University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Symphony of martial music.
Alfred, Eltruda, Hermit, Earl of Devon, followed by soldiers.
Alfred.
Welcome, my lord
I see true courage lags not in its course;
It stands not weighing actions, with cold wisdom
That borders near on cowardice.

Devon.
My Liege,
Your troops have been successful.—But to heaven
Ascend the praise! For sure th'event exceeds
The hand of man.

Alfred.
How was it, noble Devon?

Devon.
You know my castle is not hence far-distant,
Thither I sped: and in a Danish habit
The trenches passing, by a secret way,
Known to myself alone, emerg'd at once
Amid my joyful soldiers. There I found
A generous few, the veteran, hardy gleanings
Of many a hapless fight. They with a fierce
And gloomy joy inspirited each other;
Resolv'd on death, disdaining to survive
Their dearest country.—“If we fall, I cry'd,
“Let us not tamely fall like passive cowards!
“No: let us live—or let us die, like men!
“Come on, my friends: to Alfred we will cut
“Our glorious way; or, as we nobly perish,
“Will offer to the genius of our country
“Whole hecatombs of Danes.”—As if one soul
Had mov'd them all, around their heads they flash'd
Their flaming faulchions—“Lead us to these Danes!—
“Our country!—vengeance!” was the general cry.
Strait on the careless drousy camp we rush'd:
And rapid, as the flame devours the stubble,
Bore down the heartless Danes. With this success
Our enterprize encreas'd. Not now contented
To hew a passage thro the flying herd;
We, unremitting, urg'd a total rout.
The valiant Hubba bites the bloody field,
With twice six hundred Danes around him strow'd.

Alfred.
My glorious friend!—this action has restor'd
Our sinking country.—What reward can equal
A deed so great?—Is not yon pictur'd Raven
Their famous magic standard—Emblem fit
To speak the savage genius of the people—
That oft has scatter'd on our troops dismay,
And feeble consternation?

Devon.
'Tis the same.
Wrought by the sisters of the Danish king,
Of furious Ivar, in a midnight hour:
While the sick moon, at their enchanted song,
Wrapt in pale tempest, labour'd thro' the clouds.
The Demons of destruction then, they say,
Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof
Their baleful power: The sisters ever sung;
“Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our foes!”

Hermit.
So these infernal powers, with rays of truth
Still deck their fables, to delude who trust them.

Alfred.
But where, my noble cousin, are the rest
Of your brave troops?

Devon.
On t'other side the stream,
That half encloses this retreat, I left them.
Rous'd from the fear, with which it was congeal'd
As in a frost, the country pours amain.
The spirit of our ancestors is up,
The spirit of the Free! and with a voice
That breathes success, they all demand their king.

Alfred.
Quick, let us join them, and improve their ardor.
We cannot be too hasty to secure
The glances of occasion.