University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

Alfred, Hermit, Eltruda, advancing.
Alfred.
Sure, by the voice, and purport of the song,
This generous mourner is my queen, Eltruda.
And yet how can that be?—O all good powers!
'Tis she! 'tis she!

Eltruda.
My lord, my life, my Alfred!
Oh take me to thy arms; with toil o'ercome,
And sudden transport, thus at once to find thee,
In this wild forest, pathless and perplext!

Alfred.
Come to my soul, thou dearest, best of women!
Come, and repose thy sorrows in my bosom.
O all my passions mix in doubtful strife!
If pain or joy prevail, I scarce can say,
While thus I clasp thee, yet recall the perils
To which thy trembling steps have been expos'd.
Why hast thou left the convent where I plac'd thee?
Why, unprotected trust thee to a land,
A barbarous land where rages Danish war?
Our hospitable England is no more!

Eltruda.
Dire was the cause, my Alfred. The rous'd country,
All hurl'd in breathless terror and confusion,
Inform'd us, a near party of the Danes,
Whose brutal fury spares no sex, no age,
No place however privileg'd or holy,
Were on full march that way. Instant I fled,
In this disguise, with only these attendants
But in our way oft chear'd by airy voices,
To bear to this retreat our helpless children.

Alfred.
Ah wanderers too young! ah hapless children!
But more unhappy Sire! who cannot give,
To those he loves, protection.

Eltruda.
Thou too, Alfred,
Art thou not unattended? None to serve thee,
To soothe thy woes, to watch thy broken slumbers!
And when the silent tear o'erflows thy eye,
None, with the warm and cordial lip of love,
To kiss it off! There is in love a power,
There is a soft divinity, that draws
Even transport from distress; that gives the heart
A certain pang, excelling far the joys
Of gross unfeeling life. Besides, my Alfred,
Even had the fury of this barbarous foe
Not forc'd me from the convent, life is short;
And now it trembles on the wing of danger:
Why should we lose it then? One well-sav'd hour,
In such a tender circumstance, to lovers,
Is better than an age of common time.

Alfred.
Oh 'tis too much! thy tenderness o'ercomes me!
Nay, look not on me with that sweet dejection,
Thro tears that pierce my soul!—Chear thee, my love:
Hope still the best; that better days await us,
And fairer from remembrance.—Thou, Eltruda,
Thou art a pledge of happiness!—On thee
Good angels wait; they led thy journey hither:
And I have heard them, in this wild retreat,
Warbling immortal airs, and strains of comfort.—
But ah the foe is round us: and this isle
Now holds my soul's best wealth, the treasur'd store
Of all my joys.—I go to skirt it round,
To visit every creek and sedgy bank,
Where rustles thro the reeds the shadowy gale;
Or where the bending umbrage drinks the stream.
And now, by slow degrees, solemn and sad,
Wide-falling o'er the world, the nightly shades
Hush the brown woods, and deepen all their horrors:
While humbled into rest, and aw'd by darkness,
Each creature seeks the covert. To that cell
Retire, my life. I will not long be absent.