The lover spake, "Fair maid, awake," Yet the maiden still she slept! "Why tarries she from me?—thy bonny face I'll see," And lightly to her window he leapt.
One cry he gave, Then still as the grave In dim horror he fix'd his dark eye; For there his lady bright slept her long, long changeless night, And a blood-sprinkled corpse welter'd nigh!
blanch.
How like you the song?
hermione.
Indifferent well;—methinks it were too sad. But sadness and I must have closer fellowship ere long, or I mistake the note of her approach. Away, Blanch; we must not delay the honours of the feast. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
An Inn at Mantua.
Enter Bertrand and Carlos, fatigued with travel.
bertrand.
'Tis well, good Carlos, in this noble city,
Thanks to all proper instruments, we now
Enter safe housed. Nay, nay, dole-stricken friend,
Put off these looks, drench'd still in woe. Why, man,
Love ne'er was waked with weeping; woman's eye
E'er kept her heart, and thou must henceforth bribe
With gayer looks that restless twinkling organ,
Ere thou may'st gain admittance to her breast.
Rouse thee!—Accost her thus, with careless look
And laughing eye;—bid her "good day;"—
Wring her fair hand; and if withdrawn,
Why seize her by the waist: her sullen looks
Heed not; an' if she chide, toss back her words;—
Let her not learn from thy woe-tinctured face,
Ere yet the tremulous voice its utterance shape,
Thou pinest a love-sick fool!—
carlos.
Bertrand, forbear.
Thou speakest like to one whose lofty spirit
Love hath not quell'd. I cannot now th' oppressor
Lift from my soul; I am bow'd down,—subdued,—
Crush'd even to earth,—yet crawling heavily,
A cumbrous burden, wearied, useless here,
And without purport to my fellow-men!—
I seem aloof from all connexion, tie,
Or kindred with mankind. The very earth,
My parent dust, claims not its fellowship
With mine! Would that yon chill and rayless dwelling
Had shut me out, and all mine hated sorrow,
Far from the gaze, the cold, unpitying gaze,
Alike of stranger and of friend!
Soon shall the darkness cover me,—the tomb
Close mine account for ever. Then shall I rest;—
No glance of cool-eyed scorn shall meet me there,
Nor woman's charm'd and traitorous tongue shall mock me.
They seek not victims i' the grave!—My grief
Shall there be spent; the heart's last ebbing throe
To earth in quiet nothingness shall leave me,
Loosed from my dungeon and my chain!—
bertrand.
Carlos,
Thy troubled spirit hath no appetite
For aught but evil. Fancy, diseased,
Shapeth its wrongs from what itself doth breed,—
E'en as the timid and belated hind
From out his spectre-haunted brain brings forth
The shadow most he fears.—I do not mock thee;
Cold scorn lurks not i' the same laughing orbit
Of an unfraudulent eye. Thou know'st it well,
Thy peace alone I've sought; and this coy dame,
Woo'd as mine hopes commend, would free my bosom
From half its load. For these remediless griefs
With equal weight oppress mine anguish'd spirit,
As the united woe this breast e'er smote,
The sum untold of this world's misery.