Longs to give utterance to its pent-up feelings!
I could yell, could rave, and tear my rebel flesh
With fiendish rage and eagerness—so burn
The fires of hell within me. Oh, Azlea!
Thy sweet young face arises in my heart
With a rebuking coldness; thy pure look
Of calm and earnest sorrow for my grief,
And thy strange, startled fearfulness, when thou
Didst learn its sinful cause, and thy dear words
Of kind and holy counsel, teaching me
What my best days knew not of holiness—
How all these memories reproach my sin!
But still they feed the ever-burning flame
Thyself didst kindle by thy purity,
And coldness can not conquer.
(A mysterious voice answers.)
Voice.Cease, babbler!
Thine is a passion vain as most unholy.
Her. Who mocks me with rehearsal of my grief?
Demon or mortal, whosoe'er thou art,
Say not again what I now know too well,
If thou canst aid me, do it; and if not,
Thou art the babbler!
Voice.Dost thou not know me?
Has not my still small voice whispered to thee
Through thy long, weary watching? Was not night
Full of my haunting terrors? Dwelt I not
With thee in silence and in solitude,
Checking thy wayward nature; and did not
My warning keep thee sinless until now,
When thou hast thrown me from thee? Now I go,
But in my stead shall come another spirit,
Who shall possess thy being.
2d Voice.Ha! ha! ha!
Thy monitor is easily scared away;
Thou needest one less timid.
