ANDRÉ
ACT FIRST.
Scene 1. A Wood seen by star-light; an Encampment at a distance appearing between the trees.
(Enter Melville.)
Melville. The solemn hour, "when night and morning meet,"
Mysterious time, to superstition dear,
And superstition's guides, now passes by;
Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels,
In drowsy tones, from post to post send on
The signal of the passing hour. "All's well,"
Sounds through the camp. Alas, all is not well;
Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of man.
At midnight's depth, deck'd in this murderous guise.
The habiliment of death, the badge of dire
Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well.
—In vain the enlighten'd friends of suffering man
Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and madness.
Still, age succeeds to age, and war to war;
And man, the murderer, marshals out in hosts
In all the gaiety of festive pomp.
To spread around him death and desolation.
How long! how long!—
—Methinks I hear the tread of feet this way.
My meditating mood may work me woe.
(Draws.)
Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. Who's there?
(Enter Bland.)
Bland. A friend.
Melville. Advance and give the countersign.
Bland. Hudson.
Melville. What, Bland!
Bland. Melville, my friend, you here?
Melville. And well, my brave young friend. But why do you.
At this dead hour of night, approach the camp
On foot, and thus alone?
Bland. I have but now
Dismounted, and from yon sequester'd cot,
Whose lonely taper through the crannied wall
Sheds its faint beams and twinkles midst the trees.
Have I, adventurous, grop'd my darksome way.
My servant and my horses, spent with toil,
There wait till morn.
Melville. Why waited not yourself?
Bland. Anxious to know the truth of those reports
Which, from the many mouths of busy fame,
Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my ear,
Each making th' other void. Nor does delay
The color of my hasteful business suit.
I bring dispatches for our great Commander;
And hasted hither with design to wait
His rising, or awake him with the sun.
Melville. You will not need the last, for the blest sun
Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn
We see him mounted gaily in the field,
Or find him wrapt in meditation deep,
Planning the welfare of our war-worn land.
Bland. Prosper, kind Heaven, and recompense his cares.
Melville. You're from the South, if I presume aright?
Bland. I am; and, Melville, I am fraught with news.
The South teems with events—convulsing ones.
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