_Justina_ (_in her sleep_). That was my father’s voice—come, Livia— My mantle—oh, not want it?—well then, come.
_Luc._ Ay, come abroad, Justina; it is Spring; The world is not with sunshine and with leaf Renew’d to be the tomb of ceaseless grief; Come forth: there is a time for everything.
_Just._ How strange it is— I think the garden never look’d so gay As since my father died.
_Luc._ Ev’n so: for now, Returning with the summer wind, the hours Dipp’d in the sun re-dress the grave with flowers, And make new wreaths for the survivor’s brow; Whose spirit not to share were to refuse The power that all creating, all renews With self-diffusive warmth, that, with the sun’s, At this due season through creation runs, Nor in the first creation more express’d Than by the singing builder of the nest That waves on this year’s leaf, or by the rose That underneath them in his glory glows; Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.
_Chorus of Voices._ Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.
Who that in his hour of glory Walks the kingdom of the rose, And misapprehends the story Which through all the garden blows; Which the southern air who brings It touches, and the leafy strings Lightly to the touch respond; And nightingale to nightingale Answering a bough beyond—
Nightingale to nightingale Answering a bough beyond.
_Just._ These serenaders—singing their old songs Under one’s window—
_Luc._ Ay, and if nature must decay or cease Without it; what of nature’s masterpiece? Not in her outward lustre only, but Ev’n in the soul within the jewel shut; What but a fruitless blossom; or a lute Without the hand to touch it music-mute: Incense that will not rise to heaven unfired; By that same vernal spirit uninspired That sends the blood up from the heart, and speaks In the rekindled lustre of the cheeks?
_Chorus._ Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.
Lo the golden Girasolé, That to him by whom she burns, Over heaven slowly, slowly, As he travels ever turns; And beneath the wat’ry main When he sinks, would follow fain, Follow fain from west to east, And then from east to west again.