty was in his eye. 
 The war-mist rolling round him ; his keen sword 
 Flashed like hot lightning, bright and terrible 
 He seemed as moving in a thunder-cloud. 
 
 NOHORDATES. 
 
 And that black horse an hellish birth was he 
 
 too. 
 
 I saw his gaping nostrils red with fire, 
 A foam of gore he tossed from his dark jaws, 
 In his reverted eyes blazed swarthy flames. 
 His proud hoofs, as they pawed the air and struck 
 Sparks from the spurned earth, seemed shod in 
 
 Hell 
 With penal steel.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 161 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 'Twas so and his sad bearing, 
 When some good sword struck his crowned 
 
 helmet off, 
 Did well become that thought. His teeth were 
 
 clenched, 
 
 His cheeks were bloodless, and his hollow eyes 
 Dark with accumulated agony. 
 Yet were his features passionless a calm 
 And terrible despair, a marble stillness, 
 (As if some inward fire had charred his heart,) 
 Looked out from him immoveable. Most awful ! 
 Dread contrast with the tempest of that hour ! 
 
 SAPOR. 
 Why, this is well though somewhat more of 
 
 praise 
 
 Haply than he deserves. Yet does his fame 
 Augment our glory : know ye no more? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 I saw him 
 
 Headlong on earth, rolled from his dying horse, 
 That foundered o'er a heap of carcases. 
 He fell : just then a trooper suddenly 
 Reared his stout horse, half turned, and, back- 
 ward leaning,
 
 162 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Thrust down his lance and pinned him to the 
 
 ground. 
 
 I saw him rise against the mortal steel . 
 And wrench it in the wound like a spent tiger; 
 Then, heaving on his knee, with backward stroke 
 Hamstring the horse, that with a plunge, fell 
 
 prone. 
 
 Stunned by the fall, his rider lay all senseless ; 
 When Julian freed plucked forth the shaft and 
 
 leaped 
 Upon his breast and stabbed him. Some few 
 
 friends 
 
 Rushed to the rescue and I saw no more : 
 Yet do I think that javelin's point was edged 
 With fate, and full of death. 
 
 SAPOR. 
 
 There's gold for thee, 
 
 Thy tidings are the best. Now, forward for- 
 ward, 
 Storm their proud camp : I will not leave a 
 
 Roman 
 To tell the tale. 
 
 MERANES. 
 
 Pause, conqueror of kings, 
 Thy troops are faint with carnage. Havoc has left 
 Strange chasms in our battalia.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 163 
 
 SAPOR. 
 
 Slave ! I ask not 
 
 The Gods to spare men's lives : 'tis victory 
 That I command. Forward, I say. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Imperial tent distant field of battle. 
 EUSEBIA. Ladies of her Court. 
 
 1ST LADY. 
 
 Where shall we fly ? 
 
 2nd. There's no escape. 
 
 3rd. Oh, death ! 
 
 Oh, worse than thousand deaths where shall 
 we fly? 
 
 1st. I see some tossing helmets yonder 
 there. 
 
 2nd. Are not those clashing swords? Hark ! 
 
 1 st. Where's the guard ? 
 
 Agony, agony ! no help is near : 
 They have left us in our feebleness. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Alone? 
 
 Lone women left in war's extremity ? 
 No hope ? Why, then, no fear ! 
 
 1st. We'll kneel to them
 
 164 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 We'll clasp their limbs, and weep and pray for 
 life. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 We cannot live with honour. 
 
 3RD LADY. 
 
 Can we escape ? 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 I know but one way left Lucretia ! 
 
 [They shrink and gaze on each other. 
 Ay, death, death, death ! 
 
 [As they retreat into the tent, enter JULIAN, 
 borne in wounded. With him NEVITTA 
 and others. 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 Softly, he bleeds at every step death's dew, 
 The clammy witness of these mortal pangs, 
 Stands cold upon his forehead. Hold his eye 
 Within the half-shut lid looks dim and frozen ; 
 The hand that held so fast relaxes : hold- 
 He dies. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Nay, let me look upon him softly, 
 He is not dead : so, lay him down. The motion 
 Just gave a momentary faintness see, 
 The ray is not extinguished in his eye 
 There's colour on the lip.
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 165 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 He makes a sign 
 
 Soldier, go fetch some water in your helmet 
 See it be clear from blood. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Where is the Emperor ? 
 Where is my Julian ? 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 See him there ! 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 Woe, woe! 
 Look on me, look on me, Julian hear me, hear 
 
 me I 
 
 Julian ! Augustus ! Caesar ! 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 These are names 
 
 Breathed in a deaf ear : music that hath lost 
 All concord, all imagined harmony 
 For death's decaying intellect. 
 
 [Soldiers bring water. JULIAN drinks. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Eusebia ! 
 
 Art thou here too ? Still greater than thy sex, 
 Thou com'st to view a sad and awful parting, 
 The spirit that deemed half the world too small, 
 Torn from its lordly habitation,
 
 166 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Crushed in its vigour, hurled from its high throne, 
 Cast naked on eternity to stand 
 With common souls before the Judgment-seat ! 
 \_A distant shout heard. JULIAN starting on 
 
 his feet. 
 
 Where am I ? Bind me on my horse ! to arms ! 
 Slaves ! shall I die upon a couch ? A myriad 
 Of agonising thoughts throng in my brain. 
 Oh, for a bloody bank, a broken sword, 
 And banners drooping o'er me ! Vengeance ! 
 Some vengeance yet I To horse ! I say upon 
 
 them! 
 
 I tell ye I am strong. A lightning rushes 
 Through my hot veins would swell a thousand 
 
 pulses. 
 
 [ Sinks down exhausted. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha 1 Look on these traitor limbs ; 
 Oh, hear this braggard voice ! Nevitta, thou 
 Hast seen this clod of earth true to its spirit ? 
 I've not been a vain boaster always ? 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 Emperor, 
 
 I've swam the gulphy Rhine with thee at mid- 
 night, 
 
 Beneath a canopy of fiery darts : 
 I've plunged with thee into the tide of men
 
 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 167 
 
 When every living wave was swoln with fate ; 
 Yet never shrank before 'tis terrible. 
 
 f_ JULIAN leans forward with a fixed look. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 How many of ye stand around me ? late 
 I saw but three. 
 
 EUSEBIA. 
 
 There are no more : Nevitta, 
 Hormisdas, and myself. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 There is a fourth, 
 Look don't you see him ? shadowy look 
 
 there, there 
 
 He comes to me. Thou supernatural shape ! 
 Vast, gloomy, silent, undefinable ! 
 I saw thee at Eleusis. Thou didst look 
 Last night upon my troubled sleep : I heard 
 Thy rustling folds departing. Still and dark 
 Is the dread meaning of thine awful eye ! 
 Art thou the Spirit of Judgment, that doth write 
 Man's doom upon the adamantine book ? 
 Or, with thy basilisk presence dost thou come, 
 Wrath-executing Minister ! to watch 
 Lost souls just flitting from the gates of life? 
 Speak to me speak to me ! 
 
 \_He sinks back in a stupor.
 
 168 JULIAN, THE APOSTATE. 
 
 NEVITTA. 
 
 His senses wander. 
 It is most awful. Saw you aught, my Lord ? 
 
 HORMISDAS. 
 
 No, nothing : yet methinks a rustling passed us, 
 A swift division of the air a sound, 
 As of departing wings. 
 
 JULIAN {recovering}. 
 Eusebia ! 
 
 Thou art the last tie I have left on earth : 
 I would look on thee once again thy features 
 Remind me of past happiness : no matter ; 
 I fashioned my own fortunes. Turn me so. 
 Turn me upon my side : 'tis well ; I'm easier. 
 The blood flows freely now ; my pains are 
 
 deadened : 
 Come near. I'm somewhat numbed, and heavy, 
 
 heavy- 
 Cold, very cold, and dark, Eusebia! 
 Give me some air breath, breath some air, 
 
 some air. 
 Bear me where I can see the sun : 
 
 [ They bring JULKAN forward : he fixes his eye 
 
 upward. 
 " Oh, Galilean ! Thou hast conquered me ! " 
 
 [He sinks through their arms and expire*.
 
 169 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 ONE or two passages in one of the earliest of the foregoing 
 Scenes, are derived from my recollection of an old tract writ- 
 ten with an atrocious power of language. To the matter of 
 this writer I involuntarily fashioned the savage principles I 
 had to ascribe to Maximus. I am not aware of having in 
 any other part of my Poem adopted the ideas of any other 
 writer. I have certainly had no model present to my ima- 
 gination : and have only from a distance, and with reverence, 
 regarded those admirable writers who were the founders, and 
 remain the glory, of our dramatic literature. 
 
 In my general sketch only have I sought to adhere to 
 history. I have varied from it in many details. For instance, 
 the mode of attack by which Maojamalcha was reduced, I 
 have applied to Perisabor ; principally, I believe, because the 
 former name is not of easy pronunciation.
 
 TO 
 
 STEPHEN EDWARD RICE, ESQ. 
 
 $c. ffc. $c. 
 
 AS A MEMORIAL OF GRATITUDE 
 FOR AN INESTIMABLE GIFT, 
 
 THIS DKAMA 
 
 IS DEDICATED BY HIS SON-IN-LAW, 
 
 THE AUTHOK.
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 EDMUND, surnamed Ironside, King of England. 
 CANUTE, son of Sweyn, King of the Danes. 
 
 EDRIC STREON, Duke of Mercia, ~\ 
 
 I Brothers-in-law 
 UTHRED, Earl of Northumberland, 
 
 of Edmund. 
 EUSTACE, Earl of BuR- : ~ ' 
 
 
 
 EDWY, surnamed The Churl, Brother of Edmund. 
 ETHELMAR, Earl of Cornwall, friend of Edric. 
 OSMER, the Bastard. 
 
 MORCAR, SIGIFERTH, Danish Lords, 1 Friends of 
 FRITHEGIST, a Saxon Lord, ] Edmund. 
 
 GOTHMUND, ~\ 
 
 TURKILL, > Danish Nobles, Officers of Canute. 
 ANLAFFE, J 
 
 EMMA, Queen of Ethelred the Second, King of Eng- 
 land. 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 SWEYN, King of the Danes.} , 
 
 / In the Introductory 
 GUNILDA, his Daughter. > 
 
 V Scenes only. 
 A Lady, attendant upon her. J 
 
 Saxon and Danish Officers. A Poet, Masquers, ' 
 Minstrels, Sfc.
 
 THE DUKE OE MERC^A. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY SCENES. 
 
 The Sea-shore. A boat approaches the land ; from 
 which descend SWEYN, CANUTE, GOTHMUND, 
 TURKILL, ANLAFFE, fyc. fyc. 
 
 ^HE Saints be praised ! we're on dry 
 land again. 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 Ay, and have bid the tempest brave 
 
 defiance. 
 
 Welcome unto these famous shores of Cornwall ; 
 Welcome, my liege ! 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 It bears a winning aspect ;
 
 178 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 This deep and sunny bay, round whose broad 
 
 bosom 
 
 The leafy cliffs wind their umbrageous arms, 
 As if they loved the element that woos 
 Their rugged feet with all its crowding billows. 
 How sportively they toss their foaming tresses, 
 And on their bright cheeks give a quick reflection 
 To all t}jat look upon them ! But, my liege, 
 My royal father, you look pensively 
 On that which stirs up thus my youthful blood. 
 Is your grace well ? 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Ay, my brave son, yet sad ; 
 Sad, and without a cause. Those raging seas 
 Have left a heaviness upon my eyes, 
 A weight upon my heart. 
 
 ANLAFFE. 
 
 Fling it off, thus 
 
 As I throw out my arms to thee, fair England, 
 Thou glorious land of hope ! 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 See, every bough 
 
 Nods welcome to the fearless and the free. 
 The green fields, in this glow of setting sun. 
 Smile with a present promise : the blue moun- 
 tains
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 179 
 
 Look through the calm serenity of air 
 With eyes of hope upon us ; ay, these sounds 
 Of winds and waters breathe a stirring music, 
 As the swell of a trumpet on a battle-field ; 
 Or, in their milder mood, like the sweet close 
 Of virgin-voices singing holy hymns. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Now, to my ears, it hath a fall of sadness, 
 Most melancholy, full of mournful omens ; 
 And greets our raven-banner with a note 
 As boding as the emblem. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Sir, you wrest 
 
 All nature from her true intent. Indeed 
 You are not well. Vainly our sails have panted, 
 Fill'd with the strong gales of our swelling for- 
 tune, 
 If now you droop. 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 My Lord, look cheerily. 
 We Northmen soon are thavv'd in this soft 
 
 climate. 
 Sweet smells the moist breath of this bloomy 
 
 bank, 
 Born amid odours.
 
 180 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Sirs, I wish you joy 
 Of your young spirits, that can quit grave 
 
 thoughts 
 
 As the grub casts its scale off in the sun, 
 And wings the air a butterfly, and lives 
 On light and flowers. I have the eyes of age, 
 And have learn'd wisdom from unwelcome 
 
 masters, 
 
 Drawn prescience from the lessons of the past, 
 And judgment from most sorrowful experience. 
 There is a shadow now before my eyes 
 Ye cannot see; there is a voice that hangs 
 On these thin winds, a tongue amid these trees, 
 Ye hear not : ay, an awful presence dwells 
 Among us now, ye feel not; but I feel it. 
 It has been thus before, and evil days 
 Have follow'd after. 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 Soft, my Lord, here comes 
 A courier, and in haste ; and, as I think, 
 By his pale face, a messenger of evil. 
 
 Enter COURIER. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 Said I not true, my Lords ? Well, Sir, you bring
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 181 
 
 News from our friends ; ill news, I fear. I pray 
 
 you, 
 Speak ; are we timely landed ? speak, Sir, I 
 
 pray. 
 
 COURIER (kneeling). 
 
 Alas ! a choking grief ties up my tongue. 
 Timeless, yet timely art thou come, King 
 
 Sweyn. 
 
 Timeless to save, yet timely to avenge. 
 Death, bloody death, hath been before. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 My son, 
 
 Let me sit down upon this bank : a sickness, 
 Death-cold, hath ta'en me suddenly, and makes 
 My limbs weak. Speak ! my daughter ? 
 
 COURIER. 
 
 Sir, she lives. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Just Heaven, I thank thee ! 
 COURIER. 
 
 Still Gunilda lives ; 
 
 But lives to pray for death. Her wandering feet 
 Journey close after me, scarce knowing whither. 
 But she would seek her father's neck with tears, 
 And rend her widow'd hair out in his arms, 
 And beat her childless bosom at his feet.
 
 182 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Dread words are these thou speak'st ! How has 
 this been ? 
 
 COURIER. 
 
 Oh, Sir, the Saxon sword has been well blooded ! 
 And cruel Edric 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Where is my sister ? Say ! 
 
 COURIER. 
 
 I left her in a. dark glade of the woods, 
 Some furlongs hence ; in wayward fancy chosen, 
 As a meet place, she said, for broken hearts. 
 Old, ivied oaks, mossy with age, and grey 
 With the unwholesome lichen, shut out the sun 
 From the long wiry grass, dock-weed, and hem- 
 lock, 
 That droop beneath. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 I'm somewhat now revived ; 
 Lead to my daughter. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 And, as we journey onward, 
 Recount thy dreadful tale from first to last. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 183 
 
 A dark glade in a wood. GUNILDA seated on a 
 bank ; her appearance wild and disordered. A 
 Lady in attendance. 
 
 LADY. 
 
 Sweet Madam, speak ! Oh, for the love of Hea- 
 ven ! 
 
 Let me but hear that blessed voice again. 
 
 She will not answer me ! she hears me not! 
 
 What can I do ? No help near, not a crea- 
 ture, 
 
 No human thing to comfort us. Great God ! 
 
 What if her brain should madden ? Dear, dear 
 Lady! 
 
 The night is growing chill ; we have no shelter. 
 
 Look up, how dark the clouds are ! Pray arise ! 
 
 Let's leave these gloomy caverns of arch'd 
 boughs ; 
 
 The lightsome fields will make you better. 
 Come, 
 
 It is no place for living things. 
 
 GUNILDA. 
 
 My children ! 
 Oh, my poor little ones ! my husband
 
 184 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 LADY. 
 
 Nay, 
 
 For mercy's sake, forbear that theme. I hear 
 The tramp of horsemen hitherward. Alas ! 
 How desolate we are ! 
 
 Enter SWEYN, CANUTE, and suite. 
 
 Kind Heaven be praised I 
 I have not pray'd in vain. 
 
 SWEYN (embracing GUNILDA, who remains 
 unmoved). 
 
 My sweetest daughter 
 
 Gunilda ! look on your old father ; hear me ; 
 I come to thee weigh'd down by age and sorrow, 
 Yet strong enough to share thine too. Look on 
 
 me 
 
 Oh God ! all sense has fled. 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Let me speak, Father. 
 My sister my Gunilda dost not feel 
 Thy brother's faithful arm around thy waist ? 
 She heeds not, no, her mind is warp'd from 
 
 earth, 
 
 And her eye gleams with visionary wildness. 
 See what a sad smile gathers on her lip 
 Her dream is now of heaven, her children's 
 home.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 185 
 
 Such, 'twere scarce mercy to disturb. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Not so : 
 
 Oh, let not madness feed on that sweet heart ! 
 Those features, now so pale and passionless, 
 That dim eye, fix'd in awful calmness thus, 
 Portend tempestuous sallies yet. Arouse her, 
 Or she is lost for ever. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Dearest sister ! 
 
 Look on the grey hairs of thy father! see him, 
 An old man weeping as a child ; a soldier 
 Even like a woman grieving. Is't not strange 
 A father thus should meet his living child ? 
 J Tis thus we mourn the dead. 
 
 GUN1LDA. 
 
 The dead the dead? 
 
 Ay, all that live must die, what matter when ? 
 If soon, then happy ! who art thou and thou ? 
 
 SWEYN. 
 Gunilda ! 
 
 GUNILDA. 
 
 Hark ! that voice ! hark ! Oh my father ! 
 I know thee now : and thee, sweet Brother. 
 
 Give me 
 
 Your hands : let us begone from this, these 
 glooms
 
 186 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Disturb me. See ! these old oaks, how they toss 
 Their arras up, in appeal from earth to heaven ! 
 And hark ! their groans I and then the sighing 
 
 winds 
 Like the long wail of sorrow o'er a tomb ! 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 It is, in truth, a melancholy haunt. 
 We will depart. 
 
 GUNILDA. 
 
 No ! now methinks 'tis wholesome 
 To commune here with melancholy thoughts. 
 The outer world is mad with reckless mirth, 
 And drunken Laughter reels 'mid gaping graves ; 
 But Wisdom has her seat, with Sadness, here. 
 Yet, who shall brave despair ? Oh, Sir ! this 
 
 earth 
 
 Is sick with horrors ! the black midnight air 
 Hath hung its pall above such deeds ! Blood, 
 
 blood 
 
 Doth smear the cheek of morning, and the sun 
 Sinks on a bloody pillow. Men ! I tell ye 
 Murder is grown familiar, carnage a game, 
 A daily, wholesale game, which ye all play at. 
 Why, 'tis the common pastime of these kings 
 To make wives widows, and poor mothers child-
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 187 
 
 Ay, stamp on earth ; 'tis hollow : nought but 
 
 the shell 
 
 Of a vast, crumbling charnel. 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Would I were laid there ! 
 Thy misery makes me wish to die with thee. 
 
 GUNILDA. 
 
 Father, why are you grieved ? / do not grieve 
 
 you, 
 Do I, sweet Father ? Talk you of dying with 
 
 me? 
 We'll make our graves together come our 
 
 task 
 
 Is one of toil, delay not; we must have room 
 To pillow my fair infants on this bosom : 
 They'll sleep on nought less soft. [ She shrieks. ] 
 
 Where are they now? 
 If but the wind blew chill, then would they 
 
 shudder 
 
 If you look'd gravely on them, they grew pale 
 If touch'd too roughly on the cheek, they wept 
 And now now Father I Brother I I beheld 
 
 them 
 
 Shrieking and clinging to their father's breast, 
 Kissing his white and gasping lips his eyes 
 In their last dying spasm that still saw
 
 188 DDKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 The butchery they shared with him. I saw them 
 Writhing beneath their daggers ay, and heard 
 The stabbings here here in my brain ! Poor 
 
 babes ! 
 They cast them out, when dead, to the cold 
 
 moon, 
 And freezing night-winds and I live. You 
 
 weep 
 
 And pity me that I do live. Sit down, 
 And I will tell you stories of my children. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 Here do I kneel beside thee, and invoke 
 Thy thunders and thy lightnings, and thy tem- 
 pests, 
 
 Upon their savage heads, God of my fathers ! 
 Canute, my son, kneel down with me, and swear 
 Hate that ne'er sleeps, vengeance insatiable ! 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 May this right hand shrivel in timeless age, 
 
 If it forgets its vengeance ! So may I thrive 
 
 Hereafter, as I satisfy this wrong ! 
 
 Hear, Ethelred of England ! hear, false Edric I 
 
 On you and all your lineage I vow 
 
 The hate that knows not mercy I 
 
 [During these speeches GUNILDA has knelt be- 
 side them.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 189 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 Silently 
 
 She ratifies the curse : the gloomy passion 
 Creeps, like the shadow of death, across her fea- 
 tures. 
 
 How awful is this silent imprecation, 
 Whose import is but guess' d at in the glare 
 Of the dark, hollow, supernatural eye ; 
 In the dread smile that curls the livid lips ; 
 In the clench'd, quivering hands, and feeble 
 
 frame 
 With powerless anguish heaving. 
 
 SWEYN. 
 
 She grows paler. 
 
 Oh, lift her up, my Lords, and softly bear her 
 To present aid. 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 That hope were vain : she is dying. 
 Crowd not around give air. 
 LADY. 
 
 Nay, hold her hands. 
 
 This sudden flush and struggle will be her last. 
 Her limbs subside her cheeks grow darkly 
 
 pale 
 She breathes not her heart's broken !
 
 190 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 CANUTE (stooping over the body). 
 
 Thus, Gunilda, 
 
 I kiss thee for the last time my poor sister I 
 Yet shalt thou be avenged amply avenged ! 
 Gothmund, do thou prepare fit obsequies, 
 And lay her with her children. Come, my 
 
 Father; 
 Lean on me you are faint. Nay, steel your 
 
 heart 
 With thoughts of our full vengeance ! So, you 
 
 revive. 
 
 Forward, my Lords ; to death or victory ! 
 And be our cry " Revenge ! Gunilda's 
 
 wrongs ! " 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 PART THE FIEST. 
 
 THE COURTIERS. 
 
 The Palace of London. 
 
 Enter the Earls of NORTHUMBERLAND, BULLOIGN, 
 and CORNWALL; FRITHEGIST, MORCAR, and 
 
 SlGIFERTH. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 BROTHER of Bulloign, 'tis a day of 
 
 sorrow 
 That frowns on your arrival. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Thou speak'st truly, 
 
 Good brother Uthred : he has lost all spirit, 
 And seems, indeed, in great extremity. 
 How happen'd this ? Such deep despondency 
 Is sanction'd by nought urgent? 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 He has been ill 
 Of body, and much shaken in his mind
 
 192 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Since those sad, bloody vespers of Saint Brice. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Ay, 'twas a sweeping massacre. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Methinks 
 
 The ghosts of all those pretty Danish babes 
 That, with their slaughter'd mothers, died that 
 
 night, 
 
 Are ever present at his bed and board. 
 And yet the deed was needful. 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Say not so : 
 The act was hellish ; mark the penalty. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 The act was needful, and I sanction'd it. 
 Eustace, there was a rank disease, that needed 
 To be let blood. Shake not your head : we are 
 
 not 
 
 Nice reasoners here on points of precedent, 
 But cut our way through with our Saxon swords. 
 
 Enter Prince EDWY : after him EDMUND. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 Edwy, how fares our father Ethelred ? 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAN D. 
 
 Good Brother, speak.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 193 
 
 [EDWY walks past, moodily, and in silence. 
 All salute EDMUND. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 My Lords, I give you thanks. 
 Yet, though you bow thus, like th' old Persian 
 
 In worship of the rising sun, believe me, 
 
 I much rejoice to be the messenger 
 
 Of comfortable news to loyal hearts. 
 
 My brother, here, doubtless hath told how far 
 
 His grace hath been revived. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Nay, Sir, not I : 
 
 Enough for me the king is like to live : 
 Such news will be its own good trumpeter. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND (aside). 
 
 Well art thou named, proud Edwy, King of 
 Churls I 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Dear brother of Northumberland, the king, 
 In this extremity of ill-timed sickness, 
 Yields for a space his sceptre to my hands ; 
 (Weak though they be in youth, and lacking that 
 Which yet your sage experience shall supply ;) 
 And, furthermore, to make assurance firm, 
 Hath join'd Lord Edric, Duke of Mercia,
 
 194 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 In the commission. So shall our fiery haste 
 Be, by his politic caution, stayed and tempered. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Oh, sorrowful conclusion to our hopes ! 
 So ends a dream of promise. 
 
 SIGIFERTH. 
 
 Hath the king 
 
 Named Edric as joint regent with your grace? 
 Why then 'tis time for honest men to fly ; 
 For us, at least, good Morcar ; we, though loyal, 
 Are hateful, being Danes. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Nay, Sigiferth, 
 
 Your speech is more in haste than reason. Oh ! 
 You have a fair wife ; fame speaks kindly of her. 
 You seek excuse for leisure, she being absent ; 
 A daughter too ? 
 
 SIGIFERTH. 
 
 My liege, I have a wife 
 That is indeed a miracle ; but not 
 As being beautiful, though she is beautiful; 
 Nor yet as wise, though she is full of wisdom ; 
 But for strong virtue and a pious heart. 
 How can we live, Sir, 'neath the savage hand, 
 Red with the gore of our slain countrymen ? 
 Edric being king, then tremble Danes I
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 195 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 By heaven I 
 You give your tongue, my Lord, a dangerous 
 
 licence. 
 
 A fell deed hath been done, (how I abhor 
 The act ye know) and idle imputations 
 Have touch'd this Duke of Mercia. Sir, his 
 
 name 
 
 Must not be shot at with these random shafts. 
 He is my sister's husband, and most closely 
 Wrapp'd in the mantle of my father's favour. 
 Speak then advisedly. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Brave brother Edmund 
 Or, pardon me, my Prince ! as your new sta- 
 tion 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Nay, Eustace, call me brother still. Affection 
 Regards not unsubstantial things, as titles. 
 All hearts that love are equal. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Well, my Brother 
 
 My noble-minded brother (I will call you so), 
 Trust not your generous heart too far. Duke 
 
 Edric 
 Though of our kindred, is not I must say it
 
 196 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 The favourite of good fame. I am distrustful. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 'Tis hard to judge men's hearts; nor should we 
 
 judge 
 
 Too harshly. As for me, I'm somewhat young 
 T' have studied men's minds deeply. I look 
 
 round 
 
 Upon the superficial face of things, 
 And, like the swallow, skim the smoothest wave ; 
 Or, moth-like, perch upon the brightest flower. 
 'Till now I deem'd all life was as a spring, 
 And turn'd my cheek to sunshine, like a plant. 
 I saw all nature beautiful, and deem'd 
 All creatures good. Now must I prune my spirit, 
 And bend my mind down to the tasks of age. 
 I must discard those graceful witcheries 
 That take the buoyant phantasy of youth, 
 Moulding to shapes its airy speculation, 
 And stamping truth on dreams. Away with 
 
 them! 
 
 The dark days of reality are come. 
 Welcome the storms of life ! Welcome the strife 
 That flashes round the stations of the great, 
 Like lightnings o'er the mountain-tops ! Why, 
 
 ay, 
 / was not made to lie for ever listless
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 197 
 
 On the lap of joy. I'll strain my eaglet-wing 
 Against these tempests, and with dauntless eye 
 Look up unto this sun of Denmark. But, 
 My Lords, I cry you mercy for this sally : 
 Somewhat too harshly, I do think, opinion 
 Deals with the Duke of Mercia. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Know you not Edric? 
 
 Alas, Sir, you will know him soon, too soon ! 
 Even thus he wound his thrall round Ethelred, . 
 Who felt not 'twas a yoke firmer than steel. 
 I have seen him, in the midst of all our nobles, 
 A well-proved traitor; yet was he seated so, 
 Even in the heart's core of his cheated sovereign, 
 That, with some specious fawning, a fair show 
 Of zealous protestation, upturn'd eyes, 
 Hand on the heart, and bold appeals to Heaven, 
 He so rubb'd off the stain, that it but won him 
 The greater trust. None could withstand him, 
 
 none. 
 
 Nor is't so strange ; for we must all admit him 
 A man of a most admirable presence, 
 Subtle of wit, and eloquent of speech, 
 Puissant through station, noble in alliance, 
 Second to none for riches; and, with all, 
 Unbending in his selfishness ; cool, crafty,
 
 198 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Scorner of truth, heartless, inexorable;^- 
 In fine, a man without a conscience. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Truly, 
 
 Lord Uthrecl, you have laid your colours on 
 With an unsparing hand ; and, I make bold 
 To say, a coarse one, and not just to nature. 
 I'm honour'd in his confidence, and assert 
 The king has not a liege-man truer of faith, 
 .luster of thought, more resolute in action, 
 Than him you trample down in absence thus. 
 [During these speeches EDRIC has entered un- 
 observed. 
 
 EDRIC (stepping forward). 
 My generous Lord of Cornwall, many thanks 
 For your protection of an absent friend. 
 My Lords ! I knew not that I stood on trial. 
 Where are my jury ? who the judge? Prince 
 
 Edmund ! 
 You here? Oh, then, I'm sure of justice ! Pray 
 
 you, 
 
 Earl of Northumberland, proceed : you play 
 Th' accuser well : proceed. Few words I caught ; 
 But they were eloquent, and took my fancy. 
 I thank you for this pleasantry ; go on. 
 I feel a real debt that you should notice
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 199 
 
 My poor obscurity, thus dragging forth 
 My blushing weakness to this brilliant circle. 
 Nay, Sir, you seem abash'd, confused, believe 
 
 it, 
 I ever lie uneasy under debt. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Edric of Mercia, there are certain debts 
 You lack not skill in cancelling. Abash'd ? 
 By you ? Sir, I conceive your irony : 
 Ay, Sir, and brave it! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Brothers, no more of this. 
 Edric, you have been to blame. What thus by 
 
 stealth 
 
 You have heard, conceive unsaid : I will it so. 
 Dishonourable ways can never lead 
 To honourable issues. Uthred, I charge you 
 Follow this up no further. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 /, my Lord, 
 
 Am cased in stoutest armour, a free conscience. 
 I neither fear, nor am vindictive. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Edric, 
 You answer not.
 
 200 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Why, my young brother, you are 
 O' th' sudden grown most peremptory : nay, 
 You now but jest with me, your simple col- 
 league, 
 
 Raised by a breath, and whom a breath can level. 
 There was an open censure in your words, 
 There was a hidden sarcasm in your eye, 
 Which suit not our joint station : yet, I pass it, 
 Pass it, and smile, you see: 'twas but a banter 
 The world, at least, should think so, and reflection 
 Will make that thought your own. I bow to you, 
 As a good liegeman to his future lord ; 
 But 'tis in private. Here we are as one, 
 Coequal in authority ; my age 
 Poising your youth my hairs, with anxious 
 
 thought 
 
 Grey in their prime, giving a sober face 
 To the hot promise of your unshorn cheek : 
 So shall the purblind people be content. 
 Yours be the place of honour, mine of toil ; 
 Enough for Edric if young Edmund deem 
 His labours worth their best reward, his love. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Edric, you speak unto an open heart 
 With openness and honest seeming. Take
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 201 
 
 My hand and, Uthred, yours too. Now, my 
 
 Lords, 
 Be brothers once again. 
 
 EDR1C. 
 
 I tender mine, 
 
 In lull forgiving amity. There is not 
 One whom I treasure up more faithfully 
 In my close heart. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 No more. Lord Sigiferth, 
 What say you of King Sweyn comes he not 
 
 hither 
 Breathing defiance lion like? 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Why, so 
 
 He has done before ; then meanly crept away, 
 Ashamed of his false spring. 
 
 SIGIFERTH. 
 
 A deadly rancour 
 
 Now fills him. On his way he met his daughter, 
 The wrong* d Gunilda, in her flight ; who told 
 In some short words her piteous tale, then died. 
 On her cold body they have pledged an oath 
 Of vengeance. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 And these ravens will have prey;
 
 202 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 So ends your logic, Lord spoken like a Dane. 
 And now to council : but, remember all, 
 Wisdom is secret. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Well to council. Yet 
 
 Our argument, methinks, lies in its scabbard ; 
 And thus I would advance it! 
 
 [Half drawing his sword. 
 
 EDR1C. 
 
 In that hand 
 
 Such argument is cogent. But, methinks, 
 A calculating head may here outweigh 
 The vigour of an arm. / say to council ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The Apartment of Edric. 
 EDRIC alone. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 Oh fool ! that knowing not thyself, know'st 
 
 nought ! 
 
 What am I, that an idiot's jeer should shake 
 The equipoise that marks the master mind? 
 I that have pass'd o'er faction's wildest sea 
 As a proud galley, tossing from my stem 
 The darkest tempest surge, as easily
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 203 
 
 As Pleasure's banner'd bark, from her smooth 
 
 side, 
 
 Scatters the light foam of a summer wave ; 
 Shall I, / swerve from my true course, to shun 
 This hollow frothy bubble of the North ? 
 Shame ! is't not ever thus the chafing eddies 
 Boil, fret, and bubble, in the wake of Greatness ? 
 I am not wont to meet those crosses : ay 
 Unwelcome monitors I ye speak to me 
 Of fleeting power, decaying fame, lost influence, 
 And all those nameless horrors that assail 
 A favourite in his fall : and therefore quails 
 My spirit 'neath Opinion's steadfast eye. 
 King Ethelred ! ere many days are pass'd, 
 Death will release thee from my nets ; so be it ! 
 Cannot another web, as finely spun, 
 Suffice to snare another royal moth ? 
 And so ha ! ha ! by heaven, I hate myself 
 For nursing the base thought once more must I 
 Resume the flatterer's trade, and to the son 
 Kneel, fawn, lie, pander, worship, and betray 
 As erst, with toil mechanical, I truckled, 
 And won, and ruled the father? Cornwall! 
 
 'tis well 
 Now will I try thy mettle.
 
 204 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Enter CORNWALL. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 My Lord, I trust the presence of a friend 
 May not be held intrusion. 
 
 EDRIC (after a pause). 
 
 Gentle Cornwall, 
 Excuse these wandering thoughts. Sorrow hath 
 
 thrown 
 A cloud across as firm a brow ere now. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Now, may they perish 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Nay, my grief is not 
 That lying lips have licence in a court; 
 Or, that a fool, in presence of his peers, 
 Unchid, may spit his venom on the wise; 
 And yet, it is because such things may be, 
 When hearts and hands united most are needed, 
 I mourn for my devoted country. Ay, 
 The foe is now on horse that must be met 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 By babbling greybeards, and a schoolboy king ! 
 
 EDRIC (keenly regarding him). 
 Lord Ethelmar ! what say you? can a man 
 Who by his foe is stricken on the cheek,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 205 
 
 Present the other to the blow and smile 
 And squeeze the hand that wrought the shame 
 on him ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Your father Abbot will cry ay, and cite 
 Texts writ by hands that never held a sword. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Shall a man dwell in fellowship with men 
 (Cornwall is none of such) who, when a friend 
 Is baited by a cur, lend him no aid, 
 But preach 'tis philosophic to endure? 
 Shall subjects owe allegiance, nor receive 
 Protection ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 If, my Lord, I might, unchidden, 
 Unfold the secret map of troubled thought, 
 And body forth the picture of my heart 
 To the true friend that can aright peruse it, 
 Then would I surmise (but with deference, 
 Such as good men feel touching sacred things) 
 What med'cine best might reach those public 
 
 ills, 
 And heal our private wrongs. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 You hesitate ; 
 
 Speak and speak fearlessly.
 
 206 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I pause, my Lord, 
 
 Not doubting mine own honesty, not doubting 
 Th' expediency of that which my true heart, 
 Faithful in its allegiance to its friend, 
 (The best allegiance nature owns) makes mani- 
 fest; 
 
 But jealous, lest I touch not in your bosom 
 An answering chord. I pause 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Speak, fearlessly. 
 CORNWALL (kneeling). 
 
 The evils which have wrung Duke Edric's heart 
 King Edric may redeem. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 My Lord ! how say you ? 
 
 The skill is hazardous that probes men's minds. 
 Beware ! if you judge wrong, you do a wrong 
 That cautious wisdom should avenge ; but if 
 Rightly you surmise he that shuts such 
 
 dreams, 
 
 As you now give a body to, within 
 The shadowy caverns of the pregnant thought, 
 May not be thankful that rash hands should 
 
 The pallid monsters from their den.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 207 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Forgive 
 This rash 
 
 EDRIC (hastily}. 
 
 Dear Ethelmar ! the human soul 
 Is a more sensitive and plastic thing, 
 Apt to temptation, ductile in desire, 
 Than the monks picture when they people hell. 
 Art thou their fiend ? thus, with a breath, to 
 
 give 
 
 A palpable shape to that which else had slept 
 The dim abortion of the imperfect mind. 
 Ye wild suggestions ! desperate hopes ! Say, 
 
 where, 
 
 Where is that fatal fire within mine eye 
 Where is that black corruption on my skin 
 Where that o'erboiling of the feverish heart, 
 Rushing in venom to the parched lip, 
 That thus presumptuously thou tempt'st me, 
 
 tearing 
 
 Phantom Ambition from his cloudy home, 
 To clothe him in my mortal garb? Oh, Sir, 
 How easy 'tis to wake this spectre how 
 Impossible to lay the fiend to rest I 
 Ay, he will live, live as fiends live, on blood ! 
 Not hecatombs may sate his wolfish maw !
 
 208 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 My Lord ! my liege ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Ay, so it is proceed 
 Woo coy desire, with soft, seductive words; 
 Pamper imagination and so steal 
 Warm on the fainting heart, and then nay, 
 
 speak not ; 
 I will not add betray. Cornwall, I'll trust 
 
 thee : 
 
 Yet rashly hast thou ravish'd confidence. 
 On thy head be the sin. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 On my head rest it! 
 
 And, as I prove myself thy bane or weal, 
 Welcome the weight, whether it come allied 
 With the keen axe, or sparkling coronet ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Thy hand, Duke Ethelmar I thy hand. It is, 
 Indeed, an easy thing to dream of crowns, 
 And brandish vision'd sceptres in the grasp 
 But how to compass them ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 It may be done. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 By many roads men may accomplish greatness :
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 209 
 
 Some have stol'n bashful to the tardy throne; 
 Some, with a nobler grasp, have rent the bauble 
 From the smooth brow of silken royalty, 
 Scorning to crush a form so impotent ; 
 Some, with glaived hand, have, in the front of 
 
 battle, 
 Shook their proud banner, dared the world in 
 
 arms, 
 
 And ruled with iron what they won with steel ; 
 Some have, with noiseless step, and vizar'd 
 
 features, 
 
 Cloak'd in th' accomplice gloom of ruffian night, 
 Crept to the couch of sleeping power, and sped 
 Th' unwary dreamer to the dreamless grave; 
 Some no, no, none of these I am not yet 
 So steep'd in the intoxicating cup, 
 That I must quaff, howe'er the draught be spiced. 
 Cornwall why speak you not? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I wait, my Lord, 
 To learn, not prompt, your will. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Indeed? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Nay, more 
 
 Whate'er it be, to forward it as I may. 
 p
 
 210 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 'Tis well. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 You are wedded to the royal blood 
 
 EDRIC. 
 Proceed. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 The people know your rule. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 They ought: 
 
 It has been felt. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 The king is dying. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 But 
 
 Bequeathing to the realm two prosperous 
 
 youths, 
 Heirs to his kingdom, and our love. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 It may be 
 
 The people shall respect his legacy 
 In such sort as they note his living will ; 
 
 And deem Duke Edric, or Queen Emma 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Wherefore 
 Link you our names ?
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 211 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 My Lord, if once again 
 I touch a string that vibrates, pardon me. 
 But many minds have mated you ere now : 
 Nay, lips there have been that have whisper'd 
 
 treason 
 
 (When you were named together) 'gainst the zeal 
 Wherewith her grace hath watch'd the nuptial 
 lamp. 
 
 EDRIC 
 
 Forbear, my Lord of Cornwall ! If, as you say, 
 Thus boldly, that I love, such ribald trifling 
 With a loved name suits not the past: still less 
 Chimes with the future. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I offend no more. 
 
 I would have said, my Lord, and now will say, 
 There are, among our nobles, men who recognize 
 Queen Emma's beauty and Duke Edric's wis- 
 dom, 
 
 And may be wrought upon to wish them mated 
 The public weal's at stake : a foreign foe, 
 The Danish raven, that from far hath smelt 
 That carnage of Saint Brice (Start not, my 
 
 Lord, 
 The retrospect is needful) to our shores
 
 212 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Descends with prescient hunger : baser carrion 
 Hath lured this bird of prey unto our vitals 
 Look at the state ! 'tis, as the king who rules it, 
 Upon the brink of a sure grave : in idiot 
 Apathy wrapp'd, or white with childish terror, 
 As each event succeeds : afraid to trust, 
 Yet impotent to act : without a leader, 
 (For shall a beardless boy degrade the title ?) 
 Unless (albeit with gentle violence) 
 The hand, so long our secret guide, shall boldly 
 Assume the vacant helm ; and rule of right 
 That which is his by merit. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Merit! Good Cornwall, 
 Yet is the scene thou sketches! a true picture ; 
 A fore-ground rough, beneath a turbid sky, 
 Opening in glory to a golden distance 
 Yet, oh, how far remote ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Not to the bold. 
 Plume thy stout shoulders, even with daemon 
 
 wings, 
 
 And thou shalt clear the barrier. Let us reflect. 
 The younger of the royal spawn, that churl, 
 As in their infinite contempt men style 
 Prince Edwy, may, like any worthless weed,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 213 
 
 Be flung to any dunghill ; but his brother, 
 
 Edmund, hath qualities that royally 
 
 Endow a stripling form. Ay, though as wild 
 
 A gallant as e'er rifled female lips ; 
 
 Ardent as colt that never felt the bit; 
 
 Tameless as greyhound first from collar slipp'd ; 
 
 Fierce as a falcon cast upon the wind ; 
 
 He has, withal, th' exterior attributes 
 
 That mark high birth, high spirit, and great 
 
 deeds. 
 The brow whereon throned Wisdom sits ; the 
 
 eyes 
 From whose twin orbs the glorious brethren 
 
 glance, 
 
 Valour and Mercy ; the sweet mouth whose smile 
 Wins, like the spirit of love, by unseen paths, 
 Upon the inmost heart. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 'Sdeath ! what's to me 
 His beauties, or his virtues, or his vices ? 
 Why talk you thus? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 To stamp one grinding truth 
 Into your soul : to bear it down upon you, 
 With all th' emphatic force, weight, pain, that 
 fear,
 
 214 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Relentless hate, and jealousy may heap, 
 Like coals of fire, upon your aching brain : 
 For one inevitable evil clogs 
 Your path, that must 
 
 EDR1C. 
 
 Good oracle, I will 
 
 Anticipate your fiat must be removed. 
 But how, good time and Cornwall may suggest. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 Trust me. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I will. And now we separate. 
 Our conference may breed suspicion. Haply 
 Men's eyes are on us : be discreet I feel, 
 Thus on the eve of greatness, more disturb'd 
 Than in my worst obscurity. Farewell 
 Each to his labour ; thou to sound the depths 
 Of popular opinion ; I to weigh 
 Fate, and man's soul, and opportunity. 
 
 [Exit CORNWALL. 
 EDRIC. 
 Cornwall ! thou art mine own ; bound by such 
 
 links 
 
 As shall compel thee to my will ; whilst I 
 Stand free. J Tis ever thus the master-genius 
 Subdues the meaner slaves of crime, and works
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 215 
 
 His hidden course with mole-like instruments. 
 Now Cornwall plumes his airy nothingness, 
 And makes the trusty wind his confidant, 
 How he has worm'd stern Edric's heart, and 
 
 'stablish'd 
 
 Himself i' the post of most obsequious jackal 
 To the roused lion. Let him think so. Men 
 Who try these dangerous ventures, do well to 
 
 give 
 
 The lead in guilt to knaves of forwarder sort: 
 So are they shielded from the worst, should worst 
 Befal: or, should a prosperous cast be thrown, 
 May sweep the stakes up with a smiling face, 
 Tossing to menial guilt the menial fee. 
 Such tools are zealous, deeming that they play 
 A swelling part, and bustle through the scene, 
 Giving in energy what lacks in grace. 
 Cornwall! take then thy station at mine ear, 
 And deem thyself a daemon's minister : 
 A name shall not affright me from my purpose. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 THE INTRIGUERS. 
 
 The Palace in London. 
 Enter EDMUND, NORTHUMBERLAND, BULLOIGN. 
 
 lA! ha! Now, Bulloign, had I been 
 
 born a pagan, 
 As, in my conscience, I'm disposed to 
 
 think 
 
 Our father confessor hath bred me one, 
 I should convince you, by such precedents, 
 Drawn from authentic tales of ancient writ, 
 That, when I kneel to such a shape as hers 
 I have romanced away this hour in painting, 
 There is much reason in idolatry. 
 Why, Brother, she, I say again 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 I grant you, 
 Without again retouching a fair picture,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 217 
 
 That she is beautiful, and may be chaste. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 May ! why she is; or I should hate her. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 So 
 
 As you have tried, or will, I grant it : but, Sir, 
 Take heed : this wife, or daughter, of old Sigi- 
 
 ferth, 
 
 (No matter which) this miracle this paragon 
 May, like the caged bird, well be credited 
 For a most wanton wish to fly at large. 
 Nay, rob not the old pigeon of his mate. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Bulloign ! you have not seen her. Wives will 
 
 have 
 
 An air that shows the matron, staid, majestic ; 
 Collected in their virtue, as becomes such 
 As, knowing what vice may be, can restrain it ; 
 A wide benignity of eye, that smiles 
 (Like mother Nature in her gentlest mood) 
 With the soft gaze of pleased maternity, 
 On all around that's good. But she I wot of 
 Has all the virgin's shyness, and her foot 
 A fawn-like elasticity, that suits not 
 Forms that have been the shrine of infant life. 
 She is the mountain-flower whom never eye
 
 218 DUKE OF MERCJA. 
 
 Hath mark'd but mine, and never hand shall 
 
 gather 
 From its sweet nest but mine. No more Lord 
 
 Edric. 
 Leave us together. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Why will you trust that man? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Aha ! you've not forgot your fencing match 
 I' the council yester eve. Eustace, how think 
 
 you? 
 
 Play'd not the Duke of Mercia his foil well ? 
 Methinks he touch'd my Lord Northumberland 
 Once and again : 'twas well the point was 
 
 hooded. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 Hush! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Pshaw! I care not. [To EDRIC, entering.] 
 
 Gentle potentate ! 
 
 Cousin of Mercia ! most renown'd co-regent ! 
 How fares your grace ? I have just pluck'd the 
 
 sleeve 
 
 Of memory, for these Lords, touching that feat 
 Of prowess, wherewith you surprised the court 
 Last night.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 219 
 
 BULLO1GN. 
 
 Dear madcap coz, adieu ! We may not 
 The ear of needful business intercept. 
 Good day, my Lord of Mercia. 
 
 [Exeunt BULLOIGN and NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Brother Edric, 
 
 There seem'd in that fastidious bow, and smile 
 So coldly doled, of supercilious meekness, 
 Feelings far alien from a brother's heart. 
 How's this? I would have concord. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 You shall command 
 
 Whate'er you will my heart : but pardon me, 
 If somewhat yet of chill clings to my bearing. 
 The earliest ice will skin the scalded cup. 
 You summon'd me ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Ay, to as light a council 
 As ever prince call'd minister. I love. 
 You smile ; and think 'twere well to talk of war, 
 Canute, and those most waspish Danes. Ob- 
 serve me ; 
 
 I am prepared for all ; and, sans advice, 
 Have ta'en such steps as shall affright these 
 Danes,
 
 220 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 But 'twas not that I sought to speak on love, 
 Love is my theme to-day, and shall this night 
 Be my best business. You must aid me. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I? 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Ay, sage viceregent ! but seek not with whom. 
 Let me have masquers, minstrels, poets all 
 Who best may give night serenades a zest. 
 Know you Lord Sigiferth the Dane ? You 
 
 start. 
 You know him. 
 
 EDRIC (aside). 
 
 Love another's wife ? a Dane's ? 
 And seek her ? This breeds mischief. (Aloud.) 
 
 Ay, my Lord, 
 The dotard who has married the young wife 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Should be consulted ? should he not ? Th' 
 
 emergency 
 
 Presses he is a Dane, and yet most trusty : 
 A noble of much weight, and wisely gifted. 
 
 EDRIC -(aside). 
 Prince Eclwy, too, lays his suit here. Even 
 
 brothers 
 May not, in love, be bloodless rivals.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 221 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Fie! 
 
 Yourapprehension'sdull. 'Twere well, methinks, 
 To call this Lord to conference. He'll come 
 
 quickly, 
 Be flatter'd, and detained, 'till 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 'Till the jewel 
 He loves is filch'd from him ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 You know me not, Sir. 
 Govern your forward fancy more discreetly. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 My will is yours alone. When purpose you 
 To try th' adventure ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 When the moon first rises. 
 EDRIC. 
 That will be nine. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 No later. I must feed 
 
 My midnight lamp with studious oil, and forfeit 
 To th' public weal my rest ; but, first, would 
 
 gladly 
 
 Strike from the flinty edge of care one spark 
 Of perishable joy.
 
 222 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 You are determined ? 
 
 EDMUND, 
 
 Fully. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 My Lord, reflect it is my duty. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Nay, 
 Talk on ; my purpose stands assured. Say, 
 
 therefore, 
 E'en what you will. Deal you in most sage 
 
 saws, 
 I shall most merrily interpret them. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I know my duty, Prince but love for you 
 Hoodwinks my judgment. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Oh, no doubt, no doubt 
 No more of that. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Will you not name your lady ? 
 She is some flaring, summer-dighted dame, 
 Ambling through love's hot atmosphere, and 
 
 turning 
 
 Her throbbing bosom to young Cupid's beams, 
 As to yon sun the flower that bears his name.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 223 
 
 I would I knew how deep this shaft hath sped ; 
 
 [Aside. 
 How keenly barb'd. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Thou libeller of beauty ! 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I know not that. What stature bears she ? say 
 What colour on her cheek ? fair as the morning? 
 Is that the tint? or beautiful as night; 
 Around whose umber'd brow the opal moon 
 Gathers a diamond diadem of stars? 
 Where is your limner's skill? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 How should I paint her? 
 By what quaint alchemy could I distil 
 Tints of aerial delicacy, such 
 As Iris arches o'er a summer shower, 
 To sketch the evanescent charms that wander 
 About her beautiful presence ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Thus, 'tis ever 
 With beauty perfect, as love. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Nay, 'tis not 
 
 The grace of her meek, bending, snowy neck ; 
 The delicate budding of her tender bosom,
 
 224 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Above a waist a stripling's hand might compass ; 
 
 The flowing outline of proportion'd limbs, 
 
 Moving with health's elastic lightness, blent 
 
 With all that nameless suavity of air 
 
 Which marks high birth ; 'tis not, alone, a face 
 
 Whose features are all symmetry; an eye 
 
 In whose ethereal blue Love sits enshrined, 
 
 A spirit in a star; cheeks eloquent 
 
 In changeful blushes, as her sweetest lips 
 
 In the harmonious utterance of pure thoughts : 
 
 'Tis not all these the palpable ornaments 
 
 Of the material mould, love's pageantry 
 
 Floating o'er beauty's surface (as the galley 
 
 That, in its proud trim, bore the Egyptian queen 
 
 Along the rosy-tinted waves, reflecting 
 
 The blazon of that mock divinity ): 
 
 No, no ! it is not these that win my heart : 
 
 But 'tis the pure intelligence of mind 
 
 That, like some inborn light, beams from her 
 
 soul; 
 
 The virtuous thoughts, that clothe her as a gar- 
 ment; 
 
 The chastity, the candour, and the meekness, 
 That, through her parted hair, look from a brow 
 And features, where the seal of heaven is set! 
 Oh, Edric I 'tis, in truth, a countenance
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 225 
 
 Whereon a saint might look, loving yet passion- 
 less; 
 
 A record of philosophy ; a page 
 Which Wisdom might peruse, and learn, as in 
 A leaf of holy writ. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Draw breath, fair Brother ! 
 This is, indeed, to be enamour'd but, 
 True as the portrait may be, is it quite 
 In character? What hope you from a wife 
 Suiting your rhapsody ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 A wife ! by Heaven ! 
 You all are in one plot to madden me. 
 I love the daughter not the wife. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Cry mercy ! 
 Heaven speed your wooing I So, as yet, you 
 
 have not 
 Whisper'd what ladies love to hear ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 I have 
 But gazed and gazed : yet can I read the 
 
 heart 
 
 In the fair superscription of the face ; 
 And all I name I pledge myself she is. 
 Q
 
 226 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Whate'er you please ; I shall believe it all. 
 And you, here, aim 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 No matter what my aim is. 
 At nine remember. Ho! Lord Edric 
 
 hearken 
 
 Be in my chamber, ere to-morrow's sun : 
 We shall have need of counsel trusty and wise. 
 Till then, farewell ! 
 
 [Exit EDMUND. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I do begin to think there's virtue in 
 
 My new ambition ; Fate so leagues herself 
 
 Accomplice to my will. The brothers woo 
 
 One mistress prosperously may they woo her ! 
 
 It is a charitable wish, and likely 
 
 To yield contentment, 'till each knows his wrong. 
 
 What then? Am I to blame, should accident, 
 
 Or overweening zeal, tear off the bandage 
 
 From either's eyes ; and if ('tis natural) 
 
 Evil should grow of this, and, from the heart, 
 
 Wherein 'tis 'gender'd, travel to the hand ? 
 
 Let me consider. This course is too slow. 
 
 To-night this gallant visits his unknown, 
 (For such she seems to him) this Algitha,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 227 
 
 Late wedded to her guardian, Sigiferth j 
 
 In some fantastic freak of age, men say, 
 
 Churlish to watch what it may not enjoy. 
 
 This maiden, too, hath caught the eye of Edwy ; 
 
 And he is savage in his appetite. 
 
 What if both choose one moment for one suit? 
 
 What if both meet in rage can I help that? 
 
 What if one slay the other is't my fault ? 
 
 At least 'twill be my gain whate'er befal. 
 
 Shall I not turn it in my thought? I will. 
 
 In that there's risk to none. [Exit. 
 
 The open Country. 
 
 Enter CANUTE, GOTHMUND, TURKILL, ANLAFFE, 
 
 and Suite. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Thus far my father's wishes are fulfill'd, 
 And our lance quivers in fair England's heart. 
 Earl Gothmund, bear these tidings to the king, 
 Whose age-worn frame, and sorrow-stricken soul, 
 Need such refreshment : you may say thus 
 
 farther, 
 
 That plots, now ripening, promise early fruit : 
 We gain alike by battle or by parley.
 
 228 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 I go, my Lord. [Exit GOTHMUND. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Turkill, this enemy, 
 Marshall'd by youths, bear them right cautiously. 
 
 TURKILL. 
 
 Our spies report, the sons of Ethelred, 
 And the co-regent Duke of Mercia, 
 Still haunt the court, leaving to graver heads 
 The toils of war. 
 
 CANUTE 
 
 Methinks, Northumberland 
 Had shown more soldiership, had he maintained 
 Yon hill's bold brow some hours. Flank'd by 
 
 that river, 
 We durst not have affronted his main battle. 
 
 TURKILL. 
 
 Cornwall, who, as Duke Edric's creature, holds 
 High influence o'er their councils, writes to me, 
 That, by Prince Edmund's order, who allows 
 No second in command, they may not hazard 
 One doubtful field, till join'd by his new levies, 
 Which are immediate. Young as he is, me- 
 
 thinks 
 
 four grace will find no worthless foe in Ed- 
 mund.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 229 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Such is rny trust. I have not given my youth 
 A scholarship of arms, to waste my prime 
 In tilting for a pastime ; or, in blunting 
 My sword on silken-coated chamber-gallants. 
 I would do something which, while it serves the 
 
 state, 
 
 May, for itself, be worth a memory : 
 Something of prowess in the shock of steel ; 
 Or the wise combinations of plann'd fields, 
 Where thought does more than weapon ; or win 
 
 repute 
 
 For skill in conduct of successful plots, 
 Where the pen saves the sword a world of blood. 
 
 TURKILL. 
 
 We soldiers, good my Lord, would rather wade, 
 Even to the knees, in blood, than toil a league 
 On a rough road to avoid it. Yet, I own, 
 Plots promise well ; perhaps at lighter risk. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Cornwall is Mercia's friend. How well I hate 
 That man thou know'st full well : yet, in this 
 
 game 
 We play deep stakes, and must, though prompt, 
 
 be cautious. 
 If, by to-morrow's sunset, we can force
 
 230 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 No Vantage in the field, we then essay 
 
 A wilier game. What think you? Ethelred 
 
 May his last hour gladly absolve from care, 
 
 And leave th' adjustment of our difference 
 
 To the arbitrement of umpires : I 
 
 Would not reject, and he will name, Duke Edric. 
 
 TURKILL. 
 
 Why, 'tis a hopeful scheme : impediment 
 
 I can see none save, in your vow of vengeance. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 That shall be kept ; but may be kept as surely 
 In future council as on this battle-field. 
 Yes I will meet, with a sheath'd sword, this 
 
 Edric 
 
 Now ; 'tis my policy : the instant welfare 
 Of kings and nations rests upon my conduct. 
 In private quarrel these shall not be perill'd. 
 
 TURKILL. 
 
 A surer time may come. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 A sure time shall come 
 My oath is register^. But, first, my arm 
 Must, from his throne, pluck down this bloody 
 
 Saxon, 
 
 Whose crown a Dane shall wear more gloriously. 
 Then, Edric, at thy heart ! but not i' th' dark,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 231 
 
 I shall strike at thee in an open field 
 Then give thy forfeit limbs to feed the crow. 
 Now, Nobles, for the present be it your care 
 To plume our squadrons for the morrow's sun, 
 As if we had no thought but to display 
 Our prowess 'neath his eye. Within my tent 
 Meanwhile will I, with slow and wary thought, 
 Address my mind to either chance. Depart. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 The Garden of Sigiferth. 
 Enter EDMUND. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 This is the gate softly ay, there's her chamber. 
 The light looks from her casement on the moon, 
 With a red eye, as one who watches. See ! 
 What passes o'er the window ? now 'tis gone 
 And now (her own sweet shade, as 'twere a 
 
 spirit, 
 
 Gracing this lonely hour) 'tis come again. 
 How beautiful, to one who loves, is such 
 A night as this ! breathless as he who stills 
 His heart to catch love's sigh, dearer than words. 
 No sound of life disturbs the air: the moon
 
 232 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Sits in her cloudy temple; like a priestess, 
 White-stoled, and radiant with the inward light 
 Of wisdom, holy thoughts, most pure desires, 
 And dreams that hold her in community 
 With yon angelic choir, whose sounding spheres 
 Peal hymns of adoration, through the depths 
 Of the calm, boundless, and eternal heaven ! 
 Most soothing are the thoughts great Nature 
 
 breathes 
 
 Into the human soul ! as if from heaven, 
 Upon the altar of the heart, direct, 
 A purer flame descended, there to light 
 Th' accepted sacrifice ! How blest art thou, 
 Love, in thy garb of purity ! how base 
 In all thy meretricious braveries I 
 Thou art the blossom of the heart, that heralds 
 A various fruitage : some, like dead-sea apples, 
 That break in bitter dust within the lips ; 
 Some, of a cloying sweetness, which leave after 
 A legacy of sickening qualms ; some pungent, 
 That stimulate the craving sense, then pall it ; 
 But some have such blest flavour, wholesome 
 
 substance, 
 
 That appetite, unsated, still returns ; 
 As love's requital makes us doubly love. 
 She moves again, between the light and win- 
 dow
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 233 
 
 How gracefully her shadow bends ! and now 
 Her arm is raised haply, to loose her tresses, 
 And fling them forth, a fountain of bright ring- 
 lets, 
 
 As waters round a statue. Come, sweet music ! 
 Carry love's soul into her ear, and witch her 
 Unto my suit. Hist, hist ! ye laggart minstrels ! 
 Where do ye linger? \_He steps aside. 
 
 Enter EDWY and OSMER. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Nay, nay ! I might have any woman so. 
 I would not love her, knave, beyond a week. 
 Ha ! see you there, whom Edric told me of? 
 My blood's on fire. [Catching at his dagger. 
 
 OSMER. 
 
 Think of her husband, Prince. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 A sly gift to the church may absolve much. 
 See ! here he comes again ! Hell blister him ! 
 Bastard, wilt thou stand by me? 
 
 OSMER. 
 
 Prove me. 
 EDWY. 
 
 By hell ! 
 The villain temps me strangely.
 
 234 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Enter SIGIFERTH, cloaked. He knocks at the door. 
 
 SIGIFERTH. 
 
 Algitha I 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 His fancy is already in her chamber 
 Damn him ! 
 
 [EDWY and OSMER assail SIGIFERTH. 
 
 EDWY. 
 Hot liver ! take this to thy core ! 
 
 SIGIFERTH. 
 
 Oh I I am slain. 
 
 ALGITHA (rushing out in (error). 
 Help ! help ! 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Sweet mistress pr'ythee ! 
 Thou shalt have usage such as ladies love. 
 Nay, then, I'll stop your mouth with kisses. 
 
 Enter EDMUND from behind. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Fiend ! 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, defend thyself! Unhand 
 The lady! Look to thy life. 
 
 EDWY (aside). 
 
 My brother's voice !
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 235 
 
 Osmer, upon him ! 
 
 [ They both Jight with EDMUND. OSMER 
 flies. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Coward ! Hold, Edmund, hold 
 I'm wounded to the death ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 What ! speak again. 
 Lights there ! what ho ! hold up thy head ! 
 
 who art thou ? 
 My brother ! say not that thou art my brother. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Leave me ! begone I 
 
 Enter EDRIC, and Attendants with torches. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 What means this broil ? 
 (Aside). By death ! 
 The churl it is that's hurt. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Turn down your torches : 
 Lift not night's pall from such a sight as this. 
 Edric, the daemons have been loosed on earth, 
 And ta'en men's shapes, and wrought such 
 
 bloody pranks 
 As should draw down th' avenginglightnings. See
 
 236 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 How to the bloody corse of Sigiferth 
 
 Yon weeping woman clings. There lies my 
 
 brother, 
 
 Smote in his crime by an unconscious hand, 
 A brother's hand his blood is on my sword 
 See here ! and on my head, and in my heart. 
 Oh, Edwy ! 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Touch me not ! avaunt ! I am 
 Revived again I Lord Edric, take me hence. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Brother ! your hand. 
 
 EDWY (to EDRIC). 
 Your arm, Sir ; lead me hence. 
 [Exit EDWY with EDRIC. 
 EDMUND (to ALGITHA). 
 
 Lady, permit a friend, who loved your father, 
 Gently to draw you from this scene. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 My father ! 
 
 Oh, yes ! he was a father to me. Sigiferth ! 
 My husband ! my poor husband ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Sacred Heaven I 
 
 Lady, forgive, that I Thou bleeding clay 
 
 Forgive, that even in thought I wrong'd thee. 
 Lady,
 
 DUKE OF MER.CIA. 237 
 
 How may I serve thee? 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Oh, had you known him, Sir, 
 And seen how fondly from my infancy 
 He cherish 'd me ; and, when the world grew 
 
 strong 
 
 In wickedness around me, gave in his age 
 The aegis of an honour'd name and house 
 To shield my friendless, maiden helplessness. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Oh, say no more 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 And can I view him now, 
 Defaced by murder's ruthless hand, nor feel 
 My desolation, and his fate? My husband ! 
 Friend ! father ! pardon that I think of aught 
 Than this, thy breathless clay oh misery ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Pray you permit that, with a friendly force, 
 I draw you from this sorrow. Sirs, take up 
 These poor remains; and to Saint Stephen's 
 
 bear them. 
 
 Mine be the charge that honourable rites 
 And holy masses grace his sepulture. 
 Lady, I shall but lead you to your home, 
 And so commit you to your handmaid's care. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 238 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 The Palace in London. 
 Enter EDMUND, EDRIC, BULLOIGN, $c. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 My Lord of Mercia, I insist you waive 
 This topic. Whilst in my hand lies deputed 
 The sceptre, I will grasp it as a sword. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I do but urge your father's express will, 
 The weakness of the times fair policy 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Away with policy ! and, for the times, 
 Our firmness and unshrinking will shall nerve 
 The puny muscles of misrule. I bow, 
 As doth become a son, with filial sorrow, 
 Before a father's weakness; but, as a prince, 
 A patriot, and a man, I dare to think 
 And act as may advantage our poor country 
 Albeit amenable to cavilling fools 
 Touching this charge of disobedience. Gentle- 
 men, 
 
 Who feel as Englishmen should feel, already 
 Have three most precious weeks vainly been 
 wasted
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 239 
 
 In this most aimless conference. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Speak not ! 
 I'll have no more on't. Bulloign, to horse ! and 
 
 bear 
 
 My orders to Northumberland and Cornwall, 
 That by to-morrow's sun, on Ashdown field, 
 Our power stand militant. Before the dawn 
 My place be at their head. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 I haste, my Prince ; 
 
 And with a light heart shall essay the journey, 
 Bearing such worthy tidings. 
 
 [Exit BULLOIGN attended. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Edric, your hand ! 
 
 I take it in pledge that with no angry thought 
 Do I reject your well-meant counsel. Further, 
 I here commit to your fraternal care 
 That dearest hope I hold on earth, the beautiful, 
 The virtuous, and, though widow'd, virgin 
 
 Algitha. 
 
 She knows that with no selfish aim I strive 
 To win her from past grief. She shall be mine
 
 240 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Your eye falls from me. 
 
 EDRIC (aside). 
 
 Dolt! I have conjured up 
 Nought but despair by my vain plots. The 
 
 death 
 
 Of Sigiferth hath help'd him to a wife 
 Me to new crimes. Shall 1 proceed or pause ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Why muse you ? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Thoughts, my Lord, are very worthless. 
 So, when the stress of battle comes, my station 
 Is with weak woman and a death-bed ! Take 
 My sword ; a distaff, or a crucifix, 
 Suit better my new dignity. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 I command not 
 
 Aught so unworthy of your character. 
 Your Mercian levies, and the tardier Angles, 
 (Who with strong bit and sharp spur must be 
 
 ruled,) 
 
 To your experience we commit. Though some- 
 what 
 
 Of loiterers on the skirts of our main battle, 
 They shall well back us in to-morrow's fight. 
 Take, then, this post, as one of honour : trust me,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 241 
 
 A firm mind and a skilful never yet 
 Were more in need. We purpose to enact 
 That which may ask prompt succour. Are you 
 content? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Of force I must be. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Now, to thee, fair Algitha, 
 
 I shall but whisper one short word and then 
 I must not dwell on this. Commend me, Edric, 
 Unto the queen ; her love for me is scant : 
 Tell her not less, whate'er betide, there lives not 
 A heart more firm in honourable faith 
 To her, and her fair children. [Exit EDMUND. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 The scale of fate is in my hands again ! 
 Hope breathes once more ! Who waits ? 
 
 Enter a /Servant. 
 
 Send to my chamber 
 
 The Earl of Cornwall's messenger. My pact 
 Shall with the Dane be kept though yet my 
 
 claim 
 
 Upon Nortlmmbria tremble in suspense. 
 Should Edmund lose to-morrow's day ? Why, 
 
 then, 
 
 R.
 
 242 DDKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 I clutch the key, by whose most cunning wards 
 Empire within these turrets is shut in. 
 To-morrow I ay, that is the staff I lean on ; 
 Round whose charm'd stem, as o'er a wizard's 
 
 wand, 
 
 The serpent, Hope, coils up his glittering folds. 
 Adieu to Edmund, should that day be lost ; 
 And that he wins it not shall be my care. 
 Edwy ! thou art an ill weed in my path, 
 From whence some poisonous drug may be dis- 
 
 till'd. 
 
 Thou hast a venom rankling in thy veins 
 Which a false tongue hath breathed into thy 
 
 sense 
 
 Of that chance blow, dealt by a brother's hand. 
 I'll prompt him to some post of trust to morrow, 
 And with a hawk' s-eye watch the flight of chance. 
 The king will soon be dead : brief be, thereafter, 
 Thy widow's weeds, fair Emma ! I know no 
 
 guardian 
 
 More worthy of thy royal brood than I. 
 Oh ! trust me in thy dove-cote, I shall be 
 As plausible a fox as ever wiled 
 Bold chanticleer from roost ; and, for a kite, 
 The mildest bird that ever stoop'd to feather. 
 So, welcome Power ; and guide me to a gem
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 243 
 
 Of a yet brighter and more royal water ! 
 Now wend I to the queen. Unholy love ! 
 Daemon ambition ! in your fiercest flames 
 Kindle your torches ; and, upon my tongue, 
 And in her heart, pour all your subtlest fires, 
 To win a jealous woman to my will I 
 
 [Exit,
 
 PAET THE THIKD. 
 
 THE TRAITORS. 
 
 The Palace in London. 
 
 Queen EMMA and EDRIC. 
 
 EMMA. 
 ISE, my Lord, rise nay, Edric. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 To the earth 
 My knees shall grow, unless those angel lips 
 Shall tell me that my daring suit is pardon'd. 
 
 EMMA. 
 Women are used to pardon such. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 And that 
 My love in that soft bosom breeds no hate 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 We do not hate because we are loved. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Say, further
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 245 
 
 (Thou queen, whose empire is the boundless 
 
 heart 
 
 Of universal man whose unbought homage 
 Clings aye to the triumphant shrine of beauty) 
 Should not love's service have reward ? I seek 
 In your eyes, only, a reply one look 
 One only look I ask no more but such 
 As on her love the well-woo'd Helen cast 
 When Venus led her to his pillow such 
 As stung boy Gyges, when the Asian queen 
 Clung to his heart, in vengeance that her lord 
 Had, in his doting vanity, unveil' d 
 To eyes profane all her mysterious beauties 
 Beauties, that vainly the fond bath clung round 
 With its enamour'd waters, as she cower* d 
 Beneath its lucid veil, a snowy pearl, 
 Set in a sparkling zone of chrysolite 
 Look thus ! look thus ! 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Thou dangerous tempter I leave me. 
 
 I dare not look. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I thank thee for that " dare not." 
 
 Thus let me plead 
 
 EMMA. 
 Stand off, my Lord ; the king
 
 246 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Yet breathes : my faith is his : respect his death- 
 bed. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 But, when that obstacle no more shall bar us, 
 Wilt thou ? No answer I 
 EMMA. 
 
 Feel how I tremble. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Thus, 
 Upon thy hand, I seal a lover's thanks. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Another time. Let me withdraw : anon 
 We'll talk of this 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 And, by my hopes, in love! 
 Which do so far outweigh all worldly wishes, 
 That at thy feet, glorying, I lay them down, 
 (Without one pledge from thee, save hope, hope 
 
 only.) 
 
 Here I abjure all thoughts that chime not with 
 The concord of your thoughts, all interests 
 Save those with yours conjoined so help me 
 
 Heaven ! 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 The only gift I now may yield is hope. 
 With that I thank you : nay, nay, look not so,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 247 
 
 Or you will frighten me again. Remember, 
 (If that, indeed, may be a prize worth noting) 
 He wins not Emma's hand who sets no crown 
 On her son's brow. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 These words have slain two princes ! 
 Adieu ! my beautiful oh ! might I add 
 A fonder name my own ! \_Exit EDRIC. 
 
 EMMA. 
 He's gone. My beating heart ! I've dared too 
 
 much. 
 
 I do not know myself. How hot my cheek is ! 
 I may not trust myself again, alone, 
 With this most guilty, most persuasive Edric. 
 Freely I breathe again. What have I said ? 
 Enough haply, too much : no; let him 
 
 hope 
 
 For hope may be a virtue, or a vice 
 A bane, or cordial, as we tend its growth : 
 Nor am I bound to play the monitor. 
 I have not known I must not trust myself. 
 Shall I, then, pause? I will not; for the stake 
 At which I throw is empire for my child. 
 This duke must be restrain'd ; yet, in such wise, 
 That, pledging him, I may not stand committed, 
 In heart, in act, in fame : so may I win
 
 248 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 His services unscath'd, and meet, unblemish'd, 
 The proud eye of Canute. Why dwells my mind 
 For ever on Canute ? May it not be, 
 That a shrewd eye shall, at a glance, pierce 
 
 through 
 
 The kindred thoughts of kindred policy; 
 And mutual interest weave a silent bond 
 Valid as love, attractive as desire ? 
 Oh, I have dared too much this day. T' accom- 
 plish 
 
 My aim, I must be cautious ; nor expose 
 A human heart to superhuman trial. [Exit. 
 
 The Field of Ashdown. 
 Enter EDMUND, BULLOIGN, and Officers, armed. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 The loitering sun is up at last ; and all 
 The dew-bred vapours, that now shroud fair 
 
 earth, 
 
 With their wreath'd masses, soon will under- 
 arch 
 
 The azure cope of heaven. 'Tis well, methinks : 
 Our toil will be the lighter in the shade. 
 Bulloign ! brave comrades all ! are our stout 
 ranks
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 249 
 
 Marahali'd as we concerted ? 
 
 BULLO1GN. 
 
 All, my Lord. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Right. And we now may recapitulate 
 The scheme of this day's charge. 
 
 [He unfolds a scroll. 
 
 Enter EDWY. 
 
 Ha ! brother Edwy ? 
 
 It warms my heart to see thee. Why, this argues 
 A gallant soul, to leave thy bed of sickness 
 For the rough usage of the field. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 I beg 
 A boon. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 It shall be granted. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 I demand 
 To lead the vanguard of the field. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Dear Brother, 
 
 It may not be : yet, 'tis not that I doubt 
 Thy courage, or thy skill. Northumberland 
 Already is possess'd of our designs,
 
 250 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Which time permits not I again develop. 
 
 Yet now, methinks, I have a post will suit you. 
 
 [To BULLOIGN. 
 
 My Lord of Bulloign, for a little space 
 I must absolve your shoulders from a load, 
 This panting gallant shall take up. Fair 
 
 Brother, [ To EDWY. 
 
 Wilt thou, in this day's fight, command the 
 
 escort 
 
 That guards our person ? Be assured 'twill prove 
 (We'll make it such) the post of danger. 
 
 EDWY. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Albeit unworthy of my rank, I take it : 
 Here, I presume, my duty is obedience. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Then step aside with me, my Lord, one moment, 
 Till I instruct you in the dangerous duties 
 Of your most precious charge. 
 
 [BULLOIGN and EDWY walk apart. 
 
 Enter an Officer in haste. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 What means this breathless haste ? your news ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 My Lord,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 251 
 
 The enemy's on horse, already pushing 
 
 His heavy march through the hedged valleys, 
 
 threatening 
 Our right battalion's flank. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Treason ! my Lords I 
 The foe anticipates us. Ho ! with speed, 
 Ride some one to my Lord of Cornwall; charge 
 
 him 
 
 Not to abate his vantage-ground one inch, 
 'Till we support him with fresh troops. 
 
 Enter MORCAR. 
 
 Good Morcar, 
 
 Thou'rt from the right ; what hast thou seen ? 
 
 Is't true 
 The foe so stoutly dares us ? 
 
 MORCAR. 
 
 Ay, my Lord ! 
 
 By heaven, I think they sweep in their array 
 Like an arm'd tempest I I beheld their bands 
 Bristling the horizon of that ample plain, 
 With all their spear-shafts glittering in the sun, 
 Even as a gloomy thunder-cloud that hurtles 
 His arrowy shower athwart a summer sky, 
 Slanting before the golden setting sun.
 
 252 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 My blood's on fire I To horse ! Morcar, with 
 
 speed 
 
 Betake thee to our left, and, if Northumberland 
 Be not return'd, direct who next commands 
 To wheel his force, as arrows from the bow, 
 And charge whate'er he meets. By Egbert's 
 
 heart ! 
 We'll burst upon the traitors in their march. 
 
 [Exit MORCAR. 
 
 Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 How now, Earl Uthred ? why not at your post? 
 What of my father is his grace well ? 
 NORTHUMBERLAND (kneeling). 
 
 My liege! 
 
 First, as thy faithful subject, let me kneel, 
 And cry Long live King Edmund ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 What, Sir? Alas! 
 
 My father ! my poor father ! Oh I had he none 
 To close, with filial love, his dying eyes ! 
 Named he his son, good Uthred ? sped he one 
 
 blessing 
 Towards him, not combating for life alone,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 253 
 
 But for his country's fame and freedom ? 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 He loved you to the last, and call'd you oft 
 The prop of his decaying hours, the shield 
 Of our degraded country. Oh, my liege, 
 Before the breath quite left him, your sad father 
 Muster'd his dying thoughts, and, being revived 
 Some moments by kind cordials, faintly look'd 
 Round, and so piteously assail' d our hearts, 
 With sighs, and tears, and self-accusing words, 
 That we, who watch'd by him that fatal hour, 
 Could scarce contain ourselves for grief. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Oh, Sir, 
 
 Repeat the precious words he utter'd. Why, 
 Why was I absent? 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 'Twas of poor England, chiefly, 
 He spoke ; the prize, the prey, of ev'ry foe ; 
 Rent by the earthquakes of domestic wars ; 
 Uprooted by false traitors ; by weak friends 
 Abandon'd, and himself the weakest. Then 
 He wept afresh, and chid himself. " I see 
 " That God," he cried, " hath turn'd from us : 
 our battle
 
 254 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 " Is weaken'd by revolt I our trusted friends 
 " Betray our counsel, or stand out for terms 
 " Of most dishonourable peace. For me, Sirs 
 " Poor Ethelred, the Unready here behold me, 
 " Only prepared, at last, to die to die. 
 " Oh, days of England's mourning ! struck to 
 
 earth 
 
 " Alike by friends or foes crush'd like the grain 
 " Betwixt two mighty millstones. Land of 
 
 sorrow I 
 
 " Your date is past your great renown extinct 
 " Your sceptre in the grasp of foreign hands 
 " Your throat laid bare unto a foreign sword I " 
 He spoke but little after, and then swoon'd 
 Reviv'd then dozed and waken'd once again, 
 To sink into the last deep sleep of death. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 The Earl of Cornwall is in full retreat. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 Fly, Bulloign ! take the traitor's post, and 
 
 speed 
 
 His soul to hell I Northumberland I away ! 
 And govern thee, as if all England's realm 
 Weigh'd on our brain, and press'd us to the death !
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 255 
 
 Osmer, speed thou unto the Duke of Mercia, 
 And charge him so to expedite his march 
 That, ere the sun hath reach'd the height of 
 
 heaven, 
 
 He stand on th' adverse bank of yon good ford, 
 Holding the desperate pass, as one who strains, 
 With clench'd teeth, bursting eyeballs, blanched 
 
 lips, 
 
 For mastery for life ! Edwy, unsheath 
 Thy sword in thy first field ; and wield it so, 
 As if for vengeance, knowing it thy last! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Another part of the Field of Ashdown. 
 Alarums. 
 
 Enter CAN DTE, ANLAFFE, attended. 
 
 ANLAFFE. 
 
 Your grace, in this day's famous charge, hath so 
 Acquitted your high valour, and sustain'd 
 Your wonted captainship, that now your subjects 
 Crave, as a boon, that you no more expose 
 Your precious life to needless danger. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Ha!
 
 256 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Well charged, brave Turkill ! see, how Goth- 
 
 mund wheels 
 
 Upon their staggering- flank! Here will I rest 
 Awhile. Why, ay, this Ashdown in our story 
 Shall have a brave remembrance. Gallant An- 
 
 laffe, 
 
 Well hast thou borne thee in this trial kneel ; 
 And, though dark Mercia chafe, and gnaw the 
 
 bit, 
 Rise up, Earl of Northumberland ! Where are 
 
 they 
 The spoils of the old Saxon lord ? 
 
 ANLAFFE. 
 
 Behold 
 His sword, (a broken one) and spurs, and belt. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 A braver knight, a worthier, or a wiser, 
 Sat not on horse, or sway'd in council. 
 
 ANLAFFE. 
 
 He 
 
 Comported him with death, as one who looks 
 With scorn on that which he despises : striving 
 To struggle on one knee, and feebly shaking 
 His weaponless hand in air, he shouted " Ed- 
 mund ! 
 
 " England ! " then fell prone, like an oak, and 
 died.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 257 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Thy message? say? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 King Edmund still, though wounded, 
 Fights like a stag at bay. Cornwall hath 'scaped 
 And pledges that the Duke of Mercia stirs not 
 One soldier to the rescue. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Bid him spur 
 
 Unto the duke, and say, that, having won 
 The ford, we strike at London. Unto him 
 I do commend (should he indeed survive) 
 The master, whom this bright day hath discrown'd. 
 What says brave Anlaffe ? 
 
 ANLAFFE. 
 
 Oh, my Lord, to horse ! 
 By Odin I England's banner is afloat 
 Once more, on yon hill's crest ! No meaner arm 
 May stem King Edmund's charge ! 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Upon them, then ! 
 
 And be our cry " St. Brice! " " Gunilda's 
 wrongs ! " 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 258 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Another part of the Field of Ashdown. 
 
 Enter EDRIC, attended: the Earl of CORNWALL. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 With bended knee, I here salute your grace 
 As Mercia's king, Duke of Northumbria, 
 And guardian of fair England's realm. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 Is Edmund slain ? how say'st thou ? quick ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I know not ; 
 
 But do believe it well. Of this be sure ; 
 If breathing, he has not a subject now 
 Will cry, " God save him ! '' Edwy is fall'n. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 How died he? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Charging with Turkill, in the foremost rank, 
 We singled out King Edmund, who still fought, 
 Back'd by some friends, around his household 
 
 banner ; 
 
 Enacting deeds that well became his birth. 
 In gloomy mood, some score yards in the rear,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 259 
 
 Prince Edwy rein'd his horse in, nor would move 
 One man to the rescue. I could see his face 
 Convulsed with varying passions, pale and 
 
 ghastly, 
 While his fierce troop, indignant, chafed around 
 
 him ; 
 
 Who, when they saw the royal banner stoop, 
 No longer might be stay'd, but onward sprang, 
 Too late, (so well their leader's treason wrought) 
 To snatch the doubtful wreath of victory, 
 But timely to preserve King Edmund's life. 
 The Churl charged with them whether by 
 
 sense of shame 
 
 Stung, or remorse, instinct of courage, love 
 Of kindred, lingering still at heart, I know not; 
 But, in the midst, struggling with Turkill, 
 
 wrenching, 
 
 With knit teeth, for the standard, I observed, 
 And, from behind, charging at gallop, smote 
 
 him 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 What, dead ? 
 
 CORNWALL (displaying his sword). 
 Behold I heart's blood was never blacker ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 I I 'tis well I
 
 260 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I had his head struck off, 
 And, in its warm blood reeking, on a pole, 
 Shouting, we bore it through the Saxon ranks, 
 And cried, " Behold your King! " sudden, de- 
 ceived 
 By the resemblance of the brothers, fear 
 
 Dispersed their bravest But, behold I whom 
 
 fate 
 Yields to your hand the royal fugitive ! 
 
 Enter EDMUND wounded and fatigued. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 All lost all lost! thou damned Mercia! 
 Here, consummate thy treason ! here, in my 
 
 heart ! [ Uncovering his bosom. 
 
 Oh England ! my poor country I 
 Ha ! Cornwall traitor ! art thou there ? 
 
 Thank Heaven, 
 I yet have strength ! 
 
 \_He rushes at, and slightly wounds, CORN- 
 WALL. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Have at thee, crownless king ! 
 EDRIC (interposing). 
 
 Hold ! Thus I strike your sword down. Ethel- 
 mar,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 261 
 
 Abate your fiery zeal. Put up, my Lord, 
 Your sword must I repeat it ? Edmund, I am 
 
 not 
 The bloodhound that thou deem'st me. Question 
 
 not 
 
 Why I am what I am ? There lies a path 
 Of safety, leading to the forest. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Almost 
 I hate a life, due at thy hand. 
 
 [A salute of trumpets. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Canute 
 Comes on the instant : fly I 
 
 EDMUND (as he goes out). 
 
 Cornwall, remember ! 
 
 Enter CANUTE, TURKILL, ANLAFFE, GOTHMUND, 
 attended. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 My Lord of Mercia, good day I and thanks. 
 You have perform'd fair service ; for the which 
 We shall be grateful. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Sir, it moves me much 
 
 That, with this manifest slight, you spurn and 
 trample
 
 262 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Our compact's true intent. You march to Lon- 
 don? 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Such is our will. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Whilst I, this kingdom's regent, 
 Possess its keys in arms ? 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Even so. But come ; 
 
 We shall hut waste our new-born love in jars, 
 Which only make the vulgar speculate. 
 We do not doubt we can expound some reasons 
 Upon our way, shall satisfy your grace. 
 
 [ Exeunt. 
 
 Court of the Palace in London. 
 Enter EDRIC and CORNWALL. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 The Danes do lord it strangely here I I pray 
 To be released from my most irksome charge 
 Of joint command. The meanest citizen 
 Cannot protect his house, his wife, his substance, 
 From Turkill and these ruffian officers, 
 Who laugh when, with remonstrance, I but
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 263 
 
 Your grace, or cite their king's commands. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 May all 
 
 Scorch in eternal flames ! Why com'st to me? 
 As if / were the cause and so from me 
 The remedy might spring. Thou sting's! me, 
 serpent I 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 This tone, my Lord ! to me 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Nay, gentle Cornwall ! 
 
 Mine own most trusty (and most trusted) friend, 
 Excuse these sallies. I am wrought upon, 
 Thou know'st I am, too hardly for my temper. 
 I would have rest a little solitude 
 And yet no stay, one moment. Presently 
 I shall be calm. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 It was well done to spare 
 
 King Edmund's life. He may (if, as seems likely, 
 The Danes shall play us foul) be useful yet. 
 I worship thee for that good policy. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 What ! wilt not give me credit for one deed 
 Of lingering pity ? ay, Sir, fortify 
 The arm and head by beggaring the heart.
 
 264 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Onward, still onward, must I rush ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Too deeply 
 
 You ponder on this matter. 'Tis not well 
 To predicate great evils from slight cause : 
 We shall but laugh hereafter at our fears. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Your mind has not been task'd as mine has 
 
 been. 
 
 I have look'd down into the deep of time, 
 And sounded with true plummet its abysses; 
 And, hov'ring o'er its summer smoothness, well 
 Can augur all its wintry wrath, and point 
 Where shoals lie hid, rocks threaten, whirlpools 
 
 menace; 
 
 And trace past wrecks upon the horrid shores, 
 Or 'neath the gloomy billows mouldering. 
 Therefore it is that, with a boding eye, 
 I watch the stormy symptoms of the times. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 You know not yet Canute. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Know him ? Too well ; 
 And yet too little. It is hard to reach 
 Unto the height of his proud mind ; still harder 
 Its range and dark recesses to explore.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 265 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 True foxes' dens ! strongholds of craft and 
 cruelty ! 
 
 EDR1C. 
 
 He is a man most crafty, though most brave : 
 And, yet, being brave, not treach'rous, e'en to 
 
 foes, 
 Except so far as war's rough game permits 
 
 CORNWALL 
 
 To cheat ye with permitted stratagems. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 True : he will sluice men's blood in lawful 
 
 quarrel 
 
 As if 'twere water in a worthless pitcher. 
 A mighty hunter, he will sweep on, on, 
 Cheering his toothed hounds upon the prey, 
 As though the chase of man were but a sport: 
 And, yet, in peace he will be mild as maids are, 
 And affable as any prosperous suitor ; 
 Though sworn to justice, leaning still to mercy ; 
 A keen inquisitor, yet most indulgent 
 Where doubtful acts need kind interpreters. 
 Withal he will not compass his desires 
 By means that are not worthy of a king. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Ay, thus it is
 
 266 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Thus? yet I know him not ; 
 And no man knows him : and for this I hate 
 
 him ! 
 
 So blended, and so opposite, his qualities: 
 I cannot please, know not if I offend, 
 Fear to oppose, and dare not tempt him. Come, 
 
 come 
 
 I will endure these torturing doubts no longer 
 This morning I will know my fate, and act 
 As, best becomes the crisis. Emma, too, 
 Hath summon'd me to conference : too long 
 Deferr'd : I like not that. Lord Ethelmar, 
 I will be satisfied I 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 You ought you shall be ! 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The Palace in London. 
 Enter CANUTE and EMMA. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Fair Queen, I will not now profess to thee 
 That which would scarce become thy sober weeds, 
 And would comport ill with mine inward heart.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 267 
 
 I will not deal with thee as flatterers do 
 With shallow girls, but speak as to a woman, 
 Whose eye dwells less upon the flowers of life 
 Than on its uses and realities. 
 I do not offer you a youthful heart, 
 (Though mine by age is such,) that, in its glee, 
 Sports like the roebuck with the wind, but one 
 Whose current has been chill'd by timeless 
 
 frosts. 
 
 If then thou may'st accept a soul, whose vigour 
 Is but a bent bow in the public hand ; 
 If thou'lt wed beauty, delicate as thine, 
 To a rough soldier's frame ; lowly I proffer 
 What a fastidious eye may pass unnoticed, 
 But a wise heart will prize. 
 EMMA. 
 
 With joyful omen 
 
 I take a pledge graced with sincerity ; 
 And with like plainness will reply to you. 
 I give you here a widow'd hand, but, with it, 
 No widow'd heart ; for mine hath never loved : 
 In you, Sir, I accept (and love from duty 
 Gently will spring) a father for my children, 
 And a protector of their mother's rights ; 
 Which thus, with perfect confidence, she yields 
 Into your firmer grasp.
 
 268 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 As I acquit 
 The trust, so prosper me kind Heaven ! 
 
 [ They walk apart. 
 
 Enter EDRIC. 
 
 EDRIC (aside). 
 
 How's this ? 
 
 I dream I dream ! 'Sdeath, why am I disturb' d 
 At every idle chance ? 'Tis natural 
 Man should bow down upon the hand of beauty, 
 And murmur well-conceiv'd adieus at parting. 
 He whispers see ! she smiles betraying devil ! 
 He puts his hot lip to her palm fie, fie ! 
 
 CANUTE (on perceiving EDRIC). 
 Mercia, Queen Emma hath deputed me 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Dane ! from her own lips I must learn her will. 
 I thank thee for thy kind interposition ! 
 
 [Attempting to pass. 
 CANUTE. 
 Hold back, my Lord ! How ? you presume 
 
 Retire ! 
 Curb this intemperance. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Proud heart, be still !
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 209 
 
 I should be I I am calm. Feel my hand. 
 Tis cold, but trembles not. Nay, let me pass ! 
 In very humbleness I would beseech you. 
 My heart is heavy with too many pangs 
 Even certainty of wrong would bring relief. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Sir, in pronouncing no, I mean you well : 
 Attend to me : 'twere wise. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 My Lord, I must pass. 
 
 My brain is somewhat wild obstruct me not. ' 
 Queen Emma ! hear I 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Not till you regulate 
 Your mien with more discretion. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Ha! ha! what, 
 
 The tyrant winces ? 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Were I such, methinks 
 A daring front might be abased. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Damnation ! 
 
 Where, what am I, that hear and suffer this ? 
 Art thou a fiend commission'd to torment me ? 
 Strike, with thy dagger ! I could better bear it
 
 270 DUKE OF MERC1A. 
 
 Than these cool taunts, and that sarcastic eye, 
 Which sting me to my ruin. Speak ! resolve 
 
 me 
 
 I can surmise, but would have certainty. 
 Emma! I supplicate I shall be brief, 
 And, my Lord, temperate. 
 
 CANUTE, 
 
 To me your bearing 
 Is of slight import. Is your grace disposed 
 
 [ToEiWMA. 
 
 To the duke's prayer? Decision rests with you. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 It is most painful ; but I yield : you sanction, 
 And I may not refuse. 
 
 EDRIC (kneeling). 
 
 My Queen ! my Emma! 
 EMMA (to CANUTE, hastily). 
 
 My Lord, perhaps this scene would pain me less, 
 Unwitness'd yet be near me. Sir, I attend. 
 
 [To EDRIC. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 With a torn heart, and sorrow-choking tongue, 
 I kneel, I cling to thee, to ask my fate. 
 Yet, ere you shape an answer to my fears, 
 Pause and look back. Recal the love I bore 
 you;
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 271 
 
 Remember all the zeal wherewith I served you ; 
 
 Review the pledges that have pass'd between us, 
 
 The vows I paid, the hopes wherewith you 
 bless'd me, 
 
 The smiles you lavish'd when I knelt and sued, 
 
 And all I staked my life, my soul, upon, 
 
 Which you, with blushing silence, ratified. 
 
 Oh, can you think on these things, and thus 
 spurn me ? 
 
 What! silent? what must all things be for- 
 gotten ? 
 
 And will you thus consign me to despair? 
 
 Cruel, forsworn woman ! 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Not so, my Lord : 
 Here the deception has been yours, not mine. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Mine the deception ! do I hear aright? 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Your own o'ervaulting passions, and blind trea- 
 sons, 
 
 Have been conspirators against yourself, 
 And fill'd your mind with idle dreams. Begone I 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 How's this am I awake? Art thou that Emma 
 Who parley'd once with Mercia's daring suit?
 
 272 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Am I that Mercia, who, for Emma's love, 
 BarterM his peace his faith ? Oh, false as 
 beautiful ! 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Dare not to sully my fair fame with falsehoods, 
 Monstrous, and hateful to me, as thyself! 
 Begone ! thy suit is odious to my ears 
 When Emma listens, 'tis to worthier lips. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 This, in my rival's presence ! this, to me ! 
 False one, thou stabb'st me with a double weapon. 
 Yet hear me once. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 No, Duke of Mercia, no! 
 I have not sought this conference, which now 
 Has grown too painful. What I had to speak 
 His highness will declare. My Lord, farewell ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Now am I reckless of the world ! Speak on 
 
 [To CANUTE. 
 
 Speak to your errand, King ! since such, indeed, 
 Can lacquey for a woman. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Duke of Mercia, 
 I shall be brief
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 273 
 
 EDRIC (interrupting). 
 
 Oh ay ; I comprehend. 
 Brief! When a suitor has a point to win, 
 With what a florid eloquence he swells 
 His periods ; how the liberal words flow forth ! 
 How full of promise then ! but, the suit gain'd, 
 Heaven I what a change ! And what a fool 
 
 were he, 
 
 Whose forward zeal had back'd him at his need, 
 To urge, " My succour here was prompt and 
 
 timely, 
 
 " My advocacy there avail'd you much ; 
 " While still your fortune hung upon the beam, 
 " My hand was ready, and my counsel free ; 
 " And now I ask the promised recompense " 
 Reply, methinks, might be (as you now propose) 
 Brief. Sir, proceed. 
 
 CANUTE (aside). 
 
 I pray for patience, Heaven ! 
 The show, at least, of equanimity : 
 Rebellious heart, be calm I (Aloud) The 
 
 queen, in memory 
 
 Of your profess'd attachment, will not leave 
 To common fame the story of her fate. 
 As Mercia counsell'd once, she purposes 
 To knit her feebler fortunes to a hand 
 T
 
 274 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 That may uphold them. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Traitress ! Name the man. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Oh, not the Duke of Mercia ! 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Canute I know thee 
 Subtle ; and have believed thee wise. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 T hear 
 The text, and wail the exposition. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I 
 
 Trifle no more. King ! I demand my right : 
 Investiture of the Northumbrian lands 
 
 I claim'd. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 And I pledged not. They are the guerdon 
 Of a most stainless knight Anlaffe of Jutland. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 Hear me ! thou paltering fiend ! thou king ! 
 
 thou Dane 1 
 
 (For, in that word, I would concentrate all 
 That hatred can conceive scorn utter) 
 
 dream'st thou 
 That I that I with power in my strong arm,
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 275 
 
 And intellect that will not bend to thine ; 
 That I, from thee, will tamely, unavenged, 
 Bear this light speech, these heavy, grinding 
 wrongs ? 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Why ay ; such language well becomes such 
 
 thoughts, 
 
 And suits the hardy, cool, gigantic villain, 
 Who, like some towering daemon, stands before 
 
 me. 
 
 I can endure that sinister, dark eye, 
 Shooting from 'neath the lowering brow askance 
 Its levell'd ray : that fierce, malignant smile 
 That curls the lip to an atrocious sneer, 
 As thou regard's! me o'er thy shoulder. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Dar'st thou ? 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 The mighty sea-snake so lifts up his neck 
 Amid the storm ; and scowls along the waters, 
 Frighting the hearts of wave-worn mariners. 
 But, serpent as thou art, thou know'st that I 
 Am master of the elements, and rule thee, 
 (pjven as the wizard sways the fiends of hell) 
 Weighing thy strength and weakness, fashion- 
 ing
 
 276 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 To mine own ends thy passions and thy powers. 
 Away ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I go : but, first, hell hear me curse 
 This Dane ! this meddling, lying, cozening 
 
 Dane! 
 Ay, thou shall hear me, wert thou thrice as 
 
 great, 
 
 And I as helplessly within thy grasp. 
 May she, for whom thou thus art false, prove 
 
 false 
 
 To thee as (mark me well) I know she has 
 The aptitude : may she invade thy heart 
 With cankering jealousy and may her offspring 
 Draw venom from her breast, and be to thee 
 As vipers, stinging thee with doubt until 
 At length thy hope shall be they are not thine I 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 I've borne this insolence too long. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Ay, Prince ! 
 
 Tap thy sword's hilt, as maidens try a lute : 
 'Twill fence thee in default of argument. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Wretch ! thus I stoop me to thy infamy. 
 Draw, villain I
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 277 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Joyfully with all my soul! 
 
 [After a pause. 
 I will not fight thee now. \_He sheaths his sword. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Defend thyself! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 What here ? here, in thy very palace cham- 
 ber? 
 You've a frank weapon, back'd thus with the 
 
 odds. 
 
 What, if thou fall'st? thy officers, methinks, 
 Might not be gentle judges of the fact. 
 The glory of tyrannicides is gone 
 Brutus is honour'd less than Caesar now. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Begone ! in safety : take twelve hours for 
 
 flight - 
 Then, by the sacred household blood thou'st 
 
 shed! 
 I will have vengeance deep, inexorable. 
 
 [Exit CANUTE. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I go but shall return ! 
 
 With what a look 
 Of measured scorn he leaves me ! Out upon 't !
 
 278 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 I have borne this shame too far. Here do I 
 
 kneel, 
 
 Avenging Heaven ! and supplicate nay, nay, 
 I will not damn myself with prayers like these. 
 Let me be calm oh, fool I the veriest slave, 
 The common bully of the camp, may now 
 Strut by thee with swoln lip and lifted brows, 
 Blaming high heaven that moulded such a man. 
 My brain is stunn'd : and yet and yet, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 
 'Twas wise to meet, as I have met, the blow. 
 Daemon of craft ! was't not thy policy 
 To goad me to perdition ? But I am proof 
 'Gainst all. With half the kingdom in my 
 
 grasp, 
 
 Friends at my back, and space to combat on, 
 Why should my spirit quail ? 
 
 Canute ! the banner 
 Of inextinguishable hate is raised 
 Between us woe to him who 6rst cries 
 
 " Quarter ! " [Exit.
 
 PART THE FOURTH. 
 
 THE FUGITIVES. 
 
 A Wood, apart from a Field of Battle. 
 Enter, as from the combat, EDRIC and CORNWALL. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 must we fly 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Whither ? to heaven or hell ! 
 It matters not all's over ! Cornwall, farewell I 
 It is the end my book oflife is shut. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 My Lord, King Edmund yet makes head. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 If I 
 
 Had join'd my ranks to his, we might have 
 
 thriven. 
 What then ? Care I who rules ? Canute, to my 
 
 ear, 
 Knells not with sound more hateful or disastrous
 
 280 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Than Edmund. Why what fool am I to parley 
 Thus with my fate! then let it come I a soldier's 
 Should be most welcome on a battle-field. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Though reckless of your own fate, think of those 
 Whose thread is knit with yours. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 What would you have ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 We are enveloped by the double glooms 
 Of night and heavy fortune, yet may hope 
 T' elude the hunter's foot by speed or cunning. 
 We know, by late report, King Edmund rests, 
 Scarce fifty miles hence, in the mountain den 
 Of the dead fox, Northumberland : perhaps, 
 We, with some friends, may yet find refuge there. 
 
 EDRIC (bitterly}. 
 Scant retinue, methinks ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Scant let it be 
 
 We will not sum our strength by counting helms, 
 Or measure hope with fear's arithmetic. 
 The rock we found on is our tameless will. 
 A singleness of aim shall animate 
 One hardy sword to foil a troop of spears. 
 The very unity of our despair 

 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 281 
 
 Belts us in proof against an armament ! 
 How strict soe'er the toils, trust me, like boars 
 We shall break through ; and scatter all would 
 
 bar us, 
 
 As rotten brush-wood in a pathless wild. 
 Courage ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Ha ! think'st thou that I need thy clamour 
 To nerve a craven heart? I tell thee, Lord, 
 Thus on the slippery edge of fate, I fear not 
 Man in his craft or power, nor the wood idols 
 To which he kneels, nor death. I vibrate only 
 Between the fates that proffer ; weighing slowly 
 Which choice most shrewdly recommends itself. 
 Be silent. I would think. Well to King Ed- 
 mund 
 March we so be't. Apprize such friends, as 
 
 yet 
 
 Th' insatiate jaws of battle have not crush'd, 
 That we, ere twice the hopeful sun hath set, 
 Stoop our repentant banner at the foot 
 Of valiant Ironside. If once the beam 
 Of fortune, 'twixt these rivals, shall be balanced, 
 Once more the umpire weapon may command. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 The open Country. 
 
 Enter BULLOIGN, FRITHEGIST, MORCAR, and other 
 Officers of King Edmund. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Who, that remembers Ashdown, could have 
 
 hoped 
 
 To see an eve like this ? Here we stand, Sirs, 
 Triumphant in the midst of our foe's wreck, 
 Like a proud navy, when the storm is hush'd, 
 Riding the surges 'mid their shatter* d prizes. 
 
 MORCAR. 
 
 The brave king will sleep well to-night. 
 
 FRITHEGIST. 
 
 Your pardon. 
 
 To-morrow being his bridal, he will have 
 A mind too busy even for dreams. 
 
 MORCAR. 
 
 How like 
 
 A tiger sprang he on Norwegian Harold, 
 Smote him to earth, and slew him at a blow ! 
 
 FRITHEGIST. 
 
 Now will he claim a kiss for every blow 
 He gave or took in this same field to-day.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 283 
 
 'Tis your true soldier's solace. 
 
 MORCAR. 
 
 Nay, for me 
 
 A brimming mead-cup, not a pouting lip, 
 Hath most refreshment after toils like ours. 
 
 FRITHEGIST. 
 
 He is a model for brave men. How nobly 
 He shapes himself to ev'ry hap of fortune ! 
 With what a grace he wears a victory ! 
 But a lost battle makes him terrible. 
 
 MORCAR. 
 
 Ay; when he 'scaped at Ashdown, never stag 
 Toss'd the bay'd dogs more gallantly in air. 
 
 FRITHEGIST. 
 
 Then with what skill his scatter'd troop he 
 
 rallied ; 
 
 And, lavish of himself, stood faced to death, 
 When the hot foe our fainting squadrons charged. 
 And how devotedly our toils he' shared ! 
 Upon the sentinel's rude couch he slept 
 (The mountain heather canopied with clouds) 
 Fed on the soldier's coarse and scanty fare 
 While cheerful words were ever on his tongue ; 
 Blithe jests of fellowship for common men, 
 A martial descant for your stalwart captains ; 
 And, for sage chieftains, such a range of mind
 
 284 * DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 As holds strong victory in its grasp by right. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Just, though enthusiastic, is your praise; 
 
 And thus the roughest trooper's thought should 
 
 be. 
 
 But men are selfish, and the world ungrateful. 
 Why there are murmurers here, because, for- 
 sooth, 
 
 The king's a man and loves a woman : yet 
 The hours he dedicates to her are all 
 Stol'n from his needful rest, and none from duty. 
 Enough of this. Now let us coolly scan 
 Our fortunes: for Duke Edric's overthrow 
 (Though his revolt was timely from Canute, 
 And gave the foe divided to our onset, 
 As this day's glorious vantage well has 
 
 proved) 
 
 Edric's defeat, I say, will give the Dane 
 Space to collect his shatter'd force, and speed 
 Defiance to our teeth. 
 
 , MORCAR. 
 
 Let him chafe on : 
 He never shall escape; we now o'ermatch him. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Doubtless we shall achieve what brave men can : 
 But he is brave too ; and, a wiser leader,
 
 DUKE OF MERCU. 285 
 
 With firmer soldiers, in a stronger post, 
 Trust me, may not be found. True, he is lost 
 If there defeated ; and, without a battle, 
 Retreat would be a desperate course : yet we 
 Must combat in Canute a man whose conduct 
 May not by common rules be circumscribed. 
 
 MORCAR. 
 All shall be well I 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Brethren in arms ! our bearing 
 Should make that hope assurance. Let us gaze, 
 
 then, 
 
 Upon chance danger with an open eye 
 And, circumspect as bold, act as befits 
 Approved good soldiers, on whose conduct rests 
 Their country's fate, when all is hazarded. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The Gate of Northumberland's Castle. 
 Enter EDRIC, disguised. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 With more than mortal strength of heart and 
 
 limb, 
 Through fen and forest, since my late defeat,
 
 286 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Have I escaped the bloodhounds of ray foe. 
 And now, ye towers of dead Northumberland ! 
 I come a friendless wanderer to your gates, 
 To seek the hated footstool of a man 
 Whom, beyond pardon, I have wrong'd, and 
 
 therefore 
 Hate not the less. What, should he greet me 
 
 thus? 
 
 " Sir, as a brother, you have rent all ties 
 " Of brotherly allegiance from your heart, 
 " And pluck'd the root-stone from your house- 
 hold wall ; 
 
 " Sir, as a subject, you have stoop'd to the dust 
 " The glorious brow of an anointed king ; 
 " And made the sceptre as an osier twig, 
 " That scares a schoolboy." Ay, these dread re- 
 proaches 
 
 Should he not utter, still his heart must feel them. 
 Yet must I now, with penitence in eye, 
 And crouching knees, and sorrow-bending neck, 
 Submit me to this hero's clemency, 
 Who knows that stern necessity, not love, 
 Compels me to his mercy. I have, indeed, 
 No other hope. Unconquerable Edmund ! 
 Well, with thine iron limbs, and heart of fire, 
 Well hast thou stood a bulwark on the breach,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 287 
 
 From which the shafts of war have glanced 
 
 like hail, 
 
 And Treason, foil'd of half his aim, retired. 
 So end my plots, and here I stand at last, 
 A wretch for every idiot lip to rail at 
 A knave, o'ermatch'd and spurn'd a woman's 
 
 fool! 
 Oh woman ! what wert thou, that I should trust 
 
 thee? 
 And I that woman should undo me thus ? 
 
 Enter BULLOIGN. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Whom have we here ? 
 
 EDRJC. 
 
 A man of penitence! 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 What! Edric Streon? in these beggar 
 
 weeds ! 
 Ay, this is retribution ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Good my Lord, 
 
 Where may I seek the king ? my weary knees 
 Yearn to bend down in lowly supplication. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 What would'st thou hope ?
 
 288 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 From mercy much and much 
 From a wise mind renouncing- vengeance. Still 
 May I redeem (it shall be shown) my fault. 
 You pause let me but see the king : I ask 
 No more. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Nay, God forbid that I should deem 
 Pardon impossible or penitence 
 An unavailing plea ! It is a moment 
 Most prosperous for a suitor. Tester eve 
 Our royal warrior stoop'd his neck to fetters, 
 Light as e'er Hymen laid on lover's limbs. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Now Heaven be praised ! 
 
 BDLLOIGN. 
 
 He is in happy humour; 
 And well may be. Fair Algitha! I saw her, 
 All radiant from the nuptial couch, and cover'd 
 With all her spousal blushes, as a veil ; 
 Modestly shrinking from admiring eyes: 
 Even as the glowing harvest moon, when, stealing 
 Her earliest glances through the eastern grove, 
 She wins all hearts with beauty. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Well you speak
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 289 
 
 Her praises, and have pictured forth a bride 
 Such as beseems a youthful conqueror. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 I speak the truth. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Sir ! these are precious moments ; 
 Pray you excuse that, with most eager haste, 
 I would improve them. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Soft. Wait here 'twere well 
 That I precede you. He is now within, 
 And, with his gentle lady, culls the flowers, 
 The fairest and the best this life can yield. 
 I shall but step into yon garden, where 
 They range another paradise. Believe me, 
 It would not be the office of a friend 
 T' intrude you an unwelcome visitant, 
 Upon his cherish'd hour, too suddenly. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The Castle Garden. 
 EDMUND and ALGITHA. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Nay, now, dear love I I may not list to thee : 
 u
 
 290 DUKE OF MERCTA. 
 
 My cheek you shall not see it burns with 
 
 blushes. 
 
 Suffice it, that I love thee oh, how well ! 
 And, with this hand, have giv'n thee tend'rest 
 
 proof. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Speak ! let me hear that voice of melody ! 
 In its sweet music, like the summer air, 
 Chiding, with almost inarticulate breath, 
 The saucy flowers, that will not cease to load 
 Her wings with incense, till, o'ercome and faint, 
 She flutters o'er the perfumed flattery, 
 And dies amid a wilderness of sweets. 
 Speak on. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 I will not : yet methinks, I will ; 
 To prove to thee how inharmoniously 
 The voice of love may jar on love. Was't not 
 Upon the dreaming breast of Silence first 
 The cherub Love was hush'd in infancy? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 I must be silent now : I can but gaze, 
 Till my sight dims with rapture. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Tell me not 
 In words that I am loved ; call me not fair ;
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 291 
 
 Oh, sully not the mirror, purity, 
 
 With Flattery's warm breath. Believe it, love, 
 
 The lips are ever false interpreters, 
 
 And feebly speak the language of the heart. 
 
 But, would'st thou descant on the sweetest 
 
 theme 
 
 That e'er shed roses on the cheek of youth. 
 Then be thine eloquence not of the tongue, 
 But couch thine argument within the eye : 
 There let the spirit of love stand radiant 
 A seraph steep'd in light. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Oh, how I love thee ! 
 
 ALG1THA. 
 
 Nay, now that you look thus, it doth repent me 
 That I so lightly talk'd of this eye-language. 
 Oh, then I must fly from thee 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Thus I detain thee 
 And thus (nay, on thy hand then) fix love's 
 
 seal, 
 
 That shall avail to fetter thee. My beautiful, 
 My delicate, pure-thoughted Algitha ! 
 Within this paradise of flowers thou dwellest 
 As one whose spirit owns a kindred being 
 With all those subtle perfumes that exhale
 
 292 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 From Nature's loneliest treasury of sweets. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Nay, this is flattery all flattery. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Say, then, 
 
 How shall I woo thee ? how acquit my love ? 
 Give me that hand, so soft, so small, so fair, 
 So rounded in its tinted palm, so taper'd 
 In every rose-tipp'd finger. Let me kiss 
 The azure tracery, thus interlaced 
 Upon its ivory surface. Now you smile. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 In quiet joy. What would you with my hand ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Thou delicate, fair palm ! 
 Let me peruse thy mystic characters. 
 Why, what,a maze is here of vagrant lines, 
 Sketch'd lightly o'er the silken skin, as on 
 A fossil rock the impress of a leaf. 
 Behold the mystic characters ! My love I 
 I'm grown a very seer in palmistry, 
 And read a smiling fortune in this hand. 
 Does not my skill claim some reward? a 
 kiss ? 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Fond fool, begone !
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 293 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Well, I am gone 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 No, stay. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Oh, then, I must be bribed. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Thou venal wretch ! 
 What would'st thou have ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 A kiss a smile a sigh 
 A pressure of the hand a look of love. 
 Nay, there is not an accent of that tongue, 
 A motion of those lips, a transient glance 
 Of those soft eyes, but win upon my heart 
 With some new witchery. 'Tis very strange, 
 But, when I see thee, hear thee, think but on thee, 
 Stern manhood softens to a woman's mood, 
 And I become the very slave of tears. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 The tears of joy are sweeter than her smiles. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Bountiful Heaven ! with benignant hand, 
 How thou dost temper all our woes with mercy 
 Till the good triumphs o'er our evil days! 
 My Algitha, in mystery I found thee,
 
 294 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 In levity pursued, in madness loved thee I 
 'Mid thronging perils with true service woo'd 
 
 thee, 
 
 And, in the height of all my wrongs and sorrows, 
 When all but life seem'd lost, by pity won thee. 
 
 ALG1THA. 
 
 A happy captive, cherishing her chains. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 And now, in these wild times, thou look'st upon 
 
 me 
 As a warm sun-beam, breaking through the 
 
 clouds, 
 
 In freshen'd glory lighting up a landscape, 
 Seen by tired traveller from some shelter'd seat. 
 Oh, sweet is hope in youth's untroubled dawn, 
 And pleasant memory to the night of age ! 
 But when a truant joy beams through the gloom 
 Of days like ours, it is philosophy 
 To snatch the noontide hours of happiness, 
 And crowd an age into one precious span. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Nay, my philosophy is better worth. 
 
 The present has to me a keener zest 
 
 From its connection with the past and future. 
 
 Since I've known thee, my dearest bliss is hope. 
 
 Trust me, the summer of our life shall wear
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 295 
 
 A less tempestuous aspect than its spring ; 
 And, in our autumn, such sweet thoughts shall 
 
 cheer us, 
 
 As shall make smooth our wintry path to Hea- 
 ven. 
 
 Life may have now a keener relish ; but, 
 As years creep on, the heart grows tenderer, 
 And tranquil thoughts steal gradually round us, 
 As the young ivy to the age-gnarl'd trunk 
 More firmly clings, than to the smoothest sapling. 
 Thus men seem knit to home, in middle age, 
 By fonder ties than in their prime of days ; 
 And thus it is that, in the eve of life, 
 The grandsire is the playmate of the child. 
 
 Enter a groupe of Masquers, Dancers, Musicians, 
 fyc. with a Poet. They pass in procession. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 How now ! what mean these mummers? 
 
 POET. 
 We come, my Lord, to greet your grace and 
 
 bride 
 With quaint shows and devices. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 What are you, Sir ?
 
 296 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Lord of Misrule, I take it ; and these masquers 
 The subjects of so grave a potentate. 
 
 POET. 
 
 I am, if so it please your grace, a poet ; 
 And here you see the poor machinery 
 By which I eke out my conceits, as 'twere 
 A palpable imagery. May I proceed 
 T' unfold to this fair lady our device ? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 What says my Algitha? 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Most willingly. 
 The show will be a brave one. 
 
 POET. 
 
 I would explain. 
 
 These dancers, in their figured maze, will shadow 
 (Unworthy though they be) some mysteries. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Nay, Sir, we shall be well content to admire 
 The text uncommented. 
 
 POET. 
 
 Minstrels, strike up ! 
 
 And touch your instruments with skill divinest. 
 When, having solaced with harmonious sound 
 The royal ear, incontinent will I 
 Recite some well-concerted compliments,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 297 
 
 Learn'd descants, and poetic rhapsodies, 
 Which, I presume to hope, somewhat may 
 please. 
 
 A Masque, emblematical of Bridal Ceremonies, with 
 Music and Dancing, c.; in the course of which 
 is introduced the following. 
 
 HYMENEAL SONG. 
 
 Awake ! awake ! the hour approaches 
 When, with silent, sweet reproaches, 
 At each light delay, thy bride 
 With coy, downcast looks shall chide, 
 And refuse thy trembling kiss 
 Its custom'd, momentary, bliss. 
 Wake ! in kindling heaven afar 
 Softly winks the matin star, 
 Phospor, from the shades of night 
 Stepping o'er his path of light, 
 Ere his sire, the Sun, hath bounded 
 From fond Thetis' couch ; surrounded 
 With triumphant Tritons, blowing 
 Wreathed conchs; and Nereids showing 
 White and graceful forms, reposing 
 On the clear waves, and disclosing, 
 By their mien, and sidelong eyes, 
 Sympathy with human ties.
 
 298 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Rise! the younger Hours have sprung 
 Through the bright gates, open flung, 
 On th' horizon's glowing rim ; 
 And the fresh Sol gathers him, 
 With a gladiator's spring, 
 To o'erleap this earthly ring. 
 Rise ! thy young bride now is waking 
 From her dream of thee, and breaking, 
 With commingling smiles and tears, 
 From a trance of hopes and fears ; 
 For her thoughts were full of thee ; 
 And her thoughts were ecstacy. 
 
 Now, her modest couch beside, 
 Cowering she sits, in blushing pride ; 
 And lets down her flowing tresses 
 O'er a bosom that confesses, 
 In its rapid fall and swell, 
 That she loves thee oh, how well ! 
 Now her smiling handmaids bring 
 Every snowy-tinted thing 
 That for bridal trim seems meet : 
 Silken slippers for soft feet ; 
 Modest kerchief for a breast 
 Where a rude eye dares not rest ; 
 BroiderM robe, that clings to her 
 O'er a slender stomacher;
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 299 
 
 With a light, transparent veil 
 That for shame shall scarce avail, 
 Knit by wreaths to her bow'd head- 
 Roses and wheat-ears garlanded. 
 Up ! and haste thee to her arms, 
 Trembling with no feign'd alarms ! 
 
 Now, the bright Divinity, 
 Stooping to the western sea, 
 With a lover's blushful haste, 
 Who the sweet hours may not waste, 
 Ere he plunges in the tide, 
 Casts one smiling glance aside 
 To his sister moon, that high 
 From the lucid, azure sky, 
 With half-averted features, pale, 
 (Like a face behind a veil) 
 Looks to earth ; while star by star 
 Light their diamond sparks afar : 
 And the cheek of evening flushes, 
 In its last empurpling blushes, 
 With a tint, suffusing all, 
 Like a sleeping Bacchanal. 
 
 Haste ! the nuptial rites prepare ! 
 Now the jovial midnight air
 
 300 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Speed with music round the couch 
 Where the laughing bride-maids crouch, 
 As they lay a tearful head 
 On the dedicated bed ; 
 And, with decent care, exclude 
 The faint taper's glances rude, 
 That might tell her coming boy 
 All her fears and all her joy. 
 
 Now the nuptial rites are over, 
 And each home-returning lover, 
 With his fair beside him, mute, 
 Whispers his propitious suit, 
 And resolves, with brief delay, 
 To be happy while they may ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Poet, thou hast acquitted thee full well, 
 And shalt receive the poet's laurel meed, 
 Placed on thy brow by hands most beautiful. 
 Thou shalt have gold too ; get thee gone no 
 
 thanks. [Exit Poet, fyc. 
 
 Enter BULLOIGN. 
 Ha ! Eustace ! Thou art welcome even here.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 301 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 I come, Sir, on the part o' the sinfullest man 
 (Haply most penitent) that ever craved 
 The boon of mercy from offended majesty 
 Edric of Mercia. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Why would'st thou speak a name 
 So odious to my soul: and here and now? 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 My liege, it is the bane of sovereignty 
 That leisure is a word whose gentle sound 
 May not survive within its stormy sphere. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Truly thou speak'st. A king's ear should be 
 
 open 
 
 To the faint sighing of his meanest subject 
 As to the courtly influence of the great. 
 Nor let us harshly judge an irksome task : 
 For duty done contains its own reward, 
 As the red iron sears and heals together. 
 Speak then of Edric Streon. 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 He is a man 
 
 Most hateful to my heart ; yet now so lost 
 In fortune, so abased in spirit, wretched, 
 Not simply in his sense of guilt, but guilt
 
 302 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 O'ermatch'd and beggar'd by its own inventions, 
 That I could almost trust his abject grief 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 To be again betray'd ! 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Nay, love, to me 
 
 It seems that in the human heart there dwells 
 A spirit of conscience, that from second guilt 
 Avails to shield repentant vice. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Such should be 
 
 And policy might come in aid of virtue, 
 Teaching how well prosperity on earth 
 May be combined with Heaven. Grieved I 
 
 look 
 
 On a lost creature, finely gifted, such 
 As this most wretched man ; who once appear'd 
 Of better clay than common mortal men. 
 I loved him I have trusted him and he 
 Hath paid me with ingratitude, hate, treason. 
 These could I pardon ; but 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Dearest, remember, 
 
 He now is but the crime-gall'd, helpless slave 
 Cast on thy mercy, voluntarily cast 
 Without one hope but pity : and, save penitence,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 303 
 
 (That may indeed subdue) all weaponless. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 He's arm'd with an inexorable heart 
 In which no spring of human kindness waits 
 The holy stroke, even of a Moses' wand. 
 I trusted all to him ! 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 I do adjure thee, 
 
 Spare his repentance spare him in his crimes 
 Leave him to conscience, and forgiving Heaven ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Angel of pity! thou hast pleaded well 
 I trust for all he lives. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Ah, this is glory ! 
 
 Thus round a hero's neck I wind my arms 
 With a far nobler joy than as a bride. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 My love ! my life 1 God be my witness ! not 
 For private, but for public wrong, I pause. 
 Were I but man, and not a prince (alas I 
 For royalty, that these are not as one!) 
 I could fling out my arms and take him back 
 Even with a dagger in his belt : but now 
 I must assert my kingdom's weal. He lives! 
 But, as a stranger to his household hearth.
 
 304 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 I will not banish him this soil of England, 
 (For that were worse than death indeed,) but he 
 Must dwell as aliens do in foreign lands. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 He charged me urge how he may yet redeem 
 His guilt by precious service. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 I despise, 
 And would reject, his aid ; though it could seat 
 
 me 
 
 Upon a Caesar's throne. Come, Algitha, 
 We will discourse, as we proceed, how best 
 The tenor of our will may be enforced. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 PART THE FITFH. 
 
 THE SINGLE COMBAT. 
 
 A Grove, in Front of Edmund's Camp. 
 
 Enter EDRIC in agitation, CORNWALL following 
 him. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 |Y Lord ! 
 
 Why walk you thus aside, so moodily? 
 My Lord I Lord Edric ! be not thus 
 disturb'd. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 If thou wert as a captive at the bar, 
 Watching his judge's Up, that shall pronounce 
 The instant doom, and that a doubtful one : 
 If thou wert as a felon at the tree, 
 Who, in the dead pause of the silent crowd, 
 Has yet some hope to hear a voice cry " Par- 
 don :" 
 
 If thou wert as the drowning, dying wretch, 
 Who, at his last gasp, sees a coming aid 
 How would'st thou feel how act? 
 x
 
 306 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Enter BULLOIGN. 
 Bulloign ! my fate ! 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 I have the king's commands, in few brief words, 
 To say to Edric Streon, that his crime, 
 As it affects the person of the king, 
 Hath been forgiven ; but that, inasmuch 
 As, in its consequence, it hath committed 
 The kingdom's weal, it may not be forgotten. 
 You may assure yourself of life nay, more, 
 
 Freedom from forced restraint. But you must 
 
 live 
 Even as a stranger to your house, and dwell 
 
 An alien in your native land. You speak not. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Sir, pray you notice not this mood : despair 
 Preys on his very heart. 
 
 [BULLOIGN bows assent, and retires. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Will you not speak ? 
 EDRIC (after a pause). 
 
 The deep sea-wave has pass'd o'er me : I breathe 
 Again ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 My Lord, what think you on ? What would you ?
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 307 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Vengeance ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Does vengeance need long pondering ? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 There falters at my heart a something still 
 I struggle with, I wrestle with in vain. 
 Nay thus I rend ye forth, and scatter ye 
 Unto the elements I Away ! Farewell ! 
 Thou gentler spirit, that still lingering clung'st, 
 As a good angel, to my heart ! farewell ! 
 All sad, remorseful thoughts ! instinct of con- 
 science, 
 
 And sacred love of human-kind farewell ! 
 But welcome, ye black ministers of evil, 
 With all your tossing torches I and, throughout 
 The pitchy darkness of my soul, fling all 
 Your fellest flames I 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Be prudent we are observed. 
 
 Enter a group of Officers : EDRIC regards 
 them fiercely. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Why, let them come they never shall behold
 
 308 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 A man more wretched, and so desperate ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Retire, I pray, a moment. There seems, here, 
 Something a watchful spirit may improve. 
 
 [EoRic and CORNWALL walk apart. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 In truth I'm sick of this : these mountain 
 
 marches, 
 
 In quest of what still, as the fire o' the fen, 
 Eludes our grasp, wear out my patience. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Wherefore 
 
 Should the king still refuse the proffer'd truce ? 
 Canute, methinks, from yon entrenchment looks 
 Like one who needs small aid from aught but 
 weapon. 
 
 THIRD OFFICER. 
 
 Tush ! the king judges (rightly, I think) that these 
 Circumvallating lines, and tangled passes, 
 But breed distrust of their own power and prowess 
 In the adverse ranks, which thus with punier 
 
 courage 
 
 Shall bide our onset, and more surely perish, 
 Caught in this labyrinth of rocks and woods, 
 Rivers and fens. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 And what care we ? Will England
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 309 
 
 Be happier for our deaths ? for sooner, trust me, 
 Than the Dane be dislodged, we perish. Pah ! 
 It sours my blood, pondering on these our toils, 
 Dangers, and abstinence, to think that he, 
 Who, like the war-horse, should brave all, but 
 
 squanders 
 
 The precious moments, like a lusty palfrey 
 Ambling beneath a woman's silken rein. 
 I'll fight no more. 
 EDRIC (who has approached during this speech). 
 
 And wherefore have ye fought? 
 For honour fame ? Oh, these, indeed, are titles 
 That proud war doth affect ; but,last they, friends? 
 A glorious harvest? true: but who the reaper? 
 Your common men may toil, and bleed, and die, 
 Bondsmen of fame artificers of honour, 
 Planting the bay they wear not; garlanding 
 A master's brow. What is the mark ye aim at? 
 He that affects a diadem, should brave 
 The hazard of his daring; nor depute 
 His vengeance to an hireling ; nor transfer 
 To borrow'd hands the peril of the deed : 
 Th' ambition is his own and such should be 
 The triumph, or the penance. This is my counsel, 
 (Simple, direct, and honest, as befits 
 Plain-spoken soldiers) I would have these kings,
 
 310 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 With their own swords, close their peculiar 
 
 quarrel, 
 
 And fight for mastership : so shall we save 
 Much innocent blood, and many doubtful days : 
 Or, let them take this kingdom, this poor soil, 
 This home of sorrow, this degraded England, 
 And e'en divide it. It has own'd seven masters, 
 And may suffice for two. 
 
 THIRD OFFICER. 
 
 By Heaven ! my Lord, 
 It is a thought the king, most joyfully, 
 Will give his heart to. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Ay, it takes my fancy. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 And mine. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Then haste we to the camp, and urge 
 The general voice to back our suit 
 
 THIRD OFFICER. 
 
 The king 
 
 Hath sought this course before, and now will leap 
 T' anticipate our prayer. Brave comrades, for- 
 ward ! \_Exeunt. 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Edmund ! my star looks brightly from its cloud,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 311 
 
 While thine is on the wane. Soon shall thy fate, 
 Now soaring as an eagle, stoop to earth, 
 Like a kite struggling in a serpent's folds. 
 There may be darker spirit's in their camp 
 Than these : 'twere well we probed this malady. 
 Cornwall steal thou unto their camp to-night, 
 And touch the plague spot with a fearless hand. 
 Go in thy wiliest caution mantled : dive 
 Deep down into the soldiers' hearts and 
 
 prompt 
 Nay, this must be well weigh'd. My Cornwall 
 
 come, 
 Blest with a friend like thee, can I despair? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The Danish Camp. 
 EterCANUTE,TuRKiLL, GoTHMUND, and Officers. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Roll'd in her shadows, the wan spirit of night 
 Descends: so frowningly our fortunes lour ; 
 And angry nature heralds in a day 
 Of danger, it may be of doom, to us. 
 
 GOTHMUND. 
 
 The road is open to retreat. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Not so.
 
 312 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 From a fair field the brave have no retreat. 
 I have compared the chances, and here plant 
 My standard on this rock. 
 
 Enter BULLOIGN, introduced. 
 
 TheEarlofBulloign? 
 Welcome, brave soldier ! 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Royal Sir, my errand 
 Is of such nature as a princely heart, 
 Swoln with the blood of warlike ancestry, 
 Will glory to make good. Our valiant Edmund, 
 Who in this tug of war hath well approved 
 His noble lineage, and may proudly deem 
 Canute his glorious peer, hath long in tears 
 Of blood deplored this desolating strife; 
 And, even in death, would gladly seal a peace 
 By his best blood cemented : therefore it is, 
 (And with no sanguinary, vengeful thought, 
 Or vain disparagement of Canute's prowess) 
 He hath commanded me waving all vantage 
 The chance of this unequal field allows 
 To dare his rival to the mortal lists : 
 There, hand to hand, as well becomes brave men, 
 To terminate this quarrel. In such spirit, 
 Here I fling down his stainless knightly gage.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 313 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 My Lord ! my heart leaps to requite your chal- 
 lenge 
 
 As its brave bearing well deserves. What say ye, 
 My Danish men ? Shall we not fitly thus 
 Purchase triumphant peace ? Nay, nay, good 
 
 Turkill, 
 
 Obstruct me not the tide of common blood, 
 Could that suffice, too freely has been pour'd. 
 Eustace of Bulloign, take this glove of mine 
 Back to your English King ; pledge that to- 
 morrow 
 
 The Danish or the Saxon sun shall set. 
 On our part we appoint Earls Turkill, Gothmund, 
 And Anlaffe, marshals of the lists. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 On ours, 
 
 We shall depute Lords Frithegist and Morcar, 
 And (though scarce worthy of such fellowship) 
 Myself, poor Eustace Bulloign, brother of Eng- 
 land. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Bulloign, your hand ! I know none worthier. 
 Farewell ! [Exit BULLOIGN. 
 
 The time, my Lords, 'twixt heaven and me 
 May be but brief; which, for our kingdom's 
 welfare,
 
 314 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 And our soul's comfort, must be husbanded. 
 
 {Exeunt TURKILL, GOTHMUND, fyc. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 ( After pacing apart for some time, with hurried step.) 
 I thank ye, spirits of my ancestors ! 
 Now look ye down on my aspiring soul, 
 And make me dreadful as the icy winds 
 That slay whate'er they breathe upon ! Just 
 
 vengeance I 
 
 Rush to my heart ! make all my muscles steel 
 Keen as my wrongs, as pliant as my wiH ! 
 Spirit of Odin ! to my life-blood leap 
 And with thine ancient terrors light mine eyes, 
 That with my port I may appal all hearts ! 
 Thou gory mace ! thou trenchant sword ! twin 
 
 ministers 
 
 Of fate and glory, to my heart I catch ye 
 Fondlier than ever father clasp'd his first-born! 
 Ha! at the touch, the hot blood through my 
 
 veins 
 Rushes like molten metal Vengeance, thou'rt 
 
 mine! 
 
 Glory, thou art my mate ! empire, my guerdon ! 
 Lash thine o'erwearied team, thou sluggish day, 
 And light me to the goal I I tread on air ! 
 
 [Exit into his tent.
 
 DDKE OF MERC1A. 315 
 
 The Door of Edmund's Tent. Midnight. 
 
 EDMUND (alone). , 
 
 From the dear arms oflove I break one moment, 
 To commune with sad thoughts. Oh king ! 
 
 oh slave ! 
 
 What is the power that thus the popular voice 
 Can, at a breath, dispel ? The general foe 
 Was in our grasp ; and now, on one weak arm 
 The fate of millions must depend : so will 
 The many, in their blindness. Whence this 
 
 weight 
 
 Upon my spirit ? That the foe thus dares me, 
 Should be a triumph ; long, for it, and vainly 
 My hot heart sigh'd : yet now it comes, at last, 
 More like an evil. Some men say, that Fate, 
 As from a palpable form, casts a true shadow 
 Down on the victim she pursues : if so, 
 Even now I need the prayers of holy men. 
 How strange, how very strange it is to think 
 On all the changes of this mortal being, 
 Standing thus 'neath th' eternal cope of heaven ! 
 Yon zone of stars, whose congregated rays 
 Distinctly mark an angel pathway through 
 A wilderness of glory ! this fair earth,
 
 316 DUKE OF MERC1A. 
 
 With its enduring features high-brow'd moun- 
 tains, 
 Bright, beaming lakes that glance 'neath shaggy 
 
 cliffs, 
 
 Rivers that through the bloomy meadows wander, 
 With their blue-branching veins ; and all those 
 
 sounds 
 
 Of breathing and pervading life : these, these, 
 Have an imperishable frame, whose youth 
 Is bosom'd on eternity : but we, 
 Poor fragile atoms ! dust upon the whirlwind ! 
 We are at best but parasitic things : 
 Moss on the cliff, green ivy on the tower, 
 The barren mistletoe upon the oak, 
 The limpet on the tide-wash'd rock, or, meaner, 
 The insect on the lion's throat, that stings 
 Yet lives I 
 
 Forgive me, Heaven ! in petulance 
 I spake, forgetful. Oh I my wife ! my wife! 
 How full of bitterness 'tis now to dwell 
 On what we have been what thou may'st be, 
 
 scarce 
 
 Dare I to think. Life was to me, till lately, 
 A thing I set light thought upon, save only 
 As yielding paths to fame ; but thou hast shown me 
 Such beauties in its maze, that now I prize it
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 317 
 
 For thee, perhaps beyond its worth. I tremble, 
 As a tried warrior should not, when I reflect 
 How a chance blow may leave thee desolate. 
 I must avert my mind from this ; nor feign 
 Pictures to freeze my heart's blood, when th' 
 
 occasion 
 Needs ev'ry pulse. 
 
 Enter BULLOIGN. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 The midnight chimes have pass'd, 
 And the thick-beating tread of preparation 
 Will soon awake our camp. Your grace already 
 Anticipates the time. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 My armour ? 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Bravely 
 Is burnish'd, and the rivets well-assured. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 By my best hopes I it shames me to have dwelt 
 On such a thought. Methinks an active frame, 
 A nimble eye, and a well-practised hand, 
 Nerved by a fearless heart, are better aids 
 Than on the cumber' d limbs harness of proof. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Why leave you still that sullen malcontent,
 
 318 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Edric, to sow sedition through our camp? 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 I heed him not it matters not this day 
 Shall leave his crook'd fangs venornless : forget 
 him. 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 My mind misgives me 
 
 EDMUiND. 
 
 As does mine : but not 
 
 For him, or any mortal thing. Dear Eustace, 
 I have had secret converse with my heart, 
 And find that, in its giddy youth, 't has been 
 Wanting to its Creator. I have thought 
 On every thing but Heaven ! 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Now saints forfend ! 
 You wrong yourself, my Lord : I know you better. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 I cannot think the man hath ever lived, 
 Who in his secret heart abjures his God. 
 Believe it not : there may be fops and fools 
 Who aim at singularity of thought, 
 (Or to whom nature hath denied all thought ;) 
 But, that a sentient and reflecting being 
 Can look round and deny ; I'll not believe it ! 
 Oh no ! oh no ! Observe the flower its texture,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 319 
 
 Its tints, its odour : see on plains and hills 
 Harvests more precious than the gold they rival : 
 Mark the fair fruitage on the leafy tree, 
 Shading the juicy carpet of the grass: 
 And, amid all, the bee that booms along 
 Rejoicing o'er his fragrant task : the small birds 
 Chirping their nuptial songs beside the nest : 
 The wild doe, with her fawn, through dim glades 
 
 bounding: 
 
 Th' unshackled colt, on the hill-side careering : 
 Sleek heifers, 'mid the tufted herbs reposing ; 
 And man, intelligent man, with lordly port, 
 Stepping, a monarch, o'er his subject realms. 
 How perfect all in beauty and in use ! 
 Link'd in a chain of mutual dependence 
 How various, yet combined in harmony ! 
 How curious each in separate construction ! 
 Yet, in their application, obvious oh ! 
 
 How utterly inimitable! Trust me, 
 
 There cannot live the man, who, seeing these, 
 
 Bows not in humblest adoration down 
 
 To God ; the great, the wise, the present God ! 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 Mine own dear prince! it fills my heart with joy 
 To hear these wholesome words : in these we 
 conquer !
 
 320 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Ah ! words are vain vain, empty air ! our deeds 
 Shall at the last avail us. Good, my brother, 
 The time is short, which I would dedicate, 
 Partly, (with heart abased) unto my God, 
 And partly to those blessed and holy ties 
 Which he has consecrated. Brother, adieu ! 
 
 [ They separate. EDMUND retires apart. 
 
 Enter ALGiTHA,/ro/ the tent. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 My love ! He's gone. Alas, my fainting soul ! 
 
 A host of phantoms terrify my brain. 
 Vainly I chide my self-betraying heart, 
 And whisper that 't has ever been the lot 
 Of human greatness to endure this penance. 
 Oh royalty ! thy robe is hemm'd with jewels, 
 But penitential sackcloth wounds thy skin. 
 Vain are these thoughts : I'm but a woman 
 
 still 
 
 Whose present joy, whose future hope, is love ; 
 Whose treasury of hoarded thoughts is love ; 
 Whose task, whose duty, whose reward, is love. 
 Oh ! mine own husband, can I bear to watch 
 This coming day, when, to thy country's altar, 
 A victim with thy glories garlanded,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 321 
 
 Thou com'st? and I even I, poor weeping fool, 
 Conspire thy ruin : have I not deprived 
 Thine eyes of rest, with my vain sorrow, sobbing 
 My weary soul to sleep upon thy bosom, 
 That still was wakeful in its cares for me ? 
 But see, where yonder on his knees, bow'd down , 
 Beneath the starry vault of Heaven, he prays. 
 His manly front uncover'd and, upraised 
 In meek devotion his persuasive lips 
 Disparted in their breathing piety 
 His bright, commanding eye soften'd with feelings 
 That link him with God's holy ones ; his hands 
 Folded in patient prayer on his bare breast. 
 Thou sacred warrior ! 
 I feel an awful hope spring in my bosom, 
 Caught from the radiance of thy tranced eye : 
 A deep, religious joy thrills my swoln heart, 
 As I behold thy plain and manifest converse 
 With holier worlds than ours ! Thus gazing on 
 
 thee, 
 
 I feel that I could look even on thy death 
 Less in despair than hope. I will retire, 
 And gather all things that he loves, to greet 
 His homeward eye, and gently minister, 
 Like a fond, faithful slave, to all his wants. 
 Bless thee, my husband ! [Exit.
 
 322 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 The Lists. 
 Crowds of English and Danes, Soldiers and 
 
 Peasants. 
 
 EDRIC (coming forward). 
 Curse on ye all ! Heaven's wrath descend upon 
 
 ye! 
 
 Vile, fickle, heartless minions ! There ye crowd, 
 And strain, and elbow, and, with dissonant cries, 
 " Canute ! " now " Edmund ! " shout upon the 
 
 wind, 
 
 As each gay pageant, in its bravery, 
 Supplants its rival. Ay, ye brainless clowns ! 
 Gaze on the show, (albeit, an hour shall dim 
 Its sheen in gore, dapple its plumes with dust) 
 As if it were some holiday tournament, 
 Where, with fond favours stuck upon their crests, 
 Fair, beardless gallants tilt at female hearts. 
 That shout again ! my heart is sick my brain 
 Reels with this senseless clamour ! 
 
 Enter CORNWALL. 
 
 What from the camp? 
 
 The troops the officers my native Mercians ? 
 Does discontent make head ? allegiance falter ?
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 323 
 
 May an old chieftain's voice still challenge sway ? 
 Can memory of ancient favours still 
 Urge on the bold, or paralyze the weak ? 
 What say ambition, jealousy, hate, fear 
 The fickle, the voluptuous, the feeble? 
 Speak ! through my heart and brain a thousand 
 
 passions 
 Tumultuous rush. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Silence would better suit 
 What I have learn'd, and language cannot soften. 
 
 EDR1C. 
 
 Dare not to trifle speak I 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 What shall I say? 
 
 'Tvvere better not to speak, than (pardon me) 
 To speak, at such a time, unwelcome truths: 
 But, thus it is. There struts not, in yon camp, 
 'Mid all their growing discontents, one false 
 In his allegiance to the king: and many 
 (I grieve to say't) were lavish of dispraise, 
 When,though with cautious surmise, I but named 
 Your grace's claims and merits ; which they noted 
 With irony, or most unmanner'd censure. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 Traitor I thou durst not swear it ! by this light,
 
 324 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Which, like a sulphurous fog, deadens my eyes, 
 And chokes my breath, ihou durst not! Ha? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Unhand me ! 
 
 It is too much, my Lord : am 7 to blame, 
 That fate so ill accords with your desires, 
 Or that your reputation mars your fortunes ? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Ha! ha! thou daemon ! I I Speak! I 
 spare thee ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Why, what is this ? awake ! and be a man ! 
 Know you no shorter way than plots? would 
 
 blood 
 Stagger you now ? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Know me, Lord Ethelmar. 
 I am a man that was not born to blood, 
 Though circumstance hath train'd my hand to 
 
 blood. 
 
 I have been wrought upon by daemons, dragged, 
 Spite of my better nature, to a stake 
 Where I must combat to the death, with hell 
 Gaping beneath my foot ! (and hell ne'er bought 
 A soul more surely lost). Yet, have I dared 
 More than earth's treasures power, good fame, 
 
 delights,
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 325 
 
 (Even had I won, as I have lost, all these) 
 Could compensate ; and, having stepp'd thus far, 
 I will not now abate my will one inch ; 
 Though it should lead me on o'er leagues of 
 
 carnage, 
 
 Float me in blood, steep me in blackest guilt, 
 And plunge me in perdition's deepest gulf. 
 
 \_A distant salute of trumpets, shouts, and 
 
 military music. 
 
 Hark ! heard you not the brazen voice of death 
 Peal his wild summons to the feast of blood ? 
 Cornwall ! the hour is come I 
 
 The Procession to the Lists. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 Ho ! stand aside. 
 EDRIC (menacing). 
 Slave ! dost not know me ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Stand aside, my Lord, 
 And, like the crouch'd wolf, watch your time. 
 
 HERALDS. 
 
 Keep silence ! 
 [A salute of Trumpets : then, 
 
 ENGLISH HERALD. 
 
 Know all men ! that Lord Edmund, King of 
 England,
 
 326 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Defies unto these lists the King of Danes ; 
 And, with his good sword, on this field, will 
 
 prove him 
 
 A false usurper ! so Heaven guard the right ! 
 [A salute of Trumpets. 
 
 DANISH HERALD. 
 
 Canute, the king, defies to mortal combat 
 Edmund of England ; and, within these lists, 
 Will, in his recreant blood, make good his 
 
 cause ! 
 So Heaven advance the bold ! 
 
 [ The English and Danish troops, with appro- 
 priate banners, respectively pass : then 
 g rooms, with led horses ; who range them- 
 selves at each side. Enter, from dif- 
 ferent quarters, EDMUND, and CANUTE, 
 completely armed. The former attended 
 by BULLOIGN, FRITHEGIST, and MOR- 
 CAR ; the latter fcyTuRKiLL, GOTHMUND, 
 and ANLAFFE, as joint Marshals of the 
 Lists. 
 
 SOLDIERY ON EACH SIDE. 
 
 " God save King Edmund !" 
 "Canute! Canute!" [CANUTE, steps forward. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 Silence I the king would speak.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 327 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 To you, Lords, who surround me, ere the trumpet 
 Summons to horse, I would in brief address me; 
 Trusting to right my motives in some hearts 
 Which now mistrust me. That for England's 
 
 crown 
 
 I stand a bold competitor in arms, 
 The will of half the noblest of your realm 
 Shall be my plea : that I was wrought to this 
 By the sore wrongs wherewith King Ethelred 
 Assail'd my nation and my house, by all 
 The violated treaties, broken oaths, 
 Whereby our earlier vengeance had been stay'd, 
 I do confess : that I have sundry claims, 
 Touching the justice of this enterprise, 
 All men know well most will admit: and, 
 
 further, 
 
 That, as a victor in so many fields, 
 I may not yield what faithful hearts have bled for, 
 To all brave men I make appeal ! tThou, Ed- 
 mund, 
 
 (Whose virtues, and true royalty of soul, 
 Freely I own, and, owning, hope to win 
 Much honourable fame in this day's strife,) 
 Be thou my witness, that I meet thee here 
 With no malignant passions in my heart,
 
 328 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 But with the aspirations of a soldier, 
 Who with a meet compeer confronted stands, 
 And knows that one, or both, ere set of sun, 
 Must die. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Canute, if thou surviv'st this field, 
 (Though otherwise I hope) I counsel thee 
 To put thy trust in action more than words. 
 With my sword's point / press my arguments. 
 What ho ! my horse ! we waste the precious 
 
 time! 
 Born to this kingdom, I will die a king 1 
 
 [English Soldiery shout. 
 Long live King Edmund ! 
 
 EDRIC (from the side). 
 
 I say, long live Canute ! 
 
 [Saxon Soldiers menace, and Danish protect, 
 EDRIC. 
 
 EDMUND (interposing). 
 Hold back ! disperse ! Canute, call off your 
 
 ban-dogs 
 
 That threat me thus. Brave English gentlemen, 
 Unhand that madman : by my heart, he is not 
 Worthy a brave man's vengeance ! Traitor, be- 
 gone! 
 
 Thou sav'dst my life once ; take thine own : th' 
 account
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 329 
 
 Is balanced : look that you forget it not. 
 
 [Both Kings, at the trumpet-signal, mount 
 their chargers, and, attended by their re- 
 spective suites, proceed towards the inner 
 part of the lists, passing under a trium- 
 phal archway. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 What tempted you, my Lord, to that wild sally ? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 It matters not. Look, and report what passes. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 You spared his life 
 
 EDRIC. 
 Look to the lists. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 He now 
 Spares yours 
 
 EDRIC (impatiently). 
 The lists, I say I 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Yet taunts you gravely. 
 EDRIC. 
 I'm dangerous ! tempt me not. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 He bids you note 
 That the account is balanced.
 
 330 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 I shall remember ! 
 No more : look forth, and say what of the lists ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 This is a scene, my Lord, that all men crowd to 
 With hungry eyes, that may not be appeased : 
 Why shrinks your eye, alone, from marking it? 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Search not my heart : it is inscrutable 
 Even to myself. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 It seems to me, thus gazing 
 Upon your hollow eyes and sallow cheeks, 
 Sparklingand spotted with contending passions 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 What am I fallen to? Be silent ! Barest thou 
 Thus to dissect my mind, and measure me, 
 As if I were some idle prodigy, 
 For fools' lips to descant on ? Say that I hate 
 This man, and will not look on his chance 
 
 triumph 
 
 Say that 'tis envy, and these plaudits writhe me 
 Like serpent hisses, ere the sting be felt 
 Say that 'tis weakness, madness, folly, dotage 
 Say what you will I care not ! 
 CORNWALL (suddenly). 
 
 Lo ! they burst
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 331 
 
 The barrier and the rushing waves of armour 
 Flash onward a bright cataract of heroes I 
 There springs the King by Heaven ! th' Arch- 
 angel Michael 
 
 Look'd not more terrible to Satan ! See him 
 As borne upon some courser of the elements, 
 Whose light ethereal limbs sport on the air, 
 Making the winds they paw their well-known 
 
 paths 
 
 From which to spring ! With what a graceful ease 
 The royal Edmund sits ! his snowy plumes 
 Surging, like crested billows, to each bound 
 Of the wild charger; and his jewell'd mail, 
 As, with true knightly skill, his supple form 
 Sways to the motion, glancing in the sun 
 Like rippling waters, or the morning dew-drops 
 Upon a mountain thorn ! Hark I those glad 
 
 shouts 
 
 With which the royal presence is saluted I 
 What flight of bonnets leaping on the air! 
 What press of banners sweeping the green grass ! 
 What throng of streaming scarfs waved by fair 
 
 hands! 
 
 And now, with graceful courtesy, he doffs 
 His threat'ning casque, and loosens o'er his 
 
 shoulders 
 A flood of golden curls glorious, by Heaven !
 
 332 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 'Sdeath, what a coil of bootless sound is here ! 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 And see I with scornful toss, he flings away 
 His helm, disdainful of its aid ; first lifting 
 Its regal circlet, which on his fair brow 
 He plants, and looks round on the throng, as one 
 Who, or in life or death, will be a king ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 The Dane ! Hast no eye for Canute? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I note him 
 
 Firm in his seat, like a collected soldier, 
 Stepping his sinewy, well-managed steed 
 Along th' elastic turf; whose gather'd haunches, 
 Arch'd, bridling neck, and keen protruded ears, 
 Mark his impatient vigour for the charge. 
 Canute right nobly, as a tried knight, bears him. 
 So steadily, with such an upright port, 
 (Resting his glaived hand on his ample thigh, 
 And his brows sbadow'd by his raven crest,) 
 He spans his well-mail'd charger, it were surely 
 No figure of the fancy to name both, 
 Like the famed Centaur, but one animal. 
 
 [The trumpets sound. 
 EDRIC. 
 The trump ! the trump !
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 333 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 They spring upon each other ! 
 EDRIC (ivith a rush forward). 
 Who falls ? By heaven ! by hell ! the Dane is 
 down. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Dismiss your fears King Edmund flings away 
 His fortunes with his lance. He leaps to earth ! 
 And, with drawn sword, assaults the wary Dane. 
 Ha I he gives way retreating, step by step 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Death ! who gives way ? 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Canute. He aims no blow ; 
 But parries the hot onset with fix'd eye. 
 Hark ! you may hear their clashing swords ; 
 
 they now 
 Approach so near. 
 
 \A tumultuous crowd rushes in, shouting. 
 " An Edmund ! " " A Canute ! " 
 
 [ Through the crowd an open space is formed. 
 CANUTE, faint and exhausted, enters 
 fighting with EDMUND, who presses him 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Dost thou renounce thy claim ? Crav'st thou for 
 life?
 
 334 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Strike on ! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 May Heaven accept thy valiant soul, 
 Which thus I speed ! 
 
 \He strikes CANUTE down, shattering his 
 sword. 
 
 Wilt yield ? Canute, submit, 
 And I will spare thy life. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Strike, once again ! 
 Strike at my throat ! 
 
 EDMUND (turning from him). 
 
 No ! Take another sword. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 By Heaven ! I hate thee more for this disdain 
 Than for thy prowess, Edmund ! Oh for ven- 
 geance ! 
 
 Oh for a valiant arm, bravely to rid me 
 Of this foul shame ! Ay, I would raise that arm 
 And head, above his proudest peers ! 
 EDRIC (approaching CANUTE). 
 
 What said'st thou? 
 Say that once more, fair prince ; but once again. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Thou tempt'st me hence I
 
 DUKE OF MERC1A. 335 
 
 EDRIC (muttering). 
 
 Enough I comprehend. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Canute I betake thee to thy sword I wait! 
 
 EDRIC (aside drawing his dagger). 
 Now, fatal steel, come forth I and let me carve, 
 With thy most trenchant edge, one pathway yet 
 Towards Hope's lost beacon. Thus let me clutch 
 
 thy haft ! 
 Vengeance make keen mine eye ! Hate nerve my 
 
 arm ! 
 
 [_He joins a group of Danes, towards whom, 
 in the combat, CANUTE is again beaten 
 back. As EDMUND aims a blow, EDRIC, 
 over the shoulder of a Dane, stabs him. 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 Treason ! ho, treason 1 Some base hand hath 
 stabb'd me ! 
 
 BULLOIGN. 
 
 My prince ! Alas I his lips grow white the 
 
 blood 
 
 Spouts forth in torrents ! Lean on me. 
 EDMUND (faintly). 
 
 Once more 
 
 Let me look on my Algitha my moments 
 Are number'd haste ! my heart's sick haste !
 
 336 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 ALGITHA rushes in. 
 
 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 The Queen ! 
 The Queen ! Make way ! 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Where is he? where? my husband? 
 [Seeing, and flinging her arms round him. 
 Ah ! thou art slain my love ! my life I my all ! 
 I will not leave thee ! tear me not hence, hard 
 men! 
 
 EDMUND. 
 
 This hurt is slight my love a scratch. I shall 
 Be better quite well presently. 
 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 Alas! 
 Thou art dying see see he grows pale some 
 
 help! 
 
 His eyes swim. Savages ! will none bring aid ? 
 Help help ! he bleeds to death. 
 
 EDMUND (apart to BULLOIGN). 
 Gently remove her 
 This sight will kill her take her away. 
 
 (To ALGITHA). Nay, see 
 How strong I am ! 
 
 [He endeavours to walk past her.
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 337 
 
 Oh I I am faint your hand 
 We meet again in heaven farewell I die! 
 [ He falls suddenly to the ground. ALGITHA 
 faints on the body. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 What villain hand hath done this deed ? Stand 
 
 back! 
 [All retreat except EDRIC, who stands moodily 
 
 alone. 
 
 Behold the wretch ! and, witness of his crime, 
 The fratricidal steel, reeking with gore ! 
 Seize him ! What, not a word ? art stupified ? 
 
 EDRIC (starting). 
 How's this? What have I done ? Unhand me, 
 
 Sirs! 
 
 [_He shrinks on seeing the body. 
 Yes, yes I see it all enough too much 
 I could not do't again, though all earth's glories 
 Sprang round my path like weeds 1 What mean 
 
 you? Ho! 
 Canute ! your pledge release me from these 
 
 dogs. 
 
 Off, ye base curs I thus do I spurn ye I thus I 
 King, for whose glory I have staked my all 
 On earth, in heaven here and hereafter hear 
 
 me !
 
 338 DUKE OF MERCIA. 
 
 Your pledge, great king, your pledge ! 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 Eternal justice! 
 
 What have my passions utter'd I Be it so. 
 To you, my Lords, I here commit this wretch, 
 This fell, anticipating slave of sin, 
 Who dogs the steps of passion, and outstrips 
 The transient purpose of the hurried thought, 
 Moulding to crime the visions of despair. 
 Thou shall surmount thy peers. Upon yon tower 
 Set up a pole, higher than ever steeple 
 Rear'd its sky-piercing vane ; and, on its summit, 
 Ere yet with hurrying foot one hour hath pass'd, 
 Trans6x his head ! Traitor ! away with him ! 
 
 EDRIC. 
 
 Canute ! for mercy ! Give me but a week 
 A day an hour, one precious hour, to shrive 
 My sinful soul I Bring me a confessor I 
 Not that way no not that ! See! his eyes 
 
 stare 
 
 And in each stony ball a daemon sits, 
 Lookingdamnationonme. Ho! King Edmund I 
 If thou art living, speak ! Canute, protect me ] - 
 Spare me I am not fit to die the fiends 
 Already pluck at me I am not fit 
 To die ! crush not my soul one moment's 
 
 mercy
 
 DUKE OF MERCIA. 339 
 
 I would repent ! Oh agony ! oh devils ! 
 
 [He staggers beneath their strokes. 
 Spare me oh spare ! I I am choked with 
 
 blood 
 A sea of blood boils o'er my lip. Avaunt ! 
 
 [He creeps to the body O/EDMUND. 
 Edmund my brother! pardon thy murderer. 
 Plead for me plead for me where thou art 
 
 gone 
 And I never [He falls dead on the body.
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE MARRIAGE OF EDMUND AND 
 ALGITHA. 
 
 THE following Poem was written for the Masque in the 
 Fourth Part. As I consider that it would overload that 
 scene, I have withdrawn it thepce, and place it here, as an 
 appendage to a Drama, to the business of which it bears a 
 reference. 
 
 HEN the golden-sandall'd sun, 
 From his rose-curtain'd chamber of 
 
 the East, 
 
 Steps with a smiling face, as, from the feast 
 Of Love, young Hymen bounds into the light, 
 With eyes still dewy bright ; 
 Around his car the swift-wing'd sisterhood, 
 The downy-slipper'd Hours 
 (Their daily task begun), 
 Float in harmonious dance ; while their young 
 
 brood, 
 The Moments, like bright sparks, or glancing 
 
 flo wers, 
 Winnow their scented wings. Before his path,
 
 341 
 
 Those dark-brow'd ministers of wrath, 
 
 The gloomy night-clouds, o'er the horizon's verge 
 
 Scatter their voiceless tempests : not a sound 
 
 Of sorrow murmurs through the deep profound; 
 
 But pleasure-breathing echoes scale the skies, 
 
 And love's seductive melodies. 
 
 From the green woods emerge 
 
 The feathered choristers, whose rapturous hymn 
 
 First greets the Cherubim, 
 
 When from the morning-star lingering they lean, 
 
 As loath to leave so beautiful a scene. 
 
 Resplendent Phcebus ! how thy glories spread, 
 
 Floating abroad from thy most awful head I 
 
 Dispersing through the air 
 
 Light from thy beautiful dishevell'd hair, 
 
 As though it were some essence, subtly shed, 
 
 Pervading, like a perfume : or as the dreams 
 
 Which, in her all-sufficient power, bright Fancy 
 
 Sheds through the mind with her undying beams, 
 
 Fancy who has her fold in every heart, 
 
 And may not thence depart ; 
 
 Whose home is in each haunted shade, 
 
 Beneath the woody mountain, 
 
 Or by the rocky fountain ; 
 
 Whose form is loveliest on the green earth lapp'd,
 
 342 
 
 Whose holiest thoughts in the blue heavens are 
 
 wrapp'd : 
 
 A wanderer through eternity a maid 
 Of fearless port a very faery queen 1 
 Of restless eye and ever-changing mien ; 
 With all her wingM ideas fluttering round, 
 That spring from every varied scene, 
 And float on every stream of sound, 
 As flow'rets sprang where Venus touch'd the 
 
 ground. 
 
 Herald of glory ! soul-reviving Sun ! 
 
 The dewy earth from her glad altars steams 
 
 Exhaustless incense to thy worshipp'd beams : 
 
 And, ere thy task be done, 
 
 The germinating soil sends up to thee 
 
 A thankful progeny 
 
 Fair flowers, kind fruits, fresh grass, the precious 
 
 grain, 
 
 A lavish birth, that never teems in vain ; 
 And the great increase that the boon air yields; 
 And the empastured fields ; 
 And the unfathom'd main. 
 
 Thou Soul of this material universe ! 
 Offspring confest of Heaven ! Parent of 
 Earth !
 
 343 
 
 Fountain of Hope! pardon that we rehearse 
 
 (In strains so little worth) 
 
 Thy glories and our worship : pardon that we, 
 
 Tn our idolatry, 
 
 Dare to make thee great Type of all I on our 
 
 Weak lips the type of earthly, mortal power : 
 
 And, while we kneel thus at a human shrine, 
 
 Bowing, as weakness will to strength, as duty 
 
 To a loved master, as fond hearts to beauty 
 
 Almost divine, 
 
 That we, with ceaseless prayer, 
 
 Beseech high Heaven to this illustrious pair 
 
 To grant a long career, brilliant as thine, 
 
 As fraught with power, as redolent of joy, 
 
 As full of hope, as loved without alloy, 
 
 As prosperously fruitful ; and, at last, 
 
 As mourn'd when their decaying light hath past I 
 
 THE END. 
 
 cms WICK PRESS: PRINTED BY c. WHITTINGHAM 
 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
 
 A 000024276