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104
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
SCENE FROM ATALANTIS.
Scene changes to the Ship—Leon reclining on a cushion
—to him, enter Isabel.
Isa. What wraps you thus, sweet brother! why so sad,
When thus, so trimly, speeds our swan-like bark.
Upon the placid waters? You are sick,
And in your eye a dim abstraction lies,
Lacking all sense; and, as it were, at search
For airy speculations in the deep.
Leon. Why, thon art right: a speculation true,
For I behold naught that may speak for it,
And tell me whence it comes.
Isa. What is't thou say'st?
Leon. Stay but a moment! as I live, I heard it
Steal by me, like the whispers of a lute
From thy own lattice, Isabel.
Isa. Heard what!
What is it that thou speak'st of!
Leon. A sound—a strain,
Even as the softest music, heard afar,
At twilight, o'er our Andalusian hills,
From melancholy maiden, by me crept,
But now, upon the waters. They were tones
Slight as a spirit's whisperings; and, as far
As met my sense, they had a gentle voice,
Tremulous as an écho faintly made,
The replication of an infant's cry,
Thrown back from some rude mountain.
Ian. Thou dreamest.
Whence should such music come?
Leon. Ay, where or whence,
But from some green-haired maiden of the sea!
If thou believ'st me, Isabel, 'tis true;
I heard it even now, and syllabled
—to him, enter Isabel.
Isa. What wraps you thus, sweet brother! why so sad,
When thus, so trimly, speeds our swan-like bark.
Upon the placid waters? You are sick,
And in your eye a dim abstraction lies,
Lacking all sense; and, as it were, at search
For airy speculations in the deep.
Leon. Why, thon art right: a speculation true,
For I behold naught that may speak for it,
And tell me whence it comes.
Isa. What is't thou say'st?
Leon. Stay but a moment! as I live, I heard it
Steal by me, like the whispers of a lute
From thy own lattice, Isabel.
Isa. Heard what!
What is it that thou speak'st of!
Leon. A sound—a strain,
Even as the softest music, heard afar,
At twilight, o'er our Andalusian hills,
From melancholy maiden, by me crept,
But now, upon the waters. They were tones
Slight as a spirit's whisperings; and, as far
As met my sense, they had a gentle voice,
Tremulous as an écho faintly made,
The replication of an infant's cry,
Thrown back from some rude mountain.
Ian. Thou dreamest.
Whence should such music come?
Leon. Ay, where or whence,
But from some green-haired maiden of the sea!
If thou believ'st me, Isabel, 'tis true;
I heard it even now, and syllabled