Britain ... - Blue-Lite

Scene II.] THE DEVOTED ONE. 125
Where men grow cowards, and low ignorance lies
Basking upon a dunghill like the swine.
EDITH.
And canst thou leave thy Edith, too, for aye ?
Leave her alone with solitude and grief ?
Sad will these woods be when thou art away.
To me the flowers will fade, the birds forget
Their merry carols. I shall heed no more
The gentle voice of spring, nor wander here
To list the nightingale at moonlight hour ;
For busy memory would recall the past,
Till my lone heart were broken.
GODWIN.
Leave thee, my dearest Edith, and for ever ?
Am I a thing so barren of all truth ?
Ill thrive my hopes, may honour cast me off,
And shame and scorn pursue me through the world,
If this fond heart to Edith e'er prove false !
When I the warrior's laurel-wreath have won,
To thee I'll come, but not in peasant weeds.
No ; in a chieftain's splendid arms I'll shine,
And thou shalt be a gallant soldier's bride.
EDITH.
Love is a gentle spirit, soft and bright
As moonbeams slumbering on the quiet waters :
Her home is like the dove's, concealed beneath
The fragrant blossoms and the leaves of peace.
With proud Ambition she can never dwell :
He steeps his hand' in blood, and offers Love
A sacrifice to power. Greatness is like
The swelling mountain, which in barren pride
Its cloud-veiled summit lifts to meet the skies :
The torrent's roar is heard amid its rocks,