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174 LOUISA JANE HALL. How! there is light within thy lofty glance, A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm Upon thy lip and brow! MIRIAM. Ay, even so. A light—a flush—a calm not of this earth! For in this hour of bitterness and woe, The Grace of God is falling on my soul, Like dews upon the with'ring grass which late Red scorching flames have sear'd. Again The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, Sheds on my breast its long-forgotten peace, And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, Lights me along the path that duty marks. Lover too dearly loved! a long farewell! The banner'd field—the glancing spear—the shout That bears the victor's name unto the skies,— The laurell'd brow—be thine— PAULUS. Maid!—now hear me! For by thine own false vows and broken faith, By thy deceitful lips, and dark, cold heart— MIRIAM. Great God, support me now!—It cannot be That from my Paulus' lips such bitter words— PAULUS. Such bitter words! nay, maiden, what were thine? MIRIAM. Mine were not spoken, love, in heat or wrath, But in th' uprightness of a heart that knew Its duty both to God and man, and sought Peace with its Maker—ere it broke. But thou— - PAULUS. And I?—thou false one! am not I a man? LOUISA JANE HALL. 175 A Roman too? and is a Roman's heart A plaything made for girls to toy withal, And then to keep or idly fling away, As the light fancy of the moment prompts? Have I then stoop'd to win thy fickle love From my proud pinnacle of rank and fame. Wasting my youth's best season on a dream, Forgetful of my name, my sire, my gods To be thus trifled with and scorn'd at last? MIRIAM. Canst thou not learn to hate me? PAULUS. O ye gods! With what a look of calm despair— MIRIAM. Ay, Paulus! Never, in all my deep despondency, In all the hours of dark presentiment In which my fancy often conjured up This scene of trial—did my spirit dream Of bitterness like that which now thy hand Is pouring in my cup of life. Alas! Must we then part in anger? shall this hour, With harsh upbraidings marr'd— PAULUS. Syren! in vain— Would I could learn to hate thee! trampling down The mem'ry of my fond and foolish love, As I would crush an adder 'neath my heel! But no! the poison rankles in my veins;— It may not be;—each look and tone of thine Tells me that yet thou arT my bosom's queen, And each vain, frantic struggle only draws Closer around my heart the woven toils. [A pause.
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 17:42:06
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 00:02:00
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