Page:Sebastian of Portugal.pdf/11

Or wander where the morn,
Midst the deep glow of Indian heavens is born,
Waft o'er bright Isle and glorious worlds the fame
Of the crowned Spaniard's name!
Till in each radiant zone,
Its might the nations own,
And bow to him the vassal-knee,
Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea!

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Seb.—Away, away!—this is no place for him
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now
A spell of desolation![Exit.

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SCENE.—The Gardens of a Royal Villa.

FRANCESCO, AN OLD PRIEST.

Fran.—Why should I linger thus? how strange the ties
Whereby familiar things, to which our eye
Hath grown, until the deep sad thoughts of years
Have quench'd its early fire, do link themselves
Around man's heart and brain!—As if they held
A secret and mysterious sympathy
With that invisible world!—Aye, thus we dream;
But Nature is all joy!—She spurns decay
And desolation from her, and doth make
All changes but the ministers of her cup,
Crown'd high with youth and glory. I shall sleep
Beneath the green sward of the stranger's land;
And these fair trees, which I have tended long,
In the vain hope that he might yet return
Who grew beneath their shade, to each soft wind,
As in immortal gladness, will be waving
All their luxuriant foliage!—Idle thoughts!
Yet must our souls put on another being,
Ere we can rise above them!

(Sebastian enters.)

Seb.—How my steps
Turn to their well-known haunts—and yet I seek
A home no longer, but a solitude,
Where a proud heart, in its dark hour of conflict,
May find free scope to breathe!—Who comes?—'tis he
Who lov'd me once—No! seem'd to love me once,