University of Virginia Library

Scene II

Seashore.—Sand Dunes dotted with distorted Trees.
Henry.
Why never can the painter tell to us
This awful story of a lonely sea,
This terrible soliloquy of nature?
Why must he slip us in the bit of red,
The group of fishers or the tossing ship?
Who asks for life or human action here?

Frank.
Nay, man is nature's complement. The sea,
The sky, the flowers suggest him. Best I love
The smiling landscape of a woman's face.

Alfred.
But he who worships nature, ought to be
The ready lover of her thousand gods.

Hester.
Lo! what a thought is yon triumphant sea,
A thought so perfect in its competence,
That I would leave it to its loneliness.

Alfred.
Think what it was when unto God there came
This great sea-thought.

Frank.
Here, friend, your chisel fails.
'T is powerless here. Thank heaven, I at least
Can some way capture it with feeble brush.

Alfred.
Alas, 't is no man's prize. It mocks us all.
Leave me but only man, and you may paint,
And you may chisel. I would sail alone
The great Atlantic of the human heart.

Henry.
Do you remember how, last summer, here
We played with fancies, and in idle mood
Struck to and fro the shuttlecocks of thought?

Frank.
Ah, well I do. 'T was such an hour as comes
Once in the life of joy. Just here we lay.
As oft before, you led the playful race.

Henry.
Watch now the waves; each has its little life,
High-couraged triumph in yon crest of pride,
Some proud decision in its onward sweep,—
Destruction, failure,—'t is a history!

Frank.
I like it best when of a winter day
The cold dry norther rolls athwart the beach
The gleaming foam-balls into serpents white,
And all the sand is starred with rainbow lights.

Hester.
It knoweth all the secrets of my moods:
To-day is gay with me, to-morrow grave.

Frank.
For me its voice is ever sorrowful
As some God's grief beyond all earthly speech.

Hester.
How wave on wave turns lapsing on the beach,
Like the great leaves of some eternal book.

Alfred.
Unread forever since creation's dawn.
I pray you notice how the seaside trees
Seem flying headlong, all their withering limbs
Stretched landward, craving refuge from the sea.

Frank.
As they might be remorseful murderers,
That heard the hoarse deep, like an angry foe,
Storm up the sand slopes—nearer, nearer still,
Crying, Vengeance, vengeance! all the summer night.