I shall have scarcely time to shed one tear-
That is, whene'er these foolish eyes are dried.
Good Caleb, I'm ashamed to see you smile-
'Tis our first parting. Do not chide me, Luke-
I cannot help it. (falling on his neck and weeping.)
Luke.
Chide thee, my poor girl!

I am too ready in the same offence:

But now farewell. Until we meet again

I'd have thee pass thy time in thinking o'er
Whate'er I said to thee upon our way.
Thou wilt?

Mary. Indeed 'twas very cruel, Luke.
Luke. But say thou wilt.

Mary.

But why art thou so earnest ?

Luke.

I shall not soon forget;

Heed it not.

Thou knowest I have that which makes me sad:
Perhaps I'm selfish, and would have thee share
My heaviness. So now once more farewell.
Mary. Adieu, my Luke.

One other kiss-which I will keep most sacred,
E'en to my bed of death.

[He re-enters his boat, and pushes off. CALEB
and MARY looking after him, till an angle of
the river brings him upon a new scene.

So now 'tis past!

Poor, widow'd Mary, we shall meet no more! [The river becomes wider as he proceeds, and, at last, expands into a large, circular pool.

He rests upon his pole, and looks slowly and cautiously about him.]

This is the place. How fitting for a deed

Like mine! The high and shelving banks have nursed
With their moist clay this fringe of flag and bulrush,
To an uncommon growth, as if to hide

All eyes from me, and me from all the world.
The sun, that leaped aloft an hour ago,

Hath not yet found his way-'tis scarcely twilight,
And silent-death, how silent! How my breath
Clings to my heart, like some reluctant infant
Which arms unknown are opened to receive!
I must be quick. And now that single ray
Points, like a dial, to the very spot!

There the huge eddy in its whirling round
Comes to its dimpled centre, and glides down
To depths unknown, bearing whatever floats
Within its fatal verge in less'ning circles,
Till, like some wheeling monster of the air,
It swoops upon its prey. The strongest swimmer
Must ply for life in vain! Many are here,

From chance or choice, who long have lain in secret
From weeping friends and wives, as I shall do,

Leaving no history but vague surmise.

I'll find their mystery.

[He pushes the boat into the middle of the pool. The scene closes.

PART IV.

The Interior of CALEB's Cottage.

RAYLAND-CALEB.

Rayland. Gone hence this half hour, sayst thou?
Tell me, friend,

Couldst thou not overtake him? 'Tis of moment

What I would speak of.

Caleb.

He must keep the river

To where his road runs o'er it, for the floods
Have left the moor too moist in that direction
To be with ease attempted. If I make

My way across, I shall be soon enough,

For he has many windings, and the stream
Is strong against him.

Rayland.

Hasten, then-your pains

Shall not in vain be used. And, lest he feel

Unwilling to return, (writing on a leaf of his pocketbook) deliver this.

Mary, (singing without, in a melancholy tone.) "So under the wave, and under the wave,

Beneath the old willow tree,

With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave, My hiding-place shall be.

Rayland. That is a moving voice!

Caleb.

'Tis Luke's young wife;

'Tis their first parting, and she feels it sorely,

Though for so short a time.

Rayland.

Pray send her here—

I'll talk with her till he returns. (stands meditating.)

Rayland.

ENTER MARY.

So fair!

So gentle! Lady (can I call you less?),

I've heard that Luke, the fisherman, did wed

With one beyond him, but it cannot be
That thou art she!

Mary. O, sir! I thank the heav'ns

You are as wrong in this as when you say
That Luke did wed beyond him.

Rayland.

As thou wilt

We will not waste the time in fond dispute.
Forgive me, pretty friend, nor think I ask
Without a plenteous reason-By what means
Hath he maintained thee for these many months?
Mary. It was but now you named his toilsome

trade.

Rayland. 'Tis a bleak place to yield subsistence. Mary.

But Luke was labouring for his wife; and then

Even the deserts and the floods grew kind.

Yes:

Rayland, (after a pause.) You said he ne'er was succour'd at the hands

Whence nature should have wrung as much-I mean His father's?

Mary.

I said it not.

Sir, I pray you pardon me ;

Rayland. But, ne'ertheless, 'tis true;

And thou, who art so tender of that father,

Wert driven from his mansion destitute.

Thou seest I know much. Now, then, confess
How oft distress hath made him curse that name
For much of his forlorn existence, which,

With other usage, had ask'd no repentance.

Mary. You question strangely, sir; but since it

takes

No leave of truth to answer proudly-Never!
No babe e'er saw the world, no saint hath left it,
With less to answer than my hard-used Luke.
He never mention'd his relentless father
Without becoming reverence; and then
I've heard him sigh to think how bitterly
The memory of an unoffending son,
Left from his infancy to all the ills
Of unprotected poverty, would hang
Upon that father's death-bed. I have said

Too much, but he we speak of is my husband.

Rayland. No: not a jot too much—'Tis a hard life, Your husband's, and laborious by night

As well as day?

Mary.

Oh, often have I watch'd

Till the grey dawn hath peep'd into my lattice,

And found me lonely still.

Rayland.

But now 'tis summer;

And, as I think, his work by night is only
For the wild winter-fowl. It must be long

Since you watch'd last?

Mary.

No longer than last night;

But then he went to see a dying friend,