University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

An area in the centre of a deep grove.
Asmond, Lena.
Asmond.
Deep in the centre of this solemn grove
Repose the royal ancestry of Denmark.
And where that tall pine spreads it's guardian shade,
My lov'd Arvina rests—

Lena.
[Kneeling over the grave.
O let me bathe
With many a duteous tear the cold, cold earth
That hides the buried parent! Dear remains!
O honour'd ashes! have ye no kind spark,
No conscious spark of life, which sleeping yet
The breath of filial fondness might awake!

Asmond.
Cease, child! This tenderness renews my sorrows.

Lena.
How can I cease? For was not I the cause,
The wretched cause—

Asmond.
Of misery past redress—

Lena.
[Sill kneeling and looking on the grave.
O Princess! Parent, whose heart-breaking Love
Led thee untimely to these seats of Death,
Look thro' the veil of everlasting night,
And view thy hapless daughter! View her!—no—
For thou art innocent, and the fair flower
Springs pleasantly upon thy grave—To see—
In thy own offspring to behold a wretch,
A guilty wretch! Thy spirit would recoil
And seek once more a refuge in the Dust.

Asmond.
Guilty! O horror!—O my blind affection!
Yes, thou art guilty—hast thou not disgrac'd
Thy royal lineage? Hast thou not foregone
Each claim to virtue in a subject's arms?

Lena.
Thou gav'st me life; thou only may'st resume
The fatal gift—And shall thy sword delay?
Have I not been the cause of every woe
That wounds thy honest heart? Look on that grave!
Did I not rob thee of the gentle breast
That lies unconscious there—

Asmond.
Why wilt thou rend
My soul?

Lena.
Was I not yielded to the arms
Of Denmark's hated foe? Has he not triumph'd
O'er Asmond, greatly triumph'd in his daughter?
And shall the object that has brought upon thee
Disgrace and misery live?

Asmond.
Thou art my child!—

Lena.
Hast thou forgot that I'm a fugitive,
A guilty fugitive? Led by weak love
Of Ostan, have I not brought infamy
On Denmark's royal race?

Asmond.
By mighty Thor!
That, that is insupportable, and thou
Must fall a victim to thy hapless fate,
And wretched folly—Thou must die—

Lena.
I thank you—

Asmond.
A living instance of disgrace to Denmark!
Thy King, thy Father! By our guardian Gods;
That is not to be borne—

Lena.
O best of parents!

Asmond.
What wouldst thou say? Thou wouldst not wish for life.

Lena.
For misery? No! 'Twould be unnatural
For me to wish, unkind for you to grant.
To give me death will be a father's gift—

Asmond.
Dreadful alternative! Thou must not fall
By vulgar hands—And shall a parent's arm—
O feebleness of heart!

Lena.
Then, should the arms
Of Valdemar prevail; to swell his triumph,
To soothe his pride, and satiate his revenge,
Asmond will yield his daughter—

Asmond.
Wretched woman!
How dost thou urge thy fate! Tho' my heart fears not
For Denmark's cause—yet should the chance of war
To Valdemar restore thee—Horror! horror
Is in the thought—Canst thou behold this dagger?
Or is it's keen and shining point more dreadful
Than such a dire event?—

Lena.
Thou seest me firm—
Why wilt thou thus delay?

Asmond.
Arvina's eye
Arrests my lingering hand.

Lena.
Ah me! my father!
What dost thou see?

Asmond.
Beware! nor call me father—
The needful purpose shrinks within my breast—
Even now it shrinks, while in her daughter's eye
I meet my lost Arvina—

Lena.
Hide it tears—
Conceal the vain resemblance—

Asmond.
(Embracing her.)
Oh! my daughter!
Still, still my child! tho' misery and misfortune
Are in thy train—

Lena.
And infamy, and guilt.

Asmond.
In vain, ill-fated woman, wouldst thou urge
Thy wretched father's hand against thy life.
While all the powers of nature and affection
In their strong cords restrain it—O'er that grave,
Arvina's hovering Spirit seems to frown,
Indignant of the dire intent—Farewell!
The trumpet's sound proclaims th'approaching battle,
And one short hour decides the fate of Denmark.
Should Norway's arms succeed, we have no choice
Save what a friend like this affords—

[Throws down a dagger.

SCENE II.

Lena.
[Taking up the dagger.
Then come,
Cold and insensible, but honest friend!
From rending grief, from rude-assailing cares,
From shame's quick pang, and from the quiver'd eye
Of the sell archer, Scorn, thy friendship saves.
And shall I then delay to yield admission
To such a guardian guest? Shall I refuse
My bosom to a friend who kindly offers
Such happy privilege?

SCENE III.

Lena, Lother.
Lother.
Art thou the Queen of Norway?

Lena.
Chief of Denmark,
Whoe'er thou art, forego such vain enquiries,
And instantly withdraw—

Lother.
O yes, the same!
Dear, hapless woman, drop that fatal weapon.
And meet my first, my fond embrace—

Lena.
Rash youth,
Intruding stranger, hence—

Lother.
I am no stranger—
Embrace thy brother!

Lena.
[Letting fall the dagger.
Hah!

Lother.
The son of Asmond—

Lena.
O my torn heart! a brother! sure I know not
A sister's love, I cannot be a sister—
Yet, if thou art my brother, gentle youth,
Then I will weep for thee—

Lother.
O let me hold
A sister to my heart!

Lena.
Fond youth, forbear;
Embrace not misery—

Lother.
My lost, lov'd sister, welcome to my breast!

Lena.
Thou hast no sister; and I have no brother,
No father, and no friend—I stand alone
The property of woe, the hapless victim
Of cruel Fate and Folly—

Lother.
Cherish hope:
For by the holy verdure of this grave,
Where sleeps our tender mother, thou shalt be
My sister still—And thou, O parent, hear
This duteous vow—Mine eye shall never rest,
'Till vengeance reach the cause of each misfortune
That waits thy hapless daughter—

Lena.
Kind in vain!
Let us no longer stain with idle tears
These flowers that spring upon the honour'd dust
Of Denmark's Princess.

Lother.
Let me then conduct thee
To some less gloomy scene, where grief collects not
Fresh horrors from congenial shades and silence.

Lena.
Leave me, good Prince! these melancholy bounds,
These regions of forgetfulness and death
Are the fit walks of sorrow—Do not now
The cares of war await thee?

Lother.
But to see,
And to embrace a sister, never seen,
Never before embrac'd, I stole one moment
From the approaching battle—Valdemar
Already riots on revenge, and feeds
High dreams of victory, since Ostan fell
Beneath his single arm—Farewell my sister!
Fear not that vengeance shall repay his rapine,
Live and encourage hope—

[Takes up the dagger as he goes off.

SCENE IV.

Lena.
Is Ostan fall'n?
Ill-fated youth! I should have griev'd for Ostan,
Had not distress and terror steel'd my heart
To every soft affection—He was brave—
He lov'd his friend—He lov'd—Ah guilt and ruin!
Ill-fated youth to fall by Valdemar!
And glut his fell revenge! Yet may not I
Find the same horrid fate? No—Where's my friend,
Where is my father's gift? Tho' 'twere a dagger,
It was his daughter's portion—yet his son
Has robb'd her of it—But I must not lose it.

[Exit, in pursuit of Lother.

SCENE V.

Berino, Avilda.
Berino.
This hour is pinion'd with the eagle's plume,
Danger and glory dwell upon it's wing,
And every new stroke wafts a sacrifice,
To the fair shrine of honour—generous princess,
Whose favour is the glory of my life,
My soul's first pride and treasure—say, what cause
Withholds me now from the united force
Of Denmark? Am I then unworthy deem'd,
Once a deserter from my honour'd country,
To aid her arms, or join her just revenge?

Avilda.
Forget, brave youth, what never would employ
One memory save your own—Care, only care
Of your distinguish'd life—Belov'd by Lother,
Esteem'd by Asmond, honour'd by Canute,
Avilda's friendship, following the regard
Of Denmark's princes would consult your safety.

Berino.
The blazing sceptre, the high-waving plume
Of conquering valour, the full glow of joy
That flushes o'er the cheek of victory,
Have no charm equal to that tender care,
That condescending kindness—

Avilda.
Then avoid
The fate of Ostan; nor oppose thine arm
Singly against the sword of Valdemar,
But wait the chance of battle—

Berino.
Ostan's fate!

Avilda.
Is now determin'd—

Berino.
By th'eternal gods,
It must not—shall not be—my friend, my friend,
My Ostan is not fallen.

Avilda.
Unwillingly
I'd bear unwelcome tidings, did not hope
That gentle pity might relieve the pain
Of wounded friendship—did not flattering hope
That I might sooth it's anguish, and restrain
Th'incautious hand of self-expos'd revenge,
Prevail o'er other motives—

Berino.
Oh! Revenge!
Even now delay'd too long! Dear, fallen friend,
Dost thou not now reproach me? Dost thou not
With cold disdain behold my loitering sword,
And blast my tardy hand with all the curses
That wait on broken faith? Princess farewell,
A few lost moments more may take for ever
The means of vengeance from me.

Avilda.
Lost, indeed,
The moments you devote to me, and lost
Those cares and gentle offices of love.
Which idly hold you here.—

Berino.
Sounds, sounds of magic!
Enchantments! Dreams! Delude not my lost senses!
Love—Did not love—

Avilda.
The word unguarded fell—
Yet were there magic in the sound of power
Thy too impetuous valour to restrain,
And hold thee from the deathful field, perhaps
I would not now recall it.

Berino.
Prostrate see
That gratitude, which language cannot speak!
The joy, the hope of long-extended days
Bursting in beams of transport on my soul,
It's feebler lights oppress—For ever here—
Here let me dwell, the willing slave of love,
No other passion shall dispute the empire
Of my devoted heart—No other guest,
Save friendship, find admittance, fair Avilda,
You will permit me still to love my friend—
Permit, my Ostan, while he lives, to share
My due affection—

Avilda.
Favourable error!
Would it might last!

Berino.
Permit my Ostan—Hah!
Horror and death! where has delirious fancy
With idle dreams seduc'd me—pale he lies—
My friend, my gallant friend, yet unreveng'd—
While I, in luxury of hope and love,
Consume the vacant hour—O injur'd shade!
Neglected truth and honour!

SCENE VI.

Avilda, Berino, Lother.
Lother.
Valiant Chief!
Shall thy hand loiter, while thy bleeding country
Demands it's instant aid? The troops of Norway
With rapid fury press toward the palace.
Already have they broke the lines led on
By our brave Sovereign; who the shock sustaining
With too adventurous and determin'd valour,
Beyond his weight of years, by cruel chance
Is now their prisoner—

Avilda.
My aged father!
Ah wretched, lost Avilda! 'Twas to thee—
To thee this fatal accident was owing,
When all misplac'd thy foolish fears withheld
Berino from the battle; let me fly,
For guilt is in my presence—

SCENE VII.

Lother, Berino.
Lother.
More successful,
The Prince, my father, leads his valiant Danes
Against the lines of Valdemar—To you
He gives the charge of those receding troops
First headed by the King—He bids you rally
The scatter'd force, and at the least sustain
The shew of some resistance—

Berino.
Am I worthy
Of such distinguish'd honour—Coward shame,
Burn, burn not on my cheek—Prince I attend you.

SCENE VIII.

Valdemar, Norwegian Officers.
Valdemar.
Vengeance! O traitrous vengeance! thy own throne,
Thy temple was the heart of Valdemar—
There thou wert worship'd with unwearied prayer,
Yet, like a faithless Dæmon as thou art,
Hast thou betray'd him—Curse the frigid souls
Of those Norwegian slaves, who basely fled
Before the smooth-hair'd Dane—Firm as the pine
On their own blasted mountains have they stood
When rapine urg'd their sordid arms—but oh!
When great revenge, when wounded honour call'd,
How shrunk their dastard souls! Now all is lost!
And but one glimpse of vengeance yet remains,
One curs'd dear hope to soothe my stormy soul!
Fly, search, my friends, around these winding shades,
For here by sure intelligence I find
The Queen of Norway's hid—if fortune yield
That fair, that faithless Dane once to my power,
Here, in this grove, whose sacred horror shades
The Gods of Denmark; whose old arms surround
Her Father's palace, and desend the graves
Of all her Ancestors, here shall she fall—
Yet not 'till satiate with delightful insult,
Ingenious vengeance wrings her tortur'd soul
With more than Death's own bitterness; nor then,
'Till flush'd with conquest, insolent with triumph,
Th'unconscious Asmond shall return—By Thor,
By mighty Thor, the thought is worth my kingdom.
Oh! when elate with victory he comes,
Then, at that glorious hour, before his eyes,
Before her father's eyes, then will I plunge
My poynard to her heart; and o'er the body,
Say, with a smile, Asmond, behold thy daughter!

Officer.
My royal Lord—

Valdemar.
Slave! hast thou seen a Dane?
Art thou too a Norwegian? Coward fear
Dwells on thy cheek—

Officer.
I've seen the Queen of Norway—

Valdemar.
And she has made thee tremble—in one moment
Let me behold her—

Officer.
She is—

Valdemar.
In one moment—
[Officer departs and immediately returns with other officers, bringing the dead body of the Queen of Norway.
She faints with fear—Support her—

Officer.
My dread Lord!
Near to the Queen we found this dagger red
With recent stains—More of her death we know not.

Valdemar.
Distraction! death! off execrable slaves!
By Earth, and Heaven and Hell she shall not die—
O fled, fled, fled from my revenge—now fortune,
Now I will curse thee; and thou feeble Odin,
Thou helpless founder of my wretched race,
O for the lightning's swiftest beam to blast thee
On thy dishonour'd throne!

SCENE IX.

Valdemar, Asmond.
[Attended by Danish soldiers who seize and carry off the attendants of Valdemar.
Asmond.
Oh! yes, 'tis o'er—
There the poor victim lies—ill-fated child,
Farewell!

Valdemar.
Perdition on thy heart! thy child!
'Tis true the traitress was thy child—She was—
And worthy such a father—but I hop'd
That information which would rend thy soul,
Might be reserv'd for me—

Asmond.
Norwegian! Hah!
Audacious foe, who art thou—

Valdemar.
Thou wilt die
With fear to know—

Asmond.
The King of Norway—no—
Tho' all the storm-nurs'd savages that range
O'er thy wild hills, and howl for human blood;
Tho' the dark fiends, that shake the reeling earth
And breathe blue pestilence; tho' Hell itself
Holds not a heart so horrid, I rejoice
To meet thee here—

Valdemar.
Asmond, behold thy daughter!

Asmond.
[Beckoning to his attendants to remove the body of Lena.
Thy power of villainy is spent, but tell me
If by thy cursed hand the victim fell—

Valdemar.
That I could wish to tell thee—

Asmond.
'Tis enough—
For the base motives of thy hellish rapine
I ask thee not—

Valdemar.
And, therefore, thou shalt know them—
In the records of Norway still subsists
An ancient prophecy, that when her Monarch
Espous'd the daughter of a Prince of Denmark
The crowns should be united—Endless discord
Between the rival kingdoms still prevented
A friendly contract—but whate'er my means,
Ambition was my motive—Great ambition
To reign o'er thee and Denmark—Yet thou prophet,
Thou false, insidious prophet! could I find
Thy execrable dust—the rapid winds
Should rend each sleeping atom!—

Asmond.
False he was not—
Henceforth the Crowns of Denmark and of Norway
Shall be united—Wouldst thou not be witness
To that event? then render to my sword
The life thou long hast ow'd it—

Valdemar.
[Draws: they fight: Valdemar falls.
Gods of Norway!
Am I prevented?

Asmond.
The sure hand of justice
Has sped the blow, and I am satisfied.

SCENE X.

Canute, Asmond, Lother, Berino.
Asmond.
My royal father too return'd in safety!
The Gods are gracious.

Canute.
Are these sacred shades
Defil'd with slaughter? Or is this the body
Of some brave friend?

Asmond.
'Twas once the King of Norway—

Canute.
Ha!

Asmond.
Here he hop'd to find the hapless Lena,
And glut his savage vengeance, but in death
She first had taken refuge—To my sword
He yields—this moment, yields his forfeit life.

Canute.
Tho' 'twas thy due, I envy thee the blow,
By which the ruffian fell.—At last, my son,
Our conquest is complete—and tho' 'tis bought
With one devoted life of Denmark's race,
More lasting peace will follow—Norway's now
A province of our own: for the whole forc
Of Valdemar was spent in this invasion.
Much honour, many thanks, my gallant sons,
Await your valiant deeds; and this brave Chief.
Whose timely aid and animating spirit
Recall'd the scatter'd troops, and rescued me
From short captivity—What meed is due
To such distinguish'd worth?

Asmond.
Might I determine—
Make him your viceroy on the throne of Norway,
And let the fair Avilda, whose affection
He long hath won, be his associate there.

Canute.
Thou art a liberal giver, but thy bounty
I will not now restrain.

Berino.
O let me offer
My truest, humblest duty!

Lother.
Be it mine
To bear the grateful message to Avilda!
Be Lother's meed to make, or to behold
The happiness of others!

Canute.
Thou, my Asmond,
Alone, art to be pitied—Had Misfortune,
With all her train, pursued thy hapless offspring,
She might have been preserv'd—but guilt prevented:
The stings of Guilt wound deeper than Misfortune.
Yet let the merits of thy own good heart
Defend thee from distress—the shield of Virtue
Alike should save the bosom that it shades
From inward sufferings and from outward evils.