528 SCENES FROM CALDKROtt's NINA I)E C.OMKX AUTAS. 



Whom we slew upon the mountains, 

 Which have caught your sight at last. 



CANJERI. Creep with silence ! lest they hear us. 

 Hush now ! for you know the troops, 

 Mad with rage at our oppressions, 

 Through the mountains hunt with purpose 

 Isabella's path to clear, 

 When the Alpujarras' strongholds 

 All her army comes to storm. [They descend. 



ANOTHER MOOR. This way seemed the noise to sound. 



CANJERI. Don't deceive thyself ! The beasts 

 Saw I on this side but hold, 

 I have seen yes ! if mine eyes 

 No illusive phantom blinds, 

 Yonder a divinity ! 

 Whose appearance, as she lies, 

 Shows for life too little action, 

 And for death too much of soul. 

 Resting on the blooming carpet 

 With the emerald flowers inwoven, 

 And by all the winds of heaven 

 With the forest leaves bestrewn, 

 Lies she there ! In all my life 

 Saw I ne'er such sovereign beauty ! 

 Were I not a Moor, but Pagan, 

 I would say it was the Venus, 

 Or Diana, of these woods. 

 Shall I venture nearer to her ? 

 The fond drunken soul declares 

 All the danger, and 'tis right ! 

 What would not those charms do nearer 

 Which afar such fires inflame ? 



DOROTHEA (in her sleep). Did my love deserve this wrong ? 



CANJERI. Hark! she speaks! to tread behind 

 Will I venture, since that tone 

 Undeceives me that she sleeps, 

 And declares her mortal mould. [Draws nearer. 



DOROTHEA (awaking) . O stay ! O fly not, tarry yet ! 

 But woe's me ! what see I ? [Looks up. 

 What horrid change is this ? 

 Within my husband's arms 

 I slept but now (O Heavens !) 

 And find (O Destiny !) 

 Awaking (Sure 'tis false !) 

 Myself (great God !) within 

 A hideous monster's power ! 

 O tell me, thou dark lowering thunder cloud, 

 What hast thou done with the fair light of day ? 

 Where hid'st thou, black shadow, the bright sun ? 

 Where, Night, concealest thou the morning Star ? 

 My love, my lord, my husband, where art thou ? [Tries tofy. 



CANJERI. Hope thou not from me to vanish. 

 Thou couldst not, though Love himself, 

 For thy purpose, lent his wings ; 

 And perhaps 'twill prove thy lover, 

 Whom thou soughtest but now to call, 



