University of Virginia Library

SCENE, The Palace, Throne, Chair of State, &c.
Enter King Edward and Queen Emma.
Emma.
Thy zeal, my son, is as a guideless flame,
Whose infant spark was only meant for comfort.
False are the shades of sickly fancy, ting'd
With hot enthusiasm. Thou oft dost mew
Thyself within thy closet; while thy people
Complain aloud of public ill, thine ear
Is never tun'd to their complaint: the Monks
Confine thee to themselves, nor give thee time
For even moral action.

Edward.
Can'st thou place
An isthmus in the soul, divide her joys,
Reduce her highest hope to poor convenience,
And teach the spirit's extacy to move
Mechanically to the times?—O no!
External good is nought, for Edward scorns
The transient joys of life; beyond the grave
His views dare reach; there is his lasting good.

Emma.
Like some rapt visionary, thou dost plead,
Who hopes to gain a distant scene of bliss,
Forgetful of the means. What hast thou done,
With means so amply given? What mourner, rais'd
From mis'ry's flinty bed? What son of woe,
Led from the dreary prison, and wip'd off
Its damps from his pale forehead? Thou can'st pray,
And pray most loudly; but an act like this
Shall blazon in the eye of Heav'n, whilst thou
Shalt whine unnoticed.

Edward.
Dost thou scorn devotion!

Emma.
No, but I scorn the form without the essence.
Serve, love thy people; bid thy Monks kneel down
To pray for thee: then, should their voices fail,
Remember the lone widow's blessing—smiles
Of grateful orphans and of trembling age
Shall plead for Edward.

Enter Lodowicke, with a Paper.
Edward
(reads.)
Thou art commended here, as one of worth,
To be my ghostly confessor: be it so,
Now Canterbury's gone, who seem'd to me
The spirit of faith. Did I not weep and kneel
Observant to his rule, till this frail flesh
Seem'd lost to all its purposes? Bright visions
To my strong fancy stood reveal'd; while scenes
More bright than Mahomet hath form'd his bow'rs,
Struck on my ravish'd sense.

Lodowicke.
Ha! this works well.
[Aside.
My liege, this righteous man must yield; his foes
Strike hard for this world's 'vantage; let them take it,
He waits a better state—Ah! how unlike
The stubborn Alwine!

Emma.
Holy raven, peace!
Thou that can'st croak and flutter round the church,
Scaring the vulgar with thy direful sound,
Till their thick fancies dress the midnight shade
In images of horror, death, and woe.
The soul of Alwine sits upon his tongue,
And his pure practice holds a mirror, where
The semblance of his virtues shine too bright
For eyes like thine to fix on.—So the sun
In his meridian glory dares mankind,
Who close the lid on his effulgence. Weak
And false is thy corrupted judgment. Errors,
Unnumber'd as the atoms which compose thee,
Rise to obstruct thy mental optics: these
Thou dost mistake for blemishes and spots,
Fix'd 'mid expressless glory. Clear thy soul
From mists of pois'nous quality, or turn
Thine eye from Alwine.

[Exit Emma.
Edward
(to Lodowicke).
Grieve not, gentle priest;
Queen Emma may be rash, yet is her mind
Endu'd with strength more firm than manly wisdom.
Retire! this is the hour when dove-ey'd peace
Shall spread her shining pinions o'er the land.

[Exit Lodowicke.
Enter Siward with a Paper—He presents it to the King, who sits.
Edward.
These are our terms of peace—Where is the Earl?

Siward.
Adjusting his white locks, my liege. He swears
The world was never honest till this hour.
No knave, he says, can taste our English air;
But, like a frog in Ireland, he expires.
No husband murmurs at a wife that's old,
No minister loves pelf.

Edward.
His anxious heart,
By thy description, is releas'd from care.

Enter Goodwin, Swaine, Leofwine, and Leofricke.
Edward gives the Paper to Goodwin.
Edward.
May this our league for ever last! nor grief
Corrosive prey upon my people. Say,
Earl Goodwin, if yet any act remains,
Whereby King Edward may relieve his subjects.

Goodwin.
Where is Queen Emma, and my dear Editha?
Goodwin, without their presence, is unjoyful.
My child, I think, is tardy.

Edward.
If thy daughter
Receive thee not, the fault is hers.

Goodwin.
By hea'vn,
She ne'er was guilty of a fault like this!
And if she now assume a stubborn spirit,
It cannot be her own; for she is mild
As Zephyr, when he dances on the leaf
With scarce discerned motion. Much I fear
Thou dost mistake Editha.

Edward.
She was sent
This morn to Waltham Abbey.

Swaine.
Wherefore, King?

Leofwine.
My sister's wrong'd! King Edward, prove my fears
Are false, or our conditions may not stand.

Goodwin
(to Leofwine.)
Whom would'st thou teach? Be calm!—Thy sister's wrongs,
If wrong'd she be, shall claim as good a sword
As thine, tho' passion ne'er directs its point.
Hence, boys, to Waltham Abbey; bring her to me,
That I may hold her to my bosom—Why
Was she sent thither?

Edward.
Goodwin, search no more
The wounds my fond credulity hath made.
Young Leofwine and Swaine, conduct her hither,
And gay festivity shall crown the night.

[Exit Swaine and Leofwine.
Goodwin.
Now, chearful Siward, am I proud to meet thee
Where the hoarse growl of discontent is lull'd,
And peace and social friendship warm the heart.
Had war's impetuous fury rais'd our swords
Against each other's breast, one must have fallen.

Siward.
And that odd one been luckless Siward.

Enter Harold hastily.
Harold.
War!

Goodwin.
How? War! Who leads it at this ill-tim'd hour,
When ev'ry wound is healing?

Harold.
Tostie.

Goodwin.
No!
Thou art affrighted, Harold.

Harold.
He hath slain
My servants, and hath sent the gory head
Of my old faithful steward, with this message,
That Harold's head shall fit his steward's shoulders.

Goodwin.
What cause hath he?

Harold.
Wild with reproachful rage,
He swears himself dishonour'd by our peace.

Edward.
Ungen'rous youth! Where are his forces, Harold?
In single combat will I meet his shock,
And save my people. Goodwin, if I stand
The mark of treason, and thou think'st my death
Will prove a blessing to the realm, strike here;
But lure me not with prostituted friendship.

Siward.
Goodwin is no assassin, I'll be sworn.
Nature, when blind and drowsy, made him honest;
Nor can he do the drudgery of treason—
O! he is idle in vile matters.

Harold.
Girth
Bars Tostie's passage toward the palace—

Goodwin.
Hence!
Fly, Leofricke, to arms! Strangely severe
Seems Justice, when she bids a father throw
The gauntlet to his child.—Ah, weary age!
—Come on, brave Siward.

Siward.
Trust me, I'll not fly
Till heav'n shall deem my spirit worth acceptance.

Goodwin
(to Edward).
Then follow me—Risk not thy valu'd life,
But trust this guideless tumult to thy friends;
Once quell'd, the charm of confidence shall bind
The ardent soul of Goodwin to his King.

[Exeunt.