Melnotte. He hath told me
You have the right to choose from out the world
A worthier bridegroom;—he foregoes all claim
Even to murmur at his doom. Speak on!
Pauline. Tell him, for years I never nursed a thought
That was not his; that on his wandering way
Daily and nightly poured a mourner's prayers.
Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share
His lowliest lot,—walk by his side, an outcast,—
Work for him, beg with him,—live upon the light
Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown
The Bourbon lost!
Melnotte (aside). Am I already mad?
And does delirium utter such sweet words
Into a dreamer's ear? (aloud.) You love him thus
And yet desert him?
Pauline. Say, that, if his eye
Could read this heart,—its struggles, its temptations—
His love itself would pardon that desertion!
Look on that poor old man—he is my father;
He stands upon the verge of an abyss;
He calls his child to save him! Shall I shrink
From him who gave me birth? Withhold my hand
And see a parent perish? Tell him this,
And say—that we shall meet again in Heaven!
SLOW—LOW OROTUND.
The stars—shall fade away,—the sun—himself—
Grow dim—with age,—and Nature—sink—in years;
But thou—shalt flourish—in immortal youth,—
Unhurt—amidst the war of elements,—
The wreck of matter,—and the crash of worlds.
MODERATE—PURE.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm.
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
ASTONISHMENT AND SURPRISE.
Whence and what art thou, execrable shape!
That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance
Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? Through them, I mean to pass—
That be assured—without leave asked of thee!
Retire, or taste thy folly; and learn by proof,
Hell-born! not to contend with spirits of heaven!