THE TWIN LOVES. FROM out the sphere where ages I had moved No longer their dim, silent, silvery shine. That sprang from earth, yet ever looked toward heaven. And that I loved more dearly, that I knew That all its fire and its course uneven Were born from other worlds, away from view, Truer and fiercer than the quiet light That shines eternal in our heavenly dome; And if it spring from earth and care, and blight With its dark fire the sweetness of its home, Points yet toward highest heaven, whither nought else can come. Forth sprang I from my cloudy seat above, And towards the earth I bent my winged way; Spent in that spheral life upon my head did lay. Then from me passed remembrance and its grief, Of what had been before within me burned, Cast on this world's cold shore, before him such sad lot. Then when I raised my eyes, behold there sate Were not beyond all age. 'T was not a dream, Still dry the tears that thou alone mayest know. Like, yet dissimilar, their figures were ;- And his deep eyes seemed fixed tenderly thin. The other smiled upon my infant form, Twined his warm fingers in my waving hair, And said; "Oh come with me into the storm Of this world's sadness; thee I'll shield from care; I'll bid the blustering winds, they shall forbear, And only sunny zephyrs dare to breathe Within the magic circle that I'll wreathe." He sang to me of earthly love, and bright Wilt thou but sail over this summer sea." Aye while he spoke dreamy enchantment fell Lent myself to the mastery of his spell, As But while I watched the ever-changing play Of joy upon his features smooth and clear, Behold! his brother's voice, in accent calm I hear. High and imperial was its tone; it sounded First like the trumpet in its thrilling cheer, And as its clear stern note the sweetness wounded My soul was strengthened, so that the proud tone Answered to power within me like its own. His earnest eye was fixed upon the ground, Yet round his feet sweet flowers of earth did twine,- Ask you if I him followed? Aye we wend, In my strong arms I bear the sorrowing child, Still heavenward, and not stay, even with love, below. DIALOGUE. SCENE is in a chamber, in the upper story of a city boarding house. The room is small, but neat and furnished with some taste. There are books, a few flowers, even a chamber organ. On the wall hangs a fine engraving from one of Dominichino's pictures. The curtain is drawn up, and shows the moonlight falling on the roofs and chimnies of the city and the distant water, on whose bridges threads of light burn dully. To Aglauron enter Laurie. A kindly greeting having been interchanged, Laurie. It is a late hour, I confess, for a visit, but coming home I happened to see the light from your window, and the remembrance of our pleasant evenings here in other days came so strongly over me, that I could not help trying the door. Aglauron. I do not now see you here so often, that I could afford to reject your visits at any hour. L. (Seating himself, looks round for a moment with an expression of some sadness.) All here looks the same, your fire burns bright, the moonlight I see you like to have come in as formerly, and we, we are not changed, Aglauron? A. I am not. L. Not towards me? A. You have elected other associates, as better pleasing or more useful to you than I. Our intercourse no longer ministers to my thoughts, to my hopes. To think of you with that habitual affection, with that lively interest I once did, would be as if the mutilated soldier should fix his eyes constantly on the empty sleeve of his coat. My right hand being taken from me, I use my left. L. You speak coldly, Aglauron; you cannot doubt that my friendship for you is the same as ever. A. You should not reproach me for speaking coldly. You have driven me to subdue my feelings by reason, and the tone of reason seems cold because it is calm. You say your friendship is the same. Your thoughts of your friend are the same, your feelings towards him are Your feelings flow now in other channels. not. L. Am I to blame for that? A. Surely not. No one is to blame; if either were so, it would be I, for not possessing more varied powers to satisfy the variations and expansions of your nature. L. But have I not seemed heartless to you at times? A. In the moment, perhaps, but quiet thought always showed me the difference between heartlessness and the want of a deep heart. Nor do I think this will eventually be denied you. You are generous, you love truth. Time will make you less restless, because less bent upon yourself, will give depth and steadfastness to that glowing heart. Tenderness will then come of itself. You will take upon you the bonds of friendship less easily and knit them firmer. L. And you will then receive me? A. I or some other; it matters not. L. Ah! you have become indifferent to me. A. What would you have? That gentle trust, which seems to itself immortal, cannot be given twice. What is sweet and flower-like in the mind is very timid, and can only be tempted out by the wooing breeze and infinite promise of spring. Those flowers, once touched by a cold wind, will not revive again. L. But their germs lie in the earth. A. Yes, to await a new spring! But this conversation is profitless. Words can neither conceal, nor make up for the want of flowing love. I do not blame you, Laurie, but I cannot afford to love you as I have done any more, nor would it avail either of us, if I could. Seek elsewhere what you can no longer duly prize from me. Let us not seek to raise the dead from their tombs, but cherish rather the innocent children of to-day. L. But I cannot be happy unless there is a perfectly good understanding between us. A. That, indeed, we ought to have. I feel the power of understanding your course, whether it bend my way or not. I need not communication from you, or personal relation to do that, "Have I the human kernel first examined, Then I know, too, the future will and action." I have known you too deeply to misjudge you, in the long run. L. Yet you have been tempted to think me heartless. |