Jane Shore Part 8

While, barefoot as she trod the flinty pavement, Her footsteps all along were mark'd with blood; Yet, silent still she pa.s.s'd, and unrepining: Her streaming eyes bent ever on the earth, Except when, in some bitter pang of sorrow, To heav'n she seem'd in fervent zeal to raise, And beg that mercy man deny'd her here.

_Dum._ When was this piteous sight?

_Bel._ These last two days.

You know my care was wholly bent on you, To find the happy means of your deliverance, Which but for Hastings' death I had not gain'd.

During that time, although I have not seen her, Yet divers trusty messengers I've sent, To wait about, and watch a fit convenience To give her some relief, but all in vain; A churlish guard attends upon her steps, Who menace those with death, that bring her comfort, And drive all succour from her.

_Dum._ Let 'em threaten; Let proud oppression prove its fiercest malice; So heav'n befriend my soul, as here I vow To give her help, and share one fortune with her.

_Bel._ Mean you to see her thus in your own form?

_Dum._ I do.

_Bel._ And have you thought upon the consequence?

_Dum._ What is there I should fear?

_Bel._ Have you examin'd Into your inmost heart, and try'd at leisure The sev'ral secret springs that move the pa.s.sions?

Has mercy fix'd her empire there so sure, That wrath and vengeance never may return?

Can you resume a husband's name, and bid That wakeful dragon, fierce resentment, sleep?

_Dum._ O thou hast set my busy brain at work, And now she musters up a train of images, Which, to preserve my peace, I had cast aside, And sunk in deep oblivion--Oh, that form!

That angel face on which my dotage hung!

How I have gaz'd upon her, till my soul With very eagerness went forth towards her, And issu'd at my eyes.--Was there a gem Which the sun ripens in the Indian mine, Or the rich bosom of the ocean yields?

What was there art could make, or wealth could buy, Which I have left unsought to deck her beauty?

What could her king do more?--And yet she fled.

_Bel._ Away with that sad fancy----

_Dum._ Oh, that day!

The thought of it must live for ever with me.

I met her, Belmour, when the royal spoiler Bore her in triumph from my widow'd home!

Within his chariot, by his side, she sat, And listen'd to his talk with downward looks, 'Till, sudden as she chanc'd aside to glance, Her eyes encounter'd mine--Oh! then, my friend!

Oh! who can paint my grief and her amazement!

As at the stroke of death, twice turn'd she pale; And twice a burning crimson blush'd all o'er her; Then, with a shriek heart-wounding, loud she cry'd, While down her cheeks two gus.h.i.+ng torrents ran Fast falling on her hands, which thus she wrung---- Mov'd at her grief, the tyrant ravisher, With courteous action, woo'd her oft to turn; Earnest he seem'd to plead, but all in vain; Ev'n to the last she bent her sight towards me, And follow'd me----till I had lost myself.

_Bel._ Alas, for pity! Oh! those speaking tears!

Could they be false? did she not suffer with you.

For, though the king by force possess'd her person, Her unconsenting heart dwelt still with you?

If all her former woes were not enough, Look on her now; behold her where she wanders, Hunted to death, distress'd on every side, With no one hand to help; and tell me then, If ever misery were known like hers?

_Dum._ And can she bear it? Can that delicate frame Endure the beating of a storm so rude?

Can she, for whom the various seasons chang'd To court her appet.i.te and crown her board, For whom the foreign vintages were press'd, For whom the merchant spread his silken stores, Can she---- Entreat for bread, and want the needful raiment To wrap her s.h.i.+v'ring bosom from the weather?

When she was mine, no care came ever nigh her; I thought the gentlest breeze that wakes the spring Too rough to breathe upon her; cheerfulness Danc'd all the day before her, and at night Soft slumbers waited on her downy pillow--.

Now, sad and shelterless, perhaps she lies, Where piercing winds blow sharp, and the chill rain Drops from some pent-house on her wretched head, Drenches her locks, and kills her with the cold.

It is too much.----Hence with her past offences, They are aton'd at full.----Why stay we then?

Oh! let us haste, my friend, and find her out.

_Bel._ Somewhere about this quarter of the town, I hear the poor abandon'd creature lingers: Her guard, though set with strictest watch to keep All food and friends.h.i.+p from her, yet permit her To wander in the streets, there choose her bed, And rest her head on what cold stone she pleases.

_Dum._ Here then let us divide; each in his round To search her sorrows out; whose hap it is First to behold her, this way let him lead Her fainting steps, and meet we here together. [_exeunt._

SCENE II. A STREET.

_Enter Jane Sh.o.r.e, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, and bare-footed._

_Jane S._ Yet, yet, endure, nor murmur, O, my soul!

For are not thy transgressions great and numberless?

Do they not cover thee like rising floods, And press thee like a weight of waters down?

Wait then with patience, till the circling hours Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest, And lay thee down in death.

And, hark! methinks the roar, that late pursu'd me, Sinks like the murmurs of a falling wind, And softens into silence. Does revenge And malice then grow weary, and forsake me?

My guard, too, that observ'd me still so close, Tire in the task of their inhuman office, And loiter far behind. Alas! I faint, My spirits fail at once--this is the door Of my Alicia----Blessed opportunity!

I'll steal a little succour from her goodness, Now while no eye observes me. [_she knocks at the door._

_Enter Servant._

Is your lady, My gentle friend, at home? Oh! bring me to her.

_Serv._ Hold, mistress, whither would you?

[_pulling her back._

_Jane S._ Do you not know me?

_Serv._ I know you well, and know my orders too: You must not enter here----

_Jane S._ Tell my Alicia, 'Tis I would see her.

_Serv._ She is ill at ease, And will admit no visitor.

_Jane S._ But tell her 'Tis I, her friend, the partner of her heart, Wait at the door and beg,----

_Serv._ 'Tis all in vain,-- Go hence, and howl to those that will regard you.

[_shuts the door, and exit._

_Jane S._ It was not always thus; the time has been, When this unfriendly door, that bars my pa.s.sage, Flew wide, and almost leap'd from off its hinges, To give me entrance here; when this good house Has pour'd forth all its dwellers to receive me; When my approaches made a little holiday, And every face was dress'd in smiles to meet me: But now 'tis otherwise; and those who bless'd me Now curse me to my face. Why should I wander, Stray further on, for I can die ev'n here?

[_she sits down at the door._

_Enter Alicia in disorder, two Servants following._

_Alic._ What wretch art thou, whose misery and baseness Hangs on my door; whose hateful whine of woe Breaks in upon my sorrows, and distracts My jarring senses with thy beggar's cry?

_Jane S._ A very beggar, and a wretch, indeed; One driv'n by strong calamity to seek For succours here; one peris.h.i.+ng for want, Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days; And humbly asks, for charity's dear sake, A draught of water and a little bread.

_Alic._ And dost thou come to me, to me, for bread; I know thee not--Go--hunt for it abroad, Where wanton hands upon the earth have scatter'd it, Or cast it on the waters--Mark the eagle, And hungry vulture, where they wind the prey; Watch where the ravens of the valley feed, And seek thy food with them--I know thee not.

_Jane S._ And yet there was a time, when my Alicia Has thought unhappy Sh.o.r.e her dearest blessing, And mourn'd the live-long day she pa.s.s'd without me; Inclining fondly to me, she has sworn She lov'd me more than all the world besides.

_Alic._ Ha! say'st thou? Let me look upon thee well-- 'Tis true--I know thee now--A mischief on thee!