Ellen.— Oh forget them still!
My heart beats quick with fearWhat is that sound?
How sad, how wildly, has the night-wind swept
Over my harp!
Ronald.—Ah, those prophetic notes!
Death is upon their tones; ’tis the same dirge
That rang last night within my ear:—I stood
Beneath an oak whose blasted stem was rent
By the fierce lightning; it yet smoked; the fire
Was red upon it, while the falling rain
Hissed on the scorched leaves. I heard the voice
Of spirits on the wind, and saw strange forms:
The clouds were black as death; my only light
Was the pale herald of the thunder-peal!
Then rose the vision on my soul: first came
Those melancholy sounds; then I beheld
Myself and thee—I saw the dagger gleam
Red in my hand—’twas dripping with thy gore—
I saw thy death-wound, saw thee cold and pale
And knew myself thy murderer!
Ellen.— Oh, Ronald, leave
This most unholy interchange with things
Forbidden and concealed. Ask thine own heart;
It will proclaim their falsehood. Ask that heart
Which I most truly do believe is mine,
If it could injure me.
Ronald.— Dear Ellen, no;
It cannot be that I who love thee, thus
Could harm thee, love: the turf, on which thy step
Has left its fairy trace, is unto me
A sainted spot; the very air thou breathest
Is precious; more I prize the slightest leaf
Wreath’d with thy sunny hair, than the rich gems
That burn in Indian mines. It cannot be
That I could harm thee!
Ellen.— Oh, I do not fear.
Come, pray thee, smile at thine own prophecy.
Ronald.—For once, Ellen,
I’ll bid thee not believe me!
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