_Aris._ Nay, nay, Put courage in thy heart to gender wings That we may dart as swallows to the sun And tread the rosy air where love may breathe! _Ara._ My lord---- _Aris._ Come! come! Greece is our home of light. There you, my wife, shall rule a lesser heaven And tutor souls for God's. [_She turns to go_] One moment hear me! You love me, Aratea. _Ara._ Fare you well. _Aris._ [_Against the curtains_] First say thou lovest me! Dost thou not hear A voice at night when calm Eirene leads Sleep to all eyes but thine? _Ara._ Have mercy, sir! _Aris._ What leap of soul or dream of sense hast thou That is not sweeter for you hold me dear? When Theia's daughter, priestess gray, unhoods Her morning face, and all her clouds of rose With flying petals light the waking world, Does not your ecstasy swim on the flood Of my remembered eyes, and their delight Re-jewel beauty's diadem? _Ara._ I beg---- _Aris._ When throbbing wonders of a dying sun Trail off their glories like escaping souls, And Night with lustred heaven round her neck Lures up immensities, whose spirit longs Through all your longings till it leads your own To crowned and still content? _Ara._ Will you not go? _Aris._ And when thy gaze is on the sibyl sea, Striving to read her ancient wave-writ script, And break the seal a differing language sets Upon her mighty tongue, whence cometh peace Like full and silent answer to your heart? _Ara._ If this be love, then let it be mine still. For it may be without a touch of hands. Ay, though in Athens you must live and move Still are you mine in mysteries and joys. I thank you, sir, for having taught me love That is forever holy, wronging none. _Aris._ Nay, Aratea, man can not be God And pipe all Heaven through a mortal reed! Come to my arms, O life and soul of me! As chaste verbenas on an altar kiss, As streamlets join in soft approving shade, As clouds immingle in the glancing sun, So shall our loves unchided of the skies. Not leafy choirs that anthem Flora in, Or those sweet songs that in day's virgin hour Their hymeneal pour from feathery pipes That stale Apollo's lute, shall win more smiles From the consenting gods! _Ara._ O, music, breath Of sin! _Aris._ Not so! To love thee not were sin! The adoration of so fair a soul Would save me were I damned! And thou art mine. By stars that knit their motions with our fates, The season-childing sun, great Heaven itself---- _Ara._ O, not by Heaven!