University of Virginia Library

Scene V.

—Another Chamber in the Palace.
Elgiva and Ethilda.
Elgiva.
How is it I find favour in the sight
Of the Queen Mother, and so suddenly?
When I was last at court no word she spake
Of welcome by herself, the King, or you.
Whence is the change?

Ethilda.
I know not; but I know
That but one change in you would work in us
All love that you could wish. O sweet Elgiva,
Restore yourself to God in His true Church,
And stray not in that howling wilderness
Where never is the voice of gladness heard,
Of bridegroom nor of bride.

Elgiva.
But how is this?
'Tis you, not I, that in that desert stray.
Except amongst the monks, I know not where
The voice is silenced of the bride and groom.
I pray you be not factious for the monks.
The King and they are now as far apart
As heaven and earth; did charity not forbid
I should seek further down for opposites.
Ask Athulf—ask my brother. Have you seen him?
He came but yesterday.

Ethilda.
I saw him not.

Elgiva.
Oh! he is bright and jocund as the morn,
And where is there on earth that wilderness
Which he could not reclaim? No sandy waste
Pressed by his foot, but what would teem with springs
Of fruitfulness and joy.

Ethilda.
When last we met
I was almost a child; but I remember
How wild he was with pleasantness and mirth.
I was gay then, although I seemed not so
Beside his bounding spirit. Is he now
Of the same temper?

Elgiva.
Not so thoughtless now,
And more in broken lights; but Nature's flag
Is flying still, whose revels in his heart
Hardly can care suspend.

Enter Edwin.
Edwin.
Oh, this is kind!
You know not, my fair cousin, what a cloud
Came over all the court when you were gone;
No city churchyard could be more forlorn.
Now we shall smile again.

Enter an Usher.
Usher.
The Queen, so please you,
Prepares for her devotions, and bade say
She waits the Princess.

[Exit.
Ethilda.
For this night, adieu.

[Exit.
Elgiva.
Adieu, good night, sweet kind Ethilda!

Edwin.
Yes;
Kind is she always; she is kind to stay
Ever, when you are absent, by my side,
And also kind to go when you are here.

Elgiva.
Your Highness. . . . .

Edwin.
Cousin! Are we not alone?
Oh, how I hate my title in your mouth,
Whence every other utterance is a charm.
Rather than speak as in the audience-chamber,
Let us be children once again, to rove
O'er hill, through vale, with interlacing arms,
And thrid the thickets where wild roses grow
Entangled with each other like ourselves.
Can you and will you those sweet days remember,
And strive to bring them back?

Elgiva.
Those days—O Edwin!
Can I remember? when can I forget them?
When flowers forget to blow and birds to sing
And clouds to kindle in the May-day dawn
And every spring-tide sight and sound shall cease
Or cease for me, then too for me shall cease
The sweet remembrance of the tender joys,
The smiles, the tears of those delightful days.

Edwin.
And can they not repeat themselves? Again
Let us, though grown, be children in our hearts;
Then with the freedom and the innocence
Which led our childish steps we'll wander on
Through after-life, but with a fuller joy.
Let recollections of the past, if sweet,
Plead sweetly for the present.

Elgiva.
Edwin, Edwin!
You are a King.

Edwin.
Now, see! I wakened up
By art of incantation from its bed
A Spirit beautiful as break of day,
The Spirit of the Past, and bade it speak,
And prophesy and plead—and what response
Is this it meets? None but the words of form
The herald spoke, when o'er my father's grave
He brake his wand of office. Yes, a King;
But may not Kings be happy? Nor not love?

Elgiva.
Oh, they are most unfortunate in that!
For when their hearts would rise from earth to heaven,
Leaving low aims, which can but be through love,
Then strangers intermeddle with their joy.
And strangers such as those that circle you
Are opposites to joy and love not more
Than they are to all monarchy malignant.
The monks are enemies that Kings may fear,
Though of the bravest, and my father's house
Is hateful in their sight.

Edwin.
Nay, talk not of them!
I loathe this monkery, and if I live
Will root it from my realm.

Elgiva.
Oh that you may!
And earls not few and many a gallant thane
Would gladly in that cause their hearts' best blood
Pour our like water. Athulf is but one,
Yet if you knew him is he many's worth.

Edwin.
If more of him I know not, yet that much
I amply know. Then surely with his aid
We may defy the monks, or better still
We may forget them; ay, forget the world,
Its cares, its kingdoms, and unbank the hours
To that soft overflow which bids the heart
Yield increase of delight. Beloved Elgiva,
Your beauty o'er the earth a passion breathes
Which softly sweeping through me, brings one tone
From all this plural being, as the wind
From yonder sycamore, whose thousand leaves
With lavish play to one soft music moved
Tremble and sigh together.

Elgiva.
What a charm
The neighbouring grove to this lone chamber lends!
I've loved it from my childhood. How long since
Is it that, in the compassed window met,
The blackbird sang us forth; from yonder bough
That hides the arbour, loud and full at first
Warbling his invitations, then with pause
And fraction fitfully as evening fell,
The while the rooks, a spotty multitude,
Far distant crept across the amber sky.
But hark! what strain is this? No blackbird's song,
Nor sighing of the sycamore!

Edwin.
Some friend,
As if the key-note of our hearts divining,
Accordant music ministers. Hist! Hist!


(A Song from without.)

Elgiva.
It dies away.

Edwin.
It is but distant more.


(Song resumed.)

Edwin.
Come, follow it; but stop—let me leap down
And help you from the window-sill. So quick!
If you are light of foot as Atalanta
You ought like her to give your Love the start.

[Exeunt.
Enter the Queen Mother and Dunstan from opposite sides.
Queen Mother.
So, well—so, well. It may be so, my Lord;
But mercy on my soul! if she should prosper!

Dunstan.
To bed, to bed; 'tis late.

Queen Mother.
But if she should!

Dunstan.
The sky is clear; the air is still; the blue
Of yonder firmament is pure and soft.
God rules the night. Saw'st thou the falling star?