Classic Poem

Scene III.

Enter E LGIVA and Emma a attended.

ELGIVA.

Auspicious day, be thou for ever held
Sacred in Britain! Emma — never more
Shall desolation scourge the ruin'd land,
Or discord tear my Edmand from these arms.

EMMA.

But my Canutus —

ELGIVA.

He is truly noble!
The Hero shines distinguish'd in each action.
Yet did'st thou mark how his attentive eye,
In silent admiration, dwelt on Edmund?
And when he gave his plighted hand in sign —

EMMA.

Good Heavens! what's this? 'tis blood!

ELGIVA.

Ah me! A corse?
'Tis Edmund! — Oh! my Life, my Love, my Lord!
Help; he will bleed to death. Speak to me, Edmund.
What murd'rous hand hath dar'd this horrid act?
See, how he pants! but manly eloquence
Is dumb for ever. Death's faint icy dew
Hangs on his brow. — He — oh!

EMMA.

The struggle's o'er;
The spirit issued, in that doleful groan,
From the majestic ruin. Take him, Angels:
Now he is wholly your's; choir him to Heaven,
Nor let our loud laments disturb your rapture.