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FIRST ANGEL. I'll smooth his cares in pleasing dreams, Till grief in joyful raptures die.
Whatever glorious and renown'd
In British annals can be found;
Whatever actions shall adorn
Britannia's heroes, yet unborn,
In dreadful visions shall succeed ;
On fancy's fields the Gauls shall bleed,
Cressy shall stand before his eyes,
And Agincourt and Blenheim rise."
See, see, he smiles amidst his trance,
And shakes a visionary lance,
His brain is fill’d with loud alarms;
Shouting armies, clashing arms,
The softer prints of love deface ;
And trumpets sound in ey'ry trace.
The field is won !
And love is gone.
To calm thy grief and lull thy cares,
Look up and see
What, after long revolving years,
Thy bower shall be !
When time its beauties shall deface,
And only with its ruins grace
The future prospect of the place.
Behold the glorious pile ascending !*
Columns swelling, arches bending,
Scene changes to the Plan of Blenheim Castle.
Domes in awful pomp arising,
Art in curious strokes surprising,
Foes in figur'd fights contending,
Behold the glorious pile ascending!
He sees, he sees the great
reward For Anna's mighty chief prepard : His growing joys no measure keep, Too vehement and fierce for sleep.
* Let grief and love at once engage,
His heart is proof to all their pain ; Love may plead,
But both shall plead and rage in vain."
[The Angels ascend, and the vision disappears. HENRY, starting from the couch. Where have my ravish'd senses been! What joys, what wonders, have I seen! The scene yet stands before my eye, A thousand glorious deeds that lie In deep futurity obscure, Fights and triumphs immature, Heroes immers'd in time's dark womb, Ripening for mighty years to come, Break forth, and, to the day display'd, My soft inglorious hours upbraid. Transported with so bright a scheme, My waking life appears a dream.
" Adieu, ye wanton shades and bowers, Wreaths of myrtle, beds of flowers, ';
To love and you
A long adieu !"
O Rosamond ! O rising wo!
Why do my weeping eyes o'erflow?
O Rosamond! O fair distress'd !
How shall my heart, with grief oppressid,
Its unrelenting purpose tell;
And take the long, the last farewell !
« Rise, glory, rise in all thy charms,
Thy waving crest, and burnish'd arms,
Spread thy gilded banners round,
Make thy thundering courser bound,
Bid the druni and trumpet join,
Warm my soul with rage divine;
All thy pomps around thee call :
To conquer Love will ask them all." [Exit
The Scene changes to that part of the Bower where
Sir Trusty lies upon the ground, with the bowl and dagger on the table.
Every star, and every pow'r,
Look down on this important hour:
Lend your protection and defence
Every guard of innocence !
Help me my Henry to assuage,
To gain his love or bear his rage.
« Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, Hast thou more of pain or pleasure !
Chili'd with tears,
Kill'd with fears,
Endless torments dwell about thee :
Yet who would live, and live without thee !"
But oh the sight my soul alarms ::
My lord appears, I'm all on fire ! Why am I banish'd from his arms ? My heart's too full, I must retire.
[Retires to the end of the stage..
Some dreadful birth of fate is near :
Or why, my soul, unus'd to fear,
With secret horror dost thou shake ?
Can dreams such dire impressions make!
What means this solemn, silent show?
This pomp of death, this scene of wo!
Support me, heav'n! what's this I read ?
Oh horror! Rosamond is dead.
What shall I say, or whither turn?
With grief, and rage, and love, I burn:
From thought to thought my soul is tost,
And in the whirl of passion lost.
Why did I not in battle fall,
Crush'd by the thunder of the Gaul ?
Why did the spear my bosom miss ?
Ye powers, was I resery'd for this !
« Distracted with wo
I'll rush on the foe
The sword or the dart
Shall pierce my sad heart,
And finish my grief !”
Fain would my tongue his griefs appease,
And give his tortur'd bosom ease. [Aside.
But see! the cause of all my fears,
The source of all my grief appears !
No unexpected guest is here;
The fatal bowl
soul Eleonora was too near.
Why do I here my lord receive ?
Is this the welcome that you give ?
Thus should divided lovers meet?
« And is it thus, ah! thus we greeti"
What, in these guilty shades, could you,
Inglorious conqueror, pursue ?
Cruel woman, what could you ?
Degenerate thoughts have fir'd your breast.
The thirst of blood has yours possess'd.
QUEEN. “ A heart so unrepenting,