Dark is the night to earth’s poor daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When love is alive and hope is dead!
Capt. My child, I grieve to see that you are a prey to melancholy. You should look your best to-day, for Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., will be here this afternoon to claim your promised hand.
Jos. Ah, father, your words cut me to the quick. I can esteem—reverence—venerate Sir Joseph, for he is a great and good man; but oh, I cannot love him! My heart is already given.
Capt. (aside). It is, then, as I feared. (Aloud.) Given? And to whom? Not to some gilded lordling?
Jos. No, father—the object of my love is no lordling. Oh, pity me, for he is but a humble sailor on board your own ship!
Capt. Impossible!