Eliz. How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood: I met a friend just now, who told me truths Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart-- Would G.o.d I had known them earlier!--and enforced Her lesson so, as I shall ne'er forget it In body or in mind.

Isen. What means all this?

Eliz. You know the stepping-stones across the ford.

There as I pa.s.sed, a certain aged crone, Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year, Met me mid-stream--thrust past me stoutly on-- And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire.

There as I lay and weltered,--'Take that, Madam, For all your selfish hypocritic pride Which thought it such a vast humility To wash us poor folk's feet, and use our bodies For staves to build withal your Jacob's-ladder.

What! you would mount to heaven upon our backs?

The a.s.s has thrown his rider.' She crept on-- I washed my garments in the brook hard by-- And came here, all the wiser.

Guta. Miscreant hag!

Isen. Alas, you'll freeze.

Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch Could harbour such a spite?

Eliz. Nay, who could dream She would have guessed my heart so well? Dull boors See deeper than we think, and hide within Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths, Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose.

They grind among the iron facts of life, And have no time for self-deception.

Isen. Come-- Put on my cloak--stand here, behind the wall.

Oh! is it come to this? She'll die of cold.

Guta. Ungrateful fiend!

Eliz. Let be--we must not think on't.

The scoff was true--I thank her--I thank G.o.d-- This too I needed. I had built myself A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven, Of poor men's praise and prayers, and subtle pride At mine own alms. 'Tis crumbled into dust!

Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh-- And here's its strength! I'll walk by faith--by faith And rest my weary heart on Christ alone-- On him, the all-sufficient!

Shame on me! dreaming thus about myself, While you stand shivering here. [To her little Son.]

Art cold, young knight?

Knights must not cry--Go slide, and warm thyself.

Where shall we lodge to-night?

Isen. There's no place open, But that foul tavern, where we lay last night.

Elizabeth's Son [clinging to her]. O mother, mother! go not to that house-- Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and scowled, And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly songs Of you and us. O mother! let us be!

Eliz. Hark! look! His father's voice!--his very eye-- Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down In luscious rest again!

Isen. Bethink you, child--

Eliz. Oh yes--I'll think--we'll to our tavern friends; If they be brutes, 'twas my sin left them so.

Guta. 'Tis but for a night or two: three days will bring The Abbess. .h.i.ther.

Isen. And then to Bamberg straight For knights and men-at-arms! Your uncle's wrath--

Guta [aside]. Hush! hush! you'll fret her, if you talk of vengeance.

Isen. Come to our shelter.

Children. Oh stay here, stay here!

Behind these walls.

Eliz. Ay--stay a while in peace. The storms are still.

Beneath her eider robe the patient earth Watches in silence for the sun: we'll sit And gaze up with her at the changeless heaven, Until this tyranny be overpast.

Come. [aside] Lost! Lost! Lost!

[They enter a neighbouring ruin.]

SCENE III

A Chamber in the Bishop's Palace at Bamberg. Elizabeth and Guta.

Guta. You have determined?

Eliz. Yes--to go with him.

I have kept my oath too long to break it now.

I will to Marpurg, and there waste away In meditation and in pious deeds, Till G.o.d shall set me free.

Guta. How if your uncle Will have you marry? Day and night, they say, He talks of nothing else.

Eliz. Never, girl, never!

Save me from that at least, O G.o.d!

Guta. He spoke Of giving us, your maidens, to his knights In carnal wedlock: but I fear him not: For G.o.d's own word is pledged to keep me pure-- I am a maid.

Eliz. And I, alas! am none!

O Guta! dost thou mock my widowed love?

I was a wife--'tis true: I was not worthy-- But there was meaning in that first wild fancy; 'Twas but the innocent springing of the sap-- The witless yearning of an homeless heart-- Do I not know that G.o.d has pardoned me?

But now--to rouse and turn of mine own will, In cool and full foreknowledge, this worn soul Again to that, which, when G.o.d thrust it on me, Bred but one shame of ever-gnawing doubt, Were--No, my burning cheeks! We'll say no more.

Ah! loved and lost! Though G.o.d's chaste grace should fail me, My weak idolatry of thee would give Strength that should keep me true: with mine own hands I'd mar this tear-worn face, till petulant man Should loathe its scarred and shapeless ugliness.

Guta. But your poor children? What becomes of them?

Eliz. Oh! she who was not worthy of a husband Does not deserve his children. What are they, darlings, But snares to keep me from my heavenly spouse By picturing the spouse I must forget?

Well--'tis blank horror. Yet if grief's good for me, Let me down into grief's blackest pit, And follow out G.o.d's cure by mine own deed.

Guta. What will your kinsfolk think?

Eliz. What will they think!

What pleases them. That argument's a staff Which breaks whene'er you lean on't. Trust me, girl, That fear of man sucks out love's soaring ether, Baffles faith's heavenward eyes, and drops us down, To float, like plumeless birds, on any stream.

Have I not proved it?

There was a time with me, when every eye Did scorch like flame: if one looked cold on me, I straight accused myself of mortal sins: Each fopling was my master: I have lied From very fear of mine own serving-maids.-- That's past, thank G.o.d's good grace!

Guta. And now you leap To the other end of the line.

Eliz. In self-defence.

I am too weak to live by half my conscience; I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean; Life is too short for logic; what I do I must do simply; G.o.d alone must judge-- For G.o.d alone shall guide, and G.o.d's elect-- I shrink from earth's chill frosts too much to crawl-- I have snapped opinion's chains, and now I'll soar Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free.