_Sup._ True, my Anselmo, 'tis a dreary world, And still more dreary when we've nought to cling to, But say, if thou hadst found a doting mother, One that was nobly born and rich, who hail'd In thee the foundling heir to large estates, What then?
_Ans._ (_starts, and after a pause_). I cannot say--my thoughts ne'er stray'd so far. Father, you oft the dangers have set forth Of dreaming fancies which may lead astray; Yet do you try to tempt me, by supposing that Which shakes my firmness, yet can never be.
_Sup._ We are but mortal. I did wish to know Thy secret thoughts, and thou withhold'st them still. At night come to me, then shalt thou confess, For I would learn the workings of thy soul.
_Ans._ First let me strive to calm my troubled mind: I will confess to-morrow.
_Ans._ 'Tis strange. He ne'er before essay'd me thus. A doting mother, wealthy too, and noble! O! if 'twere true, and I could gain my freedom! But these are very dreamings. Hold, my brain! For he has conjured up a vision wild, And beautiful as wild! Wealth, ancestry, A mother's love! But what are these to thee, Thou monk Anselmo? go--go and hang thy head Within the cowl, droop'd humbly on thy breast-- For know, thou art a monk, and vow'd to Heav'n! Oh parents stern! to fling me thus on fate! But vows more stern that thus debar me from The common rights of man! Why were we made With passions strong, that even Nature laughs When we would fain control them? Lone to live And die are rebel acts, to Heav'n unpleasing. Say I were humbly born of peasant race, I should have glided on the silent brook; Or highly bred and nobly father'd, Dash'd proudly like the rapid flowing river. But in these confines against Nature pent, I must remain a stagnant torpid lake; Or else marking my wild course with ruin, Till my force is spent and all is over, Burst forth a mad, ungovernable torrent.
_Jac._ What Anselmo! not outside the convent gates, and service over this half hour! By St Dominic, it is as I expected--thou hast fallen in with the Superior, and hast been ordered home with penance.
_Ans._ Not so, Jacobo. The Superior and I roll on in different orbits. Saturn and Venus are as like to jostle as we upon our travels.
_Jac._ Well, I've an idea that there's something wrong, and my news will not be very agreeable to you: the key is, in future, to be delivered to the Superior at nine o'clock, and, if required, it must be sent for.