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Moina

A Tragedy, in Five Acts

Sayers, F. (1763-1817)

MOINA.

ACT I.

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ACT I.

MOINA.
Full fifty nights have cast their gloom around me
Since first the hated Saxon tore me trembling
From parents, kindred, and a much lov'd land—
Yet loss of parents, kindred, and my country
Scarce move a soul opprest with keener grief;
In the loud strife of arms, in fields of blood,
My Carril fighting with a lover's fury
Fell—fell by Harold's arm, and smiling hope

For ever fled my breast—here, here he lives,
And while my eyes behold this hated light
He still shall live, and still with sullen pleasure
I'll dwell on other times, when all was hope,
When all was love and joy—accursed beauty!
Would that the god of Fura's sacred wood
Had blasted this fair form—the Saxon then
Had seen and hated me.—Wife?—wife?—
Yes—'tis a murderer's arm embraces me,
A murderer calls me his, the murderer
Of Carril!—Would this hand—
But hark! the sound of song, the morning greeting
Of aged bards.—

BARDS. (Entering.)
CHORUS.
Hail to her whom Frea loves,
Moina, hail:
When first thy infant eyes beheld
The blushing beam of orient day

Frea from Valhalla's groves
Mark'd thy birth in silent joy;
From Valhalla's groves she sent
The swift-wing'd messenger of love ,
Bearing in her rosy hand
The gold-tipt horn of gods;
From this thy infant lips imbib'd
Three lingering drops of mead divine ,
Thro' thy tender frame distilling,
They form'd thy snowy limbs to grace,
They gloss'd thy raven hair,
Illum'd thy sparkling eyes,
And flush'd thy cheek with crimson hue
Unfading.
Hail to her whom Frea loves,
Moina, hail.

MOINA.
Ye venerable men, my grief-worn soul
Scarce heeds your salutation: child of sorrow
The soothing voice of flattery passes by me,
Like feeble gales which fan a warring host,
Unnotic'd.—Is your chief return'd?

BARD.
As yet
No messenger of victory has reach'd us.

MOINA.
To slay, to conquer, these are Harold's pleasures,
To stain his dark-blue steel with human gore;
Cannot the glad repast, the song of bards,
The vigor-giving chace, the solemn council,
Withdraw the savage hero from the battle?
No—these are vain.—To stab the faithful lover,
To shed the blood of brothers and of sons,
To deal the dole of misery to thousands,

These are the only joys a Saxon feels.—
God of my fathers, strike the fell destroyers,
Blunt, blunt their steel, benumb their hardy sinews,
Pour out their red heart's blood, that peace again
May bless my country.

BARD.
E'en the gods themselves ,
Who dwell above in happiness and glory,
Delight in shining arms and fierce encounter;
From fair Valhalla's halls they rush with joy
To meet each other in the strife of spears,
They fight but for their sport; when tir'd of battle
Again they seek the banquet, quaff again
From gold-encircled horn the sparkling mead,
And joyful feast upon Serimner's flesh ;

Such is their happy life; and can'st thou wonder
That man should imitate the gods? that man
Should laugh at fear, and dauntless die to claim
A glorious seat at Odin's splendid board?

MOINA.
And may Valhalla's halls be quickly fill'd
With Saxon souls—
Thou unseen power, who in my country's woods
In awful silence dwell'st, whom trembling druids
With hallow'd rites invoke, arise, arise,
And wing the hissing dart to Harold's bosom.—

BARD.
Beware—nor call the vengeance of thy gods
Upon a husband's head; should Harold fall,
Shuddering I see what follows.—

MOINA.
What can follow?
What keener woes than those I know already?
A breathless lover and an aged parent
In sorrow sinking to the narrow house?
The breast of Moina fears no greater anguish.

BARD.
No more—our words distress you, and you lose
The pleasant freshness of the morning air.

MOINA.
Ye aged bards, farewell.

CHORUS OF BARDS.

King of gods on shining throne ,
Thou, who with a single glance

Piercest Nature's wide extent,
Thou, who from the spring of Mimer
Quaffest liquid lore divine,
Odin, hear.

King of gods, whom Hydrasil
With sacred shadow veils,
Whilst around thee sit cœlestials,
Whilst beneath thee Fates attend,
Odin, hear.

King of men, on coal-black steed,
Brave in battle, brave in death,
Pierc'd with arrows nine
In agony thou smil'st;
King of men, whose dark-blue steel
No foe unconquer'd saw,
Soon his heart's blood smok'd around,

Soon his fainting soul retir'd.
Odin, hear.—

In Harold's breast thy spirit pour,
String his nerves, his eyes inflame,
Direct his brawny arm to deal
The darts of death around,
In the tempest of the battle
Throw thy shield of safety round him,
Protect him with thy mighty hand,
And send him back with victory.

But should the Fatal Sisters mark
Our chieftain's soul to grace thy halls,
Should the keen arrow pierce his side
And Harold perish in the fight,
When death shall hover round his heart,
When his firm knees shall tottering fail,
When shades of night shall gloom his eyes
And sinking nature yield,
Then may no groan of woe escape

Our hardy chieftain's fainting lips,
Then may no writhing agony
Deform the hero's face,
Joyful to fall in fields of blood
To him may death's cold steel be welcome,
And may he laughing die.

END OF ACT I.

Gna is the name of Frea's messenger; Fulla and Gnossa also attended her.

The common beverage of the Northern deities.

Edda Sæmundar. Vafthrudnismal, xli.

The name of the wild boar which was the food of the gods: though they were constantly feasting on it its flesh was never consumed.

All those who died bravely in battle were immediately received by Odin into his palace, and joined the society of the other deities.

Lidskialsa was the name of Odin's throne whence the whole world was supposed to be visible to him.

Odin, whilst he was yet on earth, is recorded to have stabbed himself at an advanced period of age in nine different places. The Gothic nations esteemed it dishonorable not to die a violent death.