University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Gothmund's Tent.
Goodwin, Dunelm.
Goodwin.
Is she secur'd?

Dunelm.
Fast:—Barricado'd strong
By doubled Ranks of Guard: whose levell'd Spears
Hem round the Tent.

Goodwin.
Did not the Duke of Mercia,
Attempt to wrest her from them?

Dunelm.
Yes: with Fury,
Fierce as the foaming Boar that whets his Tusks,
When the bold Hunter hath destroy'd his Young,
He clamour'd to the Guard. They mock'd his Rage.
Thrice he essay'd, with phrenzy-like Despair,
To pierce their Ranks: Then Fury sunk to Grief.
Melting in Tears, he su'd for one small Grace:
Pray'd that Edwina, her late fellow Captive,
Might share her Griefs. His Suit in Sport was granted.
Edwina now weeps o'er her.—But he comes,
To plead his Right with Gothmund.

Goodwin.
Fierce will be
Their meeting Frown; when Rage encounters Rage;
In either Breast a Storm.

Dunelm.
I'll to my Watch:
E'en let the Tempest roar.
[Exit Dunelm.

Goodwin.
My Charge is here.

SCENE II.

To him, Athelstan.
Athelstan.
Vile Caitiff! Where's thy General?

Goodwin.
Fair Words, Briton.
Choak thy foul Breath. The General's in his Tent.
What woud'st thou?

Athelstan.
Tell him, Athelstan is come.
His Heart will speak the rest.

Goodwin.
Ev'n now he sits
On secret Council: Nor can Clamour gain
Admittance to his Ear.

Athelstan.
Insidious Hell-hound!
Or bring us Face to Face; or by yon Heav'n,
His Tent shall be a Cobweb to my Rage.
I'll tear the sheeted Cordage from its Base,
And give it to the Winds: I'll call so loud,
The Heav'ns shall echo me; and the chaste Stars
Eclipse with Horror at th' infernal Deed
Which his fell Heart conceives.

SCENE III.

To them, Gothmund.
Gothmund.
What lawless Clamour
Breaks on my Tent?

Athelstan.
What lawless Rapine late
Invaded mine?

Gothmund.
Thou shalt be answer'd bravely.—

Athelstan.
I will be answer'd truly.—Think not, Gothmund,
That Frowns can terrify; or vile Evasion
Silence my loud-tongu'd Wrongs.—Speak—tell me, Dane,—
Why this audacious Insult on the Rights
Of sworn Alliance, and the Laws of War?

Gothmund.
Am I not here supreme?—Whate'er was won,
Was won beneath my Banner. Thou, proud Duke,
Wert but a Wheel within the vast Machine
That tore up England's Freedom. Yes, thy Sword
Was but the Instrument of Gothmund's Will.
I was the Soul, the all-directing Pow'r
That rul'd the War: Whate'er ye won, ye won
Each for himself indeed; but all for me.

Athelstan.
Oh Falsehood, foul as Hell! What Dane so vile,
But now enjoys the Conquest that he reap'd?
Behold th' unpitying Riot of the Camp,
Rich with the Spoils of my poor ruin'd Country!
How ev'ry Soldier lords it o'er the Heap
Of Plunder which he won!

Gothmund.
So Gothmund wills.
But did so dear a Prize inrich their Tents,
As lately brighten'd Athelstan's;—my Voice,
Swift as the Virtue of a magic Spell,
Shou'd leave them void as thine.

Athelstan.
Curs'd Insolence
Of barb'rous Pow'r!—Yet think not Athelstan
Roll'd in the sordid List of Gothmund's Slaves.
I plead the Law of War; and claim my Captive.

Gothmund.
Thine?

Athelstan.
Mine: by Right of War.—

Gothmund.
Hence, prating Pedant!
Thou shalt be frock'd, and mantled in the Garb
Worn by your Cell-bred Monks.—By Right of War?
Dost thou not see, what Thousands hemm me round,
Dreadful in crested Helms? These plead the Rights
Of Gothmund and of Denmark. Think'st thou, Briton,
We touch'd these Shores, to parley with our Slaves
In weak Contention? Violence is our Law.
The Sword is Valour's God: 'Twas thine this Morn:
And now 'tis Gothmund's.

Athelstan.
Blush, Ingratitude!
What Sword but Athelstan's!—Down, swelling Heart!
No! heav'nly Pow'rs! I dare not call you down,
In witness to my Wrongs!—Yet this from thee!—
Oh thankless Dane!

Gothmund.
Go, preach thy Follies, Christian,
To the obscure and coward Sons of Peace.
I wing a loftier Air; where Eagle-Glory
Soars high above Reproach.—Fair Thyra's mine.
More dear than half the Spoils of conquer'd Britain.
Thou ne'er shalt see her more.

Athelstan.
O stern Decree!
Yet hear me, Gothmund!—Hear a Parent's Pray'r!—

Gothmund.
A Parent's Pray'r!

Athelstan.
Yes: Thyra is my Child; now scarce restor'd
To the fond Wishes of her aged Father,
Till plung'd in deeper Woe!

Gothmund.
Thyra thy Child?
A thin Pretence!—She was an infant Dane;
Snatch'd from a Wreck that sunk on England's Coast.

Athelstan.
That Wreck was rich with conquer'd Mercia's Plunder.
My Child was there. Each speaking Circumstance,
The well-known Chain, the fatal Time, the Place,
All rising into Proof, proclaim her mine:
Mine, Gothmund, mine: The only Pledge of Love,
Her dying Mother left.—Behold these Tears
That trickle down my Cheek.—Oh think what Pangs
Must inly rend the Heart of Athelstan,
Ere he cou'd weep!—Let gentle Pity then—

Gothmund.
Pity! The Foe to ev'ry manly Deed!
The Bane of Victory: a timorous Child,
Scar'd at the gorgeous Pride and Pomp of War;
Fit, only fit, to rule a Woman's Breast!
Avaunt!—I scorn its Cries!—What! Mercia's Duke
Dissolv'd in Woman's Tears?—

Athelstan.
Yet, there are Times,
When Tears are brave and honest: Such are these:
Ennobled by Humanity and Love.
'Tis Nature pleads within me: Scorn not, Gothmund,
Her generous Feelings!—On some future Hour,
When Fate shall frown on Denmark; some dear Child,
Thy Soul's best Treasure, may be torn from thee!
Woud'st thou not weep? Oh, timely wise, beware!
Nor heap an injur'd Father's Curses on thee!

Gothmund.
Is this brave Athelstan? Beneath whose Spear
Squadrons have sunk, unequal to its Rage?
The Warrior's fled. Hence, Dotard, hence: and take
Th' effeminate Staff and Spindle; best befitting
A Soul so like a Woman.

Athelstan.
Hell and Horror!
Pangs! choaking Pangs!—No—burst not yet, my Heart;
Till I have reap'd Revenge.

Gothmund.
Revenge? old Man!
Hence, Traitor!—seek for Vengeance where thou may'st.
Haste thee to Ethelred: go tell thy King,
Gothmund hath injur'd thee.—

Athelstan.
Rush down, ye Heav'ns!
Ye pitying Thunders, rivet me to Earth!
And save me from this Hell-hound's Voice, that shakes
My Frame to Dissolution!

Gothmund.
Such Reward
Shall ev'ry Traitor find.

Athelstan.
Oh, I cou'd tear these white Hairs from their Roots!—
Curs'd be the Pine on which ye plough'd the Seas!
Curs'd be th' unhallow'd Breeze that fill'd your Sails!
Curs'd be the Tides that bore you to our Coast!
But doubly curs'd am I, whose headlong Rage—
Yes; righteous Heav'n! with Tears of burning Anguish,
I own thy Justice on me!

Gothmund.
Hence, vile Rebel!
Hence,—nor pollute my Camp. For know, that Treason
And prostituted Faith, like Strumpets vile,
The Slaves of Appetite, when Lust is sated,—
Are turn'd adrift to dwell with Infamy,
By those that us'd them.

Athelstan.
Oh, for my honest Sword!—I burn, I burn!
And Hecla's Fires are here!—Th' invenom'd Shaft
Drinks up my poison'd Spirit.—Come, wild Fury!
Come with thy Blood-shot Eyes, and mad'ning Foam!
Oh, nerve me to the ten-fold Strength of Phrenzy!
That I may rend up Rocks and rooted Trees,
And hurl Destruction on him!

Gothmund.
Quit my Tent:
Think'st thou, a Warrior crown'd with Glory's Wreath
Can dread the Foam of headlong Rage? Or stand
Aw'd by the Phrenzy of a Madman's Brain!
Hence! vent thy Ravings to the stormy Seas:
They'll heed thee, more than I.—

Athelstan.
Yes: I will go.—
Thou think'st me helpless, friendless, and disarm'd:
Yet shalt thou rue my Wrongs.—By Heav'n I'll come
In Terror clad; more dreadful than the Pest
That walks in midnight Darkness.—Yes: I'll go.
But, barbarous Dane!—Take heed of my Return!
[Exit Athelstan.]

SCENE IV.

To him, Dunelm.
Gothmund.
Hoa, Dunelm!
Guard each Avenue of the Camp.
Forbid yon Traitor's Egress: If he attempt
To 'scape the Watch, arrest him: For his Heart
Labours with Ruin: He is false to Denmark.—
[Exit Dunelm.]
Go, credulous Dotard! Cou'd thy Folly hope
To win the Friendship of thy Country's Foe?
Ev'n such, thro' ev'ry Age, shall be the Lot
Of British Blindness, when it aids Invasion:
The Slave of Conquest first; and then her Scorn:
The Scaffolding on which Ambition mounts;
Then spurns it to the Earth, a Refuse vile,
Fit for Contempt to tread on.—Welcome, Harold,
Hast seen our Captive Egbert?

To him, Harold.
Harold.
Aye, my Lord.

Gothmund.
Didst thou declare my purpos'd Thought?

Harold.
I did.

Gothmund.
How did he meet it?

Harold.
First, with frantic Rage
He shook his Chains, and curs'd thee by his Gods.
I told him, Rage and frantic Banns were vain.
If he resign'd fair Thyra to thy Arms,
(Since only He cou'd win her to thy Wish)
Freedom was his. But if his stubborn Pride
Shou'd thwart thy Will; To-morrow's Breeze shou'd waft him
To Chains, to Darkness, and the dreary Depth
Of Norway's mine: while she, imprison'd here,
The Vassal of Desire, shou'd sate thy Wish.

Gothmund.
Did not the threatned Vengeance bend his Pride?

Harold.
A sullen Pause took Place. His fixed Eyes
Devour'd the Ground: as if some mighty Thought
Labour'd within him; and to secret Council
Call'd inward ev'ry Pow'r; that for a while
Each idle Sense stood vacant.

Gothmund.
What ensu'd?
That Pause from Rage did, sure, bespeak Consent.

Harold.
It did. Yet with evading Speech he answer'd,
Cannot thy General wait some happier Hour,
When Time hath heal'd her Woes?—On that, I told him,
Unconquerable Passion swell'd thy Breast;
He might as soon controul the Tides, impell'd
By yon fair Planet's Influence.—

Gothmund.
Aye: tho' Storms,
And raging Seas conspir'd with ev'ry Orb,
To drown the lofty Shore!

Harold.
Such was my Hint.—
He said, the burning Blush wou'd stain his Cheek,
Shou'd the surrounding Guard that led him to her,
Witness his Shame: I gave him fix'd Assurance,
That my Command shou'd keep the Guard at Distance:
While he, admitted to her lonely Tent,
Unheard shou'd plead his Life, and Gothmund's Love.
On this, he gave Consent.—

Gothmund.
Then haste thee, Harold.
Bid Goodwin lead the Captive to his Wife:
See him recall'd: That done, draw off thy Guard
To a more distant Station from her Tent.
For ere the Noon of Night, on Passion's Wing
I'll fly, to celebrate the Rites of Love.
Yet wear a watchful Eye, intent tho' distant:
Haply, he means to wile her from our Camp.

Harold.
My Life shall answer it.—

Gothmund.
At length she's mine.
Deceit hath colour'd o'er my bold Attempt.
Now, fiery Athelstan, go curse thy Folly:
Rave to the Winds and Seas, and rend the Air
With twice their Clamour!—Farewel, valiant Harold:
Speed my Resolve: I'll to my inner Tent.
[Exit Gothmund.

Harold.
Now, Vengeance, thou art mine!—Unthankful Gothmund!
To pay my honest and deep-printed Scars
With vile Neglect!—Go, headlong Fool of Passion!
Whose flattering Whisper cou'd alone infuse
This Dream of Hope, that Egbert e'er shall stoop
To gather Life from Shame!—Yes, he shall go:
Yet not to mould her into vile Compliance,
But arm her fainting Virtue with new Strength,
Equal to this dread Conflict.—Yet, lest Fear,
Or Woman's Weakness sink beneath the Trial,
A better Hope remains:—Mercia's brave Duke:—
Yes, injur'd Athelstan! Thy Arm shall be
The dark and fearless Minister of Fate;
And give me deep Revenge.
[Exit Harold.

SCENE V.

Changes to the open Camp.
Dunelm. Athelstan, following.
Athelstan.
Yet hear me, Dunelm!
For Pity's sake, relent.

Dunelm.
Peace, clam'rous Tongue!

Athelstan.
What! shall your Guards spurn me with Insolence?
Your barbarous Camp imprison me?

Dunelm.
No more.
Within this Mound, the General's Voice is Law.

Athelstan.
She is my Child! Art thou, too, deaf to Mercy?

Dunelm.
Vex me not, Briton!

Athelstan.
But release my Daughter!—
Give me my Child, and let me quit your Camp,—
My Dukedom's Wealth is thine!

Dunelm.
Thy Dukedom's Wealth?
Vain Man! Thy Pow'r is swallow'd up in Conquest:
Thy Titles vanish'd with thy Country's Freedom:
Thy boasted Wealth is fled to Denmark's Shore:
Thy Palace doom'd for Danes to riot in.
Peace then: and thank our Bounty, that we leave thee
Life, and the general Air.—
[Exit Dunelm.

Athelstan.
Oh merciless!
Yet, righteous Pow'rs! what Claim have I to Mercy!
Did I shew Mercy, on this fatal Morn,
To my poor bleeding Country; when this Arm
Made Widows childless!—Dar'st thou then, bold Wretch,
Dar'st thou against th' afflicting Hand of Heav'n
To rise, and plead for Mercy!—Rather bow thee
Low in the Dust!—Yes, thou shalt be my Bed,
[Throws himself on the Ground.
Cold Earth! Here will I lie, till Anguish end me!
Now rise, ye Ghosts of my wrong'd Countrymen!
Ye Spectres pale, rise with your gaping Wounds,
And hideous Yell!—Bring with you dire Despair
From the dread Caverns of eternal Night,
Where deep she dwells with agonizing Groans,
And sleepless Terrors! Rise, array'd in Blood!
Plant round your Horrors! 'till affrighted Reason
Start from my Brain; and I, the Prey of Phrenzy,
Like the fierce Mountain-Wolf in Madness foaming,
Howl to the midnight Moon!—

SCENE VIII.

To him, Harold.
Harold.
'Twas sure, the Voice
Of Athelstan.—What! prostrate on the Ground!
Art thou not Athelstan?

Athelstan.
I am that Wretch
Which once was Athelstan! Fair England's Boast,
I rear'd my Head in Honour: now behold me
Low-level'd with the Earth; a hideous Ruin;
Where, 'midst the Desolations of my Soul,
Despair and Anguish dwell!

Harold.
What heavy Woe
Hath weigh'd thee to the Dust?—Speak, valiant Duke.—

Athelstan.
Whoe'er thou art, Oh leave me to my Pangs!
If thou'rt a Dane; know, I detest and curse thee.
If thou'rt a Briton, waste not generous Pity,
But pour thy Curse on Me!—

Harold.
Know'st thou not Harold?

Athelstan.
Harold? My Woes had swallow'd all Attention:
Indeed, I knew thee not.

Harold.
Why this Despair?

Athelstan.
Alas, my Child, my Child!—But thou'rt a Dane,
And know'st not Pity!

Harold.
Hapless Athelstan!
The Colour of thy Grief indeed is deep:
Thou know'st not half thy Woes!

Athelstan.
Thy Words are dark.—
Oh my prophetic Soul!—I dare not ask thee.—
But if thou bear'st a Tale, with Horrors fraught,
Which Pity dreads to tell;—In Mercy kill me:
Strike deep thy friendly Sword into my Breast;
For I am robb'd of Mine!—My injur'd Daughter!—
Is it not so?

Harold.
The fatal Hour approaches.
For ere the Night hath won the Vault of Heav'n,
Gothmund, resolv'd on impious Violation,
Will plunge her in Dishonour.

Athelstan.
Plagues and Palsy,
Disease and Pestilence consume the Robber,
Infect his Blood, and wither ev'ry Pow'r!—
Oh Harold! why,—why did'st thou pierce my Soul
With this heart-breaking Tale!—I knew it not:—
Blast him, ye Fiends!—Why sleeps thy Thunder, Heav'n!

Harold.
Know, that Heav'n's Thunder sleeps not.

Athelstan.
Say'st thou, Dane?

Harold.
Heav'n's Thunder sleeps not, if thou dar'st to wield it.

Athelstan.
[Rising.
By Heav'n, I dare. Where is the flaming Bolt?
I'll hurl it on him, tho' with dire Rebound
It strike me to the Centre!

Harold.
Fear not, Athelstan.
Behold it here.—

[He draws a Dagger.
Athelstan.
A Dagger! Let me grasp it!—
[He takes the Dagger.
Oh precious Gift; more precious than the Plank
Thrown to the drowning Wretch!—I'll to his Tent,
And plunge it in his Heart!

Harold.
Curb thy fell Rage.
I'll give thee safer Vengeance.

Athelstan.
Generous Harold!—
I know the Wrongs thou bear'st from Gothmund's Pride.—
Where?—when?—Oh speed thee; for my Soul's on Fire!

Harold.
Know then, I rule the nightly Watch that Guards
Devoted Thyra's Tent.

Athelstan.
Indeed!

Harold.
The Files,
At my Command, shall move to such due Distance,
That by a secret Path I'll give thee Entrance.
Then, when the midnight Spoiler comes—

Athelstan.
Oh Vengeance!—
By Heav'n, his mangled Arteries shall spout
Fountains of Blood!

Harold.
Yet, lest Suspicion wake,
To intercept thy Entrance, or thy Flight—

Athelstan.
Oh, for some Dane's Disguise!

Harold.
I will array thee
In Safety's Garb: Wilt thou be plum'd like Gothmund?

Athelstan.
Yes: for Revenge, I'll wear the Shape of Gothmund,
Or any Fiend in Hell.

Harold.
Come on, brave Duke.
I will prepare thee for the mortal Conflict.
Fate crown thy Wish! Gothmund hath injur'd me.

Athelstan.
Yet, weigh'd with mine, thy Injuries are light:
Mine sink the groaning Scale!

Harold.
The more befits thee
That mortal Weapon.

Athelstan.
Yes: Revenge shall thank
Thy honest Hand, which gave it: And thou, Harold,
Shalt thank my brave Revenge.—Come, valiant Dane,
We'll roam the midnight Camp, like prowling Wolves,
Trooping in quest of Blood! Now, injur'd Nature,
Brace my old Arm! Oh touch this deadly Steel
With more than Aconite! Give it the Speed,
And fiery Stroke of Lightning, when it shoots
Thro' the dun Sphere of Night; to swift for Thought,
Or Fear, or slow Defence!—Now ruthless Gothmund!
Vengeance awak'd shall slake her Thirst in Blood;
And Justice, riding on the raven Wing
Of midnight Darkness, wrapt in clouded Wrath,
Comes like avenging Heav'n!