Mother.
Why sent you the good youth away so soon?
Clara.
Blame me not, mother; for I blame myself.
My spirits are oppressed when he is here—
I know not how to look, or how to speak!
The wrong I do him cuts me to the heart.
Mother.
Clara, he loves you with a faithful love.
Clara.
I cannot help it—would we could be friends!
How I reproach me the deceit I use;
He brings so many kindly thoughts to mind
How many pleasures have we shared together—
How many thoughts exchanged. Sometimes he takes
My hand so softly and so timidly,
With such undoubting confidence of love!
How can I feed so fond a faith in vain?
I have no hope to give ; and yet I lack
The courage that would tell him to despair.
Mother.
Time was, you loved him well enough to wed.
Clara.
I knew not then the mightiness of love,
Or how a heart requires a heart again;
I wished him well—God knows I wish it still—
But loved him—never! never!
Mother.
Well, maiden, in your folly you have lost
A calm, a happy, and a loving home.
Clara.
Not loving, mother!—love asks more, much more!
I try to gather up my thoughts in vain—
I doubt, I fear, it is his absence, mother,
That spreads its own dismay; were Egmont nigh,
All would be clear. He is my light—my life—
Existence is without him incomplete—
How great he is! Our land on him relies!
Why should not I—I who am in his arms
