Cho. Hail to thy living light,

Ambrosial morn! all hail thy roseat ray:
That bids young Nature all her charms display
In varied beauty bright;

That bids each dewy-spangled flowret rise, .
And dart around its vermeil dies;

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 haunt
Beside some lo nely wall,

Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tow'r,
Where at pale midnight's stillest hour,
Through each rough chink the solemn orb of night
Pours momentary gleams of trembling light.
Away, ye elves, away:

Shrink at ambrosial morning's living ray;
That living ray, whose pow'r benign
Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye,
Where, thron'd in artless majesty,

The cherub Beauty sits on nature's rustic shrine.-
CHORUS, ORGAR.

Cho. Silence, my sisters.-Whence this rude

ness, stranger,

That thus has prompted thine unbidden ear
To listen to our strains?

Org. Your pardon, virgins:

I meant not rudeness, though I dar'd to listen;
For ah! what ear so fortify'd and barr'd
Against the force of powerful harmony,
But would with transport to such sweet assailants
Surrender its attention? Never yet
Have I pass'd by the night-bird's fav'rite spray,
What time she 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 her's,
Grac'd with all art's addition?

Cho. Thy mean garb,

And this thy courtly phrase but ill accord.
Whence, and what art thou, stranger?
Org. Virgins, know

These limbs have oft been wrapt in richer vest :
But what avails it now? all have their fate;
And mine has been most wretched.

Cho. May we ask

VOL. II.

sorrow,

Should boast no gentler brightness than the glare,
That reddens in the eye-ball of the wolf.
Let us intreat-

Org. Know, virgins, I was born
To ample property of lands and flocks,
On this side Tweeda's stream. My youth and
vigour

Atchiev'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
Edwy

Mounted the vacant throne, which now his bro

ther

Fills (as loud fame reports) right royally;
I then, unfit for pageantry and courts,
Sat down in peace among my faithful vassals,
At my paternal seat. But ah! not long
Had 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, through impotence of age, unfit
To quell their brutal rage, was forc'd to drag
My mis'ries through the land, a friendless wan-
d'rer.

Cho. We pity and condole thy wretched state,
But we can do no more; which, on thy part,
Claims just returns of pity: for whose lot
Demands it more than theirs, whom fate forbids
To taste the joys of courteous charity;
To wipe the trickling tears, which dew the cheek
Of palsy'd age; to smooth its 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.

Org. Who may this tyrant

Cho. Alas, no tyrant he; the more our won-
der

At this harsh mandate: Tenderness and pity
Have made his breast their home. He is a man
More apt, through inborn gentleness, to err
In giving mercy's tide too free a course,
Than with a thrifty and illiberal hand

S

To stint its channel. This his praise you'll hear
The universal theme in Edgar's court:
For Edgar ranks him first in his high favour;
Loads him with honours, which the earl receives,
As does the golden censer frankincense,
Only to spread a sacred gale of blessings
Around on all.

Org. Methinks, this pleasing portrait
Bears strong resemblance of Lord Athelwold.
Cho. Himself: no Briton but has heard his
fame.

Org. 'Tis wondrous strange; can you conceive

no cause

For this his conduct?

Cho None, that we may trust.

Org. Your garbs bespeak you for the fair attendants

Of some illustrious dame, the wife or sister
Of this dread earl.

Cho. On this head too, old man,

We are commanded a religious silence:
Which strictly we obey; for well we know
Fidelity's a virtue that ennobles

Even servitude itself: farewell, depart
With our best wishes; we do trespass much
To hold this open converse with a stranger.
Org. Stay, virgins, stay; have ye no friendly
shed,

But bordering 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 support declining nature?
Even while I speak, I find my spirits fail;
And well, full well, I know, these trembling feet,
Ere I can pace a hundred steps, will sink
Beneath their wretched burthen.

Cho. Piteous sight!

Org. Kind Heaven!

| Implores your aiding hand,
Let not a partial faithfulness,
Let not a mortal's vain command
Urge you to break the unalterable laws
Of heaven-descended Charity.
Ah! follow still the soft-ey'd Deity;
For know, each path she draws,
Along the plain of life,

Mects at the central dome of heartfelt joy.
Follow the soft-ey'd Deity;

She bids ye, as ye hope for blessings, bless.
Aid then the general cause of general happiness.
Semicho. Humanity, thy awful strain
Shall ever greet our ear,
Sonorous, sweet, and clear.

And as amid the sprightly-swelling train
Of dulcet notes, that breathe
From flute or lyre,

The deep base rolls its manly melody,
Guiding the tuneful choir;

So thou, Humanity, shait lead along
The accordant passions in their moral song,
And give our mental concert truest harmony.
Cho. But see, Elfrida comes.

Should we again resume our former strain,
And hail the morn that paints her waking beau-
ties;

Or stay her gentle bidding? Rather stay;
For, as I think, she seems in pensive mood:
And there are times, when, to the sorrowing
soul,

Even harmony is harshness.

ELFRIDA, CHORUS.

Elf. O my virgins,

With what a leaden and retarding weight,
Does expectation load the wing of Time?
Alas, how have these three dull hours crept on,
Since first the crimson mantle of the morn
Skirted yon gay horizon? Say, my friends,
Have I miscounted? Did not Athelwold
At 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 outstrip
The sun's most early speed, and make its rising
To me unwish'd and needless. This delay
Creates strange doubts and scruples in my breast.
Courts throng with beauties, and my Athelwold
Has a soft, susceptible heart, as prone
To yield its love to every sparkling eye,
As is the musk-rose to dispense its fragrance
To every whispering breeze; perhaps he's false,
Perhaps Elfrida's wretched.

Cho. See, Elfrida,

Ah see! how round yon branching elm the ivy Clasps its green folds, and poisons what supports it.

Not less injurious to the shoots of love
Is sickly jealousy.

Elf. My mind nor pines

With jealousy, nor rests secure in peace.
Who loves, must fear; and sure who loves like

me

Must greatly fear.

Cho. Yet whence the cause? Your earl
Has ever yet (this little breach excepted)
Been punctual to appointment. Did his eye
Glow with less ardent passion when he left you,
Than at the first blest meeting? No! I marked
him,

His parting glance was that of fervent love,
And constancy unalter'd. Do not fear him.
Elf. I should not fear him, were his present
stay

The only cause. Alas, it is not so!

Why comes my earl so secret to these arms!
Why, but because he dreads the just reproach
Of some deluded fair one? Why am I
Here shrouded up, like the pale votarist,
Who knows no visitant, save the lone owl,
That nightly leaves his ivy-shrouded cell,
And sails on slow wing through the cloister'd isles,
Listening her saintly orisons? Why am I
Deny'd to follow my departed lord
Whene'er his duty calls him to the palace?
Cho. Covet not that; the noblest proof of love
That Athelwold can give, is still to guard
Your beauties from the blast of courtly gales.
The crimson blush of virgin modesty,
The delicate soft tints of innocence
There all fly off, and leave no boast behind,
But well-rang'd, faded features. Ah, Elfrida,
Should you be doom'd, which happier fate forbid !
To drag your hours through all that nauseous

scene

Of pageantry and vice; your purer breast,
True to its virtuous relish, soon would heave
A fervent sigh for innocence and Harewood.

Elf. You much mistake me, virgins; the throng'd palace

Were undesired by me, did not that palace
Detain my Athelwold. If he were here,
His presence would convert this range of oaks
To stately columns; these gay-liv'ried flowers
To troops of gallant ladies: and yon deer,
That jut their antlers forth in sportive fray,
To armed knights at joust or tournament.
If Athelwold dwelt here, if no ambition
Could lure his steps from love, and this still fo-

rest;

If I might never moan his time of absence,
Longer than that which serv'd him for the chase,
Or of the wolf, or stag; or when he bore
The hood-wink'd falcon forth; might these, my
virgins,

And these alone, be love's short intervals,
I should not have one thought remote from Hare-
wood.

Cho. And would you wish that Athelwold should slight

The weal of England, and on these light toys
Waste his unvalued hours? No, fond Elfrida;
His active soul is wing'd for nobler flights.

Elf. What then, must England's welfare hold my earl

For ever from these shades?

Cho. We say not that.

The youth, who bathes in pleasure's tempting

stream

At well-judg'd intervals, feels all his soul
Nerv'd with recruited strength; but if too oft
He swims in sportive mazes through the flood,
It chills his languid virtue. For this cause
Your earl forbids, that these enchanting groves,
And their fair mistress should possess him wholly.
He knows he has a country and a king,
That claim his first attention; yet be sure,
"Twill not be long, ere his unbending mind
Shall lose in sweet oblivion every care,
Among th' embow'ring shades that veil Elfrida.
Elf. O be that speech prophetic; may he soon
Seek these embowering shades! Meanwhile, my
friends,

Sooth me with harmony. I know full well
That ye were nurs'd in Cornwall's wizard caves,
And oft have pac'd the fairy-peopled vales
Of Devon, where posterity retains
Some vein of that old minstrelsy, which breath'd
Through each time-honour'd grove of British oak.
There, where the spreading consecrated boughs
Fed the sage misletoe, the holy druids
Lay wrapt in moral musings; while the bards
Call'd from their solemn harps such lofty airs,
As drew down fancy from the realms of light
To paint some radiant vision on their minds,
Of high mysterious import. But on me
Such strains sublime were wasted: I but ask
A sprightly song to speed the lazy flight
Of these dull hours. And music sure can find
A magic spell to make them skim their round,
Swift as the swallow circles. Try its power:
While I, from yonder hillock, watch his coming.
[Exit ELFRIDA.

ODE.

Cho. The turtle tells her plaintive tale,
Sequester'd in some shadowy vale;
The lark in radiant æther floats,
And swells his wild extatic notes:
Meanwhile on yonder hawthorn spray
The linnet wakes her temp'rate lay;
She haunts no solitary shade,
She flutters o'er no sunshine mead,
No love-lorn griefs depress her song,
But soft she trills, amid th' aerial throng,
No raptures lift it loudly high,
Smooth simple strains of sob'rest harmony.

Sweet bird! like thine our lay shall flow
Nor gaily brisk, nor sadly slow;
For to thy note, sedate and clear,
Content still lends a list'ning ear.
Reclin❜d this mossy bank along,
Oft has she heard thy careless song:
Why hears not now? What fairer grove
From Harewood lures her devious love?
What fairer grove than Harewood knows,
More woodland walks, more fragrant gales,
More shadowy bowers, inviting soft repose,
More streams slow wand'ring through her wind-
ing vales?

Perhaps to some lone cave the rover flies,
Where lull'd in pious peace the hermit lies.
For, from the hall's tumultuous state,
Where banners wave with blazon'd gold,
There will the meek-ey'd matron oft retreat,
And with the solemn sage high converse hold.

There, goddess, on the shaggy mound,
Where tumbling torrents roar around,
Where pendant mountains o'er your head
Stretch their reverential shade;
You listen, while the holy seer
Slowly chaunts his vespers clear;
Or of his sparing mess partake,
The sav'ry pulse, the wheaten cake,
The bev'rage cool of limpid rill.

Then, rising light, your host you bless,
And o'er his saintly temples bland distil
Seraphic day-dreams of heav'n's happiness.

Where'er thou art, enchanting power,
Thou soon wilt smile in Harewood's bower:
Soon will thy fairy feet be seen,
Printing this dew-impearled green;
Soon shall we mark thy gestures meek,
Thy glitt'ring eye, and dimpled cheek,
Among the welcome guests that move
Attendant on the state of love.
There, when the sovʼreign leads along
Of sports and smiles a jocund train,
Then last, yet loveliest, of the lovely throng,
Thou com'st to soften, yet secure his reign.

And, hark, completing our prophetic lay,
The fleet hoof rattles o'er the flinty way;
Now nearer, and now nearer sounds.
Avaunt! ye vain, delusive fears.

Hark! Echo tells through Harewood's amplest bounds,

That love, content, and Athelwold appears.

ATHELWOLD, ELFRIDA, CHORUS.

Athel. Look ever thus; with that bright glance of joy

Thus alway meet my transports. Let these arms Thus ever fold me; and this cheek, that blooms With all health's op'ning roses, press my lips Warm as at this blest moment.

Elf. Athelwold,

I had prepared me many a stern rebuke;
Had arm'd my brow with frowns, and taught my

eye

Th' averted glance of coldness, which might best
Greet such a loit'ring lover: but I find,
'Twas a vain task; for this my truant heart
Forgets each lesson, which resentment taught,
And in thy sight knows only to be happy.
Athel. My best Elfrida-Heav'ns! it cannot
last.

The giddy height of joy, to which I'm lifted,
Is as a hanging rock, at whose low foot
The black and beating surge of infamy
Rolls ready to receive, and sink my soul.
Elf. So soon to fall into this musing mood-
I thought, my lord, you promis'd you would leave

Elf. Nay, my best lord, I meant it but in sport; For should you bid me quit these blooming lawns, For some bare heath, or drear unpeopled desert; Believe me, I would think its wildness Eden, If Athelwold, with frequent visitation, Endear'd the savage scene; but yet I fear My father.

Athel. Ha! why him?

Elf. You know his temper;

How jealous of his rank, and his trac'd lineage
From royal ancestry. I fear me much,
He will not brook you should conceal me long
In this lone privacy: No, he will deem it
Far unbecoming her, whose veins are fill'd
With the rich stream of his nobility.
Should it be so, his hot and fiery nature,

I doubt, will blaze, and do some dreadful outrage. Athel. He need not know it, or, if chance he should,

It matters not, if so this forest life

Seem of your own adoption and free choice. And that it will so seem, I trust that love, Which ever yet has met my wayward will With pleas'd compliance, and unask'd assent.

Elf. And ever shall; yet blame me not, my lord,

If prying womanhood should prompt a wish To learn the cause of this your strange commo

tion,