 | The Fatal Prophecy |  |
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ACT II.
SCENE I.
A Cottage in a mountainous Desart.Lena.
Dear, horrid hours of unpermitted joy!
What anxious moments does the woman pass,
Who riots in the arms of lawless love!
But ah! when Danger's threatening form invades
The scene of stolen happiness; tho' dearer,
Tho' then more exquisite the theft of bliss,
Sure misery is behind—Perhaps, e'en now
The troops of Norway range o'er these wild hills
To seek their low-fall'n queen—with insolence,
With all th'unmanner'd rage of vulgar power
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Perhaps e'en now—surrounding this poor cottage,
They meditate with rude hands unrestrain'd
By royalty, or awe of greatness lost.
To drag me to their injur'd king—oh! horror!
More than ten thousand deaths is in the thought.
Hah! heard I not the sound of hasty steps?
—No! all is silent—Peace, thou busy sprite,
Life-chilling Fear, that, acting still the friend,
Art in thyself a traitor—Thee the heart
Admits it's guardian—wrapt in thy embrace,
Thy cold embrace, it dies—and wakeful Prudence,
That watches thy alarm, oppress'd by thee,
Confus'd, defenceless, droops—O foe to Love!
Yet, ever in his train; with cruel skill
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For lo! he comes, who never felt thy power.
SCENE II.
Lena, Ostan.Ostan.
O pride of Norway! fairer than the dawn,
That o'er your snow-bright mountains breaks away
In pure, unspotted glory—Queen of charms,
Tho' Norway's queen no more; the nobler empire
Of love, and beauty thine, why broods pale Fear
Upon thy damask cheek? That beaming eye,
In whose soft rays a thousand graces play;
Why is it clouded?
Lena.
Dost thou ask the cause?
When haply round these wild and desert hills,
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Range the dark hosts of Norway—
Ostan.
Vain that fear—
The toilsome circuit of these mountainous heights,
And all the ragged vales that stretch away
In horror from their sides, have I explor'd,
Nor seen one human form, save at his chace
The low-born peasant—
Lena.
Such a visitant,
In Ostan's absence, would not be less dreadful
Than a whole host of foes.
Ostan.
Vain too that fear!
If at the sight of beauty tamely bend
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Indulge a thought of outrage?
Lena.
Chief of Denmark!
Thou, only thou canst charm my busy fears,
And sooth to rest the heaving heart of care,
With thy enchanting presence—O belov'd!
And dearer still in danger! Do not leave me!
Forsake me not, my Ostan! since for thee,
I've left my royal honours, left my kingdom,
And every friend that fortune, or alliance
Had given me there, have forfeited for thee.
Ostan.
Spirits of Denmark! canst thou fear such meanness?
Now by those air-born beings that preside
O'er these wild rocks, and ride yon waving clouds,
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Of her rude-handed sons, 'till not one slave
Were seen on all her solitary hills—
Should he—surrounded with his iron-race,
Invest this bough-built shed, he should not tear thee
From my inclosing arms—
Lena.
Forgive me, Ostan!
I know thee valiant, and believe thee faithful;
Yet trembling for th'uncertain fate of war,
Dreading the dire event of this invasion,
And, fearful ev'n for thee who know'st no fear,
Forgive this importunity of Love.
One favour only would I now sollicit,
Which granted, soon it's wonted smile shall dwell
On my dejected visage—Valdemar,
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And I shall deem this bough-built shed a palace.
Ostan.
Can Lena ask what Ostan would refuse?
Lena.
Whate'er may be th'event of this invasion;
Rear'd on the tallest mount of Denmark's realm,
Should Death and Ruin grasp their horrid hands
In dreadful league; and rush upon their prey—
Should the war bleed thro' all her wasted vales—
Should ghastly Slaughter unresisted rage,
'Till his yell pierce the solitary van
Of these sequester'd wilds—Assure me, Ostan,
That neither by thy martial genius led,
That neither tempted by the thirst of glory,
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Of thy once-slighted country, thou wilt join
The general ruin, wander from my side,
Or leave me to my fears.
Ostan.
O torturing thought!
Lena.
Hah! dost thou hesitate?
Ostan.
Fair queen, indulge me!
My country, tho' once slighted, when involv'd
In hostile ruin I behold, it urges
The cold blood to my heart—Why did you paint
In such strong colours the distressful scene?
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To know myself the abject wretch I am.
To know that thou wouldst leave me helpless here,
Expos'd to savages, opprest with want,
And overwhelm'd with fear, t'indulge the vain,
The sanguinary thirst of battle—Go!
No longer sooth me with false forms of love—
Hear'st thou the clarion's sound? it calls thee from me
The battle bleeds, and wilt thou loiter here
To parly with a woman?
Ostan.
Queen of Norway!
Lena.
That title now is insult—would'st thou call me
By any name my due—consult my follies,
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Some epithet select; with that address me,
And call me what I am, a wretch forsaken.
Ostan.
O cruel to yourself! Forego distrust,
Groundless and vain! What has your Ostan done
To merit this unkindness? That a sigh
Stole from his bosom o'er the painful scene
That Denmark's plains in prostrate ruin laid,
Why should it move thy fear, or thy suspicion?
The heart that wakes to love's soft impulse, feels
The Patriot's ardor; but thy shrine, O Love!
Thy sacred shrine shall never be deserted,
And all the wreaths of Valour, Victory, Glory,
Here will I sacrifice.
Lena.
And all the ties
Of friendship.
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I have a friend, and interposing worlds—
Lena.
Shall not divide your fates—
Ostan.
I have a friend—
Lena.
I know thou hast, and if that friend should join
In Denmark's cause against the arms of Norway,
Then wouldst thou—
Ostan.
Be a tame ungrateful slave?
No—By th'eternal Spirits that roll'd yon Sun
Into a globe of fire, and bad him burn
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While my heart beats, and while my hand can grasp
One dart of Vengeance, thro' the ranks of battle
Berino shall not urge his dangerous way,
While Ostan stays behind—
Lena.
Lost, wretched Lena!
How vainly didst thou dream that thou wert first
In Ostan's heart.
Ostan.
Thou art the first of women,
And from a warrior, Queen, what wouldst thou more?
Shall I be base, ungrateful, faithless, false!
Shall I desert the friend that shar'd my fortunes,
My dangers shar'd—the friend to whose brave sword
I owe the last breath that I drew—the life
That animates this eye to look on thee,
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Shall I desert him, while this pulse can beat,
This eye can look on thee?
Lena.
Hark; didst thou hear
The sound of some approaching foot? O save me!
Still it advances—Save me from the sword
Of Valdemar!
Ostan.
Thy fears are vain!—'Tis he—
It is Berino.
SCENE III.
Lena, Ostan, Berino.Ostan.
Dearest, best of friends!
Embrac'd for ever in my heart—Approach,
And let my arms embrace thee!
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Still my friend!
Whom never change of fortune, or of time
Shall banish from my breast—while the soul wakes
And the blood wanders thro' the veiny ways
Of this mechanic being—still my friend!
But ah! how useless my attentions now!
And yet, I would have serv'd thee.
Ostan.
Cease thy cares,
And every kind anxiety for me.
To see thee live, to hold thee to my heart,
Is now my happiness, and wouldst thou wish
This pleasure to continue; all the service
I ask, or hope from thy unwearied kindness
Is to partake of this unknown retreat,
Companion to a Queen, tho' in a cottage.
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Thrice gallant Chief! and worthy Ostan's friendship,
If aught my poor intreaties might avail,
In this retirement to detain thee, pride
And joy would soothe my heart, tho' Norway's Queen
No more—
Berino.
The powerful charm of friendship needs
No other motive—Trust me, beauteous Queen,
Would it ensure your safety—would it guard
My Ostan's life, amid these lonely shades
I'd dwell a Hermit to the dregs of age,
Feed on the wood's wild fruits with greater gust
Than at the palace board, and drink the fountain.
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Then, Chief, thou wilt not leave us, wilt not draw
Thy Ostan from my arms—
Ostan.
For ever generous!
Berino, my full heart in silence thanks thee.
Berino.
Yet this, my friends, is but a dream of safety.
Since, to avoid the dire event of war,
Should Valdemar demand, and Denmark's King
Agree to yield you victims to his rage,
In vain would you depend on these wild woods
To screen you from their search—united armies
Would ransack all these hills, and range these groves,
'Till not a sapling should remain unnoted.
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Lost, wretched Lena! Norway's haughty King!—
Ah! shall he blast thee with his flaming eye?
Shall he enfold his hard hand in thy hair?
And drag thee to the earth? He shall, he shall—
And there is no escape—
Berino.
Yet, beauteous Queen!
Suspend thy fears; the pride of Valdemar,
And high resentment haply may demand
Such terms as Denmark's Monarch, keen to war,
And delicate of honour, shall disdain
To yield—
Ostan.
What can we hope from thence?
Berino.
A battle
Follows of course, and Valdemar may fall,
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By our united efforts in the field
'Twill then be our's that favour to regain
So needful to your safety.—
Ostan.
Hateful service!
But not to be avoided—yet, my friend,
Yet when I think on all our glorious toil
On Lemor's shores repaid with negligence,
My vex'd blood boils, and every stroke my hand
Directs at Denmark's foes, my heart will envy.
Nay should Canute himself, with offer'd favour
Applaud my services—the tardy kindness
'Twould pain me to receive—
Berino.
We are not now
So circumstanc'd as when the splendid feast
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Of victory—By us o'erwhelm'd with foes,
Our Country calls on her apostate sons,
And warns us of our duty.
Ostan.
Thou hast wak'd
A thousand tender thoughts—Ah Denmark! yes!
I lov'd thy green vales, lov'd thy wild, brown hills,
And oft ere manhood brac'd my limbs, have climb'd
To their aspiring tops, with boyish fancy,
To image armies in the evening-clouds.
Oft, listening from the rock's projecting brow,
My rapt ear fed upon the far-heard sounds
Of the deep-toning horn, and my young breast
Burn'd for the fancied battle. Ah! my Country!
I feel thee at my heart.
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'Tis Nature's law.
She bade us love those native fostering fields
That spread their green laps for our infant sports;
And, acting still from kindness all her own,
She makes love gratitude, and pleasure virtue.
Lena.
Save, save me, Ostan! See thro' yonder glade,
An armed man walks warily along,
Looking as if in search—Hah! he approaches—
Ostan.
He has the air of Lother—
Berino.
'Tis the same—
Why has he trac'd me into this retreat?
What can it mean?
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What shall we do?
Berino.
Retire,
And leave me to engage him—Your abode
If possible, must yet remain unknown.
SCENE IV.
Lother, Berino.Lother.
This way he came, and surely here are traces
Of human art and hands—
Berino.
Hail Son of Asmond!
Illustrious Hope of Denmark! Do I see
My Prince in this poor shed?
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Distinguish'd Virtue,
Hid in a cave, or shining in a court,
Alike demands attention—Gallant Chief,
Shall Lother own that in this poor retreat,
Obscure, and in disgrace, thou yet couldst rouse
His soul to envy?
Berino.
Prince, thou canst not mock me,
For thou art generous: but are grief and flight,
Endanger'd friendship, and insulted fame
Conditions to be envied?
Lother.
Not for these
I envy thee, but pity—the great Soul,
The nobly social Mind, of each mean view
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These, Chief, are thine, and these are to be envied.
Berino.
By all but those who boast of equal Virtues,
And, therefore, not by Lother—But to me
Why this fair palm of undeserved praise,
I know not—
Lother.
Denmark's Princess dost thou know?
Berino.
Gracious and fair; yes, recent proofs I've had
Of her distinguish'd goodness—when I sought
The Prince, your Father's ear, she kindly offer'd
Her interest in my favour; but refus'd
To serve me in the only way I wish'd—
Yet then she shew'd me what I wish'd was vain
And even impracticable.
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Yet the proposal
Was great, was glorious, and became Berino.
For that, brave Chief, I envy and admire thee.
Gods! to pour forth at Friendship's holy Shrine
The young, warm vital tide—once more to rescue
The friend thy valour sav'd before, and this
By life's last forfeit—
Berino.
Were no sacrifice
Of such uncommon merit—What is life,
Depriv'd of friendship? When each charm is lost,
Each dear dependence on the mutual heart,
Firm, cordial, confident—then what is life?
Perish the mean wretch, whose low thought can hide
One sordid wish, that centers in himself—
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To me is heart-felt, if no friend partakes
The solitary banquet—Life itself,
It's joys, its prospects uncommunicated,
Is but a lonely dream, where waking thought
Enjoys a Miser's pleasure.
Lother.
Brave I knew thee,
Thrice gallant Chief, on Lemor's groaning shores
I knew thee brave; and now, well hast thou prov'd
True valour only in the generous heart
Holds his fair residence—'Tis my ambition,
Nor is that pride unworthy of a Prince,
To boast Berino's friendship—Chief, with thee,
I mean to share the wreaths of glorious toil,
With thee to pierce the deep-embattled Host,
And, should thy brave breast lose it's faithful mail,
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I'll snatch this honest Cuirass from my bosom,
And bind it on thy heart.
Berino.
Forget not, Prince,
That I'm a fugitive.
Lother.
By Heav'n thou art not—
Rapt with the luxury of love and praise,
My message was forgot—I came to tell thee
That Denmark's Monarch, with thy Virtues charm'd,
Gives thee free pardon; and the Prince, my Father
Invites thee to his court.
Berino.
Distinguish'd favours!
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My first attention claims—that duty paid,
Expect to see me in the halls of Agar,
Obedient to my Prince. 'Till then adieu!
| The Fatal Prophecy | |