University of Virginia Library

[Exit.
Arthur.
The sun rides high: the mid-day weariness,
The stillness of full noontide is on earth:
A feverish hum, dense insect-life, pervades
This spiky growth of upward shooting plants:
Below the lawn, betwixt us and the breadth
Of hot horizons, moving in its sleep,
Th' uneasy streamlet slumbers, and the reek
Blots the near landscape. Let us to the cool:
Perchance the dew may greet us, as a friend
For friends delaying.

Edwin.
Well, when all is said,
The practical conclusion gilds the speech.
Your sudden seriousness, dear friend (a plague
On all descriptions!) took me with surprise.
Haste! or the freshness of your welcoming
May dry with time. Haste; when the heart has flown
The breath flies with it. Sure o'er all the world
Your fair ones smile our English calmness down,
And mar the philosophic even breath,
As one, whoe'er she be, no other cause,
As one does yours.

Arthur.
My brother! But you claim
A traveller's licence, as of one long wont
To skate from heart to heart, and reap no warmth
Save that inspired by healthy exercise.
Ay, smile: In sober seriousness, my thought
Was but to guide you to that aged friend,
Lord of the fields and mansion; him we named
Of old, Laertes, ten years back, when first
An orphan pair from hot Algiers returning,
He came with welcome forth to cheer the boys,
And bade his little Blanche smile down the gloom
That darken'd round the strangers. Come! I see him
Within his orchard, where the blossom snows
Of our late spring upon the trees are caught,
That o'er the turf hang forth dishevell'd boughs,
And promise fruit for snow flakes.

Edwin.
Hush! I thought so:
'Tis e'en the same old man, by country tastes
Among his orchards rooted, confident
That here at least all things are as they were,
And so will be for ever.

Arthur.
We may speak;
The rising gale that meets us as we gaze
Will shield us.

Edwin.
Blow, fresh gale, for ever blow,
If ever on thy wings wilt bear, as now,
The morning songs of Blanche! 'Tis she, I know her,
Veil'd in that snowy mist of falling blooms
From pear and apple shower'd, a silver swarm
Thick on the golden ringlets, nursery-bright:—
While all else promised in the child has won
A maiden consummation, as the rose
Perfected from the rosebud.

Arthur.
What, my traveller!
My young Ulysses! all the boasted calm,
That hoarded philosophic apathy
Dissolved among the quiet scenes of home!
Now call the man up, Edwin; lo, the breeze
Already with her careless song is fraught,
And thro' the orchard all her soul is streaming!

Blanche sings.