Behold the golden token That proves me happy now! Would God I could awaken! For I dream I know not how, And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken,Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now. TO F. BELOVED! amid the earnest woes My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off sle In some tumultuous sea Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms-but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright sland smile. SCENES FROM "POLITIAN; AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. I. ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione. . Castiglione. Sad!-not I. On, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome! Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy! Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness-what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply? Cas. Did I sigh? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, A silly-a most silly fashion I have When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (sighing.) Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine, Castiglione,-these Thy looks are haggard-nothing so wears away The constitution as late hours and wine. Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing-not even deep sorrow Wears it away like evil hours and wine. Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too-fellows low born- Cas. I will drop them. Aless. Thou wilt-thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage-they are over plain For thy lofty rank and fashion-much depends Upon appearances. Cas. I'll see to it. Aless. Then see to it !-pay more attention, sir, To a becoming carriage-much thou wantest In dignity. Cas. Much, much, oh much I want In proper dignity. Aless. (haughtily.) Thou mockest me, sir! Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage! I speak to him he speaks of Lalage! Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? he's not well! What ails thee, sir? Cas. (starting.) Cousin! fair cousin!-madam! I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well-- This air is most oppressive!-Madam-the Duke! Enter Di Broglio. Di Broglio. My son, I've news for thee!-hey?-what's the matter? (observing Alessandra.) I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her, You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! |