University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A Chamber. Night.
A considerable period of time is supposed to have elapsed between this and the preceding Scene.
Amelia, Marian.
Mar.
Are you awake, dear lady?

Amel.
Wide awake.
There are the stars abroad, I see.—I feel
As tho' I had been sleeping many a day.
What time o' the night is it?

Mar.
About the stroke
Of midnight.

Amel.
Let it come. The skies are calm
And bright; and so, at last, my spirit is.
Whether the Heavens have influence on the mind
Thro' life, or only in our days of death,
I know not; yet, before, ne'er did my soul
Look upwards with such hope of joy, or pine
For that hope's deep completion. Marian!
Let me see more of Heaven. There—enough.
Are you not well, sweet girl?

Mar.
Oh! yes: but you
Speak now so strangely: you were wont to talk
Of plain familiar things, and cheer me: now
You set my spirit drooping.

Amel.
I have spoke
Nothing but cheerful words, thou idle girl.
Look, look! above: the canopy of the sky,
Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal dress:
A queen might envy that so regal blue
Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas!
I do remember in my follying days
What wild and wanton wishes once were mine,
Slaves—radiant gems—and beauty with no peer,
And friends (a ready host)—but I forget.
I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt,
When I had Hope to light me. Have you no song,
My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear?
There's one I've heard you sing. ‘They said his eye’—
No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit.
‘His eye like the mid-day sun was bright—’

Mar.
'Tis so.
You've a good memory. Well, listen to me.
I must not trip, I see.

Amel.
I hearken. Now.

SONG.
Mar.

Mar.

Amel.
How slowly and how silently doth Time
Float on his starry journey. Still he goes,
And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away.
He rises with the golden morning, calmly,
And with the moon at night. Methinks, I see
Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings,
Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men,
Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath.
Lo! I am here, and Time seems passing on:
To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing—
Yet he will still be here; and the blue Hours
Will laugh as gaily on the busy world,
As tho' I were alive to welcome them.
There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles!

[Charles enters.]
Ch.
I am here.
Did you not call?

Amel.
You come in time. My thoughts
Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother (now
I take that title,) in her dying hour
Has privilege to speak unto your youth.
There's one thing pains me; and I would be calm.
—My husband has been harsh unto me,—yet
He is my husband; and you'll think of this
If any sterner feeling move your heart?
Seek no revenge for me. You will not?—Nay,
Is it so hard to grant my last request?
He is my husband: he was father, too,
Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once.
Do you remember how his eyelids closed
When the first summer rose was opening?
'Tis now two years ago—more, more; and I—
I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy!
He was my only child. How fair he looked
In the white garment that encircled him—
'Twas like a marble slumber; and when we
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,
I thought my heart was breaking—yet I lived:
But I am weary now.

Mar.
You must not talk,
Indeed, dear lady; nay—

Ch.
Indeed you must not.

Amel.
Well then, I will be silent: yet, not so.
For ere we journey ever should we take
A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well,
And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind
Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles,
Wear the remembrance of Amelia.
She ever loved you,—ever; so as might
Become a mother's tender love,—no more.
Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world
Now almost thirty seasons: you have been
A child to me for one third of that time.
I took you to my bosom, when a boy,
Who scarce had seen eight Springs come forth and vanish.
You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd
Will feed upon it, if—but you must make
That heart a grave, and in it bury deep
Its young and beautiful feelings.

Ch.
I will do
All that you wish—all; but you cannot die
And leave me.

Amel.
You shall see how calmly Death
Will come and press his finger, cold and pale,
On my now smiling lip: These eyes men swore
Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky,
And yet they must grow dim: an hour—

Ch.
Oh! no.
No, no: oh! say not so. I cannot bear
To hear you talk thus. Will you break my heart?

Amel.
No: I would caution it against a change,
That soon must happen. Calmly let us talk.
When I am dead—

Ch.
Alas, Alas!

Amel.
This is
Not as I wish: you had a braver spirit.
Bid it come forth. Why, I have heard you talk
Of war and danger—Ah!—

[Wentworth enters.]
Mar.
She's pale—speak, speak.

Ch.
Oh! my lost mother.—How!—You here?

Went.
I am come,
To pray her pardon. Let me touch her hand.
Amelia! she faints: Amelia!
[She dies.
Poor faded girl! I was too harsh—unjust.

Ch.
Look!

Mar.
She has left us.

Ch.
It is false. Revive!
Mother, revive, revive!

Mar.
It is in vain.

Ch.
Is it then so?—My soul is sick and faint.
Oh! mother, mother. I—I cannot weep.
Oh! for some blinding tears to dim my eyes,
So I might not gaze on her.—And has Death
Indeed, indeed struck her,—so beautiful?
So wronged, and never erring; so beloved
By one—who now has nothing left to love.
Oh! thou bright Heaven, if thou art calling now
Thy brighter angels to thy bosom,—rest,
For lo! the brightest of thy host is gone—
Departed,—and the earth is dark below.
—And now—I'll wander far and far away,
Like one that hath no country. I shall find
A sullen pleasure in that life, and when
I say ‘I have no friend in all the world,’
My heart will swell with pride, and make a show
Unto itself of happiness; and in truth
There is, in that same solitude, a taste
Of pleasure which the social never know.
—From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger,
And, as the body gains a braver look
By staring in the face of all the winds,
So from the sad aspects of different things
My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up
Against the past.—And now—for Hindostan.