The Widow's Tale and other Poems. By the Author of Ellen Fitzarthur [i.e. by C. A. Bowles] |
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| I. |
| II. | SCENE II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | The Widow's Tale |  |
SCENE II.
A lady's dressing-room, with windows opening down to a small lawn.—A large Indian screen drawn before the door.—Editha lying on a couch. —Flora working at a table near her.Edi.
Come, little cousin! leave that moping work,
And this close room, for the fresh open air,
And that sweet garden where I long to be.
There! Zoe's bark invites you to a race—
See! where she waits upon the gravel walk.
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And she must wait awhile, dear Editha!
Look! I've but half a leaf t' embroider now,
And this whole sprig is finished. Let me see—
One, two, three, four.
Edi.
What! counting them again?
Well, Flora! has the number much decreased
Since yesterday?
Flo.
Now, cousin Editha!
You know how I do long to get the gown
Finished in time—and 'twill be wanted soon—
Aye, cousin Edith! you may shake your head.
But you smile, tho', and I know well enough
It will be wanted, very, very soon;
And I should break my heart I do believe
If this were not be your wedding gown.—
Remember! I'm to be your bridesmaid, cousin.
Edi.
But where's the bridegroom, Flora?—We must wait,
Must we not, little Coz, till Edmund comes?
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He'll soon be here—I know the fleet's expected—
He may be here to-day—this very day!
And tho' you look so sly, you think so too;
For ev'ry time the sound of wheels is heard,
Or horses' hoofs, I see you tremble, Coz,
And the bright colour of your cheek spreads out
Over your face and neck. Oh! and besides,
I know what Ursula said yesterday,
When Martha asked her questions about you.
Edi.
What, silly child! you don't believe I hope
In fortune-telling stories?
Flo.
N—o—not quite—:
But Urs'la is a very cunning woman,
And often guesses right.—You'll own that.—
Edi.
Well,
What said the cunning woman about me,
And what did Martha ask?
Flo.
She spoke so low,
I could not hear her question, but I guessed it
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She said we soon should follow you to church.
Edi.
To church! is that your cunning woman's guess?
Why, Flora! is it only to be married,
Only for weddings, people go to church?
The dead are carried there.
Flo.
Aye, so they are,
And little babies to be christened too,
And we all go on Sundays.—But you know,
Ah! you know well enough, what Urs'la meant.
Cousin! do you remember Amy Lee?
Edi.
Oh! very well:—that delicate, fair girl,
She who was married,—last July, I think,—
To the young sailor.
Flo.
Just the very same.
Now you shall hear a ballad Amy made,
When she expected Maurice home from sea,
Listen—
Now you shall hear a ballad Amy made,
When she expected Maurice home from sea,
Listen—
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The young leaves are budding
On ev'ry green tree;
The spring flowers are studding
Bank, meadow, and lea:
The small birds are singing,
The winter is past:
The fleet winds are bringing
My true love at last.
On ev'ry green tree;
The spring flowers are studding
Bank, meadow, and lea:
The small birds are singing,
The winter is past:
The fleet winds are bringing
My true love at last.
The hawthorn in flower's
A fair thing to see;
A stately green tower,
The sycamore tree:
The sun shines above,
Great, and glorious is he!
But the sight of my love
Is more gladsome to me.
A fair thing to see;
A stately green tower,
The sycamore tree:
The sun shines above,
Great, and glorious is he!
But the sight of my love
Is more gladsome to me.
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The horn from the mountain
Sounds mellow and clear:
The gush of the fountain
Is pleasant to hear:
Sweet and soft is the call
Of the nest-brooding dove;
But sweetest of all,
The kind voice of my love.
Sounds mellow and clear:
The gush of the fountain
Is pleasant to hear:
Sweet and soft is the call
Of the nest-brooding dove;
But sweetest of all,
The kind voice of my love.
The roses are blowing,
Their buds are half blown;
The lilies are growing,
Their stalks are half grown:
But before one shall wither,
On stalk or on tree,
My love will come hither
To wreathe them for me.
Their buds are half blown;
The lilies are growing,
Their stalks are half grown:
But before one shall wither,
On stalk or on tree,
My love will come hither
To wreathe them for me.
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Well, well, you little cunning harmonist!
I can apply the words of Amy's ballad,
And you shall teach it me, some day or other,
When I can sing again. I'll promise, too,
When Edmund comes, and Flora's gown is finished,
I'll wear no other on my wedding day.
Now get you gone, my merry little nurse!
I'm faint with talking, and if Martha comes,
She'll scold us both. My eyes are heavy, too,
And I shall sleep perhaps.
Flo.
Farewell, dear Coz!
I'll bring you flowers, a large, sweet basket full.
[Exit Flora.
Edi.
I am a happy creature! none I'm sure
Had ever friends so loving and so kind
As I am blest with;—but of all, methinks,
The prattle of that dear light-hearted child
I most delight in—'tis so full of hope,
And joyous certainty.—All eyes but hers
Look on me with a sort of tender pity,
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Were hanging over me. This morning only,
My father sat there, reading to himself,
(Seeming to read,) but all the while his eyes,
Not on the book, but on my face were fixed,
And they were full of tears:—a sudden fear
Of some disastrous tidings stopt my breath,
And I could hardly utter Edmund's name—
But 'twas a groundless fear—allayed as soon
By my dear father's calm assurances—
He must come soon—“he may be here to-day”—
So Flora said. This restless expectation
It is that keeps me from regaining strength,
I feel I shall be well, when he is come.
Sleep! thou hast fled my pillow many a night,
Come, visit me, sweet sleep! with happy dreams.
[Scene closes.
| The Widow's Tale | |