,3^ THE PLAYS AND POEMS OF IN THREE PARTS. New York : Dehsser & Procter, 508 Broadway. 1859. PART I. EVA. A TRAGIC POEM IN ONE SCENE. .DRAMATIS PERSONtE. Lothario, betrothed of Eva. Eva, a Nun. EVA. Scene is laid in the Garden of a Convent, — Time, Night, Lothario {crouched behind a shrub). Softly, ye winds ! Oh, softly ! lest your boisterous howl beggar This golden moment of its prize. Thou heart, Be still ! Aye, stiller than a cradled child ! Hark ! was it fancy ? Could it be the sultry summer-breathings Stirring the shrubs ? 'Tis the hour she spends Here, at her sweet orisons ! Hist I There is A voice, a dulcet voice ! fanning up the Fires of my soul^and / am here — crouched. And culprit-like, to gaze, one moment, on 1* 10 Eva, My Eva's face — unseen ! unheard ! O years I O days ! O vigil-nights I dead are ye all To me I And sweet-faced phantom joy gives up Her spirit now, in my despair ! Hush I hush ! She comes ! O God ! Tis she I {Enter Eva in nun^s veil — walking slowly — eyes upturned, and hands clasped upon her breast. Lothario. Eva ! my bride ? my beautiful bride ? Eva. Thou here ? Lothario ? Lothario. Oh ! blest the hour that brings me to thy feet I My Eva I Life and soul are thine ! Here, at thy feet, behold thy homage — look Upon me — look, gentle Eva I lest I die ! Eva. Thou here ? LoTHATio. Here : braving years of absence ; braving Eva. 1 1 The wild, wild waves — braving all for thee I How ? Know you not me ? Lothario ? Eva. Better the dead, than the untrue I Better the waves of Eternity ! Lothario. Eva ! my own bride I Eva. Better the sombre veil — than life, and all Its roses ! Better the wail of sins, within A maiden's breast — than the music of Love ! Oh! better the curse of Hell ! T'han — false — Lothario ! Lothario. Eva ! My own betrothed ! O Eva, see ! At thy feet I kneel — and as the Angel Of my Life — do beg thy love ! Eva. Away ! False Lothario ! I am the Bride of Heaven ! Lothario. False ? Thou art my IVorld!— My life ! Eva. I am the bride of Heaven I 12 Eva. Lothario. Oh! Oh! Oh! Not mine ? No more to ramble through the harvest-fields Watching the sunbeams glow upon thy cheeks ? While birds wing to their nestling place, and Flower-cups open to the evening dews ? No more To follow the meandering brook— -and Sit upon its borders, wreathing garlands, While a sweet, soul-voice whispers in our Spirits, " B^kat is Lave f" Can I hold this Plighted hand in mine no more ^—No more ? Eva ! once mine—s>^t?^ to me. Eva. Art thou here to crown a dead heart With new thorns — new vows ? No more ! Away ! Lothario. Alas ! I — am,^ — here — to — die ! [Looks upon Eva despairingly as if for aid — zvhile he draws a dagger from his doublet. Eva. 13 Eva ! Touch me not with thy pure hand ! Despair Cankers all that was good of me — and sin Walks in triumph through my soul ! Eva, the bride of Christ ! Save me ! Tell me, what is heaven ? Eva. Heaven is that blessed bourne, where eyes weep Not— in whose shining gates, sorrow can Never cast her shadow ; pain, nor despair Ever enter to disturb the sweet serenity Of the eternal feast prepared for the Faithful fold ! [Lothario resting upon the swardy with closed eyes, seems scarcely to hear, Lothario. To die unloved I Eva. Heaven is the home of God — in whose Bosom the weary head is pillowed — whose 14 Eva. Hand breaks every manacle — whose voice Awakens everlasting bliss — and dries The tears upon the humblest cheek Of those— — Lothario. Thou Bride of Christ ! Save me I What is heaven ? Speak — quickly ! Eva. Of those who love his will ! Lothario. O Eva ! Thou hast left me — Thou lovest me no more ! My soul is rent And bitter waters overwhelm me I Save me ! Save me ! if thou lovest our God. \^He draws his dagger and is in the act of plunging it in his breast, [Eva lays her hand upon him, touched by his love, says in gentle tones Eva. Lothario, In the darkest hour of my long, desolate Eva. 15 Grief (among the children of men), / loved Thee. Prayers, and misery, counted the Sad hours of years — waiting, and watching And pining on, till the fires of passion Scorched and blighted the feelings, that so long Had nourished them — and they died — Died like summer-plants, of their own sun's rays. Then, the fire that drank up its Own life — went out — l^Ske leans closer to Lothario, and whispers lowly and despairingly. And there was left A desert ! A barren waste ! No bloom — no Life ! As far as human soul could reach Naught — naught — save utter darkness ! \_She grows paler with agony, and leans closer to Lothario as her voice becomes fainter. Then, descended A seraph, with shining hair, bearing a i6 Eva. Cross — and in this fearful waste, planted his Sacred burden. And I was the bride Of Christ. He bore upon his wings My sorrowing love, and as a marriage Pledge, left me the cross — that I may have Eternal light — and know etemal joy ! [She bends closely to Lothario, lay- ing her hands on his. Lothario I Come ! I — love — Ah ! \She dies. Lothario. O God ! that icy clasp I Those hands !— Death ? — Eva, My saving angel I Thou didst spare me the Etemal curse of banishment from thee And God ! and I come, I — I — join thee In those blessed spheres — where thy seraph, with His shining cross has led thee — Where the pure in heart see God ! Eva, my Saving Angel, I come — I come — Eva, my Saving Angel I [Lothario dies. PART II TRAGIC POEM IN THREE ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONiE. Lord de Belmont. Earl of Eglestone. Earl of Lentnore, married to Rosalie. Otho, hlind chief of the Gipia. l^wo Gipy guards, etc. Servants of Belmont Castle. Edith de Belmont, mother of Rosalie. Rosalie. Malvina, old Gipsy sister of Otho. Ynez, attendant of Edith de Belmont. A TRAGIC POEM. ACT I. — Scene First. A Forest with Gipsy Camps — Time, Nighty and two Gipsy . Guards are sitting near a Fagot-fire, 1ST Gip. Ugh ! The wind is sharp I and The woods are bare ! 2D Gip. Yes : and sleep Were better than watching through the Leafless boughs — all night. 1ST Gip. What time o' night is it ? 2D Gip. The night-stars are yet high, in Their course — but, forsooth ! I ween, the Treasure is not worth the trouble. 1ST Gip. But, you know 24 -^ T^ragic Poem. The maiden weeps, and will not be Comforted — her pensive lips are mute : And her soft eyes look like patches Of a spring sky. Besides, she pines Through the rudeness of our life. 2D Gip. Yes ; a palace Is different to the camp-life Of Gipsies — Ugh ! this wind I 1ST Gip. Perchance the young nobleman Had naught in view ; but, old Malvina Says, as she, with the young damsel Was walking in the woods to gather Herbs, a horseman, young and gay, cross't In their path — ^and, sudden as the Lightning's flash, the maid threw down A clasp of her bodice. 2D Gip. Fie ! fie ! Old Malvina's tales ! Her seelngs ever come to naught. 1ST Gip. Of a truth, she is garrulous; but With the story : The young knight captured A 'tragic Vo:in. 25 The clasp — but the girl came back to The camp with the gipsy. 2D Gip. Pooh ! Pooh ! why not give her over In ransom to the knight ? Should he Be enamored of her, he will Make us all rich, and we need no More watch over the sick turtle dove. 1ST Gip. The chief man ! the chief Three Months have given her his tender Love — she is his daughter now. 2D Gip. Ugh ! Ugh ! 1ST Gip. Besides, Malvina is her mother now, And when she reads to the old Blind chief, his ears drink in the Sounds, and he commends her To his sister's care ; but, of a truth, Something's on the stir. Malvina Has of late grown serious — little Saying to the chief — and wandering 2 26 A 'Tragic Voem. Much time with the maid, none know Whither. 2D Gip. Hist ! man, what is that ? 1ST Gip. Naught but the dead branches fall- ing- Devil take this night ! 2D Gip. What ! hear you not ? 1ST Gip. Hear what? 2D Gip. Again ! Listen ! 1ST Gip. Hush ! I do hear — look ! under the Bare boughs — something white. 2D Gip. Ethereal like — shall we call ? 1ST Gip. No — no — be still ! 'Twas a spirit — Or something resembling. I see Nothing now. 2d Gip. Speak to it ! Shout ! Ring the woods ! 1ST Gip. The night is thick in darkness I and The white mantled thing fluttered so Far under the bleak trees ! Besides, A "tragic Poem. 27 A good spirit, man, would hardly Stir further on such a night. 2D Gip. Holy Mother, preserve us ! There It is I A woman ! or a ghost I 1ST Gip. What a pale, pale, spirit ! Hear I It moans ! It comes ! Sainted Virgin ! 2D Gip. Sainted Mother, defend us ! [ Theyjlee, Scene Second. Enter Edith de Belmont clad in White — Feet bare — torn with Thorns — Pilgrim!' s Staff in Hand — pale with Grief — and uttering her first Words ^ sinks upon the Ground, Edith. My child ! Oh, my child ! Canst thou Not hear these words that break Thy mother's heart ? Rosalie ! Rosalie ! Yes : you jealous woods and caves ! crack Your voices with her sweet name when I call. A mother has lost her 28 A Tragic Poem. Child — and these bleeding feet will crush The wildest flowers of every clime, 'Till my sweet pet rests in this bosom ! \_She stretches forth her arms, and in a smothered voice cries. My child I I cannot behold thee ! Come I come ! My lord sits in thy dead father's Halls, and revels. Painted cheeks rest In his cold bosom. And his Perjured tongue utters not one solace To thy mother's grief! [Enter old Malvina with her bun- dle of herbs which she deposits, Mal. Who art thou ? Woman in flesh — or spirit ? What Pallor! Edith. Alas ! I live ! Good Gipsy, thou art accustomed To the perusal of human sorrows — Hast thou known ever one like mine ? A tragic Poe??i. 29 Mal. Poor soul ! what taketh thee out on Such a night — hast thou no fireside ? Edith. O Aie ! Spare me ! Know you not The charity of home sympathy Is ofttimes ruder than winter blasts ? And thorns that, at its own fireside Make the heart bleed, are keener far Than those that tear the feet ? Speak ! Mal. {T'ahs her hand pityingly) I know thy grief: Be thou comforted — but not through Thy affections ; for thy lord is Cruel ! Edith. No ! no ! Look in these drowned eyes — Tell me my grief — I like to Hear it. Words are like probes That irritate the wound to pleasant Poignancy. 30 J tragic Poem. Mal. Woman-sister ! affection thou Wantest. The footprint of death is Near thee. Thou art dying the death Of thousands — high — ^and low ! Edith. {Screaming with impatient agony?) Oh ! can you Not see that I have lost my child ? Why will you not say, " Rosalie — Sweet Rosalie I — is lost to her Mother, whose eyes must not Close again until they behold Her." You, who read sorrow — who are A woman, perchance a mother, Can you not read mine in this poor Countenance ? Mal. Saw you not two guards here ? Edith. Yes; They fled — they took me for a Spirit. Mal. And like one are you, poor sufferer ! A T^ragic Poe?n. 31 Come, I will guard now — and you must Sit — and rest here until dawn. Edith. Wherefore rest for the body, when The soul burns in misery ? Mal. Nay — I go to feed the frightened Senses of the guards — that they Disturb us not here — I will watch For them : and you will rest all night With me, Edith. Thy voice is kind — And kindness I so need ! Love me A little while — till I die — for My child is gone — and — I — mi/st — die I Mal. I know it — know all — and for thy Poor sake, and the sake of the fair Child, I, too, love, I will betray (though I do grieve) an old blind man ! Edith. Rosalie ? My Rosalie ? Mal. Yes. Edith. Speak quickly or I die. 32 A Tragic Poem. Mal. My brother is chief of these Gipsies. Edith. Well — speak ! Mal. Is loved of all the tribe — ^is kind And ever faithful to his sister. Edith. On ! on ! Save me ! Mal. Fair woman — he is old — - And — blind — with little to love in This bitter world, save her who stands Before you — his only traitor Of all the tribe! Edith. Rosalie ! Where, where is she ? Mal. Yes ; I, too, know a mother's love- These withered arms have cradled many Tender buds — cut off — ere they blossomed- And for these — and tlie sake of your White dove, I will lay her In your bosom. Mark you, woman ! she is the old man's Life — the blind old man I j4 "Tragic Poem. 33 But she is your child ! Come — I pray you rest Until I come ! [Edith sinks upon the sward, with outstretched arms — cries in a smothered voice, Edith. Good angel ! wilt thou bring her to These arms ? These — arms ? Mal. I will ! \Exit Gipsy. [Edith szuoons — and in rush three officers with Ynez, searching after Edith — they thus find her. Scene Third. Ynez. Oh ! my poor mistress ! She is dead I What a state for a lord's wife ! Oh ! Oh! oh! oh! 1ST Off. Haste ! let us take her ! 2D Off. Yes [lifting her t/f] ; my lord's man- date ! " Dead or alive.'' 2* 34 -^ "tragic Foem. op Off. Yes ; poor countess ! and while she swoons, She will not resist us. Ynez. She does not breathe ! Oh ! Oh ! 2D Off. What good has here perished ! 1ST Off. She only swoons — let us away And lay her in her lord's arms. 3D Off. God forbid ! that there she should Revive. [Exeunt with Edith in their arms. ACT IL— Scene First, Camp Scene of Gipsies — Enter Malvina. Mal. Gone ! gone indeed ! was she — ^poor soul! And still — ^'twere well ! For the white dove was not for the Arms of Lord Eglestone — yet — ^had She stayed, it would have drawn the Sunshine of a mother's blessing To their dim marriage altar. Well ! Well is it thus. I have robbed A blind old man of his last love. Aye ! these withered nerves grow weaker, In thinking of his barren life — I — can — no — more ! \Sinks dozen overcome. 36 A 'tragic Poem, Malvina ! Once a tender child ! A wife — a modier — What blow is this — thou hast dealt ? Ruin ! Ruin ! ruin ! But, These two beings touched the only Chords that give music : snapped, indeed. Are they too ! Still, the heart that has Bled and died — quivers still through that Universal law of animal life ! Thus, gave I The dove — to her gallant lover's arms : And these lips, in uttering a Mother's blessing — cursed the evening Of a weary life I Hark ! he is near — [^Leans aside. My brother ! Oh ! " Guilty " cries my soul I \_She stands apart iinperceived by Otho and his Gipsy guard, zcho enter. Otho. Where is Malvina ? Hast thou Seen her ? A 'tragic Poem. 37 Guard. No, chief Otho. And Rosalie ! Rosalie ! My life's darling ! I am calling Thee ! Thou knowest these sightless orbs Can never behold thee — sweet fawn I But I am listening for thy step ; And thy voice to cheer me ! lead me To her, Guard — to young Rosalie ! Guard. Chief, the Fawn has fled — she is Not in all the camp, nor field ! Otho. Fled ! She w^nt for sweet flowers, The child so loves ! No, no ! she was Too true to break an old — What say you ? Guard you not nightly ? Did you not watch well my birdie's Cage? I trusted you ! Guard. Yes, chief; but of late the maiden Went forth but Uttle. At the sunset Hour, over the hills, she always Strayed : with hood and basket — but you 38 A 'tragic Poem, Know, chief, she was the light of the Camp, ever at nightfall. Otho. Yes, yes — Returning with her Gatherings of wood flowers, her Hood thrown off her sweet, cool face : my Old, withered soul felt she was beautiful As good ! Pray, let me sit ! \Sits feebly down. Tell me. Tell me of her ! Guard. Two days hence, the sunset-moon sank ; And night came quickly on : but not The maid. I watched— till anxious for Her coming — but in vain ! Then up The hills I ran, in her footsteps — But nowhere was she found. On, on I sped, groping a weary way Through the thick darkness of the night — Until I stood near the black stone Chapel of the village church — its . ^ A T^ragic Poem. 39 Aisles closed for ages — and its galleries Crumbled in the path of travellers ! Otho. Enough ! I know ! 'Tis an ill omened Spot ! / vsas wedded there ! And, mind you ! all vows made there are By Heaven broken — and their hearts Laid waste. Speak on ! [Malvina xjcrithes at this recital in double despair. Guard. Well, good chief! e'en while I paused To breathe, a faint light trembled forth From that mass of damp desolation. I would have fled — but something seized Me stronger than fear ; and I groped Along, dragging my body through The broken pillars, aisles, and ruin. At last, from a strange height of rubbish I looked down, where glimmered a wee Taper ; throwing a frightful glare Upon the exposed skeletons 40 J. T^ragic Foem. Once sepulchered there — there^ I saw An altar — there^ I saw — Otho {grasping him in agony). What ! what saw you ? Guard. Good chief! I saw your Fawn — The maid, attired in bridal robes, Kneeling, with a knight arrayed in Silver, gold, and precious stones, taking The sacred vows of marriage — and Receiving the blessings of an Old, holy man — and, one other. Of the camp — that other was — [Malvina rushes forthy fearing to see the old man die of all the astounding story — herself the greatest actor, Mal. Otho ! Brother ! I am here — [ To the guard. Speak thou no more — For, of a truth, thou hast, with one Blow, struck two. ji 'Tragic Poem. 41 Otho. Malvina ! lead me hence — I am Blind. Alas ! as sightless now in the Inner "cision in which I joyed, As in these darkened orbs ! But revenge shall quench the last, the Only spark of life left in this Stricken breast. For the traitor Of old blind Otho, naught but death ! Dear Malvina ! lead me hence, quickly ! [Exeunt alL Scene Second. Scene represents Edith de Belmont lying on a Couch in the Castle Hall — Lord de Belmont sits banqueting in the dis- tant End of the Hall — gay Music is heard — Dancing, Drinking, and all Hilarity, as Edith opens her Eyes wildly. Edith. What ! where am I ? \Looks upon the banquet. O ! hateful vision I Cursed am I In all things — save in the belief 42 A "tragic Poe?n. That there is a God — sick ! weary ! Oh ! weary unto death ! Ynez ! Ynez. Sweet mistress ! What would you ? Edith. Ynez — is it thou? How came I here? Was I ill ? am I ? yes : I hear That voice of laughter — I live — I Suffer still ! Ynez. Sweet mistress ! Edith. Oh ! such a vision has been Before me ! wherein I trembled On the very verge of bliss — but Alas ! alas ! alas ! Did I sleep ? Ynez. Yes, my lady ! Edith. Then it was a dream. Methought I wandered forth in Pilgrim's garb, to search for my dear Daughter. Woods and wilds compassed me : Days of fast, and weariness, and A Tragk Poe?n. 43 Still worse, despair, were my sad portion — Until the forest rang with my Calls ; and reason sank — hopelessly. Then, my feet Left footprints of blood — tears scorched out My sight — darkness came upon me In a waste — and I laid me down To die. But, mark you, Ynez ! how Sweetly changed all this : — my spirit Fluttered within me, in the suddenness Of hope, that Rosalie would hear Me^ could I call. Strength came — and I Saw a light afar off — and deep Within a dell, a gipsy camp. Ynez. Oh ! dear mistress ! Edith. Yes ; and swiftly I flew — calling ! calling ! When suddenly a face beamed on Me! Ynez. Dear mistress I 44 -^ Trag?c: Poem. Edith. Yes, Ynez, She held this hand — and I heard her Lips utter my sweet child's name. Aye, Better than I heard those revellers My heart drank in the sounds — alas ! Alas ! And, so soft were the tones Of the brawny Gipsy, that Edith de Belmont laid her weary Head upon that strong, tender Bosom AND BEGGED ITS LOVE ! Ynez. It was, perchance, a dream — Dear mistress, // was a dream ! Edith. Well ! The spirit was refreshed — and I will wear the image of my brawny Friend, in memory always. But why am I here, Ynez ? what Do I in this banquet hall ? Those Sounds are like molten lead within Me. Lead me away, good Ynez ! I tremble so ! A "tragic Poem, 45 Ynez. My lord wished your presence^ — With message to await his pleasure Here. You are weary — Rest, rest, I beseech you, good mistress ! Edith. My lord ! Weary ! Yes ; Very weary. At times, I think me like the dove that went Forth from the ark, destined to Return no more to her haven. Have you seen the Earl of Eglestone ? Ynez. Yes ; my lord and the earl have held Long discourse — and much banqueting. The wedding feast prepares — and all ^ Have orders to bring the bride. Edith. Enough, good Ynez I leave me here — I hear those steps ! he comes — go ! go ! I pray you go ! \_Staggering from her conchy she stands erect, clutching a chair. 4^ A Tragic Poe?n. Scene Third. Scene represents a Garden of the Castle of the Earl of Lent- NORE — Malvina sitting, her Head upon her Hands — pale, haggard, and waiting for Rosalie — Enter Rosalie — runs to Malvina, and sits at her Feet, Rosalie. Mother of our joys ! good, good Malvina ! Nay — I do love thee Till I grow weak in very fondness ! Here would I lull me with thy fond Words ! [Lays her head upon Malvina's knees. Mal. Child ! Wife, thou art now ! The path of childhood's joy lies far, Far behind thy steps ! Oh ! far^ Indeed ! \_She shudders. Rosalie. Well, my old guardian! how now? Why, bless thy old loving heart ! Canst Thou be cast down because thy A tragic Foem. 47 Birdie left the cage of thy wild Camps for a bright home where love dwells ? Thou wilt come to the home of the Earl's wife, and she will sit under Thy mantle, just as did the frightened Girl to whom thou wast so kind ! Come to my cheer and comfort. [Malvina looking singularly wierd- like, still crouched. Mal. Child ! wife ! I sent for thee, here. My business is one of Death — not Life — nor Love — nay ! touch me not ! The touch of affection is no more For Malvina. In this heart, where Its stream once flowed in sunny warmth, There is naught but a dry, rocky Channel. Rosalie. Can I hear ? Malvina I is it thou ? Mal. I have heard the curse of the old, Dying man — whose blood is mine 48 J tragic Poem. Without thee, he has no Hfe ; and Little deems the death sentence he Has pronounced, lops off the last branch ! Rosalie. Malvina ! thou die ? Oh ! oh, no I [Malvina pulling her down before her — her own grey locks falling over the shoulders of the young countess. Mal. Swear ! By the heaven above us — By the heaven I call to bless Your marriage vovi^s — to aid me, and Consent to all I ask ! Rosalie. My second mother ! Mal. Swear ! by the dark stone chapel^ — And the grinning dead, who witnessed There your vows. Swear ! By the sorrow that will drown your Young soul — by the fire that will blight, Wither, scorch, snap every chord of Thy pure heart — whose flame is already A ^ragk Poe/iL 49 So near, that it seems to glow Around me — swear I swear I [Rosalie covers her face in her handsj, and cries in a smothered voice, Rosalie, O Malvina ! Second mother ! I swear ! I — swear I Mal. Malvina, who found thee in the Cold woodlands of thy mother's colder Lord, who kept thee in safe shelter From that serpent-nest — =the arms of . Lord Eglestone ! Malvina, who so Loved thee, that she gave thee to thy Lover's arms, there, watching the sunset Glow upon thy sweet cheeks for many, Many days I Malvina, who has Killed an old^ blind man ! who stood with Thee at the dim altar on that Fatal night, among the staring Dead ! My child ! Malvina is §o A Tragic Poem. To be burned to death, by Otho's Will ! and in his presence ! The traitor Who robbed him of his life's blessing Is condemned to die — hut never Shall he know who burns — I have bought The silence of the camp — and, swear Thou, to aid this, my last aim in Life I No ! no ! Let me not hear thy voice — I will bum. Thy mother's prayers Prevailed I I was once a child I a Mother ! [She falls upon Rosalie's neck, and suddenly lifting her bony arm, ont- stretched, points through the trees, Rosalie I wife I Look up ! The plait Of thorns that life and love weave is Ready for thee ! The flame I look ! It flies to devour thee ! Oh, A tragic Poem. 51 My dove ! These old arms cannot now Shelter thee as once ! No ! no ! [Enter servants of the Castle of Lentmore, Serv. Oh, my lady I my lady ! Woe ! woe ! My lord has been killed in combat With the Earl of Eglestone — near The park of Lentmore. Lying now Dabbled In his gore ! Oh, oh, oh ! So good to all was he ! [Rosalie, giving her hand to Mal- viNA, says in suffocating tones, Rosalie. Good Malvina I Lead me to my mother's bosom^ — Hers was my first pillow ! Will be my last I Lead me To the Halls of the Lord de Belmont — There thou mayst leave me I [Extends her arms to Malvina and cries. 52 j4 Tragic Poefu. Malvina I my second mother I Take me ! Mal. Yes; these hands decked thee in thy Bridal sweetness — and they alone May put on thy sable robes. To-morrow come thou to thy Gipsy home. Bring thy mother, That she may see and know^ a w^ife's, A mother's love, is stronger far Than life ! Come, now, to thy Father's halls. [Exeunt omnes. ACT III.— Scene First. Scene represents the Palace of De Belmont — Lord de Bel- mont — and Edith standing against her Couch for Sup- port, Lord de B. Madam, where is your daughter ? Why stand you thus before me ? Has Dumbness turned into one of your Accomplishments ? Edith. My lord, I know not where she is. I am weary of her absence— Unto death ! but of her marriage. Lord de B. Enough ! enough I All matters are Arranged. The wedding feast awaits Her coming. 'To morrovSs sun shall See her coupled to Lord Eglestone. Mind you I he is the blackest fiend 54 -^ I'rag/c Poem. I ever knew ; but debts oppress, And all is cancelled with her hand. Edith. Oh, my lord ! Spare me I Spare me I See, on my knees I beseech your Clemency ! Have you no thought of A mother's love ? Is there no spark Of human sympathy in your Breast ? Lord de B. Faugh I faugh ! leave off thy simpering — 'Tis loathsome. Go ! make ready for The Bridal Enough have I put off The fiendish lover. Three months have I Searched far and wide for the willful Bride — yet knows he not that the bird Has flown ; and to-morrow I will Have thy daughter given to her Lord — for 'tis the last day he extenuates In our contract. The search sure — She inn si and shall be found ! Go I J Tragic Poem. 55 Go madam, and deck for the bridal I Ha ! ha ! ha 1 [Edith staggers out unassisted — while Lord de Belmont sits down to zvrite. Scene Second. Enter Rosalie veiled in Black — advancing slowly, Rosalie. To these halls — of my — dead father I retum^more dead — than living ! Lord de B. Ho, ho, youngster I they have caught You at last, have they ? Rosalie. Whom do you address ? I came here freely. Where is my mother ? Lord de B. Off^ blubbering about you — her Child, possessing the filial duty To run off — God knows where — and With whom I Rosalie. Monster I Do you dare thus Insult me in these walls ? the child 56 J T^raglc Voem. Of her whose heart has bled its last Drop, through your wrongs ! whose life Has ever been passive slavery To your more than base will ! Can you thus dare % Lord de B. Come, now, young bride I in these Hands are you, and their clutch is Iron ! ha I ha I ha ! Rosalie. Vilest of men! Off! offl Through you has come the ruin of Our lives ! Oh, my dear, fond mother ! Toil it was who tore, in cruelty, These loving arms from her neck 1 You it was who frightened away Her child from her fond bosom ! And these lips, that should have been near For the sw^eet w^ords of sympathy. Were driven far away ! while she Was left to thy ruthless infidelity I Vilest, vilest, man I A Tragic Poem, 57 Lord de B, But, hark you I fair Rosalie I Ruin stares me in the face — thou art Rich in the possession of Lord Eglestone's fortune — and hand — he Only asks thy love — and all my debts Are wiped away. Listen ! thy mother Will have no home. Rosalie. Oh, my mother I The fountain Of my heart is not dry — but — petrified ! Lord de B. Hear me ! hear me ! All is ready — The feast prepares — nay, more 1 thy Mother sanctions all. Save me ! save me I The Lord of Eglestone is here — All, all, awaiting thy consent. To spare thy mother the possession Of her ancestors' halls. Come, sweet ! Rosalie. He here ? The Lord of Eglestone Sheltered within these walls ? Lord de B. Yes ; and waiting with all The fire of impatience for thee ! 3* 58 J "Tragic Poenh Rosalie. Then, here I may not rest this Weary head. Nay I I may not die Here. [ To Lord de Belmont. I go now To the Gipsy camp, beyond the Woodlands of Lentmore ; but ere I Go, swear thou to me — Down I down on thy knees, before me I [He kneels* Know, then, That I hate the Earl — more than Any tongue could express ! Swear that you will come to the camp At the midnight hour. Bring my Mother I thy wronged wife ! I will Tell you nothing here — under the same Roof with him — but, come thou to the Camp, and the midnight moon Will witness there our settlement — J Tragic Poem. 59 Of all thy sins, registered by The All Good and just I Swear, Or I leave thee thus I [Lord de B., seizing her handy attempts to detain her. Lord de B. Oh, I do swear ! Thou wilt not Desert me! Tou shall not I Ruined Man that I am I Rosalie ! Rosalie ! Rosalie, No, no I / will he there I Fear not I F-or even in thy weakness it lVerefoll)\ Bring thy wife. Lord de B. But the Earl ? My life is in his Hands, He demands thee for to-morrow — Even now he awaits thy coming. Rosalie, No ! your life is not in his hands. Bring him there. Swear ! Swear to all I Lord de B. Yes, Yes ; too willingly I swean Do not go I I am lost I lost I 6o A tragic Poem, Rosalie. Thou art, indeed ! Pray thou this night ! And come to-morrow at the Midnight hour. But, stay ! Say not you saw me. Spare that Pain to my blessed mother ! Remember, I will do naught without Her presence. Remember ! {Exit Rosalie^ leaving Lord de B, grasp-' ing after her roles — on his knees. Lord de B. Have I let slip again My only hope ? By the Lord I I am driven to madness ! Fool \ Fool that I was I But her wan, Pale countenance spell-bound me ! And my grasp loosened, as by magic^ From her black vesture ! Has God himself Abandoned me ? \Throxvs himself upon the floor* A tragic Poem. 6l Scene Third, Scene is Night— the Moon is setting behind the Gipsy Camp— the blind old Chief is seated in the Midst of ail the Tribe — man^y Men bearing the Arms of Lentinore are lurking in the Rear — Rosalie is crouched^ unseen — and Edith is standing pale— and dying, beside the Lord de Belmont. [Malvina rushing forth in her zceird« like garments and f owing locks* Mal. The blood of Lentmore Is on thy soul ! Vengeance cries Against thee ! Earl of Eglestone ! Seize him ! Let him die I Edith. Oh, the dream I My gipsy-friend \ My child ! Oh, my God ! [Staggers towards Malvina, Rosalie {riishmg forth). Stand back, you bearers Of Lentmore arms. / am the wife 62 J Tragic Poenh Of the Earl of Lentmore, whom you [Tb Eglestone. So cruelly did murder I And The hand his love for him did win, Will avenge his death ! [She plunges a dagger in the breast of the Earl of Eglestone, who dies. {Rushes to Edith, who folds her arms around her, while Rosalie lays her mothefs head upon her bosom, Edith* Oh, my child ! With my last ray Of life I behold thee ! I— die- Rosalie ! Ro — sa — 1 — [She dies* Otho {groping about). What I what is all this ? Rosalie I my fawn I Where art thou ? Let me feel thy sweet Face once more ! Rosalie I Rosalie I Where ? — where ? J Tragic Poem. 63 Rosalie {kissing her dead mother). Oh, my good angel I My mother I Woe I woe I woe I [Springing up, she points to Lord de Belmont, while the scene is all a-glozv with the red glare of the Jlames al- ready made. Men of Lentmore I hark ! That fiend was the ruin of all Who loved and cared for you ! [She stabs herself and falls beside her mother — the Lord de Belmont is seized by the enraged men {his cries suffo- cated) and fung into the fire pre- pared for Malvina. [Otho, discovering Rosalie is dead^ cries in despair, Otho. Where ? where, is the gipsy traitor ? Let him burn now ! Woe, woe, Forever hangs over the stone chapel I 64 ' A Tragic Poem. Oh, my fawn I Oh, my sweet dove I Where is the traitor ? Let him perish ! [Malvina mounts the Jlame and leaps zuithin. Mal. Otho ! Malvina -was thy traitress I She burns to expiate thy grief! Forgive her ! for she loved thee ! And, although she deceived so deeply, Yet she loved — e'en — thy misfortune. Forgive — forgive thy sister. [Otho stretches forth his arms. Otho. Malvina ! Malvina ! \He springs forward and rushes zvithin theflames. PART III. BALLADS, ETC. BALLAD. Dark night hung o'er the moorland ! A storm raged o'er the deep ! While one stood on the barren beach, A long, lone watch to keep. Billows heaved ! The storm was fierce ! But, oh ! the maiden's cries Were fiercer than the tempest's rage, That seemed to rend the skies. Her golden locks were torn, and tossed, And damp by the cold death-spray. That first blew o'er the stiffened corse Of her lover- — far away I 70 Ballad. The storm sank to a baby's rest, In the bosom of the sea — A noiseless wave kiss'd the tender feet That bled on the barren lea. But, lo ! the wave a burden laid Upon the dark, cold strand ; A form was in the maiden's arms : A hand was in her hand I Thus, they whose hearts were one in life, (Vows made among the roses,) Each in the other's arms, in death, Deep in the sea reposes. SONG. THE ROSE. Among the " flowers of perished years " That sweetly bloom in every breast, A rose, a lovely rose, appears. More fragrant, far, than all the rest. Its petals are deep crimson dyed, With Hope, in Passion's early glow- When youth upon its fragrant tide, Flowed with the gushing spirit's flow. And in the moonlight of our years. We still the glowing rose may see ; For then its life-dews are our tears ; Its living bloom, Eternity ! 72 Song, It opes in beauty when we love — And closes when that love is fled : But feelings death cannot remove, In Heaven bloom — ^when we are dead. NOON. I LOVE the slanting shadows of a summer noon— The cool and drowsy ripple of the flowing stream ; I love the stillness of the quiet summer air, That dimples now and then upon the ripening grain A gentle wave ; and bends the silent, nodding trees, And stirs the vine. At noon, upon the distant plain I watch the dancing of the flitting shades, and feel The softness of the quiet scene. Then the buzzing Of the summer bee — the careless carol of the Wanton bird — the lazy winging of the gaudy 4 74 Noon. Butterfly — these lend a sweet influence to the Hour, and the rushing swiftness of the waking dawn Sinks into dreamy reveries, that float upon The still repose of noon. See I a bank Of freshest turf! whose stream is lingering near its Pebbly edge, and mirroring in its silvery face The heavy shadows of the spreading trees that group Upon the lawn. Lambs are lolling upon the slope Of a distant hill ; and from a clump of elms in Its lovely vale, the smoke of a wee cottage shows Against the sky. Above all this, the pinion of The silent noon is unfurled in perfect loveliness ! Yet, 'tis not the hour to fear, to hope, to love, or Even live ; to create vain desire, or dream of Things we love. It is an hour when the wearied Noon. 75 Spirit floats upon a peaceful rest. Amid this Pictured noon, gazing on all its gentle, speaking Beauties, life forgets itself — and the heart, like a Sorrowing dove — nestles 'neath the wing unfurled Above the scene, and fills — with sweet repose and peace — The gliding beauty of my " Noon Picture." SONG. THE LOVED OF EARLY YEARS. The loved of early years I oh where Are they ? Gone like the summer's bloom ! Some came and smiled — some sowed the tare — And some — are gathered to the tomb ! All silent in the grave at last ! Some to the spirit-home are borne — While others, buried with the Past, We weep for — and as dead we mourn. THE WINTER VOICE OF GOD. High and bare peer the tall trees 'mid the Forest gloom, And lifting their long leafless arms up to The far- OfF blue of heaven, they lend a howling Dirge to the Cold winter blasts : thus mournfully They stand, like stern Sentinels, where all is 'Death ! And the Grassy margin of the summer brook, Where violets Wink at the soft spring breeze, and lilies Droop, and bathe 78 The Winter Voice of God. Their fragrant heads — and Love sits to Muse on future Days — while the willow showers its Sheen of golden Bloom, the bees send forth their dozy Hum, and birds sing Merrily from every nook and shady copse — Sear ! Oh, sear are now the dreamy borders, and Dry and mi the pebbly bed : " Cold and drear !" Sighs every passing Wind. " Oh ! cold and dead !" whisper The spirits of the Sweet spring-flowers and leaves. The sun streams through the silent bowers So grey And leafless I with a sickly smile, and Looks upon A scene of solemn death, where all Beauty, Fragrance, T'he Winter Foice of God. yg Bloom^ obey the law of Nature — the voice Of God! The hush seems an eternal one (where Man may learn A lesson of obedience to command), and Silently They await in their sisjeet death the Spring-voice of their Maker, wherein every hue and breath of Nature Will burst forth with one loud voice of Song, In their bloomings fragrant^ antke?n^ that Seems to say " / know that my Redeemer livethr SPRING, Green are the boughs, and bending In the full promise of Spring ; and Like sweet smiles over the glad earth The flower-cups droop, laden with a Fragrance that feasts the laughing airs. The hills — the dark old hills I and copses Are glad ; the stern torrents are stern No more in their murmuring ripples ; While the birds are whispering to Themselves of spring and mirth, and beauty Is dwelling everywhere in the Young Life-landscape. Hope sits in The bloom of nature, and speaks in The glad language of promise ; but Spring. 81 Of all^ the brightest type lives in The young heart. Oh ! where the beauty That may vie with its young dream ? Where The Rose that 7nay lend one tint To its young thoughts^ blushing in their Own pure excess ? and where the song Of the glad bird that may teach its Language the song of Hope ? 'Tis a Song caught from the sphere where angels Chant it ; and the bloom that tinges The young heart's dream, may not find its Counterpart — nor in field — nor garden I 4* SUMMER. The starry clematis is flinging Fragrance far upon the breeze ; The merry oriole is swinging Gaily in the leafy trees. Dark copses ring, then seem to listen For their echoes o'er the plain ; And beams that make the daisies glisten. Burnish, too, the ripening grain. Oh ! green the fields in Summer's glory When the wind and brooklets play ! When the heart's remembered story Blooms amid the blooming day. "Summer. 83 When gentle accents, that, belonging To a time when mem'ry lives, Spring in our spirits, fragrant ! thronging ! Like the flowers Summer gives. Who is it wanders through her bowers With no fragrance from the bloom Some glad Spring's remembered hours Fling about her early tomb ? There is, I ween, a little flower Closely folded in your breast. That, in sweet Summer's golden hour Peeps up from its place of rest ; And like the sacred Rose, unclosing Beauty where all life seemed fled ! Say ! is she no brightness disclosing In thy heart — strewn with the dead ? ALL WE LOVE, All we love and fondly cherish In the narrow grave must lie ! Throbbing hearts must humbly perish In the dust^so silently ! Arms that fold us in affection In their winding-sheet must fall ! And those of the heart's election Are e'en taken first of all ! Oaks, whose arms protect and nourish Many clinging tendrils, die ; While the vine that loved to flourish, Lifts its fingers to the sky ; All we Love, 85 Vainly struggling with the tempest Its father's arms so well withstood I Thus die the young, the old, the blest. The wicked, cursed, and the good ! SONG. COME TO ME IN DREAMS. Oh ! come to me in dreams ! In sweet midnight dreams ; When silent stars are keeping Vigil in the streams. Come to my weary spirit, Like the midnight gale, That steals the dewy fragrance Of the primrose pale ; And like its breast unclosing To the still moonbeams, Unfold thy wings and brighten Mine in its fond dreams. Song. 87 That my heart in dreams may smile, Tho' tears are on my cheek I Uttering sweet hopes the while Lips may never speak. ^^THE NIGHT OF DEATH DRAWS NEAR." Come ! By the seaside and watch the waves — The restless waves ! Stretching forth their Ever reaching arms, out to their Silent shores ! The tearful murmurs Of the ocean's voice, bring to your Ear the doomed sigh — " never more !" While the eager tide lashes e'en Your footprints, and vision turns within The soul to watch the echo-waves Of joy and grief — the goods and ills Of Hfe. " Why can you come no more ?" " The Night of Death dravjs near'' 89 Cries out the soul in vain longing, As the sunny days of life glide Before that magic mirror where Memory so loves to dwell ! and look ! Hark ! a voice has breathed upon the Beauteous surface the solemn Response : a mist obscures the Peopled mirror from your sight — and In awe you hear : " They can come no more," " For the night Of death draws near." Attend, thou shepherd who goest Hand in hand with youth, spring-time and Flowers : the mountain brook must flow Onward ; and the green leaves in all Their umbrageous beauty must perish Too, with the wild rose and waving Dewy grass, that greet and shelter Thee now. For the days are like the 90 " T^he Night of Death draws nearT Notes of thy flute, dropping from the Fingers of time into the unseen Gulf of Eternity ; from whence T^hey can come no ?nore ! " The night of Death draws near I" Child of sorrow, Learn this, and thou wilt have a helping Hand to bear the burden of a Weary life ; and thou, whose tears have Never flowed, whose hours are like the Bright drops glittering in the Ocean's waves at night, attend I Sleep T^hou no more^ thou soul ! but tum And look upon that humbled one. The day is shedding his last light Upon the upturned eyes that see No earthly thing ; the weak arms Are stretched forth for aid ; and the Weaker soul pants for that all- ■ " Ti^^ Night of Death draws nearT 91 Sustaining Power ; Vv^hile the voice Gasps — " fFhat is the end of all things ?'' The filmy eyes and quivering frame Reply — " T^he night of Death draws near P' ODE TO NATURE. I LOVE to watch the Hly fair Unfold to breathe the sunny air ! I love to watch the sunbeams play Upon the face of opening day ! Oh ! every beauteous, simple thing, That smiles upon the breast of spring. Speaks to my heart a joy untold, In all that wealth and pomp unfold ! I love the carol of the bird ! The song of leaves ! by zephyrs stirred ; And tinkles of the laughing rill. My soul, with soothing rapture fill I Ode to Nature, 93 These lend enchantment to the day That darkest dawns upon life's way. Oh ! when the dear, the loved are gone, And I am left to mourn alone. To Nature will I flee and weep ! And on her breast my grief will sleep I There, cradled in her tenderness, My spirit will look up and bless The " Giver of all good," who sends. In form so fair, one who befriends Those w^hom he loves, '^hro' her belong The offerings of my soul — in song ! "I KNEW A SPIRIT ONCE." I KNEW a spirit once that sank Into the tomb ; And like a withered bud unblown, She died in gloom ! Her form was fair — yet frail — as oft The lily's stem ; Her saddened heart shone thro' her eye, A hidden gem ! And like a tender plant she grew In desert wild ; 'Mong rankled weeds, where serpents dwelt, Misfortune's child I " / lOiew a Spirit Oncer 95 For as her soul in purity The stranger grew, She could not love in such a wild, For none she knew ! Thus, when her nature would unfold In kindred love. Her spirit, on the wing of sleep. Soared above I Her voice was never heard in song. Nor did she speak ; Her cheek wore not one tinge of bloom. Her eye was meek ; Just like a fallen beam of light She shone awhile ; And when she died, her lovely face Wore its first smile. SONNET. ^^NEVER MORE." Oh ! would ye hear the knell that loudest tolls The death of bright hearts that else had lived in Bloom and sunny fragrance ? Oh ! would ye learn the Ocean-depth that rolls Deepest within the soul ? Sweeping out far Upon the golden strand of Present hours It flings its briny billows to the Past, And lashes there the echo of the pulse — " Never more'' In the slow ebbings of age, Whose measured beatings lash against the tomb. As in the sunny tide of youth's sweet Memories, it dwells — robbing the jewelled Brow of Hope, and jaundicing the soul's sweet Freshness ! „ SONG SWEET MEMORIES. Like the soft summer zephyrs of even, O'ersweeping the flowers with dew, Comes the breath of sweet memories o'er us, Vibrating the spirit anew. Oh ! they give to the bloom of affection Its hue, and w^Ith fragrance embahn Oft the path, that may lie in a desert Of years without joy or calm I Oh I they scatter bright images round us, Like rose leaves strewn by the gale — And the spirit-closed eyes of the loved. And lips that are silent and pale I 5 98 Song, In the halo of memory brighten, And speak in affection's fond tone I Say I can aught like sweet memories bind us To the land where the blest are borne ? IMPROMPTU ON PERUSING MOORFS " LOVE AND REASON." 'Tis said the cold shadow of Reason one day, From a saunter together drove Cupid away I 'Tis said he in vain spread his wings to the light, The cold shade of Reason flung o'er him her blight ! Yet, why should they sever ? Why should they not rove Companions forever, through every grove ? "That Cupid was surely the saddest excuse I While Reason was draped in unwanton abuse ! ., For, had she but given him the side of the sun, Their day would have ended bright as it begun. 1 00 Impromptu, With Love shedding brightness upon the stem sage, They had prov'd the most consistent pair of the age. The truth is, / will say (with no knowing air), Tom Moore w^as (for painting so silly a pair) Silliest of the three — else poor Love had not run, But merely changed sides to be nearest the sun.