University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Alfred, Earl of Devon.
Alfred.
How long, sweet heaven! how long
Shall red war desolate this prostrate land?
All, all is lost—And Alfred lives to tell it!
His cities laid in dust! his subjects slaughter'd!
Or into slaves debas'd! the murderous foe
Proud and exulting in the general shame!—
Are these things so? and He without the means
Of great revenge? cast down below the hope
Of succouring those he weeps for? O despair!
O grief of griefs!

Devon.
Old as I am, my Liege,
In rough war harden'd, and with death familiar,
These eyes have long forgot to melt with softness:
But O, my gracious master, they have seen—
All-pitying heaven!—such sights of ruthless rage,
Of total desolation—

Alfred.
O my people!
O ruin'd England!—Devon, those were blest,
Who dy'd before this time. Ha! and those robbers,
That violate the sanctity of leagues,
The reverend seal of oaths; that basely broke,
Like nightly ruffians, on the hour of peace,
And stole a victory from men unarm'd,
Those Danes enjoy their crimes! Dread vengeance! for
Of power and justice! come, array'd in terrors,
Thy garment red with blood, thy keen sword drawn
O come, and on the heads of faithless men
Pour ample retribution; men whose triumph
Upbraids eternal justice.—But no more:
Submission is heaven's due.—I will not launch
Into that dark abyss where thought must drown,
Proceed, my lord: on with the mournful tale,
My griefs broke off.

Devon.
From yonder heath-crown'd hill,
This island's eastern point, where in one stream
The Thone and Parret roll their blending waves,
I look'd, and saw the progress of the foe,
As of some tempest, some devouring fire
That ruins without mercy where it spreads.
The riches of the year, the golden grain
That liberal crown'd our plains, lies trampled wide
By hostile feet, or rooted up and waste
Deforms the broad high-way. From space to space,
Far as my straining eye could shoot its beam,
Trees, cottages, and castles, smoak to heaven
In one ascending cloud. But Oh for pity!
That way, my lord, where yonder verdant height,
Declining, slides into a fruitful vale,
Unsightly now and bare; a few poor hinds,
Grey-hair'd, and thinly clad, stood and beheld
The common ravage: motionless and mute
With hands to heaven uplift, 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?—Thou sacred shade
Of my lov'd father! all ye parted spirits
Of my fam'd ancestors! be men once more,
To know my pangs, and weep for England's shame—
Why end I not at once this wretched being?
The means are in my hand.—But shall a prince
Thus poorly shroud him in the grave from pain,
And sense of shame? The madman, nay the coward,
Has often dar'd the same. A monarch holds
His life in trust for others. I will live then:
Let heaven dispose the rest.

Devon.
Thrice-noble Alfred,
And England's only hope, whose virtues raise
Our frail mortality, our human dust,
Up to angelic splendor and perfection;
With you to bear the worst of ills, the spoil
Of wasteful war, the loss of life or freedom,
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-prais'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 rage; who sees and cannot save them,
Is but supreme in misery!

Devon.
My Liege,
Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
Himself, or his own virtue. Be of comfort:
We can but die at last. Till that hour comes,
Let noble anger keep our hopes alive.
A sudden thought, as if from heaven inspir'd,
Darts on my soul. One castle still is ours,
Tho close begirt and shaken by the Danes.
In this disguise, my chance of passing on,
Of entering there unknown, is promising,
And wears a lucky face. 'Tis our last stake,
And I will play it like a man whose life,
Whose honor hangs upon a single cast.
Mean while, my Lord—

Alfred.
Ha! Devon, thou hast rous'd
My slumbering virtue. I applaud thy thought.
The praise of this brave daring shall be thine:
The danger shall be common. We will both
Strait tempt the Danish camp, and gain this fort;
To animate our brothers of the war,
Those Englishmen who yet deserve that name.
And hear, eternal Justice! if my life
Can make atonement for them, King of Kings!
Accept thy willing victim. On my head
Be all their woes: To them be grace and mercy.
Come on, my noble friend.

Devon.
Ah, good my Liege,
What fits a private valor, and might grace
The simple soldier's venture, would proclaim
His general's rashness. You are England's king:
Your infant children, and your much-lov'd queen;
Nay more, the public weal, ten thousand souls,
Whose hope you are, whose all depends on you,
Forbid this enterprize. 'Tis nobler courage
To cheque this ardor, to reserve your sword
For some great day of known and high import;
That to your country, to the judging world
Shall justify all hazards you may run.
This trial suits but me.

Alfred.
Stay thee, rash man—
Despair and indignation wing his steps.
May that good angel, who inspir'd thy thought,
Throw round thy steps a veil of cloudy air,
That thou mayst walk invisible and safe.—
Now for reflection—Ha! this sylvan scene,
The broad wild umbrage of these pendant shades
That murmur in the breeze, and deep embrown,
As evening spreads the holy Hermit's cave:
These scenes that musing Melancholy loves,
Breathe their still influence on me. O blest lot
Of calm obscurity—But, list. Ha! whence
These air-born notes that sound in measur'd sweetness
Thro this vast silence?