University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The open Camp.
Gothmund, Harold, Dunelm.
Gothmund.
Hast thou not seen her, Harold?

Harold.
Much I have heard.
Her Beauty dwells on ev'ry Soldier's Tongue,
And half eclipses Conquest.

Gothmund.
Oh, such Beauty!
Harold, her Eye's bright Beam might thaw the cold
Norwegian's Breast; or warm the frozen Sons
Of Lapland into Love.—Oh Earth and Heav'n!
My Soul's on Fire!—The Glories of the War,
The Wreaths of Conquest sicken on her Sight.
Avaunt, Ambition! yield thy Throne to Love!
Harold, she must be mine.

Harold.
What lets thee then?
What Bar so strong, to guard her from thy Wish?
Each cobweb Hindrance to thy Breath shall yield,
If thou but will her Thine.

Gothmund.
May I ne'er taste the Warrior's Lot in Death,
Ne'er quaff the rich Meath in th' infernal Courts,
Where mighty Odin rules the glorious Dead,
If I not seize her Beauties.—But, brave Harold,
This delicate Captive is no common Food,
Like what we snatch in ev'ry City's Plunder,
For gross Desire to feed on. I wou'd win
Her Soul's Consent: wou'd kindle mutual Passion,
To meet my Flame: At least, by fair Persuasion
Wou'd temper Pow'r; that the Effect might seem
Without all Shew of Violence. Harold, haste thee
To the fair Captive's Tent. Tell her, the Gods
Of Denmark claim their wonted Sacrifice
Of captive Youths, and thirst for England's Gore.
But if her dear Consent shall crown my Wish,
Our Gods propitious will accept her Smile,
In Ransom for their Blood. Paint forth the Terrors
Of the dread Sacrifice; the Victims bound;
The howling Incantations of our Priests
Invoking Hell; the glittering Faulcion bar'd;
The streaming Gore, and Horrors of the Altar.
The mournful Tale shall melt her into Grief,
And Pity plead Consent.

Harold.
I wait thy Will.
Yet were my Counsel worthy Gothmund's Ear—

Gothmund.
What woud'st thou?—Say.—

Harold.
Some captive Briton best
Wou'd bend her Pride.

Gothmund.
Not so. These stubborn Britons,
Unconquer'd ev'n in Chains, defy our Swords;
Awful in Ruin: Like their kindred Oaks,
Tho' blasted by the Thunder of the War,
They proudly bear their scorched Ribs aloft,
And brave the Pow'r that struck them. Therefore, Harold,
That Hope is vain.

Harold.
Persuasion, sure, wou'd flow
Prompt, and more pow'rful from some Captive's Tongue,
To Death or endless Slav'ry doom'd; yet sooth'd
With Hope, and promis'd Freedom. For the Speech
Of mimic Art is weak and sinewless,
To the strong Workings of the lab'ring Soul,
When Passion glows within.

Gothmund.
'Tis well advis'd.
Then lead some captive Briton to her Tent,
On this great Purpose. But o'er all I fear
This haughty Athelstan: He claims her His,
By Law of Battle; and hath sworn Protection.

Harold.
Is Gothmund's Pow'r so weak, then, that he dreads
A Traitor's Frown?

Gothmund.
Nay, by our Gods, I'll seize her;
Tho' he, and all the witching Pow'rs of Hell,
Tho' the weird Sisters, and each horrible Shape
That haunts the midnight Forest, hemm her round
With Magick Incantation.—Harold, speed thee.
I'll wait thee in my Tent.—
[Exit Gothmund.

SCENE II.

Harold.
Now, Spirit of Mischief, rise! Welcome, foul Fiend,
That rid'st the Carr of Night; and scatter'st Plagues
With unseen Hand!—Dunelm, he fears me not:
Nor dreams what Tempest soon shall blacken round.
Did'st thou not mark that frowning Captive, Egbert?

Dunelm.
I did.

Harold.
He best will bear the General's Love
To Thyra's Tent.—Command him hither, Dunelm.
[Exit Dunelm.
His gen'rous Heart shall burn with fierce Disdain;
And strengthen Thyra's Virtue into Scorn,
Which Pity cannot bend.—So black a Purpose
Known and proclaim'd, may haply rouze to Rage
The Duke of Mercia; in whose fiery Breast
Lies Fury, ripe to catch, and blaze in Flames.
Oh, for some swift Occasion, that my Breath
May kindle Discord into deadly Feud!
Like angry Clouds that sail on warring Winds,
Their fierce conflicting Wrath shall meet in Thunder,
And Ruin close the Fray!—

SCENE III.

To him, Egbert.
Harold.
Welcome, brave Youth.
Thy Fame, and known Pre-eminence in Valour,
Have call'd thee to a generous Task of Duty,
For Britain's Weal.—Thou know'st, by Doom of War,
Full fifty Captives to our Gods must bleed.

Egbert.
So doom your fancy'd Gods, the vain Creation
Of Fear and Cruelty. But righteous Heav'n,
That sees your Blindness with a pitying Eye,
Detests the Sacrifice.

Harold.
Prevent it then.

Egbert.
Name but the Means. If my devoted Blood
Can save my guiltless Countrymen from Death,
I yield it to the Altar.

Harold.
Valiant Egbert,
A gentler Task is thine. A captive Beauty
Brightens yon Tent: She hath subdu'd our General.
The Rage of Love is on him. If thy Tongue
Can win her to his Bed.—

Egbert.
Harold, no more.
Think'st thou, because I drag the Chain of War,
My Soul must wear your Shackles? Fall'n a Captive,
I bear a Briton's Heart: The Coward only
Earns Safety by Dishonour.

Harold.
Yet many a Briton
Wou'd deem it Service, worth a brave Man's Care,
To save devoted Innocence from Death,
At this cheap Price. Weigh'd with the Blood of Man,
What is this unknown Woman's Weal or Woe,
This captive Thyra's Honour?

Egbert.
Thyra?—Thyra?
What Thyra?

Harold.
Athelstan's fair Captive Thyra.
What Terror's in that Name? What wonder moves thee?

Egbert.
Ye Pow'rs of Heav'n!—Harold, if thou'rt a Man;
If ever brave Compassion touch'd thy Breast;
If e'er the tender Names of Wife and Husband,
The bleeding Anguish of despairing Virtue,
The Love of Worth, or Piety to Heav'n,
Did sway thy Heart to great and gen'rous Deeds,
Or melted thee to Pity, hear me now!
That Thyra is my Wife!

Harold.
Indeed? thy Wife?

Egbert.
So sure, as Infamy is hov'ring o'er her,
My Wife! Devoted to this Ruffian's Lust!

Harold.
Egbert, I love the Valour of a Foe:
And Worth like thine turns Enmity to Praise.
How will thy Bosom burn with honest Rage,
When hissing Scorn proclaims—

Egbert.
Oh, thou hast shook
My firmest Fortitude! I thought her dead.
When she was lost, what more cou'd Egbert fear?
Hence cold Despair had gather'd o'er my Soul,
Wrap'd it in Ice from ev'ry Sense of Ill,
And chain'd the struggling Tear. But her lov'd Name
Hath rouz'd me from this Lethargy of Woe,
Hath thaw'd the frozen Horrors of my Heart,
And melted me to Childhood. Grief and Joy,
And Fear, and Hope, in tumult rise within me:
While thro' the moistened Chanels of mine Eyes
These Sorrows flow:—Yes, for thy Sake, thy Egbert
Weeps his Captivity!

Harold.
Waste not in Tears
The precious Minutes. Speed thee to her Tent.
Dishonour and Pollution hover o'er it.

Egbert.
Perdition seize the Robber! Gen'rous Harold,
Lead me to aid this helpless Innocence.
Hear me, brave Countrymen! and witness Heav'n,
That to redeem your death-devoted Blood,
Egbert wou'd yield his own—But oh, my Wife!
What! yield her to a Ruffian's Lust?—Nay rather,
I'll dash her Beauties into Wounds and Horror,
For Lust to start at.—Lead me to her Tent.
My lab'ring Heart will burst!

Harold.
Th' attending Guard
Shall guide thee to her Tent.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Changes to Thyra's Tent.
Thyra, Edwina.
Sure, 'tis some warning Pow'r that whispers here.
My beating Heart forebodes th' Approach of Fate,
And labours with th' Event.—Edwina, come:
Friend of my Life, dear Partner of my Woes!
Teach me to combat these surrounding Terrors,
That overwhelm my Soul!

Edwina.
Take Comfort, Thyra:
All may be well.

Thyra.
Oh, this unpitying Dane!
Raging with Insolence, and red with Slaughter!
What cannot he attempt!

Edwina.
Distrust not Heav'n.
The valiant Athelstan hath vow'd Protection.
Wrong not his generous Care.

Thyra.
May ev'ry Pow'r
That watches o'er the just and brave, protect him,
And crown his Days with Honour!

SCENE V.

To them, Dunelm.
Dunelm.
Beauteous Captive,
A Messenger from Gothmund—

Thyra.
Oh, my Fears!

Dunelm.
He wills, that all depart,
Save only Thee: for he hath much to say,
Meet for thy private Ear.

Thyra.
Alas, Edwina!
What shall I do! Oh leave me not, Edwina!
Undone, undone!

Dunelm.
Nay, weep not, beauteous Captive.
Let all depart; else ye provoke his Rage.

[Ex. Dun. Ed.
Thyra.
Now which Way shall I turn me! Whither fly
To shun these gathering Horrors!—Wou'd I had fallen
Beneath the Battle's Fury! That the Spear
Had pierc'd my Heart! Or that some flaming Tow'r
Had been my funeral Pile!—Why was I spar'd,
To sink in deeper Woes!—Oh, pitying Heav'n,
If e'er thy Care regarded Innocence,
Restore me to my Lord!

SCENE VI.

To her, Egbert.
Egbert.
Behold him here!

Thyra.
Is't possible!—'Tis He! my Lord! my Husband!
Oh happy Change! Oh Bliss unspeakable!
Support me, heav'nly Pow'rs! Support me, Egbert.
I faint, I faint! Oh, take me to thy Breast!—

Egbert.
Thou Crown of all my Joys! Thou Cause belov'd
Of all my bitterest Pangs! Do I once more
Infold thee in these Arms!

Thyra.
Too bounteous Heav'n!
And are my Sorrows fled! Shall Hope once more
Visit this Breast? And do I live to see thee!
Alas, my Lord! thro' what unnumber'd Woes,
Thro' what a Sea of Horrors have we past,
Since last we parted!

Egbert.
Such is Heav'n's high Will.
England is fall'n! The Majesty of Empire
Is sunk by Fate! Destruction rears her Banner:
The fatal Raven croaks; and Britain's weeping Genius,
Yielding his Charge, flits to some happier Clime!

Thyra.
Oh fatal Day! be thou for ever wept!
Yet ev'ry future Morn shall hear my Praise,
And Gratitude sincere arise to Heav'n,
For this dear Boon, this Cure of ev'ry Woe,
That I have found my Egbert!—Say, my Lord,
Who led thee to these Tents?

Egbert.
Thro' the wide Waste
Of mortal War, I sought my virtuous Thyra,
To save her from the Foe: But sought in vain.
Then rushing on the thickest War, my Sword
Edg'd by Despair, I mow'd my Way; to where
Gothmund, intrench'd in triple Rows of Spears,
Stood like our Country's Fiend. He met my Arm.
But soon th'o'erwhelming Files that hemm'd him round
Ended the mortal Strife; and led me hither,
The Captive of his Pride.

Thyra.
Blest, blest Event!
Sure, 'twas some unseen Angel rul'd thy Fate;
Now, barbarous Gothmund, I defy thy Threats!
Oh Coward! to insult a helpless Captive!

[Burst into Tears.
Egbert.
Soul of my Soul! The frowning Fates surround us!
That thou art here, restor'd to Life and Me,
This grateful Tear I offer up to Heav'n!
But if some heavier Ruin hangs unseen,
Unkind and cruel was the Sword that spar'd thee!—

Thyra.
But thou art come, like some blest Pow'r from Heav'n,
To banish all my Fears! Ah, why that Groan?

Egbert.
Dear Thyra! See,—these Chains!—

Thyra.
Wou'd I cou'd wear them for thee!

Egbert.
Generous Thyra!
I know thy Love: I do believe thou woud'st.
Think then, what Pangs must rend thy Egbert's Heart,
To see thy Worth insulted, drag'd by Pow'r
To soul Dishonour; while this cruel Chain
Binds down his honest Vengeance!

Thyra.
Since I have found thee,
Tho' setter'd in this ignominious Chain,
I know not why,—but ev'ry Fear is fled:—
There's Safety in thy Arms.—

Egbert.
My Soul's best Part!
Wrap not thy Heart in blind Security!
Helpless thou seest me here, as Age or Childhood:—
I fear the rising Storm. Forgive me, Thyra,
If in the Tempest of my Rage, these Chains
Shou'd strike thee to the Earth! the cruel Task
Of desp'rate Love! and blot that Heav'nly Form
With deadly Wounds and Blood; to rescue thee
From this remorseless Dane!

Thyra.
But Athelstan,
Who sav'd me midst the Horrors of this Day—

Egbert.
Who? Mercia's Duke?

Thyra.
Hath bravely sworn Protection.

Egbert.
Curse the Traitor!
'Twas he, whose Sword, unsheath'd by lawless Fury
Against his Country, and the best of Kings,
Hath brought Destruction on us.—May his Treason
Fall, like an impious Arrow shot at Heav'n,
And cleave his hoary Head!

Thyra.
Yet, if I err not;
Ere this, Conviction of his Crime hath wrought
Repentance in his Heart.

Egbert.
No: plead not for him:
He hath undone us all!

Thyra.
Forgive me, Egbert,
If Gratitude work strong within my Soul.—
He sav'd me from the Dane. A Mind so noble,
Tho' headlong driv'n down by the Tide of Passion,
Must soon return to Virtue.

Egbert.
Cou'd I hope it?
Cou'd I but hope he wou'd rejoin our Arms,
We yet might rescue Thee, and rescue England!

Thyra.
Behold, he comes!—Now, Egbert, curb thy Rage,
Think: He is still the Guardian of my Honour.
Assume the winning Eloquence of Grief,
Lab'ring beneath it's Wrongs: His generous Heart
Will melt in Sympathy.

Egbert.
My virtuous Thyra,
For thee, and for my bleeding Country's Sake,
I'll choak the Pang I groan with.—

SCENE VII.

To them, Athelstan, Siward.
Athelstan.
Down, proud Heart!
Oh, I am rent with Anguish! Never more
Shall fair Peace keep her Sabbath in my Breast!
Unthankful Dane!

Siward.
What less cou'd Reason fear
From unrelenting Robbers?

Athelstan.
Blind Revenge!
Oh whither hast thou led me!—Say, proud Captive,
Who brought thee to these Tents?

Thyra.
Brave Athelstan,
This is my Lord, my Egbert.—Honor'd Egbert,
Lo, Mercia's Duke, who sav'd me from Dishonour.—

Athelstan.
Yet, rul'd by sullen Pride, he scorns to thank me.

Egbert.
That thou didst save her from the Rage of War,
Binds me thy Friend: But that thy trait'rous Arm
Hath madly drawn thy Sword against thy King,
Unties that private Bond of Man with Man,
And bids me stand thy Foe.

Athelstan.
To injur'd Honour
A brave Revenge was due.

Egbert.
Oh Athelstan!
Thy Vengeance, in its fatal Course, hath swept
Thy Friends and Foes in one promiscuous Ruin!
Childhood and Age, the Gentle and the Brave,
And helpless Innocence which never wrong'd thee,
Have felt the Fury of thy mad Revenge.
Had'st thou been England's Friend, these bloody Danes,
Had fled our Shores: No Briton then had drag'd
These ignominious Chains! nor helpless Thyra
Had call'd in vain on Earth and Heav'n to save her!

Thyra.
Dire is our Fate's Decree, when Egbert weeps!
Oh cruel Gothmund!

Egbert.
False, false Athelstan!

Athelstan.
No more:—Why rend ye thus my tortur'd Heart?
Thy Words are Scorpions in my Breast.—Rash Man,
Take back thy Thyra:—Guard her as thou can'st:—
Farewell: I'll hear no longer.—

Thyra.
[catching his Garment.
Gen'rous Duke!
Leave us not thus! Leave us not to Destruction!
We have no Hope but thee!

Athelstan.
[breaking from her.
Thy tears are vain.—

Siward.
Spurn not her Griefs—

Athelstan.
Siward, if thou'rt my Friend—

Egbert.
Nay, but thou yet shalt hear me:—Across thy Steps
I'll throw my Body, tho' thy Hand were arm'd
With Lightning, till thou hear me—

Athelstan.
Urge me not:
Urge not thy Fate—

Egbert.
Alas! can Fate do more!
Oh Athelstan! but that I know thy Virtues,
I wou'd not stoop t' intreat thee. Life I reck not.
Then spite of thee, I dare to be thy Friend:—
Yes; I will search thy Heart; will there dethrone
Usurping Passions that have banish'd Reason,
Eclips'd thy Virtues in their noon-tide Sphere,
And darken'd all their Brightness!

Athelstan.
Let me pass—

Egbert.
By Heav'n, I will not, till I have paid the Debt
Due to thy generous Soul.—Yes; thou hast been
My Thyra's guardian Genius:—Hear me now,
Hear Me, as thine: Sent by all-gracious Heav'n,
Kindly to warn thee of that Sea of Guilt,
In which thy Rage hath plung'd thee!—Hear the Voice
That calls thee, to return to Honour's Path;
Bravely to quit thy guilty League with Denmark,
And save poor bleeding England!

Athelstan.
Witness Heav'n,
How dear hath England's Happiness and Fame
Been to my Soul! How, on this dreadful Morn,
When Vengeance led me to the Field of Death,
My bleeding Heart wept for my Country's Woe,
And half subdu'd Revenge!—Behold these Tears—
These Tears proclaim, I am a Briton still!

Egbert.
Then act a Briton's Part.—

Athelstan.
Ungrateful King!
Why didst thou wake my Rage! why urge my Vengeance
To lead Destruction on!

Egbert.
Nay, wrong him not.
'Tis Passion's Blindness rules thee.—Heav'n and Earth
Witness the untir'd Bounties of his Hand.
But when bold Expectation, nurs'd by Vanity,
Brooks no Denial; and assumes to weigh
Its own fantastic Worth;—what earthly Pow'r
Can satisfy it's Cravings, or fill up
Th' unfathom'd Measure of Self-Love and Pride!

Siward.
Or grant thy Worth neglected:—Grant the Slave,
Fool, Flatterer, Whisperer, reptile Sycophant,
To thee prefer'd in Honour:—Virtue still,
Wrapt in the Majesty of calm Disdain,
And self rever'd, in her own Dignity
Wou'd check Revenge; wou'd welcome Injury
With manly Scorn, and for the publick Weal
Forget all private Wrong.

Athelstan.
No more, no more!
Wou'd Heav'n, I had not done it.—

Egbert.
Imperial London!
Fair England's Boast! The Glory of the Isles!
How art thou fall'n! Thy Palaces and Tow'rs,
Low level'd with the Dust, now smoke in Ashes!—
Heav'n! as we pass'd in Chains the Streets along,
How the loud Shrieks of ravish'd Maids and Matrons,
The Groans of Britons weltring in their Blood,
Of Infants writhing on the bloody Spear,
Transfix'd my Heart!—

Thyra.
In vain the holy Priest,
The trembling Sire, and widow'd Wife, in vain
Clung to their Altars, and implor'd for Mercy:—
The Ruffian Foe with sacrilegious Hand
Dragg'd them to Death; and to his Idols grim
Did shed their innocent Blood!—

Athelstan.
What have I done!
Oh Britain! hapless Britain!

Siward.
Dost thou weep?
Come, fair Repentance, Daughter of the Skies!
Soft Harbinger of soon returning Virtue!
The weeping Messenger of Grace from Heav'n!
Lovely in Tears.—Now melt his generous Heart!
Infuse kind Pity for his Country's Woes!
Wake his great Soul; and bid him shine once more,
It's Pride, Support, and Glory!—

Athelstan.
'Tis too late!
Oh Madness! Headlong Madness!

Egbert.
Ne'er too late
To turn to Virtue!—Thyra, Siward, kneel;
And sue for Mercy to our ruin'd Country!—

[They kneel.
Thyra.
Cou'd a poor helpless Captive's Pray'r be heard!—

Egbert.
Behold in us, Millions of guiltless Britons—

Siward.
Pleading for Life and Freedom!—

Egbert.
Hear the Groans
Of martyr'd Christians—

Thyra.
Bleeding for their Faith—

Siward.
Imploring Help from thee!—

Athelstan.
Rise, Britons, rise.—
I yield, I yield!—Yes; England, I am thine!—

Egbert.
[They rise.
Oh happy Change!

Siward.
Oh generous Athelstan!

Athelstan.
And yet—to stoop!—meanly to sue for Pardon!—

Siward.
He, he alone degrades his State, who stoops
To wrongful Deeds; these done, 'tis truly brave
To sue for Pardon, and who stoops, is greatest.

Athelstan.
[embracing them.
Come to my Heart! my Friends! my Guides to Peace!
Your Words, like Light from Heav'n, have pierc'd my Soul!
Oh Blindness, Frenzy!—Gen'rous, injur'd King,
How can I e'er behold thee!

Egbert.
Trust his Goodness.
His chief Delight is Mercy: and when Justice
Demands the awful Sacrifice of Life,
Reluctant he confirms the harsh Decree.

Siward.
Ev'n now a trusty Spy return'd, informs me,
Our valiant King, must'ring his scatter'd Pow'rs,
Ere Morning dawns will storm the Danish Camp:
Lead but thy valiant Mercians—

Athelstan.
Grant me, Heav'n,
On a wide Heap of routed Danes to die!
I ask no more.—Come, let us quit the Camp.—

Egbert.
Alas, brave Duke, I am a Captive here.
I cannot go. A thousand guiltless Britons
Must bleed, shou'd I escape.—But to thy Care,
Here I bequeath a Trust more dear than Life.
Let Thyra be the Partner of thy Flight.

Thyra.
Must I then leave my Lord!
Severe Decree! Shall I not see my Egbert,
Ere I depart?

Egbert.
My ever honour'd Wife,
Be sure thou shalt.

Athelstan.
Thyra, retire: and while I seek the Dane,
To lull Suspicion, wait us in thy Tent,
Prepar'd for Flight.—Now Siward, to my Mercians.—
Tell them my Wrongs from Denmark: paint the Pangs
Of my unfeign'd Repentance: rowze their Valour
To quenchless Rage, that may atone my Guilt.
That to the Ghost of ev'ry martyr'd Briton
We slew in Fight, a Host of Danes may die.

[Exeunt.