How much lies hidden in that one word, now? VICTORIAN.-Yes; all the awful mystery of Life! I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, That could we, by some spell of magic, change The world and its inhabitants to stone, In the same attitudes they now are in, What fearful glances downward might we cast Into the hollow chasms of human life! What groups should we behold about the deathbed, Putting to shame the group of Niobe! What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! What lovers with their marble lips together! Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, VICTORIAN. Hold thy peace! She cares not for me. She may wed another, Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. HYPOLITO (rising).—And so, good-night! Goodmorning, I should say. (Clock strikes three.) Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace oi Knocks at the golden portals of the day! Of Preciosa when we meet again. Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, In all her loveliness. Good-night! VICTORIAN. Good-night! But not to bed; for I must read a while. [Exit. (Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.) Must read, or sit in reverie and watch O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows, Whose magic root, torn from the earth with At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, From the barred visor of Antiquity Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, The shapeless masses,-the materials,- Shine as immortal poems at the touch Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from some woodland fount a spirit rises, Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe! "Tis this ideal that the soul of man, Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream; But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel With balmy lips breathe in her ear my name! The poor too often turn away unheard sound That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. ANGELICA. The Count of Lara. PRECIOSA. The Count of Lara? O, beware that man! Mistrust his pity,-hold no parley with him! Than touch his gold. ANGELICA.- You know him, then? As much As any woman may, and yet be pure. Beware of him! ANGELICA. I cannot choose my friends. Each word of Alas! what can I do? kindness, Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. PRECIOSA.-Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair Should have no friends but those of her own sex, What is your name? ANGELICA.— Was given you, that you might be an angel Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. streets. I have no other shield than mine own virtue. Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel. ANGELICA (rising).-I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. PRECIOSA.-Thank me by following it. ANGELICA. Indeed I will. PRECIOSA.-Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. ANGELICA. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. PRECIOSA. Some other time, then, when we meet again. You must not go away with words alone. (Gives her a purse.) Take this. Would it were more. ANGELICA. PRECIOSA.-No thanks. again. I thank you, lady. To-morrow come to me I dance to-night,-perhaps for the last time. |