SCENE VII.
_A Balcony overlooking the Sea_--EDWARD _and_ WALTER _seated._
WALTER.
The lark is singing in the blinding sky, Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, He decorates her tawny brow with shells, Retires a space, to see how fair she looks, Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair-- All glad, from grass to sun! Yet more I love Than this, the shrinking day, that sometimes comes In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark peers, It seems a straggler from the files of June, Which in its wanderings had lost its wits, And half its beauty; and, when it returned, Finding its old companions gone away, It joined November's troop, then marching past; And so the frail thing comes, and greets the world With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in tears, And all the while it holds within its hand A few half-withered flowers. I love and pity it!
EDWARD.
Air is like Happiness or Poetry. We see it in the glorious roof of day, We feel it lift the down upon the cheek, We hear it when it sways the heavy woods, We close our hand on 't--and we have it not.
WALTER.
I'd be above all things the summer wind Blowing across a kingdom, rich with alms From ev'ry flower and forest, ruffling oft The sea to transient wrinkles in the sun, Where ev'ry wrinkle is a flash of light.
EDWARD.
Like God, I would pervade Humanity, From bridegroom dreaming on his marriage morn, To a wild wretch tied on the farthest bough Of oak that roars on edge of an abyss, The while the desperate wind with all its strength Strains the whole night to drive it down the gulf, Which like a beast gapes wide for man and tree. I'd creep into the lost and ruined hearts Of sinful women dying in the streets,-- Of pinioned men, their necks upon the block, Axe gleaming in the air.
WALTER.
Away, away! Break not, my Edward, this consummate hour; For very oft within the year that's past I've fought against thy drifts of wintry thought Till they put out my fires, and I have lain, A volcano choked with snow. Now let me rest! If I should wear a rose but once in life, You surely would not tear it leaf from leaf, And trample all its sweetness in the dust! Thy dreary thoughts will make my festal heart As empty and as desolate's a church When worshippers are gone and night comes down. Spare me this happy hour, and let me rest!
EDWARD.
The banquet you do set before your joys Is surely but indifferently served, When they so readily vacate their seats.
WALTER (_abstractedly_).
Would I could raise the dead! I am as happy as the singing heavens-- There was one very dear to me that died, With heart as vacant as a last-year's nest. Oh, could I bring her back, I'd empty mine, And brim hers with my joy!--enough for both.
EDWARD (_after a pause_).
The garrulous sea is talking to the shore, Let us go down and hear the greybeard's speech. [_They walk along the sands._ I shall go down to Bedfordshire to-morrow. Will you go with me?
WALTER.
Whom shall we see there?
EDWARD.
Why, various specimens of that biped, Man. I'll show you one who might have been an abbot In the old time; a large and portly man, With merry eyes, and crown that shines like glass. No thin-smiled April he, bedript with tears, But appled-Autumn, golden-cheeked and tan; A jest in his mouth feels sweet as crusted wine. As if all eager for a merry thought, The pits of laughter dimple in his cheeks. His speech is flavorous, evermore he talks In a warm, brown, autumnal sort of style. A worthy man, Sir! who shall stand at compt With conscience white, save some few stains of wine.
WALTER.
Commend me to him! He is half right. The Past Is but an emptied flask, and the rich Future A bottle yet uncorked. Who is the next?
EDWARD.
Old Mr. Wilmott; nothing in himself, But rich as ocean. He has in his hand Sea-marge and moor, and miles of stream and grove, Dull flats, scream-startled, as the exulting train Streams like a meteor through the frighted night, Wind-billowed plains of wheat, and marshy fens, Unto whose reeds on midnights blue and cold, Long strings of geese come clanging from the stars. Yet wealthier in one child than in all these! Oh! she is fair as Heaven! and she wears The sweetest name that woman ever wore. And eyes to match her name--'Tis Violet.
WALTER.
If like her name, she must be beautiful.
EDWARD.
And so she is; she has dark violet eyes, A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek The blushing blood miraculous doth range From tender dawn to sunset. When she speaks Her soul is shining through her earnest face, As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud-- My tongue's a very beggar in her praise, It cannot gild her gold with all its words.
WALTER.
Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice? You speak of her as if you were her lover. Could _you_ not find a home within her heart? No, no! you are too cold, you never loved.
EDWARD.
There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth.
WALTER.
A desolate hearth! Did fire leap on it once?
EDWARD.
My hand is o'er my heart--and shall remain.-- Let the swift minutes run, red sink the sun, To-morrow will be rich with Violet.
WALTER.
So be it, large he sinks! Repentant Day Frees with his dying hand the pallid stars He held imprisoned since his young hot dawn. Now watch with what a silent step of fear They'll steal out one by one, and overspread The cool delicious meadows of the night.
EDWARD.
And lo, the first one flutters in the blue With a quick sense of liberty and joy!
(_Two hours afterwards_), WALTER.
The rosy glow has faded from the sky, The rosy glow has faded from the sea. A tender sadness drops upon my soul, Like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
EDWARD.
Behold yon shining symbol overhead, Clear Venus hanging in the mellow west, Jupiter large and sovereign in the east, With the red Mars between.
WALTER.
See yon poor star That shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines! 'Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad. 'Tis like an orphan trembling with the cold Over his mother's grave among the pines. Like a wild lover who has found his love Worthless and foul, our friend, the sea, has left His paramour the shore; naked she lies, Ugly and black and bare. Hark how he moans! The pain is in his heart. Inconstant fool! He will be up upon her breast to-morrow, As eager as to-day.
EDWARD.
Like man in that. We cannot see the lighthouse in the gloom, We cannot see the rock; but look! now, now, It opes its ruddy eye, the night recoils, A crimson line of light runs out to sea, A guiding torch to the benighted ships. [_After a long pause._ O God! 'mid our despairs and throbs and pains, What a calm joy doth fill great Nature's heart!
WALTER.
Thou look'st up to the night as to the face Of one thou lov'st; I know her beauty is Deep-mirrored in thy soul as in a sea. What are thy thinkings of the earth and stars? A theatre magnificently lit For sorry acting, undeserved applause? Dost think there's any music in the spheres? Or doth the whole creation, in thine ear, Moan like a stricken creature to its God, Fettered eternal in a lair of pain?
EDWARD.
I think--we are two fools: let us to bed. What care the stars for us?