Look from thy brow once more!—But how is this?
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine;
And in thy look is that which ill befits
A tale of joy.
Rai. A dream is on my soul.
I see a slumberer, crown'd with flowers, and smiling
As in delighted visions, on the brink
Of a dread chasm; and this strange phantasy
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts,
I cannot but be sad.
Con. Why, let me sing
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well,
And this will banish it.
Rai. It may not be.
Oh! gentle Constance, go not forth to-day:
Such dreams are ominous.
Con. Have you then forgot
My brother's nuptial feast?—I must be one
Of the gay train attending to the shrine
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy
Will print earth lightly now —What fear'st thou, love?
Look all around! these blue transparent skies,
And sun-beams pouring a more buoyant life
Thro' each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase
All thought of evil.—Why, the very air
Breathes of delight!—Thro' all its glowing realms
Doth music blend with fragance, and e'en here
The city's voice of jubilee is heard
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds
Of human joy!
