Act II., on the plain of Aughrim, at five o’clock in the morning, Jemima

enters and proclaims her love. The lovers have an interview, which concludes by a mutual confession of attachment, and Jemima says, ‘Here, take my hand. ‘Tis true the gift is small, but when I can, I’ll give you heart and all.’ The lines show finely the agitation of the young person. She meant to say, Take _my heart_, but she is longing to be married to him, and the words slip out as it were unawares. Godfrey cries in raptures--

‘Thanks to the gods! who such a present gave: Such radiant graces ne’er could man _receive_ (_resave_); For who on earth has e’er such transports known? What is the Turkish monarch on his throne, Hemmed round _with rusty swords_ in pompous state? Amidst his court no joys can be so great. Retire with me, my soul, no longer stay! In public view, the General moves this way.’

‘Tis, indeed, the General; who, reconciled with Sarsfield, straightway, according to his custom, begins to boast about what he will do:--

‘Thrice welcome to my heart, thou best of friends! The rock on which our holy faith depends! May this our meeting as a tempest make The vast foundations of Britannia shake, Tear up their orange plant, and overwhelm The strongest bulwarks of the British realm! Then shall the Dutch and Hanoverian fall, And James shall ride in triumph to Whitehall; Then to protect our faith he will maintain An inquisition here like that in Spain.

_Sars._ Most bravely urged, my Lord! your skill, I own, Would be _unparalleled_--had you saved Athlone.’

--‘Had you saved Athlone!’ Sarsfield has him there. And the contest of words might have provoked quarrels still more fatal, but alarms are heard: the battle begins, and St. Ruth (still confident) goes to meet the enemy, exclaiming, ‘Athlone was sweet, but Aughrim shall be sour.’ The fury of the Irish is redoubled on hearing of Talbot’s heroic death. The Colonel’s corpse is presently brought in, and to it enters Jemima, who bewails her loss in the following pathetic terms:--

‘_Jemima._ Oh!--he is dead!--my soul is all on fire, Witness ye gods!--he did with fame expire; For Liberty a sacrifice was made, And fell, like Pompey, by some _villain’s_ blade. There lies a breathless corse, whose soul ne’er knew A thought but what was always just and true; Look down from heaven, God of peace and love, Waft him with triumph to the throne above; And oh! ye winged guardians of the skies! Tune your sweet harps, and sing his obsequies! Good friends, stand off----whilst I embrace the ground Whereon he lies--------and bathe each mortal wound With brinish tears, that like to torrents run From these sad eyes. Oh heavens! I’m undone [_Falls down on the body._

_Enter_ SIR CHARLES GODFREY. _He raises her._

_Sir Char._ Why do these precious eyes like fountains flow, _To drown the radiant heaven that lies below_? Dry up your tears, I trust his soul ere this Has reached the mansions of eternal bliss. Soldiers! bear hence the body out of sight. [_They bear him off._

_Jem._ Oh, stay--ye murderers, cease to kill me quite: See how he glares!----and see again he flies! The clouds fly open, and he mounts the skies. Oh! see his blood, it shines refulgent bright,} I see him yet--I cannot lose him quite,} But still pursue him on--and--_lose my sight_.’}

The gradual disappearance of the Colonel’s soul is now finely indicated, and so is her grief, when showing the body to Sir Charles, she says, ‘Behold the mangled cause of all my woes.’ The sorrow of youth, however, is but transitory; and when her lover bids her dry her _gushish_ tears, she takes out her pocket-handkerchief with the elasticity of youth, and consoles herself for the father in the husband.