War? I have proved that too: should I turn loose On these poor sheep the wolf whose fangs have gored me, G.o.d's bolt would smite me dead.

C. Pama. Madam, by his gray hairs he doth entreat you.

Eliz. Alas! small comfort would they find in me!

I am a stricken and most luckless deer, Whose bleeding track but draws the hounds of wrath Where'er I pause a moment. He has children Bred at his side, to nurse him in his age-- While I am but an alien and a changeling, Whom, ere my plastic sense could impress take Either of his feature or his voice, he lost.

C. Pama. Is it so? Then pardon, Madam, but your father Must by a father's right command--

Eliz. Command! Ay, that's the phrase of the world: well--tell him, But tell him gently too--that child and father Are names, whose earthly sense I have forsworn, And know no more: I have a heavenly spouse, Whose service doth all other claims annul.

C. Wal. Ah, lady, dearest lady, be but ruled!

Your Saviour will be there as near as here.

Eliz. What? Thou too, friend? Dost thou not know me better?

Wouldst have me leave undone what I begin?

[To Count Pama] My father took the cross, sir: so did I: As he would die at his post, so will I die: He is a warrior: ask him, should I leave This my safe fort, and well-proved vantage-ground, To roam on this world's flat and fenceless steppes?

C. Pama. Pardon me, Madam, if my grosser wit Fail to conceive your sense.

Eliz. It is not needed.

Be but the mouthpiece to my father, sir; And tell him--for I would not anger him-- Tell him, I am content--say, happy--tell him I prove my kin by prayers for him, and ma.s.ses For her who bore me. We shall meet on high.

And say, his daughter is a mighty tree, From whose wide roots a thousand sapling suckers, Drink half their life; she dare not snap the threads, And let her offshoots wither. So farewell.

Within the convent there, as mine own guests, You shall be fitly lodged. Come here no more.

C. Wal. C. Pama. Farewell, sweet Saint! [Exeunt.]

Eliz. May G.o.d go with you both.

No! I will win for him a n.o.bler name, Than captive crescents, piles of turbaned heads, Or towns retaken from the Tartar, give.

In me he shall be greatest; my report Shall through the ages win the quires of heaven To love and honour him; and hinds, who bless The poor man's patron saint, shall not forget How she was fathered with a worthy sire. [Exit.]

SCENE III

Night. Interior of Elizabeth's hut. A leprous boy sleeping on a Mattress. Elizabeth watching by him.]

Eliz. My shrunk limbs, stiff from many a blow, Are crazed with pain.

A long dim formless fog-bank, creeping low, Dulls all my brain.

I remember two young lovers, In a golden gleam.

Across the brooding darkness shrieking hovers That fair, foul dream.

My little children call to me, 'Mother! so soon forgot?'

From out dark nooks their yearning faces startle me, Go, babes! I know you not!

Pray! pray! or thou'lt go mad.

The past's our own: No fiend can take that from us! Ah, poor boy!

Had I, like thee, been bred from my black birth-hour In filth and shame, counting the soulless months Only by some fresh ulcer! I'll be patient-- Here's something yet more wretched than myself.

Sleep thou on still, poor charge--though I'll not grudge One moment of my sickening toil about thee, Best counsellor--dumb preacher, who dost warn me How much I have enjoyed, how much have left, Which thou hast never known. How am I wretched?

The happiness thou hast from me, is mine, And makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret-- Could we but crush that ever-craving l.u.s.t For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose our life, Our barren unit life, to find again A thousand lives in those for whom we die.

So were we men and women, and should hold Our rightful rank in G.o.d's great universe, Wherein, in heaven and earth, by will or nature, Nought lives for self--All, all--from crown to footstool-- The Lamb, before the world's foundations slain-- The angels, ministers to G.o.d's elect-- The sun, who only shines to light a world-- The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers-- The fleeting streams, who in their ocean-graves Flee the decay of stagnant self-content-- The oak, enn.o.bled by the shipwright's axe-- The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower-- The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms, Born only to be prey for every bird-- All spend themselves for others: and shall man, Earth's rosy blossom--image of his G.o.d-- Whose twofold being is the mystic knot Which couples earth and heaven--doubly bound As being both worm and angel, to that service By which both worms and angels hold their life-- Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt, Refuse, without some hope of further wage Which he calls Heaven, to be what G.o.d has made him?

No! let him show himself the creature's lord By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice Which they perforce by nature's law must suffer.

This too I had to learn (I thank thee, Lord!), To lie crushed down in darkness and the pit-- To lose all heart and hope--and yet to work.

What lesson could I draw from all my own woes-- Ingrat.i.tude, oppression, widowhood-- While I could hug myself in vain conceits Of self-contented sainthood--inward raptures-- Celestial palms--and let ambition's gorge Taint heaven, as well as earth? Is selfishness For time, a sin--spun out to eternity Celestial prudence? Shame! Oh, thrust me forth, Forth, Lord, from self, until I toil and die No more for Heaven and bliss, but duty, Lord, Duty to Thee, although my meed should be The h.e.l.l which I deserve!

[Sleeps.]

[Two women enter.]

1st Woman. What! snoring still? 'Tis nearly time to wake her To do her penance.

2d Woman. Wait a while, for love: Indeed, I am almost ashamed to punish A bag of skin and bones.

1st Woman. 'Tis for her good: She has had her share of pleasure in this life With her gay husband; she must have her pain.

We bear it as a thing of course; we know What mortifications are, although I say it That should not.

2d Woman. Why, since my old tyrant died, Fasting I've sought the Lord, like any Anna, And never tasted fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, And little stronger than water.

1st Woman. Plague on this watching!

What work, to make a saint of a fine lady!

See now, if she had been some labourer's daughter, She might have saved herself, for aught he cared; But now--

2d Woman. Hush! here the master comes: I hear him.--

[Conrad enters.]

Con. My peace, most holy, wise, and watchful wardens!

She sleeps? Well, what complaints have you to bring Since last we met? How? blowing up the fire?

Cold is the true saint's element--he thrives Like Alpine gentians, where the frost is keenest-- For there Heaven's nearest--and the ether purest-- [Aside] And he most bitter.

2d Woman. Ah! sweet master, We are not yet as perfect as yourself.

Con. But how has she behaved?

1st Woman. Just like herself-- Now ruffling up like any tourney queen; Now weeping in dark corners; then next minute Begging for penance on her knees.

2d Woman. One trick's cured; That l.u.s.t of giving; Isentrude and Guta, The hussies, came here begging but yestreen, Vowed they were starving.

Con. Did she give to them?

2d Woman. She told them that she dared not.

Con. Good. For them, I will take measures that they shall not want: But see you tell her not: she must be perfect.

1st Woman. Indeed, there's not much chance of that a while.

There's others, might be saints, if they were young, And handsome, and had t.i.tles to their names, If they were helped toward heaven, now--

Con. Silence, horse-skull!