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_Arth._ I will but see her, then my sword must carve my fortunes. Did she speak kindly of me? Alas! I need some welcoming. Go seek her. It is time.
[_Exit WILLIAM, R._]
O sweet hour!
In yonder heaven deep the stars are lit For evening service of seraphic quires-- Eternal pomp of serried, blazing worlds, The heraldry of G.o.d, ere yet Time was.
The moon hangs low, her golden orb impearl'd In a sweet iris of delicious light, That leaves the eye in doubt, as swelling die Round trills of music on the raptur'd ear, Where it doth fade in blue, or softly quicken.
How, through each glade, her soft and hallowing ray Stole like a maiden tiptoe, o'er the ground, Till every tiny blade of glittering gra.s.s Was doubled by its shadow.
Can it be, That evil hearts throb near a scene like this?
And yet how soon comes the Medusa, Thought, To chill the heart's blood of sweet fantasy!
For, O bright orb!
That glid'st along the fringe of those tall trees, Where a child's thought might grasp thee, Art thou not This night in thousand places hideous? To think Where thy pale beams _may_ revel--on the brow Of ghastly wanderers, with the frozen breast And grating laugh, in murder's rolling eye, On death, corruption, on the h.o.a.ry tomb, Or the fresh earth-mould of a new-made grave, On gaping wounds, on strife,--the pantomime Of lying lips, and pale, deceitful faces-- Ay! searching every scene of rank pollution, In each foul corner busy as at play, With new horror gilding vice, disease, decay, Boast not, pale moon! to me thy harlot ray!
[_Enter WILLIAM, R._]
_Will._ Sir, they come!
Your collar is unfasten'd and your hair disorder'd.
Let me--[_Attempts to adjust AUTHUR'S dress._]
_Arth._ Heed it not! I thought you knew me better.
_Will._ Just a moment.--
_Arth._ No! yet will I meet her softly.
She is the only creature of her s.e.x, For whom I feel some kindness; 'tis because I knew her ere I knew the world beside, And all the lie of pa.s.sion, that is nurs'd For long in early blighted hearts alone, Whom rank possession of the thing they pin'd for, Had cured in one short month.--Well, I'll be kind, Nay more, affectionate--
[_Enter FLORENCE and BARBARA, R. He salutes her distantly._]
Fair mistress, thus I claim a young acquaintance, that hath grown Old in long absence.
_Flor._ [_Rus.h.i.+ng to him_] Arthur! dearest. Arthur!
How strange! Dear cousin! Sir! I wish'd to see you, Needing protection--nay! I was to blame, Too hasty, you must think me bold indeed!
_Arth._ [_Aside_] Is all her nature, art?--How beautiful!
[_Aloud._] Dear Florence. [_Attempts to take her hand warmly, she bows._] I have scarcely words to speak.
Cousin! I'll be your champion. [_Aloud._]
_Flor._ There is nought In which you can a.s.sist me? I have come Here, cousin, to entreat you, take this money.
Indeed, you can repay me quite soon, when Your brother is more just. It is for him That I would give it--
_Arth._ For him? yes! you are Betroth'd?
_Flor._ My father wills so--
_Arth._ I need not This money--
_Flor._ Cousin, take it. You are proud.
Will you refuse me?
_Arth._ 'Tis my character To doubt your s.e.x, and yet from you I'd take it, But that I need it not in truth.
_Flor._ Why doubt us?
Ah! cousin, I have heard you have been wild, And so think women false, as you deceive them.
_Arth._ That you have heard is false!
_Flor._ I thought so. Now I could indeed imagine it were true.
Because, perchance, you've lightly won some hearts, Thus you must be severe and scoff at all, As if you had good reason!--It is proof Of an ungenerous mind or scatter'd heart.
_Arth._ Fair cousin, at your feet I would recant Mine error.
_Flor._ 'Tis polite, sir, thus to yield All your experience.
_Arth._ Nay, then! Do you not Believe a man may once love faithfully?
_Flor._ 'Twere base to doubt it--yet I think not you: You know you could not tell if it were true, Your love might be a jest. [_She goes up the stage._]
_Arth._ [_following FLORENCE._] By heaven! No.
[_WILLIAM and BARBARA come forward._]
_Will._ Young woman! I doubt not your attachment, nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned.
Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted.
_Barb._ Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What nonsense the man talks!
_Will._ This beard--what think you of it?
_Barb._ That it is red.
_Will._ Yet 'tis not for you.
_Barb._ I would humbly desire so.
_Will._ Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard of Mars, the G.o.d of war, is auburnly inclined? It is much affected by the ladies of the south.
_Barb._ I would they had it then, for it is an abhorr'd thing here.
_Will._ What a rank prude is woman, thus to disguise her inclination. They call thee Barbara--Bab! restrain not thy fancy. Come, hang round my neck and love me. What! wouldst thou be an exception to thy s.e.x?
_Barb._ [_Strikes him._] Take that, thou c.o.xcomb!
[_Runs up the stage, WILLIAM follows, ARTHUR and FLORENCE advancing._]
_Arth._ Break not my dream. It is not late. The night Will lose her beauty as thy footsteps fade In distance from me. Florence, go not yet.
I had a thousand loyal thoughts, I swear, To utter, and as many questions, Florence, To ask thee of thyself. Thou lovest not, Thou canst not love my brother; for thou saidst As much, nay more, this moment.
_Flor._ Did I so?
Perchance I might have done; but then I love My father--
