University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Court of St. John's Monastery.
Edmund Etheling and Prince Haco, throwing the spear.
Edmund
(throwing).
There! two good lengths beyond you, prince!

Haco.
Scarce one!

Edmund.
Mayhap scarce one of my spear's, but full two
Of your short pikestaff's.

Haco.
O you are so proud
Of wielding that tall ash-plant you pluck'd up!
It fits right apt your Colbrand fist!—A spear
For wild-swine hunters, not for warriors!

Edmund.
It will do well upon the litter then
Farrow'd by Norway, who come routing hither
So oft, to fat them in our acorn'd land!

Haco.
I know you'll prove another Turketul!
And, like a tower on wheels shoved into battle,
Swaying about your windmill arms, whiff down
Unwieldily all approachers: you bluff Saxons!
But try me at sword exercise, where skill
Makes strength—

Edmund.
Good faith, I'd give you Gaudiosa,
Charlemagne's famous blade, and beat you after
With a stout bulrush!—You!

Haco.
Well, I'll not quarrel:
My royal foster-father strict forbids us.
Are we not brethren? The same king who calls
Me ‘foster-son,’ treats you too as his child.

Edmund
(to himself).
I hope he will not treat me as his brother!—
Poor Edwin! thy dark fate be-clouds my days
And keeps me aye a-chill!

Haco.
I know the cause
Of all this!

Edmund.
What?

Haco.
You're jealous I shall tangle
The wildbird we would both lime if we could,
With love's rich honey-dew!

Edmund.
The King's glee-maiden?
She loves a hawk's spark-throwing eye far better
Than Haco's soft-blue gaze! Ay, and would take
England's fierce falcon rather to her bosom
Than Norway's tercel-gentle!

Haco.
Not yet long enough
Mew'd in your Southron court-cage, to be pluck'd at
Tamely—defend thyself!

[Draws.
Enter Runilda in huntress apparel.
Runilda
(muttering to herself).
Ha! who be ye
That sheathe your bare swords in each other's bosoms?
Well done! O well!

Edmund.
Nay, Haco is our guest,
'Twere scarce well done to make his flesh my scabbard;
I drew my brand but to protect myself.

Runilda.
Proceed, good youths!

Edmund.
Erewhile thou wert more given,
With words as sweet as songs, to harmonise
Our jarring souls.—No! no! mermaiden never
Breathed with her dulcet voice so still a calm
Over contentious waves, as thou o'er us!
Nor billows, lull'd by murmuring summer wind,
When bees are heard in it far, far off land,
E'er fell to that smooth level so entranced,
As we did then into delighted swoon,
Thus to be quell'd by thee!

Runilda.
'Twill not be quell'd!—
My brain is big with it!—'twill forth, all arm'd!
Howe'er it came—since the dawn sprang—even now
A gory form, War, with his hundred wounds
And trumpet that drops blood, doth cross my sight!
Sharp-singing lances whirr athwart mine ear,
And shiver at my feet! close to mine eyes
Bright swords are clashing! Yea, as quakes deep earth
Ere Hecla burst, through every sense doth thrill
The shock of unseen armies!—Hark! that din,
Made thick with shrieks, and groans, and battle cries—
Gladden'd with shouts victorious now—and now,
Alas! the field of blood sends up a wail
Too low to reach heaven, but spreads to my heart!—
Look! where the mangled corses writhe and heave
With life intolerable—thousand limbs,
The woe of sense not yet shook off, lie weltering
Like seaweeds at red sunset, up and down!—
O Glory, thou stand'st nearest to the skies
As doth the pine, brushing them with thy plumes,
But earliest art struck prostrate!—Therefore I say,
Well done, sweet youths!—Come North and South together
At once, if we must e'en have storm. Fight on
Stout Edmund and keen Haco!

Haco.
Saw you her ever
So moved before as this?

Edmund.
Never! nor heard
Her reedy voice utter such mournful sounds
Even at her fitfullest times. Some one hath touch'd
The master-spring of passion in her breast
With hand too violent. What would she mean?

Runilda.
Heard you not that prophetic snatch I sung?—
What would she mean? I tell thee, Edmund Etheling,
A thundercloud hangs o'er thee, ripe to burst!—
My brain sounds like an armourer's forge, klang! klang!
You Saxon War-smiths are at work! ye shape
Thor's iron marriage-rings for coats of mail,
Bend helms, and on the anvil turn the blade,
Hardening it!—Haco, I tell thee, mine ear
Is full of far-borne echoes, like the shell
That thrills with dread intelligence from the main!—
Ay, scout my warnings, call me rapture-mad!
So do the world's wise fools by all our tribe,
And yet, great Heaven, what truths we've sung!—No matter!
What need my little maidhood care? I'm safe
As in a star, roll earth which way it please!—
Still round her, with art-magical of song,
Her sanctuary circle draws, unseen,
The blithe Glee-maiden, pure enchantress true!
Still winds she on from fairy ring to ring
Transgress'd by no bold foot, the Minstrel Girl!
Throughout song-loving Saxon land securest,
Yea among camps, and courts more dangerous—

Enter a House-carl.
Edmund.
Captain, what now?

House-carl.
The king is ill at ease,
And seeks his custom'd music.

Runilda.
I'll not go!

House-carl
(advancing).
Nay, mistress, but his grace must be amused.

Runilda
(drawing a dirk).
Off, churl!—Stain royalty with thy slave's touch?—
Am I not Queen of the Minstrels' sacred quire?
Back, or I'll nail thy breastplate on!

Haco
(to Edmund).
O proudness!
Her spirit guards her better than her spells:
See how her ire-bright eye answers her steel
Fierce flash for flash, blackness as keenly blazing
As brilliant ore itself!

Edmund
(to him).
It is a picture!
Now sails she to and fro a swan before him,
Looking disdain ascaunce on the poor hound
That dared bark at her!

Haco
(to Runilda).
Lady, 'twere more wise
You did attend the king; his natural mood
Is gentleness, which sorrow hath made gentler;
But stir him not, O wake not for thy soul
The anger of a gentle-hearted man!
'Tis like the summer-thunder, fearfullest,
Because from heaven's perturbed calm forced out.

Runilda.
I muse! I muse!—let me alone!

Edmund.
Thou art
Fortune's spoilt pet and his; a dove that still
Pecks at the hand she sits on.

Runilda.
Fortune's forsooth?
His too?—I thank him!—Well, the sphere rolls round,
And its fires with it!—some of them may strike!—

Edmund.
I do beseech you, dareful maiden, go!

Runilda.
Not a snail's step!—It is no time, believe me,
For lullabies to babies young or old!

Edmund.
Let me plead thy own cause with thy stern self:
Bring not disfavour's blast on thee by waywardness
So blind; but docile, tend as thou wert wont
The king's repose.

Runilda
(underbreath).
And be a Judith to him,
When I have charm'd to sleep!— (Aloud)
Let me begone.

Haco.
Where, Maiden?

Runilda.
With thane Alger's wife a-falconing!
She bid me thither: I am to ride black Merlin,
That rasps the hard flint-road with sparkling hoof,
But through the woodland springs, a very deer,
High as the boughs!

Edmund.
This is all obdurate talk;
She will not go.
Enter Prince Fergus.
She will not go, Prince Fergus!
We are desperate of her.

Fergus.
Lo! how my bird-call here
Will lure the wild one down.

[Touching a harp.
Runilda.
My harp! my harp!
Come to me, bosom friend!—My fingers glow
To grapple thee, and with their fiery touch
Kindle thy glittering strings!—

Fergus.
Wilt follow me!

Runilda.
Anywhere!—take me!—take me!—

[Exit chanting, led by Fergus.
Haco.
Womanhood!—
That bends no jot to reason, interest, power,—
But yields her for a toy!—That lustrous harp
Made her brow shine, as eagles' eyes grow yellow
At the engolden'd sun!

Edmund.
What witchery dwells
About this little Bardess, that she makes
Her very faults seem loveable, and her masters
With strange art keeps her slaves?—Ah! sceptred Beauty,
Queen even of kings, and Conqueress! but not yet
Imperial quite, until the heaven-dropp'd orb
Of genius crown thee!—then, omnipotent!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The King's Cabinet.
Ethelstan on a Couch. Enter Fergus and Runilda.
Ethelstan.
O!—come at last, my fair perversity?
Sit ye down here: I know your tribe's free nature,
Less ruly than the wind-sway'd sea, obeys
The changeful moon alone. Sit down, prince Fergus.—
Now, a soul-soothing strain, that may hum by me
As runnel sweet by slumbrous shepherd's ear.—
What is this for? why dost thou clash the strings,
Tearing, so falcon-like, as 'twere a victim,
Thy loved harp's breast? Fie! fie! a gentler passion!

Runilda.
It comes!—it comes!—but like the hill-flood's roar,
When earth-shook pinnacles their sheeted rocks
Roll in confounding unison, that makes
The faint stars echo—when hoarse ocean chimes—
When tempest-slanted forests turn their leaves
To whistles shrill—and innocent birds attune
Their shrieks to vultures' screams—when beasts untameable
Stand bellowing for bare fear—when heaven itself
Is one loud forge of flashing bolts, and cave
Rifted with ever-bursting thunders.—Nay,
Waft it not from thee thus!—'twill come!—but soon
Be soft enough, as death's last, groanless sigh,
The strength of agony spent—

Ethelstan.
What dreadful cliff
Hath turn'd her brain? what whirlwind hath enrapt her,
That she's so giddy-headed?

Fergus.
Now, sir, she's still,
Fix'd as a wild-way cross, and looks as bleak!—

Ethelstan.
Good!—there's a spreading life upon her face
That whitens to a smile. Dreamer, awake!

Runilda.
With my lark's throat I warble forth my glee!
With my lark's glance far, far a-field I see!
Look ocean-ward!—Said I not true!—They come!
Look! look! look! look!
[Breaking into a loud chant.

Ethelstan.
Still this wild barding?

Runilda.
'Tis as true and wise
As that we write on rocks to last for ages,
Channeling our dark lore in mystic Runes.
There! See you there? is that no cloud aloft?

Ethelstan.
Yea, black as Night's breath.

Runilda.
'Tis a cloud of ravens,
That croak of slaughter, echoing Rumour's knell!

Ethelstan.
The blackness travels north; here is bright sun;
What say you now, ill-boding bird?

Runilda.
O blindness!
See you what sanguine streaks do scar that sun,
Portending crimson times? Last night, remember thee,
What did thine eyes behold? As thou rodest hither
Were not the Northern Streamers blood-red flames?
Glanced not the mountain-rills beneath the moon
As if 'twere blood they ran with?—did they not, King?

Ethelstan.
Thy own mind's eye is bloodshot.

Runilda.
He's unsavable!
Death's film is drawn already o'er his eye,
He cannot see his tomb-ward steps!—I've done!—
Towards him my duty's o'er!

Ethelstan.
Lead her away:
Her mind's distemperature hath infected me:
Take her, prince Fergus.

Runilda.
Fergus, fair-hair'd Fergus!
Do not thou stop thine ears and seal thine eyes;
Death's arrows fill the air—to house! to house!
Go you not forth—the God of Battle grim
Gapes with sepulchral mouth to swallow thee!
Go you not forth, young Fergus—'tis to die!

Fergus.
Well, well, with thee to chant my coronach,
Immortal maker! I shall be content.

Runilda
(chanting).
O woe! for the fair-hair'd son of the Gael!
Red, red is his royal blood,
That fresh from his heart, O woe and wail!
Lies under him in a flood!

Fergus.
Come, come, the King looks at us.

[Exit, leading Runilda.
Ethelstan.
I know well
What spawn foul ocean genders!—Ran her brain
Less on such perilous themes—war, spoil, invasion,
I'd say she had some knowledge, of a truth,
The fry had grown to monsters.—Fate works strangely!
Well must it work for me, however ill,
As I am at the worst! But one frail reed
Hangs o'er the brink of that deep gulf beneath me,
Break this, and I fall in!—The proof is nigh.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Cell.
Ellisif.
Ellisif.
He was much shaken; but stands firmly yet,
Like a half-ruin'd tower: my enginery
Hath struck him once, and on the crossbow groove
Another crag sits waiting to be hurl'd,
Another and another still at hand:
O! he should boast, if rocks could bury him
Heap'd at my bidding, a gigantic cairn!
My wrath sublime would raise such monument
To both, as should out-dure and over-peer
The sky-aspiring hills.—Guilt and Avengement
Should rest entomb'd together; prostrate he
Beneath, she tiptoe on the pinnacle,
Like Victory that crowns herself!—Fool Ethelstan
Would have them kiss, and couch together, alive;—
Sooner I'd couch me in a sulphurous bed
And couple with the dragon.—But my suitor
Must now be seen—I am prepared!—I've sown
A whirlwind for his reaping; Edmund hath caught
The white plague—fear!—that's ever a sore sting,
Suspicion undeserved from those we love.
Then I have wrought with my young Bower-Maiden;
Which will prove bitter too; let the fond rhapsodist
Rave of the clouded ills which beetle o'er us,
'Tis but the wildwood lyre by zephyrs rung,
Wailing perplexedly its airy woes,
Smiled at though pitied!—She was lured at once;
Trivial confidings win great confidence,
When with vague whispers swoln, they seem too big
For the awe-shrunken ear—
My summoner!

Enter a Nun.
Nun.
Our sovran-abbess in the speaking room
Attendeth Maiden Ellisif.

Ellisif.
She comes—
[Exit Nun.
“Our sovran-abbess,” who, as simple as faith,
As credulous as hope, as blind as love,
Thinks what is done with a fair front is fair!
A good face that, froze into one still smile,
For greeting all the world!—a good set face!
Grief hath not graven mine yet deep enough,
But opening back my braids thus,—and 'tis smoothable:
No better mask than chill unchangingness;
Ethelstan, wise, judicial Ethelstan,
He shall my centred soul guess from my surface
As gaping sages do the moon's true nature
From her snow-bright apparency!—Than depth
Surface much more unfathomable is,
Whene'er impenetrable! Am not I
Woman? And was not art her nature ever?

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

The Convent Parlour.
Edgitha. Enter Ellisif.
Edgitha.
Welcome, fair Daughter!

Ellisif.
Like salute to thee,
Fair Mother of our flock!

Edgitha.
Thou art not yet
One of it; nor perchance wilt ever be.

Ellisif.
My year novicial has to run; meantime
The age is awful in strange accidents!

Edgitha.
Nothing so strange for Maiden Ellisif,
So fresh in youth, so flourishing in beauty,
High-fated from her birth, to mount a throne.
The King comes hither presently; no longer
Will he be blush'd off.

Ellisif
(aside).
Blush'd off!—Ah, good lady!
Talks to me as to some rose-modest lass,
Whose heart is in her cheeks!— (Aloud)
Madam, I'm here
Pale but untrembling.

Edgitha.
Well, if marriages
Must be, they're best when cool-consider'd—Hark you
That hasty trump?
[Flourish without.
I leave you:— (Aside)
Wondrous calm!

[Exit.
Ellisif.
He comes, like one condemn'd, with claspèd hands,
But faster to his fate!—How my proud heart
Grows large within me, as the lioness swells
Her ireful bosom to meet him that slew
Her forest lord!—Patience, thy vizard yet!

Enter Ethelstan.
Ethelstan.
Dread Spirit! thou wert a truth then?—She does hate me!
Her father's grave is still a gulf between us
Unpassable; I, a wretched darkler here,
See her, blest angel, on the other side
Glittering in beauty's light!—Fix'd as a statue?
I will beseech her; icicles themselves
Melt at warm sighs, shall not this snowy creature?
O lady! look'st thou at the heavens to call
Some wandering meteor down with singèd hair
To wrap me in its fires?

Ellisif.
My noblest father!
Heaven's errant thunder lighted upon thee,
Albeit babe-innocent of treason foul.

Ethelstan.
Was the fault mine?—My heart was aye the fount
Of mercy more than justice!—Death, swift death
Had been awarded Alfred thane, known partner
With the doom'd Edwin; scaffold palls were hung;
The sharp axe glisten'd in thy father's eye,
But 'tween the block and him Persuasion knelt
In Pity's plight of outspread arms and tears,
Which saved him.

Ellisif.
I wept not!

Ethelstan.
Thy image did,
Thy secret self, closeted in my bosom!
Therefore though my whole Mote of Wisemen oped
One mouth against him, I did send thy father
To clear himself at Peter's Roman chair
By oath; his soul was on it, and ne'er came
Back from Heaven's bar.

Ellisif.
Yea, for good men will die
No less than ill, and oftener at their prayers!

Ethelstan.
Then, gentle Ellisif, he might have died
Had he been state-absolved, and sent to offer
Thanksgiving here at Beverley,—might have died
In any act or hour: 'twas not a judgment,
Haply, fell on him, but that chance which lets
The sinner sink to hell in bed of roses,
The sainted rise to heaven from rack or pyre!—
Where was my guilt?

Ellisif.
I cannot 'stablish it;
Thou dost plead speciously.

Ethelstan.
Truth pleads in me,
And Love, who makes the breath glow, which thou see'st
Burn round my lips, as round the earnest steed's
His soul for victory flaming!—Have long years
Spent in the learned Western Isle religious,
Left thee untaught—Forgetfulness is virtue
When, howso deep, Offence is undesign'd?
Hath Solitude, which, for companionship,
Brings back our former selves, never recall'd
Thy vow, love-sweet, to me—long times ago?
Vow unredeem'd, on natural excuse
Of thy dear father's death; by me unclaim'd
Then, while endured my penance for a deed
Which makes the Valley of the Shadow of Death
Still darker to my view—Edwin's sad fate!

Ellisif.
Well wept, crocodile!—thou wept'st, to lure him
Into thy clutches, weep'st to lure me now!
This water of the brain how flush it is
In your great-headed hypocrites, but fatal
Unto their dupes!—Stay; his soft, drunken eyes
Grow dry again.

Ethelstan.
I am not given to tears.

Ellisif.
Some weaknesses from strong affections spring;
They are too warm, and make too soft the heart.

Ethelstan.
It is a gracious sentence!—I have loved
Too well for mine own peace. Yet I'll love on,
Even those who cause me anguish: 'tis not, lady,
Our enemies wound us inliest, but ever
Our dear, domestic friends! who take us sleeping,
Suspicionless—our pillow on their lap,
And plant it thick with thorns! If not themselves,
Their demons do it, who of their follies, faults,
Misfortunes, sow the pointed crop, which strikes
Into the quick of feeling, while our foes
With their most fiend-like shafts but pierce its shell.

Ellisif.
'Tis a sad lesson!

Ethelstan.
Ay, to be learn'd by heart!
Could Anlaf make me weep? Edwin hath done it!
The Dane, my direst foe; he, my loved brother!—
O maiden! thou couldst never count the tears
Of blood he costs me; but I swallow them!
And now five rueful winters, twelve months each,
Warrant a gentle spring, the annual dawn
Of summer's holiday to life-long sorrow:
Make it so, or I perish at the heart,
Even at my timeliest hour of flourishing;
Ah! let the bright-eyed deity in thy looks
Shine on me, and revive!

Ellisif.
Thou see'st me here,
Firm to perform all deep vows I have sworn
Long since, and daily. I withdrew, self-banish'd,
To mourn my orphan-hood, and save thy soul
Threaten'd, between thy passionate flame and vow
Of penitence, with distraction, or destruction.

Ethelstan.
O kindness in unkindness! faith in faithlessness!—
Well, well, I am content!—My life clears up
Brighter at last, like to a rainbow eve,
In this departing shower!—So, it is gone!—
Henceforth I may be happy! Upon thee,
My comforter, my counseller, is all
Ethelstan's human trust! thou, thou my second
But chiefest self, first in my love and pride,
For thy head wears bright Wisdom's crown, while mine
Scarce fills what many a royal fool hath worn,
The poor crown politic.

Ellisif.
Flatter me not, but let me
Try all my skill of comfort and of counsel,
Study the craft of state, and from thee learn
Its secrets to promote them: I'm no girl
That loves but dress, dance, sempstery, and song!—
Yet, as do Saxons all, doth Maiden Ellisif
Honour the harp, and hath some gift in glee—

Ethelstan.
Then shalt thou the sweet exercise pursue
And bring me happy dreams! My Harper-Girl
Of late is somewhat o'er-inspired—is mad
Even above minstrel measure. Here, my signet!
'Twill make thee free, as my betrothed wife,
Of bower and cabinet: Come oft, stay long!
Till marriage make us individual.
Now dearest queen! tell me, and be my aid
At once, as if thou wert my helpmate sworn,
Didst thou hear aught, or guess, while in Ibernia,
Of Anlaf and his host? That is a care
Which delves a furrow in my brow, each time
I think of it.

Ellisif
(aside).
And soon shall harrow thy heart!—
(To him.)
They are unquiet ever in that Isle,
But though King Anlaf threaten much, methought
His preparations had his kingdom there,
New-found yet scarce well-founded, more in prospect,
Than that one he lost here—

Ethelstan.
Northumbria!
Northumbria is in his eye and heart!

Ellisif.
I'll give my liege good reasons, to relieve him
From that oppressive care—

Ethelstan.
Then, as we walk—

[Exeunt discoursing.