University of Virginia Library

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.