 | The Witness |  |
SCENE II.
A room.Ariette and Glanville.
Glan.
Why looks my Ariette so sadly pale?
Ariet.
The solemn magic of this poet's verse
Enchants my spirit into pleasing wonder,
Tinctur'd with holiest awe. His every thought
Hath, like the halo round the sainted head,
A heavenly and religious intimation.
Glan.
What is his theme?
Ariet.
A rude pathetic tale.
How a poor damsel, hopeless died in sin.
Her mind was tender as the lacy film,
Woven at morning in the hawthorn blossoms,
And deck'd with gems of dew, which the soft gale
That breathes but fragrance, or the gentler stir
Of the fond linnet nestling with her young,
Shakes from the weeping boughs. Oft as the moon,
Round, full, and golden, fac'd the glowing west,
An evil spirit, faithful to the hour,
Came with persuasive dreams. Long she withstood
His soft seduction, and with flowing eyes,
7
She pray'd her guardian angel to be watchful.
But there are times, as the sad poet sings,
When our celestial guards go up to Heaven,
With their account of that which we have done,
And in the interim, the unguarded hour,
Few can resist the instigating fiends.
Glan.
Alas! 'tis even so!
Ariet.
Sir, you seem mov'd!
Glan.
There's an infection in such mystic tales
Which taints the heart with strange infirmity.
Read them no more; take books that treat of life,
The mind soon sickens that still feeds on verse,
The fruit of thriftless and distemper'd brains.
All the endowments of the Poet's mind,
That rich effulgence of bright-tinted thought,
Which wakes thy wonder, and inspires delight,
Are bred by ails in his corporeal frame,
As the gay glories of the tulip's flower,
Spring from disease engender'd in the root.
Ariet.
You do amaze me, Sir. Never before
Did you forbid me, but was wont to praise
That subtile tact by which the Poets learn
Th'inscrutable affinities of thought;
And by some happy combination raise
Delicious pleasure from afflicting themes.
If this sweet Poet be not an inspir'd,
Surely fond nature, in some beauteous error,
Did reckless frame for such a world as this,
A mind so inexpediently fine.
[Enter Reginald.]
Glan.
Ha, Reginald, you look amaz'd.
Reg.
Alas!
8
To the poor maniac at the city gate.
Glan.
It is again the day!
Reg.
She waits impatient,
Claiming the boon that you were wont to give
As due to her by some dread compact made,
And vowing vengeance if it be withheld.
Glan.
She has, indeed, poor wretch, just cause to claim;
And I did fail in an imperious duty,
When I forgot the hour, th'unguarded hour!
Ariet.
Ah, you have caught the Bard's romantic thought,
Your guardian Angel has been then away,
Else had you not so err'd? Why do you sigh?
Glan.
That I should suffer such a breach of mind
As to forget the desolated woman,
Whose only claim in life is strong on me.—
Methinks I have a desperate forfeit made.
What did she say? you say she threaten'd, what?
Reg.
'Twas aimless boding, like the foul black bird,
That, perch'd upon the chain-hung murd'rers head,
Croaks hideous and unutterable things.
Glan.
Ah!
[The sound of a trumpet heard.
Ariet.
Hark!
Glan.
Again!—
Ariet.
What means that doleful sound?
Reg.
It is the trumpet of the Magistrates,
As they proceed to greet the Judge's entrance
Into the town.
Ariet.
Sad signal to the guilty.
Reg.
You will be late for the procession, Sir.
Glan.
I do forget myself. I am too late.
[Exeunt.
| The Witness | |