 | Ethwald |  |
SCENE I.
The court of a Saxon castle. Ethwald is discovered lying upon the ground as if half asleep. The sound of a horn is heard without, at which he raises his head a little, and lays it down again. The gate of the castle opens at the bottom of the stage, and enter Selred, Ethelbert, and attendants, as if returned from hunting. Sel. and Eth. walk forward to the front, and the others retire by different sides of the stage.Selred.
This morning's sport hath bravely paid our toil.
Have not my dogs done credit to their breed?
Eth.
I grant they have.
Sel.
Mark'd you that tawny hound,
With stretched nostrils snuffing to the ground,
Who still before, with animating yell,
Like the brave leader of a warlike band,
Through many a mazy track his comrades led
Right in the tainted path?
I would not for the weregild of a Thane
That noble creature barter.
Eth.
I do not mean to tempt thee with the sum.
Seest thou where Ethwald, like a cottage cur
On dunghill stretch'd, half sleeping, half awake,
Doth bask his lazy carcass in the sun?
Ho! laggard there!
[To Ethw., who just raises his head, and lays it down again. Eth. going up close to him.
When slowly from the plains and nether woods,
With all their winding streams and hamlets brown,
Updrawn, the morning vapour lifts its veil,
And through its fleecy folds, with soften'd rays,
Like a still'd infant smiling in his tears,
Looks through the early sun:—when from afar
The gleaming lake betrays its wide expanse,
And, lightly curling on the dewy air,
The cottage smoke doth wind its path to heaven:
When larks sing shrill, and village cocks do crow,
And lows the heifer loosen'd from her stall:
When heaven's soft breath plays on the woodman's brow,
And every hare-bell and wild tangled flower
Smells sweetly from its cage of checker'd dew:
Ay, and when huntsmen wind the merry horn,
And from its covert starts the fearful prey;
Who, warm'd with youth's blood in his swelling veins,
Would, like a lifeless clod, outstretched lie,
Shut up from all the fair creation offers? (Ethw. yawns and heeds him not.)
He heeds me not.
Sel.
I will assail him now. (In a louder voice.)
Ho! heads of foxes deck our huntsman's belt,
Which have through tangled woods and ferny moors
With many wiles shaped out their mazy flight,
Have swum deep floods, and from the rocky brows
Of frightful precipices boldly leap'd
Into the gulf below.
Nay, e'en our lesser game hath nobly done;
Across his shoulders hang four furred feet,
That have full twenty miles before us run
In little space. O, it was glorious!
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(raising his head carelessly).
Well well, I know that hares will swiftly run
When dogs pursue them.
(Stretches himself and goes to rest again.)
Eth.
Leave him to rest, he is not to be rous'd.
Sel.
Well, be it so. By heaven, my fretted soul
Did something of this easy stupor lack,
When near the latter limits of our chace
I pass'd the frowning tower of Ruthergeld.
He hangs a helmet o'er his battlements,
As though he were the chief protecting Thane
Of all the country round.
I'll teach th' ennobled Ceorl, within these bounds,
None may pretend in noble birth to vie
With Mollo's honour'd line!
Eth.
(proudly).
Hast thou forgot?
Or didst thou never hear whose blood it is
That fills these swelling veins?
Sel.
I cry you mercy, Thane: I little doubt
Some brave man was the founder of your house.
Eth.
Yes, such an one, at mention of whose name
The brave descendants of two hundred years
Have stately ris'n with more majestic step,
And proudly smiled.
Sel.
Who was this lordly chieftain?
Eth.
A Swabian shepherd's son, who, in dark times,
When ruin dire menaced his native land,
With all his native lordship in his grasp,
A simple maple spear and osier shield,
Making of keen and deep sagacity,
With daring courage and exalted thoughts,
A plain and native warrant of command,
Around him gather'd all the valiant youth;
And, after many a gallant enterprise,
Repell'd the foe, and gave his country peace.
His grateful country bless'd him for the gift,
And offer'd to his worth the regal crown.
Sel.
(bowing respectfully).
I yield me to thy claim.
[Ethwald, who has raised himself up by degrees upon hearing the story, and listened eagerly, now starts up, impatient of the pause, and catches Eth. by the arm.
Ethw.
And did they crown him then?
Eth.
No; with a mind above all selfish wrong,
He gen'rously the splendid gift refused:
And drawing from his distant low retreat
The only remnant of the royal race,
Did fix him firmly on his father's seat;
Proving until his very latest breath
A true and loyal subject.
[Ethwald's countenance changes, then turning from Eth. he slowly retires to the bottom of the stage and exit. Eth. follows him attentively with his eye as he retires.
Eth.
Mark'd you the changes of the stripling's eye?
You do complain that he of late has grown
A musing sluggard. Selred, mark me well:
Brooding in secret, grows within his breast
That which no kindred owns to sloth or ease.
And is your father fix'd to keep him pent
Still here at home? Doth the old wizard's prophecy,
That the destruction of his noble line
Should from the valour of his youngest son,
In royal warfare, spring, still haunt his mind?
This close confinement makes the pining youth
More eager to be free.
Sel.
Nay, rather say, the lore he had from thee
Hath o'er him cast this sullen gloom. Ere this,
Where was the fiercest courser of our stalls
That did not shortly under him become
As gentle as the lamb? What bow so stiff
But he would urge and strain his youthful strength,
Till every sinew o'er his body rose,
Like to the sooty forger's swelling arm,
Until it bent to him? What flood so deep
That on its foaming waves he would not throw
His naked breast, and beat each curling surge,
Until he gain'd the far opposing shore?
But since he learnt from thee that letter'd art,
Which only sacred priests were meant to know,
See how it is, I pray! His father's house
Has unto him become a cheerless den.
His pleasant tales and sprightly playful talk,
Which still our social meals were wont to cheer,
Now visit us but like a hasty beam
Between the showery clouds. Nay, e'en the maid
My careful father destines for his bride,
That he may still retain him here at home,
Fair as she is, receives, when she appears,
His cold and cheerless smile.
Surely thy penanced pilgrimage to Rome,
And the displeasure of our holy saint,
Might well have taught thee that such sacred art
Was good for priests alone. Thou'st spoilt the youth.
Eth.
I've spoilt the youth! What thinkst thou then of me?
Sel.
I'll not believe that thou at dead of night
Unto dark spirits sayst unholy rhymes;
Nor that the torch, on holy altars burnt,
Sinks into smoth'ring smoke at thy approach;
Nor that foul fiends about thy castle yell,
What time the darken'd earth is rock'd with storms;
Though many do such frightful credence hold,
And sign themselves when thou dost cross their way.
I'll not believe—
Eth.
By the bless'd light of heaven !—
Sel.
I cannot think—
Eth.
Nay, by this well-proved sword!
Sel.
Patience, good Thane! I meant to speak thy praise.
Eth.
My praise, sayst thou?
Sel.
Thy praise. I would have said,
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So bravely fought, and still in the honour'd cause,
Should hold unhallow'd league with damned sprites,
I never will believe.” Yet much I grieve
That thou with bold intrusive forwardness,
Hast enter'd into that which holy men
Hold sacred for themselves;
And that thou hast, with little prudence too,
Entrapp'd my brother with this wicked lore,
Although methinks thou didst not mean him harm.
Eth.
I thank thee, Selred; listen now to me,
And thou shalt hear a plain and simple tale,
As true as it is artless.
These cunning priests full loudly blast my fàme,
Because that I with diligence and cost,
Have had myself instructed how to read
Our sacred Scriptures, which, they would maintain,
No eye profane may dare to violate.
If I am wrong, they have themselves to blame;
It was their hard extortions first impell'd me
To search that precious book, from which they draw
Their right, as they pretend, to lord it thus.
But what thinkst thou, my Selred, read I there?
Of one sent down from heav'n in sov'reign pomp,
To give into the hands of leagued priests
All power to hold th' immortal soul of man
In everlasting thraldom? O far otherwise!
[Taking Selred 's hand with great earnestness.
Of one who health restored unto the sick,
Who made the lame to walk, the blind to see,
Who fed the hungry, and who rais'd the dead,
Yet had no place wherein to lay His head.
Of one from ev'ry spot of tainting sin
Holy and pure; and yet so lenient,
That He with soft and unupbraiding love
Did woo the wand'ring sinner from his ways,
As doth the elder brother of a house
The erring stripling guide. Of one, my friend,
Wiser by far than all the sons of men,
Yet teaching ignorance in simple speech,
As thou wouldst take an infant on thy lap
And lesson him with his own artless tale.
Of one so mighty
That He did say unto the raging sea
“Be thou at peace,” and it obeyed His voice;
Yet bow'd Himself unto the painful death
That we might live.—They say that I am proud—
O! had they like their gentle master been,
I would, with suppliant knee bent to the ground,
Have kiss'd their very feet.
But, had they been like Him, they would have pardon'd me
Ere yet my bending knee had touch'd the earth.
Sel.
Forbear, nor tempt me with thy moving words!
I'm a plain soldier, and unfit to judge
Of mysteries which but concern the learn'd.
Eth.
I know thou art, nor do I mean to tempt thee.
But in thy younger brother I had mark'd
A searching mind of freer exercise,
Untrammell'd with the thoughts of other men:
And like to one, who, in a gloomy night,
Watching alone amidst a sleeping host,
Sees suddenly along the darken'd sky
Some beauteous meteor play, and with his hand
Wakens a kindred sleeper by his side
To see the glorious sight, e'en so did I.
With pains and cost I divers books procured,
Telling of wars, and arms, and famous men;
Thinking it would his young attention rouse;
Would combat best a learner's difficulty,
And pave the way at length for better things.
But here his seized soul has wrapp'd itself,
And from the means is heedless of the end.
If wrong I've done, I do repent me of it.
And now, good Selred, as thou'st seen me fight
Like a brave chief, and still in th' honour'd cause,
By that good token kindly think of me,
As of a man who long has suffered wrong
Rather than one deserving so to suffer.
Sel.
I do, brave Ethelbert.
Eth.
I thank thee, friend.
And now we'll go and wash us from this dust:
We are not fit at goodly boards to sit.
Is not your feast-hour near?
Sel.
I think it is.
[Exeunt.
| Ethwald | |