 | Athelstan |  |
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ACT V.
SCENE I.
A grove, by Thyra's Tent.Egbert, Goodwin.
Goodwin.
Behold the Path, which leads to Thyra's Tent:
This Grove, thro' which the Moon scarce throws her Beam,
Well suits thy purpos'd Privacy.—The Guards,
Which late clos'd round the Tent, by Harold's Order
Have left this Entrance free.
Egbert.
The Path is dark: Nor can I aught descry,
Save the faint Glimm'ring of a distant Lamp,
That lights the inner Tent. Is this dark Path
The sole Approach?
Goodwin.
It is.—But if thy Purpose
Be undivulged Secresy of Converse,
Call forth thy Thyra to this ample Round,
Where neither Ear can hear, nor Tongue betray thee:
The distant Guard here circles round the Wood:
But on yon opposite Side, the Centinels
Hemm in the Tent, a close compacted Body:
No Whisper can escape their watchful Ear.—
Egbert.
'Tis well: I'll call her hither. Leave me, Goodwin:
So Harold gave Command. Her Weal and mine
Hang on the Purport of my Thought; which asks
Her private Ear.
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I leave thee to thy Wishes.
[Exit Goodwin.
Egbert.
Where is my Wife!—Come forth, thou innocent Lamb,
To Slaughter doom'd!—Oh speed thee; for ev'n now
The bloody Tiger, eyes thee in the Fold!
Wilt thou not hear the Shepherd's friendly Voice,
That warns thee from thy Foe?—Thyra—dear Thyra!—
It is thy Egbert calls!—
SCENE II.
To him, Thyra, Edwina.Thyra.
My Lord! my Egbert!
Do I once more behold thee! Oh, my Lord!
Unutterable Woe!—
[She bursts into Tears.
Egbert.
[Embracing her.
Thou Sum of all my Wishes!
My Soul's far dearer Part!—Yes, I will mix
My Tears with Thine: Thy Wrongs demand them all!
Thyra.
Undone! undone!—Oh Egbert!—
Egbert.
Dearest Thyra!
Egbert wou'd die, to save thee!
Thyra.
I know, thou woud'st.
Is there no means of Rescue?
Egbert.
None, my Love.
This Grove is hemm'd round by a Guard of Danes,
Who own no Law, save cruel Gothmund's Will;
Whose Bosom, sacred Pity never touch'd
With soft Compunction; nor for other's Woe
Call'd forth the generous Tear.
Thyra.
Oh, I am lost!
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If ye do waft the Pray'rs of Innocence
Up to the Throne of Mercy, hear me now!
Oh, from your Mansions of unclouded Bliss,
Let Heav'n send down your Sister-Angel, Pity;
And melt his Heart's fell Purpose!
Egbert.
Hope not Pity!
In vain thy Father (for I have heard thy Story)
With Tears and Grief's Intreaty strove to melt him.
He spurn'd him with Disdain.—But when I tell
The Tale of Shame, that heaves my throbbing Breast!—
Oh Thyra! hide my Blush!
Thyra.
What mean thy Words?
Can Fate yet swell the Number of our Woes?
Egbert.
Think'st thou that Egbert, for a Life of Shame,
Wou'd sell thee to Dishonour?
Thyra.
Heav'n forbid!
Egbert.
On that infernal Errand am I come.
So Gothmund wills.—Why dost thou turn thee from me?
Thyra.
Am I betray'd by Egbert?—Gracious Heav'n,
Be thou my Help! If Egbert hath prov'd false,
All human Faith is vain!
Egbert.
Thou Heav'n of Love!
Thy Virtue charms me!—On this Task of Shame
Gothmund indeed hath sent me.—Virtuous Thyra,
Far distant is my Purpose. Think not Egbert
Wou'd vilely purchase Life.—But oh, my Love,
Thy fatal Hour comes on! Ev'n now, the Ruffian,
With lustful Rage and fierce Impatience flown,
Prepares him for thy Tent!
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Is there not Hope,
That England's Pow'r, beneath the Veil of Night,
May storm this guilty Camp, and give us Freedom?
Egbert.
Heav'n speed their Valour! But, alas!—that Hope
Too late shall visit Thee!—Ev'n now he comes,
To rob this sacred Temple, where pure Chastity
And Honour long have dwelt!
Thyra.
Oh fatal Tidings!
Wilt thou not stay, to save me?
Egbert.
Dearest Thyra!
The unrelenting Guard that brought me hither,
Ev'n now expects, and soon shall tear me from thee!
Thyra.
Oh Horror!
Egbert.
Now, my Thyra, arm thy Heart
With manly Strength: drive all the Woman thence.
Seest thou this deadly Steel?
[He draws a dagger.
Thyra.
Oh welcome, welcome!
Thy Looks are dreadful, and I read thy Purpose.
If 'tis the Messenger of honest Death,
Behold my Breast! I'll bless the friendly Stroke;
And bless Thee for this last, most generous Proof
Of Faith and Love sincere!
Egbert.
Yes! I have read
Of a stern Father, who, severely kind,
And deaf to struggling Nature's loud Appeal,
Shed his dear Daughter's innocent Blood, to save her
From an Invader's Lust:—A juster Purpose
Glows in my Breast—Why shou'd the Brave and Good
Fall self-devoted?—Let the guilty Heart
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And when the Robber comes, with dauntless Arm
Plunge it into his Heart.
Thyra.
Alas, my Lord!
Egbert.
What? does the treacherous Blood forsake thy Cheek?
Thou who, unmov'd, coud'st dare it's deadly Point,
Not dare inflict the Blow! Thou lovely Weakness!
Courage with Softness join'd!—O sweet Perfection!
Yet must thou strike!—Oh think, how future Times,
Ages unborn, shall bless thy friendly Hand!
How the chaste Praise of Matron-Tongues shall saint thee,
And wondring Babes, rescu'd from Slav'ry's Woe
By this brave Deed, shall lisp my Thyra's Name!
Thyra.
What, stain my Hand with Murder! Heav'n forbid!
Egbert.
Blaspheme not Justice.—What! when thou'rt pursu'd
Ev'n to Perdition's Brink; shalt thou not turn,
And slay the fell Destroyer?
Thyra.
Oh, my Heart!
Alas, my Arm is weak! I am unpractis'd
In Deeds of Blood! 'Tis terrible to think!
What then, to do!—When I shou'd strike, the Dagger
Wou'd faulter in my Hand!
Egbert.
Let Danger rowze thee;
Fear make thee bold.—Ev'n now the Spoiler comes!
Thyra.
[catching him.
Oh save me, Egbert!
Egbert.
Hark! the Guard requires me!
I must be gone.—
Thyra.
No, we will never part.
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We must! we must!—Hark! Goodwin calls again.
Another Moment brings Destruction on thee.
Speed thy Resolves—Farewel!—
[Going.
Thyra.
Oh horrible!
Give me the Dagger!
[She takes the Dagger.
Egbert.
Angels strengthen thee!
Now, prove thee worthy of a Briton's Love.
By one brave Blow, redeem thyself from Shame;
Thy Egbert from the Depth of poison'd Dungeons;
Thy groaning Country from the Scourge of Denmark!
Retire: he'll seek thee in the inner Tent;
And when he comes;—Oh Heaven direct her Hand!
[Exit Egbert.
Thyra.
Farewel, my honour'd Lord!—Here am I left,
With not a Friend to aid, but this dire Weapon!
Now, pitying Heav'n, protect me!—Hark! what Noise!—
In ev'ry Sound I hear the Ravisher!—
How dreadful Silence, at the Dead of Night!
Pregnant with Horrors!—Oh, thou fatal Weapon,
Dark Minister of Death! Oft hast thou arm'd
Th' Assassin's Hand with Fate! This once befriend
Despairing Innocence.—
Come, Matron-Courage! Thou who didst inspire
The brave Bethulian; and with dauntless Step,
Didst lead her to the proud Assyrian's Tent!
Now aid my trembling Hand! Teach me, like her,
Fearless to strike where Justice points the Blow!
That when he comes, This may revenge our Wrongs,
And set my Country free.—
[She puts up the Dagger.
Edwina.
Hark!—didst not hear
The Tread of Feet, as rustling thro' the Grove?—
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SCENE III.
To them Harold, Athelstan, on the opposite Side of the Stage.Thyra.
[Aside to Edwina.
Oh, blasting to mine Eyes! The Robber comes!
Clad in his gorgeous Plume!
Edwina.
Retire we hither,
[They retire to the farthest
Till he hath gain'd the Tent.
[part of the Stage.
Harold.
[To Athelstan.
This Way, brave Friend.—
Athelstan.
Soft!—left the Guard
O'erhear us—Prosperously we have eluded
The unsuspecting Watch.—I dread the Sound
Of my own Footsteps.—Lead me, gen'rous Harold,
Where I may lurk unseen.—
Harold.
Thro' that blind Path,
He must approach her Tent. 'Tis form'd for Ambush:
Dark as his purpos'd Deed. Go, hide thee there.—
And when he comes—For e'er a Minute's Round
He means to come—
Athelstan.
[Draws a Dagger.
Now Gothmund, Fate draws near.—
Down, throbbing Heart! Thou shalt have speedy Vengeance!
Harold; all Thanks are poor!—
[Athelstan enters the Tent.
Harold.
[Aloud to Athelstan.
Hold thy Resolve;
And Fate shall crown thy Wish.—
[Exit Harold.
Thyra.
[Advancing.
Oh, dreadful Sounds,
To which, the Midnight Thunder's Voice were mild!
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Then I am lost!—Edwina, let us fly,—
Rush thro' these Woods, and trust his merciless Guards:
They may have Pity!
Edwina.
Rather, linger not.
Pursue the Robber thro' that gloomy Path:
Its Darkness aids thy Purpose. Haste thee, haste thee:
This Moment's thine: The next, perhaps, is Gothmund's.
Thyra.
[Drawing the Dagger.
Then, Heav'n assist me!—Oh, thou treach'rous Arm,
Why dost thou tremble thus!—What mean these Horrors,
That freeze my Blood!—Did I not hear a Voice?—
With hollow Groans, it cry'd, “Hold, hold thy hand!”—
Infernal Fiends, why do you thus beset me?
Hence, bloody Spectres, nor afflict my Sense:
Go, glare on Guilt: for I am innocent!—
Avaunt, false Terrors!—Now be firm, my Heart!
Oh, my revolting Hand!—I dare not strike.—
Hence, feminine Fear!—The Coward turns to Valour,
When goaded by Despair!—
[She enters the Passage.
Edwina.
Heav'n guide her Dagger,
And bury it in his Heart!—
Athelstan.
[Within.
Oh Treachery!
Die, Villain, die!
Edwina.
Ye blessed Pow'rs, protect her!
Athelstan.
[Entering with his Dagger bloody.
Whoe'er thou art, false Dane,
I bear thy Life-blood on my Dagger's Hilt.
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Who? Athelstan!—What Blood?—I fear, I fear!
Athelstan.
If Fate be just, 'tis Gothmund's.—Where's my Child?
Edwina.
Oh, cou'd eternal Darkness bury Her,
Or bury Thee! Or Thunder strike thee dead;
And save thee from that killing Sight, which soon
Shall turn thee into Horror,—thou wert happy!—
For thou hast done a Deed—
[She enters the Passage
Thyra.
[Within.
I bleed! I die!—
Edwina! Edwina!—
Athelstan.
Chain'd down by Terror,
I wait the Bolt of Fate!—That Voice of Death,
Dreadful as Lightning from the Midnight Cloud,
Hath cleft my Brain!—Nor ever did the Flames
Of Hell discover, to the hopeless Damn'd,
A Glympse of deeper Horror!—Where's my Child!—
Oh Torture, Torture!
To him Edwina, leading Thyra wounded and fainting.
Thyra.
Help me!—Oh! my Father!—
Athelstan.
Oh Heav'n and Earth! Death! Murder! Parricide!
[She falls: he throws himself on the Ground by her.
Speak, Emma, speak! How is it with thee?
Thyra.
Oh!—
Athelstan.
[Rising and traversing the Stage.
Can'st thou not speak?—Hoa! help! she bleeds to Death!
No Friend to help!—hear me, ye barbarous Danes!
Behold a Sight, shall make the flinty Heart
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'Twas I that kill'd thee!
[Kneels over her.
Thyra.
Can'st thou e'er forgive—
Athelstan.
Forgive! Forgive!
Thyra.
My parricidal Hand,
That aim'd an impious Blow.—Content I die:
Yes gladly yield my Life: pleas'd to have 'scap'd
A Fate more dreadful; had my guilty Arm
Shed my dear Father's Blood!
Athelstan.
Oh Scorpion Stings!
Thou dear expiring Saint! What! ask Forgiveness
Of him who murder'd thee! She faints, she faints!
Oh tell thy Murd'rer, tell thy wretched Father,—
Leave me not to Distraction,—tell me, tell me,
Thou dost forgive my Crime!
Thyra.
Witness, ye Pow'rs,
How I forgive! Kind Heav'n, asswage his Pangs!—
Oh Egbert! must I never more behold thee!
Bid my dear Lord remember me—Alas!
My swimming Eyes grow dark!—Where is my Father!—
Where is my Husband!—lay me down in Peace!
Oh Heav'n receive my Soul—
[She dies.
Athelstan.
She's dead! she's dead!
Stay, blessed Saint! hover awhile in Air,
And take thy lost, thy wretched Father with thee!—
That ne'er must be! For she is fled to Heav'n,
Where Peace and Virtue dwell! Where Guilt and Treason,
Murder and Parricide, must never come!
Open, thou Earth! Oh, drag me down, ye Fiends,
To endless Anguish! Heap the sulph'rous Torture
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Of heav'nly Wrath awak'd! Yet weak will be
Your fiercest Vengeance, to that inward Hell
That Rages here—
[Strikes his Breast, and throws himself on the Body.
SCENE VII.
To him Siward and Officers.Siward.
Hoa, Athelstan, where art thou?
The King hath storm'd the Camp: the Danes are flying:
England again is free.
Athelstan.
Too late—Oh, Oh!—
Siward.
What means this Scene of Blood!—Ah! Thyra slain!—
Athelstan.
Behold the Work of this accursed Hand!
Lo, where she lies!—A dark and fatal Error
With sacrilegious Fury arm'd the Father
Against his blameless Child!
Siward.
Oh Sight of Woe!
Poor bleeding Innocence!—Let honest Vengeance
Rowze thee from Grief. To fire thy Soul to Conquest,
I hasted thro' the Camp; and left the Field,
Where valiant Egbert, freed from Denmark's Chain,
Hath buried deep his Sword in Gothmund's Heart,
And leads thy Mercians, clad in gloomy Terror,
O'er Heaps of slaughter'd Danes!—Rise, valiant Duke;
Rise from this Trance of Woe! The Danes are flying.
Athelstan.
Oh never, never will I rise from hence!—
Go, tell thy injur'd King, that Athelstan,
Wounded by Penitence, wept his Wrongs in Blood!
Tell him, thou saw'st me leaning o'er my Child,
Raving in Pangs of Horror and Despair,
A Sight to melt stern Justice into Tears!—
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Tho' guilty, yet not vile, self-punish'd fell!—
Now die and be at Peace!—Now traiterous Heart,
Receive thy just Reward!
[He raises his Arm to stab himself, they prevent him.
Siward.
Prevent his Fury,
Athelstan.
[Struggling.
Off—nor tempt your Fate!—
Dreadful is armed Rage, that pants for Death;
By Ills exasperated;—Such is mine;
Made fatal by Despair!—Then shun my Fury!
My Dagger thirsts but for my own Life Blood:
Why must it rush on yours!—Too much, too much,
My murderous Hand hath spilt!—Oh Emma, Emma!
[He sinks and drops the Dagger.
Siward.
Support and raise him.—Hear me, Athelstan!
Hear Friendship's Voice!—It is thy Siward calls.—
His Cheek turns pale.—Alas, my generous Friend,
How are thy Virtues lost!—
Athelstan.
Oh dire Event!
Was it for this, thy dear, thy virtuous Mother
Indur'd the Child-bed Pang! Was it for this,
She foster'd thee at her chaste Matron-Breast!
And, in the Fondness of parental Hope,
Styl'd thee the Joy of our declining Years!—
Oh fatal, fatal Blow!
Siward.
Lift up thine Eyes!
In Pity to thy weeping Siward, speak!
Hear, generous Athelstan!
Officer.
He heeds thee not.
Athelstan.
Thus to be slaughter'd by thy Father's Hand!
My Emma—Oh, my Child!
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An agonizing Sweat
Sits on his Brow: The Hand of Death is on him.
Athelstan.
Oh! Oh! Oh!
[Dies.
Siward.
He dies! he dies!—His strong conflicting Griefs
Have burst his mighty Heart!—Oh, Athelstan!
Thy Friends shall weep, and ev'ry generous Foe,
Confess thy Virtues, and lament thy Fate!
Hadst thou been true! what brighter Name had deck'd
Thy Country's Story! But thy tow'ring Spirit,
Deep-shaken by the Tempest of Revenge,
From its Uprightness tottering, bore thee down
Ev'n to Perdition's Depth—Yet may the Woes
Which Heav'n's avenging Hand hath heap'd upon thee
Recorded stand, a Monument of Justice!
That when in future Times a King shall reign,
Brave, good, and just, the Father of his People,
Th' abhorr'd Example may avert those Ills
Thy traitrous Arm hath wrought—That black Rebellion
May never rear her Standard; nor unsheath
Her guilty Sword, to aid the fell Invader!
That Faction's Sons in thee their Fate may read;
That by the Father's Crime the Child shall bleed,
And private Woe to publick Guilt succeed.
End of the Fifth Act.
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