 | Athelstan |  |
SCENE V.
To them, Goodwin.Goodwin.
Hear, Athelstan!
Our General sends thee Greeting.—Sacred ever
He deems the Rights of War: yet Pow'rs ally'd
Own the Priority of peaceful Claim.—
Athelstan.
'Tis granted.—What of this?—
Goodwin.
That captive Fair,
Won by thy Prowess in the City's Storm,
By Law of War is Thine: An earlier Right
Our General pleads: For Proofs of Circumstance
Speak her by Birth a Dane.
Athelstan.
No false Pretence
Shall wile her Virtues from me.—Thyra, speak:—
Is't not a feign'd Pretence?
Thyra.
Oh mighty Duke!
Tho' Ruin hangs upon the Acknowledgment;
I fear, I am a Dane; and thence unworthy
A generous Britons's Care!
Athelstan.
Wrong not thy Worth:
For, as within the Forest's howling Depth,
Where grisly Bears, and Pards, and Tigers roam,
The wild Rose blooms; So oft in savage Lands
Untutor'd Virtue dwells: Where'er 'tis found,
It claims Defence: Virtue is Virtue's Care,
Alike in ev'ry Clime.—Then tell me, Goodwin,—
For ere I yield my Captive, I will know:—
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Goodwin.
[producing the Chain.
Behold this Chain—
With Runic Characters—
Athelstan.
[seizing the Chain.
Ye Pow'rs of Heav'n,
That weave th' inextricable Maze of Fate!
What do I see!—If 'tis your sacred Will
To make me blest, now lend a pitying Ray!
This very Chain, my once victorious Arm
Rent from the proud Neck of a slaughter'd Dane.—
Oh Joy, Oh Grief! Oh Rapture to my Soul!
How,—when,—where,—whence? Speak, Goodwin!
[Thyra, speak!
Or Hope and Doubt will heave my Heart to bursting!
Thyra.
Ah me! I was a helpless Infant, lost
Ere Mem'ry yet was seated in the Brain!
Athelstan.
Oh blessed Hope! Such was my Emma too!—
Edwina,—can'st thou tell?—Range, range the Round,
Where Mem'ry hoards her Treasures, and brings back
Old Time! Confirm the Whispers of sweet Hope,
And give me back my Child!
Edwina.
Heav'n! dost thou weep
A Daughter lost?
Athelstan.
And long have wept in vain!—
Since she was lost, full twenty Years have shed
Their various Woes on my poor orphan'd Child!—
When furious Halfden ravag'd Mercia's Cities,
Then was my Child (this very Chain she wore!)
Snatch'd from her Cradle by unpitying Danes
And thence convey'd to Denmark's barbarous Shore!
Thyra.
Oh gracious Heav'n!
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On that lamented Time,
This very Chain circling her infant Neck,
By my dear Father's Hand was Thyra snatch'd
From the devouring Deep!
Athelstan.
'Tis She!—My Child! my Child!
[Embracing her.
Thyra.
My Father!
Edwina.
Gracious Heav'n!
Who can behold this Sight, and not dissolve
In Tears of Joy!—
Athelstan.
And was it mine, to save thee!
Oh Pow'rful Nature!—For since first I saw thee,
My Emma's Sweetness struck on ev'ry Sense:
Some soft Attraction drew!—some unknown Charm
Work'd in my Soul, and bade me wish thee Mine!—
Haste, Goodwin, haste to Gothmund: there disclose
This Tale of Joy, this wondrous Burst of Bliss!
Tell him, that Nature cancels ev'ry Claim,
And gives my Emma to her Father's Love!
Goodwin.
I'll forthwith to his Tent: A Minute's Round
Shall bring thee his Resolve.
[Exit Goodwin.
Athelstan.
Eternal Providence!
To whose all-seeing Mind, th' unmeasur'd Round
Of wide Events is present! far beyond
The narrow Ken of a weak mortal Eye!
Deep and unsearchable, yet just and true,
Are thy ador'd Decrees, O Pow'r divine!
Thou ev'n beyond the Darings of fond Hope,
Hast from the Bosom of the raging Seas
Restor'd my long-lost Daughter!—
[Embracing her passionately.
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Happy, happy!
Oh Bliss unspeakable! And do I live,
Thus to be press'd to a fond Parent's Heart!
To hang upon his Breast! To know the Joy,
The heart-felt Raptures that attend the Names
Of Child and Daughter!
Athelstan.
Darling of my Soul!
Oh Comfort of my Age;—Yet, yet one Grief
Checks the sweet Tumult of my honest Joy!
One piercing Grief lies heavy on my Soul!—
Thyra.
Can I relieve thy Pain?
Athelstan.
Not all the lenient Balms thy Love can pour,
Can ever give me Rest!—Oh Madness, Madness!
I have undone my Country!
Thyra.
Alas, the Pity!
Think not so deeply of it.
Athelstan.
Oh, I am vile!
I dare not lift my guilty Eyes to Heav'n!
Yet Heav'n hath show'r'd a Blessing on my Head,
Beyond the World's wide Empire!—What may this mean!—
Sure, 'tis the Prelude to some dire Event!
A passing Gleam, sent by almighty Vengeance,
To deepen future Woe!
Thyra.
Nay, rather deem it
The kind Encouragement of Heav'n, vouchsaf'd
To thy returning Virtue!
Athelstan.
Heav'n is just,
Yet merciful:—Let me but rescue England,
And I shall yet be blest!—
| Athelstan | |