The Surrender of Calais Part 11

_King._ The glory!--Why, by Heaven! these headstrong French Toy with our punishments!

For thee, rash stripling! who dost brave our vengeance, Prepare to meet it. Yoke thee with this knave, Whose insolence hath roused our spleen, and, straight, You both shall suffer for't together.

_Julia._ [_Kneeling._] Sir!

Ere I do meet my fate, upon my knees I make one poor request. This man, great sir!

(Tho' now, there's reason why he knows me not,) I own doth touch me nearly.--I do owe him A debt of grat.i.tude;--'twould shock me sore To see him in his agony;--so please you, Command, that, in the order of our deaths, I may precede him.

_King._ Well;--so be it, then.-- Guards! lead them forth.

_Julia._ And might he--oh, dread sir!

Might he but live, I then should be at peace.

_King._ Conduct them to their fate.

_Julia._ [_Rises._] Then, ere we go, a word at parting;-- For here your spleen o'erleaps the bound of prudence.

The blood you now would spill, is pure and n.o.ble; Nor will the shedding of it lack avengers.

Shame on disguise! off with't, my lord! [_To RIBAUMONT._]--Behold Our France's foremost champion: and remember, In many a hardy fight, the gallant deeds (For fame has blown them loudly King!) of Ribaumont.

Oft has he put you to't:--nay, late, at Cressy, Ask of your Black Prince Edward, there, how long Count Ribaumont and he were point to point.

He has attack'd our foe; reliev'd our people; Succour'd our town, till cruel disappointment, Where he had fix'd his gallant heart, did turn him Wild with despairing love. Old John de Vienne Denied his daughter to him;--drove him hither, To meet your cruelty;--and now, that daughter, Grown desperate as he, doth brave it, King!

And we will die together.

[_Runs and embraces RIBAUMONT._

_Ribau._ Heaven!--my Julia!

Art thou then true?--O give me utterance!

Now, fortune, do thy worst!-- [_Throws off his Disguise._ You cannot, King!

You dare not, for your life, lay savage hands On female innocence!--and, for myself, E'en use your will.

[_KING descends from the Throne; HARCOURT kneels and offers his Arm; and the QUEEN descends, and goes opposite to the KING._

_King._ Lady, you are free:---- Our British Knights are famed for courtesy; And it will ne'er, I trust, be said an Englishman Denied protection to a woman. You Must, under guard, my lord! abide our pleasure:-- For the remainder, they have heard our will, And they must suffer: 'tis but fit we prove, Spite of their obstinate and close defence, Our English excellence.

_Queen._ [_Kneels._] Oh! then, my liege, Prove it in mercy.

War, n.o.ble sir! when too far push'd, is butchery: When manly victory o'erleaps its limits, The tyrant blasts the laurels of the conqueror.

Let it not dwell within your thoughts, my liege, Thus to oppress these men. And, royal sir!

Since you were free to promise Whatever boon I begg'd,--now, on my knee, I beg it, sir. Release these wretched men: Make me the means of cheering the unhappy: And, though my claim were tenfold what it is Upon your bounty, 'twould reward me n.o.bly.

_King._ Rise, madam. Tho' it was our fix'd intent To awe these French, by terrible example, Our promise still is sacred, good Philippa.

Your suit is won; and we relax our rigour.---- Let them pa.s.s free; while we do here p.r.o.nounce A general pardon.

_La Gloire._ A pardon! no!--Oh diable!--My father! and my commander too!--Huzza!--[_Takes the Rope from his Father's Neck, then from his own, and runs down with the Three Kinsmen._]---Oh! that I should live to unrope my poor old father, and master!

[_Runs to RIBAUMONT, and takes the Rope off his Neck._

_Enter MADELON._

[_She and LA GLOIRE rush into each other's Arms._

_Madelon._ Oh! my poor La Gloire!--My tears--

_La Gloire._ That's right! Cry, Madelon!--cry for joy, wench!--Old Eustache is safe!--my Captain and relations free!--Here's a whole bundle of honest necks recovered: mine's tossed in, in the lump; and we'll be married, Madelon, to-morrow.

_King._ Now, my lord! for you:-- We have, I trust, some influence here; Nor will we quit your town, until we see Your marriage solemnized-- [_To RIBAUMONT._

_O'Carrol._ Well, if I didn't know what crying was before, I have found it out at last.--'Faith it has a mighty pleasant relieving sort of a feel with it.

_King._ Prepare we, then, to enter Calais; straight Give order for our march-- Breathe forth, our instruments of war; and, as We do approach the rugged walls, sound high The strains of victory.

GRAND CHORUS.

_Rear, rear our English banner high_ _In token proud of victory!_ _Where'er our G.o.d of battle strides,_ _Loud sound the trump of fame!_ _Where'er the English warrior rides,_ _May laurel'd conquest grace his name._

[_Exeunt omnes._

THE END.