University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

ULFINORE, THULA.
Thula.
What? ever musing in these lonely Shades?
Some Beauty sure, must entertain your Mind,
Some City-Fair; for, as I came along,
Methought the Echoes seem'd to murmur Love.

Ulfinore.
'Tis Love, 'tis more, 'tis almost Adoration.
[Aside.
No, gentle Thula, I was bred to war,
And the rough Business of the Iron-field:
No Beauty sheds a Softness o'er my Mind.
The little God of Love's affraid of Arms:
Whene're He spys a burnish'd Shield, or Helmet,
Horrid with flaming Gold, He moves his Pinions,
His downy Pinions to the rural Walks,
And aims his Arrows at the blushing Maid,
Easily won; or else delights to wound,
The Shepherd, piping on the whiten'd Plains.
But I was wond'ring at the grateful Peace,
And Lassitude of quiet Bliss which reigns
Here, far from Courts, within your happy Groves.
Here I cou'd wish to dwell, but that my Duty
To Gondibert must draw me from your Shades.

Thula.
Why, Ulfinore?

Ulfinore.
Because the royal Aribert,
No doubt, will speedily invite my Lord,
For now his Wounds are heal'd, unto the Court,
And crown his Valour with the Princess' Beauty:
For so the King designs.

Thula.
Forbid it, Love!
The Duke with Oaths has promis'd beauteous Birtha
To-morrow's rising Sun shall see Them one.

Ulfinore.
What mean thy Words?

Thula.
They cannot want a Meaning;
To-morrow, holy Marriage makes Them One.

Ulfinore.
Marriage—To-morrow—Thou confounds me, Thula.

Thula.
Why, Ulfinore? She well deserves a Crown—

Ulfinore.
True She is fair as Heavn's unsullied Face,
And spotless as the Eye of Day: but then—

Thula.
What Then?

Ulfinore.
The King, I fear—

Thula.
'Tis well observ'd:
But I'll acquaint Them with thy kind Suspicions,
And hasten on their Marriage. Then, secure,
They'll live the Life of Gods, nor fear the King,
But grow immortal in each other's Arms.

[Exit.
Ulfinore Solus.
[Ulfinore.]
Then I am lost. To-morrow—what—no longer?
No Time's allow'd to finish my Design.
What shall I do? O whither, whither wander?
Where can I find the thornless Paths of Peace?
No Peace is left for Thee, unhappy Ulfinore.
Why didst thou gaze upon her fatal Beauties?
Why drink such pleasing Poison to thy Soul?
And, oh, oh, wherefore—wherefore didst thou Love?
Let dull Forgetfulness creep o'er thy Sense,
And close her dazling Beauty from thy Thoughts:
Yet still it flames in Fancy. Dye, then, dye:
O mournful State when Death alone can ease me!
But, tho' to Death I suffer, make Them Happy,
Heav'n, make Them Happy!—And They must be so
In one another's Arms!—Yes hear my Prayers,
Ye genial Deities, with Blessings crown Them
As everlasting as their mutual Love!
O may a little, pratling, beauteous Race
Reward their soft Endearments, smile around Them,
With all the Father's Virtue in their Minds,
And all the Mother's Lustre in their Eyes,
The Blossoms of their Joy, and Fruits of Love!
Then, when I moulder in my silent Grave,
And this rebellious Heart forgets to heave,
May Birtha then with pious Pity mov'd,
Shed one soft Tear, and say, “How well He lov'd!”