Scene.--A Terrace overlooking the Garden of a Convent--Matilda and Bertha in conversation.

Matilda.
Oh! think not that I mourn the lonely doom
That hath been destined for me--oft, indeed,
Visions of more than beauty float before
Mine eye, and I will gaze and gaze upon them,
But with such feelings, as the bride beholds
Her father's house, when she abandons it
With him, whom she hath loved from infancy!--
But with such feelings, as the hunter owns,
When from some Alpine steep he gazes down
Through cold chasms of a rifted cloud, and sees
Cities, and seats of men--far, far below,
With black gulfs rolling billowy between--
Mayhap, while gazing on the prospect, tinged
With the rising sun, the lonely man will sigh,
And then with not less eagerness pursue
The solitary toil he loves.

Bertha.
Matilda,
Thou lovest too well the mockeries of fancy!
This is what makes me grieve--thy lovely spirit
Sheds o'er each scene its own rich colouring--
Even these damp walls, that, when I first came hither,
Did frown with such blank silence, will assume
At times a cheerful aspect--it were strange
If I loved not thy favorite walk--the lark
Flies not more lightly o'er its jealous bounds,
Than my heart dances, when I meet thee here.
Yet this, Matilda--this doth make me grieve!
Thou lovest too well the mockeries of fancy!
Some vague conceit--some loose analogy--
The shadow of a cloud--a lonely flower--
The stirring of a moonbeam on the waters--
Will fix thy fate for ever; but the heart
Will wake, ere long, from the delusive dream,
To curse Imagination's hollow vaunts!--

Matilda.
This, Bertha this,--from thee! I wondered not,
When from the dull of heart, and cold of spirit,
I heard such bodings;--why must thou too mock me?
Mine is a lonely doom--but it is doomed!--
And who hath told thee, that I am not happy?
When hast thou seen me weep? do I not smile,
Even now, at thy strange warnings?--if I were
As weak as thou dost deem, it sure were harsh
To mock at such distemper;--when the maniac
Weaves for his brow an idle wreath of flowers,
And rears his gyved arm in regal pride,
Wisdom most surely doth not mock the pageant!--
If, when the clouds of eve lie slumberingly,
Like a hushed forest in some distant world,
I gaze upon them, till my spirit builds
A bower, where it may rest;--soon, very soon,
Its hues will vanish in the thick black night--
--There wanteth not the cold breath of a friend,
To dissipate the phantoms that I love!

Bertha.
Matilda! is this kind?--thou dost not know me--
Thou wilt not know me--when will friends believe,
Undoubtingly, the language of their friends?--
Thou yet wilt grieve to think how thou hast wronged me!

[Exit Bertha.
Matilda
--(After a pause of some minutes.)
Proud heart, but kind!--lively and quick to anger,
But most affectionate;--how could I wound thee?
--But, thus it is, I cannot have a friend,
One, who will bear with my most wayward temper--
Even Bertha shrinks from me--I've lost 'em all--
I've lost 'em by neglect of some dull form,
By absence of some cold civility,
Some phrase, ill--understood, or idly echoed
By those, who watch the wanderings of the eye,
The casual changes of the vacant features,
And think, sage reasoners, that they read the mind!--
--Well, it were weak to mourn;--this loneliness
Best suits my lot; my home, henceforth, must be
The narrow cell, whose solitary floor
Shall seldom echo other step than mine!
'Twould ill beseem the veiled maid, to sigh
For earth, or its enjoyments;--and the world,
That ere the grave is closed forgets the dead,
Will never waste a thought upon the absent!
--The world! oh, why should I still haunt its walks?
I love it not!--I seek it not! their hearts
Are not as mine!--my woes must be my own!
I ask not pity--cannot suffer sympathy
Of flatterers, who watch the countenance,
That they may know when it is fit to smile,--
To echo, or anticipate the sigh--
--Oh, better, better is this dreary scene--
These floors, that echo back the measured step,
As the pale votaress walks above the vaults
Where the dead lie!--oh, better 'tis to muse,
In twilight gloom beneath the elder's shade,
Where the wreathed trunk affords no second seat,--
How many a lonely night have I sate there,
Watching the clouds, and shaping dreams as wild
As the sick mind can fancy in their changes!