University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

Sweno's Chamber.
SWENO. BERTHA.
BERTHA.
The evening is far spent, and drowsy night
Spreads her still mantle o'er the face of nature.
Sweno, thy mind needs rest.

SWENO.
O gentle Bertha,
The limbs may lack refreshment, but the mind
Hath no sweet pause, while shapeless dread hangs o'er it,
E'en in the lap of sleep. That strange wierd woman
Has cast a withering spell upon my soul,
And her last words ring dreadful in mine ear.
O Bertha! I am sick at heart, and cheerless;
The memory of the past preys keen and darkling
On my deep-burthen'd soul. The curse of her,
Who bann'd us, still pursues me.

BERTHA.
What means my lord?
Have not his firm asseverations made
His Bertha certain, that her wondrous form,
Beauteous in madness, was unknown to Sweno?

SWENO.
And be that added to the bitter sum;
Bertha, my speech deceived thee. Not unknown
Her voice, like fate's last summons, smote my soul.
Still when the tempests rave, and sheeted lightning
Sets the pale vision of her form before me,
That sound appalls my fancy; from above
Retributory vengeance frowns on Sweno.

BERTHA.
Be my lord's thought less gloomy! Twenty years
The sun hath smil'd on us, and all things prosper'd,
As if kind fortune's course outsped thy wishes.

SWENO.
Ay, my loved wife: but heaven's deep wrath delay'd
O'erwhelms with tenfold vengeance.

BERTHA.
Nay, good Sweno,
Heaven has still joys in store to cheer the evening
Of thy bright glories: thou unbend thy sorrows,
Disclose the bitter secret of thy thoughts,
And let my love assuage them.

SWENO.
Gentle Bertha!
From my youth up I have been proud and fearless.
Bitter must be the pangs which now can wring
Self-accusation from the mouth of Sweno.
But it shall be. Pride wrought the deed that stains
The fair field of my conscience, which yet knows
No other blot: and that dark pride shall stoop
Even to confession of my inward horrors.
I will be henceforth humble, very humble.

BERTHA.
Speak, and be yet my proud and glorious husband!
The evil now abjured, whate'er it be,
Humiliates not.

SWENO.
Was she not fair?

BERTHA.
O yes;
I well remember, on the raving blast,
When her locks stream'd (her beauteous form between us
And the fire-flashing storm) I could almost
Have bow'd and worshipp'd: but the ban, that flow'd
From her ill-ominous lips in phrensy, spoke her
A maniac or a fiendlike spirit, and say'st thou
Not then unknown?

SWENO.
O Bertha! she was known
Even to the inmost chamber of my heart.
There was a time, if she had ask'd of Sweno
Wealth, fortune, station, character, whate'er
Makes man amongst his fellows vain or glorious,
I had all given and freely; so enshrined
Was her bright image in my soul: e'en now
My fancy views her innocent and lovely,
The temple of pure joys, as first I saw her
Staunching my wounds, while I lay faint and bloodless.

BERTHA.
What wounds? when, where inflicted? say, kind Sweno.

SWENO.
'Twas dusk; alone I journey'd through the forest,
Where the trees leaning from the ruinous steep
Spread their rude canopy o'er a mountain brook,
Then dry and stony. Crossing the ravine,
A bow-shot slew my steed; loud rose the shout
Of rushing men unmerciful. I staid
My back against a rock and kept at bay
The yelling ruffians, when a hand unseen
From the crag's summit smote me, and I fell
Senseless and seeming dead into the hollow.

BERTHA.
Ah me! and none to help?

SWENO.
Yes, there was one,
A shape like heaven's pure spirits, to whom I owe
Life rescued from that deep and bloody trance.

BERTHA.
How came she in that glen?

SWENO.
A cottage, mantled
With flowery sweets, on the lone forest's border,
Gave birth and nurture to her loveliness.
Widow'd, forlorn, though sprung of gentle blood,
Her mother had no joy, no hope, but her;
Yet in that rich indeed. Passing the glen
At earliest dawn to seek their scanty herd,
She found me thus.

BERTHA.
And saved thee! That poor maniac,
Sweno, thy life's preserver! Is it thus?

SWENO.
I tell thee, Bertha, if the slave, that fell'd me,
Had thrust his weapon to the seat of life,
I had died then reproachless, nor thus stoop'd
To strew the ashes of too late repentance
O'er my devoted head. From that long trance
I woke, as by an angel's touch redeem'd.
I had seen nothing on this goodly earth
Like her who stood beside me. Her bright hue,
Her shape, her charms, were in the spring of youth,
With every full-form'd loveliness new-blown;
Of such superior and exalted grace
As woo'd the sense to worship: her dark eyes
Shone with no earthly lustre, proud, yet bashful;
And their glance seem'd to say, “Love me, for I
“Am worth the loving, and can well repay
“With the best bliss of life.”

BERTHA.
But thy keen wounds,
How were they staunch'd?

SWENO.
There, where I carried phrensy,
Disgrace, and death! By beauty nursed I wax'd
In health and vigor, while the mind's deadlier fever
Waked hot within. But Elfrid's soul was haughty,
And, when to lawless passion I gave voice,
The flush of indignation crimson'd o'er
Those beauteous cheeks, where love sate still supreme;
And those dark eyes, which seem'd his throne and altar,
Became a killing plague. Stung with desire,
Maddening, I swore, if she would bless my love,
That she should share my name, rank, wealth and honors.
My oaths prevail'd. O Bertha! I did call
The living God to witness with such strong
And terrible denouncement, that my soul
Shrinks now from the remembrance. I invoked
A curse on me and mine to everlasting,
If I should fail.

BERTHA.
Immortal justice, spare us!

SWENO.
Heaven bears record, how I adored and wrong'd her;
How in brief space those vows, joy-seal'd, were broken.
Health strung my limbs; the prize from thy fair hand
'Mid Christendom's best knights in tourney won
Waked loftier thoughts. Pride scorn'd the lowly gem
Which it had robb'd of lustre. Yet once more
I saw her, mournful, and presaging death,
In her lone bower. I spoke not what I purposed,
But her pale features an expression wore
So sad, and yet so steadfast, that her look
Pierced to my inmost soul, which shrunk beneath it.
Her words were few; but from a harp, o'er which
Oft I had hung in rapture, her white hand
Waked a most wild and dissonant harmony;
And then a song broke forth, which on my soul
Has sear'd its words in fire; ne'er heard since then,
Till from my Agnes the ill-omen'd notes
Stole on my nerves, like the cold ague's fit.

BERTHA.
Nor seen again? until our nuptial hour,
When the flood whelm'd her.

SWENO.
Never.—That direful music
Was her last parting; nor did I hear reproach,
Save on the morning of her piteous fate
That ominous threat which burst over our bridal:
But here indelible her image dwells,
And shapeless fears appall me.

BERTHA.
Let the balm
Of Bertha's tried affection soothe thy thoughts.

SWENO.
Go, Bertha, to thy couch: myself will follow,
Short space to penitent devotion given.

BERTHA.
Tarry not, my loved lord.
[Exit Bertha.

SWENO,
alone. (He sits down.)
I know not why,
Or what vain terrors undefined oppress me.
There is no living thing can daunt my strength;
But visions of the past rise thick before me,
And his own secret thoughts quell Sweno's pride.
O sleep, sweet sleep, when will thy balmy wing
Lap me in still forgetfulness, without
Thy fearful train of soul-appalling fancies?
Steal, gentle soother, o'er my troubled spirits!

[After a pause, the door opens slowly, and The Wanderer enters cautiously.]
WANDERER.
Sweno, awake! Hie thee to Agnes' chamber!
Search the maid's bower! The dainty bird is gone,
The virgin honors of thy house are blasted.
Sweno, arise! or sit thou unrevenged,
Till foul dishonor stare thee in the face
Plain as the sun! Ubald has stolen thine Agnes.
The vaulted chamber under Helen's chapel
Is witness to their loves. There seek, there find them!
Up, Sweno, rise! 'tis Elfrid bids thee wake!

[Exit.
SWENO.
Are my thoughts crazed, or stood that form before me?
Art thou a phantom from the oozy deep,
Breaking night's stillness with unhallow'd voice,
Or shape of flesh and blood, that warn'st me thus?

The WANDERER, alias ELFRID,
without, singing.
The fiend has set his mark
On their heads, dark, dark,
And the spirit of vengeance is near his door.

SWENO.
The voice, the voice, the very tones of Elfrid!
Dread judgment, hang'st thou o'er my fated house?
Not on my child, great God of mercies, not
On my poor Agnes!—Bertha, Bertha, sleeps she
In the sweet rest of innocence unharm'd?
My child, my Agnes, hear me! Bertha! Bertha!

[Exit.