Northlake.
Lost wife, return! ’Tis pitiful! By thee
These lonely years my life’s been haunted. Once
In each year thy visits, like untimely
Seasons, come upon me, when and where
I never know; but once in each year, lightening
My weary path. Mysterious and strange,
Thou ne’er before hast spoken. Thou blameless Catharine,
Return. Our sins of jealousy have borne
Such fruit as grows from poisoned ground; and yet
Nor Time nor forcing Will can make us what
We were in our first wedded life. These agents
Are far too weak; they never can restore
To us the faith that’s lost in our past lives,—
Lost like a pearl dropped in dissolving flame,
Its white and saintly fabric gone in a moment.
Unhappy Catharine, and thou my more
Unhappy self! These revels mock us. Poor mask!
[Lays down his mask.
The mask that hath been torn from off my heart
This night hath left a shadow tenfold darker
Than is thine own. I’ll go seek Violet,
For she is like the beauteous sunlit day.
[Listening to strains of music from the ball-room.
Music doth hold melodious discourse.
[Walks, in meditation and soliloquy.
Why, I am growing melancholy. My sun’s
Across the line and courses the horizon;
My nights are growing longer than my days;
The glad days wane, until, as in the deepening
Winter, near the northern pole, they’ll come
But for a moment, a wedge of light between
Two nights. Oh, hasten, come, thou blank, perpetual
Night! [Music ceases.] The instruments are dumb, the players
Are at rest; but their unceased vibrations
On struggling chords yet tremble in my breast.
Alas! such is the growth of melancholy.
[Exit.