The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tis sung by minstrels, that in ancient time,
When Reason hid herself in clouds of night,
The priest delivered all the law in rhyme,
Like painted tilting-spear to please the sight,
The which in its fell use doth make much dere;
So did their ancient lay deftly delight the ear.

II

Perchance in Virtue's cause rhyme might be then,
But oft now flieth to the other side;
In holy priest appears the ribald's pen,
In humble monk appears the baron's pride;
But rhyme with some, as adder without teeth,
Makes pleasure to the sense, but may do little scath.

III

Sir John, a knight, who hath a barn of lore,
Knows Latin at first sight from French or Greek;
Setteth his studying ten years or more,
Poring upon the Latin word to speak.
Whoever speaketh English is despised,
The English, him to please, must first be Latinized.

IV

Vivian, a monk, a goodly requiem sings,
Can preach so well, each hind his meaning knows;
Albeit these good gifts away he flings,
Being as bad in verse as good in prose.
He sings of saints who dièd for their God,
And every winter night afresh he sheds their blood.

V

To maidens, housewives, and unlearned dames,
He reads his tales of merriment and woe.
Laugh loudly dinneth from the dolt adrames;
He swells in praise of fools, yet knows them so;
Sometimes at tragedy they laugh and sing,
At merry jesting tale some hard-drained water bring.

VI

Yet Vivian is no fool, beyond his lines.
Geoffrey makes verse, as craftsmen make their ware;

Words without sense full grovelingly he twines,
Cutting his story off as with a shear;
Wastes months on nothing, and (his story done)
No more you from it know than if you'd ne'er begun.

VII

Enough of others; of myself to write,
Requiring what I do not now possess,
To you I leave the task; I know your might
Will make my faults, my sum of faults, be less.
“Ælla” with this I send, and hope that you
Will from it cast away what lines may be untrue.

VIII

Plays made from holy tales I hold unmeet,
Let some great story of a man be sung;
When as a man we God and Jesus treat,
In my poor mind, we do the Godhead wrong.
But let no words, which chasteness may not hear,
Be placèd in the same. Adieu until anere.

LETTER TO THE DYGNE MASTRE CANYNGE.

I

Strange doom it is, that in these days of ours,
Naught but a bare recital can have place;
Now shapely poesy hath lost its powers
And painful history is only grace;
They pick up loathsome weedes instead of flowers,
And families, instead of wit, they trace:
Now poesy can meet with no regrate,
Whilst prose and heraldry rise in estate.

II

Let kings and rulers, when they gain a throne,
Shew what their grandsires and great-grandsires bore,
Emblazoned arms that, not before their own,
Nor rang'd with what their fathers had before;
Let trades and town-folk let such things alone,
Nor fight for sable in a field of or;
Seldom or never are arms virtue's meed,
She ne'er to take too much doth aye take heed.

III

A man askance upon a piece may look,
And shake his head to stir his wit about;
Quoth he, if I should glance upon this book,
And find therein that truth is left without;
Eke if unto a view perchance I took
The long bede-roll of all the writing rout,
Asserius, Ingulphus, Turgot, Bede,
Throughout them all naught like it I could read.

IV

Pardon, ye graybeards, if I say, unwise
Ye are to stick so close and bysmarelie
To history; you do it too much prize,
Which hath diminished thoughts of poesy;
Some trivial share you should to that devise,
Not making everything be history;
Instead of mounting on a wingèd horse,
You on a cart-horse drive in doleful course.

V

Canynge and I from common course dissent,
We ride the steed, but give to him the rein,
Nor will between craz'd mouldering books be pent,
But soar on high, amid the sunbeams' sheen;
And where we find some scattered flowers besprent,
We take it, and from old rust make it clean;
We will not chainèd to one pasture be,
But sometimes soar 'bove truth of history.

VI

Say, Canynge, what was verse in days of yore?
Fine thoughts, and couplets dext'rously bewryen,
Not such as do annoy this age so sore,
A careful pencil resting at each line.
Verse may be good, but poesy wants more,
A boundless subject, and a song adygne;
According to the rule I have this wrought,
If it please Canynge, I care not a groat.

VII

The thing itself must be its own defence,
Some metre may not please a woman's ear.
Canynge looks not for poesy, but sense;
And high and worthy thoughts are all his care.
Canynge, adieu! I do you greet from hence;
Full soon I hope to taste of your good cheer;
Good bishop Carpenter did bid me say
He wish'd you health and happiness for aye.

ENTRODUCTIONNE.

I

Some comfort must it be to gentle mind,
When they have well redeemed their land from bane,
When they are dead, they leave their name behind,
And their good deeds do on the earth remain;
Down in the grave we bury every stain,
Whilst all their gentleness is made to sheene,
Like comely baubles rarely to be seen.

II

Ælla, the warden of this castle-stead,
Whilst Saxons did the English sceptre sway,
Who made whole troops of Dacian men to bleed,
Then closed his eyes, and closed his eyes for aye,
We rouse him up, before the Judgment Day,
To say what he, as taught to speak, can ken,
And how he sojourned in the vale of men.

ÆLLA.

PERSONNES REPRESENTEDD.

Ælla, bie Thomas Rowleie, Preeste, the Aucthoure.
Celmonde . . Johan Iscamm, Preeste.
Hurra . . . Syrr Thybbotte Gorges, Knyghte.
Birtha. . . Mastre Edwarde Canynge.
Odherr Partes bie Knyghtes, Mynstrelles &c.

SCENE, BRISTOL.
Enter Celmonde.

I.

Celmonde.
Before yon ruddy sun hath driv'n his wain
Through half his journey, dight in robes of gold,
Me, hapless me, he will a wretch behold,
Myself, and all that's mine, bound in mischance's chain.

II.

[Celmonde.]
Ah! Bertha, why did Nature frame thee fair?
Why art thou all that pencil can bewreene?
Why art thou not as coarse as others are?
But then—thy soul would through thy visage sheene,

That shimmers on thy comely semlykeene,
Like nutbrown clouds, when by the sun made red,
Or scarlet, with choice linen cloth ywreene;
Such would thy sprite upon thy visage spread.
This day brave Ælla doth thine hand and heart
Claim as his own to be, which ne'er from his must part.

III.

[Celmonde.]
And can I live to see her with anere?
It cannot, must not, nay, it shall not be!
This night I'll put strong poison in the beer,
And him, her, and myself, at once will sle.
Assist me, Hell! let devils round me 'tend,
To slay myself, my love, and eke my doughty friend.
[Exit.
Enter Ælla and Bertha.

IV.

Æl.
Not when the holy priest did make me knight,
Blessing the weapon, telling future deed,
How by my hand the hardy Dane should bleed,
How I should often be, and often win, in fight;

V.

[Æl.]
Not when I first beheld thy beauteous hue,
Which struck my mind, and rous'd my softer soul;
Not when the barbèd horse in fight did view
The flying Dacians o'er the wide plain roll,

When all the troops of Denmark made great dole,
Did I feel joy with such reddoure as now,
When holy priest, physician of the soul,
Did knit us both in an enforcing vow;
Now blissful Ælla's happiness is great,
Fate having now y-made his woes for to abate.

VI.

Ber.
My lord and husband, such a joy is mine;
But maiden modesty must not so say,
Albeit thou mayest read it in mine eyne,
Or in my heart, where thou shalt be for aye;
In sooth, I have but recompensed thy faie;
For twelve times twelve the moon hath been yblent,
As many times vied with the god of day,
And on the grass her gleams of silver sent,
Since thou didst choose me for thy sweet to be,
Still acting in the same most faithfully to me.

VII.

[Ber.]
Oft have I seen thee at the noon-day feast,
When seated by thyself, for want of peers,
The while thy merrymen did laugh and jest,
On me thou seem'st all eyes, to me all ears.

Thou guardest me as if in hundred fears
Lest a disdainful look to thee be sent,
And presents mad'st me, more than thy compeers,
Of scarfs of scarlet, and fine parament;
All thy intent to please was turned to me,
I say it, I must strive that thou rewarded be.

VIII.

Æl.
My little kindnesses which I did do
Thy gentleness doth represent so great,
Like mighty elephants my gnats do shew;
Thou dost my thoughts of paying love abate.
But had my actions stretched the roll of fate,
Plucked thee from hell, or brought heav'n down to thee,
Laid the whole world a footstool at thy feet,
One smile would be sufficient meed for me.
I am love's borrow'r, and can never pay,
But be his borrower still, and thine, my sweet, for aye.

IX.

Ber.
Love, do not rate your services so small,
As I to you, such love unto me bear;
For nothing past will Bertha ever call,
Nor on a food from heaven think to cheer.
As far as this frail brittle flesh will spare,
Such, and no further, I expect of you;
Be not too slack in love, nor over-dear;
A small fire than a loud flame proves more true.

Æl.
Thy gentle words thy disposition kenne
To be instructed more than is in most of men.

X.

Enter Celmonde and Minstrels.
Cel.
All blessings show'r on gentle Ælla's head!
Oft may the moon, in silver shining light,
In varied changes varied blessings shed,
Dispersing far abroad mischance's night;
And thou, fair Bertha! thou, fair dame, so bright,
Long mayest thou with Ælla find much peace,
With happiness, as with a robe, be dight,
With every changing moon new joys increase!
I, as a token of my love to speak,
Have brought you jugs of ale, at night your brain to break.

XI.

Æl.
When supper's past we'll drink your ale so strong,
Come life, come death.

Cel.
Ye minstrels, chant your song.

Minstrels' song, by a man and woman.

XII.

Man.
Turn thee to thy shepherd swain,
Bright sun hath not drunk the dew
From the flowers of yellow hue;
Turn thee, Alice, back again.

XIII.

Wom.
No, deceiver, I will go,
Softly tripping o'er the leas,
Like the silver-footed doe,
Seeking shelter in green trees.

XIV.

Man.
See the moss-grown daisied bank,
Peering in the stream below;
Here we'll sit, on verdure dank,
Turn thee, Alice, do not go.

XV.

Wom.
Once I heard my grandame say,
Youthful damsels should not be
In the pleasant month of May,
With young men by the greenwood tree.

XVI.

Man.
Sit thee, Alice, sit and hark,
How the blackbird chants his note,
The goldfinch, and gray morning lark
Chanting from their little throat.

XVII.

Wom.
I hear them from each greenwood tree,
Chanting forth so lustily,
Telling warning tales to me,
Mischief is when you are nigh.

XVIII.

Man.
See along the meads so green
Pièd daisies, kingcups sweet;

All we see, by none are seen,
None but sheep set here their feet.

XIX.

Wom.
Shepherd swain, you tear my shawl,
Out upon you! let me go,
Leave me, or for help I'll call;
Robin, this your dame shall know.

XX.

Man.
See! the crooked bryony
Round the poplar twists his spray;
Round the oak the green ivỳ
Flourisheth and liveth aye.

XXI.

[Man.]
Let us seat us by this tree,
Laugh, and sing to loving airs;
Come, so coy you must not be,
Nature made all things by pairs.

XXII.

[Man.]
Dainty cats will after kind;
Gentle doves will kiss and coo.

Wom.
Man's appeal must be declined
Till sir priest make one of two.

XXIII.

[Wom.]
Tempt me not to do foul thing,
I will no man's mistress be;
Till sir priest his song doth sing,
Thou shalt ne'er find aught of me.

XXIV.

Man.
By the Child of Virgin born,
Tomorrow, soon as it is day,
I'll make thee wife, nor be forsworn,
So 'tide me life or death for aye.

XXV.

Wom.
What doth hinder, but that now
We at once, thus hand in hand,
Unto holy clerk may go,
And be linked in wedlock's band?

XXVI.

Man.
I agree, and thus I plight
Hand and heart, and all that's mine;
Good sir Roger, do us right,
Make us one at Cuthbert's shrine.

XXVII.

Both.
We will in a cottage live,
Happy, though of no estate;
Every hour more love shall give,
We in goodness will be great.

XXVIII.

Æl.
I like this song, I like it passing well;
And there is money for your singing now.
But have you none that marriage-blessings tell?

Cel.
In marriage, blessings are but few, I trow.

Mynst.
My lord, we have; and, if you please, will sing,
As well as our chough-voices will permit.

Æl.
Come then, and see you sweetly tune the string,
And stretch and torture all the human wit,
To please my dame.

Minst.
We'll strain our wit and sing.

XXIX.

First M.
The budding floweret blushes at the light,
The meads are sprinkled with the yellow hue;
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,
The nesh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;
The trees enleafèd, unto heaven straught,
When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din are brought.

XXX.

[First M.]
The evening comes, and brings the dew along;
The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne;
Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song,
Young ivy round the doorpost doth entwine;
I lay me on the grass; yet, to my will,
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

XXXI.

Second.
So Adam thought when once, in Paradise,
All heaven and earth did homage to his mind;
In woman only man's chief solace lies,
As instruments of joy are those of kind.

Go, take a wife unto thine arms, and see
Winter, and barren hills, will have a charm for thee.

XXXII.

Third.
When Autumn sere and sunburnt doth appear,
With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf,
When all the hills with woody seed are white,
When lightning-fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;

XXXIII.

[Third.]
When the fair apples, red as evening sky,
Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground,
When juicy pears, and berries of black dye,
Do dance in air, and call the eyes around;
Then, be the evening foul, or be it fair,
Methinks my heart's delight is mingled with some care.

XXXIV.

Second.
Angels are wrought to be of neither kind,
Angels alone from hot desire are free,
There is a somewhat ever in the mind,
That, without woman, cannot stillèd be
No saint in cell, but, having blood and tere,
Doth find the sprite to joy in sight of woman fair.

XXXV.

[Second.]
Women are made not for themselves but man,
Bone of his bone, and child of his desire;
First from a useless member they began,
Y-wrought with much of water, little fire;
Therefore they seek the fire of love, to heat
The milkiness of kind, and make themselves complete.

XXXVI.

[Second.]
Albeit, without women, men were peers
To savage kind, and would but live to slay;
But woman oft the sprite of peace so cheers,
Blest with angelic joy, what angels they!
Go, take thee quickly to thy bed a wife,
Be banned, or highly blest, in proving married life.

Another Minstrel's Song, by Syr Thybbot Gorges.

XXXVII.

As Elinor by the green arbour was sitting,
As from the sun's heat she hurried,
She said, as her white hands white hosen were knitting,
“What pleasure it is to be married!

XXXVIII.

My husband, Lord Thomas, a forester bold,
As ever clove pin or the basket,

Doth no source of comfort from Elinor hold,
I have it as soon as I ask it.

XXXIX.

When I lived with my father in merry Cloud-dell,
Tho' 'twas at my choice to mind spinning;
I still wanted something, but what, could not tell;
My lord father's barb'd hall had naught winning.

XL.

Each morning I rise, do I order my maidens,
Some to spin, some to curdle, some bleaching;
If any new entered do ask for my aidance,
Then quickly you find me a-teaching.

XLI.

Lord Walter, my father, he lovèd me well,
And nothing unto me was needing;
But should I again go to merry Cloud-dell,
In sooth it would be without redeynge.”

XLII.

She said, and Lord Thomas came over the lea,
As he the fat deerkins was chasing,
She put up her knitting, and to him went she;
So we leave them both kindly embracing.

XLIII.

Æl.
I like eke this; go in unto the feast,
We will permit you antecedent be;
There sweetly sing each carol, and jap'd jest,
And there is money, that you merry be.
Come, gentle love, we will to spouse-feast go,
And there in ale and wine shall drown'd be every wo.

XLIV.

Ælla, Bertha, Celmond, Messenger.
Mess.
Ælla, the Danes are thund'ring on our coast,
Like shoals of locusts, cast up by the sea;
Magnus and Hurra, with a doughty host,
Are raging, to be quenched by none but thee;
Haste, swift as lightning, to these rovers flee,
Thy dogs alone can tame this raging bull.
Haste quickly, for anigh the town they be,
And Wedëcester's roll of doom is full.
Haste, haste, O Ælla, to the bicker fly,
For in a moment's space ten thousand men may die.

XLV.

Æl.
Beshrew thee for thy news! I must be gone,
Was ever luckless doom so hard as mine?
Thus from enjoyment unto war to run,
To change the silk vest for the gaberdine.

Ber.
O! like an adder, let me round thee twine,

And shield thy body from the shafts of war.
Thou shalt not, must not, from thy Bertha ryne,
But ken the din of slogans from afar.

Æl.
O love, was this thy joy, to shew the treat,
Then rudely to forbid thy hungered guests to eat?

XLVI.

[Æl.]
O my upswelling heart, what words can say
The pains, that pass within my soul ybrent?
Thus to be torn upon my spousal day,
O! 'tis a pain beyond entendëment.
Ye mighty Gods, and are your favours sent,
As thus, fast linkèd to a load of pain?
Must we aye hold in chase the shade content,
And, for the substance, but a ghost obtain?
O! why, ye saints, oppress ye thus my soul?
How shall I speak my woe, my grief, my dreary dole?

XLVII.

Cel.
Sometimes the wisest lack a poor man's rede.
Reason and cunning wit oft flee away.
Then, lord, now let me say, with homaged dread,
(Beneath your feet y-laid), my counsel say.
If thus we let the matter idle lay,

The foemen, every moment, gain a foot.
My lord, now let the spearmen, dight for fray,
And all the booted soldiers go about.
I speak, my lord, but only to uprise
Your wit from marvel, and the warrior to alyse.

XLVIII.

Æl.
Ah! now thou puttest takells in my heart,
My soul doth now begin to see hersel',
I will uprouse my might, and do my part
To slay the foemen in my fury fell.
But how can tongue my ramping fury tell,
Which riseth from my love to Bertha fair?
Nor could the fiend, and all the might of hell,
Invent th'annoyance of so black a gear.
Yet I will be myself, and rouse my sprite
To act with glory, and go meet the bloody fight.

XLIX.

Ber.
No, thou shalt never leave thy Bertha's side,
Nor shall the wind upon us blow alleyne;

I, like an adder, will untò thee bide,
'Tide life, 'tide death, it shall behold us twain.
I have my part of dreary grief and pain,
It bursteth from me at the hidden eyne;
In floods of tears my dying soul will drain;
If dreary dole is thine, 'tis two times mine.
Go not, O Ælla; with thy Bertha stay,
For, with thy seemliness, my soul will go away.

L.

Æl.
Oh! 'tis for thee, for thee alone I feel;
Yet I must be myself; with valour's gear
I'll deck my heart, and knot my limbs in steel,
And shake the bloody sword and stainèd spear.

Ber.
Can Ælla from his breast his Bertha tear?
Is she so rough and ugly to his sight?
Intriguing wight, is mortal war so dear?
Thou prizest me below the joys of fight.
Thou shalt not leave me, albeit the earth
Hung pendent by thy sword, and cravèd for thy morthe.

LI.

Æl.
Didst thou know how my woes, as stars ybrent,
Headed by these thy words, do on me fall,
Thou wouldest strive to give my heart content,

Waking my sleeping mind to honour's call.
Of happiness, I prize thee more than all
Heaven can me send, or cunning wit acquire;
Yet will I leave thee, on the foe to fall,
Returning to thine eyes with double fire.

Ber.
Must Bertha boon request, and be denied?
Receive at once a dart, in happiness and pride?

LII.

[Ber.]
Do stay, at least, till morrow's sun appears.

Æl.
Thou knowest well the Dacian's mighty power;
With them a minute worketh bane for years;
They undo realms within a single hour.
Rouse all thy honour, Bertha; look attoure
Thy bleeding country, which for hasty deed
Calls, for the working of some doughty power,
To spoil its spoilers, make its foemen bleed.

Ber.
Rouse all thy love, false and intriguing wight,
Nor leave thy Bertha thus upon pretence of fight.

LIII.

[Ber.]
Thou needst not go, until thou hast command
Under the signet of our lord the king.

Æl.
And wouldst thou make me then a recreand?
Holy Saint Mary, keep me from the thing!

Here, Bertha, thou hast put a double sting,
One for thy love, another for thy mind.

Ber.
Offended Ælla, thine upbraiding blynge;
'Twas love of thee that foul intent ywrynde.
Yet hear me supplicate, to me attend,
Hear from my bursting heart the lover and the friend.

LIV.

[Ber.]
Let Celmonde in thine armour-suit be dight,
And in thy stead unto the battle go.
Thy name alone will put the Danes to flight,
The air that bears it would press down the foe.

Æl.
Bertha, in vain thou wouldst me recreant do;
I must, I will, fight for my country's weal,
And leave thee for it. Celmonde, swiftly go,
Tell my Brystowans to be dight in steel;
Tell them I scorn to ken them from afar,
But leave the virgin bridal bed for bed of war.

[Exeunt Celmonde and Messenger.

LV.

Ber.
And thou wilt go? Alas! my bursting heart!

Æl.
My country waits my march, I must away;

Albeit I should go to meet the dart
Of certain death, yet here I would not stay.
But thus to leave thee, Bertha, doth asswaie
More torturing pains than can be said by tyngue.
Yet rouse thy honour up, and wait the day,
When round about me songs of war they sing.
O Bertha, strive my sorrow to accaie,
And joyous see my arms, dight out in war's array.

LVI.

Ber.
Difficile is the penance, yet I'll strive
To keep my wo deep hidden in my breast;
Albeit naught may to me pleasure give,
Like thee, I'll strive to set my mind at rest.
Yet oh! forgive if I have thee distressed;
Love, doughty love, will bear no other sway.
Just as I was with Ælla to be blest,
Fate foully thus hath snatchèd him away.
It was a grief too weighty to be born,
Without a flood of tears and breast with sighs y-torn.

LVII.

Æl.
Thy mind is now thyself; why wilt thou be
All fair, all kingly, all so wise in mind,
Only to let poor wretched Ælla see
What wondrous gems he now must leave behind?

O Bertha fair, watch every coming wind,
On every wind I will a token send;
On my long shield thy name engraved thou'lt find;
But here comes Celmonde, worthy knight and friend.

Enter Celmonde.
Cel.
Thy Bristol knights for thy forthcoming lynge;
Each one athwart his back his long war-shield doth sling.

LVIII.

Æl.
Bertha, adieu; but yet I cannot go.

Ber.
Life of my soul, my gentle Ælla, stay;
Torment me not with such a dreary woe.

Æl.
I must; I will; 'tis honour calls away.

Ber.
Alas! my bursting heart, break, break in twaie.
Ælla, for honour, flies away from me!

Æl.
Bertha, adieu; I may not here obaie.
I'm flying from myself in flying thee.

[Exit.
Ber.
O Ælla, husband, friend, and loverde, stay;
He's gone, he's gone, alas! perchance he's gone for aye.

[Exit.

LIX.

Celmond, alone.
Cel.
Hope, holy sister, sweeping through the sky
In crown of gold, and robe of lily white,
Which far abroad in gentle air doth fly,
Meeting from distance the delighted sight,
Albeit oft thou takest thy high flight
Wrapped in a mist, and with thine eyes yblent,
Now comest thou to me with starry light;
Unto thy vest the red sun is adente;
The summer tide and month of May appear
Painted with skilful hand upon thy wide aumere.

LX.

[Cel.]
I from a night of hopelen am adawed,
Astonished at the joyousness of day;
Ælla, by naught more than his myndbruche awed,
Is gone, and I must follow to the fray;
Celmonde can ne'er from any bicker stay.
Doth war begin? There's Celmonde in the place;
But when the war is done, I'll haste away.
The rest from 'neath time's mask must shew its face.

I see unnumbered joys around me rise,
Clear standeth future doom, and joy doth me alyse.

LXI.

[Cel.]
Oh honour, honour, what is by thee hanne?
Happy the robber and the bordelyer,
Who knows thee not, or is to thee bestanne,
And nothing does thy mickle terror fear;
Fain would I from my bosom all thee tear.
Thou there dost scatter wide thy lightning-brand;
When withered is my soul, thou art the gare;
Slain is my comfort by thy fiery hand;
As some tall hill, when winds do shake the ground,
It carveth all abroad, by bursting secret wound.

LXII.

[Cel.]
Honour! what is it? 'tis a shadow's shade,
A thing of witchcraft, or an idle dream,
One of the mysteries which clerks have made,
Men without souls and women for to fleme.
Knights, who oft know the loud din of the beme,

Should be forgarde to such enfeebling ways,
Make every action, like their souls, be breme,
And for their chivalry alone have praise.
Oh thou, whate'er thy name,
Or Zabulus or Queed,
Come, steel my sable sprite
For strange and doleful deed!
[Exit.

LXIII.

Enter Magnus, Hurra, and High Priest, with the Army, near Watchet.
Mag.
Quick, let the offerings to the Gods begin,
To know of them the issue of the fight.
Put the blood-stainèd sword and pavyes in,
Spread quickly all around the holy light.

High Priest
sings.

Ye, who high in murky air
Deal the seasons foul or fair,
Ye, who, when ye were agguylte,
The moon in bloody mantles hylte,
Moved the stars, and did unbind
Every barrier to the wind;

When the surging waves distressed
Strove each to be overest,
Sucking in the spire-girt town,
Swallowing whole nations down,
Sending death, on plagues astrodde,
Moving like the earthès God,
To me send your hest divine,
Light enlighten all mine eyne,
That I may now undevise
All the actions of th'emprise.

[Falls down and rises again.

Thus say the Gods; “go, issue to the plain,
For there shall heaps of mighty men be slain.”

LXIV.

Mag.
Why, so there ever was, when Magnus fought,
Oft have I dealt destruction through the host;
Through crossing swords, e'en like a fiend distraught,
Hath Magnus pressing wrought his foemen loaste.
As when a tempest vexeth sore the coast,
The sounding surge the sandy strand doth tear,
So have I in the war the javelin toss'd,
Full many a champion's breast received my spear.

My shield, like summer marshy gronfer droke,
My deadly spear is like a lightning-melted oak.

LXV.

Hur.
Thy words are great, full high of sound, and eke
Like thunder, to the which doth come no rain.
It needeth not a doughty hand to speak;
The cock saith drefte, yet armed is he alleyne.
Certès thy wordès mightest thou have sayne
Of me, and many more, who eke can fight,
Who oft have trodden down the adventayle,
And torn the helms from heads of mickle might.
Since then such might is placèd in thy hand,
Let blows thine actions speak, and by thy courage stand.

LXVI.

Mag.
Thou art a warrior, Hurra, that I ken,
And mickle famèd for thy handy deed.
Thou fightest but 'gainst maidens, and not men,
Nor e'er thou makest armed hearts to bleed.
Oft I, caparison'd on bloody steed,

Have seen thee close beneath me in the fight,
With corpses I investing every mead,
And thou astonished, wondering at my might.
Then wouldest thou come in for my renome,
Albeit thou would'st run away from bloody doom.

LXVII.

Hur.
How! but be still, my rage—I know aright
Both thee and thine may not be worthy peene;
Eftsoons I hope we shall engage in fight,
Then to the soldiers all thou wilt bewreene.
I'll prove my courage on the armèd green,
'Tis there alone I'll tell thee what I be.
If I wield not the deadly spear adeene,
Then let my name be full as low as thee.
This my indented shield, this my war-spear
Shall tell the falling foe if Hurra's heart can fear.

LXVIII.

Mag.
Magnus would speak, but that his noble sprite
Is so enraged, he knows not what to say.
He'd speak in blows, in drops of blood he'd write,
And on thy head would paint his might for aye.
If thou against a wolf's keen rage wouldst stay,
'Tis here to meet it; but if not, be goe,
Lest I in fury should my arms display,

Which to thy body will work mickle woe.
Oh! I am mad, distraught with burning rage,
Nor seas of smoking gore will my chaf'd heart assuage.

LXIX.

Hur.
I know thee, Magnus, well; a wight thou art,
That dost but slide along in sad distress,
Strong bull in body, lion's cub in heart,
I almost wish thy prowess were made less!
When Ælla (named dressed up in ugsomness
To thee and recreants) thundered on the plain,
How didst thou through the first of fliers press!
Swifter than feathered arrow didst thou reyne.
A running prize on saint's day to ordain,
Magnus, and none but he, the running prize will gain.

LXX.

Mag.
Eternal plagues devour thy cursed tongue!
Myriads of adders prey upon thy sprite!
Mayst thou feel all the pains of age while young,
Unmann'd, uney'd, excluded aye the light,
Thy senses, like thyself, enwrapped in night,
A scoff to foemen, and to beasts a peer.
May forkèd lightning on thy head alight,
May on thee fall the fury of th'unweere,
Fen-vapours blast thy every manly power,
May thy curs'd body quick the loathsome pangs devour!

LXXI.

[Mag.]
Fain would I curse thee further, but my tyngue
Denies my heart the favour so to do.

Hur.
Now by the Dacian Gods, and Heaven's king,
With fury, as thou didst begin, pursue;
Call on my head all tortures that be rou,
Curse on, till thine own tongue thy curses feel;
Send on my head the blighting levin blue,
The thunder loud, the swelling azure rele.
Thy words are high of din, but naught beside,
Curse on, good chieftain, fight with words of mickle pride;

LXXII.

Hur.
But do not waste thy breath, lest Ælla come.

Mag.
Ælla and thou together sink to hell!
Be your names blasted from the roll of doom!
I fear not Ælla, that thou knowest well.
Disloyal traitor, wilt thou now rebel?
'Tis knowèn, that thy men are link'd to mine,
Both sent, as troops of wolves to slaughter fell;
But now thou wantest them to be all thine.
Now, by the Gods that rule the Dacian state,
Speak thou in rage once more, I will thee dysregate.

LXXIII.

Hur.
I prize thy threats just as I do thy banes,
The seed of malice and resentment all.
Thou art a stain unto the name of Danes;
Thou only to thy tongue for proof canst call.
Thou art a worm so grovelling and small,
I with thy blood would scorn to foul my sword.
But with thy weapons would upon thee fall,
And like thine own fear, slay thee with a word.
I Hurra am myself, and aye will be
As great in valorous acts and in command as thee.

LXXIV.

Enter a Messenger.
Mes.
Cease your contentions, chiefs; for, as I stood
Upon my watch, I spied an army coming,
Not like a handful of a frighted foe,
But black with armour, moving terribly,
Like a black full cloud, that doth go along
To drop in hail, and hides the thunder-storm.

Mag.
Are there many of them?

Mes.
Thick as the ant-flies in a summer's noon,
Seeming as though they sting as sharply too.

LXXV.

Hur.
What matters that? let's set our war-array.
Go, sound the trump, let champions prepare,
Not doubting we will sting as fast as they.

What? dost thou lose thy blood? is it for fear?
Wouldest thou gain the town and castle-stere,
And yet not bicker with the soldier-guard?
Go, hide thee in my tent, beneath the lere,
I of thy body will keep watch and ward.

Mag.
Our Gods of Denmark know my heart is good—

Hur.
For naught upon the earth, but to be raven's food!

LXXVI.

Enter a second Messenger.
2 Mes.
As from my tower I spied the coming foe,
I spied the crossèd shield and bloody sword,
The furious Ælla's banner; within ken
The army is. Disorder through our host
Is flying, borne on wings of Ælla's name;
Stir, stir, my lords.

Mag.
What, Ælla! and so near!
Then Denmark's ruined. Oh! my rising fear!

LXXVII.

Hur.
What dost thou mean? this Ælla's but a man.
Now by my sword, thou art a very berne.
Of late I did thy coward valour scan,
When thou didst boast so much of action derne.

But I to war my doings now must turn,
To cheer the soldiers on to desperate deed.

Mag.
I to the knights on every side will burn,
Telling them all to make their foemen bleed.
Since shame or death on either side will be,
My heart I will upraise, and in the battle slea.

[Exeunt.

LXXVIII.

Ælla, Celmonde, and Army, near Watchet.
Æl.
Now, having done our matins and our vows,
Let us for the intended fight be boune,
And every champion put the joyous crown
Of certain victory upon his glist'ring brows.

LXXIX.

[Æl.]
As for my heart, I own it is, as e'er
It hath been in the summer-shine of fate,
Unknowèn to the hideous garb of fear;
My swelling blood, with mastery elate,
Boils in my veins, and rolls in rapid state,
Impatient for to meet the piercing steel
And tell the world, that Ælla died as great
As any knight who fought for England's weal.
Friends, kin, and soldiers, in black armour drear,
My actions imitate, my present counsel hear.

LXXX.

[Æl.]
There is no house, throughout this fate-scourged isle,
That hath not lost some kin in these fell fights;
Fat blood hath surfeited the hungry soil,

And towns aflame have gleamed upon the nights.
In robe of fire our holy church they dights,
Our sons lie smothered in their smoking gore;
Up by the roots our tree of life they pights,
Vexing our coast, as billows do the shore.
Ye men, if ye are men, display your name,
Consume their troops, as doth the roaring tempest flame.

LXXXI.

[Æl.]
Ye Christians, do as worthy of the name,
These spoilers of our holy houses slea;
Burst like a cloud from which doth come the flame,
Like torrents, gushing down the mountains, be.
And when along the green their champions flee,
Swift as the red consuming lightning-brand
That haunts the flying murderer o'er the lea,
So fly upon these spoilers of the land.
Let those that are unto their vessels fled
Take sleep eterne upon a fiery flaming bed.

LXXXII.

[Æl.]
Let coward London see her town on fire,
And strive with gold to stay the spoiler's hand;
Ælla and Bristol have a thought that's higher,

We fight not for ourselves, but all the land.
As Severn's eagre layeth banks of sand,
Pressing it down beneath the running stream,
With horrid din engulfing the high strand,
Bearing the rocks along in fury breme,
So will we bear the Dacian army down,
And through a storm of blood will reach the champion's crown.

LXXXIII.

[Æl.]
If in this battle luck deserts our gare,
To Bristol they will turn their fury dire;
Bristol, and all her joys, will sink to air,
Burning perforce with unaccustomed fire.
Then let our safety doubly move our ire,
As wolves, wide-roving for the evening prey,
Seeing the lamb and shepherd near the briar,
Doth th'one for safety, th'one for hunger slay.
Then when the raven croaks upon the plain,
Oh! let it be the knell to mighty Dacians slain!

LXXXIV.

[Æl.]
Like a red meteor shall my weapon shine,
Like a strong lion-cub I'll be in fight,

Like falling leaves the Dacians shall be slain,
Like loudly-dinning stream shall be my might.
Ye men, who would deserve the name of knight,
Let bloody tears by all your paves be wept;
To coming times no pencil e'er shall write,
When England had her foemen, Bristol slept.
Yourselves, your children, and your fellows cry,
Go, fight in honour's cause, be brave, and win or die.

LXXXV.

[Æl.]
I say no more; your souls the rest will say,
Your souls wil shew that Bristol is their place;
To honour's house I need not mark the way,
In your own hearts ye may the foot-path trace.
'Twixt fate and us there is but little space;
The time is now to prove yourselves are men;
Draw forth the burnished bill with dexterous grace,
Rouse, like a wolf when rousing from his den.
Thus I unsheath my weapon. Go, thou sheath!
I'll put it not in place, till it is sick with death.

LXXXVI.

Sold.
On, Ælla, on; we long for bloody fray,
We long to hear the raven sing in vain;
On, Ælla, on; we, certès, gain the day,
When thou dost lead us to the deadly plain.

Cel.
Thy speech, O master, fireth the whole train;
They pant for war, as hunted wolves for breath.
Go, and sit crown'd on corpses of the slain,
Go thou and wield the massy sword of death.

Sold.
From thee, O Ælla, all our courage reigns,
Each one in phantasy doth lead the Danes in chains.

LXXXVII.

Æl.
My countrymen, my friends, your noble sprites
Speak in your eyes, and do your master tell,
Swift as the rain-storm to the earth alights,
So will we fall upon these spoilers fell.
Our mowing swords shall plunge them down to hell,
Their thronging corpses shall obscure the stars;
The barrows bursting with the slain shall swell,
Shewing to coming times our famous wars;
In every eye I see the flame of might,
Shining abroad, e'en like a hill-fire in the night.

LXXXVIII.

[Æl.]
When pencils of our famous fight shall say,
Each one will marvel at the valiant deed;
Each one will wish that he had seen the day,
And bravely helped to make the foemen bleed.
But for their help our battle will not need,
Our force is force enough to stay their hand.

We will return unto this verdant mead,
O'er corpses of the foemen of the land.
Now to the war let all the slogans sound,
The Dacian troops appear on yonder rising ground.

LXXXIX.

[Æl.]
Chiefs, head your bands, and lead.

Danes flying, near Watchet.
1 Da.
Fly, fly, ye Danes! Magnus, the chief, is slain,
The Saxons come with Ælla at their head;
Let's strive to get away to yonder green,
Fly, fly; this is the kingdom of the dead.

2 Da.
O gods! have thousands by my weapon bled,
And must I now for safety fly away?
See! far dispersèd all our troops are spread,
Yet I will singly dare the bloody fray.
But no! I'll fly, and murder in retreat,
Death, blood, and fire shall mark the going of my feet.

XC.

3 Da.
Intending to escape the fiery foe,
As near unto the billow'd beach I came,
Far off I spied a sight of mickle woe,
Our lofty vessels wrapped in sails of flame;
The armèd Dacians, who were in the same,
From side to side fled the pursuit of death,

The swelling fire their courage doth inflame,
They leap into the sea, and bubbling yield their breath;
Whilst those that are upon the bloody plain,
Are death-doomed captives ta'en, or in the battle slain.

XCI.

Hur.
Now by the gods, Magnus, discourteous knight,
By craven conduct hath achieved our woe,
Expending all the tall men in the fight
And placing valorous men where dregs might go.
Since then our fortune thus hath turnèd so,
Gather the soldiers left to future shappe,
To some new place for safety we will go,
In future day we will have better hap.
Sound the loud slogan for a quick forloyne,
Let all the Dacians quickly to our banner join.

XCII.

[Hur.]
Through hamlets we will scatter death and dole,
Bathe in hot gore, and wash ourselves therein;
Gods! here the Saxons, like a billow, roll,
I hear the clashing swords' detested din!
Away, away, ye Danes, to yonder penne,
We now will make retreat, in time to fight again.
[Exeunt.

XCIII.

Enter Celmond, near Watchet.
[Hur.]
Oh for a soul all fire! to tell the day,
The day which shall astound the hearer's rede,
Making our foemen's envying hearts to bleed,
And bearing through the world our name, renowned for aye.

XCIV.

[Hur.]
Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been dight,
From the red East he flitted with his train,
The hoürs drew away the robe of night,
Her sable tapestry was rent in twain.
The dancing streaks bedeckèd heaven's plain,
And on the dew did smile with shimmering eye,
Like drops of blood which do black armour stain,
Shining upon the borne which standeth by.
The soldiers stood upon the hillès side,
Like young enleafèd trees which in a forest bide.

XCV.

[Hur.]
Ælla rose like the tree beset with briars,
His tall spear shining like the stars at night,
His eyes appearing like a flame of fire;
When he exhorted every man to fight,
His gentle words did move each valorous knight.

It moveth them, as hunters lyoncels;
In trebled armour is their courage dight,
Each warring heart for praise and glory swells;
Like sluggish dinning of the winding stream,
Such did the murmuring sound of the whole army seem.

XCVI.

[Hur.]
He leads them on to fight. Oh! then to say
How Ælla looked, and looking did encheere,
Aye moving like a mountain in affraie,
When a loud whirlwind doth its bosom tear.
To tell how every look would banish fear
Would ask an angel's pencil or his tongue.
Like a tall rock that riseth heaven-were,
Like a young wolf most furious and strong,
So did he go, and mighty warriors head,
With gore-depicted wings Victory around him fled.

XCVII.

[Hur.]
The battle joined; swords upon swords did ring;
Ælla was chafed, as lions maddened be;
Like falling stars, he did the javelin fling,
His mighty broadsword mighty men did slea,
Where he did come, the frighted foe did flee,
Or fell beneath his hand, as falling rain;
With such a fury he did on them dree,

Hills of their bodies rose upon the plain.
Ælla, thou art—but stay, my tongue, say nee;
How great I him may make, still greater he will be.

XCVIII.

[Hur.]
Nor did his soldiers see his acts in vain;
Here a stout Dane upon his comrade fell,
Here lord and peasant sank upon the plain,
Here son and father trembled into hell.
Chief Magnus sought his way, and, shame to tell,
He sought his way for flight; but Ælla's spear
Upon the flying Dacian's shoulder fell
Quite through his body, and his heart it tare;
He groaned, and sank upon the gory green,
And with his corse encreased the piles of Dacians sleen.

XCIX.

[Hur.]
Spent with the fight, the Danish champions stand,
Like bulls whose strength and wondrous might are fled;
Ælla, a javelin gripp'd in either hand,
Flies to the throng, and dooms two Dacians dead.
After his act, the army all y-sped;
From every one unmissing javelins flew;
They drew their doughty swords, the foemen bled;
Full three of four of mighty Danes they slew.
The Danes, with terror ruling at their head,
Threw down their banner tall, and like a raven fled.

C.

[Hur.]
The soldiers followed with a mighty cry,
Cries that might well the stoutest hearts affray.
Swift as their ships, the vanquished Dacians fly;
Swift as the rain upon an April day,
Pressing behind, the English soldiers slay;
But half the tenths of Danish men remain.
Ælla commands they should the slaughter stay,
But bind them prisoners on the bloody plain.
The fighting being done, I came away,
In other fields to fight a more unequal fray.

CI.

Enter a Squire.
[Hur.]
My servant squire, prepare a flying horse,
Whose feet are wings, whose pace is like the wind,
Who will outstrip the morning light in course,
Leaving the mantle of the dark behind;
Some secret matters do my presence find.
Give out to all that I was slain in fight;
If in this cause thou dost my order mind,
When I return, thou shalt be made a knight.
Fly, fly, be gone! an hoür is a day,
Quick dight my best of steeds, and bring him here; away!
Exit Squire.

CII.

[Hur.]
Ælla is wounded sore, and in the town
He waiteth, till his wounds be brought to ethe.
And shall I from his brows pluck off the crown,
Making the victor in his victory blethe?

Oh no! full sooner should my heart's blood smethe,
Full sooner would I tortured be to death!
But—Bertha is the prize; ah! it were ethe,
To gain so fair a prize with loss of breath.
But then renown eterne—it is but air,
Bred in the phantasy, and only living there.

CIII.

[Hur.]
Albeit everything in life conspire
To tell me of the fault I now should do,
Yet would I recklessly assuage my fire,
And the same means, as I shall now, pursue.
The qualities I from my parents drew
Were blood and murder, mastery and war;
These will I hold to now, and heed no moe
A wound in honour than a body-scar.
Now, Ælla, now I'm planting of a thorn,
By which thy peace, thy love, thy glory shall be torn.
[Exit.

CIV.

Scene, Bristol. Enter Bertha and Egwina.
Ber.
Gentle Egwina, do not preach me joy;
I cannot join in any thing but weere.
Oh! that aught should our happiness destroy,
Flooding the face with woe and briny tear!

Egw.
You must, you must endeavour for to cheer

Your heart unto some comfortable rest.
Your loverde from the battle will appear,
In honour and in greater love be dress'd;
But I will call the minstrels' roundelay,
Perchance the pleasant sound may chase your grief away.

[Enter Minstrels.

Song.

CV.

Oh sing unto my roundelay,
Oh drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more on holiday;
Like a running river be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CVI.

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his skin as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CVII.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CVIII.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CIX.

See! the white moon shines on high,
Whiter is my true love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CX.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CXI.

With my hands I'll fix the briars,
Round his holy corse to gre,
Elfin fairies, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CXII.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CXIII.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true love waits;—
Thus the damsel spake and died.

Ber.
This singing hath whate'er can make it please,
But my unhappy fate bereaves me of all ease.

[Exeunt.

CXIV.

Scene, Watchet. Ælla, alone.
Æl.
Curse on my tardy wounds! bring me a steed!
I will away to Bertha by to-night;
Albeit from my wounds my soul doth bleed,
I will away, and die within her sight.
Bring me a steed, with eagle-wings for flight;
Swift as my wish, and, as my love is, strong.
The Danes have wrought me mickle woe in fight,
In keeping me from Bertha's arms so long.
Oh! what a doom was mine, since mastery
Can give no pleasure, nor my land's good leme mine eye!

CXV.

[Æl.]
Ye Gods, how is a lover's temper formed!
Sometimes the same thing will both ban and bless;
One time enchilled, then by the same thing warm'd,
First forth extended, and again brought less.
'Tis Bertha's loss which doth my thoughts possess.
I will, I must away; why stays my steed?
My servants, hither haste; prepare a dress
Which couriers in hasty journies need.
Oh heavens! I must away to Bertha's eyne,
For in her looks I find my being doth entwine.

[Exit.

CXVI.

Scene, Bristol. Celmond, alone.
[Æl.]
The world is dark with night; the winds are still,
Faintly the moon her pallid light makes gleam,
The risen sprites the silent churchyard fill,
With elfin fairies joining in the dream;
The forest shineth with the silver leme;
Now may my love be sated in its treat;
Upon the brink of some swift running stream,
At the sweet banquet I will sweetly eat.
This is the house; quickly, ye hinds, appear.

Enter a Servant.
Cel.
Go tell to Bertha straight, a stranger waiteth here.

[Exit Servant. Soon after, enter Bertha.

CXVII.

Ber.
Celmond! ye saints! I hope thou hast good news.

Cel.
The hope is lost; for heavy news prepare.

Ber.
Is Ælla well?

Cel.
He is; and still may use
The hidden blessings of a future year.

Ber.
What heavy tidings then have I to fear?
Of what mischance didst thou so lately say?

Cel.
For heavy tidings quickly now prepare;
Ælla sore wounded is, in bickerous fray;
In Wedëcester's wallèd town he lies.

Ber.
Alas! my swelling breast!

Cel.
Without your sight, he dies.

CXVIII.

Ber.
Will Bertha's presence ease her Ælla's pain?
I fly; new wings do from my shoulders spring.

Cel.
My steed without will deftly bear us twain.

Ber.
Oh! will fly as wind, and noway lynge;
Swiftly caparisons for riding bring.
I have a mind winged with the lightning's plume.
O Ælla! Ælla! didst thou ken the sting,
The which doth canker in my hertys room,
Thou wouldst see plain thyself the cause to be.
Arise, upon thy love, and fly to meeten me.

CXIX.

Cel.
The steed on which I came is swift as air,
My servitors do wait me near the wood;
Anon with me unto the place repair,
To Ælla will I give you conduct good.
Your eyes, e'en like a balm, will staunch his blood,
Heal up his wounds, and give his heart all cheer;
Upon your eyes he holds his livelihood;
You do his sprite and all his pleasure bear.
Come, let's away, albeit it is moke,
Yet love will be a torch to turn to fire night's smoke.

CXX.

Ber.
Albeit tempests did the welkin rend,
And rain, like falling rivers, fierce did be,
And earth with air enchafèd did contend,
And every breath of wind with plagues did sle,
Yet I to Ælla's eyes eftsoons would flee.
Albeit hawthorns did my flesh enseam,
Owlets, with shrieking, shaking every tree,
And water-adders wriggling in each stream,
Yet would I fly, nor under covert stay,
But seek my Ælla out; brave Celmond, lead the way.

[Exeunt.

CXXI.

Scene, a Wood. Enter Hurra and Danes.
Hur.
Here in this forest let us watch for prey,
Awreaking on our foemen our will war;
Whatever shall be English we will slay,
Spreading our terrible renown afar.

Ye Dacian men, if Dacian men ye are,
Let naught but blood sufficient for you be;
On every breast in gory letters scar,
What sprites ye have, and how those sprites may dree.
And if ye get away to Denmark's shore,
Eftsoons we will return, and vanquished be no more.

CXXII.

[Hur.]
The battle lost a battle was indeed;
Not fiends themselves could stand so hard a fray:
Our very armour and our helms did bleed,
The Dacian's sprites, like dew-drops, fled away.
It was an Ælla did command the day;
In spite of foeman, I must say his might.
But we in peasant's blood the loss will pay,
Shewing that we know how to win in fight.
We will, like wolves enloosed from chains, destroy,
Our arms, like winter night, shut out the day of joy.

CXXIII.

[Hur.]
When swift-foot time doth roll the day along,
Some hamlet shall unto our fiery brend;
Bursting e'en like a rock, or mountain strong,

The tall church-spire upon the green shall bend;
We will the walls and ancient towers rend,
Raze every tree which golden fruit doth bear,
Down to the gods the owners thereof send,
Besprinkling all abroad sad war and bloody weere.
But first to yonder oak-tree we will fly
And thence will issue out on all that cometh by.

[Exeunt.

CXXIV.

Another part of the Wood; enter Celmond and Bertha.
Ber.
This darkness doth affray my woman's breast;
How sable is the spreading sky array'd!
Happy the cottager, who lives to rest,
Nor is at night's affrighting hue dismayed.
The stars do scantily the sable braid;
Wide are the silver gleams of comfort wove.
Speak, Celmond, does it make thee not afraid?

Cel.
Darker the night, the fitter time for love.

Ber.
Sayest thou for love? ah! love is far away.
Fain would I see once more the ruddy beams of day.

CXXV.

Cel.
Love may be nigh, would Bertha call it here.

Ber.
How, Celmond, dost thou mean?

Cel.
This Celmond means—
No beam, no eyes, nor mortal men appear,
Nor light, an act of love for to bewreen;
Naught in this forest but this torch doth sheen,
The which, put out, doth leave the whole in night.
See! how the branching trees do here entwine,
Making this bower so pleasing to the sight;
This was for love first made, and here it stands,
That herein lovers may enlink in true love's bands.

CXXVI.

Ber.
Celmond, speak what thou mean'st, or else my thought
Perchance may rob thy honesty so fair.

Cel.
Then hear, and know, hereto I have you brought,
My long-hid love unto you to make clear.

Ber.
Oh heaven and earth! what is it I do hear?
Am I betrayed? where is my Ælla, say?

Cel.
Oh do not now to Ælla such love bear,
But some bestow on Celmond's head.

Ber.
Away!
I will begone, and grope my passage out,
Albeit adder's stings my legs do twine about.

CXXVII.

Cel.
Now, by the saints, I will not let thee go,
Until thou dost my burning love abate.

Those eyes have causèd Celmond mickle woe,
Then let their smile first take him in regrate.
O! didst thou see my breastès troubled state,
Where love doth harrow up my joy and ethe!
I wretched am, beyond the help of fate,
If Bertha still will make my heart-strings blethe.
Soft as the summer flowerets, Bertha, look,
Full ill can I thy frowns and hard displeasure brook.

CXXVIII.

Ber.
Thy love is foul; I would be deaf for aye,
Rather than hear such deslavatie said;
Fly quickly from me, and no further say,
Rather than hear thy love, I would be dead.
Ye saints! and shall I wrong my Ælla's bed?
And would thou, Celmond, tempt me to this thing?
Let me be gone—all curses on thy head!
Was it for this thou didst a message bring?
Let me begone, thou man of sable heart,
Or heaven and her stars will take a maiden's part.

CXXIX.

Cel.
Sithence you will not let my suit avail,
My love will have its joy, although with guilt;
Your limbs shall bend, albeit strong as steel,

The murky season will your blushes hylte.

Ber.
Help, help, ye saints! Oh that my blood was spilt!

Cel.
The saints at distance stand in time of need;
Strive not to go; thou canst not, if thou wilt.
Unto my wish be kind, and naught else heed.

Ber.
No, foul deceiver! I will rend the air
Till death doth stay my din, or some kind traveller hear,

CXXX.

[Ber.]
Help, help, oh God!

Enter Hurra and Danes.
Hur.
Ah! that's a woman cries.
I know them; say, who are you, that be there?

Cel.
Ye hinds, away! or by this sword ye dies.

Hur.
Thy words will ne'er my hart is sete affear.

Ber.
Save me! oh save me from this spoiler here!

Hur.
Stand thou by me; now say thy name and land,
Or quickly shall my sword thy body tear.

Cel.
Both will I shew thee by my furious brand.

Hur.
Beset him round, ye Danes.

Cel.
Come on and see
If my strong anlace may discover what I be.

[All fight against Celmond; he slays many Danes, but falls before Hurra.

CXXXI.

Cel.
Oh! oh! I am forslain! Ye Danes, now ken
I am that Celmond, second in the fight,
Who did, at Watchet, so forslay your men.
I feel mine eyes to swim in eterne night:—
To her be kind.

[Dies.
Hur.
Then fell a worthy knight.
Say, who art thou?

Ber.
I am great Ælla's wife.

Hur.
Ah!

Ber.
If against him ye harbour foul despite,
Now with the deadly anlace take my life.
My thanks I ever on you will bestow,
From ewbryce you me plucked, the worst of mortal woe.

CXXXII.

Hur.
I will; it shall be so; ye Dacians, hear.
This Ælla, he hath been our foe for aye.
Thórough the battle he did furious tear,
Being the life and head of every fray;
From every Dacian power he won the day,
Magnus he slew, and all our ships he brent.
By his fell arm we now are made to stray,
The spear of Dacia he in pieces shent.
When hunted barks unto our land did come,
Ælla the cause they said, and wished him bitter doom.

CXXXIII.

Ber.
Mercy!

Hur.
Be still.
But yet he is a foeman good and fair,
When we are spent, he soundeth the forloyne;
The captive's chain he tosseth in the air,
Cheereth the wounded both with bread and wine.
Hath he not unto some of them been digne?
Ye would have smoked on Wedëcestrian field,
But he behylte the slogan for to cleyne,
Throwing on his wide back his wider-spreading shield.
When ye, as captives, in the field did be,
He oathed you to be still, and straight did set you free.

CXXXIV.

[Hur.]
Shall we then slay his wife, because he's brave?
Because he fighteth for his country's gare?
Will he, who late hath been this Ælla's slave,
Rob him of what perchance he holdeth dear?
Or shall we men of manly sprites appear,
Doing him favour for his favour done,
Swift to his palace this fair damsel bear,
Declare our case, and to our way be gone?
The last you do approve; so let it be.
Fair damsel, come away; you safe shall be with me.

CXXXV.

Ber.
All blessings may the saints unto you give!
All pleasure may your lengthened livings be!
Ælla, when knowing that by you I live,
Will think too small a gift the land and sea.
O Celmond! I may deftly read by thee,
What ill betideth the enfoulèd kind.
May not thy cross-stone of thy crime bewree!
May all men know thy valour, few thy mind!
Soldier! for such thou art in noble fray,
I will thy goings 'tend, and do thou lead the way.

CXXXVI.

Hur.
The morning 'gins along the east to sheene;
Darkling the light doth on the waters play,
The faint red gleam slow creepeth o'er the green,
To chase the murkiness of night away;
Swift fly the hours that will bring out the day.
The soft dew falleth on the growing grass;
The shepherd-maiden, dighting her array,
Scarce sees her visage in the wavy glass.
By the full daylight we shall Ælla see,
Or Bristol's wallèd town; fair damsel, follow me.

[Exeunt.
Scene, Bristol. Enter Ælla and Servants.

CXXXVII.

Æl.
'Tis now full morn. I thought, e'en by last night,
To have been here; my steed hath not my love.

This is my palace; let my hinds alight,
Whilst I go up, and wake my sleeping dove.
Stay here, my servants; I shall go above.
Now, Bertha, will thy look soon heal my sprite,
Thy smiles unto my wounds a balm will prove,
My leaden body will be set aright.
Egwina, haste, and ope the portal-door,
That I on Bertha's breast may think of war no more.

CXXXVIII.

Enter Egwina.
Egw.
Oh, Ælla!

Æl.
Ah! that countenance to me
Speaketh a legendary tale of woe.

Egw.
Bertha is—

Æl.
What? where? how? say, what of she?

Egw.
Gone—

Æl.
Gone! ye gods!

Egw.
Alas! it is too true.
Ye saints, he dies away with mickle woe!
Ælla! what? Ælla! Oh! he lives again!

Æl.
Call me not Ælla; I am he no moe.
Where is she gone away? ah! speak! how? when?

Egw.
I will.

Æl.
Caparison a score of steeds; fly, fly.
Where is she? quickly speak, or instant thou shalt die.

CXXXIX.

Egw.
Still thy loud rage, and hear thou what I know.

Æl.
Oh, speak.

Egw.
Like primrose, drooping with the heavy rain,
Last night I left her, drooping with her weere,
Her love the cause that gave her heart such pain.

Æl.
Her love! to whom?

Egw.
To thee, her spouse alleyne.
As is my custom every morn to go,
I went, and oped her chamber-door in twain,
But found her not, as I was wont to do.
Then all around the palace I did seere,
But could, to my heart's woe, not find her any where.

CXL.

Æl.
Thou liest, foul hag! thou liest! thou art her aid
To cheer her lust:—but no; it cannot be.

Egw.
If truth appear not in what I have said,
Draw forth thine anlace, quickly then me sle.

Æl.
But yet it must, it must be so; I see,
She with some lusty paramour is gone.
It must be so.—Oh! how it racketh me!
My race of love, my race of life, is run.
Now rage, and furious storm, and tempest come!
Naught living upon earth can now make sweet my doom.

Enter a Servant.

CXLI.

Serv.
My lord! I am about the truth to say.
Last night, full late I did return to rest;
As to my chamber I did bend my way,

To Bertha one his name and place addressed;
Down to him came she, but thereof the rest
I know no matter; so, my homage made—

Æl.
Oh! speak no more; my heart flames in its hest.
I once was Ælla, now am not his shade.
Had all the fury of misfortune's will
Fall'n on my bannèd head, I had been Ælla still.

CXLII.

[Æl.]
This only was unarmed, of all my sprite:
My honour, honour, frowned on the soft wind
That steekèd on it; now with rage I'm pight;
A furious tempest is my tortured mind.
My honour yet some driblet joy may find,
To the Dane's wounds I will another give.
When thus my glory and my peace is rynde,
It were a cowardice to think to live.
My servants, unto every asker tell,
If nobly Ælla lived, as nobly Ælla fell!
[Stabs his breast.

CXLIII.

Ser.
Ælla is slain; the flower of England's marred!

Æl.
Be still; loud let the churches ring my knell.

Call hither brave Coërnyke; he, as ward
Of this my Bristol castle, will do well.

Knell rings. Enter Coernyke.
Æl.
(to Coer.)
Thee I ordain the ward; so all may tell.
I have but little time to drag this life;
My deadly tale, e'en like a deadly bell,
Sound in the ears of her I wish'd my wife.
But ah! she may be fair.

Egw.
That she must be.

Æl.
Ah! say not so; that word would Ælla doubly sle.

CXLIV.

Enter Bertha and Hurra.
Æl.
Ah! Bertha here!

Ber.
What sound is this? what means this lethal knell?
Where is my Ælla? speak; where? how is he?
Oh Ælla! art thou then alive and well?

Æl.
I live indeed; but do not live for thee.

Ber.
What means my Ælla?

Æl.
Here my meaning see.
Thy foulness urged my hand to give this wound;
It me unsprites.

Ber.
It hath unsprited me.

Æl.
Ah heavens! my Bertha falleth to the ground!
But yet I am a man, and so will be.

Hur.
Ælla! I am a Dane, but yet a friend to thee.

CXLV.

[Hur.]
This damoisel I found within a wood,
Striving full hard against an armèd swain.
I sent him wallowing in my comrades' blood,
Celmond his name, chief of thy warring train.
This damoisel sought to be here again,
The which, albeit foemen, we did will;
So here we brought her with you to remain.

Coer.
Ye noble Danes! with gold I will you fill.

Æl.
Bertha, my life! my love! Oh, she is fair.
What faults could Bertha have? what faults could Ælla fear?

CXLVI.

Ber.
Am I then thine? I cannot blame thy fear,
But rest me here upon my Ælla's breast.
I will to thee bewray the woeful gare.
Celmond did come to me at time of rest,
Praying for me to fly, at your request,
To Watchet town, where you deceasing lay.
I with him fled; through a dark wood we pressed,
Where he foul love unto my ears did say;
The Danes—

Æl.
Oh! I die content.—

[Dies.
Ber.
Oh! is my Ælla dead?
Oh! I will make his grave my virgin spousal bed.

[Bertha faints.

CXLVII.

Coer.
What? Ælla dead? and Bertha dying too?
So fall the fairest flowerets of the plain.

Who can unfold the works that heaven can do,
Or who untwist the roll of fate in twain?
Ælla, thy glory was thy only gain,
For that, thy pleasure and thy joy was lost.
Thy countrymen shall rear thee on the plain
A pile of stones, as any grave can boast.
Further, a just reward to thee to be,
In heaven thou sing of God, on earth we'll sing of thee.