THE DELUGEL

SCENE I.

The Deserts of Mount Hermon,

IRAD, (alone.)

Ay, this is Solitude! no life is here:

The black woods frown on me, as if I were

The first who dared disturb their solemn stillness,

Talking of human sorrows. Here, I can

Pour forth my thoughts, unheard, and unrestrained.
Why does not the Intelligence of Earth
Respond to me? I know she hath a life,

And vital sympathies. O that she had
Eyes, ears, and voice to answer back to mine!
Voices, articulated words she hath,

B

Of stormy wrath, of gentlest whispers; I

Feel that her Inspirations enter me,

Eve'n as the presence of God; that gazing on
Her awful forms my griefs are soothed-not healed;
Awhile forgotten. What hath my love taught me?
The lightness of the human heart, and most
Of hers, I once thought so unchangeable.
And broken hopes, and failing strength, are all
The fruits which I have gathered from its tree:
My fortitude and strength of will, which were
The pillars of my mind, are broken down;
And though I see my Idol's hollowness,

In my mind prostrated, I only feel

The consciousness of worshipping it still!

SCENE II.

ASTARTE enters-seeing IRAD, she is about to retreathe stays her.

Would'st thou avoid me, my Astarte! I

Deemed not to meet thee in this solitude;

Nay-turn not from me; not one look-one word,

Before I join my father on the mountain?

The Moon will change ere we shall meet again:

As changed and cold art thou become to me.

ASTARTE.

Nay, Irad! speak not harshly: I am still

The same; my thoughts were dwelling

IRAD.

Not on me.

Thou canst not look upon me and avow it.
Astarte! love like mine may be repulsed,
But it returneth still: my joys and hopes,
Once the fond inmates of thy heart from mine,
Will not be thrown back on my own, to wither
Like broken flowers, but return to die

On the pure shrine where first they sprung to life.

ASTARTE.

Is this well spoken, Irad? can'st thou

IRAD.

Nay,

I ask not for profession, 'tis too late :

I would not have thee now confess to me.

Love may be crushed, its blossom trampled down,
But never did it grow again from hearts,
That coldly left it to decay. Astarte!
That name was a familiar sound, and now
The very word that once was music, sounds