“It in another climate, so he said,
  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”
   (pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes)
  No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
  But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
  Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”
  O, beautiful!—most beautiful—how like
  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land (pauses) She died!—the maiden died! A still more happy maiden who couldst die! Jacinta! (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.) Again!—a similar tale
  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
  “She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—
  “I think not so—her infelicity
  Seemed to have years too many”—Ah luckless lady! Jacinta! (still no answer)
      Here ’s a far sterner story,
  But like—oh, very like in its despair—
  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
  A thousand hearts—losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids
  Lean over and weep—two gentle maids
  With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion! Rainbow and Dove!——Jacinta! Jac. (pettishly.) Madam, what is it? Lal. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
  As go down in the library and bring me
  The Holy Evangelists. Jac. Pshaw! (exit.) Lal. If there be balm
  For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there! Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
  Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that
  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”
   (re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.) There, ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. (aside.) Lal. (astonished.) What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
  To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry. For thou hast served me long and ever been
  Trust-worthy and respectful. (resumes her reading.) Jac. I can’t believe
  She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. (aside.) Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be? Can I do aught?—is there no farther aid
  Thou needest, Jacinta? Jac. Is there no farther aid! That’s meant for me. (aside) I’m sure, madam, you need not
  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,
  I thought not of the jewels. Jac. Oh! perhaps not! But then I might have sworn it. After all,
  There ’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
  For he ’s sure the Count Castiglione never
  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
  And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannot
  Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. (exit.) (Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a
  short pause raises it.) Lal. Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this? Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper
  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! (taking up the mirror)
  Ha! here at least ’s a friend—too much a friend
  In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
  A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not
  Though it be rife with woe: It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
  And Beauty long deceased—remembers me
  Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,
  Inurned and entombed:—now, in a tone
  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true—thou liest not! Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break—
  Castiglione lied who said he loved—
  Thou true—he false!—false!—false! (While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches
  unobserved.) Monk. Refuge thou hast,
  Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! Lal. (arising hurriedly.) I cannot pray!—My soul is at war
  with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below
  Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—
  The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment
  Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix
  With horror and awe! Monk. Think of thy precious soul! Lal. Think of my early days!—think of my father
  And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home,
  And the rivulet that ran before the door! Think of my little sisters!—think of them! And think of me!—think of my trusting love
  And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think
  Of my unspeakable misery!—begone! Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer
  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
  And vows before the throne? Monk. I did. Lal. Lal. ’Tis well. There is a vow were fitting should be made—
  A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
  A solemn vow! Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well! Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but well! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register
  This sacred vow? (he hands her his own)
  Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (shuddering)
  Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,
  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—
  I have a crucifix Methinks ’twere fitting
  The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—
  And the deed’s register should tally, father! (draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high)
  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
  Is written in Heaven! Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter,
  And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—
  Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine! Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash! Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not! Lal. ’Tis sworn! III. An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar. Baldazzar.—Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, shalt not
  Give away unto these humors. Be thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
  And live, for now thou diest! Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live. Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me
  To see thee thus. Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
  To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend. Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature
  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
  Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,
  And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir! Bal. To the field, then—to the field—
  To the senate or the field. Pol. Alas! Alas! There is an imp would follow me even there! There is an imp hath followed me even there! There is—what voice was that? Bal. I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own,
  And the echo of thine own. Pol. Then I but dreamed. Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court,
  Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls—
  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
  And phantom voices. Pol. It is a phantom voice! Didst thou not hear it then? Bal. I heard it not. Pol. Thou heardst it not!—Baldazaar, speak no more
  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. Oh!