Classic Poem

Scene II. — The Danish Army.

Enter H AROLD , T URKILL , and Lords.

HAROLD.

Erect the royal Standard on the slope
Of this declining hill. See, Friends, yon Castle!
Doth it not proudly seem to threat our force?
There, certain spies inform us, the fall'n Edmund
Hath fled for safety. May we not expect
To-morrow's sun will terminate our toil,
And crown our great Canutus, King of England?

First Lord .

Edmund was once most terrible in arms;
But, like th' autumnal meteor, now he lies
Shorn of his lucid glories — whilst Canutus,
Bright as the noon-day sun, claims from the world
Respectful admiration. Kingdoms, States,
(That never heard of Edmund) shall intreat
His powerful friendship. Thou, Lord Turkill, oft
Enjoy'st his social converse: Tell us, how
He bore the prosperous turn of fate at Ashdown.

TURKILL.

With tears he met it: nor has since appear'd
To taste repose or joy. Oft will he curse
Perfidious Edrick, and bids Heaven reward him
With vain remorse and constant discontent.
Then will he pity Edmund, and confess
He envies his exalted excellence;
Owns that his Rival's worth hath still compell'd him
To hard achievements, least the world should think
His fame eclips'd by his competitor.
Oft he appears enrapt in pensive thought:
Then will he start and cry, — Can I enjoy
The profit, yet escape the shame of Treason?
Impossible! Then will his bosom heave
As if to bursting.

HAROLD.

'Tis too nicely argued.
Let Infamy sit dark on Edrick's brow;
Renown encircles his, and shall for ever.
Who is this Edmund? This all famous King?
Is he not Son to perjur'd Ethelred;
Who, scorning pity, Heaven, repeated vows,
Bath'd in the blood of Danes his ruthless hands?
Oh! what a hateful deed: I saw it all.
The conduits flow'd with blood: the dusky air
Was fill'd with notes of woe, the horrid shrieks
Of those in torture — sympathizing groans
Of sad survivors: Burning piles display'd
A gloomy light, to shew the heaps of slain
That strew'd the earth, to rav'ning wolves consign'd.
The tale still draws my tears.

TURKILL.

Just is thy grief.
'Twas an infernal deed! Our noblest Danes
Relying on the League, then just confirm'd
By either King, peaceful in Britain staid;
But e'er our vessels reach'd their native shore,
The faithless Monarch to destruction doom'd
The unoffending sojourners.

HAROLD.

Oh! Turkill,
It mocks description, to relate what deaths
The wretch contriv'd! As if he ne'er had heard
Of mild Compassion's heavenly tenderness.
To die with ease was mercy, and 'twas all
Gunilda's worth procur'd. I saw her suffer.
Bravely magnanimous she climb'd the scaffold,
Then crimson'd with her sons and husband's blood,
Tho' given as hostages of Denmark's faith,
Sustain'd by Fortitude divine, she died.
These were her latest words: " Inhuman Murderer!
" Tho' now thou triumph'st, tremble when my Brother
" Makes inquisition for my blood. "

First Lord .

She spake
Prophetical.

HAROLD.

Meagre, afflicting Famine,
And livid Pestilence, most fiercely drew
Death's ebon car! Strange sights were seen in Heaven;
Armies in thick array, with ported spears —
Awful presage! Pale spectres, shrieking loud,
Slid thro' the midnight gloom! The sand was mark'd
With drops of blood. Earthquakes, portentous comets;
Predicted times of wond'rous misery.

TURKILL.

Our King, the furious Swayne, vindictive came.
Then, for each murder'd Dane, ten Britons bled,
England still feels his wrath. Neglected orphans —
Thin-peopled cities — ruin'd villages —
Decaying palaces — uncultur'd fields,
Mark it the empire of Calamity!

HAROLD.

But see the King. His troubled aspect shews
A mind at variance with itself. Let's meet him
With shouts of gratulation.