Page:The Mysterious Mother - Walpole (1781).djvu/31

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
A TRAGEDY.
23
My Edmund's soul's ambitious to revive?Thus would he bless his vassals!
EDMUND.My friend, is just. But had I nThy reproof,My friend, is just. But had I not a cause,A tender cause, that prompted my return?This cruel parent, whom I blame, and mourn,Whose harshness I resent, whose woes I pity,Has won my love, by winning my respect.Her letters! Florian; such unstudied strainsOf virtuous eloquence! She bids me, yes,This praying Magdalen enjoins my courageTo emulate my great forefathers' deeds.Tells me, that shame and guilt alone are mortal;That death but bars the possibilityOf frailty, and embalms untainted honour.Then blots and tears efface some half-told woeLab'ring in her full bosom. I decypher'dIn one her blessing granted, and eras'd.And yet what follow'd, mark'd anxietyFor my soul's welfare. I must know this riddle.I must, will comfort her. She cannot surely,After such perils, wounds by her commandEncounter'd, after sixteen exil'd years,Spurn me, when kneeling—Think'st thou 'tis possible?
FLORIAN.I would not think it; but a host of priestsSurround her. They, good men, are seldom foundTo plead the cause of pity. Self-denial,Whose dissonance from nature's kindest lawsBy contradicting wins on our perverseness,Is rank fanaticism's belov'd machine.Oh! 'twill be heroism, a sacrifice,

To

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.