English

Alexander Mack kept a journal or private diary in which he wrote business accounts, records of the affairs of his congregation and of the community with which he was personally connected, and also many of his private meditations. It was truly a book of the heart. It is a volume of 277 pages though not quite all of these are filled.
On his birthday, January 28, 1772, he began the custom of composing a poem in commemoration of the anniversary of his birth, a custom which, with but few omissions, he continued until his death in 1803.

Six bays, unconscious of their weight,
Soon lodg'd him at Sir Gilbert's gate;
His trusty Swiss, who flew still faster,
Announc'd th' arrival of his master:
So loud the rap which shook the door,
The hall re-echoed to the roar;
Since first the castle walls were rear'd,
So dread a sound had ne'er been heard:
The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer,
Who in a corner slunk for fear;
The butler thought 'twas bent of drum,
The steward swore the French were come;
It tinged with red poor Florio's face,

Florio, a youth of gay renown,
Who figur'd much about the town,
Had pass'd, with general approbation,
The modish forms of education;
Knew what was proper to be known,
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton;
Had learnt, with very moderate reading,
The whole new system of good breeding.
He studied to be cold and rude,
Though native feeling would intrude:
Unlucky sense and sympathy,
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be.
For Florio was not meant by nature,
A silly or a worthless creature:

PART SECOND.

S ARAH , alone .

Who will have pity on me? Who will tell me
How my son fares? Servants and shepherds forth
I have sent on every side, and none returns.
Alas! belike for pity each avoids me;
Belike, already in his father's hands
He hath breathed out his innocent soul. Ah me!
Of all I love, there is none to comfort me.
Mine eyes do fill with tears, my strength dries up.
My heart is turned within me, while I look,
And there is none to help. Whither shall I turn?

PART FIRST.

ABRAHAM. ISAAC .

Ab . No more, my son; now more than half the night
O'er us, forgetful of the hours, and held
In sweet discourse, hath pass'd. Thee the desire
Of knowledge, me the love to see thee thus
Hang on my lips attentive, hath so long
Beguiled from sleep. Dear Isaac, to thy couch.
Now ask not further. To their wonted rest
Give we our weary limbs. Some other time,
What yet remains I will in full recount.

El. Thou who in judgment still remember'st mercy,
Look down upon my woes, preserve my husband.
Preserve my husband! Ah, I dare not ask it;
My very prayers may pull down ruin on me!
If Douglas should survive, what then becomes
Of — him — I dare not name? And if he conquers,
I've slain my husband. Agonizing state,
When I can neither hope, nor think, nor pray,
But guilt involves me! Sure to know the worst
Were transport to the torture of suspense,
When each event is big with equal horror.

Doug. Traitor, no more. This letter shows thy office.
Twice hast thou robb'd me of my dear revenge.
I took thee for thy leader. — Thy base blood
Would stain the noble temper of my sword.
But as the pander to thy master's lust
Thou justly fall'st by a wrong'd husband's hand.
Har. Thy wife is innocent.
Doug. Take him away.
Har. Percy, revenge my fall!
Doug. Now for the letter!

Sir Hub. O Percy! that thou liv'st, and art return'd,
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 Hub. 'Twas strange indeed!
Per. 'Twas Heav'n'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 doting heart,

Doug. See that the traitor instantly be seiz'd,
And strictly watch'd; let none have access to him.
O jealousy, thou aggregate of woes!
Were there no hell, thy torments would create one.
But yet she may be guiltless — may! she must.
How beautiful she look'd! pernicious beauty!
Yet innocent, as warm, seem'd the sweet blush
That mantled on her cheek. But not for me,
But not for me those breathing roses blow!
And when she wept — what! can I bear her tears!
Well — let her weep — her tears are for another;

Bir. What may this mean? Earl Douglas has enjoin'd thee
To meet him here in private?
Ed. Yes, my sister,
And this injunction have I oft receiv'd;
But when he comes, true to th' appointed hour,
He starts, looks wild, then drops ambiguous hints,
Frowns, hesitates, turns pale, and says 'twas nothing;
Then feigns to smile, and by his anxious care
To prove himself at ease, betrays his pain.
Bir. Since my short sojourn here, I've mark'd this earl.