University of Virginia Library

3. Part Third.

The Waterfall, and the Grave of Seymour—Summer, Sunset.
Gertrude
And art thou here no longer? Has the voice
Of fearful destiny called unto thee,
And has his hand seal'd thy affectionate lips,
Forever and forever? I have watch'd
Until the going down of the bright sun,
And his last beam is sleeping on thy grave!
Thine is a dreamless sleep, that knows no waking,
But he shall shine upon the earth again!
The groves are green around me, yet full soon
Nature shall tune her harp of Autumn tide,
Winds wake upon the mountain, and a sound
Be in the valley of fast falling leaves,
Scatter'd and sere, and rustling; so must fade
The pride, the bloom, and beauty of the Summer,
And solemn Autumn in the garb of age,
And nature worn and weary soon decay.
But unto nature shall be youth again!—
She shall give birth to Spring, and Spring to flowers;
Summer and Autumn shall again go by
And frozen Winter,—circling round the earth.
But thou art in the grave,—that has no portal,—
The grave, where youth can never dawn again,
Where love is not, nor heard the voice of mirth,
Where is no fear, nor hope, nor tears, nor sadness,
Nor chance, nor change, like what are on the earth.
O mournful, mournful is the dashing wave,
Where bright and broken o'er the steep it rolls,
And gushes wild among its moss-grown rocks;—
This was his frequent and his favorite haunt,
At morning and at evening, and these groves
Have known his wanderings, and have heard the sighs
Of his so young, but worn and wasted spirit.—
And it is meet, that he should sleep at last,
In this wild spot, with which he was familiar,
That the same winds, that caught his sighs before,
Might breathe them o'er his low and lonely grave,
And the same boughs, whose shade he lov'd in life,
Should wave, mournfully wave above his slumber!—
Why am I here? The past with all its joys
And sorrows, and its smiles and tears, is gone!
The lamp of Hope, that beam'd in other days
A light of beauty on my happier years,
Is washed, dim'd, and gone! Why linger I?
I hear a mournful voice none else may hear!
I see a spectred form, that becons me!
It points me to the grave!—Seymour, I come.— (Goes out.)


Two Peasants
First Peasant
This is a lonely spot, yet beautiful,
That he has chosen for his silent rest
From this world's troubles,—for his last cold couch,
And his last slumber, long, but still not wakeless.
And yet if spirits from their graves come forth
To walk the earth at night-fall, and the spots,
That were the habitations of the dust
They tenanted, his spirit too shall haunt
These shadowing groves he loved so well in life,
And on the night-breeze melancholy speak.

Second Peasant
They say, that troubled spirits always walk,
While dust is mingling with its dust again,
And it would seem, that his, so sad in life,
Would not sleep quiet in its lonely grave,
Where is no silent fellowship in death,
And no communion with those gone before,
But would come back to visit us again.

First Peasant
Poor Gertrude, she will die of grief! For he
Was all her hope, and he is wither'd now!

Second Peasant
He died in peace: and yet 't is said sad sounds
Were heard at night, and he had seen sad dreams,
Ere yet his mournful spirit was set free.
Still it would seem that death was sweet to him,
If it were not that Gertrude would be left
Lonely and comfortless in this wide world.

First Peasant
Hist! hist! some one is here!

The Peasants and a Stranger
Stranger
Peace, gentle friends!—
Unless my truant feet have led me far
From the right path, the peasant pointed out,
'T is somewhere near this spot a person dwells
Known by the name of Seymour. I have come
With tidings that will be of joy to him
And those that are dear to him. Know ye
Aught of his dwelling?

Second Peasant
Stranger, it is there!

(Points to the grave.)
Stranger.
What!—in the grave?—The grave, so cold and silent!
Then is the hand that would have sav'd, too late!—
The voice, that would have call'd from tears to joy,
Unheard!—the friend, that would have cherish'd,
Come but to see the green turf on the grave
Of him, that cold neglect has wither'd!
But yet the friendship, that was ours before,
Shall not be crush'd by death's unsparing hand:
For as the impress of the seal remains,
Though the frail wax that holds it may be broken,
So youthful friendship lingers though the heart,
Where time more deeply had impress'd it, breaks!—
He had an aged mother with him, and
A maid of somewhat greener years. To them
The proffer'd gift may not be brought in vain.
And how bear they the chastening rod?

First Peasant
The mother
Relies upon a hope, that never falters!—
But Gertrude, she, so young is broken-hearted!

(A corpse is precipitated over the waterfall.)
Second Peasant
'T is she!—'t is she!—

First Peasant
Gertrude!—

Stranger.
Then nought is left,
Save 't is to light'n the burthen of Old Age,
And smooth a few short footsteps to the grave!—
Now lead me to the desolated dwelling,
Over whose threshold have the feet of death
So lately pass'd!

Second Peasant
This way the foot-path leads.

End of the Poor Student.