University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Corin and Emma appear at the door of their cottage.
Two Shepherdesses.
First Shepherdess
sings.
O peace , the fairest child of heaven,
To whom the sylvan reign was given,
The vale, the fountain, and the grove,
With every softer scene of love;
Return, sweet Peace, to chear the weeping swain:
Return, with Ease and Pleasure in thy train.

Emma,
coming forward.
Shepherd, 'tis he. Against yon aged oak,
Pensive and lost in thought, he leans his head.

Corin.
Soft: let us not disturb him. Gentle Emma,
Poor tho he be, unfriended and unknown,
My pity waits with reverence on his fortune.
Modest of carriage, and of speech most gracious,
As if some saint or angel in disguise
Had grac'd our lowly cottage with his presence,
He steals, I know not how, into the heart,
And makes it pant to serve him. Trust me, Emma,
He is no common man.

Emma.
Some lord, perhaps,
Or valiant chief, that from our deadly foe,
The haughty, cruel, unbelieving Dane,
Seeks shelter here.

Corin.
And shelter he shall find:
Who loves his country, is my friend and brother.
Behold him well. Fair manhood in it's prime,
Even thro the homely russet that conceals him,
Shines forth, and proves him noble.

Emma.
'Tis most like,
He is not what his present fortunes speak him.
But, ah! th'inhuman foe is all around us:
We dare not keep him here.

Corin.
Thou hast not weigh'd
This island's force; the deep defence of woods,
Nature's own hand hath planted strong around;
The rough encumbrance of perplexing thorns,
Of intertwining brakes that rise between,
And choak up every inlet from abroad.
Yet more; thou know'st, beyond this woody verge
Two rivers broad and rapid hem us in;
Along whose border spreads the gulphy pool,
And trembling quagmire to betray the foot
It's treacherous greensword tempts. One path alone
Winds to this plain, so difficult and strait,
My single arm, against a band of foes,
Could long, perhaps, defend it.

Emma.
Yet, my Corin,
Revolve the stern decree of that fierce tyrant,
The Danish king: “Who harbours, or relieves
“An English captain, dies the death of traitors:
“But who their haunts discovers, shall be safe,
“And high rewarded.”

Corin.
Now, just heaven forbid,
An Englishman should ever count for gain
What villainy must earn. No: are we poor?
Be honesty our riches. Are we mean,
And humbly born? The true heart makes us noble.
These hands can toil; can sow the ground and reap
For thee and thy sweet babes. Our daily labour
Is daily wealth: it finds us bread and raiment.
Could Danish gold give more?

Emma.
Alas the while!
That loyal faith is fled from hall and bower,
To dwell with village-swains!

Corin.
Ah look! behold,
Where Edith, all-abandon'd to despair,
Hangs weeping o'er the brook.

Second Shepherdess
approaches slowly to soft music.
Is there not cause?
She sings.

Corin.
Unhappy maid! yet not alone in woe:
For look, where our sad guest, like some fair tree
Torn from the root by winter's cruel blast,
Lies on the ground o'erthrown.

Emma.
I weep, to see it!

Corin.
Thou hast a heart sweet pity loves to dwell in:
But, dry thy tears, and lean on this just hope—
If yet to do away his country's shame,
To serve her bravely on some blest occasion;
If for these ends this stranger sought our cottage,
The heavenly hosts are hovering here unseen,
To guard his sacred life, and bless us all.
But let us hence: he rises to embrace
His friend, a woodman of the neighbouring dale,
Whom late, as yester-evening star arose,
At his request I bid to meet him here.

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!
That prince who sees his country laid in ruins,
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?

Devon.
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—

SCENE III.

Alfred, Devon, Edwin.
Alfred.
Hast thou ought
Of joyful to impart? or is the soul
Of England dead indeed?

Edwin.
My gracious master,
This journey has been fruitful to our wish.
Awak'd, as from the last and mortal trance,
That soul, which seem'd extinguish'd, lives again.
By me assur'd, their sovereign still survives,
Survives to take due vengeance on those robbers,
Who violate the sanctity of leagues,
The reverend seal of oaths; who basely broke,
Like midnight ruffians, on the hour of peace,
And stole a victory from men unarm'd;
Of this assur'd, your people breathe once more.
The spirit of our ancestors is up!
The spirit of the free! and, with one voice
Of happy omen, all demand their king.

Alfred.
Then, heaven who knows our wrongs will deign to guide
The virtue it inspires—My lord, how sound
These tidings in your ears?

Devon.
As the sure omen
Of better fate, my heart receives and hails them.
For know, my liege, the fury of those Danes,
This last dire scene of total desolation,
Will kindle up the flame to seven-fold fierceness;
New-wing each shaft, edge every lifted sword,
And drive—

Alfred.
A moment—Edwin, yet inform me
What numbers have you gather'd? how dispos'd,
Where posted them?

Edwin.
In these surrounding woods,
Soon as the shade of night descends to veil them,
A generous few, the veteran hardy gleanings
Of many a well-fought field, all at one hour,
Behind the rushy brook from hence due east,
By different paths, and in small parties meet,
Accoutred at all points: and, as I judge,
Their numbers count twelve hundred.

Alfred.
Ha! twelve hundred—
Incredible—soft—let me duly weigh
What I, unhoping, scarce believing, hear.
Something must, now, be done—Ay, that attempt
Is great—but greatly hazardous—why then,
Necessity, our just plea, must excuse
The desperate daring her hard law imposes.
Hear, my brave friends. One castle still is ours,
Tho close begirt and shaken by the Danes.
Devon, speed thither: find out that close path,
By Edwin's eye and aid, which from the midst,
The central point of Kinwith-forest winds
In deep descent; and, under ground prolong'd,
Safe in the fortress ends.

Devon.
Suppose me there:
What follows this, my lord?

Alfred.
Be it your part
To animate our brothers of the war,
Those Englishmen, who yet deserve that name.
The foe—dwell much on this—by our known weakness
Made daring and secure, will now the rein
Of discipline relax, and to loose revel
Indulge the midnight hour. Therefore, at three—
O count the clock with more than lovers' vigilance—
At three, that chosen band shall from behind,
Rising at once, with Alfred at their head,
Assail the hostile camp: while your warm sally,
That very moment, pours upon it's front.
Hence: and success be thine.

Devon.
On this our purpose,
The sacred cause of liberty and vengeance,
Smile, righteous heaven!

Alfred.
O urge it home, my friend,
That each man's sword now wears upon it's point
The present age, and last posterity!
Farewell. Edwin, within the hour return,
And find me here.

SCENE IV.

Alfred.
Ha! day declines apace.
What anxious thoughts, in this wild solitude,
My darker hours must know? And now, the veil
Of evening, o'er these murmuring woods around,
A lonely horror spreads—But soft: the breeze
Is dumb! and more than midnight silence reigns!
Why beats my bosom?—Music! Shield me, heaven!
Whence should it come?—Hark!—now the measur'd strains,
In awful sweetness warbling, strike my sense,
As if some wing'd musician of the sky
Touch'd his ethereal harp.

SCENE V.

Solemn music is heard at a distance. It comes nearer in a full symphony: after which a single trumpet sounds a high and awakening air. Then the following stanzas are sung by two aëreal Spirits.
First Spirit.
Hear, Alfred, father of the state,
Thy genius heaven's high will declare!
What proves the hero truly great,
Is never, never to despair.

Both Spirits.
Is never to despair.

Second Spirit.
Thy hope awake, thy heart expand
With all its vigour, all its fires:
Arise, and save a sinking land!
Thy country calls and heaven inspires.

Both Spirits.
Earth calls and heaven inspires.

SCENE VI.

Alfred.
Am I awake! and is it no illusion
That heaven thus deigns to look with mercy on me?
Thus, by his ministers, to chear my heart,
And warm it into hope? But lo! he comes,
Whom angels deign to visit and inspire,
The holy sage, descending from his cell
In yon hill's cavern'd side: sweet sylvan scene
Where shade and silence dwell!

SCENE VII.

Alfred, Hermit.
Alfred.
Thrice happy Hermit!
Whom thus the heavenly habitants attend,
Blessing thy calm retreat; while ruthless war
Fills the polluted land with blood and crimes.
In this extremity of England's fate,
Led by thy sacred character, I come
For comfort and advice. Say what remains,
What yet remains to save our prostrate country?
Nor scorn this anxious question even from me,
A nameless stranger.

Hermit.
Alfred, England's king,
All hail, and welcome to this humble cell.

Alfred.
Amazement!—by these humble weeds obscur'd,
I deem'd my state beyond discovery's reach:
How is it then to thee alone reveal'd?

Hermit.
Last night, when with a draught from that cool fountain
I had my wholesome sober supper crown'd;
As is my stated custom, forth I walk'd
Beneath the solemn gloom and glittering sky,
To feed my soul with prayer and meditation.
And thus to inward harmony compos'd,
That sweetest music of the grateful heart,
Whose each emotion is a silent hymn,
I to my couch retir'd. Strait on mine eyes
A pleasing slumber fell, whose mystic power
Seal'd up my senses, but enlarg'd my soul.
Led by those spirits, who disclose futurity,
I liv'd thro distant ages; felt the virtue,
The great, the glorious passions that will fire
Remote posterity; when guardian laws
Are by the patriot, in the glowing senate,
Won from corruption; when th'impatient arm
Of liberty, invincible, shall scourge
The tyrants of mankind—and when the deep,
Thro all her swelling waves, from pole to pole
Shall spread the boundless empire of thy sons.
I saw thee, Alfred, too—But o'er thy fortunes
Lay clouds impenetrable.

Alfred.
To heaven's will,
In either fortune, mine shall ever bend
With humblest resignation—Yet, O say,
Does that unerring Providence, whose justice
Has bow'd me to the dust; whose ministers,
Sword, fire and famine, scourge this sinful land,
This tomb of it's inhabitants—does he
Reserve me in his hand, the glorious instrument
From fierce oppression to redeem my country?

Hermit.
What mortal eye, by his immediate beam
Not yet enlighten'd, dare presume to look
Thro time's abyss? But should the flatterer, hope,
Anticipating see that happy time,
Those whiter moments—Prince, remember, then,
The noble lessons by affliction taught:
Preserve the quick humanity it gives,
The pitying social sense of human weakness;
Yet keep thy generous fortitude entire,
The manly heart, that to another's woe
Is tender, as superiour to it's own.
Learn to submit: yet learn to conquer fortune.
Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds
And offices of life: to life itself,
With all it's vain and transient joys, sit loose.
Chief, let devotion to the sovereign Mind,
A steady, chearful, absolute dependance
On his best wisest government, possess thee.

Alfred.
I thank thee, father: and O witness, heaven,
Whose eye the heart's profoundest depth explores!
That if not to perform my regal task;
To be the common father of my people,
Patron of honor, virtue and religion;
If not to shelter useful worth, to guard
His well-earn'd portion from the sons of rapine,
And deal out justice with impartial hand;
If not to spread, on all good men, thy bounty,
The treasures trusted to me, not my own;
If not to raise anew our English name,
By peaceful arts that grace the land they bless,
And generous war to humble proud oppressors:
Yet more; if not to build the public weal,
On that firm base which can alone resist
Both time and chance, on liberty and law;
If I for these great ends am not ordain'd—
May I ne'er poorly fill the throne of England!

Hermit.
Still may thy breast these sentiments retain,
In prosperous life.

Alfred.
Could it destroy or change
Such thoughts as these, prosperity were ruin.

Two Spirits sing the following hymn.
First.
O joy of joys, to lighten woe!
Best pleasure, pleasure to bestow!
What raptures then his heart expand,
Who lives to bless a grateful land.

Second Spirit.
For him, ten thousand bosoms beat;
His name consenting crouds repeat:
From soul to soul the passion runs,
And subjects kindle into sons.

Hermit.
Alfred, once more—since favour'd thus of heaven,
Since thus to cheer thee and confirm thy virtue
He sends his angels forth—remember well,
Should better days restore thy prosperous fortunes,
The vows these awful beings hear thee make:
Remember and fulfil them.

Alfred.
O no more—
When those whom heaven distinguishes o'er millions,
And showers profusely power and splendor on them,
Whate'er th'expanded heart can wish; when they,
Accepting the reward, neglect the duty,
Or worse, pervert those gifts to deeds of ruin,
Is there a wretch they rule so base as they?
Guilty, at once, of sacrilege to heaven!
And of perfidious robbery to man!

Hermit.
Such thoughts become a monarch—but behold,
The glimmering dusk, involving air and sky,
Creeps slow and solemn on. Devotion now,
With eye enraptur'd, as the kindling stars
Light, one by one, all heaven into a glow
Of living fire, adores the Hand divine,
Who form'd their orbs and pour'd forth glory on them.

Alfred.
Then, this good moment, snatch'd from earth's affairs,
Let us employ aright: and, in yon cell,
To Him, with heart sincere, our homage pay,
Who glorious spreads and gracious shuts the day.