Classic Poem

A Tragedy.

ACT I.

Scene I. — Gloucester Castle Garden.

Enter Emma and B IRTHA .

EMMA.

H ERE distant from the cruel rage of war,
Securely placed in peaceful solitude,
We know but little of the gen'ral sorrow.
Yon venerable grove of spreading oaks
Kindly immures this antiquated castle
From proud Ambition's eye. It seems to court
Neglected worth and ruin'd majesty,
To sly for shelter here.

BIRTHA.

How my soul yearns,
As I contemplate, Britain, all thy sufferings!
Here, nurs'd by Peace, the virtues lov'd to dwell.
Alas! how chang'd! now Discord yells aloud;
Murder and Rapine, Perjury and Fraud,
Her hated offspring flourish.

EMMA.

Yet may Britain
Hope to regain her ancient happiness.
E'er this brave Edmund, her avenging King,
(Who, for his strength unequall'd, hath obtain'd
The name of Ironside ) attacks her foes.
O Birtha! Conquest must attend his cause,
Since Honor, rigid Justice, steady Courage,
Unite to draw his sword.

BIRTHA

Heroic Man!
Brave in distress! Wise in prosperity!
The grace — the glory of the British Kings!
His soul, disdainful of the peace, his father
Inglorious Ethelred from Denmark purchas'd,
Awoke the slumbering virtue of his people,
And dar'd the Invader to the field of war.

EMMA.

The stern Canutus, Denmark's Victor Prince,
Our mortal foe, tho' deem'd unmatch'd in arms,
Trembles (as oft I've heard) at Edmund's name,
While scowling envy dims his alter'd eye.

BIRTHA.

E'en as the Sun with brighter lustre seems
To paint the face of Nature, when compar'd
With the preceding tempest, so, great Edmund,
Thy virtues, weigh'd against thy Father's crimes,
Appear more graceful.

EMMA.

Stop, my gentle Birtha,
Nor curse my husband and thy Edrick's father.
Let Britain's foes dwell, with malicious joy,
On his disastrous reign: a wife must weep
And hush in reverent silence all his frailties.

BIRTHA.

Call'st thou him Husband? Oh! that sacred name,
Importing tenderest guardianship and love,
Sat but ungraceful on your tyrant Lord.
Love, the kind union of consenting souls,
Unnotic'd, at your Brother's harsh command
You mov'd to Hymen's altar: so of old,
Pale with her sears, with loath averted eye,
A sacrifice, the virgin Victim came.

EMMA.

How hard, my Friend, the fate of those who bear
The envied evil of distinguish'd birth!
Ne'er must they listen to the potent call
Of fond Affection: Some designing Statesman,
Frigid of soul, the dire alliance forms,
That gives suppos'd stability to Empire.
By such as these was wretched Emma given
To English Ethelred. His arm they thought
Might succour Normandy. The vain design
Heaven view'd with indignation: For my Brother
Liv'd to behold the Man, by whose assistance
He hoped to gain such plenitude of power,
Fly to his Court, to save a hated life,
Scorn'd by his subjects and bereft of all.

BIRTHA.

The Duke relented then?

EMMA.

With many a tear,
He bath'd my cheek, and clasping in his arms,
Wish'd he had given me to the man I lov'd,
Nor paid respect to asking Majesty.

BIRTHA.

Heard I aright? the man you lov'd.

EMMA.

Yes, Birtha!
My heart, tho' bursting with its secret woes,
Hath hid this sorrow long.

BIRTHA.

Trust, royal Emma,
My steadfast faith.

EMMA.

'Twere infamous to doubt
Truth long approv'd. Too well thou know'st the tears
My eyes have shed for Ethelred's hard usage;
Nor e'er suppos'd Love, hopeless Love, increas'd
The copious flood. Oh! Birtha, blame me not,
Nor think I swerv'd from Duty's rigid laws.
Long e'er your Monarch led me to the altar,
I own'd my heart irrevocably gone.
Thou weep'st.

BIRTHA.

Oh! Misery too like my own.

EMMA.

'Twas at the time the female heart first beats
With sensibility, e'er reason governs,
A noble Stranger sought my Father's Court
By martial tilting call'd. His person, Birtha,
Spake graceful dignity, and seem'd a shrine
For mental excellence. In ev'ry sport
Victor he shone. Methinks I now behold him,
The garland in his trembling hand, approach me:
He kneel'd and cried, " Accept, bright Maid, this token,
" 'Tis all a giftless Stranger can bestow,
" And due to thee, thou fairest of the Fair! "
Oh! judge me not too harshly, when I own,
I blush'd with pleasure and receiv'd the prize.

BIRTHA.

Saw you him afterwards?

EMMA.

The Duke, my Father,
(Than whom none dearer priz'd a Soldier's name)
Pleas'd with his gallantry, requested much
His further stay. Thereto the Stranger Knight
Grateful assented; and by courteous manners
Won ev'ry heart. He soon of me obtain'd
A private conference, and implor'd my love,
Breathing the tenderest vows. Ah! dearest Friend,
Prosperity had made me idly gay.
Misfortune's gloomy melancholy night
I ne'er had known. I own'd my infant flame,
Fancying each envied happiness my own.

BIRTHA.

Protect us! was he false?

EMMA.

His generous heart
Scorn'd every meanness, nor betray'd its trust.
But then my Brother, by your Monarch won
To grant his suit, that hated union nam'd.
Can words express my anguish? I confess'd
My secret choice. Then he assum'd the sovereign —
Vow'd to abandon me to infamy —
Compell'd my gallant Love to fly his realm
On pain of death — confin'd me in castle —
From thence releas'd to be a wretched bride.

BIRTHA.

Knew you the Knight's extraction?

EMMA.

Once he own'd
Himself derived from Danish Ancestors,
Whose high achievements swell the trump of Fame.
This, tho' intreated much, was all he own'd;
Nor have I since beheld him.

BIRTHA.

Pardon, Lady,
My wonder, that such juvenile regard
Lives still unconquer'd in your prudent breast.

EMMA.

Birtha! the sentiments we nurs'd in youth,
Howe'er romantic, on the mem'ry grav'd
Are scarce expung'd by stealing age. Our hearts;
Bold and rebellious, to the ruling mind
Pay scant allegiance. Coldly left to mourn
In solitude, that nurse of tender woes,
Fancy, too busy, sharp'ned ev'ry pang,
By painting happiness I might have known.

BIRTHA.

Unworthy Etheled! he should have tried,
By kind attention, to have won thy heart.
But souls, like his, scorn manly gentleness.
Close wiles and guilty pleasures lov'd his Court.
Degenerate manners — Britain half-subdued —
The Danish massacre — the hateful tribute
To ev'ry distant age shall mark his name
With infamy.

EMMA.

Forgive him, he is dead!
Is not the mem'ry of th' unhappy sacred?
Now change the converse, — praise the royal Edmund
And thy dear Edrick, thy betrothed Lord.

BIRTHA.

I fear the Prince's truth.

EMMA.

Sweet Maid, he loves thee
With all the dotings of a gen'rous passion!

BIRTHA.

Alas! a temper, so reserv'd and stern,
Scorns the weak yieldings call'd by Woman Love.

EMMA.

'Tis true, of late, he shews some dang'rous signs
Of growing rancour. With distemper'd eye
He views all objects. Hast thou not incens'd him
By cold indifference, or contemptuous scorn?

BIRTHA.

Too well he knows my easy heart his own,
And cruel scorns me as a foolish maid.
Whene'er we meet, no looks of tender love,
No gentle vows, escape him. His stern aspect
Bespeaks a mind intent on desp'rate schemes.
Anon he starts, — utters disjoined words — —
Then leaves me trembling with uncertainty.
Heavens! should his thoughts aspire to Britain's throne,
What must lost Birtha suffer.

EMMA.

Dire suggestion!
O thou Eternal! 'tween the princely youths
Let lasting concord reign. For this, before
Yon altar, witness to my daily vows,
Humbly I'll supplicate. The Queen approaches — —
Sooth her my Birtha with thy gentle love,
Her fears for Edmund border on distraction.

BIRTHA.

Fears she for Edmund's life? My harrass'd breast
Throbs with more horrid bodings.