 | Sir Anthony Moore |  |
SCENE III.
The interior of a Cottage.—A flock-bed at the farther end.Caroline—To her enter Kate softly.
Kate.
I fear'd to wake you, but I see you're up;
I hope you are not ill.
Car.
I am not sick,
Only a kind of drowsiness hangs on me,
And yet I cannot sleep.—I should be well
Could I but sleep one hour—Is there no balm,
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In deep forgetfulness a little while?
Kate.
Of all the ailments that beset our nature
In virulent array, and stint the alms
Of niggard happiness, there is not one
I can so well gainsay—I have a drug,
Sent from afar, when we were visited
By grievous sickness—One small drop of it
Will bring the boon you ask—A night, or day,
Will so o'erpass in downy dancing slumber,
You shall not miss it—It will make you dream
Of thousand garish freaks, all unconnected;
Two drops will lull you deeper, and your dream
Will be far-fetch'd and regular—But three,
Three drops, not bigger than the tear that hangs
On a young eye-lash, will o'erpower all motion
Of fancy or of frame; and one whole day
Outslept, shall only as a moment seem;
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Or dare you trust my hand to pour it for you?
Car.
Bring it, good dame.
(Exit Kate.)
O how I long for it!
If I could cease to think, why I might wake;
But nature is so changed unto mine eye,
That I must either learn to think anew,
Or not at all.—I cannot think of mankind,
Therefore I'll sleep and dream of them.
Re-enter Kate with a cup, vial, and water.
Give me it, dame, I'll drop it for myself.
Kate.
I'll watch you then, and if you are not cautious,
One drop you shall not swallow.
Car.
I'll take but one,
It is enough for me—I long to dream
Of things my mind is used to—I have dream'd
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Or image aught that grows not on one base.
Kate.
You're over cautious—two such other drops
Will more effective prove—trust me, they would.
Car.
One is enough—I'll take no more of it.
Let nought disturb me—let me neither hear,
Nor see, nor feel, for one short hour or two.
Kate.
Since I perceive thee timid of thy life,
Even to a fault, I will this cordial leave—
If you prove sickly—if that still you feel
Feverish and restless, two small drops will bring
Most blissful rest—peace to thy heart a while.
(Exit Kate.)
Car.
Ah! peace can never more revisit it!
No, I may sleep, and dream, and sleep again;
Still I must waken to the blasting view
Of images I have not strength to look on!
Oh, never did the thirsty traveller,
Across the parch'd and burning desert, long
So much to rest beside the cooling spring,
As I do now to steep my every sense
In deep and far forgetfulness—'Tis strange—
Is it not strange that on my heart should press
This fervent longing for oblivious sleep,
And lo, the power, unsought, presents itself?—
Already 'tis decided—All enquiry
Will only add new pangs.—Come, thou sweetmeathe,
I thirst for thee; nor do I dread the dreams
Of unexplored existence—Ah! retract!—
No more!—no more!—Would I not give this world,
If this fair world were mine, had other hand
But mix'd that drug for me, and I not known it.
Or were I mad as is the raving whirlwind,
Then would not the high Everlasting blame
A poor heart-broken injured sufferer.
I do not brave thee, Father—but even thus,
Thus dare I trust thy mercy.
(Drinks out the vial.)
(Pause.)
I'll go as calmly to my last repose
As if 'twere but a night; nor shall they know
How Caroline Cecil died.—Come, Lethe, come;
Again I'll fill thy sleepy bowels up.
(Fills the Glass.)
Thou little minister of sweet oblivion,
Thou hast already heaved my drooping mind
Above the grovelling petty ills of life.
Even but to-day there was no thing on earth
So absolutely wretched and undone,
But now—Now!—Ah, what now?—I do not know,
Nor can the tongue of mortal man disclose,
What I shall be to-morrow.—
(Pause.)
No, I may sleep, and dream, and sleep again;
Still I must waken to the blasting view
Of images I have not strength to look on!
Oh, never did the thirsty traveller,
Across the parch'd and burning desert, long
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As I do now to steep my every sense
In deep and far forgetfulness—'Tis strange—
Is it not strange that on my heart should press
This fervent longing for oblivious sleep,
And lo, the power, unsought, presents itself?—
Already 'tis decided—All enquiry
Will only add new pangs.—Come, thou sweetmeathe,
I thirst for thee; nor do I dread the dreams
Of unexplored existence—Ah! retract!—
No more!—no more!—Would I not give this world,
If this fair world were mine, had other hand
But mix'd that drug for me, and I not known it.
Or were I mad as is the raving whirlwind,
Then would not the high Everlasting blame
A poor heart-broken injured sufferer.
I do not brave thee, Father—but even thus,
Thus dare I trust thy mercy.
(Drinks out the vial.)
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I'll go as calmly to my last repose
As if 'twere but a night; nor shall they know
How Caroline Cecil died.—Come, Lethe, come;
Again I'll fill thy sleepy bowels up.
(Fills the Glass.)
Thou little minister of sweet oblivion,
Thou hast already heaved my drooping mind
Above the grovelling petty ills of life.
Even but to-day there was no thing on earth
So absolutely wretched and undone,
But now—Now!—Ah, what now?—I do not know,
Nor can the tongue of mortal man disclose,
What I shall be to-morrow.—
Oft have I thought of it; and deeply too!
But I can form no image of perfection!
I've thought of lingering on the green hill-side
Amid the watchful deer, by them unseen;
Like quivering ærial thing, stand by,
Noting their comely port, watching their eyes,
In pleasing wonder how they could not see me.
Or on the sward, beside the sleeping lamb,
To sit and muse on innocence—to love it—
Kiss its unweening lip, and stroke its fleece
With my light shadowy hand; and on its side
And woolly cheek lay me in mimic slumber.
But I can form no image of perfection!
I've thought of lingering on the green hill-side
Amid the watchful deer, by them unseen;
Like quivering ærial thing, stand by,
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In pleasing wonder how they could not see me.
Or on the sward, beside the sleeping lamb,
To sit and muse on innocence—to love it—
Kiss its unweening lip, and stroke its fleece
With my light shadowy hand; and on its side
And woolly cheek lay me in mimic slumber.
And I have thought of sitting on the fringe
Of some white cloud that travels in the skies,
Fleeting, incumbent on the summer gale,
O'er isles and seas, and o'er the dappled vales
Of this fair pendant world.—Yes, I have dream'd
Of these and thousands more, but never yet
Could frame one thought of pain or misery
As coming from that all-benevolent source
Of mercy and of life.—O never! never!
And with the self-same feeling I take leave
Of life and all its treacherous promises.
Of some white cloud that travels in the skies,
Fleeting, incumbent on the summer gale,
O'er isles and seas, and o'er the dappled vales
Of this fair pendant world.—Yes, I have dream'd
Of these and thousands more, but never yet
Could frame one thought of pain or misery
As coming from that all-benevolent source
Of mercy and of life.—O never! never!
And with the self-same feeling I take leave
Of life and all its treacherous promises.
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Est.
Pardon, dear lady; here comes one whose love
And care brooks not delay.
Geo.
O, my dear sister, do I find thee thus,
An outcast and forsaken!—My heart bleeds
To see thee in this guise, my Caroline.
Car.
Art thou so kind to seek me?—I scarce deem'd
That any heart beat with regret or love
For poor forsaken Caroline.
Geo.
Alas!
Our house has been one scene of dark despair
From that sad hour you left it.—Our old sire
Is sinking underneath a load of grief,
Even to the gates of death.—His rage is gone,
Subsided to a soft depressive woe
That vents itself in sighs and bitter tears
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Thy presence, and thy ever-loved embrace,
Would now delight his soul far more than all
The bliss that proud ambition e'er did yield.
I've sought thee out with joy, to bear thee back
To thy paternal home.
Car.
It is too late!
Back to my father's house I ne'er return.
There is but one home now can hide my shame,
And soon I will be there.—O, my dear brother,
The hand of death is on me!—My heart's broke.
Before that sun that journies down the west
Hath reach'd the line of yon extended waste,
I shall be in the walks of mortal life,
As I had never been.
Geo.
Thou say'st that word
With such a mein, and such a voice, that I
Am moved with horror.
Car.
Be not moved, my brother.
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Of a spring day, fit emblem of my fate!
Thou know'st how well I loved the setting sun;
And I could wish to live one other hour
To see that sight again—But it is o'er!
Even but last night, full of blithe hope and joy,
I saw him in his rubied glory burn
Across the golden windows of the west,
And lean his glowing cheek upon the moor
As if to set its darken'd bulk on flame;
And I rejoiced, yet wept, I knew not why.
I did not ween it was the last time I
Should ever see that scene—He'll set to-night,
And through that lattice pour his ruddy beam,
But not on me!—Or only on the dust
That late was Caroline.
Geo.
Let not thy grief
O'erpower thy reason, sister; thou shalt live,
Long long and happy.
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(Taking his hand.)
Fare thee well, my brother.
I feel the grasp of death; I lay me down
Upon that bed to rise no more.—I have
One little boon to ask—To save my memory
From brand I cannot name, let me be laid
In Moore's own tomb—it is my last request
Of him to whom my sacred vow was pledged
Before high Heaven.
Geo.
O, every wish which thy loved lips can frame,
I hold as sacred.
Car.
Come thou near me, Esther.
Thou hast been true to me; farewell, dear Esther.
When thou shalt fit the dead-clothes on this form,
Which thou hast oft embraced, let it be deck'd
In all my bridal robes—they're bootless now,
None after me must wear them—promise this.
Est.
O! I can promise nought, nor aught perform,
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I shall not stay behind.
Car.
(Heavily.)
My tie to nature's broke—Jasper—good dame,
Give me your hands—Remember them, my brother,
And give me one last kiss—for when I lie
Down on that bed, I speak no more.
(They embrace—Caroline stretches herself on the bed, and sinks asleep—Pause.)
Geo.
Is this illusion?—No—you all behold it,
And are amazed as I am.—Caroline!
O, my loved sister, lift those eyes again,
And speak to me!
(She stretches forth her hand feebly, they all embrace it—it lies still on the bed till they lift it to her side.)
Jas.
O let us cry aloud to Heaven, for now
There is but one that can restore her to us.
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Hold, hold. Or if you pray, pray for the dead.
She breathes no more—Oft have I look'd on death,
And dreaded it till now; but such a sight
I never thought to see.—O, 'tis most strange!
As calmly hath she enter'd death's domain
As child when rock'd to slumber. Give us leave
Few minutes, till we lay the lifeless form
In decent guise, then bring our neighbours in,
And let us join and sing the hymn of death.
(Exeunt Jasper and George.)
(Scene closes—after a minute or two, an Hymn is sung within.)
| Sir Anthony Moore | |