First Love Blighted
SCENE I.
A Street, in which, after a separation of many years, the two brothers, Edward and Charles Elliot, have
accidentally met .
Charles. And now my tale is brief; we loved each other
Tenderly — truly loved; secretly met,
And sorrowfully parted; for her sire
Knew I was poor, and thought me profligate:
Her mother knew me better; but she knew
That to oppose his prejudice were vain;
And though her daughter's happiness and hopes
Were thus deferred, if not destroyed, she deemed
It were more wise to wait till time should soften
His stern resolve, than strengthen it by seeking
Too rashly its removal. So she sunk
Into a state of calm anticipation,
And lived upon the hope of happier days.
That hope upheld her till she saw her child
With tongueless sorrow drooping to the grave,
The lovely prey of unavailing love.
E DWARD . The maiden died then?
C HARLES . No: a mother's fears
Heightened her daughter's danger. Anxious thought,
And hope that came in mockery of itself,
Deferred — deferred — till it could come no more —
Her husband's cold and stern unyielding pride,
For she had very oft essayed to shew,
(When all she trusted to beside was past)
How much he wronged his hapless daughter's choice —
These mingled sorrows did so prey upon her,
So racked her mind and body, that at last:
She fell into the grave Anticipation
Had dug for her poor child.
E DWARD . And what effect
Had this kind creature's death upon your fate?
C HARLES . From it I date my woes and wanderings.
Once only since she left us have I seen
Her, whom to meet was life — to leave was death.
It was the funeral day; by stratagem
I gained admittance to the chamber where
She sat in weeping loneliness. I stood
Some minutes ere she saw me, looking on
The perfectest picture of an angel's grief
That mortal eyes may see. I see her now!
Yet dare not trust my feelings to describe
The face, the form that fill my heart and mind.
Often, when her young heart was well at ease,
Had I gazed fondly and admiringly
On her fair laughing face; but then I felt
I ne'er had loved her half so well before.
Sickness and sorrow add such interest
To that which tasks our love's solicitude.
When she beheld me, eagerly to rise
She strove, but weakness held her to the chair;
And scarcely could she say " How came you here?
(The music of those last words haunts me still
Where'er I wander) " Oh, I see 'tis true
That love will brave all danger, " ere her sire
Entered the chamber; on his countenance
I saw a mingled grief and indignation;
Silently, sternly, did he bear her out,
And beckoned me to follow. The next day
I found that both were gone, and none knew whither
E DWARD . And could you never trace them?
C HARLES . From that hour
No sort of tidings ever reached my ear;
And vain were all my efforts to procure
Intelligence from those who knew them best.
E DWARD . And I the while was battling wind and wave.
And sailing amid storms, to bring back gold,
That we might both live pleasantly, nor know
The curse of servitude and base dependance.
After a gainful voyage I returned —
C HARLES . To find me gone! Oh, my dear brother, if
You had been here, or any trusty friend
Who would have taught me how to bear my woe,
And sought to share it with me — but alone
And unsupported, madness came upon me.
It was distraction caused what I have done;
It led me to far climes, and kept me there,
Till I am almost grown a stranger to
The tongue and customs of my native land.
But fortune hath relented, and, at last,
In kindlier mood, and in her playful way,
(When least expected) doth restore to me
Half the rich treasure which she stole away.
E DWARD . 'Twas a strange chance that hath united us.
But let us hasten — for I long to reach
The happy home, which you will henceforth share.
Come, for I wish to place upon your knee
Your niece and nephew, my two bright-eyed children,
And to present you to my gentle wife.
SCENE II.
An Apartment . C HARLES alone .
But now I was most happy, and even now
I am again most miserable! Scarce
Am I arrived in this, my brother's house,
Where all things seem to welcome me, and each
Is trying which shall make me happiest,
When some strange spell comes o'er my boding soul,
And blights my budding fortunes, clouds the light
That did illume my mind, and crushes hopes
That blest me late, but came indeed too early,
To be thus soon destroyed. I have not seen
My sister-hostess, but have heard a voice
That can be none but hers — a voice that wakened
In me wild images of grief and gloom,
And called up from their dark and secret cell
Some thoughts that time had chastened, not subdued.
Ye, with the spell of time gone by, recalled
Fond hopes that even from their graves spring up,
And ask a second birth. Oh! if her form
Bear sweet affinity with that soft voice,
It were the only heaven my soul desires
To see and hear her everlastingly.
But if, and things more wonderful have been,
If she — but no — I must not think of that —
There is too much of horror in the thought!
Enter E MILY , a child about seven years old .
E MILY . I am to lead you to my mother, sir.
C HARLES . That voice again! only more infantine.
Come hither, sweet, I wish to speak with you;
How old are you, my child, and what's your name?
E MILY . Emily, sir, and I am seven years old.
C HARLES . 'Tis fixed — my fate is fixed — I cannot see.
This lovely child, and doubt it! Eyes, brow, mouth,
Voice, looks, and all the nameless witcheries
In miniature, which I remember watching
In the bright form of her who is her mother,
I see renewed in this bright-eyed sweet girl.
How changed my situation! What I deemed
A happy meeting has become my curse.
What is your name?
E MILY . Emily, sir; and I was sent to say
Mother and father do both wait for you.
C HARLES . The name! I did not note that. Gracious God!
All things conspire to tell me it is true.
Yet why should I complain? If I have 'scaped
Danger in every form, and have returned
At last, to find my plighted love become
My brother's bride? My sister! mighty change,
That makes me so — so happy, and so sad!
So satisfied — so miserable, that
I have no more to suffer or to know.
Enter E DWARD .
E DWARD . With what fond tale, my little Emily,
Do you amuse your new-found uncle, thus
To keep him from your mother and myself?
C HARLES . Aye, she has told a tale in two short words,
Though ere she spoke them, I had read it all.
Wildly commencing, sadly it goes on,
Awful its warning, dreadful its conclusion;
I would not have you hear it, to inflict
On you the pang that rends my heart in twain.
Enter M RS . E LLIOT ; on seeing C HARLES she stands for some minutes rivetted to the spot, unobserved by C
HARLES , who engrosses her attention, but who is himself absorbed in thought .
E DWARD . Brother, look up; and let two bright eyes chase
The clouds that gather o'er you.
C HARLES . ( Seeing M RS . E LLIOT .) There she stands,
The light and darkness of my soul! the star
That shed its calm and melancholy ray
On my first hopes; and that now shines upon
My dark and dreary hopelessness of heart.
Away — I cannot bear this mockery!
Did you not swear you would be ever true,
Despite the assault of time, the frown of fate,
And the dull Lethe separation oft
Would drown love's memory with?
And thou art false!
M RS . E LLIOT . (Rushing towards him, but checking herself and falling into the arms of her husband.)
Do not upbraid me so, I cannot bear it!
C HARLES . Upbraid you! Bear me witness, mighty crowd
Of doubts, and dreadful certainties, and cares,
And dangers, which, like evil ministers,
Have thronged about my path since last we met!
Bear witness, when your presence was severest,
If ever I complained, upborne by hopes,
Which love and faith inspired! Those hopes are crushed,
That love is changed to crime — that faith is past!
Yet I will not upbraid tune!
E DWARD . Charles, 'twere well
To leave us for awhile. Strong agony
Sits on this dear one; she must have assistance,
Else may this hapless meeting, (for, alas!
Such must I think it now) have fatal end.
Go now; but let me quickly hear from you.
C HARLES . One last, sad look — now I am gone for ever.
A Street, in which, after a separation of many years, the two brothers, Edward and Charles Elliot, have
accidentally met .
Charles. And now my tale is brief; we loved each other
Tenderly — truly loved; secretly met,
And sorrowfully parted; for her sire
Knew I was poor, and thought me profligate:
Her mother knew me better; but she knew
That to oppose his prejudice were vain;
And though her daughter's happiness and hopes
Were thus deferred, if not destroyed, she deemed
It were more wise to wait till time should soften
His stern resolve, than strengthen it by seeking
Too rashly its removal. So she sunk
Into a state of calm anticipation,
And lived upon the hope of happier days.
That hope upheld her till she saw her child
With tongueless sorrow drooping to the grave,
The lovely prey of unavailing love.
E DWARD . The maiden died then?
C HARLES . No: a mother's fears
Heightened her daughter's danger. Anxious thought,
And hope that came in mockery of itself,
Deferred — deferred — till it could come no more —
Her husband's cold and stern unyielding pride,
For she had very oft essayed to shew,
(When all she trusted to beside was past)
How much he wronged his hapless daughter's choice —
These mingled sorrows did so prey upon her,
So racked her mind and body, that at last:
She fell into the grave Anticipation
Had dug for her poor child.
E DWARD . And what effect
Had this kind creature's death upon your fate?
C HARLES . From it I date my woes and wanderings.
Once only since she left us have I seen
Her, whom to meet was life — to leave was death.
It was the funeral day; by stratagem
I gained admittance to the chamber where
She sat in weeping loneliness. I stood
Some minutes ere she saw me, looking on
The perfectest picture of an angel's grief
That mortal eyes may see. I see her now!
Yet dare not trust my feelings to describe
The face, the form that fill my heart and mind.
Often, when her young heart was well at ease,
Had I gazed fondly and admiringly
On her fair laughing face; but then I felt
I ne'er had loved her half so well before.
Sickness and sorrow add such interest
To that which tasks our love's solicitude.
When she beheld me, eagerly to rise
She strove, but weakness held her to the chair;
And scarcely could she say " How came you here?
(The music of those last words haunts me still
Where'er I wander) " Oh, I see 'tis true
That love will brave all danger, " ere her sire
Entered the chamber; on his countenance
I saw a mingled grief and indignation;
Silently, sternly, did he bear her out,
And beckoned me to follow. The next day
I found that both were gone, and none knew whither
E DWARD . And could you never trace them?
C HARLES . From that hour
No sort of tidings ever reached my ear;
And vain were all my efforts to procure
Intelligence from those who knew them best.
E DWARD . And I the while was battling wind and wave.
And sailing amid storms, to bring back gold,
That we might both live pleasantly, nor know
The curse of servitude and base dependance.
After a gainful voyage I returned —
C HARLES . To find me gone! Oh, my dear brother, if
You had been here, or any trusty friend
Who would have taught me how to bear my woe,
And sought to share it with me — but alone
And unsupported, madness came upon me.
It was distraction caused what I have done;
It led me to far climes, and kept me there,
Till I am almost grown a stranger to
The tongue and customs of my native land.
But fortune hath relented, and, at last,
In kindlier mood, and in her playful way,
(When least expected) doth restore to me
Half the rich treasure which she stole away.
E DWARD . 'Twas a strange chance that hath united us.
But let us hasten — for I long to reach
The happy home, which you will henceforth share.
Come, for I wish to place upon your knee
Your niece and nephew, my two bright-eyed children,
And to present you to my gentle wife.
SCENE II.
An Apartment . C HARLES alone .
But now I was most happy, and even now
I am again most miserable! Scarce
Am I arrived in this, my brother's house,
Where all things seem to welcome me, and each
Is trying which shall make me happiest,
When some strange spell comes o'er my boding soul,
And blights my budding fortunes, clouds the light
That did illume my mind, and crushes hopes
That blest me late, but came indeed too early,
To be thus soon destroyed. I have not seen
My sister-hostess, but have heard a voice
That can be none but hers — a voice that wakened
In me wild images of grief and gloom,
And called up from their dark and secret cell
Some thoughts that time had chastened, not subdued.
Ye, with the spell of time gone by, recalled
Fond hopes that even from their graves spring up,
And ask a second birth. Oh! if her form
Bear sweet affinity with that soft voice,
It were the only heaven my soul desires
To see and hear her everlastingly.
But if, and things more wonderful have been,
If she — but no — I must not think of that —
There is too much of horror in the thought!
Enter E MILY , a child about seven years old .
E MILY . I am to lead you to my mother, sir.
C HARLES . That voice again! only more infantine.
Come hither, sweet, I wish to speak with you;
How old are you, my child, and what's your name?
E MILY . Emily, sir, and I am seven years old.
C HARLES . 'Tis fixed — my fate is fixed — I cannot see.
This lovely child, and doubt it! Eyes, brow, mouth,
Voice, looks, and all the nameless witcheries
In miniature, which I remember watching
In the bright form of her who is her mother,
I see renewed in this bright-eyed sweet girl.
How changed my situation! What I deemed
A happy meeting has become my curse.
What is your name?
E MILY . Emily, sir; and I was sent to say
Mother and father do both wait for you.
C HARLES . The name! I did not note that. Gracious God!
All things conspire to tell me it is true.
Yet why should I complain? If I have 'scaped
Danger in every form, and have returned
At last, to find my plighted love become
My brother's bride? My sister! mighty change,
That makes me so — so happy, and so sad!
So satisfied — so miserable, that
I have no more to suffer or to know.
Enter E DWARD .
E DWARD . With what fond tale, my little Emily,
Do you amuse your new-found uncle, thus
To keep him from your mother and myself?
C HARLES . Aye, she has told a tale in two short words,
Though ere she spoke them, I had read it all.
Wildly commencing, sadly it goes on,
Awful its warning, dreadful its conclusion;
I would not have you hear it, to inflict
On you the pang that rends my heart in twain.
Enter M RS . E LLIOT ; on seeing C HARLES she stands for some minutes rivetted to the spot, unobserved by C
HARLES , who engrosses her attention, but who is himself absorbed in thought .
E DWARD . Brother, look up; and let two bright eyes chase
The clouds that gather o'er you.
C HARLES . ( Seeing M RS . E LLIOT .) There she stands,
The light and darkness of my soul! the star
That shed its calm and melancholy ray
On my first hopes; and that now shines upon
My dark and dreary hopelessness of heart.
Away — I cannot bear this mockery!
Did you not swear you would be ever true,
Despite the assault of time, the frown of fate,
And the dull Lethe separation oft
Would drown love's memory with?
And thou art false!
M RS . E LLIOT . (Rushing towards him, but checking herself and falling into the arms of her husband.)
Do not upbraid me so, I cannot bear it!
C HARLES . Upbraid you! Bear me witness, mighty crowd
Of doubts, and dreadful certainties, and cares,
And dangers, which, like evil ministers,
Have thronged about my path since last we met!
Bear witness, when your presence was severest,
If ever I complained, upborne by hopes,
Which love and faith inspired! Those hopes are crushed,
That love is changed to crime — that faith is past!
Yet I will not upbraid tune!
E DWARD . Charles, 'twere well
To leave us for awhile. Strong agony
Sits on this dear one; she must have assistance,
Else may this hapless meeting, (for, alas!
Such must I think it now) have fatal end.
Go now; but let me quickly hear from you.
C HARLES . One last, sad look — now I am gone for ever.
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