 | Edwin the Fair |  |
Scene VII.
—Night. A Coppice near Acton in Cheshire. —In front is a mortstone.This was a large stone by the way-side between a distant village and the parish church, on which the bearers of a dead body rested the coffin.
1st Servant.
This is the road; bring up the horses, ho!
Hark! heard'st thou aught? If Dunstan knew, my friends,
He'd ope his book and read a verse of power,
And send a goblin that should . . .
2nd Servant.
Hush! thou fool!
Is it not hither the Earl should come?
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'Tis here,
Six furlongs from the chapel. What is this?
Oh me! the mortstone! No, it is not here;
'Tis further on.
3rd Servant.
Seest thou not something white?
1st Servant.
Jesu Maria, save us! 'tis a Spirit.
[Exeunt.
Enter Leolf and Elgiva.
Leolf.
Fresh horses should have met us here; what chance
Hath hindered them, I know not; we must wait
Till these be rested. Here is a rude stone-seat;
We may rest likewise.
Elgiva.
Is there danger still?
Leolf.
But little here; the dangers of the road,
I trust, are left behind.
Elgiva.
Oh, Leolf! much
I owe you, and if aught a kingdom's wealth
Affords, could pay the debt . . .
Leolf.
A kingdom's wealth!
Elgiva! by the heart the heart is paid.
You have your kingdom, my heart has its love.
We are provided.
Elgiva.
Oh! in deeds so kind,
And can you be so bitter in your words!
Have I no offerings of the heart, wherewith
Love's service to requite?
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The least of boons
Scattered by royal charity's careless hand
O'erpays my service; to requite the rest
All you possess is but a bankrupt's bond.
This is the last time we shall speak together;
Forgive me, therefore, if my speech be bold
And need not an expositor to come.
I loved you once; and in such sort I loved
That anguish has but burnt the image in
And I must bear it with me to my grave.
I loved you once; dearest Elgiva, yes,
Ev'n now my heart is feeding on that love
As in its flower and freshness, ere the grace
And beauty of the fashion of it perished.
It was too anxious to be fortunate,
And it must now be buried, self-embalmed
Within my breast, or living there recluse
Talk to itself and traffic with itself;
And like a miser that puts nothing out
And asks for no return, must I tell o'er
The treasures of the past.
Elgiva.
Can no return
Be rendered? And is gratitude then nothing?
Leolf.
To me 'tis nothing—being less than love;
But cherish it as to your own soul precious;
The heavenliest lot that earthly natures know
Is to be affluent in gratitude.
Be grateful and be happy. For myself,
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That springs from sorrow and aspires to heaven,
Be with me still. When this disastrous war
Is ended, I shall quit my country's shores
A pilgrim and a suitor to the love
Which dies not nor betrays.—What cry is that?
I thought I heard a voice.
Elgiva.
Oh, Leolf, Leolf!
So tender, so severe!
Leolf.
Mistake me not;
I would not be unjust; I have not been;
Now less than ever could I be, for now
A sacred and judicial calmness holds
Its mirror to my soul; at once disclosed
The picture of the past presents itself
Minute yet vivid, such as it is seen
In his last moments by a drowning man.
Look at this skeleton of a once green leaf;
Time and the elements conspired its fall;
The worm has eaten out the tenderer parts
And left this curious anatomy
Distinct of structure—made so by decay;
So at this moment lies my life before me
In all its intricacies, all its errors,
And can I be unjust?
Elgiva.
Oh, more than just,
Most merciful in judgment have you been,
And ev'n in censure kind.
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Our lives were linked
By one misfortune and a double fault.
It was my folly to have fixed my hopes
Upon the fruitage of a budding heart;
It was your fault,—the lighter fault by far,—
Being the bud to seem to be the berry.
The first inconstancy of unripe years
Is nature's error on the way to truth.
But, hark! another cry! they call us hence;
Why come they not to us? Hark! Hist! again!
A clash of swords! Our band then is beset;
Alas, Elgiva!
Elgiva.
Leolf, we are lost.
Say, is it so? I am not afraid; but, oh!
Forgive me, Leolf, for I have wronged in you
The noblest of your kind. Oh, Edwin! . . . Leolf,
Tell him that I was true till death to him,
Though sometime false to you.
Leolf.
Fly, fly, Elgiva!
Our horses are at hand—we still may fly.
| Edwin the Fair | |