! [_he takes her hand._

_Elw._ O Percy!

_Dou._ [_starts._] Do my senses fail me?

_Elw._ My Percy, 'tis Elwina calls.

_Dou._ Hell, hell!

_Raby._ Retire awhile, my daughter.

_Elw._ Douglas here,
My father and my husband?--O for pity--
[_exit, casting a look of anguish on both._

_Dou._ Now, now confess she well deserves my vengeance!
Before my face to call upon my foe!

_Raby._ Upon a foe who has no power to hurt thee--
Earl Percy's slain.

_Dou._ I live again.--But hold--
Did she not weep? she did, and wept for Percy.
If she laments him, he's my rival still,
And not the grave can bury my resentment.

_Raby._ The truly brave are still the truly gen'rous;
Now, Douglas, is the time to prove thee both.
If it be true that she did once love Percy,
Thou hast no more to fear, since he is dead.
Release young Harcourt, let him see Elwina,
'Twill serve a double purpose, 'twill at once
Prove Percy's death, and thy unchang'd affection.
Be gentle to my child, and win her heart
By confidence and unreproaching love.

_Dou._ By Heaven, thou counsel'st well! it shall be done.
Go set him free, and let him have admittance
To my Elwina's presence.

_Raby._ Farewell, Douglas.
Shew thou believ'st her faithful, and she'll prove so. [_exit._

_Dou._ Northumberland is dead--that thought is peace!
Her heart may yet be mine, transporting hope!
Percy was gentle, even a foe avows it,
And I'll be milder than a summer's breeze.
Yes, thou most lovely, most ador'd of women,
I'll copy every virtue, every grace,
Of my bless'd rival, happier even in death
To be thus loved, than living to be scorn'd. [_exit._

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I. A GARDEN AT RABY CASTLE, WITH A BOWER.

_Enter Percy and Sir Hubert._

_Sir H._ That Percy lives, and is return'd in safety,
More joys my soul than all the mighty conquests
That sun beheld, which rose on Syria's ruin.

_Per._ I've told thee, good Sir Hubert, by what wonder
I was preserv'd, though number'd with the slain.

_Sir H._ 'Twas strange, indeed!

_Per._ 'Twas Heaven's immediate work!
But let me now indulge a dearer joy,
Talk of a richer gift of Mercy's hand;
A gift so precious to my doating heart,
That life preserv'd is but a second blessing.
O Hubert, let my soul indulge its softness!
The hour, the spot, is sacred to Elwina.
This was her fav'rite walk; I well remember,
(For who forgets that loves as I have lov'd?)
'Twas in that very bowe