 | The Bride's Tragedy |  |
Scene I.
A room in Mordred's cottage.The dead Floribel laid upon a couch. Lenora and Boy.
Len.
Why dost thou weep, thou little churl?
Boy.
Alas!
I need not say.
Len.
Boy, boy; thou'rt wicked; thou wouldst have me think
I have no Floribel, but thou shalt see
How I will make her live.
I have no Floribel, but thou shalt see
How I will make her live.
It is the morning,
And she has risen to tend her favourite flowers,
And, wearied with the toil, leans o'er her seat
In silent languor. Now I will steal in,
Softly: perchance she sleeps. It's plain she hears not,
Or she would leap all-smiling to my arms;
I wish dear Mordred were awake to see
How the sweet girl will start and welcome me,
At my first speaking: but I'll wait awhile,
And save the pleasure. Ah! thou pretty silence,
I know thou'rt thinking what a happy cot
'Twill be when our loved patient is quite well.
Yes, you shall take him his first walk; he'll lean
Upon that arm, and you shall show the plants
New set in the garden, and the grassy path
Down to the church.
And she has risen to tend her favourite flowers,
And, wearied with the toil, leans o'er her seat
In silent languor. Now I will steal in,
Softly: perchance she sleeps. It's plain she hears not,
Or she would leap all-smiling to my arms;
I wish dear Mordred were awake to see
How the sweet girl will start and welcome me,
At my first speaking: but I'll wait awhile,
And save the pleasure. Ah! thou pretty silence,
I know thou'rt thinking what a happy cot
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Yes, you shall take him his first walk; he'll lean
Upon that arm, and you shall show the plants
New set in the garden, and the grassy path
Down to the church.
Now I will stand behind her,
So,—she must drop her head upon my bosom,
As she looks up. Good-morrow to thee, sweet;
Now for her gentle cry; she's turning round.
No—for she wont seem startled, but pretend
To have heard my coming. Why art thou so slow?
Sweet little wag, I know thou'rt not asleep.
Soft! 'Tis the swiftness of my thought outruns
Her proper motions. I've this instant spoken,
The air has scarcely yet ta'en up my words;
May be she hears not. But I did not speak;
'Twas only thought, or whispered. Child, good-morrow;
Yes, she hears that, but will not stir even yet.
I'll not be frightened, for she surely hears;
Though, if I had not seen her garments move,
And caught the tiny echo of her breath,
'Twere dreadful. Speak, I pray thee, Floribel,
Speak to thy mother; do but whisper “ay;”
Well, well, I will not press her; I am sure
She has the welcome news of some good fortune,
And hoards the telling till her father comes;
Perhaps she's found the fruit he coveted
Last night. Ah! she half laughed. I've guessed it then;
Come tell me, I'll be secret. Nay, if you mock me,
I must be very angry till you speak.
Now this is silly; some of those young boys
Have dressed the cushions with her clothes in sport.
'Tis very like her. I could make this image
Act all her greetings; she shall bow her head,
“Good-morrow mother;” and her smiling face
Falls on my neck.—Oh, heaven, 'tis she indeed!
I know it all—don't tell me.
So,—she must drop her head upon my bosom,
As she looks up. Good-morrow to thee, sweet;
Now for her gentle cry; she's turning round.
No—for she wont seem startled, but pretend
To have heard my coming. Why art thou so slow?
Sweet little wag, I know thou'rt not asleep.
Soft! 'Tis the swiftness of my thought outruns
Her proper motions. I've this instant spoken,
The air has scarcely yet ta'en up my words;
May be she hears not. But I did not speak;
'Twas only thought, or whispered. Child, good-morrow;
Yes, she hears that, but will not stir even yet.
I'll not be frightened, for she surely hears;
Though, if I had not seen her garments move,
And caught the tiny echo of her breath,
'Twere dreadful. Speak, I pray thee, Floribel,
Speak to thy mother; do but whisper “ay;”
Well, well, I will not press her; I am sure
She has the welcome news of some good fortune,
And hoards the telling till her father comes;
Perhaps she's found the fruit he coveted
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Come tell me, I'll be secret. Nay, if you mock me,
I must be very angry till you speak.
Now this is silly; some of those young boys
Have dressed the cushions with her clothes in sport.
'Tis very like her. I could make this image
Act all her greetings; she shall bow her head,
“Good-morrow mother;” and her smiling face
Falls on my neck.—Oh, heaven, 'tis she indeed!
I know it all—don't tell me.
| The Bride's Tragedy | |