Lady, list to me! To the mountain-top I flee: There I watch the first wave that comes laden with light, And its soft hue I spread o'er each billow so bright, With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height, And the morn's radiant canopy.— [The voice ceases, and the music slowly retires.
hermione.
Oh fly not!—bear me on thy wing!—from earth—
From——Why this shudder?—Save me, spirit of air,
Or earth, or sea! Tear me but hence; and yet
I cannot part. Oh! why in mercy once
Was I conceived, and not to nothing crush'd
Ere the first feeble pulse, unconscious life,
Crept through this viewless form?—Why was I kept
Unharm'd through infinite perils?—spared, yet doom'd
To writhe unpitied—succourless—alone,
Beneath one cruel, one remorseless woe,—
From hope shut out—from common sympathy,
And all communion of sorrow,—e'en
To the veriest wretch upon thy bosom earth
Ne'er yet denied?—This boon I dare not ask:
Wither'd, consumed, companionless, unwept,
I meet mine hastening doom. Yet, clad in smiles,
A flower-wreathed sacrifice, I gaily bound,
With gambols playful as the innocent lamb,
To the devouring altar. The knife is bared!—
Uplifted,—glittering! Yet I woo thee, tyrant,
And madly kiss my chain. This night the feast
I left;—arm'd, I had proudly thought—vain hope!
With such resolve as, on this moonlit terrace,
Where, freed awhile from earth's disquietude,
My thralled heart might here unchain for ever!—
[Takes a billet from her bosom.
I vow'd to snatch thee from my breast!
To tear thee hence! and to the winds, unseen,
Commit thy perishing fragments, e'en as now
This unoffending page I rend, far scattering
Its frail memorial to the air.—
[Makes an effort to tear the paper.
Some power withholds me. What! for this thou yearnest?
Weak, foolish heart, some other hour, thou say'st,
Better thou canst resign this fluttering relic
Of thy——hope, whisperest thou?
Nay, folly—madness,—call it but aright,
Thou throbbing fool, and I will give thee back
Thy doted bauble. [Returns it into her bosom.
There—there!—watch over it!
Brood on thy minion!—cherish and pamper it
Until it mock thee!—prey on thy young blood,—
Poison each spring of natural affection,
And all the sympathies that flesh inherits,—
Then wilt thou curse thine idol!—Impotent rage,—
It will deride thee, and will fiercely cling
To thine undoing for ever. Fare thee well,
Thou star-hung canopy!—far-smiling orb.
Farewell! No more sweet influences ye fling,
As ye were wont, around my desolate heart;
I cannot bear your stillness:—Earthquake—storm—
The mighty war of the vex'd elements,
Would best comport with my disquiet:—now,
On thy calm face I dare not look again! [Exit.
Enter Roland and Stephano.
stephano.
So, so, my moon-eyed maiden. Ah, "Good Roland," gallants breed not i' the sun; they thrive best belike i' the moonbeams.
roland.
I saw no gallant.
stephano.
Why, poor wretch, I pity thee. Perhaps she hath fallen sick for the moon; thou seest his cheek is somewhat shorn off, and I verily think he favours the lover that I told thee of.
roland.
Thou art an old and a wicked rogue. But what waked such pleasant music? Came that from the moon too?
stephano.
Ah, ah, honest friend, dost thou breed suspicions?—Ask the gardener who brought the music-men so late under the garden terrace.
Enter Laura cautiously, carrying a light.