L. Dor. A crowd collecting quickly, Reliev'd the fallen man, and Desmond— March. What would you say?

L. Dor. Was dragg'd to prison, madam. March. To prison! say you? what! midst the gaping crowd,

That scorn'd and hooted at him as he pass'd?
And was he treated as a common felon,

The refuse of the earth, loaded with crime?
Did the low minion of authority

Seize him by force, and mock him in his mis'ry?
Alas! I wildly talk-you sec, my lord,

How warm an interest in all you wish
Possesses me. Yourself shall tidings bear
Of his deliverance-tis but t' explain.

Retires to a table, and writes.

L. Dor. She loves him still-Oh! could some

suasive power

Teach her, how easy tis to reconcile
This fond affection with the world's regard;
How men would still do homage to her name,
While in the hour of silence and retirement,
A mother's love might soften into smiles!

MARCHIONESS returns with a letter.

Madam, how shall my valued friend repay
The debt he owes you?

March. In your thanks, my lord.

Think you my influence could be employ'd
More as I wish, than in assisting him

Lord Dormer honours with the name of friend? L. Dor. Deep in my heart, with all its pride united,

I feel this high distinguishing regard;

Yet when I mark'd the gen'rous zeal that pour'd Its warmest sorrow o'er my friend's misfortune, Forgive me, if the glow that flush'd your cheek, Seem'd of a brighter hue than friendship claims. March. My lord, your language has of late assum'd

A flow'ry dress, that wounds the feelings more
Than it offends the taste-away with it!

I love the plainness of a noble nature,
These lofty tones resemble foppery.

L. Dor. Yes-yes-tis true-this cold dis-
guise becomes

But ill the pray'r that trembles on my tongue. March. Disguise and pray'r? most inauspicious prayer,

That dare not spring directly from the heart;
L. Dor. That heart now falls submissively be-

fore you,

Bleeding with sorrows stronger than it's own,

That burst to have their way, yet fear the light;
Yet will I trust my cause to such a judge:
When you remember how I honor you,
How I adore you-that to you, alone,
I owe a blessing all too great for words,
You cannot err upon my motives-no-
You must ascribe my conduct to the wish
Alone of giving happiness to her,

From whom my own flows in such bounty o'er

me.

March. When did I doubt your purity of mind, Or when refuse to hear you?

L. Dor. Never, never,

Yet now I tremble as I speak.
March. My lord,

Should this long prologue no result forbode,
Beneath yourself to speak, or me to hear,
What cause to tremble?

L. Dor. Pardon these suspicions;

Yet why, why this reserve? why so averse
To understand my meaning? Madam, my friend,
March. Yes, what of him? say, can I serve
him farther?

L. Dor. Your resolutions then are firmly
fix'd!

Alas! should my persuasions powerless fall,
Forget, forgive, or deem them still unheard.
March. I wait your wish.

L. Dor. Madam, I would believe,

At least, so partial hope would flatter me,
Your resolution to disown my friend

Who fain would boast

March. My lord, beware!'

my foes

Are rous'd, awake, and catch with eagerness

The darkest hint, and blazon it to day:

Where language fails, the sign, the nod, the

smile,

Fill up the chasm words have scarcely left.

There now is found an instrument most apt

To sanction malice-fly the base example: For you I gave up all—the sacred refuge, When still one sunny beam around me play'd, I gave to you-have I deserv'd this blow? Tis not from you.

L. Dor. Yes! more than life I owe you, And tis to soothe your bosom to its peace, To spread that sunny beam o'er all your days, I dare to speak-Madam, your son deserves That name.

March. My lord! my lord!

L. Bor. Oh! he is honour's throne;

Had I a secret buried in

my heart

Twin'd with the "ties that bind me to the

world,"

To him I would confide it, bold and fearless,
And sleep, as still myself alone possess'd it.
March. Tis false.

L. Dor. What! what is false?
March. He is not that man.
L. Dor. Yoù surely wrong him.
March. Yet can wrong exist,

Where no necessity enforces right?

I know him not-he is a stranger to me;
He seems employ'd to slander and traduce me,
Where is the wrong, if I assert my fame,
Repel the evil, and detest the accuser?

L. Dor. Listen but one brief moment, while
I tell

His proudest hope.

March. No more, my lord, I charge you..

L. Dor. Tis not his wish to be avow'd your

son.

March. Perish that name! tis blackest slan

der all!

L. Dor. Hear him pronounce the sacred name of mother,

Nor spurn a sound that gently whispers peace. March. I hate his malice-I despise his

weakness.

L. Dor. When soft retirement gives those sacred names

Their best, their most authoritative sound,
Then let the son and mother fondly weep
On sorrows past—I'll hasten to his prison.
March. His prison? there let him die by slow
disease;

In the deep dungeon, where the air confin'd,
Knows not the breeze of heav'n, or the change
Divine of night or morn, let chilling damps
Surround his brow, and sink into his heart;
Let galling iron waste his palsied limbs ;
Let famine scowl with all her furies round him;
Or on the public scaffold, mock'd and scorn'd,
There let him expiate his crime, and pay

The life my injur'd fame demands.

L. Dor. Horror on horror.

Exit.

March. I burn-I burn-oh! tis all madness

here;

But soft, soft, let me think, my son in prison? Subject to all its dire calamities,

All the dread curses a revengeful mother