Mr Robert Buckdale.
He will not;—cure him, Heaven! Oh! if this be
A spirit good, and not a dream, it will not
Sure tempt him on to such mad misery.
SCENE V.—The Oratory.
Sir Reginald Buckdale de Reine.
Again upon one hour, one place, one person,
If person I may call what's incorporeal,
My destiny seems hanging. Spirit, spirit,
Wilt thou not come?—Oh! sure it is thine hour;
Why but for one short hour dost thou deign walk.
Before the eyes of mortals? Ah! a mortal
Am I? or, if a mortal, am I man,
Who thus am separated from all men
By mystery of this fierce affection, which.
Told to their ears, would seem unnatural?
Is it not so?—ah! that thought I cannot brook,
Thitherward dare not look: I only feel
That this delay is horrific. Stars, oh! hear me;—
Planets, hear as ye wander; for ye sure
Meet her luxuriant form come floating by
Your jewell'd cars, and by the diamond seats
Of yon your thousand sistering stars, their orbs
Passing in glory, and your own in fleetness;—
Ye angels of Heaven's hosts, cloud not—oh! cloud not,
Lest despair whisper me yon skies do frown;
Echo my prayers up to God's sapphire throne;
Let me not cheated be by a mad love
Of what exists not; or, if 'twere no dream
Of fancy or of slumber,—be not these
Put up for naught—these supplications vague
Of mine for pity, for the leave to keep
This passion, which is, even as my heart's blood,
Mine action's vital spring. Even though I wear
My heart away with longing, and my life,
Still let me long and love, till I become
Akin to her pure nature;—if indeed
Ere then fate's chain across my haven of hope
Be drawn; even so my destiny hath a breeze
Will drive me on that bar, though there I split:
So be it. Oh! how loudly this room's silence
Speaks of her saintlike presence; and yon couch
Where lay her lovely form,—so far eclipsing
All, mind e'er moulds—or pencil paints—or chisel
Carves, or hath carved, the Parian stone to. Thee,
Sweet sofa, I may kiss, where her cheek thee press'd
With the ethereal blush, and with the unworldly
Clearness of her complexion dusk, yet deeply
Tinging with love's light, what hearts look thereon.—
Come to mine arms, thou graceful ghost; immortal,
Come to a mortal's arms, and find within
Their clasp how fond a heart doth pant. Come quick.
Hark! that's the clock,—why loiters she? three . . . four;
Must I but once behold thee, and that once
Past—past already? eight . . . nine . . . ten. Strike quicker,
Ye hours; she will not come;—twelve! ... no, she comes not.
Misery! misery!—and I—'tis I
Have chased thee from thy chapel, sainted soul.
