University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Lists, between the Camp and the Town.
Ivar and Hubba, with Danish Officers and Soldiers.
Ivar.
I see they do accept our summons.—Say,
Are hostages exchanged?

Officer.
They are, my liege.

Ivar.
And all due ceremonials else performed?

Officer.
Duly performed.

SCENE II.

Enter Osric with British Lords and Officers.
Osric.
Princes of Denmark, hail!—I will not ask,
Wherefore your warlike visitation—No—
The mighty never want a cause for quarrel.
I hold me to this question—do ye vouch
The message of your herald?

Ivar.
Yes.

Osric.
Repeat it.

Ivar.
If Heaven shall bless our champion's arm with conquest,
The gift of fair Northumbria's scepter, then,
Is left at our dispose—If Denmark fall,
We swear to abdicate your throne for ever,
And leave your land in peace.

Osric.
We do accept you—but with this addition,
That they whose champion falls this day in battle,
That instant quit the field.

Ivar.
Agreed.

Osric.
Then let us march without the lists, and there
Affirm the compact with our mutual sanction.
Heralds, prepare the field—call in the champions,
And hold them ready, at the trumpet's sound,
To fix a nation's fate.

[Exeunt.
Enter Westmorland.
West.
If death should be no more than so—to loose
The care-stretch'd rack of thought—to sink at once
In sweet oblivion—'tis the hope—the Heaven,
That Guilt sighs after!—Close these eyes—but shut
Their living telescope—and all is darkness!—
Let death but shut the world from every sense,
The soul—what then of her?—when the hearing,
Sight, touch, and taste, her wonted ministers
Of light, of knowledge, and of action, perish;
What is it then that wins yon distant worlds,
And takes the rounds of varying nature in?—
The eye?—O no—'tis dark amid the noon,
Till the bright soul, its animating guest,
Look from the lids, and waken to perception.
It is the soul that sees, then—and this eye
Is but her glass occasional, to view
This outward world, perhaps not obvious else:
But let her forth from this her prison house,
She springs upon new worlds, whose light is life,
To which the sun is darkness!—Then existence
Is sure—but whether, or for bliss or woe?—
Be it—Heaven's will is best—and bounty wide,
Where there is least to merit.

SCENE IV.

Edwin enters on the other side: he walks slowly by, and looks stedfastly on Westmorland.
West.
Sweet youth!—Say, wherefore am I singled out,
To stand within thy gaze?

Edwin.
Because, till now,
I have scarce beheld the presence of a man;
And joy that fame must wait upon my fall,
When dignified by you.

West.
Good Heavens!—art thou,
Art thou my fell antagonist?—Fair flower,
Avoid my cruel frost!—Retire, my child,
Nor break thy mother's heart!

Edwin.
Intend you this,
In scorn, or in compassion?

West.
Both—but most
In anger, that the British sons of war
Should send their stripling, their Adonis forth,
Where their best power would shrink.

Edwin.
Your cause is weak,
Tho' strong your arm—so are we better weigh'd,
Where justice, to my weaker arm, has join'd
A cause invincible—My injured country
Already fits triumphant on my sword;
And lifts the last, the lowest of her sons,
O'er thee, the first in Denmark!

West.
Child of glory!
Happy the boastful climate of thy birth!
And thy glad parents—thrice, thrice blest are those
Of whom thou wert begotten!—Had'st thou, Heaven,
Ordain'd a son, one son like this to Westmorland,
His latest hour had blest thee, and been happy.

Edwin.
Have you no son?

West.
I have.

Edwin.
How blest were I,
To be that child, and kneel to thee, my father!

West.
Reach me that valiant hand—Had fate not doom'd
That one of us, this hour, must fall in battle;
O, I had held thee at my heart, as near
As is the blood that warms it.—Of Northumbria
Art thou?

Edwin.
I am.

West.
I too am Britain-born.

Enter an English and a Danish Herald.
Eng. Her.
The princes, valiant combatants, salute you;
And round the panting barrier thousands wait,
Whose fate receives decision from your arms.

Dan. Her.
Sound trumpets, sound the charge!

[Exeunt Heralds—Trumpets sound—Edwin draws.
Edwin.
O, honour'd chief!—tho' my dear country lifts
This sword impulsive on thee; yet, I feel,
'Twould be more grateful turn'd upon myself—
Less wounding far, than pointed at thy bosom!—
Come, come on!

West.
Soul truly noble!—This to prove thy force.

[Fight.
Edwin.
Unworthy triumph—barbarous man!—that stroke
You took defenceless!—

West.
It is accomplish'd!—Yes, thou glorious youth,
We both have reach'd our wish—I came to die,
And thou to conquer!

Edwin.
Ah, what mystery?

West.
But that the icey hand of death is on me,
I could unfold—My friend will tell thee all,
The noble Manchester—

Edwin.
Thy friend?—Great powers!

West.
Draw near—Thou hast a heart replete with greatness:
If thou dost hope to wed some heavenly maid,
To be as blest as once was Westmorland,
Lay me, O lay me with the dear remains
Of my loved angel, my triumphant wife,
My deified Rowena!—

Edwin.
Thine! what—thine!

West.
Thou seem'st amazed.

Edwin.
If dead men rise to life,
Thou art—

West.
Ha! what?

Edwin.
Thy son—his name was—

West.
Edwin.

Edwin.
My father!—O my father, my dear father!—
Curs'd hour, curs'd hand!—O sir—O first of men!
Give me that wound, if you would have me happy—
Lost, ruin'd Edwin!—lost, undone for ever!

West.
Art thou my son, then?—my Rowena's child?—
Thy goodness, Heaven! it is too mighty for me—
Come to my arms—close—press into my heart!—
[Embraces.
Hold off, and let me gaze again upon thee!
Thou art, thou art my son, my joy, my rapture,
My better self—thy country's Westmorland!—
Why dost thou weep?—by honour's holy bands,
I swear I would not change this day for ages—
This glorious day, wherein thy sire is made
Triumphant o'er himself!

Edwin.
My father!—Oh—
Those too kind words go pointed through my bosom—
They reach at life; and sacred nature lies
O'erthrown, and bleeds her last—

West.
Thy hand, young hero—child of honour, help me!

[Sinks down.

SCENE V.

Enter Osric.
Osric.
Health to our champion! to his arm for ever,
Success like this—and be his living name
The first in Britain's story!—Silence!—tears!—
Whence, wherefore?

Edwin.
O—touch not this parricide!—
Your friend!—my father!—look, O look, where bleeds
The lord of lost Rowena!

Osric.
Westmorland!
What, Westmorland?—The powers!

West.
As I do think—my friend,
The noble Manchester!

Osric.
Help there, in haste!—Fate, fate, thou art Almighty!—
Strength, honour, prowess! what is now your boast,
When prostrate thus your mighty one is fallen,
When here lies Westmorland?—Help, bear him gently,
[Soldiers bring in a chair.
So—there—How fare you?

West.
As a lonely man,
Unskill'd to steer his course, just launched from shore,
And never to return.—O gentle Manchester,
Through what a wondrous whirl of varying fortunes,
Thy friend has past, this day—a lover blest—
A captive—then a conqueror—then a king—
And now, what thou beholdest here!—Ethelwald,
My faithful Ethelwald will tell thee all—
O, I have been to blame—too late, my brother,
I saw, and would repeal—but deeds were done—
And fate refused to cancel—What remain'd,
But to atone in part?—The Dane was false—
And thus, to bind his fate, I chose to perish,
A victim to the land my life had injured!—
My words grow painful—Noble, noble Manchester,
Regard thy gracious son—
No more—I faint!—

Osric.
Alas, my friend!

Edwin.
My father!—

West.
My spirit returns—the aspiring lamp of life
Brightens its latest blaze—I see, they come,
Again they come, the invaders of Northumbria!
Treaties—leagues—what are ye?—O my country,
How art thou waste!—Fair Albion, land of beauty!
Owls build within thy lonely palaces,
And weeds o'ergrow thy pavements!—Ha, he comes!—
My child, the star of Britain, Edwin comes!—
I see, like lightning, he divides the night—
He darts, he rushes on them—Ho, for Freedom!—
Down with the traitorous pair—the Magic Standard,
Grasp it, 'tis thine!—Respiring Liberty,
Justice, and golden Commerce, how ye walk,
And brighten o'er the land!—Release me—oh!—
Pardon I feel is past above—more—more—
Wondrous, unspeakable!—I come—and leave
This lesson to the world—that Heaven is all,
And man is—nothing!—Oh!

[Dies.