 | Athelstan |  |
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.
| Athelstan | |