that holdeth thus the keys of life,
Can then at will give moments of release,
Which to the soul are as the water-brooks
That scantly rise amid a sun-scorch'd waste:
These, oft repeated, must at length destroy
The thraldom of the flesh, and give at will
A freer issue to the practised soul—
At lowest gladden it with gleams of bliss,
Glimpses of heaven amid this exile time.
Yes! thus, my Mabel, shall thy prison'd soul
Rise to its sister angels heavenward still;
And soon the mortal fetters shall hang loose,
Scarce clogging aught its motions glad and free.
Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer be
A prison, but a meetest dwelling-place,
Full of all infinite delights, and dear
As is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark,
That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky.
These men, did they not see it in thine eyes,
Amazed and fearful at the dazzling sight,
As some rude passer gazing up aloft
Sees from some casement, unawares, a face
That makes his great rough heart on sudden rock
With wonder and with worship—in her frame
Did they not see the mortal waxing faint,
The immortal fusing it with heavenly fire?
Ay! the charm works, and thou, my life, my love,
Reapest the first-fruits of my long, long toil.

SCENE III.—A Boudoir. Flowers about it, in beautifully shaped Vases. A Greenhouse at one end. The window-panes delicately tinted, and hung with light fleecy draperies. MABEL working, and singing in a low voice.

MABEL (singing).

At night when stars shine bright and clear,
  The soft winds on the casements blow,
  And round the chamber rustle low,
Like one unseen, whose voice we hear,
  On tiptoe stealing to and fro—

At night when clouds are dark and drear,
  They moan about the lattice sore,
  And murmur sighs for evermore,
That fill us with a chilly fear,
  Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door—

At night, in moonlight or in gloom,
  They wander round the drooping thatch,
  Like some poor exile thence to catch
Fond glimpses of each well-loved room,
  And sigh beside the unraised latch—

O unseen Wind! art thou alone,
  Thus breathing round the sleeping land?
  Or roams with thee a spirit band,
Blending sad voices with thine own,—
Voices that once with cheerful tone
  Made music round the sleeping land?

ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).

Ah! her dear voice. How all my nature thrills,
My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound,
Like some great dome with holy music fill'd!
She is the lark, above my listening soul
Hovering still with carols from Heaven's gate.
She is the perfumed breeze, that evermore
Sweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life.
She is the sea, that fills with sweetest sound
The yearning earth that folds it in its arms.
Not love her—Ah! dear heart, how utterly!

[A pause.

What if amid these spirit wanderings,
This so mysterious power can grant at will,—
What if the angels, smitten with her grace,
Woo'd her away for ever from my heart?
The dove came twice again unto the ark,
With messages of peace, and hope, and joy,
But the third time return'd not. She's my dove—
Oh! wing'd she ever from my longing heart,
The waters of my life would quick subside,
And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time.
What if God saw her hovering aloft,
And smiled her in amongst his cherubim?
What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like,
Blot me for ever from her memory,
So that she sought me never, never more?
Oblivion! take again this fearful power—
No more shall Fate be tempted with my wealth,
Lest covetous it rob me of my all.

[A pause.

And yet, these are but dreams, poor selfish fears,
That scum-like float and dim Love's limpid tide.
Shall I thus cage my bird from liberty,
And let it beat its life out on the bars,
Lest some dear bliss detain it in the heavens?
Shall I spill rashly forth this wine of joy,
Because for me within the crystal cup
Some dregs may haply rest when she has drunk?
Ah, no! for her alone shall I take thought.
The first pure sacrifice of Love is self!
There is no peril. God that sends the power
Will send the guardian angel to direct.
I work for her—Heaven speed the work of love.

[Enters the room.

MABEL.

I waited for thee, love—'tis past the hour,
And on my dial slumbers Time in shade
When thou comest not to sun me.

ORAN.

          I but stood
There on the threshold, following thy voice
Away, away through mazy lengths of dreams.
Music—low music from the lips we love,
Is the true siren that still lures the soul
From cares of earth to the Enchanted Isles.

MABEL.

Methinks that thou art sad to-day, my husband.
Let me share with thee pain as well as joy;
It is the sweetest right that love can claim.
We give our joys to strangers, but our grief
Sighs itself only forth for those we love.
We hang our sorrows on the loved one's ear,
Like jewell'd pendents for a bridal feast.

ORAN.

Tell me, my Mabel, if within this sleep,
To which mine art oft leads thee, there should come
Some angel bright with Heaven's reflected light,
Wooing thee upward with the songs of bliss,—
Tell me, my Mabel, wouldst thou freely go,
Leaving this fair earth-vesture only here,
Leaving me lornly gazing on the sky,
Blotting its sun out with my blinding tears?

MABEL.

There is no angel but the angel Death
Could sever me from thee who art all my life!
What Heaven is there but that which Love creates?
What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned?
Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day,
That dies out with its setting utterly—
Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring,
That keeps the fountain of my being full—
Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse
The joyous moments of my flowing life—
Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?

ORAN.

Dear Mabel!—Yet to-day thy brothers came,
Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms,
With practising against thy precious life.

MABEL.

Oh, Heaven!

ORAN.

They dread these trances, whose dim fame
Hath floated on the ignorant air to them.
They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me,
And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved,
A most pernicious art, that may, perchance,
Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear?
My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me?
Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand,
Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith—
Am I not as the floating gossamer,