 | Moina |  |
ACT III.
CARRIL AND MOINA.MOINA.
In vain you urge my flight—tho' force compell'd me
To share the bed of Harold, whilst he breathes
I'm his alone, nor shall my sacred honour
Be ever blasted, then e'en Carril's self
Would hate me, faithless—should some nervous arm
Transfix the Saxon, joy again might burst
Upon the cloud of grief which veils us round,
Then might I fly and rest in Carril's arms.
CARRIL.
Then is there one way left, when Harold's step
Resounds within his halls, this hand shall—
No, Carril, no—I love thy daring spirit,
Yet should the chieftain bleed within these walls,
A sure destruction waits upon us both.
Calm thy fierce courage—on the road which leads
O'er yonder hills, a gloomy forest borders,
The sun-beams never pierce its sides, the wolf,
The hissing snake possess it; there resides
A prophetess deep skill'd in Runic lore;
Haste to her cave, and force her to demand
By magic rites, if joy or grief await
Our future hours.
I go, and may the god
We fear with blest forebodings wing
My feet returning.
[Moina and Carril go out.
Bards enter meeting a Soldier.
BARD.
Thy hasty step forebodes us good, thou com'st
To tell the victory of Harold?
SOLDIER.
No,
Our chief is fallen in the strife of spears,
Bravely he fought by multitudes opprest,
His blows were death; at length a hissing dart
Pierc'd his brave side; his heart's blood follow'd gushing;
Death dimm'd his eyes; he feebly rais'd his arm
As if to strike again; his sinews fail'd him;
His weapon; cold and bloody, yet he looks
The hero—
BARD.
Thus should a Saxon fall.
SOLDIER.
His faithful people
With fury rush'd around him, tore his body
From the surrounding warriors—now they bear him
In mournful silence to his lofty halls,
And haste to lay him 'midst his brave forefathers.
BARD.
Soldier, let Moina hear the fate of Harold.
CHORUS OF BARDS.
And swell the sounds of woe,
His blue eyes close,
His golden hair is red,
He falls in blood.
His faithful warriors sit,
In vain they cast their eyes around
To meet their chieftain's looks;
Sorrow glooms their souls
And dashes from their lips
The sparkling shell.
The stout dogs leap around
And seek their chief,
No more shall Harold's voice
Be heard the woods among.
And asks his wonted food,
No more shall Harold's arm
Prepare the bloody feast.
Our chieftain's soul is fled,
He rises on the rushing blast
And seeks Valhalla's halls.
That these prophetesses or witches were held in great veneration among the Northern nations is confirmed by the testimony of various authors.—Inesse quin etiam, (says Tacitus, de Mor. Germ.) sanctum quid et providum fæminis putant. The influence of their councils in war is mentioned both by Polyænus de Stratag. Lib. 7. and by Cæsar de Bello Gall. Lib. 7.
εισι δε και παρα Γερμανοις αι ιεραι καλουμεναι γυναικες, αι ποιαμων διναις προβλεπουσαι, και ρευματων ελιγμοις και ψοφοις, τεκμαιρονται και προθεσπιζουσι τα μελλοντα.
Strom. Lib. I. p. 305. (Colon. Fol. 1688.In silvis, montibus, specubus aut prope fontibus habitabant. Keysler Antiq. Septentrion. 44.
Strabo has given us a minute description of the dress of these women:
παρακολουθυν προμαντεις ιεραι πολιοτριχες, λευκειμονες, καρπασινας εθαπτιδας, επιπεπορτημεναι, ζωσμα χαλκουν εχουσαι, γυμνοποδες.
Strabonis Geograph. Lib. 7. | Moina | |