Ronald.—Not love thee! By that cheek
Now beautiful with blushes—by those eyes,
Like a blue harebell, when a sunshine plays
Upon its dewy leaves—by that white brow
Crown’d with gold curls, and by that eloquent smile—
I love thee tenderly as exiles love
Remembrance of their own country; dear
As home, as infancy, as happiness;
Precious as hope.
Ellen.—Ah, these are honeyed words, but . . . I believe them.
Ronald.—Alas! my trusting love, I’ve other words—
Dark, fearful words—for thee. We must forget
That we have ever loved; our vows must be
Shadows long past.
Ellen.—Oh Ronald, cruel, cruel—
Love may not learn forgetfulness. I can
Be silent as the grave; can school my tears
To fall in secret; let my cheek grow pale;
And my heart waste away in solitude;—
But I cannot forget thee.
Ronald.—Time has been
When pardon to the mourner were less sweet
Than are those words to me; but now thy love
To me is as despair: I’ll tell thee all,
All my dark auguries. E’en from a child
There was a strange power on me; I have sought
The mountain brow, when veiled in thunder clouds;
I roamed the forest when night wrapped me round,
The meteor flames my guide; I lay beside
The foaming waterfall, and I have held
Unblest communion with the dead, and seen
And talked with spirits, and have looked on sights
Which sent the frozen life-blood from my cheek!
I did not seek companionship with man;
I lived in a proud solitude; but you
Softened my gloomy mood, and then my pride
Bowed to a woman’s power: life was no more
A stern and gloomy pathway: but it grew
A paradise of hope, and I forgot
My dreary visions.
