Second Sight

A Dramatic Scene.

Ronald—Ellen

    Ellen.—Oh! I will chide thee, truant! Look how fair,
Like to love’s promises, the heavens appear!
The blue Night has put on her wreath of stars—
A bright queen in her proud regality!
The young Moon is arisen, and the waves
Have welcomed her in music, while the winds
Bear her their song, mixed with the breath of flowers
Our island yields, like to sweet incense given
In homage to her beauty!—All is still
Save the melodious language of the leaves;
And yonder star, our own pale signal star,
Has reached the dark hill’s point unmarked by thee,
Nay, turn not thus away—speak, mine own love!
    Ronald.—My own, my gentle treasure! I could gaze
On those blue eyes, and quite forget that shades
Are gathering on their brightness. Alas! dear love,
An evil circle is fast closing round.
I have not hidden from thee my fatal gift
To look upon the future, and to feel
Like present things those which are yet to come—
And on me now is consciousness of ill.
    Ellen.—Nay, I must smile this gloomy mood away:
Come, I will sing the words which thou didst frame
Like flowers in a fair wreath.—I heard to-day
A wild sad air, just fit for them, ’tis one
Of those sweet spells whose power is more upon
The heart than even the ear.
    Ronald.— No, no; not now!
I cannot bear to see thee smile, yet know
Thy step is on a precipice; that I
Shall lead thee to the brink—and lead to perish.
    Ellen.—This of thyself, false prophet! Ronald, no;
Oh, I will not believe thee. Come, be gay:
You’re a dull lover for a lady’s bower.
You do not love me.
    Ronald.—Not love thee! By that cheek
Now beautiful with blushes—by those eyes,
Like a blue harebell, when a sunshine plays
Upon its dewy leaves—by that white brow
Crown’d with gold curls, and by that eloquent smile—
I love thee tenderly as exiles love
Remembrance of their own country; dear
As home, as infancy, as happiness;
Precious as hope.
    Ellen.—Ah, these are honeyed words, but . . . I believe them.
    Ronald.—Alas! my trusting love, I’ve other words—
Dark, fearful words—for thee. We must forget
That we have ever loved; our vows must be
Shadows long past.
    Ellen.—Oh Ronald, cruel, cruel—
Love may not learn forgetfulness. I can
Be silent as the grave; can school my tears
To fall in secret; let my cheek grow pale;
And my heart waste away in solitude;—
But I cannot forget thee.
    Ronald.—Time has been
When pardon to the mourner were less sweet
Than are those words to me; but now thy love
To me is as despair: I’ll tell thee all,
All my dark auguries. E’en from a child
There was a strange power on me; I have sought
The mountain brow, when veiled in thunder clouds;
I roamed the forest when night wrapped me round,
The meteor flames my guide; I lay beside
The foaming waterfall, and I have held
Unblest communion with the dead, and seen
And talked with spirits, and have looked on sights
Which sent the frozen life-blood from my cheek!
I did not seek companionship with man;
I lived in a proud solitude; but you
Softened my gloomy mood, and then my pride
Bowed to a woman’s power: life was no more
A stern and gloomy pathway: but it grew
A paradise of hope, and I forgot
My dreary visions.
    Ellen.— Oh forget them still!
My heart beats quick with fear——What is that sound?
How sad, how wildly, has the night-wind swept
Over my harp!
    Ronald.—Ah, those prophetic notes!
Death is upon their tones; ’tis the same dirge
That rang last night within my ear:—I stood
Beneath an oak whose blasted stem was rent
By the fierce lightning; it yet smoked; the fire
Was red upon it, while the falling rain
Hissed on the scorched leaves. I heard the voice
Of spirits on the wind, and saw strange forms:
The clouds were black as death; my only light
Was the pale herald of the thunder-peal!
Then rose the vision on my soul: first came
Those melancholy sounds; then I beheld
Myself and thee—I saw the dagger gleam
Red in my hand—’twas dripping with thy gore—
I saw thy death-wound, saw thee cold and pale
And knew myself thy murderer!
    Ellen.— Oh, Ronald, leave
This most unholy interchange with things
Forbidden and concealed. Ask thine own heart;
It will proclaim their falsehood. Ask that heart
Which I most truly do believe is mine,
If it could injure me.
    Ronald.— Dear Ellen, no;
It cannot be that I who love thee, thus
Could harm thee, love: the turf, on which thy step
Has left its fairy trace, is unto me
A sainted spot; the very air thou breathest
Is precious; more I prize the slightest leaf
Wreath’d with thy sunny hair, than the rich gems
That burn in Indian mines. It cannot be
That I could harm thee!
    Ellen.— Oh, I do not fear.
Come, pray thee, smile at thine own prophecy.
    Ronald.—For once, Ellen,
I’ll bid thee not believe me!
 *⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*
    It is a lovely shade, but shun the place—
Mark what a red taint is upon the heath!
The very harebells have caught that one hue:
Look how they gleam beneath the pale moonlight!
Oh, blood is on their bloom—a crimson dye—
Which has been and which will be there for years.
Those larches, with their graceful sweep, once made
A gentle maiden’s bower, and ’tis her blood
That gives the flowers their unnatural stain.
’Tis a sad history:—The maid was slain
By one who was her lover; for his heart
Was dark with jealousy: and then he fled
To the fierce battle, as if outward strife
Could kill the strife within; yet home he came
At last—death spares the wretched—then he heard
How innocent, how true, his Ellen was.
He sought the spot where she was murdered, made
Atonement with his blood; and it is told,
When the moon lights the midnight, comes a sound
Of melancholy music, and a shape
Like that poor maiden, with the golden hair
Stain’d from the bosom’s wound; and by its side,
Another phantom of a dark-brow’d chief,
Who seems, with bended head and outstretch’d arms,
To ask forgiveness; these flit o’er the turf,
And make the place so fearful.