University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Danish Camp.
Enter Edith with a bow and quiver, followed by Ina attended by a Boy, who carries a bow and quiver.
Edith.
Come, let us try who'll hit the target first.

Ina.
My bow hath got a cast, and will not shoot.

Edith.
In sooth your bow hath got no cast at all,
'Tis true as mine. Take mine—I'll shoot with it.

Ina.
Yours fits me not—'tis harder far to draw.

Edith.
Try it.

Ina.
No, no; I will not shoot to-day.
Besides, my arrows all have lost the nock

Edith.
Here's store enough of mine.

Ina.
Good Edith, no!
Entreat me not—I will not shoot to-day.

Edith.
Why, so 'twas yesterday! Fie, Ina, fie!
To tax thy bow with fault it never had.
The bow that hath a cast is thy changed will,
Thy nockless shafts are marr'd alone by that.
You wont to love this sport! From morn till night
Your pastime 'twas, and now you love it not!
What love you, sweet, instead?

Ina.
What should I love?

Edith.
Nay, Ina—you alone can answer that.
Has Otho's suit prevail'd?

Ina.
When did a flower
Spring from a weed, that love should grow from hate?

Edith.
What! call you love a flower? A flower looks gay—
So looks not love! A flower is sweet—Who says
That love is sweet? Does sweetness garner pain
For those that own it? Rather love's a weed
Oft taken for a flower—found out at last
With a sigh! O, Ina, you have pluck'd this weed!
Come, own it, Ina!

Ina.
Wherefore do you look
Thus at me?

Edith.
Why do you, my Ina, look
At anything but me? Why do your eyes
Of late their lustre lavish on the ground,
That cares not for it? And your honey'd breath,
That should be given to your silver tongue
To make sweet music of, why do you waste
Oftener on thankless and contentless sighs?
Come, tell me, Ina, what has happen'd to you?

Ina.
Alas! I know not.

Edith.
Do you say alas!
O, then, 'tis over with you! Why, you're in tears;
Only the drop's but half-way out, that soon
Would make way for the rest, held not your eye
Its crystal door upon it! Lean your head
Upon the bosom of your friend, and give
Your secret vent—for sure you have one, Ina!

Ina.
Not I!—Come, take your bow!—I'll shoot with you!
My quiver 'gainst a shaft, I'll be the first
To hit the mark. Set up the target, boy!
[Boy goes out.
Now for the eye of the eye. [Shoots.]
In sooth I've miss'd,
Wide by a mile—but thou hast shot full home!
I've pluck'd it, Edith, flower or weed. If weed,
O! weed most like a flower.—O precious weed!
There's not a flower so fair, I'd deem thee graced
To call thee by its name!

Boy
[running in].
The battle 's won!
I see our troops come winding up the glen,
Their spears and banners wreath'd—a token, sure,
Of victory.

[Goes out.
Edith.
Let's meet them, Ina:—Come!
Why, sweet, what's this? How pale you turn! How damp's
Your little hand! Nay, now 'tis snow indeed.
Cold as 'tis white! Did you not rightly hear?
He says the battle's won!

Ina.
I know he does!

Edith.
Is't with such cheeks you listen to such news?
This would become the daughter of the foe.

Ina.
The foe! The foe!

Edith.
What! find'st thou something sweet
In that harsh word, that thou repeat'st it thus?

Ina.
Harsh word! Now, harsh art thou to call it so;
Jars it thine ear? There's music in't to mine!
Stands it for what thou'dst shun? that's what I'd seek!
Yea! 'fore the things that brother, sister, friend—
Soft titles—stand for! Ina loves a foe!
That foe has lost the battle we have won.

Edith.
Why, sweet, where sawest thou this gentle foe?

Ina.
Even here. When last the Saxon ask'd a truce,
Curious to see their herald, I remain'd
Behind you in my father's tent. He came!
O, with what grace of rarest manhood! Proud
His gait, yet bearing onwards grace, so bland,
As made all hearts give willing way to him.
He spake, and I took root to where I stood;
And so did all. Not Guthrum moved! O Edith,
How should it be with Ina? Where were her eyes?
What were her ears about? What did her heart?
Dost feel it throbbing now? 'Tis quiet, now,
To what 'twas then! How often have you tried
To fix your naked eye upon the sun;
And when you've ta'en it off, how has the day,
From gazing his bright face, been turn'd to night;
Flowers, verdure, darken'd; yea, the orb himself
From burning gold, grown ink. 'Twas so with me
When sight of him was gone! Night turn'd to day
Again with you—but light's gone out with Ina
E'er since the day she look'd upon her foe!

Edith.
Hence, Ina, hence awhile! your father comes;
He must find looks of welcome.

Ina.
Have with you.
You've won my secret, Edith! Guard it for me.

[They go out.
Enter Guthrum, Amund, Oscar, Haldane, and Danes.
Guth.
Halt, comrades, halt! and change your toil for rest,
And then from rest to feasting! We'll carouse
A moon for this last victory, that leaves
No future foe to front us. England 's won!
So thinn'd her sons by this last overthrow,
And utterly discomfited, enow
Remain her not to make another stand,
Durst Alfred rally them—their throneless king!
We shall not need to cross the main again
To prop us with fresh succours. Here we'll build
Another Danish kingdom, fairer far
Than what we've left! What, ho there! bring me wine!
I'm thirsty from our march. Ho! wine, I say!
A seat! Here, in the open air, we'll drink,
Or ere we part, to our new Denmark. Chief
And followers shall pledge me. Wine I say!

Enter Otho.
Otho.
Guthrum, your priests prepare a sacrifice.
The God expects his victims. Shall he have them?

Guth.
Take them! You know the God must have his due!
[Otho goes out.
Give him the wine! my thirst's gone off—yet, no;
'Tis fit that I drink first. [Drinks.]
To our new Denmark!
By Odin! 'twas a glorious victory!
The God deserves his victims—he shall have them!
Odin's the God of war! If he drinks blood,
He has a right. Who dares deny the God
His victims? Amund, take the cup! We fought
Like Odin's sons. I saw you, Amund, cleave
In twain a Saxon at a single blow.

Am.
My Lord, 'twas slight to what your falchion did,
That, through the casquéd head and mailéd chine,
Made way at one dire wheel!

Guth.
Ay, did it so?
I do believe it did! No more of that!
Give me your hand, good Amund—For that blow
Lord of a gallant castle shalt thou be.
Pass on the cup to Oscar. Oscar! ha!
Show me thy falchion's edge—Look, Amund, here—
I saw him keep at once five Saxon swords
At bay! Well done!—Oscar, be sure you sit
On my right hand at banquet.

Osc.
Mighty chief,
I mark'd your eye was on me! 'twas a sword
That more than balanced all the odds against me!
Besides, your arm, just then, had turn'd the fight,
That seem'd at first against us.

Guth.
Was it so?
I don't remember it. Good Oscar, ask
What portion of the spoil thou wilt—'tis thine!

Otho re-enters.
Otho.
The victims, Chief, are ready.

Guth.
So! enough!

Otho.
Eight of them did we take by lot. The ninth
Is self-devoted to preserve the life
Of one, to whom we were about to hold
The fatal urn.

Guth.
Indeed! a chief?

Otho.
The port
Of both bespeaks them men of proud degree.

Guth.
Have 'em before us; we would see them. [Otho goes out.]
Guthrum
Loves war! Would leave the banquet any time
To mingle in the fight. He loves a friend;
But more than friend's embrace, he loves the hug
Foe gives to foe. Yet is not Guthrum cruel!
His foe disarm'd he never yet could smite!
He likes a noble deed, although the sword
Achieves it not. How say you, friends, were't right
To save the man, who loves his friend so well,
He lays down life for him—although a gift
To Odin?

Am.
Ere the priest his sacred hand
Lays on the victim, it has, still, been lawful
To snatch him from his doom!

Hal.
Behoves him though
To swear eternal league with Odin's sons.

Guth.
He'll do it, Haldane! Ha! I saw thee match'd
In fight, for once. That Saxon found thee, Haldane,
With two that back'd thee, livelier work than suits
A sluggard's hand. Thy seconds both were down—
Was't not so, Haldane?—and thyself, methought,
Madest rather backward way, when I despatch'd
Fresh aid to thee, with charge, at any risk,
To take thy gallant foe alive. 'Twas you,
Oscar, that I so charged.

Osc.
My liege, he lives;
O'ercome by force that could not make him yield,
But bore him down to earth, where, as he lay,
The strife his fetter'd limbs were forced to drop;
His eye continued still, that shot around
Deadly defiance in the face of death.

Guth.
Foe worthy Guthrum's sword! Was't not the herald,
Last sent us from the English king?

Osc.
The same.

Guth.
I'd like to see that man, again!

Osc.
He's here.

Enter Otho, with Oswith and Edric chained.
Guth.
This he!—Men's looks reflect their deeds as well
As nature's. One of these is he, whose thought
Of lofty friendship overlooks himself,
When fix'd on his friend's need—This is the man!

Otho.
It is, my Lord.

Guth.
Is he thy friend, whose life
Thou count'st a thing so precious, thou wouldst give
Thine own to purchase it?

Os.
He is.

Guth.
What rich
And heavy debt hast thou incurr'd to him,
To pay so large return as takes thy all?

Os.
And think'st thou friendship barters kindnesses?
'Tis not because that such or such a time
He help'd my purse, or stood me thus or thus
In stead, that I go bound for him, or take
His quarrel up! With friends, all services
Are ever gifts, that glad the donor most!
Who rates them otherwise, he only takes
The face of friend to mask a usurer.
I give my life for him, not for the service
He did me yesterday, or any day,
But for the love I bear him every day,
Nor ask if he returns!

Guth.
Be Guthrum's friend,
Thou livest, and thy friend for sake of thee!

Edr.
O, generous proffer!

Os.
Wouldst accept it?

Edr.
Yes.

Os.
Then do.

Guth.
Remove their chains.

Os.
First take off his.

Guth.
Now thine!

Os.
Long as my country wears your chains,
Guthrum, beware how you unrivet mine;
For once you set my arm at liberty,
The thing which first 'twill seek will be a sword,
To right my master, royal Alfred's cause—
And hack my injured country's fetters off!

Guth.
Saxon, beware! The smooth and gentle tide
Of mercy thwarted, turns a torrent, oft
O'erwhelming as the raging flood itself
Of vengeance!

Os.
Here I stand—let it come down!
I care not when or where its fury rushes!

Enter Ina and Edith (as yet unperceived by Guthrum, &c.).
Ina.
[Aside to Edith.]
'Tis he!

Guth.
Is Guthrum braved!—Is he the son
Of Odin!—marches, in his van, the God
Of War!—lies o'er the humbled necks of hosts
Of prostrate foes his path; and brooks he thus
Defiance, and from one earth-sprung—the spawn
Of the vile clod he treads on! Stood thy king
Alfred, of whom thou vaunting spokest, stood he
Where now thou stand'st, his regal eye had fallen
Beneath the frown of Guthrum.

Os.
Not beneath
The frown of Guthrum's god, were Odin real
As he is fabled!

Guth.
Give him to the God!

Ina.
Father!

Guth.
My Ina!

Os.
Ha! could I believe
He was not born of earth—there were, indeed,
An argument could make me!

Guth.
I have given thee
Thy choice of life or death—thou choosest death;
Then take it.

Ina.
Father!

Guth.
Ah, thou ever art
My sweet and welcome calm, that glads me, sun-like,
When summer days are breathless with the joy
Of his enriching beam.—I'm smooth again!
Not a ruffle! not a ruffle!—Is he not gone? Hence with him!

Ina.
No, no, my father!

Guth.
Wouldst thou have me set
A-foam again!—Nay, Ina, if I rage,
'Tis not at thee!—Why start away from me?
Come back, and cling to me again! close, close!
My child, beloved and only, tell me, if
Thou canst, how much I love thee!

Otho.
Saxon, come.

Ina.
No, no!

Guth.
How, Ina!

Ina.
Thou didst not repeat
Thy order.

Guth.
But I will.

Ina.
O, speak to me!—
I'm glad the fight is o'er. You won it soon!
You won it safely, else it were not won!
How stood the plume I fasten'd on your crest?
Well! well! How many eyes were on that plume,
Tossing, as proud it rode the stormy wave
Of battle; still the more majestical,
The fiercer wax'd the swell!

Guth.
My child, my child!
Ay, every inch my own.—When thou wast born,
I wish'd a son. I would not give thee now
For troops of them!—What, Otho!—

Ina.
Your scarf!—Is't whole?
No, no, a rent is here! Come, take it off.
False as it is, you shall not wear't again!
I'll knit you another, every loop of which
I'll fasten with a spell, that it shall prove
An amulet against the thrust of spear,
Or stroke of falchion!

Guth.
So you shall! You make
A child of your father! Otho!

Ina.
Not a wound!
For ever in the thickest of the fight,
And not a wound! Thank Odin! Yet I would
There were a slight one—for the 'tending on't!
No! no! and yet in sooth I would there were!
I know not what I say! I prate! I prate!
Thank Odin, you are safe!

Guth.
My girl! my girl!
My idle girl! my foolish, loving child!
My Ina! What! and have I won the fight,
And shalt not thou become the richer for't?
By Odin, but thou shalt! Come, ask me something!
Name me some gift. Come, measure, if thou canst,
Thy father's love for thee! What wilt thou ask?
Ask me a kingdom! Come?

Ina.
No kingdom, father,
I'd ask of thee—only one little boon.

Guth.
What is't? Speak out!

Ina.
Is't granted?

Guth.
By the God!
Out with't—What is't? What little boon is this
Which only wants the naming, to be thine,
And yet thou seem'st to lack the breath to name?

Ina.
Is that a rivet of your armour broke?
No, no!

Guth.
And if it were, no blame to it.
It turn'd an English javelin. At my feet
The weapon fell: I snatch'd it up again,
And sent it hissing at its master's head!

Enter Soldier.
Soldier.
This packet found we, Guthrum, in the tent
Of Alfred.

Guth.
Bring'st no tidings of himself?
'Tis certain that he left the field unhurt!
Have they return'd whom in pursuit of him—

Soldier.
They have. Three days they track'd him; on the fourth,
All trace of him was lost; but, by report,
Alone—without a single follower—
The royal fugitive pursues his way,
Broken in hopes, as fortunes.

Guth.
We may chance
To overtake yet, or light upon him.
Give me the paper.

[Takes the packet, and reads.
Os.
Such things I have heard of—angel forms,
Which magic raises—mocking fairest things
Of earth; but fairer—to entrance earth's sons—
Things they would deem of heaven, though found on earth!
Which, once beheld, their helpless functions seize
With ravishment, that leaves them but the power
To gaze or listen, till no warning effort
Of reason, or stronger will avails, to tear
The charméd sense away!

Edr.
Would I were chain'd
Again! Her pity makes his freedom poor,
That can't awaken it.

Guth.
[Returning packet.]
It matters not,
A string of Saxon rhymes! Can Alfred fight?
Who flourishes the pen so much, can scarce
Be master of the sword! He plays the harp,
As they report—the harp! Give me the strain
Of the resounding shield! Come, Ina, name
The boon thou'dst ask.

Ina.
When thou art happy, what
Most wishest thou?

Guth.
That happiness may last.

Ina.
No, no! not that. Thou wishest others happy.

Guth.
I do! I do!

Ina.
And so do I. When I
Am happy, I'd have all things like me—not
That live and move alone, but even such
As lack their faculties. Then could I weep,
That flowers should smile without perception of
The sweetness they discourse. Yea, into rocks
Would I infuse soft sense to fill them with
The spirit of sweet joy, that everything
Should thrill as I do! Then, were I a queen,
I'd portion out my realms among my friends,
Unstud my crown for strangers, and my coffers
Empty in purchasing from foes their frowns,
Till I had bought them out; that all should be
One reign of smiles around me! I am happy
To-day—to-day! that brings thee, father, back,
The hundredth time, in triumph and in safety!
This day, that smiles so bounteous upon Ina,
She'd make to smile e'en upon Ina's foe—
Let not the Saxon die!

Guth.
He lives!—My child!
What makes thee gasp?

Ina.
How near—How near to you
Was death that day! 'Twas well for Ina that
Your armour proved so true. She had not else
A father, now, to ask a boon of, and
To get it soon as ask'd!

Guth.
He lives thy slave!
Had he been wise, he now were Guthrum's friend.

Ina.
His chains—

Guth.
'Tis thine to take them off or not.
What Guthrum gives, he gives! He is thy slave.
Come, Saxon, thou art free! [To Edric.]


[Guthrum and Chiefs go out.
Edr.
Would I were chain'd
Again.

[Goes out.
Os.
I gaze, and with my trancéd eyes
Drink magic in. I know it, still I gaze.
And, yet, can bane reside in aught so sweet?
Can poison lodge in that consummate flower,
Which blends the virtues of all blooming things,
And with the wealth of its fair neighbourhood,
Enriches very barrenness, that near it
Grows sightly, e'en, and sweet?

Ina.
How's this, my Edith?
My wish, obtain'd, I tremble to enjoy!
I need but speak the word, and he is free;
Yet, there I let him stand in shackles still,
Whose chains to doff, were there no other way,
I'd go in bonds myself.—Sweet, be my tongue;
Bid them remove his chains.

Edith.
Unbind him, there!

Soldier.
My hand is useless, from the fight to-day.

Ina.
Try you!

Edith.
[Trying to take off his chains.]
It baffles me! It hath a knack
I am not mistress of.—Will you not try?
[Ina approaches, and takes off his chains.
You've done't.—Why, what's the matter with you, Ina?
Hast put his fetters on, that here you stand
As though bereft of motion? Rouse thee, Ina!

Ina.
O, for a minute, Edith, in thy bosom,
To weep there! Ay, to weep!—to shed such tears
As shower down smiling cheeks, when sudden joy
Pours in to the o'erfilling of the heart,
That look'd not for't; and knows not what to do
With all its treasure!

Os.
I do feel it still!
Still do I feel the touch of her fair hand!
How passing fair! The driven snow itself
Might make as white a one; but then, again,
As cold, as that is glowing! Who will loose
The fetters it puts on? Or, who that wears them,
Would sigh for the embrace of liberty!
Truth! honour! all is lapsed. O, for a foe
To taunt me now!—O, for a flourish of
The Danish trump!

Ina.
Saxon, wilt follow us?

Os.
I come, sweet maid! What am I but your slave,
To follow, though I leave all else that's bright?

[They go out.