 | Athelstan |  |
SCENE III.
To them, Gothmund.Gothmund.
What lawless Clamour
Breaks on my Tent?
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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!
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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.]
| Athelstan | |