By some campanula's chalice set a-swing
As he clung there-"Yes, I love you!”

Seb.
And I drew
Back; put far back your face with both my hands
Lest you should grow too full of me—your face
So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!
Otti. And when I ventured to receive you here,
Made you steal hither in the mornings-

Seb.

When

I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,
Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread
To a yellow haze?

At my wet boots---I had to stride thro' grass

Over my ankles.

Otti. Then our crowning night—

Seb. The July night?

Otti. The day of it too, Sebald !

When the heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,

Its black-blue canopy seemed let descend

Close on us both, to weigh down each to each,

And smother up all life except our life.

So lay we till the storm came.

Seb. How it came !

Otti. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect; Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;

And ever and anon some bright white shaft

Burnt thro' the pine-tree roof-here burnt and there,
As if God's messenger thro' the close wood screen
Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,
Feeling for guilty thee and me: then broke
The thunder like a whole sea overhead—

Seb. Yes!

Otti. -While I stretched myself upon you, hands
To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook
All
my locks loose and covered you with them--

You, Sebald, the same you—

Seb. Slower, Ottima

Otti. And as we lay

Seb. Less vehemently! Love me—

Forgive me take not words

-take not words-mere words-to heart---

Your breath is worse than wine! Breathe slow, speak

slow

Do not lean on me

Otti. Sebald, as we lay,

Rising and falling only with our pants,

Who said, "Let death come now-'tis right to die!
Right to be punished-nought completes such bliss
But woe!" Who said that?

Seb. How did we ever rise?

Was't that we slept? Why did it end?

Otti.

Fresh tapering to a point the ruffled ends

I felt you,

Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips-(My hair is fallen now-knot it again !)

Seb. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now,

and now!

This way? Will you forgive me―be once more

My great queen?

Otti.

Bind it thrice about my brow;

Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,
Magnificent in sin. Say that!

Seb.

I crown you

My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,
Magnificent-

(From without is heard the voice of PIPPA singing-)

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn ;
Morning's at seven ;

The hill-side's dew-pearled:

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in his heaven

All's right with the world!

(PIPPA passes.)

Seb. God's in his heaven! Do you hear that? Who

spoke?

You, you spoke !

Otti.

Oh-that little ragged girl!
She must have rested on the step-we give them
But this one holiday the whole year round.
Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?
There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.

She stoops to pick my double heartsease. . . Sh!
She does not hear you call out louder!

Seb.

Leave me!

Go, get your clothes on-dress those shoulders !

Otti.

Seb. Wipe off that paint. I hate you!

Otti.

Sebald?

Miserable!

Seb. My God! and she is emptied of it now!
Outright now-how miraculously gone

All of the grace-had she not strange grace once?
Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,
No purpose holds the features up together,
Only the cloven brow and puckered chin
Stay in their places-and the very hair,
That seemed to have a sort of life in it,
Drops, a dead web!

Otti.

Seb.

Speak to me-speak not of me ! -That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle

Broke the delicious indolence-all broken!

Otti. To me-not of me !—ungrateful, perjured cheat— A coward, too-but ingrate's worse than all!

Beggar-my slave-a fawning, cringing lie!

Leave me !—betray me!—I can see your drift-
A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks !

Seb.
My God!
Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades-
I should have known there was no blood beneath!

Otti. You hate me, then? You hate me, then?

Seb.

She would succeed in her absurd attempt,
And fascinate by sinning; and show herself
Superior-Guilt from its excess, superior
To Innocence. That little peasant's voice
Has righted all again. Though I be lost,
I know which is the better, never fear,
Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,

Nature, or trick-I see what I have done,
Entirely now! Oh, I am proud to feel

To think

Such torments-let the world take credit thence-
I, having done my deed, pay too its price!

I hate, hate-curse you! God's in his heaven!
Otti.

Me! no, no, Sebald-not yourself-kill me!
Mine is the whole crime-do but kill me then
Yourself-then-presently-first hear me speak-
I always meant to kill myself-wait, you!

Lean on my breast-not as a breast; don't love me
The more because you lean on me, my own

-Me!

Heart's Sebald! There-there--both deaths presently! Seb. My brain is drowned now-quite drowned: all I feel

Is... is at swift-recurring intervals,

A hurrying down within me, as of waters
Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit-
There they go-whirls from a black, fiery sea!
Otti. Not to me, God-to him be merciful!