Britain ... - Blue-Lite

12 THE ENGLISH SLAVE. (Act I.
And breathe the freshness of the violet air
In yonder castle gardens ?
EVANDA.
No ;
I hate
The soil very on which these Saxqns tread.
More pleasant than this
prison's garden bowers
Would be to me that island of the n
north, ( )
Where Nature silent lies in death-like sleep,
Mid horrors wonderful.
BERTHA.
Gods, keep
EVANDA.
me from them !
Dark isle of storms, I loved at eve to stand
Amid thy desert vales and naked rocks,
And view the dreadful mountain heights around,
Crimsoning the skies with fire, while down their sides
Rivers of burning, smoking sulphur rolled ;
To gaze upon thy fountains, as they flung
Their boiling columns far into the heavens,
Circled with clouds, while their deep spirit-voices
Filled all the dreary solitude with sounds
As of a thousand thunders ! calling forth
The long-departed forms of warrior hosts
O'er the red firmament, bright in their pomp,
With gorgeous banners rustling to the blast,
And fearful din of 12 arms \
( )
BERTHA.
Ne'er look upon so terrible a sight.
EVANDA.
O, may I, lady,
Great Odin, king of spells, hast thou decreed
That I shall my Rogvalla meet no more ?
If not on earth, triumphant shall we meet