Because to-morrow--Ah! no more of that,
The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep.

Truly my soul is silent unto God.




A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST.


I.

Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.'
'What is it, mother--what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales!
You tremble, alas and alas--you heard bad news from the town?'
'Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails--


II.

Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?--O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no,
Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears;
But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go,
One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years.


III.

Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?'