Scene II.—Sea-shore.
Enter Azlea.
Azlea. O can it be that Alvernon is false—
That he hath ceased to think of the weak girl
So easily won into love's confidence?
Two summers, one of joy and one of woe,
Have flitted o'er my brow, bringing to it
A deeper shade of thought, and to my heart
Full many an earnest lesson; yet he comes not!
My father, thou wert right to mourn the fate
That threw thy child in the enticing way
To the young heart's sweet love—for sweet it is,
Though crowned with wildest sorrow. I have been
The sport of a strange fortune, and did not
A doating father live to mourn his child,
Death and the grave could not too speedily come.
If one I loved were at this moment here,
To close my eyes when they had looked their last,
Long, lingering glance of love; to kiss
The breath, the last shall pass these lips, away,
As it was spent sighing love's farewell,
Oh, I could shut my eyes upon the earth,
And close its beauty out without a sigh!
Love! love! love! 'tis strange the world doth fling
So much of the heart's treasures to the winds,
Treating them as the playthings of an hour.
Enter Hermon.
Her. Oh, Azlea! have I met thee again?
This is a wilder anguish, wilder joy,
Than I have known for months; to gaze again
Upon thy loveliness, again to hear
The music of thy voice—delicious torture!
I have longed for this; have sat at night,
