The night is pleasant to me, and the breeze
Comes from the wood-crown'd mountain, with a light
And lively song, to kiss my pallid brow,
That is already fever'd!-Take my hand.
GER. Alas, how hot and dry it is! O Seymour
I fear thou art not well! thy pulse is high,
Thy cheek is deadly pale, and thy hand trembles!
O watch no longer; thou art wearied by it,
And it is over late, for midnight wanes.
SBY. Were I to seek my couch I could not sleep-
And if I could, strange dreams would visit me,
Thoughts of the mournful yew, and of the grave;
And this would be but weariness; besides,
The morning is not yet; and I have wished
The morning breeze was fresher and more chill.
My hours of midnight study are not many,
Why should I lessen them by restless sleep?
GER. Thy watchings, Seymour, are too long and frequent: For I have noted them, and often seen
The light of thy dim taper tremble on
The leafy woodbine that hangs round thy lattice,
When others were asleep, and thou didst think
No eye was looking on thy patient toil.
To night I knew thou wast not sleeping, and
I came to warn thee, that 'twas time to rest.
SEY. Dear Gertrude, I am faint and sick to night,
And very sad, ev'n more than I am wont.
But though I may not sleep, yet thanks to thee
For those kind words of thine and kinder thoughts:-
For ever was the tone of feeling higher
Within thy bosom, than thy tongue could tell.
GER. Thy wasted lamp is quivʼring in its socket!
It has gone out,-and I must leave thee now.
Thy spirits will be lighter in the morning-
Good night! Good night!
Am very sorrowful, and fain would have
Thy voice to cheer me,-but thou too art sad.
How this hand trembles !-But look out and see
Where beautiful the setting moon goes down!
There are no mists about it, and no clond
To dim its holy brightness at departing!
Thus, purified from all earth's gro-sness, would
My spirit bid the world and thee farewell!
For as in Heav'n her night-hours, so on earth
My days are number'd, and will soon be spent.
List! and thine ear will shortly hear the faint
And midnight music of the wind and wave
Swell o'er the upland and in distance die!
So shall I perish, and my memory,
Leaving no trace behind upon the earth;
Life's but a song of saddest harmony.
Thou saw'st the midnight lamp grow dull and dim,
Revive and fade by turns, and then sink down,
And with a pale and quiv'ring flame go out!
Cherish'd by thought and dim'd again by fears,
Such is the life of man !-and so the lamp
Of his existence often beams the brightest
When lowest in the socket, 'till at last
Wasted by one great effort, it goes out.
For oft the brightest glow is on the cheek
Where death has set his fatal seal most firmly,
And flow'rs are often found upon the grave's-brink.
GEB. Thy thoughts dwell too much on the mournful grave,
Dear Seymour!-Would that thou wert happier,
Knowing no sorrow in thy dreams by night,
Nor in thy waking thoughts; Oh! I should be
Of cheerful heart and lighter spirit then;
And thy poor mother, though bow'd down with age,
Would bear the burthen of her years less sadly!-
Alas! I know not how it is, that still
My feelings have a melancholy tone,
That suits the sadness of thy countenance,
And then are livelier, when the cheerful glow
Of health and gladness is upon thy cheek.
Sleep, then, and rest thee; and may morning find
Thou hast a lighter heart than now! Good night!-
SEY. Good night, dear Gertrude; and bright dreams be thine,
'Till morning comes again, with her gemm'd wings
Waving in beauty on the eastern hills!—(Gertrude goes out.)
And roll the wings of night so swiftly on?-
They move more slowly now!-for nought so much
As care and sorrow stay the feet of Time.
And is it wise that man, who at its close
Becomes so avaricious of this life,
Should deem the hours time's hand has portioned out
As his inheritance, pass off too slowly?
Why should men say, that life is short, and yet
Waste the bright morning of their younger days?
Or that the Autumn-harvest brings no fruit,
When Springs sweet blossoms faded through neglect? Alas! Philosophy may never teach
The lesson from experience we can learn,
That life, which seems through hope's perspective glass, An age, is but a day to memory's eye.
Sequestered Woodland Scenery-Early Morning.
The music of the morning.—the loud hymn
Of the wing'd tenants of the woodland, and
The rushing song of breathing winds above them,
With the deep voice of falling waves, and faint
The far, long-swelling peal of village bells,-
Break full and cheerfully upon night's stillness.
The summer sky is cloudless, and the air
Breath's with a clear, cold freshness, as the Hours
Roll back the flood-gates of the eastern light,
And full the Spring-tide of the morning gushes.
Dark in its sheeted mirror, where yon stream
Spreads its blue waters to a wider bound,
The woodland waves reflected, and below
As fair a Heaven expands as that above,
With the lark's wild-wing fanning in the ether.
So! heralding Hyperion's advent, bright
The morning star glows like an orb of fire,
Full in the Orient, where the deeper blue
Of Heaven is ting'd with streaks of silver light,
And other stars seem joyless in the day-spring.
If in these rolling spheres, as man has deem'd,
The creature in the great Creator's image made,
Though of a higher rank than ours, inhabits,
A link in the great chain of being, form'd
Connecting man with angels,-or if there,
Spirits of higher and of holier birth,
Have their allotted dwellings, with what eyes
Did they look down on our rebellious earth
When waters were its grave, and man in death
Had lost his rich inheritance of joy?
O, did they weep when clouds of sin were round it,
And as a wandering planet it rolled on;
Unheard the music of the verging spheres,
Though not unseen the beauty of their brightness?
Or purified from tears, did they behold,
With pitying eyes, our frailty and transgression?—
But man may task his wisdom all in vain,
To light the clouded mystery of what
The free imagination may aspire to!
And reason's pinion stoops to earth again,
Tho' visionary fancy journeys on !—
Now as the morning blushes o'er the hills,
And brighter glows, I'll turn my feet along
The path that winds beside the river's margin.
Gertrude and a Peasant Girl, enter on the opposite side,
This way he passed but deadly pale he was,
And his wild eye was gazing on the sky
As he would read his fate amongst the stars!
I pray thee not to follow-he might hurt thee!—
GER. Hurt me, child!-never!-we have grown*
Together from our childhood, and since then
Never has been my name on Seymour's lips,
Except in kindness; and the early bud,
That friendship plac'd between us is full-blown
Into the flow'r of love. And think'st thou now
That he would hurt me?
But then he look'd so wildly, and his cheek
Was pale as death, and then was flush'd again,
And chang'd as did my brother's ere he died!
His step was hurried too, and now and then
He stop'd and spoke, but it was to himself,—
None else was near.
Hush! child, you frighten me!
And yet say on! what heard or saw you more!
P. G. I know no more: for he had pass'd me then,
As I was standing on the trembling plank,
That bridges yonder brook. Now let us go!
GER. Ah no!-not yet!-say, which way did he go?
P. G. He took the left hand path that leads this way,
And farther onward to the waterfall.
O Seymour, this is then the fruit
Of thy long studies in the hours of sleep!
Thy midnight cares have blasted thee, and wither'd
The zeal and beauty of thy youth away,
And the rich pride of dawning manhood, which
An early piety kept holy, and
Free from pollution, pure, and passionless,
Unless the gush of wild and youthful feeling,
And brighter love, that knew no shade nor change,
Were deem'd thy passions. But the glow of health
Has faded like the rainbow's tints away,
And the deep hectic flush is on his cheek,
That, like the sere red leaf in Autumn, speaks
Decay and dissolution! He is here!-
SEY. Ah Gertude! I had wish'd to meet you here,
For I have had forebodings sad and fearful,
Of coming ill; and I have risen up
To feel the morning breezes fresh and free,
Breathing along the woodland, and to hear
The cheerful song of lighter hearts than mine.
I had a dream last night, and it has left
Dark traces on my mind, who am not wont
To take much thought of dreams. But this has spoken
Of the mysterious future, with a voice
That will be heard and listen'd to, though fearful.
I thought the freshness of the morning air
Might cheer my spirit, but I strive in vain
To chase away those shadow'd images,
That becon dimly to my waking thoughts,
And bid them follow on, as in my dreams.
Nor is my heart less troubled; for which way
I turn, faintly before my eyes they move.
This was my dream. I thought I stood at night
In a sick chamber by the couch of pain,
When life and death were struggling for the mast'ry.
Waving and dim a lamp stood by the couch,
And soon was wasted and went out! And then
Deep was the struggle of mortality;
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