RAIMOND, JOHANNA. THIBAUT. Thy sisters, Joan, will soon be happy brides; I see them gladly; they rejoice my age; But thou, my youngest, giv'st me grief and pain. RAIMOND. What is the matter? Why upbraid thy child? THIBAUT. Here is this noble youth, the flower and pride Of all our village; he hath fixed on thee His fond affections, and for three long years Has wooed thee with respectful tenderness; But thou dost thrust him back with cold reserve. Nor is there one 'mong all our shepherd youths Who e'er can win a gracious smile from thee. I see thee blooming in thy youthful prime; Thy spring it is, the joyous time of hope; Thy person, like a tender flower, hath now Disclosed its beauty, but I vainly wait For love's sweet blossom genially to blow, And ripen joyously to golden fruit! Oh, that must ever grieve me, and betrays Some sad deficiency in nature's work! The heart I like not which, severe and cold, Expands not in the genial years of youth. RAIMOND. Forbear, good father! Cease to urge her thus! A noble, tender fruit of heavenly growth Is my Johanna's love, and time alone Bringeth the costly to maturity! Still she delights to range among the hills, And fears descending from the wild, free heath, To tarry 'neath the lowly roofs of men, Where dwell the narrow cares of humble life. From the deep vale, with silent wonder, oft I mark her, when, upon a lofty hill Surrounded by her flock, erect she stands, With noble port, and bends her earnest gaze Down on the small domains of earth. To me She looketh then, as if from other times She came, foreboding things of import high. THIBAUT.    'Tis that precisely which displeases me! She shuns her sisters' gay companionship; Seeks out the desert mountains, leaves her couch Before the crowing of the morning cock, And in the dreadful hour, when men are wont Confidingly to seek their fellow-men, She, like the solitary bird, creeps forth, And in the fearful spirit-realm of night,    To yon crossway repairs, and there alone Holds secret commune with the mountain wind. Wherefore this place precisely doth she choose? Why hither always doth she drive her flock? For hours together I have seen her sit In dreamy musing 'neath the Druid tree, Which every happy creature shuns with awe. For 'tis not holy there; an evil spirit Hath since the fearful pagan days of old Beneath its branches fixed his dread abode. The oldest of our villagers relate Strange tales of horror of the Druid tree; Mysterious voices of unearthly sound From its unhallowed shade oft meet the ear. Myself, when in the gloomy twilight hour My path once chanced to lead me 

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