University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The open Camp.
Harold.
Gothmund a Warrior? By our Gods of Denmark,
I cou'd have sack'd ten Cities since the Morn.
The lingering Sun goes down, and yet beholds
The Danish Sword hang pow'rless o'er the Foe.
To him, Dunelm.
Dunelm, well met.—What means this vile Delay?
What hast thou seen?

Dunelm.
From yonder Eminence,
Ev'n now, I saw proud London wrapt in Fire.
Harold, behold yon dusky Wreaths of Smoke:
Yon pitchy Cloud is fraught with glorious Ruin.

Harold.
Indeed!

Dunelm.
I saw the Flames besiege the Tow'r
Which proudly had scorn'd the general Assault
Of Denmark's Pow'r. Soon spread the sulphur'd Fires,
Mining it's Base: at length, with horrid Crash,
The Pile fell headlong, like a Wreck of Nature.
And as it fell, a hollow Murmur pierc'd
Mine Ear, that seem'd an Army's dying Groan.
I saw the Breach in the proud City's Wall,
Where our brave Danes pour'd in, while Shouts of Conquest
Dismay'd the flying Rear. Harold, ere this,
The City's won.

Harold.
No more—I'm sorry for't.

Dunelm.
What! when our Troops thro' ten long Moons have toil'd,
Till Siege and fell Disease have thin'd our Ranks,
Before this Capital, this haughty London,
The Mistress of the Island. When her Tow'rs
Are humbled in the Dust! ev'n then to wear
That clouded Eye! Much it might suit a Briton;
But ill becomes a Dane.

Harold.
Have I not Cause
To hate our General?

Dunelm.
Grant it: yet no Cause
To hate the Victories his Sword hath gain'd
For Denmark's Weal.

Harold.
Dishonour blast his Laurels!
Ere since I won full Glory from our Wars,
He checks my Valour, left it should o'ertop,
And shadow his—Behold, this very Day,
When mighty London falls a Prey to Denmark,
I'm pent within the Circuit of a Camp,
On an obscure and ignominious Charge.
My Sword, inglorious, sleeps within its Scabbard,
Depriv'd its Prey. Yes: well he knew, this Arm
Had led the Storm: as erst it did, to him
And his Compeers; when Norway's frozen Cities
Sunk at my Frown; when thro' conflicting Hosts
I op'd the dreadful Track; while far behind
He loyter'd in the Breach, and poorly reap'd
The Gleanings of my Faulcion.

Dunelm.
Peace, brave Harold.
Nor let Dissention blot the gen'ral Triumph.

Harold.
Here, Dunelm, here shall deep Revenge lie pent,
Must'ring it's Rage: but soon th' impatient Flood
Shall burst the Mound, and overwhelm his Pride.
Yes: may I ne'er more win the Wreath of Conquest;
Ne'er fall triumphant in the Field of Fame;
But groan out Life, stretch'd on th' unmanly Couch;
If I repay not Gothmund's uncaus'd Hate,
With deadliest Vengeance!

Dunelm.
Let thy Vengeance wait
Some darker Hour.—Behold, where Goodwin comes.
His Eye speaks Victory: and his glad Step
Prevents the welcome Tidings of his Tongue.

SCENE II.

To them Goodwin.
Goodwin.
Hail, valiant Harold! This great Day shall shine
In Denmark's Annals. Gothmund sends thee greeting;
With the glad News of England's Overthrow.
Himself shall soon arrive.

Harold.
Brave Goodwin, welcome:
More welcome for thy Tidings. London then,
England's chief Boast, is fall'n.—

Goodwin.
Ev'n now it burns.
See yon ascending Clouds. Yon pillar'd Smoke,
That hides the Welkin, is it's last Remain.
The English Pow'rs have left the bleeding Ramparts;
The wide Breach choak'd with Heaps of Slain, on which
We mounted to the Storm.

Harold.
How went the Day?
Where fought our Gen'ral Gothmund?

Goodwin.
On the Thames.
Soon as the Signal of Assault was given,
The Danish Fleet came on. Our Standard then,
The Raven, hov'ring on his Wing, appear'd
With ominous Glare; and seem'd to croak Destruction.
Then furious Gothmund, from the crowded Decks
Follow'd by shouting Thousands, leapt to Shore
With ruinous Assault:

Harold.
What? no Resistance?

Goodwin.
Yes; bloody was the Fray: The Scale of War
Hung doubtful; till the mighty Athelstan,
Mercia's brave Duke, to Denmark's aid came on;
Spur'd by a keen Revenge more strong than Glory,
Led his revolted Mercians up the Breach,
And mingled in the Storm.

Harold.
What next ensu'd?

Goodwin.
Confusion and wild Rout. For England's Pow'r,
Dreading the vengeful Sword of Athelstan,
Shrunk from his Rage: then Denmark's Star prevail'd:
The Britons fled: and now, by Right of War,
The City's Wealth, it's captive Youth and Virgins,
Are fall'n the Soldiers Plunder.

Harold.
It seems then, Gothmund owes full half his Conquest
To Athelstan's Revenge.

Goodwin.
Aye, more than half.
Ne'er did such deadly Valour sweep the Field:
His hoary Head clasp'd in a steel rib'd Helm,
He sprung to Vengeance, and forgot old Age.
With such a headlong Course he led the War,
That Denmark's Troops, nay his own firey Mercians
Linger'd behind: while he, attended only
By Death and Fate, which at his right Hand rag'd,
Thin'd the retreating Foe.

Harold.
Thank we the Gods,
Who sow Dissention in these British Hearts!
Else, ne'er had this fair City fall'n our Prey!

Dunelm.
Know ye the Cause why this proud Duke of Mercia
Revolted from his King?

Goodwin.
Pride and Revenge.
Some suit deny'd him, which the royal Bounty,
Unequal to the Cravings of it's People,
Granted his Foe. No more. His firey Spirit
Mounted to sudden Rage: with secret Levy
He muster'd all his Pow'rs, and join'd with Denmark
To overwhelm his Country.

Harold.
Be it ours,
To nurse this useful Treason: Thus invading,
While we divide, we conquer.

Dunelm.
Hark! I hear
The Shouts of Victory.

Goodwin.
Gothmund approaches.
His Troops come laden with the precious Spoil
Of this imperial City. Captive Maids,
The sweet Reward of Valour, grace his Triumph:
And Infants, doom'd to drink the bitter Draught
Of endless Slavery in a foreign Clime.

SCENE III.

To them, Gothmund in Triumph. A Train of Prisoners. And Egbert in Chains, as a Prisoner.
Harold.
Hail, valiant Gothmund! Denmark's proudest Boast!
Whom mighty Odin, the dread God of War,
Hath crown'd with England's Conquest!

Gothmund.
Faithful Harold,
The City's won. London, whose haughty Tow'rs
We shook so long with terrible Assault,
At length is fall'n, and blazes to the Sky.
'Twas Pity, Harold, on so great a Day,
When the rich Plunder of the War was seiz'd,
Thy Valour lost it's Prey. But fair Division
Of our acquired Spoil, of Wealth and Captives,
Shall bring thee Recompense.

Harold.
I thank thee, Gen'ral.
Devoted to thy Will, I held my Charge,
To guard our Camp from the out-sallying Foe:
A Charge less splendid than the Post in Battle;
Yet, as conducing to the general Weal,
No whit less honourable.

Gothmund.
Harold, behold
This Train of Captives: to thy Charge I give them:
But chiefly that stern Youth, whose Arm oppos'd
Singly to mine, long held the Conflict doubtful.
No common Ransom shall redeem him hence.
Why dost thou frown?

[to Egbert.
Egbert.
Because I dare to scorn
My Country's Foe.

Gothmund.
So haughty in thy Chains?
What Title bear'st thou?

Egbert.
'Tis enough for thee,
To know me still a Briton: thence to fear me.

Gothmund.
A Conqu'ror fear his Captive! By our Gods,
Speak but another Word, audacious Christian,
I'll plunge thee in the deep Norwegian Mine,
Among these Slaves the Vassals of my Sword,
To toil in Darkness thro' the live-long Year,
Till baleful Damps consume thee.

Egbert.
Yes: bury me in Darkness; in the Depth,
Where Slavery drinks the pestilential Vapour;
For that I've liv'd to see my Country's Fall!
I dare thee to the Deed, rapacious Dane!
But well I know, thy Hand expects the Ransom;
Nor aught but Av'rice chains thy Cruelty.

Gothmund.
What? Shall I waste the Hours in fruitless Parle
With an audacious Slave!—Lo, Mercia's Duke
Comes with his warlike Train. Retire, ye Slaves;
And at an awful Distance bow to Valour.—
[They retire backwards.
This firey Athelstan! Yes, I cou'd curse
[Aside.
His Sword victorious, and wide wasting Arm
That blasted all my Wreaths; and won the Praise
Of this eventful Day!—Hence envious Fame
Shall tarnish Gothmund's Glory; while she whispers,
Or haply to the listning World proclaims,
That Britain conquer'd Britain.—Come; fell Hate!
Pour all thy Poison on my Heart; and turn
Friendship to Enmity!—Should he revolt?—
The Rebel dare not: Nor can e'er repass
The Gulph which he hath leapt; and severs him
For ever from his Country.—Yet 'tis meet
That Prudence greet him with fair Speech, and Smiles;
Till some desir'd Occasion yield Pretence,
And spurn him off, to Shame.—
Let Denmark's Raven wave his dreadful Wing,
[Aloud.
To hail the glad Approach of Athelstan:
And sound, in Honour of our firm Ally,
The Instruments of War.

SCENE IV.

To them, Athelstan; with his Train.
Gothmund.
I greet thee, Athelstan. Thy mighty Arm,
On this great Day, hath sham'd it's former Doings.
Thro' the red Tracks of Death I saw thee seek
The King. His Troops, stricken with coward Guilt,
Fled trembling at the Sight of injur'd Valour
Wak'd into Wrath. Yes, wondring Denmark saw,
How Terror stalk'd before thee thro' the Streets,
While thy broad Faulcion flam'd; and dread Revenge
Frown'd on thy Helm like Fate.

Athelstan.
No Flattery, Gothmund.
Balm to the Fool's, it wounds the brave Man's Ear.
My Sword hath reap'd full Vengeance on its Foes;
And vanquish'd Ethelred with Tears and Groans
Shall rue the Wrongs he did me.

Gothmund.
Valiant Duke,
Such Vengeance well became such Wrongs as thine.

Athelstan.
My Wrongs were loud for Vengeance. Pity wept:
But Reason choak'd her Voice:—For awful Justice
Must drop her Sword, unnerve her lifted Arm,
Unbridled Pow'r turn Order into Chaos,
Shou'd Pity melt at proud Oppression's Fall.—
What Youth is that, who from the captive Throng
Comes forth with haughty Strides?

Gothmund.
An unknown Briton:
Yet fierce in Battle; for his Sword was fatal
To many a Dane; and midst the falling Ranks
Rag'd like a Whirlwind. Mark his fearless Mien.
He wears the Pride of Conquest, tho' in Chains.
His Eye devours thee, Athelstan.—

Athelstan.
I reck not.
Let him come on: I'll meet his Pride unmov'd.
Egbert advancing.
Who dares to frown on Athelstan?

Egbert.
A Briton.

Athelstan.
Who art thou?

Egbert.
One, who heedless of thy Rage,
Dares throw his Scorn on Guilt.

Athelstan.
Audacious Captive!
Think'st thou I fear thy frown?

Egbert.
Oh, bleeding England!
Behold thy fatal Foe!

[He bursts into Tears.
Athelstan.
Weep'st thou, brave Youth?
Tho' I have pour'd Destruction on thy King,
I wage no War with Captives. Gen'rous Warrior,
My Pow'r shall shield thee, and unbind thy Chains.

Egbert.
Stand off.—I chuse to wear them.

Athelstan.
Why that Choice?

Egbert.
Lest these brave captive Britons, shackled there,
Should brand me for a Traitor.

Athelstan.
Heed thee well.
Think what thou art, and where.—

Egbert.
Thank Heav'n,
I am not Athelstan!

Athelstan.
Nay, I can frown too.—

Egbert.
Blush,—rather blush! The crimson Hue of Shame
Wou'd better suit thy Crimes!

Gothmund.
Peace, arrogant Youth!

Athelstan.
Who gave to thee this Privilege of Scorn?
This Right of Insult and bold Accusation?

Egbert.
That Pow'r who gave me Reason and Humanity:
That awful Pow'r Above, who bids me dare
To strip false Treason of her Mask of Pride;
And shew the Hag, in her own Shape and Hue,
The foulest Fiend of Hell.

Athelstan.
Thy Chains protect thee!

Gothmund.
Goodwin, lead forth these Captives to the Fleet;
And let the first fair Breeze that fills the Sail
Waft them to Denmark's Shore.—Harold, bear hence,
And guard that Insolent.

[Pointing to Egbert.
Egbert.
Farewell, brave Friends!
My faithful Countrymen! I weep your Fate,
Doom'd to th' Oppressions of a barbarous Clime!
Oh, may some friendly Storm in Pity rise,
And bid the Fury of devouring Seas
In Mercy swallow you!—Accursed Treason!
Lo, thy devoted Train! Oh false, false Athelstan!
[Ex. Egbert, Harold, Goodwin, Dunelm, and Captives.

Athelstan.
Go, froward Briton!

Gothmund.
Valiant Athelstan,
Heed not a Captive's Clamour. Denmark now
Boasts thee her Friend. And for undoubted Proof
Of that Esteem, wherewith I note thy Valour;
Behold the precious Spoils my Arm hath won
Amid the gen'ral Plunder: Gold or Captives,
Lands, Palaces, whate'er inventive Passion
Can fancy for Enjoyment, waits thy Will:
Command it; for 'tis thine.

Athelstan.
Of Gold, or Lands,
The Plunder of the War, I reck not aught.
For, to the noble Mind, a great Revenge
Outweighs all other Good. This I have reap'd
Full-measur'd; Of my thankless Country's Blood
My Sword hath drank, ev'n to Satiety:
No other Boon it craves.

Gothmund.
Brave Athelstan,
Ev'n as thou wilt.—Has then no precious Spoil
Inrich'd thy Valour?

Athelstan.
Yes: one beauteous Captive,
Won in the City's Storm: and now consign'd
To Siward's Care, a brave and faithful Friend,
Who leads her hitherward. So winning sweet!
The surly Troops gaz'd on her as she pass'd,
And Silence spoke their Wonder.

Gothmund.
Such a Fair
May haply mourn in secret; that her Lot
Fell to thy aged Arm. Some youthful Warrior
Might better suit her Wish.

Athelstan.
I mean, to shield her
From the rude Will of insolent Desire.

Gothmund.
Indeed!

Athelstan.
Indeed.—It was her chaste Request.
And mark me: Tho' my Arm hath quell'd it's Foes,
Yet Athelstan would blush, to wreak his Vengeance
On a defenceless Woman.

Gothmund.
By what Chance
Did'st thou obtain this Captive?

Athelstan.
While the Storm
Rag'd in the Streets; Fate led my conqu'ring Band,
Where this fair Captive mourn'd the Lot of War.
I found her kneeling; with uplifted Eyes,
And Majesty resign'd, imploring Heav'n.
Rouz'd by the Shouts of War, she rose: Her Train
Fill'd all the Place with female Lamentation:
But she, in Grief superior, check'd their Cries,
And grac'd her Woes with regal Dignity.
With such a noble Mien she su'd for Mercy,
That Vengeance stood subdu'd: while nameless Graces,
Beauty, and Mildness, and majestic Grief,
Like Guardian Pow'rs which Heav'n had planted round her,
Check'd the rude Access of unhallow'd Rage:
That ev'n the Sons of Violence drop'd the Sword,
To gaze at awful Distance.—Tow'rd her Tent,
This Way she moves with her attendant Train.
Behold her here.

SCENE V.

To them, Thyra, Edwina, Siward, and female Attendants.
Gothmund.
Indeed, supremely fair.

Athelstan.
Thyra, be comforted: Nay, dry these Tears.
Else shall I deem my too officious Cares
Lost on a thankless Heart.

Thyra.
Oh, Athelstan!
Whose Mercy speaks thee brave! Forgive these Tears.
For my dear Lord, to me than Life more dear,
These Sorrows flow!—Indeed, my thankful Heart
Melts in warm Gratitude to thy kind Care,
Which sav'd me from the Horrors of this Day.
But, Oh!—my Husband!

Gothmund.
Why these streaming Tears?
What of her Husband? Did he fall in Battle?

Athelstan.
That is her Fear:
Tho' Rumour yet speak doubtful of his Fate.

Thyra.
Too sure, he's fall'n!—Ye gen'rous Warriors, hear,—
Hear a poor Captive's Pray'r!—Oh, let your Guards
Conduct my faithful Servants to the Field:
Or give me Safe-guard thro' the deathful Scene;
I will divest me of my Woman's Fear,
And with a Scythian Boldness tread in Gore;
Drag off the Heaps of overwhelming Foes,
Till I have found my Egbert's dear Remains,
To give them Burial. The last, mournful Duty
I e'er can pay his Love.

Athelstan.
Despond not, Fair one:
Haply, he yet may live.

Thyra.
Oh, flatt'ring Hope!
Grant me but That!—But That, ye Pow'rs of Heav'n!

Gothmund.
Now, by our Gods of Denmark, Athelstan,
This is too bright a Fair, for Age like thine
Idly to gaze on.

Athelstan.
Beauty, thus afflicted,
Merits my Pow'r's Protection.

Gothmund.
Is she not
The Captive of thy Sword?

Athelstan.
True, but the Sword
That won, shall guard her.

Gothmund.
What if Gothmund's Will
Shou'd raise this Fair one from the captive Throng,
To grace his Bed?

Athelstan.
By Law of War she's mine;
And I have sworn Protection.

Gothmund.
From thy Foe
To shield thy Captive, were a Task of Praise
Worthy thy Arm. But when a true Ally,
Thy Friend in War, intreats so small a Boon—

Athelstan.
Gothmund, the Friend whose erring Wish demands
What Honour cannot yield—I pray, no more—

Gothmund.
If Gothmund's Friendship, in thy thankless Heart,
Insensible to all my proffer'd Bounty,
Stands at so cheap a Price—Protect thy Captive.—
Let thy Pow'r shield her as it may.—Lead on.—
[Exit Gothmund.

Athelstan.
Imperious Dane! Would'st thou bend Athelstan
Beneath thy Pride?—His parting Words and Looks
Darted Contempt.—This the Reward of Conquest?
This, Valour's Recompense?

Siward.
'Twas what I fear'd.—
Why did Revenge seduce thee from thy King!
Bear Witness, Heav'n, if e'er I trod the Field,
Or bar'd my Sword in seeming Aid of Denmark,
Save in the honest Hope, to check thy Vengeance.

Athelstan.
What? To a thankless King, a favour'd Foe
Basking beneath the royal Smile, to yield
With coward-like Submission?—Friend, no more.
The Dye of Fate is thrown.

Siward.
Didst thou not see,
How Passion kindled, while with ardent Gaze
He ey'd fair Thyra's Charms? His Soul hath caught
A swift and deep Infection. Mark th' Event.

Athelstan.
Weak is thy Fear. Tho' bold in Violence,
He dare not wake my Rage.

Thyra.
Oh gen'rous Duke,
Behold me at thy Feet! I see the Storm
Fast gath'ring o'er my Head! Redeem, redeem me
From this rapacious Dane! I dread not Death;
Whose Image, from my earliest Age of Woe,
Hath been the calm Companion of my Thoughts.
Then let thy Arm, which on this fatal Morn
Did shield me, now compleat it's gen'rous Care.
My forfeit Life is thine. In Pity kill me,
Ere yet Dishonour blot my Innocence.

Athelstan.
By my good Sword, which won thee in the Storm,
Again I swear, not Denmark's proudest Threat
Shall wrest thee from me.—Siward, are my Mercians
Camp'd in their separate Quarter?

Siward.
Aye, my Lord:
Westward, a Mile; on a fair rising Ground,
Fast by the River's Brink.

Athelstan.
This Night I meant
To pass in Council with the General Gothmund,
On future Enterprize. But since his Pride
Brooks no Controul;—wou'd Heav'n I had not come!
Since it is thus:—At least his Pride shall seek me:
And if I find him bent on Violence,
The Morning Sun shall see me quit his Camp.
Hast thou prepar'd fair Thyra's Tent by mine?

Siward.
I did command it so.

Athelstan.
Retire we then.

Thyra.
I merit not thy Care. Why shou'd I live,
When my dear Lord is lost, and England fall'n!

Athelstan.
Touch not on That:—For by this Arm it fell.
Yes: I have wash'd my Footsteps in the Blood
Of my despairing Foes.—But oh, for whom!
I'll think no more.—Come, Thyra, to thy Tent.