Enter TURKILL,
Hail Princess! happy, if thy will assents?
Canutus, Lord of many a potent realm,
Fortune's belov'd, the paragon of Virtue,
Resigns the style, that suits a Conqueror,
To breathe the vows of heart-selt tenderness,
Charm'd, by your peerless fame, he nobly offers
His Hand, his Crown.
EMMA.
I thank the gen'rous Prince!
But oh! that Hand is stain'd with British blood;
That Crown is wrested from great Edmund's brow,
And all the conquests, that attend his sword,
Are bars affix'd, by Heaven, to part us wide.
He England's foe — I once of England, Queen.
The sea and fire, forgetting antient hate,
May sooner form a union.
TURKILL.
Think one moment,
Canutus, once rejected, scorns intreaty,
Your former state avails not. See yon hill,
Black with sable garb of threat'ning war:
There Denmark's Sons intreat the promis'd sight,
Nor can this Castle long withstand their pow'r.
EMMA.
Means then your King to claim his right of conquest,
And, when his captive, sorce me to submission?
Tell the proud Prince, while noble Edmund lives,
Britain disclaims a conqueror. Say, that Emma,
Long used to adverse Fortune, scorns the frowns
And threats of arrogant Prosperity.
I was the darling once of dazzling greatness!
But soon, illusive as the dreams of morn,
She flitted hence, and left me to complain.
Ill fares the soul that loves such transient good.
Mine soars above, it mocks the sport of Fortune,
Alike uncertain in her hate and love.
Unhappy Ethelred was'once a King,
Great and respected!
TURKILL.
Canst thou him compare
To mighty Denmark? Fortune's but a name.
The brave and wise must e'er ensure success,
By daring to deserve. Our great Canutus
Erects his Empire on the surest base.
Trust me, the British Crown shall bind his brow
'Till icy Death approaches.
EMMA.
Plead no more.
To hearts, like mine, tir'd of life's changeful scene,
Grandeur, if permanent, could boast no charm.
Oh! would the Dape, if Heaven awards him Empire,
But yield me to retirement and my God;
Wrong'd as I am, by his victorious arm,
For him I'll pour forth daily orisons.
TURKILL.
Talk of retirement, when the full blown rose
Fades on thy cheek. When misty age obscures
Thine eye's transcendant ray: Yet, even then,
Shall Love pursue thee, lur'd by mental charms.
These shall be thine, even to life's latest stage,
And spread a lustre round thy silver hairs.
EMMA.
And dost thou think the breath of empty praise
Can shake the even tenour of my soul?
Give o'er persuasion, Dane, Pains, Prison, Death,
I'd sooner meet, and cheerfully endure,
Than join my hand to one my heart abhors.
TURKILL.
Yet one more suit. Canutus tenders this,
His picture, Lady. Oh! reject it not.
Such is the Lover that you treat with scorn.
EMMA.
Mysterious Providence! Is this your King?
TURKILL.
His semblance, Madam. Art essay'd its best,
Yet was it poor. The eye's superior lustre —
The emanation of a noble soul —
The look of truth — the air of dignity,
The Painter drew not. It excell'd his power.
This ring he also gives.
BIRTHA.
Pale is her cheek, —
She weeps and trembles! What may this portend?
EMMA.
The same! — Retire a moment.
Oh! my Birtha,
Can Man presume to search events unborn?
The stranger Knight, who won my youthful love,
The gallant Chief, ador'd in Normandy,
Is Denmark's Victor King..
BIRTHA.
Delightful tidings!
EMMA.
Yes, I remember the alluring form.
Time has matured each beauty. Graceful thus
His raven locks hung waving. So he smiled,
When, in the tournament, his rival fell,
And loud applause proclaim'd him Conqueror.
Could I expect I should again behold him?
He lives — He loves — Now Emma! thou art happy!
BIRTHA.
Be't mine with blended joy, as friend and subject,
To grasp thy knees, and hail thee, royal Lady,
Once more the Queen of England!
EMMA.
Ha! That title!
My fancy, which by love enchanted stray'd
To crown herself with roses, back recoils,
Shock'd at thy image, Ethelred! 'Tis true,
I was thy wife.
BIRTHA.
Fly to thy faithful lover.
Why thus irresolute?
EMMA.
The Dane's success
Clouded with misery thy declining years.
Unhappy Prince! Emma respects thy ashes;
And, to the guidance of thy martial son
Submits her future conduct.
BIRTHA.
Ha! to Edmund?
He hates the brave Canutus.
EMMA.
Are the bars
Between us broken? hence delusive love.
Emma, resume thyself, and act the part
Of steady Honour. Call the Messenger.
Exalted Saints! bless'd Monitors! who fix
The great resolve and chase the mists of passion,
Assist a wretched mortal, who aspires
To gain the noblest conquest — Self-possession,
Hail Princess! happy, if thy will assents?
Canutus, Lord of many a potent realm,
Fortune's belov'd, the paragon of Virtue,
Resigns the style, that suits a Conqueror,
To breathe the vows of heart-selt tenderness,
Charm'd, by your peerless fame, he nobly offers
His Hand, his Crown.
EMMA.
I thank the gen'rous Prince!
But oh! that Hand is stain'd with British blood;
That Crown is wrested from great Edmund's brow,
And all the conquests, that attend his sword,
Are bars affix'd, by Heaven, to part us wide.
He England's foe — I once of England, Queen.
The sea and fire, forgetting antient hate,
May sooner form a union.
TURKILL.
Think one moment,
Canutus, once rejected, scorns intreaty,
Your former state avails not. See yon hill,
Black with sable garb of threat'ning war:
There Denmark's Sons intreat the promis'd sight,
Nor can this Castle long withstand their pow'r.
EMMA.
Means then your King to claim his right of conquest,
And, when his captive, sorce me to submission?
Tell the proud Prince, while noble Edmund lives,
Britain disclaims a conqueror. Say, that Emma,
Long used to adverse Fortune, scorns the frowns
And threats of arrogant Prosperity.
I was the darling once of dazzling greatness!
But soon, illusive as the dreams of morn,
She flitted hence, and left me to complain.
Ill fares the soul that loves such transient good.
Mine soars above, it mocks the sport of Fortune,
Alike uncertain in her hate and love.
Unhappy Ethelred was'once a King,
Great and respected!
TURKILL.
Canst thou him compare
To mighty Denmark? Fortune's but a name.
The brave and wise must e'er ensure success,
By daring to deserve. Our great Canutus
Erects his Empire on the surest base.
Trust me, the British Crown shall bind his brow
'Till icy Death approaches.
EMMA.
Plead no more.
To hearts, like mine, tir'd of life's changeful scene,
Grandeur, if permanent, could boast no charm.
Oh! would the Dape, if Heaven awards him Empire,
But yield me to retirement and my God;
Wrong'd as I am, by his victorious arm,
For him I'll pour forth daily orisons.
TURKILL.
Talk of retirement, when the full blown rose
Fades on thy cheek. When misty age obscures
Thine eye's transcendant ray: Yet, even then,
Shall Love pursue thee, lur'd by mental charms.
These shall be thine, even to life's latest stage,
And spread a lustre round thy silver hairs.
EMMA.
And dost thou think the breath of empty praise
Can shake the even tenour of my soul?
Give o'er persuasion, Dane, Pains, Prison, Death,
I'd sooner meet, and cheerfully endure,
Than join my hand to one my heart abhors.
TURKILL.
Yet one more suit. Canutus tenders this,
His picture, Lady. Oh! reject it not.
Such is the Lover that you treat with scorn.
EMMA.
Mysterious Providence! Is this your King?
TURKILL.
His semblance, Madam. Art essay'd its best,
Yet was it poor. The eye's superior lustre —
The emanation of a noble soul —
The look of truth — the air of dignity,
The Painter drew not. It excell'd his power.
This ring he also gives.
BIRTHA.
Pale is her cheek, —
She weeps and trembles! What may this portend?
EMMA.
The same! — Retire a moment.
Oh! my Birtha,
Can Man presume to search events unborn?
The stranger Knight, who won my youthful love,
The gallant Chief, ador'd in Normandy,
Is Denmark's Victor King..
BIRTHA.
Delightful tidings!
EMMA.
Yes, I remember the alluring form.
Time has matured each beauty. Graceful thus
His raven locks hung waving. So he smiled,
When, in the tournament, his rival fell,
And loud applause proclaim'd him Conqueror.
Could I expect I should again behold him?
He lives — He loves — Now Emma! thou art happy!
BIRTHA.
Be't mine with blended joy, as friend and subject,
To grasp thy knees, and hail thee, royal Lady,
Once more the Queen of England!
EMMA.
Ha! That title!
My fancy, which by love enchanted stray'd
To crown herself with roses, back recoils,
Shock'd at thy image, Ethelred! 'Tis true,
I was thy wife.
BIRTHA.
Fly to thy faithful lover.
Why thus irresolute?
EMMA.
The Dane's success
Clouded with misery thy declining years.
Unhappy Prince! Emma respects thy ashes;
And, to the guidance of thy martial son
Submits her future conduct.
BIRTHA.
Ha! to Edmund?
He hates the brave Canutus.
EMMA.
Are the bars
Between us broken? hence delusive love.
Emma, resume thyself, and act the part
Of steady Honour. Call the Messenger.
Exalted Saints! bless'd Monitors! who fix
The great resolve and chase the mists of passion,
Assist a wretched mortal, who aspires
To gain the noblest conquest — Self-possession,