To pierce another. Oh, 'tis written large The thing I have to do. The saints were cowards who stood by to see -0 Father, my soul is weak, the mist of tears I choose the ill that is most like to end With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life. Don Silva.-What am I but a miserable brand Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma He trusted me, and I will keep his trust : Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good. —0— Calamity Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, Don Silva. Dear! you share the woe Nay, the worst dart of vengeance fell on you. Fedalma.-Vengeance! she does but sweep us with her skirts She takes large space, and lies a baleful light Revolving with long years-sees children's children, Blights them in their prime . . . Oh, if two lovers leaned To breathe one air and spread a pestilence, They would but lie two livid victims dead With our poor petty lives have strangled one Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark, The insects' hum that slurs the silent dark Startles, and seems to cheat me, as the tread Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, And hears them never pause, but pass and die. Music sweeps by me as a messenger Carrying a message that is not for me. The very sameness of the hills and sky Is obduracy, and the lingering hours Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves, (To Silva.)—We may not make this world a paradise By walking it together hand in hand, With eyes that meeting feed a double strength. We must be only joined by pains divine Of spirits blent in mutual memories. Silva, our joy is dead. We must walk Apart unto the end. Our marriage rite Is our resolve that we will each be true To high allegiance, higher than our love. Our dear young love—its breath was happiness! But it had grown upon a larger life Which tore its roots asunder. The larger life subdued us. We rebelled Yet we are wed; For we shall carry each the pressure deep Of the other's soul. Silva. Juan, cease thy song. Our whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes For souls that carry heaven and hell within. Juan. True, my lord, I chirp For lack of soul; some hungry poets chirp For lack of bread. 'Twere wiser to sit down And count the star-seed, till I fell asleep With the cheap wine of pure stupidity. —0— I'm a plucked peacock-even my voice and wit The absence of your tail, but twenty fools Hem! taken rightly, any single thing, -0 Our nimble souls Can spin an insubstantial universe Suiting our mood, and call it possible, |