University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

A Grove in the Garden before the Castle, which is seen through the trees. The storm is abating.
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
Hist! hist! Wild striving elements, be still,
Ominous and still, as brooding mischief is!
When the fell draft of vengeance shall be quaff'd
E'en to its bloody dregs, then, then laugh out,
Thou damned spirit of the storm! Foul fiend,
Hast thou so many years of loneliness,
Whispering revenge, still borne me fellowship,
And now, when fate's retributory curse
Draws nigh to the achievement, canst thou not wait
For hellish joy, till the full spell be woven?
Hist! hist! and thou, bright sun, shine forth in glory,
Until the moment of appointed justice!
The day has been, when I could ill have bided
The pitiless tempest and that strife of nature;
But sold to fiends I dread not now their workings,
Lost in despair, and reft of every gift
That makes life joyous—Hark! 'Tis Sweno's voice!
The morn shall not dawn twice, ere thou be summon'd
To thy doom! life for life!—Away! away! [Exit.
(Enter from the Castle Sweno, Bertha.)


Sweno.
The bolts have spent their fire; yon lurid cloud
Still, and disburthen'd of its teeming wrath,
Hangs like a misty shroud on the horizon.
The air is calm; Bertha, I breathe more freely.

BERTHA.
Nay, good my lord, I needs must hold it strange
E'en to the natural temper of your soul,
That you, so far removed from taint of fear,
Instant in danger, firm in resolution,
Should start, thus from yourself estranged and wild,
At these rude flaws of nature, making such
Unkind divorce between your alter'd thoughts
And that sweet peace they owe you.

SWENO.
O loved Bertha,
There be some thoughts too deep for time to medicine,
Which on the seemliest and freshest cheek
Would stamp dread's livery, though the heart were steel.

BERTHA.
What thoughts? strange roamings of the troubled fancy,
Air-blown imagination's empty bubble!
For shame, my lord; this is the bodiless spectre
Of that poor maniac, whose ill-omen'd vision
Comes, like the shadow of a passing cloud,
O'er the bright mirror of your better judgment.
Fie on't, a dream.

SWENO.
Would that it were a dream,
That I could shake the wrathful spectre from me!
The curse of that dread hour will live for ever.
Call Agnes forth: I have a fearful thought,
Some secret evil overhangs my child.
Perchance her sight might soothe me.

BERTHA.
Be more cheerly;
Sweno, our guests attend us.

[Exit BERTHA.
SWENO.
(alone.)
Vengeful fate,
Dost thou indeed pursue me! Will not years
Atone for one offence! Last night methought
A voice as from my father's tomb cried, “Sweno,
“Thine hour is come! the curse is o'er thine house!”
To-day, as I approach'd the festive hall,
That flaming cherub seem'd to bar my passage,
Which in my life's most prosperous hours of pride,
A dreadful vision, oft has cross'd my path.

[Enter AGNES.]
SWENO,
(embracing her.)
Ever beloved, forefend thee, gracious heaven!
Thy father's heart is sad.

AGNES.
My honor'd sire,
This is the very breathing hour of bliss;
The storm is roll'd away, and merry birds
Do trick their plumes, and sing their cheerful welcome
To the mild beam of evening.

SWENO.
The heart of youth,
Is ever blithe and buoyant.

AGNES.
Good my father,
To-day my wayward strain offended you.
Shall I sing one, which oft has sooth'd your fancy
In the slow hours of sickness? Much you praised
Its melody, and somewhat the poor skill
That gave it voice.

SWENO.
No, not a song, my Agnes.
Music itself is out of tune to-day;
Thy gladsomest notes would fall upon my ear
E'en as a passing knell.

AGNES.
Yet is this day
Held festive in our annals, chief for me
And my loved father.

SWENO.
Beshrew me, noble maid,
If thou shalt lack the joys that well beseem
Thy spring of life. The heyday of my blood
Is chill'd by the mind's winter; nature wears not
That bland aspèct, which to the eye of youth
Shows all her forms in pleasant colors deck'd.
Thou shalt not miss delights or princely state,
While Sweno girds a sword.

AGNES.
I lack no joys
In thy kind presence: from thy brow to chase
The gloom, to sing to thee my playful ditties
Winning thy lips to smile, and in thine eyes
To read a father's blessing, these are joys
Enough for Agnes; nor of gayer sports
Is the voice hush'd in bounteous Sweno's palace.

[Enter UBALD.]
SWENO.
How fare our guests?

UBALD.
Sweno, we miss thy presence.
Upon my troth thou hast a royal guest!
That knight drinks deep, but yet his boastful speech
Shames his poor draught.

SWENO.
The noble Reynald, Ubald?

UBALD.
Ay, he from Palestine. O I could pluck the beard
Of such a vaunter! Pshaw! it moves my spleen
To see a comely knight and stout withal
First praise his wine, then praise himself more largely,
Still giving birth to some amazing tale
Between the cup and lip. Why, sir, this man
Kills you more sultans with each draught he quaffs
Than there be signs in the bright zodiac.—Arthur,
And he who slew the dragon, hight Saint George,
Were puny champions! Agnes, this proud gallant
Will purge all Heathendom, and place his bride
Upon the top-stone of Jerusalem.
A murrain on such talkers!

SWENO.
Thy blood, Ubald,
Knows no controul. Reynald stands well esteem'd,
And many a hard field has he fought beside
England's bold lion Richard.

UBALD.
Ay, so he has;
And mown the heads of Paynim sorcerers,
As boys slay poppies. So it stands recorded
Even on the faith of his own boastful speech.
Ubald must vail his crest to such high worth.

(taking off his helmet, and walking impatiently.)
SWENO.
Rein thy rash temper. Something bodes within me
That evil hangs over the house of Sweno;
Perchance from thy quick passion. O my daughter,
If this thy harebrain'd playmate should be victor,
Thou wilt have a wild bridegroom.

UBALD.
O good sir,
I am rejected, scorn'd! I have not taken
A soldan by the beard in Ascalon.

SWENO.
God speed thee, boy. Time was the riotous blood
So kindled in my veins; but now the frost
Of years steals o'er my pride. No son of mine
Shall reap my ample honors; when I fall,
My house is lonely. Ubald, it needs a prop,
And who shall take this guerdon from my hand
With her rich heritage, must stand approved
In feat of arms unrivall'd.

UBALD.
Princely Sweno,
Forgive the hasty and impatient spirit
Which boils within me. Whom have I on earth
But thee, my more than father? Witness heaven,
If Ubald harbours in his ardent soul
One wish, but to be worthy thee and thine!

SWENO.
And so perchance thou art. That lofy temper
Which gleams from out thy soul, shows some high birth-right,
Though unreveal'd.—Agnes, we tarry long.

[Exeunt.