SCENE III.—A Boudoir. Flowers about it, in beautifully shaped Vases. A Greenhouse at one end. The window-panes delicately tinted, and hung with light fleecy draperies. MABEL working, and singing in a low voice.

MABEL (singing).

At night when stars shine bright and clear, The soft winds on the casements blow, And round the chamber rustle low, Like one unseen, whose voice we hear, On tiptoe stealing to and fro—

At night when clouds are dark and drear, They moan about the lattice sore, And murmur sighs for evermore, That fill us with a chilly fear, Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door—

At night, in moonlight or in gloom, They wander round the drooping thatch, Like some poor exile thence to catch Fond glimpses of each well-loved room, And sigh beside the unraised latch—

O unseen Wind! art thou alone, Thus breathing round the sleeping land? Or roams with thee a spirit band, Blending sad voices with thine own,— Voices that once with cheerful tone Made music round the sleeping land?

ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).

Ah! her dear voice. How all my nature thrills, My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound, Like some great dome with holy music fill'd! She is the lark, above my listening soul Hovering still with carols from Heaven's gate. She is the perfumed breeze, that evermore Sweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life. She is the sea, that fills with sweetest sound The yearning earth that folds it in its arms. Not love her—Ah! dear heart, how utterly!

[A pause.

What if amid these spirit wanderings, This so mysterious power can grant at will,— What if the angels, smitten with her grace, Woo'd her away for ever from my heart? The dove came twice again unto the ark, With messages of peace, and hope, and joy, But the third time return'd not. She's my dove— Oh! wing'd she ever from my longing heart, The waters of my life would quick subside, And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time. What if God saw her hovering aloft, And smiled her in amongst his cherubim? What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like, Blot me for ever from her memory, So that she sought me never, never more? Oblivion! take again this fearful power— No more shall Fate be tempted with my wealth, Lest covetous it rob me of my all.

[A pause.

And yet, these are but dreams, poor selfish fears, That scum-like float and dim Love's limpid tide. Shall I thus cage my bird from liberty, And let it beat its life out on the bars, Lest some dear bliss detain it in the heavens? Shall I spill rashly forth this wine of joy, Because for me within the crystal cup Some dregs may haply rest when she has drunk? Ah, no! for her alone shall I take thought. The first pure sacrifice of Love is self! There is no peril. God that sends the power Will send the guardian angel to direct. I work for her—Heaven speed the work of love.

[Enters the room.

MABEL.

I waited for thee, love—'tis past the hour, And on my dial slumbers Time in shade When thou comest not to sun me.

ORAN.

I but stood There on the threshold, following thy voice Away, away through mazy lengths of dreams. Music—low music from the lips we love, Is the true siren that still lures the soul From cares of earth to the Enchanted Isles.

MABEL.

Methinks that thou art sad to-day, my husband. Let me share with thee pain as well as joy; It is the sweetest right that love can claim. We give our joys to strangers, but our grief Sighs itself only forth for those we love. We hang our sorrows on the loved one's ear, Like jewell'd pendents for a bridal feast.

ORAN.

Tell me, my Mabel, if within this sleep, To which mine art oft leads thee, there should come Some angel bright with Heaven's reflected light, Wooing thee upward with the songs of bliss,— Tell me, my Mabel, wouldst thou freely go, Leaving this fair earth-vesture only here, Leaving me lornly gazing on the sky, Blotting its sun out with my blinding tears?

MABEL.

There is no angel but the angel Death Could sever me from thee who art all my life! What Heaven is there but that which Love creates? What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned? Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day, That dies out with its setting utterly— Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring, That keeps the fountain of my being full— Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse The joyous moments of my flowing life— Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?

ORAN.

Dear Mabel!—Yet to-day thy brothers came, Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms, With practising against thy precious life.

MABEL.

Oh, Heaven!

ORAN.

They dread these trances, whose dim fame Hath floated on the ignorant air to them. They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me, And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved, A most pernicious art, that may, perchance, Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear? My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me? Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand, Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith— Am I not as the floating gossamer, Steering through ether on thy guiding breath? Am I not as the clay within thy hand, Taking the shape and image of thy thought? Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts In erring love against thy watchful care. That which thou doest I accept with joy; I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd bark The coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.

ORAN.

Fear not! I do well think no peril lies Within this power, but virtue of rare worth, Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.— Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth Of all these glorious wanderings above? No certain visions of the hidden things Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?

MABEL.

Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft, The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth's gate, And all the blinding glories it hath known Shed but their mystic influence over life. Therefore, it may be, 'tis I nought retain Of that which passeth in these hours of trance.

ORAN.

Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams, Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.— Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhile In Heaven's own sunshine;—yet forget not me!

[Makes passes over her, which shortly sink her into a state of trance.

'Tis done! she's free! and now this lovely frame Lies tenantless, a casket whose pure gems Now sparkle 'mid the opal lights of Heaven. This earth seems very lone and cold to me Now she is absent, though a little space! My heart goes restless wandering around, Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks, Like one who, waking from some troubled dream, Findeth his love soft stolen from his side, And straightway seeketh in a dim amaze All through the moonlight for her straying feet.

[A pause.

Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky? Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze? Flashing white pinions 'gainst the golden sun, That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast? Art thou soft floating through the joys of Heaven, With Earth far, far beneath thee, like a star Struggling up through the tremulous sea of light, That sucks its life down from the eye of day? About the gate of Heaven there floats my dove, Fann'd by the breath of melodies divine; Opes there no casement soft to take her in, And lay her in the bosom of delight? O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven! Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide, On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?

[A pause.

O wonderful! Thou mansion tenantless, Unswept by memory, untrod by thought, Where all lies tranced in motionless repose; No whisper stirring round the silent place, No foot of guest across the startled halls, No rustling robes about the corridors, No voices floating on the waveless air, No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreams On silver wings among the archèd domes,— No swans upon the mere—no golden prow, Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure's breeze,— No flapping sail before the idle wind,— No music pulsing out its great wild heart In sweetest passion-beats the noontide through,— No lovers gliding down sun-chequer'd glades, In dreams that open wide the Eden gate, And waft them past the guardian Seraphim. Sleep over all the Present and the Past— The Future standing idle at the gate, Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot haste Bearing great tidings to some palace porch, Findeth the place deserted.

[A noise without; enter in haste Father, Maurice and Roger.

How now?—Friends, you are welcome!

FATHER.

Where's my child, That you maltreat, most rash and guilty man?

ORAN.

Sir, you are over hasty in your words— Your child is here.—

[Points to Mabel, who still lies entranced.

FATHER.

Mabel! wake, Mabel—O my God! she's dead!

MAURICE.

How!—Dead!

ROGER.

Ay, murder'd!

FATHER.

O! my child! my child!

ORAN.

Peace! she is well—Sleep folds her in his arms, And each upheaving of his drowsy breast Is like a billow upon pleasure's sea, Wafting her on to far Hesperides.

FATHER.

This is no healthy sleep that wraps her now, Else would she waken at my anxious cry; 'Tis death-sleep, wretched man.

MAURICE.

Let's bear her hence.

ROGER.

Nay! let him now unwind his magic spells, Or fall our vengeance on his guilty head.

ORAN.

Dismiss your fears, and cease your threats. Old man, Soon shall I prove how much you wrong my love; Thus do I call the spirit home again, And wave the slumber backward from her eyes.

[Makes passes to awaken her, but without effect after long persistence.

FATHER.

Impostor! would you mock e'en Death itself, Calling it sleep!—You see, Death mocks you back.

MAURICE.

In vain! no further seek to blind our fears.

ORAN.

'Tis strange!… stand back, Sirs … 'tis your influence Hath neutralized my power—stand off, I say!

[Continuing the passes in great agitation.

ROGER.

By Heaven!—It is too much—Let fall the mask! O villain! you have done your worst at last, And ta'en the sweetest life in all the land; But vengeance swift shall follow on your track.

ORAN.

Hold! hold! young man, talk not of vengeance here; This sleep shall pass and shame your blood-hot words— If it pass'd not the vengeance were forestall'd.

[A silence—continuing the passes.

O Mabel! Mabel! hear me where thou art! Come to the lonely heart that yearns for thee,— Come to the eyes that seek thee through salt tears! Patience, Sirs, now methinks the sense returns; A smile steals o'er her lips, and roseate hues Make morning on her downy cheek again: Back … back—my anguish shall unwind the charm!

[A silence.

FATHER.

Sir, I acquit you—pity you—perceive You loved her, and have err'd against yourself; But cease these struggles that but mock us now, They nought avail—my child is dead!…

ORAN.

Mabel! Mabel!