University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Royal Bower.
Ethelstan on his couch asleep: Ellisif seated by the couch, thrums over a harp monotonously. An Attendant.
Ellisif
(ceasing to play).
Both are entranced: well done!—
(Softly to the Attendant.)
Repose thee, go!
Drowsiness with his beetle wings hath humm'd
Thy lullaby too: retire!—She nods!—Dost hear me?—
Go rest thee till I call, i'the outer chamber:
Tread soft—wake not his grace—close the door easily,—
As 'twere upon the dead!
[Exit Attendant. Ellisif makes fast the bolt, and lets down the door-tapestry.
So, 'tis well done!
He sleeps!—My witching harp hath o'er him weft
Slumber's soft web, and in its airy mesh
His strength is ta'en as in an iron toil!
There lies he powerless, as on some lone strand
A youth by mermaid's murmurous song enswoon'd,
Fool of her fatal shell!—What joy to view him
Laid out for slaughter thus—thus at my mercy—
Him, slayer of my husband and my father,—
Him, who trod down their glory into dust,
Now spurnable as a corpse beneath my feet!—
(Drawing a dagger.)
This tempter clings to me—'twill scarce be sheathed!—
No! I'll not slay him; he shall live to crouch,
Footstool of my ambition!—Sleep, sleep on,
But not to rest! I've caught from thy bird-maiden
A secret note of thee, which used with craft,
Shall bring thee sleep thou'dst well exchange for wakefulness
As dry-eyed as the sun's!—Lend me once more,
Presence of my dead lord! thy sorrowful voice
To thrill his soul with! that faint voice thy grave
Yawns forth by night, and with the moaning winds
Mingles spiritual!—Now, better skill'd,
Let me assay it.
(Goes behind the couch, and whispers plaintively into the King's ear.)
Sleep'st thou, unkind brother?
O canst thou sleep, nor think'st of Edwin torn
Piecemeal by these wild horses of the sea!

Ethelstan
(dreaming, starts to his elbow).
Ha!—here again? how can I save thee now?—
Art not a corse?

Ellisif.
Lo! where the grim birds follow me!
And gore my tender flesh—feast on my heart—
The bleeding heart that loved thee, Ethelstan!

Ethelstan
(rising).
Avaunt, foul raveners!—Where are my bow-men?—
Off cormorants!—fly all my hawks at them!—
Stanch his deep wounds!—cover his bosom up!
Let me not see it bleed!

Ellisif
(following him).
Hark how the blast
Shrieks in mine ear!—the bitter-seething spray
Wraps its cold shroud around me!

Ethelstan.
Still his eyes
Turn their dull balls this way!—they pierce me through
Into my heart's heart!

Ellisif.
Ethelstan, O cruel!
Help me!—take off these writhing serpents here
That strangle me in their weedy coils!—Now! now!
They pull me to the bottom!—Help, help, Ethelstan!
O I am lost!

Ethelstan.
Save him! a boat there! save him!
Let me plunge for him, cowards!—Edwin! thy hand!
Strain up to me!—My crown to him who saves thee!

Ellisif.
Gone!—sunk!—for ever!—Cruel, cruel king!
O thou shalt drown in hell's sulphureous sea
Of fathomless fire for this!

Ethelstan
(falling on his knees).
Mercy! O mercy!

Ellisif.
Deliver then thy fatal signet up:
Say—Where is that curst instrument which seal'd
The warrant for my death?

Ethelstan.
There! in the casket!
Under my pillow.

Ellisif.
Give me, that I may fling it
Down to the infernal stithy where 'twas forged!

Ethelstan.
Take it! the touch doth scorch—
(He opens a casket, and gives out a signet; she stamps a parchment with it, replaces it, and the casket also.)
Now, am I saved?
Is there a hope?—Speak! Speak!—He answers not!—
O God, still unforgiven!

Ellisif.
Unforgiven!

Ethelstan
(awaking).
Despair!

Ellisif.
My dearest liege, what hath so stirr'd you?
Why move you from your couch? Lie down, lie down,
And sleep as calm again.

Ethelstan.
Calm! I could sleep
On bed of firiest martyrdom after this!
O, I have seen such things, and heard!—my blood
Is ice, my brain is fire!—Tell me, dear wife,
Where have I been?

Ellisif.
Why here, upon your couch!

Ethelstan.
Wherefore didst not awake me?

Ellisif.
So I did:
When just now, suddenly, with heaving breast,
Thou didst begin to mutter some wild words,
And started up—I thought 'twas well to wake thee!

Ethelstan.
Thanks, tenderest love!—It seem'd an age of pain,
And pain the soul might burst with!—I will tell it thee;
Let us away; some demon haunts this room!
The air is breathless—let us away, sweet queen!
Thou shalt console—shalt know all!—But for thee
Anguish had turn'd me wild!—Thanks! thanks! thanks ever!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Orchard.
Fergus and Runilda.
Fergus.
Wilt thou forsake the bower that shelters thee?
Where beauty's lip chirps love, sweet bird! to thee?
Where a king's gorgeous hand caresses thee?
Where kneeling chiefs serve up rich food for thee?
Wilt thou unto the moory wealds, and hills
Barren of berries even, reckless begone?
Where the broad-winnowing kite, poised but to swoop,
Soars with wide survey and earth-fix'd eye;
Where foxes prowl, and catamountains spring
Like creatures of the pinion on their prey?
Bethink thee, beauteous songstress! O, bethink thee,
Within these wildering woods, all over Isle,
No covert safe but this for bird so rare!

Runilda.
It shall not be my cage, though it be golden!
What! mew me here, who should, by right of song,
Range the Isle round, like ocean's margin-wave,
Pouring a tide of melody on each strand?
Coop with these tame fowl, yet not of their kin?
Let my brave plumage rather be pluck'd off,
And cut away my crest!—Why should I stay?
My place is given another! Maiden Ellisif
Is the king's Glee-maid now, and hath stole from me
The chaplet of my fame!—I will not stay!
He calls me—mad—too!—I'll not stay an hour!

Fergus.
Whither wilt thou betake thee, homeless child?

Runilda.
Hist! hist!—but for our two lives tell it not!—
I know a mossy nook the sun-bred winds
Visit on wing, like swallows when they cheer
Their nestlings with sweet play; it is as warm
As Love's breath makes his arbour: from that promontory
Where Humber writhes his serpent head to sea,
This cave looks forth; and o'er the broadening ooze,
Its chalky brows, that gleam against the sun,
Beacon the wanderers of the elements
Thither for refuge. Thitherward my comrades
Are flocking now on salt-wet wing:—They're safe!
I see them over-swarm the cliff's bleak head
Despite all bluster from the land!

Fergus.
Thy comrades!
Who, under heaven?

Runilda.
The brood of that proud Raven
Under whose hovering darkness is! whose pinion
Flaps like a pall, dark standard of old Death!—
With them the long-wing'd Seamews troop, spray-speckled,
That midland come, prowling the river-banks,
Sharp famine in their cry, when Southward driven.

Fergus.
I guess thy meaning; but art sure of this?
Art sure thy friends be there to aid thee?

Runilda.
Sure!
As of one here, to aid me unto them:
Thou must hie with me! Fearless for myself
Weapon'd as I shall be with harp and skene,
'Tis for thy sake alone thou must come with me.
Destruction hangs o'er this king's head, and thine,
Flee him and it together!

Fergus.
Being a hostage
So trusted by this unsuspective king,
With license large to range as forest deer,
How can I break my promise, understood
Though never ask'd nor given, not to flee?
How stain my princely honour so?

Runilda.
Then break
Thy promise unto me thou would'st be mine
Ever and everywhere! Stain thy pure honour
Thus—to a princess, not to a baseborn king!

Fergus.
Sibyl, thy words are spells!

Runilda.
Listen again:
Thou hast my dearest secret, why not this?
The fox of kings, the lion-fox, is with us,
Wagging his bush for prey; wilt thou not come
To shield red-grizzled Constantine? Unfilial!
What ties thee here? As Ethelstan bereft
Unrightfully thy father of his crown,
Bereave him of the pledge he took for it,—
Thyself; that is true nature's equity,
As our wild laws deliver it—wrong for wrong!
Little doth Herva, in Runilda's guise,
Owe to this king; he reft me, royal nursling,
With wolf's paw from my foster-father's crib,
When his fierce litter ravin'd all Northumbria,
My state unknown to him; and rear'd me up
Forsooth his glee-maid, marking in mine eye
Gleams of the gentle craft, through all my sullenness;
For woodland airs, sweet brooks, and waterfalls,
Had so entuned my soul, that, bred among them,
Bird-like, its native speech had needs been song.
But what was this fine favour? weighs it even
One grain against the globe of ill he wrought me?
No! yet, to quiet Conscience, the heart's worm,
Most gnawing tenderest natures,—here I promise
If this crown'd robber fall, at least for once
The gray gull shall not feast on him, the Raven
Shall not pluck out his heart:—yea, he shall scape
The Wild-cat near his bed, with flame-green eyes
Watching his throat lie bare!—will that content thee?
Come dallier, come!

Fergus.
She draws me by the heartstring;
'Twill break if I hold back, and life give with it,
Lost to me like my loved-one—I must go!—
To leave her under guide of her own wildness,
Helpless, yet holding out such baits for harm,
Starr'd so with gems, herself pure beauty's pearl,—
Impossible! impossible!—Farewell
All foresight, prudence, memory, and remorse,
Young Wisdom's soft resolves, that melt away
Before Love's sunny curls and ardorous smile!—
On then!

Runilda
(opening the orchard gate).
Come forth, thou solitary bittern!
For ever booming deep, as thou didst swell
The hollowest reed i' the vale,—thy hate to man!
Enter Bruern.
Murmur as low to me—Are the steeds come?

Bruern.
Down in the bosky dingle, where Eve's shadows
Have thicken'd into Night: we've but to skirt it
Like bats, and be within the wilds at once.

Runilda
(to Fergus).
This is my harp-bearer—

Bruern.
Who bears a sword
Too, that can make sweet music on a helm
As e'er struck up by War-smith!

Runilda.
Let's begone!

Fergus.
O what a momentary step it is
From safety into peril, weal to woe,
From right to wrong!—Who is thy prompter, Maiden,
In this most fearful act? Or is it alone
Fantasy's lamp thou followest, as a star,
When but a gilded vapour?

Runilda.
Thou'lt hear all
As we go on—but first come on!—Ah! faithless—

[Exeunt through the orchard gate.

SCENE III.

An Apartment in the Monastery.
Edmund alone, reading a scroll.
Edmund.
Heavens, am I too, like Edwin, the first Etheling,
Mark'd by this jealous and unnatural brother,
Down, for immediate death?—Sight-blasting scroll!—
(Reads.)
—“To Alger, thane. See execution done
On Edmund Etheling, forthwith. I, Ethelstan.”—
Stamp'd with his private sign! and 'neath his pillow
Ready at hand for launching, like a dagger!
And left there heedless, to be found by chance,
As if he dealt out deaths with such loose hand
Often he felt not when men's fates slipp'd from him!—
O murderous! monstrous!—Thanks good Prior, thanks,
Thy hint came apt. No sleep for me in marble!
His majesty shall save in mason work
And funeral charges, sackcloth suits, and tears;
Fine satisfaction to my ghost forsooth!—
What have I done? What has poor Edmund done,
Or left undone, that might deserve such doom
From this lamb-visaged, tiger-hearted tyrant?
This under-scowling simperer! this hypocrite
Who smiles and stabs!—this yellow-blooded treacher,
Whose eye-whites should, like some gilt, squinting god's,
Glisten suspicion, were aught true about him!—
Whither shall I betake me? to what wilderness
So intricate his bloodhounds shall not track me?
Why, 'tis as well turn rebel, if condemn'd
To traitor's death when none!—I'll join the plot
Our Prior oft hath glanced at, and now urgeth
As imminent to succeed, with those brave hearts
Who have, since Edwin's fate, stood to their vows
Of vengeance against bastard Ethelstan,
Self-branded murderer!—yea, self-confess'd!—
Ah! can he meditate a twin-like crime
To that he mourns so deep?—But doth he mourn?—
Dissembler? double-tongued and double-faced!
Son of the grand Deceiver! fare thee well.

[Exit hastily.

SCENE IV.

The King's Cabinet.
Ethelstan alone.
Ethelstan.
Lies there on man so dread a penalty
As terror to enjoy the boon of sleep?
Sleep, in whose cave oblivious sorrow finds
Some sanctuary!—Sleep! Nature's best blessing!
Doubled, in lieu of other goods denied,
Upon the wretched,—all save those like me!
O'er him that slays her child, our common Mother
Breathes her maternal curse, with bitterest ire,—
“My best gift be thy bane,” and it is mine!—
Shall I sleep even in the grave? Great Martyr!
Let me this crucifixion of the spirit
Endure, meek-bowing unto Heaven's decree!—
Our monks say—laborare est orare,
So to my royal duties.
[Sits down at his writing-table.
Enter Turketul.
Welcome, Chancellor!
Bring'st with thee softer breathings from the South
Than the sharp North still utters? Our new subjects,
Hereabout, live a land-life as unstable
Almost as their old ocean one; but Time,
Time will assuage the surging of their blood,
And soothe the Danish to a steadier flow
When mingled with the Saxon. How are my Saxons?

Turketul.
Well, sire, and wish you “good-heal” with all hearts.

Ethelstan.
I thank them—Speed their prayer!—What from our East-men?

Turketul.
Much as their brethren here—Danes will be Danes
World over!—break God's peace in heaven itself!—
The Devil, I think, and all his Host were Danish!

Ethelstan.
Thou feel'st with patriotism too raw the ills
They have brought on us since Great Alfred's time;
Were not our fathers worse Danes to the Britons?
Yet then subdued themselves?—Let's all be Englishmen!—
Where are the schedules I desired?

Turketul.
Sir, here.

Ethelstan
(reading).
“Barnstaple Charter, to send burgesses,”—
“Sheriffs for bribery or neglect,”—the mulct
Is too light on them, double it!—“Every Reeve
In every way shall furnish one poor man,
If any such be had, or can be found.”—
That, that's my glory as a Lawgiver!

Turketul.
True, sire; the proudest office to a king,—
General Purveyor for his poor.

Ethelstan.
No, chancellor,
But Ethelstan's proud honour in this law,
Best proof of his paternal governance,
Is that it notes—the poor man “must be found:”
He came unsought when I began to reign!

Turketul.
Beggars are rare, no doubt,—but 'tis among
Your Saxons, sire!

Ethelstan.
In this and everything,
I tell you, we'll be Saxons all ere long:
My kingdom now is one, compact, and round,
To make it which my several wars have tended,
As their great aim and good. Enough of that.—
My library, you've brought it safe? no volume
Lost or forgot?

Turketul.
'Tis safer than myself,
Who have lost somewhat of my girth's full volume,
Riding and baiting not!—The store of books
Is safe at hand.

Ethelstan.
Good! let me see it.

Turketul
(to the Guard).
Ho there!

Ethelstan.
I have sigh'd for them oft—oft—
[A small Book-case brought in.
My best solacers!
Mute speakers to my heart! my steadiest friends!
Pillow companions! Fountains whence I draw
Truth purest, deepest counsel! O my comforts—
Are ye all here? Ethelstan's Royal Library!
Treasure unparallel'd!—Let's see: my Grammar—
My Alcuin—Donatus Major—and Minor—
Apocalypsis—two Art Metricals—
Gloss upon Cato—De Natura Rerum—
All! this is well!

Turketul.
Truly so large collection
Beseems so learned a king.

Ethelstan.
It is my vanity!
In books alone am I a spendthrift, sir!
Few, save the French king, I do flatter me,
Have such voluminous treasure of the mind
Heap'd up, so rich, so precious! Leave me, Chancellor,
I pr'ythee, to the bliss of sweet discourse
With these soul-gladdeners—
Enter Goderic hastily.
How now, thane?

Goderic.
'Tis rumour'd
Prince Fergus, sire, is fled, and the Glee-maiden.

Ethelstan.
Fled!—whither should they fly?—for what?—Good thane,
Send out some trackers.

Goderic.
They are sent, my liege,
This moment spurr'd.—

Ethelstan.
Fool boy! wild girl!—But fled?
Why think you they are fled? who saw them flying?—
Save to the greenwood, like a turtle pair
For privacy—most modest when most amorous?
I thought the Girl too proud for that; but Song
Intoxicates us through the ear, and presently
Our staggering virtue falls!—who saw them flying?

Goderic.
It is but rumour yet.

Turketul.
Now I remember me,
When near the gate, swift by my left swept past
Three hair-brain'd riders; among whom the hindmost
Alone, the brief dusk moment let me mark:
I knew him by the brand which Nature set
'Tween his dark brows to stamp him for a felon;
His calling struck me, though not what he calls him,—
'Twas that same Sword-bearer, condemn'd to drown
But saved—to drier suffocation born!

Ethelstan.
What! he released of late from sanctuary?
A pale brow—all o'er-bristled with black hairs—
Deep, straight-down wrinkles?

Turketul.
Gullies!

Ethelstan.
Limbs distort
With strength, like oaken boughs—his knees upon them
Gnarl'd, as it were—and huge hands—had he not?

Turketul.
Exact.

Ethelstan.
Ha, Bruern! Dared he lurk here still?
That bodes no good!—'Twas your said knave, than whom
The stormy bird which shipmen petrel name,
No more foretels the dangerous time it loves;
Even when I freed him, he scarce raised his brow,
But eyed me sulkily as an ox turn'd loose:
Is he not Danish!

Turketul.
Verily I think
He's one of the Black Strangers!

Ethelstan.
Humph!
Enter Prince Haco.
Well, Haco?
Thou wilt not, Scanian, leave me like the Scot?
Dishonourable youth! who hath stol'n from me
His person pledged, and my bird-maiden too;
Beguiling the strange witlessness of genius
Which can see knavery through, though not a knave!

Haco.
I'm sad almost to tears, your grace!

Ethelstan.
Why comes not
Childe Edmund, with bright filial looks to cheer me?
Told you him that I ask'd?

Haco.
I did, your grace:
He answer'd—nought.

Ethelstan.
Ay! more ingratitude?
Thou hid'st the worst of it!—Well, since he comes not,
The king shall go to him!— (To Goderic)
Search thoroughly!

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE V.

The Woods.
Enter Edmund disguised.
Edmund.
Can I reach Fredda-thorpe my 'scape is sure:
That's but a steed's swift flight across the wolds
Into St. Cuthbert's Franchise; thence not far
To Carleol, where the Cumbrian king resides,
And many a thane and warlike elderman
Keep firm-set shoulder, back'd by him, against
This tyrant, in the Westmere fastnesses;
Their people, half Welsh and whole rebel, think
Their bread most sweet when crush'd from blood-red corn,
And fight like Irish kerns for idle humour:
Better go there and live, than stay and die!

[Exit.

SCENE VI.

The Cloisters.
Ellisif, Prior, and a Messenger.
Ellisif.
Nay he shall know it, Prior! and at once;
'Twill soon be learn'd else-how; so let me seem
The first to have heard this sudden tempest rising:
I shall be thank'd for my solicitude.

Prior.
Lips that, howe'er so honied, bring bad news,
Are touch'd with wormwood by it; he will hate thee!

Ellisif.
Ah! this stout fellow here shall bear it all,
Then I'll step in as soother. Say thou comest
From Maiden Ellisif, all haste and terror,
What shall betide him: be much out of breath,
And stretch your neck forth with the horrible news;
Let fear give worse intelligence through your eyes,
Make pale your lips, and so bechalk your cheeks
That he shall stare as wild!—Go, you've the trick of it!

[Exit Messenger.
Prior.
'Twill give his grace the ear-ache for a time!

Ellisif.
'Twill be a thunderbolt! he will stand, after it,
Like the scathed oak, a rind of lingering life,
Within—a pillar of ashes!

Prior.
Such a blow
Must of needs prostrate him, that has received
One worse than other from thy hand but now.

Ellisif.
You know not all! You know not all!—Stay, stay!

Prior.
Prince Edmund's flight struck deep. Will he hold up?
Methinks I see him, haggard—wan of hue—
His twisted locks self-loosing them—his eyes
Cast wildly earthward, seeking out his grave!
A man's but heated clay when he's heart-broken.

Ellisif.
Ethelstan?—he heart-broken?—if it be so,
For his dread sins, his crimes damnation-deep,
Upon the wheel of Conscience hath his heart
Been broken! and by that fell ratchet torn
In trembling mutilation scarce survives!
Ay! there he stands, fiend-haunted! thinking how
From hundred-handed Vengeance he shall scape
Haply through death's dark loophole—

Prior.
'Tis a way!

Ellisif.
Yet fears to drop into the chasm beneath
Lest a worse Torturer seize him!—O he dream'd
Again, last evening, such another dream!

Prior.
Why not relieve him now from life so burdensome?
He cannot well fare worse, whate'er he fears.

Ellisif.
No gentle Prior! he must live to help me,
Despite himself, else other friends might bustle them
Between my goal and me. I hope this news
Will not prove apoplectic to his stoutness:
Now will I go, and be his—comforter!

[Exit.
Prior.
Kind Lady!—To what depth of guile, of guilt,
Will disappointed love, blasted ambition,
Lead that fair devil some call—angel Woman!

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

A Chamber at the Nunnery.
Edgitha sick on a couch. Nuns and two Monk-physicians attending.
Edgitha.
Is the King come?—My breath grows fainter still—
I shall not live to see him.

Enter Ethelstan.
Ethelstan.
Must I lose all?
And thee, for ever—without hope—my Sister?

Edgitha.
Heaven's will be done! 'tis better than our wishes!
Let me, kind daughters, reverend leeches, pray
Your leaves awhile—

Physician.
She is long past our serving:
Angels tend on her now, she's in their arms!

[Exeunt Nuns and Physicians.
Ethelstan.
Whence this so sudden fate?

Edgitha.
Of little moment,
Since it is fate!—Sit down by me, dear Brother,
And let me smoothe thy pale, broad brow once more,
Be my hand not too chill.—Ah! what is here?
Has Death's dim curtain fallen before mine eyes
Already, that thou look'st so wan, so faded?

Ethelstan.
Wilt leave me—me thus grief-worn?

Edgitha.
O you heavens!
His hair is gray! in one short night turn'd gray
From golden!—O God! God! what he has suffer'd,
That this should be!—Why he looks old enough
To be the father of his years!

Ethelstan.
I've had
An ill night—nothing worse—

Edgitha.
Worse, worse, far worse
Than even thy death-struck sister, Ethelstan!
Thou art too silent of thy griefs,—it kills thee!
Ah! thou wilt want me soon!—Hadst thou a friend,
One woman-friend to cheer thee, when I'm gone!
'Tis my chief pain in dying!

Ethelstan.
What's in thy heart,
Thou look'st so steadfast on me?

Edgitha.
Maiden Ellisif
Is child of traitor Alfred!

Ethelstan.
Alfred thane.

Edgitha.
Traitor he was, Heaven spoke it!—Is she true?—
Doth not the basilisk beget the basilisk?
Flows balm from henbane? or do innocent doves
Hatch in the shells of crocodiles?—I speak
Now with a voice authentic as the dead,
Whose fixed features can mask truth no more!
Temp'rate, tongue-charitable, was I ever;
To bear false witness now, were at heaven's gate
To fling a broken tablet of the Law,
Yet think to enter!—With this dying breath,
Beware of Maiden Ellisif!

Ethelstan.
My Queen,
My Wife, elect? my earliest love that was,
My latest that shall be? whose graven image
Will hold its print on this idolatrous heart
When crumbled into dust?

Edgitha.
And, like idolatry,
Be punish'd sore!

Ethelstan.
O Sister, say not, say not
She's faithless!

Edgitha.
Thou hast had thy Warning Voice
From the tomb-brink itself!

Ethelstan.
Mean'st thou of Edwin's?

Edgitha.
I have no breath for policy—She hates thee!
She hates us both, me because Love's soft scarf
Blinded not these poor eyes, that have seen through her:
We women—yea, the simplest of us all—
Are keen heart-searchers, specially of women.
When we last greeted, she did wind about me
Her cold, smooth form, as if a snake embraced me
And fain would strangle—

Ethelstan.
Ah! no more, no more!
Speak of thyself: how feel'st?

Edgitha.
Dead—I am poison'd!

Ethelstan.
Poison'd?

Edgitha.
Find out by whom—I pray thee find it
When Edgitha 's no more; not to avenge her,
But to find what fell traitress sits so near thee.

Ethelstan.
'Tis a she-devil then, thou 'rt sure of that?
Thy Nuns shall take the fiery test—

Edgitha.
Ah, spare them!
They are as innocent of it, as the flock
Of their dumb mother's death upon the shambles.—
Look to the Novices!—Now call my servants.

Ethelstan.
It turns my heart-blood cold to think it so!
It is too horrible!—

Edgitha.
Pray, draw the curtain—

Scene closes.

SCENE VIII.

The King's Cabinet.
Enter Ethelstan.
Ethelstan.
How many deaths we die with those we love
Who sink before us!—death of pang severer
Than is our own departure,—oft small pain!
How many living deaths do we endure,
Our friendships, our affections kill'd, in which
We had our best of being!—'Twas the lot
Our little ignorant hands drew when we groped,
Blind embryons, in nature's darkling bosom,
For that sad prize—long life!—That I had died
When I loved nought beyond my mother's breast
And it, not for her sake, but its sweet nourishment!
O Heaven! what misanthropes would make of us,
Kindliness ill-requited!—blood turns gall,
Hearts become spleens, and we grow even to hate
God's fairest image, in its feminine form,
That creature which all earthly goodness seem'd
To breathe in, as a pure and beautiful shrine
For earthly love 's best worship!—Can it be
That this bright shape angelical should prove
A demon's house within?—I am the mariner
On a strange sea, with every storm that blows
Whirling me every way, yet leaving me
The piece of still distraction that I stood,
Not knowing which to move with.—Now, what 's here?

Enter Turketul, Alger, Goderic, and other Chiefs; the Prior and Messenger.
Turketul.
A messenger, who says he bears dread news
To king and kingdom!

Ethelstan.
Whence? from whom?

Messenger.
Her Grace,
The queen presumptive, who, all haste and terror
What may betide her liege, sends word:—The Danes,
Fierce Anlaf at their front, and host on host
At flank and rear—the ever-dangerous Irish—
Cambrians, Cumbrians, led by Edwal, Eogan,—
Northmen by Harald Blue-Tooth's warlike son—
Picts and Orcadians—with his Albin-Scots,
Grey Constantine—the pirate-bands colleagued
Under their Sea-kings by strong hope of spoil—
These piled on others, hundreds of deep-hull'd ships
Whose emptiest weight makes ocean mount the shores,
Disgorge at Humber-mouth, as if the sea
Its multitudinous monsters turn'd to men,
And cast them shoal on shoal upon our Isle!

Ethelstan.
Thank heaven!—this breathes new life in me!—thank heaven!
Chancellor, southward, and bring up my Saxons—
You, Goderic, Alger, thanes, stand the foe here
With your stout countrymen—I will to York
Where my guards lie prompt for this imminence—
Away!—Come soon to conquest!—You, bold Prior,
Be rife with our good men of Beverley
To back these warlike thanes—I know your citizens!
Men made of rock!—So there, my armour, knights!—
Unhappy Edmund! Danes upon the field,
And thou not!—leaving all the joy of battle
To Ethelstan alone!

[Exit.
Prior.
So speeds our thunderbolt!

SCENE IX.

The Danish Camp, with the Reafen standard flying.
Anlaf, Constantine, Edwal, Froda, Gorm, Fergus, Runilda. Sea-kings, Chiefs, and Soldiers.
Constantine.
Were it not well, sage Kings and prudent Yarls,
Our fluttering host at length flock'd round the Reafen,
Into some order? A wild flight of swans
Or geese, methinks, hath more!

Anlaf.
A stirring scene,
In sooth, gray sire; it moves yet fixes still
My glorying soul and gaze!—What would you have?
The swing of the billows must go out of us
Ere we can steady us!—A tide of men!
Lo! how the living deluge sinks and swells,
Down slope—up steep—bursting away bytimes
O'er rock or hill, like black floods fringed with foam,
And with an angrier murmur! To my ear
'Tis sweet as amorous coo of coupling doves!
Believe me it looks well: I like to mark
These children of the Sea-mew and the Raven
Settling uneasily on such rich fields
Full of their larger purpose to seize all,—
Not fixing, poor tame fowl! on first-come farm.

Gorm.
And I!—Ho, how my heart bounds in my bosom,
Mine eyes burn in their caverns for great joy
To think of striding these broad cultures o'er,
And strewing them with limbs!

Constantine
(looking forth).
Who are those heroes
I see with plumeless helms?

Gorm.
Jomsburgers all!—
We know not fear, they not the name of it!

Constantine.
Ay: they've just slaughter'd to a man, I see,
Those Welsh-kin, at a struggle for some kine.

Gorm.
By Thor, good strikers! it was quickly done!

Edwal
(drawing).
My Britons slain?—help, Cymri!

Gorm
(drawing).
All Sea-riders,
Help the sea-city of Jomsburg!—Havoc! havoc!

Anlaf.
Hold!—who to quarrel moves one step, I send
The lightning of this sword-flash through his heart!—
How shall we prosper, noble chiefs and princes,
'Gainst Ethelstan, war-crafty as he is,
If thus, when we should fall like mountains on him,
Hurtling we crush ourselves to dust? O shame!

Gorm.
Why, let's fall on, then—somewhere, if not here!

Froda.
Whither speed first?

Anlaf.
Wherefore not straight to York,
Deem'd by my father, Sihtric, and the Danes,
Mid-fortress of their kingdom?

Gorm.
On then—on!

Constantine.
Green wit for once jumps with grey wisdom: Ay!
No elsewhere than to York.

Runilda
(coming forward).
Anywhere else!
A shower of blood hangs in that crimson sky,
Which our own thunder would bring down upon us!
Go elsewhere than to York! The Dragon's there!—
Listen and learn:
[She chants to the harp.
Go not to York, I say!

Anlaf.
Hear our young prophetess!

Froda.
Hear dark-eyed Herva!

Gorm.
Hear King Ella's daughter!
(Kneeling)
Gorm to the bright divinity in woman
That shines on heroes, bends his iron knee!—
Whither wouldst have us wing? where is our prey?

Runilda
(chanting).

Several.
Northward! north! north!

Constantine.
Doth it so well become
Grown men to take a rapturous girl for guide?

Runilda
(chanting).
Gray head! get thee gone thy best gate with thy Gael to the Grampians!
Woe waits thee, deep heart-wounds, as wise as thou art and as warlike!
The blood-drinking barb bends her way to the breast of the bright-hair'd!
The spear speedeth swift on the wind to the wound, her red station!
Each moment, to man the misguided, is mother of mourning!

Anlaf.
How sweet she rings the letter through her rhyme,
With double, treble tricks of curious art,
In every stave!—She hath the gift of Song
Better than any Skalld!

Froda.
Most sure, inspired!

Constantine.
Well, let us northward; you'll be nearer friends.

Gorm.
Let's sweep along the coast, that so our plunder
In the brown-bosom'd ships may glide beside us.

Anlaf.
To horse then!—Pluck the Reafen from her perch!
[It is brought forward.
Thou ravager of earth! grant us good spoil,—
Ethelstan, rich in bracelets, and his host
Bright with his goldenness that shines on all!—
To horse, ye Danish Riders! let the ground
Thunder beneath our steeds, till this whole land
Shake inwardly! that he alone, Usurper,
Whilst his men fly him, shall stand fix'd in fear,
Till the black war-cloud bursts upon his head,—
Then be no further found when all is still!
Northward!

[Exeunt omnes.