Clara.
Ah, this poor house is heaven, since he came here.
What princess but would envy in his heart
The lowly Clara's place! How fond his love—
How anxious for me—and how tender of me—
Love mine—my idol! Not in his true heart
Beats one false pulse!
Mother.
Does he come here to-day?
Clara.
Have you not seen me at the window, mother?
The floor creaked, and I reddened at the noise—
I thought it was a step—and still my eyes,
Though turned on other things, have watched the door.
Mother.
You are so eager, you betray yourself.
The wood-cut which your cousin shewed—how near
It had betrayed your secret. Egmont's form
Scarce caught your eye, before you cried, 'Tis he!
Clara.
'Tis hard to hide a heart so full as mine!
It was the fight near Gravelines—and there
His horse was killed beneath him—and my heart
Gave all the wretched picture lacked to shew.
Nay, I must laugh. There Egmont stood, as tall
As the old tower, or the good English ship
That rode hard by. I saw the hero stand,
His helmet off, the wind in his dark hair,
And his eye bright with triumph. Often now
I think how I was used to fancy war,
Familiar from my childhood, with the name—
The honoured name of Egmont. I was wont
To image what the hero's self might be:
How feel I now?
