^JM 
 
 /^?^ 
 

 CLARENCE 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 y 
 
 By D. J. SNIDER. 
 
 ST. LOUIS: 
 E. F. Hobart & ("o., I'ublishers, 61.'. i_hc>iaut street.' 
 
CLARENCE, 
 
 A Di^AMA IN Three Acts. 
 
 N 
 

 Col. De Harrison. 
 Clara, his daughter. 
 Edward, her cousin. 
 Jean D'Orville. 
 Clarence. 
 The Captain. 
 Harwood. 
 
 Sergeant. 
 
 HODDLE. 
 
 Bumble. 
 
 A Countryman. 
 
 Followers of the Captain, 
 
 Planters. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 On page 28, line 38, read, " I have it now," in^te-^d of " I have in now." 
 On page 31, line 9 of Scene Fourth, read, "So fair a face that I do rue my 
 choice," instead of "So fair a face that I do me rue my choice." 
 
CLARENCE 
 
 A C T I. 
 
 Scene First. — Sea in the distance — Mansion surrounded 
 by a small grove, 
 
 CiiARA, sola. 
 
 Once more with ancient joy the fragrant air, 
 
 Which softly rests among these trees, I breathe, 
 
 And in this grove, o'erarched with mighty limbs. 
 
 And roofed with thickly woven twigs and leaves 
 
 Ceaselessly trembling in the evening wind. 
 
 And darting fitful glimmers 'neath the moon, 
 
 I take my old habitual walk of youth. 
 
 This wood sits like a crown upon the plain, 
 
 And in its umbrage sweet of quiet holds 
 
 The garden and the mansion of my father. 
 
 My bosom swells to see these dear old forms 
 
 Rising so grandly to the starry cope : 
 
 Methinks )e seem to recognize me, too, 
 
 With nodding heads and merry, fluttering leaves. 
 
 The happy child that gamboled at your feet. 
 
 Here, here were spent my days of golden dreams, 
 
 Ere I had felt the tender pang of love, 
 
 Or heard the tread of swiftly-stepping hours. 
 
 Stretch forth your arms, ye mighty oaks of eld. 
 
 Embrace the mossy roof in tender curves 
 
 That fondly hover o'er the sacred pile, 
 
 As if to shield it from the outer world. 
 
 To you a debt of gratitude is due, 
 
 For ye were ever friendly to my race. 
 
 My fathers — ^ye have seen and known them all ; 
 
 Each season ye have spread your lofty tents 
 
 Of moving green for them to rest beneath, [garden. 
 
 And on your own heads fell the burning ray. Passes into the 
 
 These many colored rows and blooming paths 
 
 Call, too, my childhood back, its hours of joy ; 
 
 Here is the flower bed which I called mine. 
 
 Here is the lily which I nursed to growth. 
 
 Alas ! the one, unweeded, tells the tale 
 
 Of my long abscence and its own neglect ; 
 
CLARENCE. 
 
 The Other scarce can raise its sickly face 
 
 Above the fierce and envious grass around. 
 
 Unfeeling 'tvv5s to leave you thus alone ! 
 
 Sweet little children of the soil, ye speak 
 
 Of years that never shall be mine again. Passes out. 
 
 Where have I been ? Those years how have I passed ? 
 
 My spirit wanders to the distant hills 
 
 Whence I have just arrived, and lingers there 
 
 On many a scene of loveliness and joy. 
 
 O dear New England ! thou art great and fair ! 
 
 How beautiful thy mountains and thy vales ! 
 
 But Nature there puts on not robes so gay 
 
 And bright as in my own beloved South. 
 
 Upon this spot would I contented die, 
 
 Nor envy Northern beauty, greatness, worth. 
 
 If one fair spirit of that clime were here 
 
 To share with me this happy dwelling place. 
 
 Yes, him I grudge the land of ice and snow : 
 
 That noble form and fiery, daring soul 
 
 Belong not there ; within this bower here 
 
 Should be his home ; our double life were thus 
 
 A flowing stream, a swelling sea of love : 
 
 It were a happiness too deep for thought. 
 
 Oh ! God ! wherefore thy decree so harsh ! 
 
 Oh ! Earth ! why hast thou cast thyself between 
 
 And torn our hands apart, our hearts asunder ! 
 
 But hush ! I must be calm ; there is no hope. 
 
 He knows not of my love, or else it scorns, 
 
 And thus my first affection, like the rose, 
 
 Which, putting forth its earliest, fairest bud, 
 
 At heart is eaten by the cankerous worm 
 
 Ere it unfolds its leaves unto the sun, 
 
 And falls despairing to the ground and dies : 
 
 So, too, my love is bitten and destroyed 
 
 Before the fruit of wedlock is mature. 
 
 Its corpse I must entomb, and in its stead 
 
 Remains my aged father ; — fair return 
 
 It is, I deem ; — him shall I nurse and love. 
 
 Till Death shall steal his form from my embrace. 
 
 Such is my duty and such is my desire ; 
 
 Thus solace may 1 find by giving it. 
 
 The dear old man ! he wept to see his child. 
 
 And now his child should see liim weep no more. 
 
 Here, then, I willing take the virgin vow 
 
 To banish the sweet thought of family, 
 
 The mystic bond of man's and woman's love, 
 
CLARENCE. 
 
 To live encloistered with this single aim — 
 To smooth my father's pathway to the grave. 
 
 Scene Second. — Boats full of men, Clarence as pilot. 
 
 Captain. 
 
 Capf. I grow impatient ; is the landing near? 
 Ciar. A few more lusty strokes and we are there. 
 Capt. Strike fast ! I cannot wait ; my body frets, 
 
 And like a roweled charger rears with pain ; 
 
 I feel the sword hilt burning in my grasp ; 
 
 My smothered nature struggles for the work 
 
 Of death, as for her vital atmosphere. 
 Clar. Already we are in the little bay 
 
 Where we shall hide the birth of our emprise ; 
 
 This dark recess surrounded by the hills, 
 
 O'erspread with woods and woven thickets deep. 
 
 Secures us from th' approach and gaze of man, 
 
 And can betray no word by us here spoken. 
 Capt. Good Clarence, here I take thy faithful hand ; 
 
 Thy trust was great ; thou hast it well fulfilled 
 
 In bringing us to this most fitting place. 
 Clar. I had to pray to thy unwillingness. 
 Capt. But now I'm glad I granted thy request, 
 
 And such confession carries double thanks. 
 Clar. Peace ! Peace ! Heave too, my boys ! This is the spot 
 
 Which first of Southern soil dares you receive 
 
 Into its bosom deep of shade and quietude. 
 Followers. Hail ! 
 Capt. Ha? 'tis the infernal world ! Accursed shore, 
 
 Manured with the lives and souls of men ! 
 
 The hellish element I smell already. 
 Clar. Our need is action now, speech not at all. 
 
 Distant denunciation of the wrong 
 
 Beyond the stroke of danger was our trade ; 
 
 Here wordy weapons will no more avail. 
 Capt. Do not prescribe the compass of my speech : 
 
 When I have failed or faltered in the deed 
 
 Is season for reproof. 
 Fols. Hail ! ho ! the land ! 
 
 Capt. The land long sought ! that which we shall redeem 
 
 Or redden with its own foul dragon blood. 
 1 Fol. Hurrah for Liberty ! 
 
 All. Hurrah ? \_on the bayonet of a musket. 
 
 Z Fol. Her cap must ever be a cartridge box. Raises a cartridge box 
 
CLARENCK. 
 
 All. Hurrah ? 
 
 Glar. Another pull ! Gruffly she scours the sand. 
 
 Leap to the shore ! 
 CaJ>t. Revenge is nigh at hand. Jianps ashore. 
 
 The first to break this soil, I shall be last 
 
 To print in}' tracks reversed upon its face ; 
 
 Its thirsty pores shall drink my blood like rain 
 
 Ere it beholds my flight. Strikes his sword into the ground. 
 Thus shall this land, 
 
 With war and desolation rent and pierced, 
 
 Wail out in bitter, late acknowledgement 
 
 That Man is Man, whate'er may be his race, 
 
 Whate'er the tint that God paints on his skin. 
 
 Disperse now to the wood and seek the shade ; To his foils. 
 
 Rest there your wearied limbs from heavy toil, 
 
 You've pulled for many a league the sea-dividing oar, 
 
 And we, your chosen leader in this raid. 
 
 Shall find another spot not far away ; 
 
 We too need sorely counsel and repose. 
 
 Scene Third. — The mansion of De Harrison. 
 
 Enter Col.. De Harrison. 
 A new star hath risen on my life, 
 Scattering joy and peace along its course, 
 Dispelling gloom with fair and radiant face : 
 My only daughter, whom I liave not seen 
 Since she has shorn her girlish curls of gold, 
 And donned the lengthened dress of womanhood. 
 Returns now to the bosom of her father, 
 A full blown flower of fairest dye, 
 To deck the way of his descending years. 
 My home has now become a home indeed ! 
 E'en the quick blood of youthful wantonness 
 Runs tingling through my veins, and all my limbs. 
 Beaten so long with strokes of gout and age, 
 Move with the new-born ease of little babes. 
 A single sadness darkly crapes my soul ; 
 She calls forth from the tomb an image dear, 
 A form forever lost to me and her. 
 My wife, her mother ; whom I have bewept 
 Till age has slipped upon me unawares : 
 Who could but reproduce herself and die. 
 This dearly purchased blossom hath now bloomed. 
 And shows the very picture of its race ; 
 
CLAliENCK. 
 
 The easy movement and the gentle grace, 
 
 The modest, coy, yet all-subduing glance, 
 
 An eye that melts the very stones to love. 
 
 That fragile form, are all her mother's gifts, 
 
 The fairest heritage e'er left a maid ; 
 
 But Nature not alone has spent its bounty 
 
 To decorate her person with its wealth ; 
 
 The nobler qualities of cultured worth. 
 
 The union bright of intellect and feeling, 
 
 The very diamond in the crown of woman. 
 
 Are hers ; for this I parted from her youth. 
 
 And sent her to the best of Northern schools 
 
 To be my worthy representative. 
 
 And heir to my estate and ancient name. 
 
 But long she must not here remain and hide 
 
 Her beauty and desert within these walls ; 
 
 A dear companion worthy of her house, 
 
 And of her love, must be the next choice boon. 
 
 That caps the highest summit of our bliss — 
 
 Here comes Jean. ' Enter Jean U OrvilU. 
 
 Son of my dearest friend 
 
 And worthiest neighbor, welcome to my abode ! 
 
 Hither thy visits turn not oft of late. 
 Jean. Too oft, by once, at least, I've passed your house. 
 Col. Hast thou b}- any person here been wronged 't 
 Jean. Yea ; I might say I have been foully robbed. 
 Col. Name the offender, on the spot he suffers. 
 Jean. The theft is not of gold or sensuous stuff, 
 
 Nor is the doer conscious of the deed. 
 Col. Surely, thou art not well to-day, Jean. 
 Jean. In truth, much cause have I to be not well. 
 Col. I traced some illness in thy haggard eyes. 
 
 That erst so full of fire defied the world. 
 Jean. But now, a glance has vanquished all their might. 
 Col. Beneath thy random speech some foul disease 
 
 Doth seem to lurk and carry off thy wits. 
 fean. My mind is not at home, but gone astray ; 
 
 Has found a new heart and will not return. 
 Col. What is thy ailment 1 Enter, rest thyself. 
 Jean. 'Tis a complaint most common to young men, 
 
 Though ne'er before my soul hath felt its pangs. 
 Col. Tell me, I pray, hast thou been long thus ill 't 
 Jean. Since yesterday. The attack was sudden, deep, 
 
 A flash it came and left a festering wound, 
 
 Which feasts upon my spirit and my flesh. 
 Col. What did the doctor say ? Has he been called ? 
 
6 CLARENCE. 
 
 Jean. Alas ! it yields not to the assaults of physic. 
 Col. 'Tis pitiful ! can I do aught for thee ? 
 Jean. The magic word to work my cure thou hast. 
 Col The darkness of thy speech bewilders me ; 
 
 That robbery of which thou speak'st was strange ; 
 More strange the sickness which I am to cure. 
 Jean. Hast thou ne'er heard of the arrowed god 
 
 Nor felt his shaft in thy warm youthful days ? 
 Yestreen at dusk along this field I roamed ; 
 Within this garden here, and in the wood, 
 I saw an angel walking to and fro, 
 Gathering flowers and humming some soft ditty, 
 A humming-bird collecting dainty sweets. 
 A smile was always sporting o'er her face. 
 The messenger of happiness within ; 
 And ever and anon she spoke aloud 
 To some spirit-shape that viewless hovered o'er. 
 Then passing out her grot she threw a glance 
 That caused my heart to beat against his walls, 
 As if he would break out his prison-cell, 
 To run and greet his bright deliverer. 
 Since then I have been faint and deathly sick. 
 My lonely sighs have filled the day and night. 
 Nor can I charm repose with rosy wings, 
 To come and perch upon my feverish brow. 
 Col. Let thy address be plain and to the point. 
 Jean. I shall so speak that in my very words 
 
 The meaning will as clearly be reflected. 
 As the face that looks upon the crystal brook. 
 It is thy daughter that hath stolen my mind ; 
 It flies to her and will not stay by me ; 
 Nought can I see but her bright darting form, 
 Which haunts the plastic air where'er I turn. 
 This is the malady which thou can'st cure, 
 By thy consenting voice, and thou alone. 
 O, reach to me I pray, thy daughter's hand. 
 And join in promise now her soul to mine ! 
 Col. Jean, thee have I deemed a noble youth. 
 Among our cavaliers thou hast no peer. 
 Most willingly I grant my full consent, 
 And e'en will help thee with a kindly word. 
 But mark ! I shall not force my daughter's choice ; 
 No right have I to cast her future life 
 Into my moulds against her will ; no right 
 Have I to give away her happiness, 
 Which is her dower granted at her birth. 
 
CtARENCE. 
 
 Go, the decision she alone can give, 
 With her consent, already thou hast mine. 
 
 Scene Fourth. — A wood and a camp in the same. 
 
 Enter Sergeant and Hoddle. 
 Ser. Hoddle, here ! the Captain wants a fire. 
 Hod. Then let him make it and not look to me. 
 Ser. What's that i" I hope I understood thee not. 
 Hod. Thy hope is run aground, I shall not stir. 
 Ser. Good Hoddle, go, else thou mayest make me wroth ! 
 Hod. Thy wrath has power over me no longer. 
 Ser. Thou saucy cur ! dost thou bemock my words — 
 Hod. We are all equal now, that's our motto. 
 Ser. And disobey the Captain's orders too? 
 Hod. Am I not free as you or any other man ? 
 
 Can I not have my will, control myself? 
 
 Wherefore should anybody say to me : 
 
 " Hoddle, do thus, and thus," or " thou shalt not ; " 
 
 Henceforth I'll have my rights, I'll serve no more. 
 Ser. What thought rebellious surges in thy breast. 
 
 And threatens to submerge authority ? 
 Hod. Ah ! wherefore came we o'er the furious sea, 
 
 And risked our lives upon the briny deep ; 
 
 It was to free the bondsman of his chains, 
 
 And bring a light unto his darkened mind. 
 
 Therefore, most willingly I joined this ban J 
 
 To aid the holy work it undertook. 
 
 But first I swear to liberate myself, 
 
 And break the shackles of another's will, 
 
 Which now encompass me and weigh me down. 
 Enters Captain. 
 Caft. What, Hoddle, ho ! why tarriest thou so long — 
 
 Sergeant, hast thou delivered my commands ? 
 Ser. To thy summons he refused obedience, 
 
 And grandly talked of freedom and of rights. 
 
 From him by us most wrongfully withheld, 
 
 Which he henceforth would have in spile of us ; 
 
 And thus he spake with speech most fair yet false, 
 
 Profaning sacred words with slavish tongue. 
 Capt. The knave, the villain ! he too, will seek his rights, 
 
 And nip the budding promise of our work ; 
 
 Meanwhile, the sable slave toils on in death, 
 
 And prays in vain for a deliverer. 
 
 I'll give a lesson to his mutinous tongue, [/i/w. 
 
8 
 
 CLARENCE. 
 
 And teach a right he ought to've known e'er this. Striking 
 Hod. Oh, my poor back, still swollen with the blows 
 Of yesterday, and ridged in painful welts ! 
 Spare, spare, I pray ! O spare thy strokes ! I'll go, 
 I'll go, and never disobey again. 
 Capt. Enough ! Now, Sergeant, take him at his word. E.xi/ Capt. 
 Ser. Good Hoddle, I have always been thy friend ; 
 Deeply it grieves my soul to see thee punished. 
 More deeply still, to know that thou deserved'st it. 
 Now go to yonder thicket and gather leaves 
 And little twigs to set the fire ablaze ; 
 Thou hast been in the army, so thou say'st : 
 This is the soldier's way to cook his supper. 
 Hoii. Nothing is known to thee of soldiers' ways. 
 Ser. Tis true, I never fired a gun ; yet know 
 
 That God is with the right, weak though it be — 
 But to proceed. If thou wilt pass yon farm-house. 
 And slyly snatch a fowl both fat and young, 
 To be served up before the Captain here, 
 It will go far to pacify his ire, 
 And to restore thee to thy former favor. 
 1 too, shall lend my tongue to help thy suit, 
 If thou wilt fetch a second fatted capon. 
 Hod. Thy piety is followed by a thief, 
 
 And will be overtaken soon methinks. 
 Ser. A little wrong wont hurt when 'tis for right. 
 For wrong is right if it is done for right; 
 To pat the Devil's shoulder in God's name, 
 Is held an ancient Christian privilege. 
 But I must bring this prating to a close, 
 Go, do the errand which I've mentioned; 
 Yet mark, my boy, thine eye keep outward turned, 
 See all, yet do not let thyself be seen, 
 Lest our success perchance, ourselves may perish, 
 E'er we have set the fiery ball in motion. 
 There are some people in this neighborhood, 
 Who fain would prick the bubble but dare not touch 
 The bombshell. Now be shy, my boy, be shy. Exit, 
 
 Hod. Whipped like a dog, treated like a slave; 
 
 And yet they say they came to free the slave ; 
 I took their words for true, upon my back 
 Are stamped in blood the marks of foolish trust ; 
 An inconsistency that frightens Hell ! 
 Had I the rooting jaw, the flattened nose, 
 The hard laniferous pate, 1 would have friends 
 And sympathy; but now I am o'erborne 
 
CLARENCK. 
 
 By hate of men, who cherish in their breasts 
 
 A prejudice 'gainst the Caucasian tint, 
 
 And so I have the glorious privilege of a drudge — 
 
 I must be off now, else my bleeding back 
 
 Will weep afresh its rueful tears of blood. 
 
 Scene Fifth. — Followers in Camp, Bumble. 
 
 Bum. Oh, Heaven ! wretched me ! I am a mighty sinner. 
 1 Fol. What's the matter. Bumble ? 
 Bum. 1 wish I was ati home. 
 
 1 Fol. Cursed be that word till the job is done. 
 
 2 Fol. You rue your coming hither, then ? 
 Bum. O, for the comforts of a mother's care ! 
 S Fol. He cannot do without his mother yet. 
 2 Fol. Well, then, we shall have to wean him. 
 Bum This chilly dampness is killing me. 
 
 1 Fol. Then you'll die the death of a martyr to the cause. 
 
 2 Fol. A glorious death ; that's what we all are seeking. 
 Bum. I sought it in the distance, but in the distance 
 
 I want it to stay. Near by it looks too ugly. 
 
 1 Fol. Your words are outrageously profane, sir. 
 
 2 Fol. And disrespectful to this noble enterprise. 
 S Fol. He is unworthy of our lofty purpose. 
 
 Bum. I see no good which can result from this mad chase. 
 
 1 Fol. Are we not doing God's will ? 
 Bum. It may be His, it is not mine. 
 
 2 Fol. And fighting for the Right. 
 
 Bum. Right ; a thing of fancy, nobody ever saw it. 
 
 S Fol. Men never bled in a holier cause. 
 
 Bum. It has not come to bleeding yet, and I hope it won't. 
 
 All. Coward ! coward. 
 
 1 Fol. Thy spoils should be a rope and limb. 
 All. A rope ! a rope ! 
 
 2 Fol. We'll hiss the traitor out of camp. 
 All. Traitor ! traitor ! 
 
 S Fol. The better plan is to throw the wretch into the sea. ■ 
 All. So be it. Huzzah ! To the sea with him ! 
 {Enter Clarence.] 
 
 Clar. Silence ! what means this noise, and riot here 
 Which warns the foe of his approaching hour ? 
 
 S Fol. Tear off the honest armor from his side. 
 
 All. Away with him, away ! 
 
 Clar. Stop ! are ye mad ? Hold, here, unhand that man ! 
 Know ye the penalty of this rash act ? 
 An earthquake now is rumbling 'neath your feet, 
 
1 rLARENCK. 
 
 O, fools ! and yet ye fight among yourselves. 
 Wherefore tliis sudden frenzy 'gainst your comrade? 
 
 1 Fol. No, no, he's not of ns ; we own him not. 
 
 2 Fol. He spoke most vilely of our sacred cause, 
 
 And slandered us, to whom it is most dear; 
 
 He will go home, play coward, traitor to the Right. 
 
 Clar. Dost thou not see the downy chin of youth. 
 And read excuse therein for every word? 
 
 2 Fol. Not we, his own free-will brought him along. 
 
 Clar. His was the impulse of a noble soul 
 
 To help a captive race to cleave its fetters. 
 
 2 Fol. Why does he fly before the work is done ? 
 
 Clar. Young are his bones, by hardship yet unsteeled. 
 
 And hence he crouches 'neath the frown of danger. 
 
 .? Fol. Salt water baths are said to cure weak knees. 
 
 All. Good, good, 'tis true. 
 
 Bum. You all will need to take a bath ere long. 
 
 1 Fol. Hush, forked tongue ! 
 
 All. Seize him ! Rush to the shore. 
 
 Clar. Hold, hold, I say ! Be quiet while I speak. 
 This wrangling is the dire destructive Hell, 
 Which swallows up yourselves and all your hopes. 
 Endure a word for this young man, I ask. 
 He laid foul epithets upon our cause ; 
 Such is the charge. It was the first impatience 
 At Fortune's halting gait, methinks; no more. 
 I might feel thus myself and use vile words ; 
 But the long trial of my age doth teach 
 That oft between the plan and the fulfillment. 
 There lies an arduous hill, and this the youth 
 Unstable and untried, doth tire in climbing ; 
 For in the glow of the conceiving thought 
 Light Phantasy that wings the minds of youth, 
 May overlook this rugged interval. 
 The warm begetting of our dear device 
 At first we feel, and then at once we see 
 The bright and happy end, but the rough tract 
 Which lies between and constitutes the deed. 
 Remains to us unknown and unexplored. 
 
 1 Fol. I fear his heart is not with us, else why 
 Should he with a reviling tongue berate 
 Our holy undertaking, for whose sake 
 We're lying here along this dreary coast 
 Like shipwrecked strangers on an ocean isle. 
 
 S Fol. We of this entire nation steeped in sin 
 
 Are come to meet the fiend on his own ground ; 
 
n.ARKNOK. 11 
 
 And must we listen to reproaches now, 
 Thrown out by one of our own number, too '! 
 Clar. In firm devotion to our worthy aim 
 
 And hatred to the demon of this soil. 
 
 No one shall me surpass; my zeal is known : 
 
 Who left at home a life of ease and wealth ? 
 
 Who steered you hither through the wayless deep? 
 
 But on my merits I shall not descant : 
 
 O, cease this ugly rancor and this strife 
 
 Which mars the peace and holiness — 
 
 Wherein our boasts are loud — of our good work. 
 
 Wait but a few short hours, ye then will have 
 
 A nobler prey at which ye may direct 
 
 All your superfluous shafts of rage and valor. 
 
 Our enemies are near, these their domains ; 
 
 Here are the people whom we came to slay, 
 
 Here are the bondsmen whom we came to free. 
 
 Therefore, lay up your strength for other scenes, 
 
 For ye will need it all. Come with me, Bumble. Exeuiii, 
 
 Scene Sixth. — Enter Clarence and Captain. 
 
 Capt. I have forgotten ; Clarence, where's the boat, 
 Which cut so bravely through the salty spray, 
 And bore us boldly here in its embrace. 
 Fighting the traitorous wave at every move ? 
 Hast thou disposed of it in any way ? 
 
 Clar. Yonder it lies, moored safely on the beach, 
 Beneath the low o'erhanging foliage. 
 That lines the ocean with a verdant span. 
 And views itself in every passing billow ; 
 This secret spot conceals the craft which thus 
 May serve us well again in time of need. 
 
 Capt. I shall not have it so, for then there comes 
 A hope that we can flee and still be safe, 
 And this may foil our noble enterprise. 
 The foolish thought of a secure retreat 
 Has often brought defeat upon great armies, 
 Which else held surest victory in their grasp ; 
 And so this boat, peacefully rocking here. 
 May make us cowards in the hour of strife. 
 When the decision trembles in the scale. 
 We must be brave ; Despair shall make us brave. 
 Straightway I'll go and cut the hawsers loose. 
 And give it to the waves to roll away 
 
12 CLARENCE. 
 
 Beyond the reach of our retreating steps. Exit. 
 
 Clar. \Solus\. 'Tis well, perhaps, I scarce shall need it more; 
 It brought me safely hither o'er the deep ; 
 Its work for me is done, forever done, 
 For a return lies not within my plans. 
 Security for her is now the thought 
 Which thrills and stirs to action every nerve ; 
 To save her kindred from the bloody knife, 
 Herself from poverty and orphanage, 
 T'avert the dreadful strife of warring men, 
 Which else might come within her very door, 
 I joined this headstrong band and hither came, 
 When I had learned their first attack aimed here. 
 I feigned the garb of faithfulness and zeal, 
 Their cause not to betray, but her preserve. 
 O, if the outcome tally with my hope, 
 And I restore her fortune and her life, 
 'Twill be a token of my burning love 
 Whose mute appeal her heart can not resist. 
 Then shall I kneel and look into her face 
 And tell the story of my adventurous deed. 
 Then shall I press her tender hand in mine 
 Nor ever pass beyond her radiant glance. 
 O, brightest constellation of the South ! 
 While thou didst move within our wintry sphere, 
 The Heavens glowed with a refulgent splendor, 
 And all the land adored pure Beauty's ray. 
 Oft have I gazed upon thy beaming face 
 And worshipped thee within my deepest soul. 
 And felt transfigured at thy heavenly look. 
 But hold ! my fancy runs before and steals 
 The shining prize ere it is reached in deed ! 
 How shall I find her home ? How let her know 
 Mine own intent, the danger hanging o'er ? 
 What envious mountains rise to thwart my hopes ! 
 For ah ! my passion is to her unknown, 
 This act must prove its fervor and its depth. 
 In such conjuncture so it seemeth best : 
 Our troop must send a spy to note the land, 
 And seek the fittest point to fire the train ; 
 For this nice service I shall volunteer. 
 And none, methinks, can stand against my claim, 
 Because I was of late the chosen guide 
 To cut a road upon the pathless main. 
 Dispatched again and having free my way. 
 Soon shall I find the happy hidden spot, 
 Which holds the fairest rose of this bright clime. 
 
CLARENCB. 13 
 
 ACT. II. 
 
 Scene First — DeHarrison's Mansion. 
 
 Enter Col. DeHarrison and Clara. 
 
 CoL My daughter, welcome to thy ancient home, 
 
 Which, forest-girt, sits lonely 'mong these hills; 
 Thy face shall light anew its darkened halls. 
 And cause to sprout afresh its mossy grandeur ; 
 Or has thy absence blotted out these charms 't 
 
 CI. No, father, I deserve not e'en a slight reproach. 
 For ever, when I've wandered far away, 
 This mansion rose within my mind, and shone 
 The star of Hope to which my journey bent ; 
 And 'round the aged form within these walls. 
 Have gathered all the wishes of my life. 
 
 Col. O, Love, thy sea has ne'er been sounded yet, 
 
 Nor have the depths of woman's heart been reached ! 
 Be queen, my daughter, of this fair abode ; 
 'Tis all the rank I can confer on thee. 
 
 CI. Enough; I would not change this simple crown, 
 Which gives me household rule and care of thee. 
 For all the thrones that swa\- the Eastern world. 
 
 Col. This is the picture of thy mother's mind, 
 To be the hidden jewel of her home, 
 Nor seek the profane gazes of the world. 
 O, since that fair and early bloom was cut. 
 And withered 'neath the stroke of mowing Death, 
 Joy, with her many-colored fragrant wings, 
 From whose light movement blessings strew the earth. 
 Has flown beyond the journey of my life, 
 Nor shaken once her pinions o'er my head. 
 
 CI. O Father ! let me be that joy to thee ! 
 
 Thy silvered crown I'll deck with roses, 
 
 The emblem bright of thy peace-anchored soul ; 
 
 I'll soothe thy wearied spirit with my song, 
 
 And lean o'er thee to fight off vampire care. 
 
 Whose dainty food's the minds of sad, unhappy men ; 
 
 And ne'er shall sorrow with her dark-veiled face 
 
 Again approach thy couch of balmy rest. 
 
 Col. O God ! the image of my sainted bride 
 
 Has now returned from her sojourn above. 
 To cheer me in the lengthening shade of life. 
 
14 CLARENCE. 
 
 Gl. I see, thy thoughts are in the grassy grave, 
 
 Whose long white finger points above the yews 
 
 That guard the peopled mounds of yonder churchyard, 
 
 And join their weeping limbs to shade the sod. 
 
 Tell me, I pray, of my departed mother. 
 
 I know not what it is to have a mother ; 
 
 That pious word whose might commands the founts 
 
 Which wash in brine the cheeks of human kind, 
 
 Ne'er sweetened with its tender sound ray breath. 
 
 Tell me her ways, her qualities of mind ; 
 
 Show me the dress which she was wont to wear. 
 
 The hat that won thy youthful fantasy ; 
 
 Lisp but the accent of her daily speech, 
 
 And I will catch the color of its tone ; 
 
 I'll so put on her character and life, 
 
 That thou shalt say, My mother is not dead ; 
 
 Her death and burial were a hideous dream. 
 
 Col. Be thine own self, it is enough for me ; 
 
 To make such change would be a changeless change. 
 It pains yet pleases me to speak of her, 
 Whom once my youth led to the wreathed altar. 
 More blooming than the flowers that loosely hung 
 With contrast sweet among her glossy tresses. 
 Then were our lives as gladsome as the birds 
 That greet the first warm peep of merry Spring, 
 Warbling out their hearts sitting in the sun. 
 But ah ! fell winter, hurried ere his time ; 
 He froze that bursting rose of womanhood, 
 And bleached my locks before the snows of Age 
 Had fallen on my sorrow-wrinkled brow. 
 
 ! well I recollect the woful tide : 
 December month had chilled our sunny clime. 
 Rough Boreas struck us with his frosty wings. 
 And snatched away the spirit of thy mother. 
 Deep in the smallest hour of night it was, 
 
 1 raised thee o'er her bed within my arms. 
 
 To catch her parting glance and final blessing ; 
 
 She oped her dying eyes, on thee she cast 
 
 One long, sad, loving look, then fell asleep. 
 Gl. That dark time comes to me the primal link 
 
 Wherewith my memory starts the chain of life ; 
 
 Before that hour I know nought of myself. 
 
 The wistful, farewell-look I still can see ; 
 
 .\nd this alone, remains to me of her : 
 
 A keepsake which Time can not steal or dim. 
 Col. How thou grew'st up the fairest of thy comrades. 
 
CLARENCE. 16 
 
 The idol of the slaves, the favorite 
 
 Of all the neighborhood and town, 
 
 I tell thee not. And hence this narrow sphere 
 
 Should not restrain thy universal gifts, 
 
 But thou should'st see the world and know the world, 
 
 And nought in chance should fail to have thee called 
 
 The worthy daughter of DeHarrison. 
 
 Now thou art come from thy long pilgrimage 
 
 Of travel, study, culture, toilsome ways, 
 
 To shower all thy wealth upon my head ; 
 
 Be mistress then of these ancestral halls, 
 
 Wherein thy queenly mother erst did reign. 
 
 Col. How oft have I looked to this happy time ! 
 When far away among white crested hills, 
 Or riding on old ocean's foam-crowned head. 
 This sweet, sweet hour was filling all my thoughts. 
 Here is the long-watched goal, here are the walls, 
 Beyond whose bounds ambition stretches not. 
 
 Col. But not forever here with me alone thou'dst dwell ? 
 
 CI. Such is the sealed purpose of my life. 
 
 Col. Thy will runs counter to the grain of nature ; 
 'Tis not the daughter's destiny to spend 
 Her maiden bloom upon her father's path. 
 
 CI. Mine let it be. I shall not rue my course. 
 
 Col. Youth needs a youthful mate for its embrace. 
 
 CI. Youth needs gray hairs to calm its raging blood. 
 
 Col. Families perish that families arise ; 
 
 The filial bond Time soonest rends in twain ; 
 And so thy love to me must be transferred. 
 
 CI. You seem to hint at aught remote and dark. 
 
 Veil not thy meaning's features from my gaze, 
 For thought is worthy of a shining garb; 
 Address tHte comprehension of a maid. 
 
 Col. Thy schooled wit appears not now at home, 
 
 Have twenty summers warmed thy generous heart, 
 And not brought forth a single germ of love ? 
 I know the heat of youth, our Southern blood ; 
 The seal of this hot clime still stamps thy brow ; 
 Speak ! what thou art it is no shame to be. 
 
 CI. Go to, have I not said ? Yes, /Aee I love. 
 
 Col. Such prevarication is a whit unkind ; 
 
 It is a charge 'gainst me of foul mistrust ; 
 Thy love to me is known, I meant it not. 
 
 CI. O, must I then disrobe my secret soul, 
 And set its nakedness before thy eyes ? 
 Its chastity doth shrink beneath a look, 
 
16 CLARENCE. 
 
 And tries to hide within its own dark self. 
 
 I've told the single purpose of my bosom, 
 
 To ease for thee the strokes of smiting age, 
 
 What else lies hidden there I will forget. 
 
 The heart was buried deep within the breast 
 
 To keep more safely all its golden treasures ; 
 
 Break not into this holy shrine I pray, 
 
 Where lie my soul's most sacred offerings. 
 Col. Not for the world, my dear; thy will is thine ; 
 
 But those entreaties and that traitorous blush, 
 
 The secret implication of thy speech, 
 
 Have dark!}- answered all my questionings. 
 
 Yet in what safer hiding-place think'st thou, 
 
 Could be concealed the secret of thy life, 
 
 Than in the breast of him that gave thee life? 
 Cl. Thou can'st command my thoughts, my hopes, myself; 
 
 Forgive, my duty would I not deny. 
 Col. With that stern voice thee shall I never call. 
 
 The low, sweet note of tenderness and love 
 
 Alone, will woo thine ear within these halls. 
 
 I fain would know who won this noble prize. 
 
 For which the world might run in envious games ; 
 
 What pictured form of man reflects itself 
 
 Upon the crystal clearness of thy heart ? 
 
 O may it be as pure as its surroundings, 
 
 A likeness fair in golden frame of love. [I'reasf. 
 
 Cl. Thou art the monarch sole of all this realm ; Points at her 
 
 Thee there enthroned no rival can depose. 
 Col. It is then void ; fill up its emptiness. 
 
 Paternal love agrees with conjugal ; 
 
 And I would deem thee not a daughter lost, 
 
 But e'en thy spouse a son to me new-born. 
 
 It grieves my mind to think thy future lot, 
 
 To see thee resting on an aged trunk, 
 
 Whose swift decay of heart doth near the bark. 
 
 Whose bending lop looks down and threats the grave. 
 
 O, seek while it is time a firmer stock. 
 Cl. The verdant ivy hugs the fallen oak. 
 
 Reposing e'en in Death upon his breast. 
 
 And twines green wreathes around her spouse's corpse. 
 Col. Dumb nature shows us what we ouglu to shun. 
 
 How rough my bed of death the thought would make, 
 
 Of dragging down a living heart into the tomb ! 
 
 Find speedy prop to hold thy fragile frame. 
 Cl. O, heavy burden of two-faced commands ! 
 
 O, will that longs to do and not to do ! 
 
CLARENCE. 17 
 
 My head is cleft, my brain 's the seat of war, 
 And Thought is trying to destroy itself! 
 T'obey and disobey are now alike : 
 
 Duty, thou deservest not thy fame. 
 
 For oft thou art a cheat and double-tongued ; 
 Thy fickle breath now bids me stay with father, 
 Then lightly whispers : Follow his behest — Tunis to him. 
 Thy will is mine; obedience is my vow. 
 Hast thou yet found the sharer of my lot ? 
 Col. Know once again, thine own free will must choose ; 
 'Tis mere suggestion, no command I give. 
 A youth of noble port and gallant mien 
 
 1 know ; of gentle ancestry and name, 
 And disposition martial, proud and brave, 
 Yet tender in his feelings as a child ; 
 Warm-hearted, chivalrous and hospitable : 
 Perchance at times a little choleric, 
 
 For in his veins the blood doth course as swift, 
 
 As pure as e'er throbbed through a Southern heart. 
 
 Wealth too, has oped to him her golden purse, 
 
 And poverty can never cross his sill. 
 
 Hast thou yet seen our neighbor D'Orville's son ? 
 a. Whom? What's the name? D'Orville? My doom, O Heaven— 
 
 But I'll retire to wear off this surprise, 
 
 And mould the phrase t' express my warring thoughts. 
 Col. Consent, I ask not ; soon he will be here. 
 
 Give him an answer from thine own free heart. 
 
 Scene Second — Camp in the Woods, Captains garters. 
 
 Captain, solus. 
 So near the goal ! O God, we praise thy name ! 
 And when the great delivering deed is born, 
 Which now is struggling in the womb of Thought, 
 The ear of Heaven shall weary grow with song, 
 With the commingled shouts and anthems luud, 
 Of the delivered and the deliverers. 
 Oh, may the work be twin to the design ; 
 And my conception, dark and lone as yet, 
 Within the silent chambers of the mind, 
 Take on the form of bright reality ! 
 One bold and hearty stroke ! I see the end : 
 Success already binds her laurel wreath 
 Around my brow, and blows the sounding trump 
 To celebrate the triumph of my plan. 
 From boyish days this liope has nourished me, 
 
18 CLARENCE. 
 
 Else had I perished for the want of food : 
 
 For the spirit proud without the aim externe, 
 
 To call it forth into the world beyond, 
 
 Plays cannibal against its own dear self, 
 
 And with its own tooth gnaws the strings of Life. 
 
 This land shall be a land of freedom now, 
 
 Nor longer shall usurp a lying name, 
 
 Nor wear the painted harlot's gaudy visage. 
 
 Quite fair outside, but foulest filth at heart. 
 
 ITien can I say I have a Fatherland, 
 
 Then shall I delight to bear its name ; 
 
 But as it is, I spurn my native soil. 
 
 As devils do their brimstone bed of woe. 
 
 Rather had I be called a knave, a rogue. 
 
 Or epithet most villainous, than wear 
 
 The damning title of American. 
 
 My hate doth reach the unreasoning elements: 
 
 O Earth accursed, made for all mankind. 
 
 Yet seized, stolen, ravished by the few ! 
 
 Thou hast been called by the fond name of mother, 
 
 'Tis not deserved, thou art unjust, unfair : 
 
 How can'st thou let a bondsman tread thy front ? 
 
 He is a man too, spurn him as thou may'st. 
 
 Ye mountains, giants springing from the' plain, 
 
 That grandly rise and threaten yonder sky. 
 
 Why hide ye not your lofty brows with shame 
 
 Or sink beneath to your primeval homes. 
 
 At view of this dire damned iniquity ? 
 
 But higher still ye seem to raise your heads. 
 
 And smile from base to crown with moving green. 
 
 When ye should deluge all the plain with tears 
 
 Of molten snow or summit-dwelling clouds. 
 
 Yea, e'en this air so light in Northern climes, 
 
 Is heavy here, as if weighed down with chains, 
 
 And sympathetic with the burdened slave. 
 
 This land needs sore the purifier's hand, 
 
 And by the grace of God within these bounds, 
 
 A tempest of such fury shall I raise. 
 
 That this most foul and filthy stench of wrong 
 
 Shall all be cleansed away, and leave the air 
 
 As pure and sweet as on Creation's day. 
 
 Here from the distant hamlets of the North, 
 
 I've brought a few with zeal akin to mine ; 
 
 These are my comrades in this enterprise ; 
 
 A precious band who've bound themselves with me 
 
 In one unyielding bond of destiny. 
 
CLARENCE. 1!) 
 
 With purpose to redeem the enthralled or die. 
 
 Enter Harwood. 
 Good even, Captain ! 
 
 Capt. Harwood, 'tis thou ? 
 
 Har. Yes, but I do not wish to interrupt — 
 
 dipt. Thou can'st not interrupt me — never ! Welcome ! 
 
 Har. Bat thou wert holding tliscourse with thyself 
 Upon some weighty point. Let me retire. 
 
 Ciipt. Tush ! must I always coax and baby thee 1 
 Stay for iny sake ! I have much on my heart 
 To tell thee of. Good Harwood, reach thy hand ! 
 Wliat thinkest thou? Is not the prospect fair ? 
 Oh, Futurity ! Thy face shines like the sun ! 
 I feel the crushing joy of hopes fulfilled. 
 The which, lifelong, have burned within my breast. 
 And found till now no egress for their flames. 
 'I'o-niorrow morning we shall be afield 
 Before the sun hath shot a single beam. 
 Reaping the harvest of Renown for us. 
 Of Right and Justice for the dark oppressed. 
 
 haste your dragging pace, ye lazy Hours ! 
 Your every moment seems Eternity 
 
 Cast in before my aim to thwart the deed. 
 
 ILir. Success! for you, my friend, I hope the best. 
 
 Ci.ipt. And why not for th)self ? Or has thy zeal 
 
 Which erst was glowing like the torch of day, 
 Burnt out to lifeless cinders and to dust ? 
 
 Har. No look of mine e'er smiled upon this act. 
 
 Cnpt. It is too late to croak disaster now. 
 
 Forebodings dark belong before the deed ; 
 Regret can not reverse the wheels of Time. 
 
 Har. I sought to rein thy spirit, but in vain. 
 
 Capt. I'he choice was free to thee to stay behind. 
 
 Har. O friend ! thou know'st the throbbing of this heart 
 Beats time unto thy fortune and thy fate. • 
 For I am so bound up in life with thee, 
 That though our reasons often be opposed, 
 Our wills are one and can not point apart. 
 
 Capl. 1 make no charge against thy friendship's proof. 
 But lay this cankering fear aside, I pray. 
 Which makes thine arm fall nerveless at thy side. 
 When raised to strike the blow that tells thy fate. 
 
 ////-. What ! fear say'st thou? No, 'tis impossible ! 
 
 1 thought thou knew'st me ! O ingratitude ! 
 Sharp is thy tooth, and maddening thy sting ! 
 A coward then, I am ? A pretty name 
 
20 CLARE NCE. 
 
 For one who ran away from peace and ease, 
 Forsook a loving mother's downy lap, 
 To save his life by hardship and by war. 
 Fear, thou art now my trembling pale-faced mate ! 
 Though thee I falsely deemed my deadliest foe. 
 A sheer poltroon ! A vile, knee-knocking knave ! 
 Fear has become my dearest bosom friend : 
 For does he not Jwell here within this breast? 
 Say rather, I am Fear and Fear is I. 
 Hear now a little story of this Fear : 
 There was a Icvely boy whom scarce ten times 
 The earth had borne around her central orb ; 
 His father's only hope, and pritle and Joy. 
 Alone he lay at night in thoughtless sleep : 
 A double tongue of fire leaped from his window, 
 In flaming garments soon the house was wrapped. 
 AVho then did enter the red dragon's jaws. 
 From his devouring throat did tear thy child ? 
 Fear, Fear it was, you say, for I am Fear. — 
 The fairest day was blooming of fair Spring ; 
 Since then two years liave passed the coming May ; 
 A frenzied multitude dams up the streets, 
 And loads the air with shouts of "Hang the negro thief! 
 Amid that raging, sweltering mass, I still can see 
 A cowering shape awaiting linal doom. 
 One man darts quickly through the maddened throng. 
 He cuts the coil loose from the purpled neck, 
 And frees the gyved wrists, then fells in haste 
 Some two or three who try to stay the deed. 
 Bears tliee away in triumph from the crowd. 
 To life and liberty, and to fresh air. 
 Who was he 1 ah ! thou knowest him no more ; 
 Then let me tell. It was — this self-same Fear, 
 But for whose quaking hand and quivering heart, 
 Thy boy had been a heap of urnless ashes, 
 Thyself a stinking prey hung up for kites. 
 Oh then, henceforth, let me be titled Fear; 
 'Tis no disgrace to take his ugly name. 
 Who by so many deeds hath shown himself 
 A benefactor both to thee and thine. 
 And hence tome a Ijenefactor too. 
 Capt. Be calm ! thou art my friend, I know it welt. 
 Thy acts of kindness shall I ne'er forget. 
 But why so sharp and fiery are thy words '( 
 Thy speech is like a red hot needle point, 
 Whose prick doth burn and still whose burn doth jirick. 
 
CLARENCE. 21 
 
 Upon thy courage would I cast no stain ; 
 Thy gloominess alone I chid. 
 
 HiW. The bravest soul hath oft presentiments, 
 
 And darkly views the fitful whims of chance. 
 
 'Tis not the danger to myself I fear; 
 
 Within this scroll of flesh life loosely hangs ; 
 
 For any end of duty or of worth, 
 
 I'd fling it from me like a ragged mantle. 
 
 A friendly warning word I wish to speak : 
 
 To free the bondsman is a noble aim, 
 
 Well worth thy hand of steel and heart of fire ; 
 
 But it is good to scan in full the means, 
 
 Lest we pull down the world upon our heads, 
 
 And Sampson-like be buried 'neath the fall. 
 
 Beware ! to reach the goal of thy design, 
 
 Thou hast to travel o'er the nation's corpse. 
 
 Beat out thy Country's inner life, her laws. 
 
 Annul those sacred contracts of her birth, 
 
 Time-honored pledges, pacts and long good will, 
 
 Our anxious fathers' holy legacies. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! thou strikest at the State, 
 
 Whose right to live transcends the right of all. 
 
 Capt. The State indeed ! a figment of the mind. 
 To frighten fools and sway the multitude, 
 A cunning scheme by politicians framed, 
 For their own profit and the people's loss. 
 Tills hellish goblin hath possessed men's minds, 
 And made them stand aside and see the Right 
 Trodden beneath the master's iron heel. 
 The State has ever been the oppressor's friend, 
 And Freedom in her struggles with her foe. 
 Must never fear to strike, though he be clothed 
 In all the pompous vesture of authority. 
 
 Hai-. The fault with thee remains. For in our goodly State. 
 This virtue lies, that any citizen 
 May reach the highest rule by peaceful means : 
 First, bend to thine own mind the nation's will, 
 Then take the reins of power in thy hands ; 
 So, can St thou mould to beauteous life thy thought. 
 
 Capt. To please the multitude I ne'er was born. 
 Nor is't my wish. The barrier to my will, 
 Whatever it may be, I shall pull down. 
 And be a man untrammeled by the world. 
 For only thus my freedom is secure : 
 I, I, this individual, am supreme. 
 Thou hast consent to leave and go thy way. 
 
22 CLARENCE. 
 
 Har. Nay, nay, in spite of all that I have said, 
 My heart is still the master of my action, 
 And though the head rebels it clings to thee. 
 
 Capt. AVell, let us thrust aside this aimless talk, 
 
 Which hurts the quick fulfilment of our work, 
 And feast upon the jirospect of to-morrow. 
 
 glorious day, which brings the struggle keen, 
 Yet sweeter to my soul than all the world, 
 
 For thou shalt tow to port the freighted ship 
 Of Hope, that hath till now been tossed at sea ; 
 
 1 would not barter for my previous life to-morrow. 
 
 O Day ! that mak'st the radiant Sun thy heavenly bride. 
 
 And cloth'st the joyous earth in shining garb, 
 
 Bring with thee golden winged Victory, 
 
 And in her gorgeous train, loud-chanting Fame, 
 
 Nor shall a million throats of the Redeemed, 
 
 Fail to join the universal shout of praise. 
 
 Scene Third — De Harrison s Mansion. 
 Clara, Edward, Cor,. De Harrison. 
 
 Cut. Here, Clara, is thy cousin ; know'st thou him? 
 
 He's come to greet hiscliildhood's cherished mate. 
 Who has so long been lost to him and me. 
 
 <JL What, Edward? yes, 'tis so: marvelous growth ! 
 I left thee smooth in face, nor had'st thou passed 
 As yet beyond the blooming goal of youth ; 
 But now a bristly crop conceals the chin. 
 And proudly tells the world : Here is a man. 
 
 Ed. Nor has thy lore dried up tliy juicy jests, 
 
 Nor quenched in thee a loving maiden mind ; 
 For beards are bird-lime to young ladies' eyes, 
 Catching their glances first, and then their hearts. 
 
 CI. I see it well, thou art a trapper bold, 
 
 Who knows his game and lays most cunning snares. 
 
 Ed. And thou a wily fo.\ that scents afar 
 
 The huntsman's tricks, and fools the yelping hounds. 
 — But let us stay this duel of our wits, 
 And change it for the greeting sweet of friends 
 And kindred that have long been separate. 
 
 Col. Her long and grievous furlough has run out, 
 Thank God ! and she is with us once again. 
 Good nephew, say, has painter Youth not tinged 
 His fiiirest rose upon my daughter's cheek ? 
 
 Ed. To her more kind is Age than unto thee: 
 Already has he furrowed deep thy front. 
 
CLARENCE. 28 
 
 And bleached thy locks with never-melting frosts. 
 — Well Clara, dear, I'm pleased to see once mure 
 Thy face lit up here in our sunny clime. 
 Long have I daily wished for thy return ; 
 I could not bear the thought that one I loved 
 Should dwell away from this her cloudless home, 
 In that most cheerless region of the globe. 
 
 Gl. True, Nature here, has shown partiality ; 
 
 But there are beauties which lae dream not of. 
 
 Ed. Then have I lived to see the icy bear 
 Exalted o'er our starry crucifix. 
 And that too, by a daughter of the South. 
 
 CI. 'Tis not the happy clime that makes the man, 
 Nay, rather say it unmakes more than makes ; 
 For wealth of Nature or of worldly goods 
 Doth ever rot what poverty doth rear. 
 Humanity for me hath greater charms 
 Than all the gorgeous tints the sun can paint. 
 
 Ed. A sly and secret praise of Yankeedom ! 
 That lying race of thieves unpunished ; 
 Whose only thought is cheat — whose God is gain. 
 But their deserts I wish not to conceal : 
 To them alone, belongs the glory great 
 Of decking knavery foul in robes of Heaven, 
 So fair, and pure, and holy does it seem. 
 One idol more they have : Hypocrisy ; 
 With veil so dark, and deep, and cunning-wrought. 
 That many wise men have been led astray, 
 To trust its lying oracles and shout 
 Through all this land "a God, behold a God ! " 
 
 CI. Methinks, dear cousin, that a Southern mist 
 
 O'erspreads thy mind and clouds thy reason's sun. 
 
 What some experience hatli me taught of them, 
 
 I may declare to thee without offence : 
 
 The people there are great and good and free, 
 
 Attached to liberty and honest life ; 
 
 Firmly devoted to their fond ideas, 
 
 But yet sometimes intolerant to those 
 
 Who cannot see the world through their own eyes ; 
 
 Strong in belief, yet stronger in assertion, 
 
 And somewhat narrow in their wisdom, too ; 
 
 They take the greatest pains to know the right, 
 
 But knowing it they push it to extremes, 
 
 And often thrust it quite beyond itself, 
 
 So that its frail and beauteous form is lost. 
 
 One side of things they see both clear and deep, 
 
24 CtARENCE. 
 
 And by no other people are surpassed ; 
 
 But the obverse side which is quite as real, 
 
 Lies ever hid beyond their vision's reach ; 
 
 As if the world might be a fastened coin, 
 
 With one face burnished, seen and read by all. 
 
 The other dark, eternally concealed ; 
 
 Thus all their greatness seems a mighty half. 
 
 To educate is there the highest end ; 
 
 Art, Science, Learning, find with them a home, 
 
 More generous patrons and ardent devotees, 
 
 Than elsewhere in our youthful land ; but still, 
 
 Their culture is a huge one-sidedness. 
 
 The people are, withal, great, good and free. 
 
 Col. My daughter, this praise of thine seems overcharged. 
 
 Ed. Cursed be the hireling varlets, cursed for aye ! 
 It is a crouching, false and servile race ; 
 They load with fetters not the swarthy frame. 
 Not foreigners in blood, but their own kin; 
 And sell in vilest servitude to gain, 
 It may not be their neighbors but themselves. 
 Th»ir very name to me's the serpent's hiss. 
 
 Vol. Most true, my nephew, and most sharp thy speech. 
 
 Ed. Their land, tlieir clime, and their existence e'en, 
 I loathe ; my aim of life is them to hate ; 
 The soil on which they tread is tainted foul. 
 Scarce that direction can I turn my eye. 
 And rather had I Southward go to Hell, 
 Than through the North pass into Heaven's gates. 
 
 CI. Thy anger's quite amusing. Cousin dear. 
 So great excess must quickly sate itself; 
 Thy wrath is like a shallow seething dish. 
 The more the heat the sooner is it dry. 
 But hear a gentle word from me, I pray : 
 Among that folk you deem so bad I've lived, 
 And shared their hospitality and care ; 
 How many friends of mine most true and dear. 
 Are in that distant clime, I need not say. 
 Their kindness seemed to me the dower of Heaven ; 
 A noble aim and spotless character 
 The spirits are that hover o'er the land ; 
 So must I speak a word in their defense. 
 Edward, methinks thou see'st some foggy shape, 
 Most huge and frightful, when beheld afar 
 In Northern sky, but quickly vanishing 
 When once the sun doth ray abroad his light. 
 Go live, eat, drink with them and know their life. 
 
CI.ARENCE. 2S 
 
 Vol. No, no, enough it is thou hast been there ; 
 I fear I have in thee much to unteach. 
 
 Ed. Sooner would I take the Roman felon's fate, 
 Be bagged with snakes and cast into the sea, 
 Than housed one night within their viperous dens. 
 
 CI. O tell me, whence has come this rancour fell. 
 
 That bloats thy soul with poisonous vengeful speech. 
 Transforms thy visage to a demon's look ? 
 
 AVZ. Turned Yankee, eh ! turned traitress to thy land 
 
 And blood ! Such words as these are wont to hang 
 Their hardy speaker on the nearest limb. 
 
 CI- Be calm, and tell to me the grievances 
 
 Whose thought now makes thy heart a bag of gall, 
 And points thy tongue as sharp as adder's fang ; 
 Rehearse the cause of this most fearful hate, 
 And all the facts with lawyer-like repose. 
 
 Ell. This inquiry appears to me most strange. 
 
 When all the world doth see and shame our wrongs ; 
 
 Do they not hither come, t'entice away 
 
 "With secret lure, our slaves, our property ? 
 
 With what design, think ye? Philanthropy ! 
 
 To let them freeze and rot on British soil, 
 
 Deprived of comfort and religious care. 
 
 "What venom is not spit upon the Soutli ? 
 
 The Press, that monster of a thousand heads. 
 
 Doth bellow daily from his thousand throats 
 
 iSIost slanderous abuse of us and ours ; 
 
 Of our divine and patriarchal institution, 
 
 Of our society and moral life ; 
 
 Emits into our land incitements bold, 
 
 To conflagration, massacre, revolt ; 
 
 And e'en the holy ministers of Christ 
 
 Stand ready with uplifted hands 
 
 To bless the murderous deed. It is enough ; 
 
 I ain prepared to soil my hands with blood. 
 
 To wash our sullied honor of its stain, 
 
 And to regain our Heaven-born rights. 
 
 Col. Though old, I'll take a musket in the cause, 
 Pour out the dregs of my remaining life, 
 To reach an end so high and dear to me, 
 The more so, for my daiigliter is not mine. 
 
 CI. O pardon me, my cousin and my father, 
 
 j\[y speech was rash, but meant not to offend. 
 We have been very often wronged, 1 know, 
 And should demand some satisfaction, too; 
 But on the guiltv let the burden fall, 
 
26 CLARENCE. 
 
 For of our rights-we have there many friends, 
 So do not lay on all the grievous charge. 
 
 Ed. Nay, nay, methinks the guilt belongs to all. 
 
 Would that the Atlantic with its watery plains, 
 
 Was cast at once between ourselves and them. 
 
 But that which cuts my heart into the core, 
 
 Is their most foul, most base ingratitude 
 
 From products which we raise they have grown fat, 
 
 And take their consequence among the nations ; 
 
 Without our commerce would their cities vast 
 
 Lie waste with grass upon their thoroughfares, 
 
 And only falling pillars mark the sites ; 
 
 Their most besotted masses rise and smite 
 
 In hungry might the State and Property, 
 
 And stretch to us their hands for food and work ; 
 
 All this they will not see, but serpent-like, 
 
 They bite the breast that warms their limbs to life. 
 
 Cl. A weighty case thou makest, I confess. 
 
 F.d. Yet what is worst of all must now be told, 
 Their duties in the federative bond 
 Which joins in one our civil life and theirs, 
 They have most basely shunned and shirked. 
 And ta'en therein our choicest rights away. 
 
 CW. Aye, sir, in that remark you hit the white. 
 Their wanton acts we can no longer brook. 
 
 CV. 'Tis true we have been sorely put to proof. 
 Yet Patience never leaves the goodly soul 
 But ever waxes with the growing need ; 
 Time will not always cast on us his frowns. 
 
 F.d. That virtue I desire to be not mine, 
 
 My wish, aye, my demand, is that we part ; 
 In peace untie the knot with careful hand, 
 Or roughly cut it with the whetted sword. 
 
 Col. My age would much perfer the former wise, 
 But for the last could wield a heavy stroke ; 
 And my experience has not been so small ; 
 Upon the drilling ground, and in the camp, 
 E'en on the battle field I've had my turn ; 
 For while a stripling still, to Florida 
 I marched against the fierce red forester. ' 
 
 Cl. You would not then disrupt the sacred bond 
 
 Of State our Fathers joined with so much skill 
 And anxious thought, and hoped to be eternal ? 
 
 Col. Aye, with a willingness that is not feigned. 
 Agreement was the mother sole, we know, 
 Of this confederation of the States; 
 
OLARENOE. 27 
 
 And by agreement can it be dissolved. 
 
 Our greatest statesman showed the right long since, 
 
 And Right, though ne'er unsheathed retains its brightness; 
 
 With it the Will now locks its striving arms ; 
 
 Where Right and Will join hands, the deed must follow. 
 CI. Men oft create what they dare not destroy. 
 
 The child's life hangs not on the parent's whim ; 
 
 So too this State begot must live forever ; 
 
 What right have ye to take a nation's life ? 
 Ed. The State has lost its end and is a curse. 
 
 No longer it protects our chartered rights, • 
 
 But soon will smite us with its massive hand. 
 
 Its overthrow is now my highest hope, 
 
 So threatening look the omens in the North. 
 
 The reins which once we held in firmest grasp 
 
 Are being hourly twisted from our hands ; 
 
 And soon the high-born sons of chivalry 
 
 Must bow the knee before mechanic lords. 
 
 Nay, that disgrace shall never stain our souls, 
 
 E'er long the entire South shall rise and show 
 
 The mighty majesty of wrathful honor, 
 
 Shall seize this often violated pact 
 
 Which chains her bosom pure to loathsome foes 
 
 .\nd shall it rend into a thousand shreds. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene First. — A Road. 
 Enter HoDDLE atid Countryman in the distance. 
 
 Hod. Here comes a native weed, I'll lay my head. 
 
 This rank, dank soil alone can bring such forth. 
 A very stalk of striding corn he comes. 
 Meet him I must. — I might avenge myself. 
 By telling now their plans and hiding-place, 
 And nip at once their budding enterprise ; 
 But I shall not; for though they beat my flesh 
 Until it falls in black bits from my bones, 
 Treason ne'er shall force the entrance to my soul. 
 But wait ! first shall I so confound this fellow, 
 By the juggle and displacement of fair words. 
 That he will not believe he is himself. 
 
 Co, Good morrow, sir ! 
 
 Hod. Good morrow to yourself, sir ! 
 
 Co. Young man, thou seem'st a stranger in these parts. 
 
CLARENCE. 
 
 Hod. Therein my seeming tells an honest tale ; 
 
 Men often seem to be what they are not ; 
 
 My seeming, so it seems, doth tlien not seem. 
 Co. As full of seams thou art as any quilt ; 
 
 Thou art a tailor, lad, if aught of trade, 
 
 Is indicated by thy random talk. 
 Hod. Nay, nay, a doctor, if you wish to know ; 
 
 For seeming, likewise, is the doctor's trade ; 
 
 I come to purge with physic all of }ou. 
 Co. That is a heavy dose for my belief. 
 
 Where are thy pills and dark-compounded stuffs? 
 Hod. Aye, they are lying ready for their work, 
 
 Whene'er I bid them force their self-made way. 
 Co. Thy speech is full of dark bewilderment. 
 
 Or else I cannot understand thy tongue. 
 
 Thou play'st with words as the unskilled at bowls, 
 
 Not knowing where or how the ball may strike. 
 
 Stranger, where is thy home, once more I ask 'i 
 Hud. 1 am a Soutliron bold, of gentle blood, 
 
 Who shuns dishonor's stain far more than Death. 
 Co. In troth, thou art a funny, funny buck, 
 
 I'd give a dozen ewes to know thy sire ; 
 
 It was a rum old sod that nurtured thee. 
 Hod. Ha, ha, thou'rt right, quite right; I am a sheep ; 
 
 But mark ! should e'er I see thy face again, 
 
 Thou'lt view a sheep which is not shorn, but shears. 
 
 Longer, friend, I cannot tarry ; adieu ! Exit. 
 
 Co. A damned mysterious dog ; his quiddities 
 
 Are quite enough to break one's head with aches. 
 
 I do not like him ; there is something wrong ; 
 
 Such nonsense is by far too deep for fools. 
 
 Let's see ; — " a sheep that is not shorn, but shears ; " 
 
 That is, by his own word, a villain bold, 
 
 Disguised beneath a modest mask ; 'tis so. 
 
 Two weapons peered out their pocket's prison. 
 
 .\s if their hard, dumb lips desired to speak, 
 
 And send their small, round messengers, 
 
 Like pills — I have it now ! I have in now ! 
 
 A Doctor? aye ! a veritable Doctor ! 
 
 The musket-ball is that most powerful pill, 
 
 Which finds the shortest way unto the heart ; 
 
 Such was the meaning couched beneath his cranks. 
 
 How shied his words off from my questions' goal I 
 
 And how uneasy was his look and tread ! 
 
 Then, too, that bunch of twigs he slyly held 
 
 Within his grasp, what does it mean ? I know ; 
 
CliARENCK. 
 
 29 
 
 To ^et on fire our fences, houses, barns ! 
 
 That is his dose of physir for us, I suppose. 
 
 There's somewhat in his looks that speaks of foul intent. 
 
 Follow I must ; I'll watch with stealth his steps, 
 
 .And seek this ser[)ent in his hidden nest. 
 
 Scene Second. — Another Road. 
 Enter Bu.miu.e. 
 Bunt. How glad am I t' escape their fiendish claws, 
 For fiends they are in all that makes the fiend, 
 And if they were soused down (juite as they are, 
 Into the burning, brimstone element, 
 No one could tell them from the oldest demons. 
 These mad-caps would have slain me for a word 
 Spoke in discouragement of their wild hopes. 
 Because I was aweary of their game. 
 It was a cunning trick to slip so slyly off: 
 I thank you woods, for having hid my path, 
 Until it reached a point beyond pursuit. 
 Myself again ! I breathe more freely now, 
 Though they may iterate the whole day long, 
 This is a slavish soil and atmosphere ; 
 They are the slaves , I spit it in their faces. 
 That they do sorely need emancipation. 
 How clearly do I see in this sad strait, 
 'Tis not the outward bond that makes the slave, 
 But the base, narrow thought within the man. 
 A little vengeance now is in my power, 
 My sweat they shall repay with drops of blood, 
 'Twill give some solace to my ruffled soul ; 
 Their plans against this land I shall disclose. 
 And rouse the people to well-timed defence ; 
 Thus may I send them packing down to Hell. 
 Here is the dwelling which I came to sack. 
 But now it looks more friendly than my friends ; 
 It lends a screen 'gainst Heaven's burning eye ; 
 I must seek rest and shade or else I faint ; 
 Let fate bring what it may, I shall go in. 
 
 Scene Third. — Planter's Mansion. 
 Enter Bumule. 
 Bum. Good morrow to this mansion's worthy lord ! 
 I hope that I do not disturb his peace. 
 
30 CLARENCE. 
 
 PI. Good morrow, enter and be welcome here. 
 
 Bum. I would but rest my wearied limbs awhile. 
 And catch some draughts of shady air, 
 Beneath this roof and bower of woven leaves. 
 Old Sol has mounted to his highest throne, 
 And rages like a tyrant o'er the world ; 
 I am not wont to find him in so great a passion. 
 
 PI. Drink off this brimming bowl and slake thy thirst. 
 
 Bum. O water ! it is a draught the gods might grudge, 
 If they are jealous, as is often said. 
 To the dry and dusty throats of mortal men. 
 
 PL Methinks another sun smiled on thy birtii, 
 Else our fierce, fiery charioteer of Heaven 
 Would not appear to thee so great a stranger. 
 
 Btdii. Tis true, my infant lungs breathed cooler air 
 
 Than that which hovers o'er these hills and woods. 
 
 PL I have transgressed, let me entreat thy pardon 
 For my offence against thy privilege ; 
 I did not mean t' inquire thy native soil. 
 It was a goodly custom of the olden time. 
 That hosts should never ask whence came the stranger 
 Who lodged beneath their roof, but serve at once 
 For him the choicest viands of their board ; 
 Thus would I treat thee ; but my words had lapsed, 
 E'er Reason clearly stamped them with her seal. 
 
 Bum. I am unworthy to receive these gifts ; 
 
 They bring to mind a harsh comparison 
 
 'Twixt thee and those on whom I have some claim. 
 
 PL No claim for me is higher than the guest's ; 
 My house is at your disposition sir. 
 
 Bum. Thy kindness cleaves the fetters of my tongue, 
 And bids it speak the secrets of my heart. 
 Listen ! I'll tell a story for thy good : 
 Behind yon wood, and near the sea's broad arm, 
 A band of men are hiddeji in the bush, 
 Who threat destruction fell to thee and thine. 
 
 PL Impossible ! whom have I so deeply wronged, 
 
 Tliat lie should brir.g such woe upon my head ? 
 Nay, thou dost only tell a dreadful tale, 
 As seeming pay for hospitality. 
 
 Bum. Forgive, I pray, my crime — I must confess — 
 I am of them, and have just left their camp ; 
 I would no longer serve their bloody cause, 
 And told them so ; then such a frenzy rose, 
 That I could barely 'scape and bring my life. 
 
 PL Who are they ? whence, with what design are come ? 
 
CLARENCE. 
 
 31 
 
 Bum. From the far North they've sought this quiet coast, 
 As favorable to their plan ; they say, 
 With loud proclaim they come to free the slave, 
 And cool the people with a bath of blood. 
 
 PI. Long has this bolt hung threatening in the clouds ; 
 Now has it lit upon our peaceful homes. 
 Quick, saddle me my steed ! no time for talk ; 
 I must in haste go seek our neighbors all, 
 And sound the sad alarm. Come with me, boy. 
 
 Scene Fourth. — The Camp. 
 Enter Clarence, Captain, Harwood. 
 
 dipt. Now quickly to the bloody work my boys, 
 Each moment that we tarry on this spot, 
 Doth swell the hazard of our enterprise. 
 Until what once did seem a little hill. 
 Shall soon become a mountain in our way. 
 Two plans do show their outlines to mine eye. 
 And each makes weighty suit unto my will; 
 But when the one I've ta'en, the other shows 
 So fair a face that I do me rue my choice. 
 Throw your advice into the doubtful scale. 
 And put a speedy end to this delay, 
 I beg, for restless time keeps spurring on. 
 Harwood and Clarence, give me your advice. 
 One plan is this : to rush forth from our lair 
 Like lions, seize our unsuspecting prey, 
 Where'er it may be found throughout this land ; 
 More cautious does the other counsel seem, 
 To spy out first the place and then to strike 
 Where 'tis the weakest, and for us the best. 
 
 Clar. My reason speaks most loudly for the last, 
 For if we shoot at random in the air, 
 We never hit, at most we fright our game, • 
 
 Which being warned, flies off and warns the rest. 
 But let us first seek out the central point. 
 From which we safely can command this land. 
 Then dart like lightning forward to the deed. 
 
 Har. To this advice mine own opinion leans. 
 
 Capt. To your united wisdoms I shall yield. 
 
 But who shall take the hazard of this step ? 
 To this end hearken to my further thought : 
 Garbed as a simple wayfarer I'll go. 
 And give a stealthy look at every house 
 
32 CLARENCE. 
 
 Which may be standing on our future road, 
 Survey each dubious nook in which a foe 
 Might lurk unseen, or else a friend could hide ; 
 Whisper the startling word of liberty, 
 Into the ear that hears but curses rude ; 
 Stir up strong arms to help us for themselves ; 
 Note the configuration of the land ; 
 In fine, select a spot by nature strong, 
 Which can be fortified still more by art, 
 Where we can pitch our permanent abode. 
 Which may defy the most perverse attack. 
 
 Har. Nay, nay, dear captain, that will never do ; 
 Therein thy courage far outspans thy sense. 
 Thou know'st thou art the head of this grand work, 
 Which head once lost, the rest must perish too, 
 And we, thy followers, lie in one common grave. 
 I pray thee, let me go instead of thee ! 
 
 Capt. Is not the peril as great to thee as me ? 
 
 Har. True, but my loss would be far less than thine. 
 
 Capt. The greatest danger should the chieftain seek. 
 
 Har. But think ! thou miglit'st be taken by the foe, 
 Then, with thy capture, captured are we all ; 
 As with thy death, we all are surely dead. 
 
 Capt. Play not such phantoms wild before thy mind. 
 How is it likely that I should be known 
 By people here, where I ne'er was before ? 
 
 Har. Some jealous accident doth strangle oft 
 
 The mightiest undertakings at their birth : 
 Give chance no hold upon thy destiny. 
 
 Capt. Harwood, these monsters lie not in my path. 
 
 Nor can their grim look fright me from my will, 
 Else could I ne'er have reached these woody dales ; 
 And having thus defied Risk to his teeth, 
 Shall I now run before I see his face ? 
 
 Har. I see you do not understand the case ; 
 
 So shall I clothe my speech in plainest garb, 
 And show the reason of my importunity. 
 Hoddle returned a little while ago, 
 Whence he was sent by us ; he says he met 
 One man, a seeming rustic of the land. 
 But yet a man of dark, suspicious look. 
 They spoke and parted ; some little time gone by, 
 Our Hoddle turns about and sees this man 
 Following on his track ; 'twas not far hence. 
 Ere now he may have found our secret out. 
 And sown the news in every neighbor's ear ; 
 
CLARENCE. 
 
 The which may soon bring forth upon our path, 
 A bristling crop of frowning enemies ; 
 Or he may still be lurking in this brush, 
 And even listening to our counsel now. 
 Then do not go, the venture is too great. 
 
 Citpl. No may-be can e'er turn me from my aim. 
 Thou playest with these possibilities. 
 Most like a little child with soapy bubbles. 
 Blowing them off his pipe of clay witli glee. 
 To see them mount aloft and ride the air, 
 That seemeth jealous of their lightness bold. 
 And bursts to nought their watery rainbow lilni. 
 A pleasing sport for little folk, but 'tis 
 A craft unworthy of a man's estate. 
 
 ILir. Then listen to this certainty I praj'. 
 
 Bumble has left our camp in secret wratli. 
 No one has seen him since he stole away ; 
 He has, no doubt, deserted to the foe. 
 
 dipt. Ha, ha ! this is not certain still, my boy ; — 
 But it is startling news ! The Devil's imp ! 
 Indeed he has fulfilled my highest hopes ; 
 For treachery was written in his down-cast eyes. 
 Perchance 'twere best to take our other plan. 
 
 ILir. Better by far than that thou go'st, methinks. 
 Thy duty bids thee stay upon this spot. 
 
 Clar. Captain, 'tis so : thou should'st remain with these 
 But list a moment to my own request : 
 I have a plan to solve this knotty point ; 
 I offer here to go myself, and bring 
 All information which you say you need. 
 Before the sun hath sped through half the orb 
 Which yet remains to him ere day is done, 
 1 shall return. Till then a patient soul 
 Possess ye all. 
 
 Cdpl. Well said, go, Clarence, dear ; 
 
 In thee I have almost as much of faith 
 As in mvself, which is not small, thou know'st. 
 
 Scene Fifth.-^AV^;- DeHarrisons Mansion. — Evening. 
 
 Enter D'Orville and Edward DeHarrison. 
 F.J. D'Orville, hast thou yet seen my cousin Clara, 
 
 And spoke to her about that nice affair? 
 jy Or. Ah, I have had that sweet delight and pain. 
 E<L Why, thou art in a melancholy trim ; 
 
M CLARENCE. 
 
 Make not wry faces at so bright a sun, 
 Thou cans' t not put his fervid splendor duun. 
 VOr. I see no sun, a cloud hangs o'er my soul, 
 And darkly crapes the Future like a bier. 
 7iV. Tut, courage, man, thy suit is not yet lost. 
 D'Or. Hope is not drowned, but labors in a sea 
 
 lu which tlie waves dash oft above her head ; 
 Such furious tempest she can't long withstand. 
 ZuL Oh, pipe no more this sickly strain, I pray ! 
 It makes an ugly blot on manhood's page. 
 Now tell the facts about your interview ; 
 I can, perchance, help thee in this rugged wa\-. 
 JJ' Or. Hear then, a story of endeavor vain. 
 I sought t'engage her in a little talk, 
 .\bout the lands and people she had seen ; 
 And then I'approach some tender theme, 
 Tliat miglit serve as an outlet to my soul ; 
 'I'iiis were the Cupid-winged ship whereon 
 1 thus might sail into love's happy port ; 
 But she, as cognizant of my design, 
 Did alway subtly shy the looming point, 
 .\.nd ran abroad to other things remote ; 
 Most cleverly she played these shirking cranks. 
 Two weary hours she circled round and round, 
 And I in liot i>ursuit sped for the prize. 
 When I by the long race became fatigued, 
 And so gave up the agonizing chase. 
 J£,/. Ha, ha ! that was a royal hunt in troth. 
 D' Or. But stop ! here comes a stranger on our path. 
 
 [iT///^;' Ci-AUENCE disguised as a pedestrian.^ 
 Clar. ]\Iay I disturb awhile your eager talk ? — 
 
 How far is it to the nearest hamlet, pray ? 
 Ed. Ascend yon little knoll, beyond the wood 
 It dots the hill-side sloping to the vale ; 
 .Soon you will .see the houses; just go on. 
 Ciar. Will you be pleased to tell its name, 1 beg '( 
 Ed. Assuredly! 'tis called I'almettotown. 
 Clar. Ha, yes! I know that name. Palmetto town. 
 I've heard of it before-'-Palmetto town — 
 I'm glad I am so near Palmetto town. 
 \_Asidei\ Witliin the radius of a furlong hence 
 She lives, whose magnet draws me from tlie pole. 
 Ed. What sudden joy doth try to burst thy heart, 
 
 Uost thou return home al'ter absence long 'i 
 Clar. Nay, sir, not tliat. But tell me, if you will, 
 What old majestic mansion 'mum( the trees 
 
rr.AHENr'F.. 3ft 
 
 Doth yonder sleep, o'er which the aged oaks 
 
 Stand sentinel with loving, watchful look? 
 D' Or. It bears a name of highest rank and worth, 
 
 A name nobility might wear with grace, 
 
 If 'twere the custom here — DeHarrison. 
 i'/ar. Heavens! DeHarrison! in yonder house ' 
 
 Fortune, smile on ! Indeed, so soon ! so near ! 
 
 Young man, thy eulogy gives out much warmth. — 
 
 Oh, pardon me, it is not far from town, 
 
 You say — ^just let me see — yes, so it is. 
 " The day begins to yawn, and now iiath stretrlied 
 
 The drowsy cap of night upon his head ; 
 
 I would not wish to find myself alone 
 
 Upon these woody paths without the sun. 
 
 Your pardon, gentlemen, I must be off. 
 F.ii. God save you from all shadows dire ; good night. Exit Chir. 
 D' Or. He seems to know, yet not to know this spot. 
 F.d. A passing stranger who the village seeks. 
 jy Or. Yet how he startled at tliy family's name; 
 
 .■\nd then his joy he sought to hide 'neath words. 
 F.d. It is not worth the talk. — ?Iere we must part ; 
 
 The dew hath moistened now the thirsty earth, 
 
 Whose face the whole day long the sun did scnrrli ; 
 
 .•\nd now the grass doth wash the dusty feet 
 
 Of passing swains with its wet store of wealth. 
 
 D'Orville, courage ! 'tis my last word to-night ; 
 
 Not the weak heart should hamper the wise will. 
 
 Good night. 
 jy Or. Farewell ! I'll see thee soon again. F..\it Fdivard. 
 
 Where shall I go, now that I am alone '' 
 
 Alas ! the heaviest load that burdens men 
 
 Is but themselves ; — I'd hurl this liateful jiack 
 
 From me, yet, ah, thi'. hateful pack is — 1. 
 
 If I could only rid uic of myself, 
 
 It were a liappiness ; but 'tis self-nnirder, 
 
 And that's a monster, from which mankind recoils. — 
 
 What raging fires are kindled in my flesli 
 
 Which make the fountain of my blood so seethe ''. 
 
 Is molten iron running through my veins ' 
 
 < ) heaven 1 water ! I am bruMiing up I 
 
 My heart has now become a funeral pile 
 
 Whereon I am both offering and offered. 
 
 I wish I were a thousand miles away ! 
 
 Hold, foolish wish, let me recall thee quirk : 
 
 It were most mad to go, I'd soon return. 
 
 No longer, ah I do I jiossess m\self. 
 
3fi CLARENCE. 
 
 My highest freedom has become a slave. 
 
 I wish to God I ne'er had seen her face ! 
 
 O, no ! tjie very fancy drives me mad, | 
 
 I cannot think of my existence here 
 
 Apart from lier ; it were a chill blank waste ; 
 
 I would impale my life upon my dirk. 
 
 I must turn back, and once again to-night 
 
 Her form I must behold ; that view alone 
 
 Can slake the soul-consuming thirst of I.nve. 
 
 It is her wont to pace her garden late. 
 
 Some hidden overlooking spot I'll find, 
 
 And with the friendly aid of this bright moon 
 
 I shall feast full my eyes with that fair sight. 
 
 Scene Sixth. — Night. 
 
 Enter Planters with Bumi;le before the house of De JFiirrison. 
 hi PI. Ho, rouse this house, up, sleep no more, 
 
 'J"iU you can sleep beneath the wings of peac-e ; 
 
 The sword of danger swings above your heads. 
 '2il PL Hallo ! Awake, De Harrison, awake ! 
 
 Murderers, robbers, thieves, are nigh ! Hallo ! 
 
 Come, help us, quickly, else we all are lost. 
 
 [Col. DeHarrison appears above at a window.'] 
 Col. Here am I 1 "What's the matter? Who are ye 'i 
 
 AViierefore have )'e come here to fright away 
 
 The timorous wings of sleep from our abode ? 
 ." / PI. Thou knowest us, thy neighbors are we all ; 
 
 Come forth, we have some news to roil thy blood. 
 
 A villainous gang of cut-throats from the North 
 
 Have landed on our shores to steal our slaves, 
 
 Destroy our property, o'erturn our State; 
 
 \Ve wish to rouse the villagers to arms, 
 
 Comedown, thou wast a soldier, head our band. 
 Co!. 'Tis strange ! Wait, in a moment I am there. 
 1st PL How fair the moon smiles on these bloody works ! 
 2d PI. Methinks she ought to veil her face with clouds. 
 Qd PL Young man, you say you can lead to the spot. 
 Bum. Aye, just where they are lying in the woods. 
 
 'Tis straight upon this road above the corners. 
 Col. \comes 0/(1.1 What certain proof have ye of this foray ? 
 1st PL Here's the youth, of their own number, too. 
 
 Who's told the entire story of their plan. 
 CouxTR'S'MAX enters running. 
 C-'c. Arm ([uickly all this crowd! Why stand ye here 
 
 While \'onr destruction ncars ? Seize first wliat lies 
 
rr.ARENTK. 37 
 
 Upon your path to wield against attack; 
 
 An enemy lies in yon woods ensconsed 
 
 Ready to pounce upon his thoughtless pre\'. 
 Co!. What ground have ye for all this heavy news':" 
 Co. I saw a stranger of suspicious mien 
 
 Upon the road ; we spoke — his words were dai Ic, 
 
 As if he would conceal some fell design ; 
 
 And so I followed him to find it out. 
 
 I tracked him quickly to a woody lair, 
 
 And hid me in the bush and heard their counsel, 
 
 To-morrow with the lark they will march forth. 
 Col. Then follow me; to-night we shall prepare [except Bumble. . 
 
 To meet them with their own foul terms of force. F.xeuittaH 
 Jhnii. These fellows' are too hot for my cool blood, 
 
 1 think I'd better turn another road. 
 
 For on this one I see but broken hea<ls. Runs off. 
 
 Scene Seventh. 
 
 Enter Clarence m the vicinity of DelLrrrison's niamion. 
 
 Clay. The house is darkened and in deep repose. 
 Let my dear birdie sleep till morn appears. 
 Then shall the shining shield of Phoebus smile 
 The drowsy world and bring in life again, 
 His beaming fingers gently ope her eyes. 
 Heaven forefend her slumber be disturbed I 
 Noise in this holy calm were sacrilege ; 
 Hence, silent shall I bide the coming sun. 
 Beneath the bushes and the clambering vines 
 Which hug this garden-wall of mossy stone, 
 Forming a shadow which forbids each glance 
 To penetrate its secret bosom dark, 
 I shall dispose myself for tranquil rest. 
 And listen to the stillness of the sacred night ; ■ 
 For solitude doth often tinkle in tlie air. 
 Shine on, Diana fair, thou huntress bold. 
 That daily put'st to rout the boastful sun. 
 Be thou the sweet companion of my watch ; 
 Let fall thy silvery hair from thy bright head, 
 And fill the sleeping earth with quiet light. 
 Until thy greater brother whips his steeds 
 From out the sea, and mounts with hasty stride 
 The eastern convex of the globous skv, 
 Bringing captive morn chained to his cluuiol-wlieels. 
 [Cl.ara enters tlie garden. ^ 
 
 CI. What fearful rumors ride upon the air. 
 
38 rr.ARFAVE. 
 
 To fright away the beauty of this night ! 
 
 Heaven protect my father from all harm. 
 (Jlar. [Aside] Methinks I hear a voice within this wall. 
 CI. How silent and majestic is the hour ! 
 
 The wind, aweary of her bootless wail, 
 
 Doth lay herself and sleep with mortal men ; 
 
 The moon hath burnished brightly every star 
 
 That shimmers in her nightly trail of blue, 
 
 As she most queenly sweeps along the sky ; 
 
 But ah, the heart shares not dull nature's rest. 
 
 This lull has brought a storm to many a soul. 
 CJar. \^Aside\ Is this a spirit prisoned here that dares 
 
 To tell its sorrows only to the Night ''. 
 CI. The time I last did catch his winsome look, 
 
 IJlooms forth the fairest flower of Memory. 
 CVijr. \_Aside] Or is't a maid bewailing to the moon 
 
 Her absent lover and her loved griefs ? 
 
 I'll list again, for I would gladly hear 
 
 Such plaints about myself upon this spot. 
 CI. [jVear.s] Oh were my soul disrobed of grievous <la\', 
 
 And set afloat to mingle with the clouds, 
 
 I'd fly at once to his far Northern home, 
 
 And hovering o'er him as he lies in sleep,- 
 
 I'd speak to him in dreams, and tell my love ; 
 
 In ringlets round I'd wreathe his heavy hair, 
 
 .\nd plant a kiss on every bit of lips. 
 
 That he would say, methinks, when he awoke. 
 
 The fairy-queen had wooed him all that night. 
 (Jlar. [Aside] A most sweet fantasy ! I must see, too ; 
 
 Hearing is not enough for such fair words. 
 CI. Oh, Clarence, Clarence, why art thou so far '' 
 
 Already our two names are married quite. 
 
 Why should our hearts by space be torn asunder ? 
 (Jlar. [Aside] 'Tis she, 'tis she, by Heaven, and me she means ! 
 ('I. ( )h would that thou wcrt here, sweet love, with me. 
 
 To walk among these flowers and smell tlicir bieath. 
 
 Conversing all the while about the time 
 
 When first we read oiu- fate in each other's eves ; 
 
 Then we would sit us down ami watch the moon, 
 
 And thus would whisjicr low our mutual love. 
 Clnr. Accursed wall, thou shalt not bar me out, 
 
 \\\ mount thy back tho' it did reach the skies. Leaps over. 
 CI. W'liat i-,udden shape here rises on my dreams ! 
 
 Help 1 help ! O, holy Father, save thy child ! 
 [Ci.ARENXE throws off his tiisgiiise, appears armed anil knech.] 
 Clar. O, noble maid, thou hast no cause for prayer: 
 
CLAUENCK. ;]'.t 
 
 At thy most gracious bidding here am I. 
 Oh! stay thy frightened pace awhile and list, 
 I am that Clarence, whom thou just didst call. 
 [D'Okn'ille ri(slu's Jroin the opphsilc side and draivs.'\ 
 
 l)'Or. AEost villainous of < aitilTs, stand, 1 bid I 
 
 This action here thou must make good by arms. 
 It is a deed of which the Devil were ashamed, 
 Thus to wayla)' an unprotected maid. 
 I'll tap thy cowaril heart and draw its blood, 
 That ne'er again thou wilt disgrace thyself, 
 And so I shall befriend thee 'gainst thy will. 
 Defend thyself I I would not steal thy blood. 
 [Clarence draws, they cross sitwrds.~\ 
 
 CL (Jh, Cod, 'tis he ! [rushes betiveeti] Clarence put up thy blade, 
 I would not have thee stain its pure chaste glow. 
 Its brightness e'en a drop of guilty blood woukl soil. 
 
 Cldr. How can I disobey thy first command ? 
 
 • I shall, sweet love, although the mind rebels ; 
 My sword was never drawn before in vain. 
 
 CI. O tell me, who has brought thee to this spot '! 
 
 Thou'rt fiillen from Heaven in answer to my [najcr, 
 
 For thee my daily orisons have long been raised ; 
 
 Dear Clarence, is this not a happy dream? 
 
 Think me not bold, I've heard thee call me love, 
 
 Then let me, too, unveil my ready heart. 
 
 And call thee by the thousand names of love. — 
 
 IJut, whence this hateful contrast of a man, 
 
 That shadow-like doth follow thy dear frame 
 
 And blights our presence here and our free tongues '( 
 
 Fortune, thou art thine own self's contradiction. 
 
 Uniting the most lo\ ed with the most loathed I 
 
 D'Orville, sheathe now thy eager sword, and tell 
 
 Why thou profanest thus my privacy '' 
 
 If Or. Most humble pardon must I beg of thee, 
 For this bold, seeming-rude intrusion here; 
 But weigh my motive ere I may be judged. 
 As I did lie beneath jon orange-tree. 
 My fancy feeding on sweet thoughts of thee, 
 I saw thy form pass through this garden-gate 
 And heard thee holding converse with thyself, 
 When suddenly this fellow scaled the wall, 
 As if to pluck thee off against thy will, 
 Or work some horrid shame on thy fair frame ; 
 Then thy unsullied life I thought to save 
 By casting mine before dark danger's treatl. 
 
 L'l D'Orville, for this most gallant act of thine. 
 
1 CLARENCE. 
 
 To give thee have I naught but gratclul thanks ; 
 
 It is a poor return for thy good will ; 
 
 And if I had two hearts within this breast, 
 
 One shouldst thou have, so worthy is thy deed ; 
 
 But the sad single heart, which pulses here, 
 
 Is mine no more to grant away to thee ; 
 
 It hath ta'en lodgement in another's breast, 
 
 And would not for the world forsake its home. 
 If Or. Thou dost not mean this man '! 
 CI. ' Aye, him I mean. 
 
 D'Or. Adieu, I shall not mar your happy hours. Exil V Orvilk. 
 CI. How joyous 'tis to peer into thine eyes. 
 
 And see the rippling smiles run o'er thy face, 
 
 By the faint silent light of yonder orb. 
 Clar. More joyous still it it to press thy hand 
 
 In mine, and feel the fierce magnetic fire 
 
 Dart through my frame, like lightning in the lIoiuIs; 
 
 And then to lay thee softly to my breast. 
 
 And hear the secret throbbing of thy heart. 
 CI. Sweet Clarence, say, how hast thou hither come ? 
 Clar. O stranger, stranger that the wildest dream I 
 
 But tell me first, dost thou requite my love ? 
 CI. My chamber nightly did I fill with sobs. 
 
 My eyes held brimming tears at thought of thee. 
 
 For it so seemed I ne'er would see thee more, 
 
 And so my soul was always seeking hard 
 
 To quit this hateful flesh, and fly away. 
 CI(ir. C) what delight doth snatch my struggling breath, 
 
 .'\nd choke me with a multitude of sweets ! 
 
 This moment 's the quintessence of my life ' 
 
 What happiness to win the golden prize ! 
 
 Thou art a radiant angel of the sky, 
 
 I feel unworthy of thy noble worth : 
 
 Can it be so, art thou then here with me, 
 
 And dost give back brim full my cup of love ? 
 
 Or is it one of Night's fair pleasing cheats ? 
 
 Vouchsafe thy milky hand to my hot lips. 
 
 To quench awhile their parching thirst of love. 
 CI. Clarence, be calm ; we'll talk no more of love, 
 
 But let our actions to our hearts be tongue. 
 'Now answer, dear, what I before did ask. 
 
 How did'st thou come to find my nightly haunt :' 
 Clar. Oh yes, wake me from this bright paradise, 
 
 It is too much delight to long endure ; 
 
 I have ill news to mingle with these joys. — 
 
 From the fiir North I've tracked the wayless main 
 
CLARENCE. 41 
 
 To warn thee of th' impending hour of woe ; 
 A band of men conspire against the homes 
 Of thy dear father and thy neighbors here ; 
 Not far away from this fair spot they lie. 
 I am an officer of high command 
 And weighty trust ; wherefore you see me here, 
 Dispatched by them to seek th' attacking point. 
 CI. Nay, Clarence, nay, this is not so, methinks ; 
 You do but jest, you will but frighten me, 
 To make my future happiness more keen. 
 Glar. In most sad earnestness I speak to thee. 
 CI. Oh, what a sudden cloud bedims my sun ! 
 
 Could not some peaceful way have led thee here ? 
 Then were our joy unspotted with a sigh ; 
 Such ugly wings ne'er brought so bright a blessing. 
 I fain would curse the means, but then I think 
 What precious freight was thus to me conveyed, 
 And so I'm torn by gladness and by grief. 
 Clarence, say once more and then I shall believe ; 
 Art thou in arms against my native land ? 
 Clar. My body is in seeming armor wrapped. 
 
 But still my soul doth seek a peaceful aim 
 To rescue thee and thine from War's fierce look. ' 
 Flee quickly, with thee bear what well thou can'st 
 Of goods and jewels rare, but most thyself; 
 Wake up the household, and take all along ; 
 Warn thy old father of this sudden danger; 
 Remain until the storm has passed these skies ; 
 Methinks its rage will very soon be spent. 
 CI. Mine only jewel in the world art thou, 
 
 Thee would I take along and safely keep. 
 Clar. That blissful time can not now be for us, 
 
 I quickly must return, my time is out. 
 CI. Thou wilt not leave me here alone to fight 
 
 The shadows fell of fancy in the dark ? 
 Clar. Doth no one dwell within the house but thee ? 
 CI. My father has gone out to meet the foe. 
 Clar. What, is this expedition known to you ? 
 Gl. A band of men left here some time ago 
 
 To summon all the neighborhood to war ; 
 They chose my father captain of their troop. 
 I pray, lift not your hand 'gainst his gray hairs. 
 Clar. Nay, nay ; — then must I go and tell our men 
 To scatter to the winds ere they are caught. 
 For treason has divulged their whole design. 
 A parting kiss, dear Clara, and I am off. 
 
42 CLARENCE. 
 
 CI. O heaven ! this affray bodes me much ill. 
 Clar. Nay, love, our stars shall join us soon again. 
 Adieu. 
 
 Scene Eighth — Camp. 
 Captain, Harwood, Sergeant. 
 Capt. Sergeant, see if the men are ready soon ; 
 
 The morn is now upon our perilous path. 
 
 And shows us to the eyes of all the world ; 
 
 The deed is waiting for our quick decision. Exit Sergeant. 
 Har. It is most strange that Clarence comes not back ; 
 
 Some hours have passed since that he should be here. 
 Capt. An accident may have seized him on his way. 
 Har. It can not be that treason taints his heart. 
 Capt. Thou hast no evidence of such intent ? 
 Har. No. Still I thought his 'haviour often strange. 
 Capt. Harwood, again thou art at thy old game; 
 
 Of dark surmises is thy head as full 
 
 As is the bristly porcupine of quills, 
 
 Which thou dart'st forth with every tick of time. 
 
 To sting with doubt the purposes of men. 
 
 Away with all long-faced conjecture now, 
 
 I shall not hear it, I am off to work. 
 Enter Sergeant. 
 Ser. Here are the men prepared for thy commands. 
 Capt. Well done, my comrades dear, at such fair hour 
 
 To be in trim for this long day's hot work ; 
 
 It shows your zeal in our most holy cause, 
 
 Beyond all power of rhetoric or oath. 
 
 Are ye all ready for the fight ? 
 All. Aye, aye. 
 
 Capt. To free the bondsman, or else let the grass 
 
 Upon these fields be both your winding-sheet 
 
 And your uncoffined graves. 
 All. So may it be. 
 
 Capt. Then but a word of counsel have I left : 
 
 Keep e'er this bending feather in your eyes. 
 
 Whose snowy whiteness doth embrace my head. 
 Enter Sentinel. 
 Sen. The foe, the foe ! 
 
 Capt. What dost thou say ? 
 
 Sen. A band of armed men are bearing for this spot. 
 Capt. O happy, holy hour ! Good sentinel ! 
 
 Thou bringest joyful news ! Now to the work ! 
 
CLARENCE. 43 
 
 And with the shout of Freedom on our lips, 
 
 Whose echo shall break every servile chain 
 
 Throughout this land and strike oppressors mute, 
 
 At them, my braves ! They all rush out. 
 
 Scene Ninth. 
 Enter Col. DeHarrison and Band. 
 
 Col. Halt ! yonder are the woods, the traitorous woods. 
 Which hide within their breast our enemy ; 
 I shall not long delay your eager hearts; 
 Remember in this struggle that ye fight 
 For homes, wives, children, and your honor too. 
 Clarence enters at a little distance. 
 Clar. What ! these are not my friends, I must retreat. 
 
 D'Orville enters. 
 U Or. Halt ! rabbit-hearted caitiff, thee I know; 
 
 Thou art a craven spy, unsheathe thy blade ; 
 We'll end th' encounter which we once began. 
 Clar. My sword I'll prove more ready than my tongue. 
 And thou, God willing, shalt answer with thy life, 
 For thy vile, slanderous speech. They fight. 
 
 D' Or. I'm slain, I'm slain, my blood shall be avenged ! 
 Help ! hither friends, vengeance ! 
 
 Enter Edward DeHarrison with several men. 
 Ed. Whose cry is this ? 
 
 Upon my soul, 'tis D'Orville, my dear friend ; 
 Sir, what means this bloody deed ? 
 Clar. I was assailed. 
 
 Ed. Ha, ha ! I recognize thee now ; thou art 
 
 A spy, assassin, villain ; die on this spot. Stabs him. 
 
 Clar. O God, my heart is pierced, this is my end ; 
 
 Farewell, sweet earth, I leave thee not with joy, 
 For on thy front my fairest Clara treads ; 
 My parting word I scarcely shall fulfill. 
 Captain enters uiith his band. 
 Capt. What shape is this ? our Clarence, by the gods ! 
 
 O wretch, art thou the author of this deed ? 
 Ed. Worm, viper, Devil, I am, and 'tis my boast. 
 Come on, thou fiend, I'll hack to gobbets thee 
 And all thy damned crew, and strew your flesh 
 To carrion kites and dogs. How dare ye stamp 
 Your hellish tracks upon our sacred soil? 
 Capt. Slave-monger, go fright thy slaves with empty threats, 
 Not men ; I'll cut a mouth within thy heart, 
 
44 CLARENCE. 
 
 That it may speak its venom quiclvly out. 
 
 Set to. They fight, Edward is run through. 
 
 Ed. Alack ! So soon the strings of life are cut. 
 
 Capt. Push on, my men, and sweep them from the field. 
 [ The other side retreats^ 
 
 Col. Stay, hold, here is fresh succor for us now ; 
 
 Rush for them, and we'll turn this surging tide. — 
 So ; once again ; one more fierce dash, they fly. 
 
 Capt. Old man, the stoutest heart of all thy band 
 Thou hast ; go back, or else thy hoary head 
 Shall tumble from thy shoulders 'neath this edge. - 
 
 Col. My age demands no mercy at thy hands; 
 I have at thee. 
 
 Capt. Thou rash old fool, take that ! 
 
 All. Vengeance! DeHarrisou is slain! Vengeance! \Captain. 
 \The Captain s party retreats. A rush is made tozoard tht 
 
 Capt. Six rival steeled points at once ! I die ; 
 
 But ah, than death more bitter is the thought, 
 My aim with me doth perish on this spot. — 
 Nay, it shall not, it hath an eternal germ, 
 Which fertile Time shall nurse and yet mature; 
 Some luckier hand shall execute this plan, 
 Or e'en a nation arm itself with my design. 
 Clara enters. 
 CI. What fearful sights are scattered o'er this plain ! 
 I would return, but no, I am pushed on, 
 For I must know my fate in this day's strife. 
 Whose form is this ? It is my cousin Edward I 
 A hardy soul that bravely gave itself away. 
 
 that I could stay by thy side, and wash 
 Thy body with my tears, but on 1 must, — 
 
 Ah, whose white hairs are these ? Mj- father's, oh ! 
 Great God I why hast thou not ta'en me along; 
 Let me once kibS to life these lips and brow; 
 Thy looks are fierce as cast upon the foe ; — 
 Nay, nay, they're tender, loving as u\y father's. 
 Thy seeless eyes, oh gently let me close. 
 My father's shade, forgive ingratitude; 
 
 1 must another face now seek with haste. 
 
 If it should chance lie on this bloody field. — 
 
 This is D'Orville, a bold and gallant youth, 
 
 And near him here — O Clarence, Clarence — dead ! 
 
 Thou'rt gone, thou'rt flown, and borne with thee ray life ! 
 
 The dagger which did pierce thy manly breast 
 
 Hath reached my heart. Sinks. 
 
CLARENCE. 45 
 
 Enter Harwood. 
 Har. Such is the fearful end of this foray. 
 I have foreseen it long, for violence 
 Must ever turn upon itself at last, 
 And be destroyed by its own bloody hand. 
 Captain, sleep well, a dauntless mind thou had'st, 
 A soul, which, when it once conceived an aim. 
 Without delay must give it birth in deed ; 
 This was the cursed bane that brought thee here. 
 Now, nought to me remains but to the dead 
 To pay the final rites, collect the few 
 Who yet remain and leave this fatal soil. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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