 | Moina |  |
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ACT II.
CARRIL.(In the Habit of a Bard.)
Under the cover of these sacred garments,
A sure protection from the hand of insult,
I yet may hope to find my much-lov'd Moina;
Since first these wounded limbs recover'd strength
I've vainly wander'd; many a stately castle
Has hospitably cheer'd my fainting body,
But on my mind forlorn no gleam of joy
Has yet arisen—perhaps within these walls—
Ah no—my tortures must not finish yet—
Would that the pious hands which found me bleeding
'Midst heaps of slain had left me there to perish,
Then had the long calm sleep of death opprest me,
Nor had I woke to anguish.—
(Bards enter.)
Ye aged bards, have pity on a brother,
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Weary and faint I ask but some refreshment,
Shut not your doors against a helpless man.—
BARD.
Accurst be he who 'gainst the suppliant stranger
Shall bolt his massy iron gates, unmindful
Of misery's voice.—These halls have ever offer'd
Food and repose to weary travellers.
CARRIL.
I thank ye venerable men—but say,
What warlike chieftain calls this castle his?
BARD.
'Tis Harold's castle, urg'd by restless valour
He seeks the strife of spears and quits his home.
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And does no beauty weep for his return?
BARD.
A beauty weeps but not for his return;
Another cause of woe has pal'd her cheeks,
Has shrunk her comely form and dimm'd
The lustre of her eyes; she weeps her home.
CARRIL.
Speak, holy man, her name?
BARD.
Her name is Moina—
Why does the red-blood leave thy cheek? why does
The cold dew damp thy face? Thy feeble knees
Can scarce support thee.—
CARRIL.
(After a pause.)
'Tis a sudden fainting,
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Sinks under me.
BARD.
Retire, and take refreshment.
CHORUS OF BARDS.
'Tis not he whose arched halls
Resound with revelry and song
That tastes the purest joy,
But he who from his ample stores
Feeds the hungry, cheers the faint,
On languid features casts the smile
And lights up radiance in the eye;
Him the traveller shall bless,
Him the gods will love.
When the noon-tide sun has scorch'd
The sickly plants on parched hills,
The dews of eve restore their vigor;
When the sultry summer's heat
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The falling rain renews their springs
And verdure spreads around.
CARRIL.
(Returning.)
My strength is now renew'd, I fain would meet
The lady of these halls, to offer thanks
For such a kind reception.
BARD.
See, she comes,
Returning from her morning walk, she passes
Towards her chamber, haste, accost her.
CARILL.
Lady,
A stranger whom your stately halls receiv'd
Fatigu'd and hungry, humbly offers thanks
For food and rest: and if 'tis your good pleasure
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The grateful sound of praise.
MOINA.
Thou holy man,
The flattering song is hateful to my ear,
But if thou know'st to raise the mournful voice,
And softly sound the melancholy tale,
My sickly soul could listen with delight.
CARRIL.
Please you to sit, fair lady, while I pour
The melting strains of woe.
The melting strains of woe.
Peace, winds of night, ye roaring tempests, peace,
Soft glide, ye torrents, from the echoing hills,
Walk thro' dark clouds, pale moon, and dimly shoot
From time to time a mournful beam, skriek not
Ye famish'd eagles, wolves, forget your howlings,
Let all be silent, dark.
Ghosts of my fathers, bend your shadowy forms
To hear the tale of woe—
The tale of woe which Mornac thus began.
Fair was my daughter on the hills of Fura,
Fair as the moon-beam, white as drifted snow,
Sweet as the gale of spring—why starts the tear?
Why heaves the sigh in Mornac's aged bosom?
No more my Lora meets me on the heath,
No more she cheers my soul with pleasant song,
My echoing halls are silent—
The soft mist rises from the lakes, and fills
The flowers with dew, the cheering sun returns,
The mist is gone—no beam of joy dispells
The mist of Mornac's soul, but lasting sorrow
Cleaves to my aged heart—my child, where art thou?
Dark is thy bed, O Lora, grief has crush'd
Thy tender form, far from a parent's bosom
The hand of rapine snatch'd thee, and thy sleep
Ere this is deep—accursed be the chief
Who fought on Fura's plains, my feeble arm
Benumb'd with age's winter struck in vain;
In vain did Carril fight, the much-lov'd Carril;
Swift was his step, full rose his sinewy limbs,
As a dark cloud he mov'd, and shook his glittering spear—
The steel deep pierc'd his side, death's gloom o'erspread him,
And mid'st the slain he fell.—Fear seiz'd our soldiers,
They fled the strife of spears; the conquering Saxons
Enter'd our halls defenceless, thence they bore
My Lora, but the blue-eyed chief disdain'd
To smear his dark-blue steel with aged blood.
Cruel he spar'd me to lament my woes
And sink in anguish to the narrow house.
When the huge mass of snow from lofty hills
Descends impetuous on the cottage roof,
And buries in its fall the father, mother,
And infant offspring, then no sound of woe
Is heard, no parent weeping for a child,
No child deep-sobbing for a tender parent,
All find a common grave and sleep in peace—
But when the roaring torrent rushes down
From dark-brown rocks, and from the mountain-deer
Snatches her sportive fawn, the hapless mother
Rejects her food, forgets the wonted spring
And quits the joyous herd, to hide
Her tear-worn face in gloomy dells.—Thus Mornac
Rejects the joys of life to weep in secret.
And now, the conquering enemy retir'd,
The white rob'd druids from their sacred woods,
Come forth, they haste to bear our fallen friends
To their dark home—when Carril they espied
Yet breathing.—
Soft glide, ye torrents, from the echoing hills,
Walk thro' dark clouds, pale moon, and dimly shoot
From time to time a mournful beam, skriek not
Ye famish'd eagles, wolves, forget your howlings,
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Ghosts of my fathers, bend your shadowy forms
To hear the tale of woe—
The tale of woe which Mornac thus began.
Fair was my daughter on the hills of Fura,
Fair as the moon-beam, white as drifted snow,
Sweet as the gale of spring—why starts the tear?
Why heaves the sigh in Mornac's aged bosom?
No more my Lora meets me on the heath,
No more she cheers my soul with pleasant song,
My echoing halls are silent—
The soft mist rises from the lakes, and fills
The flowers with dew, the cheering sun returns,
The mist is gone—no beam of joy dispells
The mist of Mornac's soul, but lasting sorrow
Cleaves to my aged heart—my child, where art thou?
Dark is thy bed, O Lora, grief has crush'd
Thy tender form, far from a parent's bosom
The hand of rapine snatch'd thee, and thy sleep
Ere this is deep—accursed be the chief
Who fought on Fura's plains, my feeble arm
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In vain did Carril fight, the much-lov'd Carril;
Swift was his step, full rose his sinewy limbs,
As a dark cloud he mov'd, and shook his glittering spear—
The steel deep pierc'd his side, death's gloom o'erspread him,
And mid'st the slain he fell.—Fear seiz'd our soldiers,
They fled the strife of spears; the conquering Saxons
Enter'd our halls defenceless, thence they bore
My Lora, but the blue-eyed chief disdain'd
To smear his dark-blue steel with aged blood.
Cruel he spar'd me to lament my woes
And sink in anguish to the narrow house.
When the huge mass of snow from lofty hills
Descends impetuous on the cottage roof,
And buries in its fall the father, mother,
And infant offspring, then no sound of woe
Is heard, no parent weeping for a child,
No child deep-sobbing for a tender parent,
All find a common grave and sleep in peace—
But when the roaring torrent rushes down
From dark-brown rocks, and from the mountain-deer
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Rejects her food, forgets the wonted spring
And quits the joyous herd, to hide
Her tear-worn face in gloomy dells.—Thus Mornac
Rejects the joys of life to weep in secret.
And now, the conquering enemy retir'd,
The white rob'd druids from their sacred woods,
Come forth, they haste to bear our fallen friends
To their dark home—when Carril they espied
Yet breathing.—
BARD.
Aged man, thy mournful tale
Has deeply touch'd our lady—she retires—
Finish thy song.
CARRIL.
In Carril's wounds they pour
The healing balm, recall his fainting soul
And raise him up to misery.—And now
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In Fura's mossy towers the father weeps.—
Rise, winds of night, ye raging tempests, rise,
Roar loud ye torrents from the echoing hills,
Shriek, shriek, ye eagles, howl, ye hungry wolves,
Ye black clouds gather round and swiftly dart
The tined lightening to encrease the horror—
Ghosts of my fathers, hasten to your clouds—
The solemn song is sung.
A MESSENGER.
(Entering.)
Moina, old man, commands you to attend her.
Follow.—
CHORUS OF BARDS.
What sounds cœlestial float
Upon the liquid air
And charm the listening gods?
Is it the rustling breeze
'Midst Glasor's golden boughs
?
Is it the white-neck'd swan's
Melodious strains?
No—'tis Braga's harp,
Braga sweeps the sounding strings,
Fair Iduna's golden hair ,
Mimer's stream inspires the god,
With swimming eyes
And soul of fire
He pours the tide of harmony.—
Upon the liquid air
And charm the listening gods?
Is it the rustling breeze
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Is it the white-neck'd swan's
Melodious strains?
No—'tis Braga's harp,
Braga sweeps the sounding strings,
Fair Iduna's golden hair ,
Mimer's stream inspires the god,
With swimming eyes
And soul of fire
He pours the tide of harmony.—
He whom Braga loves
Can swell the solemn sound,
Can raise the notes of joy,
And tune the softest shell.
He whom Braga loves
Can sound the warlike lay,
Inflame the chieftain's soul,
And send him in his glittering arms
To fields of blood.
Can swell the solemn sound,
Can raise the notes of joy,
And tune the softest shell.
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Can sound the warlike lay,
Inflame the chieftain's soul,
And send him in his glittering arms
To fields of blood.
END OF ACT II.
An unbounded hospitality was one of the most prominent and amiable features in the character of our Northern ancestors.—Quemcunque mortalium arcere tecto, nefas, monstrator hospitii et comes proximam domum non invitati adeunt, nec interest, pari humanitate accipiuntur. Notum ignotumque quantum ad jus hospitii nemo discernit. Tacitus de Mor. German. S. 21.
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