HELEN: Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 'Tis long since thou and I have met; And yet methinks it were unkind Those moments to forget. Come, sit by me. I see thee stand _5 By this lone lake, in this far land, Thy loose hair in the light wind flying, Thy sweet voice to each tone of even United, and thine eyes replying To the hues of yon fair heaven. _10 Come, gentle friend: wilt sit by me? And be as thou wert wont to be Ere we were disunited? None doth behold us now; the power That led us forth at this lone hour _15 Will be but ill requited If thou depart in scorn: oh! come, And talk of our abandoned home. Remember, this is Italy, And we are exiles. Talk with me _20 Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, Barren and dark although they be, Were dearer than these chestnut woods: Those heathy paths, that inland stream, And the blue mountains, shapes which seem _25 Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream: Which that we have abandoned now, Weighs on the heart like that remorse Which altered friendship leaves. I seek No more our youthful intercourse. _30 That cannot be! Rosalind, speak. Speak to me. Leave me not.--When morn did come, When evening fell upon our common home, When for one hour we parted,--do not frown: I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken: _35 But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token, Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, Turn, as 'twere but the memory of me, And not my scorned self who prayed to thee. ROSALIND: Is it a dream, or do I see _40 And hear frail Helen? I would flee Thy tainting touch; but former years Arise, and bring forbidden tears; And my o'erburthened memory Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. _45 I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee: mine own strange grief But seldom stoops to such relief: Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness _50 Even with a sister's woe. I knew What to the evil world is due, And therefore sternly did refuse To link me with the infamy Of one so lost as Helen. Now _55 Bewildered by my dire despair, Wondering I blush, and weep that thou Should'st love me still,--thou only!--There, Let us sit on that gray stone Till our mournful talk be done. _60