Spirit.

There is,-- A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes, That angels shudder when they look on them!

Thou surely dost not wish to visit it.

Werner.

Why not? There is within my mind a void Whose vacant weight is harder to be borne Than the keen stingings of more active pangs; When it has traced the mystic chain of being To its last link, it may perchance shake off The misery of restless discontent,-- Its fulness then may sink it into rest.

Spirit.

I have no power to disobey thy word; If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee, Even though in looking on I share the pangs Of those who suffer.

Werner.

Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it cost Me years of pain to gaze but for a moment.

Spirit.

'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust, Than to declare who has inherited The largest portion of her prying spirit.

(Sings.)

Where Pain keepeth vigil With Sorrow and Care, And Horror sits watching By dull-eyed Despair,-- Where the Spirit accurst Maketh moan in its wo, Thy wishes direct us, And thither we go.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I. Near the place of the d.a.m.ned. Enter Werner and Spirit.

Werner.

What piercing, stunning sounds a.s.sail my ear!

Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers, A chaos of all cries! making the s.p.a.ce Through which they penetrate to flutter like The heart of a trapped hare,--are revelling round us.

Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted, Silent and solemn, all is restless here, All wears the ashy hue of agony.

Above us bends a black and starless vault, Which ever echoes back the fearful voices That rise from the abodes of wo beneath.

Around us grim-browed desolation broods, While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds, Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils.

Whither shall we direct our journey now?

Spirit.

Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds, If though hast courage to attempt the plunge, Our pathless way must be. A moment more And we shall stand where angels seldom stand, And devils almost pity when they stand,-- Behold!

Werner.

Eternal G.o.d!

Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r, Whose breath is life, whose n.o.blest attribute,-- The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy!

Were these of thine immortal will conceived?

Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear?

Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life?

And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf?

Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breast Grief had congealed the hidden fount of tears, But ye have drawn them from their frozen source And I do weep for you!

Spirit.

What moves thee thus?

I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihood Of universal hate, and pride, and scorn, That even were the woes, which thou dost here Behold endured by others, heaped on thee, Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all; Accounting its development of strength To bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate, Sufficient recompense!

Werner.

Misdeem me not, If I have wept involuntary tears O'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate, Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear.

But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinct In those who here sojourn, or do they look Yet forward to some blest millennial day, Which shall redeem them from this horrid place.

Spirit.

Best ask your theologians that question.

Some say that there are places purgatorial, Where Error pays the price of her transgressions In sufferings that efface the effects of sin.

And other some declare that when the soul And clay are parted, heaven seals the doom Of both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mind Sit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth.

Mark what approaches us, and mark it well.

Werner.

I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins.

Than it, h.e.l.l cannot hold a fouler form-- A thing of more unholy loathsomeness!

Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood, Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked, Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam!

A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales, And through its heaving bosom you may mark The constant preying of a quenchless flame That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair, Perpetually issues from its lips;-- And with unequal but unceasing steps, It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom, A mocking phantom,--fair as it is foul!

With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks, And big black eyes that dart the humid flame Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips, And checks as spotless as the falling flake Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form Wherein is knit each grace of womanhood In its perfection! and with wanton looks That speak the burning language of desire, It seems to woo its loathsome follower,-- Yet ever from his foul embraces flies.

And on his brow his name is written, "l.u.s.t!"

Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight, And sears my brain with its dark hideousness!

Spirit.

'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears.

Werner.

A frame which may be that of Hercules, It hath such giant members! and its port Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving.

Its sandals are of bra.s.s, its ma.s.sive brow Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes, It vainly beats the unresisting air, As if in battle with some phantom foe; And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast, Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone, It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,-- "I fought for fame and won unending wo."

His agonies seem like himself, immortal.

Spirit.

Justice is blameless of his sufferings: For many years his busy, plotting brain, Made discord out of union, strife from peace, And set the nations warring till the earth Was crimson with the blood poured out for him!

He bears what he inflicted,--let him pa.s.s And mark what follows him.