But now,-oh! trust me, couldst thou fall from power And sink
Mel. As low as that poor gardener's son
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?
Pau.
Even then,
Methinks, thou wouldst be only made more dear
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught
By the poor glittering of a garish flame :
But, oh, the wings once scorched, the brightest star
Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
We cling till death!
[Aside.] O conscience! conscience!
It must not be ;-her love hath grown a torture
Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,
And-ha! he comes.
I have business with these gentlemen-I-I
Will forthwith join you.
[Looking off]-Sweet love, one
Do not tarry long. [Exeunt.
Ay, speak her son! have fiends a parent? speak,
That thou mayst silence curses !—speak!
Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.
Pau. [laughing wildly] This is thy palace, where "the perfumed light
Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air is heavy with the sighs
Of orange-groves, and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!" Dost thou like the picture?
This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!
O fool-O dupe-O wretch! I see it all-
The by-word and the jeer of every tongue
In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch
Of human kindness? If thou hast, why, kill me,
And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot-
It cannot be: this is some horrid dream :
I shall wake soon [touching him]. Art flesh art man?
The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.
What have I done to thee?—how sinned against thee,
That thou shouldst crush me thus ?
Mel.
Pauline, by pride
Angels have fallen ere thy time: by pride--
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould--
The evil spirit of a bitter love,
And a revengeful heart had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was filled with thee:
I saw thee 'midst the flow'rs the lowly boy
Tended, unmarked by thee-a spirit of bloom,
And joy, and freshness, as if spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Entered the breast of the wild, dreaming boy,
And from that hour I grew-what to the last
I shall be thine adorer? Well, this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales, that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell-how maidens sprung from kings
Have stooped from their high sphere; how Love, like Death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
My father died; and I, the peasant born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin gaolers of the daring heart——
Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men!~ For thee I
A midnight student o'er the dreams of
sages!
For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace,
And every muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And Passion taught me poesy-of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty! Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men called me vain-some mad-I heeded not;
But still toil'd on-hoped on-for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee!
Pau. Has he a magic to exorcise hate?
Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee-such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name-appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name,
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
That very hour-when passion, turned to wrath,
Resembled hatred most-when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos-in that hour
The Tempters found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-
It turn'd and stung thee!
Love, sir, hath no sting.
What was the slight of a poor, powerless girl
To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?
Oh, how I loved this man !—A serf?—a slave!
Mel. Hold, lady!—No, not slave! Despair is free!
I will not tell thee of the throes-the struggles-
The anguish the remorse: No-let it pass!
And let me come to such most poor atonement
Yet in my power.
[Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand.
No, touch me not!
You are, by law, my tyrant !
And I-O Heaven !—a peasant's wife! I'll work-
Toil-drudge do what thou wilt-but touch me not;
Let my wrongs make me sacred!
Mel.
Do not fear me.
Thou dost not know me, madam: at the altar
My vengeance ceased, my guilty oath expir'd!
Henceforth no image of some marble saint,
Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd more
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
I am thy husband-nay, thou needst not shudder;
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.
A marriage thus unholy-unfulfill'd-
A bond of fraud-is, by the laws of France,
Made void and null. To-night sleep sleep in peace.
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn
I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.
The law shall do thee justice, and restore
Thy right to bless another with thy love.
And when thou art happy and hast half forgot
Him who so loved-so wrong'd thee, think at least,
Heaven left some remnant of the angel still
In that poor peasant's nature!
Conduct this lady (she is not my wife;
She is our guest, our honoured guest, my mother!)
To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue
Never, beneath my father's honest roof,
E'en villains dared to mar! Nay, lady, now
I think thou wilt believe me.
[PAULINE walks slowly away, then turns to look
Mel. All angels bless and guard her.
By permission of Messrs George Routledge & Sons.
THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.
Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this;
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted of.
Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a
Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm ?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.
Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man in all this world,
But for supporting robbers; shall we now,
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ?
And sell the mighty space of our large honours,
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
Cas. Brutus, bay not me,
I'll not endure it; you forget yourself
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
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