(Brackenberg returns, says that there has been a tumult
in the town, and proposes to go. Clara does not
attempt to detain him—but, withdrawing the hand
which he attempts to take, leaves the room with
her mother.)
Brackenberg (solus).
I scarcely meant to go so soon away—
I felt my heart swell when she said no word
That might induce my stay. Unhappy one!
The perils darkening o'er thy father land
Affect not thee. No general sympathy
Stirs generous anger in thy laggard veins.
Spaniard, or countryman—the same to thee—
I had a nobler spirit as a boy;
My very school-task roused its youthful wrath
At the oppressor's name. But now I hang
Devotedly upon a maiden's look.
I cannot leave her! Can she not love me?
The gentle ties gathered by many years,
Affections garnered since our first small words:
These cannot be forgotten all—like dreams!
Can she have cast me from her thoughts? Not quite—
Yet half is worse than nothing. Oh! no more
Can I endure this worst of misery—doubt!
Can it be true—the whisper which I heard—
That at this very door a cavalier
Stands with the night, his cloak around his face;
Aye enters? No! it is a false, base lie!
Clara is innocent, as I am wretched;
Yet time was when she loved, or seemed to love:
Can I forget the happiness that pierced
My heart like sudden pain—yet was so sweet.
False hope! that in thy cruelty dost paint
A perfect joy—a paradise far off.
And that first kiss—that one—'t was here.
(Laying his hand on the table.)
Gentle she always was, and kind, and sweet,
But there was softness in her eyes that night.
I never read their light so close before.
I know not how—but there my lip touched hers.
My head was dizzy with the wild delight.
Oh ! would that I had died! I think of death
As if he were a friend—severe and cold—
From whom I shrink—but yet my only friend.
L. E. L.
(To be continued.)
