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And trample it under foot. What matters it-

What matters it, my fairest, and my best,

That we go down unhonored and forgotten

Into the dust—so we descend together.

Descend together—and then—and then, perchance-

Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol. And then, perchance

Arise together, Lalage, and roam

The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,

And still-

Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol. And still together—together.

Lal. Now Earl of Leicester!

Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts

I feel thou lovest me truly.

Pol. Oh, Lalage!

(throwing himself upon his knee.)

And lovest thou me?

Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom

Of yonder trees methought a figure passed-

A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-

Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

(walks across and returns.)

I was mistaken—'twas but a giant bough

Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved?

Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self,

Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,

Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind

Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs

Throw over all things a gloom.

Lal. Politian!

Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land

With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—

Miraculously found by one of Genoa—

A thousand leagues within the golden west?

A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,

And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,

And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds

Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe

Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter

In days that are to come?

Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou

Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou

Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,

And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.

And life shall then be mine, for I will live

For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be

No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys

Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope

Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee

And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,

My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,

My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage,

Fly thither with me?

Lal. A deed is to be done—

Castiglione lives!

Pol. And he shall die! (exit)

Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die!—alas!

Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?

Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!

Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian!

I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look,

Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go

With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me!

And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,

To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,

To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate

My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone-

O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!

I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.

Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me!

And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone

Gone—gone. Where am I?—'tis well—'tis very well!

So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,

'Tis well, 'tis very well—alas! alas!

V.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,

And much I fear me ill—it will not do

To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay thy hand,

O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers

Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!

O pity me! let me not perish now,

In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!

Give me to live yet—yet a little while:

'Tis I who pray for life—I who so late

Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud

Between the Earl Politian and himself.

He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say?

What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?

With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes

Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,

Or one more worthy Italy, methinks

No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count?

Bal. That he, Castiglione' not being aware