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ELMINA (covering her face with her hands). My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things Which rush, in stormy darkness, through my soul, Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. ABDULLAH. Come forth. We'll commune elsewhere. CARLos (to his mother). Wilt thou go? Oh! let me follow thee! ELMINA. Mine own fair child ! —Now that thine eyes have pour'd once more on mine The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice Hath sent its gentle music through my soul, And I have felt the twining of thine arms— —How shall I leave thee? ABDULLAH. Leave him, as 'twere but For a brief slumber, to behold his face At morning, with the sun's. ALPHONS0. Thou hast no look For me, my mother
Oh! that I should live
To say, I dare not look on thee!—Farewell,
My first born, fare thee well!
Yet, yet beware
It were a grief more heavy on thy soul,
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave
That thou shouldst proudly weep
Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast.
Come forth !
One more embrace My sons, farewell!
[Eveunt Abdull,AH with ELMINA and
Hear me yet once, my mother
Art thou gone *
But one word more '
[He rushes out, followed by CARLos.
Scene—The Garden of a Palace in Valencia.
Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes,
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs,
Than waits you in the city.
There are those
In their last need, and on their bed of death,
At which no hand doth minister but mine,
That wait me in the city. Let us hence.
You have been wont to love the music made
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds,
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn
From these to scenes of death f
To me the voice
Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves,
Now speaks too deep a language and of all
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies,
The breathing soul is sadness —I have felt
That summons through my spirit, after which
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds
Seem fraught with secret warnings.-There is cause
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts,
And pouring winter through the fiery blood,
And settering the strong arm —For now no sigh
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven,
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf,
But of his angel's silent coming bears
Some token to my soul.—But nought of this
Unto my mother —These are awful hours!
And on their heavy steps, afflictions crowd
With such dark pressure, there is left no room
For one grief more.
Sweet lady, talk not thus !
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light,
There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray
Than I have mark'd of late. Nay, go not yet;
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring
From the transparent waters, dashing round
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness,
O'er the pale glistening marble. Twill call up
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek.
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing
The melody you love.
Why is the Spanish maiden's grave
So far from her own bright land f
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave
Were sown by no kindred hand.
'Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air,
"Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends
To the breeze of evening there !
But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom
By the silent dwelling fades,
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the Palm of Judah shades.