University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Room in Templestowe; a few closing chords of the Harp are heard from an inner Chamber as Brian enters.
Brian.
How sadly sweet! it drops like odours! 'tis
Passion's own tongue, and speaks not to the ear,
But to the heart. She must—she shall be mine!
Rebecca, thou sad maid, come forth! She comes—
Her eyes weigh'd down by tears—as morning dews
Sit heavy on the tulip's golden round,
And stoop its burthen'd tenderness to earth.

Rebecca enters.
Rebecca.
Thou here?

Brian.
Thy friend is here.

Rebecca.
Friends! they, alas!
Are birds that sing but to the summer.

Brian.
Tush!
Tush! take me in my meaning.

Rebecca.
Well.

Brian.
Be mine
And I will save thee—save thee from a death,
Worse than the worst of thoughts.

Rebecca.
To live a life
Worse than the worst of deaths.

Brian.
Be wise in time;
You'll hardly find a champion. Say you do;
My arm is strong—the chance uncertain; pause,—
I ask thy heart—will buy it at the price
Of fame and name, so dearly do I love thee.

Rebecca.
Aye, as bees love the violets of the spring.
To rifle their best fragrance and desert them.

Brian.
Be wise, I say; Death, in his fairest fom,
When sleep hangs on his temples, and his hand
Flings round him poppies, yet's a thing of fear.
But when he comes, as he will come to thee,
With burning fingers plucking out thine eyes.
Oh! bethink thee well; can'st thou bear this?

Rebecca.
He who lays on the load,
Will lend me strength for its endurance.

Brian.
Fond
And peevish girl, I do but ask thy love;
Which, given to thy lover, makes him rich
And leaves not thee the poorer.

Rebecca.
Aye! indeed!
Is not a maiden poorer in the loss
Of maiden fame? I thought, that honor was
To woman what sun is to the day;
Without which, all its beauties are unseen,—
Its roses looking nettles:—gone her fame,
Woman is poorer than a beggars' alms.

Brian.
Fame, 'tis a dream! Oh leave this wintry land,
And hearts as wintry; fly to the rich east;
The quick-wing'd hours shall be our handmaids, each
With a young pleasure, partner of his dance,
Shall beat the greensward with her silver feet,
Like moon-beams dancing on a summer brook;
Odours shall gem their locks, which each quick step
Shall shake on us in showers, as morning's breath
Shakes dew drops from the myrtle.

Rebecca is going; he takes her hand.
Brian.
How, would you leave me?

Rebecca.
Sir, this speech! but no,
Let me be still myself, though his rude tongue
Is drunk with license.

Brian.
Is't not better thus,
Than doing as our sober grey beards do,
To sleep upon the sunny bank of life,
And dream of happiness.

Rebecca.
Look down—look down!
Upon thy servant.

Brian.
Oh! deceives not me,
I know your sex; ice freezes in your looks,
But the warm current flows beneath that ice,
As quick as when the bright unfetter'd stream
Is sparkling to the Sun.

Bell.
Rebecca.
Hark! hark! the bell!
Brian thou art a murderer—Again!
Hark! air and earth and water catch the sound,
And now by day or night, on flood or land,
Whenever time repeats this hour of death,
A voice from all the elements at once,
Shall shriek it in thine ear as I do now,
Brian, thou art a murderer!

(Exit.
Brian.
Hear me;—she is gone!
Now by St. Paul—Revenge! I'll be reveng'd!
Proud girl—Rebecca! wilt thou not return?
But for a moment—Still deaf to my pray'r!
So deaf will I be when thy screams affright
The vulture wheeling o'er thy head in watch
For his burnt offering.—Revenge—Revenge!

(Exit.