 | Gustavus Vasa, The Deliverer of his Country |  |
SCENE II.
Enter Gustavus.And.
Your Pardon, Stranger, if the Voice of Virtue,
If cordial Amity from Man to Man,
And somewhat that should whisper to the Soul,
To seek and chear the Suff'rer, led me hither
Impatient to salute thee. Be it thine
Alone to point the Path of Friendship out;
And my best Pow'r shall wait upon thy Fortunes.
Gust.
Yes, gen'rous Man! there is a wond'rous Test,
The truest, worthiest, noblest Cause for Friendship;
Dearer than Life, than Int'rest, or Alliance,
And equal to your Virtues.
And.
Say—unfold.
Gust.
Art thou a Soldier, a chief Lord in Sweden?
And yet a Stranger to thy Country's Voice
That loudly calls the hidden Patriot forth;
But what's a Soldier? What's a Lord in Sweden?
All Worth is fled, or fall'n—nor has a Life
Been spar'd, but for Dishonour; spar'd to breed
More Slaves for Denmark, to beget a Race
Of new-born Virgins for th' unsated Lust
Of our new Masters. Sweden! thou'rt no more!
Queen of the North! thy Land of Liberty,
Thy House of Heroes, and thy Seat of Virtues
Is now the Tomb, where thy brave Sons lie speechless;
And foreign Snakes engender.
6
O 'tis true.
But wherefore? To what Purpose?
Gust.
Think of Stockholm!
When Cristiern seized upon the Hour of Peace,
And drench'd the hospitable Floor with Blood;
Then fell the Flow'r of Sweden, mighty Names!
Her hoary Senators, and gasping Patriots.
The Tyrant spoke, and his licentious Band
Of Blood-train'd Ministry were loosed to Ruin.
Invention wanton'd in the Toil of Infants
Stabb'd on the Breast, or reeking on the Points
Of sportive Javelins. Husbands, Sons, and Sires
With dying Ears drank in the loud Despair
Of shrieking Chastity. The Waste of War
Was Peace and Friendship to this civil Massacre.
O Heav'n and Earth! Is there a Cause for this?
For Sin without Temptation, calm, cool Villany,
Delib'rate Mischief, unimpassion'd Lust,
And smiling Murder? Lie thou there, my Soul,
Sleep, sleep upon it, image not the Form
Of any Dream but this, 'till Time grows pregnant,
And thou canst wake to Vengeance.
And.
Thou'st greatly mov'd me. Ha! thy Tears start forth.
Yes, let them flow, our Country's Fate demands them;
I too will mingle mine, while yet 'tis left us
To weep in secret, and to sigh with Safety.
But wherefore talk of Vengeance? 'Tis a Word
Should be engraven on the new fall'n Snow,
Where the first Beam may melt it from Observance.
Vengeance on Cristiern! Norway and the Dane,
The Sons of Sweden, all the peopled North
Bends at his Nod: my humbler Boast of Pow'r
Meant not to cope with Crowns.
Gust.
Then what remains
Is briefly this; your Friendship has my Thanks,
But must not my Acceptance: never—no—
7
And be thy Darkness doubled round my Head;
'Ere I forsake thee for the Bliss of Paradise,
To be enjoy'd beneath a Tyrant's Sceptre;
No, that were willful Slav'ry—Freedom is
The brillant Gift of Heav'n, 'tis Reason's Self,
The Kin of Deity—I will not part it.
And.
Nor I, while I can hold it, but alas!
That is not in our Choice.
Gust.
Why? where's that Pow'r whose Engines are of Force
To bend the brave and virtuous Man to Slav'ry?
Base Fear, the Laziness of Lust, gross Appetites,
These are the Ladders, and the groveling Footstool,
From whence the Tyrant rises on our Wrongs,
Secure and scepter'd in the Soul's Servility.
He has debauch'd the Genius of our Country,
And rides triumphant, while her captive Sons
Await his Nod, the silken Slaves of Pleasure,
Or fetter'd in their Fears.
And.
I apprehend you.
No doubt, a base Submission to our Wrongs
May well be term'd a voluntary Bondage;
But think the heavy Hand of Pow'r is on us;
Of Pow'r, from whose Imprisonment and Chains
Not all our free-born Virtue can protect us.
Gust.
'Tis there you err, for I have felt their Force;
And had I yielded to enlarge these Limbs,
Or share the Tyrant's Empire, on the Terms
Which he propos'd—I were a Slave indeed.
No—in the deep and deadly Damp of Dungeons
The Soul can rear her Sceptre, smile in Anguish,
And triumph o'er Oppression.
And.
O glorious Spirit! think not I am slack
To relish what thy noble Scope intends,
But then the Means! the Peril! and the Consequence!
Great are the Odds, and who shall dare the Trial?
8
I dare.
O wer't thou still that gallant Chief
Whom once I knew! I cou'd unfold a Purpose
Would make the Greatness of thy Heart to swell,
And burst in the Conception.
And.
Give it Utt'rance.
Perhaps there lie some Embers yet in Sweden,
Which, waken'd by thy Breath, might rise in Flames,
And spread vindictive round—You say you know me;
But give a Tongue to such a Cause as this,
And if you hold me tardy in the Call,
You know me not—But Thee I've surely known;
For there is somewhat in that Voice and Form,
Which has alarm'd my Soul to Recollection;
But 'tis as in a Dream, and mocks my Reach.
Gust.
Then name the Man whom it is Death to know,
Or knowing to conceal—and I am he.
And.
Gustavus! Heav'n's! 'Tis he! 'tis he himself!
| Gustavus Vasa, The Deliverer of his Country | |