 | The Fatal Prophecy |  |
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
An Apartment in Canute's Palace.Canute.
“Let the sword sleep, and the grim-visag'd war
“In iron bondage rest”—so clos'd the strain
That told my triumphs o'er the vanquish'd host
Of Eric—But the martial star, that rules
The fate of Denmark's Kings, to glorious toil
Devotes their lives, and bids them close in blood.
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That Nature, wearied with the weight of years,
Indulges for repose! These silver hairs
So thinn'd, so whiten'd by the stealth of time,
Shall the hard helmet bruise, and this old arm
Sustain the shield once more—was this the cause?
Was it, presuming on my feebler age,
That Norway's haughty Monarch durst invade
The realm of Denmark?—By my sword, the thought
New nerves each shatter'd limb—Forth from thy sheath,
Friend of my glory!—one task more remains,
Which well perform'd, together we'll repose,
Companions in the grave.
SCENE II.
Canute. Asmond.Canute.
Son of my youth!
Say, Asmond, has the bold invader own'd
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With great ambition to subdue Canute?
To mock the efforts of his feebler arm,
And tear the laurels from his aged brow?
Asmond.
As yet the cause of Valdemar's descent
Is not proclaim'd—but, if report be true,
He comes not, mov'd by envy, or contempt,
Or wild ambition—Vengeance is his motive
For injur'd honour.
Canute.
Forty years are fled
Since from his father's vanquish'd arm I won
The spoils of Arvor.
Asmond.
'Tis a recent cause,
When crown'd with victory on the plains of Lemor,
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Proclaim'd your high success—Each warriour chief
That shar'd the toils of battle and the praise,
Was then by name invited to partake
The honours of your board—save only two—
The friends alone had not your royal summons.
Canute.
Whom callest thou the friends?
Asmond.
Known by that name
Are Ostan and Berino; Nature's twins;
To whom one heart she gave, one valiant heart,
Generous and faithful—Side by side they fought
On Lemor's plain; each studious to divert
The stroke directed at his dearer friend,
More than to shield his own brave breast from harm.
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Such virtues we admire; nor were the friends
Rejected, but forgot.
Asmond.
The seeming slight
Stung to the soul of honour—Patriot love,
And fair allegiance by the wound expir'd.
Rashly to Norway's hostile shores they sled,
And bow'd, tho' born in Denmark, meanly bow'd
To Valdemar your foe.
Canute.
Low-thoughted traitors!
But is it then by their persuasions mov'd
That Valdemar presumes t'invade my realm,
And hopes he with two fugitives of mine
To conquer me and Denmark?
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Fame has told
A different tale—Returning from the chace,
When first young Ostan came to Norway's queen,
And graceful threw his trophies at her feet,
Love, which is Nature's sympathy, and acts
Uninfluenc'd by reason, sudden seiz'd
The beauteous Lena—Instantly they fled
From Norway's realm to Denmark—and the fleet
Moor'd on our stormy coasts, pursued the lovers.
Canute.
Was this the cause? Then why not such proclaim'd
By the first herald that approach'd our shores?
We yield no refuge to the faithless wife,
Or guest ungrateful—Love, wherever plac'd
With innocence, might justly claim protection,
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Tho' worlds were in the way. But, Asmond, here,
Tho' thou, methinks, wouldst smooth a guilty passion,
And found the cause in nature—Justice claims
That here no sword be lifted but her own.
Asmond.
Whate'er your royal wisdom shall determine,
'Tis always mine t'approve; for duty thus
Is wisdom: but, alas! when careless years,
Elate with wild festivity of heart,
Fly in full chace of pleasure, hard the task
To stop the mad pursuit! Eager of soul,
Impetuous, and impatient of restraint,
With passions uncontroul'd, and chusing still
What wears the face of danger—Ostan brooks not
Reflection's silent thought, nor hears the voice
Of cool, deciding reason—yet he boasts
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The generous heart is his; the living glow
Of soul-uniting friendship; scorning fear,
And all that's low, or little, the sublime,
Unconquer'd mind.
Canute.
A character like this
Becomes a man of Denmark.
Asmond.
Not less brave,
Nor to his friend less faithful is Berino.
But, temper'd mild, his equal virtues shine
With steadier light, nor sully their fair flame
With deeds of indiscretion. Led by friendship
More than resentment, probably, he fled
To Norway's court, and now resolves to share
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His conduct.
Canute.
Virtues such as these may veil
Inferior faults; but where the public love
Is lost in private, friendship is a crime.
Asmond.
The tongue of Asmond shall not plead for crimes.
But where a brave man's character is weigh'd,
Humanity would drop into the scale
Each circumstance of favour.
Canute.
Soon his bravery,
Or innocence, or both shall have their trial
Is Lother yet return'd?
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With every moment,
Such his young ardour for the works of war,
I now expect him—had he not your orders
To learn the cause of Valdemar's descent,
And mark the motions of his host?
Canute.
Such orders
He had from me—Delay not his report.
SCENE III.
Asmond.O wreaths of glory, won so oft, and worn
By the cold brows of Death!—How many sons
Have Denmark's ravag'd hills, and vales, bedew'd
With her own blood, bewail'd—Oft on her moors,
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E'en the hard hunter stops, and from his eye
Slow steals the stranger tear. The virgin sad
Roves by the pale moon o'er the lonely heath,
And, every fear forgot in strong despair,
Mourns o'er the turf where the dear relics lie
Of blasted hope and love—On Lemor's shores
What numbers fell! and shall these ravag'd hills,
These vales bedew'd with blood, once more bewail
Their brave inhabitants? Shall Asmond live
To mourn his future subjects? Painful thought!
My aged father!—Shall the brave Canute,
Now, all but trembling with the weight of years,
Those years forgetting, meet th'impetuous foe,
And bare his gray head to the hostile dart?
Shall Lother—at that name the parent bleeds,—
Ere time has strengthen'd his unsinew'd arm,
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And blast the hopes of Denmark?—
SCENE IV.
Asmond, Lother.Asmond.
Looks of joy!
Then, Lother, is the fierce invader fled?
Has he, more wise, withdrawn his hostile fleet,
And sought the rocks of Norway?
Lother.
Swift as winds,
His gleamy cars dart o'er the trembling plain,
And his dark squadrons hide an hundred hills.
From shield to shield the scatter'd sun beams dance,
Trembling in dreadful glory—O my father!
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Even of those valiant breasts that oft have conquer'd,
E'en of the sons of Denmark—Let me share
In the rich honours of that glorious day,
Which drowns yon host in blood, and at your feet
Thus gratitude shall fall.
Asmond.
Lother, no more!
If Denmark's king shall doom that unbrac'd arm
Again to ache beneath the ponderous shield,
And tempt the rage of war, we know our duty;
Yet name it not, I charge thee, nor sollicit,
What well thou know'st, too prodigal of life,
Thy prince would scarce refuse; but hast thou learnt
The real cause that brings these ravagers
On Denmark's war-worn coasts?
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Report for once
Has brought a tale of truth. The brave Berino
(For Lemor's blood-stain'd heath has known him brave)
Wand'ring I met along the midway hills,
Pensive, as one that courted solitude
To cherish painful thought. A manly sorrow
Sate on his noble aspect—when he rais'd
His drooping eye to me, like one he seem'd,
Whom generous shame could wound, unknown to fear.
With friendly words I hail'd him, and assur'd
His valour and his virtues still were dear
To Denmark's princes, though his rash revolt
Might rouse their just resentment—
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Still remember
To treat distress with such humanity;
For oft it is the lot of noble natures,
Tho' rashness were it's cause. What did he tell thee
Concerning this invasion?
Lother.
“Mark,” he cried,
“The waving ensigns of yon hostile camp!
“There read Berino's anguish and disgrace.
“For Norway's Queen, a fugitive of love,
“With my too daring Ostan, those dark hosts
“Invade my country; prince, I blush to seem
“Associate in a cause like this, but friendship
“Still holds my heart to Ostan, nor in death
“Will I desert him.”
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O distinguish'd honour!
Exalted sentiments, whate'er their object!
Lother, we must not suffer this brave youth
To fall devoted in the threaten'd ruin,
A sacrifice to friendship—But the king
Expects each moment thy return; inform him
Of what thou know'st minutely, nor forget
One circumstance in favour of Berino—
[Exit Lother.
Avilda! ah! another grief! But love,—
SCENE V.
Asmond, Avilda.Avilda.
Didst thou not name Berino? Yet that sound
Thrills on mine ear—Didst thou not name Berino?
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Love has no temples in the field of war,
And every weaker passion must give way
To Denmark's safety.
Avilda.
Asmond, too, unkind?
Then am I lost indeed; yet tell me, prince,
My once most tender brother, tell Avilda
If she has yet one anxious hour to live,
Or is her dear Berino now condemn'd
To suffer for th'enormous crime of friendship?
Asmond.
You wrong my tenderness if you suppose
I would not stretch my utmost power to save him—
That fault of friendship yet may render vain
My best endeavours—still attach'd to Ostan,
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His dangerous fortunes.
Avilda.
Asmond, from one source
The stream of life we drew—fed from one breast,
By one affection cherish'd—If that love,
That tenderest love, which melts in sisters heart,
E'er touch'd thy bosom, save the gallant youth,
From his own virtues save him; if his friendship
Would urge him to destruction.
Asmond.
Has my conduct
Made such intreaties needful?
Avilda.
Ever kind!
Forgive, once more, the vain sollicitudes
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Stole from my breast unconscious; when the tear
Sprung sudden at the tender thought; the blush
Unbidden glowing; when the lonely walk
At eve's late hour withdrew me from the palace,
In luxury of solitude, you mark'd
This change of conduct with a brother's eye,
Nor let the sweet distraction prey unknown
In silence on my heart—For ever faithful,
You kept th'important secret of my soul
E'en from the object of my love, and promis'd,
When Denmark's crown should rest on Asmond's head,
Each wish should be accomplish'd—what I've suffer'd
From Ostan's rash revolt, what now I suffer
From all it's dire effects, th'uncertain fate
Of desolating war, and the firm justice
Of our indignant father, Asmond, judge,
And then forgive my weakness.
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Love oft strengthens
A woman's courage, heightens oft her fears,
Gives to the fearful an unwonted boldness,
The bold unwonted fear. Tho' timorous now,
Avilda oft has prov'd in fortitude
The daughter of Canute—Her infant heart
Beat to the trumpet's clangor—and her eye
With pleasure glanc'd to meet the shining faulchion,
Oft has her hand the temper'd cuirass bound
On her brave father's breast—Oft has she beg'd
At distance but to mark his glorious toil,
And panted to pursue him thro' his dangers.
Avilda.
Kind as thou art, why wouldst thou, prince, recall
Past days of happiness, when my free breast
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Save for a father's, or a brother's safety?
Asmond.
Far happier had that kind anxiety
To Lemor's heath ne'er led thee!—yet if there
Thy virgin heart first yielded to the stroke
Of all subduing love—well hast thou won
The pity of that brother, on whose dangers
Thy dear affection drew thee to attend.
Avilda.
O day! to memory painful still and dear!
When glowing from the recent toils of war,
His bright locks scatter'd o'er his ardent cheek,
Careless—and Victory dancing in his eye,
Berino caught my soul—a wounded friend
Hung feebly on his arm, on whom he look'd
With inexpressive tenderness—
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That friend
Was Ostan—Thro' the battle's bleeding van
By headlong valour led, cover'd with wounds,
Beset with foes, and the last stroke of death
From every hand impending, the brave youth
Flew to his rescue, and in triumph led him
Tho' weak, to safety; thus he prov'd his friendship,
And thus he won thy love.
Avilda.
O love hard-fated!
O friendship ill-repaid! Is this the meed?
Is this the grateful recompence of life
That Ostan gives his friend? Thus to involve him
In all the evils that his own rash conduct
Has drawn upon him!
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To avert those evils
Is my immediate care—And thou, Avilda,
Encourage gentle hope; of which one ray
For love's quick eye suffices. Denmark's safety
Our first attention claims—yet rest assur'd,
The object of a sister's happiness
Asmond can ne'er forget.
SCENE VI.
Avilda.May all the powers
That watch o'er Denmark make thee more successful
Than my heart bodes—And—O thou Spirit that rul'st
The star whose bright urn sheds his golden light
O'er evening's azure veil; thou spirit of Love,
That pour'st soft anguish into mortal hearts,
The painful tenderness, the sweet destruction
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If ever Pity at thy rosy shrine,
Prefer'd one tender vow; if ever Hope,
By thee inspir'd, not prophesied in vain;
Indulge the fond wish of one suppliant maid,
And save, o save—
SCENE VII.
Avilda, Berino.Avilda.
Audacious chief, who art thou?
That thus intrudest on the solitude
Of Denmark's Princess—
Berino.
May I hope for pardon?
Illustrious daughter of the brave Canute,
You see no bold intruder, but a suppliant.
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And, misdirected, hop'd to find him here.
Avilda.
Wherefore a suppliant? Hast thou then a crime?
Berino.
I cannot boast of innocence, but hope,
For this offence, that I retire forgiven.
Avilda.
Stay, youth; perhaps my interest with my brother
May not be useless; and, methinks, that look
Ingenuous speaks a soul incapable
Of crimes beyond th'extent of royal grace.
Berino.
O princess, more than worthy the fair fame
That all the North's extended regions fills
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Were all your generous efforts to assist
A wretch who courts the tardy hand of justice
To save him from the anguish of remorse,
And end a painful being—Know, I am
Berino,—needs there more?
Avilda
(aside)
Too well I know it!—
Oh! hold, my heart, thy purpose—But what here,
What shall I say, or do?—Direct me Heaven!
Berino.
O Chief of Denmark! O disgrac'd Berino!
How fall'n from thy fair honours! At thy name
The cheek of virtue reddens, and the eye
Of innocence with pity, or contempt,
Or both, beholds thee.
Avilda.
Youth, mistake me not,
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'Tis for abandon'd and unblushing guilt.
That, surely, is not thine—I am no stranger
To the sad story of that joyless look,
And that dejected eye: I am no stranger
To the firm friendship which you bear to Ostan,
It's glorious cause, or it's effects less glorious.
Yet pity, surely, is at least your due;
And pity—was th'emotion that I felt
For you and for your fortunes.
Berino.
Generous princess!
How ill, alas! I've merited this goodness,
Yon host clad hills in threatening pomp proclaim
Loud thro' the realm of Denmark—an associate
In Ostan's flight I was—His friend I am,
Nor even in Death will I desert him—Justice
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Perhaps even Denmark's safety may demand
One victim here—That victim let me fall—
A Chief of Denmark given to his revenge
May Norway's Prince appease, and the rich blood
That pours a warm tide to each Patriot breast,
It's azure urns retain.
Avilda.
Mistaken Chief!
Too prodigal of life! 'Twere vain to think
That Norway's Monarch would accept a victim
To favour his escape who wounds his honour,
And violates his love—'Twere vain to hope
That Denmark's King would doom the innocent
And give the guilty freedom—Chief—yet more!
Thy country may demand an arm like thine,
Approv'd in valour—would'st thou, then, redeem
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The injuries thy daring friend has done her,
Live for her service and her safety—Thus,
And on these terms alone may'st thou expect
My royal father's, or my brother's favour—
That favour now I hasten to solicit,
And may the Gods that smile on Denmark guard thee!
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