SCENE III.
A Garden—Teresa appears, descending the steps of a balcony.
Teresa.
’Tis sunset, and he is not here; though wont
To anticipate the hour! It matters not.
How lovely is the silvery, deepening twilight!
There needs but some faint sound, in melody
Stealing upon the silence—some fond whisper
Which makes us sigh for quiet in return,
To muse upon its meaning!
(A strain of music without, which continues for some moments.)
Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
She listens like a goddess, fresh from heaven,
To airs that breathe nought heavenly save her name.
The winds that wanton, lady, o’er thy lips,
Steal thence the fragrance that with prodigal wings
They lavish round the world!
Teresa.
Flatterer! thy boldness
I would rebuke, but that thy tones have music
That charms away reproof.
Foscarini.
Oh! woman, woman!
Who marking on your cheek the sudden brightness,
The brow that strives so vainly to compel
Disdain to sit there—who could deem you loved not
The voice of homage? Nay—sweet monitor——
Teresa.
I never feigned disdain.
Foscarini.
Nor felt it?
Teresa.
Never
Toward you.
Foscarini.
Why thanks; and well may I be proud,
Who merit scorn so richly; rashly seeking
To win such excellence, as other eyes
Are blinded while they gaze on!
Teresa.
Again, again!
Foscarini.
Forgive me—it is hard to measure words
When the heart overflows. Mine own Teresa!
Do I not love—have I not loved thee long?
As we do ever love all gentle things,
All glorious things, and holy—the rich flowers—
The brilliant morn—the far and smiling heaven!
All these grow sometimes pale;—heaven is o’ercast—
The dawn is clouded—and the fickle flowers
Are blighted ere their bloom be ripe!—Oh, tell me,
Who shall ensure to love, in chilling absence,
Exemption from their change?
Teresa.
It owns no change.
To speak like you in figures,—wears the sky
A fainter hue, because some cloud awhile
Obscures its glory to terrestrial eyes?
But wherefore talk of absence?
Foscarini.
We must part.
Teresa.
Part!
Foscarini.
For a time. Let it not blanch thy cheek,
Though, sooth, that hue of fear is dearer far
Than were ten thousand roses.
Teresa.
Has my favor
O’erwearied you so soon?
Foscarini.
Nay! thou dost wrong
Thy favor, to say thus. What could have power
To lure me from thy presence, save the trust
That short-lived sorrow should a harvest yield
Of rich, enduring bliss? [Music heard at a distance.
Hark! ’tis the gondola
That waits to bear me hence. I must not linger.
Come with me for a space; and as we go
I’ll tell thee of my hopes—hopes that will banish
Intrusive fear, and clothe the rugged peaks
Of wild Helvetia’s Alps with smiles and flowers,
Breathing Elysian fragrance o’er their snows! [Exeunt.