Enter the King, as a Pilgrim.

King. Must it be ever thus? still doom'd to tread
This sullen course, and for a bitter foe?

Becket, though in his grave, torments me still.
And what avails it him, who sleeps unconscious
Of my forc'd penance?—Heart, resume thy strength!
Rouse thee resist the bigot imposition,

And be thyself again.

Cliff. Who thus vents forth

His sore disquiets?

King. What is he who asks?

If yon expiring lamp deceive me not,

Thy garb betokens a religious function.
Cliff. Thou judgest well.

King. Inform me, holy guide,

[Advancing.

What boot the punishments your laws enjoin
Self-castigation, balmy sleep renounc'd,
And lonely wand'rings o'er the rugged flint,
Thro' the long-cloister'd. aisle ?

Cliff. Much, pious stranger,

Much they avail; within these silent walls
Chaste contemplation dwells; this hallow'd gloom
Inspires religious musings, ardent prayer,
Which, by their fervid impulse, waft the soul
Of erring man above this vale of weakness,
And teach him to regain, by heavenly aid,
What he had forfeited by human frailty.

King. Divinely spoke! but well may'st thou declaim
On their utility, who ne'er hast felt

Their harsh severities-Thou happily canst
Produce the legend of a life unstain'd.

Cliff. No-would to Heaven I had that boast; but rank'd

'Mongst error's sons, I share the general weakness.
Too numerous are my faults; but one, alas!
Beyond the rest I mourn-Spare me a moment,
While I give respite to my swelling grief.

King. Methinks thou hast involv'd me in a share
Of thy distress. For what art thou enjoin'd
This rigid duty, similar to mine?

Who hath inflicted it?

Cliff. Myself-my conscience.

King. Thyself!

Cliff. The mind that feels its own demerits Needs no infliction from another's tongue.

King. My ears, my soul, are open to thy words→→→ Give me to know thy crime.

Cliff. How can I utter it,

And not sink down with shame?

King. Let shame betide

The coward heart that will not own its frailties:
If there's a grace in man, superior far

To all beside, it must be that true pride
That bids him speak his own misdeeds. Proceed.
Cliff. I had a friend-the darling of my soul-
He lov'd, he honour'd me-the trade of war
He taught my youth; in many a hardy field
Have we together fought, asserted England's

D

And noble Henry's fame-Henry, the greatest,

The best of kings!

King. Oh, painful recollection!

[Aside.

Thou once hadst such a friend!-Ungrateful Henry!
Cliff. A length of brotherhood we 'joy'd together,
Till all its blessedness was spoil'd by me.

He had a daughter, beauteous as the eye
Of fancy ere imagin'd-

King. Spare me, spare me

Oh, bitter tale!Thou hadst a daughter, Clifford !

[Aside.

Cliff. I mark'd her for my own; pour'd the false tale Of wily love into her credulous ear,

And won her artless heart.

King. [Aside.] Tumultuous pangs

Rush like a torrent thro' my bursting breast;
My crime, reflected by this stranger's tale,
Glares frightful on me! Till this hour I knew not
My trespass was so great.-Oh, with what weak,
What partial eyes we view our own misdeeds!
The faults of others are a huge Olympus,
Our own an Emmet's nest.

Cliff. Heart, heart, be strong!

[Aside.

He muses deeply on it.-I have hurt [To the King.
Thy soft humanity, I fear.-Perchance

Thou hast a daughter, who, like this, my victim,
Hath stray'd from virtue's path.

King. Away, away-

I can endure no more,-Oh, conscience, conscience!

[Aside.

With what a wild variety of torments

Thou rushest thro' my soul!-'Tis all distraction! And asks some more than human strength of reason, To save me from despair.

Cliff. Kind Heaven, I thank thee;

His noble nature is not quite extinguish'd.
He's wounded deep.--Oh! may he but retain
This sense of the sore pangs he brought on me,
Till I have rescued my repentant child,

And all my bus'ness in this life is done.

[Exit.

[Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Bower. RoSAMOND discovered writing. ETHELINDA attending.

Rosamond.

Ir is in vain-my trembling hands deny
Their wonted office-my distracted mind
Revolves a thousand projects to regain
Its vanish'd peace; yet all by turns evade
My feeble efforts; like the lucid vapours,
Which rise successive in a summer's sky,
And court our observation, yet are lost,
Ere fancy can assign them name or shape,
Lost in the wide expanse. Ah me! how weak,
How insufficient to its own desires,

Is the poor breast which honour hath deserted!

Ethel. Say, is it ought thy servant can discharge?

She wishes to relieve thy woe, and shares

Thy every pang.

Rosa. Thy sympathizing heart

Hath oft consol'd me, soften'd the rude hour
Of bitter recollection, and repell'd

Encroaching agony-my Henry gave thee
A servant to my use; but thy mild nature,
So ill adapted to the lowly state

Wherein thy lot was cast, taught me to change

That servile title for the name of friend.

Ethel. Give me that office now, and let me speak Thy meanings there.

Rosa. I know not what I mean.

In vain, alas! she strives to please herself,
Who hath offended virtue. On that paper
I wish'd to pour my duty to my father,
Implore his dear forgiveness, beg one blessing,
Ere yet he sleep in peace--Oh, Rosamond!
Well hast thou spoke! for in the grave alone
Can Clifford rest. -Peace and repose on earth
Thine impious offences have deny'd him.
Ere this, perhaps, he is laid low in dust,

And his last hours were charg'd with grief and shame.
Ethel. Hope better, my fair mistress; raise thy thoughts
From the dark musings of despondent woe,

To these bright scenes of happiness and joy.

Rosa. I have no title to them; these bright scenes

May give delight to unpolluted breasts,
But not to mine -The charmer, happiness,