University of Virginia Library

2. Part Second.

Sequestered Woodland Scenery—Early Morning.
Seymour
The music of the morning,—the loud hymn
Of the wing'd tenants of the woodland, and
The rushing song of the breathing winds above them,
With the deep voice of falling waves, and faint
The far, long-swelling peal of village bells,—
Break full and cheerfully upon night's stillness.
The summer sky is cloudless, and the air
Breathes with a clear, cold freshness, as the Hours
Roll back the flood-gates of the eastern light,
And full the Spring-tide of the morning gushes.
Dark in its sheeted mirror, where yon stream
Spreads its blue waters to a wider bound,
The woodland waves reflected, and below
As fair a Heaven expands as that above,
With the lark's wild-wing fanning in the ether.
So! heralding Hyperion's advent, bright
The morning star glows like an orb of fire,
Full in the Orient, where the deeper blue
Of Heaven is ting'd with streaks of silver light,
And other stars seem joyless in the day-spring.
If in these rolling spheres, as man has deem'd,
The creature in the great Creator's image made,
Though of a higher rank than ours, inhabits,
A link in the great chain of being, form'd
Connecting man with angels,—or if there,
Spirits of higher and of holier birth,
Have their allotted dwellings, with what eyes
Did they look down on our rebellious earth
When waters were its grave, and man in death
Had lost his rich inheritance of joy?
O, did they weep when clouds of sin were round it,
And as a wandering planet it rolled on;
Unheard the music of the verging spheres,
Though not unseen the beauty of their brightness?
Or purified from tears, did they behold,
With pitying eyes, our frailty and transgression?—
But man may task his wisdom all in vain,
To light the clouded mystery of what
The free imagination may aspire to!
And reason's pinion stoops to earth again,
Tho' visionary fancy journeys on!—
Now as the morning blushes o'er the hills,
And brighter glows, I'll turn my feet along
The path that winds beside the river's margin. (Goes out.)


Gertrude and a Peasant Girl, enter on the opposite side.
Peasant Girl
This way he passed but deadly pale he was,
And his wild eye was gazing on the sky
As he would read his fate amongst the stars!
I pray thee not to follow—he might hurt thee!—

Gertrude
Hurt me, child!—never!—we have grown
Together from our childhood, and since then
Never has been my name on Seymour's lips,
Except in kindness; and the early bud,
That friendship plac'd between us is full-blown
Into the flower of love. And think'st thou now
That he would hurt me?

Peasant Girl
Ah! I could not tell,
But then he look'd so wildly, and his cheek
Was pale as death, and then was flush'd again,
And chang'd as did my brother's ere he died!
His step was hurried too, and now and then
He stopp'd and spoke, but it was to himself,—
None else was near.

Gertrude
Hush! child, you frighten me!
And yet say on! what heard or saw you more?

Peasant Girl
I know no more: for he had pass'd me then,
As I was standing on the trembling plank,
That bridges yonder brook. Now let us go!

Gertrude
Ah no!—not yet!—say, which way did he go?

Peasant Girl
He took the left-hand path that leads this way,
And farther onward to the waterfall.
Farewell.

(Goes out.)
Gertrude
O Seymour, this is then the fruit
Of thy long studies in the hours of sleep!
Thy midnight cares have blasted thee, and wither'd
The zeal and beauty of thy youth away,
And the rich pride of dawning manhood, which
An early piety kept holy, and
Free from pollution, pure, and passionless,
Unless the gush of wild and youthful feeling,
And brighter love, that knew no shade nor change,
Were deem'd thy passions. But the glow of health
Has faded like the rainbow's tints away,
And the deep hectic flush is on his cheek,
That, like the sere red leaf in Autumn, speaks
Decay and dissolution! He is here!—

Seymour and Gertrude
Seymour
Ah, Gertrude! I had wish'd to meet you here,
For I have had forebodings sad and fearful,
Of coming ill; and I have risen up
To feel the morning breezes fresh and free,
Breathing along the woodland, and to hear
The cheerful song of lighter hearts than mine.
I had a dream last night, and it has left
Dark traces on my mind, who am not wont
To take much thought of dreams. But this has spoken
Of the mysterious future, with a voice
That will be heard and listen'd to, though fearful.
I thought the freshness of the morning air
Might cheer my spirit, but I strive in vain
To chase away those shadow'd images,
That becon dimly to my waking thoughts,
And bid them follow on, as in my dreams.
Nor is my heart less troubled; for which way
I turn, faintly before my eyes they move.
This was my dream. I thought I stood at night
In a sick chamber by the couch of pain,
When life and death were struggling for the mast'ry.
Waving and dim a lamp stood by the couch,
And soon was wasted and went out! And then
Deep was the struggle of mortality;—
The flame of being quiver'd and was quench'd.
The moon shone dimly down!—Gertrude 't was thee!
I touch'd thy brow, 't was cold and pale.—I spake
But silence seal'd thy lips; and I awoke.
Trembling and faint I rose, but still that dream
Floats faint and fearfully before my eyes!—

Gertrude
And dwell thy thoughts so long on such a dream?
A buoyant spirit as thine used to be,
And a mind strong by nature, would not deem
That such as these were proper themes for thought.
But love shall bring forgetfulness of this!
And by the friendship of our earlier years,
The plighted vows of our affection, and
Our thoughts and hopes of better days to come,
I do beseech thee to forget such dreams!—

Seymour
That love must have an end full soon, unless
It can survive the ruin of the grave!
And all the tenderness of former years,
Present affection, and our future hopes,
Be wither'd with me or bloom o'er the tomb!

Gertrude
O do not look so wildly on me, Seymour,
Nor let thy thoughts be of the grave. Long years
And happier shall yet be ours, and love
Shall smile, whose smile survives the grave.

Seymour
Listen, dear Gertrude, for these words may be
The last my lips shall utter on this theme!
When the long sleep of death shall come upon me,
Let that affection which through sorrow glows,
That love which warmed our hearts in earlier years,
Linger around the grave that keeps my dust,
And consecrate the melancholy place,
And let it fade,—if it should ever fade,—
As does the echo of the mellow flute,
Breathed o'er the sweet and silver-chorded lyre.
That love impressed so deeply on thy heart,
Should be the record of departed life,
Nor perish sooner than the marble stone,
That chronicles the name of him beneath!

(The scene closes.)