University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Another Part of the Valley.
Enter CURAN in a Forester's habit.
CURAN.
How have the mazy tangles of this wood
Misled my steps! since he, the faithless Falconer,
If faithless, or perchance himself misled,
Left me to journey with unguided foot
Thro' this wild wilderness. The opening vale
Now spreads a broader path; yet, ere I take it,
Tir'd as I am, I'll climb this rocky steep,
Which towers so high that it insures a sight
Of the broad sea. Methinks I'm near it now;
For on my breast the gale beats light and keen,
And has withal a smack of brine upon it,
That seems as freshly stolen from the wave.
I hope 'tis so; for much my strength is spent
With this long ramble. By your leave, fair bank!
Ere I mount further up this rugged hill,
I'll press awhile your violets and daisies
With my tir'd limbs. What if I sleep awhile?
This white thorn brake will screen me, and the brook,
That babbles at its foot, persuades to it
Most musically; prattle on, cool neighbour!
I'll take thy council, and forget my care. [He sleeps.
Enter ARGENTILE.

Not here! full sure I saw from yonder heights
My Editha, in her green huntsman's tire,
Bolt from the coppice. It was all too distant
To mark her features, yet it sure was she;
For they, the boorish inmates of these hamlets,
Have none so gentle carriage. I'll not holla,
Lest haply I affright her. 'Tis most certain
She past by this same dingle. Gracious Powers
And here I find her couch'd; her faithful head
Wrapt in her scanty mantle! poor spent wench,
How fast does sleep infold thee! It were sin
To break thy slumbers. I will sit, and watch thee,
As oft thy faithfulness, in better days,
Has bended o'er my pillow. How her eye
Will glisten when she wakes! How will it start,
With a glad tear, to see her mistress near her!
Yes, the kind maid will weep. I crave thy pardon,
Thou'rt now a lusty yeoman, and in truth
Thy goat-skin belt, tagg'd with thy bugle horn,
And all thy forest geer become thee mainly:
Nay, thou might'st pass (thy softer features shrouded
Thus as they are) full well for what thou art not.
Yet, my best Editha, this rugged stone
Seems but a churlish bolster! I will raise
Thy head, and—Mercy shield me, ha!

[Starts back while Curan wakes.
Cur.
Where am I?
Methought some angel whisper'd me, and wak'd me:
I see it still, but ah! it flies; stay! stay!
Divinest vision, that e'er blest my slumbers;
'Tis not a vision, for I grasp her hand!
But yet a warmth, a softness all cœlestial
Thrills at the touch. O speak, thou wond'rous creature,
And tell me what thou art!

Arg.
An innocent maid,
That took thee for another like herself.
Forgive the crime of error; quit my hand,
Or I shall faint thro' fear.

Cur.
Why dost thou tremble,
Thou matchless paragon? by all the Saints
Thou art as safe—as sacred—

Arg.
But not free,
While thus you seize my hand.

Cur.
Thy pardon, Fairest!
It was a boldness nothing, but the fear
Of losing thee, could prompt, and for that boldness
Such fear must plead excuse. Dost thou forgive?

Arg.
I do, if so you suffer me to leave you.

Cur.
Stay but a moment. I'm a wand'ring youth,
Whom the wild mazes of this wood misled:
You must, for very charity, direct
My witless step.

Arg.
Where art thou bound?

Cur.
I know not.
There would I bide, where I could tend on you,
And call you my heart's idol.

Arg.
Cease, bold Youth!
I must not hear thee.

Cur.
Thou would'st hear, fair Nymph,
All this and more from him, that happy youth,
For whom while slumb'ring here it was so late
Thy error, and my bliss, that I should pass.
O for the wealth of this, and ev'ry isle
The broad sea circles; I would give it all
To be that youth!

Arg.
In sooth you wrong me, Stranger,
I know none such.

Cur.
Indeed!

Arg.
Or if I do,
'Tis one whom, finding, I should call my brother,

Cur.
Would I were then that brother! No, not that;
It is too cold a wish; can brothers feel
That throbbing extacy, that trembling ardor,
That wraps me from myself, fires all my soul,
And tells me thou art dearer far than sister,
Father, or friend, dearer than life itself?

Arg.
Ah! hope not, Youth, tho' practis'd as thou seem'st,
More than enough, in all those flattering arts
That false men use to guile unwary maids;
Hope not to win my credence to a tale
So palpable and gross: we are but now,
Some moments past, first met, and me thou lov'st
(Shame on thy fabling tongue) dearer than life.

Cur.
I do, and call the sweet celerity,
With which I love, best witness of its truth.
Say, I had seen thee once (if possible)
And but approv'd thy beauties; if at second,
Third, or some after meeting, love had grown
From that approof, I then had school'd my heart,
And question'd its tame motions, call'd in Judgment
To weigh in her slow scale the due degree
Of my cool passion. No, thou sylvan wonder,
I saw thee, and I lov'd without one pause
'Twixt sight and love; and I must love thee ever,
Because I lov'd so soon.

Arg.
And do I stay
To hear thee?

Cur.
Why not stay? the blessed spirits,
That rove yon realms of light, might deign descend
To hear a tale of love so chaste as mine,
And bear their saintly purity to heav'n
Unsullied as it came.

Arg.
Was I, like them,
Secure from mortal frailness, trust me, Youth,
I would not bid thee peace; but as I am
A simple maid, whose very simpleness
Makes her (so set with snares is this bad world)
Only the readier prey, I must not hear thee;
Indeed I must not. Fare thee well, good Youth!
A gentle one thou seem'st, and, sooth to say,
Such as, if chance had fixt thee in this vale
My rural neighbour, I had been well pleas'd
To call a friend,

Cur.
O! call me so, sweet Maid,
And I will ever—

Arg.
Hear me out, kind stranger,
I said, had chance so fixt thee, and withal
Had'st thou with that same rustic shamefac'dness
Demean'd thyself as simple shepherds use,
Nor dar'd to talk, but of our flocks and herds,
Or healing roots, their properties, and powers,
And which is found on hills, which loves to dip
Its tendrils on the stream—which flaunts on meads,
And such like innocent themes—but this thy rashness,
Not to say boldness, now has all undone,
And therefore must I leave thee.

Cur.
Stay thee, Nymph,
Or let me follow thee!

Arg.
I have an uncle,
With whom I dwell, who, should he meet thee, Youth,
Would chide thy frowardness.

Cur.
Ah! let him chide,
So thou but pitiest me.

Arg.
And canst thou hope it?

Cur.
Ah! why not hope from thee, what I might hope
From yon bright throne of mercy? pity thence
Falls on the penitent. Forgive then, fairest,
This first offence; and tho' I love thee still
To desperation—do not fly—my tongue
Shall ne'er again declare it. Stay, my Fair,
I'll talk alone of flocks, and flowers, and herbs,
So thou but listen me: and art thou gone?
I dread thy frown as death, yet more than death
I dread thy absence; therefore I'll pursue thee.

[Exeunt.