University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

A Tent in the Danish Camp at Brunanburh. Armour and Arms.
Fergus, and Runilda arming him for battle.
Runilda.
There! it droops well!—O how his plume becomes him,
As the proud-bending pine the promontory!—
And yet methinks it droops too much—it should not
Shade his blue eyes from sight!—Now, is it better?
Dost feel it sway, with pleasant heaviness,
Nobly upon thy brow? Will it do thus?

Fergus.
I should say—ay, and yet would fain say—no,
To keep thy sweet hands still about my face,
Thy delicate fingers touching me like tendrils
Which, 'mid the honeysuckle bowers, I've felt
Softly yet fondly o'er my forehead play!—
How blissful thus—

Runilda.
His chin! gods, gods, his chin!
A broader, braver ribbon under it!

Fergus.
Thus in mine arms to hold thee, while thou peer'st
Closely o'er all my looks, as they were far
More precious than thine own and more thy pride!
To feel the halo of thy breath around me
When thy lips part to speak, thou living rose
Grafted into a lily!—Wherefore that sigh?

Runilda.
Ah me! now thou art deck'd with mine own care,
I could sit down and weep to send thee forth
In all thy gallantry and grace, so trim,
So beautiful, so blooming-young, to battle!

Fergus.
Herva, wilt turn my flush of pride to shame,
With fears I am too much a tenderling
For war's rough pastime,—nought but a male doll
To be dress'd up and kiss'd?—Do heroines weep?

Runilda.
Well, I will sing—
Here is your lance—and target—

Fergus.
But my gloves?
Until my hands be rough-shod, all slips from them;
My gloves, sweet Armourer!

Runilda.
Not yet—not yet—
Ere they be on thou must in turn arm me.

Fergus.
Thee? thee?—O madness! thou arm for the battle?
A mere slight girl! whole winters yet from womanhood!

Runilda.
Nay, martial sir, thou'rt but a stripling too!—
Come, arm me! arm me!—Am I not thine to death?

Fergus.
What are these little moulds of panoply
Thou lay'st before me,—hauberk, helm, and greave?—
Pity, O pity, do not put them on!

Runilda
(chants as she arms).
Then Odin's dark Daughters rode over the plain,
Chiding on the slow slaughter and chusing the slain!
Cries Gondula, fixing her smile on the fight,
‘Ye'll join hands in the Hall of Dead Heroes to-night!’

Fergus.
Look at this toy of helmets!—'tis too thin,
Too frail, to bear the stroke of Mercy's sword,
Though that mild chastener would warn, not harm thee!
What's here?

Runilda.
My brand!

Fergus.
O heaven, 'tis scarce a dagger
To fence away the fate those Saxon deathsmen
Deal with two-handed glaives!—Here is a targe!
One spangle on huge Turketul's shield! fit thing
To breast the shock of bucklers, when together
Ranks fall like walls in earthquakes, and at once
Rises the hill of ruin!—Here, look here,
A wrist to stem that mighty brunt!—brave wrist!
Thick as a swan's neck, and as white and bendable!
Why, in his steely embrace, War's softest pressure
Would crush thy soul out!

Runilda.
Wert thou half as safe!
This armour, Dwarfs in Hecla's smithy forged:
See! the lines graven round it all are Runes—
Mystic inscriptions, full of wizard power
To ward off ill: I am not vulnerable,—
Except by grief!—My soul is very sad!—
What sound is that without?

Fergus.
Trampling of steeds.

Runilda.
Why doth the Night-mare whinny so loud?
Her heavy knees trample the groaning-one deeper!
Her flurried black mane like a thunder-cloud
Flickers forth serpents of fire o'er the sleeper!
How he writhes him beneath her,
The blue flame breather!
And his eyes wild staring
At hers wilder glaring!
Mark how they glow in their sockets without flashes,
Two gray bale-fires mouldering in their ashes!

Fergus.
Cease! cease!—No death-cry terrible as this!
Hear you that signal?

[A low war-whistle without.
Runilda.
It thrills through my marrow!

Fergus.
And my glad heart—if thou wouldst but stay here?—
Come, since it must be so!

Runilda,
Ay, with my harp!
See how I fling it gallant o'er my shoulder,
As if we tripp'd to banquet!—So we do!
The banquet of the eagle and the raven,
Where they shall have their glut!—Come, my sweet harp,
Echo the warrior's shout and drown his wail
And chant his death-song!—Come, to battle! battle!

[Exeunt.