Classic Poem

SCENE VIII.

DIONE. LAURA.

LAURA.

Why hangs a cloud of grief upon thy brows?
Does the proud nymph accept Evander 's vows?

DIONE.

Can I bear life with these new pangs opprest!
Again he tears me from his faithless breast:
A perjur'd Lover first he sought these plains,
And now my friendship like my love disdains,
As I new offers to Parthenia made,
Conceal'd he stood behind the woodbine shade.
He says, my treach'rous tongue his heart betray'd,
That my false speeches have mis-led the maid;
With groundless fear he thus his soul deceives;
What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes.

LAURA.

Resign thy crook, put off this manly vest,
And let the wrong'd Dione stand confest;
When he shall learn what sorrows thou hast born,
And find that nought relents Parthenia 's scorn,
Sure he will pity thee.

DIONE.

— — — No, Laura , no.
Should I, alas! the sylvan dress forgo,
Then might he think that I her pride foment,
That injur'd love instructs me to resent;
Our secret enterprize might fatal prove:
Man flys the plague of persecuting love.

LAURA.

Avoid Parthenia ; lest his rage grow warm,
And jealousie resolve some fatal harm.

DIONE.

O Laura , if thou chance the youth to find,
Tell him what torments vex my anxious mind;
Should I once more his awful presence seek,
The silent tears would bathe my glowing cheek;
By rising sighs my fault'ring voice be stay'd,
And trembling fear too soon confess the maid.
Haste, Laura , then: his vengeful soul asswage,
Tell him, I'm guiltless; cool his blinded rage;
Tell him that truth sincere my friendship brought,
Let him not cherish one suspicious thought.
Then to convince him, his distrust was vain,
I'll never, never see that nymph again.
This way he went.

LAURA.

— — — See, at the call of night,
The star of ev'ning sheds his silver light
High o'er yon western hill: the cooling gales
Fresh odours breathe along the winding dales;
Far from their home as yet our shepherds stray,
To close with cheerful walk the sultry day.
Methinks from far I hear the piping swain;
Hark, in the breeze now swells, now sinks the strain!
Thither I'll seek him.

DIONE.

— — — While this length of glade
Shall lead me pensive through the sable shade;
Where on the branches murmur rushing winds,
Grateful as falling floods to love-sick minds.
O may this path to Death's dark vale descend!
There only, can the wretched hope a friend.