[]THE The Days of Yore: A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.

WHY do you follow me? I'll go no fur⯑ther.

I am your countryman, a vanquiſht Dane.

Speak your neceſſities; is it for food or reſt, or ſhelter from purſuit of the victorious foe, that you wou'd importune me?

I need them all, yet aſk for nothing but your patient hearing.

Speak then, and to the point—be brief.

It ſuits me ſo to be, for I am ſpent with [2] toil, and ſorely bruis'd in fight under the walls of Exeter.

'Twas a diſaſtrous day—

A fatal one for Denmark—what thou⯑ſands fell in battle, how many of your wretched countrymen were ſlaughter'd in purſuit, or pe⯑riſh'd in the ſea, to which they fled, were hor⯑rible to tell. All, all is loſt—Alfred, invincible in arms, reigns in his people's hearts, for virtue and for valour worthily (of force I muſt confeſs it) ſurnam'd the Great.

If this be all, farewell!

Nay, lady, hear me out.

Have I not heard enough? Well may our cauſe be loſt when we have loſt our courage. We have lived in England till we are become fat as the ſoil, and foggy as the climate: It is our meanneſs that makes Alfred great. There was a Dane that made that great one tremble—Knew you not Haſtings?

I knew him well, and honor thoſe who lov'd him; moſt of all the illuſtrious Oſwena—

Hah! do you know me?

I know you for the widow of my chief—a noble gem hid in a barbarous ſoil.

Why then do you expoſe me to diſcove⯑ry?—Who and what are you?

Gothrun the Dane—diſhonour never yet was coupled to that name.

No, nor defeat till now; well may we ſay Alfred is great, when he has conquer'd Goth⯑run.

He is unaſſailable by open war; all Eng⯑land is his garriſon; but tho' we cannot face him in the field, we may yet foil him by ſurprize and ſtratagem—'Tis not the warrior's proceſs, I con⯑feſs; yet when all nobler means are out of reach, [3] hope loſt, his ſoldiers ſpirits ſunk, his conqueror triumphant, and his own life at riſque, nature will rouſe him, in mere ſelf-defence, to deal the avenging ſtroke.

Strike then, and vindicate your coun⯑try's cauſe—But what can I do, living here by ſufferance under the watchful eye of the Earl Oddune, whoſe proud caſtle overpeers my hum⯑ble cottage, and keeps all around him in terror and ſubjection?

You have a ſon—revenge is his inheri⯑tance.

I have a ſon—but ſuch a ſon, alas! as cannot be inſpir'd with any noble paſſion; leaſt of all with ambition or revenge: His mind is like a tuneleſs inſtrument, unſtrung, and not to be provok'd by any touch, even of a maſter's hand.

Unhappy tidings! if the ſon of Haſ⯑tings and Oſwena ſo degenerates, what hope is left? May I not ſee your ſon?

It were a ſpectacle to wound the heart of any loyal Dane: Whether his ſpirit is debas'd by ſpells and filtres (for rumor ſpeaks of ſuch) or that his father's death has plung'd him into grief, enervating his faculties, I cannot ſay; but all the noble promiſe of his youth, like bloſſoms ſcat⯑ter'd by the eaſtern blight, is wither'd and de⯑cay'd.

No more; we are obſerv'd—ſome one approaches, whoſe noble carriage ill accords with the mean garb he wears.

It is my ſon—'tis Voltimar himſelf—Oh! that a ſhrine ſo rich ſhou'd encaſe nought but beggary!

How now! whence come you?

From the ſea I come: I have brought fiſh to feed you: I angled for them rarely.

They were but fooliſh things, to be tre⯑pann'd by ſuch a witleſs angler.

They are Alfred's fiſh; land, ſea, and air are Alfred's. Good chance but I am queſti⯑on'd for conſpiring the death of Alfred's ſub⯑jects.

There's matter in that mind, altho' de⯑rang'd.

This man's a Dane; I know it by his locks, they are yellow like my father's; his were a ſhade betwixt the butter-flower and marygold, but they are paler ſince his death; griſly and pale, a ſad, ſad ſpectacle.—There was blood upon his beard, when I ſaw him yeſter-night, as I came home by moonlight from the beach. He nodded to me thrice, and graciouſly, as he paſſed on; but I was ſcar'd, and what ſmall wits I have wou'd not ſtay by me;—ſo he did not ſpeak—was not that pitiful?

Oh, that I had been with you?

Oh that you had! your ſenſes are entire; mine are—alas, alas! where are they?

Come, come, be pacified—another night I will go with you to the ſpot he viſits.

Do you believe this viſion?

Three ſeveral times within theſe few days paſt he has repeated the ſame tale.

I have, I have: three times, you are right; and eight days are gone by; I notch'd them on my ſtaff. I can count ten, and there my learning ſtops.

This is moſt marvellous; his eye is ſteady, his demeanor grave, and, tho' his thoughts are wild, yet are they utter'd firmly, and in lan⯑guage appoſite: I can diſcern no outward ſymp⯑toms of an unfound mind.

Go, get you gone! why do you peer at me, and liſten to my talk? I am for Alfred, I; you are a naughty Dane, ſuch are not to be ſuf⯑fer'd: hence, away with you!

Wou'd you drive me away, being a friend and countryman?

I keep the ſeas for Alfred; I pay him tribute of the ſpoil I take; and when I fleſh my hook I do pronounce his name three times for luck, and then the ſilly fry come to the bait re⯑ligiouſly, and I catch them—Oh! 'tis brave ſport—I'll go again to-night, and if I meet my father on the beach, ſo you will watch, good mother, I will call to you—Good bye to you!

Stay, Voltimar, I've a thing to ſay to you—

No, no, no; ſend hence that ugly man; he means no good—I will not fight againſt the king, not I—beſides, the ſun is up, and then I ſleep till he reels home to bed like a hot fleckor'd reveller as he is. The moon, the moon's my miſtreſs; when ſhe's up, then I come out and prowl upon the ſhore to plant my ozier traps un⯑der the rocks, or fix my baited trimmers in the ſand, when the ebb leaves it dry.

Have you no feeling for your country's fate? Stay, and this warrior will deſcribe the battle.

Let him not tell me what I ſaw myſelf. Twelve miles upon the ſtretch I ran to Haldown hill, that overlooks the field; the roebuck or the hart cannot outſtrip me on the level plain. I ſaw [6] the Daniſh hoſt ſcattered like ſheep. By ſea, earth, air, and fire! if I were other than the the thing I am, I could have told them where to plant a blow in Alfred's battle, that had made it reel.

I wou'd this ſword was planted in his heart?

You are not wiſe, to talk thus to a fool.—Go, go, begone! Mother, that yellow Dane will be your ruin—truſt him not. Farewell.

I'm caſt into aſtoniſhment, and can form no conjecture of his mind; whether this ſpectre has diſturb'd his reaſon, or that he feigns infanity for purpoſes conceal'd and ſecret, is not for me to ſay; but this I boldly will aver, his name alone will be a tower of ſtrength, and his import⯑ant preſence the ſure rallying point for all our ſcatter'd powers, if by perſuaſion you can draw him forth.

Gothrun, be ſure my heart is with your cauſe, and pants for vengeance: ſhew me but the form and ſhape of any hopeful enterprize, and Voltimar, if words of mine can move him, ſhall be your's. Come then with me—reſt and re⯑freſhment my poor cottage can ſtill afford; there we'll conſult together.

Mollo!

My Lord!

Are we provided for to-morrow's feſtival? This glorious victory of our King at Exeter, together with the celebration of our daughter's nuptials, will demand ample largeſs for our vaſſals: I am not one that pamper the rich gueſt, and leave the poor unfed.

Moſt puiſſant earl, your careful pur⯑veyor hath ſpar'd no pains to make proviſion for an entertainment worthy the princely giver, on a day of ſo much joy and triumph. If Kenwith Caſtle does not blaze to-morrow, let Mollo bear the blame: your larders do not own one idle hook, your cellars not one empty caſk, and your ſlaugh⯑ter-houſes ſtream with the blood of beeves, that makes our river's tide run purple to the ſea.

So your execution does but keep pace with your eloquence, all will be well. Have you beſpoke the minſtrels?

They are forewarn'd, noble ſir: there will be harpers, pipers, and anticks from all parts, with maſques and interludes not void of fancy, tho' I ſay it: 'twill be a glorious waſſail.

Is Voltimar amongſt them? If you have not ſecur'd that fool of noble quality, the lady Adela, who liſtens to his harp with ſuch de⯑light, will think your choir imperfect.

I have retain'd the fool; and that his memory might take ſome root, I laid him under orders luſtily with a good oaken cudgel.

Hah! you did ſo? 'twas an irreve⯑rend cudgel, that ſmote the ſon of Haſtings: his brave father, who kept our royal Alfred pent in the neatherd's cottage, would not have let even your words cudgel his ears unpuniſh'd.

'Tis a mere dolt, my lord, ſluggiſh, and only to be taught by blows.

Spare your inſtruction then, and what his nature will not apprehend with eaſe, forbear to enforce with cruelty; when he preſents him⯑ſelf, as is his daily duty, at the caſtle, ſet him before me.—Go, obſerve my orders.—Adela ap⯑proaches.

Health and a happy morning to my fa⯑ther.

Bleſs you, my child! and may to⯑morrow's fun riſe with peculiar luſtre, to bedeck the faireſt bride that England's iſle can boaſt.

Ah, ſir! to-morrow? did you ſay to⯑morrow?

Can happineſs, my child, come out of time? For whom but you, my darling, and your betroth'd, the noble Alric of Northumber⯑berland, are we thus buſied, watching every hour, nay, every minute, ſuch is our impatience, till thoſe, whom we have ſtation'd in our caſtle's towers, give ſignal of his coming?

Call it a knell, that warns me from the arms of a fond foſtering parent, to receive a huſband, perhaps a tyrant, whom I cannot love.

How, Adela! you cannot love a man, not leſs diſtinguiſh'd for a noble nature than for illuſtrious birth, graceful in perſon, courteous in his manners, and, which confirms his merit, high in the favor of our virtuous king?

I wou'd the king had favor'd him ſo highly, as to have rais'd his thoughts to loftier objects than the poor humble Adela.

What would you mean by thoſe cold freezing terms? When my heart glows with joy, why do you chill it? am I not pledg'd to Alric? are not you? Have you forgot the ſacred ſenſe of honour? Do you not reverence truth, and me your father? Do you not love me, Adela?

Oh! with the trueſt heart I reverence you, love you, and obey—only in this let me not offend my father—if, whilſt I ſubmit, I tremble.

My lord, the fooliſh Voltimar is come.

Better be fooliſh, Mollo, than unmerci⯑ful; I hear ſad tales of you; is it a manly act to ſtrike a harmleſs unreſiſting creature?

I have reprov'd him for it.

I thank you, ſir; it well becomes a hero.

Go, tell the Dane that we wou'd ſee ſee him here—tell it reſpectfully, as to the ſon of one who aw'd this iſland, at whoſe frown you wou'd have cower'd into the duſt with terror—and recollect, that when you call him fooliſh, you give yourſelf the worſt of titles; for to ſtrike a fool, like inſult to a woman, what is it but to ſtamp yourſelf a coward?

I thank you from my ſoul.

Well, well! you have an intereſt in that ſoul, ſad though you have made it. I will be a friend to this poor youth for your ſake; none ſhall hurt him, when you are far away, and he has loſt his gentle patroneſs.

Oh! that is kind indeed, moſt kind and charitable; he will have need of comfort.

Now, Voltimar, what news?

Good news, great ſir; your ſteward is grown courteous, and forbears to ſcoff and ſtrike me.—Save you, ſweet roſe! the dew of heaven fall on you!

Love you our gentle daughter, my good fellow?

I wou'd, moſt noble ſir, did I know what love is; if it reſembles weeping, I do that when ſhe looks ſad and ſorrowful as now.

Nay, Voltimar, I am not ſad, except to hear that Mollo is ſo harſh.

Pray be not ſad for me; hereafter I will laugh when Mollo beats me, as I did once to ſee a ſcurvy aſs kick at the thunder; the thunder did not heed the fooliſh inſult; for 'twas an aſs that kick'd, and the clouds were too high to be injur'd by his heels.

Talk thus, and you ſhall no more be called the fooliſh Voltimar, but Voltimar the phi⯑loſopher.

If I outlive to-morrow, I ſhall merit it.

What ſay you of to-morrow? ſpeak out, I heard it not.

I ſay to-morrow will be one day more than I have yet outliv'd.

Aye, and the happieſt you have ſeen, we'll hope; therefore array yourſelf in your beſt trim, and ſcrew your harp up to its ſprightlieſt pitch, for we ſhall need your minſtrelſy.

My harp and I have quarrel'd, and are parted.

What do you mean? Explain your⯑ſelf.

There came your ſervant, Mollo, high in glee, and warn'd me to attend the wedding-day of this your beauteous daughter with Earl Alric—I was to harp, forſooth, in his Northumbrian ears.—This ſummons did not pleaſe me—Was I Earl Alric's harper, I demanded?—At this your ſervant grew in wrath, and with his ſtaff ſmote me upon the head.

Impudent varlet, he deſerves the death.

The ſun was then juſt glittering o'er the waves, and I was ſitting on the ſea-beat rock, greeting his riſing beams with ſuch poor min⯑ſtrelſy and humble oraiſons as my ſmall art cou'd furniſh: ſtunn'd with the ſtroke, and ſomewhat angry to be ſo ſaluted, I took my harp, and in a thoughtleſs moment daſh'd it from off the rock, with all my might, into the waſte of waters—The tuneful victim gave one dying groan, and burſt aſunder; never again will it diſcourſe ſweet muſic; the ebbing tide wafted the ſhiver'd frag⯑ments out of ſight.

'Twas a raſh act; and had you not defect of reaſon for your plea, you ſhou'd be chidden for it—but we'll provide you with ano⯑ther harp.

I cannot play; my ſoul is out of tune: if I ſhou'd touch the ſtring, it wou'd not ſpeak.

Urge him no further; let his humour paſs.

We do not yield to ſuch a ſtubborn humour; let come what will, he ſhall perform to-morrow.

I cannot harp to Alric, and I will not.

What! not if Adela requires it of you?

She is too merciful; ſhe'll not require it.

But what if I command it?

Oh! then I'll play moſt luſtily to Alric, as I did once at Bamflete fight; the tune has ſlipt me, but his better recollection will bring it to my mind.

What do you mean? Was you in Bamflete fight?

I think I was, but I know nothing right⯑ly: I am a fool with a moſt witty memory; all things fall from it—even my own miſeries.

Sure you forget his father fell at Bam⯑flete. Lo! how he's rapt!

Shame on me, I forgot it—True, moſt true; 'twas there the mighty Haſtings fell: I was not in the battle. I'm ſorry at my heart to have diſturb'd him: I ſee the filial feelings are alive, weak as his reaſon is: go, go, and comfort him.

Oh! that I could—going, but ſtops ſhort.

Hark! what is that? the warden on the tower gives the alarm! By all my hopes, Lord Alric is arriv'd!

Hah! Alric—

Peace! are you mad thus to betray yourſelf?

Down, down, my heart!

Speak! is the Earl arriv'd?

My lord, it is a courier from the King.

Hah! ſay'ſt thou? What does his diſpatch import?

Alfred the Great, having diſpers'd his foes, and rais'd the ſiege of Exeter, has put his army into march, and purpoſes this night to be your lordſhip's gueſt at Kenwith Caſtle.

Alfred my gueſt!—his kingly purpoſe is moſt kind and gracious.—Now, Adela, your king, who is his people's father, will be your's, and join your hand to Alric's—I will forth, and welcome theſe glad tidings.

So! this concludes my deſtiny.—Alric is fortune's minion; I a poor beaten ſlave.

Think what I ſufFer; agonize me not with your complainings—above all things, Vol⯑timar, I do conjure you, by the love you bear me, do not alarm my father. Words cannot de⯑ſcribe what terrors I endur'd whilſt you ſpoke ſo unguarded.

Who can be calm at ſuch a moment? To you alone the ſecret is confided that I have feign'd this folly: I need not feign henceforth—when you are Alric's bride I ſhall be nature's ſcorn, that wretched thing, whoſe reaſon grief hath wreck'd.

How terrible is that thought! the bride of Alric?—No, my heart revolts! How can my father ſo approve and favor that cold, ob⯑ſcure, impenetrable man, whoſe mind is black as night, his thoughts perplext and abſent, and whoſe conſcience ſeems ever to upbraid him, whilſt he profeſſes what he does not feel.

I know Lord Alric; but for my weak nature, this fate had ne'er befallen you.—When my brave father drew his battle forth at Bamflete [14] trenches, I fought beſide him, where it was my chance to encounter this ſame Alric, and unhorſe him; I had him then at my ſword's point, de⯑fenceleſs, proſtrate—Pity ſmote my heart, his youth, his cries, his wounded helpleſs ſtate plead⯑ed for life; I check'd the mortal ſtroke, and for that act of mercy am repaid with miſery worſe than death.—And does your father think that I play the antick, and pipe to my own priſoner—will I'll periſh firſt.

It ſhall not be required.—Oh! Volti⯑mar, if you cou'd ſee my heart—

I ſhou'd behold the victim of obedience; I ſhou'd then ſee the very ſhrine of virtue wit⯑neſs the ſtruggles of a pure affection, oppreſt and thwarted by paternal power; I ſhou'd con⯑template all that can inſpire me with love, and animate me with courage to brave all dangers, even death itſelf, rather than tamely yield you to Lord Alric.

Ah Voltimar, I fear my doom is ſeal'd, Lord Alric's high nobility—

The worms had fed on his nobility, but for my mercy—

My father's will—the king's authority—

Is your father's will irrevocable? is not your king compaſſionate? In ſhort, is any thing impoſſible to love ardent as mine, and a ſoul re⯑ſolute to attempt your reſcue?

You terrify me: what do you intend?

When Haſtings lived, Alfred (tho' now ſurnam'd the Great) was but the ſecond man in England—the ſon of Haſtings, vanquiſh'd and a priſoner, depreſs'd by fortune and reduc'd to aſ⯑ſume a counterfeited weakneſs, is not ſo degene⯑rate as to ſubmit tamely without a ſtruggle to a [15] rival, in arms leſs than his equal, in nobility not greater.

Break off! we are obſerv'd.

Lady, the Earl demands your inſtant pre⯑ſence.

The Earl ſhall be obeyed—I will but drop a word with this poor ignorant, and follow you—

Hear me, and make no anſwer, or ſpeak ſoft⯑ly; you know my window in the eaſtern tower, underneath which you have ſo often harp'd—be there at evening-fall, in the ſtill hour.—I read your anſwer in your eyes—Be cautious! not a word more.—Well, if it muſt be ſo, there is my hand!—now be content, releaſe me.—Farewell!

COME hither, Lothaire! I've a word in ſecret for you—You lov'd your noble maſ⯑ter, and you will be faithful to his ſad widow, though times are chang'd, and you no longer are the fine gay page that follow'd the Lord Haſt⯑ings, when he held his court in ſplendor, and gave law to England.

I have been faithful ever, and I will be.

That's my good lad—Now mark me!—here are Danes ſcatter'd about, the reliques of the fight at Exeter, who wou'd do noble ſervice, if we cou'd perſuade my ſon to be amongſt them: I have urg'd him to it, every means I have tried to ſtir his ſtagnant ſpirit; a cauſe methinks like our's might move the very ſtones to riſe and cry for vengeance.

He fought courageouſly at Bamflete trenches.

And ſometimes I incline to hope courage ſo natural to him, will awake from ſleep, and reaſſume its energy. I noted his emotions as I talk'd, and tho' he anſwer'd not, his eyes ſhot fire, his colour came and went, and I do think the ſenſes that ſhou'd quicken him afreſh, were [17] in commotion—You can do much, Lothaire, for you are in his heart; me he regards with caution and reſerve.

Ah, Madam! if I have any intereſt in his heart, 'tis ſimply that of pity and benevo⯑lence; on matters of ſuch moment as you hint at, I dare not move him, for ſince this malady has hung upon him, he will not ſuffer me to ſpeak of Denmark; nay, hardly will endure a Dane to approach him.

'Tis true; and ſometimes I ſuſpect he feigns this humor, only to avoid their importu⯑nities.

I cannot tell, but certain it is he has kept all quiet in theſe purlieus, where none will ſtir but at his bidding. With me, altho' he paſſes many hours, he talks but little; fiſhing is his ſport, watching his baits by night upon the beach, a penſive occupation; ſometimes indeed he touch⯑es his harp, and then I ſing to him.

Cou'd you not introduce the madrigal I late gave you, which touches on his malady?

I am prepar'd with it, and only wait his call to ſing it to him—and ſee he comes.

I'll leave you—Oh! Lothaire, rouſe him, redeem him, ſave him if you can.

Bleſs you, my gentle maſter!

Bleſs you, bleſs you!

I'm proud to ſee you in your beſt attire.

'Tis a proud day, Lothaire; Kings are abroad: The ſun himſelf is in his beſt attire, and ſo am I.

It well becomes you: You now ſhew as the ſon of Haſtings ſhould.

The ſon of Haſtings ſhould be what he is not; he ſhould be braver than to take a blow from a baſe menial groom, nobler than to beat the ſtrings of a poor trembling harp to pleaſure the proud ears of young Northumberland.—I harp to him! his heart-ſtrings ſhall make muſic with my ſword or ere I'll harp to him. Mark me, Lothaire! my folly is not conſtant.

Wou'd Heaven that it were paſs'd and gone for ever.

Madmen have intervals of ſober reaſon; fools have the gleamings of a mind at times. Now if you ſay this to my mother, Lothaire, you are no friend of mine—for ſhe is mad without the loſs of reaſon.—Anſwer me this—what is the beſt device to remedy a ſick mind?

I know no other remedy but patience.

You might as well ſay to the bed-rid wretch—riſe and be well at once. You have forgot your leſſon; 'twas not this that my re⯑vengeful mother bade you ſay—ſhe would pre⯑ſcribe rebellion, blood and plunder; thoſe are her Daniſh drugs; but I'll not taſte them.—Give me the ſoftening, the aſſuaging powers, muſic and meditation.

Shall I fetch your harp?

Not for the world; I love you much too well, to ſend you on that errand; my harp is wreck'd at ſea—but I'll ſit down, and you ſhall ſing to me.

I have a ſong; the words are new, the ſtrain familiar, and by your favorite minſtrel old Llewellyn; I caught it from your harp.

'Tis well, his plaintive melody delights me moſt.

You may ſuppoſe it addreſs'd to ſome warrior, who being loſt to his country, and bu⯑ried [19] in profound melancholy, the poet ſtrives to rouſe him by the following ſtrain:

Enough, Lothaire! If this will not ex⯑erciſe the foul ſpirit, it is becauſe he has no ear for melody—And now retire; you have done your part, and whether I redeem my mind, which you think loſt, or periſh in my folly, you are clear in your allegiance, and the ever-faithful ſervant of the noble Haſtings has proved himſelf the zealous friend of his ignoble ſon. Leave me without more words—I have ſome thoughts abroad which I wou'd fain call home.

I'll not diſturb your thoughts—farewell.

Oh England! generous but hoſtile country, how would'ſt thou tremble didſt thou know this arm cou'd make thee kingleſs ere to-morrow! I have the death of Haſtings at my heart—but I'll not ſtrike ſo deep; revenge ſo terrible I will not take—Reſt, reſt, poor land! Denmark hath drank too largely of thy blood.—Spirit of my il⯑luſtrious father, if thou it is that viſiteſt me night⯑ly, foſter theſe meditations!—

Lo, where he ſits! Let us purſue our talk without regarding him.—If Alfred's armies are ſo far advanc'd, he leaves the country betwixt them and Exeter open to an attack.

Aye, aye, more blood—ſhe lives upon the ſcent.

What force could you collect on an emergency, and where is it diſpos'd?

Of thoſe who ſurviv'd the ſlaughter, a remnant ſav'd themſelves on board the ſhips then hovering on the coaſt. Theſe are entire, and though our thouſands are diminiſh'd to hundreds, yet I cou'd diſembark a force ſufficient for any ſudden enterprize, if ſuch preſented itſelf; if not, I ſhall go off to them, and ſail for Den⯑mark.

Sail then, and leave this iſland to its peace!

Peace to your folly, mean degenerate Dane!

Who talks of folly? If I have aſſum'd this weakneſs, thinking it leſs ſhame to ſeem the fool of nature than be the ſlave of man, it is be⯑cauſe I have a ſpirit indignant of ſubjection; and [21] you, who think me mean and degenerate, are in an error.

Convict me of that error, and ſtand forth for Denmark.

Away! I have a better cauſe than to lay waſte with fire and ſword defenceleſs villages.—Accurſed warfare! worthy only of ſavages, not ſoldiers.

Give us to know your cauſe, and we'll ſupport it.

Gothrun, you thirſt for blood, ſo do not I—You ſaid, when laſt we met, you wiſh'd your ſword was buried in the heart of Alfred. Had I met Alfred fairly in the fight, where he dealt ſlaughter round him, I wou'd have prov'd the temper of my ſword upon his mailed corſlet; but had I ſtruck him down, as I did Alric of Northumberland, I wou'd have ſcorn'd to ſtab a fallen foe; and when his valor was no longer ter⯑rible, I wou'd have reverenc'd his virtues, and have ſpar'd him.

Remember we are priſoners of Earl Od⯑dune; and chains, how light ſoever they may be, are ſtill inglorious—Remember too, that the loſt ſtandard of your country, the magic Raefen, the proudeſt trophy England has to boaſt, floats in Earl Oddune's hall.

Enough: remember on your part, that meekneſs is the woman's grace, and to abide ill fortune patiently, a conduct more becoming of your ſex than to reſent it proudly. Fare you well!

I'm wrapt in wonder; how his ſpirit towers! how awful, and how ſtern!

Let us not quit him, but follow, and [22] endeavour to obtain ſome inſight into his myſte⯑rious purpoſes.

'Tis well advis'd; proceed!

Throw wide my gates, or caſt them from their hinges; turn out my warders in their beſt attire, and let my caſtle towers, if it were poſſible, bow down their heads in honor of our gueſt. Sound, trumpets! and ſalute the ſovereign, the ſaviour of his country! Hah! fall back, give large and am⯑ple room; ſhew yourſelves courtly to our noble viſitors.

Brave Sibald, and brave Egbert, welcome, wel⯑come! Redwald, and Kenulph, Swithun, and my honor'd kinſman Roger de Malvern—and, Oh! ſight of joy, the head and heart of Eng⯑land—my king, my father!

Rather ſay your ſon; for it was you that nurs'd my infant hopes, and taught me how to conquer.—Riſe! Stand up! My heart bounds to embrace you.

Each drop of blood that flows from it is Alfred's.

We know your love, and rate it at a price not leſs in value than the crown we wear: you was our great forerunner; you firſt track'd the road to victory, and we have trac'd your ſteps at humble diſtances. If our memory needed a [23] prompter, we have but to caſt our eyes upon that enſign of your victory, and mend our recollecti⯑on; but our thoughts are faithful to your ſervices; and, by the rights of hoſpitality, which I now claim of you as my much honor'd hoſt, I call upon you to demand a boon; and may that ban⯑ner fall upon my head, if I refuſe it!

My gracious liege, 'tis at my lips al⯑ready.

Speak, and 'tis granted.

Sire, that you will honor with your royal preſence my daughter's nuptials.

Which of our Nobles does the Lady Adela make choice of to promote to this felicity?

One whom I look'd to have found at⯑tending on your highneſs, Earl Alric of Northum⯑berland.

Heaven give me patience! Did you ſay Lord Alric!

Aye, Sibald, is he not a worthy lord?

Our kingdom boaſts none worthier.—You, brave Sibald, of all whom I have heard, are warmeſt in your praiſes of his courage, ho⯑nor, and accompliſhments; for you are Alric's neareſt and moſt ardent friend; and much it glads me when my friends and nobles ltve in ſuch love and concord with each other.

Let me then aſk, under favor of your highneſs, this noble lord, why, when I named Earl Alric for my daughter, he ſtarted, and gave ſigns of ſuch aſtoniſhment?

I know my king is juſt, and I might ſpeak, without offending him, what truth and ho⯑nour warrant, tho' my charge glanc'd upon his heart even in the tendereſt point; but it is not my cuſtom to appeal till I ſtand face to face be⯑fore my judge, with him who wrongs me; till [24] then I humbly pray our joys may not be damp'd by any inference drawn from my incautious words.

Let it be ſo, though I muſt own I'm touch'd even to the quick, to think that any cauſe of difference ſhou'd ariſe betwixt two gallant he⯑roes, whom I have ever held not leſs incapable of doing wrong than I myſelf of ſcreening the offender; but we'll not ſhew ſo little courteſy to our kind hoſt, as to give way to ſorrow till it meets us.—Come, my good lord, you muſt not think to keep your caſtle's richeſt treaſure out of ſight: if Lady Adela will condeſcend to admit us as we are, in the rough trim of ſoldiers on their march, we ſhall be proud to pay our ho⯑mage as her faithful knight.

Not ſo, my liege! but, with Lord Sibald's leave, her gracious ſponſor.

Ah, Sibald, Sibald! But let that grief ſleep—that we may touch upon no ſtring that jars, we'll viſit her alone.—Lead, I will follow you.

The king is vext.

I'm ſorry at my ſoul.

I know not when I have ſeen him ſo much mov'd.

Lord Oddune too can ſcarce re⯑ſtrain himſelf.

Roger de Malvern, you have known me long, ſo have you all; and if I am no com⯑mon talker, to let fly my words at random with⯑out forecaſt, am not noted for one that vouches raſhly, and after ſhrinks from what he has ſo [25] vouch'd; I will believe you'll credit me for ma⯑king good whatever I have hinted or depos'd in hearing of my ſovereign and yourſelves; till then, though I cannot recal the words improvidently wreſted from me by ſurprize, I can at leaſt re⯑frain from adding to a fault which I repent of.

Spoken like yourſelf, and we, with the ſame candor, will not prejudge you or your cauſe. The king, who loves his friend, as we all know, and no friend more deſervedly than yourſelf, is yet ſo pure, ſo equal in his high ſeat of juſtice, that no appellant has been heard to ſay, why did he this?

The nation, with one voice, will teſ⯑tify to this?

Long may he live and reign, ho⯑nor'd, obey'd, and lov'd! And mark my words, young lords—I'm old enough to be a prophet, were I as wiſe withal.—The character of Alfred hath not yet attain'd to half that luſtre, which in future times, if Heaven preſerves his life, it will diffuſe thro' the admiring world: victorious as he is, and great in warlike qualities, the powers and energies of his capacious mind are but obſcurely ſeen, till peace ſhall give his meditations ſcope for action and diſplay: then he will ſhine; and you, who may expect to ſee thoſe glorious days, will call, when I am dead, theſe words to mind, and ſay—"Malvern predicted rightly."

No, my good Lord; we rather hope you'll live to witneſs the fulfilment of theſe auſ⯑picious words—then we'll record them joyfully together.

And I ſhall die content.

Die when you may, your memory will be honor'd to all time.—Now let us ſeek the [26] king, and tender him our duty—Come my lords!

Alfred is now arriv'd, and I muſt face or fly the doom that threatens me. Unhappy Adela! ſeal'd down to miſery, if once the fatal word ſhall paſs my lips in preſence of the king. What ſhall I do? To whom ſhall I reſort? Is not the father of his people juſt, tender of heart, and pitiful to thoſe who kneel to him for mercy?—I will kneel.—Hark, he approaches.—Benignant Heaven! ſupport me!

Daughter, behold your king! Kneel now to him, for whom ſo often you have knelt to Heaven.

Not ſo, fair excellence.—Saints kneel not to ſinners, and kings themſelves will bend the knee to beauty.

My humble duty waits upon your high⯑neſs.

My love on you—wing'd with a thou⯑ſand wiſhes that Heaven may proſper what it has adorn'd and beautified ſo highly.—I am now your gueſt, fair Adela, and, if my hopes deceive me not, ſhall be in nearer truſt with you to-morrow; I have requeſted therefore of your father admiſ⯑ſion to you private and alone.

My liege, I have thrown my treaſure at your feet, and now reſign it to you.

Pray be compos'd; you tremble, gen⯑tle maid.

I have cauſe, dread Sir; it is an awful thing to be in preſence of him, whom more than all the world I honor and revere.

It is more awful to approach the altar with a back-ſliding heart.—Let me know there⯑fore, if with free conſent and hearty approba⯑tion, you eſpouſe Lord Alric of Northumber⯑land?

It is my duty to obey my father.

I am to be your father in that office; and how far I am warranted in conſcience to ex⯑ecute that office, will depend on your reply.

My heart is full—Oh! that I had dar'd to ſpeak—

Speak, I conjure you! I am all atten⯑tion.

You are all goodneſs, Sir; the power that Heaven has put into your hands, you, as Heaven's almoner, diſpenſe ſo bounteouſly, that miſery flies to you as to a friend, and every child of ſorrow owns you for its father. I have ven⯑tur'd to lift up my eyes towards your's, and I have there diſcover'd beams of ſuch mild bene⯑volence, that I perceive, where you are preſent, fear cannot inhabit even in my woman's heart.

If purity and truth cou'd fear my pre⯑ſence, I were a tyrant, which I truſt I am not—therefore proceed.

I am in love and duty ſo faſt bound to obey my father's will, and yet ſo adverſe to this marriage, that I have nothing in my choice but choice of miſery.

Adverſe to marriage, and yet on the very eve! How is this, Adela? Do you ſee good cauſe to marry Alric, and no cauſe to love him?

'Twould be redemption for me if I cou'd.

Have you diſcover'd aught that con⯑tradicts what fame reports of him?—He may have faults, errors of temper; but integrity and honor are his own.

It is the teſt of merit to be prais'd by him, whoſe praiſe reſounds throughout the world.—Glory enough for Alric, and good cauſe why I ſhould honor him whom Alfred favors: but judge me, royal Sir; am I in fault, if nature, which has given him grace to merit theſe high honours, hath not endow'd me with a heart to love him?

What ſhall I ſay? It is not in my hand thoſe ſprings are plac'd that guide the will, and govern the affections. Forewarn'd as I now am, I'll not approach the altar, there to make a lying depoſition, and affront the Majeſty of Hea⯑ven. No, Adela, that's paſt; but when you know how ardently your father patronizes Alric's ſuit, I muſt believe a heart ſo dutiful as your's wou'd not oppoſe his wiſhes, nor reject a choice ſo worthy, were it not beſtow'd upon ſome hap⯑pier lover.

Ah! gracious Sir! my heart is in your ſight: I dare not ſtand before you and prevari⯑cate.

And wherefore ſhou'd you? for, if I conjecture rightly, you have plac'd your choice on one, whoſe virtues, valor, and illuſtrious birth, rank with the firſt in England, though hard misfortune has fallen heavy on him.

How glorious is ſuch praiſe from Al⯑fred's lips! How godlike ſuch benevolence! I do perceive you have diſcover'd him.

I ſaw the ſecret workings of his heart, his horror and ſurprize, when your father an⯑nounc'd your nuptials for to-morrow.

My father!—Did my father ſee all this?

Aſſuredly he did.

Oh, heaven and earth! then we are both undone, if Voltimar has thus betrayed him⯑ſelf.

How ſay you?—Voltimar!—I ſpeak not of him.

Sir!—Not of Voltimar?

I ſpeak of Sibald.—Voltimar's a Dane, the ſon of Haſtings.—Can you love a Dane?

He is a Dane; but noble, brave, and virtuous: he is the ſon of Haſtings, but merciful to Alfred's friends, as Alfred is to him; the very air that Alric breathes is Voltimar's: at Bamflete fight he ſtruck him from his horſe, and when he might have ſpear'd him to the earth, even in the heat and madneſs of the battle, in pity he forbore, and gave him life: is not ſuch mercy lovely?

'Tis enviably noble; 'tis heroic.

I knew to whom it was that I appeal'd.

I've heard Lord Alric ſpeak of this generous action in terms of rapturous gratitude, and I truſt it never ſhall be ſaid of my country⯑men, that they ſuppreſs the good deeds of an enemy, and only publiſh evil ones. And now, fair Adela, thanks for your candor; what you have imparted to me I ſhall commit to my moſt ſerious thoughts, and in all honorable meaſures ſerve you.

Ah, Sir! I ſtand in wonder at your goodneſs, and bluſh to think that any thought of me ſhould occupy a mind, where a whole nati⯑on's intereſts are repos'd—But pity ever marks the hero's character.

I ſhall confer with Voltimar—Fare⯑well!—Exit.

Confer with Voltimar!—Hark! what is this?—He ſtrikes upon the harp; it is his ſignal, call⯑ing me to the window.—Oh! well tim'd, bleſt occaſion! I can now prepare him for his inter⯑view with Alfred, allay his fears, his jealouſies of Alric, and by the ſympathy of ſouls transfuſe into his breaſt the hope that ſprings in mine.—Again he ſummons me—I come, I come!

HUSH, huſh! not a word more—I hear my father's voice.—Away, away!

I left you to your conference with the king; tell me what paſs'd.

Alfred is ever gracious.

That's granted; and as ſuch, that you have confided to him your whole heart, I can well believe. He is now gone forth alone to meet Lord Alric; elſe I had heard from him what wou'd have made my queſtion needleſs.

You have been ever good to me; and ſo tender, that you have even treated my faults with gentleneſs; therefore it is I am the more afraid to offend you.

Nay, no evaſion. I need not to be told your heart is not accordant to my wiſhes; in plainer words, you do not love Lord Alric.

If I may judge of him, he has as little wiſh to gain my heart, as I have will to give it him—Sullen, obſcure, and with himſelf diſpleas'd, he took no pains to recommend his ſuit, but cold⯑ly told me you had given conſent, and hop'd I [32] wou'd confirm it. To this I made no anſwer; nor did he urge me to it; but taking my ſilence for his acquittal from an irkſome penance, bow'd and departed.

Truth to confeſs, his manners have not pleas'd me; there ſeems to be ſomething upon his mind that preſſes and diſpirits him: time muſt reveal it.—Of this be ſure, I ſhall not be leſs forward to reſent contempt, than you are quick to feel it.

Upon my knees I thank you.—Oh! my father, honor'd, rever'd, and lov'd, ſave your poor child from miſery and deſtruction!

Be patient! riſe—there needs not all this vehemence of prayer to melt a heart that is not made of marble; I am not one of thoſe ob⯑durate fathers to ſtop my ears againſt the cries of nature—Was you this inſtant with the king? Did you confeſs yourſelf to him averſe to this impending marriage, and in like fervent terms?

I did confeſs; and he, with a benignity (for which may Heaven crown him with bleſ⯑ſings!) heard and approv'd my prayer.

Hah! did he ſo? What ſaid he?

The words, indeed, of Alfred may be repeated; the grace that marks all that he ſays or does, who can deſcribe? I pray you let my humble plea approach you, not through my lips, but Alfred's.

It ſhall be ſo; you have appeal'd to Alfred; let Alfred judge betwixt us.—Retire to peace.

Kind Heaven reward and bleſs you for this goodneſs!

Here we are private; and now, my Lord of Northumberland, by the right I have in you as your king and friend, I call on you to make anſwer to a few plain queſtions, which concern not only your own honor but mine alſo.

Sir, if I were as clear in conſcience to⯑wards all others as I am true and faithful to your highneſs, I ſhou'd not fear the cloſeſt ſcrutiny.

Fear nothing; only give me up your heart.

'Tis at my lips, command, and it ſhall forth.

How is it you have ſuffer'd me to be inform'd by any other than yourſelf of your en⯑gagement with the lady Adela? Is it fitting that you ſhou'd have ſo great a happineſs in contem⯑plation, and I your friend not know of it?

I cannot anſwer you, but on my knees implore you to diſmiſs me, as one no longer wor⯑thy to approach you.

Stand up; I will not hear you in that poſture.

Ah! my too gracious maſter, tho' you can pity errors, you cannot pardon crimes: I am undone for ever in your thoughts, and have ſo deeply wrong'd the earl of Devonſhire, that all the atonement I can tender him is to lay bare my boſom to his ſword, and meet the death I merit. Alas! dread ſir, when I forbore to ſpeak to you of what you term my happineſs, it was becauſe I trembled to reveal my ſhame: I muſt not, can not wed the lady Adela.

You cannot! why? Does that impe⯑diment ſpring from yourſelf or her?

From myſelf ſolely; for I deſerv'd the cold reception ſhe gave me.

How then are you diſhonor'd with the earl, if, finding her repugnant to your ſuit, you modeſtly withdraw it?

Becauſe, (to my eternal ſhame I own it) I made propoſals for earl Oddune's daughter, when I was bound by ſolemn word and promiſe to another.

My lord, my lord, what plea have you to make for ſuch duplicity?

None, royal ſir, but that I am unhappy in a nature, which, loving ardently, reſents too quickly: In one of theſe raſh moments, on a ſuſpected ſlight, when my fond heart 'twixt love and jealouſy was rent aſunder, almoſt bereft of reaſon, and hurried on by an impetuous paſſion, I took the deſperate meaſure that has plung'd me in this diſgraceful buſineſs with earl Oddune.

And not with him alone, but with the lady, whoſe appeal will bear ſo hard againſt you, and whom yet you have not nam'd.

There I am doubly guilty, for that lady is grac'd with lovelineſs ſo charming, join'd to a nature ſo ingenuous, that nothing leſs than folly blind as mine cou'd have miſtaken it—Born of a noble houſe, illuſtrious for its loyalty, whoſe branches death has ſever'd without mercy, the lady Bertha—

Hath yet a brother living, who will not ſuffer inſult and perjury to eſcape his venge⯑ance. My ſovereign lord, I kneel to you for juſtice.

Riſe, Sibald; and if we cut ſhort your accuſation, it is becauſe the juſtice of your appeal is known already, and the Lord Alric by his own confeſſion ſtands ſelf-condemn'd.

My wrongs, dread ſir, cannot be put aſide by an extorted penitence: I once accounted this unworthy lord my honor'd, valued friend; he has betrayed me. You have a heart, my liege, alive to all the feelings of a man; you know the ſtabs that a falſe friend can give, and by your own ſenſations will allow for mine.

Not to the paſſions, Sibald, but to juſ⯑tice, make your appeal—Proceed!

My name, great ſir, will not be found leſs frequent or leſs honor'd in our annals than that of Alric; my houſe can boaſt as many tro⯑phies of a warlike anceſtry; a nobler father and three gallant brothers have died in arms for Al⯑fred and their country; the Daniſh ſword has gaſh'd our line ſo deeply, that nothing now re⯑mains to me but one dear ſiſter, pure as the air ſhe breathes, and without ſpot, ſave that of loving this falſe faithleſs man, who has abandon'd her for earl Oddune's daughter; for which act here in your royal preſence I brand him for a traitor to his oath, a perjur'd traitor, and de⯑mand the liſts.

A dreadful reference you make, Lord Sibald, and put your cauſe to an uncertain iſſue; but if, when juſtice tenders you her ſword, you ſtill prefer your own, what you will do, you muſt; I cannot ſtay you.

Nor ſhall I ſhun the liſts, if he demands them; but I muſt execrate thoſe bloody laws, that ſubject me, on the ſame day which wedded me to Bertha, to the dire chance of being found the murderer of her brother.

Wedded to Bertha! ſpeak that word again.

Yes, Sibald, I have aſk'd and obtain'd pardon of your injur'd ſiſter; ſhe has ſeal'd it with her hand before the altar, and let my ſove⯑reign ſay if I, who have not yet aton'd to the father of Adela, am warranted to take up the gage from the brother of Bertha.

I do forbid the liſts.—Sibald, I know you well; no Engliſh boſom wears a braver heart; as well I know Lord Alric, and eſteem him worthy no leſs praiſe; yet herein I com⯑mend him not, that he ſhould ſuffer a mere lover's quarrel to ſpread into ſuch miſchief.

Oh! my rever'd and ever gracious lord, permit me firſt to embrace him as a bro⯑ther, and after caſt myſelf at your feet, and ſup⯑plicate your influence with earl Oddune to medi⯑ate for his pardon.

Riſe, Sibald; to this taſk I willingly accord; for much 'twould wound my heart, if, when your ſwords are wanted to repel the inva⯑ders of your country, feuds and diſſentions be⯑twixt friend and friend ſhou'd turn them on each other—Follow me to the caſtle; Alric will keep his ſtation here without, till we return.

Who wou'd not die for ſuch a generous maſ⯑ter? faultleſs himſelf, he is all candor to the faults of others, and lives amongſt us like a de⯑ſcended angel, ſent to reform our errors by the example of his own perfections.

Hah! by my hopes Lord Alric—Do you know me?

Do I know Voltimar?—My conqueror, my preſerver, come to my arms.

Forbear! there is a ſpirit within me, ſunk, tho' I am in miſery and deſpair, that will not ſuffer you, tho' now a conqueror in your turn, and towering far above the wretched ſon of Haſtings, to take this baſe advantage of your fortune, and drag a trembling victim to the altar only to riot in the tears of beauty, and throw your chains upon a heart, that never can be your's.

Pauſe from your rage, and ſay in plain⯑er terms on whoſe behalf it is that you accuſe me.

I do accuſe you of unmanly conduct—accuſe you on the part of the lady Adela.

My conſcience does that office, without the aid of other advocates to plead againſt me.

Draw then, and anſwer one, whom no⯑thing leſs definitive than death can ſatisfy or ſilence.

She has a father; him I now expect, he has the prior claim upon my ſword.

What do you tell me of a father's claim? I love her to diſtraction, he deſtroys her: there⯑fore no more; it is a poor evaſion to talk of prior claims to one, who boaſts poſſeſſion of her heart. Defend yourſelf.

I will, but firſt explain our cauſe of quarrel.

Away! you trifle with the time, what more can you deſire?—You are arm'd, accou⯑tred, practis'd in the combat, and fluſht with conqueſt—I, a vanquiſht priſoner, a poor wretch⯑ed thing, aſſuming folly to conceal my ſhame, ſunk even to beggary, and driven to harp for charitable ſcraps at great men's tables.—Yet by [38] the blood of Haſtings, my inheritance, you ſhall not wed with Adela.

I will not wed with Adela; I cannot—

Go on.

I am the huſband of Lord Sibald's ſiſ⯑ter—A broken faith I have to anſwer for—but that is Oddune's quarrel—If you are Oddune's champion, ſo deputed, lo! I draw forth my ſword—ſet to, and ſpare not.

Return your ſword into its caſe again, till Oddune calls it forth: I have no cauſe to mur⯑mur at your choice, tho' much to wonder at it.

Had I no other duty for my ſword than to defend the juſtice of my choice, I were moſt happy—but the time approaches, when I expect Earl Oddune and the king; that is an interview you will not court.

No, for if Alfred's eloquence protects you, you'll want no other ſecond in your cauſe.—Farewell! aſſure yourſelf of a ſucceſsful iſſue.

Darkneſs comes on, the night befriends us; and Heaven itſelf conſpires with our attempt. Nothing is wanting to enſure ſucceſs but your ſon's preſence: Alfred and his nobles are weakly garriſon'd in Kenwith Caſtle. Oh! what a glo⯑rious moment will be loſt, if Voltimar will not come forth. He, and he alone, through all theſe haunts and purlieus, is the chief can draw our Danes together.

His power with them is abſolute; his voice, like magic, can waft them where he liſts; [39] call them together in a ſwarm like bees, or ſcat⯑ter them abroad, and ſend them hence, each to his hiding-place, upon a word.

Hark! whence is that alarm? We are diſcover'd.

No, 'tis Lothaire; I ſent him on the heights to give the well-known ſignal. There's not a Dane within ear-reach of it, but will turn out, believing it the call of Voltimar, who never ſince his father died has given that bugle breath. Let us go hence and meet them on the beach; there they will muſter.

Are ye all mad? Why is my ear diſturb'd by your rude clamours? Who dares to ſound that horn?

Son of our chief, your ever faithful Danes believ'd it was your ſummonss, and obey'd it.

Send out, and ſet that inſolent before me, whoſe curſed breath dares to profane the air with that unholy blaſt.—Hah! mother, is it you?

All hail, my ſon! Denmark revives in Voltimar.

Peace, peace! go home, where women ſhou'd be found. Buſy yourſelf no more in theſe dark doings.

Drag him along, or inſtantly diſpatch him.—Now, Danes, we'll immolate at leaſt one victim to the manes of our countrymen.—How! Voltimar amongſt us?—Joy to you, chief! we ſeiz'd this muffled Saxon under the caſtle walls.

You ſeiz'd him! you—under the caſtle walls!—You fled, like deer, under the walls of Exeter!—For ſhame!—This ſingle man un⯑arm'd; with only Alfred's banner in his hand, had chas'd you thence a thouſand in a herd.—Behold, I draw a ſword in his defence, that ne⯑ver yet lower'd its point in battle; but ſcorns the coward trade of midnight ſtabbers.—Stand at my ſide, ſtranger, and fear nothing!

I never yet fear'd any thing but diſho⯑nor.

Danes, will you let your prize be ra⯑viſh'd from you?

Danes, will you let your honor be diſ⯑grac'd? Friends, if indeed ye do deſerve the name, ſilence that babbler, ſend him to his ſhips, and let him preach to thoſe with whom he fled. You never ſerv'd with Gothrun.—Me you know; with me you've liv'd, and breath'd the air of England; breathe then the ſentiments of Engliſh generoſity, and ſcorn to injure a defenceleſs man.

Are you the ſon of Haſtings?

I am the ſon of Haſtings; and by the immortal ſpirit of my father, if one amongſt you dares to draw a bow or rear a pike againſt this Saxon's breaſt, I'll thruſt my ſword into that miſ⯑creant's heart, and ſpurn him to the earth.

If you're the ſon of Haſtings, by inhe⯑ritance [41] you are the foe of Alfred.—Who can tell? This may be Alfred himſelf.

And if it be, I would not, like you, Gothrun, ſteal on his walk by night, lurk in his path.—Be witneſs for me, Heaven, I would not kill the father of his people, the patriot law⯑giver, the peaceful king, were I to gain his throne by the aſſaſſination.

Heroic Voltimar! how grateful to the ears of Alfred would be this praiſe, were it his chance to hear it!

It is the purer praiſe, becauſe he hears it not.—If I, who every night water a father's me⯑mory with my tears, and wander forth to meet his unappeaſed ghoſt upon the beach, proclaim the praiſe of Alfred, his virtues muſt be great.

I can abſtain no longer—I am Alfred.

Hah!—Alfred!

Alfred, and England's king.

Live, live! great ſir!

Die rather, and atone for all the thou⯑ſands that are loſt to Denmark.

Seize him, diſarm him! ſtop his mur⯑derous hand!—Thou bloody, cruel, and degene⯑rate Dane!

You are my priſoner now. Thanks, countrymen, for this! this act becomes you!

Thanks to my brave deliverer! and you, who have diſarm'd that ſtabber, you ſhall find a richer ranſom for the living Alfred, than by the bounty you had gain'd in Denmark for theſe dead bones—for never had you landed them alive.

Now all diſarm; convert your hoſtile ſpears to ſhepherd's crooks, your ſwords to [42] ſickles.—Oh! my worthy friends, we are the laſt of all our countrymen, that ſhou'd conſpire againſt the life of Alfred; for we, above all others, are debtors to his mercy! The very air we breathe, the food that we ſubſiſt on, the ſleep and reſt that we enjoy, are Alfred's bounty; and to his forbearance you are indebted for thoſe peaceful homes to which I now commend you.—Go, go! reflect how you are bleſt, and in your prayers remember him that bleſſes you!

Look, if they do not vaniſh at his bid⯑ding.

Peace, Madam! let that angry ſpirit of your's ſink into ſilence.—Now, dread ſir, I move you to give this Daniſh chief ſafe conduct to his ſhips; let him, and the ſad remnant of his ſhat⯑ter'd army, quit your triumphant ſhores without hoſtility on your part, on their's without delay.

'Tis granted to the full of what you aſk. We have had ample vengeance on their raſh⯑neſs; they chaſtiſement too bitter to repeat it.

Well! be it ſo; if we have loſt a prize, whoſe capture every Engliſh heart had rued to the laſt hour of life, I am acquitted. England, fare⯑well for ever!

Ah, Voltimar, will this appeaſe your father's ſpirit?

I have heard a warning voice, whoſe words, with more than mortal utterance and au⯑thority, fell on my ear by night.—He ſpoke to me of mercy, peace, forbearance: him with a filial reverence I obey.

Why did you feign a folly, only to be⯑tray me?

My folly has been wiſdom, and preſerv'd you.

Mother and ſon, forbear! in you, as widow of the illuſtrious Haſtings, I pardon this high ſpirit of reſentment; but I will combat it with heart ſo meek and hand ſo liberal, that you ſhall ceaſe in very ſhame to murmur, and either feel or feign yourſelf converted.—For you, my brave preſerver, I have a happineſs in ſtore, which, with the honors I will ſhower upon you, ſhall prove Alfred is not inſenſible of ſoul to thoſe who merit his munificence.—Now let us to the caſtle.—Farewell, Madam! guarded by Voltimar, we'll brave a hoſt.

Go, my brave ſon; great muſt be Al⯑fred's virtues, when they have conquer'd me: I yield you to him, and conjure you, Voltimar, be true and faithful to your generous maſter, ſo ſhall your loyal ſervice and good deeds cancel the memory of Oſwena's errors.

The king gone forth alone!

Such was his royal pleaſure; and whilſt there's aught to do in love and charity the ſole of his foot knows no reſt. He is now re⯑turn'd in queſt of the Lord Alric, to bear him tidings of our reconcilement.

Who ſays that Alfred is a mighty conqueror gives him but half his praiſe: he is a peace-maker by natural choice, a warrior by neceſſity.

My Lord of Devonſhire, if you have [44] knowledge of any Danes hovering about this quarter, I muſt think you will do well to keep a careful watch.—As I walk'd forth but now, I heard a bugle give the call to arms; 'twas ſound⯑ed from the wood upon the heights—Is not the king come in?

Noble Earl Oddune, pardon this intru⯑ſion: I held it for my duty to inform you, that as I watch'd without your caſtle walls, an armed party, as I think, of Danes, ruſh'd from the wood near which I had taken my ſtation, waiting the king's return.

Arm, arm, my lords! and let us ſally forth—By heaven and earth, I will not live an hour if any evil chance befall my king under this roof.

Draw, draw! we'll die for Alfred—

How now, my friends? all's well.

Heaven's mercy guard the ſacred life of Alfred!

Joy to our eyes! the light of England beams upon us bright and ſerene as ever.

So to be greeted, is indeed a triumph: Heaven ſees my heart, and knows how it is pene⯑trated by theſe proofs of your unfeign'd affecti⯑on—Riſe, riſe, and tell me what alarm'd you thus.

Theſe lords had heard ſtrange noiſes; and Northumberland ſaw ſome that he believ'd were armed Danes.

Here is an armed Dane, the ſon of Haſtings, but no enemy.

Poor witleſs thing!—a very harmleſs elf—where did your highneſs croſs upon that na⯑tural?

I'll tell you that anon;—ſay firſt, if you ſeal'd the pardon I ſued out?

Thus in your royal preſence I confirm it.

Oh! my thrice honor'd lord! this ge⯑nerous pardon binds me for ever to you.

Our king is now amongſt us; and who can love and ſerve him beſt, ſhall be our only conteſt.

In that, and only that, I am your rival.

Old as I am, I'll ſtruggle in that race.

And ſee, here's one that will not be the laſt—the caſtle's beauteous miſtreſs.

Lovely Adela; I have a friend—I will not ſpeak him more or better than he is, (the beſt have need of pardon) but if you'll greet him as your father's gueſt, with a forgiving ſmile, I ſhall be much your debtor.

Prove me, great ſir; by ſome ſeverer taſk; to welcome Alfred's friend is eaſy ſervice.

Well ſaid, my child! Now let our joys break forth! where are the minſtrels? Sir⯑rah, you Voltimar, what do you here without a harp? Go, and provide yourſelf.

Hold, with your leave; I have a word to offer—Hear me, my noble friends! If I your king have been aſſail'd and ſeiz'd, made captive by a band of roving Danes, and on the point of [46] being forc'd away or kill'd upon the ſpot, what does that man deſerve, who ſingly ſtemm'd their brutal fury; and, tho' himſelf a Dane, ſav'd me in this extremity, diſpers'd the traitorous rabble, and reſtor'd me ſafe and unhurt to you and to my country?—Speak you, my lord, for all!

Oh! heaven and earth, amazement ſtops my tongue; nor can I ſpeak his merits, or preſcribe the meaſure of our gratitude; it is, as wou'd have been our loſs and miſery, above all computation.

Wou'd you, my lord, refuſe that man a boon, ſhou'd he requeſt of you?

No, though it were my life.

Suppoſe it were the neareſt thing to life, nay dearer to you than the life itſelf, your lovely daughter.

She ſhou'd be his, or never more be mine.

Stand forth, my brave deliverer!—This is the man.

Uphold me, Heaven!—Voltimar!

Voltimar, and Earl of Haſtings. Such I create him, by his great father's name, endow⯑ing him with ample manors thereunto pertaining, fit for his ſtate and title.—Speak, you my lords, have I your voices to confirm the gift?

All, all! the nation hails him our pre⯑ſerver.

May England never want hearts to de⯑fend her king, nor king to copy Alfred's bright example!

Come hither, Adela! where is his folly fled?

Ah, ſir, it is amongſt his nobleſt merits to have feign'd that weakneſs.

Nay then, let joy go round—Adela; do you love your king?

Heaven be my witneſs, with a heart how true.

Love his deliverer then.—Now join your hands!

Oh! my ſoul's earthly heaven, do I poſ⯑ſeſs thee? words cannot ſpeak my bliſs.

You have earn'd the oaken garland—Adela ſhall twine the myrtle in it; ſo ſhall you be crown'd by your beloved bride, your grateful country, and your glorious king.