Britain ... - Blue-Lite

80 THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act V.
CATHIMAR.
Have they done this wifhout consulting me ?
Perish Rogvalla ! Let him inch by inch
Waste, famine-clung, a living skeleton,
Till he dash out his anguish-maddened brains
Against his dungeon walls. Thou shalt not hence.
[Seizing her arm.
ELFILIA.
Let go thy savage grasp ; each moment 's precious
To my loved Edgar's life, and while thou hold'st me
He dies ! Off monster ! off ! and let me pass.
A feeble woman's weakness I cast from me,
As on her cloud-girt throne the eagle shakes
From her sun-gilded plume the early dew.
Love nerves me with a manliness of strength,
And were thy strong-knit sinews like the elk's,
Fd strive with thee to save my Edgar's life.
Mistaken maid ;
CATHIMAR.
the dove dares not to wage
Unequal combat with the towering falcon.
Nay, struggle not ;
for softer strife than this
Thy delicate and gentle limbs were formed.
Come to my tent.
ELFILIA.
Never,
My bleeding corse in thy detested arms.
till thou shalt bear
Oh, for a mighty giant's strengtli to battle
With this foul-visaged robber ! 'Tis in vain.
Alas,
I feel I am but woman still.
O, look with pity on me, dreadful chief! [Kneeling.
Let not a poor heart-broken maiden sink
Prostrate before thee, and in vain beseech
A man, a gallant warrior to show mercy.