University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

A Garden.
Enter Ethel and Violenzia.
Eth.
Sing, Violenzia.

Vio.
Hark! the still air gives voice, and sings,
And music mounts on murmuring wings;
Grave silence, throned in upper skies,
Unfolds her silken slumbering eyes;
No voice but jars the ear of silence,
Save tuned breath, which doth 't no violence.

Eth.
Thou speak'st it sweetly, Violenzia;
Only thy voice discharms not holy silence.

Vio.
Look, how the heavy-foliaged elm-trees stand,
Like clustered pictures in the western sky;
And there a fainter blue doth still betray
Where bright Apollo had his bedding-place.
High overhead the angels light their lamps,
And with rich gifts and precious influence
Walk the night-wandering winds. Look up, my Ethel!
When on the glances of the upturned eye
The plumed thoughts take travel, and ascend
Through the unfathomable purple mansions,
Threading the golden fires, and ever climbing
As if 'twere homewards winging,—at such time
The native soul, distrammeled of dim earth,
Doth know herself immortal, and sits light
Upon her temporal perch.

Eth.
Wonder not at it,
Since often to our human temperaments
Things contrary inform—not semblances,
And mostly in immortal questionings;
Seeing we ourselves live in their opposite,
And sit in the circumference of death.
Violenzia!

Vio.
My Ethel?

Eth.
Turn thine eyes
From heaven, and look upon me.
Now tell me what thou seest.

Vio.
A dear face,
And image perfectly beloved.

Eth.
And I, in thee,
See such a gift as when I first possessed it
Did recreate my soul; yea, even yet
Doth make me sceptic of the heavenly shore.
For what needs Paradise by poets feigned,
Or those celestial gardens past the grave,
If here, on the condemned, slandered earth,
Perfect felicity visiteth? I, in thine eye,
Or the touch of that white hand, or thy low voice
Whispering thou lov'st me, have such full content
As nothing more can add to't.

Vio.
Oh, if thus ever!
Ever tell me thus thou lov'st me.

Eth.
Do I not?

Vio.
Ah, no! I think thou dost repent thyself
Of the dear hour that broke thy love to me;
And I, that know myself too much unworthy
Of the royal benefaction, too mean a vestal
To feed so rich a fire unquenchably,
May weep, and blame the jealous circumstance,
That such a treasure in my path did lay,
Who am no setting for so proud a gem.

Eth.
It is my love that will not let me speak,
And passion puts a silence on my tongue.
I have no gift of speech; and when I strive
To model that which beats so deeply here,
The dull air gives no echo, but deceives
With faintest semblance. Oh, for the poet's voice!
Within whose bosom no emotion breeds,
Or deep desire doth burn, or fancy sway,
But straight the fashioning brain gives it a shape,
And carves it out in sound of measured verse.
Were I a poet, my dear love should learn
How deep I love, that lack the art to show it.
And that thou mayst not doubt me, Violenzia,
Or think I would forego what is to me
The air of my soul's life, thy love, here stand with me,
And underneath the solemn silent stars,
And passion deep inspiring dark of night,
Let us our mutual vows enregister.

Vio.
With all my soul!

Eth.
Reverently, Violenzia;
For here we stand to bind a chain which neither,
With honour or true happiness, may unlink.
This love which ties our souls is the true wedlock;
And the formal after-ceremony, though essential,
Unites our lives alone, is the honourable bond,
Not the religious. Search thy soul, Violenzia;
If there be any doubt there lingering
If thou affect'st me truly—as well there may be—
We will defer until it be burnt out,
Or if it grow, break off. Tell me entirely
If thou dost love me.

Vio.
If it be to love thee,
To think the enfolding arm of any god
Abhorrent beside thine; in thine eye to live,
As if I thence drank the gold life-giving water;
If it be love to waste the nights in tears,
Because I have no gift that may repay
The least taste of thy affection; if it be love,
At the whisper of thy name, wherever heard,
To feel the life-blood stopping at my heart,
To know all things a blank, dearest friends' news
Trivial, all old distractions nothing worth,
But the empty time only impediment
That severs me from thee; to feel me unworth,
Yet to believe under thy tutelage,
As I do know my utmost should not want,
Something of this light frame might yet be moulded
Worthy of Ethel's wife; if it be love,
Which hath so changed my vain, inconstant spirit,
That I beweep frailties late gloried in,
And think this beauty, lately my life's idol,
And that I did believe outstarred all nature,
But worthy as the pleasure of thine eye;—
If these be love—Alas! I speak it coldly,
Violenzia loves, and dares avow it boldly.

Eth.
Consider yet my faults.

Vio.
Thou art all virtue.

Eth.
I am not, Violenzia. Of a spirit proud,
Over-constant, lost in thought, oft melancholy,
Unused in word or gesture to betray
Affections deepest felt; therefore cold seeming,
But in my heart most true, most true indeed;
I have more wants than I have wit to tell.
Bear with them, sweet.

Vio.
Ethel! I am not proud
To say I'll bear with them—rather I'll love them,
Thinking them part of thee. But for my faults!
Nay, I lack grace to name them. I'll hide them rather,
And root them out ere I become thy wife.

Eth.
Here with this ring I hoop thy finger round.
A jewel of great value, and ancestral,
And with it dedicate my fire of love,
Lighted by thee, and by no other fuel,
Now or henceforth, ever to be sustained,
To thy dear service. For ever thine, Violenzia.

Vio.
And take thou this one, which my dying mother
Gave me to this intent. O lofty Ethel,
I kiss thy lips, and am for ever thine.

Eth.
Look, the moon rises; fair stars wink and shine,
And through the overarching branches peep
To see our ceremonial. Sweet, good night.

Vio.
Good night, dear love. Ride you to-night away?

Eth.
To-night.

Vio.
And with the early morning I;
Arthur stays for me; we shall meet at court.
But late so fair—and now, look, clouds arise,
And the wind begins to blow. We shall have rain.
I think you are not ominous. Well, good night.

Eth.
Good night; soft-handed slumber shut your eyes!

[Exit Vio.
Enter Robert.
Rob.
What, ho! holla! Ethel, thou wandering spirit,
What mak'st thou with the stars? To horse! to horse!
Boot, ere the early cock doth sound his horn,
For we must ride full twenty miles ere morn.

[Exeunt.