What art thou, spirit? of what name or order?  

(For I have view'd thee in my magic glass.)

Making thy moan among the midnight wolves,

that bay the silent moon: speak, I conjure thee.

'Tis Merlin bids thee, at whose awful wand,

the pale ghost quivers, and the grim fiend gasps.

Thy business here?

Osmond shall know, a greater power pro|tects thee;

but follow then the whispers of thy soul,

that draw thee nearer heav'n.

And as thy place is nearest to the sky,

the rays will reach thee first, and bleach thy soot.

Why, that's my hopeful spirit, now mark me, Philidel,

I will employ thee for thy future good:

thou know'st, in spite of valiant Oswald's arms,

or Osmond's powerful spells, the field is ours. ~

Be that thy care, to stand by falls of brooks,

and trembling bogs, that bear a green-sward show.

Warn off the bold pursuers from the chace:

no more, they come, and we divide the task.

But lest fierce Grimbald's pond'rous bulk oppress

thy tender flitting air, I'll leave my band

of spirits with united strength to aid thee,

and force with force repel.

I thank thee, shepherd;

expect reward, lead on, we follow thee.

Some wicked phantom, foe to human kind,  

misguides our steps.

I'll follow him no farther.

'Tis true, he says; the footsteps yet are fresh  

upon the sod, no falling dew-drops have

disturb'd the print.

At last the cheat is plain;  

the cloven-footed fiend is vanish'd from us;

good angels be our guides, and bring us back.

And green-sward all your way shall be.

We brethren of air,

you heroes will bear

to the kind and the fair that attend ye.

No news of my dear love, or of my father?  

None, madam, since the gaining of the battle:

great Arthur is a royal conqueror now;

and well deserves your love.

But now I fear

he'll be too great to love poor silly me.

If he be dead, or never come again,

I mean to die: but there's a greater doubt;

since I ne'er saw him here,

how shall I meet him in another world?

Indeed I know not.

I should find him,

for surely I have seen him in my sleep;

and then methought he put his mouth to mine,

and eat a thousand kisses on my lips,

sure by his kissing I could find him out,

among a thousand angels in the sky.

But what a kind of man do you suppose him?

He must be made of the most precious things,

and I believe his mouth, and eyes, and cheeks,

and nose, and all his face, are made of gold.

Heav'n bless us, madam, what a face you make him!

If it be yellow he must have the jaundice,

and that's a bad disease.

Why then do lovers give a thing so bad

as gold, to women, whom so well they love?

Because that bad thing, gold, buys all good things.

Yet I must know him better: of all colours,

tell me which is the purest, and the softest.

They say 'tis black.

Why then, since gold is hard, and yet is precious,

his face must all be made of soft black gold.

But, madam... ~

No more; I have learn'd enough for once.

Here are a crew of Kentish lads and lasses,

wou'd entertain you, till your lord's return,

with songs and dances, to divert your cares.

O bring 'em in.

For tho' I cannot see the songs, I love 'em;

and love, they tell me, is a dance of hearts.

The night has wilder'd us; and we are fall'n  

among their formost tents.

Ha! what are these!

They seem of more than vulgar quality.

What sounds are those? They cannot far be distant;

where are we now, Matilda?

Just before your tent.

Fear not, they must be friends, and they approach.

My Arthur, speak, my love, are you return'd

to bless your Emmelice?

I know that face:

'tis the ungrateful fair, who, scorning mine,

accepts my rival's love: heaven, thou'rt bounteous,

thou ow'st me nothing now.

Fear grows upon me:

speak what you are; speak, or I call for help.

We are your guards.

Ah me! we are betray'd; 'tis Oswald's voice.

Let them not see our voices, and then they cannot find us.

Passions in men oppress'd are doubly strong,

I take her from king Arthur; there's revenge;

if she can love, she buoys my sinking fortunes:

good reasons both: I'll on. ~ Fear nothing ladies,

you shall be safe.

Help, help! a rape, a rape!  

By heav'n ye injure me; tho' force is us'd,

your honour shall be sacred.

Help, help, oh, Britons, help.

Your Britons cannot help you;

this arm, thro' all their troops, shall force my way:

yet neither quit my honour nor my prey.

Which way went th' alarm?  

Here, towards the castle.

Plague o' this victory, and stop your shouting;

the princess in the clutches of your foes

blasts all our laurels ~ a hundred victories

will not half pay the loss of Emmeline:

we are outwitted by the Saxons;

but 'tis no wonder, the whole camp's debauch'd,

all drunk or whoring: this way, follow, follow.

How sits the conquest on great Arthur's brow?  

As when the lover with the king is mixt,

he puts the gain of Britain in a scale,

which weighing with the loss of Emmeline,

he thinks he's scarce a saver.

Hark! a trumpet!

It sounds a parley.

'Tis from Oswald then,

an echo to king Arthur's friendly summons,

sent since he heard the rape of Emmeline,

to ask an interview.

But hark! already

our trumpet makes reply; and see both present.

Brave Oswald! We have met on friendlier terms,  

companions of a war, with common interest

against the bordering Picts: but times are chang'd.

And I am sorry that those times are chang'd:

for else we now might meet on terms as friendly.

If so we meet not now, the fault's your own;

for you have wrong'd me much.

Oh! you wou'd tell me,

I call'd more Saxons in, t'enlarge my bounds:

if those be wrongs, the war has well redress'd ye.

Mistake me not, I count not war a wrong:

war is the trade of kings that fight for empire:

and better be a lion than a sheep.

In what then have I wrong'd ye?

In my love.

Even love's an empire too: the noble soul,

like kings, is covetous of single sway.

I blame ye not for loving Emmeline:

but since the soul is free, and love is choice,

you should have made a conquest of her mind,

and not have forc'd her person by a rape.

Whether by force, or stratagem, we gain,

still gaining is our end, in war or love.

Her mind's the jewel in her body lock'd;

if I would gain the gem, and want the key,

it follows I must seize the cabinet:

but to secure your fear, her honour is untouch'd.

Was honour ever safe in brutal hands?

So safe are lambs within the lion's paw;

ungripp'd and play'd with till fierce hunger calls,

then nature shews itself; the close-hid nails

are stretch'd, and open, to the panting prey.

But if, indeed, you are so cold a lover. ~

Not cold, but honourable.

Then restore her:

that done, I shall believe you honourable.

Think'st thou I will forgo a victor's right?

Say rather, of an impious ravisher.

That castle, were it wall'd with adamant,

can hide thy head but till to-morrow's dawn.

And ere to-morrow I may be a god,

if Emmeline be kind: but kind or cruel,

I tell thee, Arthur, but to see this day,

that heavenly face, tho' not to have her mine,

I would give up a hundred years of life,

and bid fate cut to-morrow.

It soon will come, and thou repent too late,

which to prevent, I'll bribe thee to be honest.

Thy noble head, accustom'd to a crown,

shall wear it still, nor shall thy hand forget

the scepter's use: from Medway's pleasing stream,

to Severn's roar, be thine;

in short, restore my love, and share my kingdom.

Not, tho' you spread my sway from Thames to Tiber:

such gifts might bribe a king, but not a lover.

Then pr'ythee give me back my kingly word

pass'd for thy safe return; and let this hour,

in single combat, hand in hand, decide

the fate of empire and of Emmeline.

Not that I fear do I decline this combat,

and not decline it neither, but defer:

when Emmeline has been my prize as long

as she was thine, I dare thee to the duel.

I nam'd your utmost term of life; tomorrow.

You are not fate.

But fate is in this arm.

You might have made a merit of your theft.

Ha! theft! your guards can tell I stole her not.

Had I been present. ~

Had you been present, she had been mine more nobly.

There lies your way.

My way lies where I please.

Expect (for Osmond's magic cannot fail)

a long to-morrow, ere your arms prevail:

or if I fall make room ye blest above,

for one who was undone, and dy'd for love.

There may be one black minute e'er tomorrow:  

for who can tell, what power, and lust, and charms,

may do this night? To arms, with speed, to arms.