re, looks
true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you,
prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!

Mel. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner
on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the
incentives to exertion, not the titledeeds to sloth! I honor the laurels
that overshadow the graves of our fathers; it is our fathers I emulate,
when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted, my own
ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!

Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou
lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the Lake of
Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst
swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou
describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if
custom had made thee disdain greatness.

Mel. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which,
could love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen!*--

(* The reader will observe that Melnotte evades the request
of Pauline. He proceeds to describe a home, which he does
not say he possesses, but to which he would lead her, "could
Love fulfil its prayers." This caution is intended as a
reply to a sagacious critic who censures the description,
because it is not an exact and prosaic inventory of the
characteristics of the Lake of Como!--When Melnotte, for
instance, talks of birds "that syllable the name of Pauline"
(by the way, a literal translation from an Italian poet), he
is not thinking of ornithology, but probably of the Arabian
Nights. He is venting the extravagant, but natural,
enthusiasm of the poet and the lover.)

A deep vale
Shut out by Alphine hills from the rude world;
Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!

Pauline. My own dear love!

Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens