I'd rather be the glad, bright-leaping foam, Than the smooth sluggish sea. O let me live To love and flush and thrill--or let me die!

EDWARD.

And yet, what weariness was on your tongue An hour ago!--you shall be wearier yet.

SCENE VII.

_A Balcony overlooking the Sea_--EDWARD _and_ WALTER _seated._

WALTER.

The lark is singing in the blinding sky, Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea Is toying with the sh.o.r.e, his wedded bride, And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, He decorates her tawny brow with sh.e.l.ls, Retires a s.p.a.ce, to see how fair she looks, Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair-- All glad, from gra.s.s to sun! Yet more I love Than this, the shrinking day, that sometimes comes In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark peers, It seems a straggler from the files of June, Which in its wanderings had lost its wits, And half its beauty; and, when it returned, Finding its old companions gone away, It joined November's troop, then marching past; And so the frail thing comes, and greets the world With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in tears, And all the while it holds within its hand A few half-withered flowers. I love and pity it!

EDWARD.

Air is like Happiness or Poetry.

We see it in the glorious roof of day, We feel it lift the down upon the cheek, We hear it when it sways the heavy woods, We close our hand on 't--and we have it not.

WALTER.

I'd be above all things the summer wind Blowing across a kingdom, rich with alms From ev'ry flower and forest, ruffling oft The sea to transient wrinkles in the sun, Where ev'ry wrinkle is a flash of light.

EDWARD.

Like G.o.d, I would pervade Humanity, From bridegroom dreaming on his marriage morn, To a wild wretch tied on the farthest bough Of oak that roars on edge of an abyss, The while the desperate wind with all its strength Strains the whole night to drive it down the gulf, Which like a beast gapes wide for man and tree.

I'd creep into the lost and ruined hearts Of sinful women dying in the streets,-- Of pinioned men, their necks upon the block, Axe gleaming in the air.

WALTER.

Away, away!

Break not, my Edward, this consummate hour; For very oft within the year that's past I've fought against thy drifts of wintry thought Till they put out my fires, and I have lain, A volcano choked with snow. Now let me rest!

If I should wear a rose but once in life, You surely would not tear it leaf from leaf, And trample all its sweetness in the dust!

Thy dreary thoughts will make my festal heart As empty and as desolate's a church When worshippers are gone and night comes down.

Spare me this happy hour, and let me rest!

EDWARD.

The banquet you do set before your joys Is surely but indifferently served, When they so readily vacate their seats.

WALTER (_abstractedly_).

Would I could raise the dead!

I am as happy as the singing heavens-- There was one very dear to me that died, With heart as vacant as a last-year's nest.

Oh, could I bring her back, I'd empty mine, And brim hers with my joy!--enough for both.

EDWARD (_after a pause_).

The garrulous sea is talking to the sh.o.r.e, Let us go down and hear the greybeard's speech.

[_They walk along the sands._ I shall go down to Bedfordshire to-morrow.

Will you go with me?

WALTER.

Whom shall we see there?

EDWARD.

Why, various specimens of that biped, Man.

I'll show you one who might have been an abbot In the old time; a large and portly man, With merry eyes, and crown that shines like gla.s.s.

No thin-smiled April he, bedript with tears, But appled-Autumn, golden-cheeked and tan; A jest in his mouth feels sweet as crusted wine.

As if all eager for a merry thought, The pits of laughter dimple in his cheeks.

His speech is flavorous, evermore he talks In a warm, brown, autumnal sort of style.

A worthy man, Sir! who shall stand at compt With conscience white, save some few stains of wine.

WALTER.

Commend me to him! He is half right. The Past Is but an emptied flask, and the rich Future A bottle yet uncorked. Who is the next?

EDWARD.

Old Mr. Wilmott; nothing in himself, But rich as ocean. He has in his hand Sea-marge and moor, and miles of stream and grove, Dull flats, scream-startled, as the exulting train Streams like a meteor through the frighted night, Wind-billowed plains of wheat, and marshy fens, Unto whose reeds on midnights blue and cold, Long strings of geese come clanging from the stars.

Yet wealthier in one child than in all these!

Oh! she is fair as Heaven! and she wears The sweetest name that woman ever wore.

And eyes to match her name--'Tis Violet.

WALTER.

If like her name, she must be beautiful.

EDWARD.

And so she is; she has dark violet eyes, A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek The blushing blood miraculous doth range From tender dawn to sunset. When she speaks Her soul is shining through her earnest face, As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud-- My tongue's a very beggar in her praise, It cannot gild her gold with all its words.

WALTER.

Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice?

You speak of her as if you were her lover.

Could _you_ not find a home within her heart?

No, no! you are too cold, you never loved.

EDWARD.

There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth.

WALTER.

A desolate hearth! Did fire leap on it once?