University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

BIRTHA, THULA, ASTRAGON.
Birtha.
Are these the Comforts of a Bridal-Day?
The Sighs of Ecstasy are sunk in Sobs
Of Bitterness. A Prison deep, and dreary
As the dark Mansions of the Dead, receive Him,
Receive my Lord and Husband! Oh, my Heart,
What Hoards of Rapture didst thou fondly promise,
What golden Scenes, what Flows of endless Joys,
What Calms of Fortune, and what Smiles of Love!
Instead of these, O Heav'ns, instead of Blessings,
The baleful Stars have pour'd their Curses on me
And empty'd all the Vials of their Wrath.
But why on me, ye Stars, but why on me?
How have my tender Years provok'd your Rage,
And what has been my Crime? for sure, o sure
It is no Crime to love as I have lov'd,
So chastly, tenderly as I have lov'd!
Then why these Plagues on me? If Love be Guilt,
Who, who is innocent?

Enter Astragon.
[Astragon.]
What lovely Mourner,
What Daughter of Affliction wounds my Ear
With such sad Accents? ah—it is my own,
My poor, dear Birtha, 'tis my only Child!
What ails my Love? what Misery unheard of
Provokes this deep and overflowing Sorrow?
Say, tell me; that thy Father with the Wing
Of Tenderness may guard Thee from thy Sorrows.

Birtha.
No, rather curse me; for my Woes are such
So black with Fate, that not a pitying Pow'r
Dare spread one Ray of Comfort on my Soul
Or lift me kindly into Joy again.
Despair has drag'd me down into her Cave,
And chain'd me there for ever—O my Father!

Astragon.
What? shall I curse my Child? no, Birtha, no:
May the best Wishes of a dying Mother
Pour'd for her Infants, weeping round her Bed
In all the Agonies of artless Sorrow,
Encompass thee about with dearest Blessings.
But say what sudden Stroke of Fate has sunk Thee
So very low, that Hope has left my Child,
That Hope, the last of Friends, has left my Birtha?

Birtha.
Oh!—do not break, my Heart, before my Tongue
Has told the Tale of Misery; but then
In a long Sob dissolve my Life away.
But do not break before my Father know
The Pangs I feel, and their most dismal Causes
That he may pity me: and sure He will,
For he has ever been the best of Fathers,
Most loving and belov'd! and see, He weeps,
Poor, good Old-man He weeps before He knows them,
What must He then, what must He when He hears?
What Heart-felt Stings, what bleeding Drops of Nature!
—But I will spare his Peace: Why shou'd I wound Him,
Why drink the Fountain of my Life, and lay
His venerable Greyness in the Dust?

Astragon.
Yet tell me, tho' thy every Accent blast me,
And shrivel up my Being like a Scroll.
Tell me, for I am on the Rack? what said I?
The Rack is softer Ease than Beds of Roses.
Uncertainty is Death, is more, is Hell—

Birtha.
First, I am marry'd, there, O there I fall—

Astragon.
Marry'd? I hope to Gondibert.

Birtha.
To Gondibert.

Astragon.
And can thy Marriage with that Noble Youth,
And gentlest of his Sex too, give This Pain.

Birtha.
O that undoes me! 'tis the Pang of Pangs,
To think the dear, the tender, gentle Youth,
Just when the Holy Priest had made us One,
Just when He breath'd the fondest Vows of Love
That ever fill'd a Virgin's Ear with Rapture,
And sigh'd, and smil'd unutterable Softness,
That He shou'd then be ravish'd from my Arms,
That then the Bolt of Fate shou'd hurl Him from me,
Shou'd hurl Him thus for ever—'tis too much—
I sink—I hope the Hand of Death is on me.
My Father, Oh my Father!—

Falls into his Arms.
Astragon.
O my Child!—
Run, Thula, fetch the Life-restoring Drops,
The Aromatick Stream of Herbs and Flow'rs
By Chimick Forces drawn to stay the Soul
Just fleeting to the Stars, and call it back
To animate again the pallid Clay.—
Awake, my Birtha! O my Child! my Child.
Why wilt thou leave thy Aged Father thus
To Pain, to Grief, to Wretchedness for ever?
Thou only Comfort of my Eyes, awake,
Prop of my Life, and Glory of my Age,
Thou dear, dear Image of thy Mother's Sweetness,
Awake, and bless thy Father with thy Beauties,
Gild his Grey Hairs with thy returning Beams,
And do not leave me on the Verge of Age!
For who shall close my Eyes, when thou art gone?
Who pay the last sad Duties at my Grave?
Who pour the Stream of Sorrow on my Herse,
Or sooth my hovering Spirit like to Birtha?

She revives.
Birtha.
O—oh—Why am I curst to Life again.
And does the Grave too envy me its Darkness,
Nor will it kindly gape and take me in?
My Father! am I in your Arms again?
I hop'd e're this that Life had left its Mansion,
Nor wou'd have staid with one so curst as I am.
O how I long to mingle with the Dust,
To mingle with my Mother's cold, cold Ashes
And warm Them to receive and blend with Yours.
O Death, Death, Death, borrow the Wings of Time
For now thou art too slow.

Thula.
Break, break, my Heart!—

Astragon.
Forbear to talk thus.—Yet I hope that Heav'n
Will smile in favourable Blessings on us.
Come, my dear Birtha, Thula shall inform me
Of thy Misfortunes, and I'll strive to aid Thee
With all a Father's Care, and Mother's Fondness.

[Exeunt.