Britain ... - Blue-Lite

48 THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act III.
EVANDA.
Then let me perish perish gloryingly !
Think'st thou I at the altar would accept
Thy hand, all reeking with my
nation's blood ?
How I despise and hate thee for the thought !
Visions of what shall come, your spell
is on me.
Hark ! hear'st thou not the shouts of fierce revenge ?
From Norway's cape to Denmark's southern isles
The North pours forth her thousands on thy land !
England ! thy King for this shall sit in dust,
And sackcloth be his robes. He comes ! he comes !
The warrior of the North, to wear thy crown,
And tread upon the necks of Saxon slaves !
Never, false-boding maid.
GONDABERT.
EVANDA.
Proud scorner, mark ;
As truly do my words predict what shall be,
As those deep hollow sounds, the sea at eve
Breathes in its dream of peace, foretell the storm
Which dooms the barque to
perish. Make thou bare
That sword of vengeance, and its point shall
pierce
Deep
to thine own heart's core !
GONDABERT.
I do not heed
The wild dreams of thy darkly-troubled fancy.
The sound of Death's pale steed, as on he rides
In terror through the land, will tame thy spirit.
Within there, ho !
For Edgar's bridal rites ?
Enter Harold and Othmar.
Are all things now prepared
[Exit.