University of Virginia Library

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.