University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Corin, Emma.
Emma.
Shepherd, 'tis he. Beneath yon aged oak,
All on the flowery turf he lays him down.

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 its prime,
Even thro the homely russet that conceals him,
Shines forth, and proves him noble. Seest thou, Emma,
Yon western clouds? The sun they strive to hide,
Yet darts his beam around.

Emma.
Your thought is mine:
He is not what his present fortunes speak him.
But, ah! the raging foe is all around us:
We dare not keep him here.

Corin.
Content thee, wife:
This island is of strength. Nature's own hand
Hath planted round a deep defence of woods,
The sounding ash, the mighty oak; each tree
A sheltering grove: and choak'd up all between
With wild encumbrance of perplexing thorns,
And horrid brakes. Beyond this woody verge,
Two rivers broad and rapid hem us in.
Along their channel spreads the gulphy pool,
And trembling quagmire, whose deceitful green
Betrays the foot it tempts. One path alone
Winds to this plain, so roughly difficult,
This single arm, poor shepherd as I am,
Could well dispute it with twice twenty Danes.

Emma.
Yet think, my Corin, on the stern decree
Of that proud foe; “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,
A British man 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, like some goodly tree by wintry winds
Torn from the roots and withering, our sad guest
Lies on the ground diffus'd.

Emma.
I weep to see it.

Corin.
Thou hast a heart sweet pity loves to dwell in.
Dry up 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 watch and to protect him.—But oh! when—
My heart burns for it—shall I see the hour
Of vengeance on those Danish infidels,
That war with heaven and us?

Emma.
Alas, my love!
These passions are not for the poor man's state.
To heaven and to the rulers of the land
Leave such ambitious thoughts. Be warn'd, my Corin:
And think our little all depends on thee.
SONG.

Corin.
Hush: break thee off—For see, our mournful guest
Has rais'd his head—and lo! who comes to greet him;
His friend, the woodman of the neighbouring dale,
Whom late, as yester evening-star arose,
At his request I found, and hither brought.

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?

SCENE III.

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 aërial spirits unseen.
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:
Is never to despair.

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

Both Spirits.
Earth calls, and heaven inspires.

SCENE IV.

Alfred
alone.
All hail, ye gentle ministers of heaven!
Your song inspires new patience thro my breast,
And generous hope: it wings my mounting soul
Above th'entangling mass of earthly passions,
That keep frail man, tho struggling to be free,
Still fluttering in the dust.

SCENE V.

Alfred, the Hermit advancing from his cave.
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. Thy aged wisdom,
Purg'd from the stormy cloud of human passions,
And by a ray from heaven exalted, sees
Deep thro' futurity. 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.
Whence dost thou know me, venerable father?

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.
At once, disclos'd amid the dark waste night,
A vision to my phantasy appear'd.
For know, this ample element contains
Unnumber'd spiritual beings, or malign,
Or good to man. These, when the grosser eye
Of nature sleeps, oft play their several parts,
As on a scene, before th'attentive mind,
And to the favour'd man disclose the future.
Led by these spirits friendly to this isle,
I liv'd thro' future ages; felt the virtue,
The great, the glorious passions that will sire
Distant 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,
Through all her swelling waves, shall proudly joy
Beneath the boundless empire of thy sons.
I saw thee, Alfred, too—But o'er thy fortunes
Lay clouds impenetrable.

Alfred.
Ah, good Hermit,
That scene is dark indeed! Ye awful powers!
To what am I reserv'd? Still must I roam
A wanderer here, inglorious and unknown?
Or am I destin'd thy great instrument,
From fierce oppression to redeem this land?

Hermit.
Perhaps, the last.—But, prince, remember, then,
The vows, the noble uses, of affliction.
Preserve the quick humanity it gives,
The pitying, social sense of human weakness:
Yet keep thy stubborn fortitude entire,
The manly heart that to another's woe
Is tender, but superior to its 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 its 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.
In thoughtless, gay prosperity, when all
Attends our wish; when nought is seen around us,
But kneeling flattery, and obedient fortune;
Then are blind mortals apt, within themselves
To fix their stay, forgetful of the giver.
But when thus humbled, Alfred, as thou art,
When to their feeble natural powers reduc'd,
'Tis then they feel this universal truth—
That heaven is all in all—and man is nothing.

Alfred.
I thank thee, father, for thy pious counsel.
And witness, thou dread power! who seest my heart;
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 industry, to guard
His honest portion from oppressive pride,
From wastful riot, and the sons of rapine,
Who basely ravish what they dare not earn;
If not to deal out justice, like the sun,
With equal light; if not to spread thy bounty,
The treasures trusted to me, not my own,
On all the smiling ranks of nourish'd life;
If not to raise our drooping English name,
To clothe it yet with terror; make this land
Renown'd for peaceful arts to bless mankind,
And generous war to humble proud oppressors
If not to build on an eternal base,
On liberty and laws, the public weal:
If not for these great ends I am ordain'd,
May I ne'er idly fill the throne of England!

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

Alfred.
Prosperity were ruin,
Could it destroy or change such thoughts as these.
When Those whom heaven distinguishes o'er millions,
Profusing on them honors, riches, power,
Whate'er th'expanded heart can wish; when they,
Accepting the reward, neglect the duty;
Or worse, pervert these gifts to deeds of ruin:
Is there a wretch they rule so mean as they?
Guilty, at once of sacrilege to heaven,
And of perfidious robbery to men—
But hark! methinks I hear a plaintive voice
Sigh thro the vale, and wake the mournful echo.
SONG.

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.