University of Virginia Library

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.