  The Lady (with an open letter). Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear That troubled the calm hollow of my grief With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear The certainty—she never loved him. Brief Her forgetting—brief!—But I will not chide; And of my gold a sister’s share! To wed Another, and once his! O golden head Under the grass, how jealous is my heart Of thy remembrance! Yet I should be glad She loved thee not, for then no evil part I played, e’en though unconsciously. Oh, mad, Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day— The same, the same. I could not be a wife— I could not stop the sun! No love but thee, My own, my own! no kiss but thine—no voice To call me those sweet names that memory Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice, I still must love thee down beneath the sod More than all else—though grandest soul that God Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart Is thine, and ever must be thine; thy name Is branded there! Yet must I live my life. Servant (announcing). The Count. The Lady. Another? Ah! poor fools. The game My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned, For life is strong, and I am young.—There reigned A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay down Her long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crown Upon her head, she sat and meted out Reward and justice; nor did any doubt Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same— Her jewels bright? And had she not a name Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness? She could not stop—she needs must reign—noblesse Oblige! So I. But she—married! a wife! Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a life Of treason to his memory, a long Lie! But, ah! no, she never loved him. I Do hold myself as his, and loyally, Royally, keep my vow. Servant. What shall I say, Madam? The Lady (speaks). Show in the Count. One must do something. The Count (entering). Madame, je viens— |
|
