 | Moina |  |
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ACT IV.
Enter Moina, Carril meeting her.MOINA.
Welcome my Carril to thy Moina's arms,
Now am I thine, my love; this joyful night
Shall shade us flying to our native country;
Again my aged father shall behold
His happy daughter, and the white rob'd druid
Shall hear our holy vows.—The chief is fall'n.—
CARRIL.
Thou unseen power, when deep despair surrounds us,
When the dark night of woe o'ershades the soul,
Sudden thou shin'st amidst surrounding horrors,
The cloud is gone, and keenest joy bursts in
Upon the darken'd mind.—The prophetess
Foreboded Harold's death—
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And 'tis accomplish'd,
Bless'd be the arm which pierc'd his hated heart;
Say, Carril, did the prophetess foretell
A happy issue to our flight, and promise
Long days of joy and love?—tell, tell me all.
CARRIL.
My hasty steps soon reach'd the gloomy wood
I sought; and struggling thro' the thorny paths
To find the dwelling of the prophetess,
I mark'd a craggy rock whose broken summit
Was veil'd by creeping shrubs—it's bottom yawn'd
And shew'd a deep dark gulph—I fearless enter'd,
And with extended arms I trac'd my way,
For there no beam of light was seen to glimmer
Save that which rose from magic incantations;
While thus advancing slow, a dead cold hand
Caught mine, a hoarse voice thus address'd me,
Who art thou, man, that dar'st with impious step
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Mildly I answer'd, prophetess, a stranger,
A miserable stranger seeks thy aid;
O tell me, I conjure you by your gods,
If Harold's doom be seal'd, if grief-worn Moina
Shall e'er behold again her native home
And dwell with Carril?—Hence, away, she cries,
I know thee now, thyself art Carril, hence,
I hate the foes of Harold.—
With that I forward rush'd, and in my arms
Seizing the prophetess, I cried aloud
Unfeeling woman, tell me what I ask,
Or these firm arms shall from thy feeble body
Set loose thy cursed soul.—My son, she said,
Forbear, I yield, thy bravery has won me,
Approach—within my cave a new slain corse,
Born by my spirits from the field of slaughter,
Yet bleeds, by Harold's arm this day transfix'd,
The soul is seated in Valhalla's halls,
But by my potent art I'll call it back,
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And truly answer thy demands.—She spake,
And blue light flash'd around me; I beheld
The bleeding man—with hoarse rough voice she 'gan
To sound the Runic rhyme, and singing still,
The corse uprear'd his head and clotted hair,
And slowly cast his ghastly eyes around,
Then sunk again, as if the soul had fear'd
To animate a hateful mangl'd body;
The prophetess observ'd him, and in wrath
She seiz'd a living snake and lash'd his limbs—
Uprose the corse, his languid eyes he fix'd
On me, thus speaking—Tell me, Carril, quickly,
For well I know thee, Carril, what's thy pleasure?
Dismiss me hence with speed to halls of joy.
Warrior, I said, is Harold's death decreed?—
He bleeds, he bleeds, I see him fall
On the corse-spread plain—
Send me back to halls of joy.
Yet speak, shall Moina with her Carril dwell?
E'er the setting sun shall shoot
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Moina's woes shall be at peace—
I go, I go to halls of joy—
He said, and smiling sullenly, fell lifeless.
Then from the cave with joyous steps I hasten'd
To bear the glad forebodings to my Moina.
MOINA.
Again the sun of joy bursts forth and gilds
Our future days.—But now retire, my Carril,
Instantly quit the castle and attend me
In the dark dell which borders on the wood
Some two miles off.—The followers of Harold,
Bearing his body to the narrow house,
Are near at hand, and when the chief is laid
At peace, I'll steal unnotic'd from the walls,
And fly on love-wing'd step to Carril's arms.
[Carril goes out.
Now, haste ye tardy minutes, till the dews
Of evening fall, arise ye floating clouds,
And shroud the silver moon in welcome darkness;—
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BARD.
Lady, the soldiers bear our chieftain's body
Within our castle gates, the grave is ready,
The holy rites prepar'd, we wait thy presence.
MOINA.
My presence, venerable man, and wherefore?
BARD.
Know'st thou not then the custom of our land?
The laws which ages past have render'd sacred?
Know'st thou not, lady, with her husband's body
The wife is buried , that in other worlds
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May dwell with her in joy?
MOINA.
Buried?—
BARD.
Our laws have so decreed it, lady,
And their decrees unalterably stand;
Haste then with Harold to the halls of joy,
Haste to the feast of gods—
MOINA.
Have pity on me—
Spare, spare my life—O save me, save me—
Hadst thou but offer'd death when Harold led me
A weeping captive from my native shore,
With joy I'd follow'd to the grave—but now—
Horror, horror—curses, curses fall
Upon thy nation—was it not enough
To drag me from a father's arms, to force me
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Must the same grave receive us?—Save me, save me.
BARD.
Lady, the law must be obeyed, I cannot.
MOINA.
Is there no help?—
Is there no arm to save, no breast to pity?
BARD.
Death cannot be avoided.
MOINA.
Carril, Carril,
Is this our promis'd joy? accurst forebodings,
And did ye raise our souls to plunge them deeper
In horror's night?—Father, father—no more—
Soon wilt thou meet me—soon will Carril hail
His faithful Moina in the cloudy hall
Of ghosts—haste, haste beloved men.—
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Revenge, revenge my blood, and—
BARD.
Lady, no more,
I must command obedience.
[Leads her off.
Harold's body is carried by his soldiers across the stage, Moina follows; the Bards stop and sing the funeral song.
CHORUS.
Who steps on the glittering bridge
That leads to the mansion of gods?
'Tis Harold—undaunted in fight,
He smil'd at the shivering of spears,
He fell in the clashing of arms.
Rise, Odin, rise,
See, he enters thy shining abodes
And terrible sits by thy side.
That leads to the mansion of gods?
'Tis Harold—undaunted in fight,
He smil'd at the shivering of spears,
He fell in the clashing of arms.
Rise, Odin, rise,
See, he enters thy shining abodes
And terrible sits by thy side.
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Who lifts the gold-tipp'd horn
Of sparkling mead?
Harold lifts the gold-tipp'd horn
Of sparkling mead.
Andrimner's bubbling cauldron feeds
The happy gods,
Harold joins the joyous band
And feasts on food divine.
Of sparkling mead?
Harold lifts the gold-tipp'd horn
Of sparkling mead.
Andrimner's bubbling cauldron feeds
The happy gods,
Harold joins the joyous band
And feasts on food divine.
Happy he who fighting falls,
Happy in the battle's clangor
To feel the quivering dart.
Happy in the battle's clangor
To feel the quivering dart.
When the hunter's spear has pierc'd
The roe-buck's mottled side,
Down from the summit of the rock
He falls, and falling dies;
His dark grey eyes for ever close,
No more he sees the grassy hill,
No more he seeks the gushing spring,
But sinks to endless night.
When Vithri drives the singing spear
Deep in the hero's steel-clad breast,
His soul immortal mounts on high
And climbs the airy hall of gods;
There in Pleasure's lap he lies
'Till Surtur's flames consume the world.
The roe-buck's mottled side,
Down from the summit of the rock
He falls, and falling dies;
His dark grey eyes for ever close,
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No more he seeks the gushing spring,
But sinks to endless night.
When Vithri drives the singing spear
Deep in the hero's steel-clad breast,
His soul immortal mounts on high
And climbs the airy hall of gods;
There in Pleasure's lap he lies
'Till Surtur's flames consume the world.
From the four regions of the sky
The white snow falls,
And Winter binds in thick ribb'd ice
The floating world—
Who rears the bloody hand?
A brother in his brother's heart
Has plung'd the spear.
Who rears the bloody hand?
A father in his daughter's heart
Has plung'd the spear.
Where are thy beams, O sun?
Where is thy silver shield,
O moon?
The glittering stars fall from the cope of heav'n—
'Tis darkness all—the firm earth shakes,
The lofty mountains crashing rush
Upon the plains below—
Old Ocean heaves his waves,
And tempests howl around.
The white snow falls,
And Winter binds in thick ribb'd ice
The floating world—
Who rears the bloody hand?
A brother in his brother's heart
Has plung'd the spear.
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A father in his daughter's heart
Has plung'd the spear.
Where are thy beams, O sun?
Where is thy silver shield,
O moon?
The glittering stars fall from the cope of heav'n—
'Tis darkness all—the firm earth shakes,
The lofty mountains crashing rush
Upon the plains below—
Old Ocean heaves his waves,
And tempests howl around.
See Fenris bursts his chain
His eye-balls flash,
His nostrils breathe
Consuming fire.
From the Serpent's iron jaws
Floods of poison roll—
Hark—the crash of heav'n,
It cleaves, it cleaves,
Spirits of fire arise
And hurl their burning brands,
Surtur at their head,
Before him flash his dazzling arms,
Behind him flies resistless flame.
His eye-balls flash,
His nostrils breathe
Consuming fire.
From the Serpent's iron jaws
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Hark—the crash of heav'n,
It cleaves, it cleaves,
Spirits of fire arise
And hurl their burning brands,
Surtur at their head,
Before him flash his dazzling arms,
Behind him flies resistless flame.
Heimdal lifts the brazen trump
And blows a war denouncing blast,
Heaven's solid pillars shake—
Odin hears—he grasps his spear
And rears his golden shield—
Heimdal sounds the brazen trump—
The gods start up and seize their glittering arms.
Heimdal sounds the brazen trump—
Odin's heros rush to battle,
And clash their sounding shields.
Them among shall Harold stand
Foremost in their glittering ranks,
His arm shall wing the hissing dart
Nor dread the flames around;
Then shall he fighting fall again,
And sink amid the war of gods,
Amid the crush of worlds.
And blows a war denouncing blast,
Heaven's solid pillars shake—
Odin hears—he grasps his spear
And rears his golden shield—
Heimdal sounds the brazen trump—
The gods start up and seize their glittering arms.
Heimdal sounds the brazen trump—
Odin's heros rush to battle,
And clash their sounding shields.
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Foremost in their glittering ranks,
His arm shall wing the hissing dart
Nor dread the flames around;
Then shall he fighting fall again,
And sink amid the war of gods,
Amid the crush of worlds.
END OF ACT IV.
This is a custom recorded in Mallet's Northern Antiquities. Vol I. p. 342. The authorities quoted for it are—Edda Mythol. 43.—Hist. Norveg. Torfæi—Olof Trygguason's Saga. To these may be added, Saxo Grammaticus. Lib. 8. de Danis—and Strabo.
και ξυλον εμβαλοντες εις τουτον βοσκημα και θερια και ανθρωπους ωλοκαυτων. Lib. 7.
It is probable that the Goths inherited this custom from their Scythian ancestors, for Herodotus speaking of the Scythian funerals says,
εν δε τη λοιπη ευροχωριη της θηκης, των παλλανεων τε μιην αποπϝιξαντες θαπτουσι και το οινοχοον και μαγειρον και ιπποκομον,, &c. Lib. 4. S. 17.
As Moina was a Celt and but lately a prisoner, she may very well be supposed ignorant of this barbarous law.
The most striking parts of the following description of the twilight of the gods are taken from Mallet's Northern Antiquities. Vol. II. p. 159. and Sæmund's Edda Vafthrudnismal. liii.
Fenris was an enormous and terrible wolf bound in chains till the last day, when he was to escape and attack the gods.
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