Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/339

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SCENE II. A small narrow Street, before a private sombre-looking house.

Move slowly here, for now we pass the fane In which the mystic vision-seeing sage To ears of faith speaks his wild oracles.

What, he of whom we've heard such marvellous things?

Yes; such perturbed times his harvest prove, When anxious minds, in dread of coming ill, Would draw aside, impatiently, the veil Of dark futurity.—Softly, I pray: A female form now issues from the door: It moves, methinks, like Ella.

It is herself, and I will speak to her. Fair maid, as well I guess by that light trip, Thy lover's fate hangs on a lucky thread; Tough, and well whiten'd in a kindly sun.