Britain ... - Blue-Lite

318 THE VARANGIAN. [Act II.
No fire hast thou in thy tame, lukewarm blood,
Nor art thou with ambition's metal steeled ;
But like a sleepy, ice-bound river, which
Suffers all burdens unresistingly
Its still, cold waves to cross, not like the sea
When stirred to wrath by the rebellious winds,
Dashing the navy on its shores a wreck
That dared to ride its billows. Well becomes
That badge of slavery thy submissive neck.
Boaster, thou hast no spirit !
HEREWARD.
I feel a thousand spirits burning here,
Yes, false dame,
Burning C avenge, but not destroy thy lord.
What ! be a blood-dog, and at thy fell cry
Hunt down the noblest Saxon whom these Normans
Have spared to bless my country ? Let me pine
A dungeon slave where morning never came,
Water my drink and herbs my only food,
Where I may never view that brighter day,
The sunlight of her eyes who is on earth
The fairest type of angel blessedness,
Rather than sink to that vile, loathsome thing
Which thou wouldst make me ! Freedom ? No :
Emancipation on thy terms, would be
The bondage of the damned ; and I should feel,
Though free to wander as the mountain winds,
Fettered with chains of fire.
MATILDA (aside.)
I cannot stay
To hear the saintly whining of this dog :
It is a satire on my skill to read
Th1 insidious heart of man. My mistress now