BEATRICE (steps forward from an alcove. She walks to and fro with an
agitated air, looking round in every direction. Suddenly she
stands still and listens).
No! 'tis not he: 'twas but the playful wind
Rustling the pine-tops. To his ocean bed
The sun declines, and with o'erwearied heart
I count the lagging hours: an icy chill
Creeps through my frame; the very solitude
And awful silence fright my trembling soul!
Where'er I turn naught meets my gaze--he leaves me
Forsaken and alone!
And like a rushing stream the city's hum
Floats on the breeze, and dull the mighty sea
Rolls murmuring to the rocks: I shrink to nothing
With horrors compassed round; and like the leaf,
Borne on the autumn blast, am hurried onward
Through boundless space.
Alas! that e'er I left
My peaceful cell--no cares, no fond desires
Disturbed my breast, unruffled as the stream
That glides in sunshine through the verdant mead:
Nor poor in joys. Now--on the mighty surge
Of fortune, tempest-tossed--the world enfolds me
With giant arms! Forgot my childhood's ties
I listened to the lover's flattering tale--
Listened, and trusted! From the sacred dome
Allured--betrayed--for sure some hell-born magic
Enchained my frenzied sense--I fled with him,
The invader of religion's dread abodes!
Where art thou, my beloved? Haste--return--