University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

The Wood.—Henry and Murray.
Hen.
I cannot think you mean it; 't is some dream
Of your excited fancy. You are easily
Excited. You saw a nodding aspen,
For what should Mary's figure here?

Mur.
It was her figure, I am persuaded.
They tell strange tales, they say she has gone mad,
That something's crazed her brain.

Hen.
Is that the story? I have been mad myself.
Sometimes I feel that madness were a good,
To be elated in a wondrous trance,
And pass existence in a buoyant dream;
It were a serious learning. I do see
The figure that you speak of, 't is Mary.

Mur.
I'll leave you then together. (Enter Mary.)


Hen.
(To Mary.)
You have the way alone; I was your guide
Some weeks ago, to the blue, glimmering lake.
I trust these scenes greet happily your eyes.

Mary.
They are most sweet to me; let us go back
And trace that path again. I think 't was here
We turned, where this green sylvan church
Of pine hems in a meadow and some hills.

Hen.
Among these pines they find the crow's rough nest,
A lofty cradle for the dusky brood.

Mary.
This is the point I think we stood upon.
I would I knew what mountains rise beyond,
Hast ever gone there?

Hen.
Ah! ye still, pointing spires of native rock,
That, in the amphitheatre of God,
Most proudly mark your duty to the sky,
Lift, as of old, ye did my heart above.
Excuse me, maiden, for my hurried thought.
'T is an old learning of the hills; the bell!
Ah! might the porter sometimes sleep the hour.

[Exit Henry.
The Sun is setting.
Mary.
'T is all revealed, I am no more deceived,
That voice, that form, the memory of that scene!
I love thee, love thee, Henry; I am mad,
My brain is all on fire, my heart a flame,
You mountains rest upon my weary mind;
The lake lies beating in my broken heart.
That bell that summoned him to the dark cell,
Where now in innocence he tells his beads,
Shall summon me beyond this weary world.
I long to be released; I will not stay,
There is no hope, no vow, no prayer, no God,
All, all have fled me, for I love, love one,
Who cannot love me, and my heart has broke.
Ye mountains, where my Henry breathed at peace,
Thou lake, on whose calm depths he calmly looked,
And setting sun, and winds, and skies, and woods,
Protect my weary body from the tomb;
As I have lived to look on you with him,
O let my thoughts still haunt you as of old,
Nor let me taste of heaven, while on the earth,
My Henry's form holds its accustomed place.

[Stabs herself.