Elfrida, a Dramatic Poem/Elfrida
ELFRIDA,
A
Dramatic Poem.
ORGAR.How nobly does this venerable wood,Gilt with the glories of the orient sun,Embosom yon fair mansion! The soft airSalutes me with most cool and temp'rate breath;And, as I tread, the flow'r-besprinkled lawnSends up a gale of fragrance. I should guess,If e'er Content deign'd visit mortal clime,This was her place of dearest residence.Grant Heav'n! I find it such. 'Tis now three months,Since first Earl Athelwold espous'd my daughter.He then besought me, for some little spaceThe nuptials might be secret; many reasons,He said, induc'd to this: I made no pause,But, resting on his prudence, to his willGave absolute concurrence. Soon as married, He to this secret seat convey'd Elfrida;Convey'd her as by stealth, enjoy'd, and left her:Yet not without I know not what excuseOf call to court of Edgar's royal friendship,And England's welfare. To his prince he went:And since, as by intelligence I gather,He oft revisits this his cloyster'd wife;But ever with a privacy most studied,Borrowing disguises, till inventive artCan scarce supply him with variety.His visits, as they're stol'n, are also short;Seldom above the circuit of one sun:Then back to court, while she his absence mournsFull many a lonely hour. I brook not this.Had Athelwold espous'd some base-born peasant,This usage had been apt: but, when he tookMy daughter to his arms, he took a virginThro' whose rich veins the blood of ancient KingsRan in unsullied stream. Yes, her high lineageWould give her place and notice with the noblestThat shines in Edgar's court. Why is not sheIn that resplendent throng? Her beauty too(I speak not from a father's foolish fondness)Would smile amid the loveliest, and reflectNo vulgar glory on that beauty's master.This act bespeaks the madman. Who, that own'dAn em'rald, jaspar, or rich chrysolite, Would hide its lustre? he would bid it blazeConspicuous, in the front of that fair wreathWhich binds his brow. Happly this AthelwoldMay have espous'd some other. 'Sdeath he durst not.My former feats in arms must have inform'd him,That Orgar, while he liv'd, would never proveA traytor to his honor. If he has—This aged arm is not so much unstrungBy slack'ning years, but just revenge will brace it.And, by yon awful heav'n—But hold, my rage.I came to scrutinize this matter, coolly.Hence, to conceal the father and the earl,This pilgrim's staff, and scrip, and all these marksOf vagrant poverty.
CHORUS (within.)Hail to thy living light, ambrosial Morn!All hail thy roseat ray!
ORGAR.But hark, the sound of sweetest minstrelsyBreaks on my ear. The females, I suppose,Whom Athelwold has fixt my child's attendants;That, when she 'wails the absence of her lord,Their lenient airs, and sprightly-fancied songs,May steal away her woes. See, they approach:I'll wait the cadence of their harmony,And then address them with some feigned tale. [He retires.
CHORUS.ODE.Hail to thy living light,Ambrosial Morn! all hail thy roseat ray:That bids gay Nature all her charms displayIn varied beauty bright;That bids each dewy-spangled flowret rise,And dart around its vermeil dyes;Bids silver lustre grace yon sparkling tide,That winding warbles down the mountain's side.
Away, ye Goblins all,Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt;Whose vagrant feet have trac'd your secret hauntBeside some lonely wall,Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tow'r,Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour,Thro' each rough chink the solemn orb of nightPours momentary gleams of trembling light.
Away, ye Elves, away:Shrink at ambrosial Morning's living ray;That living ray, whose pow'r benignUnfolds the scene of glory to our eye,Where, thron'd in artless majesty,The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustic shrine.———
CHORUS, ORGAR.CHORUS.Silence, my sisters. Whence this rudeness, stranger,That boldly prompted thine unbidden earTo listen these our strains?
ORGAR.Your pardon, Virgins:I meant not rudeness, tho' I dar'd to listen;For ah! what ear so fortified and barr'dAgainst the tuneful force of vocal charms,But would with transport to such sweet assailantsSurrender its attention? Never yetHave I past by the night-bird's 'custom'd spray,What time the pours her wild, and artless song,Without attentive pause, and silent rapture;How could I then, with savage disregard,Hear voices tun'd by nature sweet as hers,Grac'd with all art's addition?
CHORUS.Thy mean garb,And this thy courtly phrase but ill accord.Whence, and what art thou, stranger?
ORGAR.Virgins, know.These limbs have oft been rob'd in fairer vest: But what avails it now? all have their fate;And mine has been most wretched.
CHORUS.May we ask,What cruel cause—
ORGAR.No! let this hapless breastStill hide the melancholy tale.
CHORUS.We know,There oft is found an avarice in grief;And the wan eye of Sorrow loves to gazeUpon its secret hoard of treasur'd woesIn pining solitude. Perhaps thy mindTakes the same pensive cast: if not, indulgeThe tender temper of our virgin souls,Which loves to melt in sympathizing tearsAnd social sighs.
ORGAR.Ah! ill would it become ye,To let the woes of such a wretch as I am,E'er dim your bright eyes with a pitying tear.
CHORUS.The eye, that will not weep another's sorrow,Should boast no gentler brightness than the glare, That reddens in the eye-ball of the wolf.Let us entreat———
ORGAR.Know, Virgins, I was bornTo ample property of lands and flocks,On this side Tweeda's stream. My youth and vigorAtchiev'd full many a feat of martial prowess:Nor was my skill in chivalry unnoted,In the fair volume of my sov'reign's love;Who ever held me in his best esteem,And closest to his person. When he paid,What all must pay, to fate; and short-liv'd EdwyMounted the vacant throne, which now his brotherFills (as loud Fame reports) right royally;I then, unfit for pageantry and courts,Retir'd me with a set of chosen vassalsTo my paternal seat. But ah! not longHad I enjoy'd the sweets of that recess,Ere by the savage inroads of base hinds,That sallied frequent from the Scottish heights,My lands were all laid waste, my people murder'd;And I, thro' impotence of age unfitTo quell their brutal rage, was forc'd to dragMy mis'ries thro' the land, a friendless wand'rer.
CHORUS.We pity and condole thy wretched state,But we can do no more; which, on thy part, Claims just returns of pity: for whose lotDemands it more than theirs, whom fate forbidsTo taste the joys of courteous charity;To wipe the trickling tears, which dew the cheekOf palsied age; to smooth it's furrow'd brow,And pay its grey hairs each due reverence?Yet such delight we are forbid to taste;For 'tis our lord's command, that not a stranger,However high or lowly his degree,Have entrance at these gates.
ORGAR.Who may this tyrant—
CHORUS.Alas, no tyrant he; the more our wonderAt this harsh mandate: Tenderness and PityHave made his breast their home. He is a manMore apt thro' inborn gentleness to err,In giving mercy's tide too free a course,Than with a thrifty and illiberal handTo circumscribe its channel. This his praiseYou'll hear the general theme in Edgar's court:For Edgar ranks him first in his high favor;Loads him with honors, which the Earl receives,As does the golden censer frankincense,Only to spread a sacred gale of blessingsThro' all the realm.
ORGAR.Methinks, this pleasing portraitBears strong resemblance of Lord Athelwold.
CHORUS.Himself: no Briton but has heard his fame.
ORGAR.'Tis wondrous strange; can you conceive no causeFor this his conduct?
CHORUS.None, that we may trust.
ORGAR.Your garbs bespeak you for the fair attendantsOf some illustrious dame, the wife, or sisterOf this dread earl.
CHORUS.On this head too, old man,We are commanded a religious silence:Which strictly we obey; for well we knowFidelity's the best and fairest wreath,That can adorn a servant's brow. Farewell,Depart with our best wishes; we do trespassTo hold such open converse with a stranger.
ORGAR.Stay, Virgins, stay; have ye no friendly shed,But bord'ring on your castle, where these limbs Might lay their load of misery for an hour?Have ye no food, however mean and homely,Wherewith I might recruit defective nature?Ev'n while I speak, I feel my spirits fail;And well, full well! I know, these trembling feet,Eer I can pace a hundred, steps, will sinkBeneath their wretched burthen.
CHORUS.Piteous sight!What shall we do, my sisters? To admitThis man beneath the roof, would be to scornThe Earl's strict interdict; and yet my heartBleeds to behold that white, old, reverend, head,Bow'd with such misery.—Yes, we must aid him.Hie thee, poor Pilgrim, to yon neighb'ring bow'r,O'er which, an old oak spreads his awful arm,Mantled in brownest foliage, and, beneathThe ivy, gadding from th' untwisted stem,Curtains each verdant side. There thou may'st rest,There also find some dry'd, autumnal fruit,Lodg'd in the hollow of its aged trunk.Much do we wish 'twere better fare.
ORGAR.Kind Heav'n!Reward—
CHORUS.Nay! stay not here to thank us,But haste to give your age this poor assistance.That done, we do conjure you leave the placeWith cautious secresy; for was it known,That thus we trespass'd on our lord's command,The consequence were fatal.
ORGAR.Fairest Maid!Think not I'll basely draw down punishmentsOn my preservers. I withdraw. May blessingsShow'r'd from yon fount of Bliss repay your kindness.[Exit Orgar.
SEMICHORUS.Yes, sisters, yes, when pale distressImplores your aiding hand,Let not a partial faithfulness,Let not a mortal's vain commandUrge you to break th' unalterable lawsOf heav'n-descended Charity.Ah! follow still the soft-ey'd Deity;For know, each path she draws,Along the plain of life,Meets at the central dome of social Joy.Follow the soft-ey'd Deity;She bids ye, as ye hope for blessings, bless.Aid then the gen'ral cause of gen'ral happiness.
SEMICHORUS.Humanity! thy awful strainShall ever meet our earSonorous, sweet, and clear.And as amid the sprightly-swelling trainOf dulcet notes, that breathFrom flute or lyre,The deep base rolls its manly melody,Guiding the tuneful choir;So thou, Humanity, shalt lead alongTh' accordant passions in their moral song,And give our mental concert truest harmony.
CHORUS.But see, Elfrida comes.Should we again resume our former strain,And hail the Morn that paints her waking beauties;Or wait her gentle bidding? Rather wait;For, as I think, she seems in musing mood:And there are times, when to the pensive soulThe warbling voice of softest melodySeems but discordant harshness.
ELFRIDA, CHORUS.ELFRIDA.O my Virgins,With what a leaden and retarding weight,Does Expectation load the wing of Time?How have these three dull hours crept languid on, Since first the crimson mantle of the mornSkirted yon gay horizon? Say, my Friends,Have I miscounted? Did not AthelwoldAt parting fix this morn for his return,This dear, long-wish'd for morn? He did, he did,And seal'd it with a kiss; I could not err.And yet he comes not. He was wont outstripThe sun's most early speed, and make its risingTo me unwish'd and needless. This delayCreates strange doubts and scruples in my breast.Courts throng with beauties, and my AthelwoldHas a soft, susceptible heart, as proneTo yield its love to ev'ry sparkling eye,As is the musk-rose to dispense its fragranceTo ev'ry whisp'ring breeze; perhaps he's false,Perhaps Elfrida's wretched.
CHORUS. See, Elfrida,Ah see! how round yon branching elm the ivyTwines its green chain, and poisons what supports it.Not less injurious to the blooming shootsOf growing love is sickly jealousy.
ELFRIDA.My mind nor pines with sickly jealousy,Nor triumphs in security and peace.Who loves, must fear; and sure who loves like me,Must greatly fear.
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FINIS.