Classic Poem

ACT V.

Scene I. — Gloucester Castle.

Enter EDRICK.

Displeas'd with bounded power, sad, tho' in Heaven,
Angels through envy sinn'd, and were accurs'd,
Am I like them? — Yon scene of joy and love
Stings me to madness. Would their cups were poison;
Their music, spells of baleful conjuration!
Now will the Dane be Edmund's bosom-friend;
His rugged soul foils all my artifice.
My ruin then is certain. Allwyn too
Grown conscientious, piously refuses
To violate a peace, which he affirms,
Confesses the immediate hand of Heaven,
Whose pardon he implores. — Then be it so. —
This arm shall execute its own designs.
Am not I lost? — abandon'd? — reprobate?
O coward soul! why shun the russian's task.

Enter B IRTHA .

BIRTHA.

See, where the fall'n unhappy Edrick stands,
To doubt his deep contrition were inhuman.
Would art adopt this solitary woe,
Here, where no eye observes him?

EDRICK.

Conscience, cease: —
There is no milder course. What see I round
But danger imminent?

BIRTHA.

Ah! hear the voice
Of holy consolation. — Nor alone,
To the shall night-bird and the ruthless wind,
Tell thy long tale of woe, like restless ghosts
That nightly hover o'er their mould'ring bodies.

EDRICK.

Why comes this woman to disturb my thoughts?
Out-cast, like them, of Heaven and Earth abhorr'd,
Alone I rove, for there's no generous heart
Which, true to innocence itself, can pity
A wretch like me.

BIRTHA.

Ah! Edrick; is there none?
Unhappy Prince! when honours grac'd thy fortune,
Thy ample suite was throng'd with seeming friends.
Before misfortunes, parasites retire,
As flies the swallow 'fore the winter's cold.
But my unshaken truth approves thee still,
And feels for all thy woes.

EDRICK.

Oh! matchless softness!
Kind to the wretched, to the wicked gentle:
Not e'en thy soothing love can ease my cares,
Thee too I've wrong'd; stain'd thy pure cheek with shame —
Wak'd dire emotions in thy peaceful heart —
Forc'd thee to curse the hour, when first thy eyes
Betray'd the soft complacency of love.

BIRTHA.

'Tis true, I sorrow'd; — deeply felt thy guilt,
And wept its fatal consequence: but now
All is restor'd, and thou again thyself.
My gloomy woe is lull'd to quietude.
Such is the wond'rous force of penitence
To purify offence.

EDRICK.

Curse the fond wanton.
But how, to Edmund, can my truth be clear'd?
This peace with hated Denmark bars my arm.
Must I, with floods of tears, expunge his doubts?
Invent new oaths; call Heaven and Hell to witness,
And be at length but cautiously believ'd?
O were we still at war: Ere this, my sword,
Had thinn'd yon circle of insulting Toes,
They should not hang the lip, and taunting tell
Of me and my repeated perfidies.

BIRTHA.

Dull solitude but softers wretchedness.
Come let me lead thee to the chearful banquet,
Where, from the altar just return'd, the Kings
In sober mirth and temperate feasting join.
The lovely Queens, each dress'd in softest smiles,
Partake the festal scene. Oh! 'twere enough
To make Despair tread lightly, to behold
This flow of happiness! The noble Dane
Hath smooth'd his awful brow, and eyes with joy
The long lov'd partner of his heart. Full oft
He takes thy Brother's hand, and calls on Heaven
To make these transports last; then turns to wipt
The starting tear of agonizing rapture.

EDRICK.

When will the talker cease?

BIRTHA.

The godlike Edmund
Seems calmly blest. British and Danish Lords,
No longer foes, in unsuspecting trust
Bend o'er the social board, and loud repeat
Old tales of strange import. The pleasure spreads
Through all the city. Youth exults to see
The prespect bright'ning, and the fair portent
Of many a happy year. Whilst feeble age,
In trem'lous broken accents, tells its joys
At seeing Britain's peace again return'd.

EDRICK.

What is this scene to me? Can I partake it?
Shall gloomy treason share the festal board
Of bridal joy? Where'er I turn my eyes,
The dire anatomy of death arrests them
With shame and horror arm'd.

BIRTHA.

Talk'st thou of death?
Of frantic suicide? That daring crime,
Precluding all repentance, rudely flies
To pluck th' Almighty's thunder from his grasp.
Think, Edrick, when the gulf is shot, no hand
Can lead thee back; no pitying Angel ope
The ever-during doors, which Hope ne'er visits.
Were it not better then to bear with life,
Even as a prisoner drags his galling chains,
Till, by his Judge, restor'd to liberty.

EDRICK.

What? — Live to be despis'd?

BIRTHA.

Thy noble Brother
Hath seal'd thy pardon; cancell'd all his wrongs:
Haste to his friendly arms.

EDRICK.

O Birtha! leave me,
Thy presence heaps new agonies.
She's gone.
Am I alone? 'Tis well. Thoughts, dire as mine,
Delight in secrecy. Not long ago
Her beauty pleas'd me, but Ambition's sun
O'erpower'd the star of love. — What artful fiend
Whispers " thou hast a dagger 'neath thy vesture? "
'Tis true, I have. Would its sharp point were sheath'd
In Edmund's heart! Would I cou'd strike unseen,
And blazon it for Denmark's treach'rous act!
Sure, the earth trembles: — Soul-appalling forms
Pass in array before me! Edgar there,
Grasping his bleeding breast: He fell at Ashdown.
My Father too; his silver locks dishevell'd,
And groaning loud. The mighty dead expect
The soul of Edmund in their great assembly,
And he shall join them soon. Distract me not
Ye airy terrors; stubborn is my purpose.
They vanish. Ha! The King.