University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—The inside of Guthrum's Tent.
Enter Guthrum and Edric.
Guth.
I swear a royal booty! Thou hast done
Great service to the Dane. With these supplies
No need to forage. Here we'll sit at ease,
And rest us from the war.

Edr.
No rest for me!
Far richer holds than those which I surprised
And plunder'd, at my master's feet shall lay
Their treasure and munition.

Guth.
At thy friend's!
Call me not master! Call me father! Think
To thy first expedition what we owe!—
The capture of the royal Saxon's son,
The heir of Alfred!

Edr.
Would his queen, as well,
Were now within thy power!—But she escaped,
Or perish'd in the flames.

Guth.
Come, Edric!—speak;
What shall I give thee to reward the love,
That so hath labour'd to enrich me? Come,
Ask what thou wilt, by Odin it is thine.

Edr.
Thou badest me call thee father. With the leave
Give me the right to hail thee by that title.
I ask thy daughter's hand.

Guth.
I give it thee.
Seek her, and bring her hither.

Edr.
For that boon
Command my blood! Ay, every drop of it.

[Goes out.
Enter Haldane.
Hal.
My Lord, a Saxon minstrel is without:
The string he touches with a master's hand;
And as he plays, a youth that waits upon him,
Sings to his harp rare tales of love and war
As ever gladden'd ear!

Guth.
Conduct him hither.

[Haldane goes out, and returns with Alfred, followed by Edwy. Guthrum, who had sat down, struck by the deportment of Alfred, rises.
Guth.
Ha! who art thou? What art thou?

Alf.
I'm the bard.
The son of fantasy,
Whose world's o' the air—to mortal vision else
Impalpable—a paragon to this!—
Where he communes with forms, whose radiancy
Outshines the lustre of earth's fairest things!
Whose title, from above, earth can't confer
Or take away! whose smile is coveted
By beauty—valour—their bright mirror, where
They see themselves more bright! whose tributaries
Are kings themselves; whose gorgeous state but serves
To swell his strain, that doth emblazon them
Beyond their deeds or titles!

Guth.
Well replied;
I like thy answer better, that 'tis bold!
Sit down, sit down.—A sample of your skill.—
Thou spokest of beauty now,—What canst thou say
In praise of it?

Alf.
[To himself.]
Thanks to the tender hand
That guided me to con the minstrel's lore,
And treasure't in my heart!

Guth.
Let's taste thy skill.

Alfred.
Wouldst thou know what beauty is?
Beauty is the queen of sighs!
Not a heart but owneth this,
Proud or humble, light or wise.
Crownéd goblets some desire;
Some to see the banquet spread;
Some prize shining gold; and higher
Value some the shining deed;
Safety's deem'd a gem by some;
Danger, some a jewel call;
Some to power desire to come;
But beauty is the prized of all!
Well the Bard her praise may sing—
Of his soul-entrancing lyre,
She commands the master-string,
That which lends it all its fire!
Wanting which he could not sing—
Rhymeless, numberless, might be,
Nor e'er had won a name for deathless minstrelsy.

Guth.
Right well thou provest thy title to thy name.
What does the youth that waits upon thee?

Alf.
Sing,
The while I play.

Guth.
We'll hear him at the banquet.
Thou art not old—and, yet, thou look'st not young;
Thy brow with wisdom graver than with years—
I'd talk with you; for great, unless I err,
Your skill in lore, we little care to search
Whose school's the battle-field. Attend me! Come.

[Exeunt.