That blows too freely on him; and the winds
Chide heavily that drive him from my home.

Mont. Is he not noble-minded? wild indeed
Of wing, and flush'd with youth: but what of that?
If through the empyreum high upborne,
Sublimely steadfast soars the king of birds
Too rash a flight, 'tis little difficult
To pluck a feather from his eager wing
And mitigate his speed: but who can give
Strength to an owlet's pinion; feed his eye
With fire to hold contention with the sun,
And sail majestic through the vault of heaven.
To prune luxuriance is an easy task;

But who can fertilize sterility?

Bri. True, true, Montano; and thou warm'st my

heart

With the comparison. But yet his quick

And eager spirits

Mont.

Oh, for shame! for shame!

Look at thyself, and say if he can wander.
Look at the smooth grain of that iv'ry skin,
Those cheeks of rose and lily-eyes of fire;
Oh, look on these, and say, can happy man,
Blest with the full fruition, e'er revolt?
Yet angels once rebell'd against their God,
To do base homage to the fiend of hell:

And mortal man's infirmities may slide,

Where pow'rs immortal fell. 'Tis possible
Yet scarce to be conceiv'd; for now thou look'st
Some heaven-born wonder newly dropt on earth h;
And thus I gaze with trembling rapture on thee,
As the rapt Indian gazes at the sun,

Whose dazzling lustre quite o'ercomes his soul.
Here could I fix

Bri.

No more, I must not hear it.

Alas! 'tis beauty's mournful privilege,

Heedless to give the wounds she cannot cure.

Noble Montano, think not I mispriz'd

Thy long descent of valiant ancestry,

Thy fame in arms approv'd and generous offers ;
Love is fantastical, nor will be led

By reason's sober light to fix her choice,

But wild and wanton sends abroad the eye

To cater for the heart then think no more

Of me and thy past love so ill requited,

But from your high-born dames of prouder lineage,

Happier in fortune, higher in desert,

Select a heart, and weave your fates together.

Believe me, there is no such dear delight

No touch of joy like straining to thy breast,
In the pure folds of hymeneal love

Her whom your choice has sorted from the world

To tread the thorny path of life, and drink
Its mingled cup of gall and honey with thee.
But love misplac'd is the extremity

Of human bitterness indulge it not;

'Twill feed upon the spring-time of thy youth,
Making thy breast a lonely wilderness,

Where one fierce passion ranging uncontrouled,
Shall banish peace and joy.

Forgive this tedious homily, which has nought
But friendship to plead for it.— So farewell,
Be virtuous and be happy.

Scene changes to the street in Venice.

Enter URANE and Child.

[Exit.

Child. Why did that rough man drive us from

his door

With words so bitter?

Ur.

Know'st thou not, my child,

It is the privilege of pamper'd pride

To add rebuke to inhumanity:

Have we not seen the very dogs devour

Scraps our imploring eyes have begg❜d in vain!

Art thou not hungry, boy?

Child.

Ur. Nor weary, sweet one?

No, that I am not.

Ch.

Do ache with weariness

In truth my very limbs yet look not sad,

I can bear all but to see you look sad.
Ur. My brave young traveller!

Ch.

Oh! look not thus,

Your sorrows wet my eyes—you us❜d to smile
And tell me merry tales. Surely my father
If he but knew it, would not let us beg.
Ur. Have I not told thee oft?

Ch.

Nay, be not angry :

You oft have told me not to talk of him;
And yet he comes so oft into my thoughts
That I forget myself — and you my mother,
Tho' you forbid my tongue to speak of him,
Yet often in your sleep repeat his name,
And beg a blessing for him. — I scarce think
I should remember him, for you yourself
Are sadly chang'd of late. ·

Ur.

Alas! my boy,

Sorrow has shrunk me as a frost in May,

That falls upon the teeming buds of spring,
Which else had blossom'd beneath summer suns,
And bore autumnal fruit. - Come, you look fresh,
And bear you with the courage of a man.

Ch. I would I were a man.

Ur.

Blessings on thee,

I'll wet my scanty pittance with my tears,
Bare my wan cheek to all the winds of heav'n,
And let the storm howl o'er my desolate bosom,
Nor lift a murin'ring eye. But spare my child,
Let thy wak'd wrath smite th' offending tree;
But spare
this tender blossom

My little trembling innocent, who smiles,
Just peeping on a rough and churlish world,
Nor e'er in thought offended. - Come, my boy,
We must look out for some protecting shed,
Where insult cannot reach us, where unseen
I might bestow thee with a mother's care,
Wrap from the hollow gust thy shrinking limbs,
And watch thy startled sleep 'till morning beams.