Classic Poem

Scene II.

Enter E LGIVA .

Royal Mourner,
Yet turn, yet lift, thy melancholy eyes;
Think of the victories that grace thy Lord,
And let the thought breathe comfort to thy soul.

ELGIVA.

Talk not of comfort, for my soul is griev'd
By long suspence. No tidings yet from Edmund.
The moon has wax'd and wan'd since last we parted.
In war for speed he used to imitate
The darting lightning. If success were ours,
The welcome tidings had been soon despatched
To stay my tears. — He's dead.

BIRTHA.

Suppress that thought.
Rumour, thou know'st, is swift to tell mischance.
A braver band ne'er grac'd a Monarch's train
Than that thine Edmund leads — all veteran troops,
Or the fair flower of young Nobility.

ELGIVA.

His value justifies my fears. Ah! Friend,
The Dane is Fortune's fav'rite; Edmund worn
By long adversity — Heavens! should he perish,
Is there no poor Asylum to receive
His wretched Widow and his infant Son,
Where, undisturb'd by Denmark, grief may waste
This bated life? No, Birtha, there is none.
The Father's enemies, with rancorous hate,
Pursue the orphan babe, — he too must perish.
Heard you a noise?

BIRTHA.

Methinks the gates unclose
Again. — A trumpet.

ELGIVA.

From the King — alas!
My knees relax, — thy hand.

BIRTHA.

A Warrior arm'd
Hath pass'd the outworks, and the soldiers hail him
With martial honours.

ELGIVA.

We will meet him too.
Spirit of comfort sit upon his lips,
Give him to speak of Virtue's well earn'd palms;
And Britain's peace bought by her Monarch's sword.