University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

A Room in Eliza's Cottage.
Eliza.
He loves not me—he may love, but not me.
My heart o'erflow'd its love into his eyes,
The conduits of his heart; it filter'd through,
And seem'd to leave in him nought but the sands.
His presence, constantly, would drain my heart,
Which, getting no return, would cease to love.
Were all the dews earth breathes into the air
Not lavish'd back again upon the earth,
Parch'd earth would soon have nothing more to give.
Better be mateless, then, than match'd with him.
Better! Harsh argument! It could not be:
He is not to be reason'd from my heart.
Yet, would that I had seen one hope of Spring
In all the Winter of his speech—one beam
Behind that black ice of his eye, to tell
There was a coming Summer in his heart.
But there was none; and when he took my hand
To bid Good night, I felt 'twas but a hand
That touch'd me, not a spirit.—While he stayed
I could not realise the full despair,
For mine he was, as much as eyes could hold:
But when he went, without one poor exchange—
A look, a sigh, on which a thought might hang,—
O misery! But peace: thy bitter dregs,
Sweet Hope, I drain, and throw away the cup.—
I've pour'd my soul into a fine ideal,
Imagined it a lover, and loved that.
Away, sweet dream, that seem'd my waking day!
Be what thou art, a dream; and, like most dreams,
Leave not on memory one scratch of truth
By which thy foolish reign might be recall'd. (Knocking without.)

Edward? Ah me! I had forgot the sad
Announcement of his coming here to-night.—
The loved unloving gone, and in his stead
The unloved loving.

Enter Edward.
Edward.
Eliza, by the weather in your face
I read sweet summer changes. Why, you stand
Like blue-eyed April, looking through her showers.
But whence the tears—the showers?

Eliza.
From the clouds.

Edward.
Ay, but the clouds, Eliza, whence are they?

Eliza.
The sun exhaled them from this little earth,
And when he set, they rain'd.

Edward.
Were I your sun
I'd never set, nor leave so loved an earth.
But truce to these poor similes—they limp.—
Eliza!—

Eliza.
Edward!

Edward.
Ah! what need for speech?
You know what I would say.

Eliza.
I do, I do:
And therefore will I use no idle speech:
I scorn to trifle with an earnest heart.

Edward.
Perfection perfected! Yet speak not thus
If afterwards you do not mean to grant
This heart the prize due to its loyalty:
But rather let each word make less your worth,
If I'm to be the loser of it all.

Eliza.
If you can keep a secret, here is one:—
You shall not lose—

Edward.
O heaven!—

Eliza.
Till you possess.

Edward.
Who scorn'd to trifle with an earnest heart?—
I'll risk the loss, if you will the possession.

Eliza.
But you are going on a tedious voyage:
Full twenty moons will fill their orbs and wane,
Ere Time redeem the pledges of our troth.
Love's moon itself may wane with you ere that.
Urge me no further now: when you return,
If then—

Edward.
The doubt would kill me long ere then!
My life is poison'd with the hope deferr'd;
The food I eat is poison'd, and my sleep;
And I am neither nourish'd nor refresh'd:
I die even now. But ah! thou hast not known
The agony of unrequited love.

Eliza.
(aside)
A kindred sorrow kindles love: our hearts
Are nearer by the binding of a grief.

Edward.
What would'st thou say, Eliza? With a word
Thou could'st so sweetly medicine my soul,
That none of all life's ills could e'er again
Infect my being.

Eliza.
And if that could be,
It were itself the greatest ill. We live
By overcoming ills; and to be freed
From feeling them were hopeless death. But no,
That may not be: the present gone, 'twill seem
That but some other ill has push'd it out,
And stands there in its stead.

Edward.
Yet is it well
To think the present ill shall be our last,
Lest, feeling there's no end of them, we rest
Desponding in the old, and thereby miss
The very uses of adversity.
Then, let me conquer the impediment
To present bliss, and I'll be doubly steel'd
For those that have to come.—But list! O love,
The wind has whistled, and I know the tide
Is almost waiting for me. 'Tis no time
To analyse fine sentiments. In brief,
Wilt thou be mine, Eliza—mine for aye?

Eliza.
(aside)
Alas! What should I say? He loves me not;
Nor show'd that night of love that closed him in,
One ray to herald whence a dawn might come.
Why am I fascinated with despair?
Ah, wherefore can the ghost of an idea
Lay hands upon my will? Away thou shade! (To Edward.)

Edward, forgive me, I am not myself:
I have no mind; take answer as thou wouldst.

Edward.
I will not bid thee speak it: plighted troth
Has stood ere now on the unspoken word
As firmly as on parchment. I can read
The unwritten contract even in thy face.
To such a bond be this the fitting seal. (Kissing her.)

Now fare-thee-well, Eliza!

Eliza.
Nay, not yet.
Come in and eat; and, while we sit, trace all
Your voyage on the map, that day by day
I may keep reckoning of your whereabouts.
I'll keep a daily journal of the winds,
Read dissertations on the law of storms,
Be up in latitudes and longitudes,
And in the papers turn to Vessels spoken with,
Even before Births, Marriages and Deaths.

Edward.
The speedy winds shall be our messengers.
The one that stirs your poplars here to-day
May fill my sails to-morrow. Therefore give
Each breeze sweet greeting, and a word for me.
I'll entertain the rudest for your sake,
And speed them round to you with freights of love.

[Exeunt.