Page:Forget Me Not 1825.pdf/4

 Ellen.—              Oh forget them still! My heart beats quick with fearWhat is that sound? How sad, how wildly, has the night-wind swept Over my harp! Ronald.—Ah, those prophetic notes! Death is upon their tones; ’tis the same dirge That rang last night within my ear:—I stood Beneath an oak whose blasted stem was rent By the fierce lightning; it yet smoked; the fire Was red upon it, while the falling rain Hissed on the scorched leaves. I heard the voice Of spirits on the wind, and saw strange forms: The clouds were black as death; my only light Was the pale herald of the thunder-peal! Then rose the vision on my soul: first came Those melancholy sounds; then I beheld Myself and thee—I saw the dagger gleam Red in my hand—’twas dripping with thy gore— I saw thy death-wound, saw thee cold and pale And knew myself thy murderer! Ellen.—                  Oh, Ronald, leave This most unholy interchange with things Forbidden and concealed. Ask thine own heart; It will proclaim their falsehood. Ask that heart Which I most truly do believe is mine, If it could injure me. Ronald.—         Dear Ellen, no; It cannot be that I who love thee, thus Could harm thee, love: the turf, on which thy step Has left its fairy trace, is unto me A sainted spot; the very air thou breathest Is precious; more I prize the slightest leaf Wreath’d with thy sunny hair, than the rich gems That burn in Indian mines. It cannot be That I could harm thee! Ellen.—             Oh, I do not fear. Come, pray thee, smile at thine own prophecy. Ronald.—For once, Ellen, I’ll bid thee not believe me! *************