 | Athelstan |  |
SCENE III.
To them, Gothmund in Triumph. A Train of Prisoners. And Egbert in Chains, as a Prisoner.Harold.
Hail, valiant Gothmund! Denmark's proudest Boast!
Whom mighty Odin, the dread God of War,
Hath crown'd with England's Conquest!
Gothmund.
Faithful Harold,
The City's won. London, whose haughty Tow'rs
We shook so long with terrible Assault,
At length is fall'n, and blazes to the Sky.
'Twas Pity, Harold, on so great a Day,
When the rich Plunder of the War was seiz'd,
Thy Valour lost it's Prey. But fair Division
Of our acquired Spoil, of Wealth and Captives,
Shall bring thee Recompense.
Harold.
I thank thee, Gen'ral.
Devoted to thy Will, I held my Charge,
To guard our Camp from the out-sallying Foe:
A Charge less splendid than the Post in Battle;
Yet, as conducing to the general Weal,
No whit less honourable.
Gothmund.
Harold, behold
This Train of Captives: to thy Charge I give them:
But chiefly that stern Youth, whose Arm oppos'd
Singly to mine, long held the Conflict doubtful.
No common Ransom shall redeem him hence.
Why dost thou frown?
[to Egbert.
7
Because I dare to scorn
My Country's Foe.
Gothmund.
So haughty in thy Chains?
What Title bear'st thou?
Egbert.
'Tis enough for thee,
To know me still a Briton: thence to fear me.
Gothmund.
A Conqu'ror fear his Captive! By our Gods,
Speak but another Word, audacious Christian,
I'll plunge thee in the deep Norwegian Mine,
Among these Slaves the Vassals of my Sword,
To toil in Darkness thro' the live-long Year,
Till baleful Damps consume thee.
Egbert.
Yes: bury me in Darkness; in the Depth,
Where Slavery drinks the pestilential Vapour;
For that I've liv'd to see my Country's Fall!
I dare thee to the Deed, rapacious Dane!
But well I know, thy Hand expects the Ransom;
Nor aught but Av'rice chains thy Cruelty.
Gothmund.
What? Shall I waste the Hours in fruitless Parle
With an audacious Slave!—Lo, Mercia's Duke
Comes with his warlike Train. Retire, ye Slaves;
And at an awful Distance bow to Valour.—
[They retire backwards.
This firey Athelstan! Yes, I cou'd curse
[Aside.
His Sword victorious, and wide wasting Arm
That blasted all my Wreaths; and won the Praise
Of this eventful Day!—Hence envious Fame
Shall tarnish Gothmund's Glory; while she whispers,
Or haply to the listning World proclaims,
That Britain conquer'd Britain.—Come; fell Hate!
Pour all thy Poison on my Heart; and turn
8
The Rebel dare not: Nor can e'er repass
The Gulph which he hath leapt; and severs him
For ever from his Country.—Yet 'tis meet
That Prudence greet him with fair Speech, and Smiles;
Till some desir'd Occasion yield Pretence,
And spurn him off, to Shame.—
Let Denmark's Raven wave his dreadful Wing,
[Aloud.
To hail the glad Approach of Athelstan:
And sound, in Honour of our firm Ally,
The Instruments of War.
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