Her planks all started, and her rigging split,
When she hugs closely to the beach in age.
But I console myself for my gray hairs,
By spinning such warm fancies in my brain,
That I become a little thing again,
And totter o'er the ground, as when I whipped my top. (Approaches Henry.)
Your servant, sir, the day goes bravely down.
HEN. Through the red leaves, I see the morning's glow.
CHES. 'T is but the picture of some morning scene;
A fair conceit the sun has in his head,
And when he sets makes fatal flourishes.
HEN. I hear you jest with nature, that you mock,
And fling queer faces at her holy calm,
Write witty volumes that demoralize;
Pray Mr. Chester do you fear the devil?
CHES. As I do nightfall. I have some night-fears,
Some horrid speculations in my brain;
And when the mice play hangmen in the wall,
Or out the house the pretty frost-toes creep,
I think, pest o'nt, what dark and doleful sounds,
If it were safe I'd raise the curtain's hem.
And when I puff away the cheerful light,
The moonbeam makes a thief's dark-lantern flit;
My head is filled with horribund designs,
And on myself I pack damned Macbeth's part.
I love to nourish such complexed conceits;
I have a vein of dreadful longing in me,
Was born to murder, and excel in arson,
And so I love the devil, though broad day
Has all the devilish aspects that I know.
See, comes the gentle Mary, know you her?
HEN. Not I, my solitude hath its own figures.
(Enter Mary.) CHES. (to Mary.) God speed thee, lady, it was opportune Your footsteps led you up this sheltered walk,
For here is Henry Gray, my friend at least,
And now is yours.
MARY. I willingly would know what Chester does,
And Mr. Gray, I trust, will but forgive me.
I rarely venture in these forest walks,
Where leads that prithee? (To Henry.)
HEN. 'Tis by the lake, which gleaming like a sword,
One edge of this green path, a peacock lance,
Crosses in sport, and then descends away,
And vanishes among the outspread moors.
CHES. And Mr. Gray, sweet Mary, knows the path,
All paths that frolic in these devious woods,
For he's sworn friends with squirrels, steals their nuts,
Divides with other beasts their favorite meat,
Can show you hungry caves, whose blackening jaws
Breathe out a little night into the air,
Will stand you on the dizzy precipice,
Where all whirls round you like a whizzing wheel,
In truth his skill is perfect, so farewell.
HENRY AND MARY.-(By the Lake.)
MARY. Those hills you say are lofty.
I have clomb them, and there stood gazing
On villages outspread, and larger towns.
Gleaming like sand-birds on the distant beach.
I love the mountains, for a weight of care
Falls off his soul, who can o'erlook this earth.
MARY. And there you passed the night?
I have passed weeks
Upon their very tops, and thought no more
To fall upon the low, dark days of earth.
Above, the clouds seemed welcome faces to me,
And near the raging storms, came giant-like,
And played about my feet. Yet even there,
I feared for my own heart, lest I should grow
Too careless of myself. Yonder the town,-
You must excuse my absence, for the clock
Rounds the small air-balls into leaden weights.
(Exit Henry.)
MARY, (alone.) I breathe, and yet how hardly,-a moment,
What a thing am I, -a passing moment,
Lifting from the earth my weary heart so sick,
O'er-burdened with the grating jar of life,-
This youth,-how sleeps the lake, how blue it gleams.
(Chester again enters.)
CHES. Ah! Mary alone,-indeed, has Henry Gray
Shot like a rocket in the rayful air?
A brilliant youth, at least his eyes are bright.
CHESTER AND MARY.- (Outskirts of Town.)
MARY. He is a student at the college.
CHES. Mark you, he is a student, and knows the trick.
He has a brother too, Vincent, a gay
Free, dashing animal, or so I hear,
But I hate characters at second-hand.
You know they are towns-people; 't is an old,
And comfortable family, I hear.
Pest on't, my brains won't hold much matter now,
I am too old for gossip.
CHES. Who wants that good device? it is a part
Of every comfortable family.
MARY. My father's mansion, will you enter?
CHES. No, Mary, not to-night. (Mary goes in.)
(Chester alone.) What comes of this,
When two youths come together, but woman
Rarely loves, a play upon the word, So, So!
As I grow old, I lose all reasoning.
I hunt most nimble shadows, and have grown
A perfect knave for picking out old seams.
(Enter William Gray.)
GRAY. Good evening Mr. Chester. I call it evening,
For I see you walk, and they say here your gait
Is nightly.
CHES. I have seen Henry now, and Mary came,
He had not known her,-strange!
GRAY. Mary, the banker's daughter; a girl of promise.
CHES. They are old friends of mine, banker and all.
I've held him on my arm, and made him quake
At jingling coppers. He's richer now-a-days.
GRAY. 'T would please me to make more of them.
CHES. I will contrive it. There are times in life,
When one must hold the cherry to his lips,
Who faints to pluck a fair maid by the ear.
ADELINE AND VINCENT.-(Mr. Gray's House.)
VIN. She is a lovely girl.
ADE. And rich as lovely.
VIN. I wish I knew her better.
ADE. One day is not enough, friend Vin., to know
The mind of woman; many days must go,
And many thoughts.
VIN You will assist me, Adeline.
ADE. So far as in me lies,-I know not Mary.
VIN. But the sex is in your favor.
VIN. You made a good report on botany.
HEN. I'm glad you think so. 'Tis a fair study,
To spy into the pretty hearts of flowers,
To read their delicacies, so near to.
But Vincent, science at the best
Demands but little justice at my hands,
It has its masters, has its oracles,
I am content to gather by the wall,
Some little flowers that sport a casual life,
To hover on the wing; who comes ?-'Tis Chester.
(Exit Chester.)
CHES. Three frends in charming concert act their part.
But Henry, I have news for you,
CHESTER AND HENRY. (Seated in Chester's House.)
HEN. What is the news, I pray?
CHES. Last night, as I went walking in the wood,
I practise often in these woodland walks,
And on some nights I almost pluck the stars
Like crystal plums from off the tops of trees, -
But, as I said, I walked far down the wood,
In that rheumatic kind of greasy gait
I have accumulated, and I went
Dreaming and dreaming on, almost asleep, If not quite half awake, until I reached The lake's dim corner, where one ragged tree Let in a gush of fuming light. The moon Now being high, and at its full, I saw Upon that little point of land a shape, A fair round shape, like early womanhood, Kneeling upon the ground wept by the dews; And then I heard such dreadful roar of sobs, Such pouring fountains of imagined tears I saw, following those piteous prayers, All under the great placid eye of night. 'T was for an old man's eye, for a young heart Had spun it into sighs, and answered back. And now the figure came and passed by me, I had withdrawn among the ghostly shrubs, 'Twas Mary, poor Mary! I have seen her smile So many years, and heard her merry lips Say so much malice, that I am amazed She should kneel weeping by the silent lake, After old midnight night-caps all but me. But you are young, what can you make of it? HEN. What can one make of figures? I can see The fair girl weeping by the moonlit lake. CHES. Canst thou not see the woman's agony,
Canst thou not feel the thick sobs in thy throat,
That swell and gasp, till out your eyes roll tears
In miserable circles down your cheeks?
HEN. I see a woman weeping by the lake;
I see the fair, round moon look gently down,
And in the shady woods friend Chester's form,
Leaning upon his old, bent maple stick.
CHES. What jest ye? Dare you, Henry Gray, to mock
A woman's anguish, and her scalding tears,
Does Henry Gray say this to his friend Chester,
Dares he speak thus, and think that Chester's scorn
Will not scoff out such paltry mockeries?
HEN. Why how you rage; why Chester, what a flame
A few calm words have lighted in thy breast.
I mock thee not, I mock no woman's tears,
Within my breast there is no mockery.
CHES. True, true, it is an old man's whim, a note
Of music played upon a broken harp.
I fancied you could read this woman's tears,
Pest on't, I am insane; I will go lock me up.
[Exit Chester,
HEN. (alone.) Ye fates, that do possess this upper sphere,
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