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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!
2
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,
3
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.
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