University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—The Castle Chapel.
Jaromir. Bertha.
JAROMIR.
What, Bertha, is it you? I little thought
The shrouding mantle, and the hurried step,
Which raised my wonder at this midnight hour,
So cold, so damp, were those of mine own love;
I little dream'd this dreary chapel held
So fair a saint.

BERTHA.
I pray thee do not speak to me; I feel
As if the dead were conscious of our presence;
And human tenderness, and human hope,
Were impious before them. Nay, but hark!
I hear a strange low sound, like grief suppress'd,
Debarr'd from words, and breaking out in sighs.

JAROMIR.
I hear it too; the wild wind in the pines,
The mournful music of an autumn eve.
What brought thee here, to scare thyself with thoughts
That make their own reality?

BERTHA.
To pray.
Alas! for thee too much have I forgot
My orisons beside my mother's grave:
Till lately, never did a day go past
Without some scatter'd flowers, some holy hymn,
That kept affection fresh with piety.
It is a beautiful, a bless'd belief,
That the beloved dead, grown angels, watch
The dear ones left behind; and that my prayers
Are welcome to my mother's ears, as when
I knelt a lisping infant at her knee;
And that her pure and holy spirit now
Doth intercede at the eternal throne:
And thus religion in its love and hope
Unites us still—the mother and her child!

JAROMIR.
Ah, Bertha mine! thy childhood was thrice bless'd,
Thy young mind sanctified, and after life
Made holy by the memory of the past.
I knew no mother's care to teach my lips
Those prayers that like good angels keep the heart
From uncurb'd passions, that lay waste and curse.
But Bertha, my sweet Bertha! thou shalt be
My soul's religion, and my prayers will rise
Welcome and purified when blent with thine.
But come, methinks the funeral urn has lent
Its marble to thy cheek: thy hair is wild;
The dew has half unloosed its graceful curl.
The lamps around burn dim in the thick air:
Come, let me wrap my cloak around thee, love;
Thou art too delicate for such a night.
Why didst thou leave thy chamber?

BERTHA.
My nurse—O Jaromir! she told to-night
A history of our house. I could not sleep,—
The fear of its deep terror, like a ghost,
So haunted me; I sought my mother's grave;
It seem'd a sanctuary,—O Jaromir!
Have you not heard of her—“The Ancestress?”

JAROMIR.
An excellent ghost story. I have led
A life too stirring for those vague beliefs
That superstition builds in solitude:
But you, my gentle lady of romance,
Whose youth has pass'd in an old castle, dark
With overhanging pines; whose twilight hours
Are spent in ancient galleries, where the walls
Are hung with pictures of grim ancestors;
Who art familiar with the plumed knights
Whose effigies keep guard in the old hall,
On whose black panels of the carved oak
The sunshine falls in vain; no wonder thou
Shouldst yield these marvels such a ready faith:
But, though I fain would share thy every thought,
Feel—hope—fear—any thing like thee—at this
I cannot choose but smile.

BERTHA.
Nay, Jaromir!
Who shall deny the spiritual influence
Of the unquiet dead?—a mystery
The hidden, and the terrible.

JAROMIR.
Come, come,
This shall be argued by the cheerful fire.

BERTHA.
Look there, look there! My God, it is her face!

[The Ancestress rises from the tombs, but only visible to Bertha, as Jaromir is turned from her.
JAROMIR.
What foolish fear is this? My Bertha, speak!
Good saints! but she is senseless.

[Carries her out.