O unseen Wind! art thou alone,
  Thus breathing round the sleeping land? 
  Or roams with thee a spirit band,
Blending sad voices with thine own,—­
Voices that once with cheerful tone
  Made music round the sleeping land?

ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).

Ah! her dear voice.  How all my nature thrills,
My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound,
Like some great dome with holy music fill’d! 
She is the lark, above my listening soul
Hovering still with carols from Heaven’s gate. 
She is the perfumed breeze, that evermore
Sweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life. 
She is the sea, that fills with sweetest sound
The yearning earth that folds it in its arms. 
Not love her—­Ah! dear heart, how utterly!

[A pause.

What if amid these spirit wanderings,
This so mysterious power can grant at will,—­
What if the angels, smitten with her grace,
Woo’d her away for ever from my heart? 
The dove came twice again unto the ark,
With messages of peace, and hope, and joy,
But the third time return’d not.  She’s my dove—­
Oh! wing’d she ever from my longing heart,
The waters of my life would quick subside,
And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time. 
What if God saw her hovering aloft,
And smiled her in amongst his cherubim? 
What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like,
Blot me for ever from her memory,
So that she sought me never, never more? 
Oblivion! take again this fearful power—­
No more shall Fate be tempted with my wealth,
Lest covetous it rob me of my all.

[A pause.

And yet, these are but dreams, poor selfish fears,
That scum-like float and dim Love’s limpid tide. 
Shall I thus cage my bird from liberty,
And let it beat its life out on the bars,
Lest some dear bliss detain it in the heavens? 
Shall I spill rashly forth this wine of joy,
Because for me within the crystal cup
Some dregs may haply rest when she has drunk? 
Ah, no! for her alone shall I take thought. 
The first pure sacrifice of Love is self! 
There is no peril.  God that sends the power
Will send the guardian angel to direct. 
I work for her—­Heaven speed the work of love.

[Enters the room.

MABEL.

I waited for thee, love—­’tis past the hour,
And on my dial slumbers Time in shade
When thou comest not to sun me.

ORAN.

I but stood
There on the threshold, following thy voice
Away, away through mazy lengths of dreams. 
Music—­low music from the lips we love,
Is the true siren that still lures the soul
From cares of earth to the Enchanted Isles.

MABEL.

Methinks that thou art sad to-day, my husband. 
Let me share with thee pain as well as joy;
It is the sweetest right that love can claim. 
We give our joys to strangers, but our grief
Sighs itself only forth for those we love. 
We hang our sorrows on the loved one’s ear,
Like jewell’d pendents for a bridal feast.