 | Athelstan |  |
SCENE V.
To them, Thyra, Edwina, Siward, and female Attendants.Gothmund.
Indeed, supremely fair.
Athelstan.
Thyra, be comforted: Nay, dry these Tears.
Else shall I deem my too officious Cares
Lost on a thankless Heart.
Thyra.
Oh, Athelstan!
Whose Mercy speaks thee brave! Forgive these Tears.
For my dear Lord, to me than Life more dear,
These Sorrows flow!—Indeed, my thankful Heart
Melts in warm Gratitude to thy kind Care,
Which sav'd me from the Horrors of this Day.
But, Oh!—my Husband!
Gothmund.
Why these streaming Tears?
What of her Husband? Did he fall in Battle?
Athelstan.
That is her Fear:
Tho' Rumour yet speak doubtful of his Fate.
Thyra.
Too sure, he's fall'n!—Ye gen'rous Warriors, hear,—
Hear a poor Captive's Pray'r!—Oh, let your Guards
Conduct my faithful Servants to the Field:
Or give me Safe-guard thro' the deathful Scene;
I will divest me of my Woman's Fear,
And with a Scythian Boldness tread in Gore;
Drag off the Heaps of overwhelming Foes,
Till I have found my Egbert's dear Remains,
To give them Burial. The last, mournful Duty
I e'er can pay his Love.
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Despond not, Fair one:
Haply, he yet may live.
Thyra.
Oh, flatt'ring Hope!
Grant me but That!—But That, ye Pow'rs of Heav'n!
Gothmund.
Now, by our Gods of Denmark, Athelstan,
This is too bright a Fair, for Age like thine
Idly to gaze on.
Athelstan.
Beauty, thus afflicted,
Merits my Pow'r's Protection.
Gothmund.
Is she not
The Captive of thy Sword?
Athelstan.
True, but the Sword
That won, shall guard her.
Gothmund.
What if Gothmund's Will
Shou'd raise this Fair one from the captive Throng,
To grace his Bed?
Athelstan.
By Law of War she's mine;
And I have sworn Protection.
Gothmund.
From thy Foe
To shield thy Captive, were a Task of Praise
Worthy thy Arm. But when a true Ally,
Thy Friend in War, intreats so small a Boon—
Athelstan.
Gothmund, the Friend whose erring Wish demands
What Honour cannot yield—I pray, no more—
Gothmund.
If Gothmund's Friendship, in thy thankless Heart,
Insensible to all my proffer'd Bounty,
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Let thy Pow'r shield her as it may.—Lead on.—
[Exit Gothmund.
Athelstan.
Imperious Dane! Would'st thou bend Athelstan
Beneath thy Pride?—His parting Words and Looks
Darted Contempt.—This the Reward of Conquest?
This, Valour's Recompense?
Siward.
'Twas what I fear'd.—
Why did Revenge seduce thee from thy King!
Bear Witness, Heav'n, if e'er I trod the Field,
Or bar'd my Sword in seeming Aid of Denmark,
Save in the honest Hope, to check thy Vengeance.
Athelstan.
What? To a thankless King, a favour'd Foe
Basking beneath the royal Smile, to yield
With coward-like Submission?—Friend, no more.
The Dye of Fate is thrown.
Siward.
Didst thou not see,
How Passion kindled, while with ardent Gaze
He ey'd fair Thyra's Charms? His Soul hath caught
A swift and deep Infection. Mark th' Event.
Athelstan.
Weak is thy Fear. Tho' bold in Violence,
He dare not wake my Rage.
Thyra.
Oh gen'rous Duke,
Behold me at thy Feet! I see the Storm
Fast gath'ring o'er my Head! Redeem, redeem me
From this rapacious Dane! I dread not Death;
Whose Image, from my earliest Age of Woe,
Hath been the calm Companion of my Thoughts.
Then let thy Arm, which on this fatal Morn
Did shield me, now compleat it's gen'rous Care.
My forfeit Life is thine. In Pity kill me,
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Athelstan.
By my good Sword, which won thee in the Storm,
Again I swear, not Denmark's proudest Threat
Shall wrest thee from me.—Siward, are my Mercians
Camp'd in their separate Quarter?
Siward.
Aye, my Lord:
Westward, a Mile; on a fair rising Ground,
Fast by the River's Brink.
Athelstan.
This Night I meant
To pass in Council with the General Gothmund,
On future Enterprize. But since his Pride
Brooks no Controul;—wou'd Heav'n I had not come!
Since it is thus:—At least his Pride shall seek me:
And if I find him bent on Violence,
The Morning Sun shall see me quit his Camp.
Hast thou prepar'd fair Thyra's Tent by mine?
Siward.
I did command it so.
Athelstan.
Retire we then.
Thyra.
I merit not thy Care. Why shou'd I live,
When my dear Lord is lost, and England fall'n!
Athelstan.
Touch not on That:—For by this Arm it fell.
Yes: I have wash'd my Footsteps in the Blood
Of my despairing Foes.—But oh, for whom!
I'll think no more.—Come, Thyra, to thy Tent.
| Athelstan | |