University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Ethelstan's Tent. A Banquet set forth.
Ethelstan, Turketul, Haco, Egil Skillagrym with a harp, and other guests.
Ethelstan.
Send round the harp! Each chief awake its strain!—
Churl in his soul, whose voice and hand unskill'd
Aids not the circling glee!—Send round the horn
Foam-crested! the blithe harp's companion boon!
High-fill'd with amber mead, rich ale, bright wine!
Let both the festive shells go swiftly round,
That we may drink at once the double sweetness
Through lip and ear!—raise the dead spirit of joy,
And charm the serpents of the heart to sleep,
Or if not, drown them!— (To Egil.)
By thee, noble stranger,
Have harp and horn, and host, been honour'd deeply!
From thy rapt lay, blown locks, and heaven-ward eye,
Thou must be some famed minstrel?

Egil.
A Sea-king!
Who midst the idle rattle of the shrouds
Oft listening to the lonely Merman's song,
Found a sad cheer in it, and learn'd like him
To make society in my sea-solitude
With mine own voice, that aye from cliff and wave
Leap'd back to me in Echo's lovelier form!
So I grew up what Northmen name a Skalld,
Southrons a Sceop, or shaper of verse, a poet,—
Soul-fraught with lightsome burden of all rhymes!
Warrior and Minstrel thus, I, at the sound
Of that loud trump, Glory's bright blazoner,
Which blows through all the worlds,—hearing it swell
Thy fame, great Ethelstan, the Bracelet-giver!
Bravest and best of kings! and that thou sought'st
From ablest hands their iron aid,—at once
I stood before thee, Egil Skillagrym!

Ethelstan.
He that slew fierce King Eric's son, and gain'd
His “Ransom” from grim Vengeance by a Song?

Egil.
Even he!—Such virtue in good minstrelling!—
I slew him a brace of kin beside his son!

Ethelstan.
Welcome! as wild swan to the snowy brood,
Helping them buffet with the ocean wind!—
Accept this bracelet gemm'd, and these two cabinets
Fill'd with pure silver. Thou shalt have command.

Egil.
More, generous king!—let it be in the front,
So I may use stout voice and glaive together,
Raising the war-song, smiting down the foe!

Ethelstan.
As thou wilt, gallant bard!—Now, Chancellor,
A Saxon rhyme!

Turketul.
I've a rough stave or two
Which had been well before the Northman sung,
But now 'twill sound too homely. Ne'ertheless—

Enter Messenger, with a letter.
Ethelstan.
Pardon me, friends—Chancellor, fill my chair.
(To the Messenger.)
You brought me screech-owl news before; is this
Of the same tenor?—for I need it not;
Mine enemies are now within my reach,
That which a brave man only wants!—Come hither.

[Exit with Messenger.
Scene changes to another part of the Tent.
Enter Ethelstan, reading a letter.

“I am too proud to defend me against suspicions, or foul
accusations: the breath of the dying is seldom sweet.”—
True! when they are poisoned!—How should she tell my
Sister accused her, unless feeling its likelihood?—Well:
“But were you not blinded by aversion now, as some while
since by love,”—Ha! So I was blinded by love?—“you
would see the committer of both these crimes in her who
has fled, fearing trial, rather than in her who remains to
dare it—in the young she-wolf Runilda, rather than in the
still, to thee, tender-hearted—Ellisif.”

Runilda? what! my little wild glee-maiden!
It is not like the creature!—a frank thing,
Whose candid blood, as passion comes and goes,
Speaks vividly in her colouring brow and cheek;
But for cold truculence, considerate treason,
As fit as unfal'n angel for a fiend!
Odd! is it not, how near are friend and fiend?
When I say “friend,” I stutter into “fiend;”
There's but a burring consonant between them!
Add the dog-letter, fiend is friend! I toy
With my embosom'd viper. Stay, a postscript:—

“Herewith I send thy brother Edwin's well-known sword,
first to fulfil thy often-heard wish for that famous relic;
secondly, as a proof who is the traitress, this weapon having
been found by her pursuers, which they on oath can attest.

Some of them who visited, as spies, the Danish tents, avouch
that Runilda and her paramour, Fergus, are there: Anlaf
is her uncle.”

Anlaf her uncle! And her attendant, Bruern,
My brother's sword-bearer! these do point at her.
Could the dark spirit of the Dane come o'er
The lustre of the cherub that was in her,
Blackening it thus? Or was my petted she-wolf
Tame and caressable till her claws were grown,
Then treacherous to her fondler through dire faithfulness
To the o'ermastering savage in her blood?
Anlaf her uncle!—he, too, hath his spies
Doubtless abroad; have they into her soul
Whisper'd their villanous minds, contributing
Every one, the foul devils that possess'd him,
To fill her with a legion? Woful thoughts!
Yet it may be so! Fain would my belief
Take part with my affections, wishes, hopes,
All strong for Ellisif still! Wretched credulity!
O there's internal war 'gainst which the state
Of my divided self cannot stand long!
Away! I must put heart into all others,
Though sorrow and care eat up mine own!—To banquet!

[Exit.
Scene as before the last.
Guests as before. Anlaf disguised as a Harper.
Turketul
(to Anlaf).
Rest here: the King will come anon.

Anlaf.
I saw
The Wessex Dragon glittering o'er the tent,
And guess'd his royal brood lay under it!
Ethelstan king, loves he the minstrel-art?

Turketul.
Nought better, save the Laws and written lore
It is a proverb with us, “No one ever
Hath ruled more legally or more learnedly.”
He comes, his armour lights the doorway.—

Enter Ethelstan.
Anlaf
(to himself).
Gorgeously,
As a torch borne before him: that 's my prize,
When I tread on his breast!—He holds him well,
Slim-flank'd, but ample-chested as my steed,
Neck firm enough to bear a hundred crowns,
Had he usurp'd them! I shall smile to humble
That front of war he wears, yet, Saxon-like,
So placid in its pride!—Ay, are the tresses
That gave, 'twas said, such lustre to the air,—
That down his shoulders flow'd as rich as sands
Down golden channels,—are they blanch'd thus early?
All's one!—they'll soon be tinged!—He marks me not.

Haco.
Patience! his full tense eye looking so far
At his great objects can but ill discern
The petty things beside him.

Ethelstan.
Pardon my absence
Even when in your presence, princely friends!
A new bard-militant? a sea-king, ha?

Anlaf.
Sea-rover, in good truth! soldier, and singer!

Ethelstan.
Give him a cup of the king's wine. Let's have
A sample of thy mystery.

Anlaf.
What mystery?

Ethelstan.
Why, of thy song-craft!—We ne'er doubt thee, friend,
A well-skill'd cleaver of shields and billows too,
Thou look'st so tall a fellow, and art limb'd
So answerably to thy active eye,
As hawk's quick glance doth suit his eager talons,
That grasp their perch like prey. What takes thy mind?

Anlaf.
My thoughts were wandering—only for a theme—

Ethelstan.
And the grand kindred of Great Alfred by?

Anlaf.
True!—Alfred is an apposite theme—O dullard!—
I am unused to sing—for Saxon ears—
Bear with me, pray you!—'Tis a simple rhyme.
[Chanting to his harp.

Egil.
A lay well sung, and sure extemporal!
(To Turketul aside)
'Twas slight enough in art—one see-saw chime!—
No counter-change!—no quaint alliteration!—
But that we're bound to praise a brother-bard,
I'd say those sinewy fingers oftener twang'd
The bow's string than the harp's!

Turketul.
Is he not Danish?

Egil.
He hath the accent.

Turketul.
Truly a vile screamer!
He'd scare a rookery—the very nests
Would take wing!—'Mongst the croaking tribe, I grant,
His voice had borne the prize from all the bog!

Ethelstan
(to Anlaf).
Put up thy gifts. Go, if thou wilt, and whither:
Song, the best form of thought, should be most free!

Anlaf.
Thanks, liberal sir!—I will return bytimes,
And rouse you with another kind of music!

[Exit.
Ethelstan.
Now princes, thanes, and chieftains, let me, father-like,
Dismiss ye to your rest: get vigour from it
For the morn's victory! we must be stirring
With dawn, like game-cocks, lest these gulls and ravens
Should seem more birds of the sun than we, and thence
Strut braver up to us:—good night!—I'll forth
Upon my rounds: an hour ere day-light, warriors,
Be all here ready-arm'd!—Stay, Alger, Thorwolf,
You, of the van, leaders with Egil king,
Take these next tents: sleep soundly! never Morn,
Blithe ruffler, blew her trumpet half so shrill,
As my loud battle-call shall wake ye up
Unto this day of triumph!—Brief good night!—
Come with me, Haco!