The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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Good night!

       [Exit.

       Vict. Good night!

      But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

      (Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.)

      Must read, or sit in revery and watch The changing color of the waves that break Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! Visions of Fame! that once did visit me, Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, Juices of those immortal plants that bloom Upon Olympus, making us immortal? Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, And make the mind prolific in its fancies! I have the wish, but want the will, to act! Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words Have come to light from the swift river of Time, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? From the barred visor of Antiquity Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, As from a mirror! All the means of action—The shapeless masses, the materials—Lie everywhere about us. What we need Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits At evening in his smoky cot, and draws With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, And begs a shelter from the inclement night. He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, And, by the magic of his touch at once Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed, Rude popular traditions and old tales Shine as immortal poems, at the touch Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from some woodland fount a spirit rises And sinks again into its silent deeps, Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe! 'T is this ideal that the soul of man, Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream; Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many Must wait in vain! The stream flows evermore, But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! Yet I, born under a propitious star, Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel The pressure of her head! God's benison Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes, Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name!

      (Gradually sinks asleep.)

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      Prec. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile.

      The poor too often turn away unheard

      From hearts that shut against them with a sound

      That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more

      Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me.

      What is your landlord's name?

       Ang. The Count of Lara.

       Prec. The Count of Lara? O, beware that man!

      Mistrust his pity—hold no parley with him!

      And rather die an outcast in the streets

      Than touch his gold.

       Ang. You know him, then!

       Prec. As much

      As any woman may, and yet be pure.

      As you would keep your name without a blemish,

      Beware of him!

       Ang. Alas! what can I do?

      I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness,

      Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor.

       Prec. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair

      Should have no friends but those of her own sex.

      What is your name?

       Ang. Angelica.

       Prec. That name

      Was given you, that you might be an angel

      To her who bore you! When your infant smile

      Made her home Paradise, you were her angel.

      O, be an angel still! She needs that smile.

      So long as you are innocent, fear nothing.

      No one can harm you! I am a poor girl,

      Whom chance has taken from the public streets.

      I have no other shield than mine own virtue.

      That is the charm which has protected me!

      Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it

      Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel.

       Ang. (rising). I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady.

       Prec. Thank me by following it.

       Ang. Indeed I will.

       Prec. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say.

       Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her.

       Prec. Some other time, then, when we meet again.

      You must not go away with words alone.

      (Gives her a purse.)

      Take this. Would it were more.

      Ang. I thank you, lady.

       Prec. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again.

      I dance to-night—perhaps for the last time.

      But what I gain, I promise shall be yours,

      If that can save you from the Count of Lara.

       Ang. O, my dear lady! how shall I be grateful

      For so much kindness?

       Prec. I deserve no thanks,

      Thank Heaven, not me.

       Ang. Both Heaven and you.

       Prec. Farewell.

      Remember that you come again tomorrow.

       Ang. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you,

      And all good angels. [Exit.

       Prec. May they guard thee too,

      And all the poor; for they have need of angels.

      Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquina,

      My richest maja dress—my dancing dress,

      And my most precious jewels! Make me look

      Fairer than night e'er saw me! I've a prize

      To win this day, worthy of Preciosa!

      (Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

      Cruz. Ave Maria!

       Prec. O God! my evil genius!

      What seekest thou here to-day?

       Cruz. Thyself—my child.

       Prec. What is thy will with me?

       Cruz. Gold! gold!

       Prec. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more.

       Cruz. The gold of the Busne—give me his gold!

       Prec. I gave the last in charity to-day.

       Cruz. That is a foolish lie.

      

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