 | THE SECOND PICTURE. Adrian, the neophyte |  |
THE DREAM OF EARTH.
“And on the throne of my soul, sits a fair image—but
not of Christ or God! An image of
beauty with shadowy eyes—full, liquid and black
as night—eyes that dart passion; and lips, ruby
with health, parting like severed rose buds, and
murmuring tones of music, that madden my very
brain!
“And oh, along each cheek, flushing with
life, are floating tresses of midnight hair—dark
night mingling with the first warming flush of
rose-hued day—and a single tress, dark, waving,
and glossy, falls twining round her neck of alabaster,
and rests in all its beauty upon the bosom
with its globes of snow. 'Twas thus when I saw
her last—but an hour since! That tress rises
with the throb of thought—it sinks with the ebbing
sigh. 'Tis the dark buoy of her soul, floating
o'er passion's wave, floating above the depths,
where passion's hopes lie anchored! And she
never can be mine!”
He started to his feet and paced the floor. The
rosary fell from his hand, and the cross rang with
a clanging sound upon the tesselated stone.
“Holy cross”—he cried, starting round and
gazing wildly upon the fallen emblem—“To me
thou hast been full of high hope and hallowed
joy. Father nor mother, brother nor sister hath
the orphan, but I have looked upon thee, and He
on Calvary stood before me, the Virgin was by
These were father, mother, sister and brother, to
me—and I was happy. Now! Oh, God! she never
can be mine!”
Again and again he paced the floor of stone,
again were his hands clasped wildly across his
breast, and his voice once more startled the air
with its sounds of mockery and despair.
“Lord Urban Di Capello”—he murmured—
“Rich, young, fair-tongued, and gallant in bearing!
The pride of Florence—the boast of her chivalry!
And can he love her? As I love, can he love?
Would he give his soul, his heaven, his all—in
life or death—would he give his God for her?
He loves as the gay gallant can love—but all this
madness of passion—this phantasy of affection—
this despair of heart—these can never wake a
thought within his bosom! Urban of Capello—
Rose of Ellarini! May the God of Heaven pity
me—but my soul is lost!
And sinking on the marble floor, in the solemn
voice of the olden time, the student sent up his
soul to Heaven in prayer, and as the memories of
Religion, the sanctities of enthusiasm, and the
imaginings of hallowed hope, fell wild and trembling
from his lips, the warm and gushing tears
came streaming from his eyes, and—Adrian the
Neophyte was with the olden time again.
“I will forget her!” he exclaimed, bounding on
his feet—“I will see her again and again, and as
I look upon her, I will conquer this madness of
soul! The struggle is hard—the reward is grand!
Adrain, the Neophyte, will come forth from the
ordeal of fire, unscathed and unharmed! And now
I will away to the mountain solitudes! No sleep
for me this night—but the clear sky and the free
air! I am ready for the ordeal!”
And as he sprang with a bounding step, thro'
the narrow door of his cell, his full grey eye
flashed with the light of hope, and his cheek
with the ruddy glow of youth, but —
The hollow laugh of supernatural omen broke
over the silence of the cell.
| THE SECOND PICTURE. Adrian, the neophyte | |