University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Camp.
Earl of Devonshire, and Officer.
OFFICER.
The name of Surrey and the shield he bore,
With ease deceived the unsuspecting soldier:
I knew the port of Alfred.

DEVONSHIRE.
So he thought;
And, ere he laid his weary limbs to rest,
Gave me, in charge, to warn thee to be silent.

OFFICER.
My Lord of Devonshire, on me depend.
Steel shall not tear the secret from my breast;
Astonish'd as I am, at such a secret;
Who can unfold the cause? Why, at this hour,
When, big with England's fate, each moment rolls,
Does Alfred hide himself, in clouds and darkness?
And spread uncertain rumours of his state?
Confounding all belief.

DEVONSHIRE.
He spread them not.
From his uncertain fate, those rumours rose.
Ere since that time, when the perfidious Dane
Attack'd the English, in the hour of peace;
On Alfred's wedding day.

OFFICER.
It was believed,
That Alfred, in the general carnage, fell,
At Cyppenham; that, in the swelling flood
Of wintry Avon, Ethelswida perish'd.

DEVONSHIRE.
Such was the first report.

OFFICER.
Fain would I hear
Th'eventful tale of much-enduring Alfred;
And what is yet of Ethelswida known.

DEVONSHIRE.
When faithless Hinguar, with his host, advanc'd,
The King, distracted for his lovely bride,
Sent off a hundred knights, by Surrey led,
To guard the Princess to a place of safety:
Then, furious, fac'd the Dane;—with odds opprest,
Around their King, his faithful nobles fell.
Alfred, by favour of the night, escap'd,
And wander'd long, obscure, from place to place,
Thro' woods and forests, like some beast of prey,
By cruel hunters chac'd. Much he endur'd;
And much his people suffer'd. English virtue,
Like England's oak, grew firmer from the storm.
Often the peasant his last morsel brought
To the dark wood or cave, where Alfred lay;
If question'd by the Dane, denied the deed;
And died, undaunted, to preserve his prince.

OFFICER.
The story thrills my blood; by heaven and earth—
Where did he rest at last?

DEVONSHIRE.
He never rested;
Even when he had a place of refuge found;
Where the deep winding streams, Parret and Thone
Their waters mix, a little island lies,
With alders overgrown. No name it had,
Tho' now the name of Athelney it bears.
Marshes and pools, by inundation form'd,
Perplex the dire approach. There Alfred fix'd
His dreary habitation. Two brave knights
At first were all his train. Day after day
The numbers grew; and many a gallant knight,
Found out the wild asylum of his Lord.
From thence, with inroads fierce, they gall'd the Dane.
Dark as the spirits of the night they came,
And vanish'd at the dawn. In that retreat,
The sun, thro' every sign, o'er Alfred roll'd.

OFFICER.
Did Ethelswida there rejoin her Lord?

DEVONSHIRE.
Nor she herself, nor any of her train,
Have ere been heard of, since she left her Lord.

OFFICER.
For certain, then, she lives. If she had perish'd,
Her fate would have been known.

DEVONSHIRE.
The Danes ascrib'd
To me the inroads made by daring Alfred;
And both the Danish princes took the field.
Hinguar, with fire and sword laid waste the land.
Hubba, his host to Kenwith castle led,
And, with strong siege, begirt my ancient towers.
Then Alfred issued from his lonely isle,
Conceal'd, as now, beneath another name.

OFFICER.
Did Alfred fight in Kenwith's bloody field?

DEVONSHIRE.
He fix'd the fortune of that doubtful day.
When Hubba with his life the Reafen lost,
Th'inchanted standard, on whose magic wings
Conquest, till then, had flown. The battle won,
Alfred, impatient, bent his rapid course
To Westmorland; where, as he fondly hop'd
His Ethelswida dwelt. He found her not;
And, late last night, in deep despair, return'd.

OFFICER.
I see the clouded tract, thro' which he pass'd
Invisible.—Now he has reach'd the point,
And will break forth in splendor. We shall fight
To-morrow or to-day.

DEVONSHIRE.
On these steep hills,
By nature and by art, impregnable,
Which far and wide command Wiltonia's vale,
In absence of the King, my camp I pitch'd.
Audacious Hinguar occupies the plain,
And braves us to descend.

OFFICER.
Proclaim the King,
The King of England, at his people's head,
Then roll their rising valour on the foe.

DEVONSHIRE.
Thy zeal becomes thee. He will chuse his time.
Mean while, the story of his death believ'd,
Lessens the weight and burden of the war;
Prevents the junction of the Danish chiefs,
And makes our foes secure. Soldier, farewell!
The King expects me: In my tent he rests.

OFFICER.
My bosom throbs to see him rise in arms.

[Exit.
Manet Devonshire.
Spirits in Heaven may there attain perfection;
But weakness in this world, is nature's stamp,
With which she marks the sons of men her own.
Who can compare with this accomplish'd Prince,
In valour or in virtue? He excells
The Counsellor, the Sage, in civil wisdom.
The light of ancient times shines in his soul;
And the Bards listen to his voice divine:
But vain his virtue and his wisdom vain,
Against affection's power, too much he lov'd,
And mourns too much his Ethelswida lost.
He comes with grief oppress'd.

Enter Alfred.
Health to the King!
Has balmy sleep descended on his cares?

ALFRED.
My sleep is haunted with my waking thoughts;
The vision of the night is Ethelswida.
Sometimes, a broken scene of other woes
My troubled fancy to her image joins,
And adds the monarch's to the lover's grief.
This very night, in dreams, I thought myself
Under the friendly roof, where once I lay,
Beset, on every side, with Danish spears;
When, to preserve my life, a noble youth,
The only offspring of a widow'd dame,
Unknown to me, my personage assum'd,
And stopp'd the hounds, that bay'd for Alfred's blood.

DEVONSHIRE.
O gen'rous youth!

ALFRED.
Full in the gate he stood;
And brandishing his sword, aloud proclaim'd,
That England's King alive should ne'er be taken.
Headlong the foes rush'd on: Numbers he slew:
At last, unshrinking, in his place he fell;
And still the Danes believe that youth was Alfred.

DEVONSHIRE.
No wonder that they should!—

ALFRED.
This very night.
Pale in his wounds, the gallant form appear'd,
Whilst o'er the bleeding body of her son,
Majestic in her grief, his mother hung.

Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER
, (to Devonshire.)
A warrior from the Danish camp, demands
Admittance to thy presence.

ALFRED.
Let him enter.

[Exit Mess.
(Alfred walks aside.)
Enter a Warrior, with his beaver down.
DEVONSHIRE.
Stranger, unfold thy purpose.
(He takes off his helmet.)
Surrey, by heaven,
In Danish armour!

(Alfred, turning, sees him.)
ALFRED.
Ha!

SURREY.
My royal master!

ALFRED.
Surrey! that strange array, thy aspect sad
Denounce thy tidings.—Ethelswida—

SURREY.
Lives.

ALFRED.
She lives!—Why, like the messenger of death,
Dost thou before me stand? Some dreadful thing
Thou smother'st in that pause. I charge thee speak.
What has befallen my love?

SURREY.
Captivity—

ALFRED.
Is Ethelswida captive?

SURREY.
Yes, my Lord.

ALFRED.
To whom?

SURREY.
To Hinguar.

ALFRED.
To my mortal foe!
Is she in Hinguar's power? Is brutal Hinguar
The master of her fate?

SURREY.
Would that I durst
This painful truth deny.

ALFRED.
O wretched Alfred!
Destin'd to suffer misery and shame,
That princes seldom feel! All other ills,
Altho' in troops they came, I have endur'd.
Manhood and patience yield to this. O, Surrey!
Had I been Surrey, and hadst thou been Alfred,
I ne'er had brought such tidings to my friend!

SURREY.
Great is the grief, that renders thee unjust.
Hear me, O King! and, if thou blam'st me then,
Ill-fated Surrey shall offend no more.

ALFRED.
What has my passion spoke? Thy pallid cheek,
Thy hollow eve, those inauspicious arms,
Are signals of distress!

SURREY.
The story hear,
Of Ethelswida's fortune; how it chanced,
That Surrey lives to tell it.

ALFRED.
O, my friend!
Forget my words. With destiny at odds,
And with myself, impatience glanc'd at thee,
The martyr of my cause.

SURREY.
That fatal night,
When, with my precious charge, I left my Lord,
Thro' many dangers happily we pass'd;
But when we reached fair Eden's distant vale,
We found no refuge there.

ALFRED.
Too well I know,
The Scots had raz'd Pendragon's lofty tower:
Then, whither didst thou fly?

SURREY.
There I dismiss'd
Most of my faithful knights. A few I kept,
Of chosen men the choice. Eastward we steer'd,
Towards the wilds, beyond the source of Tine.
By midnight marches, in untrodden paths,
That wind o'er mountains vast, thro' valleys deep;
We reach'd a lonely mansion, in a dale,
Which at the foot of snow-clad Cheviot lies.
There Ethelswida found a safe retreat;
And in those deserts wild, she might have dwelt,
Unheard of and unknown.

ALFRED.
Why did she not?

SURREY.
The rumour of thy death a tempest rais'd,
Which, from that harbour, drove her out to sea,
On me she laid her absolute commands,
To guide and guard her, as I could, to Kenwith:
My friends I warn'd to meet us on our way,
And on we went, till one unhappy time,
The Danes surpriz'd us in a narrow vale.
Against their fierce attack, our little band,
Around the Princess, form'd a fence of steel.
More and more narrow still the circle grew,
Till I alone was left with Ethelswida.
Alone I fought, till at her feet I fell.
Her dismal shrieks, her piercing cries I heard;
More grievous far, than all the wounds I bore.

ALFRED.
Methinks I hear her cries: She call'd on Alfred;
Did she not, Surrey? Providence divine!
Why was not Alfred near?

SURREY.
As I have heard,
From some who in the troops of Hinguar fought,
For he it was who led the hostile band,
She swoon'd with grief and terror on the spot.
The Dane to her unwonted pity show'd,
And rais'd her from the ground.

ALFRED.
Tell me the truth;
Do not deceive me, Surrey.

SURREY.
O, my Lord,
I never did, nor will I now deceive thee!
But of the Princess this I only know,
That in the Danish camp, she still remains,
Guarded with care, her name and rank unknown.

ALFRED.
What should I think! Can she submit to live—
To live, her honour lost? How didst thou 'scape
From such a slaughter? And how cam'st thou hither,
Commission'd by the Dane?

SURREY.
When night came on,
Some English peasants, who had seen the fight,
Crept from their huts, in secret, to the field,
With pious purpose to inter the dead.
In me alone, some sparks of life they found.
Their care preserv'd me. When my strength return'd,
To Hinguar's camp I went, gave out myself
Of Danish race, altho' in England born.
My service was accepted. I have found
Favour in Hinguar's sight; and, in the band
That guards his person, serve. From them I learn'd,
That Ethelswida, near his tent, is lodg'd
A mournful captive,

ALFRED.
Near his tent! O heaven!
How have I merited?

DEVONSHIRE.
Raise not thine eyes,
Nor lift thy hands to heaven: Far other looks,
Far other actions, heaven of thee requires.
Thou art a king, a soldier, and a lover;
Fight for thy crown, thy country, and thy bride.
Go forth, this instant, animate thy troops,
And lead them to revenge their wrongs and thine.
(Alfred muses.
Why does my royal master hang his head,
And bend on earth his eyes?

ALFRED.
Forbear, my Lord.
(To Surrey.)
What is thine errand to the camp of England?

SURREY.
To offer battle.—But the true intent
Of Hinguar, is to learn if Alfred lives;
For various rumours have perplex'd the Dane.

ALFRED.
He shall be satisfied. I see a ray,
Which thro' the darkness breaks. It grows more bright.
My friend, the tumult of my thoughts forgive.
Surrey!

(Goes aside with Surrey.)
Manet DEVONSHIRE.
What does he meditate? I know
His mind with dreadful images is fill'd.
In Hinguar's arms he sees his ravish'd bride:
Ravish'd or not, she's captive to his foe.
Enslav'd by force, 'tis force must set her free.
He cannot treat with Hinguar; that he knows,
By sad experience; for the woes of Alfred,
And all the evils of this hapless land,
Arose from England's confidence in Denmark.
No ties divine or human, bind the Danes.
Of all the impious race, by far the worst,
And most profane is Hinguar.

ALFRED
, (to Surrey.)
Go, prepare
For my reception.

SURREY.
Ah, may heaven avert,
Those ills, which my prophetic soul forebodes!
[Exit Surrey.

DEVONSHIRE.
I heard the parting words of faithful Surrey,
Which mark too well, the colour of thy purpose.

ALFRED.
Thy approbation I do not expect.
None can approve, but those who feel like me.
The Danish camp, disguis'd, I will explore,
Clad in the vesture of a British Bard,
And learn, for certain, Ethelswida's fate,
Whatever has befallen my hapless bride;
Assur'd of that, my heart shall shake no more.

DEVONSHIRE.
Something like this my anxious soul foretold.

ALFRED.
I read thy thoughts, but urge me not to hear
Thy friendly counsels, which I cannot follow.
In great events, the agitated mind
Consults its genius only. Low or high
The active spirits in that level flow,
Nor fall nor rise, to act another's counsel;
That potent counsellor directs me now,
I feel the impulse, oft in perils felt:
Nor is my arm confin'd to Ethelswida;
The strength and order of the Danish host,
How, and what quarter, I may best attack,
Attentive I'll observe.

DEVONSHIRE.
Since thou hast fix'd
Thy resolution, to contend is vain;
The part of friendship now is to consult,
How we may guard thee best.

ALFRED.
By the moon's light,
As, with a swift career, their camp I pass'd,
A wood, extended on the right I saw,
(Their left the village Ethendune defends,)
Canst thou inform, if they have opened paths,
Or planted watches there?

DEVONSHIRE.
Neither, my Lord!
Presumptuous Hinguar holds such caution vain.

ALFRED.
When dusky eve descends, in the dark time
Between the fall of night, and the moon's rise,
In silence, thither march a thousand men,
Chosen with care, the bravest of our host;
There let them watch till morn, if no alarm
Comes ere the dawn, at dawn they may retire.

DEVONSHIRE.
To choose and lead that band shall be my care:
My warriours are the Hunters of the Hill;
Accustom'd to the woods, fearless they move,
By the pale glimpses of the clouded moon!
To them the changeful aspects of the night,
Whose false presentments armies oft confound,
In all their forms are known.

ALFRED.
I wou'd not wish
A better leader, nor a braver band.

DEVONSHIRE.
The word.

ALFRED.
St. George.

DEVONSHIRE.
O, may he guard the King!
And, as the minds of yonder heathen host,
In darkness lie; so may their eyes be dark
And blind to Alfred!

ALFRED.
As they still have been,
This is no new, tho' seeming bold attempt.
I have essay'd it, for a slighter cause,
When, in the Isle of Athelney, I lay,
The quarters of the Dane I oft explor'd,
In this disguise, and mark'd destruction's line.
Farewell, thy wisdom no direction needs;
Nor shall I long be absent from my friend.

[Exeunt.