 | Athelstan |  |
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,
18
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,
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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.
| Athelstan | |