University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

To them Westmorland enters.
Ivar.
My friend!

Hub.
Great father of the war,
[Embrace.
Most welcome!
Free, arm'd, unhurt?

West.
It is a story,
Full of strange accident.

Ivar.
Come you from York?

West.
I do—where Osbert fell beneath my hand,
In equal combat slain.

Ivar.
Proclaim it to the Heavens!
Sound, sound it, every instrument of triumph!
Hail him ye hosts—our general is a king,
Northumbria's monarch! Thus let me salute him,
With earliest gratulation.—

Hub.
O, my friend—
Soul of all honour!—may thy empire spread
Wide as thy worth and glories!

West.
Thanks to both,
And grateful retribution—Ha!—
Eyes see amiss—or hence be dark for ever!—
Those ruins!—Speak, who burnt the hallow'd pile?

Hub.
Trust me, my noble friend, we both are guiltless—
Both were in battle fallen, when this dire act
Of outrage and dishonour was committed.

West.
O, if Arabia's spicy nest be desolate,
Where is my bird, the Phænix of its odours?—
Who can inform me?—
Ethelwald enters.
Ethelwald!
Where is thy precious charge, thy mistress?—Silent!—
Alas, there's desolation in thine eye!—
Speak, I conjure thee—yet, while I have power
To ask, or sense to hear thee.

Ethel.
O, prepare—
Prepare to pardon, then, this tongue accurs'd
'Bove all that e'er were doom'd to speak of woe!—
Rowena—your Rowena is—

West.
What?—

Ethel.
Dead!

[Westmorland falls.
Ivar.
He stirs not.—General!

Hub.
Most noble Westmorland!—
Nor hears.—The tempest-brooding calm is on him;
And it may break in violence, self urged
Against his precious life.

Ivar.
Remove his sword.

Hub.
Down, art thou down?—amid the world's wide forest
The stateliest pine o'erthrown!—O conquering grief!
Before thee falls, who stood the force of thousands.
He moves.—Friend!

Ethel.
Master!

Ivar.
Royal Westmorland!

[They raise, and seat him on a sopha.
West.
Alas—the lot of man is frailty!
I murmur not, that I was born to suffer—
But this was such a stroke!—my heart, to this,
Lay quite disarm'd and unprovided!—Ethelwald!
Speak, say what envious cruel fiends have brought
This sudden night upon us?

Ethel.
O, my loved lord!—the day was scarce disclosed,
When, in contempt of all the powers of Denmark,
Bold Osbert sallied forth. Never was field
So fought—until, on either part, the chiefs
Sore toil'd, or fallen, were carried from the battle!
Then, round yon pile, were gather'd, as from hell,
The insatiate furies, Cruelty and Lust!—
What could Rowena do?—the thunder slept,
Nor Heaven descended on the wing to save her.—

West.
Proceed, proceed—my soul is in thy tidings;
And every listening pulse suspends to hear thee!

Ethel.
When she perceived no help was near, she call'd
Her virgin train around her. Straight she drew
A knife, now sacred to the cause of virtue,
And bade them mark her—Yet, while they beheld
That face, whereon, like first created nature,
Beauty divine was visibly imprest,
At once 'twas chaos all!—her cheeks, her lips,
She gash'd, she mangled!—and, to knowledge, now
Rowena was no more!—

West.
Powers immortal!—

Ethel.
Then rose the daughters of her bright example
High o'er their sex, o'er all that e'er was famed
In story!—each was a Rowena, now!
In rush'd the ruffians—but, when they beheld
Beauty to horror turn'd, their boiling lusts
Froze inward—back they slunk—but soon return'd,
Laden with stubble, and with kindling brands,
That caught the pile around—As incense breathed
In morning sacrifice direct to Heaven,
Rowena, and her train of maiden-saints,
Ascended wrapt in flames!—and I but scarce
Escaped to bring the tidings.

West.
Mighty being!
Parent of good! for my Rowena, thanks!—
You thought I should be troubled—not the least—
I never knew an hour of peace like this!—
All, all, within, is still, amid the tempest,
The wreck of human nature!

Ivar.
Your looks are much disturb'd—Retire, my friend.

West.
Is the king come?—are all our friends invited?
Sit, sit!—
Sound trumpets, bear the triumph of my joys
Upon the chariot of the air, to Heaven,
And tell them, 'tis the bridal day of Westmorland!
Mark ye, the king looks sad—I cannot blame him—
What, what is empire, to a bride like mine!—
See where she sits, the queen of health and beauty
Dealing out joys, as plenteous as the spring
Throws odours to the breeze!—Approach not, friends,
Lest you be lost, like me, beneath her charms—
Her sweets oppress! they grow too mighty for me!
Joys insupportable!—

Ivar.
Help, bear him forward.
How strong this passion shakes him!

West.
Osbert, thy hand—ruin hath reconciled us—
What a dark journey do we go together!—
Ha, who are these?—their hands are weighty on me!
O, treacherous Danes!—
I have lost my powers—they bind me to a rock—
See, see the Magic Raven, how he plumes!—
How he prepares his beak!—Ungrateful bird!—
I, who have fed him with the spoil of nations,
Am now become his prey—
Loose me—he searches to my inmost bosom—
He tears my heart—he gorges up my vitals!

[Faints.
Hub.
Alas! and is our Denmark so accurs'd,
There to bring ruin where she meant to rescue?

Ivar.
Soft, he revives; his eye is more composed.—
How fares our friend?

West.
O, ye have kindly brought the dawn about me—
Reason's returning beam, to guide our passage;
The sun, that lights this little world of man.—
Patience, good Heaven!—I will abide your pleasure.

Hub.
Unhappy, honoured, injured Westmorland!
What shall your afflicted suppliants plead,
In mitigation of your just displeasure?
Here are our swords—and, if thou canst not pardon,
At least revenge!—

West.
No—take them back—Alas!
I am, myself, the frail one of my kind,
The very child of error—There is, yet,
One suit wherein I'd move ye.

Hub.
Say on, and think your will but told again
In our obedience.

West.
Thus it is—Since things,
By some o'erruling hand, have turn'd averse
To my soul's purpose; and that I, once deem'd
My country's guardian, shall in story now
Be held a traitor to her peace—I would
Hence forward spare the expence of blood—To York
Dispatch your herald—
And challenge forth whoe'er, in single fight,
Shall stand his country's hope. Ourself will meet him,
And these the high conditions—If we conquer,
The gift of fair Northumbria's scepter, then,
Is left at our dispose—but if, and who
Shall bar Almighty Pleasure?—if I fall,
You swear to abdicate her throne for ever,
And leave the land in peace.

Ivar.
It shall be done.
Say, is there aught beside?

West.
Not now. I feel
A drowsy weight steal o'er my travel'd soul.

Ivar.
Adieu!

Hub.
May all
The peace that rests with virtue, aid your slumbers!

[Exeunt all but Westmorland.
West.
False Danes! I know ye now—those ruins!—Soft,
That runs again to madness—O, these fields,
These fields of blood, whence are they?—is it Westmorland
That brought such carnage on his country?—How,
How does that feel!—
This host of fiends I have conjured up—but how
To quell them—there's the task!—to lay the hurricane
That wrecks thy peace, fair Albion!
My country, fear no more from my hostility—
Send but a toilet-champion to the field,
And to his stainless sword this breast shall be
As passable as air!

[Reposes on the sopha, and the scene closes.