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