Britain ... - Blue-Lite

Scene III.] THE ENGLISH SLAVE. 85
Even now, in yonder camp, the inhuman priests
Their horrid rites of sacrifice ; prepare
Wild Dartmoor's mountains echo to their
yells
And fearful shouts of revelry around
The blood-feast of their god. Thine Edgar's brows
Are bound with garlands, and the battle-song
To Odin rises from their noisy tents.
Claiming the destined victim.
GONDABERT.
ELFILIA.
Lost, lost Edgar !
Fearless of savage beasts and murderous bands,
I hither o'er the dark moor wildly flew
Through briar and thorny brake, stained with my blood.
To cast me at thy feet. For now the knife
Is sharpening for its gory work of death ;
Yet such the faith they for their sea-king hold,
If thou to him give freedom, Edgar lives.
Haste, then, from his dark dungeon and his chains
Thy captive to release.
GONDABERT.
No, never ! never !
ELFILIA.
Art thou a parent, yet canst see the priest
Plunge his red knife in thine own offspring's heart ?
Canst view him on the horrid altar laid,
Bleeding to death amid encircling flames ?
Hear his expiring groans, his cries for mercy
To thee for ? mercy thee, thou ruthless sire,
Who hadst the power, yet wouldst not save thy son ?
GONDABERT.
Can hell find greater torments for ambition
Than those I now endure ? I cannot yield,
To lay me in a grave of infamy.