EDITHA.
A TRAGEDY.
BY HUGH DOWN MAN, M.D.
EXETER: Printed by E. GRIGG, and Sold by G. KEARSLEY, FLEET-STREET; P. ELMSLEY, STRAND; G. WILKIE, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD, LONDON; and W. GRIGG, EXETER. M,DCC,LXXXIV. Price ONE SHILLING and SIXPENCE.
TO THE INHABITANTS OF EXETER NEIGHBOURHOOD, THIS TRAGEDY IS INSCRIBED, BY THEIR HUMBLE SERVANT, THE AUTHOR.
PROLOGUE.
WHEREE'ER Mankind to sacred freedom just,
Have soar'd above the groveling Sons of dust,
Wheree'er the Arts their fragrant wreathes have wove,
Wheree'er the virtues leagued with Patriot love,
And bright-eyed Science shed her heavenly dews,
There public taste hath nursed the Tragic Muse.
And Reason to her generous care consign'd,
The noblest, best emotions of the mind.
'Tis her's where human institutes are weak,
With firm, unbiast emphasis to speak.
With genuine nature link persuasive art,
And bind in magic ties the willing heart.
She gives to view the Tyrant's naked breast,
What guilt disturbs him, and what fears insest.
She with abhorrence marks the Traitor's name,
And cloaths Ambition in the robes of Shame.
Depresses Cruelty; and rears on high
The standard of Imperial liberty.
Is Innocence by rigour stern subdued?
She steels her soul with conscious fortitude.
Bids her above this fordid earth to rise,
And claim alliance with her native skies.
Who then, by partial error led astray,
With hasty censure brands the Tragic lay?
The glorious strains which polish'd Athens taught,
Refining and exalting human thought?
When Sages praised the Poet's moral pen?
And listening Heroes felt that they were Men?
What true desert is their's, at Virtue's call,
Who make th' obedient passions rise or fall!
Who in her Temple bid Mankind appear,
Breathe the warm sigh, and drop the hallow'd tear!
For when by idcot laughter unpossest,
She, gentle Goddess, seeks the soften'd breast.
From grief itself a nameless pleasure flows,
And pity loves to melt at fancied woes.
Not through Antiquity's obscurer ways,
To climes remote our British Author strays,
Not from th' Italian, or the French translates,
Alters old plots, or even imitates.
From your own Annals he his story draws,
Tradition long hath crown'd it with applause.
When the fierce Danes their barbarous inroads plann'd,
And pour'd destruction o'er each harrast land.
When they besieged these Walls, and hoped to win,
Nor knew superior valour dwelt within:
Till the bold Citizens assail'd their Host,
And drove th' insulting Miscreants from their Coast,
Thus, for their Country, dared your Sires to bleed;
Nor have their Sons disgraced the gallant deed.
Courageous now, as when they quell'd the Dane,
Still faithful, loyal, generous, and humane.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
VOLNIR.
EDRERED.
RODOLPH.
ALBERT.
OSWY.
BRITHRIC, or SIGEBERT.
CITIZENS, DANISH CAPTAINS, &c.
GUNHILDA.
EDITHA.
SCENE. EXETER, and the adjacent Country.
EDITHA. A TRAGEDY.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A
CAMP.
At some distance the
CASTLE,
and
CITY
of
EXETER.
VOLNIR. BRITHRIC.
SHALL not this City fall beneath my power?
What magic buckler guards it? To my arms,
The puny Offspring of this sea-girt land
Have yielded wheresoe'er I fought. My ships
Beneath their treasures bend. The ravaged coast,
Hence, to the farthest Orcades, laments
Her slaughter'd Chiefs, and desolated towns.
What say'st thou Englishman! Our first assault
Hath proved in vain, will they withstand another?
No doubt they will. In native courage bold,
The warlike Sons of Isca ne'er will droop
By sudden fear o'ercome. To conquer them,
Patience, with ardent valour must be joined,
Nor will they yield, till closed within the net
Of extreme fate, and dire necessity.
How dost thou know their character so well?
I thought thou told'st me, thou wert born far off,
Upon the banks of Trent?
I told thee true.
But who, within these confines, is a stranger
To the Damnonian fame? Their worth in arms
Even their foes confess. Before these walls
For two long tedious months did Sweno mourn,
Illustrious Monarch, and with shame and rage
Beheld his blasted laurels. Nor at length,
But by a Norman traitor gain'd the place,
Ignobly gain'd it. Why, O ill-advised,
Would'st thou sit down before it?
Brithric, hold!
No more with thy ill-omen'd notes presume
T' infest my ear. Hast thou forgot, old man,
When first I saw thee in thy boarded ship,
The sad survivor of thy vanquish'd crew,
Cover'd with wounds? When I preserv'd thy life,
And made my foe my friend? For Volnir ne'er
After the rage of fight, could plunge his sword
In the unguarded bosom of the brave.
No Volnir, I can ne'er forget that day.
Thou hast forgot it; else why interpose
These frigid cautions? Hast thou e'er with arm
Or counsels, aided me, since first I urg'd
The tide of war against the Anglian shore?
Now, by my sword I swear, when I have gain'd
Some glorious victory, these eyes have seen
Thy cheek bedew'd with tears.
And say, could'st thou
View Ruin with gigantic stride, pass o'er
Thy Denmark's breast unmov'd? No, surely no
In other realms thou hast not seen these feet
Behind thee linger; my victorious arm
Gothland hath witness'd, and the Frank, the Scot
Oft fled before the lightning of my spear.
These were my enemies as well as thine.
But can a private tye, e'en gratitude
Strongest of all, make me forget the love
I owe my country? Perish then this arm!
May these white locks unseemly strew the dust!
When my advice shall prompt, or hands dare execu
A guilty deed against my native soil!
Why hath thy native soil ne'er paid thy ransom?
For well I know, thou art not of the race
Of common men.
Why ask of me a question
Thou best can'st answer? Would'st thou have permitted
A messenger from me to seek my friends,
Long, long e'er now my ransom had been paid.
Thou know'st, tho' pleased, the more enlighten'd manners,
And customs of well-regulated States
By my instructions taught, t' exalt me high
Amid thy Warriors, Conqueror as thou art,
Thou know'st I have not willingly forsaken
Those I held dear. I left my soul's best portion,
A valued Wife; a young and growing Daughter,
An infant Son I left. Could I forget
In splendid slavery these tender names?
For life I am thy Debtor, and have serv'd
In other wars most faithfully. But still
Affection wrings my heart, and liberty
Is unpossess'd, tho' I without a boast
Might claim it as my due.
Go, join the foe.
Hence murmurer to the city, and betray
Me, and my army.
Volnir no, I scorn
The paths of baseness. Prisoner, to thee,
Unransom'd never will I quit thy camp.
SCENE II.
Enter
RODOLPH,
with
EDITHA,
and other
PRISONERS.
Welcome brave Rodolph! Hast thou well explor'd
The country toward the North?
I have. No foe
Dares stand against us, terror-struck they fly,
And leave to us their numerous herds and flocks.
I traced yon winding stream for many a mile,
Through it's luxuriant vale, fit haunt for Gods.
Unlike our blasted heaths, here Plenty dwells,
Clad in her richest robes. Could we possess
The City, with this scene before our view,
Here might we fix our home, and each nerve strung
With double vigour, brave the utmost force
Of the whole adverse Isle. A region this,
Worthy of none but Denmark's valiant race.
Bear off these Prisoners. To my Tent conduct
This trembling fair One. Fear not, gentle Damsel,
Rodolph is thy Protector.
Stay awhile.
Whence is that beauteous Maid?
A votaress She.
Immur'd within a neighbouring abbeys walls.
We burst the gate, and took her thence by force.
Enough. Retire.
(
Exeunt
Editha, &c.
Rodolph, it ill becomes
A soldier in the clamorous field of war
To sigh at Beauty's feet. 'Tis our's to teach
The eager sword to bite the crested helm:
To call the hawks of Heaven, and bid them mark
The joys of fight; to drench the ground in blood.
Nor, 'till return'd from war, to take the Maid,
Or blooming Widow to our wish'd embrace.
Fear not my Chief; guarded with sacred care
She dwells secure, 'till placed within my ship,
A matchless prize.
So shall thy Chief applaud thee
Now hear what we have purposed. Be it thine
To head a daring Band by me selected,
And when the moon dips in the cave of night
Her silver brow, to scale with silent step
Yon castle walls; myself will on the city
Pour my whole force, and with incessant storm
Facilitate thy enterprize.
My thoughts
Accord with thine. Plan thou each arduous deed:
And let this heart the bold designs fulfill.
(
Exit.
SCENE III.
VOLNIR. BRITHRIC.
Mark'd you the Virgin?
I observed her well.
Her modesty, her air above the vulgar,
Her unaffected, silent look of woe,
With strange emotions fill'd my heart. I pity her.
Her fate is to be envied. Rodolph's valour
Deserves the fairest. Where can beauty feel
True pleasure, but when clasp'd in the embrace
Of the intrepid warrior?
Tender mourner!
Who knows her grief! Her sad anxiety!
Torn from her Friends! Perhaps an aged Father
Now beats his breast, and curses in despair,
The cruel hand of Fate. A frantic Mother
Perhaps now breathes her last, in anguish wild,
Calling in vain upon her much-loved Daughter.
I blush to hear this weakness; glad am I
None of my noble Danes are witnesses
To this thy folly; but if thou regard'st
My anger, dare not with inglorious wailings
Disgrace my camp. War is no school of pity.
Nor would I, that the spirits of my followers,
Rough and invincible, be e'er degraded
To the soft failings of the silken Crew,
O'er whom they triumph. Why is strength imparted,
Why the heroic soul, but from the base
Unmanly grasp of cowards, those possessions
They merit not to wrest? Riches and beauty,
The harvest of their labours?
Is it then
Denied to feel for the afflicted?
No;
But rule thy feelings; like a man, support
Thy nature's frailty; feed on grief in secret.
(
Exit.
)
O curse! to bear a mind whence sweet humanity
By barbarous custom is exiled! To know
No virtue, but ferocious brutal courage!
Yet is this Chief superior to his race;
And education which hath steel'd his soul
To gentle pity, hath not quite erased
The native sense of rectitude. He spared
My life; and loved a valour like his own.—
The thoughts of this poor Virgin still distress me,
Such is my Daughter's age.—But she's far distant.
It cannot be.—And yet her Mother's features
Rose to my mind.—'Tis but the sport of fancy.—
Oh! could I but once more behold my Children,
I then could die in peace.—But who can tell
Whether some other band of these invaders
May not have slain, or hurried them away
To sad captivity? Perhaps I mourn
The absence of the dead; or dead to me,
Who never must behold them; doom'd to waste
My days in misery, and die a slave.
Enter
RODOLPH.
Hast thou so soon left thy fair Prisoner?
New to misfortune is the Maid; her sorrow
Resists all arguments; persuasion fails;
Nor will she hear a word of soothing comfort.
She will be calm anon. These warmer passions
Soonest abate. Yet, 'twas a scene of terror
From whence I snatch'd her; for the foolish crew
Their gates had barricadoed, which provoked
My gallant band to deeds of vengeance. All
But she, and one, whom at a postern door
A youth bore off upon his rapid steed,
Fell victims to the keen relentless sword.
Whence were the other Captives?
They were taken
From neighbouring villages, the soldier's plunder,
To them by lot distributed.
Would'st thou,
Should I request it, suffer me to visit
This Captive in thy Tent?
Hah! dost thou know
What 'tis thou ask'st?
I do. Thou would'st be willing
To dry her tears?
I would.
'Tis for that purpose
I ask an interview. I am her Countryman,
And should I to her ear unfold thy worth,
Thy excellence above the other Chiefs;
Make her of that good fortune sensible,
Which, 'mid her depth of woe, to thy possession
Devoted her; may not her mind be moved,
Sooth'd by the cheering speech of honest age,
And cast anxiety aside?
I'll trust thee.
Thy snowy head proclaims, that in thy breast
The flame of warm desire's long since extinct.
Go Brithric. I would bend her to my wishes,
But not reluctantly. The sickly appetite
Of impotence may provocation need
In cold resistance, but my glowing soul
Seeks equal passion, and the yielding fair
To bless, must covet blessing.—Hence, away!
I wait on Volnir; He hath now demanded
Once more a parley; and the haughty Albert,
Exonia's Praefect, to our Camp draws nigh.
(
Exit.
)
Protect these towers, kind Heaven! Tho' for the sins
Of guilty nations, for a time these robbers
Bear thy vindictive scourge; yet, teach mankind
At length, that sacrilege and cruelty
Will draw the terrors of thy justice down!
That Mercy is thy darling attribute,
And thy arm bared to punish, not destroy!
ACT II.
SCENE I.
VOLNIR's
Tent.
VOLNIR
and his
CAPTAINS.
Once more my noble friends, who chose me willingly
Your leader in this war, I mean to try,
Whether by mild persuasion, or by threats,
This Albert may be shaken. For tho' frankly
You rush amid the tempest of the fight,
To you not dreadful, and pour forth your blood,
As well becomes the brave; yet do ye know
To relish life, and all its genuine pleasures.
For this we leave our barren rocks, to tear
From the luxurious arms of battening sloth,
Its wealth superfluous, and its gorgeous robes,
Rich gems, and spur to every great design
The love-exciting Fair. Nor would I rashly,
When dire necessity impels not, urge
Your feet to dangers fatal paths.—Should Albert,
Depending on its strength, refuse to yield
This well-girt city, He, like other Foes,
May buy our absence dearly, and bring forth
The boarded gold and precious moveables,
Which the affrighted Citizens shall give
With pleasure; while we seek our native land,
With ships full-fraught, bearing a treasure thither,
Greater than Denmark ever saw before.
Conscious of thy superiour worth, we trust
To thee our interest; in the sanguine field,
Or mazy treaty, stedfast to pursue
The path where Volnir, or where Wisdom leads.
Enter
RODOLPH,
with
ALBERT.
The Praefect Albert.
He does well t' obey
Our summons.—Albert welcome.
Think not Dane,
Tho' proud thy speech, that Albert's acts are govern'd
But by his own free will. 'Tis true I come,
And by thy message prompted; but expecting
No lordly looks to see, to hear no terms
Of insult from a foe we need not dread.
Our bulwarks laugh to scorn thy utmost force,
Guarded by men, prepared as thou hast found,
Buried beneath their ruins to expire,
E'er stain their souls with infamy. I come,
Urged by an impulse to thy breast unknown,
That of humanity. To bid thee fly,
For vengeance is at hand; to bid thee spare
The streams of blood, which fate prepares to pour
Over these verdant fields. For tho' revenge
Inspires, tho' to the ravages of war
You join fell cruelty, tho' smoaking villages,
Women and children murder'd, well might steel
To dire retaliation all our hearts;
Yet, dear is every Citizen to me;
These eyes have seen enough of death already.
This hour is thine, retire: the next is our's:
And thy retreat cut off, one general ruin
Involves you all.
Albert, I love thy boldness.
A foe thou art, worthy a son of Denmark
To cope withal. But hast thou mark'd our camp?
And warlike preparation? Think not vainly
Thou can'st escape destruction. Flush'd with conquest
In every country from the frozen sea
To this delightful region, nought avails
Thy bravery against us. Yonder walls
Already totter to their deep-set base.
Consult then this humanity of thine,
Open the gates; so shalt thou save the lives
Of thy devoted Citizens, and taste
Our amplest clemency.
Whence hast thou gain'd
This confidence, audacious man? Because
So spiritless was our defence, when lately
We beat thee from our ramparts? When thy bravest
Fell at our feet in death? And the remainder
To their intrenchments fled? Can this have taught thee
To boast? To threaten?—By th' Inhabitants
Of this one town alone thus roughly treated,
When the collected force of Devon bursts
In thunder on thee, as e'er long it will,
Thy Ravens wing, whose plumes already moult,
Shall rise no more; but in the dust be trod,
Scorn'd by the meanest Peasant of our Isle.
So rashly warm!
So reasonably bold.
To cease this idle play of language, vain
And foreign to our purpose. Should we quit
These girded walls, devoted to our will.—
Your Citizens are rich; say, with what sum
Will they their freedom and their lives redeem?
Perish the thought! Were our streets paved with gold,
Expect not Dane from us the shining treasure.
For thee we hoard up nought but steel, to which
Thou art right welcome.
Be it so.—But Albert,
When ruin enters o'er yon towers, when horror
And fell destruction riot in your streets,
Accuse not us of cruelty, the obstinate
Urge their own fate, our consciences are free.
We will acquit thee Dane, till then farewell!
(
Exit.
)
Prepare my Friends! From this determined man
Expect no common shock. Each to his post!
Yet hath our steady and unshaken valour,
Met greater dangers than his utmost power
Can bring in opposition, and with ease
Subdued them all. Only resolve to conquer,
And you're already Conquerors.
(
Exeunt.
)
SCENE II.
RODOLPH's
Tent.
O state of horror! Worse than death itself!
Yes, I would die with pleasure, to the sword
Submit my neck, or run to meet the blow.
But save me spotless Heaven! Say, who art thou?
(
Enter
Brithric.)
A Friend, a Countryman, by Rodolph sent—
Rodolph! detested name!
And why detested!
Thou art a stranger to his worth, his love—
'Tis monstrous! Name it not. Said'st thou his love!
Thou can'st not mean it.
Calm these transports Virgin,
And hear me plead his cause.
I will not hear thee.
'Tis poison to mine ears. Dishonest Englishman!
Leave me; hence, to the robber who employed thee;
Fittest society!
Impassion'd thus,
I will not leave thee. Bred up in prosperity,
Thou hast not tasted misery's sad cup,
And therefore view'st thy lot with double anguish.
But time, with lenient hand will soothe thy grief,
And teach thee to repay with gratitude,
The care, the love, the warm desires of Rodolph.
Hast thou out-lived thy feelings? Or art thou
A willing slave? A traitor to thy country?
Or wert thou forced upon this odious task?
Thou know'st me not.—I pity, and forgive thee.
Yet if resentment for thy Country's wrongs,
Or thy own injuries, if the esteem
Of honour, and the innate love of virtue
Permit thee not to yield; try what thou can'st
To gain forbearance; try dissimulation;
To feign for honest purposes is lawful.
He will submit; and lucky opportunity
Perhaps will crown thy wisdom.
Base adviser!
Close thy unhallow'd lips. When thee I violate,
O pure Sincerity! O holy Truth,
When I shall cease thy mandates to adore!
May ignominy be my portion here,
And Heaven refuse me happiness hereafter!
Of all the vices which my soul abhors,
There's none whose dire communion I would shun
Like vile deceit; to every other crime
It forms a path, till the whole breast becomes
A store-house of pollution.—As for thee,
Whose abject mind is suited to thy station,
Hence from my sight, and torture me no more.
For know, I want no counsel but my own.
How I admire this warmth!
(
aside.
)
O gentle Maid,
Whose anger in so just a cause, delights
The heart attuned in unison with thine!
Excuse an old man's policy, who looks
With tenderest sympathy on thy affliction.
Who wish'd to prove if thy interior graces
Equal'd thy outward charms. Who knows thy danger,
And would pour forth his blood to give thee safety;
For thou art like—O Heaven!
Can I believe
This sudden change? Thy face indeed is honest.
And those white hairs of age claim reverence.
The tear too wets thy cheek.—But why suspect me?
Thy trial shews thou did'st. Can with Integrity
Suspicion dwell? So odious a companion?
'Twas not suspicion, I disclaim its weakness.
'Twas chance, 'twas curiosity, desire
To have thee higher rise in my esteem.
'Twas any thing but a design to injure
Thy purity of soul. When first I saw thee,
Methought my heart was link'd to thine, I vow'd
To do thee service; but alas! what service
Can I, a wretched prisoner afford!
I may lament, but cannot rescue thee.
O Edred where art thou! O Bertha! Bertha!
What said'st thou! What!
Whence is this wild emotion?
Why dost thou fix thy eyes, and gaze thus on me?
Did'st thou not mention Edred?
What of him!
And Bertha too?
I did.
Are they thy Friends?
My Mother and my Brother.
And thy name?—
Is Editha.
Thy Father?—
Was Earl Sigebert.
I, I am he; O Editha! my Child!
I am thy long-lost Father, I am Sigebert.
My Father! Is it possible! My Father!
I am indeed. Oh! I am wild with joy.
And shall I know the blessing of a Father!
Thou shalt, thou shalt. Oh! not the light itself,
Not the warm blood which gives me motion, sense,
Shall be so dear to me. I thought I saw
The features of my Bertha. O my Child!
My lovely Editha!—But in this place!
And in this Rodolph's power! Ye Angels stoop,
Stoop on your wings of grace, and save my Child!
Where is that best of women? Where is Bertha?
And where thy Brother? Are they not in Mercia?
By what strange mystery art thou prisoner here?
O my dear Father! (to pronounce that name
Thrills my whole soul with pleasure.) Edred's valour,
And youthful merit, won the royal favour
Of our great master Ethelred. Another
Possesses thy inheritance; to him
He gave domains which far exceeded thine,
Here, in the bounds of Devon, ample rights,
Forests, and large command. Thy sad misfortune
Was in this grateful bounty not forgotten.
For long we've thought thee dead, unnumber'd tears
Hath Bertha pour'd, and still the painful sigh
Oft swells her bosom. When she heard thy ship
Was by a tempest sever'd from the rest,
She fear'd the greedy waves had swallow'd it,
And mourn'd in bitterest woe her husbands death.
Oh! had it not been sever'd, Denmark's Sons
Had not so long spread ruin o'er my country;
I had not yielded to this Danish Chief,
Oppress'd by numbers; nor with him dragg'd out
Eighteen long years of tedious servitude.
Nor had the Father and the Daughter thus
Met helpless captives. But where is She now?
And where my Son?
This morn when last I saw them—
Oh! thou recall'st the dreadful scene of blood,
The horrid massacre. Within that sanctuary
Had Bertha and myself retired for safety.
When at one gate the Foe demanded entrance,
We heard the voice of Edred at the other.
Either by chance, or fearing their intent
He came, but unattended; strait he placed
My Mother on his courser, and out-stripp'd
The winds for her deliverance.
Noble Youth!
By this, no doubt, he hath regain'd the city.
Where, with his houshold train, in deeds of danger
He is the foremost, and encourages
The most remiss to action.
O my Daughter!
Grief mingles with my joy.—Preserve him Heaven!
And lead him on to victory!—For thee
I weep my Editha. Ah! what avails it
That thou wert snatch'd from slaughter, if thou now
Must be exposed to savage violation!
Let us not murmur. That almighty power
Who saved me there as by a miracle,
Can here support me.
In that power I trust.
But I must guard thee with a Father's love;
And dangerous is the path I shall pursue.
I'll hence to Volnir, in whose breast I claim
Some share of confidence, to him disclose
Rodolph's instructions, his design on thee;
I will enlarge on his inglorious passion.
So strict his discipline, he will, I know,
Divide you till they re-embark. Mean-time
I may devise some other plan to save thee.
To thee, and Heaven, do I commit myself.
Farewell my Child! I could almost persuade
My old fond heart, that innocence, like thine,
Might melt the most relentless son of Denmark
To soft humanity.—Farewell! Farewell!
(
Exit.
)
Farewell! May all-overwatching Providence
Assist thy pious care, and shield thy Daughter!
Enter
RODOLPH.
Once more, my beauteous Captive, e'er I plunge
Amid the storm of war, I come to hear
More gentle accents from thy mouth, to meet
More gentle glances from thy eyes.—Hath Brithric,
My Friend, thy ancient Countryman been with thee?
He hath.
Thou view'st me with the look of scorn.
And his persuasions have not overcome
That stubborn heart.
Away! I would reproach thee.
But sentiments like mine will prompt a language
Thou can'st not understand.
Hah! Do'st thou know
My power o'er thee is absolute?
I know it.
To wounds, to accidents, to violence,
This outward frame is subject; but the mind
Enjoys her glorious freedom uncontroul'd.
Nor have I hurt that mind, tho' privileged
By war and conquest.
Rather say by sacrilege,
Rapine, and cruelty. All other nations
Respect the Matron and the hoary Sire,
Melt at the Virgin's and the Infant's tear.
Thy savage race, intent on ruthless slaughter,
Heeds none of these; nor can the holiest places
Protect them from their fury. Like the Tiger,
Which loves to swim in blood, and tears the flock,
Tho' gorged with food in frantic wantonness.
What treatment can a foe expect but death,
Or slavery, from a foe? We have not yet
Enervated our minds by southern manners.
Nursed in the arms of war, I love the fight,
The whizzing arrow, and the flying spear,
The clang of shields, and tempest of the field.
To love my Country, and to hate my Enemy,
Be mine. What virtue can exalt the soul
Of man, but courage.
Mercy and compassion,
Which bind a wreathe around the Warriors helm,
And lead his footsteps in the paths of glory.
And guard him doubtless in the day of battle!
By these your Englishmen have fought so bravely,
And with resistless ardour stopp'd our course.
Such virtues ever may my foes possess!
O blind to truth! Uncivilized Barbarian!
With what disdain the polish'd soul beholds
The man who sinks himself beneath the brutes!
No more. Thou wilt perchance repent this pride.
No; I despise thee from a nobler motive;
I soar above thee, conscious of a dignity
Thy heart ne'er felt, the dignity of virtue.
That be thy solace here! I go to execute
My Chief's commands. The moon hath left the Heavens,
The clouds of night hang o'er the sleeping city,
And lull it to its fate. Tho' cloath'd with beauty,
Excelling all my eyes have seen before,
Yet think not I shall soothe, and fawn, and kneel,
For favours in my power.—Thou art my Captive.
But am thy Captive only while I please.
Think'st thou I prize my life beyond my honour?
The words of many a Fair, who, to enhance
The boon, would make it difficult to win.
So far I've been thy Lover, when I next
Return with victory, expect thy Master.
(
Exit.
)
A Slave! A Master!—Yet I could submit
To the most humble servile offices,
With innocence, companion of my toil.
If my own heart reproach'd me not, nor shame
Sat kindling on my cheek.—And could I leave
My native Country? Leave my Friends? My Brother?
A Mother, who her being wrapt in mine,
Lives but in me? O my dear long-lost Father!
So lately found! Save, save me from the thought!
Yet, what can'st thou! A slave to these Barbarians!
A wretched slave!—Oh! never shall I see
My Parents meet, a witness to their joy,
I shall not tend their age, and smooth its cares,
Or drop the pious tear upon their grave.—
Who knows my future fate!—My soul shrinks back!
Nor through the horrid gloom dares penetrate.
O thou Supreme o'er all! To whom I bend
With humblest duty, let thy power be shewn!
Confound tyrannic force! Support the weak!
And from afflictions soul remove despair!
SCENE III.
The
CITY.
ALBERT
and
CITIZENS.
The time requires our strictest vigilance.
Is the watch doubled? Hast thou visited
Each quarter of the ramparts?
I have.
Protected by our walls, and more
By love of liberty, by brave disdain,
And hatred t'ward our unrelenting foes,
We need not fear.—This bold Adventurer,
Equal to Swein in bravery and conduct,
Whose fame in arms hath call'd forth Denmark's Sons,
By choice to follow his unfolded standard,
Shall, with his numerous host, or starve beneath
Our unscaled mounds, or seek their ships with shame,
If, (as I trust you will), with steady valour,
You guard your native city; if your deeds
Answer in future to your last days actions.
And lo! where comes our succour and support,
Heroic Edred!—Noble Youth, right welcome!
Thou hast succeeded in thy enterprize?
In part, and but in part.—Alas my Friend!
What we this morning dreaded is complete.
Th' inhuman Dane no holy place reveres.
The abbey is despoil'd, the virgin train
Murder'd. Assisted by the hand of Heaven,
Bertha is saved.—But Oh! My noble Sister!
How cruel is her fate! A prisoner
To these Barbarians! Seeing them retreat,
I turn'd my steps, and sought among the slain,
She was not to be found.—I have not time
To tell thee all; for as with stealthy pace,
Skreen'd by the gloom of night, thro' secret paths
The careful foe I shunn'd, methought I heard
A sound confused of feet and murmuring voices,
And strait the glimpse of armour caught my eye.
Some action is on foot; they seem'd to me
As winding t'ward the Castle.
Let them come.
They steal not on a sleeping enemy;
We are prepared: and as a lofty rock
Beats back the furious waves which rage in vain,
So shall before our well-mann'd battlements
These ravagers retire.—I see thy grief
Thou gallant Youth; and for thy hapless Sister
Feel similar emotions to thy own.
The lovely Editha all hearts confess
Unparagon'd in beauty, and in virtue.
Oh! witness Heaven! no common love I bore her!
No Brother ever better loved a Sister;
And she deserved my love.—Her active soul
Soaring above the weakness of her sex,
My younger spirit raised to glorious daring.
When but a Boy, she to my listening ear,
Taught all the martial deeds of my great Ancestors.
She set before my eye my Father's virtues,
(Whose early death my Mother ever mourns:)
And bade me tread like them the paths of fame.
If aught within this breast transcends the vulgar,
To her the debt is due, the generous fire
By her was kindled.
'Twas unfortunate—
Oh! it was greatly so. That they should think
The ties of faith would check those lawless robbers!
That I should suffer them to put in practice
So idle a resolve! Exposed to danger,
When here with us they might have dwelt in safety.
For what is sacred to the Danish race?
They spare not hoary age, nor innocence
Within its Mother's clasping arms inshrined,
Nor e'en religion at the hallow'd altar.
Would I could comfort thee!
That wish is vain.
Nor seek I any comfort but revenge.
Join with me there my Friend! Let us this instant
Pour forth the tide of fury on their camp.
My eager sword is thirsty for revenge.
The holy Virgins weltering in their blood,
My ravish'd Sister's wrongs now urge me on,
String all my nerves, and fill my soul with ardour.
Thou hast forgot thy tidings.—But whate'er
Shall happen, all is ready for defence,
Or vigorous onset; by e
ch public motive,
And private sentiment impell'd, this arm
Shall join with thine in boldest enterprize;
And deep upon the Danish crests, inscribe
In bloody characters, the holy compact.
But much I wonder, Oswy with his powers
Is not as yet arrived; this morn he sent
A messenger, who told me e'er the sun
Set in the West, we should behold his camp
Pitch'd on the neighbouring-hills; with hasty march,
He, from the bounds of Tamar, to our aid
Approaches.
Never did my heart esteem
That Lord; in words, most fierce, in action, cold;
Of crafty and designing nature, he,
A slave to avarice, and inherent baseness.
He hath a beauteous Daughter.
True, he hath;
Gunhilda. With an ample dower to me
He would have given the Maid; but underneath
The veil of fairest semblance, I beheld
A soul too like her Father's, and refused her.
Since which enraged, they ever have pursued me
With base insidious hate, which I despise.
(
A Trumpet sounds.
)
The signal of alarm!
(
Enter a
Citizen.)
Our scouts inform us
A party of the foe, in deepest silence,
Is climbing the ascent toward the Castle.
Another party to the Eastern gate,
With rapid haste advances.
This my Edred,
This is the wish'd-for hour, the hour of glory!
She holds her prize aloft, and animates
The chosen breast with tenfold intrepidity.—
The Castle be thy care; we guard the gate.
And now my Friend, the Warrior's courtesy,
One brief embrace!—The rest belongs to Heaven.
And Heaven is just.—My keen-edged sword I draw,
Which shall not to its scabbard be restored,
Till drench'd and satiated with Danish blood.
(
Exeunt.
)
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The
CAMP. VOLNIR's
Tent.
VOLNIR, RODOLPH,
and
DANISH CAPTAINS.
Again repulsed! Again with shame compell'd
To seek our camp! The Danish Genius droops.
Oh! where was Rodolph's matchless valour! Where
That untamed spirit wont to rise superiour
To every obstacle! The waves of chance
To stem with steady breast, and gain the shore!
To press against the hand of opposition,
And urge his way more swiftly for resistance!
But love, fond love enslaved the Warrior's heart,
Beauty's soft chains had shackled his bold spirit,
And he was conquer'd e'er he sought the fight.
Now, by my soul, thou seest the Fair no more,
Till we have laid those turrets in the dust,
And steer our course t'ward Denmark.
These reproaches
No doubt become thee well. Injustice ever
With weak excuses vindicates its actions.
Scarce can I trust my ears; these taunts from thee!
But I'm perhaps a stranger, and thou never
Beheld'st my footsteps in the crimson field,
Or sword destructive dealing slaughter round.
And didst thou take my Captive from my Tent?
And do I live and bear this injury?
No more rash man. Learn thou thy duty better.
Did I not charge thee not to woe the Maid?
What! shall our camp be changed into a school
Of wanton dalliance? Of inglorious love?
Our deeds depend not on the breath of Rodolph.
We judge, we act, from reason's firm resolves.
Oh! would we were in Denmark! I should there
Meet thee thy equal. See my friends, the man,
Who acts, who judges, as firm reason dictates!
He saw the beauteous prisoner, he loved her,
And from his envied Rival took the Maid.
But love no doubt is glorious in the Chief,
And base unmanly dalliance in the Soldier.
What power withholds, that now I rush not on thee,
And smite thee to the earth?—The fixed soul,
Which conscious of its rectitude, despises
A madman's calumny.—But urge no farther.
It may be dangerous.—Yet, hear me all!
And thou attend!—In yonder Tent inclosed,
She dwells, to me as tho' she not existed,
Or was not form'd of mortal elements,
And subject to the passions of mankind.
No private end I seek; the public good
Is all my care; and from the warm emotion
A bar of frost secures this settled bosom.
Retire; and in thy Tent converse with shame,
Th' attendant of unguarded liberty,
And thoughtless Youth. I pardon thee. Begone.
(
Exit.
Rodolph.)
Enter a
SOLDIER.
As in our farthest limits t'ward the City,
I with my fellows held observant watch,
A Damsel cross'd our way with two attendants.
She bade us straitway lead her to our Chief,
And begs to be admitted to thy presence.
Bring her before us.
Enter
GUNHILDA.
'Mid the paths of death,
And throng of hostile arms, say gentle Maid,
What brings thee hither at this hour of night?
Art thou the much-famed leader of the Danes?
My name is Volnir.
Hail illustrious Chief!
My errand is to thee, and my request
The favour of thy private ear.
Retire.
(
To the Attendants.
)
Thy will is granted. From a messenger
So beauteous, and so rare, I may expect
No common tidings. Whence? and who art thou?
From Devon's West extreme I come; a Friend
To thee and Denmark.
How a Friend? Proceed.
Art thou ambitious o'er this town to triumph?
To gird the Conqueror's laurel round thy brow?
And all thy valiant host enrich with plunder?
A female tongue shall teach thee how to act.
Whoe'er thou art, whatever be thy counsel,
Thou read'st my wish aright.
I am the Daughter
Of Oswy, powerful Chief, a name to thee
Well-known, my name Gunhilda. In our veins
Flows Danish blood; e'er that inhuman massacre
Destroy'd thy Countrymen, by holy union
Of marriage 'twas acquired.
Say on fair Damsel.
Thus then; my Father with a mighty aid
Is near at hand prepared to raise this siege;
So Albert credits, so the Citizens.
But if thy heart consents with his, to terms
Which I shall now propose, the town is thine.
What bond coercive answers for his faith?
I will remain with thee a willing Hostage.
'Tis well; the terms unfold.
On Oswy's part
He promises, when Host with adverse Host
Is mix'd in fight, to fly with all his troops.
Then while the Citizens confusedly urge
Their way toward the walls, thy Friends may enter
With the affrighted croud. Or e'er two days
Are past, when he is in the City posted,
He will, the gate committed to his care,
To thee deliver at a certain hour.
From thee he asks in coin, in plate, or gems,
Secretly given, a third part of the spoil.
He wishes thee to curb impetuous rage,
Nor shed unnecessary blood, but one,
One odious life he at thy hands requires.
Name the devoted victim.
Edred; he
Who every needy artizan inspires
With pride, and every vile mechanic breast
With obstinacy. He it is who checks thy course,
Thy greatest enemy and our's.
I know
The Youth; when first we for this siege prepared,
He came with Albert, and defied our power.
Bold were his words, and stately was his mien.
I saw him afterwards like lightning pierce
Our thickest ranks, his fury front to front
Rodolph opposed, and desperate was the fight;
But Rodolph's arm prevailed not. On he rush'd,
And havock mark'd his way. This night again
His valour foil'd us; he, our prisoners say,
The Citadel defended. We accept
Thy terms fair Stranger. To the noble Oswy,
We swear the third part of the spoil to give,
And Edred's forfeit life.
He asks no more.
The first he claims a debt of justice, due
From thee to his deserts; the last, a sacrifice
To the diminish'd honour of his house,
And sullied name. 'Twere long, nor need I tell
The cause of his desired revenge; enough
That Edred is beyond expression base,
Vile, contumelious, and that we would see,
With pleasure see this Island from its base
Torn by an earthquake, and with all its rocks
Plunged in the main, so he might sink beneath
The ponderous ruins.
Be it as thou wilt
My generous Hostage. We will pay the debt
Of justice and of vengeance. Were he placed
Within our power, had he a thousand lives
He dies.
That thought gives comfort to my soul.
For that I braved the horrors of the night,
That steel'd the weaker nature of my sex,
And brought me hither spite of danger's frown,
And the pale eye of fear.
Dismiss all fear.
Here thou art safe as in thy Father's palace.
My hardy Danes shall form a bulwark round thee,
As round the temple of some sacred power,
By whose superiour aid they may obtain
Each splendid trophy of triumphant war,
Wealth, conquest, and renown.—Lead to the tent
Of Rodolph's captive, this illustrious stranger.
Collect a band of the most beauteous slaves
To wait upon her person. She demands
Respect and reverence from each Son of Denmark.
Collect them not; I need not their attendance.
Send back with speedy diligence my guides.
'Tis meet I should be private. To thy worth
I trust, great Chief, for safety and protection.
We all are thine, and with obsequious readiness
Shall thy commands obey.
My confidence
Is fully tried, I thank thee for thy care.
(
Exit.
)
What small events may shake the firmest States!
Armies destroy, and sack imperial Cities!
The veriest trifles oftentimes beget
Important consequences. Private spleen,
A female pique, perhaps a foolish quarrel,
A disappointed passion, or the sting
Of wayward pride, betrays without a blow
This town, which I almost despair'd to win
By open force. Chance governs all below.
To British treachery, British valour yields.
The rich reward, and golden harvest mine.
(
Exit.
)
SCENE II.
The
CITY.
EDRED, OSWY, ALBERT.
This cold advice is out of season Oswy.
I would not give to them a moment's respite.
Why not pursue the path where Fortune leads?
While yet they droop, and struck with fear, lament
Our prosperous arms, let us attack their camp.
E'er the grey dawn appears above the hills,
When heavy sleep weighs down their lids o'er-watch'd,
Let us in silence to their tents proceed,
Then like a whirlwind on their squadrons rush,
And wake them from repose to breathe their last.
Was it for this, with rapid march I came
To your relief? And must experience stoop
To the rash fervour of impatient youth?
To-morrow, by th' addition of my forces,
Who now fatigued and spiritless, require
Refreshment due, you gain a certain victory.
To pass by the indignity you offer
By this attempt to me; why should you court
Unnecessary peril? Rather why
With headlong madness hurry on to meet
Inevitable fate, and sure destruction?
There is a time, when what the calmer tongue
Stiles rashness, is the voice of truest wisdom.
Had we not tried these Danes thou might'st persuade us
That they are unassailable, exempt
From wounds, nor subject to mortality.
Indignity to thee by this attempt!
We mean it not. E'er thou wert in the city,
Our plan was laid, our chosen bands prepared.
But should we fight, nay, overcome without thee,
Say, should'st thou not rejoice whatever hand
Laid low thy Country's Foes? The patriot heart
Disclaims each interested sentiment,
Nor heeds false glory but the public good.
And Oswy surely seeks the public good,
Tho' differing in opinion. This attack
Was pre-determined; and I think it bears
A seemly aspect. For thy speed we thank thee,
And for thy caution Oswy. We shall guide,
Doubt not, this enterprize with prudence. Thou
See that thy harrast troops be well refresh'd.
This night's attempt, if with success uncrown'd,
Will not impede but that we join to-morrow,
And with united strength engage the Danes.
Prosperity attend you! tho' I fear
The circumspection of the enemy,
And tremble for th' event.
(
Exit.
)
The dastard spirit,
Not e'en a beam from Heaven could enkindle.
The lukewarm Oswy trembles for th' event.
He fears lest we should conquer. Envy, fraud,
And every creeping passion fills his breast.
But as we know him, so we shall not trust him.
Now let us hence, and join our ardent bands,
Who cover'd by the friendly veil of night,
Shall hurl confusion thro' the adverse Host.
No tardiness is mine—I haste before—
The needful orders shall with speed be given.
(
Exit.
)
O Editha! My Sister! Hapless Maid!
Not for my Country only, but for thee
Form'd I this bold adventure.—Generous Albert!
He too reveres thy virtues.—Thro' the gloom
I see methinks thy injured form wave on
Our daring steps! The desart Lioness
Seeks not her ravish'd young with greater rage,
Than I will thro' these spoilers cut my way,
To rescue thee, or gain a glorious death.
(
Exit.
)
SCENE III.
The
CAMP. VOLNIR's
Tent.
VOLNIR
and one of his
CAPTAINS.
'Tis full of hope and probability.
They hate each other; and their civil discord
Will work our great advantage. But be secret,
Nor let a word transpire, 'till opportunity
Call us to instant action.—Hah! Gunhilda
Again before us!
(
Enter
Gunhilda.)
Pardon this instrusion.
And yet my tidings are of such import
As well deserve thy audience. But first swear,
If I by other means than those proposed,
Procure thee a full ransom for the City,
Thou wilt perform thy part without reserve.
By every holy tye I bind myself.
Judge my surprize, when in my Tent I found,
In Rodolph's captive Virgin, Edred's Sister.
She knew me too; and thinks I am a prisoner:
For I amused her with a piteous tale
Of feign'd distress.—He loves this Sister well.—
And to this Deity the Praefect Albert
Is thought to offer incense; by her wiles
Enticed to adoration.—Would they not,
To save her life, submit to pay what price
Thou may'st impose?—Let Edred be the Hostage.
Two shares receive, and for the third, slay him,
And we'll acquit thee.—Thus my noble Father,
Without suspicion, and absolved of danger,
His foe's destruction shall enjoy; the trash,
The sordid trash relinquish'd.
In thy bosom
A more than manly soul resides Gunhilda.
In policy and courage far beyond
The little weakness of inferiour minds,
High-soaring o'er the vulgar!—Thy desires,
If they accept our terms shall be fulfill'd.
Our gratitude to thee shall know no bounds.
Lead hither Editha, the captive Maid.
(
Exit
Captain.)
The dread of death perhaps will make her supplicate
Her Brother's quick decision in our favour.
A letter she shall write, 'twill to our message
Add double weight.—Do thou retire Gunhilda;
Late is the hour of night: go, seek repose.
(
Exit
Gunhilda.)
Enter
EDITHA.
Why am I summon'd hither?
Edred's Sister!—
Nay, start not; Thou art known.
Thou know'st me then
Born of a race, on which, tho' full of worthies,
The deeds of Edred cast sublimer lustre.
He is our deadly Foe.
He loves his Country.
Thee too he loves.
With tenderest affection.
Then hear me Virgin.—If he loves his Country,
He wishes not the iron hand of war
To waste these fields; he wishes not to see
Devouring flames inwrap yon lofty towers.
Heaven shield him from the sight!
'Tis thou must shield him.
What say'st thou Dane!
We know thy influence o'er him.
Exert thy winning talents of persuasion;
Write him our terms, and beg him to accept them.
We, for a stipulated sum, will quit
This shore for ever.
Never will I write
What Edred would peruse with shame and scorn.
Take heed: thy life is lost by his refusal.
A life of little consequence compared
With Edred's glory, and my Country's fame.
Can'st thou support the thoughts of death?
I can.
Of torture?
Cease thy cruel threats Barbarian!
And know the sufferings nature cannot bear,
Religion can unterrified encounter.
Prepare thee for the trial.—Yet thy freedom
Would follow his consent.
To wear for ever
The worst of chains, my own reproaching conscience.
Will nothing bend thy mind?
To what effect?
To save thyself? Thy Country? And thy Friends?
Can aught incline that soul to soul dishonour,
Which looks on thee, on all thy warrior Host,
On all the transient glories of this world,
Its crouded cities, realms, and mighty empires,
As nothing, when compared with vast eternity?
Enthusiastic notions!
Reason thus
Is to the madman folly; moderate aims
To wild ambition; mercy to the tyrant.
This instant send a trumpet to the city,
With him a trusty messenger, to whom
Our mind impart. Let him acquaint young Edred,
Unless he move the Citizens to grant
The sum we shall require, his Sister dies.
If he return to us with his refusal,
That moment is her last.
(
Exit
Captain.)
And think'st thou Edred
Will stoop ignobly to perform a deed
A Woman can despise?—Mistaken Man!
Whose courage is barbarity, whose policy
Is shallow cunning! Wisdom throned above,
Beyond thy feeble ken, with virtue joined,
Looks down on thee with scorn.—Heroic Edred
Will ne'er disgrace his high illustrious line;
Nor, to preserve a Sister, lose himself.
Lead her away!
(
Exit
Editha.)
There is a dignity,
An inexpressive grace, when Goodness utters
Her glowing language thro' the lips of Beauty.—
Even my heart is moved, and were I placed
In lower station, might give way to pity.
But now my Danes this sacrifice demand,
And Oswy's Daughter.—'Tis not for a Chief
To yield to private and more humble feelings.
He must consult the genius of his people.
Mine thrive by innate courage and ferocity;
By scattering dire dismay among the nations;
And rush to conquest thro' the paths of terror.
(
Exit.
)
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
The Tent of
EDITHA.
EDITHA, GUNHILDA.
Link'd as we are in sad captivity,
I bid adieu to every private quarrel,
And thank thee for thy pity.
Why not write?
The generous soul of Edred sure would melt;
And to avert thy fate—
Cease Virgin, cease.
'Twere impious to suppose it.
Yet the voice
Of nature is commanding, to obey
Its dictates, lawful.
I acknowledge it,
When nature leagues with rectitude. If not,
Blind is her boasted guidance, and may lead
The devious foot, 'mid all the mazy wilds,
And all the fatal labyrinths of vice.
Trust me Gunhilda, not the wealth of worlds
Should tempt me to this deed.—Would'st thou to reign
O'er the wide universe, betray thy Country?
Dost thou suspect I would?
Suspect thee! No.
Th' advice thou gavest me was not from thy heart.
'Twas inconsiderate sympathy alone;
A weakness springing from a generous motive.
Oh! Heaven foresend, that I should e'er believe
A British Maid, of noble birth, like thee,
Would coolly prompt me to commit an action
Of base dishonour.
Did'st thou so believe
Thy judgment would bel so rash, and most unjust.
I blame thee not. Thou feel'st for my afflictions,
And would'st, if possible, preserve my life.
But I must die Gunhilda, o'er my head
Fate is impendent. Yet hath death with me
Lost half his terrors; death is my deliverer.
No more exposed to brutal treatment, now
Unblemish'd to the grave I shall descend,
Nor yet inglorious in my Country's annals.
May not my lot be happier far than thine?
Oh! can I speak it!—Thou art doom'd perhaps
To savage violence.—Unawed by faith,
Strangers to that religion they profess,
These ill-converted pagans still retain
All their original fierceness.—I must drop
Amid my own calamities, a tear
For thee Gunhilda.
I for both will weep.
And yet I feel a pang, a pang severe.
Strong are affections, strong are nature's bonds.
Each Friend, now doubly amiable, appears
Before my tortured mind.—And Oh! Gunhilda!
A Father lately found.
A Father!
Sigebert;
Long mourn'd by us as dead; preserved; alive.
Here in this hostile camp I found a Father.
Most strange!
Long time a wretched slave to Volnir;
And undiscover'd under Brithric's name.
He saved me from the horrors of pollution;
But cannot now avert the stroke of death,
Or shield himself from the extremity
Of poignant anguish.—Thus to meet his Daughter!
The thought is dreadful!—Help me to recall,
O Virgin! help me to recall my mind;
And with calamity like this oppress'd,
To re-assume my fortitude; for much,
Much do I need it all.
Alas! what aid
Can I impart? My words would slow in vain.
Brithric the present name he bears! 'Tis well.
(
Aside.
)
Yet will I strive, yet struggle with my weakness.
May I not prove victorious? 'Tis for guilt
To tremble; innocence should stand unmoved.
O righteous Heaven, with patience steel my soul!
With resignation! in the hour of trial
Guide me! support me! and tho' death be mine,
Crown Edred with success! Protect my Friends!
Preserve my Father's life! Preserve my Country!
Enter
VOLNIR
and
CAPTAIN.
Hah! Did they thus insult thee! Brave my power!
And load me with reproaches! They shall find
I did not threaten what I'll not perform.
Bear her to instant death!—Thy Brother scorns
Our generous offer, and hath seal'd thy doom.
O noble Edred!—Learn Barbarian, learn
The softer and more cultivated manners
Which thou abhorr'st, enervate not the soul.
The most humane of Brothers and of Men,
The youthful hero warm with patriot zeal,
Could not but thus decide the dangerous conflict;
While honour triumphs o'er fraternal love.
Remove her from our sight.
I thank thee Volnir.
I would not linger in uncertainty.
Here thou art kind.—But from my blood expect
No common storm; it rolls with speed toward thee,
And Edred drives it on.
Quick, bear her hence.
Enter
BRITHRIC.
Oh! spare her, and revoke the cruel orders!
Say, art thou mad old Man? How hast thou dared
To enter here unbidden?
I am told
Thou mean'st to sacrifice this captive Maid.
She falls a victim to her Brother's obstinacy,
And her own foolish pride.
Oh! if I e'er
Have gain'd attention from thee, hear me now!
Forgive the Prisoner; listen to the Friend,
Who for thy glory feels!—Oft have I wept
This ravaged country, and her slaughter'd Sons.
But 'mid the heat of action, in the rage
And fury of the battle, death I know
Must take its course; nor have I once reproached thee.
Where is the fury of the battle now?
This unresisting Maid! must she be slain,
To satisfy a splenetic revenge,
Beneath the greatness of thy soul to think of?
That soul, which prompted thee to spare my life?
Which thou hast told me, scorn'd to plunge a sword
In the unguarded bosom of the brave?
Thou plead'st in vain; uncommon accidents
Call forth unusual deeds.
Shall accident
Warp then the even tenor of thy temper?
Art thou so weak in resolution?
My Prisoner, my Teacher!
I have taught thee,
And thou with gratitude hast often own'd it,
In civil life, in policy, in war,
Many a glorious, true, and useful maxim.
Now let me teach thee an immortal lesson!
Who, not from passion, but from reason act,
Crush giant arrogance, protect the weak,
And tho' by specious interest impell'd,
Dare not with guilt contaminate their souls,
May claim a co-equality with Heaven.
I need not thy advice; begone, and leave me.
I cannot leave thee.—Didst thou but behold
This Virgin with my eyes, a thousand reasons
Would in thy bosom war against her death.
Alas! can beauty influence all but thee?
Beneath that outward elegance of shape,
That unaffected dignity, I read
A soul, which Volnir cannot but approve.
A soul detesting every meaner act,
Inform'd with innocence, with purity,
Undaunted courage, and sublimest virtue.
Thou fight'st against her Country—But in her,
Thou wilt inflict a wound on Nature's self.
Manhood will weep, and Denmark's Genius blush,
To hear that Volnir could descend so low,
Because he could not gain a town by treachery,
Coolly to spill a captive Virgin's blood.
Brithric no more—on thee too may descend
The angry shaft—beside thee peril stands—
Beware.
Hah! Brithric!
(
Whispers
Volnir.)
He, her Father say'st thou?
Sigebert his name, the Sire of her and Edred.
Yes, Sigebert is her Father.
(
Aloud.
)
I cast off
The veil mysterious.—Foolish Maid! behold
Thy open enemy!—Tho' wrath may slumber,
It wakes to vengeance. Vengeance brought me hither.
'Twas she that made me a firm Friend to Denmark.
No Captive, but the scourge of thee and thine.
The vindicator of my injured fame,
And antient noble stock, in me insulted.
I look in vain! The lightning doth not blast her.
Astonishment! Can Nature's varying hand
Produce such opposites! There the black form
Of treacherous vice—here virtue's brightest image.
Didst thou not say that Sigebert was his name?
I did.
The Earl so call'd?
The fame.
Deceiver!
Traitor! Art thou the man, whose sword of yore
So often foil'd the Danish strength? Wert thou
Chief of the war, in which my Father perish'd?
In which the flower of Denmark's youth were slain?
Filling our land with widows and orphans?
I was.
Now, by yon Many cope I swear,
Thou with thy Daughter diest!—Th' ill-sorted league
I here break off by thy illusions form'd.
Dissembling wretch!—When first I took the spear,
And to revenge my Country, rush'd to battle,
I swore that thou, of all the Anglian race,
Should'st never taste my mercy—Heaven is just.
The stated period is arrived. My oath,
Tho' tardily, shall be at length absolved.
Why was I thus compell'd?—No more—'tis right—
Let mischief work—my injuries demand it.
At least the scornful youth will be tormented,
And suffer worse than death in those he loves.
(
Aside.
)
Exit.
Bear them away to speedy execution!
My Father!
Dearest, dearest Editha!
Embracing.
Enter a
MESSENGER.
What means this haste?
Rodolph, my Lord, with fierce
And hurried language stirs the camp to mutiny.
The soldiers throng around him, thy injustice
Themes his bold eloquence. They murmur all;
And say the Chief hath no dispensing power
O'er old establish'd customs: that his prisoner
Is his alone, not thine; her death, or life,
Due to the man who earn'd her with his sword.
Fools as they are! But we will satisfy them.
Call to my tent each Leader of the bands,
And with them let that fiery youth be present.
They all shall learn my reasons. Individuals
Must for the general weal their rights forego.
Should they be ardent to support his cause,
I need but speak; sedition will be quell'd.
For these, their fate we for awhile defer;
But when the rising sun gilds yonder towers,
The foe first summon'd by the trumpet thither,
And this discovery known, shall see their deaths.
Mean-while divide, and guard them.
(
Exit.
)
Must we part?
A little while my Child, to meet for ever.
I was prepared myself.—But, Oh! my Father!
Canst thou forgive?—
(
Kneeling.
)
What means my Editha?
My folly? my imprudence? to intrust
That Woman with.—
Oh! rise!—my blessings on thee!
My love! my utmost tenderness!—Oh! wound not
My nature with the thought!—Forgive thee say'st thou?
And could'st thou think that I would wish for life
Without my Daughter? I had fondly form'd
A thousand flattering dreams, of freedom, bliss,
And future days of joy; but thou in all
Wert still predominant.—Have I forgot
The infant prattler, my prophetic soul
E'en then had fix'd to cheer my hours of age?
And can I, now I find, and feel thee all,
Which Fancy in her wildest scope could frame,
Bear to protract my being, torn from thee?
Could Bertha, could my Edred, e'er have pluck'd
The barbed anguish from thy Father's heart?
Oh! 'twould be misery in its worst extreme.
'Twas Heaven, kind pitying Heaven, discover'd me,
That I might die with thee.
Oh! this is death;
This, its severest pang. I feel it here.
It pierces through each inlet of my soul;
A Father's tenderness, ne'er known till now.
The filial passions swell, and almost burst
My labouring bosom; gratitude, which ne'er
Can be indulged—whose debt must be unpaid.
For fate, stern fate—
Oh! cease. I know it all.
All thou would'st say, all thou would'st do, I feel.
Each pious duty, every tender care,
Each soft solicitude.—O worthiest! best!
Have I not known thee? tried thee? art thou not
The Child of my fond heart? more dear to it
Than the warm stream which feeds it?
Thus to meet!
Thus know! thus lose my Father!
Oh! thou should'st not
Have waked me from my vision to that thought.
To lose thy Father! to be lost to him!—
Irrevocably lost!—And yet, 'tis fit.
For thus dissolved in tenderness, I should not
Meet death, as it becomes the brave to die.
Meet death!
The common lot of all.
'Tis true.
To-morrow—
We must share it.
Must!—that word!
The mandate of necessity; the call
To virtue, and to fortitude.
I thank thee.
Yes, we will rouse us from lethargic sorrow.
The morn shall view us with erected mein,
And mark our tearless eye.—These Danes shall see,
And wonder at our brave contempt of death.
But ah! this night!—this dreadful separation!
Into this little night, I could methinks
Have stored whole years of happiness! while thus
I held thee, thus pour'd forth my fond endearments,
And thus received thy tribute of affection.
But 'twill not be—relentless savages!
(
To the guards who part them.
)
Have ye no mercy?—Oh! a moment longer—
My Editha!
My Father!
'Tis in vain—
Never shall I again embrace my Child.
My Father!—these emotions!—Oh! controul—
Lest I should sink—
I will, I will, for thee
I'll force my nature. Sure I should encourage
And comfort thee—not thus by my example
Dep
ess—but ah! I cannot—for mortality
Hath forged no bonds to curb parental love.
Farewell!—Farewell!—ye gracious powers support!—
Heaven will support us.
(
Exeunt. Forced off different ways.
SCENE II.
RODOLPH's
Tent.
RODOLPH
and
CAPTAIN.
And did they all submit?
All, all submitted.
While I was lest alone to plead my cause.
They bless'd his prudent care; while I seem'd awed,
And stifled in my breast the fierce resentment.
But know my Friend, (for such I still have found thee.)
By thee I learn'd his message to the city,
And thus I have at least her doom retarded.
Know then a trusty Band I have engaged,
And bound them to me with a solemn oath,
Within this hour to force her guarded tent,
And bear her to my ship. Then let our Chief
Lord it o'er passive slaves, I shall enjoy
My loveliest prize, and leave to him unenvied,
The plunder, and the war.
I am thy Friend.
Twice do I owe my life in battle saved
To thy victorious arm. Nor will forsake thee,
Tho' hazardous and desperate be thy plan.
Courage and friendship can be only tried
In perilous extremes. By Heaven, I ne'er
Knew love till now.—Not all this city's wealth,
Tho' counted ten times o'er, should ever from me
Ransom this Editha.—Tho' I could wish
Her Brother's haughty soul to suffer pain,
By whom alone I have been foil'd in battle:
Tho' I could wish her Father might be punish'd,
Who, as I now suspect, as first betray'd me:
Yet by her death it shall not be. Her absence
Let them lament. She will rejoice hereafter,
Nor cast one sigh toward the Anglian shore.
But how hast thou contrived?
I will instruct thee.
Hark!
(
Shouts, &c. at a distance.
)
'Twas the sound of onset.
It increases.
(
Shouts, &c.
)
The clamour and tumultuous noise of battle!
A sally from the City.—
Cursed event!
Must I then draw again my sword for Volnir!
An hour had made me master of my wishes.
But now perhaps the opportunity
Is lost, and never may return.
(
Shouts, &c.
)
The uproar
Spreads wider, and approaches nearer 'twards us.
Enter a
MESSENGER.
What are thy tidings?
Ruin to the Danes.
Our camp is enter'd; havock and confusion
Urged by the foe, now triumph o'er our troops.
They stole upon us in this silent hour,
By sleep oppress'd. Nor yet the dawn appears,
Or glimmering twilight. In their shouts resound
The hated names of Edred and of Albert.
Volnir, with more than mortal courage, holds
Their violence at bay: around his tent
The conflict grows; there he protracts awhile
The Danish fate. He bids thee Rodolph haste,
And head some chosen bands by him prepared,
To cover our retreat.
I will attend him.
(
Exit
Messenger.)
Oh! were my gallant Friends but now around me,
I still might bear this much-loved Maid away,
And cut a passage thro' th' opposing Foe!
But what can we atchieve? Or what remains
But to exert a vain and fruitless bravery?
To fight beneath this Chief against our wills?
And sell our lives as dearly as we can?
(
Exeunt.
)
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Before the Tent of
EDITHA.
'Tis flight, or slaughter all.—These fierce Damnonians!
Nought can withstand their fury.—Yet I could not
Find out the death my arm hath bravely earn'd.
Why did they ope their ranks to let me pass?
My followers are destroy'd—shall I alone
Escape?—This tent! there's fascination in it.
The guards are fled—this quarter of the camp
Is still and solitary.—Wherefore hither
Wander'd my steps unconscious?—Hold—'tis right—
There's something to be done.—Shall I submit?
Solicit from this haughty Maid protection?
Not love? but life on stinted terms!—Ah! no.
'Twere mean—'twere base.—Shall I, a prisoner,
Behold her in possession of another?
Some enemy beloved, preferr'd to me?
No never—kill her then—and so prevent it.
But hark! I hear methinks the sound of steps.
Darkness as yet holds back the struggling morn.
Quick let me be.—She dies.—Prepare thee Editha!
Keen is my sword—and desperate is my mind.
I'll enter—did she speak? No, all is silent.
I will not give her time to supplicate,
Lest she disarm my resolution.
(
Enters the Tent.
)
Enter
SIGEBERT.
Freed by their flight, to whom I was intrusted,
I come to thee my Editha! and wield
A sword again on British soil, to guard
Thy tent my Daughter, from the lawless rage
Of Friend or Foe; for beauty such as thine
May fear them both alike.—My Child! my Editha!
Enter
RODOLPH
from the Tent.
Who calls on Editha?
Who? Whence art thou?
Why that stern question? wherefore in this tent?
Cease thy enquiries, lest my answer please not.
Rodolph!
Betrayer! Yes.
Betrayer!
Caitiff!
False Friend! and thence, the murderer of thy Daughter.
My Daughter!—Oh! my soul!
This hand hath slain her.
Thou could'st not—dared'st not.
Didst thou think a Briton
Should ever win the Maid beloved by Rodolph?
Monster!—And canst thou to a Father's ear?—
Thou hast not flain her.
By yon Heaven she's dead.
This reeking steel permits me not to lye.
My curses on thee, thou inhuman murderer!
O tardy feet! thus am I come to guard thee
My Editha? And have I lost thee thus?—
Thou sacrilegious wretch! didst thou not fear
From that pure temple—But I can revenge
My Child! I can revenge, if not protect thee.
Thus ruffian, I assail thee—guard thyself.
Away old Man! and dread the arm of youth.
I covet not thy death.
Thy arm of youth
This old Man braves, nay scorns. Old as I am,
I have not yet forgot to bear a sword.
I am the avenger of my Daughter's death,
And thou the destined victim.
Hence! Away!
'Tis thine to weep, not fight.
And weep I will.
But first the crimson stream shall flow from thee.
When thou wert in thy cradle, I have trod
The fields of war; thy gasping countrymen
Then own'd my prowess; many a Danish Chief
Hath sunk in dust beneath me. In my heart
I feel the ardour of my youth revive.
My Daughter's fate braces each feeble nerve.
For her, for her I strike.
No more. Begone!
Thou shalt not pass.
Thou urgest on thy fate.
Why wilt thou force destruction on thy head?
Insulting wretch! Assassinating coward!
Come, to the Daughter's, add the Father's death!
Nor doth he wish to live, deprived of her.
Yet neither doth he fear thy strength of youth,
Nor doubt of conquest in so just a cause.
Take then thy death!
(
Fight.
Rodolph
falls, mortally wounded.
)
Death is not thine to give;
'Tis Heaven's alone.—O barbarous Dane! the debt
To vengeance thou hast paid.—Yet, what's thy life
For her's, in lieu of Editha's?—Alas!
How can I enter here?—Support my steps
Ye trembling knees!—most miserable Father!—
Dead! dead!—detested place!—the deepest dungeon,
The habitation of the toad and adder,
Were paradise to this polluted tent,
Where virtue, honour, lye insteep'd in blood.
Yet will I on—tho' horror should o'verwhelm me.
(
Enters the Tent.
)
Enter
EDRED.
Through the forsaken camp, in vain I seek
Thee, hapless Maid!—Alas! this victory
Is but half won, if Editha be lost.
(Rodolph
groans.
)
Hah! Who art thou? this twilight gloom forbids
To trace thy features.
Rodolph is my name—
Sure I have heard that voice.
The voice of Edred.
Brave, but ill-fortuned foe! I pity thee.
Thy wounds shall be with utmost care attended.
We o'er the fallen, triumph not.
In death
I thank thee Youth. Twice hath thy sword prevail'd
O'er me in battle. But thy softer manners
Now conquer my fierce nature.—All thy care
Were fruitless now—e'en if thou could'st forgive me.
Forgive thee!
I thy Sister loved—her fate
Thou know'st not—she—in yonder tent—
Lies slain—the murderer is—
(
Dies.
)
In yonder tent!—The murderer is—Where?
Where is the murderer?—Invidious death!
To stop thee there!—Slain!—Dearest, dearest Editha!
This did I dread.—O cruel, cruel Volnir!
Thou wert the murderer.—Yet pale and cold
Let me embrace thee! clasp thee to my heart!
A Brother's agonizing heart!—Oh! slain
In early youth!—Yet fame is thine my Sister.
Rather than prompt me to betray my country,
Thou greatly diedst.—So would I wish to fall.
(
Advancing to the Tent.
)
Amazement! horror! Do my eyes play false?
Mock'd by this faint and dubious light?—No, ruffian,
Thou shalt not 'scape me.—That's no doubt the murderer!
I see him dimly standing, and his sword
Still in his hand, he holds.—He bends to earth.
And darest thou touch her sacred corse barbarian!
Out sword!—perform thy office!—But thou shalt not
Die in this hallow'd tent—I'll drag thee thence.
(
Enters, and drags out
Sigebert,
who drops his sword.
)
Strike! strike!—I'll bless the hand which gives the blow.
Most base! most execrable deed! if crimes
Beyond the common course of villainy
Deserve a punishment more fell, this act
Claims something more than death.
It claims damnation.
Heaven will not, cannot pardon it.
Nor I
The instrument of Heaven's avenging wrath.
Prepare thee for thy death!—Thou murderous slave!
Sure as the Sun begins to streak the East
With purple light, this moment is thy last.
(
Lifting his hand.
)
O Youth!—this warmth of thine! restrain thy hand—
Art thou not—
Peace, I will not hear thee; old
And hoary in iniquity!—now—
(
Going to strike.
)
Hold!
I am—
I care not who thou art—my sword—
(
Going to strike.
)
Enter
EDITHA.
Thy Father! Spare thy Father!
Gracious Powers!
And is it possible!—What blest event!—
Art thou alive! restored to me again!
All-bounteous Heaven! This miracle of mercy!
My Editha alive! unwounded! safe!
'Tis joy too great for frail humanity—
My labouring brain turns giddy with the rapture—
The heart of age faint under these emotions.
Thy arm—thy arm my Son—soft—stay awhile—
Oh! leave me not my Child—I shall recover—
And bear with calmness—Hold—I'm well again;
My strength and former faculties return.
My Father!—Oh! it must be so.—And have I
Lifted my hand against thee?
Noble Youth!
Son of my much-loved Bertha! I have heard
Thy glorious actions. Editha hath told me.
Preserver of thy Mother's sacred life!
Of mine, and of thy Sister's! More than this,
The saviour of thy Country!
I behold
That face with reverence, and these words of thine
Pierce thro' my inmost bosom, and enkindle
Transports ne'er felt till now.—But how so long
Wert thou conceal'd? How in this hostile camp?
Why in this Danish dress?
The tale is long;
I'll tell thee all anon.—But how my Daughter
Hast thou escaped? In disappointed rage,
The barbarous Rodolph said that he had slain thee.
For which he fell by my avenging sword.
In all the agony of frantic grief,
Entering thy tent, I thought I found thee there,
Yet warm—tho' breathless; in despair I clasp'd
The bleeding corse; and by the dusk deceived,
Mourn'd over it for thine.
Me too the Dane
Inform'd that thou wert dead within thy tent;
And almost stain'd my hand with parricide.
But Providence sent thee to save my soul
From horror and remorse.—Say, how my Sister
Didst thou escape? And who is slain for thee?
Gunhilda was no doubt the fated victim.
Gunhilda!
Oswy's Daughter.
Treacherous Maid!
I know her Father's baseness and her own.
The intercepted guides who led her hither,
Discover'd all.
One tent confined us both.
I thought her too a captive; and with pity
Return'd her seeming pity. She reveal'd
My rank to Volnir; thence his threatening message.
My simple confidence betray'd my Father;
By which, when bravely thou defiedst his power,
We both had well-nigh fall'n a sacrifice.
Hadst thou not storm'd their trenches, we e'er now
Had with the dead been number'd.
When I found
That thy assault was prosperous, and the foe
Fled headlong from our gallant countrymen,
I from my tent rush'd forth, if possible
To find my Father. Trembling, in the entrance
Gunhilda stood, fearful to stay, or fly.
And there no doubt my Sister fell for thee,
By Rodolph's blind and erring fury slain.
Through the deserted camp in vain I wander'd,
I found not whom I sought, till by the hand
Of Heaven directed, dubious of my way,
I measured back again the mazy path,
And found him here.
Found me indeed; and never
To part from thee again, till Nature's hand
Stops my faint pulse, and sinks me to my grave.
Oh! be that time far off!—I long to hear
Thy sad disasters, every strange adventure,
And wonderful vicissitude of fate.
Much must thou have endured.
For eighteen years
Hath Volnir held me an unwilling prisoner.—
But now thou shalt conduct me to thy Mother,
Much do I wish to see that best of Women.
There shalt thou question me, and I will answer
Throughout the live-long day. Nor wilt thou hear
An uninstructive lesson. My experience
Hath dearly been acquired, thro' many a scene
Of checquer'd life, by varying fortune cast.
But now each boistrous storm is over-blown,
And I shall spend my life's decline in peace,
Sequester'd from the world.
That must not be.
I here resign to thee my borrow'd state.
Thy King, thy Country, claim thy sage advice.
Nor art thou yet by years so much enfeebled,
But they may claim thy valour.
Oh! my Son!
Thy duty charms me. I shall not be needed;
For thou art all their own.—The tears of joy
Moisten my cheeks my Children, while I think
Upon your virtues.—Happy, happy Sigebert!
In the warm hours of youth I could not see
Such true, such home-felt satisfaction.
O'erpast misfortune, e'en to luxury
Heightens my joy. Now do I know indeed
What 'tis to be a Father—exquisite
Is the delight from Children such as mine.
Benignant Heaven!—Ye fierce, ye boasted Heroes!
Ye Conquerors of the world! here look with envy.
We taste, we feel what you in vain desire,
What war and ravaged countries cannot yield,
True, real happiness.
(
Trumpet.
)
What sounds are these?
'Tis Albert, from the slaughter of the Danes
Returning.
(
Enter
Albert.)
Oh! my Friend! let me embrace thee.
My Editha is safe—And I have found
A Father here. This is the noble Earl
Whom well thou know'st by fame: This is my Father.
Him too from hapless slavery have we rescued.
The brave and virtuous empty forms despise:
They mingle in an instant souls together.
Brave Albert! Second Son! whose patriot virtues
(
Embracing
)
Fill my old heart with warm affection 'tward thee,
Thus let me strain thee to my breast!
How sweet
Are the applauses of the wise and good!
My heart acknowledges the warmth of thine,
And every string accordant vibrates here.—
O Editha! Thou little think'st what pleasure
I feel in thy deliverance: not more
Thy Brother, or thy Father feels.
The thanks
A grateful soul can give, receive. The worth
Of Albert I revere; thy Country saved
Shall join its praise with mine.
How far my Friend
Was thy pursuit?
To yonder heights they fled.
There were they rallied by their Chief again,
Who bravely fought. All that a Leader could,
To turn the desperate fortune of the day,
He did. At length, when all was lost, he join'd
His flying bands, who now in wild dismay
Haste to their ships; our victory's compleat.
But say my Friend, the treacherous Gunhilda,
Hast thou not found her in the Camp?
She lies
Dead in this tent, slain by mistake for her.
For Editha! Just Heaven!
Now let us hence!
This accident shall be to thee explain'd.
To all my history shall be unfolded,
Each wonderful event.
But first 'twere fit,
E'er we dismiss our troops, to seize and punish
The traitor Oswy.
Would'st thou punish him?
Doth he not merit punishment?
He doth.
And can he feel a greater, than to view
His murder'd Child? Could cunning cruelty
Devise one more severe?—Oh! Editha!
The tortures of the rack were light to this:
Well know I what a Father must endure.
To think too that she fell by his contrivance!
No, gallant Albert, seek no other vengeance.
Permit him to retreat, oppress'd with sorrow,
And stung with conscious guilt. While we reflect
With pleasure on the difference of our souls,
Which bear no sordid stains. While we rejoice,
Raised from calamity and woe, to bliss.
While we congratulate our ransom'd Country,
And as we offer up our thanks to Heaven,
Pray, that she ever thus may stand secure
From foreign arms, and from domestic treason.
Free, glorious, happy, to remotest ages.
FINIS.
EPILOGUE.
NO longer now in pomp of grief array'd,
No longer Editha, the Captive Maid;
Prepared t' examine this same Tragic story,
In my own person I advance before ye.
My critic art at least this once to try,
And scan our Bard's defects with nicest eye.
Yet some apology th' attempt may need—
But by your looks embolden'd, I'll proceed.
Who, without terror, Rodolph's fury traces?
Why, tho' a Dane, was he refused the Graces?
Were such the manners of those Northern Climes?
Why not have bent them to our gentler times?
To seek his Mistress' life!—So desperate grown!—
He should have rather fled, and saved his own.
Surely
that
Albert might have spoke more plain.
The City's Praefect—but my dying Swain.
Why had he not some crafty scheme devised?
And ventured 'mid the Danish camp disguised?
He should have crept, or swam, or fought, or strove,
And hazarded his trust—to gain his Love.
Th' affection of a Brother!—How misplaced!
And what a violence to modern Taste!
A soul defying death! and accents Roman!
How could
they
suit with any British Woman!
The simple, and the natural!—How stupid!
I should have ransack'd all the stores of Cupid.
Hopes, fears, doubts, jealousies, and warm desires,
Darts, arrows, daggers, poison'd bowls, and fires.
Are to a Tragic Piece my powers decreed?
Let it be great and Tragical indeed.
Let Passion cease the guiding rein t' obey,
Let Grief be strain'd to its sublimest key,
In frantic fury let me curse the light,
And die enchantingly, with all my might.
But egotisms and irony apart—
Say, have our Author's numbers touch'd the heart?
Have they from Pity stole th' ingenuous sigh?
And raised the trembling tear in Virtue's eye?
This is th' unerring comment; this the test—
And all remarks besides—like mine—a jest.