THE NIGHT WATCH.

TABLEAUX.

1. Boy’s room. Geordie in an arm-chair wrapped in a quilt.

2. Girls’ room. Geordie, fixed up as described, stands in center of foreground--grinning self-consciously.

3. Parlor. Miss Watson and Geordie in foreground, side face to audience; sisters scattered in rear and at sides.

4. Clothing store; counters, shelves, etc., may be simulated by tables, boxes and what-nots, on which clothing may be piled. Clerk and Geordie in front, clerk scowling--Geordie as innocent as it is possible to look.

5. Grocery store. Boxes and barrels standing around, Geordie sitting on one and just in the act of handing the picture to Peters.

6. Lawyer’s office. Desk and chairs in rear and side of room. Table with books at opposite side. Lawyer at right and Geordie at left of center, the former in the act of administering a kick, which Geordie wards off with his hand.

THE NIGHT WATCH.

François Coppêe.

(Illustrated by Tableaux Arranged Expressly for the Preston Library by the Author of “Preston Papers.”)

Characters and Costumes:--Irene in Nun’s dress, with silver cross, and ring, as suggested in the poem; she should be tall, slight, and pale, with black hair--which is covered by a white wig for the last tableau; the wounded officer, in regimentals for first tableau, on a cot after that (any soldier uniform with gilt lace and epaulettes will do;) the valet, an old man in servants’ livery; the doctor, in a business suit; the postman, in uniform, with mail-bag.

Soon as her lover to the war had gone,Withouttearstearsor common-place despair,Irene de Grandfief, a maiden pureAnd noble-minded, reassumed the garbThat at the convent she had worn--black dressWith narrow pelerine--and the small crossIn silver at her breast; her piano closed.Her jewels put away--all save one ring.Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eveIn the past spring-time when he had left her,Bidding farewell, and from Irene’s browCulling one silken tress, that he might wear itIn gold medallion close upon his heart.[1]Without delay or hindrance, in the ranksHe took a private’s place. What that war wasToo well is known.Impassible, and speakingSeldom as might be of her absent lover,Irene daily, at a certain hour,Watched at her window till the postman cameDown o’er the hill along the public road,His mail-bag at his back.[2]If he passed by,Nor any letter left, she turned awayStifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.Then came the siege of Paris--hideous time!Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasionDrew near Irene’s chateau. In vain the priestAnd the old doctor, in their evening talk,Grouped with the family around the hearth,Death for their constant theme before her took.No sad foreboding could that young heart know.Roger at Metz was, with his regiment, safe,At the last date unwounded. He was living;He must be living; she was sure of that.Thus by her faith, in faithful love sustained,Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.Wakened one morning, with a start, she heardIn the far copses of the park shots firedIn quick succession. ’Twas the enemy!She would be brave as Roger. So she blushedAt her own momentary fear; then calmAs though the incident a trifle were,Her toilet made; and, having duly saidHer daily prayer, not leaving out one Ave,Down to the drawing-room as usual went,A smile upon her lips.It had, indeed,Been a mere skirmish---that, and nothing more.Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiersHad been abruptly, by our Franc-Tireurs,Surprised and driven off. They had picked upJust at that moment, where the fight had been,A wounded officer--Bavarian was he--Shot through the neck. And when they brought him in,That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,Stretched on a mattress--without sigh or shudderIrene had him carefully borne upInto the room by Roger occupiedWhen he came wooing there,[3]Then, while they putThe wounded man to bed, she carried outHerself his vest and cloak all black with blood;Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,And stir himself with more alacrity;And, when the wound was dressed, lent aid,As of the Sisterhood of Charity,With her own hands.[4]Evening came on apaceBringing the doctor. When he saw the manA strange expression flitted o’er his face,As to himself he muttered: “Yes, flushed cheek;Pulse beating much too high. If possibleI must arrest the fever. This prescriptionVery oft succeeds. But some one must take noteOf the oncoming fits; must watch till morn,And tend him closely.”“Doctor, I am here.”“Not you, young lady! Service such as thisOne of your valets can”----“No, doctor, No!Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,--Hurt, ill. If he such tending should requireAs does this officer, I would he hadA German woman for his nurse.”“So be it,”Answered the doctor, offering her his hand.“Give him the potion four times every hourI will return to judge of its effectsAt daylight.”[5]Then he went his way, and leftIrene to her office self-imposed.Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,With eye half-opened looked at her and spoke.“This doctor,” said he “thought I was asleep,But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;I thank you from my very inmost heart--Less for myself than for her sake, to whomYou would restore me, and who there at homeAwaits me.”“Hush,” she said, “Sleep if you canDo not excite yourself. Your life dependsOn perfect quiet.”“No,” he answered, “No!I must at once unload me of a secretThat weighs upon me. I a promise made,And I would keep it. Death may be at hand.”[6]“Speak, then,” Irene said “and ease your soul.”“The war,---- oh, what an infamy is war!It was last month, by Metz, ’twas my ill fateTo kill a Frenchman.” She turned pale, and loweredThe lamp-light to conceal it.[7]He continued:“We were sent forward to surprise a cottage,Strengthened and held by some of yours. We didAs hunters do when stalking game. The nightWas clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force,Along the poplar-bordered path we creptUp to the French post. I, first, drove my saberInto the soldiers’ back who sentry stoodBefore the door. He fell, nor gave the alarm.We took the cottage, putting to the swordEvery soul there.”Irene with her handsCovered her eyes.“Disgusted with such carnage,Loathing such scene, I stepped into the air.Just then the moon broke through the clouds and showed meThere at my feet a soldier on the groundWrithing, the rattle in his throat. ’Twas he,The sentry whom my saber had transpierced.Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,I stopped, to offer him a helping hand--But, with choked voice, ‘It is too late,’ he said,I must needs die----you are an officer--A gentleman,perchance’perchance’, ‘Yes; tell me quick;What can I do foryou?’you?’‘Promise--that youWill forward this,’ he said, his fingers clutchingA gold medallion hanging at his breast,Dabbled in blood, ‘to’--then his latest thoughtsPassed with his latest breath. The loved one’s name,Mistress or bride affianced, was not toldBy that poor Frenchman.Seeing blazoned armsOn the medallion, I took charge of it,Hoping to trace her at some future dayAmong the nobility of France,To whom reverts the dying soldier’s gift;Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swearThat, if death spares me not, you will fulfillThis pious duty in my place.”TherewithHe the medallion handed her; and on itIrene saw the Viscount’s blazoned arms.Then--her heart agonized with mortal woe--“I swear it, sir!” she murmured. “Sleep in peace,”Solaced by having this disclosure made,The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflameThough tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;The very blood stains his! Nor was his deathHeroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, liesThe man who murdered him!Yes; he has boastedHow in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.And now he sleeps, with drowsiness oppressed,Roger’s assassin; and ’twas she, Irene,Who bade him sleep in peace! And then again,With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme,She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,As loving mother by a suffering child!She must at briefest intervals to himAdminister the remedy prescribed,So that he die not! And the man himselfCounting on this in quiet,--sheltered, housedUnder the roof of hospitality!And there the flask upon the table standsCharged with his life. He waits it: Is not thisBeyond imagination horrible?What! While she feels creeping and growing on herAll that is awful in the one word “hate,”While in her breast the ominous anger seethesThat nerved, in holy scripture, Jael’s armTo drive the nail through Sisera’s head! She saveThe accursed German! Oh, away! Such pointForbearance reaches not.What! While it glittersThere in the corner, the brass-pommeled sword,Wherewith the murderer struck--and fell desire,Fierce impulse bids it from the scabbard leap--Shall she, in deference to vague prejudice,To some fantastic notion that affectsHuman respect and duty, shall she putRepose and sleep, and antidote and lifeInto the horrible hand by which all joyIs ravished from her?Never! She will breakThe assuaging flask.But no! ’Twere needless that.She needs but leave Fate to work out its end.Fate, to avenge her, seems to be at oneWith her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;But for one hour might she not fall asleep?Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”And still the struggle lasted, till the German,Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyesTurned to the God of Calvary, poured outThe soothing draught, and with a delicate handGave to the wounded man the drink he asked.And when the doctor in the morning came,And saw Irene beside the officer,Tending him still and giving him his drinkWith trembling fingers, he was much amazed,That through the dreary watches of the nightThe raven locks, which, at set of sun,Had crowned her fair young brow, by morning’s dawnHad changed to snowy white.[9]

Soon as her lover to the war had gone,

Withouttearstearsor common-place despair,

Irene de Grandfief, a maiden pure

And noble-minded, reassumed the garb

That at the convent she had worn--black dress

With narrow pelerine--and the small cross

In silver at her breast; her piano closed.

Her jewels put away--all save one ring.

Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve

In the past spring-time when he had left her,

Bidding farewell, and from Irene’s brow

Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it

In gold medallion close upon his heart.[1]

Without delay or hindrance, in the ranks

He took a private’s place. What that war was

Too well is known.

Impassible, and speakingSeldom as might be of her absent lover,Irene daily, at a certain hour,Watched at her window till the postman cameDown o’er the hill along the public road,His mail-bag at his back.[2]If he passed by,Nor any letter left, she turned awayStifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.

Impassible, and speaking

Seldom as might be of her absent lover,

Irene daily, at a certain hour,

Watched at her window till the postman came

Down o’er the hill along the public road,

His mail-bag at his back.[2]If he passed by,

Nor any letter left, she turned away

Stifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.

Then came the siege of Paris--hideous time!Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasionDrew near Irene’s chateau. In vain the priestAnd the old doctor, in their evening talk,Grouped with the family around the hearth,Death for their constant theme before her took.

Then came the siege of Paris--hideous time!

Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasion

Drew near Irene’s chateau. In vain the priest

And the old doctor, in their evening talk,

Grouped with the family around the hearth,

Death for their constant theme before her took.

No sad foreboding could that young heart know.Roger at Metz was, with his regiment, safe,At the last date unwounded. He was living;He must be living; she was sure of that.Thus by her faith, in faithful love sustained,Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.

No sad foreboding could that young heart know.

Roger at Metz was, with his regiment, safe,

At the last date unwounded. He was living;

He must be living; she was sure of that.

Thus by her faith, in faithful love sustained,

Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.

Wakened one morning, with a start, she heardIn the far copses of the park shots firedIn quick succession. ’Twas the enemy!She would be brave as Roger. So she blushedAt her own momentary fear; then calmAs though the incident a trifle were,Her toilet made; and, having duly saidHer daily prayer, not leaving out one Ave,Down to the drawing-room as usual went,A smile upon her lips.

Wakened one morning, with a start, she heard

In the far copses of the park shots fired

In quick succession. ’Twas the enemy!

She would be brave as Roger. So she blushed

At her own momentary fear; then calm

As though the incident a trifle were,

Her toilet made; and, having duly said

Her daily prayer, not leaving out one Ave,

Down to the drawing-room as usual went,

A smile upon her lips.

It had, indeed,Been a mere skirmish---that, and nothing more.Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiersHad been abruptly, by our Franc-Tireurs,Surprised and driven off. They had picked upJust at that moment, where the fight had been,A wounded officer--Bavarian was he--Shot through the neck. And when they brought him in,That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,Stretched on a mattress--without sigh or shudderIrene had him carefully borne upInto the room by Roger occupiedWhen he came wooing there,[3]Then, while they putThe wounded man to bed, she carried outHerself his vest and cloak all black with blood;Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,And stir himself with more alacrity;And, when the wound was dressed, lent aid,As of the Sisterhood of Charity,With her own hands.[4]

It had, indeed,

Been a mere skirmish---that, and nothing more.

Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiers

Had been abruptly, by our Franc-Tireurs,

Surprised and driven off. They had picked up

Just at that moment, where the fight had been,

A wounded officer--Bavarian was he--

Shot through the neck. And when they brought him in,

That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,

Stretched on a mattress--without sigh or shudder

Irene had him carefully borne up

Into the room by Roger occupied

When he came wooing there,[3]Then, while they put

The wounded man to bed, she carried out

Herself his vest and cloak all black with blood;

Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,

And stir himself with more alacrity;

And, when the wound was dressed, lent aid,

As of the Sisterhood of Charity,

With her own hands.[4]

Evening came on apaceBringing the doctor. When he saw the manA strange expression flitted o’er his face,As to himself he muttered: “Yes, flushed cheek;Pulse beating much too high. If possibleI must arrest the fever. This prescriptionVery oft succeeds. But some one must take noteOf the oncoming fits; must watch till morn,And tend him closely.”

Evening came on apace

Bringing the doctor. When he saw the man

A strange expression flitted o’er his face,

As to himself he muttered: “Yes, flushed cheek;

Pulse beating much too high. If possible

I must arrest the fever. This prescription

Very oft succeeds. But some one must take note

Of the oncoming fits; must watch till morn,

And tend him closely.”

“Doctor, I am here.”“Not you, young lady! Service such as thisOne of your valets can”----

“Doctor, I am here.”

“Not you, young lady! Service such as this

One of your valets can”----

“No, doctor, No!Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,--Hurt, ill. If he such tending should requireAs does this officer, I would he hadA German woman for his nurse.”

“No, doctor, No!

Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,--

Hurt, ill. If he such tending should require

As does this officer, I would he had

A German woman for his nurse.”

“So be it,”Answered the doctor, offering her his hand.“Give him the potion four times every hourI will return to judge of its effectsAt daylight.”[5]Then he went his way, and leftIrene to her office self-imposed.

“So be it,”

Answered the doctor, offering her his hand.

“Give him the potion four times every hour

I will return to judge of its effects

At daylight.”[5]Then he went his way, and left

Irene to her office self-imposed.

Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,With eye half-opened looked at her and spoke.“This doctor,” said he “thought I was asleep,But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;I thank you from my very inmost heart--Less for myself than for her sake, to whomYou would restore me, and who there at homeAwaits me.”

Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,

When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,

With eye half-opened looked at her and spoke.

“This doctor,” said he “thought I was asleep,

But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;

I thank you from my very inmost heart--

Less for myself than for her sake, to whom

You would restore me, and who there at home

Awaits me.”

“Hush,” she said, “Sleep if you canDo not excite yourself. Your life dependsOn perfect quiet.”

“Hush,” she said, “Sleep if you can

Do not excite yourself. Your life depends

On perfect quiet.”

“No,” he answered, “No!I must at once unload me of a secretThat weighs upon me. I a promise made,And I would keep it. Death may be at hand.”[6]“Speak, then,” Irene said “and ease your soul.”

“No,” he answered, “No!

I must at once unload me of a secret

That weighs upon me. I a promise made,

And I would keep it. Death may be at hand.”[6]

“Speak, then,” Irene said “and ease your soul.”

“The war,---- oh, what an infamy is war!It was last month, by Metz, ’twas my ill fateTo kill a Frenchman.” She turned pale, and loweredThe lamp-light to conceal it.[7]He continued:

“The war,---- oh, what an infamy is war!

It was last month, by Metz, ’twas my ill fate

To kill a Frenchman.” She turned pale, and lowered

The lamp-light to conceal it.[7]He continued:

“We were sent forward to surprise a cottage,Strengthened and held by some of yours. We didAs hunters do when stalking game. The nightWas clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force,Along the poplar-bordered path we creptUp to the French post. I, first, drove my saberInto the soldiers’ back who sentry stoodBefore the door. He fell, nor gave the alarm.We took the cottage, putting to the swordEvery soul there.”

“We were sent forward to surprise a cottage,

Strengthened and held by some of yours. We did

As hunters do when stalking game. The night

Was clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force,

Along the poplar-bordered path we crept

Up to the French post. I, first, drove my saber

Into the soldiers’ back who sentry stood

Before the door. He fell, nor gave the alarm.

We took the cottage, putting to the sword

Every soul there.”

Irene with her handsCovered her eyes.

Irene with her hands

Covered her eyes.

“Disgusted with such carnage,Loathing such scene, I stepped into the air.Just then the moon broke through the clouds and showed meThere at my feet a soldier on the groundWrithing, the rattle in his throat. ’Twas he,The sentry whom my saber had transpierced.Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,I stopped, to offer him a helping hand--But, with choked voice, ‘It is too late,’ he said,I must needs die----you are an officer--A gentleman,perchance’perchance’, ‘Yes; tell me quick;What can I do foryou?’you?’‘Promise--that youWill forward this,’ he said, his fingers clutchingA gold medallion hanging at his breast,Dabbled in blood, ‘to’--then his latest thoughtsPassed with his latest breath. The loved one’s name,Mistress or bride affianced, was not toldBy that poor Frenchman.

“Disgusted with such carnage,

Loathing such scene, I stepped into the air.

Just then the moon broke through the clouds and showed me

There at my feet a soldier on the ground

Writhing, the rattle in his throat. ’Twas he,

The sentry whom my saber had transpierced.

Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,

I stopped, to offer him a helping hand--

But, with choked voice, ‘It is too late,’ he said,

I must needs die----you are an officer--

A gentleman,perchance’perchance’, ‘Yes; tell me quick;

What can I do foryou?’you?’‘Promise--that you

Will forward this,’ he said, his fingers clutching

A gold medallion hanging at his breast,

Dabbled in blood, ‘to’--then his latest thoughts

Passed with his latest breath. The loved one’s name,

Mistress or bride affianced, was not told

By that poor Frenchman.

Seeing blazoned armsOn the medallion, I took charge of it,Hoping to trace her at some future dayAmong the nobility of France,To whom reverts the dying soldier’s gift;Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swearThat, if death spares me not, you will fulfillThis pious duty in my place.”

Seeing blazoned arms

On the medallion, I took charge of it,

Hoping to trace her at some future day

Among the nobility of France,

To whom reverts the dying soldier’s gift;

Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swear

That, if death spares me not, you will fulfill

This pious duty in my place.”

TherewithHe the medallion handed her; and on itIrene saw the Viscount’s blazoned arms.Then--her heart agonized with mortal woe--“I swear it, sir!” she murmured. “Sleep in peace,”Solaced by having this disclosure made,The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflameThough tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;The very blood stains his! Nor was his deathHeroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, liesThe man who murdered him!

Therewith

He the medallion handed her; and on it

Irene saw the Viscount’s blazoned arms.

Then--her heart agonized with mortal woe--

“I swear it, sir!” she murmured. “Sleep in peace,”

Solaced by having this disclosure made,

The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,

Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflame

Though tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]

Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;

His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;

The very blood stains his! Nor was his death

Heroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,

Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,

Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, lies

The man who murdered him!

Yes; he has boastedHow in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.And now he sleeps, with drowsiness oppressed,Roger’s assassin; and ’twas she, Irene,Who bade him sleep in peace! And then again,With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme,She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,As loving mother by a suffering child!She must at briefest intervals to himAdminister the remedy prescribed,So that he die not! And the man himselfCounting on this in quiet,--sheltered, housedUnder the roof of hospitality!And there the flask upon the table standsCharged with his life. He waits it: Is not thisBeyond imagination horrible?

Yes; he has boasted

How in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.

And now he sleeps, with drowsiness oppressed,

Roger’s assassin; and ’twas she, Irene,

Who bade him sleep in peace! And then again,

With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme,

She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!

She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,

As loving mother by a suffering child!

She must at briefest intervals to him

Administer the remedy prescribed,

So that he die not! And the man himself

Counting on this in quiet,--sheltered, housed

Under the roof of hospitality!

And there the flask upon the table stands

Charged with his life. He waits it: Is not this

Beyond imagination horrible?

What! While she feels creeping and growing on herAll that is awful in the one word “hate,”While in her breast the ominous anger seethesThat nerved, in holy scripture, Jael’s armTo drive the nail through Sisera’s head! She saveThe accursed German! Oh, away! Such pointForbearance reaches not.

What! While she feels creeping and growing on her

All that is awful in the one word “hate,”

While in her breast the ominous anger seethes

That nerved, in holy scripture, Jael’s arm

To drive the nail through Sisera’s head! She save

The accursed German! Oh, away! Such point

Forbearance reaches not.

What! While it glittersThere in the corner, the brass-pommeled sword,Wherewith the murderer struck--and fell desire,Fierce impulse bids it from the scabbard leap--Shall she, in deference to vague prejudice,To some fantastic notion that affectsHuman respect and duty, shall she putRepose and sleep, and antidote and lifeInto the horrible hand by which all joyIs ravished from her?

What! While it glitters

There in the corner, the brass-pommeled sword,

Wherewith the murderer struck--and fell desire,

Fierce impulse bids it from the scabbard leap--

Shall she, in deference to vague prejudice,

To some fantastic notion that affects

Human respect and duty, shall she put

Repose and sleep, and antidote and life

Into the horrible hand by which all joy

Is ravished from her?

Never! She will breakThe assuaging flask.

Never! She will break

The assuaging flask.

But no! ’Twere needless that.She needs but leave Fate to work out its end.Fate, to avenge her, seems to be at oneWith her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!

But no! ’Twere needless that.

She needs but leave Fate to work out its end.

Fate, to avenge her, seems to be at one

With her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!

Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;But for one hour might she not fall asleep?Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”

Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;

But for one hour might she not fall asleep?

Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”

And still the struggle lasted, till the German,Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.

And still the struggle lasted, till the German,

Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,

Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.

Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyesTurned to the God of Calvary, poured outThe soothing draught, and with a delicate handGave to the wounded man the drink he asked.

Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,

At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,

Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;

Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyes

Turned to the God of Calvary, poured out

The soothing draught, and with a delicate hand

Gave to the wounded man the drink he asked.

And when the doctor in the morning came,And saw Irene beside the officer,Tending him still and giving him his drinkWith trembling fingers, he was much amazed,That through the dreary watches of the nightThe raven locks, which, at set of sun,Had crowned her fair young brow, by morning’s dawnHad changed to snowy white.[9]

And when the doctor in the morning came,

And saw Irene beside the officer,

Tending him still and giving him his drink

With trembling fingers, he was much amazed,

That through the dreary watches of the night

The raven locks, which, at set of sun,

Had crowned her fair young brow, by morning’s dawn

Had changed to snowy white.[9]

TABLEAUX.

Scene only changes from reception room to chamber, and the poem suggests the characters for each, and the surroundings.Look out for the details mentioned in the poem.

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