University of Virginia Library

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.