University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Osbert enters.
Osbert.
What art thou, Time?
Thy many ages past, were once to come;
And now, are—nothing!—What thou art at present,
We cannot, if we would, retain—The morrow!
Ah, who would wait the coming of the morrow,
But that Hope bears him to some promised bliss,
That yesterday ne'er knew!—The morrow comes;
And, like its predecessors, merely serves
To count our cares—Where's he, who would recall
The happiest term of time once past, or wish
To plant it in the days of life to come?
But what is life to come, where hope comes not?—
Rowena, injured sanctity! in thee
The world is bankrupt; and for aught that's now
Contained beneath yon star-set canopy,
I reck not—For the rest—the dread hereafter!—
A life of guilt were haply best atoned,
So Heaven in mercy warrant, by a death
Of justice, and of honour!—Who attends?
Enter Officer.
Take this seal, soldier—go, and bow thee down
Before our noble captive; give him freedom,
Arms, and safe conduct to Saint Cyprian's Grove—
Say, we have business for a sword like his,
And wait him there.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

Osric and Edwin.
Osric.
But to be loosed to such ungovern'd sorrow—
'Tis desperation!—'tis the anarchy
Of minds o'erthrown, where passions ride aloft,
And the fair fields of ripening virtue lie
Defaced beneath the tempest!

Edwin.
Pardon, sir!—
I would—I will obey you—are you not
My only parent, now?—O, happy father!
You lived not to behold this day—the loss
Of your child's mother—of your loved Rowena—
Of all that earth could boast of Heaven—of all
That life could give of joy, or death take from us!—
But the cold grave, with its unfeeling shrowd,
Now shuts you from the sense.—

Osric.
Yet, Edwin, yet,
She may be safe: they would not, could not perpetrate
A deed, of such reproach to manhood—no!
Your eyes shall yet behold her.

Edwin.
Never, never!—
O sir, till I beheld her angel-face,
I knew not what it was to have a mother.
I had laid up, within my fond conception,
A thousand promised scenes of joys to come,
Delights of filial sweetness; days, and years,
Spent in the glad officiousness of duty,
Made happy by her smiles—O, mother fair!
Why died I not in thy defence?
For O, this weak unexecuting arm
Was impotent to save thee!

Osric.
'Twas Heaven's will—
What lay in man to do, thou didst, my Edwin!
The king hath summon'd us to council, here—
If thou dost prize my safety, dry thy tears,
And keep their source a secret. Retire awhile,
To calm this storm of overbearing passions.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Grove.
Osbert enters, and walks some time disturb'd.
Osbert.
My hand, my heart, be firm!—It is a period
Of infinite import—a mighty summons!—
The voice of equity, the sense of honour,
Rouze up the man, the soldier, and the king,
To fill the hour with deeds of answering greatness.
Heaven take the issue to thine own direction!

SCENE IV.

Westmorland enters with the Officer.
Osbert.
My noble friend, most welcome!—You withdraw.

[Exit Officer.
West.
And is it come, the thirsted hour?—O transport!
Art thou mine, vengeance?—what! the sacrifice
Within the grasp of honour?—Haste, call forth
Thy guards—
Thy champions chosen to answer to the fire
That rages in my heart, thou yet art mine!—
Tho' the swift bolt should shoot between us, Osbert!
Thou art mine for ever!—

Osbert.
Be it!—Thou seest I have ta'en no vantage, Westmorland,
Of aid, arms, time, or place—fair, equal, all,
And secret—Silent, art thou?—then, come on;
[Draws.
And let us prove the prowess of an arm
So far renown'd—if mine betray me not,
Thou shalt be well encount'red—What impedes?—
For injured honour—for revenge—come on!—

West.
Amazement holds me—Is it possible!—
No vantage, dost thou say—and this right hand
Arm'd by thyself against thy proper bosom?
'Tis contradiction to eternal order—
Could aught so guilty, be so noble?—No—
I wage no war with thee—thou art not Osbert.

Osbert.
I am—Come on—
And rouze thee, like the lion, with the lash
Of wrongs, long treasured for the hour of wrath
And vengeance due.

West.
Osbert!

Osbert.
Say.

West.
What art thou?

Osbert.
One, who for a guilty deed,
Would make a gallant restitution.

West.
Yes, yes, you must—O glorious man!—you must—
The world impels—fame—honour rolling down
Through late posterity, demands it of thee.—
O, woe, that present virtue now must bleed,
For past transgression!—

Osbert.
Fall, whate'er may fall,
If my nerves tell me right, thou now art summon'd
To thy best guardianship—Art thou prepared?

West.
Not yet—not yet—This greatness, goodness, nobleness,
This bounteous satisfaction to your servant,
Does it not claim my praise?—it does, it does!—
O generous, gallant Osbert, cruel justice
Will wring his debt, though pity weep for it!
But not till I have paid, thus paid my thanks,
My homage, to my lord, my bounteous master!
[Kneels, and kisses his hand, then rises and draws.
Come on.
[They fight.
Rest you, my liege!—

Osbert.
No—fate is busy—
And we will know the issue—Now beware—

[Osbert is wounded—Westmorland steps back concerned, and Osbert leans upon his sword.
West.
Alas!—
How is it?

Osbert.
Westmorland!—

West.
What says my king?

Osbert.
Thy debt is paid!

West.
Forbid it, Heaven!—I wish'd not to exact
So close a reckoning.

Osbert.
Thine aspect tells me,
I have thy pity—If I have thy pardon,
To seal a bless'd oblivion of all injuries,
One last embrace!

West.
O, truly, to my arms,
My heart—my king, my gracious master!

[Embrace.
Osbert.
Pardon—full pardon, is it?

West.
Heaven shower on both a pardon free and full,
Like that I grant to Osbert!

Osbert.
Once, most loved,
And ever held in honour—noblest Westmorland!
O, had not passions hurried me to deeds,
Detested by the doer—what a race
Of kindred glory had we run together!

West.
Alas! the steps that press the paths of error,
Are not all thine.

Osbert.
My brother!—hast thou too had thy faults?—
Then lend thine arm to frailty—Let me lean
On that forgiving bosom—O, those tears,
Those tears, my Westmorland, they fall upon me,
Like Heaven's indulgent dew—each drop, of power
To wash a stain away!—This signet—take it—
Thy passport hence—I had to tell thee much—
Of love—of nobleness—o'ercome—yet struggling—
A moment—life's no more—It answers not—
Sad tidings, too—
They had unman'd thee!—thy Rowena is—Oh—

[Dies.
West.
Gone!—art thou gone forever?—Osbert, Osbert!—
To kill thee once, I would have given a world;
And now would give, thou noblest, first of men!
A thousand worlds to have thee back again.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

A Pavilion in the Danish Camp.
Ivar, Hubba, and Danish Officers.
Hub.
O stain to manhood!—'tis a blot, my brother,
That covers Denmark!—yes, it is a deed
That ties the worth and freshness of our fame
To detestation!—What, to wrong a sex,
Sacred to arms, and guarded by their weakness—
The murder of defenceless women!—Gods,
Of virgins too, devoted to your altars!
It is a war with Heaven and earth!

Ivar.
Advise,
How may we cast the unworthy imputation
From our own honours.

Hub.
Will you, to your servant,
Permit this dear concern?

Ivar.
Most willingly.

Hub.
Arnold, be thine the care to seize on all
The perpetrators of this deed—to York
Convey them—Kenulph, be it thine,
From the sad ashes of yon pile to cull
The sacred reliques—see them closed in gold,
Fit emblem of the purity that pass'd
Thro' such a fire!—

[Shouts.
Ivar.
What new alarm?—See, soldier, whence those shouts,
That echo through our camp?

Enter Officer.
Officer.
My royal lord!
'Tis said our general approaches, free,
And safe, from York.

Ivar.
How, say'st thou—is it possible?
By mighty Thor, he comes!—'tis he—

SCENE VI.

To them Westmorland enters.
Ivar.
My friend!

Hub.
Great father of the war,
[Embrace.
Most welcome!
Free, arm'd, unhurt?

West.
It is a story,
Full of strange accident.

Ivar.
Come you from York?

West.
I do—where Osbert fell beneath my hand,
In equal combat slain.

Ivar.
Proclaim it to the Heavens!
Sound, sound it, every instrument of triumph!
Hail him ye hosts—our general is a king,
Northumbria's monarch! Thus let me salute him,
With earliest gratulation.—

Hub.
O, my friend—
Soul of all honour!—may thy empire spread
Wide as thy worth and glories!

West.
Thanks to both,
And grateful retribution—Ha!—
Eyes see amiss—or hence be dark for ever!—
Those ruins!—Speak, who burnt the hallow'd pile?

Hub.
Trust me, my noble friend, we both are guiltless—
Both were in battle fallen, when this dire act
Of outrage and dishonour was committed.

West.
O, if Arabia's spicy nest be desolate,
Where is my bird, the Phænix of its odours?—
Who can inform me?—
Ethelwald enters.
Ethelwald!
Where is thy precious charge, thy mistress?—Silent!—
Alas, there's desolation in thine eye!—
Speak, I conjure thee—yet, while I have power
To ask, or sense to hear thee.

Ethel.
O, prepare—
Prepare to pardon, then, this tongue accurs'd
'Bove all that e'er were doom'd to speak of woe!—
Rowena—your Rowena is—

West.
What?—

Ethel.
Dead!

[Westmorland falls.
Ivar.
He stirs not.—General!

Hub.
Most noble Westmorland!—
Nor hears.—The tempest-brooding calm is on him;
And it may break in violence, self urged
Against his precious life.

Ivar.
Remove his sword.

Hub.
Down, art thou down?—amid the world's wide forest
The stateliest pine o'erthrown!—O conquering grief!
Before thee falls, who stood the force of thousands.
He moves.—Friend!

Ethel.
Master!

Ivar.
Royal Westmorland!

[They raise, and seat him on a sopha.
West.
Alas—the lot of man is frailty!
I murmur not, that I was born to suffer—
But this was such a stroke!—my heart, to this,
Lay quite disarm'd and unprovided!—Ethelwald!
Speak, say what envious cruel fiends have brought
This sudden night upon us?

Ethel.
O, my loved lord!—the day was scarce disclosed,
When, in contempt of all the powers of Denmark,
Bold Osbert sallied forth. Never was field
So fought—until, on either part, the chiefs
Sore toil'd, or fallen, were carried from the battle!
Then, round yon pile, were gather'd, as from hell,
The insatiate furies, Cruelty and Lust!—
What could Rowena do?—the thunder slept,
Nor Heaven descended on the wing to save her.—

West.
Proceed, proceed—my soul is in thy tidings;
And every listening pulse suspends to hear thee!

Ethel.
When she perceived no help was near, she call'd
Her virgin train around her. Straight she drew
A knife, now sacred to the cause of virtue,
And bade them mark her—Yet, while they beheld
That face, whereon, like first created nature,
Beauty divine was visibly imprest,
At once 'twas chaos all!—her cheeks, her lips,
She gash'd, she mangled!—and, to knowledge, now
Rowena was no more!—

West.
Powers immortal!—

Ethel.
Then rose the daughters of her bright example
High o'er their sex, o'er all that e'er was famed
In story!—each was a Rowena, now!
In rush'd the ruffians—but, when they beheld
Beauty to horror turn'd, their boiling lusts
Froze inward—back they slunk—but soon return'd,
Laden with stubble, and with kindling brands,
That caught the pile around—As incense breathed
In morning sacrifice direct to Heaven,
Rowena, and her train of maiden-saints,
Ascended wrapt in flames!—and I but scarce
Escaped to bring the tidings.

West.
Mighty being!
Parent of good! for my Rowena, thanks!—
You thought I should be troubled—not the least—
I never knew an hour of peace like this!—
All, all, within, is still, amid the tempest,
The wreck of human nature!

Ivar.
Your looks are much disturb'd—Retire, my friend.

West.
Is the king come?—are all our friends invited?
Sit, sit!—
Sound trumpets, bear the triumph of my joys
Upon the chariot of the air, to Heaven,
And tell them, 'tis the bridal day of Westmorland!
Mark ye, the king looks sad—I cannot blame him—
What, what is empire, to a bride like mine!—
See where she sits, the queen of health and beauty
Dealing out joys, as plenteous as the spring
Throws odours to the breeze!—Approach not, friends,
Lest you be lost, like me, beneath her charms—
Her sweets oppress! they grow too mighty for me!
Joys insupportable!—

Ivar.
Help, bear him forward.
How strong this passion shakes him!

West.
Osbert, thy hand—ruin hath reconciled us—
What a dark journey do we go together!—
Ha, who are these?—their hands are weighty on me!
O, treacherous Danes!—
I have lost my powers—they bind me to a rock—
See, see the Magic Raven, how he plumes!—
How he prepares his beak!—Ungrateful bird!—
I, who have fed him with the spoil of nations,
Am now become his prey—
Loose me—he searches to my inmost bosom—
He tears my heart—he gorges up my vitals!

[Faints.
Hub.
Alas! and is our Denmark so accurs'd,
There to bring ruin where she meant to rescue?

Ivar.
Soft, he revives; his eye is more composed.—
How fares our friend?

West.
O, ye have kindly brought the dawn about me—
Reason's returning beam, to guide our passage;
The sun, that lights this little world of man.—
Patience, good Heaven!—I will abide your pleasure.

Hub.
Unhappy, honoured, injured Westmorland!
What shall your afflicted suppliants plead,
In mitigation of your just displeasure?
Here are our swords—and, if thou canst not pardon,
At least revenge!—

West.
No—take them back—Alas!
I am, myself, the frail one of my kind,
The very child of error—There is, yet,
One suit wherein I'd move ye.

Hub.
Say on, and think your will but told again
In our obedience.

West.
Thus it is—Since things,
By some o'erruling hand, have turn'd averse
To my soul's purpose; and that I, once deem'd
My country's guardian, shall in story now
Be held a traitor to her peace—I would
Hence forward spare the expence of blood—To York
Dispatch your herald—
And challenge forth whoe'er, in single fight,
Shall stand his country's hope. Ourself will meet him,
And these the high conditions—If we conquer,
The gift of fair Northumbria's scepter, then,
Is left at our dispose—but if, and who
Shall bar Almighty Pleasure?—if I fall,
You swear to abdicate her throne for ever,
And leave the land in peace.

Ivar.
It shall be done.
Say, is there aught beside?

West.
Not now. I feel
A drowsy weight steal o'er my travel'd soul.

Ivar.
Adieu!

Hub.
May all
The peace that rests with virtue, aid your slumbers!

[Exeunt all but Westmorland.
West.
False Danes! I know ye now—those ruins!—Soft,
That runs again to madness—O, these fields,
These fields of blood, whence are they?—is it Westmorland
That brought such carnage on his country?—How,
How does that feel!—
This host of fiends I have conjured up—but how
To quell them—there's the task!—to lay the hurricane
That wrecks thy peace, fair Albion!
My country, fear no more from my hostility—
Send but a toilet-champion to the field,
And to his stainless sword this breast shall be
As passable as air!

[Reposes on the sopha, and the scene closes.

SCENE VII.

Funeral Procession, and Dirge.


Song of Consolation.