The Sanctuary: A Dramatic Sketch.

In this wise the Duke of Gloucester took upon himself the order and governance of the young King, whom, with much honour and humble reverence, he conveyed towards London. But the tidings of this matter came hastily to the Queen, a little before the midnight following; and that, in secret wise, her son was taken, her brother and other friends arrested, and sent no man wist whither, to be done with God wot what. With which tidings the Queen, with great heaviness, bewailed her child's reign, her friend's mischance, and her own misfortune, damning the time that ever she dissuaded the gathering of powers about the King; got herself, in all haste possible, with her young son and her daughter, out of the palace of Westminster, in which they then lay, into the Sanctuary; lodging herself and company there in the Abbott's place. - Speed's "History of England," book ix.

SCENE I.

Elizabeth, widow of Edward IV., in the palace of Westminster, watching her youngest son, Richard, sleeping.

ELIZ. The minster-clock tolls midnight; I have watched

Night after night, and heard the same sad sound

Knolling; the same sad sound, night after night;

As if, amid the world's deep silence, Time,

Pausing a moment in his onward flight,

From yonder solitary, moonlit pile,

More awful spoke, as with a voice from heaven,

Of days and hours departed, and of those

That "are not;" till, like dreams of yesterday,

The very echo dies!

Oh, my poor child!

Thou hast been long asleep; by the pale lamp

I sit and watch thy slumbers; thy calm lids

Are closed; thy lips just parted; one hand lies

Upon thy breast, that scarce is seen to heave

Beneath it; and thy breath so still is drawn,

Save to a sleepless mother's listening ear,

It were inaudible; and, see! a smile

Seems even now lighting on thy lip, dear boy,

As thou wert dreaming of delightful things

In some celestial region of sweet sounds,

Or summer fields, and skies without a cloud;

(Ah! how unlike this dark and troubled world!)

Let not one kiss awaken thee, one kiss,

Mingled with tears and prayer to God in heaven.

So dream; and never, never may those eyes

Awake suffused with tears, as mine are now,

To think that life's best hopes are such a dream!

Now sleeps the city through its vast extent,

That, restless as the ocean-waves, at morn,

With its ten thousand voices shall awake,

Lifting the murmur of its multitude

To heaven's still gate! Now all is hushed as death;

None are awake, save those who wake to weep,

Like me; save those who meditate revenge,

Or beckon muttering Murder. God of heaven!

From the hyena panting for their blood,

Oh save my youthful Edward! and, poor child!

Preserve thy innocence to happier hours.

Hark! There is knocking at the western gate.

A messenger enters, and announces to her that her brother had been arrested on the road, by    the Duke of Glo'ster.

ELIZ. O my poor child, thou sleepest now in peace!

Wilt thou sleep thus another year? shall I

Hang o'er thee with a mother's look of love,

Thus bend beside thy bed, thus part the hair

Upon thy forehead, and thus kiss thy cheek?

Richard, awake! the tiger is abroad.

We must to sanctuary instantly.

Richard awaking.

RICH. Oh! I have had the sweetest dreams, dear mother!

Methought my brother Edward and myself

And -

ELIZ. Come, these are no times to talk of dreams;

We must to sanctuary, my poor boy;

We'll talk of dreams hereafter. Kneel with me.

Takes him from his couch, and kisses him.

RICH. Mother, why do you weep and tremble so?

ELIZ. I have a pain at heart! Come, stir thee, boy!

Lift up thy innocent hands to Heaven; here kneel

And pray with me before this crucifix.

Her daughters enter, and they all kneel together.

SCENE II.

The Sanctuary at Westminster.

RICH. O my dear mother! why do we sit here,

Amid these dusky walls and arches dim,

When it is summer in the fields without,

And sunshine? Say, is not my brother king,

Why will he not come here to play with me;

Shall I not see my brother?

ELIZ.    My own child,

Oh! let me hide these tears upon thy head!

Thy brother, shalt thou see him? Yes, I hope.

Come, I will tell a tale: - There was a boy

Who had a cruel uncle -

RICH.    I have heard

My uncle Glo'ster was a cruel man;

But he was always kind to me, and said

That I should be a king, if Edward died;

I'd rather be a bird to fly away,

Or sing -

ELIZ.    The serpent's eye of fire,

With slow and deadly glare, poor bird, I fear,

Is fixed on thee and Edward - God avert it!

RICH. And therefore must not I go out to play?

ELIZ. Go, play among the tombs - I will go too;

Go, play with skulls and bones; or see the train

Of sceptred kings come slowly through the gloom,

And widowed queens move in the shroud of death

Along the glimmering aisles and hollow vaults.

Would I were with them - I shall be so soon!

RICH. Mother, methought I saw him yesterday -

ELIZ. Saw whom?

RICH.    My father; and he seemed to look -

I cannot say how sadly. Could it be

His spirit? He was armed, but very pale

And sorrowful his countenance. I heard

No sound of footsteps when he moved away

And disappeared among the distant tombs

In further darkness.

ELIZ.    O my son, my son!

Thou hadst a king thy father - he is dead;

Thou hadst been happier as a peasant's child!

RICH. Oh! how I wish I were a shepherd's boy,

For then, dear mother! I would run and play

With Edward; and we two, in primrose-time,

Would wander out among the villages,

Or go a-Maying by some river's side,

And mark the minnow-shoals, when morning shone

Upon the yellow gravel, shoot away

Beneath the old gray arch, or bring home cowslips

For all my sisters, for Elizabeth,

And you, dear mother, if you would not weep so.

ELIZ. Richard, break not my heart; give me your hand,

And kneel with me by this cold monument.

Spirit of my loved husband, now in heaven,

If, at this moment, thou dost see thy son,

And me, thus broken-hearted, - oh! if aught

Yet human touches thee, assist these prayers,

That him, and me, and my poor family,

God, in the hour of peril, may protect!

Let not my heart yet break.

Come, my poor boy!

SCENE III.

The Cardinal of York[196] - Queen - Richard.

ELIZ. Now, my Lord Cardinal, what is the will

Of our great lords with me? Your Grace well knows

I am a helpless woman, have no power;

My only wish, for what of life remains,

Prayer and repose, and for my poor child here

Safety.

CAR. The Council, madam, wish no less;

But, for your son, they deem his durance here

Breeds ill report. This separation, too,

Of those in blood allied, almost of years

The same, who have been cradled in one lap,

What can it say, but that one brother stands

In peril of the other? And, besides,

Were it not for the comfort of them both

That they should be together? Sport, not care,

Becomes their early years.

ELIZ.    I say not nay;

It is most fitting that my youngest son

Were with the king, his brother; in good faith,

I know it would be comfort to them both:

But, when I think upon the tender years,

Even of the eldest, I must also think

A mother's custody were best for either.

You have no children, else I would not ask,

Is there a guardian like a mother's love?

Richard, look up! This good man here intends

No harm to me or you. Look up, my boy!

No power on earth, nothing but death itself

Shall sever us.

What would you more, my Lord?

CAR. Madam, no man contendeth that your Grace

Is not the fittest guardian of your child,

And tenderest; but, if so it pleases you

Here to lie hid, shut out from all the world,

Be it for humour or for jealousy,

We hold it meetest, that no power on earth

Should so detain a brother of the King.

And let me add, when reasons of the state

Required the absence of your eldest son,

Yourself were well content.

ELIZ.    Not very well;

Nor is the case the same; one was in health,

The other here declines; and let me marvel

That he, the Lord Protector of this realm,

Should wish him out; for, should aught ill betide,

Suspicion, in some tempers, might arise

Against the keeping of his Grace. My Lord,

Do they complain that my child Richard here

Is with his desolate and widowed mother,

Who has no other comfort? Do they claim

His presence, for that here his residence

Consorts not with his fortunes? I am fixed

Not to come forth and jeopardy his life.

CAR. Jeopardy! Where, and how; - why should, indeed,

Your friends have any fears? Can you say why?

ELIZ. Truly; nor why in prison they should be,

As now they are, I know no reason why.

But this I know, that they who, without colour,

Have cast them into prison, if they will,

Their deaths may compass with as little cause.

My Lord, no more of this.

CAR.    My gracious queen,

This only let me say; if, by arrest,

Your Grace's high and honourable kin

Be now confined, when trial has been had,

They shall do well; and for your Grace's self,

There never was, nor can be, jeopardy.

ELIZ. Why should I trust? That I am innocent!

And were they guilty? That I am more loved,

Even by those enemies, who only hate

Them for my sake!

Therefore I will not forth,

Nor shall my son, - here will we both abide.

These shrines shall be the world to him and me;

These monuments our sad companions;

Or when, as now, the morning sunshine streams

Slant from the rich-hued window's height, and rests

On yonder tomb, it shall discourse to me

Of the brief sunshine in the gloom of life.

No, of heaven's light upon the silent grave;

Of the tired traveller's eternal home;

Of hope and joy beyond this vale of tears.

CAR. Then pardon me. We will not bandy words

Further. If it shall please you, generous queen,

To yield your son, I pledge my life and soul,

Not only for a surety, but estate.

If resolutely still you answer no,

We shall forthwith depart, for nevermore

Will I be suitor in this business

Unto your Majesty, who thus accuse,

Either of want of knowledge or of truth,

Those who would stake their lives on the event.

Madam, farewell!

ELIZ. [after a pause]. Stay, let me think again.

If you say sooth - and I have found you ever,

My Lord, a faithful friend and counsellor -

Into your hands I here resign, in trust,

My dearest treasure upon earth, my son.

Of you I will require him, before Heaven;

Yet, for the love which his dead father bore you,

For kindnesses of old, and for that trust

The king, my husband, ever placed in you,

Think, if a wretched mother fear too much,

Oh think, and be you wary, lest you fear

Too little!

My poor child, here then we part!

Richard! Almighty God shower on your head

His blessings, when your mother is no more.

Farewell, my own sweet son! Yet, ere we part,

Kiss me again, God only knows, poor babe,

Whether in this world we shall meet again!

Nay, my boy Richard, let me dry thy tears,

Or hide them in my bosom; dearest child,

God's blessing rest with thee! - farewell, farewell!

My heart is almost broken - oh, farewell!