EDWARD.
A Lapland fool,
Who, staring upward as the Northern lights
Banner the skies with glory, breaks his heart,
Because his smoky hut and greasy furs
Are not so rich as they.
ARTHUR.
Mine is pathetic—
A ginger-beer bottle burst.
WALTER (aside).
And mine would be
The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
[Mr. Wilmott, Arthur, and Edward, converse—Violet approaches Walter.
VIOLET.
Did you know well that youth of whom you spake?
WALTER.
Know him! Oh, yes, I knew him as myself—
Two passions dwelt at once within his soul,
Like eve and sunset dwelling in one sky.
And as the sunset dies along the west,
Eve higher lifts her front of trembling stars,
Till she is seated in the middle sky,
So gradual, one passion slowly died,
And from its death the other drew fresh life,
Until 't was seated in his soul alone—
The dead was Love—the living, Poetry.