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FRANCIS THE FIRST. 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 ■WITH OTHEK 
 
 POETICAL PIECES. 
 
 F R A N C E S A N N K E M B L E, 
 
 SIXTH AMERICAN EDITIO.N. 
 
 I!» WHICH IS INCLUDED 
 
 AN ORIGINAL MEMOIR 
 
 And a Full Lengrth Portrait. 
 
 N E W - Y O R K. 
 PEABODY ifcCO. BROADWAY. 
 
 1833. 
 

 Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1833, by pEAnony 
 «fc Co. in the ofiice of the Clerk of the Southern District of New- York. 
 
 , .Editors and conductors of public Journals arc requested to take notice, that 
 the Memoir of Miss Kemble, prefixed to this edition, having been prepared at a 
 i:reat expense, the Publishers have secured the copy-right, and all reprints aie 
 liable to legal prosecution. 
 
■^ 3IEMOIR 
 
 j— or THE 
 
 DRAx^IATIC LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 MISS FANNY KE3IBLE. 
 
 Terhaps your liearts when years have glided by, 
 And past emotions wake a fleetinj: sigh, 
 Mryihink on her whose lips have^old so "well, 
 The charnaed sorrows of yourShakspeare's spell. 
 
 The whole history of mtdlect docs not perhaps c-xliibit a brighter ar 
 ray of genius than the Kemble Family. Their fame, created bv the 
 successful exercise of unrivalled talents, had lone become permanent and 
 secure ; and was believed to have assumed that steady lustre, which like 
 the shrined glory of immortal names, could no loneer'be affected bv suc- 
 ceeding causes, but was to remain undiminished and undimmed for- 
 ever. 
 
 Yet the histor\ of this young lady's public career, brief and brilliant 
 as It IS, presents the unexampled instance of a descendant's talents 
 not merely in consonance witli the a])ilities of ihe ereat founders of the 
 family name, but of such singular excellence as,' using the w'ords of 
 Burke, "To turn back the current of hereditary dignity to its fountain " 
 and even add a deeper radiance to their shinin? liHit.' ' 
 
 ^f •^''Ji."^ ^'"^'1' ^^''"*^'^'' «"d Mrs. Siddons,"" this is not the place to 
 speak. I heir renown has become identified with all that is great in 
 their profession, and tlieir praise has been recorded bv unnumbered 
 pens, for their names have never been mentioned but wiUi eulogy. 
 
 It must be confessed that Miss Kemble enjoyed advantaees in her 
 parents and connections sufficient almost to warrant any excellence in 
 her abilities. Her father was not less distinguished for 'intellectual en- 
 dowments than was his celebrated relatives, and is allowed by concur- 
 ring testimony to be one of the most accomplised actors who has ever 
 directed the British Stage. In addition to a perfect knowledge of 
 his profession, and his admitted superiority in many of the finest char- 
 acters in the Drama, his literary talents are of a "high order of excel- 
 lence. Besides an intimate acquaintance with the classic lancruacc^ he 
 can converse with fluency in the German, Italian, and French, and has 
 enriched the stage with several very popular plays. Her mother too 
 
2 MEMOIR OF 
 
 is highly distinguished, not merely as being one of the most eminent 
 actresses of the day, but for literary abilities of an exalted character. 
 The excellent Comedy * Smiles and Tears,' and the humorous after- 
 piece ' Personation,' attest her cultivated taste. 
 
 With parents such as these to direct her expanding mind, and with 
 the examples of the illustrious John Philip Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, 
 before her for emulation, we need not wonder that Miss Fanny Kemble 
 soon displayed powers worthy the anxiety of her accomplished tutors. 
 
 The community however, were never destined to share in the admira- 
 tion which her rising talents excited, and it was only owing to circum- 
 stances which could neither be avoided nor foreseen tliat she has reaped 
 such an abundent harvest of universal favor in her public capacity. 
 
 Miss Kemble, indeed, was esteemed in the extensive circle in which 
 she moved in London, as a young lady not merely highly accomplished 
 but gifted with faculties every way calculated to confer distinction. 
 
 She was known as the autlior of many pieces of fugitive poetry lofty 
 in their excellence ; while the elegance of her conversation, and the 
 facination of her manner, made her company eagerly sought for in the 
 most brilliant society, and rendered her an object of general admira- 
 tion. But fortunately for the history of genius, and for the drama, 
 her trancendant powers were not destined for the gratification merely 
 of private taste ; and yet the circumstances wliicli made her talents pub- 
 lic were of a nature, that without any other concurring circumstances, 
 would of themselves have given a charm of ftlial piety to the act, and 
 thrown a halo of brightness over the attempt even had she failed. She 
 was as it were sacrificed unto fame, and brilliant as was her success, 
 such was her exciting motive, that if we might use the expression, she 
 Wcis only canonized by an unperceived transition from private excellence 
 into tlie open and lofry celebrity she has attained. 
 
 The great Patent Tiieatre in Covent Garden had ptissed into the 
 management of John Pliiliji Kemble, some time before its total de^ 
 struction by fire in 1809. When rebuilt ; the j)roprietors, to secure a 
 permanent income, and in some measure to remunerate ihemselves for 
 the enormous cost of its erection, leased ofl" the lower tier of boxes 1o 
 a number of tlie nobility at four hundred pounds a year eaci) : besides 
 raising the price to the other j)arts (jf the house. This measure of ne- 
 cessary justice, excited the most violent anin)osity in the playgoers of 
 Loudon, and gave occasion to the celebrated O. P. riots, in whicii a club of 
 gentlemen principally of the legal and mercantile professions, persevered 
 at an immense expense to themselves, during sixty-six successive 
 nights, in cfTectually obstructing the j)erformancc, by filling tlie house with 
 unbounded clamor. The manager had at length to yield to opposition 
 so systematic and relentless. Tlie prices were reduced to the old stand- 
 ard, and quietness restored ; but not before the resources of the house 
 were cfTectually injured by the frreat extra expenditure incurred by the 
 disturbance and the coldness witli which the public resented the obsti- 
 nate resistance of the management ; a feeling whicli the concentrated 
 efTorts of the greatest actors ever witnessed on the British stage could 
 not immediately remove. To this unforeseen and premature absorp- 
 
MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 3 
 
 tion of its means may be ascribed tlie subsequent financial embarrass- 
 ment in which it became involved, and which made its management 
 through many years little else than a hopeless though persevering strug- 
 gle against impending and inevitable insolvency. 
 
 On the retirement of John Phihp Kemble in June, 1817, from a 
 scene which he had immortalized, his brotlicr Charles succeeded to the 
 management ; but neither his great talents, nor his unwearied attention, 
 could avail against the complicated intricacy of its accounts; and though 
 he manfully made head for a number of years in spite of these adverse 
 circumstances, he still found Covent Garden Theatre, not merely an 
 unprofitable, but a losing concern. In 1827 the addition of a ruinously 
 expensive suit in Chancery, rendered its downfall inevitable, and it was 
 at length announced that nothing but a prompt interference of the friends 
 of the Drama could prevent, not merely the bankru])tcy of its affairs, 
 but the final extinguishment of one of the great Metropolitan Theatres. 
 The public had witnessed with disiegard and even apathy, the continu- 
 ed struggles of this proud establishment ; but no sooner w as its catas- 
 trophe ascertained, than they awoke at once to the full sense of associ- 
 ated recollection. That Covent Garden, the noblest of dramatic build- 
 ings, the consecrated temjilc of their Shakspeare's fame, the glory and 
 support of the English stage, which had echoed to the applauded 
 genius of Kemble and of Siddons, and rang forth the thrilling tones of 
 Barry and O'Neil. That Covent Garden with its properties audits 
 memories, should be put rudely up for sale, and be finally degraded to 
 some ignoble use, roused all the indignant sympathies of a generous 
 nation. The press of London took up the cause with spirit and suc- 
 cess. All England echoed the cry of shame, and its numerous no- 
 bility and gentry interested themselves warmly in its behalf. 
 
 A highly influential meeting of the friends of the Drama was immedi- 
 ately called in the fated Theatre, and which the Intelligence and the 
 Aristocracy of London crowded to attend.* The rivalry long existing 
 between the two Patent Theatres was forgotten in the danger •which 
 threatened the existence of one, and every person connected with 
 Drury Lane used all their influence to save its rival from destruction. 
 The chair was taken by Mr. Robins, lone identified with the prosperity 
 of the liberal arts, who himself held 150 Shares in Drury Lane, and 
 men of genius of every rank expressed their feelings with honorable 
 warmth. But the greatest cffeci of all was produced by the touching 
 and manly statement of Charles Kemble himself, who came from 
 Cork that be might be present on the occasion, and whose appearance 
 thcre^ the last and worthy representative of the greatest family of act- 
 ors who ever appeared upon the stage ; in the very scenejof their triumph, 
 and from the very spothallowed by the abidingshadow of theirfame, crea- 
 ted a train of feelings in the spectators and the public, nothing else could 
 so cflfectually have produced. The results were most gratifying. Sub- 
 scriptions to the amount of £1,300 were tendered on the spot. The 
 Creditors and Stockholders agreed to forego their interest and principal 
 for the term of three years. Actors of the first professional eminence 
 
 * Wednejdny September 0. 1^-2C'. 
 
4 MEMOIR OF 
 
 ofTcred their services gratuitously, and it was resolved that the Theatre 
 should be re-o])cned the following month, to take advantage of the 
 re-action in the public feeling in its favor.* 
 
 It was on this interesting occasion that curiosity and sympathy were 
 excited to an unparalleled degree by the rumor that Miss Fanny Kem- 
 BLE had resolved to forsake the domestic seclusion of which slie was tlic 
 most accomplisiied ornament, in the noble attempt to stay by her ta- 
 lents the falling fortunes of her house, and to restore to the declinine 
 years of her parents, the comfort in which they had always lived ; and 
 that her mother would return to the stage which she had quilted near . 
 twenty years before to support her daughter in her arduous attempt. 
 
 No announcement ever produced greater excitement in the circles of 
 the Metropolis, and viewing every circumstance of personal and public 
 consideration, the liislory of the Drama never presented an occasion 
 more trying to a debutante than that on which this interesting young 
 lady was to make her first appearance. 
 
 She had not merely to come before an audience selected from the 
 ^lite of the whole Empire, on a great dramatic occasion of unusual, even 
 unparalled occurrence, but she was to support from the throne of their 
 glory the renown of the immortal Siddons, and to maintain her rela- 
 tionship to the unequalled Kembles. It was even made a question of 
 national expectation. — Since the secession ofMissO'Neil, no great tragic 
 actress had appcarwl upon the stage, and all England, and Ireland 
 kindling with the associated recollections of the name of Siddons, a- 
 waitedthe trial with intense anxiety in the expectation that that evening 
 would witness tlie rising of a star of iio|)e worthy in its brightness that cor- 
 stollation of dramatic genius which had long shed such a lustre on the 
 I3ritish Stage. Those who were present at Covent Garden on the night 
 oflMiss Fanny Kemble's appearance, will not soon forget the scene 
 which it presented. Tiic evening it was re-oj^ened the Theatre was be- 
 sieged from an early hour in the afternoon by an immense crowd await- 
 ing admittance; and in a few minutes after the doors were opened, the 
 vast edifice was completely thronged with one of the most brilliant and 
 certainly most anxious audiences ever assemjjled in its walls. The boxes 
 were filled with the first society in London. Dukes, Marquesses, Earls 
 and Barons, with a whole galaxy of female nobility occupied the dress 
 circles which seemed absolutely dazzling with the blaze of jewels; and 
 in liie rest of tiie house, a not less formidabl(.> array of inlelligence and of 
 mind, every one of them a critic, and unaccustomed to tolerate a per- 
 formance of even middling excellence, awaited her appearance. 
 
 * Mentioning this noble example of National enthusin.'m, l»ring:« to our mind one 
 of the most striking insiiuiccs of princely generosity ever reconieJ. in the conduct 
 of the Duke of Northumberland, to John P. Kenibie, on nearly a similar occasion. 
 AVhen this gentleman's property was totally destroyed by the conflagration of the 
 Tiieatre in 1809, His grace, \vho while lie was Lord Percy, had received some 
 lessons in elocution from the great actor, took that appropriate opportunity of de- 
 licately conferring a favour, by rewarding him with Uie sum oi Teri Thousand 
 Pounds Sterling:, — a munificent assistance which, in spite of Kemble's repeated re- 
 fusals, he forced him to accept. 
 
MISS FA^NY KE3IBLE, 5 
 
 Juliet was the character she selected for her debut.* The feelings of 
 the audience and her reception cannot be better described than in the 
 grapiiic words of one of die most eminent poets of the age, who says, 
 *' lilven in our yoiuigest days we never shared in so anxious a throb 
 of expectation as that which awaited the several appearance, of these 
 personages on the stage. The interest was aln)ost too complicated 
 and intense to bo borne with plcasuie, and when Kemble bounded on 
 the scene gaily pointing at Romeo, as if he had cast all his cares and 
 twenty of his years behind him ; there was a grateful relief from the 
 first suspense, that expressed itself in the heartiest enthusiasm we ever 
 witnessed. Similar testimonies of feeling greeted the entrance of Mrs. 
 Kemble, but our hearts did not breathe freely till the fair debutant her- 
 self had entered pale, trembling, but resolved, and had found encour- 
 agement and shelter in her mother's arms. But another and a happier 
 source of interest was soon opened; for the first act did not close till 
 all fears tor Miss Kemble's success had been dispelled. The looksof every 
 spectator conveyed that they were electrified by tl.e inP.uence of new 
 tried genius, and were collectinii emotions in silence as they watched its 
 developement to swell its triumph with fresh acclamations." Never cer- 
 tainly was triumpli more complete, and never was success more war- 
 ranted from the discrimination with which it was adjudged. After the 
 first generous peal of acclamation v.ith which her appearance was cor- 
 dially welcomed; the entire audience awaited in a far more trying 
 silence the developement of her capal'ilities for the lofty sphere she had 
 assigned herself. But the great occasion seemed no more than the level 
 for Miss Kemble's talents. — The first word she spoke showed her col- 
 lected ])ower— every attitude und sentence evidenced a conception of 
 the part, genius only could have attempted; she seemed toliveand move 
 the very Juliet of Shakspeare's fancy, and as the curtain fell the whole 
 audience vied in the enthusiasm with which they manifested their de- 
 lisrht, and proclaimed her triumph in countless rounds of deafening ap- 
 l)lause. Tlie succeeding acts of the tragedy only developed a truth more 
 striking, and an energy more sjilendid. Her readings were the very har- 
 mony of poetic grace; each scene was fraught with a thrilling and accumu- 
 lating interest, and the tragic end wassustained with an energy of impas- 
 sioned feeling that told on every heart; as the curtain closed upon the trase- 
 dy the solid fabric shook with thunders of acclamation, audits repetition 
 was demanded with a vehemence nevt^r accorded to a debutante before. 
 Sanguine as were the expectations of Miss Kemble's fi lends, l;er conduct 
 on that glorious night, far exceeded every hope which could be drawn 
 fromthesuccessof previous favorites. For twenty-one successive nights was 
 the tragedy repeated, and which extended to twenty-six before the close of 
 the season to houses thronged beyond example, and every time the ac- 
 
 * The Tranjedy was produced on tliis occasion witli the following powerful cast, 
 copied from the handbills of the evenin":. 
 
 Homeo, Mr. Abbot, Ctirst appearance in five years); Mercutio, Mr. Charles 
 Kemble, f first appearance in'the character); Friar, Mr. Warde. ('first appearance in 
 the character); Juliet, Miss Fanny Kemble, fher first appearance on any stage); 
 Ladi/ Capulet, JMrs. C. Kemble,-Cfor this night only). 
 
6 BiE3I0IR OF 
 
 eoniplished actress displayed powers freshening with undeveloped in- 
 terest, aiKl redolent of beauties that seemed horn for the occasion. The 
 press was as unanimous as the audience in her favour. The critics of 
 London seemed to want qualification for their praise, and the general 
 impression she produced cannot be better expressed tlian in the words 
 of oneof their most eminent prints. " We dreamed for ;i while of being 
 able to analyze her acting, and to fix in our memory the finest moments 
 of its power and its grace ; but her attitudes glided into each other so 
 harmoniously, that we at last gave over enumerating how often she seemed 
 a study to the painter's eye and a vision to the |)oets heart." Surpassing 
 as was the success of Miss Kemble's Juliet, it was still more valuable 
 to the public as indicating dramatic talent of sufficient excellence to 
 warrant her personation of those loftier characters of the Drama which 
 had become identified with the highest excellence of the profession, by 
 their long reservation for those illustrious performers whom habitual 
 success and practised talent had inured to every intricacy of stage effect 
 and every manifestation of popular feeling. When tlierefore it was 
 announced that she would appear as Belvidera in the ^Merchant of Ven- 
 ice, the fever of enthusiasm with which her Juliet was nightly witnessed 
 •was turned into anotlier channel, and her admirers fiocked to witness 
 her capability for a higher cast of tragedy. It was produced to an 
 overflowing house, December 9, 182*), and was throughout received 
 in such a manner that it resembled more a triumph than a trial. The 
 audience seemed to have left taste and even discrimination aside, to 
 indulge in a warmer feeling of rapturous applause. 
 
 When the curtain fell she was tumultuously called for from every part 
 of the house. Her father appeared, and in a feeling speech, thanked 
 the audience for their kindness, but stated that his daughter was so un- 
 well after her exertions that she was unable to appear. — An explana- 
 tion which was received with loud approbation. 
 
 Belvidera was repeated with undiminished attraction for twenty nights. 
 She seemed on each occasion to improve with her additional practice. 
 People loved to trace a resemblance in both her countenance and style 
 of acting, between their gifted favorite and the matchless Siddons; and 
 every one exulted in the idea that they had found in Miss Kenible a re- 
 presentative as well as a relative of her immortal aunt. This conscious- 
 ness induced the Manager to revive the Grecian Daughter, a forgotten, 
 and in fact a wretched tragedy of Murphy's, but whicli will be for ever 
 remembered for the sustained heroism and splendid (Miergy with which Mrs. 
 Siddons personated Euphrasia. Miss Kemble, with the lofty confidence 
 of genius, at once undertook a part which no other actress since the 
 days of that celebrated woman had ever attempted, with success. The 
 hopes of the public were amply realized by her acting in this diflicult 
 character. Her Euphrasia was in every sense an amazing performance, 
 but like her aunts, it was the sublime creation of her own genius and not 
 the indecorous and almost disgusting character of the author. This deci- 
 sive experiment set at rest and for ever, all doubt as to Miss Kemble's 
 capabilities for the highest range of Tragedy, and from that time, the 
 greatest characters in the .English Drama found in her, what they had 
 
MISS FANNY KEMBLE. T 
 
 FiOt found for years, a worthy representative. Mrs, Beverly, in the 
 Gamester; Portia, in the Merchant of Venice ; Isabella in the 
 Fatal Marriage ; and even Lady Townly, in the Comedy of the Pro- 
 voked Husband, were successfully performed with triumphant success, 
 and at each time new points of beauty, new specimens of power 
 were developed ; and, associated as these characters are with the bright- 
 est names upon the stage ; the public witnessed the unparalleled specta- 
 cle of a girl of eighteen, conferring upon them a lustre and attraction 
 unsurpassed by any wlio ever went before. 
 
 After the close of this brilliant season, what must have been the feelings 
 with which Miss Kenible, cheered with a narion's wonder and applause, 
 returned into the bosom of tliat retirement which her precocious talents 
 had gilded withthe sunshine of its better days; a season in which the ex- 
 ercise of her ownsplendsd but unpractised genius, not only turned aside 
 the storm of overwhelming ruin from one of the great national Dramatic 
 establishments, but gave a stimulus to lagging theatricals, and a direc- 
 tion to public taste from v/hicii they seemed to spring and flourish 
 with an energy deplored as almost extinct.* 
 
 The short period JMiss Kcmble had been in public, written as it was 
 in characters of tight, had left behind it too bright a r-emembrance of 
 g[lory to suffer the retired cyr?osure to remain long hidden from 
 view; and, in answer to numerous invitations from the provinces, she, 
 in the autumn of 1830, accompanied by her father, made a tour of all 
 the great Theatres in England, She was greeted with enthusiasm in 
 every city. — All thronged to see the youthful star of the London press, 
 and wherever she went slie received perhaps the best homage of her 
 fame in not disappointing the high raised hopes of tlie delighted thou- 
 sands who thronged to witness l>er jxiiformance. 
 
 She returned to London a greater favorite than ever, and repeated 
 all her popular characters, hi houses wlio seemed never tired of their 
 fascination. The critics of the Metropolis were delighted to observe 
 that their idol had acquired more of that practical knowledge of the 
 stage, and more of that finish in her attidwdes, which habitual experi- 
 ence can alone confer, and whi( h gives to genius itself a deeper charm, 
 by investing its impulses and its movements whh the indefinable beauty 
 of pervading grace. 
 
 The Theatre re-opened with Romeo and Juliet. — The lion of the last 
 
 *An estimate of the labor which Miss Kemble's popularity entailed upon her in this 
 unparalleled season, can be best formed by the number of times she played her dif- 
 ferent characters, as coin|wired with Mrs. Siddons, in the season of 1782-3, the most 
 successful of all her engagements, and when slie was at the very height of her tow- 
 ering reputation. From the lOtli October to the 5th June Mrs. Siddons played, 
 Isabella, 22 times; Grecian Daughter, 11; Jane Shore, 14; Caiista, 14; Belvidera,13; 
 Zara, 3 ; Fatal Interview, 3. 
 
 Miss Kemble, in her iirst season, in nearly the same time, played 
 Juliet. 2G times; Belvidera, 20: Grecian Daughter, 7; Mrs. Beverly, 15; Por- 
 tia, 9 ; Isabella, 10 ; Lady Townley, G. 
 
 All of them new to her, the houses averaging from five to seven hundred pounds 
 sterling a night ; aa amount of labor which is totally unequalled in the history' of tb» 
 Drama. 
 
8 mi:moir or 
 
 season, and the celebrated choice of her opening nitrht, — the sliouts of 
 thousands told it had lost none of its interests, and iMiss Kenible stood 
 faiily acknowledptd at the lop of her profession. 
 
 So conjpletely establi.slicd liad become tiie youn^ acti ess' reputation, 
 thai the committee room was crowded with phiys and tragedies of every 
 description, waiting the honor of being waited into fame by her talents; 
 and dramatic writers of established celebrity diose to defer the pro- 
 duction of their accepted pieces until they could secure her powerful 
 aid in their representation. It was this iceling, and perhaps a more bla- 
 mnble one, of endeavoring to smuggle a worthless production into no- 
 tice beneath the broad mantle of her popularity, that induced the mana- 
 ger to bring forward 'The Jew of Aragon,' a Tragedy altered by Ware, 
 and not for the better, from the Spanish of Hermann; in which Miss 
 Kemble sustained the principal part of Rachel. But notwithstanding 
 the acknowledged ability with which she and the other [>erfoimeis ex- 
 ecuted their parts, it was condemned too effectually, ev<.'r to hazard its 
 repetition, although it was announced. 
 
 So great was now the admiration that this accon>plisl;ed young lady 
 ever}' where excited, that she received the highest distinction in the na- 
 tion, by a request sent from Royalty itself, that she should play Lady 
 Townley, with an announcement that their Majesties would attend to 
 •witness the performance. 
 
 The King and Queen went in state, to see her in this character, on 
 November 1, 1830. The Theatre, for this occasion, was decorated 
 in a style of regal splendor, and as might be expected, ^Tas densely 
 crowded, long before the performance, and the great majority of the 
 Court and Ministers attended. 
 
 lAIiss Kemble acquitted herself before this august assembly, and in a 
 character so essentially differing from all those in which her celebrity- 
 had been acquired, in a n)anner every way worthy of her fame, and the 
 following d;iy she received a flattering niark of the Royal approbaiion 
 in the present of the Queen's Portrait superbly chased with diamonds. 
 
 She next pt^rformod Mrs. Hallor, in the Stranger, and the 
 unap[)eased anxiety with which the public continued to watch her first 
 appearance in the various characters she personated, filled tiie house 
 with an unprecedented crowd. Her success in this arduous part — the 
 principal in the play, marked as it is, with all the wild features of the 
 school to which it belongs, and drawn in deeper shades of overpowering 
 passion than almost any modern conception, was perhaps more brilliant 
 and decisive than any of her previous attempts — she sustained it through- 
 out u 1th a beauty, dignity, and pathos, — that brought to the mind of 
 many, the palmy days of the drama, when these very pieces in the hands 
 of Sidclons and O'Neil, drew tears from almost every eye. So loud and 
 long continued v.as the applause when ti:e cuitain fell, that the gratified 
 father had to come out and thank the audience for the extraordinary 
 enthusiasm which they mrinifested. The Stranger was jdayed to crowded 
 houses for a month, when Rowe's tragedy of the Fair Penitent, was 
 produced on the 8th of December, Miss Kemble playing Calista, a dan- 
 gerous experiment it must be confessed, when we recollect that tragedy 
 
MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 9 
 
 is in a manner identified with perfection in Theatrical talent, and 
 shrined in the hrightest recollection of tlio Augustan age of British lite- 
 rature ; yet in this difficult piece, Miss Kemhle only added another 
 laurel to her fame ; there was throughout a softer hearing in her man- 
 ner, — a grander indignation in her wrath, and a self sustained dignity 
 in her conception, — which excelled all her previous efforts, and was even 
 allowed to h(; unsurpassed upon the Stage. 
 
 The confidence created by the brilliant success which attended every 
 representation which JMiss Kenible had attempted ; her classical style of 
 acting, and tlie high attraction which her genius had given to the early 
 drama, caused the revival of Milman's tragedy of Fazio, a play in which 
 tlie Poetry Professor had expressly attempted to bring back the vitiated 
 taste of tl)e public from monstrosities and cxtravagan?.as, by assuming 
 the rigid and beautiful simplicity of the old English tragedy, as his model. 
 In strict imitation and masterly delineation, he certainly succeeded, but 
 either from inappetency on the part ol' the public, or insufficiency on 
 that of tiie actors, it was abandoned after a ihw nights cold representa- 
 tion — and had remained since 1818, merely admired in the closets of 
 the learned, but effectually banislied from the stage. With the fearless 
 daring to which she owed so much of her success. Miss Kemble accepted 
 the part of Bianca, and though the s[)eedy acquirement of so many 
 difficult characters shewed as was aptly expressed at the time, much 
 " hard up hill work," for so young an actress — yet each conquered diffi- 
 culty only gave her a firmer footing, and more commanding elevation 
 on the steep of fame. 
 
 Fazio was produced Wednesday, Jam;ary 12, 1830, and though the 
 distinguishing traits of Bianca's character are decidedly unfeminine and 
 even repulsive — yet Miss Kemble's acting, sometimes fearfully energe- 
 tic — and at others tenderly pathetic — invested it throughout with a 
 thrilling interest. In particular, iier look, during the admonition of Fazio, 
 and tiic withering tone in whicli she answered him, " Thou hast seen 
 Aldabella," told with deep effect upon the audience, — the parting Avith 
 Fazio, was fraught with absorbing power, and the last fearful scene, 
 wlien in the agony of departingreason — she collects her reeling, senses to 
 disclose her tale, was executed with an awfcl energy, that smote on every 
 heart. There was over the whole audience a moment of speaking silence, 
 which as the curtain fell — burst into a storm of unexam[)led acclamation. 
 It was in vain, that Mr. Egerton appeared to announce its repetition: 
 he was shouted off the stage, and Mr. Kemble had to appear once 
 more to thank the audience, as he modestly said, for the taste with which 
 they recognized the genuine drama, but which was in reality only the 
 spontaneous homage, to the exalted talents of liis unrivalled daughter. 
 Miss Kemble appeared in Bianca, twelve nights, to increasing crowds, 
 and it has ever since retained the deserved possession of the stage, 
 which it acquired that memorable night. 
 
 She next appeared in Beatrice, in Shakspeare's Much Ado About 
 Nothing, and though to some, her manner appeared rather refined, yet she 
 evidenced powers for the higher comedy truly admirable ; in particular 
 the scene where she urges Benedick to challenge Clandio, was ex- 
 
10 MEMOIR OF 
 
 cellent, and exhibited in a marked degree, all the nobleness which can 
 fitly dignity woman, or inspire man. A sure prooi'of her superiority, was 
 exhibited in nine repctilions of a comedy seldom performed more than once 
 or twice in a season. On the 21st March, lor her benefit, she played 
 Lady Constance, in King John, to a house overflowing with crowds of 
 her admirers, who thronged to do honor to a young lady who had 
 achieved such wonders in the dramatic art. 
 
 So completely now had her reputation for truth of conception, and 
 finished grace of acting been established, and so effectually had the in- 
 fluence of her performance won back the public taste to a relisli for the 
 genuine drama, that the Maid of Honor, an obsolete play of Massin- 
 ger's, and one of the most beautiful relics of the age of Shakspeare, was 
 produced,* and owing to the exquisite justice with which Miss Kemble 
 performed Camiola, certainly one of the most perfect creations of the Dra- 
 matic Muse, it was enthusiastically received; and in its splendid suc- 
 cess, this noble play had the singular fate of receiving from the genius 
 of his niece, the full meed of celebrity and fame which all the influence 
 and talents of the great John Philip Kemble in 1785, failed to obtain for it. 
 On the 3d of May, for the benefit of Mr. Bartley, the stage mana- 
 ger, and one of her father's oldest friends, she personated Lady Teazle, 
 the chef d'oovre of Modern comedy, and in her spirited acting, and 
 beautiful readings, added even a new dignity and grace to that charm- 
 ing character. 
 
 After playing Lady Townley for her fatlier's benefit, she closed this 
 brilliant season on the 27th June, with her favorite Juliet, and covered 
 with glory and applause, retired to recruit herself for nev/ struggles and 
 a brighter fame. 
 
 So entirely had the extraordinary talents of this wondrous girl' centred 
 dramatic taste in Covent Garden, that the rivnl Theatre was thrown 
 completely into the shade, and even the Italian Opera and Astley's 
 had lost half their charms. So that on the opening of the new season 
 Drury Lane had to resort to the unprecedented novelty of bringing wild 
 beasts upon the stage, to secure some share of the patronage so liberally 
 awarded to its rival. And in the " Lions of Mysore," purchased an 
 equivocal popularity by degrading the temple of Shakspeare, and Gar- 
 rick and Sheridan, into an Amphitheatre or Menagerie. The manage- 
 ment of Covent Garden, opposed to these unusual " Stars," the un- 
 tastedcharmsof Shakspeare, and produced Henry VIII, with an unlimit- 
 ed disregard of expense ; Miss Kemble acting Queen Catharine. Though 
 the acknowledged ability with v.iiich she personated the injured Queen, 
 and the splendid decorations with which it was got u|), caused it to be 
 received with great applause, yet the piece was too cumbrous even in 
 its pomp to be eflcctive, and was withdrawn, for the unfailing attrac- 
 tions of Fazio, Juliet, and Belvidera. On the 17th January, Miss Kem- 
 ble was called upon to give her all-powerful support to " Catharine of 
 Cleves," a new Tragedy by Lord Leveson Gower, or rather altered 
 by him from the French of Dumas. Miss Kembltj's efiectivc acting as 
 Duchess of Guise, elicited warm apjilause, and it was to her exertions, 
 as well as to the other actors, that the piece though not at all equal to its 
 • Wednesday, April 29, 1831. 
 
MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 11 
 
 appla'Rled original,* had a tolerable run, and an extensive sale. The 
 Manager at this time had to give way to the prevailing taste, for the 
 German Opera had brouglit out Robert the Devil, which in Paris, had 
 an amazing run, with all its accompaniments of splendid horrors, wild 
 music, and su[)ernatural monstrosities. In this expensive piece, the 
 combined attractions of blue fire and JMr. Lacy as the Devil, afforded 
 amusement for a time, until -i new source of interest centering in Miss 
 Kemble's person, put all such imported extravagances to the rout. 
 
 in the sixteenth year of her age, before Miss Kemble had any notion 
 of the stage as a profession, shehad written Francis the First, and all her 
 friends who had seen it, spoke of its merits in terms of high commenda- 
 tion, warmly recommending it for the stage. It was withheld, from 
 false feelings of delicac}^ on the part of its accomplished author until 
 ThursdayMarchl5,1832,wlienit was produced with every advantage of 
 costume and decoration, which the liberality of the managers could devise. 
 The excitement among the circles of London when it was announced 
 was intense, and on the night of its representation the house was thronged 
 with the very elite of its fashionable and literary society. It was re- 
 ceived as the curtain rose with perfect shouts of approbation, but every 
 one seemed to reserve their feelings until the second scene, in which 
 entered the young and lovely author attired in a regal dress; her brow 
 flushed with hope, and her whole demeanor evidencing strong agitation, 
 when seeming to partake in the interest which excited her, they gave 
 vent in a warm burst of enthusiasm, language would be weak todescribe, 
 and when she repeated the words with an appropriate action, which 
 partook too strongly of nature not to tell on every breast, " Now out 
 upon this beating heart, these temples that throb and burn so — I must 
 remember me," the whole of the vast audience with one simultaneous 
 impulse applied the passage to herself, and answered her in a gener- 
 ous burst of encouraging acclamation, that seemed almost to partake of 
 the sublime in its deep ami prolonged applause. From that moment 
 Miss Kemble went through lier part with an increasing confidence that 
 gave the character a matchlessdignity and grace, and each new point she 
 made was hailed with a vehemence that partookfar more of rapture than 
 satisfaction. The other actors sustained their parts with consummate 
 excellence, and considering how much the audience were determined 
 to be pleased, we need not wonder that it was entirely successful. It 
 Jiot only received immense eclat from its performance, but it passed 
 rapidly through several large editions, and soon became even more popu- 
 lar in the closet than on the stage. 
 
 Miss Kemble had now twined around her youthful name the double 
 honors of the actress and the author, and her success in each had been 
 great as her most sanguine friends could have possibly hoped, yet her 
 professional abilities were destined to receive a still brighter eclat, which 
 placed her on an eminence never before attained by any person at her 
 age, and that in an untrodden field where the glory and the fame were 
 peculiarly her own, untouched and unattempied Ity another. 
 
 The author of Virginias, piqued by the failure efthe Beggar of Beth- 
 nal Green, set himself to retrieve his reputation, and to the pride of 
 * Henri III. par ^In-.-i'^. \. Duma'!, 
 
13 MEMOIR OF 
 
 disappointed vanity, we are indebted for the most perfect drama of the 
 age. Tlie Hunchback was produced Thursday April 5. Those ac- 
 (|uainted with the history of the stage, must be aware how intimately 
 the fate of the most po[)nlar plays hasdependcdonability inlheir fust re- 
 presentation, and knowing this we must place a Inrge portion of tl e 
 unparalleled success of Knowles' play to the trancendant talents of the 
 ))erformers. On the niglit of its appearanc(>, INIiss Kenible, in the 
 principal character, in particidar acquitted herhelf in a manner that eli- 
 cited tiie very enthusiasm of admiration. Julia was created for this 
 lady : with energy sufficient to employ all her loftier powers, it is re- 
 lieved with a graceful levity, to which the accomplished actress was 
 noi less admirably qualified to give eflect. The consequence was, tliat 
 she met with a success in the part, triumphant beyond all precedent, 
 either of her former efforts, oi of any actress who ever appeared upon 
 the stage, and Knowles himself acknowledged in a transport of delight, 
 that the •' Do it" of Miss Kemhle would stand in future times with the 
 " hereafter" of her aunt. Thoughout the whole representation, the 
 feelings of the audience were never suflered to lag for a moment, but 
 were kept in increasing interest to the final scene which she went 
 through with a magnificentenergy that stirred every soul. When the cur- 
 tain fell, and the gratified author had received the plaudits of the audi- 
 ence, they showed a generous discrimination in calling, not less loudly, 
 on Miss Kemhle, who when led on by her father, received in the uni- 
 versal acclamation of llie hou^e, a proud acknowledgment of her share 
 in the great success of the play. The run of the Hunchback was equal- 
 led only by the Beggars Opera, and the School for Scandal. It lasted 
 to the (Mid of the Season, and the nightly receipts averaged from five to 
 eight hundred pounds. 
 
 Covent Garden closed on the 22d June, 1832. Drury Lane, not- 
 withstanding Lions, Spectacles and Operas, maintained only a very sick- 
 ly existence, until the latter end of May, when bending to the irresista- 
 ble popularity of its rival, it was obliged to shut with a loss upon the 
 Season of £12,000. In the mean time the lease of the successful Thea- 
 tre was purchased by Laporte for £10,000 a year, and Mr. Kemble 
 and his Daughter prepared to leave England, on a pre-arranged trip to 
 this Countr3\ This circumstance being generall}' known, gave an un- 
 usual attraction to the closing night : the whole city as it were crowded 
 to take their leave of the giited young Lady, whose talents for three 
 successive years, had formed such an unfailing source of attraction, and 
 whose first essay and subsequent access to her present proud position 
 had been before their eyes, and made the inhabitants of the Metropolis 
 love to call her their Oivn, their L'nsuipassed. The play was the 
 Hunchback; JMiss Kemhle never performed the lovely character of 
 Julia with finer effect, and the audience, with quick perception, caught 
 every passinc sentence that could be made to bear upon her situation, 
 and applied it with loud applause : when the curtain fell, she was uni- 
 versally cidled for from every part of the house, which was repeated 
 with a pertinacity of clamour that would biook no denial, until her fa- 
 ther led her, attired in a beautiful undress, upon the stage. Never was 
 
MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 13 
 
 the thunders of a public welcome accorded with more simultaneous 
 energy. Her father led her, much embarrassed, to the front of the 
 stage, where evidently wanting words to convey any sense of their op- 
 ptessive kindness, she detached a bouquet of flowers from her bosom, 
 and flung it among the audience. The chivalrous inhabitants of Paris 
 itself, could not have received the gift with more enthusiasm ; the gar- 
 land was torn to pieces, in the eager desire to catch one flower from so 
 precious a relic ; and as slie retired, the house absolutely shook, with 
 j>eal after f)eal of voUied acclamation. 
 
 In Liverpool, previous to her departure for America, she played all 
 her principal characters, and the anxiety to witness her performance 
 was fully as great as was ever exhibited in London. In particular, the 
 steam boats conveyed over almost every evening from Dublin, large 
 numbers of the warm-hearted youth of the Irish Metropolis, who, with 
 the characteristic eagerness of their country, braved in order to see her, 
 difficulties, both of distance and navigation, which would have deterred 
 any less enthusiastic than themselves. Miss Kemble, highly gratified 
 with her reception in Liverpool, sailed with her father, for the United 
 States, in the packet ship Pacific, August 1; she arrived at New- York 
 in September, and the following Monday her father having played the 
 previous evening, she appeared at the Park Theatre, to a crowded and 
 fashionable audience, in the character of Bianca, the tragedy being pro- 
 duced for the occasion, the first time in x\merica. Her reception was 
 fiilly as enthusiastic as siie ever received in her native country. The 
 fine discrimination with which she went through the part, was amply 
 appreciated and the piece was triumphantly successful. The ["annals 
 of the Theatre in New-York, present no parallel to the attraction 
 which the engagement of the Kembles gave to the stage. The 
 Americans, attached as they are to the genuine drama, were too 
 well aware how deeply the stage was indebted to the illustrious Kem- 
 ble and Siddons, even independent of their own merits, not to 
 welcome with the warmest delight their distinguished relatives. 
 Every person felt proud to pay the accomplished strangers all the respect 
 in their power, and in a manner that must have proved most gratifying, 
 both to the Lady and her Father. After a lucrative engagement in 
 New- York, they proceeded to Philadelphia, where they were received 
 with still more distinguished honour. At the Seat of Government, the 
 most eminent political characters of the country felt proud to extend 
 the rites of hospitality to Miss Kemble and her Father, and were not 
 less delighted with her winning manners in private, than her unequalled 
 talents on the stage. After having again visited New- York, they de- 
 parted on an engagement to Boston, and it is to be hoped, that ere 
 they proceed to England, they will return once more to this city, 
 where their dramatic genius will ever make them welcome and attrac- 
 tive guests, 
 
 • •*#*#*• 
 
 Such is the brief, but bright history of a Young Lady, who, though 
 BOW only in her 22nd year, has acquired a lustre of enduring reputation 
 
14 MEMOIR OF 
 
 of which we have no example in the annals of her sex : difficult as it 
 is to estimate how much of the subtle essence of immortal fame, Time 
 the great arbiter of destiny, will distil over, from mere passing popularity. 
 Yet a glance at the causes of Miss Kemble's celebrity, will enable us, 
 at once to see, that it is superior to the ordinary influences of fluctuating 
 notoriety, and in its very nature must flouiish in undecaying strength. 
 
 We will not speak of the sacred motive which prompted her appear- 
 ance in public, though the generous superstition of the classic eras, and 
 the more affecting impulse of modern times would alike honor it with 
 the homage of undissembled reverence; we will leave out of the ques- 
 tion, all the manifold causes both of family and person, which entitle her 
 to respect, and observe merely, that on her very first appearance on the 
 stage, it was evident at once, that mind alone was the spi ingincf impulse 
 of the beautiful poetry of her personations. Juliet, the loveliest crea- 
 tion of the Dramatic Muse, presenting in its fine delineation the very 
 purity of embodied passion was too often degraded in some of its scenes, 
 even by its best representatives, with a sort of girlish toying, and sim- 
 pering afiectation, which only required a pretty face and while hand- 
 kerchief to render it popular. Miss Kemble, with the wise audacity of 
 genius, at once rejected all such childish attractions, and played it as it 
 should be, with tenderness and delicacy it is true, but with the earnest 
 simplicity of a mind altogether engrossed with the dangers and the 
 hopes of her first and absorbing love. It was this, which giving to her 
 performance all the charm of freshness, and all the truth of nature, at- 
 tracted night after night, untiring thousands to its representation, and 
 which must ever give it a current value, while ordinary feelings retain 
 their sway. Her otiier characters were regulated by the same delicacy 
 of perception, and the same chastity of taste : without entering into 
 particulars, for which we have not room ; we may remark, that in her 
 acting, her vivacity never descends to mimickry, and her passion in its 
 most stormy moments, while it is undebased by one tinsfe of rant often 
 approaches the sublime. We almost forget we are looking upon the 
 stage, the very characters of actual life resuscitated in her person, 
 seem to live, and move, and breathe before us : — 
 
 Hers is the spell o'er hearts 
 
 Which only acting lends ; 
 Tiie youngest of tiie sister Arts ; 
 
 Wiiere ail their beauty bieiuls : 
 For poetry can ill express, 
 
 Full many a tliought, and tone sublime, 
 And Painting mute, and motionless, 
 
 Steals t)ut a parting glance of time. 
 But by the mighty actress brought, 
 
 Illusions wedded, triunipli's come, — 
 Verse ceases to be airy thought, 
 
 And Sculpture to be dumb. 
 
 The most striking circumstance observable in her slyle, is tlic exqui- 
 site beauty of her attitudes : without the least appearance (to coin a 
 word) of mannerism — every posture is replete with grace, the most cri- 
 tical eye can never detect a single motion of carelessness or haste, nor 
 
MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 15 
 
 observe an attitude, which would not form a model to the sculptor's eye. 
 Her dramatic readings, too, are classically correct, no conception of 
 the poet, no harmony of diction, no turn of idea vanishes as she speaks, 
 or is marred or lost in her recital, her mind exquisitely alive to the 
 nameless graces of poesy, gives every idea an effect, and every allusion 
 a strength which oft«n adds new power and beauty to the author's 
 thought. 
 
 The person of Miss Kemble is what is known as the middle size, and 
 is franjed with that faultless symmetry, which gives in the elegance of 
 its grace an cflect far greater than more imposing forms. Her counte- 
 nance, without being what is genendly called beautiful, is perfectly 
 regular, and unlike tlic merely handsome, cannot be looked upon and 
 forgotten: it is of that character, which physiologists denominate the 
 *' intellectual," and which the Grecian chisel has loved to immortalize 
 in some of its noblest efforts. The face absolutely beams with mind, 
 each feature seems eloquent with unborn and Hashing thought, and the 
 eye radiant with intelligence, gives an expression to her countenance, 
 which makes us feel it is tiie dwelling-place of genius, and redolent of 
 *' the soul so nobly palaced there." 
 
 With respect to Francis the First, — It is a work of such excellence, 
 that it would alone entitle her to a lasting glory, and though the very 
 early age at which it was written, might entitle it to indulgence, it 
 needs no such mistaken lenity. Formed on the classic models of the 
 early drama, and which her mind deeply imbued with the productions 
 of that vv'ondrous time, has stamped with an approaching excellence 
 that can scarcely be called imitation, it is one of the few productions 
 of modern times, where the simplicity of unaided incident maintains 
 an unbroken interest by the beauty of its narration. 
 
 Though the great fault of two distinct plots, not the one arising from 
 the other, but equal in their power, and distinct in their developcment, 
 has prevented it having the full effect upon the stage, which its many 
 noble scenes would amply warrant ; yet it abounds with characters and 
 scenes of great dignity and absorbing interest: the lofty heroism of the 
 gallant de Bourbon, the generous devotion, and the exquisite sensibility 
 of Frangoise, and the unregulated ambition of the Queen, are drawn 
 with a masterly and sustained power equal to any in the whole range of 
 dramatic literature. 
 
 But objections which may be brought to bear upon it, as an acting 
 play, have no validity, when it is viewed merely as a work of mind. 
 It is in the closet only we can a[)preciate its many patsages of almost in- 
 spired poetry, the bt^autiful tenor of its thoughts, and the elegant flow 
 of its language. Although supercilious critics have pretended to disco- 
 ver the model of Zanga, in her Gonzales, and ideas from other drama- 
 tists in many of her characters and scenes, yet we place no value on 
 the fact. Similarities like these cannot be called imitations, but 
 coincidences, or such passages ; like "Virgil, who copied whole lines from 
 Ennius, she has the happiness to make entirely her own, and taking it all 
 in all, we hesitate not with the Quarterly Review, topronounce Francii 
 the First the greatest work which was ever produced by any female at 
 her ag©. S. D. L. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 'Princes of ike Blood 
 
 ;:1 
 
 Francis the First, King of France, 
 
 Charles of Bourbon, 
 
 Charles of Alen'50n, 
 
 Chabannes, 
 
 Vendomk, 
 
 Laval, 'J 
 
 Lautrkc, 
 
 Bonmvet, 
 
 Varennes, 
 
 Clement Marot, a Poet. 
 
 Triboulet, the King's Jester, 
 
 Gonzales, a Monk, 
 
 old Generals, 
 
 )■ French Nobles, 
 
 Coveiit Garden. 
 
 Park Theatre. 
 
 London. 
 
 New-York. 
 
 Mr. J. Mason. 
 
 Barry. 
 
 C Mr. C. Kemble. 
 
 Mr. C. Kemble. 
 
 )od,<^ 
 
 ( Mr. Diddcar 
 
 Kej)pell. 
 
 t Mr. Egerton. 
 
 Blakely. 
 
 I Mr. Evans. 
 
 Nexen. 
 
 f Mr. G. Bennct, 
 
 Mr. J. Mason. 
 
 1 Mr. Baker. 
 
 Rae. 
 
 Mr. Dui-uset- 
 
 Hayden. 
 
 V,Mr. Sutton. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Abbott. 
 
 Ricliings. 
 
 Mr. Keeley, 
 
 Fislier. 
 
 Mr. Warde. 
 
 Clarke. 
 
 Nobles, Pages, Guards, Heralds, Soldiers, ^c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Louisa of Savoy, the King's Mother, Miss Fanny Kemble. Mi-s. Sharjie. 
 
 Margaret OF Valois, /jer Daitg/j/er, Miss Taylor. Miss Rae. 
 
 FRAN901SE DE Foix, Lautrec's Sister, Miss E. Tree. Miss F. Kemble. 
 
 Florise, her Attendant, Miss Lee. Mrs. Durle. 
 
 Ladies of the Court. 
 
FRANCIS THE FIRST, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— A COURT OF THE LOUVRE. 
 Enter Vendome and Ciiabannes, meeting the Duke 0/ Alen^on. 
 
 Ven. Good morrow to my lord of Alencjon ! 
 
 Alen. Good morrow, noble sir. My lord Chabannes, " 
 You are right welcome back to court again : 
 I pray you, Vendome, is the King return'd 
 From tennis yet ? 
 
 Ven. My lord, as I pass'd through 
 The gallery I saw the royal train 
 Dismount, and now the King holds private converse 
 With the Queen's confessor : a moment since, 
 I saw them both enter the Queen's apartment, 
 In very earnest and impassion'd talk ; 
 And, as I think, the Duke de Bourbon's name 
 Full many a time escaped their anxious lips. 
 
 Cha. The Queen's confessor! — what! old Father Jerome.'' 
 
 Alen. Oh no! old Father Jerome, rest his soul, 
 Is dead. This man (between ourselves I speak it,) 
 To me, seems rather a mysterious minister. 
 And secret instrument, than a confessor. 
 
 Ven. Strange to say, he is a Spaniard, 
 And, stranger yet, he hath not been at court 
 But a brief space, which renders his estate 
 (Being so trusted by the Queen) a riddle, 
 Whereat we guess in vain. She is not wont 
 To doff her wariness on slight acquaintance ; 
 Yet is this monk for ever with her ; holding 
 In full possession her most secret counsels. 
 
 Cha. To me, my lords, who newly am returned 
 To court, all this seems passing strange indeed ; 
 3 
 
18 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Ad I. 
 
 With greater wonder though, Vendomc, I learn 
 De Bourbon is rccall'd from Italy. 
 
 Alen. 'Tis not the absent only arc amazed, 
 You do but share the wonder of the town ; 
 All note the strange event, none know the cause ; 
 And we have yet to learn what fiiult or folly — 
 
 Ven. Your pardon, sir, but 'tis not very like 
 That the young hero, who at Marignan 
 Did deeds of war and wisdom so combine, 
 That nothing short a kingdom could reward 
 His merit, now should fail in either point — 
 
 Alen. This problem, sir, 
 Surpasses my poor wit; and all I know 
 Is, that the duke is coming home again ; 
 And that an eager expectation runs 
 Before his path, to see how he will bear 
 This sudden mandate, and how be* received 
 At court. 
 
 Cha. Look, here comes one in haste : methinks. 
 That should be my old friend and comrade, 
 Triboulet. 
 
 Enter Trigoulet. 
 
 Tri. Gentles, beseech ye leave me passing room. 
 Most worshipful sir, I am right glad to see you! 
 
 Cha. That is a joy reciprocal. 
 Good fool, how hast thou fared, since last we parted? 
 
 Tki. Indifferent Avell, my lord ; I thank ye, very indiffer- 
 ent ; but still as well as may be, considering tides and times, 
 and things as they were, and things as they are, and sundry 
 other things — heigh ho ! 
 
 Cha. What ! melancholy, eh ! poor fellow ! 
 
 Till. Oh ! sir, very melancholy. I should think I was 
 dying in right earnest, an it were not — 
 
 Alen. That he eats like a pig, and sleeps like a dormouse. 
 
 Till. Sir, your comparisons are very beastly, and that's 
 the best that can be said of them. 
 
 Alen. The best is bad, and far from civil then. 
 
 Trt. The farther from civil, the nearer to your speech. 
 
 Cha. Tiiere, never anger thee at truth, good fool: — 
 But tell me where that foul fiend Melancholy 
 Hath driven the damask of thy rosy cheeks? 
 
 Ve\. r.larry, it needs no search — into his nose ; 
 Which jiit.-> from out the mainland of his face, 
 
Scene /.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 19 
 
 Like some peak'd proiriontory, on whose verge 
 The beacon Hght its warning blaze advances. 
 
 Alen. Well, but what makes thee sad ? 
 
 Tri. E'en that which makes you glad. 
 
 Alen. And what is that, sir fool? 
 
 Tri. The Lord High Constable's return sir Duke. 
 
 [D'Alen^on turns on his heel, and icalks up the stage 
 with Vendome. 
 
 Cha. My lord of Alem;on, you have your answer ; 
 And why doth that affect thee? 
 
 Tri. Why, sir, thus: 
 The Duke de Bourbon is a worthy gentleman. 
 Fine fighter, wise statesman, and great fool! — 
 
 Cha. How now, sir Triboulet, a fool ! — a man who vives 
 His blood— * 
 
 Tri. To the earth. 
 
 CJha. And his counsel — 
 
 Tri. To the air. 
 
 Cha. For his country — 
 
 Tri. No, for that (sjiaps his fingers); why how ye stare ; 
 Is it not so ? — And doth not the event prove that he ims a 
 fool ? 
 
 Cha. (aside). O wisdom ! thou hast kissed the lips of idiote), 
 And gemm'd the motley with thy precious pearls ! 
 
 [ALEN90N and Vi:nd8me appear to he observing some one in 
 the distance — they come fonoard. 
 
 Alen. Oh yes, 'tis he ! now by this living light, 
 There is no nauseous reptile crawls the earth 
 That I so loathe as this same Bonnivet ! 
 
 Cha. Is that De Bonnivet, that plumed thing ! 
 So sparkling and so brave in his attire, 
 Who treads disdainfully the upholding earth f 
 
 Tri. Oh, that he hath done long on all his upholders^ 
 
 Cha. Is that the brother of King Francis' tutor, 
 Whom I remember well a page at court ? 
 
 Alen. Sir, he is now the King's prime minister. 
 
 Cha. Sir? — tut— impossible ! 
 
 Tri. He means the Queen's prime minister. 
 
 Ven. Why, aye, that's something nearer to the mark. 
 
 Enter De Bonnivet — he hows haughtily to them — they return 
 his salute in the same manner. 
 
20 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act 1. 
 
 Tri. (staring in his face.) He hath a very bright eye, and 
 a very high brow, and very handsome teeth — (While he says 
 this, De Bonnivet threateningly obliges him to retreat step by 
 step until he gets behind Vendome, when he adds.) — By reason 
 of all which no woman need miscarry that looks at him. 
 
 De Bon. (Aiming a blow at Tiiiboulet with his glove.) Hold 
 thy fool's tongue ! 
 
 Tri. (Showing himself from behind ALEN90N.J That we 
 may listen to thine ? Now, for aught I know, thou may'st 
 be the more learned of the two, seeing thy brother was a 
 pedagogue — 
 
 [De Bonnivet drmvs his sioord, and rushes upon Triboulet — 
 Vendome a/jc? Chabannes /(oZc/ him back. D^ Atulncon jjlaces 
 himself before Triboulet. 
 
 Ven. For manhood, sir, put up your sword: he knows not 
 what he says. 
 
 Cha. He is a fool ! an idiot ! 
 
 Tri. The King's fool, sir, the King's fool, and no idiot ! 
 
 Bon. King's fool or not, he shall not fool't with me. 
 Or, by the Lord ! I'll make him find his brains. 
 
 Tri. Sir, if you knock them out, I bequeath them to you ! 
 You're poor in such commodities. 
 
 Bon. Unhand me ! — 
 
 Enter Margaret de Valois, followed by Clement. 
 
 Mar. How now, what coil is here ! my lords, I thought 
 not 
 To meet foul discord in such company. 
 Gentlemen, if a lady's voice hath power 
 To win your hands from their ungentle purpose, 
 Pray you put up your swords — Why so, I thank ye. 
 And now, what may I ask, in this assembly 
 Was cause of such affray? 
 
 Tri. My wit, sweet mistress. 
 
 Mar. Truly such origin doth honor to your quarrel. 
 And if whole nations fought for ten long years 
 For no more cause than a light woman's love, 
 We well may pardon, nay approve, four heroes 
 Who fall to fighting on a jester's words. 
 
 Alex. Madam, your words arc sharp, and came they not 
 From Hps, where soft sweet smiles have made their home, 
 They would, indeed, be terrible ; but now, 
 
Scene /.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 21 
 
 We even bless reproachful oracles 
 That breathe from such a shrine. 
 
 Tri. (aside to him) Oh, excellent! 
 Where didst thou con that dainty speech, I pray thee ? 
 
 [ALEN90N j9Ms7tes Jiim angrily away — Margaret hows to Vendome. 
 and extends her hand to Ciiabannes. 
 
 Mar. Most worthy sir, you're welcome back again 
 To our fair court. 
 
 Cha. Lady, can you rejoice 
 To see grey hairs come bowing in your train ? 
 Doth spring cry welcome to the hoary winter? 
 
 Mar. Oh, Sir, your winter so hath crown'd itself 
 With bays and laurels — glorious evergreens, 
 Still smiling in the sunshine of fair fame. 
 That 'tis but like a second, longer spring ; 
 Born of the growth of years, destin'd to flourish 
 As bright and fresh for ever. 
 But say, Chabannes, 
 
 Will not the tournay that my brother holds 
 To-day, in honor of the Duke's return. 
 Be favor'd by your presence ? 
 
 Cha. Gracious Madam, 
 We all intend, as I believe, to be there. 
 I to look on, and criticise as age. 
 Ever will do, drawing comparisons, 
 'Twixt that which is, and that which hath been once. 
 
 Mar. Envious comparisons ! say, are they not ? 
 Surely the world alters not every day. 
 That they who play'd their parts but some score years 
 Gone by, should cry out, 'How the times are altered?' — 
 I do appeal to thy philosophy. 
 Say, is it so, Chabannes? 
 
 Cha. In sober truth, then, in philosophy, 
 Since thus your Grace commands, I do believe 
 That at our feet the tide of time flows on 
 In strong and rapid course ; nor is one current 
 Or ripling eddy liker to the rest, 
 Than is one age unto its predecessor ; 
 Men still are men, the stream is still a stream. 
 Through every change of changeful tide and time ; 
 And 'tis, I fear, only our partial eye 
 That lends a brighter sunbeam to the w^ave 
 On which we launch'd our own advent'rous bark. 
 
22 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act L 
 
 Mar. Oh fair confession ! Come thou with me, sir fool, 
 I've business for thee in the banquet-hall : 
 You, gentlemen, farewell, until the tournay ; 
 'Till then, all good attend you, and I pray 
 Keep the King's peace, an it be possible. — 
 
 [Exeunt Margaret, Clement, and Triboulet, on one side 
 the rest on the other. 
 
 SCENE II.— THE QUEEN MOTHER'S APARTMENT. 
 The Queen enters precipitately. 
 
 Q,UEE\. So — I am glad Gonzales is not here ; 
 I would not even he should see me thus. — 
 Now out upon this beating heart, these temples. 
 That throb and burn so. — I must remember me. — 
 Mother of France, and well nigh Queen of it, 
 I'll even bear my love as royally, 
 As I have borne my pow'r — the time is near, 
 Oh very near, when he will kneel again 
 Before my feet ; — the conqueror to the conquer'd ! — 
 I am asham'd of this ill-tim'd relapse, — 
 This soft unnerving power which thus enthrals me. — 
 
 Enter Gonz.\les. 
 
 Thou art right welcome, by my word, Gonzales ! 
 Where be those parchments ? 
 
 GoN. Noble madam, here. 
 
 Queen, Hast thou drawn out the plan of the ixjssessions ? 
 
 GoN. So please your grace, I have ; — Pardon me, madam, 
 I fear you are not well; your cheek is pale. 
 And your lip quivers — is your highness ill ? 
 
 Queen. Hush! Hivas a trumpet, was it not? — and now — 
 Surely it is the tramp of horses' hoofs 
 That beat the ground thus hurriedly and loud; — 
 I pray thee, father, throw the casement wide — 
 The air is stifling, (Throws herself into a chair.) 
 
 GoN. I never saw you thus o'ercome before : 
 You tremble, madam. 
 
 Queen, (rising). Do I so, indeed ? 
 I thank thee for that word — it hath reviv'd me; 
 I'm very well — I do not tremble now ; — 
 It hath a wond'rous virtue ! Pray thee, father, 
 What think the people of Bourbon's return ? 
 
Scene //.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 23 
 
 GoN. Madam, the summer clouds 
 That fiit across the heav'ns are not more various, 
 More stranoe, and different in shape and color, 
 Than are th' opinions born from his recall. 
 
 Queen. But thou — but thou — 
 Accustom'd as thou art to thread the mazes 
 Of dark intriguing policy — how think'st thou? 
 
 GoN. Accustom'd, as your highness should have said, 
 To read the will and wisdom of your eyes. 
 And watch, for your commands, each meaning look, 
 If I might say it — madam — I should think 
 That much indeed lay in this mystery; 
 For your eye speaks strange things. 
 
 Queen. How sayest thou — 
 This hand is passing fair, is't not, Gonzales ? 
 
 GoN. Madam ! — 'tis not for me to estimate 
 The hand that kings have priz' d above their kingdom. 
 
 Queen. Psha! fool! Oh, rather say the hand that held 
 The sovereign rule over their kingdoms. Now, 
 Mark me attentively. This woman's hand, 
 That but this moment trembled with alarm, — 
 This fair frail hand hath firmly held the reins 
 Of this vast empire for full many a year : 
 This hand hath given peace and Vvar to Europe, — 
 This hand hath plac'd my son upon his throne, — 
 This hand hath held him there, — this hand it was 
 That sign'd the warrant for Bourbon's recall. 
 
 GoN. Amazement! 
 
 Queen. Ay ! this woman's hand, led by a woman's heart. 
 Now hear me, thou ; for to thy secrecy 
 I will confide what none, save only thee. 
 Have known — must know. Note Avell the latter word ! 
 It is because I love the Duke de Bourbon 
 That I have called him from his Government, 
 To lift him to the dizziest height of pow'r 
 This hand can grant, or kingdom can confer. 
 
 GoN. And will you tell him of your love? 
 
 Queen. I will. 
 Nay answer not, — I have resolved on it, — 
 Thou wouldst but waste thy words, and anger me. 
 I never yet knew friend or minister 
 But they were ever readier to advise 
 Than act. 
 
 GoN. Now, madam, by the holy mass 
 
24 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act L 
 
 You shall not find it so. I've not forgot 
 My fame and honors were bestowed hy you ; 
 And rather take them back, — nay, life itself, — 
 Than taunt me with unwillingness to serve you. 
 
 Queen. Why, so! 1 did but jest. In sooth, Gonzales, 
 I know thou art as good, in a bad way. 
 As any faithful son of the Holy Church 
 Need be. 
 
 GoN. But does the King — 
 
 Queen. Out, bungler! out! 
 The King was very dutiful, and well 
 Believ'd what I so strenuously assur'd. 
 I told him that the Duke de Bourbon's power 
 Was growing strongly in the Milanese ; 
 Urge'd his return, and show'd him how, when distant, 
 The high ambition of the Bourbon's mind 
 Was far less check'd than here, beneath the shadow 
 Of the throne, and so he was recall'd — 
 
 [ Trumpets without — shouts of'''- De Bourbon !" 
 
 And now he is arriv'd — hark how the trumpets 
 
 Bray themselves hoarse with sounding welcome to him ! 
 
 Oh, could I join my voice to yonder cry. 
 
 By heav'ns I think its tones would rend the welkin 
 
 With repetition of the hero's name ! [ExiU 
 
 GoN. In love with Bourbon ! By this living light 
 My mission here is well nigh bootless, then. 
 Now might I back to Spain, since Charles' objects 
 Are all defeated by this woman's passion. 
 Were there not yet another task, the dearest, 
 The labor that is life — mincou-n revenge! 
 Lie still, thou thirsty spirit, that within 
 Call'st for the blood that s/ia// allay thy craving! 
 Down, down with thee, until the hour be come 
 When I can fling this monkish treachery by, 
 Rush on my prey, and let my soul's hot flame 
 Lick up his blood, and quench it in his life ! 
 Time, and the all-enduring soul, that never 
 Shrinks from the trial, be my speed ! and nought 
 My hope, my spur, my instrument, my end, 
 Save hate — eternal hate — immeasurable hate ! [Exit. 
 
Scene III, IF.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 25 
 
 SCENE III.— THE PRINCESS MARGARET'S CHAMBER. 
 
 Enter Margaret and Triboulet. 
 
 Mar. It is the hour of toiirnay. Triboulet, 
 Go thou unto the Queen, and tell her grace. 
 That, if it please her, I'll attend her thither. 
 
 [Exit Triboulet. 
 He is returned ! he will be there ! and yet 
 Though meeting, after long eventful absence, — 
 We shall not in our meeting be half blest : 
 A dizzy, whirling throng will be around us, 
 'Mid whose loud jar the still small voice of love. 
 Whose accents breathe their soft enchantment best 
 In whisper'd sighs, or but half-whisper'd words, 
 Will die unheard. Oh that we thus should meet! 
 But, then, there is love's eye to flash his thought 
 Into a language, whose rich eloquence 
 Beggars all voice ; our eyes at least may meet. 
 And change, like messengers, the loving freight 
 That either heart sends forth. 
 
 Enter Clement Marot. 
 
 Cle. So please you, madam, 
 The Queen hath bid me say that she will not 
 Grace with her sight the tournament to-day; 
 And as I came from her apartment hither, 
 I met the King, who bade me bear you word 
 He cannot yet unto the lists, but you. 
 And your fair train, had best ride quickly there. 
 And let the tilt commence ; he will not tarry. 
 But join ye ere the first three blows are struck. 
 
 [Exit Clement. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis well, I will obey. — 'Tis very strange 
 How much I fear my mother should perceive 
 De Bourbon's love for me — I know not why — 
 I dare not tell it her, — she is a fearful spirit, 
 And stands so proudly over all her sex. 
 She surely ne'er hath known what 'tis to love. '[Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV.— THE LISTS. 
 Enter Lautrec and Laval, meeting. 
 
 Lau. Well met by this good light, Laval; Avill not 
 The Queen attend this tournament to-dav .'' 
 4 
 
26 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act L 
 
 Lav. No, sir, she's closeted with his grim holiness. 
 
 Lau. That Spanish monk? 
 
 Lav. The walking- mystery. 
 That man, to my mind, hath a villainous look! 
 I never met his eyes but they were glaring 
 Like some hyana's, or the devil's own. 
 Once I remember that the Queen had sent 
 Me on some mission to this confessor, — 
 I5y chance, the Princess Margaret, by whose side 
 He stood, let fall a jewel from her finger; 
 Both stoop'd ; and as we bent, our hands encountered — 
 He started back as though a serpent stung him ; — 
 By'r Lady, but I would not be the man 
 To wrong that surly monk — is it not strange, 
 That when I gaze on him, it seems as though 
 I knew him, and had seen him oft before? 
 
 Lau. Nay, in thy dreams it must have been, Laval; 
 But leave this theme, and tell me what it is 
 Thou wouldst with me ? 
 
 Lav. This is no fitting place 
 To speak what I would say at greater length. 
 But love prompts me (once more) to urge my suit — 
 My unanswer'd suit. 
 
 Lau. Once more I tell thee, then, 
 My sister shall be thine, I have said it. — 
 Alen^'on. 
 
 jE/ifer Alex^ox. 
 
 Lav. Thou'st tarried long at tennis. 
 
 Alen. Why, the King 
 Still loiter'd on with racket in his hand, 
 And Bonnivet, vaunting their nmtual i)rowess. 
 
 Lau. 'Tis much past noon. 
 Alen. He will be here anon. 
 For as I rode, I pass'd him with his train; 
 The gath'ring crowd thronging and clamoring 
 Around him, stunning him with benedictions, 
 And stifling him with love and fumes of garlic ! 
 He, with tlie air he knows so well to don, 
 With cap in hand, and his thick chesnut hair 
 Fanu'd iVom his forehead, bowing to his saddle, 
 Smiling and nodding, cursing at them too 
 For hindering his progress — while his eye, 
 Mis eagle eye, well vcrs'd in such discernment. 
 
Scene IV.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 27 
 
 Rov'd through the crowd ; and ever lighted, where 
 
 Some pretty ancle, clad in woollen hose, 
 
 Peep'd from beneath a short round petticoat ; 
 
 Or where some wealthy burgher's buxom dame 
 
 Deck'd out in all her high-day splendor, stood 
 
 Showing her gossi])s the gold chain, which lay 
 
 Cradled upon a bosom, whiter far 
 
 Than the pure lawn that kerchieft it. 
 
 Now, is not the joust begun ? — his Majesty — 
 
 Lau. Nay, it began when fust his order reach'd us ; 
 Already hath one combat been decided 
 'Twixt Jouy and De Varennes ; wilt thou, Laval, 
 Try fortune in the lists? 
 
 Lav. Oh, not to-day, — 
 Not before her, beneath whose eyes defeat 
 Were worse than death, — no, not to-day, 
 
 Lau. Nay, then, De Varennes shall not loitrc there 
 Longer in proud expectance of a rival, — 
 I will encounter him. Herald ! what ho ! 
 There is my gauntlet — bear to De Varennes 
 A fair defiance ! Bid my page lead round 
 My charger, let your trumpets sound a blast. 
 And raise the escutcheon of our ancient house. 
 
 [Exit in the Lists. 
 (Shouts and acclamations without, and trumjjcts. 
 
 Enter Frxkcis, Chabannes, Vkndome, Bonmvet, Clement, Mar8t, 
 Triboulet, and Courtiers. 
 
 OMiNES. Long live the King ! Long live great Francis ! 
 
 Fran. Now are we heartily ashamed to think 
 That we have robb'd our excellent good people 
 Of any portion of the day's rejoicing; — 
 We fear we're somewhat past th' appointed time. 
 
 Tri. An hour or so, not more. 
 
 Fran. Curse on that ceaseless clock — thy tongue ! 
 
 Tki. It goes right, though, for once. 
 
 Fran. If we have caus'd the joust to be retarded. 
 Our faithful subjects will forgive th' offence 
 In favor of the cause — their own dear interests 
 Having withheld us in deep council from 
 Their well-beloved presence, which to us 
 Is like the sunshine of a summer's day — 
 We were detained by weighty matters. 
 
28 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act I. 
 
 Tri. Ay, 
 A tennis-ball, was't not ? There, never frown, 
 I'll spare thee — I'll be silent. 
 
 Fran. On with the combats ! 
 Chabannes, 'tis long since such a joust has been 
 Honor'd by your good presence. 
 
 Cha. True, my liege. 
 But, see ! the gates unclose — Lautrec is conqueror. [^Shouts. 
 
 [Shouts and trumpets. Fran^oise de Forx rises, and leans 
 forward with every mark of intense interest. 
 
 Fran. De Bonnivet, who is yon lady ? look — 
 In front of the Princess's balcony? 
 Is she not passing fair ? 
 
 Bon. Indeed, my liege, 
 She's very fair. I do not know her, though. 
 (To Lay Ah.) Who is yon lady, leaning forth, Laval? 
 
 Lav. Count Lautrec's sister. 
 
 Fran. Had a limner's hand 
 Traced such a heavenly brow, and such a lip, 
 I would have sworn the knave had dreamt it all 
 In some fair vision of some fairer world, 
 See how she stands, all shrined in loveliness ; 
 Her white hands clasped ; her clust'ring locks thrown back 
 From her high forehead ; and in those bright eyes 
 Tears ! radiant emanations ! drops of light ! 
 That fall from those surpassing orbs as though 
 The starry eyes of heav'n wept silver dew. 
 (To Laval) Is yonder lady married, sir ? 
 
 Laval. My liege, 
 Not yet ; but still her hand is bound in promise — 
 She is affianced. 
 
 Fran. And to whom ? 
 
 Lav. To me, sire. 
 
 Fran. Indeed ! (Aside to Bonnivetj 
 
 Methinks I was too passionate in my praise, 
 Eh ? Bonnivet — and yet how fair she is ! 
 
 [ Trumpets and shouts. 
 Enter Lautuec, from the Lists. 
 
 Bon. The time is well nigh spent. 
 And yet no stir of arms in token yet 
 Of any other knight, whose envious prowess 
 Disputes the prize which Lautrec else may claim. 
 
Scene IV,] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 29 
 
 Fran. Let him not claim it, though, for 'tis not his ; 
 And, by this light, shall not be his, while I 
 Can strike one blow for it. Behold, Count Lautrec, 
 Another combatant awaits thee, here ! — 
 Another bids thee halt on triumph's threshold, 
 And strive once more for victory. What, ho ! 
 Unfurl our royal standard to the w ind, 
 And let our fleur-de-lys, that oft have shadow'd 
 The bloody battle field, bloom o'er the tournay. 
 
 Lau. The King! I yield I 
 
 Fran. Not so, sir, if you please ; 
 We'd shew that we can run a lance as well 
 As any other gentleman : come on ! 
 
 [Ezcunt Lautrec and the King. 
 
 Fran^. How bravely does war's plumed majesty 
 Become him, as he vaults upon his steed ! 
 His crimson crest waving upon the air 
 Like Victory's ruddy favors ! on they go — 
 Now quakes the earth beneath their chargers' hoofs. 
 That whirl around, taking their vantage space ; 
 Now each fierce steed bends on his haunches down. 
 Ready to rush his headlong course ; each knight 
 Springs from his seat, and rising in the stirrups. 
 Directs his rested lance ; on, on, they go. 
 Flashing and thund'ring ! Ah ! the King's unhorsed. 
 
 [Shouts loithin the Lists — '■'•Long live the King /" 
 Enter Bonnivet and others. 
 
 Bon. Madam, your loyal fears outran your eyes, 
 Count Lautrec fell, but he received no hurt ; 
 The King is conqueror ! 
 
 Tri. Ay, so I thought ; 
 Fortune's a true courtier. 
 
 Cle. Now out on thee, unmannerly 
 
 Tri. I meant to say courtiers are 
 
 Lav. How now, jackanapes ? 
 
 Tri. Well, well, what I meant to say is, that I never yet 
 saw King worsted in fight. 
 
 Bon. Surely not because 
 
30 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act I. 
 
 Tri, Umph ! because broken pates are better than broken 
 fortunes, and ye know it full well ! 
 
 [Shouts and trumpets. 
 
 [Enter Francis, followed by Lautrec, Heralds, Pages, and 
 
 Esquires: Margaret, Fran^oise, and Ladies, descend and 
 
 advance; the King kneels to Margaret, who throws a gold 
 
 chain around his neck. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
Act TI. Sc. /.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 31 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I.— AN APARTMENT OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET'S, 
 Enter De Bouubon, followed hy Margaret. 
 
 BouR. A j)lngiie upon their tournanients, I say. 
 
 Mar. Nay then, De Bourbon, by my woman's word, 
 This nmst not be ; oh, say it shall not be ! 
 Say, thou wilt rein this hot, impatient mood, 
 
 For thy own sake no, for mine, for mine, I meant : 
 
 Are we not twined together in our love ? 
 
 What wonder then, if speaking of myself, 
 
 Thy name was on my lips ? — for my sake, Bourbon ! 
 
 BouR. If thou wilt bid me journey to the moon 
 Upon a moth's wing, or wilt send me forth, 
 Belted and spurred, to fight some score of devils, — 
 Or worse, wilt bid me with some twenty men 
 Turn out Colonna from the Milanese, 
 Say so ; and by this light I'll do it too ! 
 But, to submit to this, — to bear all this, — 
 To let a woman tear my laurels off, — 
 And trample them, — Hell ! when I think on it I 
 Pshaw ! never fix those dangerous eyes on me 
 And clasp thy hands — I say, — 
 
 Mar. She is my mother ! 
 
 BouR. I'faith I've often doubted of that truth ; 
 Thou art not like her, for the which thank heaven ! 
 
 Mar. I can be like her though, my lord, in this j 
 Not to endure the license of your tongue. 
 If headlong passion urge you, sir, beyond 
 The bounds of prudence, look that you control it, 
 Nor vent bold thoughts in bolder words to me ; 
 Else you may chance to find — 
 
 Bour. She is thy mother ; 
 Nay, smooth that brow, thou art too like the Queen j 
 And in those soft blue eyes, whose orbs reflect 
 Heaven's light with heaven's own purity, let not 
 The stormy gleam of anger e'er flash forth ! 
 
32 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act II. 
 
 I had thought, Margaret, that love forgot 
 All ranks and all distinctions ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, so it doth — 
 All ties, the world, its wealth, its fame, or| fortune, 
 Can entwine ; but never those of nature. 
 So mine can give up all, save the first bond 
 My heart e'er knew, — the love of those who gave 
 Life, and the power to love; — those early links 
 Lie wreathed like close-knit fibres round my heart, 
 Never to sever thence till my heart break. 
 
 BouR. Lo, at thy feet I sue for pardon, sweet ! 
 By thine own purity, thou virgin lily ! 
 Thou flower of France ! ?forgive the word that broke 
 Too hastily from my rash lips ; which thus, 
 Having oftended, will do penance now 
 Upon this marble shrine, my lady-love. 
 
 [Kisses her hand. 
 
 Mar. a goodly penitent ! Nay, never kneel, 
 And look so pitiful. — there, I forgive thee. 
 But, Bourbon, by the faith of our sworn love, 
 I do implore thee to bear with my mother. 
 
 BouR. Pshaw ! — 
 
 Mar. Why look now, there's your brow dark and contract- 
 ted ; — 
 I see the passion flashing in your eyes ; 
 You will not think of me, and bear with her ? 
 
 Bour. If I could think of thee, and not see her, — 
 
 Or think of thee, and not hear her, why, then 
 
 Well, patience, and kind thoughts of thee befriend me! 
 And I will do my best to second them. 
 
 Mar. Go you to meet my mother now ? 
 
 Bour. This hour 
 Love stole from duty to bestow on thee ; 
 And now I must attend upon the Queen. 
 
 Mar. See you observe my lesson. 
 
 Bour. Fear me not; 
 Oh ! I'll be wonderfully calm and patient. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) — Methinks I'll try thee. (Aloiid.) 
 
 — How if she should ask 
 Some question of your late left government ? 
 I see you're very calm already ! How 
 If she should speak of a fit successor ? 
 Most patient ! Lautrec now, or Bonnivet ? 
 
 Bour. Confusion light upon thee ! Bonnivet f 
 
Scen^n.} FRANCIS THE FIRST. 83 
 
 And Lautrec ? beardlr^ss boys ! whose maiden swords 
 
 Have not yet blushd with one red drop of blood ; 
 
 AVhose only march hath been a midnight measure, 
 
 Whose only field hath been a midnight masque ; 
 
 Is it for these, and their advancement, I 
 
 Have watch'd, have toil'd, have fought, have bled, have con- 
 
 quer'd ; 
 Rush'd over fields strewed with the dead and dying ; 
 Swam streams that ran all curdled with the blood 
 Of friend and foe ; stood in the bristling breach, 
 And in the hour of death and desolation 
 Won never-fading victories for France ? 
 Shall the Queen's minions — by this living light — 
 
 Mar. Oh, patient gentleman ! how calm he is ! 
 Now in those flaming eyes, and scornful lips, 
 I read how well my lesson profits thee. 
 Thou shalt not to the Queen in this hot mood. 
 
 BouR. I'faith I must ; the storm is over now ; 
 And having burst, why, I shall be the calmer. 
 Farewell, sweet monitress! I'll not forget. 
 
 Mar. Oh, but I fear — 
 
 BouR. Fear not — she is thy mother ! 
 
 [Exeunt severalty. 
 
 SCENE II.— AN APARTMENT OF THE QUEEN MOTHER'S. 
 
 The Queen is discovered writing. Enter Gonzales. 
 
 GoN. So please your highness, the Duke de Bourbon 
 Attends your grace. 
 
 Queen. Give him admittance straight — \^Ejdt GoN. 
 
 Now then to try the mettle of his soul. 
 And tempt him with the glitter of a crown. 
 
 Enter Bourbon. 
 
 BouR. Madam, I humbly kiss your highness' hand. 
 
 Queen. I thank you, sir ; and though last night's blithe close 
 Was hardly rest to one o'ermarch'd before, 
 I trust you are recover'd from the weariness 
 Of your long journey. 
 
 BouR. I thank your grace, but owing to the speed 
 Enjoin'd by those who penn'd my — my recall — 
 My journey was a short one. 
 
 Queen. Did ye not rest at Chantelle ? 
 
 BouR. Ay, good madam. 
 5 
 
34^ FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act 11. 
 
 Queen. Short as you hold your march, my lord, and lightly 
 As you think fit to speak of it, I trow 
 It was swift riding to reach Paris yesterday. 
 
 BouR. To me both time and road seem short, indeed, — 
 From a proud kingdom back to a poor dukedom. — 
 
 Queen. My lord, there is much bitterness in that ! 
 
 BoUR. Bitterness ! Madam — oh, I do not doubt 
 There were high, weighty reasons warranted 
 My being thus recalled from Italy ; 
 And those same weighty reasons will, no doubt, 
 Point out a fit successor to me also. 
 
 Queen. There is much bitterness in that, my lord, — 
 Your mind is apt to start at fancied wrongs, 
 And makes a shadow where no substance is. 
 
 BouR. Your grace will pardon me ; but hitherto 
 We have not seen such payment given to service; 
 Can governments be wrested from a man 
 Unheard, — nay, unaccused, without a cause ? 
 
 Queen. No, sir, they cannot — but might not the cau8«^ 
 Have been your future profit and advancement. 
 Instead of your disgrace? 
 
 BouR. Oh! we all know 
 The government of our Italian states 
 Must henceforth be a post for beardless soldiers, 
 Lacking wit wherewith to win their honors. 
 Or courtiers lacking valor to deserve them. 
 
 Queen. I see therbent and mark of this discourse ; 
 And though, be well assured, no other man 
 Who breathes had thus far ventured in his speech, — 
 Your daring I have borne with patiently. 
 
 BouR. Borne with me ! Borne with me, forsooth ! 
 
 Queen. Ay, sir. 
 Borne with you : farther still ; for in that sorrow 
 Hath fallen on your mind too bitterly, 
 And well nigh chang'd its bright and polish'd metal 
 With its corrosive touch, — I've pitied you. 
 
 BouR. Wrong'd ! borne with! pitied! By our lady, 
 madam — 
 This is too much. 
 
 Queen. Oh, sir, the King's advisers — 
 
 BouR. The King should hearken less to false advice, 
 And more to honest service, madam. 
 
 Queen. (Aside.) — Ha ! 
 Now i«» this bridle thrown upon the steed. 
 
Scene //.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 85 
 
 (Aloud) — I pass you that, my lord, you are too hot — 
 And now that I have curb'd all proud respects 
 In kind indulgence of your hasty spleen, 
 Hear me : what if (I will repeat the question). 
 Your quick preferment, and increase of glory 
 Had been alone consulted ? 
 
 BouR. How so, madam ? 
 
 Queen. Ever too rash in your belief, my lord, 
 You run before the truth — ^you've followers, 
 Eager and zealous partisans you have ; 
 Think you it is impossible some friend 
 iShall haply have contriv'd this prompt recall, 
 To bring you nearer to a court, where you 
 May find paths unexplor'd as yet, in which 
 Ambition might discover such a prize, 
 As were worth winning ? 
 
 BouR. I would have you know 
 De Bourbon storms, and does not steal, his honora. 
 And though your highness thinks I am ambitious, 
 (And rightly thinks) I am not so ambitious 
 Ever to beg rewards that I can win, — 
 No man shall call me debtor to his tongue. 
 
 Queen, (rising.) 'Tis proudly spoken ; nobly too — but what, 
 What if a woman's hand were to bestow 
 Upon the Duke de Bourbon such high honors. 
 To raise him to such state, that grasping man, 
 E'en in his wildest thoughts of mad ambition, 
 Ne'er dreamt of a more glorious pinnacle? 
 
 BouR. I'd kiss the lady's hand an she were fair. 
 But if this world filled up the universe, — 
 If it could gather all the light that lives 
 In ev'ry other, star, or sun, or world ; 
 If kings could be my subjects, and that I 
 Could call such pow'r and such a world my own, 
 I would not take it from a woman's hand. 
 Fame is my mistress, madam, and my sword 
 The only friend I ever wooed her with, 
 I hate all honors smelling of the distafl?*, 
 And, by this light, would as lief wear a spindle 
 Hung round my neck, as thank a lady's hand 
 For any favor greater than a kiss. — 
 
 Queen. And how, if such a woman loved you, — hovv 
 If, while she crown'd your proud ambition, she 
 Could crown her own ungovernable passion, 
 
36 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act IL 
 
 And felt that all this earth possess'd, and she 
 Could give, were all too little for your love ? 
 Oh good, my lord ! there may be such a woman. 
 
 BouR. (aside.) Amazement ! can she mean sweet Mar- 
 garet ? 
 (Aloud.) Speak, 
 
 [He falls at the Queen's feet. 
 Madam, in pity speak but one word more, — 
 Who is that woman ? 
 
 Queen, (throicing off her veil). I am that woman ! 
 BouR. (starting up). You ? by the holy mass ! 1 scorn your 
 proffers ; — 
 Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame 
 And shrinking womanhood ! Oh shame ! shame ! shame ! 
 
 f The Queen remains clasping her hands to her temples, while 
 De Bourbon walks hastily up and doxcn : after a long pause, 
 the Queen speaks. 
 
 Queen. What ho! Marlon! St. Evreux! 
 
 Enter two Gentlemen. 
 
 You may retire. 
 BouR. Confusion ! 
 Queen. Are we obeyed.'' 
 BouR. (aside.) Oh Margaret! for thee! for thy dear sake! 
 
 Rushes out, followed hy the gentlemen — the Queen sinks 
 into a chair. 
 
 Queen. Refus'd and scorn'd ! Infamy ! — the word chokes 
 me ! — 
 Proud noble, I will weave thee such a web, — 
 I will so spoil and trample on thy pride ! 
 Love having fail'd, we'll try the best expedient 
 That offers next, — revenge ! — Oh, sweet revenge! 
 Thou art my only hope, my only dower. 
 And I will make thee worthy of a Queen. 
 What, shall we wring this haughty soul a little ^ 
 Tame this proud spirit, curb this untrain'd charger? 
 We will not weigh two heavily, nor grind 
 Too hard, but, having bow'd him to the earth, 
 Leave the pursuit to others — carrion birds; 
 Who stoop, but not until the falcon's gorg'd 
 Upon the prey he leaves to their base talon*. [Exit. 
 
Scene III.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 37 
 
 SCENE III.— AN ANTEROOM IN THE PALACE. 
 
 Enter, at opposite sides, the King and Clement. 
 
 Fran. The very man I seek, — well met, Clement, 
 I have a boon to ask of thee. 
 
 Cle. My liege, 
 Speak but your will, it is my law. 
 
 Fran. 1 thank thee. 
 But first answer me this — didst thou not mark, 
 This morning at the tournament, a lady 
 Who sat beside my sister ? 
 
 Cle. That did all 
 Who were there — 'twas the young Countess de Foii» 
 Lautrec's fair sister. 
 
 Fran. Ay, the very same. 
 Dost know her, good Clement ? 
 
 Cle. 31y liege, 1 do ; 
 And e'en will say, that her surpassing beauty 
 Surpasseth not her wit, which is, indeed, 
 So perfect, and withal so gentle, too. 
 That her fair form is but a princeless casket, 
 Wherein lie precious treasures. 
 
 Fran. By my fay. 
 The lady's praise falls freely from thy tongue, 
 Indeed, Clement ! Methinks she must be perfect, 
 Else art thou very mad ! 
 
 Cle. My gracious liege ! 
 
 Fran. Come, come, Sieur Clement, thou dost love the 
 lady! 
 
 Cle. All saints defend me from it ! as 1 see 
 Your grace would hold such love insanity. 
 
 Fran. Hast known her long ? 
 
 Cle. Ay, long enough, my lord. 
 To have o'ercome that sudden love which springs 
 To life from the first glance of beauteous eyes. 
 
 Fran. Do thou mine errand then, and bear to her 
 This letter and this ring ; but see thou name not 
 Whence they are sent ; be silent, and be swift, 
 And to my chamber bring me her reply. — 
 How, now! I thought thee gone ; why dost thou stop, 
 And turn your letter o'er and o'er, and look 
 So sad and doubting f 
 
88 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act 11. 
 
 Cle. May it please your grace, 
 I had a sister once — my thoughts were of 
 This lady's brother, 
 
 Fran. Well, sir! what of him? 
 
 Cle. I pray you, pardon me, my noble lord, 
 But if— 
 
 Fran. I will arrest the treason hanging 
 Upon thy lip; for, by my knightly word, 
 Yon scroll is such as any gentleman 
 Might bear to any lady. 
 
 Cle. For that word 
 I thank your majesty with all my heart, — 
 I'll bear your message trustily. 
 
 Fran. And quickly ; 
 And meet me in my chamber with thine answer. 
 Good speed — farewell ! — be swift. 1 w ait for thee. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE IV.— COUNCIL CHAMBER. 
 
 Under a Canopy is placed the Throne ; seats are placed on both sides 
 of a long table. 
 
 Enter the Queen-Mother. 
 
 Queen. What, dazzled and ensnar'd, ere the black eyes 
 That blinded can have flash'd three glances on him ! 
 The last that should have won his yielding heart, too ! 
 She hath a brother, young and proud, — ambitious, 
 Or else he comes not of the haughty stock 
 Whose name he bears. Ambitious! ay, and if 
 This black-eyed girl have the De Foix' high blood 
 Within her veins, she '11 forward his ambition. 
 I fear this government of Italy 
 No longer lies at my disposal now. 
 I would that blindness had put out the beauty 
 That lies in every woman's eyes! I would 
 A foul deformity alone had been 
 The portion of all women, ere this thing 
 Had come to pass ! — Beset on ev'ry side, — 
 Hemm'd in, — and forced to guard — e'en more than life — 
 My pow'r ; and let revenge meantime go sleep : 
 No matter ! in the storm the pilot's skill 
 Shows best. — The king approaches to the council. 
 
 [ Flourish of trumpets. 
 
Scene IV.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 39 
 
 Enter the King a7id all the Court, Alen9oiv, Bonnivet, Vendome, 
 Chabannes, Lautrec, Laval, &c. 
 
 Fran. The Duke de Bourbon's abscence we might deem 
 Strange and uncourteous ; but we'll rather hope 
 That some event of unforeseen importance 
 Hath stood between his duty and ourselves : 
 Time wears — 
 
 [The King leads his 3Iother to the throne — the Nobles place 
 themselces according to their rank. 
 
 On to the business of the day. 
 
 Q,UEE\. Sire, will it not seem also strange in us, 
 And all uncourteous, if we should discuss 
 This matter, ere the first prince of the blood 
 Be here to give his voice in this decision f 
 
 Enter Bourbon. 
 
 Said 1 not so ! We know my lord of Bourbon 
 Is ever at the post where duty points. 
 
 Bourbon seats himself , 
 
 Fran. Cousin of Bourbon, you are welcome here, 
 
 BoUR. I thank your majesty who bids me so. 
 And crave the assembly's pardon : on my way 
 A man withheld me, unto whom 1 owed 
 Some gratitude. 
 
 Queen. Shall we not to the point ? 
 
 Fran. Ay, marry; thus, then, noble lords, it is : 
 But now a messenger from Italy 
 Hath reach'd our court, with tidings from Milan, — 
 Prosper Colonna is in arms again ; 
 And Charles of Spain has sent his swarthy bands 
 To ravage our fair tributary states : 
 We lack some trusty arm to wield our band 
 In the defence of Italy. Already, 
 Two have been named to us — De Bonnivet, 
 And Lautrec. 
 
 Queen, (aside to Bour.) Bourbon, you look wondrous 
 pale; 
 I fear me you are ill. 
 
 Bour. (aside.) Oh gracious madam ! 
 Fear's pallid tint must live within your eye, 
 And lend whate'er you look on its own hue. 
 
40 '■ FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act 11. 
 
 Fran. Standforth, Count Lautrec ; for De Bonnivet, 
 Methinks, his youth may follow yet the wars 
 Before he lead them on ; how says our mother ? 
 
 Queen. How should she say, when that the royal choice 
 Lights on such valor? how but well? but you, 
 My lord of Bourbon, we would have your voice ; 
 Does silence, disapproving, seal your lips ? 
 Or takes your wisdom no exception here ? 
 
 BouR. None, madam ; and the only wish I have 
 Is, that you ever had been served in Italy, 
 As I foresee Count Lautrec's arm will serve you. 
 
 Lau. My liege! beseech you, hold; and you, my lords! — 
 The honor now conferr'd sits blushingly 
 On my unworthy brow; oh ! not on me 
 Bestow a prize, which years of bloody service, 
 And hairs bleech'd in your camps, alone should wear. 
 
 Fran. Now, by my fay, Lautrec, thy speech but shows 
 As brave and gallant soldiers' speech should show, 
 Shrinking from praise and guerdon duly won: 
 With our own royal hand we'll buckle on 
 The sword, that in thy grasp must be the bulwark 
 And loadstar of our host. Approach ? 
 
 Queen. Not so. 
 Your pardon, sir ; but it hath ever been 
 The pride and privilege of woman's hand 
 To arm the valor that she loves so well : 
 We would not, for your crown's best jewel, bate 
 One jot of our accustom'd state to-day : 
 Count Lautrec, we will arm thee: at our feet, 
 Take thou the brand which wins thy country's wars, — 
 Thy monarch's trust, and thy fair lady's favor. 
 Why, how now! — how is this ! — my lord of Bourbon! 
 If we mistake not, that's the sword of office 
 Which graces still your baldrick ; w ith your leave, 
 We'll borrow it of you. 
 
 BouR. (starting up.) Ay, 'tis the sword 
 You buckled on with your own hand, the day 
 You sent me forth to conquor in your cause ; 
 
 And there it is! (breaks the sword.) take it! and with 
 
 it, all 
 Th' allegiance that I owe to France ; ay, take it; 
 And with it, take the hope I breathe o'er it ; 
 That so, before Colonna's host, your arms 
 Lie crush'd and sullied with dishonor's stain ; 
 
Scene IV.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 41 
 
 So, reft asunder by contending factions, 
 Be your Italian provinces ; so torn 
 By discord and dissension this vast empire ; 
 So broken and disjoined your subjects' loves ; 
 So fallen your son's ambition, and your pride ! 
 
 Queen, (rising). What ho ! a guard within there ! Charles 
 of Bourbon, 
 I do arrest thee, traitor to the crown ! 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Away with yonder wide-mouth'd thunderer ! 
 
 [BouRBO?; is forced out. 
 Dream ye, my lords ! that thus with open ears. 
 And gaping mouths and eyes, ye sit and drink 
 This curbless torrent of rebellious madness ! 
 And you, sir, — are you slumbering on your throne ! 
 Or has all majesty fled from the earth. 
 That women must start up, and in your council 
 Speak, think, and act for ye ; and, lest your vassals, 
 The very dirt beneath your feet, rise up 
 And cast ye off", must women, too, defend ye? 
 For shame, my lords ! all, all of ye, for shame! — 
 Off", off" with sword and sceptre, for there is 
 No loyalty in subjects ; and in kings. 
 No king-like terror to enforce their rights. 
 
 Fran. Our mother speaks warmly in the cause ; 
 And we must own we hold it somewhat shame, 
 That we forstall'd her not in her just wrath. 
 Now unto thee once more we turn, Count Lautrec, — 
 To-morrow's sun must find you on your march : 
 Well speed ye all ! and victory be with you ! 
 Farewell ; be faithful, and heav'n send ye back 
 With no more danger than may serve to be 
 The plea for praise and honorable guerdon. 
 Mother, thy hand ! we'd speak awhile with thee. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Lautrec ajid Laval. 
 
 Lau. I cry thy mercy, friend! but I'm so amaz'd. 
 So thunderstruck, so lost in wonderment ! 
 Bourbon arrested ! Bourbon prisoner ! 
 And, by the Queen ! 
 
 Lav. 'Twill be long ere I forget 
 That woman's look, and voice. 
 
 Lau. Come, come, Laval, 
 6 
 
49 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act II. 
 
 Let us shake off this dream that haunts us thus; 
 The Queen's a woman, who, upon emergency, 
 Can don the devil, — whicli of them cannot? 
 'Tistime we think of our departure; — hark ! 
 Footsteps ! — 
 
 Lav. Ay, light, though hurried — 'tis thy sister — 
 
 Enter Fran9oise. 
 
 Lady, you're welcome as the joyous sun, 
 And gentle summer airs, which, after storms, 
 Come wafting all the sweets of fallen blossoms 
 Through the thick foliage ; whose green arnrs shake off", 
 In gratitude, their showers of diamond drops. 
 And bow to the reviving freshness. 
 
 FraN(j'. Oh, my dear brother, have I found thee here? 
 Here will I lock my arms, and rest for ever. 
 
 Lau. My dearest love ! what means this passionate grief? 
 These straining arms and gushing tears ? for shame! 
 Look up and smile ; for honor crowns our house. 
 Dost know that I am governor of 3Iilan ? 
 
 FRAN9. They told me so; but oh ! they told me, too, 
 That ere to-night thou wilt go hence; — is't so? 
 Dost thou, indeed, forsake me ? 
 
 Lau. Maiden, no ; 
 'Tis true we march for Italy to-night ; 
 'Tis true that this embrace must be the last 
 For many a day. But, for forsaking thee ! 
 I leave thee with the Princess Margaret ; 
 I leave thee here at court — nay, silly girl — 
 
 Lav. Oh, peace ! 
 Canst thou, with sharp reproving Avords, wound one 
 Who gems the lustre of thy new-made honors 
 With such rare drops of love! 
 
 Lau. My gentle sister I 
 
 FRAN9. Oh, Lautrec ! blame me not ; we twain have been 
 E'en from our birth together and alone : 
 Two healthful scions, of a goodly stock, 
 Whose other shoots have wither'd all — we've grown 
 Still side by side; I like some fragile aspen ; 
 And thou a sturdy oak, 'neath whose broad shelter 
 I rear'd my head : then frown not, that the wind ( 
 
 Doth weigh the trembling aspen to the earth. 
 While the stout oak scarce owns the powerless breeze. 
 
 Lau. Oh, churl ! to say one unkind word to thee ; 
 
Scene IF.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 43 
 
 Come, dearest, come ; unlock thy hands ; — Laval, 
 Take her, in pity, from my arms, for sense 
 Is well-nigh drown'd in sorrow ! 
 
 Fran^. Yet one word ; 
 I do beseech thee, leave me not at court ; 
 But let me back to our old castle walls — 
 Let me not stay at court. 
 
 Lau. Even as thou wilt; 
 E'en as it scenieth to thee most fitting. 
 Once more, farewell ! Laval, thou'lt follow ? [£xj7. 
 
 Lav. Ay. 
 But ere I go, perchance for ever, lady. 
 Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles, 
 Where thousands strew'd the earth, have christen'dit 
 The Frenchman's grave, I'd speak of such a theme 
 As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly than 
 Its name gives promise. — There's a love, which, born 
 In early days, live on through silent years. 
 Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow, 
 When it shows brightest : like the trembling light 
 Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face 
 Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare. 
 Thus much forgive ! and trust, in such an hour, 
 I had not said e'en this, but for the hope 
 That, when the voice of victory is heard 
 From the far Tuscan vallies, in its swell 
 Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead, 
 And I be one of those who are at rest. 
 You may chance recollect this word, and say, 
 That day, upon the bloody field, there fell 
 One who had lov'd thee long, and lov'd thee well ! 
 
 FRANy. Beseech you speak not thus: we soon, I trust. 
 Shall meet again — till then, farewell, and prosper ; 
 And if you love me, — which I will not doubt, 
 Sith your sad looks bear witness to your truth, — 
 This do for me — never forsake my brother ! 
 And for my brother's sake, since you and he 
 Are but one soul, be mindful of yourself. l^Exit Lav. 
 
 Defenceless, and alone ! ay, go thou forth. 
 For hope sits sunnily upon thy brow. 
 My brother ! but, to me, this parting seems 
 Full of ill-omen'd dread, woe's sure forerunner. 
 That letter and that ring — they were the king's ! 
 Oh ! let me quickly from this fatal court, 
 
44 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act II. 
 
 Beneath whose smihng surface chasms lie yawning, 
 
 To gulpli ahke the unwary and the wise. 
 
 I'll bid farewell to the Princess Margaret, 
 
 And then take shelter in my ancient home ; 
 
 There brood on my vain love, till grief become 
 
 Love's substitute — till foolish hope be dead, 
 
 And heav'n shall grant me patience in its stead. [^Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
Act.in,Sc.L] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 45 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE 1.— THE ROYAL CHAMBER. 
 Francis discovered. 
 
 Fran. By Jupiter! he must have made an errand 
 Unto th' antipodes, or this new world, 
 Which, it should seem, our grandsire Adam's will 
 Did leave to Charles of Spain, else doth he wear 
 Dull lead for Mercury's air-cutting pinions. 
 
 Enter Clement. 
 
 Why, how now, slow foot ! art thou lame, I prithee f 
 Hath she the ring, — has she perused the letter, — 
 What does she, — says she, — answers she ? Be quick, 
 Man ; thy reply. Come, come, the devil speed thee 1 
 
 Cle. My liege ! I found the lady beaming all 
 With smiles of hope her brother should be chosen : 
 Then to her hand deliver'd I your scroll 
 Fran. Ha! 
 
 Cle. The which she, with a doubting look, did open ; 
 And, for a moment, her fix'd eye did seem 
 To drink the characters, but not the sense 
 Of your epistle. 
 
 Thus stood the lady, till her eye would fain 
 Begin the scroll again ; and then, as though 
 That moment comprehension woke in her, 
 The blood forsook her cheeks ; and straight, asham'd 
 Of its unnatural desertion, drew 
 A crimson veil over her marble brows. 
 
 Fran. I would I'd borne the scroll myself, thy words 
 Image her forth so fair ! 
 
 Cle. Do they, indeed ! 
 Then sorrow seize my tongue ! for, look you, sir, 
 I will not speak of your own fame or honor, 
 Nor of your word to me ; king's words, I lind, 
 Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges 
 Of their own truth : you have been often pleas'd 
 To shower your royal favors on my head ; 
 
46 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act IIL 
 
 But had I known such service was to be 
 
 The nearest way my gratitude might take 
 
 To solve the debt, I'd e'en have given back 
 
 All that I hold of you : and, now, not e'en 
 
 Your crown and kingdom could requite to me 
 
 The cutting sense of shame that I endur'd 
 
 When on me fell the sad reproachful glance 
 
 "Which told me how I stood in the esteem 
 
 Of yonder lady. I've sorrow at my heart 
 
 To think your majesty has reckon'd thus 
 
 Upon my nature. I was poor before, 
 
 Therefore I can be poor again without 
 
 Regret, so I loose not mine own esteem. 
 
 Fran. Skip me thy spleen, and onward with thy tale. 
 
 What said the lady then ? 
 Cle. With trembling hands 
 
 She folded up your scroll ; and more in sorrow, 
 
 A«l believe, than anger, letting fall 
 
 Unheeded from her hand the sparkling jewel. 
 
 She left me. 
 
 Fran. Thou, I warrant, soreabash'd, 
 And durst not urge her further. Excellent ! 
 Oh ! ye are precious wooers, all of ye ! 
 I marvel how ye ever ope your lips 
 Unto, or look upon that fearful thing, 
 A lovely woman ! 
 
 Cle. And I marvel, sir. 
 At those who do not feel the majesty, — 
 By heav'n! I'd almost said the holiness, — 
 That circles round a fair and virtuous woman : 
 There is a gentle purity that breathes 
 In such a one, mingled with chaste respect, 
 And modest pride of her own excellence, — 
 A shrinking nature, that is so adverse 
 To aught unseemly, that I could as soon 
 Forget the sacred love I owe to heav'n. 
 As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air 
 Inhal'd by such a being — than whom, my liege, 
 Heav^en cannot look on any thing more holy. 
 Or earth be proud of any thing more fair. [Exit 
 
 Fran. Good ! 'tis his god stirs in him now, I trow 
 The poet is inspir'd, and doubtless, too. 
 With his own muse : whose heavenly perfections 
 He fain would think belong to Eve's frail daughters. 
 
Scene I/.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 47 
 
 Well : I will find occasions for myself — 
 
 With my own ardent love I'll take the field, 
 
 And woo this pretty saint until she yield. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II —A SMALL APARTMENT IN THE LOUVRE. 
 
 Enter Gonzales withpapers in his hand. 
 
 GoN. Bourbon arrested ! oh sweet mistress Fortune ! 
 Who rails at thee, doth wrong thee, on my soul ! 
 I'll strive to win access to Bourbon's prison ; 
 It shall fare ill if I cannot outwit 
 Even this lynx-eyed woman. 
 
 Enter the Queen. 
 
 Queen. Save you, father ! 
 Throw by those papers.now, and hearken to me : 
 De Bourbon is arrested ; 'tis of that 
 I came to speak — you must straight to his prison. 
 
 f GoxzALES smiles. 
 How now, what counsel hold you with yourself? 
 
 GoN. Debate of marvel, only, please your grace; 
 Is then the Duke so near his verge of life, 
 That he hath need of spiritual aid. 
 To improve this brief and waning tenure ? 
 
 Queen. Most reverend sir and holy confessor, 
 Get thee unto the prison of this lord ; 
 There, see thou do exort him unto death ; — 
 And, mark me — for all warriors hold acquaintance 
 With the grim monarch : when he rides abroad 
 The battle-skirts, they crown him with proud crests ; 
 In human blood dye they his purple robes; 
 They place a flashing sword in his right hand, 
 And call him Glory ! — therefore be thou sure 
 To speak of scaffolds robed in black ; 
 Grim executioners, and the vile mob 
 Staring, and jeering; 'neath whose clouted shoes, 
 Unhonor'd, shall the noble stream of life 
 That flows in his proud veins soak in the earth 
 
 GOi\. Madam, I will. 
 
 Queen. Then, when thou hast o'ercome 
 The haughty spirit, mould it to thy will. 
 And tutor him so well, that presently 
 Bid them strike off his chains ; and to the palace 
 Lead him in secret : above all, be sure 
 
48 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Ad III. 
 
 To lard thy speech, but chiefly at the first, 
 
 With sober strains of fitting holiness ; 
 
 Briefly, dissemble well — but pshaw ! I prate ! 
 
 I had forgot again — thou art a priest , 
 
 Tarry not, and conduct thy prisoner 
 
 Unto my chamber, where I wait for thee. [Exit. 
 
 GoN. Dissemble well! witness, deep hell, how well! 
 I cannot, for my life, remember me 
 That ever I made bargain with the devil ; 
 Yet, do all things fall out so strangely well 
 For me and for my purpose, as though fate 
 Served an apprenticeship unto my will. 
 Now to De Bourbon [Exit GoNZ. 
 
 SCENE III.— A PRISON. 
 Bourbon aiid Margaret discovered. 
 
 BoUR. Lady, you speak in vain. 
 
 Mar. I do beseech thee! 
 I never bowed my knee to aught of earth. 
 Ere this; but I have ever seen around me 
 Others who knelt, and worshipp'd princes' favors : 
 Upon my bended knees, I do implore thee, — 
 But take the freedom that my gold hath bought thee : 
 Away ! nor let these eyes behold tiiy death ! 
 
 BouR. You are deceiv'd, lady, they will not dare 
 To take my life. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis thou that art deceived ! 
 What! talk'st thou of not daring! — dost thou see 
 Yon sun that flames above the earth ? I tell thee, 
 That, if my mother had but bent her will 
 To win that sun, she would accomplish it. 
 
 BouR. My life is little worth to any now. 
 Nor have I any, who shall after me 
 Inherit my proud name. 
 
 Mar. Hold, there, my lord! 
 Posterity, to whom great men, and their 
 Fair names belong, is your inheritor. 
 Your country, from whose kings your house had birth. 
 Claims of you, sir, your high and spotless name! — 
 Fame craves it of you; for when there be none! 
 Bearing the blood of mighty men, to bear 
 Their virtues also, — Fame emblazons them 
 Upon her flag, which o'er the world she waves, 
 
Sce7ie IIL] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 4« 
 
 Persuading others to like glorious deeds. 
 
 Oh ! will you die upon a public scaffold? 
 
 And in the wide hereafter, — for the which 
 
 All warriors hope to live, — shall your proud name 
 
 Be bandied to and fro by foul tradition, 
 
 Branded and curst, as rebel's name should be? 
 
 BouR. No ! light that curse on those who made me such, — 
 Light the foul curse of black ingratitude 
 Upon the heartless boy, who knew not how 
 To prize his subject's love ! A tenfold curse 
 Light on that royal harlot — 
 
 Mar. Oh! no more — 
 
 BouR. Nay, maiden, 'tis in vain! for thou shalt hear me ! 
 Drink to the dregs the knowledge thou hast forced, 
 And dare upbraid me, even with a look : 
 Had I but loved thy mother more — thee less, 
 I might this hour have stood upon a throne ! 
 Ay, start ! I tell thee, that the Queen thy mother 
 Hath loved — doth love me with the fierce desires 
 Of her unbridled nature ; she hath thrown 
 Her crown, the kingdom, and herself before me! 
 Now stare, and shudder, — freeze thyself to marble ;-^ 
 Now say where best the meed of shame is due,- — 
 Now look upon these prison walls, — these chains,-^ 
 And bid me rein my anger ! 
 
 Mar. Oh, be silent ! 
 For you have rent in twain the sacred'st veil 
 That ever hung upon the eyes of innocence. 
 
 GoN. (without). Heav'n bless the inmates of this prison- 
 house ! 
 
 BoUR. Who calls without ? 
 
 Enter Gonzales. 
 
 Mar. The pulse of life stands still 
 Within my veins, and horror hath o'ercomd 
 My strength ! Oh ! holy father ! to thy care 
 Do I commend this wayward man. [Exit Mar. 
 
 BouR. How, now? 
 A priest ! what means this most unwelcome visit ? 
 
 GoN. Who questions thus a son o' the holy church ? 
 Look on these walls, whose stern, time-stained brows 
 Frown like relentless justice on their inmates ? 
 Listen ! — that voice is Echo's dull reply 
 Unto the rattling of your chains, my lord : — 
 What should a priest do here ! 
 
 7 
 
50 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act IIL 
 
 BouR. Ay, what, indeed ! — 
 Unless you come to soften down these stones 
 With your discourse, and teach the tedious echo 
 A newer lesson: trust me, that is ail 
 Your presence, father, will accomplish here. 
 
 GoN. Oh! sinful man! and is thy heart so hard, 
 That I might easier move thy prison stones? 
 Know, then, my mission — death is near at hand ! 
 
 BouR. Go to — <^o to ! I have fought battles, father, 
 Where death and I have met in full close contact, 
 And parted, knowing we should meet again ; 
 Go prate to others about skulls and graves; 
 Thou never didst in heat of combat stand. 
 Or know what good acquaintance soldiers have 
 With the pale scarecrow — Death ! 
 
 GoN. (aside). Ah, think'st thou so? 
 Hear me, thou hard of heart! 
 They who go forth to battle, are led on 
 With sprightly trumpets and shrill clam'rous clarions; 
 The drum doth roll its double notes along. 
 Echoing the horses' tramp; and the sweet fife . 
 Runs through the yielding air in dulcet measure, 
 That makes the heart leap in its case of steel ! 
 Thou, shalt be knell'd unto thy death by bells, 
 Pond'rous and iron-tongued, whose sullen toll 
 Shall cleave thine aching brain, and on thy soul 
 Fall with a leaden weight : the muffled drum 
 Shall mutter round thy path like distant thunder; 
 'Stead of the war-cry, and wild battle-roar, — 
 That swells upon the tide of victory, 
 And seems unto the conqueror's eager ear 
 Triumphant harmony of glorious discords, — 
 There shall be voices cry foul shame on thee ! 
 And the infuriate populace shall clamor 
 To heav'n for lightnings on thy rebel head ! 
 
 BouR. Monks love not bells, which call them up to pray'rs 
 I'the dead noon o' night, when they would snore, 
 Rather than watch : but, father, I care not, 
 E'en if the ugliest sound I e'er did hear — 
 Thy raven voice — croak curses o'er my grave. 
 
 GoN. What! death and shame! alike you heed them not! 
 Then, Mercy ! use thy soft, persuasive arts, 
 And melt this stubborn spirit! Be it known 
 To you, my lord, the Queen hath sent me hither. 
 
Scene III.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 51 
 
 BouR. Then get thee hence again, foul, pand'ring priest! 
 By heav'n ! I knew that cowl did cover o'er 
 Some filthy secret, that the day dared not 
 To pry into. — Out, thou unholy thing! 
 
 GoN. Hold, madman! 
 If for thy fame, if for thy warm heart's blood 
 Thou wilt not hear me, listen in the name 
 Of France thy country ! — 
 
 BouR. I have no country, — 
 I am a traitor, cast from out the arms 
 Of my ungrateful country ! I disown it ! 
 Wither'd be all its glories, and its pride ! 
 May it become the slave of foreign power! 
 May foreign princesi grind its thankless children, 
 And make all those, who are such fools, as yet 
 To spill their blood for it, or for its cause, 
 Dig it like dogs ! and when they die, like dogs, 
 Rot on its surface, and make fat the soil, 
 Whose produce shall be seiz'd by foreign hands ! 
 
 Go\. You beat the air with idle words : no man 
 Doth know how deep his country's love lies grain'd 
 In his heart's core, until the hour of trial! 
 Fierce though you hurl your curse upon the land. 
 Whose monarch's cast ye from its bosom, yet 
 Let but one blast of war come echoing 
 From where the Ebro and the Douro roll, — 
 Let but the Pyrenees reflect the gleam 
 Of twenty of Spain's lances, — and your sword 
 Shall leap from out its scabbard to your hand ! 
 
 BouR. Ay, priest, it shall! eternal heaven, it shall! 
 And its far flash shall lighten o'er the land. 
 The leading-star of Spain's victorious host, 
 But flaming, like some dire portentous comet, 
 I' th' eyes of France, and her proud governors ! 
 Be merciful, my fate, nor cut me off 
 Ere I have wreak'd my fell desire, and made 
 Infamy glorious, and dishonor fame ! 
 But, if my wayward destiny hath will'd 
 That I should here be butcher'd shamefully. 
 By the immortal soul, that is man's portion. 
 His hope, and his inheritance, I swear, 
 That on the day Spain overflow's its bounds, 
 And rolls the tide of war upon these plains. 
 My spirit on the battle's edge shall ride ; 
 
52 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act III. 
 
 And louder than death's music, and tlic roar 
 Of combat, shall my voice be heard to shout, 
 On — on — to victory and carnage ! 
 
 GoN. Now 
 That day is come, ay, and that very liour; 
 JVovv shout your war-cry; now unsheath your sword ! 
 I'll join the din, and make these tottering- walls 
 Tremble and nod to hear our fierce defiance ! 
 Nay, never start, and look upon my cowl — 
 Off! vile denial of my manhood's pride! 
 Nay, stand not gazing thus : it is Garcia, 
 Whom thou hast met in deadly fight full oft. 
 When France and Spain join'd in the battle-field ! — 
 Beyond the Pyrenean boundary 
 That guards thy land are forty thousand men — 
 Impatient halt they there ; their foaming steeds 
 Pawing the huge and rock-built barrier. 
 That bars their further course : they wait for thee ; 
 For thee whom France hath injur'd and cast off; 
 For thee, whose blood it pays with shameful chains. 
 More shameful death ; for thee, whom Charles of Spain 
 Summons to head his host, and lead them on 
 To conquest and to glory ! 
 
 BoUR. To revenge! 
 Why, how we dream ! why look, Garcia ; canst thou 
 With mumbled priestcraft file away these chains, 
 Or must I bear them into Spain with me. 
 That Charles may learn what guerdon valor wins 
 This side the Pyrenees ? 
 
 GoN. It shall not need— 
 What ho ! but hold — together with this garb, 
 Methinks I have thrown off my prudence ! 
 
 [Resumes the 3IonJc^s cowl 
 
 BouR. What! 
 Wilt thou to Spain with me in frock and cowl. 
 That men shall say De Bourbon is turn'd driveller, 
 And rides to war in company with monks ? 
 
 GoN. Listen. — The Queen for her own purposes 
 Confided to my hand her signet-ring, 
 Bidding me strike your fetters off, and lead you 
 By secret passes to her private chamber ; 
 But being free, so use thy freedom, that 
 before the morning's dawn all search be fruitless. — 
 
Scene IF.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 53 
 
 What ho! within. 
 
 Enter Gaoler. 
 
 Behold this signet-ring? — 
 
 Strike ofFthose chains, and get thee gone. [Exit Gaoler. 
 
 And now follow. — How's this, — dost doubt me, Bourbon? 
 
 BouR. Ay, 
 First for thy habit's sake; and next, because 
 Thou rather, in a craven priest's disguise, 
 Tarriest in danger in a foreign court, 
 Than seek'st that danger in thy country's wars. 
 
 GoN. Thou art unarm'd : there is my dagger; 'tis 
 The only weajion that I bear, lest fate 
 Should play me false: take it, and use it, too. 
 If in the dark and lonely path I lead thee. 
 Thou mark'st me halt, or turn, or make a sign 
 Of treachery! — but first tell me, dost know 
 John Count Laval? 
 
 BoUR. What! Lautrec's loving friend. 
 Now bound for Italy, along with him ? 
 
 GoN. Then the foul fiend hath mingled in my plot, 
 And marr'd it too! my life's sole aim and purpose! 
 Didst thou but know what damned injuries, 
 What foul, unknightly shame and obloquy. 
 His sire — whose name is wormwood to my mouth — 
 Did heap upon our house — didst thou but knov/ — 
 No matter — get thee gone — I tarry here. 
 And, should we never meet again, when thou 
 Shalt hear of the most fearful deed of daring, 
 Of the most horrible and bloody tale, 
 That ever graced a beldame's midnight legend, 
 Or froze her gaping list'ners, think of me 
 And my revenge ! Now, Bourbon, heaven speed thee! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— THE ROYAL APARTMENT. 
 Francis seated — two Gentleman attending. Enter the Queen. 
 
 Queen. Hear you these tidings, son ? — Milan is lost ! 
 Prosper Colonna hath dissolv'd our host 
 Like icicles i' the sun's beams; and Count Lautrec, 
 Madden'd with his defeat and shame, fled from it 
 The night Colonna entered Milan. 
 
54 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act III, 
 
 Fran, (starting up). Coward ! 
 But he shall answer dearly for liis flight 
 And for fair Milan's loss. Say they not whither 
 He is fled ? [^Shouts wiihoui. 
 
 What din without? 
 
 QuEEX. 'Tis the people, 
 Throng round the palace gates, with gaping mouths, 
 To hear the confirmation of the tidings. 
 
 Shouts without — Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Fran. How now! What more! 
 
 Mess. So please you, my dread liege, 
 News has this hour arriv'd that the Count Lautrec, 
 Passing disguis'd from Italy towards Paris, 
 Hath been arrested by stout Lord St. Pol : 
 Who, in his castle, holds him a straight pris'ner 
 Until your royal pleasure be made known, 
 Whether he there sojourn in longer durance, 
 Or be sent hither to abide his trial. 
 
 Fran. Confcss'd he the betraying of our Milan ? 
 
 Mess. He holds an unmov'd silence on the point, 
 Still craving of your majesty a hearing, 
 And, after that, stern and impartial justice. 
 
 Fran. And, by the soul of Charlemagne, we swear 
 He shall have justice, such as he demands. 
 
 [Exit Mes$enger. 
 His deeds, upon the swift wings of the wind. 
 Have reach'd the high tribunal of our throne. 
 And, ere himself arrive, have there condemn'd him. 
 Mother, how is't with thee? thou art drown'd in thought. 
 
 Queen. Can it be otherwise, when wave o'er wave 
 Of fortune's adverse tide comes whelming us 
 With most resisthvss ruin? Hast thou heard, 
 Or did this loss of Milan stop thine cars 
 With its ill-fated din, — Bourbon's escap'd ? 
 
 Fran. Bourbon escap'd ! then fortune loves Colonna! 
 How fell this evil chance? 
 
 Queen. Another time. 
 Deeds, and not words, suit best this exigency; 
 Our task is vigilant and swift pursuit. [Exit. 
 
 Fran. My task is vigilant though slow pursuit ; 
 I have small care for even this event. 
 Which seems as though it shook my very throne: 
 One thought alone hath room within my breast — 
 
Scene JF.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 55 
 
 How I may win this maid ; whose fearful charms 
 
 Have deem'd themselves secure in absence only : 
 
 Forgetting how fond mem'ry, young love's shadow, 
 
 Laughs at such hope. I'll win her, though the stars 
 
 Link hands, and make a fiery rampart round her: 
 
 Though she be ice, steel, rock, or adamant. 
 
 Or any thing that is more hard and stubborn : 
 
 Love, lend me aid, this vict'ry must be thine. 
 
 Win thou this peerless vot'ry to thy shrine ! {^Exii. 
 
 END OF ACT IlL 
 
56 [. FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act IV, Sc. L 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— AN APARTMENT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX. 
 
 FRANgoiSE discovered seated — Enter Florise. 
 
 Flo. How fare you, madam ? 
 
 Fran(J. Well, Florise. Why, girl, — 
 Why dost thou gaze on me ? Do hollow cheeks 
 And tear-stain'd eyes belie me ? 
 
 Flo. Lady, no ; 
 But something in your voice and in your look, — 
 Something that is all sorrow's, only hers, — 
 Is grafted on the roses of your cheek, 
 And burns in the sad and lustre of your eye. 
 Pardon me, sweet, my mistress ! but, indeed, 
 Since you return from court, — 
 
 [A horn is heard without. 
 
 FRAN9. Hasten, prating girl, 
 And fetch me tidings of this sudden summons! 
 
 [^Exit Florise^ 
 I tremble ! yet I scarce know wherefore — how 
 If it should be my brother ? 
 
 Re-enter Florise. 
 
 Flo. Madam, one, 
 A messenger from court, hath just arriv'd 
 With this despatch. [Exit Florise. 
 
 Franc. From court ? oh give it me! 
 Hold ! should it be the king ! pshaw, trembling fool ! 
 
 [Breaks the stal. 
 Evil or good come of it, I will read — 
 (Reads) — ' This, from my most doleful prison-house. — 
 
 * If half the love thou oft has sworn to me, 
 
 * But half be true, read, and deliver me ! 
 ' This I indite in such a darksome cell 
 
 * As fancy shrinks from, — where the blessed light 
 ' And genial air do never visit me, — 
 
 ' Where chains bow down my limbs to the damp earth, 
 
Scene!.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 61 
 
 ' And darkness compasseth me like a veil : 
 
 * I do beseech thee, by the tender love 
 
 * That I have borne thee from mine infancy, — 
 ' I do beseech thee, by all stronj^est ties 
 
 ' Of kin, and of compassion, — let nu; not 
 
 ' Lie hke a cnrs'd and a forgotten thing, 
 
 ' Thrust down beneath the earth ; — let not the blood 
 
 ' That l)onnds in youth's swift current thro' my veins 
 
 * Be chill'd by dungeon dews before its time; 
 
 ' Or thicken'd by the weiglit of galling fetters!' 
 Oh misery ! my brother, — my dear brother! 
 (Reads) — ' If this doth move the spirit of thy love, 
 ' Hie thee to court, and there, at tiie King's feet, 
 ' Kneel and implore my pardon; — do not fear 
 ' To let thy tears plead for me, — to thy prayers 
 
 * Do I commit my fate ; and on thy lips, 
 
 ' Whose moving eloquence must touch his soul, 
 
 ' Hang all my hopes! — Sweet sister, think upon me!' 
 
 Oh, my unha|>py brother! 
 
 "Why didst thou not at j^rice of my own blood 
 
 Rate thy deliverance! but with heart still throbbing 
 
 Shall I encounter the King's cyrs, and feel 
 
 That winning is but loss ; and life, and liberty, 
 
 Given to thee, the warrants of my ruin ? 
 
 (Reads) — 'I do beseech thee, by the tender love 
 
 ' That 1 have borne thee from thine infancy:' 
 
 I can no more ! thou shalt be rescued ! yet — 
 
 Enter Florise. 
 
 Flo. Madam! the messenger awaits your answer, 
 
 Frani;. Oh, maiden, read! my brother is in prison; 
 His fond arms that so oft have clasp'd around me. 
 Strait bound with gyves: — oh heaven! my dear, dear brother. 
 
 Flo. Why, madam, how now? are ye lost in grief? 
 Are tears his ransom ? — Up ; for shame ! for shame 1 
 You must to court, and straight procure his pardon. 
 
 Fr^ANq. Kind heavcm be with me! I will this hour away:—-' 
 IVay, come not with me ; ere the night be fallen, 
 I shall retm-n, successful and most blest; 
 Or thou wilt hear, that atth' obdurate feet 
 Of him, whom lam sent to supplicate, 
 
 1 pour'd my life in prayers for my dear brother. [Exeunt^ 
 
 8 
 
62 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act IV, 
 
 SCENE II.— A ROOM IN THE PALACE. 
 
 Francis and Bonnivet. 
 
 Fran. No tidings of De Bourbon; search is vain. 
 The storm is gath'iin^, and 'tis time we spread 
 Due shelter over us. 
 
 Eiitcr a Geiiileman, 
 
 In this despatch — How now? 
 
 Gent. One stands without, and earnestly entreats 
 To see your Majesty. 
 
 Fran. Hath he no name? 
 
 Gent. My liege, it is a woman ; but her veil 
 So curtains all her form, that even eyes 
 Which knew, and oft had gaz'd on her, might guess 
 In vain. 
 
 Fran. A woman, and a suppliant! 
 Let her have entrance. 
 
 Bon. At some other time 
 Your Majesty, perhaps, will deign t' inform me 
 Further concerning Italy. 
 
 Fran. Ay, ay. 
 At some more fitting time. 
 
 Enter Fransoise. 
 
 Close veil'd, Indeed : mysterious visitant I 
 
 Whom curious thought doth strive to look upon, 
 
 Despite the cloud that now enshrines you — pardon 
 
 If failing in its hope, the eager eye 
 
 Doth light on ev'ry point, that, unconceal'd, 
 
 Tells of the secret it so fain would i)ierce j 
 
 That heav'nly gait, w hose slow majestic motion 
 
 Discloses all the bearing of command ; 
 
 That noiseless foot, which falling on the earth 
 
 Wakes not an echo ; leaves not e'en a print ; 
 
 So jealous seeming of its favors ; and 
 
 This small white hand, I might deem born of marble 
 
 But for the throbbing life that trembles in it: — 
 
 Why, how is this? 'tis cold as marble's self; 
 
 And by your drooping form! — this is too much — 
 
 Youth breathes around you ; beauty is youth's kin: 
 
 J must withdraw this envious veil — 
 
Same //.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 63 
 
 Fran<j. Hold, sir ! 
 Your highness need but speak to be obey'd : 
 Thus then — (unveils) — 
 
 Fran. Amazement! oh, thou peerless light ! 
 Why thus deny tiiy radiance, and enfold, 
 Like the coy moon, thy charms in envious clouds ? 
 
 FiiANC. Such clouds best suit, whose sun is set for ever; 
 And veils should curtain o'er those eyes, whose light 
 Is all put out with tears : oh, good, my liege! 
 I come a suitor to your pard'ning mercy. 
 
 Fran, (a.s-ide.) Sue on, so thou do after hear my suit. 
 
 Fran'C. My brother ! out, alas! your brow grows dark. 
 And threat'ningly doth fright my scarce-breathed prayer 
 Back to its hold of silence. 
 
 Fkan, Lady, aye, 
 Your brother hath offended 'gainst the state, 
 And must abide the state's most lawful vengeance ; 
 Nor canst thou in thy sorrow even say 
 Such sentence is unjust. 
 
 Franc. I do, t do; 
 Oh, vengeance ! v.'hat hast thou to do with justice f 
 Most merciful, and most vindictive, who 
 Hath call'd ye sisters ; who hath made ye kin? 
 My liege, my liege, if you do take such vengeance 
 Upon my brother's fault, yourself do sin; 
 By calling your's that which is heaven's alone : 
 But it 'tis justice that hath sentenc'd him. 
 Hear me ; for he, unheard, hath been condemn'd 
 Against all justice, without any mercy. 
 
 Fran. Maiden, thou plead'st in vain. 
 
 Franc. Oh, say not so : 
 Oh, mercifid my lord! you are a soldier ; 
 You have won war's red favors in the field, 
 And victory hath been your handmaiden : 
 Oh ! think, if you were thrust away for ever 
 From fame and glory, warrior's light and air; 
 And left to feel time's creeping fingers chill 
 Your blood ; and from fame's blazonry efface 
 Your youthful deeds, which, like a faithless promise, 
 Bloom'd fair, but bore no after-fruit — 
 
 Fran. Away ! 
 Thy prayer is cold : hast thou no nearer theme, 
 Which, having felt thyself, thou may'st address 
 More movingly unto my heart .'* 
 
64 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act J V. 
 
 Francj. None, none. 
 But what that heart itself might whisper you. 
 Oh, good my hege ! turn not away irom uic! 
 See, on tlie earth 1 kneel ; hy these swift tears 
 That witness my aif'iction ; by eacii throb 
 Of my sad heart ; by all you love ! — 
 
 Fran. Ah, tempter ! 
 Say rather by thes<; orient pearls, whose j)rice 
 Would bribe the very soul of justice ; say. 
 By these luxuriant tresses, which lunc thrown 
 Eternal chains around my heart — f Fi;a.\<'. starts vp.) 
 Nay, start not ; 
 
 If thou, so soon, art weary of beseeching, 
 Hearken to me, and 1 uill franjc a suit 
 Which thou must hear ! (/cnctis) By the resistless love 
 Thou hast inspir'd — by thy bright perfections, 
 Thy matchless beauty! — luiy, it is in vain, 
 Thmi shalt not free thyself, till tliou hast heard ; 
 Thou shalt not free thy brother, till — 
 
 Fhanc,*. Unhand nie ! 
 Sir, as you are a man — 
 
 Enter the Queen 
 
 Queen. Oh, excellent ! 
 
 Fran, (starts up ) Confusion seize that woman's watch- 
 fulness ! 
 
 Queen. I fear me I have marr'd a wise discourse ; 
 Which, if I read aright yon lady's looks. 
 Was argued most persuasively ; not a word ! 
 Nay, then, your conference is doubtless ended; 
 If so — I have some business with the King — 
 
 [iS/ic waives Franxoise off. 
 
 Fran. Then, madam, you must let that bus'ness rest; 
 For, look you, I have matters, which, though long 
 I've ponder'd o'er them, I've reserv'd till now, 
 Unto your private car. — How many years 
 Longer am I to live in tutelage ? 
 When wdl it please your wisdom to resign 
 The ofiice, which, self-arogated, seems 
 Daily to grow beyond that wisdom's compass, 
 'J'hough strain'd unto its utmost ? how long 
 Am J to wear the yoke, which e'vry day 
 Grows heavier, but less firm ? — if longer yet, 
 Take this good counsel — lighten it, or else 
 
Scene //.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 65 
 
 'Twill break and crush you. Nay, ne'er gaze on me 
 With that fix'd haughty stare ; I do not sleep — 
 'Tis yon that dream ; inll time you were awaken'd. 
 
 Queen. What, thankless boy? whose greatness is the work 
 Of iny own hands; — this, to your mother, sir? 
 
 Fra.\. I am your King, madam, — your King, — your 
 
 King ! 
 
 Ay, start and boil with passion, and turn pale 
 
 With rage, whose powerless effort wakes but scorn: 
 
 Who made you Qnec^n of France ? my father's wife 
 
 Was Duchess of ^avoy and Angouluiie. 
 
 These are your 'jiAy titles, — and the rest, 
 
 A boon which courtesy hath lent, not given, 
 
 Unto the mother of the King of France; — 
 
 'Tis you who shine from a reflected light; 
 
 'Tis you, who owe me, and my royal state, 
 
 All that you have of state and of observance. 
 
 And, as you value the faint shade of power 
 
 Which clings to you, beware how it is us'd. 
 
 Curb your unbounded pride and haughty spirit ; 
 
 Which, brooking no control itself, would make 
 
 Slaves of all else that breathe ; and, mark me well, 
 
 Slacken your leading strings or ere they break. [ExiL 
 
 QuEE.N'. The hour is come at last, — so long foreseen, 
 So long averted by my anxious efforts ! 
 My o'ergrown power is topj)!ing from its base, — 
 And, like aruin'd tower, whose huge supporters 
 At length decay, it nods unto its ruin. 
 I am undone ! Hut, if 1 needs must fall, 
 No rising foot shall tread upon my neck 
 And say 1 pav'd the way for its ascension. 
 Proud spirit ! thou who in the darkest hours 
 Of danger and tlefeat, hast steaded me, — 
 Thou dauntless uncontrolfd, and daring soul! 
 Who hast but seen in all the world a throne, — 
 In all mankind, thine instruments; rejoice! 
 I'll do a deed, which, prospering, shall place me 
 Beyond all power of future? storm or wreck ; 
 Or, if I tail, my fall shall be like his, 
 That wond'rous mighty man, who overthrew 
 The whole Philistian host, — when revelry 
 Was turn'd to mourning, — and thepond'rous ruin, 
 Which he drew down on his own head, o'erwhelm'd 
 The power of Gath, when Gaza shook for fear. 
 
66 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act IF. 
 
 Enter Gonzales. 
 
 Come hither, sirrah, now tlic day is clone, — 
 
 And night, with swarthy hands, is sowing stars 
 
 In yonder sky, — De IJourbon is ('scaj)'d ; 
 
 Thy days are forfeit ; but tliy liA; is now 
 
 More needful to my present |)urj)oses. 
 
 Thou'rt free ! — I've need of thee ; H\ e and obey. 
 
 GoN. Madam, obedience ever was my Hfe's 
 Sole study and attainment. 
 
 Queen. Hark thee, father! 
 I have a deed for thee, which may, perhaps, 
 For a short moment, freeze thy startled blood ; 
 And fright thy firmly-seated heart, to beat 
 Hurried and trembling summons in thy breast ; 
 Didst ever look upon the dead? 
 
 GoN. Ay, madam ; 
 Full oft ; and in each calm or frightful guise 
 Death comes iu, — on the bloody battle-field ; 
 When with each gush of black and curdling life, 
 A curse was uttered, — when the jiray'rs I've pour'd, 
 Have been all drown'd with din of clashing arms; 
 And shrieks, and shouts, and loud artillery, 
 That shook the slipp'ry earth, all drunk with gore ; 
 I've seen it, swoll'n with subtle poison, black 
 And staring with concentrate agony ; 
 When ev'ry vein hath started from its bed. 
 And wreath'd, like knotted snakes, around the brows 
 Which frantic, dash'd themselves in tortures down 
 Upon the earth. I've seen life fioat away 
 On the faint sound of a far tolling bell ; 
 Leaving its late warm tenement as fair. 
 As though 'twere th' incorruptible that lay 
 Before me ; and all earthly taint had vanish'd 
 With the departed spirit. 
 
 Queen. Father, hold ! 
 Return to th' other — to that second death, 
 Most fearful in its ghastly agony. 
 Come nearer to me ; didst thou ever — nay, 
 Put back thy cowl — I fain would see thy face: 
 So ; — didst thou ever — thou look'st very pale — 
 Art fear'd ? 
 
 GoN. Who, I ? Your highness surely jests ! 
 
 Queen. Did ever thine own hand — thou understand'st me. 
 
Scene //.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 67 
 
 Gox. I 'gin to understand you, madam ; ay, 
 It has been red with blood, with reeking- hfe. 
 
 Queen. Father ! so steep that hand for me once more, 
 And, by my soul I swear, I will reward thee 
 With a cardinal's hat when next Rome's princes meet. 
 
 GoN. I pray you, on. 
 I know but half my task. 
 
 QuEE\. I had forgot ; an<l now methinks I feel 
 Lighten'd of a huge burden, now thou know'st 
 My settled j)urpose. — Listen ! there is one, 
 Whose envious beauty doth pluck down my pow'r 
 Day after day, with more audacious hand — 
 That woman ! 
 
 Go.\. Ha ! a woman ! 
 QuEE.\. Well, how now! 
 Blood is but blood, and life no more than life, 
 Be 't cradled in however fair a form ! 
 Dost shrink, thou vaunting caitif}', from the test 
 Thine own avowal drew upon thee? Mark me! 
 If, ere two suns have risen and have set, 
 Fran<,'oise de Foix — 
 GoN. How? 
 
 Queen. The young Lautrec's sister, 
 Count Laval's bride. 
 
 Go.\. What ! John de Laval's bride! 
 Hell ! what a flash of light bursts in upon me ! (Aside.} 
 
 Queen. Why dost thou start, and look so wide and wild, 
 And clench thy hands ? 
 
 Go\. So please your grace — O pardon me! — 
 'Twas pity — sorrow — I — oh! how has she 
 Provoked your dreadful wrath, that such a doom 
 Should cut her young days oti'thus suddenly ? 
 
 Queen. Content thee, that it falls not on thy head, 
 And do my bidding, as thou valuest 
 That head of thine. I tell thee she must die ; 
 By subtle [)oison, or by sudden knife, 
 I care not ; so those eyes be closed for ever. 
 Look, priest ! thou 'rt free ; but if, in two more days. 
 The grave hide not that woman from my hate, 
 She shall not die the less : and, by high heav'n ! 
 Be thou i' th' farthest corner of the earth, 
 Thou shalt be dragg'd from thence ; and drop by drop. 
 Shall thy base blood assuage my fell revenge ! 
 Think on it, and resolve — and so farewell ! [Exit. 
 
68 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act JV. 
 
 GoN. Rejoice, my soul ! thy far-off goal is won ! 
 His bride, — all that he most doth love and live for, — 
 His heart's best hoi)e, — she shall bo foul corruption 
 When next his eai^er arms are spread to clasp her ! 
 I'll do this deed, ere i go mad for joy ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III.— A GALLERY IN THE PALACE. 
 Enter Trihoulet, followed hij FaAxgoisE de Foix. 
 
 Franc. Hold, hold ! I do beseech thee, ere my brain 
 Whirl with this agony ; show me the letter. 
 
 Till. Nay, but you did refuse it some time gone ; I'll to 
 The King and give it back. 
 
 Franc. O! if that letter 
 Tell of my brother's fate, as chance it doth ! 
 Give it me once again — or ere I die ! 
 
 Tri. Listen: I'll read it thee. 
 
 Franc. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
 (Aside) — For if the King doth plead his love in it. — 
 No. tear, but do not open it, good fool! 
 
 Tri. I cannot read unless I open it. Listen ! (reads) * If 
 ' thou do not follow his footsteps, who shall bring thee this, 
 ' not only shall rhy brother's liberty, but e'en his life' — 
 
 Franc. Oh gracious lieav'n! 
 His life ! Givenie that scroll. (She reads and faints.) 
 
 Titi. Let me spell o'er this letter ; for the lady, she'll be the 
 better for a little rest. (Reads) — ' If thou do not follow his 
 * footsteps, who shall bring thee this.' Marry, that means 
 my footsteps ; and whither tend my footsteps ? — Even to the 
 King's chamber. What, shall her brother die, unless she 
 meet the King alone at this dead hour of night? I would I 
 had lost the letter ! my back and the whip had been acquaint- 
 ed of a surety ; but that were better than — poor maiden ! By 
 my wisdom, then, I will not lead her to the King! I'll run 
 away, and then, if I be questioned, I can swear she fell into a 
 swoon by the way, and could not come ! 
 
 [Going Fran'Soise revives. 
 
 FRAN9. Oh, no — not death ! mercy ! oh, mercy ! spare 
 him ! 
 Where am I ? Have I slept ! Good Triboulct, 
 If thou have aught of reason, lend it me. 
 
 Tri. Alack ! poor thing, how wide she talks, she's come 
 To borrow wisdom of a fool ! Poor lady ! 
 
Scene III.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 69 
 
 Fran^. Nay, gaze not on me, for dear charity ! 
 But lead, and I will follow to the King, — 
 Fall on my knees — once more implore his mercy! 
 I do beseech thee — liife is on our haste ! 
 
 Tri. How say you, pretty lady — life, and no more ? 
 
 Fra.\(j'. Oh ! 1 shall go distraught with ihis delay. 
 See, to thine eyes I will address my speech, — 
 For what thou look'st on that thou understand'st. 
 
 Tri. Ay, marry, and more, as I think, than either of us 
 look on, do I understand. 
 
 Franc. These jewels are of a surpassing value, — 
 Take them, and lead ine to the King. 
 
 Tri. What, at this hour ? 
 
 Fran^. If not, my brother dies. 
 
 Tri. Alone? 
 
 Franc. The night grows pale, and the stars seem 
 To tnelt away, before the burning breath 
 Of fiery morn- If thou art born of woman, — 
 Lead to the King, whiles I have strength to follow ! 
 
 Tri. Then heaven he with thee, lady ! for I can no more. 
 Follow ! and may 1 in this hour have been a greater fool than 
 ere I was before. [^Exeunt^ 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
70 FRANCIS THK FIRST. [Ad F. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCrNE I.— AN AP/.RT.'.:Ei\T IN TIE CFIATI Al X-DL FOX. 
 
 Fkax^ois:: i.s discovered sitilni^, pale and mofionles.''^ by a table — 
 Floris:: is kneeling by her. 
 
 FiiVNc. How heavily the sun hangs in the clouds, — 
 The day will ne'er be done. 
 
 Flo. Oh, lady, thou liast sat 
 And watch'd the western clouds, day after day, 
 (Jrow crimson with the sun's farewell, and said, 
 Each day, the night will never come: yet night 
 Hath come at last, and so it will again. 
 
 FiiA.NC. Will it, indeed! will the night come at last, 
 And hide that burning sua, and shade my eyes, 
 Which ache with this red light — will darkness come 
 At last ? 
 
 Flo. Sweet madam, yes ; and sleep v.ill come ; 
 Nay, shake not motirnfuMy your head at me, — 
 Your eyes are heavy ; sleep is brooding in them. 
 
 Franc. Hot tears have lain in them, and made them 
 heavy; 
 But sleep — oh, no ! no, no ! they will not close ; 
 1 have a gnawing pain, here, at my heart: 
 Guilt, thou liest heavy, and art liard to bear. 
 
 Flo. VVhat say you, madam, guilt! 
 
 FiiAN<;. Who daresay so? 
 (Starling up) 'Twas pity, — mercy, — 'twas not guilt! and 
 
 though 
 The world's fierce scorn shall call it infamy, 
 I say 'twas not! Speak, — speak, — dost thou? Oh! answer 
 
 me! 
 Say, was it infamy? 
 
 Flo. Dear lady, you are ill! 
 Some strange distemper fevers thus your brain. 
 Let me bind up these golden locks that hang 
 Dishcvell'd thus upon your neck. 
 
 FnA.NC. Out vij)er! 
 
Sce^w L] FHAIVCIS TtlR FIRST. 71 
 
 Nor twine, nor braid, aoain shall ever bind 
 
 These locks! Oh ! rathor tear them off, and cast them 
 
 Upon th«! common earth, and trample them, — 
 
 Heap dust and ashes on them, — oh, I am mad ! 
 
 Distracted ! — out alas ! alas f poor head ! 
 
 Thou achest for thy pillow in the grave, — 
 
 Thy darksome couch, — thy dieamless, quiet bed ! 
 
 Flo. Let me entreat you send for that same monk 
 I told you of this morn : he is a leech, 
 Jjcarned in theory, and of wond'rous skill 
 To heal all maladies of soul or body. 
 
 Franc. Of soul — of soul! — aye, so they'd have us thinli : 
 Dost thou believe that the hard coin we pour 
 Into their outstretch'd hands, indeed, buys pardon 
 For all, or any sin, we may commit.'' 
 Dost thou believe forgiveness may be had 
 Thus easy cheap? 
 
 Flo. I do beli(;ve. indeed. 
 Not all the wealth hid in the womb of ocean, 
 <^an ransom sin — nothin<>- but deep repentance — 
 Austere and lenothened penance — frecpient tears. 
 
 Franc. 'Tis false ! I know it — these do nought avail : 
 To move relentless heav'n, it must be bril)'d. 
 And yet — go, call the priest ; I'll speak with him. 
 I will cast off the burthen of my shame, 
 Or ere it j)ress me down into the grave ! [^Exif. 
 
 Flo. Alas, poorflow'r, the canker's in thy core! 
 
 Enter Gonzales. 
 
 Good morrow to my reverend coniV^sor ! 
 
 GoN. Good morrow, niaidiMi ; 
 Where's thy Indy, Florisc.? 
 
 Flo. This moment, as I think, gone; to her chamber. 
 
 GoN. To sleej), perchance. 
 
 Flo. Oh, father, would she could ! 
 But there's a sleepless sorrow at her heart, — 
 She hath not clos'd her eyes for many a night. 
 
 Go\. Her brother Lautrec, for the loss of Milan 
 Was lately thrust in prison. 
 
 Fi-O. Even so : 
 She often read a scroll Count Lautrec sent her, 
 And wept, and read it o'er and o'er again; 
 And then, as though determin'd by its arguments, 
 She sought the king, to move him to forgiveness: 
 
78 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act V. 
 
 Short space elapsed ere home she came again, 
 Thus broken-hearted, and, as I do think, 
 Bovv'd to the grave by some o'ermastering sorrow. 
 Out on my prating tongue ! I had forgot — 
 The lady Frant^oise straight would sjieak with you. 
 GoN. Tell her I'll wait upon her instantly. 
 
 l^Eiit Florise. 
 
 Strange ! passing strange ! I guess at it in vain. 
 
 Lautrec forgiv'n, and herself broken-hearted! 
 
 I'll to her straight, and from her wring confession 
 
 By such keen torture, as designless looks 
 
 And careless words inflict on secret guilt. [Ex//. 
 
 SCENE II.-AN INNER COURT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX. 
 Enter Francis wrapped in a cloak ^ and Florise. 
 
 Flo. Then be it even as you will, sir stranger, 
 Since you bring joyful tidings to my lady. 
 At sunset meet me here ; when I will bring you 
 "Where you shall see and speak with her, fair sir. 
 
 Fran. At sunset I'll not fail : farewell, fair maiden! 
 
 [Exit Florise. 
 
 They tell me she is sunk in sorrow, 
 
 liCts a consuming grief destroy her beauty; 
 
 Therefore, in this disguise, leave I the court. 
 
 To follow and to claim her ; for though o'erthrown, 
 
 If shame and woe have follow'd her jlefeat, 
 
 I hold myself no lawful conqueror; 
 
 But one whose love, like the fierce eastern wind. 
 
 Hath wither'd that it hung upon. — But, |)shaw! 
 
 'Tis idle all; if that her hand be promis'd. 
 
 It is not bound ; and, were it so, king's wills 
 
 Melt compacts into air. She must be mine — 
 
 MineonI) — mine for ever! and, for Laval, 
 
 Another and a wealthier bride, I trow. 
 
 Shall well repay him for the one I've stolen. [Exit, 
 
 Enter Gonzales. 
 
 GoN. 'Tis true, by heav'n ! 'tis as my hope presag'd, — 
 Her lips avow'd it. Oh ! then there is torture 
 Far worse than death in store for thee, Laval. 
 
Scene //.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 73 
 
 Enter a Page. 
 
 Page. Save you — from court a letter, reverend sir. 
 
 Goi\. Give it, and get thee gone, — 
 
 [Exit Page, 
 'Tis from the queen! 
 Further injunctions to be sudden, doubtless — so: 
 
 [Opens the letter arid reads. 
 ' That which thou hast in hand, quickly despatch : else oppor- 
 ' tunity will play thee false. I^avai is now in France, and by to- 
 ' morrow will have reached Chateau-de-Foix , therefore, if it 
 ' is not done, do it so soon as thou shalt have received this 
 * letter. ' LouisA.' 
 
 To-morrow! how ! why that should be to-day : 
 To-day — to-day — ah! say you so, indeed: 
 He could not come at a more welcome hour. 
 
 [Horns without. 
 Hark! even nov/ the horn proclaims my triumph! 
 The gates swing wide, the outer court-yard rings 
 With neighing steeds, and jingling spurs, and steps 
 Whose haste doth tell of hot, impatient love : 
 He stands upon tiie threshold of his house 
 Reeling with joy. Now, now, 
 
 Enter Laval and attendants. 
 
 Hail, noble sir! 
 
 Lav. I joy to see thee, yet I cannot now 
 Scarce stay to say as much. Where is my love ? 
 
 Go.N. The lady Francoise, sir, is in her chamber. 
 
 [Laval is goingl 
 I pray you tarry, good my lord, I've much to say to you. 
 
 Lav. Another time, good father. 
 
 GoN. No time so fitting as the present, sir. 
 
 Lav. 'Sdeath! wouldst thou have me listen, and not hear ! 
 Look on thee, and not see thee? Stand aside. 
 Till ears and eyes have had their fill of her ! 
 I'm blind, and deaf, and well nigh mad! 
 
 Go.\. My lord, 
 What I would say will bear no tarrying. 
 
 Lav. a plague on thee! come with me, then, and thus 
 
 While I do gaze on her, I'll hear thy tale. 
 
 GoN. What I've to say you'd rather hear alone. 
 
 Lav. I tell thee, no, thou most vexatious priest ! 
 
74 FRANCIS THi: FIRST. [Act V. 
 
 That nhicli I hear shall slie hear too ; my heart 
 And all its cares or wishes, is lier own ; 
 Knowled<;e, hopes, fears, desires — all, all arc hers. 
 
 GoN. Then he it so — foliow unto her chanibcr ! 
 
 Lav. Follow! I conld not loUow the swilt wind ! 
 
 Go.\. E'en as you will, 1 do: lead on, my lord ! 
 
 SCENE III.— AN APARTMENT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX. 
 Enter Francis and Florise 
 
 Fr vN. I tell thee, ere she see the Count Laval, 
 I must inform her of mine errand. 
 
 Flo. Well— 
 I had forg'ot, in all this sudden joy: 
 But see, behind the tapestry, here, you may 
 Wait for, and speak with her. 
 
 Fran. I thank thee, maiden. 
 
 Flo. Farewell, and good success attend you, sir. lExit. 
 
 [Francis conceals himself behind the tapestry. 
 
 Enter Fran^oise. 
 
 Fran^. Now, ye paternal halls, that frown on me. 
 Down, down, and hide me in your ruin — ha ! 
 
 [.4s Laval and Gonzales enter, Fran^oise shrieks. 
 
 Lav. My bride ! iny beautiful ! 
 
 GoN. Stand back, young- sir ! 
 
 Lav. Who dares extend his arms 'twixt those whom love 
 Hath bound? whom holy wedlock shall, ere lon^r! 
 
 Go.\. The stern decree of the most holy church: 
 Look on that lady, Count Laval, who stands 
 Pale as a viririn rose, whose early bloom 
 Hath not been j^az'd on yet by the hot sun ; 
 And fair 
 
 Lav. Oh, how unutterably fair! 
 
 GoN. Seems not that shrinking flower the soul of all 
 That is most pure, as well as beautiful ? 
 
 Lav. Peace, thou vain babbler! Is it unto me 
 That thou art prating? — unto me, who have 
 Worshipp'd her, with a wild idolatry, 
 Liker to madness than to love? 
 
Scene III.] FRANCIS TilE I IKST. 75 
 
 GoN. Indeed! 
 Look on iicr yet ; and sny, if ever I'brni 
 Show'd half so like a breathing piece of marble. 
 Oh \vcl!-dissenib!ed sin! say, was it thus, 
 Shrinking and pale, ihou stood'st, when the king's arras 
 Did clasp thee, and his hot lip, sear'd from thine 
 Their oath to wed thy brother's friend ? 
 
 I>AV. Damnation 
 Alight uj)on thee, thon audacious monli! 
 The l)liglit thou breath'st, recoil on thine own head! 
 It hath no power to touch the sjjotless fame 
 Of one, from w!io;n thy ciiried calumnies 
 Fly like rebounding shafts! — Ha! ha! ha! ha I 
 I'he king! a merry tale forsooth ! 
 
 Go,\. Then w(! 
 Will laugh at it, ha! ha I — why, what care I? 
 We will be merry ; since thou art content 
 To laugh and be a 
 
 Lav\ Francoise — I — I pray thee 
 Speak to me, — smile — speak, — look on me, I say. — 
 Wliat, tears ! what, wring thine hands ! what, pale as 
 
 death! — 
 And not one word — not one ! 
 
 Franc. (To Gon'.j Oh deadly fiend ! 
 That hast but hasten'd that which was foredoom'd. 
 (To Laval.J My lord, ere I make answer to this charge, 
 I have a boon to crave of you — my brother — 
 
 Lav. How wildly thy eye rolls; thy hand is cold 
 As death, my fairest love. 
 
 FiiANC. Beseech you, sir. 
 Unclasp your arm ; where is my brother? 
 
 Lav. Lautrec, 
 In Italy, ere now is well and happy. 
 
 FiiANC. Thanks, gentle heaven! all is not bitterness, 
 In this most bitter liour. My Lord Laval, 
 To you my faith was plighted, by my brother; 
 That faith I ratified by my own vow. 
 
 Lav. The oath was register'd in highest heaven. 
 Thou'rt mine! — 
 
 Franc. To all eternity, Laval. 
 If blood cannot efface that damning bond ; 
 
 [Studches his dagger, and stabs IicrseJf. 
 'Tis cancelled, I've struck home — my dear, dear brother. 
 
 [Dies 
 
':6 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act V. 
 
 Lav. Oh horrible! — she's dead! 
 
 [Fran-CIS rushes from his concealment. 
 
 Fran. Dead! 
 
 [Laval draws his sjcord, and turns upon the king, who 
 draws to defend himself. 
 
 Lav. Ha! what fiend hath sent thee here ? 
 Down ! down to hell with thee, thou damn'd seducer! 
 
 Enter QvEEN, followed hy attcndents. 
 
 Queen. Secure that madman ! 
 
 [Pa?-/ of the attendants surround and disarm Laval. 
 
 Queen, (^a^/r/e /o Gonzales. j Bravely done, indeed! 
 I shall reniember. — (aloud) — How now, wayward boy ! 
 How is't I find thee here in j)rivate broils, 
 "Whilst proud rebellion triumphs o'er the land ? 
 Bourbon's in France again! and strong Marceilles 
 Beleaguer'd round by Spanish soldiery. 
 
 Fran. Peace, mother, prithee peace; look there, look 
 there ! 
 There is a sight, that hath more sorrow in it. 
 Than loss of kingdoms, empires, or the world! 
 There lies the fairest lily of the land, 
 Untimely broken from its stem, to wither ! 
 
 l^Going towards the body. 
 
 Lav. (breaks from the attendants.) Stand back King Francis ! 
 lay not e'en a finger 
 On this poor wench, which death hath sanctified! 
 This soulless frame of what was once my love ! 
 Oh ! thou pale flower, that in death's icy grasp 
 Dost lie, making the dissolution that we dread, 
 Look fair ! — farewell ! forever, and forever ! 
 Thou shouldst have been the glad crown of my youth, 
 Maturer life's fruitful and fond companion, — 
 Dreary old age's shelter. 
 
 GoN. Tears, my lord ? 
 
 Lav. Ay, tears, thou busy mischief; get thee hence! 
 Away ! who sent for thee ? — who bade thee pour 
 The venom of thy tongup into my wounds ? 
 What seck'st thou hero ? 
 
Scene in.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. T7 
 
 GoN. To see thee weep, Laval ! 
 And I am satisfied ! look on me, boy ! 
 Dost know (iarcia — first scion of a house 
 Whose kindred shoots, by thee were all cut down? 
 
 Lav. For dead I left thee on Marignan plain! 
 Art thou from thence arisen — or from hell — 
 To \\ reak such ruin on me ? 
 
 Go.\. They die not 
 Who have the work I had on hand unfinish'd ; 
 The spirit would not from its fleshly house, 
 In which thy swords so many outlets made, 
 Ere it had seen its full revenge fulfiU'd. 
 
 Lav. Revenge ! — for what ? — wherefore dost thou pursue 
 me? 
 
 GoN. Look on thy bride ! look on that faded thing ! 
 As fair a flower once grew within my house, 
 As young, as lovely, and as dearly lov'd. — 
 The only daughter of my father's house. 
 She was the centre of our soul's affections. 
 Thy father, sir — now mark ! for 'tis the point 
 And moral of my tale — thy father, then, 
 Was, by my sire, in war ta'en prisoner : — 
 Wounded almost to death, he brought him home,— 
 Shelter'd iiim, — cherish'd him. — and, with a care 
 Most like a brother's, watch'd his bed of sickness, 
 Till ruddy health once more through all his veins 
 Sent life's warm stream in strong rt^turning tide. 
 How think ye he repaid my father's love ? 
 From her dear house he hu'd my sister forth, 
 And having robb'd her of her treasur'd honor 
 Cast her away, defil'd ! — she died ! she died ! 
 Upon the threshold of that house, from which 
 My father spurn'd her ! and over her pale corse 
 I swore to haunt, through life, her ravisher ; 
 Till due and deep atonement had been made — 
 Honor for honor stolen — blood for blood ! 
 
 Lav. These were my father's injuries, — not mine, 
 Remorseless fiend ! 
 
 GoiV. Thy father died in battle ; 
 And as his lands, and titles, at his death, 
 Devolv'd on thee, on thee devolv'd the treasure 
 Of my dear hate ! — I have had such revenge ! 
 Such horrible revenge ! — thy life, thy honor, 
 Were all too little I — I have had tiiv tears ! 
 10 
 
78 FRANCIS THE FIRST. [Act V. 
 
 Kings, the earth's mi^^htiest potentates, have been 
 My tools and insliumonts ! yon haughty nmdam. 
 And your ambition, — yonder headstrong boy, 
 And his mad love, — all, all beneath my feet, 
 And slaves unto my will and deadly purpose. 
 
 QuEEX. Such glorious tritnnphs should be short lived; — ho! 
 Lead out that man to instant death. 
 
 GoN. Without confession, madam, shall I go .'' 
 Shall not the world know on what services 
 Louisa of Savoy hastens such guerdon ? 
 Queen. Am I obey'd ? away ^\ith him ! 
 Fran. Your pardon ; — 
 If he has aught to speak before he dies, 
 Let him unfold ; it is our pleasure so ! 
 
 GoN. You did not deal so hardly with the soul 
 Of Bourbon, when you sent me to his cell ; 
 But let that pass : — King Francis, mark me well : 
 I was, by yonder lady, made the bearer 
 Of am'rous overtures unto De Bourbon, 
 Which he with scorn flung back ; else trust me, sir, 
 You had not stood so safely on your throne 
 As now you stand. 
 So much for De Bourbon. Now 
 Look on the j)rostratc form of this fair creature ! 
 Why, how now, madam, do you blench and start? 
 You're somewhat pale ! fie, fie ! what matters it — 
 ^ Blood is hut blood, and life no more than life, 
 Be't cradled in however fair a form.'' 
 I'st not well done ! ha ! well and suddenly ? 
 Are you not satisfied ? 
 
 Queen. Thou lying devil ! 
 
 GoN. Dar'st thou deny the part thou hast in this ? 
 
 Queen. Dar'st thou to me ? ah, reptile ! 
 
 GoN. Here ! look here ! — (Shows her letter.) 
 
 Queen. Ha ! 
 
 GoN. Hast thou found thy masterspirit, Queen ! 
 Our wits have grappled hard for many a day. 
 What! mute at last? or hast some quaint device ? 
 
 Queen. No! Hell has conquer'd me ! 
 
 Fran. Give me that scroll — hast thou said all, Garcia.' 
 
 GoN. Ay, all ! Fair madam, fare ye well awhile ; 
 And for my death, 1 thank you from my soul. 
 For after the rich cup I've drain'd this hour, 
 The rest were tasteless, stale, and wearisome. 
 
Scene ///.] FRANCIS THE FIRST. 79 
 
 Life had no aim, or joy, or end, save vengeance ; 
 Vengeance is satisfied, so farewell life ! [Exit f!;uar 'led. 
 
 FiiAN. (reads the letter.) Oh ! mother ! guilt hath taken 
 from thy lips 
 All proud repelling answer. Give me that ring, — 
 Strip me the diadem from off thy brows, — 
 And bid a long farewell to vanity ! 
 For in a holy nunnery immured. 
 Thou shall have leisure to make peace with heav'n 
 And mourn i' the shade of solitude thy errors. — 
 (To tlie body.) — For thee, thou lovely dust, all circumstance 
 That can gild death, shall wait thee to thy grave ! 
 Thou shah lie with the royal and the proud; 
 And marble, by the dex'trous chisel taught, 
 Shall learn to mourn thy hapless fortunes. 
 
 Lav. No! 
 Ye shall not bear her to your receptacles ; 
 Nor raise a monument for busy eyes 
 To stare upon. No hand, in future days. 
 Shall point to her last home ; no voice shall cry 
 ' There lies King Francis' paramour!' In life, 
 Thou didst despoil me of her ; in death, she's mine ! 
 I'll give her that, my love doth tell me best 
 Fits with her fate — an honorable grave ; 
 There 'mong our tombs ancestral shall she rest, 
 Without an epitaph, except my tears. 
 
 THE END. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Arthur. Wo 've wandered far enough — come, sit down here, 
 Upon this rising bank of soft green turf. 
 How fair thou art, my love ! Is it the spring 
 Of the glad earth, or thy sweet spirit's brightness, 
 That makes thine eyes so like two radiant stars ? 
 How well this young laburnum's golden tresses 
 Twine with thy raven locks ! 
 
 Gertrude. "Where wilt thou sit ? 
 
 Arthur. Here, on the flow'r-inwoven earth before thee. 
 Make me a pillow on thy lap — and thus 
 I '11 lie, and pluck for very wantonness 
 The grassy blades, and daizies from the ground, 
 Whilst the young breezes, and thy snowy fingers. 
 Part these thick, heavy locks from off my temples. 
 I would that we could live for ever thus ! 
 
 Gertrude. How fresh the hawtliorn smells from yonder bush 
 Ever, as the mild wind comes sailing by, 
 It brings a thousand sweets. 
 
 Arthur. That hawthorn bush 
 Looks very strange, amidst all this bright green ! 
 It seems as though old winter, in his haste 
 To leave us, had forgot his snowy hood. 
 Listen ! What sound is that ? 
 
 Gertrude. It is the cuckoo. 
 
 Arthur. The cuckoo, is it? Fie upon thee, Gertrude ! 
 The cuckoo ! heaven ha' mercy ! Wench, thou 'st lived 
 So long in villanous smoky towns, and houses, 
 I do not think thou 'dst know a nightingale. 
 When her song 's sweetest, from a sparrow's chirp. 
 
 Gertrude. 'T is no bird's song ; it is continuous, 
 And very sweet. 
 
 Arthur. I do remember me. 
 When last I wandered here, (thou wert not with me,) 
 Somewhere about this s[)ot, I marked a brook, 
 9 
 
6G MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Whose waters then were fast bound up in prison 
 
 By the stern winter. In its frosted banks, 
 
 The little crisping stream was closely clasp'd, 
 
 And lay as briglit as ever, but deprived 
 
 Of its quick motion, and its babbling sound. 
 
 But the warm air has set it free again, 
 
 And it runs yonder, singing in the shade, 
 
 A loio contented song of quiet joy : 
 
 And fringing the green garment of the spring, 
 
 With a gay wreath of many-color'd flow'rs, 
 
 Kept l)y its crystal waters ever fresh. 
 
 Methinks this is a type of gratitude : 
 
 For be it ne'er so lowly, and so poor. 
 
 It still possesses in its own existence 
 
 A power to repay all benefits ; 
 
 And in the gracious taking of a gift 
 
 Quits half its debt ; this is the sole requital 
 
 Which we can render heaven, and 't is one 
 
 Which in its bounty it is still well pleased 
 
 T' accept from us. What art thou thinking of, 
 
 With thy large lustrous eye gazing upon me 
 
 So earnestly 1 
 
 Gertrude. I love to hear thee speak ! 
 There is an everlasting spring of blessed thoughts 
 Within thy soul ; and thy reflective eye 
 Glances on nothing that thy virtuous mind 
 Doth not make radiant with its own pure light ; 
 As the great sun, which looks on nought so base. 
 But, by the achemy of his bright beams. 
 Straight turns to gold. 
 
 Arthur. All men are thus endow'd. 
 Like to that patient journeyer of the East, 
 Whom wandering Arabs call, the " Ship of the desert ;" 
 And who, mysteriously supplied by nature. 
 Crosses the burning sands and scorching plains, 
 AVhere men do sometimes die of dreadful drought, 
 With no support, save Avhat it bears itself. 
 We all have in us wondrous founts of thought, 
 Which, as time, education, and estate combine, 
 Are either living reservoirs, l)y which 
 The weary pilgrim, when he is athirst 
 Upon life's road, sits down to bathe his brow. 
 And quaff fresh draughts of hope and patience ; or, 
 In youth too close confined, become, instead, 
 Dark stagnant pools of gali ; whilst those that are not 
 Taught early in right channels how to flow. 
 Ravage the soil they should have fertilized. 
 With wide-destroying floods. — Bend over me ! 
 I 've found a violet, 't is the last of the spring ; 
 Its little purple sisters all are wither'd. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PlECEt!. 6T 
 
 But this has hid itself deep in the moss, 
 
 To 'scape the ardent kisses of the sun : bend over me, 
 
 I 'U put it in thy bosom, my sweet Gertrude, 
 
 Sing to me now, I pray thee, sing to me. 
 
 Gertrude. Tliat thou may'st sleep ? 
 
 Arthur. What ! sleep ? 
 
 Gertrude. 'T were no great sin. 
 There 's no such sure persuader to repose, 
 As, after wandering, the warm noontide air. 
 And rustling music of the waving boughs ; 
 What shall I sing 1 Shall it be sad or gay 1 
 
 Arthur. Let it be sad, my Gertrude, very sad. 
 Sorrow is of our being such a part, 
 That when a moment comes (oh, such be few!) 
 Wherein our heart is not oppressed with care, 
 Tlie gentle wo of an imagined suffering. 
 Heightens the joy that 's real. — Let it be sad, 
 
 Gertrude. I '11 sing thee the lament I 'm sure thou mad'st 
 Upon the day the rich Lord Riversdale 
 Married thy pretty cousin, Alice Grantly. 
 Dost thou remember, sir, how fond thou wast 
 Of that fair kinswoman of thine?— 'T was thought 
 By some, that on the day she wedded him 
 You 'd have run mad, or died despairingly. 
 But I remember, at that very time. 
 You had some excellent jest in hand, to finish. 
 And three months afterwards 
 
 Arthur. I met with thee ! 
 
 Gertrude. (Sings.) " Never ! oh never more I" (He kisses her.) 
 
 Gertrude. Beshrew thee, caviller ! how can I sing, 
 If tliou dost stop me even at the text. 
 Ere I have even named my fifty points ? 
 
 Arthur. Pardon me, dearest, dearest ! but thy lips, 
 Just as they open'd with that gentle sigh, 
 Did seem so like two dewy rosebuds — I 
 Could not forbear! — Come now, begin again. 
 
 Gertrude. Wilt thou be still ? 
 
 Arthur. Ay, still the same to thee. 
 
 Gertrude. Out, mocker ! But wilt thou lie still, I mean. 
 
 Arthur. Thus in thy arms forever. 
 
 Gertrude. By my troth ! 
 
 Arthur. Come, I have done : I '11 not e'en look at thee, 
 But rest my head upon thy knees in silence. 
 Now — 
 
 Gertrude. (Sings.) 
 
 " Never, oh never more ! shall I behold 
 Thy form so fair. 
 Nor loosed from its braids, the rippling gold 
 
 Of thy long hair. 
 Never, oh, never more shall I be blest 
 By thy voice low, 
 
68 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast, 
 
 Thy marble brow. 
 Never, oli, never more ! shall I inhale 
 
 Thy fragrant sighs. 
 Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veil 
 
 Of thy blue eyes. 
 Never, oh never more !" — 
 Fast, by this hght ! 
 
 Perchance, he counterfeits, I' change the strain. (Sings.) 
 " Welcome, sweet May ! 
 Thus we greet thee, 
 And with our roundelay 
 Joyfully meet thee !" — 
 No, he sleeps indeed. 
 
 Oh 1 my heart's waking dream, and dreaming thought, 
 My love, my lord, how do I doat on thee ! 
 How the bright soul that looks forth from his eyes, 
 Now sleep has closed their fringed portals up, 
 Sits on his calm fair broAV, and on the curve 
 Of his most eloquent lips ! How fast he sleeps ! 
 Shall I — I will return that saucy kiss 
 He stole from me, — softly, I will not wake him, 
 And he shall know no more of it than if 
 A blossom, loosened by the wind, had touched him. 
 Ha ! (She kisses him, he wakes.} 
 
 Arthur. What 's the matter, Gertrude ? How you tremble ! 
 Something has startled thee. 
 
 Gertr^ide. No — nothing — nothing — 
 'T is nought : only you waked so suddenly. 
 Let us go home. 
 
 Arthur. Why, how thy heart is beating. 
 Oh ! I was dreaming such a pleasant dream. 
 
 LINES ON A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 Oh ! child, that to this evil world hath come. 
 Led by the unseen hand of him who guards thee ;. 
 
 Welcome, unto this dungeon house thy home. 
 Welcome, to all the woe this life awards thee ! 
 
 Upon thy forehead yet, the badge of sin 
 
 Hath worn no trace ; thou look'st as though from Heav'n : 
 But pain, and guilt, and misery, lie within, 
 
 Poor exile ! from thy happy birth-land driv'n. 
 
 Thine eyes are seal'd by the soft hand of sleep. 
 And like unrippled waves thy slumber seems ; 
 
 The time 's at hand when thou must wake to weep, 
 Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies 
 Heavier and darker on thy fainting sonl, 
 
 Wilt thou towards Heaven turn thy weary eyes, 
 And long in bitterness to reach the goal. 
 
 How oft wilt thou, upon time's dreary road. 
 Gaze at thy far-off early days, in vain ! 
 
 Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load, 
 And curse — and pray— then take it up again. 
 
 How many times shall hope, the fiend, extend 
 Her poison'd chalice to thy thirsty lips ; 
 
 How oft shall love its withering sunshine lend, 
 To leave thee only a more dense eclipse. 
 
 How oft shall sorrow strain thee in her grasp ; 
 
 How oft shall sin laugh at thine overthrow ; 
 How oft shall doubt, despair, and anguish clasp 
 
 Their knotted arms around thine aching brow. 
 
 Oh, bird of light ! hail to thy narrow cage. 
 Oh, living soul ! hail to thy gloomy cave; 
 
 Welcome to longing youth to loathing age, 
 Welcome, immortal, welcome to thy grave ! 
 
 69 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER A RIDE BY THE SCHUYLKILL, IN OCTOBEt 
 
 Thou comest not in sober guise. 
 
 In mellow cloak of russet clad — 
 Thine are no melancholy skies. 
 
 Nor hueless flowers, pale and sad ; 
 But, like an emperor, triumphing. 
 
 With gorgeous robes of Tyrian dyes, 
 Full flush of fragrant blossoming, 
 
 And glowing purple canopies. 
 How call ye this the season's fall. 
 
 That seems the pageant of the year ? 
 Richer and brighter far than all 
 
 The pomp that spring and summer wear, 
 Red falls the westering light of day 
 
 On rock and stream and winding shore ; 
 Soft woody banks and granite gray 
 
 With amber clouds are curtained o'er ; 
 The wide clear waters sleeping lie 
 
 Beneath the evening's wings of gold, 
 And on their glassy breast the sky 
 
 And banks their mingled hues unfold. 
 
7(1 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Far in the tangled woods, the gronml 
 
 Is strewn with fallen leaves, that lie 
 Like crimson carpets all around 
 
 Beneath a crimson canopy. 
 The sloping sun with arrows bright 
 
 Pierces the forest's waving maze ; 
 The universe seems wrapt in light, 
 
 A floating robe of rosy haze. 
 Oh, Autumn ! thou art here a king— 
 
 And round tliy throne the smiling hours 
 A thousand fragrant tributes bring. 
 
 Of golden fruits and blushing flowers. 
 
 Oh ! not upon thy fading fields and fells 
 
 In such rich garb doth Autumn come to thee, 
 My home !— but o'er thy mountains and thy dells 
 
 His footsteps fall slowly and solemnly. 
 Nor flower nor bud rcmaineth there to him, 
 
 Save the faint breathing rose, that, round the year, 
 Its crimson buds and pale soft blossoms dim, 
 
 In lowly beauty constantly doth wear. 
 O'er yellow stubble lands in mantle brown 
 
 He wanders through the wan October light : 
 Still, as he goeth, slowly stripping down 
 
 The garlands green that were the spring's delight. 
 At morn and eve thin silver vapors rise 
 
 Around his path : but sometimes at mid-day 
 He looks along the hills with gentle eyes. 
 
 That make the sallow woods and fields seem gay. 
 Yet something of sad sov'reignty he hath — 
 
 A sceptre crown'd with berries ruby red, 
 And the cold sobbing wind bestrews his path 
 
 With wither'd leaves, that rustle 'neath his tread ; 
 And round him still, in melancholy state, 
 
 Sweet solemn thoughts of death and of decay, 
 In slow and hush'd attendance, ever wait. 
 
 Telling how all things fair must pass away. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 WHEN TOU MOURNFULLY RIVET TOUR TEAR-LADEN ETE. 
 
 When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eye, 
 That has seen the last sun-set of Hope pass away. 
 
 On some bright orb that seems through the still saphire sky. 
 In beauty and splendor to roll on its way : 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Oh, remember this earth, if belield from afor, 
 
 Would seem wrapt in a halo as clear and as bright 
 
 As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star, 
 Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night. 
 
 And at this very moment, perhaps, some poor heart 
 That is aching and breaking in that distant sphere, 
 
 Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart 
 From its own dismal home to a brighter one here. 
 
 n 
 
 A BACCHANALIAN GLEE. 
 
 The moment must come, when the hands that unite 
 
 In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever ; 
 When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly to-night, 
 Will have ceased to shine round us forever. 
 Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim 
 
 With pleasure's roseate crown ; 
 What, though the future hour be dim, 
 The present is our own. 
 
 The moment is come, and again we are parting. 
 
 To roam through the world each our separate way ; 
 In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting, 
 Yet hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray. 
 Then wreathe again the goblet's brim 
 
 With pleasure's roseate crown ; 
 In hope— though present hours be dim— 
 The future is our own. 
 
 The moment is past, and the bright throng around us, 
 
 So lately which gather'd, has tied like a dream ; 
 And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us, 
 Like frost-wreaths that melt in the morning's first beam. 
 Still wreathe once more the goblet's brim 
 
 With pleasure's roseate crown ; 
 What, though the future hour be dim, 
 The present is our own. 
 
 TO A MUSICAL BOX. 
 
 Poor little sprite ! in that dark, narrow cell, 
 Caged, by the law of man's resistless might ; 
 
 With thy sweet, liquid tones, by some strong spell. 
 Compelled to minister to his delight! 
 
72 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Whence— what art thou ?— Art thou a fairy wight^ 
 
 Caught sleeping in some hly's snowy bell, 
 Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight, 
 
 And drink the starry dew-drops as they fell ? 
 Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing. 
 
 Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, 
 WTiere thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing,, 
 
 And sail upon the sunset's amber glow ? 
 When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme. 
 Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream, 
 
 Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, 
 Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam, 
 Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam, 
 
 Whilst thou, in darkness, sing'st thy life away ? 
 And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns, 
 
 Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee ; 
 When in the wide creation nothing mourns. 
 
 Of all that lives, save that which is not free ! 
 Oh, if thou canst, and we could hear thy prayer, 
 
 How would thy little voice, beseeching, cry 
 For one short draught of the fresh morning air, 
 
 For one short glimpse of the clear azure sky ! 
 Perchance thou sing'st in hopes thou shalt be free ? 
 
 Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling ; 
 While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee,. 
 
 To every bud, with honey dew distilling. 
 That hope is vain! for even could'stthou wing 
 
 Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gayj 
 Thou'dst be a shunn'd and a forsaken thing, 
 
 'Mongst the companions of thy happier day. 
 For fairy elves, like many other creatures. 
 
 Bear fleeting memories, that come and go ; 
 Nor can they oft recall familiar features. 
 
 By absence touch'd, or clouded o'er with woe. 
 Then, rest content with sorrow : for there be 
 Many, who must that lesson learn with thee ; 
 
 And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully. 
 Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail. 
 For thy lost bliss, sing but one parting wail. 
 
 Poor little sprite ! and then sleep silently. 
 
 XI 07 4 
 
fcUMuiiia KgasisaM 
 
 FRANCIS' THE FIRST 
 
"-vi 
 
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 Treatment Date; April 2009 
 
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