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ALFRED:

A MASQUE.

REPRESENTED BEFORE THEIR ROYAL HIGHNESSES THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES, AT CLIFFDEN, ON THE FIRST OF AUGUST, 1740.

BY MR. THOMSON AND MR. MALLET.

Si velimus cum priorum temporum necessitate certare, vincemur. Ingeniosior est enim ad excogitandum simulatio veritate, servitus libertate, metus amore.-PLINII Panegyricus ad Trajanum.

THE ARGUMENT.

AFTER the Danes had made themselves masters of Chippenham, the strongest city in the kingdom of Wessex, Alfred was at once abandoned by all his subjects. In this universal defection, that monarch found himself obliged to retire into the little Isle of Athelney in Somersetshire; a place then rough with woods, and of difficult access. There, in the habit of a peasant, he lived unknown for some time in a shepherd's cottage. He is supposed to be found in this retreat by the earl of Devon; whose castle, upon the river Tau, was then besieged by the Danes.

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The scene represents a plain, surrounded with woods. On one side, a cottage; on the other, flocks and herds in distant prospect. A hermit's cave in full view, overhung with trees, wild and grotesque.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

CORIN, EMMA.

Em. SHEPHERD, 't is he. Beneath yon aged oak,

All on the flowery turf he lays him down.

Cor. Soft let us not disturb him. Gentle Emma,
Poor though he be, unfriended and unknown,
My pity waits with reverence on his fortune.
Modest of carriage, and of speech most gracious,

As if some saint or angel in disguise

Had graced our lowly cottage with his presence,
He steals, I know not how, into the heart,

And makes it pant to serve him. Trust me, Emma,
He is no common man.

Em.

Some lord, perhaps,

Or valiant chief, that from our deadly foe,
The haughty, cruel, unbelieving Dane,
Seeks shelter here.

Cor.

And shelter he shall find.

Who loves his country, is my friend and brother.
Behold him well: fair Virtue in his aspect,

Even through the homely russet that conceals him,
Shines forth, and proves him noble. Seest thou, Emma,
Yon western clouds? The sun they strive to hide,

Yet darts his beam around.

Em.

Your thought is mine:

He is not what his present fortunes speak him.
But, ah! the raging foe is all around us :

We dare not keep him here.

Cor.
Content thee, wife :
This island is of strength. Nature's own hand
Hath planted round a deep defence of woods,—
The sounding ash, the mighty oak,-each tree
A sheltering grove; and choked up all between
With wild encumbrance of perplexing thorns
And horrid brakes. Beyond this woody verge,
Two rivers broad and rapid hem us in.
Along their channel spreads the gulfy pool,
And trembling quagmire, whose deceitful green
Betrays the foot it tempts. One path alone
Winds to this plain; so roughly difficult,
This single arm, poor shepherd as I am,
Could well dispute it with twice twenty Danes.
Em. Yet think, my Corin, on the stern decree
Of that proud foe: "Who harbours or relieves
An English captain, dies the death of traitors:
But who their haunts discovers, shall be safe,
And high rewarded."

Cor.

Now, just Heaven forbid
A British man should ever count for gain
What villany must earn! No; are we poor?
Be honesty our riches. Are we mean

And humbly born? The true heart makes us noble.
These hands can toil, can sow the ground and reap,
For thee and thy sweet babes. Our daily labour
Is daily wealth it finds us bread and raiment.
Could Danish gold give more? And for the death

These tyrants threaten, let me rather meet it
Than e'er betray my guest.

Em.

Alas the while,

That loyal faith is fled from hall and bower,
To dwell with village-swains!

Ah, look! behold

Cor.
Where, like some goodly tree by wintry winds
Torn from the roots and withering, our sad guest
Lies on the ground diffused.

Em.
I weep to see it.
Cor. Thou hast a heart sweet Pity loves to dwell in.
Dry up thy tears, and lean on this just hope
If yet to do away his country's shame,

To serve her bravely on some bless'd occasion,
If for these ends this stranger sought our cottage,
The heavenly hosts are hovering here unseen,
To watch and to protect him.-But, O! when-
My heart burns for it-shall I see the hour
Of vengeance on these Danish infidels

That war with heaven and us?

Em.

Alas, my love!

These passions are not for the poor man's state.

To Heaven and to the rulers of the land

Leave such ambitious thoughts. Be warn'd, my Corin;

And think, our little all depends on thee.

SONG.

O PEACE! the fairest child of Heaven,
To whom the sylvan reign was given,
The vale, the fountain, and the grove,
With every softer scene of love:

Return, sweet Peace, and cheer the weeping swain !
Return, with Ease and Pleasure in thy train.

Cor. Hush; cease thy song: for, sec, our mournful guest Has raised his head; and lo who comes to greet him!His friend, the woodman of the neighbouring dale,

Whom late, as yester-evening star arose,

At his request I found and hither brought.

SCENE II.

ALFRED, EARL OF DEVON.

Alf. How long, O ever-gracious Heaven! how long
Shall war thus desolate this prostrate land?

All, all is lost; and Alfred lives to tell it!
His cities laid in dust; his subjects slaughter'd,
Or into slaves debased; the murderous foe
Proud and exulting in the general shame!
Are these things so? and he without the means
Of great revenge, cast down below the hope
Of succouring those he weeps for? O despair!
O grief of griefs!

Dev.

Old as I am, my liege,

In rough war harden'd, and with death familiar,
These eyes have long forgot to melt with softness :
But, O, my gracious master, they have seen-
All-pitying Heaven!-such sights of ruthless rage,
Of total desolation

Alf.

O my people!

O ruin'd England! Devon, those were bless'd

Who died before this time.

Ha! and those robbers,

That violate the sanctity of leagues,

The reverend seal of oaths; that basely broke,

Like nightly ruffians, on the hour of peace,

And stole a victory from men unarm'd,-

Those Danes enjoy their crimes! Dread Vengeance! son

Of Power and Justice! come, array'd in terrors,

Thy garment red with blood, thy keen sword drawn :

O, come, and on the heads of faithless men

Pour ample retribution; men whose triumph
Upbraids eternal Justice !-But no more:
Submission is Heaven's due: I will not launch
Into that dark abyss where thought must drown.
Proceed, my lord: on with the mournful tale
My griefs broke off.

Dev.
From yonder heath-crown'd hill,
This island's eastern point, where in one stream
The Thone and Parret roll their blending waves,
I look'd, and saw the progress of the foe,
As of some tempest, some devouring fire,
That ruins without mercy where it spreads.

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