Dramatic chapters, poems and songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Falkner, the Brother of Ellen, escaped from India, in pursuit of Delmont; Bertha, the Heiress of Indworth Castle, his Betrothed.
Scene—A Library in the Castle of Indworth; Falkner and Bertha seated.
BERTHA.
You over-estimate the chance of fortune!
What fortune have the birds that sing at morn,
Filling the grove with music and rejoicement?
What fortune claim the flowers beyond the soil,
The little soil wherein they bloom and perish?
And yet their loveliness pines not more soon
For their sad lack of fortune. What the trees,
That lift as proudly to the skies their heads
As though proclaimed the princes of the land?
Fortune!—it is a tinsel sound, my Faulkner,
And, in itself, itself of nought assurance,
Nor love, nor health, nor happiness; for here
Fortune is born of earth, and clings to clay.
'Tis a scant tenure—a poor worldly term!
Love is immortal! happiness, eternal!

FALKNER.
Oh, lovely monitress! 'tis well that truth
Is in thy breast as beauty on thy brow,
For the worst counsel would seem best from thee:
The weakest reason match the wisest; love.

BERTHA.
The nobly born are not the only noble!
There is a line more royal, more majestic,
Than is the sceptred line of mighty crowns;
An ancestry so bright with glorious names
That he, who truly feels himself akin
To such, may stand before the throne—noble
Amidst the noblest; kingly amidst kings!
He that inherits Honour, Virtue, Truth,
Springs from a lineage next to the divine;
For these were heirs of God; and we, their heirs,
Prove nearest God, when we stand next to them! [She rises.]

Man, heir to these is rich—and Wealth may bow
To Greatness it can cherish,—not create!

FALKNER,
rising, and approaching her.
Thou'rt rich in that which maketh riches poor.
There is an emanation from thy love
Which elevates, ennobles, and encharms me;
I list thy voice and think thy tongue an angel's!
Existence hath no light but beams from thee;
Present and future have no name but thine,
Nor mind nor memory! Oh, my own beloved!
And yet 'tis madness thus to breathe my soul,
Thus pour its hidden fulness at thy feet:

For wherefore shouldst thou link thy cloudless fate
With my, I fear, but evil destiny?
Better thou badst me quit thy sight for ever
Than bind thy lot with one so desolate—
So poor—in all so undeserving thee!
Better forgetfulness than such remembrance.
My love is cursed, cursed as the ivy, Bertha,
Which kills the thing it clings to!

BERTHA.
No, Falkner, no,
Not desolate—my heart shall be thy home;
Not poor—I hold my wealth but for thy service;
Not cursed, my Falkner, no! for I will bless thee.
Thou knowst not half the love shrined in my heart,
What it would do, not do, to make thee happy! [Pauses, then speaks half reproachfully.]

Methought thou hadst o'ercome those darker moods
Which shook thy spirit when I knew thee first,
And that thy night had found at length love's morn,
Love's morn of roses—roses whose glad hue
Seemed as an angel's cheek had pressed them last;
And now thy thoughts, as they were mourners, sit
Wailing the death of hope within thy heart.

FALKNER,
starting.
Death? speak'st thou of death, my Bertha?
Tell me, my love, believ'st thou aught in omens?

BERTHA.
If they be good, not else.

FALKNER.
Say, didst thou note this morn?
How beautiful the God of Light awoke,
Rose with surpassing glory; his bright head
Crowned with immortal rays, that all the East
Lifted its golden voices, and was glad!
Forth beamed the god o'er pearl and purple cloud,
That as enamoured of his presence seemed;
And Morn, all blushes, spoke her happiness.
Thus looked the time; when scarce few moments fled,
And lo! bright Phœbus lay as in a shroud.
Black clouds, like mourners, swept in funeral train,
And Morn, sweet Morn, like a young widow, wept,
Where last the footsteps of her god had passed.

BERTHA.
A weeping dawn oft makes a laughing day;
Thy feeling seems to feed on things of gloom;
This is not wise, nor just to Providence:
Call Fancy to bring forth her brighter hues,
Walk on the golden-sanded shores of Hope!
Strike thy false prophet from his temple down,
And set up Truth, heart-smiling Truth, instead.
Omens? I'll conjure twenty, have but patience.
Listen:
I had a bird, a little graceful bird,
Its cage was like a fairy palace stored,
But still it seemed unhappy; still its beak
Beat 'gainst the glittering wires impatiently,
And all its love—for much it seemed to love me—
Could not restrain its spirit from the air,
The sunny, happy air of liberty.

Though hard to part with my then sole companion,
I took the discontented from its perch,
Kissed its cold, glossy beak and bade it go. [Pauses.]

You listen, love?

FALKNER.
I do; 'twas like yourself!

BERTHA.
Next morn a tapping at my casement brought!
It was my bird, and in its beak a flower—
A memory of the meadows wandered o'er;
The next day, and the next, some token still!
At last a purple feather at my foot
The fond bird dropped; a little moment perched
Within its cage!—a moment looked around,
And then away, ne'er to return again!
Some love-mate in the woods awaited it,
And in its happy nest it soon forgot
The empty cage o'er which its mistress wept!
An omen, say'st thou? oh, for cage, read heart,
And thou'st an omen of forsaken love;
Loving that one who better loves another;
Sowing affections whose sad fruit is tears!
Yet hast thou vowed thou loved not one save me;
Nor cousin, sister—no? is it not no?

FALKNER.

Nor sister? thou shalt hear.
I dreamt I had a sister graced as thou;
As beautiful, yet different in her beauty;
For she was like the twilight, soft and dark,

Thou, like the morning, dewy-eyed and fair;
And, as within thy lap my glad cheek lay,
Methought she came and blessed us.

Suddenly,
As though a cloud had swept across the sun,
She looked a corpse! a halo circled her,
And in that light thy face grew cold and fixed!
I turned; beneath my foot the firm earth fell
As in convulsion; with it down I sank,
Thou shrieking for that help which none might give.

BERTHA.
Did I not leap the chasm to thy side?
No? . . .
Then 'twas indeed a dream, an idle dream;
No image of our lot; no omen, love!
Which still had held more probability
Than I should live, and yet behold thee die!

FALKNER.
Is then thy love so deep?

BERTHA.
It is! it is!
I think time lost that is not found with thee;
Time nothing worth but thus to sit with thee,
To hear thy manly spirit thus discourse,
Speak with an eloquence to capture time,
And make love hang enraptured on thy words.
I've lived alone—much, very much alone—
And long before I knew thee I had formed,
In the romance of my young girlish heart,

A being like thee—speaking, looking, like thee!
But, oh, I am too bold to tell thee this!
'Tis wrong; it had appeared more maidenly
To have concealed, not to have let thee known,
To—
I blush to think how weak I must appear.

FALKNER.
My faithful love, my bride, my now soon wife!
And when thou bear'st my name, my Bertha,
We will away to climes where love may smile,
And make our home in some new paradise,
Which Nature, liberal mother, hath endowed
With loveliness beyond a season's bloom,
Where never memory shall in sables come,
But thou be my presiding deity;
And we will love as we had but one heart,
One mind, one hope, one joy, one happiness!
Shall it be so?

BERTHA.
Even as thou wilt:
What is thy wish is mine; what way suits thee
That way would I still go: thy home still mine.
For, oh, my Falkner,
Affections never die; when life is o'er,
They take the wings of a diviner world,
And grow immortal!

FALKNER.
My own beloved!
Why speak so sweet, and yet so mournfully?

BERTHA.
It was the echo of thine own dear voice,
Which evermore is sad; as though it pined
For nobler realms, for beings loftier,
Where every tone was eloquent of God!
Come! I have flowers to shew will make thee glad:
Thy gift of plants, they wear their choicest bloom;
I, who believe not in distracting omens,
Have faith in flowers and their inspiring looks;
Come, nay, I will—mark you that rebel word—
I will not have thee sad!

[Exeunt, she endeavouring to cheer Falkner, who smiles, and leads her out affectionately.]