Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark, They will not come again. [Bending her ear to the ground. Hark, hark! aye, hark! They are all there: I hear their hollow sound Full many a fathom down. Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return They are for ever gone. Be well assured Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home, With crackling fagots on thy midnight fire, To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra! Elea. My gentle Orra! hast thou then forgot me? Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd. And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds; I wot not now how long. Hughobert. Keen words that rend my heart! thou hadst a home, And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. Urston. Be more composed, my Lord; some faint remembrance Returns upon her, with the well-known sound Of voices once familiar to her ear. Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune, That may lost thoughts recall. [Alice sings. Orra. Ha, ha! the witch'd air sings for thee bravely. Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds? Why are ye here ?-That is the blessed sun. That presses thine so kindly. Hart. Oh, grievous state! what terror seizes thee? I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now: Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things ; With stiff, clench'd, terrible strength. Hugh. A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me. Orra. Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye; Elea. Alas, the piteous sight! to see her thus, Theo. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile! [Raising Orra from the ground. No liege man to his crownèd mistress sworn, And he who offers to thy alter'd state The slightest seeming of diminish'd rev'rence, Must in my blood—(To Hartman)—O pardon me, my friend! Thou 'st wrung my heart. Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me,-I am to blame : Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. But what can now be done? O'er such wild ravings Theo. O none! none! none! but gentle sympathy, My noble Orra! Wander where'er thou wilt, thy vagrant steps Alice. See how she gazes on him with a look, Half saying that she knows him. El. There is a kindness in her changing eye. GRAHAME. THE SABBATH. How still the morning of the hallow'd day! The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song. The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; Hath ceas'd; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare |