University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Forest on the way to Brunanburh.
Enter Ethelstan, with House-carls.
Ethelstan.
Pleasant, in these dim woods where Quiet dwells,
To hold sweet under-talk with her, whose voice
Spirit-like, whispers us beneath the boughs,
Herself unseen! Pleasant with light foot-fall
To press rich Autumn's bed of russet leaves,
Make the warm-smelling moss give out its odour,
And here, unbonneted, in sunless noon,
Drink the green air, refreshing both to sense
And soul world-wearied!—Blest the Woodman sure
Who lives his lusty life out here, and whistles it
Lark-like away, the blither nearer heaven!
Perchance he hath his hut among these bowers,
His wife beloved and babe?—some one that smiles
Cheer thee! when drooping he goes home at eve—
But Ethelstan! crown'd Ethelstan!—
We linger, fellows!
By St. John Beverley we're all entranced!
O I could still my beating heart to hear
That gentle bird's grove-buried song!—Away!
Our fortunes will slide from us if we stay!

Enter a House-carl.
House-carl.
My liege, the followers report just now
A prisoner of price.

Ethelstan.
Bring him before us.
Enter House-carls with Prisoner.
What runagate art thou? that when the foes
Thicken about us, tak'st that coward time
Thus to desert thy country and thy king?—
Some wretch, half-Dane, all traitor?

Prisoner.
A true Saxon!
Wretch enough to be born thy brother!

[Throws off his disguise.
Ethelstan.
Edmund!
Childe Edmund!—to my heart! No, I'll not clasp thee;
Thou art a froward boy that must be taught
By rigour and restraint.—Leave us!
[Exeunt House-carls.
Ungrateful!
Have I not shown a father's gravest care,
Mix'd with a mother's mildest, ever for thee?
And yet thou'lt play the sullen with me thus,
The truant, yea the o'er-grown micher!—Wherefore?
Because I check'd thee gently for thy good
Some days since!

Edmund.
I confess that—but—

Ethelstan.
But folly!
Be wiser for thyself another time;
It might have cost thee blood—the Dane's upon us!
I want thee, Edmund—All's forgiven, forgot!
Thou 'rt my right arm again!—Come hither, lad:
These supple kinsmen of the galloping waves
Will soon o'er-ride Northumbria—that's their custom!
Thou must with some few men hang on their rear
To hold them back; hie swift to Derwent stream—
Cross by the windmill's boat—

Edmund
(falling on his knees).
Spare me! O spare me!
Why should poor, guiltless Edmund thus be sent
To his cold grave so soon?

Ethelstan.
Soon? at these years?
When for a Saxon was it ever “soon,”—
Most for a kinsman of Great Alfred, “soon,”—
To die defending Mother-land?—I never
Thought thee unworthy of thy race before!

Edmund.
Unworthy is it then to wish me drown'd
In Danish blood rather than Derwent stream?

[Giving the Death Warrant.
Ethelstan.
Ha! treachery!—domestic treachery!—
How was this seal'd?—Who has been at my pillow?—
True Edgitha,—from traitors traitresses!—
And yet the Maiden may explain—I'll write to her,
I will not see her,—on that side I'm weak!—
Edmund, here is my dagger, here my breast,
Strike if thou fear'st me, Childe!—Strike, and be king!

Edmund
(embracing him).
Best father! brother loved! dear liege! O pardon me!
(Starting up.)
Thou said'st by boat—the Derwent stream—farewell!

[Exit.
Ethelstan.
Royal-soul'd Edmund!—No! they shall not make thee
Hate me; I will not suffer them do that!
A little o'er-suspicious art thou, Edmund;
Dim-vision'd! for clear-sighted men see where
Danger is not, as well as where it is,
Have owl and eagle eyes to see in the dark
And daylight both.—Yet, verily, thou hadst
Some cause!—O Woman, heaven's own daughter or hell's!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A Road. Troops upon their march.
Enter Ellisif, Alger, and the Prior.
Ellisif.
Both have done well: ye lost the fight, yet saved
Your credits with the king.

Prior.
My promised bishopric,
I hope too, lady?

Ellisif.
There's no danger of it:
Ye shall stand higher still when I am queen.

Alger.
With deference, there may come a doubt—

Ellisif.
None! none!
If, from brute prejudice 'gainst female sway,
The Wessex crown cannot by law descend,
As it is worded, to the spindle side,
Why then, my charms of person and of power
Shall win young Edmund, or some other sprout
From the root royal, who shall king it under me.
Edmund I trust hath join'd our Cumbrian friends,
And hastes them to our aid: then all were sure!

Alger.
Yes, had not Ethelstan been let live on.

Ellisif.
That was ill luck; I kept him as a poise
To Anlaf, needful after victory,
For 't was but playing one against the other
Could make my game safe. I had good hope too,
Still to have led him blindfold, but some chance
Hath shaken him from his unsuspiciousness.
We cannot scape ill-luck, though we may cure it:
I have a stratagem in store for him
He wots not of, that might redeem it all;
Between my sword and Anlaf's he is slain!

Prior.
And then we use Prince Edmund as the poise,
Or t'other royal sprout—is it not so?

Ellisif.
So. Now let's on, as we agreed, to fill
Our parts allotted in this final scene:
Courage!—risk nought, nought win! We risk but breath—
Mere life, and may win all that makes life glorious!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Ethelstan's Tent. A Banquet set forth.
Ethelstan, Turketul, Haco, Egil Skillagrym with a harp, and other guests.
Ethelstan.
Send round the harp! Each chief awake its strain!—
Churl in his soul, whose voice and hand unskill'd
Aids not the circling glee!—Send round the horn
Foam-crested! the blithe harp's companion boon!
High-fill'd with amber mead, rich ale, bright wine!
Let both the festive shells go swiftly round,
That we may drink at once the double sweetness
Through lip and ear!—raise the dead spirit of joy,
And charm the serpents of the heart to sleep,
Or if not, drown them!— (To Egil.)
By thee, noble stranger,
Have harp and horn, and host, been honour'd deeply!
From thy rapt lay, blown locks, and heaven-ward eye,
Thou must be some famed minstrel?

Egil.
A Sea-king!
Who midst the idle rattle of the shrouds
Oft listening to the lonely Merman's song,
Found a sad cheer in it, and learn'd like him
To make society in my sea-solitude
With mine own voice, that aye from cliff and wave
Leap'd back to me in Echo's lovelier form!
So I grew up what Northmen name a Skalld,
Southrons a Sceop, or shaper of verse, a poet,—
Soul-fraught with lightsome burden of all rhymes!
Warrior and Minstrel thus, I, at the sound
Of that loud trump, Glory's bright blazoner,
Which blows through all the worlds,—hearing it swell
Thy fame, great Ethelstan, the Bracelet-giver!
Bravest and best of kings! and that thou sought'st
From ablest hands their iron aid,—at once
I stood before thee, Egil Skillagrym!

Ethelstan.
He that slew fierce King Eric's son, and gain'd
His “Ransom” from grim Vengeance by a Song?

Egil.
Even he!—Such virtue in good minstrelling!—
I slew him a brace of kin beside his son!

Ethelstan.
Welcome! as wild swan to the snowy brood,
Helping them buffet with the ocean wind!—
Accept this bracelet gemm'd, and these two cabinets
Fill'd with pure silver. Thou shalt have command.

Egil.
More, generous king!—let it be in the front,
So I may use stout voice and glaive together,
Raising the war-song, smiting down the foe!

Ethelstan.
As thou wilt, gallant bard!—Now, Chancellor,
A Saxon rhyme!

Turketul.
I've a rough stave or two
Which had been well before the Northman sung,
But now 'twill sound too homely. Ne'ertheless—

Enter Messenger, with a letter.
Ethelstan.
Pardon me, friends—Chancellor, fill my chair.
(To the Messenger.)
You brought me screech-owl news before; is this
Of the same tenor?—for I need it not;
Mine enemies are now within my reach,
That which a brave man only wants!—Come hither.

[Exit with Messenger.
Scene changes to another part of the Tent.
Enter Ethelstan, reading a letter.

“I am too proud to defend me against suspicions, or foul
accusations: the breath of the dying is seldom sweet.”—
True! when they are poisoned!—How should she tell my
Sister accused her, unless feeling its likelihood?—Well:
“But were you not blinded by aversion now, as some while
since by love,”—Ha! So I was blinded by love?—“you
would see the committer of both these crimes in her who
has fled, fearing trial, rather than in her who remains to
dare it—in the young she-wolf Runilda, rather than in the
still, to thee, tender-hearted—Ellisif.”

Runilda? what! my little wild glee-maiden!
It is not like the creature!—a frank thing,
Whose candid blood, as passion comes and goes,
Speaks vividly in her colouring brow and cheek;
But for cold truculence, considerate treason,
As fit as unfal'n angel for a fiend!
Odd! is it not, how near are friend and fiend?
When I say “friend,” I stutter into “fiend;”
There's but a burring consonant between them!
Add the dog-letter, fiend is friend! I toy
With my embosom'd viper. Stay, a postscript:—

“Herewith I send thy brother Edwin's well-known sword,
first to fulfil thy often-heard wish for that famous relic;
secondly, as a proof who is the traitress, this weapon having
been found by her pursuers, which they on oath can attest.

Some of them who visited, as spies, the Danish tents, avouch
that Runilda and her paramour, Fergus, are there: Anlaf
is her uncle.”

Anlaf her uncle! And her attendant, Bruern,
My brother's sword-bearer! these do point at her.
Could the dark spirit of the Dane come o'er
The lustre of the cherub that was in her,
Blackening it thus? Or was my petted she-wolf
Tame and caressable till her claws were grown,
Then treacherous to her fondler through dire faithfulness
To the o'ermastering savage in her blood?
Anlaf her uncle!—he, too, hath his spies
Doubtless abroad; have they into her soul
Whisper'd their villanous minds, contributing
Every one, the foul devils that possess'd him,
To fill her with a legion? Woful thoughts!
Yet it may be so! Fain would my belief
Take part with my affections, wishes, hopes,
All strong for Ellisif still! Wretched credulity!
O there's internal war 'gainst which the state
Of my divided self cannot stand long!
Away! I must put heart into all others,
Though sorrow and care eat up mine own!—To banquet!

[Exit.
Scene as before the last.
Guests as before. Anlaf disguised as a Harper.
Turketul
(to Anlaf).
Rest here: the King will come anon.

Anlaf.
I saw
The Wessex Dragon glittering o'er the tent,
And guess'd his royal brood lay under it!
Ethelstan king, loves he the minstrel-art?

Turketul.
Nought better, save the Laws and written lore
It is a proverb with us, “No one ever
Hath ruled more legally or more learnedly.”
He comes, his armour lights the doorway.—

Enter Ethelstan.
Anlaf
(to himself).
Gorgeously,
As a torch borne before him: that 's my prize,
When I tread on his breast!—He holds him well,
Slim-flank'd, but ample-chested as my steed,
Neck firm enough to bear a hundred crowns,
Had he usurp'd them! I shall smile to humble
That front of war he wears, yet, Saxon-like,
So placid in its pride!—Ay, are the tresses
That gave, 'twas said, such lustre to the air,—
That down his shoulders flow'd as rich as sands
Down golden channels,—are they blanch'd thus early?
All's one!—they'll soon be tinged!—He marks me not.

Haco.
Patience! his full tense eye looking so far
At his great objects can but ill discern
The petty things beside him.

Ethelstan.
Pardon my absence
Even when in your presence, princely friends!
A new bard-militant? a sea-king, ha?

Anlaf.
Sea-rover, in good truth! soldier, and singer!

Ethelstan.
Give him a cup of the king's wine. Let's have
A sample of thy mystery.

Anlaf.
What mystery?

Ethelstan.
Why, of thy song-craft!—We ne'er doubt thee, friend,
A well-skill'd cleaver of shields and billows too,
Thou look'st so tall a fellow, and art limb'd
So answerably to thy active eye,
As hawk's quick glance doth suit his eager talons,
That grasp their perch like prey. What takes thy mind?

Anlaf.
My thoughts were wandering—only for a theme—

Ethelstan.
And the grand kindred of Great Alfred by?

Anlaf.
True!—Alfred is an apposite theme—O dullard!—
I am unused to sing—for Saxon ears—
Bear with me, pray you!—'Tis a simple rhyme.
[Chanting to his harp.

Egil.
A lay well sung, and sure extemporal!
(To Turketul aside)
'Twas slight enough in art—one see-saw chime!—
No counter-change!—no quaint alliteration!—
But that we're bound to praise a brother-bard,
I'd say those sinewy fingers oftener twang'd
The bow's string than the harp's!

Turketul.
Is he not Danish?

Egil.
He hath the accent.

Turketul.
Truly a vile screamer!
He'd scare a rookery—the very nests
Would take wing!—'Mongst the croaking tribe, I grant,
His voice had borne the prize from all the bog!

Ethelstan
(to Anlaf).
Put up thy gifts. Go, if thou wilt, and whither:
Song, the best form of thought, should be most free!

Anlaf.
Thanks, liberal sir!—I will return bytimes,
And rouse you with another kind of music!

[Exit.
Ethelstan.
Now princes, thanes, and chieftains, let me, father-like,
Dismiss ye to your rest: get vigour from it
For the morn's victory! we must be stirring
With dawn, like game-cocks, lest these gulls and ravens
Should seem more birds of the sun than we, and thence
Strut braver up to us:—good night!—I'll forth
Upon my rounds: an hour ere day-light, warriors,
Be all here ready-arm'd!—Stay, Alger, Thorwolf,
You, of the van, leaders with Egil king,
Take these next tents: sleep soundly! never Morn,
Blithe ruffler, blew her trumpet half so shrill,
As my loud battle-call shall wake ye up
Unto this day of triumph!—Brief good night!—
Come with me, Haco!

SCENE IV.

The Saxon Camp. A Sentinel behind. Moonlight.
Enter Anlaf: he looks cautiously round, cuts a sod from the earth, and buries under it the gifts he has received from Ethelstan: then departs. After a time, enter Ethelstan and Haco.
Ethelstan.
How peacefully yon Moon enjoys her reign,
No rival mooting it, till she descends
Of her own will, and yields her studded throne
To her heaven-sanction'd heritor!—How smooth
And green is this fresh sward, which by to-morrow
Will be dug rough with hoofs, and plough'd with spears,
And stain'd with rueful purple! O War, war,
Thou stern amusement of ambitious minds!
Have I loved thee too well, and not the cause
That hallows thee,—succeeding honour and peace?—
(To the Sentinel.)
How goes it, soldier? All seems quiet here?

Sentinel.
Yes, sire, and will remain so, since our enemies
Come to our camp, and mix with us as friends!

Haco.
What means the churl to speak so blunt to kings?

Sentinel.
I mean that Anlaf Dane hath been among us,
Taking his note of where and how we lie,
Fox, wolf, and lurcher,—all in one!

Ethelstan.
King Anlaf?

Sentinel.
That same, my liege; he pass'd but now by me.

Haco.
Rare cowardice! this fellow's fear creates
A shadowy foe, of moonshine!

Ethelstan.
Patience, Haco!—
Why shouldst thou make thyself suspected, friend,
By such a proofless story and improbable?

Sentinel.
Here is my proof—
[Dashing his battle-axe into the earth, money and jewels fly up.
Doth that look probable?

Ethelstan.
They are my very gifts to that false Harper!

Sentinel.
He came, and as he would shake reptiles off
That clung to him with odious love, he tosses
These precious things to earth—spurns them—and tramples them—
Then scores me up the turf, and treads them into it!—
Looks not this like King Anlaf?—Nay, I knew him!

Ethelstan.
Thou shouldst have seized him then: where was thy loyalty?

Sentinel.
That oath I've ta'en to thee I took to Anlaf
When he was king of Dane-law; had I now
Betray'd him, I might do as much by thee!

Ethelstan.
Answer'd!—Have these for part-reward.

[Pointing to the gifts.
Sentinel.
If churls
Dare speak thus with a king, I would advise him
To shift his tent into some other quarter.

Haco.
'Twere well, your grace!—The Dane hath mark'd it, sure,
For some fierce onslaught.

Ethelstan.
No—no—let it stand.—
(To the Sentinel.)
I'll not forget thee and thy twofold faith:
Good night!—Keep steady watch until relieved.—
(To himself.)
We'll let the tent stand, with the Dragon over it:
Yon Prior, Edmund tells me of, his friend,
And friend of every mal-content i' the kingdom,
Yon bishop-elect of Shirebourne, hath a friendship
With Maiden Ellisif too—'twas she elected him!—
Which thickens more the dark, foul cloud around her:
His sanctity has just arrived, it seems,
In the rear of all his men, to slip off sideways
When battle joins; he shall have my pavilion,
So will be royally lodged! and should the Danes
Sack it, why he's the sooner with his friends!—
Come, goshawk!

[Exeunt Ethelstan and Haco.

SCENE V.

A Tent in the Danish Camp at Brunanburh. Armour and Arms.
Fergus, and Runilda arming him for battle.
Runilda.
There! it droops well!—O how his plume becomes him,
As the proud-bending pine the promontory!—
And yet methinks it droops too much—it should not
Shade his blue eyes from sight!—Now, is it better?
Dost feel it sway, with pleasant heaviness,
Nobly upon thy brow? Will it do thus?

Fergus.
I should say—ay, and yet would fain say—no,
To keep thy sweet hands still about my face,
Thy delicate fingers touching me like tendrils
Which, 'mid the honeysuckle bowers, I've felt
Softly yet fondly o'er my forehead play!—
How blissful thus—

Runilda.
His chin! gods, gods, his chin!
A broader, braver ribbon under it!

Fergus.
Thus in mine arms to hold thee, while thou peer'st
Closely o'er all my looks, as they were far
More precious than thine own and more thy pride!
To feel the halo of thy breath around me
When thy lips part to speak, thou living rose
Grafted into a lily!—Wherefore that sigh?

Runilda.
Ah me! now thou art deck'd with mine own care,
I could sit down and weep to send thee forth
In all thy gallantry and grace, so trim,
So beautiful, so blooming-young, to battle!

Fergus.
Herva, wilt turn my flush of pride to shame,
With fears I am too much a tenderling
For war's rough pastime,—nought but a male doll
To be dress'd up and kiss'd?—Do heroines weep?

Runilda.
Well, I will sing—
Here is your lance—and target—

Fergus.
But my gloves?
Until my hands be rough-shod, all slips from them;
My gloves, sweet Armourer!

Runilda.
Not yet—not yet—
Ere they be on thou must in turn arm me.

Fergus.
Thee? thee?—O madness! thou arm for the battle?
A mere slight girl! whole winters yet from womanhood!

Runilda.
Nay, martial sir, thou'rt but a stripling too!—
Come, arm me! arm me!—Am I not thine to death?

Fergus.
What are these little moulds of panoply
Thou lay'st before me,—hauberk, helm, and greave?—
Pity, O pity, do not put them on!

Runilda
(chants as she arms).
Then Odin's dark Daughters rode over the plain,
Chiding on the slow slaughter and chusing the slain!
Cries Gondula, fixing her smile on the fight,
‘Ye'll join hands in the Hall of Dead Heroes to-night!’

Fergus.
Look at this toy of helmets!—'tis too thin,
Too frail, to bear the stroke of Mercy's sword,
Though that mild chastener would warn, not harm thee!
What's here?

Runilda.
My brand!

Fergus.
O heaven, 'tis scarce a dagger
To fence away the fate those Saxon deathsmen
Deal with two-handed glaives!—Here is a targe!
One spangle on huge Turketul's shield! fit thing
To breast the shock of bucklers, when together
Ranks fall like walls in earthquakes, and at once
Rises the hill of ruin!—Here, look here,
A wrist to stem that mighty brunt!—brave wrist!
Thick as a swan's neck, and as white and bendable!
Why, in his steely embrace, War's softest pressure
Would crush thy soul out!

Runilda.
Wert thou half as safe!
This armour, Dwarfs in Hecla's smithy forged:
See! the lines graven round it all are Runes—
Mystic inscriptions, full of wizard power
To ward off ill: I am not vulnerable,—
Except by grief!—My soul is very sad!—
What sound is that without?

Fergus.
Trampling of steeds.

Runilda.
Why doth the Night-mare whinny so loud?
Her heavy knees trample the groaning-one deeper!
Her flurried black mane like a thunder-cloud
Flickers forth serpents of fire o'er the sleeper!
How he writhes him beneath her,
The blue flame breather!
And his eyes wild staring
At hers wilder glaring!
Mark how they glow in their sockets without flashes,
Two gray bale-fires mouldering in their ashes!

Fergus.
Cease! cease!—No death-cry terrible as this!
Hear you that signal?

[A low war-whistle without.
Runilda.
It thrills through my marrow!

Fergus.
And my glad heart—if thou wouldst but stay here?—
Come, since it must be so!

Runilda,
Ay, with my harp!
See how I fling it gallant o'er my shoulder,
As if we tripp'd to banquet!—So we do!
The banquet of the eagle and the raven,
Where they shall have their glut!—Come, my sweet harp,
Echo the warrior's shout and drown his wail
And chant his death-song!—Come, to battle! battle!

[Exeunt.