University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Emma,
and other Peasants.
Wish'd evening now is come: but her soft hour,
Close of our daily toil, that wont to sound
Sweet with the shepherd's pipe and virgin's voice,
Is chearless all and mute.

Second Shepherdess.
Heaven's will be ours.
And since no grief can yesterday recall,
Nor change tomorrow's face; now let us soothe
The present as we may with dance and song,
To lighten sad remembrance.

First Shepherdess
sings.

Here a pastoral dance.

SCENE II.

Corin, Emma, Peasants.
Corin.
O happy hour! wife, neighbours—such, such news!
I shall run wild with joy!

Emma.
Speak, shepherd; say,
What moves thee thus?

Corin.
The king is in our isle!

Emma.
Can it be possible?

Peasant.
What do I hear?

Corin.
As now I pass'd beneath the hermit's cell,
I heard that wonderous man pronounce his name.
O Emma, the poor stranger whom we serv'd
And honour'd, all-unknowing of his state,
Is he! our great and gracious Alfred!

All.
Heaven!
Then are we blest indeed!

Corin.
My humble cottage,
Long ages hence, when we are dust, my friends,
In holy pilgrimage oft visited,
Will draw true English knees to worship there,
As at the shrine of some propitious saint,
Or angel friendly to mankind—The thought
Brings tears into mine eyes.—

Emma.
Does joy deceive
My sense? or did I hear a distant voice
Sigh thro the vale and wake the mournful echo?

The following song is sung by a person unseen.

Corin.
The evening wood-lark warbles in her voice.
Who can this be?

Emma.
Peace, peace: she sings again.



Corin.
What think ye, friends? Such moving, melting softness
Breathes in these sweet complainings, as till now
Mine ear was never blest with. Let us go
And find out this new wonder.

Second Shepherdess.
Look, the king!

Emma.
Now, by my holidame, a goodly person,
And of most noble mein.

Corin.
Disturb him not.

SCENE III.

Alfred, Hermit.
Hermit.
Your enterprise is bold—and may be fatal:
Yet I condemn it not. All is not rashness,
That valor of more common size might think,
And caution term so. Souls of nobler scope,
Whose comprehensive sight beholds at once
And weighs the sum of things, are their own rule,
And to be judg'd but by themselves alone.

Alfred.
Then, in the name of that inspiring Power,
Whose deputy I am, who sends me forth
His minister of vengeance, on I go
To victory, or death.
[As he is going out, he stops short.
What do I feel?
Save me! a holy horror stirs my frame,
And shivers thro each vein—What shapes are these,
Athwart the gloom, that strike my dazled sense?
Betwixt and where yon mist along the marsh
Rowls blue it's vapoury wave, some unseen hand
Pourtrays in air the visionary scene
Distinct and full, in brighter colors drawn
Than summer suns reflect on evening cloud,
When all it's fluid bosom glows with gold—
And now, it reddens into blood!

Hermit
, who had observed him fixedly, half-aside.
Ere night
Withdraws her shade, new accidents and strange
Will shake this island's peace.
[To him.
Now, Alfred, now,
Be all the hero shewn.

Alfred.
What may this mean?

SCENE IV.

Alfred, Corin.
Corin,
kneeling.
My honor'd sovereign—

Alfred.
How is this! ha! what!
Discover'd by this peasant—Be it so:
The plain man is most loyal.

Corin.
England's wealth,
The pearly stores her circling seas contain,
Should never shake your Corin's faith—

Alfred.
But what
Alarms thee thus?

Corin.
My fears are for my king.
Some strangers, Sir—their habits speak them Danes—
Have found our isle. Look this way.

Alfred.
Be of courage.
Now, I perceive them. Thro the evening shade
Their armor gleams a faint and moving light.
Westward they turn, and strike into the path
That opens on this plain. Retire we, shepherd,
Behind yon dusky elm; from whence, unseen,
We may discern their numbers and their purpose.

SCENE V.

Danes passing along.
First Dane.
No more. 'Twas she: I could not be deceiv'd.
A lover's eye is as the eagle's sharp,
And kens his prey from far—But lift a while,
If sound of human voice, or bleat of flocks
May guide our lost enquiry thro this wild.

Second Dane.
No: all is loneliness around, and hush'd
As our dead northern wastes at midnight hour.
Our gods protect us! Prince, it was most rash,
So few our numbers, at this close of day
Headlong to plunge and amid these horrid shades,
Where danger lurks unseen.

First Dane.
How! know'st thou not
That England is no more? Her sons of war,
To dens and caverns fled, like fearful hares
Sit trembling at each blast the chill wind blows.
Her king himself or sleeps in dust, or roams
Wild on the pathless mountain. As for me;
Our country gods, those spirits that possess
The boundless wilderness, that love to dwell
With dreary solitude and night profound,
Will guard the son of Ivar, to whose house
Their vassalage is bound by magic spell.
Come on. She must be found, this unknown fair
Who fir'd me at first view; and rages still
A fever in my youthful blood. Away.

SCENE VI.

Alfred, Corin, advancing.
Corin.
They are but three.

Alfred.
And were that number trebled,
This island is their grave; this sacred spot,
Fair freedom's last retreat. We must, we will
Preserve it, all-inviolate and holy,
From impious infidels: or, with our blood,
If now we perish, sanctify it's earth
For after-times to visit and revere.

Corin.
Lift, lift, my lord—

Alfred.
What noise was that?—By heaven,
The shrieks of women! Now, stern vengeance guide
The sword we draw.

SCENE VII.

Emma, and other peasants.
Emma.
Ah, whither shall we fly?
Immortal virgin! queen of mercy! save us—
See, see, my friends, they seize the lovely stranger—
They bear her off—Behold the king appears—
My husband too—Now, heaven, defend alike
The mighty and the mean, the prince and peasant!
Two of them fall beneath our monarch's arm—
The third, my Corin—O I dare no more
Look that way—Yet I must—The third is slain!
O gallant shepherd! O most happy hour!

SCENE VIII.

Alfred, Corin, supporting the lady.
Alfred.
This way, brave shepherd, from these closer shades—
Here the free air and breezy glade will rouse
Her fainting spirits—So—Who may she be?
Perhaps, some worthy heart at this sad moment
Akes for her safety.

Eltruda.
Save me, save me, heaven!

Alfred.
Ye powers! what do I hear?—Yes—yes—'tis she!
My wife, my queen! the treasure of my soul!

Eltruda.
My Alfred!

Alfred.
My Eltruda!

Eltruda.
Can it be?
Or is it all th'illusion of my fear?
O no: 'tis he—my lord! my life! my husband!
My guardian angel Alfred.

Alfred.
My Eltruda!
Black horror chills me while I view the brink,
The dreadful precipice, on which we stood—
And was it thee I rescu'd from these ruffians—
O Providence amazing!—thee, Eltruda!

Eltruda.
I tremble still!—from worse than death deliver'd!
And am I then secure in Alfred's arms?

Alfred.
There let me hold thee; lull thy fears to rest:
There hush thy soul with everlasting fondness.
The panting bird so flutters, just escap'd
The fowler's snare.

Eltruda.
My heart, my heart is full—
And must o'erflow in tears. A thousand thoughts
Are busy here—That ever we should meet
In such a dire extremity!—Ah me!
That ever Alfred's family and children
Should need the shelter of his single arm!

Alfred.
My children!—where, where are they?

Eltruda.
Turn thine eyes
To yonder cottage: there conceal'd—

Alfred.
My Corin,
Fly, bring them to my arms. But say, my love,
Why didst thou leave the convent, where I plac'd thee?
Why, unprotected, trust thee to a land,
A barbarous land, where violence inhabits?
Our hospitable England is no more.

Eltruda.
Alas! my Alfred, even the peaceful cells,
Where safe beneath religion's holy veil
Her cloister'd votaries dwelt, from impious Danes
No reverence claim. The villages around,
Dispers'd and flying wild before their arms,
Inform'd us, a near party, on whose course
Destruction waits, were marching full to us.
Instant I fled. Two faithful servants bore
Our children off: and heaven has sav'd us all!

Alfred.
O welcome to my soul!—O happy Alfred!
Thus to have rescu'd what the feeling heart
Most dear and precious holds, from men who war
With earth and heaven.

Eltruda.
Tho terrible at first,
Blest be the tempest that has driven me hither,
Into this safe, this sacred harbor!

Alfred.
Come,
O come, and here repose thee from the storm,
Within these sheltering arms.

Eltruda,
holding him off.
Yet—let me view thee—
My king and husband—do I find thee thus?
[falling into his arms.
Unknown! unserv'd! unhonor'd! none to tend thee!
To soothe thy woes, to watch thy broken slumbers,
With every fonder service, pious love
Best knows to pay!—There is in love a power,
There is a soft divinity that draws,
Even from distress, those transports that delight
The breast they pain, and it's best powers exalt
Above all taste of joys from vulgar life!

Alfred.
O 'tis too much—thou all that makes life glorious!
Nay look not on me with this sweet dejection;
Thro tears that pierce the soul—
My children too!
My little ones! Come to your fire's embrace:
'Tis all he can bestow—In them behold
What human grandeur is—The peasant's offspring
Have some retreat, some safe, tho lowly home:
But you, my babes, you have no habitation!
With pain and peril wandering thro a land,
A ruin'd country you were born to rule!
The thought unmans my reason.

SCENE IX.

Alfred, Eltruda, Hermit.
Hermit.
I have heard
Thy fond complainings, Alfred.

Alfred.
You have then,
Good father, heard the cause that wrings them from me.

Hermit.
The human race are sons of sorrow born:
And each must have his portion. Vulgar minds
Refuse, or crouch beneath their load: the brave
Bear theirs without repining.

Alfred.
Who can bear
The shaft that wounds him thro an infant's side?
When whom we love, to whom we owe protection,
Implore the hand we cannot reach to save them.

Hermit.
Weep not, Eltruda.—Yet, thou art a king;
All private passions fall before that name.
Thy subjects claim thee whole.

Alfred.
Can public trust,
O reverend sage! destroy the softer ties
That twine around the parent's yearning heart?
This holy passion heaven itself infus'd,
And blended with the stream that feeds our life.
All nature feels it intimate and deep,
And all her sons of instinct and of reason.

Hermit.
Then shew that passion in it's noblest form.
Think what a task it is, to rear those minds,
On whom the fate of millions, general bliss,
Or universal misery, depends.

Alfred.
That task then, difficult alike and noble,
Be thine, O sacred sage; to whose try'd wisdom
I, henceforth, solely trust their tender years.
Let truth and virtue be their earliest teachers.
Keep from their ear the syren-voice of flattery;
Keep from their eye the harlot-form of vice,
Who spread, in every court, their silken snares,
And charm but to betray. Betimes instruct them,
Superior rank demands superior worth;
Pre-eminence of valor, justice, mercy:
But chief, that tho exalted o'er mankind,
They are themselves but men—frail suffering dust;
From no one injury of human lot
Exempt: but fever'd by the same heat, chill'd
By the same cold, torn by the same disease,
That scorches, freezes, racks, and kills the beggar.
Should fairer days, returning, smile again
On England and on me—
Ha! Edwin here?
This way, my friend—speak softly—

Edwin
whispers the king aside.
How!—'tis well!—
Back to thy post: I follow on the instant—
Yet stay—Behold my queen, and infant-sons!
Edwin—thy king's whole wealth is there summ'd up!
Nay, wipe thine eyes: and tell my gallant friends
What thou hast seen. The tale will lend new force
To each man's arm, and with redoubled weight
Urge every well-aim'd blow. Hence! speed thee well.
Eltruda—we must part—

Eltruda.
What do I hear?
My life, my love—

Alfred.
Part for a few sad moments,
That our next meeting may be long and happy.

Eltruda.
What leave me now? O my presaging heart!
Already leave me! 'Tis the dreadful call
Of glory, somewhat perilously great,
And big with urgent haste, that tears thee from me.
Oh Alfred—

Alfred.
No fond weakness now be shewn,
Eltruda, no distrust of virtue's fate.
Thou and thy children are, at present, safe
In this wise Hermit's care. For what remains;
My cause is just, my fortune in His hand
Who reigns supreme, almighty and all-good.
That Power who stills the raging of the main,
The rage of all our foes can render vain.
To his unerring will resign'd sincere,
I fear that God, and know no other fear!