WALTER.
See yon poor star
That shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines!
'Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad.
'Tis like an orphan trembling with the cold
Over his mother's grave among the pines.
Like a wild lover who has found his love
Worthless and foul, our friend, the sea, has left
His paramour the shore; naked she lies,
Ugly and black and bare. Hark how he moans!
The pain is in his heart. Inconstant fool!
He will be up upon her breast to-morrow,
As eager as to-day.
EDWARD.
Like man in that.
We cannot see the lighthouse in the gloom,
We cannot see the rock; but look! now, now,
It opes its ruddy eye, the night recoils,
A crimson line of light runs out to sea,
A guiding torch to the benighted ships.
[After a long pause.
O God! 'mid our despairs and throbs and pains,
What a calm joy doth fill great Nature's heart!
WALTER.
Thou look'st up to the night as to the face
Of one thou lov'st; I know her beauty is
Deep-mirrored in thy soul as in a sea.
What are thy thinkings of the earth and stars?
A theatre magnificently lit
For sorry acting, undeserved applause?
Dost think there's any music in the spheres?
Or doth the whole creation, in thine ear,
Moan like a stricken creature to its God,
Fettered eternal in a lair of pain?
EDWARD.
I think—we are two fools: let us to bed.
What care the stars for us?