 | Alfred |  |
7
SCENE II.
Alfred, Earl of Devon.Alfred.
How long, just heaven! how long
Shall war's fell ravage desolate this land?
All, all is lost—and Alfred lives to tell it!
Are these things so? and he without the means
Of great revenge? cast down below the hope
Of succouring those he weeps for?
Devon.
Gracious Alfred,
England's last hope, whose feeling goodness shews
What angels are; to bear, with such a prince,
The worst of ills, exile, or chains, or death,
Is happiness, is glory.
Alfred.
Ah! look round thee—
That mud-built cottage is thy sovereign's palace.
Yon hind, whose daily toil is all his wealth,
Lodges and feeds him. Are these times for flattery?
Or call it praise: such gaudy attributes
Would misbecome our best and proudest fortunes.
But what are mine? What is this high-priz'd Alfred?
Among ten thousand wretches most undone!
8
His subjects perishing beneath the sword
Of foreign war; who sees and cannot save them,
Is but supreme in misery!—But on,
Proceed, my lord; compleat the mournful tale,
My griefs broke off.
Devon.
From yonder heath-clad hill,
Far as my straining eye could shoot it's beam
I look'd, and saw the progress of the foe,
As of some tempest, some devouring tide,
That ruins, without mercy, where it spreads.
The riches of the year, the bread of thousands
That liberal crown'd our plains from vale to hill,
With intermingled forests, temples, towers,
Now smoak to heaven, one broad-ascending cloud.
But oh for pity! on each mountain's height,
Shivering and sad the pale inhabitants,
Gray-headed age and youth, all stood and mark'd
This boundless ravage: motionless and mute,
With hands to heaven up-rais'd, they stood and wept—
My tears attended theirs—
Alfred.
If this sad sight
Could pain thee to such anguish, what must I
Their king and parent feel?
9
Sir, be of comfort.
Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
Himself, or his own virtue.
Alfred.
Well—no more—
Complaint is for the vulgar: kings must act;
Restore a ruin'd state, or perish with it.
Despair shall be our strength—
Devon.
Behold, my lord,
From yonder hazle copse, who issues forth,
And moves this way—a stranger—but his look
Speaks haste and apprehension—
Alfred.
Ha! beyond
My utmost hope!—'Tis Edwin—
| Alfred | |