University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Grove behind the Palace of Canute.
Avilda.
With what a dull pace the old hours of time
Post to a lover's wishes!—Even thou,
Slow-sailing moon, whose deep and cumbrous train
Of dim clouds seems thy passage to retard,
Mov'st with a swifter course, and o'er this grove,
Since yet I've waited the return of Lother,
Thy transient rays have stol'n from tree to tree,
'Till now 'tis left one deep-involving shade,
Awefully silent.

SCENE II.

Avilda, Asmond.
Asmond.
Daughter of Canute,
These lonely glooms are melancholy's empire,
Cherish it's saddening influence in the heart,
And feed the fires of love—Let thy attention
No more in Fancy's airy regions stray;
I bring thee tidings better to employ it.

Avilda.
Is Lother then return'd? and dost thou bring me
Hopes of Berino's safety?

Asmond.
Doubt not that;
Tho' Lother yet returns not—From the camp
Of Valdemar a haughty herald came,
Fraught with high menaces, and vain contempt
Of Denmark's valiant sons; such terms he brought,
As our brave father with disdain rejected;
And when he heard the insolent demand
Not of the noble fugitives alone,
But of a tribute from his own lov'd realm,
His aged arm with rage shook, and his eye
Sparkled with honest vengeance. The proud herald
There read his answer, and retir'd.

Avilda.
'Twas well
Methinks, the woman's tenderness gives way
To nobler sentiments; those terms of insult
Have rous'd me from the weak captivity
Of idle fear and love; my Father's spirit
Resumes it's long lost empire in my breast,
And I have now no other feelings there
But for his honour and for Denmark's safety.

Asmond.
There in his daughter spoke Canute, and there
What was Avilda—Princess, still preserve
That higher tone of mind; nor, 'midst our dangers,
Sink into weakness: many cares await me.
Adieu!

SCENE III.

Avilda.
I feel strange tumults in my breast.
'Tis indignation swells it, at the thought
Of Valdemar's bold insult—Yet, methinks,
Fear presses on my heart—I know not why—
What should I fear? All weaker passions fly,
Or ought to fly—This moment I discard them—
And think of nothing but a father's safety.

SCENE IV.

Avilda, Lother.
Lother.
Princess, thrice worthy of your generous care,
And kind protection was the gallant youth;
And well his virtues claim his Sovereign's favour.

Avilda.
Talk not, young prince, in idle strains of praise
On private virtue; when the public safety
Demands our sole attention! Hast thou learnt
The haughty message from the camp of Norway?
Thou hast not—Know then that the spirit of war
Is rous'd to sleep no more, 'till by the hands
Of death and havock his fell eyes are clos'd,
And Denmark's sons are slaves, or Norway bends
Her hard neck to the yoke—

Lother.
Perish the day,
When Denmark's glory falls, and perish all
That envy her fair honours! By the soul
Of holy freedom,—by each sword that gleams
O'er many an aweful shrine of heroes dead,
That grasp'd her to their hearts, I will not live
To drag the bonds of any haughty being
That is not more than man, and, like myself,
Breathes but by privilege of common air!
No, Lother's life, and Denmark's honour wound
On the same fated clue, the hand of Death
Shall ravel off together—

[Going.
Avilda.
Stay, young prince,
Thy patriot valour, and thy liberal mind
I knew, nor meant I to reproach thee—

Lother.
These
I go to prove—'till then withhold that praise.

Avilda.
Yet stay—Methinks, some circumstance—You found
The friend of Ostan—

Lother.
So I would have told you.

Avilda.
It matters not—a weightier business claim'd
Thy care, and claims it still.

Lother.
I know it well.

[Going.
Avilda.
Yet why this haste? That gallant chief, you said,
Was not unworthy of the royal favour.
But how did he receive it?

Lother.
With due sense
Of gratitude and duty; tho' some office
Of sacred friendship, claiming then his care,
Prevented his acknowledgment—

Avilda.
[Aside.]
Ah me!
I fear that friendship—Fear! I know it not—
Weak thoughts away!

Lother.
Princess, you seem to view
With fear unusual this approaching war:
Yet dread not the event—The sons of Denmark
Can still defend her daughters—The brave youth
Who has your royal father's pardon, soon
Will join our arms, and his well omen'd valour
Will make success less doubtful—

Avilda.
Foolish heart!
Forego thy weakness! Prince, your present cares
Are due to Denmark—Let me not detain you.

SCENE V.

Avilda.
O Love! Thou source of everlasting fears,
And discontent, and pain! Suspend thy sway!
Power of the throbbing heart, and pensive eye,
Cease thy unquiet empire in my breast,
And leave me to the calm society
Of fortitude and reason—Sure I see,
Or does the shifting shade deceive me? No—
A woman wandering in this lonely grove!
At this untimely hour!—Some wretch like me,
Who vainly courting sleep to soothe her cares,
Indulges them in these congenial shades.
Perhaps another slave to the wide empire
Of all-subduing Love—My own attendants
I thought secure—

SCENE VI.

Avilda, Lena.
Avilda.
Lady, to wander in these pensive glooms,
Preventing the fair harbinger of morn,
Speaks not a mind at ease—Perhaps some sorrow
Dwells on your burthen'd heart, or some soft care
Usurps the throne of rest—Command me, lady,
If I have power to serve you.

Lena.
My misfortunes
Are such as leave no exercise for hope,
As neither time, nor pity can redress,
And only death can end.

Avilda.
Then death, I fear,
Has brought them first upon you—has divided
From your torn heart some friend that it embrac'd,
And left you to the pangs of hopeless sorrow.

Lena.
Have you compassion? Are you touch'd with pity?
Seek not to know the cause of my distress—
The only favour you have power to grant me
Is an asylum from the searching world;
Some secret cell, where I may rest unseen,
The object of your private charity.

Avilda.
Art thou opprest?—In fear of human hate,
Or violence?—Then look for sure protection
In Denmark's king—The justice of Canute
Will be your best asylum; and my care
Shall not be wanting with my royal father
To win you every grace—

Lena.
[Aside.]
O wretched Lena!
What horrid fate hangs o'er thee?

Avilda.
Ever just,
And studious to redress his injur'd subjects,
Tho' an impending war demands his cares,
You will be heard.

Lena.
Oh! insupportable!
Lost, lost is every prospect of escape!

Avilda.
What mean those wild words?

Lena.
Princess, you behold
In me the cause of that impending war;
Then yield me to the justice of your father—
Better to perish by a stranger's sword
Than to the rage of Valdemar resign'd,
Encounter shame, and insolence and scorn,
Ere death, with purpos'd cruelty withheld,
Shall end my wretched being—

Avilda.
Powers of Denmark!
Are you that hapless queen, whose fatal flight
Brings the dark hosts of Norway on our shores?
If so, what madness, or what strange mischance
Could lead you to approach the residence
Of Denmark's Monarch?

Lena.
'Twas, indeed, mischance:
If aught by me may so be deem'd, whom hope
Has totally deserted.

Avilda.
Should I pity,
I have no power to save you, queen!

Lena.
I ask
No other means of safety than to shun
The presence of the haughty Valdemar—
If you have no asylum, yet, even death
Will be protection, and I ask for that.

Avilda.
Alas! fair queen, I feel for your misfortunes,
Nor would I add to misery's heavy load,
Howe'er occasion'd—Pity I can give you,
But cannot give you hope—Should I attempt
To plead for mercy with my royal father,
Yet his strict justice might withhold his ear
From all compassion's eloquence could urge.
And thus my vain endeavours to protect you
Might hasten your destruction—

Lena.
Would your father
Yield me to Norway's king?

Avilda.
I fear not that—

Lena.
Then nought have I to fear—

Avilda.
A haughty message
From Valdemar precludes all thoughts of peace
And every means of treaty—

Lena.
Ah rash friend!
Thou couldst foresee, then why not wait th'event?
Thy too impetuous virtues have undone thee,
And me, and all.

Avilda.
What friend, whose virtues? Ha!

Lena.
You are no stranger to the young Berino,
The gallant friend of Ostan—

Avilda.
Stranger! Queen!
What wouldst thou? No—Methinks I know that name.

Lena.
Yes, I have heard him speak, with grateful pleasure,
Of Denmark's princess—of your kind intentions
To recommend him to your royal father
As not unworthy his indulgence—That,
Tho' by no meaner messenger declar'd,
Than Denmark's second hope, the son of Asmond,
He held inferior to the ties of friendship,
Nor would enjoy one shadow of enlargement,
Freedom, or hope, that Ostan could not share.

Avilda.
[Aside.]
Hapless Avilda! destin'd to regret
Those virtues I admire!

Lena.
Yet had this zeal
Been bounded here!—but from his parting words
Too plain he meant a sacrifice to friendship
That friendship could not bear—

Avilda.
Death to my heart!
Forbear! What wouldst thou say? proceed—

Lena.
You seem
With no indifferent eye to view my fortunes—
This generous pity—

Avilda.
Torture worse than death!
What didst thou mean? what sacrifice?

Lena.
Himself.

Avilda.
Whom?

Lena.
Negligent of life, the brave Berino
To Valdemar a twofold challenge sent,
One, in behalf of Denmark, to engage
The bravest chief of Norway; if success
Should crown his first attempt, a bold defiance
Of Valdemar himself, in Ostan's name,
To break the shivering lance—

Avilda.
Was this accepted?

Lena.
I know not that; in vain with prayers and tears
I sought to win him from his purpose—conscious
That Ostan would not suffer him alone
To try the dangerous combat—This I fear'd,
Nor groundless were my fears; for tho' Berino
Conjur'd his friend by all the ties of honour,
By every thought of kindness, to relinquish
This enterprize to him, nor then permitted
To join his steps, impatient soon he follow'd.
Ere long the noise of hunters at the chace,
Or rovers sent from the Norwegian camp,
Drove me in terror from my lone retreat,
And wildering night has led me to these shades.

Avilda.
That tale, O wretched queen, that tale is pregnant
With horror, death and ruin, more than thou
Canst feel, or fear—Affairs of highest import
Demand the present moment—Queen, farewell!
My women shall have orders to attend you
To some more hospitable place.

SCENE VII.

Lena.
In death—
In the dark mansions of unconscious dust
Alone can such a place be found—for there
Terror, tho' deep in his own darkness wrapt,
Knocks at the heart in vain—The inward eye
Of guilt is clos'd in endless night; and there
The cheek of shame is pale—Ha! who approaches,
A man?—perhaps some friendly messenger
Dispatch'd, in pity, by the good Avilda
To serve me with his honest sword.

SCENE VIII.

Lena, Asmond.
Lena.
Approach;
And, if some useful minister of fate,
Be kindly expeditious—Let thy sword
Close the dark scene of terrour, and defend me
From what I dread the most, a living death.

Asmond.
Deem not the prince of Denmark an assassin.

Lena.
I knew you not—forgive me, prince renown'd
For wisdom, genius and humanity,
Far as your father's arms—The name of Asmond,
Each lisping orphan can repeat, and widows
By him supported, smiling o'er their babes,
Teach them the name of Asmond. O that fate
Which gave me birth in Denmark, there had kept me
In some poor shed an object of his bounty;
Nor rais'd me, by I know not what strange steps,
To Norway's hated throne; where never peace,
Or freedom smil'd upon my wretched hours—
To shun the haughty Valdemar's rude arms,
Gloomy as death, and as the savages,
That range his hills, ferocious—to behold
Once more my native country—These were motives
Of no inferior force to urge my flight,
Tho' haply still the busy voice of fame
Ascribes it solely to a different cause.

Asmond.
Heavens! and are you then that ill fated queen?
But how! in Denmark born? 'twas ever said
And still believ'd, that Valdemar espous'd
The daughter of a chief of Norway—

Lena.
Thus
It was reported; but to serve what purpose,
I never yet could learn—'Twas false, however,
In every circumstance—the tender matron
Who rear'd my infancy with gentlest care,
And lov'd me with a parent's fondness, told me
In the last words of life, that I was born
In Denmark, and from thence by stealth convey'd:
More she could not—but, speechless, to my hand
Convey'd this bracelet, as if this might prove
Some token of my birth—

Asmond.
[Looking on the bracelet.]
Oh!—O my child!
My daughter!

Lena.
[Throwing herself at his feet.]
Pitying Heaven!

Asmond.
Oh!—my lost child!

Lena.
Indulgent Heaven! hast thou no mercies left?
O strike me, strike me dead!

Asmond.
[Raising her.]
My long lost child!

Lena.
Still lost! for ever lost!—oh! is it thus
I find a parent? Thus I meet a father,
With guilt and ruin in my train? And can you,
Do you forbear to spurn me from you? Far
As earth from heaven to spurn me—? Dear, good prince!
Methinks, you weep—

Asmond.
Thou art, indeed, ill-fated—
Snatch'd, when an infant, from thy nurse's arms,
And borne we knew not whither—Each pursuit,
And every search was vain; tho' then at war
With Norway, such base rapine in a foe
We could not even suspect—This well-known bracelet
With her own hands thy tender mother lock'd
Upon thy little arm—

Lena.
Ha! does she live?
Shall I behold her?

Asmond.
No—in the cold grave
Long has she slept, unable to survive
The loss of thee.

Lena.
O wretched! O my heart!
This is too much—

[Faints.
Asmond.
Help! Help! My child! My daughter!

[Bears her off.