First Ruffian. "Tis true! We follow'd till he bade good night.

De Lacy.
Good night, indeed!
Those words have oft been spoken

By the same love-toned lips, but 'tis their last!
"Twill be bad night, or else I shall dissolve
The partnership that reigns in jealousy
Between my soul and body-Yes! bad night,
Even if the moon should dress in purest sheen,
And all the brilliant jewels of the sky,
Set in their purest azure, hold her train.-
Should the dark clouds disperse, and the light
breeze

Come softer than the sighing of a Nun
From her fanatic person should north-lights

dance

Their fleeting waltzes on the sunken sun,

And all the charms which grace the brow of night

With dignity and power, spring into being —
Should seas reflect those glories in their bosom,
Showing a second heaven; yet this fiend
Who would demean my name, and marry her
Whom I have also loved, repeats no more
The silly phrase-good night!

Here, take this purse,
Twill make you firm in purpose, and be sure
You bring me early tidings of his death.

First Ruffian. My Lord, we take your purse. Are you convinced

None stir abroad so early in the night?

Think you, could Edwin know me thus disguised?

For we have often trod the hills together
In earlier days, when fortune smiled on me.
De Lacy. What silly sensibility is this!
Come put a face on't-Weakness suits not

man!

I can supply your wants-you have a few.
My honour suffers by each hour's delay.
You were not wont to shrink so.

De Lacy. Well, well, no more. Yourself induced the deed.

[De Lacy and first Ruffian walk up stage, and return.

De Lacy. Well, I rely upon your honour, men! Courage! 'tis only justice I demand. Look to your gold, and think how much will follow.

[Exit DE LACY.

Second Ruffian. Some secret too important for my ear!

Though you were gentle once, we're equal now.

First Ruffian. What, grumbling already, vulgar dog!

Cowards are ever jealous of their friends-
Already fear stares through thy vacant eye.
What have the doom'd to fear!

Were we not cursed

At childbirth; through this poor and hated life
Have we not been pursued by poverty?
Despised and shunn'd by men who walk erect-
The idols of the earth, and on our brow
A mark like that of Cain's conspicuous set-
Grinn'd at, pass'd by, or with suspicion watch'd
Like wolves that have their coverts in the night,
And has not day oft scarr'd us from the street?
Out on the coward! What is life to thee
That thou canst put such value on't?
Second Ruffian. "Tis true!

And now we're paid, who cares about the truth.
First Ruffian. None! that is nothing Let us

to our watch,

And glut our thoughts on those aspiring things
The world calls men, and looks submissive to.
"Tis not so much the gold, as the deep grudge
I bear those oily favourites who can toy
With others' hearts, but do it with such skill,
That though they victimize a thousand friends-
With poison sweetly fashioned to the taste,
They pass in honour, while we crouch like slaves.
Second Ruffian. Thy words have roused the

venom of my soul,

And fit me for my work determin'dly.
But should we be discover'd in the act,
What would our answer be?

First Ruffian. What should it be?

But silence? Come along. Leave that to me. [Exit Ruffians.

Enter EDWIN and EMMA.

Edwin. No further come. The rain-clouds overhang

The shadow'd earth. There's tempest in the sky,
And I can better share it when alone;
Yet, ere we part, let me but hear again
The dulcet music of thy scented lips.

[Kisses her. How throbs my Emma's heart; its varying themes, Its warm pulsations, and its hopes and fears, Speak with electric language to the soul!

Emma. Yes, Edwin, strange indeed! I am so

sad,

And yet so happy, that I've sigh'd and smiled
Alternately-Perhaps I've wept.—
Edwin. What! wept?

Already weigh the lofty forest down.
Emma. O must we part so early in the night,
Ere I have ope'd the preface of my mind.

Edwin. So parts the sun with our great hemi

sphere

But to return at morn with spotless face,
Fresh as if wash'd by evening's dewy hand,
But still he sinks reluctant down the west,
So slowly and unwillingly I part

This night with thee, yet does he leave behind
A crimson flush of glory on the clouds—
Reflecting various rays of loveliness,

As I would have my love relume thy soul.
Emma. But then the moon-she that reflects

his smiles

Grows brighter as he hides his brilliant face:
That will not I, when you and I do part.
Soon as you leave I suffer an eclipse-
The earth opaque shall roll 'twixt you and me,
And I shall be all darkness till the morn.

Edwin. Then we will flaunt as jocund as the bird's,

That never droop of care, but always sing
A concert of their own, unchang'd with age,
As when in youthful Eden first their notes
Awoke the dreaming echoes of the glades,
And the sweet lark, minstrel of dawning morn-
Rose on his spiral pathway through the sky!

Emma. So may it be. Methinks I hear their

song,

Your words are so much fill'd with melody.

Edwin. Or like the scented flowers that rise to

deck

The spangly lap of earth, and mark the hours
Each in its own sweet life, for from the birth
Of vivifying spring till winter's death,
Are flowers that so succeed each other's bloom,
That one would say they mete the march of time,
But to our rest. The evening shall be brief
Spent in the gay fantastic charms of dreams-
Ere eight to-morrow we shall meet again,
And then night shall no longer sever us,
Till then, my loving bride! I bid farewell.

[Embrace.

Emma. Why-say farewell! there's sadness in that word.

Edwin. Adieu, good night, or what you will, my love!

Whichever sounds most sweetly to thine ear. To-morrow morn, at eight-my love, good night! [Embrace—Exit EDWIN, EMMA lingering. Emma. How the heart trembles, when 'tis nearest bliss!

Even as the needle near the magnet placed
Trembles to meet the power that drags it on,
So shakes my fragile frame!

Respect and love
Have fix'd me with magnetic influence
To one, and, like the needle, I'll be true.

Thus flattering offers could not change my

heart.

Affection's plant has deeper-rooted growths
Than to decay by the first sickly puff

Of withering atmosphere that sweeps o'er it.
I'd rather be unknown to summer-smile,
And breathe a sterner and a darker sky,
Than live an hour the ephemeral butterfly.
[Exit EMMA.

SCENE II.

Room in Waller's mansion.

Enter WALLER and CATHERINE.

Waller. Still, still disputing when her lot's

decided;

I tell you Edwin is the better match.
There is too much of speculative union,
Which deadens the affections even of youth!
It may be prudent, may be profitable,
But all I say is, that it is not love!

Catherine. But had she wed a lord, she'd been a lady;

How different then her lot in life had been!

Waller. Yes, different indeed! a mad old man, Whose passions far outlive his energies. But woman's sight is ever dimm'd with gold, It seems to have a lustre like the sun, And as the eyes are for a time withdrawn, She only sees through specks that float around. Catherine. Your censure upon woman is severe. Must she not speak, nor frown, like lordly man, Whom she but imitates, without reproach? Must man and wife like strangers live together, In dread that some mistaken word may fire The fierce combustion of a husband's mind?

Waller. What man would say that man's immaculate,

Nor has his countless errors to correct?
But this I say, and name it without dread—
And would that all the world's ears were open-
If woman would preserve her loveliness,
And be the earthly idol of the man,

Let not the scowl of anger cloud her brow,

No change of heart, I trust; no ill-judged words.
Do frowns or fickleness invent the wish?-
Why wish you that I could?

Emma. The night is dark.
Waller. No more?

Emma. Yes! something more.
Waller. I thought as much!
Emma. I had a dismal dream-

Waller. Base superstition of a faulty mind!
I will not hear it. To look pale and sad
At evening's weak creations, when the mind
Is not controll'd by judgment, and all things,
Howe'er absurd and unconnected, seems
Quite natural! A man may be a tree,
A tree a man, our wisdom is so potent
When mantled with the spell of airy visions.
Thou shalt not know thy father list to dreams.
Emma. Nor will I bid thee listen, my loved
father!

I have too deep affection to disturb

Thy manly heart; too many recollections
Of thy great love to me in infancy.

Waller. So gentle a rebuke from her he loves,

Takes the keen edge off anger, but of late
My speech is more severe, my feelings keener;
Adversity hath laid his greedy hand
Upon my fading means unsparingly,
And when I would have said adieu to care,-
Sat gently down to ease my aged limbs,
That surly, haggard follower of mankind
Finds out my dwelling, and oppresses me!

Emma. But still thou hast enough he touches

not.

Waller. Enough, my child, has no dimensions
in it.

One with a handful thinks he has enough,
And therefore is he happy! but, alas!-
Though I am still content-men do exist
Who never knew the meaning of-enough!

Emma. I know not, father, whom you may
describe.

Waller. Hast never seen a withering old miser, Without even proper heirs to claim his riches, Fretting away his age in fractious trade,

Still hoarding more, although the poor should starve!

That when he ends his one-idea'd life

The world may then proclaim how rich he died. No man dies rich! For all men die poor beggars, And there's no building palaces hereafter.

Emma. Now do I understand thee thoroughly. Would that I could forget, and thou wert happy. Waller. Still haunted by the shadows of the night.

Who has instill'd such weakness in my daughter?
Emma. In infancy, a nurse provided me-

A superstitious, ignorant old woman,
Who seem'd to me a mental prodigy,
As little things seem wonderful to childhood.
She sowed the seeds that ripen into harvest,
Recounted dreams with strange interpretations,
Saw wonders in the lines of my young hands,
And in the dismal watches of the night
Peopled my spirit with horrific themes,-
That as I grew in strength these fancies grew,
And drew from every circumstance new life.
Now would I throw their thraldom from my soul,
But early-form'd impressions get engraven
So deeply on the heart, one can't erase them.
Waller. Knowing all this, believe in such no
longer.
[Exit WALLER.

Catherine. Throw all romance and idle thought

away.

Youth has no right to have its own opinions, For 'tis the privilege of age alone

To speak and act according as it lists,

And to instruct the youthful.-Follow me!

[Exit CATHERINE. Emma. I follow, mother. How we change with years!

And thus forget the follies of our teens.
When she was young, her hopes like mine were
high,

Her feelings as acute-But now grown old,
Thinks I should feel as calmly as herself.

When I am old, and cold, and worn like her,
I too may reason calmly; but in youth,
While the pure flame of love is burning high,
It is not wise to think I can subdue
Each glowing fancy as it springs to life!

I will to bed, to slumber and to dream, But not to sleep, my fancy soars above The rude dominion of oblivious rest.

SCENE III.

[Exit EMMA.

A Forest-night dark and stormy-thunder and

lightning.

Ruffians enter from the woods.

First Ruffian. Some one approaches. Ha! at last he comes;

Long has he been beside his lisping love,

And we are cold and weary of our watch,
Which makes his face more welcome. Back, I

say

One is enough to mark his coming forth.

Second Ruffian. Well, well, I hear you. I shall step aside.

First Ruffian. Always a grumble on thy vulgar lip.

Has gold no power to polish thy rude speech?
Little he dreads our ire-now wholly lost
In pleasure's airy arms. How smooth his face!
How calm the downward motion of his frame!
The winds may howl, the lightning flash around,—
The thunder roar, the heavy rains descend;
He only feels the latest syren kiss
Of his devoted maid-poor, empty girl!
Curse on him! I am mad he comes so slow.
Back, back into the shade and mark my sign.
[Ruffians conceal themselves.

Enter EDWIN, slowly.

Edwin. A King just crown'd; a Queen just newly wed;

A mariner escaped an ocean-grave;

A mother smiling o'er her first-born babe,
Or culprit ransomed from the stroke of death,
But know a tithe of joy compared to mine!
O sweet unshaded bliss! thus to be loved
By one so fair and so devout of soul,—
To whose pure eyes of bright celestial blue
I seem Adonis by her chaste esteem;-
To whose endearing arms I am perferr'd
The first of all my sex.-Confiding love!
I were the very fragment of a villain
If I forget or tame thee by neglect.

Yet with one single yes, one mono-sound,
She had been titled lady, own'd a lord,
A palace-home, vassels unnumber'd, and
New minted gold to charm her every wish-
Save pure affection, and the one she loved,
And all those given for me.-This is true love!

[EDWIN is passing off when seized by ruffians. How now? What means this? Loose your iron grasp.

Why am I clutch'd so rudely?-Off, I say.
Is villany so weak, that one unarm'd
Must thus be doubly shackled like a slave?
First Ruffian. Strive not with power superior

to thine own,

Or perish on this spot, and let the earth
With thirsty throat drink up thy dastard blood!
Edwin. As you are more in power, do tell me
why

You thus detain me. What is your intent?
Ye are disguised and fierce, and resolute;
Will none of you be moved?

First Ruffian. Silence! this way.

Edwin. Let me have freedom, and explain your meaning.

I've wrong'd no man on earth-off, off, I say.
I will not thus be held. [Trying to get loose.

First Ruffian. Come, sir, this grief looks well

for infant eyes,

But for a man even at the door of death,
Tis childishness! If you have wrong'd no man
Death will have fewer pains.

Edwin. Death! did you say?

Recall that awful, chilling word again!

First Ruffian. No more. Perhaps you did forget to tell

You had a loving lady. But we pause.

[Dragging him out. Edwin. Yes! yes, I have a bride, a loving bride!

Well, for her sake, do but preserve my life.
I surely know that face distorted much,
Which, like a fiend's, despiteful frowns on me!

[Ruffians seem uneasy.

One moment moreBut never had sweet life so firm a hold on man. I breathed as 'twere two lives I held in one, And to a couch of dreamy ecstacies Fast was I wending

First Ruffian. Enough, enough! We trifle with our time.

The master that we serve his writ outspreads-
The devils give their sanction to our vow,
And we have sign'd it solemnly with blood.
Edwin. Therefore on bended knees I pity crave.
O, draw not wrath from yon all-seeing sky,
And what you would that I will freely do.
First Ruffian. Art done yet-Trembling cow-
ard! to thy work,

Or thou shalt keep this fellow company.

Edwin. Help, help! No friend to save me from my doom!

[Seizes the Ruffians, and struggles with them. They drag him into the wood. A groan is heard. Both speedily re-enter.

This gold is cheaply won-'twill lift the soul
From all its groaning fears and miseries,
So let us now enjoy it-

De Lacy comes,
His eye is bright, he knows the deed is done.
Enter DE LACY.

All right! my Lord. Pray let us leave this place. De Lacy. Sure no one saw it done?

F