University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Frankfort, a village on the Kentucky river. Alonzo and Eudora walking in the evening.
Alonzo.
This lower world, says Shakspeare, is a stage,
Where every mortal acts a comic part;
Who, now and then, in Tragedies engage,
Which break up every fountain of the heart!
For marriages have been so long the rage,
Each actor seems to play it with an art;
For common things have never fail'd to sate us,
Till something should succeed to reinstate us.

Eudora.
Your wisdom must suggest, a married life's
The only one beneath the sun, worth living?

Alon.
Man is a compound being—made of love—
Love, out of soul and body—he's all love!
But why the heart is mortal, and must go
To dust again—is not a work of mine.

Eud.
We see it thus, and know it should be so,
And should not, for mortality, repine!
But let our hearts attend to life's first cause;
And live obedient to the moral laws.

Alon.
This is a definite world, and so are we,
And tend, in our relations, to each other—
Proving that we are just as we should be—
That every man should be his neighbour's brother.
For all must meet in that eternity,
As children of the same immortal Father!
Then, why not, in this pleasant world delight?
Since Pope has said, “whatever is, is right’

Eud.
That is, all moral, virtuous acts are right.
Because, they are the will of Heaven revealed—
The oracles of sacred truth confirm it.

Alon.
Confirm that which they cannot prove! think not!

Eud.
Do not believe the oracles of God
Agree with human attributes, and tend
To benefit the human race?

Alon.
I do.

(Reluctantly.
Eud.
The mountains, rising on the fruitful world,
Are glowing with immensity around us!
The sun, the moon, and all that we behold,
Confirm us of this truth, and quite confound us!

Alon.
Then, why should we not live in joy and mirth?
When every blessing we can ask, surrounds us?

Eud.
The book of nature rusts upon our shelves!
And we forget the duty owed ourselves.

Alon.
Ah! tells us with a voice, divine as deep,
That death is soon to lull us all to sleep!

Eud.
'Tis right that every man should moralize
Upon those precepts which pertain to good!

Alon.
'Tis also right he should not sacrifice
His early life, in the prorogue of good.
Some, call their childhood up with tears!
Because they let some precious moment pass.
In manhood they forget their passing years—
Then say, Ah! what a havoc time has made!
Their hearts become o'erburthen'd with their cares—
But such have dropt their acorns in the shade!
And why should they thus mourn about their prime?
Because, like all things, they were born to die?
But time has nothing more to do with blunders,
Than sunshine has to do with this world's wonders.

Eud.
No human heart repines at doing good.

Alon.
And here you would suggest an evil thing—
That is, I make myself my own man's man,
Be satisfied with self, and wish no more.

Eud.
My plan is not to sacrilege the truth.

Alon.
All good from evils come—now, this we know,
Were I to hold exposed, in both my hands,
Both spotless truth, and truth defiled, which take?
Take that which Adam took from mother Eve!
Because, such truths unto our natures tend.
Man cannot see beyond an eagle's eye!
He cannot hold the sun, nor grasp the moon;
“But he can tame the lion,—slay the lamb!”
He cannot live upon the air, nor fly;
But he has feelings which mature in love,
When things around in due relations stand.

Eud.
The oak may stand aloof a thousand years!
And brave the whirlwind's and the lightning's blast,
But, when it falls, we shed no tears, nor weep,
And quite forget it ever braved the storm;
But, when man dies, our conscience rears a tablet
To his memory—that his name may live!
And, if his deeds can only fill the rent,
We go and write them on his monument.
Now, why all this?—I'll tell thee why it is:—
The end of law is not immediate death.

Alon.
But look at this—we grow mature and old,
While hope's delusions dance around us ever,
Then opportunity, at length, takes wing;
And, first we know, affections grow so cold,
We hope for death, that we may live for ever.

Eud.
“Whatever is, is right”—if 'tis not wrong!
[Alonzo takes a paper from his pocket.
What's that? A secret I suppose?

Alon.
'Tis not;
But 'tis a mirror which reflects my heart!
There is a fount within this beating breast,
Which never yet has felt the storms of life;
But shines as limpid as a mountain stream,
That brooklet to the river of my joy—
That crystal stream of pure and perfect love,
Which terminates the utmost of my hopes!
Now, mark! There is above all earthly things
One bright display of wisdom to the world—
'Tis yonder canopy of deathless love!
Like blue-eyed woman in a love-sick hour!
Whose altitude from earth distracts the mind,
Which would be there, but is afraid to go.
Now, as the ocean mirrors forth the stars,
So does this paper personate my heart.
Thy smiles are as the unclouded stars that shine.
My heart, within this vestibule of love,
Is, as the ocean, pregnant with thy smiles;
While my imagination's mingled thoughts,
Are figured frost-works on its fancied tide.
All life is circumfused with radiant joy,—
The vessel of my life is on the tide—
The summer of thy smiles look fresh and gay—
The canvass of my barque is spread out wide,
Oh! may it catch each fervent sigh of thine—
Then on the highest heaven of consolation,
All my thoughts shall soar, and rest in heaven.

Eud.
Then give it me—perchance it may be blest—
Too kind to be a brother, and not kind
Enough to be a husband—let me hear—

Alon.
How sweet to trace the outlines of thy face—
And drink the living music of thy voice!
[Reads.
To fold thee gently on my bosom's couch,
And hear the echoes of thy faithful sighs.
Oh! how my life could nurture thee, Eudora!

[Embraces her.
Eud.
'Tis true, thy voice is sweet to human ears,
But talking lovers are the falsest of their race.
They woo us with the sunshine of their thoughts,
As lecherous Sol doth woo the emerald spring.
They make a world of spirits, and commune
With ministers, in other, brighter spheres.
Thus did a lover, who was born to honour,
A youth of genius and luxurious hopes—
An heir to all, but deep and constant love.
He talked with lightnings in their fiery course!
And seemed no more afraid of raging storms,
When ocean moaned the dirges of the dead!
Than would a child, beneath a cooling shade,
To hear the music of melodious birds.
He made the very thunderbolt his pen,
And with the ink of lightning, wrote his song.
Transfixed his trident in the human heart,
Till admiration turned to love-sick tears!
But mark his settled agony and strife!
Although his echoes chased him o'er the sea,
Through all his soul ran fiery indignation!
Because he wanted morals in his heart.
His love, with apathy, grew cold and stiff!
The tenant of his soul became an exile!
He, as some transient star, shut out by gloom,
Through time's resolving years, went up to heaven!
For men to look upon, with gazing eyes.—
Became disgusted with life's habitation,
And, through his sinful deeds, despised the world.

Alon.
Oh! what a glorious and exalted thought,
To make this vestibule of restive life—
This ante-chamber of mortality!
Where settled resolutions mould resolves;
A prelude unto symphonies divine!

Eud.
But oh! the fairest flowers the soonest fade!

Alon.
And wert thou born to die, voluptuous maid?
Born unto manifold distresses here?
A pilgrim wandering through earth's lonely wild?
Oh! that mortality were infinite!
Then, how my soul could love and press thee near!
Thus chained to one, so lovely as thou art!
Why wert thou made from this bright world to part?

Eud.
To yield life's being to a kingdom higher!
Then, through God's Paradise shall ring, that lyre—

Alon.
Whose tones first taught me what it was to love—
Oh! what a chain coils round my throbbing heart!
And, can such high-born pulses beat for thee?
Those eyes, which, like a river, deep and clear!—
Was beauty made to dwell so shortly here?

Eud.
Why dost thou manifest, for me, such care?
'Tis true, I know myself, and feel my worth;
But self-esteem may faun me into pride.
'Tis strange, such love should kindle up so soon!
'Tis better to prorogue the spreading flame,
Than feel, in after life, regrets for love!
This manifest of love, is like a star,
Which, as the daylight of reflection breaks,
Recedes behind the curtain of the world;
And leaves no trace that once it was, but gloom!—
But one wide labyrinth of trackless space!
This is the blind vacuity of fate!
Which fills the interim of life's delights,
And claims a home in every human heart!—
Could I be flattered, in my youth, by words,
I might heap sorrow on my heart and thine.
But, being taught, by mother's soundless love,
I've weighed mine anchor near a better shore.
The raging sea, on which life's barque is tost,
May bear me on, where rocks and shoals invite;
But when I take a survey of my youth,
I have been blest with such a tender mother!— [Weeps.


Alon.
Thou art sole essence of my being's love!

Eud.
Thou tellest me, to my face, I am the light
Which shuts out darkness from thy soul,
Beneath whose beams there shines resplendent day—
Without it, life is darker than the tomb!
And, oh! I have been thinking it were best;
For, I have nothing but myself on earth!
My father died when I was but a child,
And left my mother and myself alone!—
[Weeps.
Yes, I have one bright jewel, white as snow!
Wouldst thou behold it shine?—then ope my heart!
Raise up the tablet to my bosom's fount,
And in its chambers—in my heart's deep core,—
The jewel lies!—more precious far, than gold!
Link'd with my life on earth!—my hopes of heaven!
Matured, it yields a thousand precious fruits,
But needs the culture of a tender hand!
Without this kindness, tis a barren waste!
The dove will love but one fond mate through life;
And if a fowler's shot but lay that low,
Thou mayest, at noontide, in the sultry sun,
When wanton zephyrs play around her wings,—
Stand auditor, and hear her plead his cause!—
'Twould lend affection to the hardest heart.

Alon.
Sweet lady! with thy deathless charms, oh! smile?
Come! on the rose bed of my bosom rest!
Oh! speak unto me, that I may be thine?

Eud.
Shine thou my morning unto brighter day?

[Falls on his breast.
Alon.
Here, shalt thou sleep, as on a downy couch;
Here, on the velvet of my bosom rest!
And help my wings, with thine, to flee away.

Eud.
My mother! good heavens! I have delayed my time!
Unknown adventure! I must hie me home,

Alon.
Nay! stay, my love?—then meet me on to-morrow.—
[Exeunt Eudora.
Alonzo alone.
See how the fulgent sun, in yonder west,
Doth blush at this untimely precedent!
Behold him! how he leans his radiant head
Upon his hand, and on eternity!
While yonder clouds, new dipt, in heavenly dyes,
Look back, in crimson, on his beams, and weep!
As if to bid good bye to parting day;—
While, through yon rent appears the blue arcade,
Like blue-eyed woman in a love-sick hour!
As if they could transmute earth's sin and guile,
And mould man's image into heaven above.
Thy voice is softer than the Darian flute—
Thy words are sweeter than Arcadia's lute.
Eudora! could I deem her of this earth,
Perchance I might be happy in her love;
But, oh! the folly, and methinks, the crime,
To woo an angel from the heavens above.—
Enter Angeline.
Sweet Angeline! how art thou?

Angeline.
I am well.
Why do you look so sad, Alonzo?—say?

Alon.
I pray thee minister in fervent smiles.
Thy smiles are like the jewels of the sky,
Transfixed in equal beauty on the sea;
As if life's ocean were a canopy,
And I, a pilot to my home in thee!
See love's fond lightnings round thy temples play,
Like Venus trembling in unclouded skies;—
Which shines the brightest where perfection dwells.

Ang.
Like hope's fond tallisman, thou whisperest joy.

Alon.
Thy breast is like a mountain spread with snow,
On which thy locks, like angels, skip and play;
Thy steps make music like a trembling lyre—
Thine own pure heart the instrument and strings.

Ang.
Which shall be mute, till struck by thy dear hands.

Alon.
Oh! give me but one atom from thy lips,
And, like the healing medicine of old,
'Twill cure the heart which thou hast wounded so!
But tell me thou art mine, and life is joy;
Yes, all my life shall be but as one morn,
And that, a mayday, shining without clouds.

Ang.
Yes, I am thine, by yonder heavenly light!

Alon.
A lamb! a tender-hearted, gentle lamb!
Had I this earth—a home in heaven above;
And all the stars that shine in yonder sphere,
I would be poor, without thy richer self!

Ang.
Like thy sweet voice, they seem to whisper joy,
As if no future frost might all destroy!

Alon.
No; never shall my heart forget that morn!
Thou hast endowed each feeling with a thought,
Which doth, by magic, work upon the heart—
'Tis as a mountain set on fire by love,
Which burns, into its centre, all unseen!

Angeline
sings.
The sky, by day, is seen afar,
In one celestial hue;
By night, there is a brighter star,
Than all the rest in view;—
But soon, that sky may disappear,
That star, to darkness pass!
And so may fond affection near,
Assume the same—alas!

Alon.
I tell thee, love like this, can never tire,
But flags for moments, to revive again;
'Tis that bright spark which melts away in heaven!

Ang.
This heart, is as a lyre, of many strings!
And that which thou wouldst have, or sweet, or sour,
The same is at thy will, this day and hour!

[Embraces her.
Alon.
Is it that faithfulness, like Noah's dove?
Which hath no parallel on land or sea?—
This heart retains one crystal stream as free,
Which runs, immediate, from my soul to thine.

[Exeunt Angeline.
Ang.
'Tis thine, Alonzo,—adieu!

[Exeunt Angeline.
Alon.
Farewell!
The sun is almost set!—she has not come!
[Alone.
I see him beckoning to the watchful stars,
Which make the heraldry of fulgent heaven!
See how his sentinels stand out, to guard,
The skirts of time, and diadem old night!
Now, on the confines of celestial space,
They softly tread the downy couch of eve,
And walk in pensile beauty through the skye!
Trembling, with queenly innocence, to teach
This lower world the chasteness of the heavens!
The sun's red arrows cleave yon azure brow,
And spend their influence on the engirdled earth!

[Pauses.
Eudora
returns singing.
Come, oh! come to the bridal night!
Clouds are gone, and the sky is bright.
Come, oh! come to the sylvan bower,
Twilight fades, and the dew drops lower;
Smile, oh! smile, she's a virtuous shrine!
Give her praise in a song divine—
Come, oh! quickly come!

Alon.
Were I the music of a tuneful lyre,
To live in echoes, and in tones expire!—
To pass off gently to a world of dreams,
And die in melody that never dies!—
I'd change existence with infinite will,
And live in echoes, and be music still.—
[Embraces her.
Oh! Eudora! thou, dearest to my heart!
That gentle voice hath settled in my thought!
Come, sing again, my love! and joy be thine.—
[Sings.

Alon.
Oh! joy!

Eud.
Away! I have delayed my time!
(Frightened.
What will my mother think of this?

Alon.
Why hunt for absent woes when none are nigh?
And, if she will not let thee be content,
I have thy legacy—'twill bring her down!

Eud.
And wouldst thou have me disobey my mother?

Alon.
Her love's maternal love, which ends in hope!
In welfare, and in virtuous rectitude.—
My love is not a mother's love, but more!
'Tis love that groweth, and keeps pace with joy,
Marks down each quiver of thy lip—each smile!
Makes music of thy steps, and hears thy voice,
With rapture, when all else, on earth, is still.
But does man's love stop here? no; 'tis not so!
He lives within thee, as his world of worlds!
Must lie down with thee, in voluptuous bliss,
Must nurture thee in love, till life is o'er;
And wake, to guide thee, on the future morn,—
This is man's love!—this is my love!—then stay!

Eud.
The sun is almost set! and I must go!

Alon.
Oh! stay my love! and set thy prisoner free!

Eud.
The stars are gathering now, as sentinels.
The fulgent sun lies down in tranquil peace!
Mantling his brow, with dark pavillion'd night,
And, at the birth-place of the primal morn,
Shakes hands with day, and leaves her in repose.
Farewell! I must be gone! indeed, I must!

Alon.
Be happy! this fond perquisite of love,
Is not an argument of future grief;
But clusters gathered from the vines of truth,
Which feeds expectancy on actual joy.
Be thou, unto me, as a cooing dove,
Which goest in quest of some immortal leaf;
Then come back laden to an ark divine,
And I will be the kindest of the kind.—
Nay, stay but one brief moment, that my life
May not be darkened, longing for thy light!
Oh! that I were a jewel in thy breast,
That thou might'st press me to thy tender heart,
And feed upon the sunshine of thy smiles—
Drink down the first born rivers of thy life;
And bathe existence in thy healthful blood.
Yes, swim about through all thy summer veins,
And anchor every feeling in thy soul.

Eud.
Now, I must leave thee, lest my absence here,
Leave wrong impressions on my mother's mind.

Alon.
I tell thee, say thou hast not seen me—
Tell her thou hast been to see a friend!
And tell her Frankfort will bear witness to't.

Eud.
And wilt thou not return, and see me home?

Alon.
'Tis best that I remain—they may suspect me.

Eud.
Suspect thee, Alonzo? suspect thee, what?
This speech imports some foregone thought of thine!
Presumptuous word! thou incubus to love!
Did mother know thou wert sincere,—the cause,—
Would she not turn her love to thy regard?
Yes, doat upon thee with familiar smiles!
You must remember, mother's love is great!
E'en as a mount above a mote hill stands,
So does my mother's love above the childless!
Then go, and she will be to thee, a mother!
And part of love for me, bestow on thee!

Alon.
You know what pains most people take to lie!
It gluts a fool to self-esteem, to think
Himself the author of the world's surprise!
Although the word were Ætna's red-hot flames,
A sword, with twenty edges, keen and sharp;—
Would wound his lips at every utterance!
So, he could leave a gash in other's hearts,
He'd let the poisonous adder hiss and bite!

Eud.
Then, I must be gone! farewell Alonzo!

[Shakes hands.
Alon.
Come to me again to-morrow, my love!

Eud.
At what time to-morrow shall I come?

Alon.
Meet me, my love!—this eve, in Sylvia's shade,—
In the evening, at the hour of six.

[Exeunt Eudora.
Alon.
Oh! what a joy were that sweet lapse of love,
Which make life's interim a sweet delight.
Oh! that my soul could drink of her its fill,
And sate life's longings with redoubled bliss!
The pure out-pourings of the draught would kill!
And hope would wing me, like a frightened dove,—
Like Israel's pillar, in the dead of night,
Which stood in heaven, a beacon to the host.—
[Pauses.
There is a secret whisper in this heart,
Called conscience!—'tis my life's embassador!
Whence doth it come?—from heaven? from earth? or hell?
'Tis like the bolt of Jupiter new hurled!
Like Neptune's trident in my heart transfixed!
It summons, from the temple of my soul,
Nature's high priest,—to mediate for virtue!
Should I not heed this voice?—what if I break,
The link which binds me to existence's self?
Oh! Conscience! why wert thou given to torture me?
If I unweld one link from nature's chain,
Wherewith I stand connected unto heaven,—
'Twill let me down to dark nonentity!—
To rise no more!—with devils damned!—in chains!
But hark! the zephyrs waft a soothing strain,
Methinks tis hers!—it settles in my heart!
Till all life's music mingles into love!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—Before a Tavern, in Frankfort.
Alonzo enters and meets Roland.
Roland.
Good day, Alonzo! what's the news?

Alon.
None!

Rol.
Why look so sad? are you in love?

Alon.
In love?
Do you suppose a man of sense would love?
Because he loved, look sad?

Rol.
Lord Byron loved until it broke his heart!
You'd better take a Sappho's leap from Leucate.
Tasso, Petrarch—Dante went mad for love!
The Poets, all, run mad, at run-mad love!

Alon.
He never “loved but one, and that loved one
Could ne'er be his!”

Rol.
Is that the way with you?
Frankfort is sleeping in the sultry sun,
And nothing now is going on! see here,—
Will you not legislate for us again?

Alon.
Is my election sure?

Rol.
I think it is.

Alon.
Well, I will never offer more!

Rol.
Why not?
I have my reasons, which you ne'er shall know!
You may, in time, propose some other man.

Rol.
Hast thou not seen the beautiful Eudora?

Alon.
Who is she?

Rol.
Deny it not—you know we're friends!
[Points at him.
If you have seen her not, the neighbours lie!
Eudora, daughter of Elvira.

Alon.
Ah?

Rol.
Perhaps your Angeline may love another?

Alon.
Perchance she may,—but who is this Eudora?

Rol.
Ah! not know the beautiful valley maid?
Who, born upon a rose-bed, without thorns,
Is, of the fairest, fairest one herself!
If you love Angeline, love not Eudora!
Love well, Eudora! but not Angeline!

[Strikes his shoulder.
Alon.
Who is she, of whom thou hast spoken so highly?

Rol.
She is not rich, but she is much the more!
But mark!—I tell you, not to give you pain—
A schoolboy friend of mine was sick of love;
But he is gone—your only chance is now.

Alon.
Where is he gone?

Rol.
To Mexico!—the sun!
He has been gone some time; he may be savage
E'er he comes again—you'd better mind your eye!
He means to marry her on his return.

Alon.
But, I have all her legacy in hand—
Yes, I have seen her—she is beautiful!

Rol.
Ah ha! I knew it—saw it in your face.
Good luck attend you: may you always prosper.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE III.

—A sylvan valley, in the vicinity of Frankfort.
Alonzo
enters alone.
There is the place where I'm to play the devil.
What has become of conscience? 'tis not here!—
It haunts me not—its habitation's changed!
'Twas restive at its home, disturb'd my thought,
And left the kingdoms of my soul at war!
That nightingale, call'd love, complains in song—
She sighs unvarying,—'tis one mellow wail!
But hark! the lark unlocks the gate of morn,
And lo! its levee lowers down dark clouds!—
My galliot now is on the raging sea,
And with my pampered self I'll while the hours,—
As if, Arabia, o'er Eutopia's isle,
Sent fragrance, floating on the wanton winds.
[Pauses.
Proud man! what art thou but a tender flower!
The blooming pageant of a passing hour!
To-day, a legatee of doubts and fears,
For fear to-morrow may be spent in tears!
A dying echo on a trembling lyre—
A living spirit, loathing to expire!
A wounded bird, denied an angel's wings!
A harp immortal, with ten thousand strings!
A rapturous element of living streams,—
A day of visions, and a night of dreams!
A sword suspended on a wall to rust,
A soul immortal, in a heart of dust!—
If all thou hast, and canst attain, is nought,
And buried are thine elements of thought?
And thus it is, we live and die on earth,
But without woman, what are mortals worth?
A grain of sand upon a desart shore,
Which meets the tide, and then, is seen no more!
Some gentle hand must first attune the lyre,
Then can the soul impart celestial fire!
'Tis but an instrument of many strings!
An ocean, watered from a thousand springs!
A paradise, where fond affections grow,
If nursed by women,—but if not,—'tis wo!
[Pauses.
The morning sun knows not, when he doth rise,
That clouds portend, to darken him at noon!
The damask down pours in, with radiant joy,
And so does she, with all her hopes, shine bright.
What's this?—my conscience has come back again!
Man! wilt thou tread upon that sacred thing?
Mould, with thy lust, such ugliness and grief?
And lop the tender roses in their bloom?—

Eudora
enters.
I may relent me yet, and make her mine!

Eud.
Relent, Alonzo? am I not thine own?

Alon.
What saidst thy mother, on thy brief return?

Eud.
She questioned me about my stay from home,
And told me, I had better mind—take care!

Alon.
Take care of what? to shun my company?

Eud.
No; keep these shining words of virtue bright.

Alon.
Let me kiss the nectar from thy tender lips.
We must go on—no chance can turn us back—

Eud.
You alarm me, Alonzo! am I thine?

Alon.
I cannot swallow down thy mother's words!
I long to be where I have never been,—
And long to see what I have never seen—

Eud.
I must return again.
[Takes her hand.
Mercy, Alonzo!

[Falls on one knee.
Alon.
Eudora! art thou not that living light,
Which shuts out chaos from my soul?
Thou shalt not go!—I have thee to myself.

Eud.
Be thou, unto me, as a branching tree,
And I, beneath thee as a feeble lamb!
Oh! if the winds blow fierce, do, hush the storm!

Alon.
Rise!—thy mother wish'd to win thee from me!

Eud.
Why dost thou speak so harsh! my mother loves thee!

Alon.
Loves me? 'tis no such thing!—there, say no more!
No; 'tis too late! I'd rather be a slave,
And plough your mother's land, than be the man
I am, and bear her private scorn!—'tis true!—
To have her cloud the daylight of my life!
And drop into love's chalice, wormwood—gall!
Which no Canathus ever wash'd away!
'Didst thou not feel a throbbing at thy heart,
When she advis'd thee to beware of me?
I'll be reveng'd—I'll bear no woman's scorn!

Eud.
Oh! Alonzo! she is kind to thee!

Alon.
Kind?
Persuade me black is white—there, say no more!
Were yonder rocky mountains massive gold,
Could I recall those words, I'd give them freely!—
Oh! Eudora! thou hast beguil'd my thought!
Go—get thee—meet me on to morrow eve,—
That I may banquet on thy beauteous charms.

Eud.
What dost thou mean, Alonzo? art thou mad?
Open thy wanton breast, and let in virtue!
Unlock the chambers of thy soul, and let
In prudence, let in sacred honour—trust!
Wouldst thou betray the trust repos'd in thee,
For that advantage which thou hast in hand!
Heap dust and ashes on my mother's head?
And drive me, loathsome, from myself and heaven?
Say, no, Alonzo! and I still am happy.

Alon.
Knowest thou the ordinances of my love?
Then hear maternal puling never more!

Eud.
What! despise my mother? I must be gone.

Alon.
Begone?—where to?—I say thou shalt not go!
This arm and hand protect thee!—thou must go!
I tell thee, by this heart, that loves thee well,
My soul is kindled into rapturous flight!
Here, I have a jewel—wear it near thy heart,
[Gives it to her.
Recount the happy days and hours we spent,
Which none have realiz'd like I and thou;
For which no substitute was ever found,
When ev'ry whisper was a vow of truth.
Go, meet me on this very eve—farewell!
[Exit Eudora.
The sky above me is Italian blue,
[Alone.
As day leans westward to enchanted night;
Which looks on man's creation with a love,
As deep, as from this earth to heaven on high.
While I am here, in love's lascivious garb,
Betraying truth, and feeding lust on virtue!—
The which, to think on, makes me loathe myself,
And hate the birth which made me such a fool!
Oh! Angeline! my love! and if my tears
Were tests of my affection, call me kind!—
They flow as if I had ten thousand thorns,
To root from out a long destracted heart!—
[Weeps.
What tale is this, to woo me from my joys?
By heavens! I'd loose my life—Eudora's mine!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

—Kentucky River.
Enter Hunters, with Guns and Game.
First Hun.
Did you not see a ladye in the grove?

Second Hun.
I saw a female form, adorn'd in white.
With tresses all dishevel'd on her neck,
Who held within her hand, a scarf as fair.

First Hun.
Did you not see a gentleman pass by?
Who follow'd down the sombre vale, in haste?
What can that mean? she seem'd to loathe his sight!
He overtook her, and she sat her down,
And seem'd as if distracted with some thought!

Second Hun.
By heavens! they walk'd far o'er the distant hill!
'Tis strange! their actions speak too much, for right!
Perhaps she is an orphan in distress!
You may depend—its no concern of ours.

First Hun.
Come, let us drink, and take to rest awhile.

Second Hun.
No; let us to the village—I'twil soon be dark.

First Hun.
The moon will shine—how will you vote?

Second Hun.
Well, I'll give Alonzo my vote,—I think.

First Hun.
Oh, no! he has resign'd—'tis now, too late.

Second Hun.
Ah! well, I do not care—come, take a drink;—
[Drinks.
Now, let's go on, we'll reach the village soon.

First Hun.
'Tis strange Alonzo should resign?

Second Hun.
It is—

[Exeunt omnes.
Alonzo enters, with downcast looks, as if some misfortune had befallen him.
Alon.
My very heartstrings into terror burst,—
Tuned o'er the highest pitch of agony!
While nature, striving to undo her deeds,
Doth flutter, like a wounded bird, in dust!
Each life pulse of this heart, now caged, expands,
And strikes my splintered ribs, to mangle more!
Each crimson string, by slow degrees, crack loose,
And burn my cheeks with everlasting shame!
While fiery blood leaps through my burning veins,
And washes down my heart, to waste my life.
The past in happiness is gone forever,
And lends the present only sterner grief!
We only feel the joys we now enjoy;
And fail to keep the joys we have enjoy'd!
Look, now, through memory's darkened glass,
Into the gulf of unrequited grief!—
My poor Eudora!—with thyself, alone?
Now stretch, damned heartstring, till you break!—
Break up life's anguish, deeper than the sea!
My poor Eudora!—She is left alone!—
Now, my conscience tells me, marry her—No!
By heavens!—I must be there!—I must be there!—
Else some vile wretch seduce her back again.
I will not go—lest she run mad with grief!
Oh! Angeline!—this night, I wed with thee,—
Then heap, Olympic woes on hills of grief!
Oh! my heart! I wish it could be so—
How can Eudora be my wife?—she can't!
[Weeps.
These tears are from the gulfs of human wo!
This wound—this punctur'd wound! can never heal,
By all the surgery on earth—'tis done!
And here!—the vessel which once held my tears,
[Srikes his heart.
Is one eternal flaw,—one fractur'd wreck!—
And every crack is leaking out my life!
Let nature reinstate herself again.—
What's this? another heartstring on the stretch?—
Burst, foul offender! burst! and let me rest!
Let life run into all her brief extremes,
And nature feed on settled agony!—
Now, dash remembrance from my restive soul,
And live upon forgetfulness!—make hope
Lif's bitterness console, and kill the past!
Feed on my heart at once! then, gorge thyself!
Tear—drag—rend humanity in twain!
Thou vile-anointed, hell-deserving wretch!—
Now, like an infant, tir'd of its dull nurse,
Grow peevish of existence, and the world!
Live!—die incessantly, for one lone hand,
And that borne from me, as a mountain curse
To poor Eudora!—take that thought away!
Oh! for a sea to drown this living fire!—
Sieze on him, terror! Vengeance! take revenge!
Pursue the villain throughout all the earth,—
What's this? conscience? death! Satan! wrath and hell!
My head! my heart! my soul!—the world is on me!—

[Rushes out.