SCENE IV. — PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in
her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.
Prec. (reads).
All are sleeping, weary heart!
Thou, thou only sleepless art!
Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless!
(The bird sings.)
Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day!
All are sleeping, weary heart!
Thou, thou only sleepless art!
All this throbbing, all this aching,
Evermore shall keep thee waking,
For a heart in sorrow breaking
Thinketh ever of its smart!
Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores!
(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)