University of Virginia Library

1. PART FIRST.

Scene.—A small chamber in a cottage—A lattice with woodbine, through which the moon shines—Summer, Midnight— The Poor Student sitting by a dying lamp.
Seymour.
Why do thy watches speed so fast, sweet Night?
Why does the lamp grow dim upon my vigils,
And the spirit falter, when the wings
Of the imagination would go on?
Why is the flesh weak, and the eye so dim
With over-watching, and yet know no rest?
'Tis that the spirit hath not strength to bear
The burthen of our gross mortality!
'Tis that the heart bows in its solitude
To patient study and its midnight care;
And, like the silver lute-chord, when o'erstrained,
Wearied by long and frequent watchings, breaks.
Sad is th' inheritance of pain, that waits
The child of genius and the son of song!
Sad the return for unrepining toil,
And wasting study o'er the midnight lamp!
The broken spirit, and the ambitious pride
Of buoyant youth crush'd down to earth forever;
The troubled eye, the brow of pale cold beauty,
The glow of brighter hope decaying there;
And feverish dreams, that haunt the couch of sleep;
These are the seals of genius, and the crowns
Of thorns, with woven flowers, her sons must wear
Upon their aching brows until they bleed.
And thou art beautiful, thou waning moon,
Whose silver lamp is hung in yon blue sky,
Shedding a glow of melancholy light!
And I have lov'd thee in my saddest hour,
When other loves had faded; and in thee
Have found a power to soothe, when was no other,—
A loneliness, that answer'd to my own.
And thou art far upon thine orbit, whilst
Around thee countless hosts of stars are met,
And rolling spheres are at their midnight hymns.
Sweet through the open'd lattice, and around
The quiv'ring woodbine the cool night breeze plays,
And fans with trembling wing my feverish cheek.
Nature looks lovely; and the moonlight sleeps
On the blue distant mountain, whilst the voice
Of dashing waters from the Summer vale
Breaks on my ear. And this is beautiful!
But I am sick at heart, and faint!—

Seymour and Gertrude
Gertrude
O Seymour,
Still do thy vigils keep thine eyes from sleep!—
Still does the wasting lamp shine dim upon
The midnight page, that soon shall be to thee
The chronicle of sorrow and disease!
Cease from thy study,—'tis the hour of sleep,
And thou hast need of sleep, for thou art weary.

Seymour
Gertrude, kind Gertrude, slumber will not seal
My aching eyes, until the night is spent
And the gray morning has begun its watches.
Why then should I lie down upon my couch
Of restless fever, where my limbs will tremble,
My lips be dry and parch'd, and my brow burn?
No! at the open lattice I will stand,
And gaze on nature with her moonlight veil.
The night is pleasant to me, and the breeze
Comes from the wood-crown'd mountain, with a light
And lively song, to kiss my pallid brow,
That is already fever'd!—Take my hand.

Gertrude
Alas, how hot and dry it is! O Seymour,
I fear thou art not well! thy pulse is high,
Thy cheek is deadly pale, and thy hand trembles!
O watch no longer; thou art wearied by it,
And it is over late, for midnight wanes.

Seymour
Were I to seek my couch, I could not sleep—
And if I could, strange dreams would visit me,
Thoughts of the mournful yew, and of the grave;
And this would be but weariness; besides,
The morning is not yet; and I have wished
The morning breeze was fresher and more chill.
My hours of midnight study are not many,
Why should I lessen them by restless sleep?

Gertrude
Thy watchings, Seymour, are too long and frequent:
For I have noted them, and often seen
The light of thy dim taper tremble on
The leafy woodbine that hangs round thy lattice,
When others were asleep, and thou didst think
No eye was looking on thy patient toil.
To-night I knew thou wast not sleeping, and
I came to warn thee, that 't was time to rest.

Seymour
Dear Gertrude, I am faint and sick to-night,
And very sad, ev'n more than I am wont.
But though I may not sleep, yet thanks to thee
For those kind words of thine and kinder thoughts:—
For ever was the tone of feeling higher
Within thy bosom, than thy tongue could tell.

Gertrude
Thy wasted lamp is quiv'ring in its socket!
It has gone out,—and I must leave thee now.
Thy spirits will be lighter in the morning—
Good night! Good night!

Seymour
O go not yet, for I
Am very sorrowful, and fain would have
Thy voice to cheer me,—but thou too art sad.
How this hand trembles!—But look out and see
Where beautiful the setting moon goes down!
There are no mists about it, and no cloud
To dim its holy brightness at departing!
Thus, purified from all earth's grossness, would
My spirit bid the world and thee farewell!
For as in Heav'n her night-hours, so on earth
My days are number'd, and will soon be spent.
List! and thine ear will shortly hear the faint
And midnight music of the wind and wave
Swell o'er the upland and in distance die!
So shall I perish, and my memory,
Leaving no trace behind upon the earth;
Life's but a song of saddest harmony.
Thou saw'st the midnight lamp grow dull and dim,
Revive and fade by turns, and then sink down,
And with a pale and quiv'ring flame go out!
Cherish'd by thought and dim'd again by fears,
Such is the life of man!—and so the lamp
Of his existence often beams the brightest
When lowest in the socket, till at last
Wasted by one great effort, it goes out.
For oft the brightest glow is on the cheek
Where death has set his fatal seal most firmly,
And flow'rs are often found upon the grave's brink.

Gertrude
Thy thoughts dwell too much on the mournful grave,
Dear Seymour!—Would that thou wert happier,
Knowing no sorrow in thy dreams by night,
Nor in thy waking thoughts. Oh! I should be
Of cheerful heart and lighter spirit then;
And thy poor mother, though bow'd down with age,
Would bear the burthen of her years less sadly!—
Alas! I know not how it is, that still
My feelings have a melancholy tone,
That suits the sadness of thy countenance,
And then are livelier, when the cheerful glow
Of health and gladness is upon thy cheek.
Sleep, then, and rest thee; and may morning find
Thou hast a lighter heart than now! Good night!—

Seymour
Good night, dear Gertrude; and bright dreams be thine,
Till morning comes again, with her gemm'd wings
Waving in beauty on the eastern hills!— (Gertrude goes out.)

And roll the wings of night so swiftly on?—
They move more slowly now!—for nought so much
As care and sorrow stay the feet of Time.
And is it wise that man, who at its close
Becomes so avaricious of this life,
Should deem the hours time's hand has portioned out
As his inheritance, pass off too slowly?
Why should men say, that life is short, and yet
Waste the bright morning of their younger days?
Or that the Autumn-harvest brings no fruit,
When Spring's sweet blossoms faded through neglect?
Alas! Philosophy may never teach
The lesson from experience we can learn,
That life, which seems through hope's perspective glass
An age, is but a day to memory's eye.

(The scene closes.)