_Raby._ Blest be the God of armies! Now, Sir Hubert, By all the saints, thou'rt a right noble knight! O why was I too old for this crusade! I think it would have made me young again, Could I, like thee, have seen the hated crescent Yield to the Christian cross.--How now, Elwina! What! cold at news which might awake the dead? If there's a drop in thy degenerate veins That glows not now, thou art not Raby's daughter. It is religion's cause, the cause of Heaven! _Elw._ When policy assumes religion's name, And wears the sanctimonious garb of faith Only to colour fraud, and license murder, War then is tenfold guilt. _Raby._ Blaspheming girl! _Elw._ 'Tis not the crosier, nor the pontiff's robe, The saintly look, nor elevated eye, Nor Palestine destroy'd, nor Jordan's banks Deluged with blood of slaughter'd infidels; No, nor the extinction of the eastern world, Nor all the mad, pernicious, bigot rage Of your crusades, can bribe that Power who sees The motive with the act. O blind, to think That cruel war can please the Prince of Peace! He, who erects his altar in the heart, Abhors the sacrifice of human blood, And all the false devotion of that zeal Which massacres the world he died to save. _Raby._ O impious rage! If thou would'st shun my curse, No more, I charge thee.--Tell me, good Sir Hubert, Say, have our arms achiev'd this glorious deed, (I fear to ask,) without much Christian bloodshed? _Elw._ Now, Heaven support me! [_aside._ _Sir H._ My good lord of Raby, Imperfect is the sum of human glory! Would I could tell thee that the field was won, Without the death of such illustrious knights As make the high-flush'd cheek of victory pale. _Elw._ Why should I tremble thus? [_aside._ _Raby._ Who have we lost? _Sir H._ The noble Clifford, Walsingham, and Grey, Sir Harry Hastings, and the valiant Pembroke, All men of choicest note. _Raby._ O that my name Had been enroll'd in such a list of heroes! If I was too infirm to serve my country, I might have prov'd my love by dying for her. _Elw._ Were there no more? _Sir H._ But few of noble blood. But the brave youth who gain'd the palm of glory, The flower of knighthood, and the plume of war, Who bore his banner foremost in the field, Yet conquer'd more by mercy than the sword, Was Percy. _Elw._ Then he lives! [_aside._ _Raby._ Did he? Did Percy? O gallant boy, then I'm thy foe no more; Who conquers for my country is my friend! His fame shall add new glories to a house, Where never maid was false, nor knight disloyal. _Sir H._ You do embalm him, lady, with your tears: They grace the grave of glory where he lies-- He died the death of honour. _Elw._ Said'st thou--died? _Sir H._ Beneath the towers of Solyma he fell. _Elw._ Oh! _Sir H._ Look to the lady. [_Elwina faints in her father's arms._