Page:Sebastian of Portugal.pdf/11

 Or wander where the morn, Midst the deep glow of Indian heavens is born, Waft o'er bright Isle and glorious worlds the fame Of the crowned Spaniard's name! Till in each radiant zone, Its might the nations own, And bow to him the vassal-knee, Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea!

Seb.—Away, away!—this is no place for him Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now A spell of desolation![Exit.

Fran.—Why should I linger thus? how strange the ties Whereby familiar things, to which our eye Hath grown, until the deep sad thoughts of years Have quench'd its early fire, do link themselves Around man's heart and brain!—As if they held A secret and mysterious sympathy With that invisible world!—Aye, thus we dream; But Nature is all joy!—She spurns decay And desolation from her, and doth make All changes but the ministers of her cup, Crown'd high with youth and glory. I shall sleep Beneath the green sward of the stranger's land; And these fair trees, which I have tended long, In the vain hope that he might yet return Who grew beneath their shade, to each soft wind, As in immortal gladness, will be waving All their luxuriant foliage!—Idle thoughts! Yet must our souls put on another being, Ere we can rise above them!

Seb.—How my steps Turn to their well-known haunts—and yet I seek A home no longer, but a solitude, Where a proud heart, in its dark hour of conflict, May find free scope to breathe!—Who comes?—'tis he Who lov'd me once—No! seem'd to love me once,