SCENE I.
[The hall of a country house in Westmoreland, surrounded with portraits of the M. . . . family. Allan Herbert, and Jocelyn, an old domestic, are seen standing before the likeness of a lady, young, and wonderfully fair.]
HERBERT.
The canvas speaks!
JOCELYN.
Ay, sir, 'tis very like;
Was she not beautiful?
HERBERT.
Was; yes, and is;
She had not lost one bloom when late I saw her.
JOCELYN.
Sir, she is dead!
HERBERT.
Ay, so they say, old man;
And yet I see her nightly,--in my dreams;
I tell you that her cheek is round and fair
As summer's fulness, that her eyes are lustrous,
And she, a perfect presence clasped in light!
Thus will she look, on resurrection morning.
JOCELYN [aside].
Alas, poor gentleman! How many loved her,
And loved her vainly! Pardon, sir, your name?
HERBERT.
My name is Allan Herbert.
JOCELYN.
Herbert, Herbert!
Where have I heard that dainty name before? (musing)
Oh, now I have it; my young mistress, sir,
She who is dead, was wont to read a book
A delicate gold-edged volume, that I'm sure
Bore some such name within it; she would sit
Beneath yon grape vine trellis toward the south
(This window, sir, commands it), and for hours,
Nay, days, bend o'er her favorite pages; once
She left the book behind her, and I saw
Its leaves were touched with tears.
HERBERT.
Where is it now?
That book your mistress loved? Let me behold it!
JOCELYN.
In sooth, sir, I have never seen it since,
Or, if I have [hesitating] it lies beyond our reach.
HERBERT.
What meanest thou?
JOCELYN.
I mean that while she lay
Decked for her burial, whilst I stood beside her,
Looking my last upon her tranquil features,
The robe of death was fluttered by the wind,
A low sad wailing wind, that swept aside
The drapery for a moment, and I marked
The glimmer of the gold-edged pages placed
Right on her bosom! Master, you are pale,
You tremble; I have rudely touched the spring
Of some deep-seated sorrow!
HERBERT.
Yes, old man;
A sorrow most unlike to common griefs,
That pass like clouds or shadows; mine is mingled
With the dark hues of treachery and remorse;
A rayless, blank eclipse, through which I wander,
Accursed and hopeless; sometimes in a vision
Comes the sweet face of her I foully wronged,
And stabs me with a smile!
JOCELYN.
Did'st wrong her, sir?
Did'st wrong my lady?
HERBERT.
Lead me to the grave;
I know 'tis near at hand.
JOCELYN.
The grave! What grave?
Moreover,--if you wronged her--
HERBERT.
If I wronged her!
Why dost thou taunt me with it? thou on earth
With Mercy still beside thee,--I--in Hell?
JOCELYN.
Madman!
HERBERT.
I am not mad, my friend, but only wretched;
Once more, I pray thee, show me where she sleeps.
JOCELYN.
I must obey him; this way,--follow me.
SCENE II.
[A forest.--Deep in the shade a single monument appears, covered with wild-flowers and roses.]
HERBERT [alone].
'Tis fit she should be buried in this place
So fragrant and so peaceful; O my love!
Thou hast grown dull of hearing! I may call
'Till the lone echoes shiver with thy name,
Thou wilt not heed me; dust, dust, dust indeed!
And thou--more glorious than the morning star;
More tender than the love-light of the eve!
They tell me thou shalt rise again, Christ's bride.
Not mine, most beautiful, yet changed;
Perchance I shall not know thee, or perchance,
The human love which made thine eyes like heaven--
My heaven of hope and worship--shall be lost
In some diviner splendor! all is hushed,
No smallest whisper trembles gently up
From the deep grave to soothe me; 'tis in vain
I agonize in thought. Eternal Nature!
She whom I once called "mother," wears an aspect
Callous and pitiless. I fain would solve
This terrible mystery that weighs down my soul
With nightmare fancies. Let me die in peace,
O God! and if I may not see her more
Through all the long eternities, nor hear
Her voice of tender pardon, let me rest
Next to some stream of Lethe, and repose
in everlasting slumbers!--
[Enter JOCELYN.]
JOCELYN.
Come, let us hence! the darkness creeps upon us;
See Sir! there's not a spark of sunset left
In all the waning West.
HERBERT.
Well, what of that!
I live in darkness,--the light burns my spirit,
It mocks and tortures me! Begone, I say,
And leave me to the dismal shade thou fearest!
JOCELYN.
Good Sir, be counselled--stay not in the wood;
Thine eye is troubled, and thy visage weary;--
'Tis a rash venture!
HERBERT.
Sooth to say, I thank thee,
Thou could'st not serve long in the household blessed
By her most merciful presence, and not catch
Some tenderness of temper;--take my thanks!
Yet will I stay in this same dreary wood,
And watch until the night is overpast.
JOCELYN.
Thou'lt find it lonely.
HERBERT.
Oh, I have my thoughts,
A stirring company, that never slumber.
JOCELYN.
Why, worse and worse! I've heard, such restless thoughts
Engender a sore sickness--
HERBERT.
Of the mind;
Yet is my case already desperate,
Past healing, and past comfort. Go thy way.
Thou kind old man, thou canst not shake my purpose,
But when the last star wanes before the dawn,
Come back; my night will then be overpast,
And my watch ended; till that hour, farewell!
