The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

III

LUCIFER.
I cannot thus delude him to perdition!
But one temptation still remains untried,
The trial of his pride,
The thirst of power, the fever of ambition!
Surely by these a humble peasant's son
At last may be undone!

Above the yawning chasms and deep abysses,
Across the headlong torrents, I have brought
Thy footsteps, swift as thought;
And from the highest of these precipices,
The Kingdoms of the world thine eyes behold.
Like a great map unrolled.

From far-off Lebanon, with cedars crested,
To where the waters of the Asphalt Lake
On its white pebbles break,
And the vast desert, silent, sand-invested,
These kingdoms all are mine, and thine shall be,
If thou wilt worship me!

CHRISTUS. Get thee behind me, Satan! thou shalt worship The Lord thy God; Him only shalt thou serve!

ANGELS MINISTRANT.
The sun goes down; the evening shadows lengthen,
The fever and the struggle of the day
Abate and pass away;
Thine Angels Miniatrant, we come to strengthen
And comfort thee, and crown thee with the palm,
The silence and the calm.

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III
THE MARRIAGE IN CANA

THE MUSICIANS. Rise up, my love, my fair one, Rise up, and come away, For lo! the winter is past, The rain is over and gone, The flowers appear on the earth, The time of the singing of birds is come, And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

THE BRIDEGROOM. Sweetly the minstrels sing the Song of Songs! My heart runs forward with it, and I say: Oh set me as a seal upon thine heart, And set me as a seal upon thine arm; For love is strong as life, and strong as death, And cruel as the grave is jealousy!

THE MUSICIANS. I sleep, but my heart awaketh; 'T is the voice of my beloved Who knocketh, saying: Open to me, My sister, my love, my dove, For my head is filled with dew, My locks with the drops of the night!

THE BRIDE. Ah yes, I sleep, and yet my heart awaketh. It is the voice of my beloved who knocks.

THE BRIDEGROOM. O beautiful as Rebecca at the fountain, O beautiful as Ruth among the sheaves! O fairest among women! O undefiled! Thou art all fair, my love, there's no spot in thee!

THE MUSICIANS. My beloved is white and ruddy, The chiefest among ten thousand His locks are black as a raven, His eyes are the eyes of doves, Of doves by the rivers of water, His lips are like unto lilies, Dropping sweet-smelling myrrh.

ARCHITRICLINUS. Who is that youth with the dark azure eyes, And hair, in color like unto the wine, Parted upon his forehead, and behind Falling in flowing locks?

PARANYMPHUS.
The Nazarene
Who preacheth to the poor in field and village
The coming of God's Kingdom.

ARCHITRICLINUS.
How serene
His aspect is! manly yet womanly.

PARANYMPHUS. Most beautiful among the sons of men! Oft known to weep, but never known to laugh.

ARCHITRICLINUS. And tell me, she with eyes of olive tint, And skin as fair as wheat, and pale brown hair, The woman at his side?

PARANYMPHUS.
His mother, Mary.

ARCHITRICLINUS. And the tall figure standing close behind them, Clad all in white, with lace and beard like ashes, As if he were Elias, the White Witness, Come from his cave on Carmel to foretell The end of all things?

PARANYMPHUS.
That is Manahem
The Essenian, he who dwells among the palms
Near the Dead Sea.

ARCHITRICLINUS.
He who foretold to Herod
He should one day be King?

PARANYMPHUS.
The same.

ARCHITRICLINUS.
Then why
Doth he come here to sadden with his presence
Our marriage feast, belonging to a sect
Haters of women, and that taste not wine?

THE MUSICIANS. My undefiled is but one, The only one of her mother, The choice of her that bare her; The daughters saw her and blessed her; The queens and the concubines praised her; Saying, Lo! who is this That looketh forth as the morning?

MANAHEM aside. The Ruler of the Feast is gazing at me, As if he asked, why is that old man here Among the revellers? And thou, the Anointed! Why art thou here? I see as in a vision A figure clothed in purple, crowned with thorns; I see a cross uplifted in the darkness, And hear a cry of agony, that shall echo Forever and forever through the world!

ARCHITRICLINUS. Give us more wine. These goblets are all empty.

MARY to CHRISTUS. They have no wine!

CHRISTUS.
O woman, what have I
To do with thee? Mine hour is not yet come.

MARY to the servants. Whatever he shall say to you, that do.

CHRISTUS. Fill up these pots with water.

THE MUSICIANS. Come, my beloved, Let us go forth into the field, Let us lodge in the villages; Let us get up early to the vineyards, Let us see if the vine flourish, Whether the tender grape appear, And the pomegranates bud forth.

CHRISTUS.
Draw out now
And bear unto the Ruler of the Feast.

MANAHEM aside. O thou, brought up among the Essenians, Nurtured in abstinence, taste not the wine! It is the poison of dragons from the vineyards Of Sodom, and the taste of death is in it!

ARCHITRICLINUS to the BRIDEGROOM. All men set forth good wine at the beginning, And when men have well drunk, that which is worse; But thou hast kept the good wine until now.

MANAHEM aside.

The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall he, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of great joys departed, The daybreak of great truths as yet unrisen, The intuition and the expectation Of something, which, when come, is not the same, But only like its forecast in men's dreams, The longing, the delay, and the delight, Sweeter for the delay; youth, hope, love, death, And disappointment which is also death, All these make up the sum of human life; A dream within a dream, a wind at night Howling across the desert in despair, Seeking for something lost it cannot find. Fate or foreseeing, or whatever name Men call it, matters not; what is to be Hath been fore-written in the thought divine From the beginning. None can hide from it, But it will find him out; nor run from it, But it o'ertaketh him! The Lord hath said it.

THE BRIDEGROOM to the BRIDE, on the balcony. When Abraham went with Sarah into Egypt, The land was all illumined with her beauty; But thou dost make the very night itself Brighter than day! Behold, in glad procession, Crowding the threshold of the sky above us, The stars come forth to meet thee with their lamps; And the soft winds, the ambassadors of flowers, From neighboring gardens and from fields unseen, Come laden with odors unto thee, my Queen!

THE MUSICIANS. Awake, O north-wind, And come, thou wind of the South. Blow, blow upon my garden, That the spices thereof may flow out.

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IV
IN THE CORNFIELDS

PHILIP. Onward through leagues of sun-illumined corn, As if through parted seas, the pathway runs, And crowned with sunshine as the Prince of Peace Walks the beloved Master, leading us, As Moses led our fathers in old times Out of the land of bondage! We have found Him of whom Moses and the Prophets wrote, Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of Joseph.

NATHANAEL. Can any good come out of Nazareth? Can this be the Messiah?

PHILIP.
Come and see.

NATHANAEL. The summer sun grows hot: I am anhungered. How cheerily the Sabbath-breaking quail Pipes in the corn, and bids us to his Feast Of Wheat Sheaves! How the bearded, ripening ears Toss in the roofless temple of the air; As if the unseen hand of some High-Priest Waved them before Mount Tabor as an altar! It were no harm, if we should pluck and eat.

PHILIP. How wonderful it is to walk abroad With the Good Master! Since the miracle He wrought at Cana, at the marriage feast, His fame hath gone abroad through all the land, And when we come to Nazareth, thou shalt see How his own people will receive their Prophet, And hail him as Messiah! See, he turns And looks at thee.

CHRISTUS.
Behold an Israelite
In whom there is no guile.

NATHANAEL.
Whence knowest thou me?

CHRISTUS. Before that Philip called thee, when thou wast Under the fig-tree, I beheld thee.

NATHANAEL.
Rabbi!
Thou art the Son of God, thou art the King
Of Israel!

CHRISTUS.
Because I said I saw thee
Under the fig-tree, before Philip called thee,
Believest thou? Thou shalt see greater things.
Hereafter thou shalt see the heavens unclosed,
The angels of God ascending and descending
Upon the Son of Man!

PHAIRISEES, passing.
Hail, Rabbi!

CHRISTUS.
Hail!

PHARISEES. Behold how thy disciples do a thing Which is not lawful on the Sabbath-day, And thou forbiddest them not!

CHRISTUS.
Have ye not read
What David did when he anhungered was,
And all they that were with him? How he entered
Into the house of God, and ate the shew-bread,
Which was not lawful, saving for the priests?
Have ye not read, how on the Sabbath-days
The priests profane the Sabbath in the Temple,
And yet are blameless? But I say to you,
One in this place is greater than the Temple!
And had ye known the meaning of the words,
I will have mercy and not sacrifice,
The guiltless ye would not condemn. The Sabbath
Was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath.

Passes on with the disciples.

PHARISEES. This is, alas! some poor demoniac Wandering about the fields, and uttering His unintelligible blasphemies Among the common people, who receive As prophecies the words they comprehend not! Deluded folk! The incomprehensible Alone excites their wonder. There is none So visionary, or so void of sense, But he will find a crowd to follow him!

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V
NAZARETH

CHRISTUS, reading in the Synagogue. The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me. He hath anointed me to preach good tidings Unto the poor; to heal the broken-hearted; To comfort those that mourn, and to throw open The prison doors of captives, and proclaim The Year Acceptable of the Lord, our God!

He closes the book and sits down.

A PHARISEE. Who is this youth? He hath taken the Teacher's seat! Will he instruct the Elders?

A PRIEST.
Fifty years
Have I been Priest here in the Synagogue,
And never have I seen so young a man
Sit in the Teacher's seat!

CHRISTUS.
Behold, to-day
This scripture is fulfilled. One is appointed
And hath been sent to them that mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes, and the oil
Of joy for mourning! They shall build again
The old waste-places; and again raise up
The former desolations, and repair
The cities that are wasted! As a bridegroom
Decketh himself with ornaments; as a bride
Adorneth herself with jewels, so the Lord
Hath clothed me with the robe of righteousness!

A PRIEST. He speaks the Prophet's words; but with an air As if himself had been foreshadowed in them!

CHRISTUS. For Zion's sake I will not hold my peace, And for Jerusalem's sake I will not rest Until its righteousness be as a brightness, And its salvation as a lamp that burneth! Thou shalt be called no longer the Forsaken, Nor any more thy land the Desolate. The Lord hath sworn, by his right hand hath sworn, And by his arm of strength: I will no more Give to thine enemies thy corn as meat; The sons of strangers shall not drink thy wine. Go through, go through the gates! Prepare a way Unto the people! Gather out the stones! Lift up a standard for the people!

A PRIEST.
Ah!
These are seditious words!

CHRISTUS.
And they shall call them
The holy people; the redeemed of God!
And thou, Jerusalem, shalt be called Sought out,
A city not forsaken!

A PHARISEE.
Is not this
The carpenter Joseph's son? Is not his mother
Called Mary? and his brethren and his sisters
Are they not with us? Doth he make himself
To be a Prophet?

CHRISTUS.
No man is a Prophet
In his own country, and among his kin.
In his own house no Prophet is accepted.
I say to you, in the land of Israel
Were many widows in Elijah's day,
When for three years and more the heavens were shut,
And a great famine was throughout the land;
But unto no one was Elijah sent
Save to Sarepta, to a city of Sidon,
And to a woman there that was a widow.
And many lepers were then in the land
Of Israel, in the time of Eliseus
The Prophet, and yet none of them was cleansed,
Save Naaman the Syrian!

A PRIEST.
Say no more!
Thou comest here into our Synagogue
And speakest to the Elders and the Priests,
As if the very mantle of Elijah
Had fallen upon thee! Are thou not ashamed?

A PHARISEE. We want no Prophets here! Let him be driven From Synagogue and city! Let him go And prophesy to the Samaritans!

AN ELDER. The world is changed. We Elders are as nothing! We are but yesterdays, that have no part Or portion in to-day! Dry leaves that rustle, That make a little sound, and then are dust!

A PHARISEE. A carpenter's apprentice! a mechanic, Whom we have seen at work here in the town Day after day; a stripling without learning, Shall he pretend to unfold the Word of God To men grown old in study of the Law?

CHRISTUS is thrust out.

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VI
THE SEA OF GALILEE.

PETER and ANDREW mending their nets.

PETER. Never was such a marvellous draught of fishes Heard of in Galilee! The market-places Both of Bethsaida and Capernaum Are full of them! Yet we had toiled all night And taken nothing, when the Master said: Launch out into the deep, and cast your nets; And doing this, we caught such multitudes, Our nets like spiders' webs were snapped asunder, And with the draught we filled two ships so full That they began to sink. Then I knelt down Amazed, and said: O Lord, depart from me, I am a sinful man. And he made answer: Simon, fear not; henceforth thou shalt catch men! What was the meaning of those words?

ANDREW.
I know not.
But here is Philip, come from Nazareth.
He hath been with the Master. Tell us, Philip,
What tidings dost thou bring?

PHILIP.
Most wonderful!
As we drew near to Nain, out of the gate
Upon a bier was carried the dead body
Of a young man, his mother's only son,
And she a widow, who with lamentation
Bewailed her loss, and the much people with her;
And when the Master saw her he was filled
With pity; and he said to her: Weep not
And came and touched the bier, and they that bare it
Stood still; and then he said: Young man, arise!
And he that had been dead sat up, and soon
Began to speak; and he delivered him
Unto his mother. And there came a fear
On all the people, and they glorified
The Lord, and said, rejoicing: A great Prophet
Is risen up among us! and the Lord
Hath visited his people!

PETER.
A great Prophet?
Ay, greater than a Prophet: greater even
Than John the Baptist!

PHILIP.
Yet the Nazarenes
Rejected him.

PETER.
The Nazarenes are dogs!
As natural brute beasts, they growl at things
They do not understand; and they shall perish,
Utterly perish in their own corruption.
The Nazarenes are dogs!

PHILIP.
They drave him forth
Out of their Synagogue, out of their city,
And would have cast him down a precipice,
But, passing through the midst of them, he vanished
Out of their hands.

PETER.
Wells are they without water,
Clouds carried with a tempest, unto whom
The mist of darkness is reserved forever.

PHILIP. Behold, he cometh. There is one man with him I am amazed to see!

ANDREW.
What man is that?

PHILIP. Judas Iscariot; he that cometh last, Girt with a leathern apron. No one knoweth His history; but the rumor of him is He had an unclean spirit in his youth. It hath not left him yet.

CHRISTUS, passing.
Come unto me,
All ye that labor and are heavy laden,
And I will give you rest! Come unto me,
And take my yoke upon you and learn of me,
For I am meek, and I am lowly in heart,
And ye shall all find rest unto your souls!

PHILIP. Oh, there is something in that voice that reaches The innermost recesses of my spirit! I feel that it might say unto the blind: Receive your sight! and straightway they would see! I feel that it might say unto the dead, Arise! and they would hear it and obey! Behold, he beckons to us!

CHRISTUS to PETER and ANDREW.
Follow me!

PETER. Master, I will leave all and follow thee.

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VII
THE DEMONIAC OF GADARA

A GADARENE. He hath escaped, hath plucked his chains asunder, And broken his fetters; always night and day Is in the mountains here, and in the tombs, Crying aloud, and cutting himself with stones, Exceeding fierce, so that no man can tame him!

THE DEMONIAC from above, unseen. O Aschmedai! O Aschmedai, have pity!

A GADARENE. Listen! It is his voice! Go warn the people Just landing from the lake!

THE DEMONIAC.
O Aschmedai!
Thou angel of the bottomless pit, have pity!
It was enough to hurl King Solomon,
On whom be peace! two hundred leagues away
Into the country, and to make him scullion
In the kitchen of the King of Maschkemen!
Why dost thou hurl me here among these rocks,
And cut me with these stones?

A GADARENE.
He raves and mutters
He knows not what.

THE DEMONIAC, appearing from a tomb among the rocks.
The wild cock Tarnegal
Singeth to me, and bids me to the banquet,
Where all the Jews shall come; for they have slain
Behemoth the great ox, who daily cropped
A thousand hills for food, and at a draught
Drank up the river Jordan, and have slain
The huge Leviathan, and stretched his skin
Upon the high walls of Jerusalem,
And made them shine from one end of the world
Unto the other; and the fowl Barjuchne,
Whose outspread wings eclipse the sun, and make
Midnight at noon o'er all the continents!
And we shall drink the wine of Paradise
From Adam's cellars.

A GADARENE.
O thou unclean spirit!

THE DEMONIAC, hurling down a stone. This is the wonderful Barjuchne's egg, That fell out of her nest, and broke to pieces And swept away three hundred cedar-trees, And threescore villages!—Rabbi Eliezer, How thou didst sin there in that seaport town When thou hadst carried safe thy chest of silver Over the seven rivers for her sake! I too have sinned beyond the reach of pardon. Ye hills and mountains, pray for mercy on me! Ye stars and planets, pray for mercy on me! Ye sun and moon, oh pray for mercy on me!

CHRISTUS and his disciples pass.

A GADARENE. There is a man here of Decapolis, Who hath an unclean spirit; so that none Can pass this way. He lives among the tombs Up there upon the cliffs, and hurls down stones On those who pass beneath.

CHRISTUS.
Come out of him,
Thou unclean spirit!

THE DEMONIAC.
What have I to do
With thee, thou Son of God? Do not torment us.

CHRISTUS. What is thy name?

THE DEMONIAC.
Legion; for we are many.
Cain, the first murderer; and the King Belshazzar,
And Evil Merodach of Babylon,
And Admatha, the death-cloud, prince of Persia
And Aschmedai the angel of the pit,
And many other devils. We are Legion.
Send us not forth beyond Decapolis;
Command us not to go into the deep!
There is a herd of swine here in the pastures,
Let us go into them.

CHRISTUS.
Come out of him,
Thou unclean spirit!

A GADARENE.
See how stupefied,
How motionless he stands! He cries no more;
He seems bewildered and in silence stares
As one who, walking in his sleep, awakes
And knows not where he is, and looks about him,
And at his nakedness, and is ashamed.

THE DEMONIAC. Why am I here alone among the tombs? What have they done to me, that I am naked? Ah, woe is me!

CHRISTUS.
Go home unto thy friends
And tell them how great things the Lord hath done
For thee, and how He had compassion on thee!

A SWINEHERD, running. The herds! the herd! O most unlucky day! They were all feeding quiet in the sun, When suddenly they started, and grew savage As the wild boars of Tabor, and together Rushed down a precipice into the sea! They are all drowned!

PETER.
Thus righteously are punished
The apostate Jews, that eat the flesh of swine,
And broth of such abominable things!

GREEKS OF GADARA. We sacrifice a sow unto Demeter At the beginning of harvest and another To Dionysus at the vintage-time. Therefore we prize our herds of swine, and count them Not as unclean, but as things consecrate To the immortal gods. O great magician, Depart out of our coasts; let us alone, We are afraid of thee.

PETER.
Let us depart;
For they that sanctify and purify
Themselves in gardens, eating flesh of swine.
And the abomination, and the mouse,
Shall be consumed together, saith the Lord!

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VIII
TALITHA CUMI

JAIRUS at the feet of CHRISTUS. O Master! I entreat thee! I implore thee! My daughter lieth at the point of death; I pray thee come and lay thy hands upon her, And she shall live!

CHRISTUS.
Who was it touched my garments?

SIMON PETER. Thou seest the multitude that throng and press thee, And sayest thou: Who touched me? 'T was not I.

CHRISTUS. Some one hath touched my garments; I perceive That virtue is gone out of me.

A WOMAN.
O Master!
Forgive me! For I said within myself,
If I so much as touch his garment's hem,
I shall be whole.

CHRISTUS.
Be of good comfort, daughter!
Thy faith hath made thee whole. Depart in peace.

A MESSENGER from the house. Why troublest thou the Master? Hearest thou not The flute players, and the voices of the women Singing their lamentation? She is dead!

THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS. We have girded ourselves with sackcloth! We have covered our heads with ashes! For our young men die, and our maidens Swoon in the streets of the city; And into their mother's bosom They pour out their souls like water!

CHRISTUS, going in. Give place. Why make ye this ado, and weep? She is not dead, but sleepeth.

THE MOTHER, from within.
Cruel Death!
To take away front me this tender blossom!
To take away my dove, my lamb, my darling!

THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS. He hath led me and brought into darkness, Like the dead of old in dark places! He hath bent his bow, and hath set me Apart as a mark for his arrow! He hath covered himself with a cloud, That our prayer should not pass through and reach him!

THE CROWD. He stands beside her bed! He takes her hand! Listen, he speaks to her!

CHRISTUS, within.
Maiden, arise!

THE CROWD. See, she obeys his voice! She stirs! She lives! Her mother holds her folded in her arms! O miracle of miracles! O marvel!

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IX
THE TOWER OF MAGDALA

MARY MAGDALENE. Companionless, unsatisfied, forlorn, I sit here in this lonely tower, and look Upon the lake below me, and the hills That swoon with heat, and see as in a vision All my past life unroll itself before me. The princes and the merchants come to me, Merchants of Tyre and Princes of Damascus. And pass, and disappear, and are no more; But leave behind their merchandise and jewels, Their perfumes, and their gold, and their disgust. I loathe them, and the very memory of them Is unto me as thought of food to one Cloyed with the luscious figs of Dalmanutha! What if hereafter, in the long hereafter Of endless joy or pain, or joy in pain, It were my punishment to be with them Grown hideous and decrepit in their sins, And hear them say: Thou that hast brought us here, Be unto us as thou hast been of old! I look upon this raiment that I wear, These silks, and these embroideries, and they seem Only as cerements wrapped about my limbs! I look upon these rings thick set with pearls, And emerald and amethyst and jasper, And they are burning coals upon my flesh! This serpent on my wrist becomes alive! Away, thou viper! and away, ye garlands, Whose odors bring the swift remembrance back Of the unhallowed revels in these chambers! But yesterday,—and yet it seems to me Something remote, like a pathetic song Sung long ago by minstrels in the street,— But yesterday, as from this tower I gazed, Over the olive and the walnut trees Upon the lake and the white ships, and wondered Whither and whence they steered, and who was in them, A fisher's boat drew near the landing-place Under the oleanders, and the people Came up from it, and passed beneath the tower, Close under me. In front of them, as leader, Walked one of royal aspect, clothed in white, Who lifted up his eyes, and looked at me, And all at once the air seemed filled and living With a mysterious power, that streamed from him, And overflowed me with an atmosphere Of light and love. As one entranced I stood, And when I woke again, lo! he was gone; So that I said: Perhaps it is a dream. But from that very hour the seven demons That had their habitation in this body Which men call beautiful, departed from me!

This morning, when the first gleam of the dawn Made Lebanon a glory in the air, And all below was darkness, I beheld An angel, or a spirit glorified, With wind-tossed garments walking on the lake. The face I could not see, but I distinguished The attitude and gesture, and I knew 'T was he that healed me. And the gusty wind Brought to mine ears a voice, which seemed to say: Be of good cheer! 'T is I! Be not afraid! And from the darkness, scarcely heard, the answer: If it be thou, bid me come unto thee Upon the water! And the voice said: Come! And then I heard a cry of fear: Lord, save me! As of a drowning man. And then the voice: Why didst thou doubt, O thou of little faith! At this all vanished, and the wind was hushed, And the great sun came up above the hills, And the swift-flying vapors hid themselves In caverns among the rocks! Oh, I must find him And follow him, and be with him forever!

Thou box of alabaster, in whose walls The souls of flowers lie pent, the precious balm And spikenard of Arabian farms, the spirits Of aromatic herbs, ethereal natures Nursed by the sun and dew, not all unworthy To bathe his consecrated feet, whose step Makes every threshold holy that he crosses; Let us go forth upon our pilgrimage, Thou and I only! Let us search for him Until we find him, and pour out our souls Before his feet, till all that's left of us Shall be the broken caskets that once held us!

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X
THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE PHARISEE

A GUEST at table. Are ye deceived? Have any of the Rulers Believed on him? or do they know indeed This man to be the very Christ? Howbeit We know whence this man is, but when the Christ Shall come, none knoweth whence he is.

CHRISTUS. Whereunto shall I liken, then, the men Of this generation? and what are they like? They are like children sitting in the markets, And calling unto one another, saying: We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced We have mourned unto you, and ye have not wept! This say I unto you, for John the Baptist Came neither eating bread nor drinking wine Ye say he hath a devil. The Son of Man Eating and drinking cometh, and ye say: Behold a gluttonous man, and a wine-bibber; Behold a friend of publicans and sinners!

A GUEST aside to SIMON. Who is that woman yonder, gliding in So silently behind him?

SIMON.
It is Mary,
Who dwelleth in the Tower of Magdala.

THE GUEST. See, how she kneels there weeping, and her tears Fall on his feet; and her long, golden hair Waves to and fro and wipes them dry again. And now she kisses them, and from a box Of alabaster is anointing them With precious ointment, filling all the house With its sweet odor!

SIMON, aside,
Oh, this man, forsooth,
Were he indeed a Prophet, would have known
Who and what manner of woman this may be
That toucheth him! would know she is a sinner!

CHRISTUS. Simon, somewhat have I to say to thee.

SIMON. Master, say on.

CHRISTUS.
A certain creditor
Had once two debtors; and the one of them
Owed him five hundred pence; the other, fifty.
They having naught to pay withal, he frankly
Forgave them both. Now tell me which of them
Will love him most?

SIMON.
He, I suppose to whom
He most forgave.

CHRISTUS.
Yea, thou hast rightly judged.
Seest thou this woman? When thine house I entered,
Thou gavest me no water for my feet,
But she hath washed them with her tears, and wiped them
With her own hair. Thou gavest me no kiss;
This woman hath not ceased, since I came in,
To kiss my feet. My head with oil didst thou
Anoint not; but this woman hath anointed
My feet with ointment. Hence I say to thee,
Her sins, which have been many, are forgiven,
For she loved much.

THE GUESTS.
Oh, who, then, is this man
That pardoneth also sins without atonement?

CHRISTUS. Woman, thy faith hath saved thee! Go in peace!

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THE SECOND PASSOVER.

I
BEFORE THE GATES OF MACHAERUS

MANAHEM. Welcome, O wilderness, and welcome, night And solitude, and ye swift-flying stars That drift with golden sands the barren heavens, Welcome once more! The Angels of the Wind Hasten across the desert to receive me; And sweeter than men's voices are to me The voices of these solitudes; the sound Of unseen rivulets, and the far-off cry Of bitterns in the reeds of water-pools. And lo! above me, like the Prophet's arrow Shot from the eastern window, high in air The clamorous cranes go singing through the night. O ye mysterious pilgrims of the air, Would I had wings that I might follow you!

I look forth from these mountains, and behold The omnipotent and omnipresent night, Mysterious as the future and the fate That hangs o'er all men's lives! I see beneath me The desert stretching to the Dead Sea shore, And westward, faint and far away, the glimmer Of torches on Mount Olivet, announcing The rising of the Moon of Passover. Like a great cross it seems, on which suspended, With head bowed down in agony, I see A human figure! Hide, O merciful heaven, The awful apparition from my sight!

And thou, Machaerus, lifting high and black Thy dreadful walls against the rising moon, Haunted by demons and by apparitions, Lilith, and Jezerhara, and Bedargon, How grim thou showest in the uncertain light, A palace and a prison, where King Herod Feasts with Herodias, while the Baptist John Fasts, and consumes his unavailing life! And in thy court-yard grows the untithed rue, Huge as the olives of Gethsemane, And ancient as the terebinth of Hebron, Coeval with the world. Would that its leaves Medicinal could purge thee of the demons That now possess thee, and the cunning fox That burrows in thy walls, contriving mischief!

Music is heard from within.

Angels of God! Sandalphon, thou that weavest The prayers of men into immortal garlands, And thou, Metatron, who dost gather up Their songs, and bear them to the gates of heaven, Now gather up together in your hands The prayers that fill this prison, and the songs That echo from the ceiling of this palace, And lay them side by side before God's feet!

He enters the castle.

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II
HEROD'S BANQUET-HALL

MANAHEM. Thou hast sent for me, O King, and I am here.

HEROD. Who art thou?

MANAHEM.
Manahem, the Essenian.

HEROD. I recognize thy features, but what mean These torn and faded garments? On thy road Have demons crowded thee, and rubbed against thee, And given thee weary knees? A cup of wine!

MANAHEM. The Essenians drink no wine.

HEROD.
What wilt thou, then?

MANAHEM. Nothing.

HEROD.
Not even a cup of water?

MANAHEM.
Nothing.
Why hast thou sent for me?

HEROD.
Dost thou remember
One day when I, a schoolboy in the streets
Of the great city, met thee on my way
To school, and thou didst say to me: Hereafter
Thou shalt be king?

MANAHEM.
Yea, I remember it.

HEROD. Thinking thou didst not know me, I replied: I am of humble birth; whereat thou, smiling, Didst smite me with thy hand, and saidst again: Thou shalt be king; and let the friendly blows That Manahem hath given thee on this day Remind thee of the fickleness of fortune.

MANAHEM. What more?

HEROD.
No more.

MANAHEM.
Yea, for I said to thee:
It shall be well with thee if thou love justice
And clemency towards thy fellow-men.
Hast thou done this, O King?

HEROD.
Go, ask my people.

MANAHEM. And then, foreseeing all thy life, I added: But these thou wilt forget; and at the end Of life the Lord will punish thee.

HEROD.
The end!
When will that come? For this I sent to thee.
How long shall I still reign? Thou dost not answer!
Speak! shall I reign ten years?

MANAHEM.
Thou shalt reign twenty,
Nay, thirty years. I cannot name the end.

HEROD. Thirty? I thank thee, good Essenian! This is my birthday, and a happier one Was never mine. We hold a banquet here. See, yonder are Herodias and her daughter.

MANAHEM, aside. 'T is said that devils sometimes take the shape Of ministering angels, clothed with air. That they may be inhabitants of earth, And lead man to destruction. Such are these.

HEROD. Knowest thou John the Baptist?

MANAHEM.
Yea, I know him;
Who knows him not?

HEROD.
Know, then, this John the Baptist
Said that it was not lawful I should marry
My brother Philip's wife, and John the Baptist
Is here in prison. In my father's time
Matthias Margaloth was put to death
For tearing the golden eagle from its station
Above the Temple Gate,—a slighter crime
Than John is guilty of. These things are warnings
To intermeddlers not to play with eagles,
Living or dead. I think the Essenians
Are wiser, or more wary, are they not?

MANAHEM. The Essenians do not marry.

HEROD.
Thou hast given
My words a meaning foreign to my thought.

MANAHEM. Let me go hence, O King!

HEROD.
Stay yet awhile,
And see the daughter of Herodias dance.
Cleopatra of Jerusalem, my mother,
In her best days, was not more beautiful.

Music. THE DAUGHTER OP HERODIAS dances.

HEROD. Oh, what was Miriam dancing with her timbrel, Compared to this one?

MANAHEM, aside.
O thou Angel of Death,
Dancing at funerals among the women,
When men bear out the dead! The air is hot
And stifles me! Oh for a breath of air!
Bid me depart, O King!

HEROD.
Not yet. Come hither,
Salome, thou enchantress! Ask of me
Whate'er thou wilt; and even unto the half
Of all my kingdom, I will give it thee,
As the Lord liveth!

DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS, kneeling.
Give me here the head
Of John the Baptist on this silver charger!

HEROD. Not that, dear child! I dare not; for the people Regard John as a prophet.

DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.
Thou hast sworn it.

HEROD. For mine oath's sake, then. Send unto the prison; Let him die quickly. Oh, accursed oath!

MANAHEM. Bid me depart, O King!

HEROD.
Good Manahem,
Give me thy hand. I love the Essenians.
He's gone and hears me not! The guests are dumb,
Awaiting the pale face, the silent witness.
The lamps flare; and the curtains of the doorways
Wave to and fro as if a ghost were passing!
Strengthen my heart, red wine of Ascalon!

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III
UNDER THE WALLS OF MACHAERUS

MANAHEM, rushing out. Away from this Palace of sin! The demons, the terrible powers Of the air, that haunt its towers And hide in its water-spouts, Deafen me with the din Of their laughter and their shouts For the crimes that are done within! Sink back into the earth, Or vanish into the air, Thou castle of despair! Let it all be but a dream Of the things of monstrous birth, Of the things that only seem! White Angel of the Moon, Onafiel! be my guide Out of this hateful place Of sin and death, nor hide In you black cloud too soon Thy pale and tranquil face!

A trumpet is blown from the walls.

Hark! hark! It is the breath Of the trump of doom and death, From the battlements overhead Like a burden of sorrow cast On the midnight and the blast, A wailing for the dead, That the gusts drop and uplift! O Herod, thy vengeance is swift! O Herodias, thou hast been The demon, the evil thing, That in place of Esther the Queen, In place of the lawful bride, Hast lain at night by the side Of Ahasuerus the king!

The trumpet again.

The Prophet of God is dead! At a drunken monarch's call, At a dancing-woman's beck, They have severed that stubborn neck And into the banquet-hall Are bearing the ghastly head!

A body is thrown from the tower.

A torch of red Lights the window with its glow; And a white mass as of snow Is hurled into the abyss Of the black precipice, That yawns for it below! O hand of the Most High, O hand of Adonai! Bury it, hide it away From the birds and beasts of prey, And the eyes of the homicide, More pitiless than they, As thou didst bury of yore The body of him that died On the mountain of Peor! Even now I behold a sign, A threatening of wrath divine, A watery, wandering star, Through whose streaming hair, and the white Unfolding garments of light, That trail behind it afar, The constellations shine! And the whiteness and brightness appear Like the Angel bearing the Seer By the hair of his head, in the might And rush of his vehement flight. And I listen until I hear From fathomless depths of the sky The voice of his prophecy Sounding louder and more near!

Malediction! malediction! May the lightnings of heaven fall On palace and prison wall, And their desolation be As the day of fear and affliction, As the day of anguish and ire, With the burning and fuel of fire, In the Valley of the Sea!

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IV
NICODEMUS AT NIGHT

NICODEMUS. The streets are silent. The dark houses seem Like sepulchres, in which the sleepers lie Wrapped in their shrouds, and for the moment dead. The lamps are all extinguished; only one Burns steadily, and from the door its light Lies like a shining gate across the street. He waits for me. Ah, should this be at last The long-expected Christ! I see him there Sitting alone, deep-buried in his thought, As if the weight of all the world were resting Upon him, and thus bowed him down. O Rabbi, We know thou art a Teacher come from God, For no man can perform the miracles Thou dost perform, except the Lord be with him. Thou art a Prophet, sent here to proclaim The Kingdom of the Lord. Behold in me A Ruler of the Jews, who long have waited The coming of that kingdom. Tell me of it.

CHRISTUS. Verily, verily I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot Behold the Kingdom of God!

NICODEMUS.
Be born again?
How can a man be born when he is old?
Say, can he enter for a second time
Into his mother's womb, and so be born?

CHRISTUS. Verily I say unto thee, except A man be born of water and the spirit, He cannot enter into the Kingdom of God. For that which of the flesh is born, is flesh; And that which of the spirit is born, is spirit.

NICODEMUS. We Israelites from the Primeval Man Adam Ahelion derive our bodies; Our souls are breathings of the Holy Ghost. No more than this we know, or need to know.

CHRISTUS. Then marvel not, that I said unto thee Ye must be born again.

NICODEMUS.
The mystery
Of birth and death we cannot comprehend.

CHRISTUS. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and we hear The sound thereof, but know not whence it cometh, Nor whither it goeth. So is every one Born of the spirit!

NICODEMUS, aside.
How can these things be?
He seems to speak of some vague realm of shadows,
Some unsubstantial kingdom of the air!
It is not this the Jews are waiting for,
Nor can this be the Christ, the Son of David,
Who shall deliver us!

CHRISTUS.
Art thou a master
Of Israel, and knowest not these things?
We speak that we do know, and testify
That we have seen, and ye will not receive
Our witness. If I tell you earthly things,
And ye believe not, how shall ye believe,
If I should tell you of things heavenly?
And no man hath ascended up to heaven,
But he alone that first came down from heaven,
Even the Son of Man which is in heaven!

NICODEMUS, aside. This is a dreamer of dreams; a visionary, Whose brain is overtasked, until he deems The unseen world to be a thing substantial, And this we live in, an unreal vision! And yet his presence fascinates and fills me With wonder, and I feel myself exalted Into a higher region, and become Myself in part a dreamer of his dreams, A seer of his visions!

CHRISTUS.
And as Moses
Uplifted the serpent in the wilderness,
So must the Son of Man be lifted up;
That whosoever shall believe in Him
Shall perish not, but have eternal life.
He that believes in Him is not condemned;
He that believes not, is condemned already.

NICODEMUS, aside. He speaketh like a Prophet of the Lord!

CHRISTUS. This is the condemnation; that the light Is come into the world, and men loved darkness Rather than light, because their deeds are evil!

NICODEMUS, aside. Of me he speaketh! He reproveth me, Because I come by night to question him!

CHRISTUS. For every one that doeth evil deeds Hateth the light, nor cometh to the light Lest he should be reproved.

NICODEMUS, aside.
Alas, how truly
He readeth what is passing in my heart!

CHRISTUS. But he that doeth truth comes to the light, So that his deeds may be made manifest, That they are wrought in God.

NICODEMUS.
Alas! alas!

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V
BLIND BARTIMEUS

BARTIMEUS. Be not impatient, Chilion; it is pleasant To sit here in the shadow of the walls Under the palms, and hear the hum of bees, And rumor of voices passing to and fro, And drowsy bells of caravans on their way To Sidon or Damascus. This is still The City of Palms, and yet the walls thou seest Are not the old walls, not the walls where Rahab Hid the two spies, and let them down by cords Out of the window, when the gates were shut, And it was dark. Those walls were overthrown When Joshua's army shouted, and the priests Blew with their seven trumpets.

CHILION.
When was that?

BARTIMEUS. O my sweet rose of Jericho, I know not Hundreds of years ago. And over there Beyond the river, the great prophet Elijah Was taken by a whirlwind up to heaven In chariot of fire, with fiery horses. That is the plain of Moab; and beyond it Rise the blue summits of Mount Abarim, Nebo and Pisgah and Peor, where Moses Died, whom the Lord knew face to face? and whom He buried in a valley, and no man Knows of his sepulchre unto this day.

CHILION. Would thou couldst see these places, as I see them.

BARTIMEUS. I have not seen a glimmer of the light Since thou wast born. I never saw thy face, And yet I seem to see it; and one day Perhaps shall see it; for there is a Prophet In Galilee, the Messiah, the Son of David, Who heals the blind, if I could only find him. I hear the sound of many feet approaching, And voices, like the murmur of a crowd! What seest thou?

CHILION.
A young man clad in white
Is coming through the gateway, and a crowd
Of people follow.

BARTIMEUS.
Can it be the Prophet!
O neighbors, tell me who it is that passes?

ONE OF THE CROWD. Jesus of Nazareth.

BARTIMEUS, crying.
O Son of David!
Have mercy on me!

MANY OP THE CROWD.
Peace. Blind Bartimeus!
Do not disturb the Master.

BARTIMEUS, crying more vehemently.
Son of David,
Have mercy on me!

ONE OF THE CROWD.
See, the Master stops.
Be of good comfort; rise, He calleth thee!

BARTIMEUS, casting away his cloak. Chilion! good neighbors! lead me on.

CHRISTUS.
What wilt thou
That I should do to thee?

BARTIMEUS.
Good Lord! my sight—
That I receive my sight!

CHRISTUS.
Receive thy sight!
Thy faith hath made thee whole!

THE CROWD.
He sees again!

CHRISTUS passes on, The crowd gathers round BARTIMEUS.

BARTIMEUS. I see again; but sight bewilders me! Like a remembered dream, familiar things Come back to me. I see the tender sky Above me, see the trees, the city walls, And the old gateway, through whose echoing arch I groped so many years; and you, my neighbors; But know you by your friendly voices only. How beautiful the world is! and how wide! Oh, I am miles away, if I but look! Where art thou, Chilion?

CHILION.
Father, I am here.

BARTIMEUS. Oh let me gaze upon thy face, dear child! For I have only seen thee with my hands! How beautiful thou art! I should have known thee; Thou hast her eyes whom we shall see hereafter! O God of Abraham! Elion! Adonai! Who art thyself a Father, pardon me If for a moment I have thee postponed To the affections and the thoughts of earth, Thee, and the adoration that I owe thee, When by thy power alone these darkened eyes Have been unsealed again to see thy light!

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VI
JACOB'S WELL

A SAMARITAN WOMAN. The sun is hot; and the dry east-wind blowing Fills all the air with dust. The birds are silent; Even the little fieldfares in the corn No longer twitter; only the grasshoppers Sing their incessant song of sun and summer. I wonder who those strangers were I met Going into the city? Galileans They seemed to me in speaking, when they asked The short way to the market-place. Perhaps They are fishermen from the lake; or travellers, Looking to find the inn. And here is some one Sitting beside the well; another stranger; A Galilean also by his looks. What can so many Jews be doing here Together in Samaria? Are they going Up to Jerusalem to the Passover? Our Passover is better here at Sychem, For here is Ebal; here is Gerizim, The mountain where our father Abraham Went up to offer Isaac; here the tomb Of Joseph,—for they brought his bones Egypt And buried them in this land, and it is holy.

CHRISTUS. Give me to drink.

SAMARITAN WOMAN.
How can it be that thou,
Being a Jew, askest to drink of me
Which am a woman of Samaria?
You Jews despise us; have no dealings with us;
Make us a byword; call us in derision
The silly folk of Sychar. Sir, how is it
Thou askest drink of me?

CHRISTUS.
If thou hadst known
The gift of God, and who it is that sayeth
Give me to drink, thou wouldst have asked of Him;
He would have given thee the living water.

SAMARITAN WOMAN. Sir, thou hast naught to draw with, and the well Is deep! Whence hast thou living water? Say, art thou greater than our father Jacob, Which gave this well to us, and drank thereof Himself, and all his children and his cattle?

CHRISTUS. Ah, whosoever drinketh of this water Shall thirst again; but whosoever drinketh The water I shall give him shall not thirst Forevermore, for it shall be within him A well of living water, springing up Into life everlasting.

SAMARITAN WOMAN.
Every day
I must go to and fro, in heat and cold,
And I am weary. Give me of this water,
That I may thirst not, nor come here to draw.

CHRISTUS. Go call thy husband, woman, and come hither.

SAMARITAN WOMAN. I have no husband, Sir.

CHRISTUS.
Thou hast well said
I have no husband. Thou hast had five husbands;
And he whom now thou hast is not thy husband.

SAMARITAN WOMAN. Surely thou art a Prophet, for thou readest The hidden things of life! Our fathers worshipped Upon this mountain Gerizim; and ye say The only place in which men ought to worship Is at Jerusalem.

CHRISTUS.
Believe me, woman,
The hour is coming, when ye neither shall
Upon this mount, nor at Jerusalem,
Worship the Father; for the hour is coming,
And is now come, when the true worshippers
Shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth!
The Father seeketh such to worship Him.
God is a spirit; and they that worship Him
Must worship Him in spirit and in truth.

SAMARITAN WOMAN. Master, I know that the Messiah cometh, Which is called Christ; and he will tell us all things.

CHRISTUS. I that speak unto thee am He!

THE DISCIPLES, returning.
Behold,
The Master sitting by the well, and talking
With a Samaritan woman! With a woman
Of Sychar, the silly people, always boasting
Of their Mount Ebal, and Mount Gerizim,
Their Everlasting Mountain, which they think
Higher and holier than our Mount Moriah!
Why, once upon the Feast of the New Moon,
When our great Sanhedrim of Jerusalem
Had all its watch-fires kindled on the hills
To warn the distant villages, these people
Lighted up others to mislead the Jews,
And make a mockery of their festival!
See, she has left the Master; and is running
Back to the city!

SAMARITAN WOMAN.
Oh, come see a man
Who hath told me all things that I ever did!
Say, is not this the Christ?

THE DISCIPLES.
Lo, Master, here
Is food, that we have brought thee from the city.
We pray thee eat it.

CHRISTUS.
I have food to eat
Ye know not of.

THE DISCIPLES, to each other.
Hath any man been here,
And brought Him aught to eat, while we were gone?

CHRISTUS. The food I speak of is to do the will Of Him that sent me, and to finish his work. Do ye not say, Lo! there are yet four months And cometh, harvest? I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look upon the fields, For they are white already unto harvest!

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VII
THE COASTS OF CAESAREA PHILIPPI

CHRISTUS, going up the mountain. Who do the people say I am?

JOHN.
Some say
That thou art John the Baptist; some, Elias;
And others Jeremiah.

JAMES.
Or that one
Of the old Prophets is risen again.

CHRISTUS. But who say ye I am?

PETER.
Thou art the Christ?
Thou art the Son of God!

CHRISTUS.
Blessed art thou,
Simon Barjona! Flesh and blood hath not
Revealed it unto thee, but even my Father,
Which is in Heaven. And I say unto thee
That thou art Peter; and upon this rock
I build my Church, and all the gates of Hell
Shall not prevail against it. But take heed
Ye tell no man that I am the Christ.
For I must go up to Jerusalem,
And suffer many things, and be rejected
Of the Chief Priests, and of the Scribes and Elders,
And must be crucified, and the third day
Shall rise again!

PETER.
Be it far from thee, Lord!
This shall not be!

CHRISTUS.
Get thee behind me, Satan!
Thou savorest not the things that be of God,
But those that be of men! If any will
Come after me, let him deny himself,
And daily take his cross, and follow me.
For whosoever will save his life shall lose it,
And whosoever will lose his life shall find it.
For wherein shall a man be profited
If he shall gain the whole world, and shall lose
Himself or be a castaway?

JAMES, after a long pause.
Why doth
The Master lead us up into this mountain?

PETER. He goeth up to pray.

JOHN.
See where He standeth
Above us on the summit of the hill!
His face shines as the sun! and all his raiment
Exceeding white as snow, so as no fuller
On earth can white them! He is not alone;
There are two with him there; two men of eld,
Their white beards blowing on the mountain air,
Are talking with him.

JAMES.
I am sore afraid!

PETER. Who and whence are they?

JOHN.
Moses and Elias!

PETER. O Master! it is good for us to be here! If thou wilt, let us make three tabernacles; For thee one, and for Moses and Elias!

JOHN. Behold a bright cloud sailing in the sun! It overshadows us. A golden mist Now hides them from us, and envelops us And all the mountains in a luminous shadow! I see no more. The nearest rocks are hidden.

VOICE from the cloud. Lo! this is my beloved Son! Hear Him!

PETER. It is the voice of God. He speaketh to us, As from the burning bush He spake to Moses!

JOHN. The cloud-wreaths roll away. The veil is lifted; We see again. Behold! He is alone. It was a vision that our eyes beheld, And it hath vanished into the unseen.

CHRISTUS, coming down from the mountain. I charge ye, tell the vision unto no one, Till the Son of Man is risen from the dead!

PETER, aside. Again He speaks of it! What can it mean, This rising from the dead?

JAMES.
Why say the Scribe!
Elias must first come?

CHRISTUS.
He cometh first,
Restoring all things. But I say to you,
That this Elias is already come.
They knew him not, but have done unto him
Whate'er they listed, as is written of him.

PETER, aside. It is of John the Baptist He is speaking.

JAMES. As we descend, see, at the mountain's foot, A crowd of people; coming, going, thronging Round the disciples, that we left behind us, Seeming impatient, that we stay so long.

PETER. It is some blind man, or some paralytic That waits the Master's coming to be healed.

JAMES. I see a boy, who struggles and demeans him As if an unclean spirit tormented him!

A CERTAIN MAN, running forward. Lord! I beseech thee, look upon my son. He is mine only child; a lunatic, And sorely vexed; for oftentimes he falleth Into the fire and oft into the water. Wherever the dumb spirit taketh him He teareth him. He gnasheth with his teeth, And pines away. I spake to thy disciples That they should cast him out, and they could not.

CHRISTUS. O faithless generation and perverse! How long shall I be with you, and suffer you? Bring thy son hither.

BYSTANDERS.
How the unclean spirit
Seizes the boy, and tortures him with pain!
He falleth to the ground and wallows, foaming!
He cannot live.

CHRISTUS.
How long is it ago
Since this came unto him?

THE FATHER.
Even of a child.
Oh, have compassion on us, Lord, and help us,
If thou canst help us.

CHRISTUS.
If thou canst believe.
For unto him that verily believeth,
All things are possible.

THE FATHER.
Lord, I believe!
Help thou mine unbelief!

CHRISTUS.
Dumb and deaf spirit,
Come out of him, I charge thee, and no more
Enter thou into him!

The boy utters a loud cry of pain, and then lies still.

BYSTANDERS.
How motionless
He lieth there. No life is left in him.
His eyes are like a blind man's, that see not.
The boy is dead!

OTHERS.
Behold! the Master stoops,
And takes him by the hand, and lifts him up.
He is not dead.

DISCIPLES.
But one word from those lips,
But one touch of that hand, and he is healed!
Ah, why could we not do it?

THE FATHER.
My poor child!
Now thou art mine again. The unclean spirit
Shall never more torment thee! Look at me!
Speak unto me! Say that thou knowest me!

DISCIPLES to CHRISTUS departing. Good Master, tell us, for what reason was it We could not cast him out?

CHRISTUS.
Because of your unbelief!

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VIII
THE YOUNG RULER

CHRISTUS. Two men went up into the temple to pray. The one was a self-righteous Pharisee, The other a Publican. And the Pharisee Stood and prayed thus within himself: O God, I thank thee I am not as other men, Extortioners, unjust, adulterers, Or even as this Publican. I fast Twice in the week, and also I give tithes Of all that I possess! The Publican, Standing afar off, would not lift so much Even as his eyes to heaven, but smote his breast, Saying: God be merciful to me a sinner! I tell you that this man went to his house More justified than the other. Every one That doth exalt himself shall be abased, And he that humbleth himself shall be exalted!

CHILDREN, among themselves. Let us go nearer! He is telling stories! Let us go listen to them.

AN OLD JEW.
Children, children!
What are ye doing here? Why do ye crowd us?
It was such little vagabonds as you
That followed Elisha, mucking him and crying:
Go up, thou bald-head! But the bears—the bears
Came out of the wood, and tare them!

A MOTHER.
Speak not thus!
We brought them here, that He might lay his hands
On them, and bless them.

CHRISTUS.
Suffer little children
To come unto me, and forbid them not;
Of such is the kingdom of heaven; and their angels
Look always on my Father's face.

Takes them in his arms and blesses them.

A YOUNG RULER, running.
Good Master!
What good thing shall I do, that I may have
Eternal life?

CHRISTUS.
Why callest thou me good?
There is none good but one, and that is God.
If thou wilt enter into life eternal,
Keep the commandments.

YOUNG RULER.
Which of them?

CHRISTUS.
Thou shalt not
Commit adultery; thou shalt not kill;
Thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness;
Honor thy father and thy mother; and love
Thy neighbor as thyself.

YOUNG RULER.
From my youth up
All these things have I kept. What lack I yet?

JOHN. With what divine compassion in his eyes The Master looks upon this eager youth, As if he loved him!

CHRISTUS.
Wouldst thou perfect be,
Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor,
And come, take up thy cross, and follow me,
And thou shalt have thy treasure in the heavens.

JOHN. Behold, how sorrowful he turns away!

CHRISTUS. Children! how hard it is for them that trust In riches to enter into the kingdom of God! 'T is easier for a camel to go through A needle's eye, than for the rich to enter The kingdom of God!

JOHN.
Ah, who then can be saved?

CHRISTUS. With men this is indeed impossible, But unto God all things are possible!

PETER. Behold, we have left all, and followed thee. What shall we have therefor?

CHRISTUS.
Eternal life.

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IX
AT BETHANY

MARTHA busy about household affairs. MARY sitting at the feet of CHRISTUS.

MARTHA. She sitteth idly at the Master's feet. And troubles not herself with household cares. 'T is the old story. When a guest arrives She gives up all to be with him; while I Must be the drudge, make ready the guest-chamber, Prepare the food, set everything in order, And see that naught is wanting in the house. She shows her love by words, and I by works.

MARY. O Master! when thou comest, it is always A Sabbath in the house. I cannot work; I must sit at thy feet; must see thee, hear thee! I have a feeble, wayward, doubting heart, Incapable of endurance or great thoughts, Striving for something that it cannot reach, Baffled and disappointed, wounded, hungry; And only when I hear thee am I happy, And only when I see thee am at peace! Stronger than I, and wiser, and far better In every manner, is my sister Martha. Thou seest how well she orders everything To make thee welcome; how she comes and goes, Careful and cumbered ever with much serving, While I but welcome thee with foolish words! Whene'er thou speakest to me, I am happy; When thou art silent, I am satisfied. Thy presence is enough. I ask no more. Only to be with thee, only to see thee, Sufficeth me. My heart is then at rest. I wonder I am worthy of so much.

MARTHA. Lord, dost thou care not that my sister Mary Hath left me thus to wait on thee alone? I pray thee, bid her help me.

CHRISTUS.
Martha, Martha,
Careful and troubled about many things
Art thou, and yet one thing alone is needful!
Thy sister Mary hath chosen that good part,
Which never shall be taken away from her!

---

X
BORN BLIND

A JEW. Who is this beggar blinking in the sun? Is it not he who used to sit and beg By the Gate Beautiful?

ANOTHER.
It is the same.

A THIRD. It is not he, but like him, for that beggar Was blind from birth. It cannot be the same.

THE BEGGAR. Yea, I am he.

A JEW.
How have thine eyes been opened?

THE BEGGAR. A man that is called Jesus made a clay And put it on mine eyes, and said to me: Go to Siloam's Pool and wash thyself. I went and washed, and I received my sight.

A JEW. Where is he?

THE BEGGAR.
I know not.

PHARISEES.
What is this crowd
Gathered about a beggar? What has happened?

A JEW. Here is a man who hath been blind from birth, And now he sees. He says a man called Jesus Hath healed him.

PHARISEES.
As God liveth, the Nazarene!
How was this done?

THE BEGGAR.
Rabboni, he put clay
Upon mine eyes; I washed, and now I see.

PHARISEES. When did he this?

THE BEGGAR.
Rabboni, yesterday.

PHARISEES. The Sabbath day. This man is not of God, Because he keepeth not the Sabbath day!

A JEW. How can a man that is a sinner do Such miracles?

PHARISEES.
What dost thou say of him
That hath restored thy sight?

THE BEGGAR.
He is a Prophet.

A JEW. This is a wonderful story, but not true, A beggar's fiction. He was not born blind, And never has been blind!

OTHERS.
Here are his parents.
Ask them.

PHARISEES.
Is this your son?

THE PARENTS.
Rabboni, yea;
We know this is our son.

PHARISEES.
Was he born blind?

THE PARENTS. He was born blind.

PHARISEES.
Then how doth he now see?

THE PARENTS, aside.
What answer shall we make? If we confess
It was the Christ, we shall be driven forth
Out of the Synagogue!
We know, Rabboni,
This is our son, and that he was born blind;
But by what means he seeth, we know not,
Or who his eyes hath opened, we know not.
He is of age; ask him; we cannot say;
He shall speak for himself.

PHARISEES.
Give God the praise!
We know the man that healed thee is a sinner!

THE BEGGAR. Whether He be a sinner, I know not; One thing I know; that whereas I was blind, I now do see.

PHARISEES.
How opened he thine eyes?
What did he do?

THE BEGGAR.
I have already told you.
Ye did not hear: why would ye hear again?
Will ye be his disciples?

PHARISEES.
God of Moses!
Are we demoniacs, are we halt or blind,
Or palsy-stricken, or lepers, or the like,
That we should join the Synagogue of Satan,
And follow jugglers? Thou art his disciple,
But we are disciples of Moses; and we know
That God spake unto Moses; but this fellow,
We know not whence he is!

THE BEGGAR.
Why, herein is
A marvellous thing! Ye know not whence he is,
Yet he hath opened mine eyes! We know that God
Heareth not sinners; but if any man
Doeth God's will, and is his worshipper,
Him doth he hear. Oh, since the world began
It was not heard that any man hath opened
The eyes of one that was born blind. If He
Were not of God, surely he could do nothing!

PHARISEES. Thou, who wast altogether born in sins And in iniquities, dost thou teach us? Away with thee out of the holy places, Thou reprobate, thou beggar, thou blasphemer!

THE BEGGAR is cast out.

---

XI
SIMON MAGUS AND HELEN OF TYRE

On the house-top at Endor. Night. A lighted lantern on a table.

SIMON. Swift are the blessed Immortals to the mortal That perseveres! So doth it stand recorded In the divine Chaldaean Oracles Of Zoroaster, once Ezekiel's slave, Who in his native East betook himself To lonely meditation, and the writing On the dried skins of oxen the Twelve Books Of the Avesta and the Oracles! Therefore I persevere; and I have brought thee From the great city of Tyre, where men deride The things they comprehend not, to this plain Of Esdraelon, in the Hebrew tongue Called Armageddon, and this town of Endor, Where men believe; where all the air is full Of marvellous traditions, and the Enchantress That summoned up the ghost of Samuel Is still remembered. Thou hast seen the land; Is it not fair to look on?

HELEN.
It is fair,
Yet not so fair as Tyre.

SIMON.
Is not Mount Tabor
As beautiful as Carmel by the Sea?

HELEN. It is too silent and too solitary; I miss the tumult of the street; the sounds Of traffic, and the going to and fro Of people in gay attire, with cloaks of purple, And gold and silver jewelry!

SIMON.
Inventions
Of Abriman, the spirit of the dark,
The Evil Spirit!

HELEN.
I regret the gossip
Of friends and neighbors at the open door
On summer nights.

SIMON.
An idle waste of time.

HELEN. The singing and the dancing, the delight Of music and of motion. Woe is me, To give up all these pleasures, and to lead The life we lead!

SIMON.
Thou canst not raise thyself
Up to the level of my higher thought,
And though possessing thee, I still remain
Apart from thee, and with thee, am alone
In my high dreams.

HELEN.
Happier was I in Tyre.
Oh, I remember how the gallant ships
Came sailing in, with ivory, gold, and silver,
And apes and peacocks; and the singing sailors,
And the gay captains with their silken dresses,
Smelling of aloes, myrrh, and cinnamon!

SIMON. But the dishonor, Helen! Let the ships Of Tarshish howl for that!

HELEN.
And what dishonor?
Remember Rahab, and how she became
The ancestress of the great Psalmist David;
And wherefore should not I, Helen of Tyre,
Attain like honor?

SIMON.
Thou art Helen of Tyre,
And hast been Helen of Troy, and hast been Rahab,
The Queen of Sheha, and Semiramis,
And Sara of seven husbands, and Jezebel,
And other women of the like allurements;
And now thou art Minerva, the first Aeon,
The Mother of Angels!

HELEN.
And the concubine
Of Simon the Magician! Is it honor
For one who has been all these noble dames,
To tramp about the dirty villages
And cities of Samaria with a juggler?
A charmer of serpents?

SIMON.
He who knows himself
Knows all things in himself. I have charmed thee,
Thou beautiful asp: yet am I no magician,
I am the Power of God, and the Beauty of God!
I am the Paraclete, the Comforter!

HELEN. Illusions! Thou deceiver, self-deceived! Thou dost usurp the titles of another; Thou art not what thou sayest.

SIMON.
Am I not?
Then feel my power.

HELEN. Would I had ne'er left Tyre!

He looks at her, and she sinks into a deep sleep.

SIMON. Go, see it in thy dreams, fair unbeliever! And leave me unto mine, if they be dreams, That take such shapes before me, that I see them; These effable and ineffable impressions Of the mysterious world, that come to me From the elements of Fire and Earth and Water, And the all-nourishing Ether! It is written, Look not on Nature, for her name is fatal! Yet there are Principles, that make apparent The images of unapparent things, And the impression of vague characters And visions most divine appear in ether. So speak the Oracles; then wherefore fatal? I take this orange-bough, with its five leaves, Each equidistant on the upright stem; And I project them on a plane below, In the circumference of a circle drawn About a centre where the stem is planted, And each still equidistant from the other, As if a thread of gossamer were drawn Down from each leaf, and fastened with a pin. Now if from these five points a line be traced To each alternate point, we shall obtain The Pentagram, or Solomon's Pentangle, A charm against all witchcraft, and a sign, Which on the banner of Antiochus Drove back the fierce barbarians of the North, Demons esteemed, and gave the Syrian King The sacred name of Soter, or of Savior. Thus Nature works mysteriously with man; And from the Eternal One, as from a centre, All things proceed, in fire, air, earth, and water, And all are subject to one law, which, broken Even in a single point, is broken in all; Demons rush in, and chaos comes again. By this will I compel the stubborn spirits, That guard the treasures, hid in caverns deep On Gerizim, by Uzzi the High-Priest, The ark and holy vessels, to reveal Their secret unto me, and to restore These precious things to the Samaritans. A mist is rising from the plain below me, And as I look, the vapors shape themselves Into strange figures, as if unawares My lips had breathed the Tetragrammaton, And from their graves, o'er all the battlefields Of Armageddon, the long-buried captains Had started, with their thousands, and ten thousands, And rushed together to renew their wars, Powerless, and weaponless, and without a sound! Wake, Helen, from thy sleep! The air grows cold; Let us go down.

HELEN, awaking.
Oh, would I were at home!

SIMON. Thou sayest that I usurp another's titles. In youth I saw the Wise Men of the East, Magalath and Pangalath and Saracen, Who followed the bright star, but home returned For fear of Herod by another way. O shining worlds above me! in what deep Recesses of your realms of mystery Lies hidden now that star? and where are they That brought the gifts of frankincense and myrrh?

HELEN. The Nazarene still liveth.

SIMON.
We have heard
His name in many towns, but have not seen Him.
He flits before us; tarries not; is gone
When we approach, like something unsubstantial,
Made of the air, and fading into air.
He is at Nazareth, He is at Nain,
Or at the Lovely Village on the Lake,
Or sailing on its waters.

HELEN.
So say those
Who do not wish to find Him.

SIMON.
Can this be
The King of Israel, whom the Wise Men worshipped?
Or does He fear to meet me? It would seem so.
We should soon learn which of us twain usurps
The titles of the other, as thou sayest.

They go down.

---

THE THIRD PASSOVER

I
THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM

THE SYRO-PHOENICIAN WOMAN and her DAUGHTER on the house-top at Jerusalem.

THE DAUGHTER, singing.
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath
Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!”
And calls, in tones of agony,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!
The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, “He calleth thee!”
Θάρσει ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ δε!
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”
And he replies, “O give me light!
Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.”
And Jesus answers, Ὕπαγε
Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!
Θάρσει ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε!
Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!

THE MOTHER. Thy faith hath saved thee! Ah, how true that is! For I had faith; and when the Master came Into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, fleeing From those who sought to slay him, I went forth And cried unto Him, saying: Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou Son of David! for my daughter Is grievously tormented with a devil. But he passed on, and answered not a word. And his disciples said, beseeching Him: Send her away! She crieth after us! And then the Master answered them and said: I am not sent but unto the lost sheep Of the House of Israel! Then I worshipped Him, Saying: Lord help me! And He answered me, It is not meet to take the children's bread And cast it unto dogs! Truth, Lord, I said; And yet the dogs may eat the crumbs which fall From off their master's table; and he turned, And answered me; and said to me: O woman, Great is thy faith; then be it unto thee Even as thou wilt. And from that very hour Thou wast made whole, my darling! my delight!

THE DAUGHTER. There came upon my dark and troubled mind A calm, as when the tumult of the City Suddenly ceases, and I lie and hear The silver trumpets of the Temple blowing Their welcome to the Sabbath. Still I wonder, That one who was so far away from me And could not see me, by his thought alone Had power to heal me. Oh that I could see Him!

THE MOTHER. Perhaps thou wilt; for I have brought thee here To keep the holy Passover, and lay Thine offering of thanksgiving on the altar. Thou mayst both see and hear Him. Hark!

VOICES afar off.
Hosanna!

THE DAUGHTER. A crowd comes pouring through the city gate! O mother, look!

VOICES in the street.
Hosanna to the Son
Of David!

THE DAUGHTER.
A great multitude of people
Fills all the street; and riding on an ass
Comes one of noble aspect, like a king!
The people spread their garments in the way,
And scatter branches of the palm-trees!

VOICES.
Blessed
Is he that cometh in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest!

OTHER VOICES.
Who is this?

VOICES. Jesus of Nazareth!

THE DAUGHTER.
Mother, it is he!

VOICES. He hath called Lazarus of Bethany Out of his grave, and raised him from the dead! Hosanna in the highest!

PHARISEES.
Ye perceive
That nothing we prevail. Behold, the world
Is all gone after him!

THE DAUGHTER.
What majesty,
What power is in that care-worn countenance!
What sweetness, what compassion! I no longer
Wonder that he hath healed me!

VOICES.
Peace in heaven,
And glory in the highest!

PHARISEES.
Rabbi! Rabbi!
Rebuke thy followers!

CHRISTUS.
Should they hold their peace
The very stones beneath us would cry out!

THE DAUGHTER. All hath passed by me like a dream of wonder! But I have seen Him, and have heard his voice, And I am satisfied! I ask no more!

---

II
SOLOMON'S PORCH

GAMALIEL THE SCRIBE. When Rabban Simeon—upon whom be peace!— Taught in these Schools, he boasted that his pen Had written no word that he could call his own, But wholly and always had been consecrated To the transcribing of the Law and Prophets. He used to say, and never tired of saying, The world itself was built upon the Law. And ancient Hillel said, that whosoever Gains a good name gains something for himself, But he who gains a knowledge of the Law Gains everlasting life. And they spake truly. Great is the Written Law; but greater still The Unwritten, the Traditions of the Elders, The lovely words of Levites, spoken first To Moses on the Mount, and handed down From mouth to mouth, in one unbroken sound And sequence of divine authority, The voice of God resounding through the ages.

The Written Law is water; the Unwritten Is precious wine; the Written Law is salt, The Unwritten costly spice; the Written Law Is but the body; the Unwritten, the soul That quickens it and makes it breathe and live. I can remember, many years ago, A little bright-eyed school-boy, a mere stripling, Son of a Galilean carpenter, From Nazareth, I think, who came one day And sat here in the Temple with the Scribes, Hearing us speak, and asking many questions, And we were all astonished at his quickness. And when his mother came, and said: Behold Thy father and I have sought thee, sorrowing; He looked as one astonished, and made answer, How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not That I must be about my Father's business? Often since then I see him here among us, Or dream I see him, with his upraised face Intent and eager, and I often wonder Unto what manner of manhood he hath grown! Perhaps a poor mechanic like his father, Lost in his little Galilean village And toiling at his craft, to die unknown And he no more remembered among men.

CHRISTUS, in the outer court. The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses' seat; All, therefore, whatsoever they command you, Observe and do; but follow not their works They say and do not. They bind heavy burdens And very grievous to be borne, and lay them Upon men's shoulders, but they move them not With so much as a finger!

GAMALIEL, looking forth.
Who is this
Exhorting in the outer courts so loudly?

CHRISTUS. Their works they do for to be seen of men. They make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge The borders of their garments, and they love The uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats In Synagogues, and greetings in the markets, And to be called of all men Rabbi, Rabbi!

GAMALIEL. It is that loud and turbulent Galilean, That came here at the Feast of Dedication, And stirred the people up to break the Law!

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom Of heaven, and neither go ye in yourselves Nor suffer them that are entering to go in!

GAMALIEL. How eagerly the people throng and listen, As if his ribald words were words of wisdom!

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! for ye devour the houses Of widows, and for pretence ye make long prayers; Therefore shall ye receive the more damnation.

GAMALIEL. This brawler is no Jew,—he is a vile Samaritan, and hath an unclean spirit!

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! ye compass sea and land To make one proselyte, and when he is made Ye make him twofold more the child of hell Than you yourselves are!

GAMALIEL.
O my father's father!
Hillel of blessed memory, hear and judge!

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint, Of anise, and of cumin, and omit The weightier matters of the law of God, Judgment and faith and mercy; and all these Ye ought to have done, nor leave undone the others!

GAMALIEL. O Rabban Simeon! how must thy bones Stir in their grave to hear such blasphemies!

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes, and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! for ye make clean and sweet The outside of the cup and of the platter, But they within are full of all excess!

GAMALIEL. Patience of God! canst thou endure so long? Or art thou deaf, or gone upon a journey?

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! for ye are very like To whited sepulchres, which indeed appear Beautiful outwardly, but are within Filled full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness!

GAMALIEL. Am I awake? Is this Jerusalem? And are these Jews that throng and stare and listen?

CHRISTUS. Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, Ye hypocrites! because ye build the tombs Of prophets, and adorn the sepulchres Of righteous men, and say: if we had lived When lived our fathers, we would not have been Partakers with them in the blood of Prophets. So ye be witnesses unto yourselves, That ye are children of them that killed the Prophets! Fill ye up then the measure of your fathers. I send unto you Prophets and Wise Men, And Scribes, and some ye crucify, and some Scourge in your Synagogues, and persecute From city to city; that on you may come The righteous blood that hath been shed on earth, From the blood of righteous Abel to the blood Of Zacharias, son of Barachias, Ye slew between the Temple and the altar!

GAMALIEL. Oh, had I here my subtle dialectician, My little Saul of Tarsus, the tent-maker, Whose wit is sharper than his needle's point, He would delight to foil this noisy wrangler!

CHRISTUS. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! O thou That killest the Prophets, and that stonest them Which are sent unto thee, how often would I Have gathered together thy children, as a hen Gathereth her chickens underneath her wing, And ye would not! Behold, your house is left Unto you desolate!

THE PEOPLE.
This is a Prophet!
This is the Christ that was to come!

GAMALIEL.
Ye fools!
Think ye, shall Christ come out of Galilee?

---

III
LORD, IS IT I?

CHRISTUS. One of you shall betray me.

THE DISCIPLES.
Is it I?
Lord, is it I?

CHRISTUS.
One of the Twelve it is
That dippeth with me in this dish his hand;
He shall betray me. Lo, the Son of Man
Goeth indeed as it is written of Him;
But woe shall be unto that man by whom
He is betrayed! Good were it for that man
If he had ne'er been born!

JUDAS ISCARIOT.
Lord, is it I?

CHRISTUS. Ay, thou hast said. And that thou doest, do quickly.

JUDAS ISCARIOT, going out. Ah, woe is me!

CHRISTUS.
All ye shall be offended
Because of me this night; for it is written:
Awake, O sword, against my shepherd! Smite
The shepherd, saith the Lord of hosts, and scattered
Shall be the sheep!—But after I am risen
I go before you into Galilee.

PETER. O Master! though all men shall be offended Because of thee, yet will not I be!

CHRISTUS.
Simon,
Behold how Satan hath desired to have you,
That he may sift you as one sifteth wheat!
Whither I go thou canst not follow me—
Not now; but thou shalt follow me hereafter.

PETER. Wherefore can I not follow thee? I am ready To go with thee to prison and to death.

CHRISTUS. Verily I say unto thee, this night, Ere the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice!

PETER. Though I should die, yet will I not deny thee.

CHRISTUS. When first I sent you forth without a purse, Or scrip, or shoes, did ye lack anything?

THE DISCIPLES. Not anything.

CHRISTUS.
But he that hath a purse,
Now let him take it, and likewise his scrip;
And he that hath no sword, let him go sell
His clothes and buy one. That which hath been written
Must be accomplished now: He hath poured out
His soul even unto death; he hath been numbered
With the transgressors, and himself hath borne
The sin of many, and made intercession
For the transgressors. And here have an end
The things concerning me.

PETER.
Behold, O Lord,
Behold here are two swords!

CHRISTUS.
It is enough.

---

IV
THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE

CHRISTUS. My spirit is exceeding sorrowful Even unto death! Tarry ye here and watch.

He goes apart.

PETER. Under this ancient olive-tree, that spreads Its broad centennial branches like a tent, Let us lie down and rest.

JOHN.
What are those torches,
That glimmer on Brook Kedron there below us?

JAMES. It is some marriage feast; the joyful maidens Go out to meet the bridegroom.

PETER.
I am weary.
The struggles of this day have overcome me.

They sleep.

CHRISTUS, falling on his face. Father! all things are possible to thee,— Oh let this cup pass from me! Nevertheless Not as I will, but as thou wilt, be done!

Returning to the Disciples.

What! could ye not watch with me for one hour? Oh watch and pray, that ye may enter not Into temptation. For the spirit indeed Is willing, but the flesh is weak!

JOHN.
Alas!
It is for sorrow that our eyes are heavy.—
I see again the glimmer of those torches
Among the olives; they are coming hither.

JAMES. Outside the garden wall the path divides; Surely they come not hither.

They sleep again.

CHRISTUS, as before.
O my Father!
If this cup may not pass away from me,
Except I drink of it, thy will be done.

Returning to the Disciples.

Sleep on; and take your rest!

JOHN.
Beloved Master,
Alas! we know not what to answer thee!
It is for sorrow that our eves are heavy.—
Behold, the torches now encompass us.

JAMES. They do but go about the garden wall, Seeking for some one, or for something lost.

They sleep again.

CHRISTUS, as before. If this cup may not pass away from me, Except I drink of it, thy will be done.

Returning to the Disciples.

It is enough! Behold, the Son of Man Hath been betrayed into the hands of sinners! The hour is come. Rise up, let us be going; For he that shall betray me is at hand.

JOHN. Ah me! See, from his forehead, in the torchlight, Great drops of blood are falling to the ground!

PETER. What lights are these? What torches glare and glisten Upon the swords and armor of these men? And there among them Judas Iscariot!

He smites the servant of the High-Priest with his sword.

CHRISTUS. Put up thy sword into its sheath; for they That take the sword shall perish with the sword. The cup my Father hath given me to drink, Shall I not drink it? Think'st thou that I cannot Pray to my Father, and that he shall give me More than twelve legions of angels presently!

JUDAS to CHRISTUS, kissing him. Hail, Master! hail!

CHRISTUS.
Friend, wherefore art thou come?
Whom seek ye?

CAPTAIN OF THE TEMPLE.
Jesus of Nazareth.

CHRISTUS.
I am he.
Are ye come hither as against a thief,
With swords and staves to take me? When I daily
Was with you in the Temple, ye stretched forth
No hands to take me! But this is your hour,
And this the power of darkness. If ye seek
Me only, let these others go their way.

The Disciples depart. CHRISTUS is bound and led away. A certain young man follows him, having a linen cloth cast about his body. They lay hold of him, and the young man flees from them naked.

---

V
THE PALACE OF CAIAPHAS

PHARISEES. What do we? Clearly something must we do, For this man worketh many miracles.

CAIAPHAS. I am informed that he is a mechanic; A carpenter's son; a Galilean peasant, Keeping disreputable company.

PHARISEES. The people say that here in Bethany He hath raised up a certain Lazarus, Who had been dead three days.

CAIAPHAS.
Impossible!
There is no resurrection of the dead;
This Lazarus should be taken, and put to death
As an impostor. If this Galilean
Would be content to stay in Galilee,
And preach in country towns, I should not heed him.
But when he comes up to Jerusalem
Riding in triumph, as I am informed,
And drives the money-changers from the Temple,
That is another matter.

PHARISEES.
If we thus
Let him alone, all will believe on him,
And then the Romans come and take away
Our place and nation.

CAIAPHAS.
Ye know nothing at all.
Simon Ben Camith, my great predecessor,
On whom be peace! would have dealt presently
With such a demagogue. I shall no less.
The man must die. Do ye consider not
It is expedient that one man should die,
Not the whole nation perish? What is death?
It differeth from sleep but in duration.
We sleep and wake again; an hour or two
Later or earlier, and it matters not,
And if we never wake it matters not;
When we are in our graves we are at peace,
Nothing can wake us or disturb us more.
There is no resurrection.

PHARISEES, aside.
O most faithful
Disciple of Hircanus Maccabaeus,
Will nothing but complete annihilation
Comfort and satisfy thee?

CAIAPHAS.
While ye are talking
And plotting, and contriving how to take him,
Fearing the people, and so doing naught,
I, who fear not the people, have been acting;
Have taken this Prophet, this young Nazarene,
Who by Beelzebub the Prince of devils
Casteth out devils, and doth raise the dead,
That might as well be dead, and left in peace.
Annas my father-in-law hath sent him hither.
I hear the guard. Behold your Galilean!

CHRISTUS is brought in bound.

SERVANT, in the vestibule. Why art thou up so late, my pretty damsel?

DAMSEL. Why art thou up so early, pretty man? It is not cock-crow yet, and art thou stirring?

SERVANT. What brings thee here?

DAMSEL.
What brings the rest of you?

SERVANT. Come here and warm thy hands.

DAMSEL to PETER.
Art thou not
One of this man's also disciples?

PETER.
I am not.

DAMSEL. Now surely thou art also one of them; Thou art a Galilean, and thy speech Betrayeth thee.

PETER. Woman, I know him not!

CAIAPHAS to CHRISTUS, in the Hall. Who art thou? Tell us plainly of thyself And of thy doctrines, and of thy disciples.

CHRISTUS. Lo, I have spoken openly to the world, I have taught ever in the Synagogue, And in the Temple, where the Jews resort In secret have said nothing. Wherefore then Askest thou me of this? Ask them that heard me What I have said to them. Behold, they know What I have said!

OFFICER, striking him,
What, fellow! answerest thou
The High-Priest so?

CHRISTUS.
If I have spoken evil,
Bear witness of the evil; but if well,
Why smitest thou me?

CAIAPHAS.
Where are the witnesses?
Let them say what they know.

THE TWO FALSE WITNESSES.
We heard him say:
I will destroy this Temple made with hands,
And will within three days build up another
Made without hands.

SCRIBES and PHARISEES.
He is o'erwhelmed with shame
And cannot answer!

CAIAPHAS.
Dost thou answer nothing?
What is this thing they witness here against thee?

SCRIBES and PHARISEES. He holds his peace.

CAIAPHAS.
Tell us, art thou the Christ?
I do adjure thee by the living God,
Tell us, art thou indeed the Christ?

CHRISTUS.
I am.
Hereafter shall ye see the Son of Man
Sit on the right hand of the power of God,
And come in clouds of heaven!

CAIAPHAS, rending his clothes.
It is enough.
He hath spoken blasphemy! What further need
Have we of witnesses? Now ye have heard
His blasphemy. What think ye? Is he guilty?

SCRIBES and PHARISEES. Guilty of death!

KINSMAN OF MALCHUS to PETER in the vestibule.
Surely I know thy face,
Did I not see thee in the garden with him?

PETER. How couldst thou see me? I swear unto thee I do not know this man of whom ye speak!

The cock crows.

Hark! the cock crows! That sorrowful, pale face Seeks for me in the crowd, and looks at me, As if He would remind me of those words: Ere the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice!

Goes out weeping. CHRISTUS is blindfolded and buffeted.

AN OFFICER, striking him with his palm. Prophesy unto us, thou Christ, thou Prophet! Who is it smote thee?

CAIAPHAS.
Lead him unto Pilate!

---

VI
PONTIUS PILATE

PILATE. Wholly incomprehensible to me, Vainglorious, obstinate, and given up To unintelligible old traditions, And proud, and self-conceited are these Jews! Not long ago, I marched the legions Down from Caesarea to their winter-quarters Here in Jerusalem, with the effigies Of Caesar on their ensigns, and a tumult Arose among these Jews, because their Law Forbids the making of all images! They threw themselves upon the ground with wild Expostulations, bared their necks, and cried That they would sooner die than have their Law Infringed in any manner; as if Numa Were not as great as Moses, and the Laws Of the Twelve Tables as their Pentateuch!

And then, again, when I desired to span Their valley with an aqueduct, and bring A rushing river in to wash the city And its inhabitants,—they all rebelled As if they had been herds of unwashed swine! Thousands and thousands of them got together And raised so great a clamor round my doors, That, fearing violent outbreak, I desisted, And left them to their wallowing in the mire.

And now here comes the reverend Sanhedrim Of lawyers, priests, and Scribes and Pharisees, Like old and toothless mastiffs, that can bark But cannot bite, howling their accusations Against a mild enthusiast, who hath preached I know not what new doctrine, being King Of some vague kingdom in the other world, That hath no more to do with Rome and Caesar Than I have with the patriarch Abraham! Finding this man to be a Galilean I sent him straight to Herod, and I hope That is the last of it; but if it be not, I still have power to pardon and release him, As is the custom at the Passover, And so accommodate the matter smoothly, Seeming to yield to them, yet saving him, A prudent and sagacious policy For Roman Governors in the Provinces.

Incomprehensible, fanatic people! Ye have a God, who seemeth like yourselves Incomprehensible, dwelling apart, Majestic, cloud-encompassed, clothed in darkness! One whom ye fear, but love not; yet ye have No Goddesses to soften your stern lives, And make you tender unto human weakness, While we of Rome have everywhere around us Our amiable divinities, that haunt The woodlands, and the waters, and frequent Our households, with their sweet and gracious presence! I will go in, and, while these Jews are wrangling, Read my Ovidius on the Art of Love.

---

VII
BARABBAS IN PRISON

BARABBAS, to his fellow-prisoners
Barabbas is my name,
Barabbas, the Son of Shame,
Is the meaning, I suppose;
I'm no better than the best,
And whether worse than the rest
Of my fellow-men, who knows?

I was once, to say it in brief,
A highwayman, a robber-chief,
In the open light of day.
So much I am free to confess;
But all men, more or less,
Are robbers in their way.

From my cavern in the crags,
From my lair of leaves and flags,
I could see, like ants, below,
The camels with their load
Of merchandise, on the road
That leadeth to Jericho.

And I struck them unaware,
As an eagle from the air
Drops down upon bird or beast;
And I had my heart's desire
Of the merchants of Sidon and Tyre,
And Damascus and the East.

But it is not for that I fear;
It is not for that I am here
In these iron fetters bound;
Sedition! that is the word
That Pontius Pilate heard,
And he liketh not the sound.

What think ye, would he care
For a Jew slain here or there,
Or a plundered caravan?
But Caesar!—ah, that is a crime,
To the uttermost end of time
Shall not be forgiven to man.

Therefore was Herod wroth
With Matthias Margaloth,
And burned him for a show!
Therefore his wrath did smite
Judas the Gaulonite,
And his followers, as ye know.

For that cause and no more,
Am I here, as I said before;
For one unlucky night,
Jucundus, the captain of horse,
Was upon us with all his force,
And I was caught in the flight,

I might have fled with the rest,
But my dagger was in the breast
Of a Roman equerry,
As we rolled there in the street,
They bound me, hands and feet
And this is the end of me.

Who cares for death? Not I!
A thousand times I would die,
Rather than suffer wrong!
Already those women of mine
Are mixing the myrrh and the wine;
I shall not be with you long.

---

VIII
ECCE HOMO

PILATE, on the tessellated pavement in front of his palace. Ye have brought unto me this man, as one Who doth pervert the people; and behold! I have examined him, and found no fault Touching the things whereof ye do accuse him. No, nor yet Herod; for I sent you to him, And nothing worthy of death he findeth in him. Ye have a custom at the Passover; That one condemned to death shall be released. Whom will ye, then, that I release to you? Jesus Barabbas, called the Son of Shame, Or Jesus, Son of Joseph, called the Christ?

THE PEOPLE, shouting. Not this man, but Barabbas!

PILATE.
What then will ye
That I should do with him that is called Christ?

THE PEOPLE. Crucify him!

PILATE.
Why, what evil hath he done?
Lo, I have found no cause of death in him;
I will chastise him, and then let him go.

THE PEOPLE, more vehemently. Crucify him! crucify him!

A MESSENGER, to PILATE.
Thy wife sends
This message to thee,—Have thou naught to do
With that just man; for I this day in dreams
Have suffered many things because of him.

PILATE, aside. The Gods speak to us in our dreams! I tremble At what I have to do! O Claudia, How shall I save him? Yet one effort more, Or he must perish!

Washes his hands before them.

I am innocent
Of the blood of this just person; see ye to it!

THE PEOPLE. Let his blood be on us and on our children!

VOICES, within the palace. Put on thy royal robes; put on thy crown, And take thy sceptre! Hail, thou King of the Jews!

PILATE. I bring him forth to you, that ye may know I find no fault in him. Behold the man!

CHRISTUS is led in with the purple robe and crown of thorns.

CHIEF PRIESTS and OFFICERS. Crucify him! crucify him!

PILATE.
Take ye him;
I find no fault in him.

CHIEF PRIESTS.
We have a Law,
And by our Law he ought to die; because
He made himself to be the Son of God.

PILATE, aside. Ah! there are Sons of God, and demigods More than ye know, ye ignorant High-Priests!

To CHRISTUS. Whence art thou?

CHIEF PRIESTS.
Crucify him! crucify him!

PILATE, to CHRISTUS. Dost thou not answer me? Dost thou not know That I have power enough to crucify thee? That I have also power to set thee free?

CHRISTUS. Thou couldst have no power at all against me Except that it were given thee from above; Therefore hath he that sent me unto thee The greater sin.

CHIEF PRIESTS.
If thou let this man go,
Thou art not Caesar's friend. For whosoever
Maketh himself a King, speaks against Caesar.

PILATE. Ye Jews, behold your King!

CHIEF PRIESTS.
Away with him!
Crucify him!

PILATE.
Shall I crucify your King?

CHIEF PRIESTS. We have no King but Caesar!

PILATE.
Take him, then,
Take him, ye cruel and bloodthirsty priests,
More merciless than the plebeian mob,
Who pity and spare the fainting gladiator
Blood-stained in Roman amphitheatres,—
Take him, and crucify him if ye will;
But if the immortal Gods do ever mingle
With the affairs of mortals, which I doubt not,
And hold the attribute of justice dear,
They will commission the Eumenides
To scatter you to the four winds of heaven,
Exacting tear for tear, and blood for blood.
Here, take ye this inscription, Priests, and nail it
Upon the cross, above your victim's head:
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

CHIEF PRIESTS. Nay, we entreat! write not, the King of the Jews! But that he said: I am the King of the Jews!

PILATE. Enough. What I have written, I have written.

---

IX
ACELDAMA

JUDAS ISCARIOT. Lost! Lost! Forever lost! I have betrayed The innocent blood! O God! if thou art love, Why didst thou leave me naked to the tempter? Why didst thou not commission thy swift lightning To strike me dead? or why did I not perish With those by Herod slain, the innocent children, Who went with playthings in their little hands Into the darkness of the other world, As if to bed? Or wherefore was I born, If thou in thy foreknowledge didst perceive All that I am, and all that I must be? I know I am not generous, am not gentle, Like other men; but I have tried to be, And I have failed. I thought by following him I should grow like him; but the unclean spirit That from my childhood up hath tortured me Hath been too cunning and too strong for me, Am I to blame for this? Am I to blame Because I cannot love, and ne'er have known The love of woman or the love of children? It is a curse and a fatality, A mark that hath been set upon my forehead, That none shall slay me, for it were a mercy That I were dead, or never had been born.

Too late! too late! I shall not see Him more Among the living. That sweet, patient face Will never more rebuke me, nor those lips Repeat the words: One of you shall betray me! It stung me into madness. How I loved, Yet hated Him: But in the other world! I will be there before Him, and will wait Until he comes, and fall down on my knees And kiss his feet, imploring pardon, pardon!

I heard Him say: All sins shall be forgiven, Except the sin against the Holy Ghost. That shall not be forgiven in this world, Nor in the world to come. Is that my sin? Have I offended so there is no hope Here nor hereafter? That I soon shall know. O God, have mercy! Christ have mercy on me!

Throws himself headlong from the cliff.

---

X
THE THREE CROSSES

MANAHEM, THE ESSENIAN. Three crosses in this noonday night uplifted, Three human figures that in mortal pain Gleam white against the supernatural darkness; Two thieves, that writhe in torture, and between them The Suffering Messiah, the Son of Joseph, Ay, the Messiah Triumphant, Son of David! A crown of thorns on that dishonored head! Those hands that healed the sick now pierced with nails, Those feet that wandered homeless through the world Now crossed and bleeding, and at rest forever! And the three faithful Maries, overwhelmed By this great sorrow, kneeling, praying weeping! O Joseph Caiaphas, thou great High-Priest How wilt thou answer for this deed of blood?

SCRIBES and ELDERS. Thou that destroyest the Temple, and dost build it In three days, save thyself; and if thou be The Son of God, come down now from the cross.

CHIEF PRIESTS. Others he saved, himself he cannot save! Let Christ the King of Israel descend That we may see and believe!

SCRIBES and ELDERS.
In God he trusted;
Let Him deliver him, if He will have him,
And we will then believe.

CHRISTUS.
Father! forgive them;
They know not what they do.

THE IMPENITENT THIEF.
If thou be Christ,
Oh save thyself and us!

THE PENITENT THIEF.
Remember me,
Lord, when thou comest into thine own kingdom.

CHRISTUS. This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.

MANAHEN. Golgotha! Golgotha! Oh the pain and darkness! Oh the uplifted cross, that shall forever Shine through the darkness, and shall conquer pain By the triumphant memory of this hour!

SIMON MAGUS. O Nazarene! I find thee here at last! Thou art no more a phantom unto me! This is the end of one who called himself The Son of God! Such is the fate of those Who preach new doctrines. 'T is not what he did, But what he said, hath brought him unto this. I will speak evil of no dignitaries. This is my hour of triumph, Nazarene!

THE YOUNG RULER. This is the end of him who said to me: Sell that thou hast, and give unto the poor! This is the treasure in heaven he promised me!

CHRISTUS. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!

A SOLDIER, preparing the hyssop. He calleth for Elias!

ANOTHER.
Nay, let be!
See if Elias will now come to save him!

CHRISTUS. I thirst.

A SOLDIER.
Give him the wormwood!

CHRISTUS, with a loud cry, bowing his head.
It is finished!

---

XI
THE TWO MARIES

MARY MAGDALENE. We have risen early, yet the sun O'ertakes us ere we reach the sepulchre, To wrap the body of our blessed Lord With our sweet spices.

MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES.
Lo, this is the garden,
And yonder is the sepulchre. But who
Shall roll away the stone for us to enter?

MARY MAGDALENE. It hath been rolled away! The sepulchre Is open! Ah, who hath been here before us, When we rose early, wishing to be first?

MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. I am affrighted!

MARY MAGDALENE.
Hush! I will stoop down
And look within. There is a young man sitting
On the right side, clothed in a long white garment!
It is an angel!

THE ANGEL.
Fear not; ye are seeking
Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified.
Why do ye seek the living among the dead?
He is no longer here; He is arisen!
Come see the place where the Lord lay! Remember
How He spake unto you in Galilee,
Saying: The Son of Man must be delivered
Into the hands of sinful men; by them
Be crucified, and the third day rise again!
But go your way, and say to his disciples,
He goeth before you into Galilee;
There shall ye see Him as He said to you.

MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. I will go swiftly for them.

MARY MAGDALENE, alone, weeping.
They have taken
My Lord away from me, and now I know not
Where they have laid Him! Who is there to tell me?
This is the gardener. Surely he must know.

CHRISTUS. Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?

MARY MAGDALENE. They have taken my Lord away; I cannot find Him. O sir, if thou have borne Him hence, I pray thee Tell me where thou hast laid Him.

CHRISTUS.
Mary!

MARY MAGDALENE.
Rabboni!

---

XI
THE SEA OF GALILEE

NATHANIEL, in the ship. All is now ended.

JOHN.
Nay, He is arisen,
I ran unto the tomb, and stooping down
Looked in, and saw the linen grave-clothes lying,
Yet dared not enter.

PETER.
I went in, and saw
The napkin that had been about his head,
Not lying with the other linen clothes,
But wrapped together in a separate place.

THOMAS. And I have seen Him. I have seen the print Of nails upon his hands, and thrust my hands Into his side. I know He is arisen; But where are now the kingdom and the glory He promised unto us? We have all dreamed That we were princes, and we wake to find We are but fishermen.

PETER.
Who should have been
Fishers of men!

JOHN.
We have come back again
To the old life, the peaceful life, among
The white towns of the Galilean lake.

PETER. They seem to me like silent sepulchres In the gray light of morning! The old life, Yea, the old life! for we have toiled all night And have caught nothing.

JOHN.
Do ye see a man
Standing upon the beach and beckoning?
'T is like an apparition. He hath kindled
A fire of coals, and seems to wait for us.
He calleth.

CHRISTUS, from the shore.
Children, have ye any meat?

PETER. Alas! We have caught nothing.

CHRISTUS.
Cast the net
On the right side of the ship, and ye shall find.

PETER. How that reminds me of the days gone by, And one who said: Launch out into the deep, And cast your nets!

NATHANAEL.
We have but let them down
And they are filled, so that we cannot draw them!

JOHN. It is the Lord!

PETER, girding his fisher's coat about him.
He said: When I am risen
I will go before you into Galilee!

He casts himself into the lake.

JOHN. There is no fear in love; for perfect love Casteth out fear. Now then, if ye are men, Put forth your strength; we are not far from shore; The net is heavy, but breaks not. All is safe.

PETER, on the shore. Dear Lord! I heard thy voice and could not wait. Let me behold thy face, and kiss thy feet! Thou art not dead, thou livest! Again I see thee. Pardon, dear Lord! I am a sinful man; I have denied thee thrice. Have mercy on me!

THE OTHERS, coming to land. Dear Lord! stay with us! cheer us! comfort us! Lo! we again have found thee! Leave us not!

CHRISTUS. Bring hither of the fish that ye have caught, And come and eat!

JOHN.
Behold! He breaketh bread
As He was wont. From his own blessed hands
Again we take it.

CHRISTUS.
Simon, son of Jonas,
Lovest thou me, more than these others?

PETER.
Yea,
More, Lord, than all men, even more than these.
Thou knowest that I love thee.

CHRISTUS.
Feed my lambs.

THOMAS, aside. How more than we do? He remaineth ever Self-confident and boastful as before. Nothing will cure him.

CHRISTUS.
Simon, son of Jonas,
Lovest thou me?

PETER.
Yea, dearest Lord, I love thee.
Thou knowest that I love thee.

CHRISTUS.
Feed my sheep.

THOMAS, aside. Again, the selfsame question, and the answer Repeated with more vehemence. Can the Master Doubt if we love Him?

CHRISTUS.
Simon, son of Jonas,
Lovest thou me?

PETER, grieved.
Dear Lord, thou knowest all things.
Thou knowest that I love thee.

CHRISTUS.
Feed my sheep.
When thou wast young thou girdedst thyself, and walkedst
Whither thou wouldst; but when thou shalt be old,
Thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and other men
Shall gird and carry thee whither thou wouldst not.
Follow thou me!

JOHN, aside.
It is a prophecy
Of what death he shall die.

PETER, pointing to JOHN.
Tell me, O Lord,
And what shall this man do?

CHRISTUS.
And if I will
He tarry till I come, what is it to thee?
Follow thou me!

PETER. Yea, I will follow thee, dear Lord and Master! Will follow thee through fasting and temptation, Through all thine agony and bloody sweat, Thy cross and passion, even unto death!

---

EPILOGUE
SYMBOLUM APOSTOLORUM

PETER. I believe in God the Father Almighty;

JOHN. Maker of heaven and Earth;

JAMES. And in Jesus Christ his only Son, our Lord;

ANDREW. Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary;

PHILIP. Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried;

THOMAS. And the third day He rose again from the dead;

BARTHOLOMEW. He ascended into Heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God, the Father Almighty;

MATTHEW. From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

JAMES, THE SON OF ALFHEUS. I believe in the Holy Ghost; the holy Catholic Church;

SIMON ZELOTES. The communion of Saints; the forgiveness of sins;

JUDE. The resurrection of the body;

MATTHIAS. And the Life Everlasting.

---

FIRST INTERLUDE
THE ABBOT JOACHIM

A ROOM IN THE CONVENT OF FLORA IN CALABRIA. NIGHT.

JOACHIM. The wind is rising; it seizes and shakes The doors and window-blinds and makes Mysterious moanings in the halls; The convent-chimneys seem almost The trumpets of some heavenly host, Setting its watch upon our walls! Where it listeth, there it bloweth; We hear the sound, but no man knoweth Whence it cometh or whither it goeth, And thus it is with the Holy Ghost. O breath of God! O my delight In many a vigil of the night, Like the great voice in Patmos heard By John, the Evangelist of the Word, I hear thee behind me saying: Write In a book the things that thou hast seen, The things that are, and that have been, And the things that shall hereafter be!

This convent, on the rocky crest Of the Calabrian hills, to me A Patmos is wherein I rest; While round about me like a sea The white mists roll, and overflow The world that lies unseen below In darkness and in mystery. Here in the Spirit, in the vast Embrace of God's encircling arm, Am I uplifted from all harm The world seems something far away, Something belonging to the Past, A hostelry, a peasant's farm, That lodged me for a night or day, In which I care not to remain, Nor, having left, to see again.

Thus, in the hollow of Gods hand I dwelt on sacred Tabor's height, When as a simple acolyte I journeyed to the Holy Land, A pilgrim for my master's sake, And saw the Galilean Lake, And walked through many a village street That once had echoed to his feet. There first I heard the great command, The voice behind me saying: Write! And suddenly my soul became Illumined by a flash of flame, That left imprinted on my thought The image I in vain had sought, And which forever shall remain; As sometimes from these windows high, Gazing at midnight on the sky Black with a storm of wind and rain, I have beheld a sudden glare Of lightning lay the landscape bare, With tower and town and hill and plain Distinct and burnt into my brain, Never to be effaced again!

And I have written. These volumes three, The Apocalypse, the Harmony Of the Sacred Scriptures, new and old, And the Psalter with Ten Strings, enfold Within their pages, all and each, The Eternal Gospel that I teach. Well I remember the Kingdom of Heaven Hath been likened to a little leaven Hidden in two measures of meal, Until it leavened the whole mass; So likewise will it come to pass With the doctrines that I here conceal.

Open and manifest to me The truth appears, and must be told; All sacred mysteries are threefold; Three Persons in the Trinity, Three ages of Humanity, And holy Scriptures likewise three, Of Fear, of Wisdom, and of Love; For Wisdom that begins in Fear Endeth in Love; the atmosphere In which the soul delights to be And finds that perfect liberty Which cometh only from above.

In the first Age, the early prime And dawn of all historic time, The Father reigned; and face to face He spake with the primeval race. Bright Angels, on his errands sent, Sat with the patriarch in his tent; His prophets thundered in the street; His lightnings flashed, his hailstorms beat; In earthquake and in flood and flame, In tempest and in cloud He came! The fear of God is in his Book; The pages of the Pentateuch Are full of the terror of his name.

Then reigned the Son; his Covenant Was peace on earth, good-will to man; With Him the reign of Law began. He was the Wisdom and the Word, And sent his Angels Ministrant, Unterrified and undeterred, To rescue souls forlorn and lost, The troubled, tempted, tempest-tost To heal, to comfort, and to teach. The fiery tongues of Pentecost His symbols were, that they should preach In every form of human speech From continent to continent. He is the Light Divine, whose rays Across the thousand years unspent Shine through the darkness of our days, And touch with their celestial fires Our churches and our convent spires. His Book is the New Testament.

These Ages now are of the Past; And the Third Age begins at last. The coming of the Holy Ghost, The reign of Grace, the reign of Love Brightens the mountain-tops above, And the dark outline of the coast. Already the whole land is white With Convent walls, as if by night A snow had fallen on hill and height! Already from the streets and marts Of town and traffic, and low cares, Men climb the consecrated stairs With weary feet, and bleeding hearts; And leave the world and its delights, Its passions, struggles, and despairs, For contemplation and for prayers In cloister-cells of coenobites.

Eternal benedictions rest Upon thy name, Saint Benedict! Founder of convents in the West, Who built on Mount Cassino's crest In the Land of Labor, thine eagle's nest! May I be found not derelict In aught of faith or godly fear, If I have written, in many a page, The Gospel of the coming age, The Eternal Gospel men shall hear. Oh may I live resembling thee, And die at last as thou hast died; So that hereafter men may see, Within the choir, a form of air, Standing with arms outstretched in prayer, As one that hath been crucified! My work is finished; I am strong In faith and hope and charity; For I have written the things I see, The things that have been and shall be, Conscious of right, nor fearing wrong; Because I am in love with Love, And the sole thing I hate is Hate; For Hate is death; and Love is life, A peace, a splendor from above; And Hate, a never-ending strife, A smoke, a blackness from the abyss Where unclean serpents coil and hiss! Love is the Holy Ghost within Hate the unpardonable sin! Who preaches otherwise than this Betrays his Master with a kiss!

---

PART TWO
THE GOLDEN LEGEND

PROLOGUE

THE SPIRE OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL

Night and storm. LUCIFER, with the Powers of the Air, trying to tear down the Cross.

LUCIFER. Hasten! hasten! O ye spirits! From its station drag the ponderous Cross of iron, that to mock us Is uplifted high in air!

VOICES. Oh, we cannot! For around it All the Saints and Guardian Angels Throng in legions to protect it; They defeat us everywhere!

THE BELLS.
Laudo Deum verum!
Plebem voco!
Congrego clerum!

LUCIFER. Lower! lower! Hover downward! Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement, Hurl them from their windy tower.

VOICES. All thy thunders Here are harmless! For these bells have been anointed, And baptized with holy water! They defy our utmost power.

THE BELLS.
Defunctos ploro!
Pestem fugo!
Festa decoro!

LUCIFER. Shake the casements! Break the painted Panes, that flame with gold and crimson; Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, Swept away before the blast!

VOICES. Oh, we cannot! The Archangel Michael flames from every window, With the sword of fire that drove us Headlong, out of heaven, aghast!

THE BELLS.
Funera plango!
Fulgura frango!
Sabbata pango!

LUCIFER. Aim your lightnings At the oaken, Massive, iron-studded portals! Sack the house of God, and scatter Wide the ashes of the dead!

VOICES. Oh, we cannot! The Apostles And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles, Stand as warders at the entrance, Stand as sentinels o'erhead!

THE BELLS.
Excito lentos!
Dissipo ventos!
Paco cruentos!

LUCIFER. Baffled! baffled! Inefficient, Craven spirits! leave this labor Unto time, the great Destroyer! Come away, ere night is gone!

VOICES. Onward! onward! With the night-wind, Over field and farm and forest, Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, Blighting all we breathe upon!

They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian Chant.

CHOIR. Nocte surgentes Vigilemus omnes!

---

I
THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE

A chamber in a tower. PRINCE HENRY sitting alone, ill and restless. Midnight.

PRINCE HENRY. I cannot sleep! my fervid brain Calls up the vanished Past again, And throws its misty splendors deep Into the pallid realms of sleep! A breath from that far-distant shore Comes freshening ever more and more, And wafts o'er intervening seas Sweet odors from the Hesperides! A wind, that through the corridor Just stirs the curtain, and no more, And, touching the aolian strings, Faints with the burden that it brings! Come back! ye friendships long departed! That like o'erflowing streamlets started, And now are dwindled, one by one, To stony channels in the sun! Come back! ye friends, whose lives are ended, Come back, with all that light attended, Which seemed to darken and decay When ye arose and went away!

They come, the shapes of joy and woe, The airy crowds of long ago, The dreams and fancies known of yore, That have been, and shall be no more. They change the cloisters of the night Into a garden of delight; They make the dark and dreary hours Open and blossom into flowers! I would not sleep! I love to be Again in their fair company; But ere my lips can bid them stay, They pass and vanish quite away! Alas! our memories may retrace Each circumstance of time and place, Season and scene come back again, And outward things unchanged remain; The rest we cannot reinstate; Ourselves we can not re-create; Nor set our souls to the same key Of the remembered harmony!

Rest! rest! Oh, give me rest and peace! The thought of life that ne'er shall cease Has something in it like despair, A weight I am too weak to bear! Sweeter to this afflicted breast The thought of never-ending rest! Sweeter the undisturbed and deep Tranquillity of endless sleep!

A flash of lightning, out of which LUCIFER appears, in the garb of a travelling Physician.

LUCIFER. All hail, Prince Henry!

PRINCE HENRY, starting.
Who is it speaks?
Who and what are you?

LUCIFER.
One who seeks
A moment's audience with the Prince.

PRINCE HENRY. When came you in?

LUCIFER.
A moment since.
I found your study door unlocked,
And thought you answered when I knocked.

PRINCE HENRY. I did not hear you.

LUCIFER.
You heard the thunder;
It was loud enough to waken the dead.
And it is not a matter of special wonder
That, when God is walking overhead,
You should not hear my feeble tread.

PRINCE HENRY. What may your wish or purpose be?

LUCIFER. Nothing or everything, as it pleases Your Highness. You behold in me Only a travelling Physician; One of the few who have a mission To cure incurable diseases, Or those that are called so.

PRINCE HENRY.
Can you bring
The dead to life?

LUCIFER.
Yes; very nearly.
And, what is a wiser and better thing,
Can keep the living from ever needing
Such an unnatural, strange proceeding,
By showing conclusively and clearly
That death is a stupid blunder merely,
And not a necessity of our lives.
My being here is accidental;
The storm, that against your casement drives,
In the little village below waylaid me.
And there I heard, with a secret delight,
Of your maladies physical and mental,
Which neither astonished nor dismayed me.
And I hastened hither, though late in the night,
To proffer my aid!

PRINCE HENRY, ironically.
For this you came!
Ah, how can I ever hope to requite
This honor from one so erudite?

LUCIFER. The honor is mine, or will be when I have cured your disease.

PRINCE HENRY.
But not till then.

LUCIFER. What is your illness?

PRINCE HENRY.
It has no name.
A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame,
As in a kiln, burns in my veins,
Sending up vapors to the head;
My heart has become a dull lagoon,
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains;
I am accounted as one who is dead,
And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon.

LUCIFER. And has Gordonius the Divine, In his famous Lily of Medicine,— I see the book lies open before you,— No remedy potent enough to restore you?

PRINCE HENRY. None whatever!

LUCIFER.
The dead are dead,
And their oracles dumb, when questioned
Of the new diseases that human life
Evolves in its progress, rank and rife.
Consult the dead upon things that were,
But the living only on things that are.
Have you done this, by the appliance
And aid of doctors?

PRINCE HENRY.
Ay, whole schools
Of doctors, with their learned rules;
But the case is quite beyond their science.
Even the doctors of Salern
Send me back word they can discern
No cure for a malady like this,
Save one which in its nature is
Impossible and cannot be!

LUCIFER. That sounds oracular!

PRINCE HENRY.
Unendurable!

LUCIFER. What is their remedy?

PRINCE HENRY.
You shall see;
Writ in this scroll is the mystery.

LUCIFER, reading. "Not to be cured, yet not incurable! The only remedy that remains Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins, Who of her own free will shall die, And give her life as the price of yours!"

That is the strangest of all cures, And one, I think, you will never try; The prescription you may well put by, As something impossible to find Before the world itself shall end! And yet who knows? One cannot say That into some maiden's brain that kind Of madness will not find its way. Meanwhile permit me to recommend, As the matter admits of no delay, My wonderful Catholicon, Of very subtile and magical powers!

PRINCE HENRY. Purge with your nostrums and drugs infernal The spouts and gargoyles of these towers, Not me! My faith is utterly gone In every power but the Power Supernal! Pray tell ne, of what school are you?

LUCIFER. Both of the Old and of the New! The school of Hermes Trismegistus, Who uttered his oracles sublime Before the Olympiads, in the dew Of the early dusk and dawn of time, The reign of dateless old Hephæstus! As northward, from its Nubian springs, The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty mystic stream has rolled; So, starting from its fountain-head Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, From the dead demigods of eld, Through long unbroken lines of kings Its course the sacred art has held, Unchecked, unchanged by man's devices. This art the Arabian Geber taught, And in alembics, finely wrought, Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered The secret that so long had hovered Upon the misty verge of Truth, The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech! Like him, this wondrous lore I teach!

PRINCE HENRY. What! an adept?

LUCIFFR.
Nor less, nor more!

PRINCE HENRY. I am a reader of your books, A lover of that mystic lore! With such a piercing glance it looks Into great Nature's open eye, And sees within it trembling lie The portrait of the Deity! And yet, alas! with all my pains, The secret and the mystery Have baffled and eluded me, Unseen the grand result remains!

LUCIFER, showing a flask. Behold it here! this little flask Contains the wonderful quintessence, The perfect flower and efflorescence, Of all the knowledge man can ask! Hold it up thus against the light!

PRINCE HENRY. How limpid, pure, and crystalline, How quick, and tremulous, and bright The little wavelets dance and shine, As were it the Water of Life in sooth!

LUCIFER. It is! It assuages every pain, Cures all disease, and gives again To age the swift delights of youth. Inhale its fragrance.

PRINCE HENRY.
It is sweet.
A thousand different odors meet
And mingle in its rare perfume,
Such as the winds of summer waft
At open windows through a room!

LUCIFER. Will you not taste it?

PRINCE HENRY.
Will one draught
Suffice?

LUCIFER.
If not, you can drink more.

PRINCE HENRY. Into this crystal goblet pour So much as safely I may drink,

LUCIFER, pouring. Let not the quantity alarm you; You may drink all; it will not harm you.

PRINCE HENRY. I am as one who on the brink Of a dark river stands and sees The waters flow, the landscape dim Around him waver, wheel, and swim, And, ere he plunges, stops to think Into what whirlpools he may sink; One moment pauses, and no more, Then madly plunges from the shore! Headlong into the mysteries Of life and death I boldly leap, Nor fear the fateful current's sweep, Nor what in ambush lurks below! For death is better than disease!

An ANGEL with an æolian harp hovers in the air.

ANGEL. Woe! woe! eternal woe! Not only the whispered prayer Of love, But the imprecations of hate, Reverberate For ever and ever through the air Above! This fearful curse Shakes the great universe!

LUCIFER, disappearing. Drink! drink! And thy soul shall sink Down into the dark abyss, Into the infinite abyss, From which no plummet nor rope Ever drew up the silver sand of hope!

PRINCE HENRY, drinking. It is like a draught of fire! Through every vein I feel again The fever of youth, the soft desire; A rapture that is almost pain Throbs in my heart and fills my brain O joy! O joy! I feel The band of steel That so long and heavily has pressed Upon my breast Uplifted, and the malediction Of my affliction Is taken from me, and my weary breast At length finds rest.

THE ANGEL. It is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has been taken! It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not shaken! It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow! It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow! With fiendish laughter, Hereafter, This false physician Will mock thee in thy perdition.

PRINCE HENRY. Speak! speak! Who says that I am ill? I am not ill! I am not weak! The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er! I feel the chill of death no more! At length, I stand renewed in all my strength Beneath me I can feel The great earth stagger and reel, As if the feet of a descending God Upon its surface trod, And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel! This, O brave physician! this Is thy great Palingenesis!

Drinks again.

THE ANGEL. Touch the goblet no more! It will make thy heart sore To its very core! Its perfume is the breath Of the Angel of Death, And the light that within it lies Is the flash of his evil eyes. Beware! Oh, beware! For sickness, sorrow, and care All are there!

PRINCE HENRY, sinking back. O thou voice within my breast! Why entreat me, why upbraid me, When the steadfast tongues of truth And the flattering hopes of youth Have all deceived me and betrayed me? Give me, give me rest, oh rest! Golden visions wave and hover, Golden vapors, waters streaming, Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming! I am like a happy lover, Who illumines life with dreaming! Brave physician! Rare physician! Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission!

His head falls on his book.

THE ANGEL, receding. Alas! alas! Like a vapor the golden vision Shall fade and pass, And thou wilt find in thy heart again Only the blight of pain, And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition!

---

COURT-YARD OF THE CASTLE

HUBERT standing by the gateway.

HUBERT. How sad the grand old castle looks! O'erhead, the unmolested rooks Upon the turret's windy top Sit, talking of the farmer's crop Here in the court-yard springs the grass, So few are now the feet that pass; The stately peacocks, bolder grown, Come hopping down the steps of stone, As if the castle were their own; And I, the poor old seneschal, Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. Alas! the merry guests no more Crowd through the hospitable door; No eyes with youth and passion shine, No cheeks glow redder than the wine; No song, no laugh, no jovial din Of drinking wassail to the pin; But all is silent, sad, and drear, And now the only sounds I hear Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, And horses stamping in their stalls!

A horn sounds.

What ho! that merry, sudden blast Reminds me of the days long past! And, as of old resounding, grate The heavy hinges of the gate, And, clattering loud, with iron clank, Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, As if it were in haste to greet The pressure of a traveller's feet!

Enter WALTER the Minnesinger.

WALTER. How now, my friend! This looks quite lonely! No banner flying from the walls, No pages and no seneschals, No warders, and one porter only! Is it you, Hubert?

HUBERT.
Ah! Master Walter!

WALTER. Alas! how forms and faces alter! I did not know you. You look older! Your hair has grown much grayer and thinner, And you stoop a little in the shoulder!

HUBERT. Alack! I am a poor old sinner, And, like these towers, begin to moulder; And you have been absent many a year!

WALTER. How is the Prince?

HUBERT.
He is not here;
He has been ill: and now has fled.

WALTER. Speak it out frankly: say he's dead! Is it not so?

HUBERT.
No; if you please,
A strange, mysterious disease
Fell on him with a sudden blight.
Whole hours together he would stand
Upon the terrace in a dream,
Resting his head upon his hand,
Best pleased when he was most alone,
Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone,
Looking down into a stream.
In the Round Tower, night after night,
He sat and bleared his eyes with books;
Until one morning we found him there
Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon
He had fallen from his chair.
We hardly recognized his sweet looks!

WALTER. Poor Prince!

HUBERT.
I think he might have mended;
And he did mend; but very soon
The priests came flocking in, like rooks,
With all their crosiers and their crooks,
And so at last the matter ended.

WALTER. How did it end?

HUBERT.
Why, in Saint Rochus
They made him stand and wait his doom;
And, as if he were condemned to the tomb,
Began to mutter their hocus-pocus.
First, the Mass for the Dead they chanted,
Then three times laid upon his head
A shovelful of churchyard clay,
Saying to him, as he stood undaunted,
"This is a sign that thou art dead,
So in thy heart be penitent!"
And forth from the chapel door he went
Into disgrace and banishment,
Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray,
And hearing a wallet, and a bell,
Whose sound should be a perpetual knell
To keep all travellers away.

WALTER. Oh, horrible fate! Outcast, rejected, As one with pestilence infected!

HUBERT. Then was the family tomb unsealed, And broken helmet, sword, and shield Buried together, in common wreck, As is the custom when the last Of any princely house has passed, And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, A herald shouted down the stair The words of warning and despair,— "O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!"

WALTER. Still in my soul that cry goes on,— Forever gone! forever gone! Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, Like a black shadow, would fall across The hearts of all, if he should die! His gracious presence upon earth Was as a fire upon a hearth; As pleasant songs, at morning sung, The words that dropped from his sweet tongue Strengthened our hearts; or heard at night Made all our slumbers soft and light. Where is he?

HUBERT.
In the Odenwald.
Some of his tenants, unappalled
By fear of death, or priestly word,—
A holy family, that make
Each meal a Supper of the Lord,—
Have him beneath their watch and ward,
For love of him, and Jesus' sake!
Pray you come in. For why should I
With out-door hospitality
My prince's friend thus entertain?

WALTER. I would a moment here remain. But you, good Hubert, go before, Fill me a goblet of May-drink, As aromatic as the May From which it steals the breath away, And which he loved so well of yore; It is of him that I would think. You shall attend me, when I call, In the ancestral banquet-hall. Unseen companions, guests of air, You cannot wait on, will be there; They taste not food, they drink not wine, But their soft eyes look into mine, And their lips speak to me, and all The vast and shadowy banquet-hall Is full of looks and words divine!

Leaning over the parapet.

The day is done; and slowly from the scene The stooping sun up-gathers his spent shafts, And puts them back into his golden quiver! Below me in the valley, deep and green As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent! Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still As when the vanguard of the Roman legions First saw it from the top of yonder hill! How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat, Vineyard and town, and tower with fluttering flag, The consecrated chapel on the crag, And the white hamlet gathered round its base, Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet, And looking up at his beloved face! O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er!

---

II
A FARM IN THE ODENWALD

A garden; morning; PRINCE HENRY seated, with a book. ELSIE at a distance gathering flowers.

PRINCE HENRY, reading. One morning, all alone, Out of his convent of gray stone, Into the forest older, darker, grayer, His lips moving, as if in prayer, His head sunken upon his breast As in a dream of rest, Walked the Monk Felix. All about The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, Filling the summer air; And within the woodlands as he trod, The dusk was like the truce of God With worldly woe and care; Under him lay the golden moss; And above him the boughs of hoary trees Waved, and made the sign of the cross, And whispered their Benedicites; And from the ground Rose an odor sweet and fragrant Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant Vines that wandered, Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but pondered On the volume in his hand, Wherein amazed he read: "A thousand years in thy sight Are but as yesterday when it is past, And as a watch in the night!" And with his eyes downcast In humility he said: "I believe, O Lord, What is written in thy Word, But alas! I do not understand!"

And lo! he heard The sudden singing of a bird, A snow-white bird, that from a cloud Dropped down, And among the branches brown Sat singing, So sweet, and clear, and loud, It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing. And the Monk Felix closed his book, And long, long, With rapturous look, He listened to the song, And hardly breathed or stirred, Until he saw, as in a vision, The land Elysian, And in the heavenly city heard Angelic feet Fall on the golden flagging of the street And he would fain Have caught the wondrous bird, But strove in vain; For it flew away, away, Far over hill and dell, And instead of its sweet singing He heard the convent bell Suddenly in the silence ringing For the service of noonday. And he retraced His pathway sadly and in haste.

In the convent there was a change! He looked for each well-known face, But the faces were new and strange; New figures sat in the oaken stalls, New voices chanted in the choir; Yet the place was the same place, The same dusky walls Of cold, gray stone, The same cloisters and belfry and spire.

A stranger and alone Among that brotherhood The Monk Felix stood. "Forty years," said a Friar, "Have I been Prior Of this convent in the wood, But for that space Never have I beheld thy face!"

The heart of the Monk Felix fell And he answered, with submissive tone, This morning after the hour of Prime, I left my cell, And wandered forth alone, Listening all the time To the melodious singing Of a beautiful white bird, Until I heard The bells of the convent ringing Noon from their noisy towers. It was as if I dreamed; For what to me had seemed Moments only, had been hours!"

"Years!" said a voice close by. It was an aged monk who spoke, From a bench of oak Fastened against the wall;— He was the oldest monk of all. For a whole century Had he been there, Serving God in prayer, The meekest and humblest of his creatures. He remembered well the features Of Felix, and he said, Speaking distinct and slow: "One hundred years ago, When I was a novice in this place, There was here a monk, full of God's grace, Who bore the name Of Felix, and this man must be the same."

And straightway They brought forth to the light of day A volume old and brown, A huge tome, bound In brass and wild-boar's hide, Wherein were written down The names of all who had died In the convent, since it was edified. And there they found, Just as the old monk said, That on a certain day and date, One hundred years before, Had gone forth from the convent gate The Monk Felix, and never more Had entered that sacred door. He had been counted among the dead! And they knew, at last, That, such had been the power Of that celestial and immortal song, A hundred years had passed, And had not seemed so long As a single hour!

ELSIE comes in with flowers.

ELSIE. Here are flowers for you, But they are not all for you. Some of them are for the Virgin And for Saint Cecilia.

PRINCE HENRY. As thou standest there, Thou seemest to me like the angel That brought the immortal roses To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber.

ELSIE. But these will fade.

PRINCE HENRY. Themselves will fade, But not their memory, And memory has the power To re-create them from the dust. They remind me, too, Of martyred Dorothea, Who from Celestial gardens sent Flowers as her witnesses To him who scoffed and doubted.

ELSIE. Do you know the story Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter! That is the prettiest legend of them all.

PRINCE HENRY. Then tell it to me. But first come hither. Lay the flowers down beside me, And put both thy hands in mine. Now tell me the story.

ELSIE. Early in the morning The Sultan's daughter Walked in her father's garden, Gathering the bright flowers, All full of dew.

PRINCE HENRY. Just as thou hast been doing This morning, dearest Elsie.

ELSIE. And as she gathered them She wondered more and more Who was the Master of the Flowers, And made them grow Out of the cold, dark earth. "In my heart," she said, "I love him; and for him Would leave my father's palace, To labor in his garden."

PRINCE HENRY. Dear, innocent child! How sweetly thou recallest The long-forgotten legend. That in my early childhood My mother told me! Upon my brain It reappears once more, As a birth-mark on the forehead When a hand suddenly Is raised upon it, and removed!

ELSIE. And at midnight, As she lay upon her bed, She heard a voice Call to her from the garden, And, looking forth from her window, She saw a beautiful youth Standing among the flowers. It was the Lord Jesus; And she went down to Him, And opened the door for Him; And He said to her, "O maiden! Thou hast thought of me with love, And for thy sake Out of my Father's kingdom Have I come hither: I am the Master of the Flowers. My garden is in Paradise, And if thou wilt go with me, Thy bridal garland Shall be of bright red flowers." And then He took from his finger A golden ring, And asked the Sultan's daughter If she would be his bride. And when she answered Him with love, His wounds began to bleed, And she said to Him, "O Love! how red thy heart is, And thy hands are full of roses." "For thy sake," answered He, "For thy sake is my heart so red, For thee I bring these roses; I gathered them at the cross Whereon I died for thee! I Come, for my Father calls. Thou art my elected bride!" And the Sultan's daughter Followed Him to his Father's garden.

PRINCE HENRY. Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie?

ELSIE. Yes, very gladly.

PRINCE HENRY. Then the Celestial Bridegroom Will come for thee also. Upon thy forehead He will place, Not his crown of thorns, But a crown of roses. In thy bridal chamber, Like Saint Cecilia, Thou shalt hear sweet music, And breathe the fragrance Of flowers immortal! Go now and place these flowers Before her picture.

---

A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE

Twilight. URSULA Spinning. GOTTLIEB asleep in his chair.

URSULA. Darker and darker! Hardly a glimmer Of light comes in at the window-pane; Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer? I cannot disentangle this skein, Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. Elsie!

GOTTLIER, starting. The stopping of thy wheel Has awakened me out of a pleasant dream. I thought I was sitting beside a stream, And heard the grinding of a mill, When suddenly the wheels stood still, And a voice cried "Elsie," in my ear! It startled me, it seemed so near.

URSULA. I was calling her: I want a light. I cannot see to spin my flax. Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear?

ELSIE, within. In a moment!

GOTTLIEB.
Where are Bertha and Max?

URSULA. They are sitting with Elsie at the door. She is telling them stories of the wood, And the Wolf, and little Red Ridinghood.

GOTTLIEB. And where is the Prince?

URSULA.
In his room overhead;
I heard him walking across the floor,
As he always does, with a heavy tread.

ELSIE comes in with a lamp. MAX and BERTHA follow her; and they all sing the Evening Song on the lighting of the lamps.

EVENING SONG

O gladsome light Of the Father Immortal, And of the celestial Sacred and blessed Jesus, our Saviour!

Now to the sunset Again hast thou brought us; And seeing the evening Twilight, we bless thee! Praise thee, adore thee!

Father omnipotent! Son, the Life-giver! Spirit, the Comforter! Worthy at all times Of worship and wonder!

PRINCE HENRY, at the door, Amen!

URSULA.
Who was it said Amen?

ELSIE. It was the Prince: he stood at the door, And listened a moment, as we chanted The evening song. He is gone again. I have often seen him there before.

URSULA. Poor Prince!

GOTTLIEB.
I thought the house was haunted!
Poor Prince, alas! and yet as mild
And patient as the gentlest child!

MAX. I love him because he is so good, And makes me such fine bows and arrows, To shoot at the robins and the sparrows, And the red squirrels in the wood!

BERTHA. I love him, too!

GOTTLIEB.
Ah, yes! we all
Love him from the bottom of our hearts;
He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange,
He gave us the horses and the carts,
And the great oxen in the stall,
The vineyard, and the forest range!
We have nothing to give him but our love!

BERTHA. Did he give us the beautiful stork above On the chimney-top, with its large, round nest?

GOTTLIEB. No, not the stork; by God in heaven, As a blessing, the dear white stork was given, But the Prince has given us all the rest. God bless him, and make him well again.

ELSIE. Would I could do something for his sake, Something to cure his sorrow and pain!

GOTTLIEB. That no one can; neither thou nor I, Nor any one else.

ELSIE.
And must he die?

URSULA. Yes; if the dear God does not take Pity upon him in his distress, And work a miracle!

GOTTLIEB.
Or unless
Some maiden, of her own accord,
Offers her life for that of her lord,
And is willing to die in his stead.

ELSIE.
I will!

URSULA. Prithee, thou foolish child, be still! Thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean!

ELSIE. I mean it truly!

MAX. O father! this morning, Down by the mill, in the ravine, Hans killed a wolf, the very same That in the night to the sheepfold came, And ate up my lamb, that was left outside.

GOTTLIEB. I am glad he is dead. It will be a warning To the wolves in the forest, far and wide.

MAX. And I am going to have his hide!

BERTHA. I wonder if this is the wolf that ate Little Red Ridinghood!

URSULA.
Oh, no!
That wolf was killed a long while ago.
Come, children, it is growing late.

MAX. Ah, how I wish I were a man, As stout as Hans is, and as strong! I would do nothing else, the whole day long, But just kill wolves.

GOTTLIEB.
Then go to bed,
And grow as fast as a little boy can.
Bertha is half asleep already.
See how she nods her heavy head,
And her sleepy feet are so unsteady
She will hardly be able to creep upstairs.

URSULA. Goodnight, my children. Here's the light. And do not forget to say your prayers Before you sleep.

GOTTLIEB.
Good night!

MAX and BERTHA.
Good night!

They go out with ELSIE.

URSULA, spinning. She is a strange and wayward child, That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, And thoughts and fancies weird and wild Seem of late to have taken hold Of her heart, that was once so docile and mild!

GOTTLIEB. She is like all girls.

URSULA.
Ah no, forsooth!
Unlike all I have ever seen.
For she has visions and strange dreams,
And in all her words and ways, she seems
Much older than she is in truth.
Who would think her but fifteen?
And there has been of late such a change!
My heart is heavy with fear and doubt
That she may not live till the year is out.
She is so strange,—so strange,—so strange!

GOTTLIEB. I am not troubled with any such fear; She will live and thrive for many a year.

---

ELSIE'S CHAMBER

Night. ELSIE praying.

ELSIE. My Redeemer and my Lord, I beseech thee, I entreat thee, Guide me in each act and word, That hereafter I may meet thee, Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, With my lamp well trimmed and burning!

Interceding With these bleeding Wounds upon thy hands and side, For all who have lived and erred Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, And in the grave hast thou been buried!

If my feeble prayer can reach thee, O my Saviour, I beseech thee, Even as thou hast died for me, More sincerely Let me follow where thou leadest, Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, Die, if dying I may give Life to one who asks to live, And more nearly, Dying thus, resemble thee!

---

THE CHAMBER OF GOTTLIEB AND URSULA

Midnight. ELSIE standing by their bedside, weeping.

GOTTLIEB. The wind is roaring; the rushing rain Is loud upon roof and window-pane, As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, Boding evil to me and mine, Were abroad to-night with his ghostly train! In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, The dogs howl in the yard; and hark! Some one is sobbing in the dark, Here in the chamber!

ELSIE.
It is I.

URSULA. Elsie! what ails thee, my poor child?

ELSIE. I am disturbed and much distressed, In thinking our dear Prince must die; I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest,

GOTTLIEB. What wouldst thou? In the Power Divine His healing lies, not in our own; It is in the hand of God alone,

ELSIE. Nay, He has put it into mine, And into my heart!

GOTTLIEB.
Thy words are wild!

URSULA. What dost thou mean? my child! My child!

ELSIE. That for our dear Prince Henry's sake I will myself the offering make, And give my life to purchase his.

URSULA. Am I still dreaming, or awake? Thou speakest carelessly of death, And yet thou knowest not what it is.

ELSIE. 'T is the cessation of our breath. Silent and motionless we lie; And no one knoweth more than this. I saw our little Gertrude die; She left off breathing, and no more I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. She was more beautiful than before. Like violets faded were her eyes; By this we knew that she was dead. Through the open window looked the skies Into the chamber where she lay, And the wind was like the sound of wings, As if angels came to bear her away. Ah! when I saw and felt these things, I found it difficult to stay; I longed to die, as she had died, And go forth with her, side by side. The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead And Mary, and our Lord; and I Would follow in humility The way by them illumined!

URSULA. My child! my child! thou must not die!

ELSIE. Why should I live? Do I not know The life of woman is full of woe? Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, And silent lips, and in the soul The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies! Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy, no, not one!

URSULA. It is the malediction of Eve!

ELSIE. In place of it, let me receive The benediction of Mary, then.

GOTTLIEB. Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me! Most wretched am I among men!

URSULA. Alas! that I should live to see Thy death, beloved, and to stand Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day!

ELSIE. Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie Beneath the flowers of another land, For at Salerno, far away Over the mountains, over the sea, It is appointed me to die! And it will seem no more to thee Than if at the village on market-day I should a little longer stay Than I am wont.

URSULA.
Even as thou sayest!
And how my heart beats, when thou stayest!
I cannot rest until my sight
Is satisfied with seeing thee,
What, then, if thou wert dead?

GOTTLIEB.
Ah me!
Of our old eyes thou art the light!
The joy of our old hearts art thou!
And wilt thou die?

URSULA.
Not now! not now!

ELSIE. Christ died for me, and shall not! Be willing for my Prince to die? You both are silent; you cannot speak This said I at our Saviour's feast After confession, to the priest, And even he made no reply. Does he not warn us all to seek The happier, better land on high, Where flowers immortal never wither; And could he forbid me to go thither?

GOTTLIEB. In God's own time, my heart's delight! When He shall call thee, not before!

ELSIE. I heard Him call. When Christ ascended Triumphantly, from star to star, He left the gates of heaven ajar. I had a vision in the night, And saw Him standing at the door Of his Father's mansion, vast and splendid, And beckoning to me from afar. I cannot stay!

GOTTLIEB.
She speaks almost
As if it were the Holy Ghost
Spake through her lips, and in her stead:
What if this were of God?

URSULA.
Ah, then
Gainsay it dare we not.

GOTTLIEB.
Amen!
Elsie! the words that thou hast said
Are strange and new for us to hear,
And fill our hears with doubt and fear.
Whether it be a dark temptation
Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration,
We in our blindness cannot say.
We must think upon it, and pray;
For evil and good it both resembles.
If it be of God, his will be done!
May He guard us from the Evil One!
How hot thy hand is! how it trembles!
Go to thy bed, and try to sleep.

URSULA. Kiss me. Good night; and do not weep!

ELSIE goes out.

Ah, what an awful thing is this! I almost shuddered at her kiss, As if a ghost had touched my cheek, I am so childish and so weak! As soon as I see the earliest gray Of morning glimmer in the east, I will go over to the priest, And hear what the good man has to say.

---

A VILLAGE CHURCH

A woman kneeling at the confessional.

THE PARISH PRIEST, from within. Go, sin no more! Thy penance o'er, A new and better life begin! God maketh thee forever free From the dominion of thy sin! Go, sin no more! He will restore The peace that filled thy heart before, And pardon thine iniquity!

The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, and walks slowly up and down the church.

O blessed Lord! how much I need Thy light to guide me on my way! So many hands, that, without heed, Still touch thy wounds and make them bleed! So many feet, that, day by day, Still wander from thy fold astray! Unless thou fill me with thy light, I cannot lead thy flock aright; Nor without thy support can bear The burden of so great a care, But am myself a castaway!

A pause.

The day is drawing to its close; And what good deeds, since first it rose, Have I presented, Lord, to thee, As offsprings of my ministry? What wrong repressed, what right maintained, What struggle passed, what victory gained, What good attempted and attained? Feeble, at best, is my endeavor! I see, but cannot reach, the height That lies forever in the light; And yet forever and forever, When seeming just within my grasp, I feel my feeble hands unclasp, And sink discouraged into night! For thine own purpose, thou hast sent The strife and the discouragement!

A pause.

Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck? Why keep me pacing to and fro Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, Counting my footsteps as I go, And marking with each step a tomb? Why should the world for thee make room, And wait thy leisure and thy beck? Thou comest in the hope to hear Some word of comfort and of cheer. What can I say? I cannot give The counsel to do this and live; But rather, firmly to deny The tempter, though his power be strong, And, inaccessible to wrong, Still like a martyr live and die!

A pause.

The evening air grows dusk and brown; I must go forth into the town, To visit beds of pain and death, Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes That see, through tears, the sun go down, But never more shall see it rise. The poor in body and estate, The sick and the disconsolate, Must not on man's convenience wait.

Goes out.

Enter LUCIFER, as a Priest.

LUCIFER, with a genuflexion, mocking. This is the Black Pater-noster. God was my foster, He fostered me Under the book of the Palm-tree! St. Michael was my dame. He was born at Bethlehem, He was made of flesh and blood. God send me my right food, My right food, and shelter too, That I may to yon kirk go, To read upon yon sweet book Which the mighty God of heaven shook Open, open, hell's gates! Shut, shut, heaven's gates! All the devils in the air The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer!

Looking round the church.

What a darksome and dismal place! I wonder that any man has the face To call such a hole the House of the Lord, And the gate of Heaven,—yet such is the word. Ceiling, and walls, and windows old, Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould; Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs! The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans, With about as much real edification As if a great Bible, bound in lead, Had fallen, and struck them on the head; And I ought to remember that sensation! Here stands the holy-water stoup! Holy-water it may be to many, But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennae! It smells like a filthy fast-day soup! Near it stands the box for the poor, With its iron padlock, safe and sure. I and the priest of the parish know Whither all these charities go; Therefore, to keep up the institution, I will add my little contribution!

He puts in money.

Underneath this mouldering tomb, With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass, Slumbers a great lord of the village. All his life was riot and pillage, But at length, to escape the threatened doom Of the everlasting penal fire, He died in the dress of a mendicant friar, And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. But all that afterwards came to pass, And whether he finds it dull or pleasant, Is kept a secret for the present, At his own particular desire.

And here, in a corner of the wall, Shadowy, silent, apart from all, With its awful portal open wide, And its latticed windows on either side, And its step well worn by the beaded knees Of one or two pious centuries, Stands the village confessional! Within it, as an honored guest, I will sit down awhile and rest!

Seats himself in the confessional.

Here sits the priest; and faint and low, Like the sighing of an evening breeze, Comes through these painted lattices The ceaseless sound of human woe; Here, while her bosom aches and throbs With deep and agonizing sobs, That half are passion, half contrition, The luckless daughter of perdition Slowly confesses her secret shame! The time, the place, the lover's name! Here the grim murderer, with a groan, From his bruised conscience rolls the stone, Thinking that thus he can atone For ravages of sword and flame!

Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, How a priest can sit here so sedately, Reading, the whole year out and in, Naught but the catalogue of sin, And still keep any faith whatever In human virtue! Never! never!

I cannot repeat a thousandth part Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes That arise, when with palpitating throes The graveyard in the human heart Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest, As if he were an archangel, at least. It makes a peculiar atmosphere, This odor of earthly passions and crimes, Such as I like to breathe, at times, And such as often brings me here In the hottest and most pestilential season. To-day, I come for another reason; To foster and ripen an evil thought In a heart that is almost to madness wrought, And to make a murderer out of a prince, A sleight of hand I learned long since! He comes. In the twilight he will not see The difference between his priest and me! In the same net was the mother caught!

PRINCE HENRY, entering and kneeling at the confessional. Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, I come to crave, O Father holy, Thy benediction on my head.

LUCIFER. The benediction shall be said After confession, not before! 'T is a God-speed to the parting guest, Who stands already at the door, Sandalled with holiness, and dressed In garments pure from earthly stain. Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast? Does the same madness fill thy brain? Or have thy passion and unrest Vanished forever from thy mind?

PRINCE HENRY. By the same madness still made blind, By the same passion still possessed, I come again to the house of prayer, A man afflicted and distressed! As in a cloudy atmosphere, Through unseen sluices of the air, A sudden and impetuous wind Strikes the great forest white with fear, And every branch, and bough, and spray, Points all its quivering leaves one way, And meadows of grass, and fields of rain, And the clouds above, and the slanting rain, And smoke from chimneys of the town, Yield themselves to it, and bow down, So does this dreadful purpose press Onward, with irresistible stress, And all my thoughts and faculties, Struck level by the strength of this, From their true inclination turn And all stream forward to Salem!

LUCIFER. Alas! we are but eddies of dust, Uplifted by the blast, and whirled Along the highway of the world A moment only, then to fall Back to a common level all, At the subsiding of the gust!

PRINCE HENRY. O holy Father! pardon in me The oscillation of a mind Unsteadfast, and that cannot find Its centre of rest and harmony! For evermore before mine eyes This ghastly phantom flits and flies, And as a madman through a crowd, With frantic gestures and wild cries, It hurries onward, and aloud Repeats its awful prophecies! Weakness is wretchedness! To be strong Is to be happy! I am weak, And cannot find the good I seek, Because I feel and fear the wrong!

LUCIFER. Be not alarmed! The church is kind, And in her mercy and her meekness She meets half-way her children's weakness, Writes their transgressions in the dust! Though in the Decalogue we find The mandate written, "Thou shalt not kill!" Yet there are cases when we must. In war, for instance, or from scathe To guard and keep the one true faith We must look at the Decalogue in the light Of an ancient statute, that was meant For a mild and general application, To be understood with the reservation That in certain instances the Right Must yield to the Expedient! Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie! What noble deeds, what fair renown, Into the grave with thee go down! What acts of valor and courtesy Remain undone, and die with thee! Thou art the last of all thy race! With thee a noble name expires, And vanishes from the earth's face The glorious memory of thy sires! She is a peasant. In her veins Flows common and plebeian blood; It is such as daily and hourly stains The dust and the turf of battle plains, By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, Without reserve and without reward, At the slightest summons of their lord! But thine is precious; the fore-appointed Blood of kings, of God's anointed! Moreover, what has the world in store For one like her, but tears and toil? Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, A peasant's child and a peasant's wife, And her soul within her sick and sore With the roughness and barrenness of life! I marvel not at the heart's recoil From a fate like this, in one so tender, Nor at its eagerness to surrender All the wretchedness, want, and woe That await it in this world below, For the unutterable splendor Of the world of rest beyond the skies. So the Church sanctions the sacrifice: Therefore inhale this healing balm, And breathe this fresh life into thine; Accept the comfort and the calm She offers, as a gift divine; Let her fall down and anoint thy feet With the ointment costly and most sweet Of her young blood, and thou shalt live.

PRINCE HENRY. And will the righteous Heaven forgive? No action, whether foal or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it, till at length The wrongs of ages are redressed, And the justice of God made manifest!

LUCIFER. In ancient records it is stated That, whenever an evil deed is done, Another devil is created To scourge and torment the offending one! But evil is only good perverted, And Lucifer, the bearer of Light, But an angel fallen and deserted, Thrust from his Father's house with a curse Into the black and endless night.

PRINCE HENRY. If justice rules the universe, From the good actions of good men Angels of light should be begotten. And thus the balance restored again.

LUCIFER. Yes; if the world were not so rotten, And so given over to the Devil!

PRINCE HENRY. But this deed, is it good or evil? Have I thine absolution free To do it, and without restriction?

LUCIFER. Ay; and from whatsoever sin Lieth around it and within, From all crimes in which it may involve thee, I now release thee and absolve thee!

PRINCE HENRY. Give me thy holy benediction.

LUCIFER, stretching forth his hand and muttering.
Maledictione perpetua
Maledicat vos
Pater eternus!

THE ANGEL, with the æolian harp. Take heed! take heed! Noble art thou in thy birth, By the good and the great of earth Hast thou been taught! Be noble in every thought And in every deed! Let not the illusion of thy senses Betray thee to deadly offences, Be strong! be good! be pure! The right only shall endure, All things else are but false pretences. I entreat thee, I implore, Listen no more To the suggestions of an evil spirit, That even now is there, Making the foul seem fair, And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit!

---

A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE

GOTTLIEB. It is decided! For many days, And nights as many, we have had A nameless terror in our breast, Making us timid, and afraid Of God, and his mysterious ways! We have been sorrowful and sad; Much have we suffered, much have prayed That He would lead us as is best, And show us what his will required. It is decided; and we give Our child, O Prince, that you may live!

URSULA. It is of God. He has inspired This purpose in her: and through pain, Out of a world of sin and woe, He takes her to Himself again. The mother's heart resists no longer; With the Angel of the Lord in vain It wrestled, for he was the stronger.

GOTTLIEB. As Abraham offered long ago His son unto the Lord, and even The Everlasting Father in heaven Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, So do I offer up my daughter!

URSULA hides her face.

ELSIE.
My life is little,
Only a cup of water,
But pure and limpid.
Take it, O my Prince!
Let it refresh you,
Let it restore you.
It is given willingly,
It is given freely;
May God bless the gift!

PRINCE HENRY, And the giver!

GOTTLIEB. Amen!

PRINCE HENRY. I accept it!

GOTTLIEB. Where are the children?

URSULA. They are already asleep.

GOTTLIEB. What if they were dead?

---

IN THE GARDEN

ELSIE. I have one thing to ask of you.

PRINCE HENRY.
What is it?
It is already granted.

ELSIE.
Promise me,
When we are gone from here, and on our way
Are journeying to Salerno, you will not,
By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade me
And turn me from my purpose; but remember
That as a pilgrim to the Holy City
Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon
Occupied wholly, so would I approach
The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee,
With my petition, putting off from me
All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet.
Promise me this.

PRINCE HENRY. Thy words fall from thy lips Like roses from the lips of Angelo: and angels Might stoop to pick them up!

ELSIE.
Will you not promise?

PRINCE HENRY. If ever we depart upon this journey, So long to one or both of us, I promise.

ELSIE. Shall we not go, then? Have you lifted me Into the air, only to hurl me back Wounded upon the ground? and offered me The waters of eternal life, to bid me Drink the polluted puddles of the world?

PRINCE HENRY. O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! The life which is, and that which is to come, Suspended hang in such nice equipoise A breath disturbs the balance; and that scale In which we throw our hearts preponderates, And the other, like an empty one, flies up, And is accounted vanity and air! To me the thought of death is terrible, Having such hold on life. To thee it is not So much even as the lifting of a latch; Only a step into the open air Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its transparent walls! O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow Lilies, upon whose petals will be written "Ave Maria" in characters of gold!

---

III
A STREET IN STRASBURG

Night. PRINCE HENRY wandering alone, wrapped in a cloak.

PRINCE HENRY. Still is the night. The sound of feet Has died away from the empty street, And like an artisan, bending down His head on his anvil, the dark town Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. Sleepless and restless, I alone, In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone, Wander and weep in my remorse!

CRIER OF THE DEAD, ringing a bell.
Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

PRINCE HENRY. Hark! with what accents loud and hoarse This warder on the walls of death Sends forth the challenge of his breath! I see the dead that sleep in the grave! They rise up and their garments wave, Dimly and spectral, as they rise, With the light of another world in their eyes!

CRIER OF THE DEAD.
Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

PRINCE HENRY, Why for the dead, who are at rest? Pray for the living, in whose breast The struggle between right and wrong Is raging terrible and strong, As when good angels war with devils! This is the Master of the Revels, Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes The health of absent friends, and pledges, Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, And tinkling as we touch their edges, But with his dismal, tinkling bell. That mocks and mimics their funeral knell.

CRIER OP THE DEAD.
Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

PRINCE HENRY. Wake not, beloved! be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep! There walks a sentinel at thy gate Whose heart is heavy and desolate, And the heavings of whose bosom number The respirations of thy slumber, As if some strange, mysterious fate Had linked two hearts in one, and mine Went madly wheeling about thine, Only with wider and wilder sweep!

CRIER OP THE DEAD, at a distance.
Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

PRINCE HENRY. Lo! with what depth of blackness thrown Against the clouds, far up the skies The walls of the cathedral rise, Like a mysterious grove of stone, With fitful lights and shadows blending, As from behind, the moon ascending, Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown! The wind is rising; but the boughs Rise not and fall not with the wind, That through their foliage sobs and soughs; Only the cloudy rack behind, Drifting onward, wild and ragged, Gives to each spire and buttress jagged A seeming motion undefined. Below on the square, an armed knight, Still as a statue and as white, Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver Upon the points of his armor bright As on the ripples of a river. He lifts the visor from his cheek, And beckons, and makes as he would speak.

WALTER the Minnesinger. Friend! can you tell me where alight Thuringia's horsemen for the night? For I have lingered in the rear, And wander vainly up and down.

PRINCE HENRY. I am a stranger in the town. As thou art; but the voice I hear Is not a stranger to mine ear. Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid!

WALTER. Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy name Is Henry of Hoheneck!

PRINCE HENRY.
Ay, the same.

WALTER, embracing him. Come closer, closer to my side! What brings thee hither? What potent charm Has drawn thee from thy German farm Into the old Alsatian city?

PRINCE HENRY. A tale of wonder and of pity! A wretched man, almost by stealth Dragging my body to Salem, In the vain hope and search for health, And destined never to return. Already thou hast heard the rest. But what brings thee, thus armed and dight In the equipments of a knight?

WALTER. Dost thou not see upon my breast The cross of the Crusaders shine? My pathway leads to Palestine.

PRINCE HENRY. Ah, would that way were also mine! O noble poet! thou whose heart Is like a nest of singing-birds Rocked on the topmost bough of life, Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, And in the clangor of the strife Mingle the music of thy words?

WALTER. My hopes are high, my heart is proud, And like a trumpet long and loud, Thither my thoughts all clang and ring! My life is in my hand, and lo! I grasp and bend it as a bow, And shoot forth from its trembling string An arrow, that shall be, perchance, Like the arrow of the Israelite king Shot from the window towards the east. That of the Lord's deliverance!

PRINCE HENRY. My life, alas! is what thou seest! O enviable fate! to be Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee With lyre and sword, with song and steel; A hand to smite, a heart to feel! Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, Thou givest all unto thy Lord; While I, so mean and abject grown, Am thinking of myself alone,

WALTER. Be patient; Time will reinstate Thy health and fortunes.

PRINCE HENRY.
'T is too late!
I cannot strive against my fate!

WALTER. Come with me; for my steed is weary; Our journey has been long and dreary, And, dreaming of his stall, he dints With his impatient hoofs the flints.

PRINCE HENRY, aside. I am ashamed, in my disgrace, To look into that noble face! To-morrow, Walter, let it be.

WALTER. To-morrow, at the dawn of day, I shall again be on my way. Come with me to the hostelry, For I have many things to say. Our journey into Italy Perchance together we may make; Wilt thou not do it for my sake?

PRINCE HENRY. A sick man's pace would but impede Thine eager and impatient speed. Besides, my pathway leads me round To Hirsehau, in the forest's bound, Where I assemble man and steed, And all things for my journey's need.

They go out.

LUCIFER, flying over the city. Sleep, sleep, O city! till the light Wake you to sin and crime again, Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, I scatter downward through the night My maledictions dark and deep. I have more martyrs in your walls Than God has; and they cannot sleep; They are my bondsmen and my thralls; Their wretched lives are full of pain, Wild agonies of nerve and brain; And every heart-beat, every breath, Is a convulsion worse than death! Sleep, sleep, O city! though within The circuit of your walls there be No habitation free from sin, And all its nameless misery; The aching heart, the aching head, Grief for the living and the dead, And foul corruption of the time, Disease, distress, and want, and woe, And crimes, and passions that may grow Until they ripen into crime!

---

SQUARE IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL

Easter Sunday. FRIAR CUTHBERT preaching to the crowd from a pulpit in the open air. PRINCE HENRY and Elsie crossing the square.

PRINCE HENRY. This is the day, when from the dead Our Lord arose; and everywhere, Out of their darkness and despair, Triumphant over fears and foes, The hearts of his disciples rose, When to the women, standing near, The Angel in shining vesture said, "The Lord is risen; he is not here!" And, mindful that the day is come, On all the hearths in Christendom The fires are quenched, to be again Rekindled from the sun, that high Is dancing in the cloudless sky. The churches are all decked with flowers, The salutations among men Are but the Angel's words divine, "Christ is arisen!" and the bells Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, And chant together in their towers. All hearts are glad; and free from care The faces of the people shine. See what a crowd is in the square, Gayly and gallantly arrayed!

ELSIE. Let us go back; I am afraid!

PRINCE HENRY. Nay, let us mount the church-steps here, Under the doorway's sacred shadow; We can see all things, and be freer From the crowd that madly heaves and presses!

ELSIE. What a gay pageant! what bright dresses! It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. What is that yonder on the square?

PRINCE HENRY. A pulpit in the open air, And a Friar, who is preaching to the crowd In a voice so deep and clear and loud, That, if we listen, and give heed, His lowest words will reach the ear.

FRIAR CUTHBERT, gesticulating and cracking a postilion's whip. What ho! good people! do you not hear? Dashing along at the top of his speed, Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, A courier comes with words of cheer. Courier! what is the news, I pray? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From court." Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport.

Cracks his whip again.

Ah, here comes another, riding this way; We soon shall know what he has to say. Courier! what are the tidings to-day? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From town." Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown.

Cracks his whip more violently.

And here comes a third, who is spurring amain; What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From Rome." Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed!

Great applause among the crowd.

To come back to my text! When the news was first spread That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead, Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; And as great the dispute as to who should carry The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. Old Father Adam was first to propose, As being the author of all our woes; But he was refused, for fear, said they, He would stop to eat apples on the way! Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, Because he might meet with his brother Cain! Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine Should delay him at every tavern-sign; And John the Baptist could not get a vote, On account of his old-fashioned camel's-hair coat; And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross, Was reminded that all his bones were broken! Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, The company being still at loss, The Angel, who rolled away the stone, Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone. And filled with glory that gloomy prison, And said to the Virgin, "The Lord is arisen!"

The Cathedral bells ring.

But hark! the bells are beginning to chime; And I feel that I am growing hoarse. I will put an end to my discourse, And leave the rest for some other time. For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon, and now a prayer. The clangorous hammer is the tongue, This way, that way, beaten and swung, That from mouth of brass, as from Month of Gold, May be taught the Testaments, New and Old, And above it the great cross-beam of wood Representeth the Holy Rood, Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung Is the mind of man, that round and round Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity Of Morals, and Symbols, and History; And the upward and downward motion show That we touch upon matters high and low; And the constant change and transmutation Of action and of contemplation, Downward, the Scripture brought from on high, Upward, exalted again to the sky; Downward, the literal interpretation, Upward, the Vision and Mystery!

And now, my hearers, to make an end, I have only one word more to say; In the church, in honor of Easter day Will be presented a Miracle Play; And I hope you will have the grace to attend. Christ bring us at last to his felicity! Pax vobiscum! et Benedicite!

---

IN THE CATHEDRAL

CHANT. Kyrie Eleison Christe Eleison!

ELSIE. I am at home here in my Father's house! These paintings of the Saints upon the walls Have all familiar and benignant faces.

PRINCE HENRY. The portraits of the family of God! Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them.

ELSIE. How very grand it is and wonderful! Never have I beheld a church so splendid! Such columns, and such arches, and such windows, So many tombs and statues in the chapels, And under them so many confessionals. They must be for the rich. I should not like To tell my sins in such a church as this. Who built it?

PRINCE HENRY.
A great master of his craft,
Erwin von Steinbach; but not he alone,
For many generations labored with him.
Children that came to see these Saints in stone,
As day by day out of the blocks they rose,
Grew old and died, and still the work went on,
And on, and on, and is not yet completed.
The generation that succeeds our own
Perhaps may finish it. The architect
Built his great heart into these sculptured stones,
And with him toiled his children, and their lives
Were builded, with his own, into the walls,
As offerings unto God. You see that statue
Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes
Upon the Pillars of the Angels yonder.
That is the image of the master, carved
By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina.

ELSIE. How beautiful is the column that he looks at!

PRINCE HENRY. That, too, she sculptured. At the base of it Stand the Evangelists; above their heads Four Angels blowing upon marble trumpets, And over them the blessed Christ, surrounded By his attendant ministers, upholding The instruments of his passion.

ELSIE.
O my Lord!
Would I could leave behind me upon earth
Some monument to thy glory, such as this!

PRINCE HENRY. A greater monument than this thou leavest In thine own life, all purity and love! See, too, the Rose, above the western portal Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous colors, The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness!

ELSIE. And, in the gallery, the long line of statues, Christ with his twelve Apostles watching us!

A Bishop in armor, booted and spurred, passes with his train.

PRINCE HENRY. But come away; we have not time to look, The crowd already fills the church, and yonder Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims The Mystery that will now be represented.

---

THE NATIVITY
A MIRACLE-PLAY

INTROITUS

PRAECO. Come, good people, all and each, Come and listen to our speech! In your presence here I stand, With a trumpet in my hand, To announce the Easter Play, Which we represent to-day! First of all we shall rehearse, In our action and our verse, The Nativity of our Lord, As written in the old record Of the Protevangelion, So that he who reads may run!

Blows his trumpet.

I.
HEAVEN.

MERCY, at the feet of God.
Have pity, Lord! be not afraid
To save mankind, whom thou hast made,
Nor let the souls that were betrayed
Perish eternally!

JUSTICE.
It cannot be, it must not be!
When in the garden placed by thee,
The fruit of the forbidden tree
He ate, and he must die!

MERCY.
Have pity, Lord! let penitence
Atone for disobedience,
Nor let the fruit of man's offence
Be endless misery!

JUSTICE.
What penitence proportionate
Can e'er be felt for sin so great?
Of the forbidden fruit he ate,
And damned must he be!

GOD.
He shall be saved, if that within
The bounds of earth one free from sin
Be found, who for his kith and kin
Will suffer martyrdom.

THE FOUR VIRTUES.
Lord! we have searched the world around,
From centre to the utmost bound,
But no such mortal can be found;
Despairing, back we come.

WISDOM.
No mortal, but a God-made man,
Can ever carry out this plan,
Achieving what none other can,
Salvation unto all!

GOD.
Go, then, O my beloved Son!
It can by thee alone be done;
By thee the victory shall be won
O'er Satan and the Fall!

Here the ANGEL GABRIEL shall leave Paradise and fly towards the earth; the jaws of hell open below, and the Devils walk about, making a great noise.

II.
MARY AT THE WELL

MARY.
Along the garden walk, and thence
Through the wicket in the garden fence
I steal with quiet pace,
My pitcher at the well to fill,
That lies so deep and cool and still
In this sequestered place.

These sycamores keep guard around;
I see no face, I hear no sound,
Save bubblings of the spring,
And my companions, who, within,
The threads of gold and scarlet spin,
And at their labor sing.

THE ANGEL GABRIEL. Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace!

Here MARY looketh around her, trembling, and then saith:

MARY.
Who is it speaketh in this place,
With such a gentle voice?

GABRIEL.
The Lord of heaven is with thee now!
Blessed among all women thou,
Who art his holy choice!

MARY, setting down the pitcher.
What can this mean? No one is near,
And yet, such sacred words I hear,
I almost fear to stay.

Here the ANGEL, appearing to her, shall say:

GABRIEL.
Fear not, O Mary! but believe!
For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive
A child this very day.

Fear not, O Mary! from the sky
The Majesty of the Most High
Shall overshadow thee!

MARY.
Behold the handmaid of the Lord!
According to thy holy word,
So be it unto me!

Here the Devils shall again make a great noise, under the stage.

III.
THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLANETS, BEARING THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM

THE ANGELS.
The Angels of the Planets Seven,
Across the shining fields of heaven
The natal star we bring!
Dropping our sevenfold virtues down
As priceless jewels in the crown
Of Christ, our new-born King.

RAPHAEL.
I am the Angel of the Sun,
Whose flaming wheels began to run
When God Almighty's breath
Said to the darkness and the Night,
Let there he light! and there was light!
I bring the gift of Faith.

ONAFIEL.
I am the Angel of the Moon,
Darkened to be rekindled soon
Beneath the azure cope!
Nearest to earth, it is my ray
That best illumes the midnight way;
I bring the gift of Hope!

ANAEL.
The Angel of the Star of Love,
The Evening Star, that shines above
The place where lovers be,
Above all happy hearths and homes,
On roofs of thatch, or golden domes,
I give him Charity!

ZOBIACHEL.
The Planet Jupiter is mine!
The mightiest star of all that shine,
Except the sun alone!
He is the High Priest of the Dove,
And sends, from his great throne above,
Justice, that shall atone!

MICHAEL.
The Planet Mercury, whose place
Is nearest to the sun in space,
Is my allotted sphere!
And with celestial ardor swift
I hear upon my hands the gift
Of heavenly Prudence here!

URIEL.
I am the Minister of Mars,
The strongest star among the stars!
My songs of power prelude
The march and battle of man's life,
And for the suffering and the strife,
I give him Fortitude!

ORIFEL.
The Angel of the uttermost
Of all the shining, heavenly host,
From the far-off expanse
Of the Saturnian, endless space
I bring the last, the crowning grace,
The gift of Temperance!

A sudden light shines from the windows of the stable in the village below.

IV.
THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST

The stable of the Inn. The VIRGIN and CHILD. Three Gypsy Kings, GASPAR, MELCHIOR, and BELSHAZZAR, shall come in.

GASPAR.
Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth!
Though in a manger thou draw breath,
Thou art greater than Life and Death,
Greater than Joy or Woe!
This cross upon the line of life
Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife,
And through a region with peril rife
In darkness shalt thou go!

MELCHIOR.
Hail to thee, King of Jerusalem!
Though humbly born in Bethlehem,
A sceptre and a diadem
Await thy brow and hand!
The sceptre is a simple reed,
The crown will make thy temples bleed,
And in thine hour of greatest need,
Abashed thy subjects stand!

BELSHAZZAR.
Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom!
O'er all the earth thy kingdom come!
From distant Trebizond to Rome
Thy name shall men adore!
Peace and good-will among all men,
The Virgin has returned again,
Returned the old Saturnian reign
And Golden Age once more.

THE CHILD CHRIST.
Jesus, the Son of God, am I,
Born here to suffer and to die
According to the prophecy,
That other men may live!

THE VIRGIN.
And now these clothes, that wrapped Him, take
And keep them precious, for his sake;
Our benediction thus we make,
Naught else have we to give.

She gives them swaddling-clothes and they depart.

V.
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

Here JOSEPH shall come in, leading an ass, on which are seated MARY and the CHILD.

MARY.
Here will we rest us, under these
O'erhanging branches of the trees,
Where robins chant their Litanies
And canticles of joy.

JOSEPH.
My saddle-girths have given way
With trudging through the heat to-day;
To you I think it is but play
To ride and hold the boy.

MARY.
Hark! how the robins shout and sing,
As if to hail their infant King!
I will alight at yonder spring
To wash his little coat.

JOSEPH.
And I will hobble well the ass,
Lest, being loose upon the grass,
He should escape; for, by the mass,
He's nimble as a goat.

Here MARY shall alight and go to the spring.

MARY.
O Joseph! I am much afraid,
For men are sleeping in the shade;
I fear that we shall be waylaid,
And robbed and beaten sore!

Here a band of robbers shall be seen sleeping, two of whom shall rise and come forward.

DUMACHUS. Cock's soul! deliver up your gold!

JOSEPH.
I pray you, sirs, let go your hold!
You see that I am weak and old,
Of wealth I have no store.

DUMACHUS. Give up your money!

TITUS.
Prithee cease.
Let these people go in peace.

DUMACHUS.
First let them pay for their release,
And then go on their way.

TITUS. These forty groats I give in fee, If thou wilt only silent be.

MARY.
May God be merciful to thee
Upon the Judgment Day!

JESUS.
When thirty years shall have gone by,
I at Jerusalem shall die,
By Jewish hands exalted high
On the accursed tree,
Then on my right and my left side,
These thieves shall both be crucified,
And Titus thenceforth shall abide
In paradise with me.

Here a great rumor of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a king with his army, and the robbers shall take flight.

VI.
THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

KING HEROD.
Potz-tausend! Himmel-sacrament!
Filled am I with great wonderment
At this unwelcome news!
Am I not Herod? Who shall dare
My crown to take, my sceptre bear,
As king among the Jews?

Here he shall stride up and down and flourish his sword.

What ho! I fain would drink a can
Of the strong wine of Canaan!
The wine of Helbon bring
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre,
As red as blood, as hot as fire,
And fit for any king!

He quaffs great goblets of wine.

Now at the window will I stand,
While in the street the armed band
The little children slay;
The babe just born in Bethlehem
Will surely slaughtered be with them,
Nor live another day!

Here a voice of lamentation shall be heard in the street.

RACHEL.
O wicked king! O cruel speed!
To do this most unrighteous deed!
My children all are slain!

HEROD.
Ho, seneschal! another cup!
With wine of Sorek fill it up!
I would a bumper drain!

RAHAB.
May maledictions fall and blast
Thyself and lineage to the last
Of all thy kith and kin!

HEROD.
Another goblet! quick! and stir
Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh
And calamus therein!

SOLDIERS, in the street.
Give up thy child into our hands!
It is King Herod who commands
That he should thus be slain!

THE NURSE MEDUSA.
O monstrous men! What have ye done!
It is King Herod's only son
That ye have cleft in twain!

HEROD.
Ah, luckless day! What words of fear
Are these that smite upon my ear
With such a doleful sound!
What torments rack my heart and head!
Would I were dead! would I were dead,
And buried in the ground!

He falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. Hell opens, and SATAN and ASTAROTH come forth and drag him down.

VII.
JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS SCHOOLMATES

JESUS.
The shower is over. Let us play,
And make some sparrows out of clay,
Down by the river's side.

JUDAS.
See, how the stream has overflowed
Its banks, and o'er the meadow road
Is spreading far and wide!

They draw water out of the river by channels and form little pools. JESUS makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys do the same.

JESUS.
Look! look how prettily I make
These little sparrows by the lake
Bend down their necks and drink!
Now will I make them sing and soar
So far, they shall return no more
Unto this river's brink.

JUDAS.
That canst thou not! They are but clay,
They cannot sing, nor fly away
Above the meadow lands!

JESUS.
Fly, fly! ye sparrows! you are free!
And while you live, remember me,
Who made you with my hands.

Here JESUS shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, chirruping.

JUDAS.
Thou art a sorcerer, I know;
Oft has my mother told me so,
I will not play with thee!

He strikes JESUS in the right side.

JESUS.
Ah, Judas! thou hast smote my side,
And when I shall be crucified,
There shall I pierced be!

Here JOSEPH shall come in and say:

JOSEPH.
Ye wicked boys! why do ye play,
And break the holy Sabbath day?
What, think ye, will your mothers say
To see you in such plight!
In such a sweat and such a heat,
With all that mud upon your feet!
There's not a beggar in the street
Makes such a sorry sight!

VIII.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL

The RABBI BEN ISRAEL, sitting on a high stool, with a long beard, and a rod in his hand.

RABBI.
I am the Rabbi Ben Israel,
Throughout this village known full well,
And, as my scholars all will tell,
Learned in things divine;
The Cabala and Talmud hoar
Than all the prophets prize I more,
For water is all Bible lore,
But Mishna is strong wine.

My fame extends from West to East,
And always, at the Purim feast,
I am as drunk as any beast
That wallows in his sty;
The wine it so elateth me,
That I no difference can see
Between "Accursed Haman be!"
And "Blessed be Mordecai!"

Come hither, Judas Iscariot;
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got
From the Rabbinical Book or not.
Why howl the dogs at night?

JUDAS.
In the Rabbinical Book, it saith
The dogs howl, when with icy breath
Great Sammael, the Angel of Death,
Takes through the town his flight!

RABBI.
Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise,
When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes,
Comes where a sick man dying lies,
What doth he to the wight?

JUDAS.
He stands beside him, dark and tall,
Holding a sword, from which doth fall
Into his mouth a drop of gall,
And so he turneth white.

RABBI.
And now, my Judas, say to me
What the great Voices Four may be,
That quite across the world do flee,
And are not heard by men?

JUDAS.
The Voice of the Sun in heaven's dome,
The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome,
The Voice of a Soul that goeth home,
And the Angel of the Rain!

RABBI.
Right are thine answers every one!
Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son,
Let us see how thy task is done;
Canst thou thy letters say?

JESUS. Aleph.

RABBI.
What next? Do not stop yet!
Go on with all the alphabet.
Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou forget?
Cock's soul! thou'dst rather play!

JESUS. What Aleph means I fain would know Before I any farther go!

RABBI.
Oh, by Saint Peter! wouldst thou so?
Come hither, boy, to me.
As surely as the letter Jod
Once cried aloud, and spake to God,
So surely shalt thou feel this rod,
And punished shalt thou be!

Here RABBI BEN ISRAEL shall lift up his rod to strike Jesus, and his right arm shall be paralyzed.

IX.
CROWNED WITH FLOWERS

JESUS sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their King.

BOYS.
We spread our garments on the ground!
With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned
While like a guard we stand around,
And hail thee as our King!
Thou art the new King of the Jews!
Nor let the passers-by refuse
To bring that homage which men use
To majesty to bring.

Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his garments and say:

BOYS.
Come hither I and all reverence pay
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day!
Then go rejoicing on your way,
In all prosperity!

TRAVELLER.
Hail to the King of Bethlehem,
Who weareth in his diadem
The yellow crocus for the gem
Of his authority!

He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child.

BOYS.
Set down the litter and draw near!
The King of Bethlehem is here!
What ails the child, who seems to fear
That we shall do him harm?

THE BEARERS.
He climbed up to the robin's nest,
And out there darted, from his rest,
A serpent with a crimson crest,
And stung him in the arm.

JESUS.
Bring him to me, and let me feel
The wounded place; my touch can heal
The sting of serpents, and can steal
The poison from the bite!

He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry.

Cease to lament! I can foresee
That thou hereafter known shalt be,
Among the men who follow me,
As Simon the Canaanite!

EPILOGUE

In the after part of the day
Will be represented another play,
Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord,
Beginning directly after Nones!
At the close of which we shall accord,
By way of benison and reward,
The sight of a holy Martyr's bones!

---

IV
THE ROAD TO HIRSCHAU

PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with their attendants on horseback.

ELSIE.
Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city,
impatiently bearing
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate,
of doing and daring!

PRINCE HENRY.
This life of ours is a wild æolian harp of many
a joyous strain,
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail,
as of souls in pain.

ELSIE.
Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart
that aches and bleeds with the stigma
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ,
and can comprehend its dark enigma.

PRINCE HENRY.
Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care
of what may betide,
Else why am I travelling here beside thee,
a demon that rides by an angel's side?

ELSIE.
All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog
under the creaking wain
Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward
the horses toil and strain.

PRINCE HENRY.
Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs
with the landlord's daughter,
While out of the dripping trough the horses
distend their leathern sides with water.

ELSIE.
All through life there are wayside inns,
where man may refresh his soul with love;
Even the lowest may quench his thirst
at rivulets fed by springs from above.

PRINCE HENRY.
Yonder, where rises the cross of stone,
our journey along the highway ends,
And over the fields, by a bridle path,
down into the broad green valley descends.

ELSIE.
I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road
with its dust and heat
The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer
under our horses' feet.

They turn down a green lane.

ELSIE.
Sweet is the air with the budding haws,
and the valley stretching for miles below
Is white with blossoming cherry-trees,
as if just covered with lightest snow.

PRINCE HENRY.
Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming
against the distant hill;
We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs
like a banner when winds are still.

ELSIE.
Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool
the sound of the brook by our side!
What is this castle that rises above us,
and lords it over a land so wide?

PRINCE HENRY.
It is the home of the Counts of Calva;
well have I known these scenes of old,
Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet,
the wood, and the wold.

ELSIE.
Hark! from the little village below us the bells
of the church are ringing for rain!
Priests and peasants in long procession come forth
and kneel on the arid plain.

PRINCE HENRY.
They have not long to wait, for I see in the south
uprising a little cloud,
That before the sun shall be set will cover
the sky above us as with a shroud.

They pass on.

THE CONVENT OF HIRSCHAU IN THE BLACK FOREST.

The Convent cellar. FRIAR CLAUS comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons.

FRIAR CLAUS. I always enter this sacred place With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, Pausing long enough on each stair To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction on the vines That produce these various sorts of wines! For my part, I am well content That we have got through with the tedious Lent! Fasting is all very well for those Who have to contend with invisible foes; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me, Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind, That are always distressed in body and mind! And at times it really does me good To come down among this brotherhood, Dwelling forever underground, Silent, contemplative, round and sound; Each one old, and brown with mould, But filled to the lips with the ardor of youth, With the latent power and love of truth, And with virtues fervent and manifold.

I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, When buds are swelling on every side, And the sap begins to move in the vine, Then in all cellars, far and wide, The oldest as well as the newest wine Begins to stir itself, and ferment, With a kind of revolt and discontent At being so long in darkness pent, And fain would burst from its sombre tun To bask on the hillside in the sun; As in the bosom of us poor friars, The tumult of half-subdued desires For the world that we have left behind Disturbs at times all peace of mind! And now that we have lived through Lent, My duty it is, as often before, To open awhile the prison-door, And give these restless spirits vent.

Now here is a cask that stands alone, And has stood a hundred years or more, Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! It is of the quick and not of the dead! In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak That time may have tamed, but has not broke! It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm; But that I do not consider dear, When I remember that every year Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome. And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, The old rhyme keeps running in my brain;

At Bacharach on the Rhine,
At Hochheim on the Main,
And at Wurzburg on the Stein,
Grow the three best kinds of wine!

They are all good wines, and better far Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. In particular, Wurzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most. This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, Who seems to be much of my way of thinking.

Fills a flagon.

Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! What a delicious fragrance springs From the deep flagon, while it fills, As of hyacinths and daffodils! Between this cask and the Abbot's lips Many have been the sips and slips; Many have been the draughts of wine, On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs, Less with its longings and more with its prayers. But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul!

He drinks.

O cordial delicious! O soother of pain! It flashes like sunshine into my brain! A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends! And now a flagon for such as may ask A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, And I will be gone, though I know full well The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell. Behold where he stands, all sound and good, Brown and old in his oaken hood; Silent he seems externally As any Carthusian monk may be; But within, what a spirit of deep unrest! What a seething and simmering in his breast! As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart! Let me unloose this button of wood, And quiet a little his turbulent mood.

Sets it running.

See! how its currents gleam and shine, As if they had caught the purple hues Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews; Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, Was taken and crucified by the Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach! Perdition upon those infidel Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach! The beautiful town, that gives us wine With the fragrant odor of Muscadine! I should deem it wrong to let this pass Without first touching my lips to the glass, For here in the midst of the current I stand Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, Taking toll upon either hand, And much more grateful to the giver.

He drinks.

Here, now, is a very inferior kind, Such as in any town you may find, Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. And, after all, it was not a crime, For he won thereby Dorf Huffelsheim. A jolly old toper! who at a pull Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, And ask with a laugh, when that was done, If the fellow had left the other one! This wine is as good as we can afford To the friars who sit at the lower board, And cannot distinguish bad from good, And are far better off than if they could, Being rather the rude disciples of beer, Than of anything more refined and dear!

Fills the flagon and departs.

THE SCRIPTORIUM

FRIAR PACIFICUS transcribing and illuminating.

FRIAR PACIFICUS. It is growing dark! Yet one line more, And then my work for to-day is o'er. I come again to the name of the Lord! Ere I that awful name record, That is spoken so lightly among men, Let me pause awhile and wash my pen; Pure from blemish and blot must it be When it writes that word of mystery!

Thus have I labored on and on, Nearly through the Gospel of John. Can it be that from the lips Of this same gentle Evangelist, That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, Came the dread Apocalypse! It has a very awful look, As it stands there at the end of the book, Like the sun in an eclipse. Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, Think of writing it, line by line, I stand in awe of the terrible curse, Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse! God forgive me! if ever I Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, Lest my part too should be taken away From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day. This is well written, though I say it! I should not be afraid to display it In open day, on the selfsame shelf With the writings of St. Thecla herself, Or of Theodosius, who of old Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold! That goodly folio standing yonder, Without a single blot or blunder, Would not bear away the palm from mine, If we should compare them line for line.

There, now, is an initial letter! Saint Ulric himself never made a better! Finished down to the leaf and the snail, Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail! And now, as I turn the volume over, And see what lies between cover and cover, What treasures of art these pages hold, All ablaze with crimson and gold, God forgive me! I seem to feel A certain satisfaction steal Into my heart, and into my brain, As if my talent had not lain Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, Here is a copy of thy Word, Written out with much toil and pain; Take it, O Lord, and let it be As something I have done for thee!

He looks from the window.

How sweet the air is! how fair the scene! I wish I had as lovely a green To paint my landscapes and my leaves! How the swallows twitter under the eaves! There, now, there is one in her nest; I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook For the margin of my Gospel book.

He makes a sketch.

I can see no more. Through the valley yonder A shower is passing; I hear the thunder Mutter its curses in the air, The devil's own and only prayer! The dusty road is brown with rain, And, speeding on with might and main, Hitherward rides a gallant train. They do not parley, they cannot wait, But hurry in at the convent gate. What a fair lady! and beside her What a handsome, graceful, noble rider! Now she gives him her hand to alight; They will beg a shelter for the night. I will go down to the corridor, And try to see that face once more; It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.

Goes out.

THE CLOISTERS

The ABBOT ERNESTUS pacing to and fro.

ABBOT.
Slowly, slowly up the wall
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade;
Evening damps begin to fall,
Evening shadows are displayed.
Round me, o'er me, everywhere,
All the sky is grand with clouds,
And athwart the evening air
Wheel the swallows home in crowds.
Shafts of sunshine from the west
Paint the dusky windows red;
Darker shadows, deeper rest,
Underneath and overhead.
Darker, darker, and more wan,
In my breast the shadows fall;
Upward steals the life of man,
As the sunshine from the wall.
From the wall into the sky,
From the roof along the spire;
Ah, the souls of those that die
Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

Enter PRINCE HENRY.

PRINCE HENRY. Christ is arisen!

ABBOT.
Amen! He is arisen!
His peace be with you!

PRINCE HENRY.
Here it reigns forever!
The peace of God, that passeth understanding,
Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors.
Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent?

ABBOT. I am.

PRINCE HENRY.
And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck,
Who crave your hospitality to-night.

ABBOT. You are thrice welcome to our humble walls. You do us honor; and we shall requite it, I fear, but poorly, entertaining you With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, The remnants of our Easter holidays.

PRINCE HENRY. How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau? Are all things well with them?

ABBOT.
All things are well.

PRINCE HENRY. A noble convent! I have known it long By the report of travellers. I now see Their commendations lag behind the truth. You lie here in the valley of the Nagold As in a nest: and the still river, gliding Along its bed, is like an admonition How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample, And your revenues large. God's benediction Rests on your convent.

ABBOT.
By our charities
We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master,
When He departed, left us in his will,
As our best legacy on earth, the poor!
These we have always with us; had we not,
Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones.

PRINCE HENRY. If I remember right, the Counts of Calva Founded your convent.

ABBOT.
Even as you say.

PRINCE HENRY. And, if I err not, it is very old.

ABBOT. Within these cloisters lie already buried Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, Of blessed memory.

PRINCE HENRY.
And whose tomb is that,
Which bears the brass escutcheon?

ABBOT.
A benefactor's.
Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood
Godfather to our bells.

PRINCE HENRY.
Your monks are learned
And holy men, I trust.

ABBOT.
There are among them
Learned and holy men. Yet in this age
We need another Hildebrand, to shake
And purify us like a mighty wind.
The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder
God does not lose his patience with it wholly,
And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,
Within these walls, where all should be at peace,
I have my trials. Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations,
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness
And weariness of life, that makes me ready
To say to the dead Abbots under us,
"Make room for me!" Ony I see the dusk
Of evening twilight coming, and have not
Completed half my task; and so at times
The thought of my shortcomings in this life
Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

PRINCE HENRY. We must all die, and not the old alone; The young have no exemption from that doom.

ABBOT. Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must! That is the difference.

PRINCE HENRY.
I have heard much laud
Of your transcribers, Your Scriptorium
Is famous among all; your manuscripts
Praised for their beauty and their excellence.

ABBOT. That is indeed our boast. If you desire it You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile Shall the Refectorarius bestow Your horses and attendants for the night.

They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.

THE CHAPEL

Vespers: after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old monk who is blind.

PRINCE HENRY. They are all gone, save one who lingers, Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. As if his heart could find no rest, At times he beats his heaving breast With clenched and convulsive fingers, Then lifts them trembling in the air. A chorister, with golden hair, Guides hitherward his heavy pace. Can it be so? Or does my sight Deceive me in the uncertain light? Ah no! I recognize that face Though Time has touched it in his flight, And changed the auburn hair to white. It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, The deadliest foe of all our race, And hateful unto me and mine!

THE BLIND MONK. Who is it that doth stand so near His whispered words I almost hear?

PRINCE HENRY. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine! I know you, and I see the scar, The brand upon your forehead, shine And redden like a baleful star!

THE BLIND MONK. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck Of what I was. O Hoheneck! The passionate will, the pride, the wrath That bore me headlong on my path, Stumbled and staggered into fear, And failed me in my mad career, As a tired steed some evil-doer, Alone upon a desolate moor, Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, And hearing loud and close behind The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. Then suddenly from the dark there came A voice that called me by my name, And said to me, "Kneel down and pray!" And so my terror passed away, Passed utterly away forever. Contrition, penitence, remorse, Came on me, with o'erwhelming force; A hope, a longing, an endeavor, By days of penance and nights of prayer, To frustrate and defeat despair! Calm, deep, and still is now my heart, With tranquil waters overflowed; A lake whose unseen fountains start, Where once the hot volcano glowed. And you, O Prince of Hoheneck! Have known me in that earlier time, A man of violence and crime, Whose passions brooked no curb nor check. Behold me now, in gentler mood, One of this holy brotherhood. Give me your hand; here let me kneel; Make your reproaches sharp as steel; Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek; No violence can harm the meek, There is no wound Christ cannot heal! Yes; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek; Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!

PRINCE HENRY. Arise, Count Hugo! let there be No further strife nor enmity Between us twain; we both have erred Too rash in act, too wroth in word, From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant attitude, Each thoughtless of the other's right, And each reliant on his might. But now our souls are more subdued; The hand of God, and not in vain, Has touched us with the fire of pain. Let us kneel down and side by side Pray till our souls are purified, And pardon will not be denied!

They kneel.

THE REFECTORY

Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar.

FRIAR PAUL sings.
Ave! color vini clari,
Dulcis potus, non amari,
Tua nos inebriari
Digneris potentia!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. Not so much noise, my worthy freres, You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers.

FRIAR PAUL sings.
O! quam placens in colore!
O! quam fragrans in odore!
O! quam sapidum in ore!
Dulce linguae vinculum!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. I should think your tongue had broken its chain!

FRIAR PAUL sings.
Felix venter quem intrabis!
Felix guttur quod rigabis!
Felix os quod tu lavabis!
Et beata labia!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. Peace! I say, peace! Will you never cease! You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again!

FRIAR JOHN. No danger! to-night he will let us alone, As I happen to know he has guests of his own.

FRIAR CUTHBERT. Who are they?

FRIAR JOHN. A German Prince and his train, Who arrived here just before the rain. There is with him a damsel fair to see, As slender and graceful as a reed! When she alighted from her steed, It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree.

FRIAR CUTHBERT. None of your pale-faced girls for me! None of your damsels of high degree!

FRIAR JOHN. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! But do not drink any further, I beg!

FRIAR PAUL sings.
In the days of gold,
The days of old,
Crosier of wood
And bishop of gold!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. What an infernal racket and riot! Can you not drink your wine in quiet? Why fill the convent with such scandals, As if we were so many drunken Vandals?

FRIAR PAUL continues.
Now we have changed
That law so good
To crosier of gold
And bishop of wood!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. Well, then, since you are in the mood To give your noisy humors vent, Sing and howl to your heart's content!

CHORUS OF MONKS.
Funde vinum, funde!
Tanquam sint fluminis undae,
Nec quaeras unde,
Sed fundas semper abunde!

FRIAR JOHN. What is the name of yonder friar, With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, And such a black mass of tangled hair?

FRIAR PAUL. He who is sitting there, With a rollicking, Devil may care, Free and easy look and air, As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking?

FRIAR JOHN. The same.

FRIAR PAUL. He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going and whence he came.

FRIAR JOHN. Hallo! Sir Friar!

FRIAR PAUL. You must raise your voice a little higher, He does not seem to hear what you say. Now, try again! He is looking this way.

FRIAR JOHN. Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence you came, and where you are going, And anything else that is worth the knowing. So be so good as to open your head.

LUCIFER. I am a Frenchman born and bred, Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard.

MONKS. Never a word.

LUCIFER. You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany. From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very sea-shore where, In his great despair, Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise, Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells Of the fallow-deer. And then what cheer! What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they, With their strong wines, And their concubines, And never a bell, With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night, To send you grumbling down dark stairs, To mumble your prayers; But the cheery crow Of cocks in the yard below, After daybreak, an hour or so, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer! Ah, my friends, I'm afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame, And the more is the shame. 'T is the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think! Come, drink, drink, Drink, and die game!

MONKS. And your Abbot What's-his-name?

LUCIFER. Abelard!

MONKS. Did he drink hard?

LUCIFER. Oh, no! Not he! He was a dry old fellow, Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. There he stood, Lowering at us in sullen mood, As if he had come into Brittany Just to reform our brotherhood!

A roar of laughter.

But you see It never would do! For some of us knew a thing or two, In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! For instance, the great ado With old Fulbert's niece, The young and lovely Heloise.

FRIAR JOHN. Stop there, if you please, Till we drink so the fair Heloise.

ALL, drinking and shouting. Heloise! Heloise!

The Chapel-bell tolls.

LUCIFER, starting. What is that bell for! Are you such asses As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses?

FRIAR CUTHBERT. It is only a poor unfortunate brother, Who is gifted with most miraculous powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours, And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, Of creeping silently out of his cell To take a pull at that hideous bell; So that all monks who are lying awake May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, And adapted to his peculiar weakness!

FRIAR JOHN. From frailty and fall—

ALL. Good Lord, deliver us all!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. And before the bell for matins sounds, He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, Merely to say it is time to arise. But enough of that. Go on, if you please, With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys.

LUCIFER. Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice, One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abelard kept away From the chapel that day, And a poor young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine, Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! But look! do you see at the window there That face, with a look of grief and despair, That ghastly face, as of one in pain?

MONKS. Who? where?

LUCIFER. As I spoke, it vanished away again.

FRIAR CUTHBERT. It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius, That fellow is always playing the scout, Creeping and peeping and prowling about; And then he regales The Abbot with scandalous tales.

LUCIFER. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers Telling scandalous tales of the others? Out upon him, the lazy loon! I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it.

MONKS. How shall we do it!

LUCIFER. Do you, brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall, And open it suddenly when I call. Then seize the villain by the hair, And hold him there, And punish him soundly, once for all.

FRIAR CUTHBERT. As Saint Dunstan of old, We are told, Once caught the Devil by the nose!

LUCIFER. Ha! ha! that story is very clever, But has no foundation whatsoever. Quick! for I see his face again Glaring in at the window-pane; Now! now! and do not spare your blows.

FRIAR PAUL opens the window suddenly, and seizes SIEBALD. They beat him.

FRIAR SIEBALD. Help! help! are you going to slay me?

FRIAR PAUL. That will teach you again to betray me!

FRIAR SIEBALD. Mercy! mercy!

FRIAR PAUL, shouting and beating.

Rumpas bellorum lorum
Vim confer amorum
Morum verorum rorum
Tu plena polorum!

LUCIFER. Who stands in the doorway yonder, Stretching out his trembling hand, Just as Abelard used to stand, The flash of his keen, black eyes Forerunning the thunder?

THE MONKS, in confusion. The Abbot! the Abbot!

FRIAR CUTHBERT.
And what is the wonder!
He seems to have taken you by surprise.

FRIAR FRANCIS. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. Pull the brown hood over your face! This will bring us into disgrace!

ABBOT. What means this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, To pollute this convent with your revels? Were Peter Damian still upon earth, To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, He would write your names, with pen of gall, In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! Away, you drunkards! to your cells, And pray till you hear the matin-bells; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; Nothing atones for such a sin But the blood that follows the discipline. And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me Alone into the sacristy; You, who should be a guide to your brothers, And are ten times worse than all the others, For you I've a draught that has long been brewing, You shall do a penance worth the doing! Away to your prayers, then, one and all! I wonder the very convent wall Does not crumble and crush you in its fall!

THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERY

The ABBESS IRMINGARD Sitting with ELSIE in the moonlight.

IRMINGARD. The night is silent, the wind is still, The moon is looking from yonder hill Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; The clouds have passed away from her face, Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, Only the tender and quiet grace Of one whose heart has been healed with pardon!

And such am I. My soul within Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. But now its wounds are healed again; Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; For across that desolate land of woe, O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, A wind from heaven began to blow; And all my being trembled and shook, As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, And I was healed, as the sick are healed, When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book!

As thou sittest in the moonlight there, Its glory flooding thy golden hair, And the only darkness that which lies In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, I feel my soul drawn unto thee, Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, As to one I have known and loved before; For every soul is akin to me That dwells in the land of mystery! I am the Lady Irmingard, Born of a noble race and name! Many a wandering Suabian bard, Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, Has found through me the way to fame.

Brief and bright were those days, and the night Which followed was full of a lurid light. Love, that of every woman's heart Will have the whole, and not a part, That is to her, in Nature's plan, More than ambition is to man, Her light, her life, her very breath, With no alternative but death, Found me a maiden soft and young, Just from the convent's cloistered school, And seated on my lowly stool, Attentive while the minstrels sung.

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, Fairest, noblest, best of all, Was Walter of the Vogelweid; And, whatsoever may betide, Still I think of him with pride! His song was of the summer-time, The very birds sang in his rhyme; The sunshine, the delicious air, The fragrance of the flowers, were there; And I grew restless as I heard, Restless and buoyant as a bird, Down soft, aerial currents sailing, O'er blossomed orchards and fields in bloom, And through the momentary gloom, Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, Yielding and borne I knew not where, But feeling resistance unavailing.

And thus, unnoticed and apart, And more by accident than choice, I listened to that single voice Until the chambers of my heart Were filled with it by night and day. One night,—it was a night in May,— Within the garden, unawares, Under the blossoms in the gloom, I heard it utter my own name With protestations and wild prayers; And it rang through me, and became Like the archangel's trump of doom, Which the soul hears, and must obey; And mine arose as from a tomb. My former life now seemed to me Such as hereafter death may be, When in the great Eternity We shall awake and find it day.

It was a dream, and would not stay; A dream, that in a single night Faded and vanished out of sight. My father's anger followed fast This passion, as a freshening blast Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage It may increase, but not assuage. And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck By messenger and letter sues."

Gently, but firmly, I replied: "Henry of Hoheneck I discard! Never the hand of Irmingard Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride! This said I, Walter, for thy sake This said I, for I could not choose. After a pause, my father spake In that cold and deliberate tone Which turns the hearer into stone, And seems itself the act to be That follows with such dread certainty "This or the cloister and the veil!" No other words than these he said, But they were like a funeral wail; My life was ended, my heart was dead.

That night from the castle-gate went down With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, Taking the narrow path that leads Into the forest dense and brown. In the leafy darkness of the place, One could not distinguish form nor face, Only a bulk without a shape, A darker shadow in the shade; One scarce could say it moved or stayed. Thus it was we made our escape! A foaming brook, with many a bound, Followed us like a playful hound; Then leaped before us, and in the hollow Paused, and waited for us to follow, And seemed impatient, and afraid That our tardy flight should be betrayed By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made. And when we reached the plain below, We paused a moment and drew rein To look back at the castle again; And we saw the windows all aglow With lights, that were passing to and fro; Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; The brook crept silent to our feet; We knew what most we feared to know. Then suddenly horns began to blow; And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, And our horses snorted in the damp Night-air of the meadows green and wide, And in a moment, side by side, So close, they must have seemed but one, The shadows across the moonlight run, And another came, and swept behind, Like the shadow of clouds before the wind!

How I remember that breathless flight Across the moors, in the summer night! How under our feet the long, white road Backward like a river flowed, Sweeping with it fences and hedges, Whilst farther away and overhead, Paler than I, with fear and dread, The moon fled with us as we fled Along the forest's jagged edges!

All this I can remember well; But of what afterwards befell I nothing further can recall Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; The rest is a blank and darkness all. When I awoke out of this swoon, The sun was shining, not the moon, Making a cross upon the wall With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray From early childhood, day by day, Each morning, as in bed I lay! I was lying again in my own room! And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, That those shadows on the midnight plain Were gone, and could not come again! I struggled no longer with my doom!

This happened many years ago. I left my father's home to come Like Catherine to her martyrdom, For blindly I esteemed it so. And when I heard the convent door Behind me close, to ope no more, I felt it smite me like a blow. Through all my limbs a shudder ran, And on my bruised spirit fell The dampness of my narrow cell As night-air on a wounded man, Giving intolerable pain.

But now a better life began. I felt the agony decrease By slow degrees, then wholly cease, Ending in perfect rest and peace! It was not apathy, nor dulness, That weighed and pressed upon my brain, But the same passion I had given To earth before, now turned to heaven With all its overflowing fulness.

Alas! the world is full of peril! The path that runs through the fairest meads, On the sunniest side of the valley, leads Into a region bleak and sterile! Alike in the high-born and the lowly, The will is feeble, and passion strong. We cannot sever right from wrong; Some falsehood mingles with all truth; Nor is it strange the heart of youth Should waver and comprehend but slowly The things that are holy and unholy! But in this sacred, calm retreat, We are all well and safely shielded From winds that blow, and waves that beat, From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, To which the strongest hearts have yielded. Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, For our celestial bridegroom yearning; Our hearts are lamps forever burning, With a steady and unwavering flame, Pointing upward, forever the same, Steadily upward toward the heaven!

The moon is hidden behind a cloud; A sudden darkness fills the room, And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, Shine like jewels in a shroud. On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; A bird, awakened in its nest, Gives a faint twitter of unrest, Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near. Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue Of riding many a dusty league; Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; Me so many cares encumber, So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

---

V.
A COVERED BRIDGE AT LUCERNE

PRINCE HENRY. God's blessing on the architects who build The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses Before impassable to human feet, No less than on the builders of cathedrals, Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across The dark and terrible abyss of Death. Well has the name of Pontifex been given Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder And architect of the invisible bridge That leads from earth to heaven.

ELSIE.
How dark it grows!
What are these paintings on the walls around us?

PRINCE HENRY. The Dance Macaber!

ELSIE.
What?

PRINCE HENRY.
The Dance of Death!
All that go to and fro must look upon it,
Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath,
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life,
With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,
Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it.

ELSIE. Oh yes! I see it now!

PRINCE HENRY.
The grim musician
Leads all men through the mazes of that dance,
To different sounds in different measures moving;
Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum,
To tempt or terrify.

ELSIE.
What is this picture?

PRINCE HENRY. It is a young man singing to a nun, Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile, Is putting out the candles on the altar!

ELSIE. Ah, what a pity 't is that she should listen Unto such songs, when in her orisons She might have heard in heaven the angels singing!

PRINCE HENRY. Here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells And dances with the Queen.

ELSIE.
A foolish jest!

PRINCE HENRY. And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, Coming from church with her beloved lord, He startles with the rattle of his drum.

ELSIE. Ah, that is sad! And yet perhaps 't is best That she should die, with all the sunshine on her, And all the benedictions of the morning, Before this affluence of golden light Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, Then into darkness!

PRINCE HENRY.
Under it is written,
"Nothing but death shall separate thee and me!"

ELSIE. And what is this, that follows close upon it?

PRINCE HENRY. Death playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, A poor old woman, with a rosary, Follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet Were swifter to o'ertake him. Underneath, The inscription reads, "Better is Death than Life."

ELSIE. Better is Death than Life! Ah yes! to thousands Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings That song of consolation, till the air Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow Whither he leads. And not the old alone, But the young also hear it, and are still.

PRINCE HENRY. Yes, in their sadder moments. 'T is the sound Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, Responding to the pressure of a finger With music sweet and low and melancholy. Let us go forward, and no longer stay In this great picture-gallery of Death! I hate it! ay, the very thought of it!

ELSIE. Why is it hateful to you?

PRINCE HENRY.
For the reason
That life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely,
And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful.

ELSIE. The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

PRINCE HENRY, emerging from the bridge. I breathe again more freely! Ah, how pleasant To come once more into the light of day, Out of that shadow of death! To hear again The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, And not upon those hollow planks, resounding With a sepulchral echo, like the clods On coffins in a churchyard! Yonder lies The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled In light, and lingering, like a village maiden, Hid in the bosom of her native mountains Then pouring all her life into another's, Changing her name and being! Overhead, Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines.

They pass on.

THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE

PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE crossing with attendants.

GUIDE. This bridge is called the Devil's Bridge. With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, It leaps across the terrible chasm Yawning beneath us, black and deep, As if, in some convulsive spasm, The summits of the hills had cracked, And made a road for the cataract That raves and rages down the steep!

LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!

GUIDE. Never any bridge but this Could stand across the wild abyss; All the rest, of wood or stone, By the Devil's hand were overthrown. He toppled crags from the precipice, And whatsoe'er was built by day In the night was swept away; None could stand but this alone.

LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!

GUIDE. I showed you in the valley a bowlder Marked with the imprint of his shoulder; As he was bearing it up this way, A peasant, passing, cried, "Herr Je! And the Devil dropped it in his fright, And vanished suddenly out of sight!

LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!

GUIDE. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, For pilgrims on their way to Rome, Built this at last, with a single arch, Under which, on its endless march, Runs the river, white with foam, Like a thread through the eye of a needle. And the Devil promised to let it stand, Under compact and condition That the first living thing which crossed Should be surrendered into his hand, And be beyond redemption lost.

LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha! perdition!

GUIDE. At length, the bridge being all completed, The Abbot, standing at its head, Threw across it a loaf of bread, Which a hungry dog sprang after; And the rocks re-echoed with the peals of laughter, To see the Devil thus defeated!

They pass on.

LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha! defeated! For journeys and for crimes like this I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss!

THE ST. GOTHARD PASS

PRINCE HENRY. This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.

ELSIE. How bleak and bare it is! Nothing but mosses Grow on these rocks.

PRINCE HENRY.
Yet are they not forgotten;
Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them.

ELSIE. See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks! It seems to me The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels!

PRINCE HENRY. Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone!

ELSIE. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, Upon angelic shoulders! Even now I seem uplifted by them, light as air! What sound is that?

PRINCE HENRY.
The tumbling avalanches!

ELSIE. How awful, yet how beautiful!

PRINCE HENRY.
These are
The voices of the mountains! Thus they ope
Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other,
In the primeval language, lost to man.

ELSIE. What land is this that spreads itself beneath us?

PRINCE HENRY. Italy! Italy!

ELSIE.
Land of the Madonna!
How beautiful it is! It seems a garden
Of Paradise!

PRINCE HENRY.
Nay, of Gethsemane
To thee and me, of passion and of prayer!
Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago
I wandered as a youth among its bowers,
And never from my heart has faded quite
Its memory, that, like a summer sunset,
Encircles with a ring of purple light
All the horizon of my youth.

GUIDE.
O friends!
The days are short, the way before us long:
We must not linger, if we think to reach
The inn at Belinzona before vespers!

They pass on.

AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS

A halt under the trees at noon.

PRINCE HENRY. Here let us pause a moment in the trembling Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees, And, our tired horses in a group assembling, Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; They lag behind us with a slower pace; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place. Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!

ELSIE. What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air.

PRINCE HENRY. Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!

ELSIE. It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.

PILGRIMS, chanting the Hymn of St. Hildebert.
Me receptet Sion illa,
Sion David, urbs tranquilla,
Cujus faber auctor lucis,
Cujus portae lignum crucis,
Cujus claves lingua Petri,
Cujus cives semper laeti,
Cujus muri lapis vivus,
Cujus custos rex festivus!

LUCIFER, as a Friar in the procession. Here am I, too, in the pious band, In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives, All day long I beat my breast, And chant with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest. And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, Such a hurly-burly in country inns, Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! Of all the contrivances of the time For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!

PRINCE HENRY. If from the outward man we judge the inner, And cleanliness is godliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened Sinner, Must be that Carmelite now passing near.

LUCIFER. There is my German Prince again, Thus far on his journey to Salern, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; But it's a long road that has no turn! Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play. But first I must act to my heart's content This mummery and this merriment, And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent. Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along, Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, Chanting their wonderful puff and paff, And, to make up for not understanding the song, Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! Were it not for my magic garters and staff, And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long.

PILGRIMS, chanting.
In hac urbe, lux solennis,
Ver aeternum, pax perennis;
In hac odor implens caelos,
In hac semper festum melos!

PRINCE HENRY. Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face?

ELSIE. It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.

PRINCE HENRY. And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. Good morrow, Friar!

FRIAR CUTHBERT.
Good morrow, noble Sir!

PRINCE HENRY. I speak in German, for, unless I err, You are a German.

FRIAR CUTHBERT.
I cannot gainsay you.
But by what instinct, or what secret sign,
Meeting me here, do you straightway divine
That northward of the Alps my country lies?

PRINCE HENRY. Your accent, like St. Peter's, would betray you, Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. Moreover, we have seen your face before, And heard you preach at the Cathedral door On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square. We were among the crowd that gathered there, And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, As if, by leaning o'er so many years To walk with little children, your own will Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, A kind of stooping in its form and gait, And could no longer stand erect and straight. Whence come you now?

FRIAR CUTHBERT.
From the old monastery
Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent
Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent,
To see the image of the Virgin Mary,
That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks,
And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks,
To touch the hearts of the impenitent.

PRINCE HENRY. Oh, had I faith, as in the days gone by, That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery!

LUCIFER, at a distance. Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert!

FRIAR CUTHBERT.
Fare well, Prince;
I cannot stay to argue and convince.

PRINCE HENRY. This is indeed the blessed Mary's land, Virgin and mother of our dear redeemer! All hearts are touched and softened at her name, Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, Pay homage to her as one ever present! And even as children, who have much offended A too indulgent father, in great shame, Penitent, and yet not daring unattended To go into his presence, at the gate Speak with their sister, and confiding wait Till she goes in before and intercedes; So men, repenting of their evil deeds, And yet not venturing rashly to draw near With their requests an angry father's ear, Offer to her their prayers and their confession, And she for them in heaven makes intercession. And if our faith had given us nothing more Than this example of all womanhood, So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, This were enough to prove it higher and truer Than all the creeds the world had known before.

PILGRIMS, chanting afar off.
Urbs coelestis, urbs beata,
Supra petram collocata,
Urbs in portu satis tuto
De longinquo te saluto,
Te saluto, te suspiro,
Te affecto, te requiro!

THE INN AT GENOA

A terrace overlooking the sea. Night.

PRINCE HENRY. It is the sea, it is the sea, In all its vague immensity, Fading and darkening in the distance! Silent, majestical, and slow, The white ships haunt it to and fro, With all their ghostly sails unfurled, As phantoms from another world Haunt the dim confines of existence! But ah! how few can comprehend Their signals, or to what good end From land to land they come and go! Upon a sea more vast and dark The spirits of the dead embark, All voyaging to unknown coasts. We wave our farewells from the shore, And they depart, and come no more, Or come as phantoms and as ghosts.

Above the darksome sea of death Looms the great life that is to be, A land of cloud and mystery, A dim mirage, with shapes of men Long dead and passed beyond our ken, Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath Till the fair pageant vanisheth, Leaving us in perplexity, And doubtful whether it has been A vision of the world unseen, Or a bright image of our own Against the sky in vapors thrown.

LUCIFER, singing from the sea. Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it, But thou hast the power to end it! The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, Deep it lies at thy very feet; There is no confessor like unto Death! Thou canst not see him, but he is near; Thou needst not whisper above thy breath, And he will hear; He will answer the questions, The vague surmises and suggestions, That fill thy soul with doubt and fear!

PRINCE HENRY. The fisherman, who lies afloat, With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, Is singing softly to the Night! But do I comprehend aright The meaning of the words he sung So sweetly in his native tongue? Ah yes! the sea is still and deep. All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er; A plunge, a bubble an no more; And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free From martyrdom and agony.

ELSIE, coming from her chamber upon the terrace. The night is calm and cloudless, And still as still can be, And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea. They gather, and gather, and gather, Until they crowd the sky, And listen, in breathless silence, To the solemn litany. It begins in rocky caverns, As a voice that chants alone To the pedals of the organ In monotonous undertone; And anon from shelving beaches, And shallow sands beyond, In snow-white robes uprising The ghostly choirs respond. And sadly and unceasing The mournful voice sings on, And the snow-white choirs still answer Christe eleison!

PRINCE HENRY. Angel of God! thy finer sense perceives Celestial and perpetual harmonies! Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, Hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze, And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. But I hear discord only and despair, And whispers as of demons in the air!

AT SEA

IL PADRONE. The wind upon our quarter lies, And on before the freshening gale, That fills the snow-white lateen sail, Swiftly our light felucca flies, Around the billows burst and foam; They lift her o'er the sunken rock, They beat her sides with many a shock, And then upon their flowing dome They poise her, like a weathercock! Between us and the western skies The hills of Corsica arise; Eastward in yonder long blue line, The summits of the Apennine, And southward, and still far away, Salerno, on its sunny bay. You cannot see it, where it lies.

PRINCE HENRY. Ah, would that never more mine eyes Might see its towers by night or day!

ELSIE. Behind us, dark and awfully, There comes a cloud out of the sea, That bears the form of a hunted deer, With hide of brown, and hoofs of black And antlers laid upon its back, And fleeing fast and wild with fear, As if the hounds were on its track!

PRINCE HENRY. Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls In shapeless masses, like the walls Of a burnt city. Broad and red The flies of the descending sun Glare through the windows, and o'erhead, Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, Long shafts of silvery light arise, Like rafters that support the skies!

ELSIE. See! from its summit the lurid levin Flashes downward without warning, As Lucifer, son of the morning, Fell from the battlements of heaven!

IL PADRONE. I must entreat you, friends, below! The angry storm begins to blow, For the weather changes with the moon. All this morning, until noon, We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. Only a little hour ago I was whistling to Saint Antonio For a capful of wind to fill our sail, And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. Last night I saw St. Elmo's stars, With their glimmering lanterns, all at play On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars, And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. Cheerily, my hearties! yo heave ho! Brail up the mainsail, and let her go As the winds will and Saint Antonio!

Do you see that Livornese felucca, That vessel to the windward yonder, Running with her gunwale under? I was looking when the wind o'ertook her, She had all sail set, and the only wonder Is that at once the strength of the blast Did not carry away her mast. She is a galley of the Gran Duca, That, through the fear of the Algerines, Convoys those lazy brigantines, Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. Now all is ready, high and low; Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio!

Ha! that is the first dash of the rain, With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, Just enough to moisten our sails, And make them ready for the strain. See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her, And speeds away with a bone in her mouth! Now keep her head toward the south, And there is no danger of bank or breaker. With the breeze behind us, on we go; Not too much, good Saint Antonio!

---

VI
THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO

A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate of the College.

SCHOLASTIC. There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield, Hung up as a challenge to all the field! One hundred and twenty-five propositions, Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue Against all disputants, old and young. Let us see if doctors or dialecticians Will dare to dispute my definitions, Or attack any one of my learned theses. Here stand I; the end shall be as God pleases. I think I have proved, by profound researches, The error of all those doctrines so vicious Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, That are making such terrible work in the churches, By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, And done into Latin by that Scottish beast, Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to maintain, In the face of the truth, the error infernal, That the universe is and must be eternal; At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental; Then asserting that God before the creation Could not have existed, because it is plain That, had He existed, He would have created; Which is begging the question that should be debated, And moveth me less to anger than laughter. All nature, he holds, is a respiration Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, hereafter Will inhale it into his bosom again, So that nothing but God alone will remain. And therein he contradicteth himself; For he opens the whole discussion by stating, That God can only exist in creating. That question I think I have laid on the shelf!

He goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing, and followed by pupils.

DOCTOR SERAFINO. I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain, That a word which is only conceived in the brain Is a type of eternal Generation; The spoken word is the Incarnation.

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, With all his wordy chaffer and traffic?

DOCTOR SERAFINO. You make but a paltry show of resistance; Universals have no real existence!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. Your words are but idle and empty chatter; Ideas are eternally joined to matter!

DOCTOR SERAFINO. May the Lord have mercy on your position, You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. May he send your soul to eternal perdition, For your Treatise on the Irregular verbs!

They rush out fighting. Two Scholars come in.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Monte Cassino, then, is your College. What think you of ours here at Salern?

SECOND SCHOLAR. To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, I hardly yet have had time to discern. So much, at least, I am bound to acknowledge: The air seems healthy, the buildings stately, And on the whole I like it greatly.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Yes, the air is sweet; the Calabrian hills Send us down puffs of mountain air; And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills With its coolness cloister, and court, and square. Then at every season of the year There are crowds of guests and travellers here; Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders From the Levant, with figs and wine, And bands of wounded and sick Crusaders, Coming back from Palestine.

SECOND SCHOLAR. And what are the studies you pursue? What is the course you here go through?

FIRST SCHOLAR. The first three years of the college course Are given to Logic alone, as the source Of all that is noble, and wise, and true.

SECOND SCHOLAR. That seems rather strange, I must confess, In a Medical School; yet, nevertheless, You doubtless have reasons for that.

FIRST SCHOLAR.
Oh yes
For none but a clever dialectician
Can hope to become a great physician;
That has been settled long ago.
Logic makes an important part
Of the mystery of the healing art;
For without it how could you hope to show
That nobody knows so much as you know?
After this there are five years more
Devoted wholly to medicine,
With lectures on chirurgical lore,
And dissections of the bodies of swine,
As likest the human form divine.

SECOND SCHOLAR. What are the books now most in vogue?

FIRST SCHOLAR. Quite an extensive catalogue; Mostly, however, books of our own; As Gariopontus' Passionarius, And the writings of Matthew Platearius; And a volume universally known As the Regimen of the School of Salern, For Robert of Normandy written in terse And very elegant Latin verse. Each of these writings has its turn. And when at length we have finished these Then comes the struggle for degrees, Will all the oldest and ablest critics; The public thesis and disputation, Question, and answer, and explanation Of a passage out of Hippocrates, Or Aristotle's Analytics. There the triumphant Magister stands! A book is solemnly placed in his hands, On which he swears to follow the rule And ancient forms of the good old School; To report if any confectionarius Mingles his drugs with matters various, And to visit his patients twice a day, And once in the night, if they live in town, And if they are poor, to take no pay. Having faithfully promised these, His head is crowned with a laurel crown; A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, The Magister Artium et Physices Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. And now, as we have the whole morning before us, Let us go in, if you make no objection, And listen awhile to a learned prelection On Marcus Aurelius Cassioderus.

They go in. Enter Lucifer as a Doctor.

LUCIFER. This is the great School of Salern! A land of wrangling and of quarrels, Of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn, Where every emulous scholar hears, In every breath that comes to his ears, The rustling of another's laurels! The air of the place is called salubrious; The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it Au odor volcanic, that rather mends it, And the building's have an aspect lugubrious, That inspires a feeling of awe and terror Into the heart of the beholder. And befits such an ancient homestead of error, Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, And yearly by many hundred hands Are carried away in the zeal of youth, And sown like tares in the field of truth, To blossom and ripen in other lands.

What have we here, affixed to the gate? The challenge of some scholastic wight, Who wishes to hold a public debate On sundry questions wrong or right! Ah, now this is my great delight! For I have often observed of late That such discussions end in a fight. Let us see what the learned wag maintains With such a prodigal waste of brains.

Reads.

"Whether angels in moving from place to place Pass through the intermediate space. Whether God himself is the author of evil, Or whether that is the work of the Devil. When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, And whether he now is chained in hell." I think I can answer that question well! So long as the boastful human mind Consents in such mills as this to grind, I sit very firmly upon my throne! Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, To see men leaving the golden grain To gather in piles the pitiful chaff That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain, To have it caught up and tossed again On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne!

But my guests approach! there is in the air A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden Of Paradise, in the days that were! An odor of innocence and of prayer, And of love, and faith that never fails, Such as the fresh young heart exhales Before it begins to wither and harden! I cannot breathe such an atmosphere! My soul is filled with a nameless fear, That after all my trouble and pain, After all my restless endeavor, The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, The most ethereal, most divine, Will escape from my hands for ever and ever. But the other is already mine! Let him live to corrupt his race, Breathing among them, with every breath, Weakness, selfishness, and the base And pusillanimous fear of death. I know his nature, and I know That of all who in my ministry Wander the great earth to and fro, And on my errands come and go, The safest and subtlest are such as he.

Enter PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with attendants.

PRINCE HENRY. Can you direct us to Friar Angelo?

LUCIFER. He stands before you.

PRINCE HENRY.
Then you know our purpose.
I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this
The maiden that I spake of in my letters.

LUCIFER. It is a very grave and solemn business! We must nor be precipitate. Does she Without compulsion, of her own free will, Consent to this?

PRINCE HENRY.
Against all opposition,
Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations,
She will not be persuaded.

LUCIFER.
That is strange!
Have you thought well of it?

ELSIE.
I come not here
To argue, but to die. Your business is not
To question, but to kill me. I am ready,
I am impatient to be gone from here
Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again
The spirit of tranquillity within me.

PRINCE HENRY. Would I had not come here! Would I were dead, And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, And hadst not known me! Why have I done this? Let me go back and die.

ELSIE.
It cannot be;
Not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread
Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway
Flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat.
I must fulfil my purpose.

PRINCE HENRY.
I forbid it!
Not one step further. For I only meant
To put thus far thy courage to the proof.
It is enough. I, too, have strength to die,
For thou hast taught me!

ELSIE.
O my Prince! remember
Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand.
You do not look on life and death as I do.
There are two angels, that attend unseen
Each one of us, and in great books record
Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down
The good ones, after every action closes
His volume, and ascends with it to God.
The other keeps his dreadful day-book open
Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing,
The record of the action fades away,
And leaves a line of white across the page.
Now if my act be good, as I believe,
It cannot be recalled. It is already
Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished.
The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready.

To her attendants. Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, And you will have another friend in heaven. Then start not at the creaking of the door Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it.

To PRINCE HENRY. And you, O Prince! bear back my benison Unto my father's house, and all within it. This morning in the church I prayed for them, After confession, after absolution, When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them. God will take care of them, they need me not. And in your life let my remembrance linger, As something not to trouble and disturb it, But to complete it, adding life to life. And if at times beside the evening fire, You see my face among the other faces, Let it not be regarded as a ghost That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you. Nay, even as one of your own family, Without whose presence there were something wanting. I have no more to say. Let us go in.

PRINCE HENRY. Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life, Believe not what she says, for she is mad, And comes here not to die, but to be healed.

ELSIE. Alas! Prince Henry!

LUCIFER.
Come with me; this way.

ELSIE goes in with LUCIFER, who thrusts PRINCE HENRY back and closes the door.

PRINCE HENRY. Gone! and the light of all my life gone with her! A sudden darkness falls upon the world! Oh, what a vile and abject thing am I That purchase length of days at such a cost! Not by her death alone, but by the death Of all that's good and true and noble in me All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, All love, and faith, and hope, and heart are dead! All my divine nobility of nature By this one act is forfeited forever. I am a Prince in nothing but in name!

To the attendants. Why did you let this horrible deed be done? Why did you not lay hold on her, and keep her From self destruction? Angelo! murderer!

Struggles at the door, but cannot open it.

ELSIE, within. Farewell, dear Prince! farewell!

PRINCE HENRY.
Unbar the door!

LUCIFER. It is too late!

PRINCE HENRY.
It shall not be too late.

They burst the door open and rush in.

THE FARM-HOUSE IN THE ODENWALD

URSULA spinning. A summer afternoon. A table spread.

URSULA. I have marked it well,—it must be true,— Death never takes one alone, but two! Whenever he enters in at a door, Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, He always leaves it upon the latch, And comes again ere the year is o'er. Never one of a household only! Perhaps it is a mercy of God, Lest the dead there under the sod, In the land of strangers, should be lonely! Ah me! I think I am lonelier here! It is hard to go,—but harder to stay! Were it not for the children, I should pray That Death would take me within the year! And Gottlieb!—he is at work all day, In the sunny field, or the forest murk, But I know that his thoughts are far away, I know that his heart is not in his work! And when he comes home to me at night He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, And I see the great tears in his eyes, And try to be cheerful for his sake. Only the children's hearts are light. Mine is weary, and ready to break. God help us! I hope we have done right; We thought we were acting for the best!

Looking through the open door.

Who is it coming under the trees? A man, in the Prince's livery dressed! He looks about him with doubtful face, As if uncertain of the place. He stops at the beehives;—now he sees The garden gate;—he is going past! Can he be afraid of the bees? No; he is coming in at last! He fills my heart with strange alarm!

Enter a Forester.

FORESTER. Is this the tenant Gottlieb's farm?

URSULA. This is his farm, and I his wife. Pray sit. What may your business be?

FORESTER. News from the Prince!

URSULA.
Of death or life?

FORESTER. You put your questions eagerly!

URSULA. Answer me, then! How is the Prince?

FORESTER. I left him only two hours since Homeward returning down the river, As strong and well as if God, the Giver, Had given him back his youth again.

URSULA, despairing. Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead!

FORESTER. That, my good woman, I have not said. Don't cross the bridge till you come to it, Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit.

URSULA. Keep me no longer in this pain!

FORESTER. It is true your daughter is no more;— That is, the peasant she was before.

URSULA. Alas! I am simple and lowly bred, I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. And it is not well that you of the court Should mock me thus, and make a sport Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, For you, too, were of mother born!

FORESTER. Your daughter lives, and the Prince is well! You will learn erelong how it all befell. Her heart for a moment never failed; But when they reached Salerno's gate, The Prince's nobler self prevailed, And saved her for a noble fate. And he was healed, in his despair, By the touch of St. Matthew's sacred bones; Though I think the long ride in the open air, That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, In the miracle must come in for a share.

URSULA. Virgin! who lovest the poor and lowly, If the loud cry of a mother's heart Can ever ascend to where thou art, Into thy blessed hands and holy Receive my prayer of praise and thanksgiving! Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear it Into the awful presence of God; For thy feet with holiness are shod, And if thou hearest it He will hear it. Our child who was dead again is living!

FORESTER. I did not tell you she was dead; If you thought so 't was no fault of mine; At this very moment while I speak, They are sailing homeward down the Rhine, In a splendid barge, with golden prow, And decked with banners white and red As the colors on your daughter's cheek. They call her the Lady Alicia now; For the Prince in Salerno made a vow That Elsie only would he wed.

URSULA. Jesu Maria! what a change! All seems to me so weird and strange!

FORESTER. I saw her standing on the deck, Beneath an awning cool and shady; Her cap of velvet could not hold The tresses of her hair of gold, That flowed and floated like the stream, And fell in masses down her neck. As fair and lovely did she seem As in a story or a dream Some beautiful and foreign lady. And the Prince looked so grand and proud, And waved his hand thus to the crowd That gazed and shouted from the shore, All down the river, long and loud.

URSULA. We shall behold our child once more; She is not dead! She is not dead! God, listening, must have overheard The prayers, that, without sound or word, Our hearts in secrecy have said! Oh, bring me to her; for mine eyes Are hungry to behold her face; My very soul within me cries; My very hands seem to caress her, To see her, gaze at her, and bless her; Dear Elsie, child of God and grace!

Goes out toward the garden.

FORESTER. There goes the good woman out of her head; And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here; A very capacious flagon of beer, And a very portentous loaf of bread. One would say his grief did not much oppress him. Here's to the health of the Prince, God bless him!

He drinks.

Ha! it buzzes and stings like a hornet! And what a scene there, through the door! The forest behind and the garden before, And midway an old man of threescore, With a wife and children that caress him. Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it With a merry, echoing blast of my cornet!

Goes out blowing his horn.

THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE

PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE standing on the terrace at evening.

The sound of tells heard from a distance.

PRINCE HENRY. We are alone. The wedding guests Ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks, And the descending dark invests The Niederwald, and all the nests Among its hoar and haunted oaks.

ELSIE. What bells are those, that ring so slow, So mellow, musical, and low?

PRINCE HENRY. They are the bells of Geisenheim, That with their melancholy chime Ring out the curfew of the sun.

ELSIE. Listen, beloved.

PRINCE HENRY.
They are done!
Dear Elsie! many years ago
Those same soft bells at eventide
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne,
As, seated by Fastrada's side
At Ingelheim, in all his pride
He heard their sound with secret pain.

ELSIE. Their voices only speak to me Of peace and deep tranquillity, And endless confidence in thee!

PRINCE HENRY. Thou knowest the story of her ring, How, when the court went back to Aix, Fastrada died; and how the king Sat watching by her night and day, Till into one of the blue lakes, Which water that delicious land, They cast the ring, drawn from her hand: And the great monarch sat serene And sad beside the fated shore, Nor left the land forevermore.

ELSIE. That was true love.

PRINCE HENRY.
For him the queen
Ne'er did what thou hast done for me.

ELSIE. Wilt thou as fond and faithful be? Wilt thou so love me after death?

PRINCE HENRY. In life's delight, in death's dismay, In storm and sunshine, night and day, In health, in sickness, in decay, Here and hereafter, I am thine! Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath the calm, blue waters of thine eyes, Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, And, undisturbed by this world's breath, With magic light its jewels shine! This golden ring, which thou hast worn Upon thy finger since the morn, Is but a symbol and a semblance, An outward fashion, a remembrance, Of what thou wearest within unseen, O my Fastrada, O my queen! Behold! the hill-trips all aglow With purple and with amethyst; While the whole valley deep below Is filled, and seems to overflow, With a fast-rising tide of mist. The evening air grows damp and chill; Let us go in.

ELSIE.
Ah, not so soon.
See yonder fire! It is the moon
Slow rising o'er the eastern hill.
It glimmers on the forest tips
And through the dewy foliage drips
In little rivulets of light,
And makes the heart in love with night.

PRINCE HENRY. Oft on this terrace, when the day Was closing, have I stood and gazed, And seen the landscape fade away, And the white vapors rise and drown Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, While far above the hill-tops blazed. But then another hand than thine Was gently held and clasped in mine; Another head upon my breast Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. Why dost thou lift those tender eyes With so much sorrow and surprise? A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand, Was that which in my own was pressed, A manly form usurped thy place, A beautiful, but bearded face, That now is in the Holy Land, Yet in my memory from afar Is shining on us like a star. But linger not. For while I speak, A sheeted spectre white and tall, The cold mist climbs the castle wall, And lays his hand upon thy cheek!

They go in.

---

EPILOGUE
THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS ASCENDING

THE ANGEL OF GOOD DEEDS, with closed book. God sent his messenger the rain, And said unto the mountain brook, "Rise up, and from thy caverns look And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, From the cool hills into the heat Of the broad, arid plain.

God sent his messenger of faith, And whispered in the maiden's heart, "Rise up and look from where thou art, And scatter with unselfish hands Thy freshness on the barren sands And solitudes of Death."

O beauty of holiness, Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness! O power of meekness, Whose very gentleness and weakness Are like the yielding, but irresistible air! Upon the pages Of the sealed volume that I bear, The deed divine Is written in characters of gold, That never shall grow old, But through all ages Burn and shine, With soft effulgence! O God! it is thy indulgence That fills the world with the bliss Of a good deed like this!

THE ANGEL OF EVIL DEEDS, with open book. Not yet, not yet Is the red sun wholly set, But evermore recedes, While open still I bear The Book of Evil Deeds, To let the breathings of the upper air Visit its pages and erase The records from its face! Fainter and fainter as I gaze In the broad blaze The glimmering landscape shines, And below me the black river Is hidden by wreaths of vapor! Fainter and fainter the black lines Begin to quiver Along the whitening surface of the paper; Shade after shade The terrible words grow faint and fade, And in their place Runs a white space!

Down goes the sun! But the soul of one, Who by repentance hath escaped the dreadful sentence, Shines bright below me as I look. It is the end! With closed Book To God do I ascend. Lo! over the mountain steeps A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps Beneath my feet; A blackness inwardly brightening With sullen heat, As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. And a cry of lamentation, Repeated and again repeated, Deep and loud As the reverberation Of cloud answering unto cloud, Swells and rolls away in the distance, As if the sheeted Lightning retreated. Baffled and thwarted by the wind's resistance.

It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He, too, is God's minister. And labors for some good By us not understood!

---

SECOND INTERLUDE
MARTIN LUTHER

A CHAMBER IN THE WARTBURG. MORNING. MARTIN LUTHER WRITING.

MARTIN LUTHER.
Our God, a Tower of Strength is He,
A goodly wall and weapon;
From all our need He helps us free,
That now to us doth happen.
The old evil foe
Doth in earnest grow,
In grim armor dight,
Much guile and great might;
On earth there is none like him.

Oh yes; a tower of strength indeed, A present help in all our need, A sword and buckler is our God. Innocent men have walked unshod O'er burning ploughshares, and have trod Unharmed on serpents in their path, And laughed to scorn the Devil's wrath!

Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand Where God hath led me by the hand, And look down, with a heart at ease, Over the pleasant neighborhoods, Over the vast Thuringian Woods, With flash of river, and gloom of trees, With castles crowning the dizzy heights, And farms and pastoral delights, And the morning pouring everywhere Its golden glory on the air. Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, Safe from the overwhelming blast Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast, And the howling demons of despair That hunted me like a beast to his lair.

Of our own might we nothing can;
We soon are unprotected:
There fighteth for us the right Man,
Whom God himself elected.
Who is He; ye exclaim?
Christus is his name,
Lord of Sabaoth,
Very God in troth;
The field He holds forever.

Nothing can vex the Devil more Than the name of him whom we adore. Therefore doth it delight me best To stand in the choir among the rest, With the great organ trumpeting Through its metallic tubes, and sing: Et verbum caro factum est! These words the devil cannot endure, For he knoweth their meaning well! Him they trouble and repel, Us they comfort and allure, And happy it were, if our delight Were as great as his affright!

Yea, music is the Prophet's art; Among the gifts that God hath sent, One of the most magnificent! It calms the agitated heart; Temptations, evil thoughts, and all The passions that disturb the soul, Are quelled by its divine control, As the evil spirit fled from Saul, And his distemper was allayed, When David took his harp and played.

This world may full of Devils be,
All ready to devour us;
Yet not so sore afraid are we,
They shall not overpower us.
This World's Prince, howe'er
Fierce he may appear,
He can harm us not,
He is doomed, God wot!
One little word can slay him!

Incredible it seems to some And to myself a mystery, That such weak flesh and blood as we, Armed with no other shield or sword, Or other weapon than the Word, Should combat and should overcome A spirit powerful as he! He summons forth the Pope of Rome With all his diabolic crew, His shorn and shaven retinue Of priests and children of the dark; Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch, Who rouseth up all Christendom Against us; and at one fell blow Seeks the whole Church to overthrow! Not yet; my hour is not yet come.

Yesterday in an idle mood, Hunting with others in the wood, I did not pass the hours in vain, For in the very heart of all The joyous tumult raised around, Shouting of men, and baying of hound, And the bugle's blithe and cheery call, And echoes answering back again, From crags of the distant mountain chain,— In the very heart of this, I found A mystery of grief and pain. It was an image of the power Of Satan, hunting the world about, With his nets and traps and well-trained dogs, His bishops and priests and theologues, And all the rest of the rabble rout, Seeking whom he may devour! Enough I have had of hunting hares, Enough of these hours of idle mirth, Enough of nets and traps and gins! The only hunting of any worth Is where I can pierce with javelins The cunning foxes and wolves and bears, The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, The Roman Pope and the Roman priests That sorely infest and afflict the earth! Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air! The fowler hath caught you in his snare, And keeps you safe in his gilded cage, Singing the song that never tires, To lure down others from their nests; How ye flutter and heat your breasts, Warm and soft with young desires, Against the cruel, pitiless wires, Reclaiming your lost heritage! Behold! a hand unbars the door, Ye shall be captives held no more.

The Word they shall perforce let stand,
And little thanks they merit!
For He is with us in the land,
With gifts of his own Spirit!
Though they take our life,
Goods, honors, child and wife,
Lot these pass away,
Little gain have they;
The Kingdom still remaineth!

Yea, it remaineth forevermore, However Satan may rage and roar, Though often be whispers in my ears: What if thy doctrines false should be? And wrings from me a bitter sweat. Then I put him to flight with jeers, Saying: Saint Satan! pray for me; If thou thinkest I am not saved yet!

And my mortal foes that lie in wait In every avenue and gate! As to that odious monk John Tetzel, Hawking about his hollow wares Like a huckster at village fairs, And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cellarius, And all the busy, multifarious Heretics, and disciples of Arius, Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, They are not worthy of my regard, Poor and humble as I am.

But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, He is the vilest miscreant That ever walked this world below A Momus, making his mock and mow, At Papist and at Protestant, Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, At God and Man, at one and all; And yet as hollow and false and drear, As a cracked pitcher to the ear, And ever growing worse and worse! Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse On Erasmus, the Insincere!

Philip Melanethon! thou alone
Faithful among the faithless known,
Thee I hail, and only thee!
Behold the record of us three!
Res et verba Philippus,
Res sine verbis Lutherus;
Erasmus verba sine re!

My Philip, prayest thou for me? Lifted above all earthly care, From these high regions of the air, Among the birds that day and night Upon the branches of tall trees Sing their lauds and litanies, Praising God with all their might, My Philip, unto thee I write,

My Philip! thou who knowest best All that is passing in this breast; The spiritual agonies, The inward deaths, the inward hell, And the divine new births as well, That surely follow after these, As after winter follows spring; My Philip, in the night-time sing This song of the Lord I send to thee; And I will sing it for thy sake, Until our answering voices make A glorious antiphony, And choral chant of victory!

---

PART THREE
THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES

JOHN ENDICOTT

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

JOHN ENDICOTT Governor. JOHN ENDICOTT His son. RICHARD BELLINGHAM Deputy Governor. JOHN NORTON Minister of the Gospel. EDWARD BUTTER Treasurer. WALTER MERRY Tithing-man. NICHOLAS UPSALL An old citizen. SAMUEL COLE Landlord of the Three Mariners.

SIMON KEMPTHORN RALPH GOLDSMITH Sea-Captains.

WENLOCK CHRISTISON
EDITH, his daughter
EDWARD WHARTON Quakers
Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, etc.
The Scene is in Boston in the year 1665.

---

PROLOGUE.

To-night we strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest; And bring to light, upon the blotted page, The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.

Rise, then, O buried city that hast been; Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, And let our curious eyes behold once more The pointed gable and the pent-house door, The Meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes, The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!

Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last; Let us behold your faces, let us hear The words ye uttered in those days of fear Revisit your familiar haunts again,— The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet Once more upon the pavement of the street!

Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, If he perchance misdate the day or year, And group events together, by his art, That in the Chronicles lie far apart; For as the double stars, though sundered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star, So facts of history, at a distance seen, Into one common point of light convene.

"Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end? Why drag again into the light of day The errors of an age long passed away?" I answer: "For the lessons that they teach: The tolerance of opinion and of speech. Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,—these three; And greatest of them all is Charity."

Let us remember, if these words be true, That unto all men Charity is due; Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame, Lest we become copartners in the shame, Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake, And persecute the dead for conscience' sake.

Therefore it is the author seeks and strives To represent the dead as in their lives, And lets at times his characters unfold Their thoughts in their own language, strong and bold; He only asks of you to do the like; To hear hint first, and, if you will, then strike.

---

ACT I.

SCENE I. — Sunday afternoon. The interior of the Meeting-house.

On the pulpit, an hour-glass; below, a box for contributions. JOHN NORTON in the pulpit. GOVERNOR ENDICOTT in a canopied seat, attended by four halberdiers. The congregation singing.

The Lord descended from above,
And bowed the heavens high;
And underneath his feet He cast
The darkness of the sky.
On Cherubim and Seraphim
Right royally He rode,
And on the wings of mighty winds
Came flying all abroad.

NORTON (rising and turning the hourglass on the pulpit). I heard a great voice from the temple saying Unto the Seven Angels, Go your ways; Pour out the vials of the wrath of God Upon the earth. And the First Angel went And poured his vial on the earth; and straight There fell a noisome and a grievous sore On them which had the birth-mark of the Beast, And them which worshipped and adored his image. On us hath fallen this grievous pestilence. There is a sense of terror in the air; And apparitions of things horrible Are seen by many; from the sky above us The stars fall; and beneath us the earth quakes! The sound of drums at midnight from afar, The sound of horsemen riding to and fro, As if the gates of the invisible world Were opened, and the dead came forth to warn us,— All these are omens of some dire disaster Impending over us, and soon to fall, Moreover, in the language of the Prophet, Death is again come up into our windows, To cut off little children from without, And young men from the streets. And in the midst Of all these supernatural threats and warnings Doth Heresy uplift its horrid head; A vision of Sin more awful and appalling Than any phantasm, ghost, or apparition, As arguing and portending some enlargement Of the mysterious Power of Darkness!

EDITH, barefooted, and clad in sackcloth, with her hair hanging loose upon her shoulders, walks slowly up the aisle, followed by WHARTON and other Quakers. The congregation starts up in confusion.

EDITH (to NORTON, raising her hand).
Peace!

NORTON. Anathema maranatha! The Lord cometh!

EDITH. Yea, verily He cometh, and shall judge The shepherds of Israel who do feed themselves, And leave their flocks to eat what they have trodden Beneath their feet.

NORTON.
Be silent, babbling woman!
St. Paul commands all women to keep silence
Within the churches.

EDITH.
Yet the women prayed
And prophesied at Corinth in his day;
And, among those on whom the fiery tongues
Of Pentecost descended, some were women!

NORTON. The Elders of the Churches, by our law, Alone have power to open the doors of speech And silence in the Assembly. I command you!

EDITH. The law of God is greater than your laws! Ye build your church with blood, your town with crime; The heads thereof give judgment for reward; The priests thereof teach only for their hire; Your laws condemn the innocent to death; And against this I bear my testimony!

NORTON. What testimony?

EDITH.
That of the Holy Spirit,
Which, as your Calvin says, surpasseth reason.

NORTON. The laborer is worthy of his hire.

EDITH. Yet our great Master did not teach for hire, And the Apostles without purse or scrip Went forth to do his work. Behold this box Beneath thy pulpit. Is it for the poor? Thou canst not answer. It is for the Priest And against this I bear my testimony.

NORTON. Away with all these Heretics and Quakers! Quakers, forsooth! Because a quaking fell On Daniel, at beholding of the Vision, Must ye needs shake and quake? Because Isaiah Went stripped and barefoot, must ye wail and howl? Must ye go stripped and naked? must ye make A wailing like the dragons, and a mourning As of the owls? Ye verify the adage That Satan is God's ape! Away with them!

Tumult. The Quakers are driven out with violence, EDITH following slowly. The congregation retires in confusion.

Thus freely do the Reprobates commit Such measure of iniquity as fits them For the intended measure of God's wrath And even in violating God's commands Are they fulfilling the divine decree! The will of man is but an instrument Disposed and predetermined to its action According unto the decree of God, Being as much subordinate thereto As is the axe unto the hewer's hand!

He descends from the pulpit, and joins GOVERNOR ENDICOTT, who comes forward to meet him.

The omens and the wonders of the time, Famine, and fire, and shipwreck, and disease, The blast of corn, the death of our young men, Our sufferings in all precious, pleasant things, Are manifestations of the wrath divine, Signs of God's controversy with New England. These emissaries of the Evil One, These servants and ambassadors of Satan, Are but commissioned executioners Of God's vindictive and deserved displeasure. We must receive them as the Roman Bishop Once received Attila, saying, I rejoice You have come safe, whom I esteem to be The scourge of God, sent to chastise his people. This very heresy, perchance, may serve The purposes of God to some good end. With you I leave it; but do not neglect The holy tactics of the civil sword.

ENDICOTT. And what more can be done?

NORTON.
The hand that cut
The Red Cross from the colors of the king
Can cut the red heart from this heresy.
Fear not. All blasphemies immediate
And heresies turbulent must be suppressed
By civil power.

ENDICOTT.
But in what way suppressed?

NORTON. The Book of Deuteronomy declares That if thy son, thy daughter, or thy wife, Ay, or the friend which is as thine own soul, Entice thee secretly, and say to thee, Let us serve other gods, then shalt thine eye Not pity him, but thou shalt surely kill him, And thine own hand shall be the first upon him To slay him.

ENDICOTT.
Four already have been slain;
And others banished upon pain of death.
But they come back again to meet their doom,
Bringing the linen for their winding-sheets.
We must not go too far. In truth, I shrink
From shedding of more blood. The people murmur
At our severity.

NORTON.
Then let them murmur!
Truth is relentless; justice never wavers;
The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy;
The noble order of the Magistracy
Cometh immediately from God, and yet
This noble order of the Magistracy
Is by these Heretics despised and outraged.

ENDICOTT. To-night they sleep in prison. If they die, They cannot say that we have caused their death. We do but guard the passage, with the sword Pointed towards them; if they dash upon it, Their blood will be on their own heads, not ours.

NORTON.
Enough. I ask no more. My predecessor
Coped only with the milder heresies
Of Antinomians and of Anabaptists.
He was not born to wrestle with these fiends.
Chrysostom in his pulpit; Augustine
In disputation; Timothy in his house!
The lantern of St. Botolph's ceased to burn
When from the portals of that church he came
To be a burning and a shining light
Here in the wilderness. And, as he lay
On his death-bed, he saw me in a vision
Ride on a snow-white horse into this town.
His vision was prophetic; thus I came,
A terror to the impenitent, and Death
On the pale horse of the Apocalypse
To all the accursed race of Heretics!
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — A street. On one side, NICHOLAS UPSALL's house; on the other, WALTER MERRY's, with a flock of pigeons on the roof. UPSALL seated in the porch of his house.

UPSALL. O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair, How welcome to the weary and the old! Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares! Day of the Lord, as all our days should be! Ah, why will man by his austerities Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, And make of thee a dungeon of despair!

WALTER MERRY (entering and looking round him). All silent as a graveyard! No one stirring; No footfall in the street, no sound of voices! By righteous punishment and perseverance, And perseverance in that punishment, At last I have brought this contumacious town To strict observance of the Sabbath day. Those wanton gospellers, the pigeons yonder, Are now the only Sabbath-breakers left. I cannot put them down. As if to taunt me, They gather every Sabbath afternoon In noisy congregation on my roof, Billing and cooing. Whir! take that, ye Quakers.

Throws a stone at the pigeons. Sees UPSALL.

Ah! Master Nicholas!

UPSALL.
Good afternoon,
Dear neighbor Walter.

MERRY.
Master Nicholas,
You have to-day withdrawn yourself from meeting.

UPSALL. Yea, I have chosen rather to worship God Sitting in silence here at my own door.

MERRY. Worship the Devil! You this day have broken Three of our strictest laws. First, by abstaining From public worship. Secondly, by walking Profanely on the Sabbath.

UPSALL.
Not one step.
I have been sitting still here, seeing the pigeons
Feed in the street and fly about the roofs.

MERRY. You have been in the street with other intent Than going to and from the Meeting-house. And, thirdly, you are harboring Quakers here. I am amazed!

UPSALL.
Men sometimes, it is said,
Entertain angels unawares.

MERRY.
Nice angels!
Angels in broad-brimmed hats and russet cloaks,
The color of the Devil's nutting-bag. They came
Into the Meeting-house this afternoon
More in the shape of devils than of angels.
The women screamed and fainted; and the boys
Made such an uproar in the gallery
I could not keep them quiet.

UPSALL.
Neighbor Walter,
Your persecution is of no avail.

MERRY. 'T is prosecution, as the Governor says, Not persecution.

UPSALL.
Well, your prosecution;
Your hangings do no good.

MERRY.
The reason is,
We do not hang enough. But, mark my words,
We'll scour them; yea, I warrant ye, we'll scour them!
And now go in and entertain your angels,
And don't be seen here in the street again
Till after sundown! There they are again!

Exit UPSALL. MERRY throws another stone at the pigeons, and then goes into his house.

SCENE III. — A room in UPSALL'S house. Night. EDITH, WHARTON, and other Quakers seated at a table. UPSALL seated near them, Several books on the table.

WHARTON. William and Marmaduke, our martyred brothers, Sleep in untimely graves, if aught untimely Can find place in the providence of God, Where nothing comes too early or too late. I saw their noble death. They to the scaffold Walked hand in hand. Two hundred armed men And many horsemen guarded them, for fear Of rescue by the crowd, whose hearts were stirred.

EDITH. O holy martyrs!

WHARTON.
When they tried to speak,
Their voices by the roll of drums were drowned.
When they were dead they still looked fresh and fair,
The terror of death was not upon their faces.
Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek woman,
Has passed through martyrdom to her reward;
Exclaiming, as they led her to her death,
"These many days I've been in Paradise."
And, when she died, Priest Wilson threw the hangman
His handkerchief, to cover the pale face
He dared not look upon.

EDITH.
As persecuted,
Yet not forsaken; as unknown, yet known;
As dying, and behold we are alive;
As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing always;
As having nothing, yet possessing all!

WHARTON. And Leddra, too, is dead. But from his prison, The day before his death, he sent these words Unto the little flock of Christ: "What ever May come upon the followers of the Light,— Distress, affliction, famine, nakedness, Or perils in the city or the sea, Or persecution, or even death itself,— I am persuaded that God's armor of Light, As it is loved and lived in, will preserve you. Yea, death itself; through which you will find entrance Into the pleasant pastures of the fold, Where you shall feed forever as the herds That roam at large in the low valleys of Achor. And as the flowing of the ocean fills Each creek and branch thereof, and then retires, Leaving behind a sweet and wholesome savor; So doth the virtue and the life of God Flow evermore into the hearts of those Whom He hath made partakers of His nature; And, when it but withdraws itself a little, Leaves a sweet savor after it, that many Can say they are made clean by every word That He hath spoken to them in their silence."

EDITH (rising and breaking into a kind of chant). Truly we do but grope here in the dark, Near the partition-wall of Life and Death, At every moment dreading or desiring To lay our hands upon the unseen door! Let us, then, labor for an inward stillness,— An inward stillness and an inward healing; That perfect silence where the lips and heart Are still, and we no longer entertain Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions, But God alone speaks in us, and we wait In singleness of heart, that we may know His will, and in the silence of our spirits, That we may do His will, and do that only!

A long pause, interrupted by the sound of a drum approaching; then shouts in the street, and a loud knocking at the door.

MARSHAL. Within there! Open the door!

MERRY.
Will no one answer?

MARSHAL. In the King's name! Within there!

MERRY.
Open the door!

UPSALL (from the window). It is not barred. Come in. Nothing prevents you. The poor man's door is ever on the latch. He needs no bolt nor bar to shut out thieves; He fears no enemies, and has no friends Importunate enough to need a key.

Enter JOHN ENDICOTT, the MARSHAL, MERRY, and a crowd. Seeing the Quakers silent and unmoved, they pause, awe-struck. ENDICOTT opposite EDITH.

MARSHAL. In the King's name do I arrest you all! Away with them to prison. Master Upsall, You are again discovered harboring here These ranters and disturbers of the peace. You know the law.

UPSALL.
I know it, and am ready
To suffer yet again its penalties.

EDITH (to ENDICOTT). Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of Tarsus?

---

ACT II.

SCENE I. — JOHN ENDICOTT's room. Early morning.

JOHN ENDICOTT. "Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of Tarsus?" All night these words were ringing in mine ears! A sorrowful sweet face; a look that pierced me With meek reproach; a voice of resignation That had a life of suffering in its tone; And that was all! And yet I could not sleep, Or, when I slept, I dreamed that awful dream! I stood beneath the elm-tree on the Common, On which the Quakers have been hanged, and heard A voice, not hers, that cried amid the darkness, "This is Aceldama, the field of blood! I will have mercy, and not sacrifice!"

Opens the window and looks out.

The sun is up already; and my heart
Sickens and sinks within me when I think
How many tragedies will be enacted
Before his setting. As the earth rolls round,
It seems to me a huge Ixion's wheel,
Upon whose whirling spokes we are bound fast,
And must go with it! Ah, how bright the sun
Strikes on the sea and on the masts of vessels,
That are uplifted, in the morning air,
Like crosses of some peaceable crusade!
It makes me long to sail for lands unknown,
No matter whither! Under me, in shadow,
Gloomy and narrow, lies the little town,
Still sleeping, but to wake and toil awhile,
Then sleep again. How dismal looks the prison,
How grim and sombre in the sunless street,—
The prison where she sleeps, or wakes and waits
For what I dare not think of,—death, perhaps!
A word that has been said may be unsaid:
It is but air. But when a deed is done
It cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts
Reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow.
'T is time for morning prayers. I will go down.
My father, though severe, is kind and just;
And when his heart is tender with devotion,—
When from his lips have fallen the words, "Forgive us
As we forgive,"—then will I intercede
For these poor people, and perhaps may save them.
[Exit.

SCENE II. — Dock Square. On one side, the tavern of the Three Mariners. In the background, a quaint building with gables; and, beyond it, wharves and shipping. CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN and others seated at a table before the door. SAMUEL COLE standing near them.

KEMPTHORN. Come, drink about! Remember Parson Melham, And bless the man who first invented flip!

They drink.

COLE. Pray, Master Kempthorn, where were you last night?

KEMPTHORN. On board the Swallow, Simon Kempthorn, master, Up for Barbadoes, and the Windward Islands.

COLE. The town was in a tumult.

KEMPTHORN.
And for what?

COLE. Your Quakers were arrested.

KEMPTHORN.
How my Quakers?

COLE. These you brought in your vessel from Barbadoes. They made an uproar in the Meeting-house Yesterday, and they're now in prison for it. I owe you little thanks for bringing them To the Three Mariners.

KEMPTHORN.
They have not harmed you.
I tell you, Goodman Cole, that Quaker girl
Is precious as a sea-bream's eye. I tell you
It was a lucky day when first she set
Her little foot upon the Swallow's deck,
Bringing good luck, fair winds, and pleasant weather.

COLE. I am a law-abiding citizen; I have a seat in the new Meeting-house, A cow-right on the Common; and, besides, Am corporal in the Great Artillery. I rid me of the vagabonds at once.

KEMPTHORN. Why should you not have Quakers at your tavern If you have fiddlers?

COLE.
Never! never! never!
If you want fiddling you must go elsewhere,
To the Green Dragon and the Admiral Vernon,
And other such disreputable places.
But the Three Mariners is an orderly house,
Most orderly, quiet, and respectable.
Lord Leigh said he could be as quiet here
As at the Governor's. And have I not
King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, all framed and glazed,
Hanging in my best parlor?

KEMPTHORN.
Here's a health
To good King Charles. Will you not drink the King?
Then drink confusion to old Parson Palmer.

COLE. And who is Parson Palmer? I don't know him.

KEMPTHORN. He had his cellar underneath his pulpit, And so preached o'er his liquor, just as you do.

A drum within.

COLE. Here comes the Marshal.

MERRY (within).
Make room for the Marshal.

KEMPTHORN. How pompous and imposing he appears! His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail, And all his streamers fluttering in the wind. What holds he in his hand?

COLE.
A proclamation.

Enter the MARSHAL, with a proclamation; and MERRY, with a halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among whom are UPSALL and JOHN ENDICOTT. A pile is made of the books.

MERRY. Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend To the new laws enacted by the Court.

MARSHAL (reads). "Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers, Who take upon themselves to be commissioned Immediately of God, and furthermore Infallibly assisted by the Spirit To write and utter blasphemous opinions, Despising Government and the order of God In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking To turn the people from their faith, and thus Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;— This Court, considering the premises, And to prevent like mischief as is wrought By their means in our land, doth hereby order, That whatsoever master or commander Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers, Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth One hundred pounds, and for default thereof Be put in prison, and continue there Till the said sum be satisfied and paid."

COLE. Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that?

KEMPTHORN. I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds!

MARSHAL (reads). "If any one within this Jurisdiction Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal Quakers or other blasphemous Heretics, Knowing them so to be, every such person Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings For each hour's entertainment or concealment, And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid, Until the forfeiture be wholly paid!"

Murmurs in the crowd.

KEMPTHORN. Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come!

COLE. Knowing them so to be!

KEMPTHORN.
At forty shillings
The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds!

COLE. Knowing them so to be! That is the law.

MARSHAL (reads). "And it is further ordered and enacted, If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction, Every male Quaker for the first offence Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept At labor in the Workhouse, till such time As he be sent away at his own charge. And for the repetition of the offence Shall have his other ear cut off, and then Be branded in the palm of his right hand. And every woman Quaker shall be whipt Severely in three towns; and every Quaker, Or he or she, that shall for a third time Herein again offend, shall have their tongues Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death."

Loud murmurs. The voice of CHRISTISON in the crowd.

O patience of the Lord! How long, how long, Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect?

MERRY. Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace!

MARSHAL (reads). "Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction Who shall defend the horrible opinions Of Quakers, by denying due respect To equals and superiors, and withdrawing From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving The abusive and destructive practices Of this accursed sect, in opposition To all the orthodox received opinions Of godly men shall be forthwith commit ted Unto close prison for one month; and then Refusing to retract and to reform The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death. By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary." Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books.

Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted.

UPSALL. I testify against these cruel laws! Forerunners are they of some judgment on us; And, in the love and tenderness I bear Unto this town and people, I beseech you, O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found As fighters against God!

JOHN ENDICOTT (taking UPSALL'S hand). Upsall, I thank you For speaking words such as some younger man, I, or another, should have said before you. Such laws as these are cruel and oppressive; A blot on this fair town, and a disgrace To any Christian people.

MERRY (aside, listening behind them).
Here's sedition!
I never thought that any good would come
Of this young popinjay, with his long hair
And his great boots, fit only for the Russians
Or barbarous Indians, as his father says!

THE VOICE. Woe to the bloody town! And rightfully Men call it the Lost Town! The blood of Abel Cries from the ground, and at the final judgment The Lord will say, "Cain, Cain! Where is thy brother?"

MERRY. Silence there in the crowd!

UPSALL (aside).
'T is Christison!

THE VOICE. O foolish people, ye that think to burn And to consume the truth of God, I tell you That every flame is a loud tongue of fire To publish it abroad to all the world Louder than tongues of men!

KEMPTHORN (springing to his feet).
Well said, my hearty!
There's a brave fellow! There's a man of pluck!
A man who's not afraid to say his say,
Though a whole town's against him. Rain, rain, rain,
Bones of St. Botolph, and put out this fire!

The drum beats. Exeunt all but MERRY, KEMPTHORN, and COLE.

MERRY. And now that matter's ended, Goodman Cole, Fetch me a mug of ale, your strongest ale.

KEMPTHORN (sitting down).
And me another mug of flip; and put
Two gills of brandy in it.
[Exit COLE.

MERRY.
No; no more.
Not a drop more, I say. You've had enough.

KEMPTHORN. And who are you, sir?

MERRY.
I'm a Tithing-man,
And Merry is my name.

KEMPTHORN.
A merry name!
I like it; and I'll drink your merry health
Till all is blue.

MERRY.
And then you will be clapped
Into the stocks, with the red letter D
Hung round about your neck for drunkenness.
You're a free-drinker,—yes, and a free-thinker!

KEMPTHORN. And you are Andrew Merry, or Merry Andrew.

MERRY. My name is Walter Merry, and not Andrew.

KEMPTHORN. Andrew or Walter, you're a merry fellow; I'll swear to that.

MERRY.
No swearing, let me tell you.
The other day one Shorthose had his tongue
Put into a cleft stick for profane swearing.

COLE brings the ale.

KEMPTHORN. Well, where's my flip? As sure as my name's Kempthorn—

MERRY. Is your name Kempthorn?

KEMPTHORN.
That's the name I go by.

MERRY. What, Captain Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow?

KEMPTHORN. No other.

MERRY (touching him on the shoulder).
Then you're wanted. I arrest you
In the King's name.

KEMPTHORN.
And where's your warrant?

MERRY (unfolding a paper, and reading).
Here.
Listen to me. "Hereby you are required,
In the King's name, to apprehend the body
Of Simon Kempthorn, mariner, and him
Safely to bring before me, there to answer
All such objections as are laid to him,
Touching the Quakers." Signed, John Endicott.

KEMPTHORN. Has it the Governor's seal?

MERRY.
Ay, here it is.

KEMPTHORN. Death's head and cross-bones. That's a pirate's flag!

MERRY. Beware how you revile the Magistrates; You may be whipped for that.

KEMPTHORN.
Then mum's the word.

Exeunt MERRY and KEMPTHORN.

COLE.
There's mischief brewing! Sure, there's mischief brewing.
I feel like Master Josselyn when he found
The hornet's nest, and thought it some strange fruit,
Until the seeds came out, and then he dropped it.
[Exit.

Scene III. — A room in the Governor's house, Enter GOVERNOR ENDICOTT and MERRY.

ENDICOTT. My son, you say?

MERRY.
Your Worship's eldest son.

ENDICOTT. Speaking against the laws?

MERRY.
Ay, worshipful sir.

ENDICOTT. And in the public market-place?

MERRY.
I saw him
With my own eyes, heard him with my own ears.

ENDICOTT. Impossible!

MERRY.
He stood there in the crowd
With Nicholas Upsall, when the laws were read
To-day against the Quakers, and I heard him
Denounce and vilipend them as unjust,
And cruel, wicked, and abominable.

ENDICOTT. Ungrateful son! O God! thou layest upon me A burden heavier than I can bear! Surely the power of Satan must be great Upon the earth, if even the elect Are thus deceived and fall away from grace!

MERRY. Worshipful sir! I meant no harm—

ENDICOTT.
'T is well.
You've done your duty, though you've done it roughly,
And every word you've uttered since you came
Has stabbed me to the heart!

MERRY.
I do beseech
Your Worship's pardon!

ENDICOTT.
He whom I have nurtured
And brought up in the reverence of the Lord!
The child of all my hopes and my affections!
He upon whom I leaned as a sure staff
For my old age! It is God's chastisement
For leaning upon any arm but His!

MERRY. Your Worship!—

ENDICOTT.
And this comes from holding parley
With the delusions and deceits of Satan.
At once, forever, must they be crushed out,
Or all the land will reek with heresy!
Pray, have you any children?

MERRY.
No, not any.

ENDICOTT. Thank God for that. He has delivered you From a great care. Enough; my private griefs Too long have kept me from the public service.

Exit MERRY, ENDICOTT seats himself at the table and arranges his papers.

The hour has come; and I am eager now To sit in judgment on these Heretics.

A knock.

Come in. Who is it? (Not looking up).

JOHN ENDICOTT.
It is I.

ENDICOTT (restraining himself).
Sit down!

JOHN ENDICOTT (sitting down). I come to intercede for these poor people Who are in prison, and await their trial.

ENDICOTT. It is of them I wished to speak with you. I have been angry with you, but 't is passed. For when I hear your footsteps come or go, See in your features your dead mother's face, And in your voice detect some tone of hers, All anger vanishes, and I remember The days that are no more, and come no more, When as a child you sat upon my knee, And prattled of your playthings, and the games You played among the pear trees in the orchard!

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, let the memory of my noble mother Plead with you to be mild and merciful! For mercy more becomes a Magistrate Than the vindictive wrath which men call justice!

ENDICOTT. The sin of heresy is a deadly sin. 'T is like the falling of the snow, whose crystals The traveller plays with, thoughtless of his danger, Until he sees the air so full of light That it is dark; and blindly staggering onward, Lost and bewildered, he sits down to rest; There falls a pleasant drowsiness upon him, And what he thinks is sleep, alas! is death.

JOHN ENDICOTT. And yet who is there that has never doubted? And doubting and believing, has not said, "Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief"?

ENDICOTT. In the same way we trifle with our doubts, Whose shining shapes are like the stars descending; Until at last, bewildered and dismayed, Blinded by that which seemed to give us light, We sink to sleep, and find that it is death,

Rising.

Death to the soul through all eternity! Alas that I should see you growing up To man's estate, and in the admonition And nurture of the law, to find you now Pleading for Heretics!

JOHN ENDICOTT (rising).
In the sight of God,
Perhaps all men are Heretics. Who dares
To say that he alone has found the truth?
We cannot always feel and think and act
As those who go before us. Had you done so,
You would not now be here.

ENDICOTT.
Have you forgotten
The doom of Heretics, and the fate of those
Who aid and comfort them? Have you forgotten
That in the market-place this very day
You trampled on the laws? What right have you,
An inexperienced and untravelled youth,
To sit in judgment here upon the acts
Of older men and wiser than yourself,
Thus stirring up sedition in the streets,
And making me a byword and a jest?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Words of an inexperienced youth like me Were powerless if the acts of older men Were not before them. 'T is these laws themselves Stir up sedition, not my judgment of them.

ENDICOTT. Take heed, lest I be called, as Brutus was, To be the judge of my own son. Begone! When you are tired of feeding upon husks, Return again to duty and submission, But not till then.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
I hear and I obey!
[Exit.
ENDICOTT.
Oh happy, happy they who have no children!
He's gone! I hear the hall door shut behind him.
It sends a dismal echo through my heart,
As if forever it had closed between us,
And I should look upon his face no more!
Oh, this will drag me down into my grave,—
To that eternal resting-place wherein
Man lieth down, and riseth not again!
Till the heavens be no more, he shall not wake,
Nor be roused from his sleep; for Thou dost change
His countenance and sendest him away!
[Exit.

---

ACT III.

SCENE I. — The Court of Assistants, ENDICOTT, BELLINGHAM, ATHERTON, and other magistrates. KEMPTHORN, MERRY, and constables. Afterwards WHARTON, EDITH, and CHRISTISON.

ENDICOTT. Call Captain Simon Kempthorn.

MERRY.
Simon Kempthorn,
Come to the bar!

KEMPTHORN comes forward.

ENDICOTT.
You are accused of bringing
Into this Jurisdiction, from Barbadoes,
Some persons of that sort and sect of people
Known by the name of Quakers, and maintaining
Most dangerous and heretical opinions,
Purposely coming here to propagate
Their heresies and errors; bringing with them
And spreading sundry books here, which contain
Their doctrines most corrupt and blasphemous,
And contrary to the truth professed among us.
What say you to this charge?

KEMPTHORN.

I do acknowledge,
Among the passengers on board the Swallow
Were certain persons saying Thee and Thou.
They seemed a harmless people, mostways silent,
Particularly when they said their prayers.

ENDICOTT. Harmless and silent as the pestilence! You'd better have brought the fever or the plague Among us in your ship! Therefore, this Court, For preservation of the Peace and Truth, Hereby commands you speedily to transport, Or cause to be transported speedily, The aforesaid persons hence unto Barbadoes, From whence they came; you paying all the charges Of their imprisonment.

KEMPTHORN.
Worshipful sir,
No ship e'er prospered that has carried Quakers
Against their will! I knew a vessel once—

ENDICOTT. And for the more effectual performance Hereof you are to give security In bonds amounting to one hundred pounds. On your refusal, you will be committed To prison till you do it.

KEMPTHORN.
But you see
I cannot do it. The law, sir, of Barbadoes
Forbids the landing Quakers on the island.

ENDICOTT. Then you will be committed. Who comes next?

MERRY. There is another charge against the Captain.

ENDICOTT. What is it?

MERRY. Profane swearing, please your Worship. He cursed and swore from Dock Square to the Court-house,

ENDICOTT. Then let him stand in the pillory for one hour.

[Exit KEMPTHORN with constable.

Who's next?

MERRY.
The Quakers.

ENDICOTT.
Call them.

MERRY.
Edward Wharton,
Come to the bar!

WHARTON.
Yea, even to the bench.

ENDICOTT. Take off your hat.

WHARTON.
My hat offendeth not.
If it offendeth any, let him take it;
For I shall not resist.

ENDICOTT.
Take off his hat.
Let him be fined ten shillings for contempt.

MERRY takes off WHARTON'S hat.

WHARTON. What evil have I done?

ENDICOTT.
Your hair's too long;
And in not putting off your hat to us
You've disobeyed and broken that commandment
Which sayeth "Honor thy father and thy mother."

WHARTON. John Endicott, thou art become too proud; And loved him who putteth off the hat, And honoreth thee by bowing of the body, And sayeth "Worshipful sir!" 'T is time for thee To give such follies over, for thou mayest Be drawing very near unto thy grave.

ENDICOTT. Now, sirrah, leave your canting. Take the oath.

WHARTON. Nay, sirrah me no sirrahs!

ENDICOTT.
Will you swear?

WHARTON. Nay, I will not.

ENDICOTT.
You made a great disturbance
And uproar yesterday in the Meeting-house,
Having your hat on.

WHARTON.
I made no disturbance;
For peacefully I stood, like other people.
I spake no words; moved against none my hand;
But by the hair they haled me out, and dashed
Their hooks into my face.

ENDICOTT.
You, Edward Wharton,
On pain of death, depart this Jurisdiction
Within ten days. Such is your sentence. Go.

WHARTON. John Endicott, it had been well for thee If this day's doings thou hadst left undone But, banish me as far as thou hast power, Beyond the guard and presence of my God Thou canst not banish me.

ENDICOTT.
Depart the Court;
We have no time to listen to your babble.
Who's next? [Exit WHARTON.

MERRY.
This woman, for the same offence.

EDITH comes forward.

ENDICOTT. What is your name?

EDITH.
'T is to the world unknown,
But written in the Book of Life.

ENDICOTT.
Take heed
It be not written in the Book of Death!
What is it?

EDITH.
Edith Christison.

ENDICOTT (with eagerness).
The daughter
Of Wenlock Christison?

EDITH.
I am his daughter.

ENDICOTT. Your father hath given us trouble many times. A bold man and a violent, who sets At naught the authority of our Church and State, And is in banishment on pain of death. Where are you living?

EDITH.
In the Lord.

ENDICOTT.
Make answer
Without evasion. Where?

EDITH.
My outward being
Is in Barbadoes.

ENDICOTT.
Then why come you here?

EDITH. I come upon an errand of the Lord.

ENDICOTT. 'Tis not the business of the Lord you're doing; It is the Devil's. Will you take the oath? Give her the Book.

MERRY offers the Book.

EDITH.
You offer me this Book
To swear on; and it saith, "Swear not at all,
Neither by heaven, because it is God's Throne,
Nor by the earth, because it is his footstool!"
I dare not swear.

ENDICOTT.
You dare not? Yet you Quakers
Deny this book of Holy Writ, the Bible,
To be the Word of God.

EDITH (reverentially).
Christ is the Word,
The everlasting oath of God. I dare not.

ENDICOTT. You own yourself a Quaker,—do you not?

EDITH. I own that in derision and reproach I am so called.

ENDICOTT.
Then you deny the Scripture
To be the rule of life.

EDITH.
Yea, I believe
The Inner Light, and not the Written Word,
To be the rule of life.

ENDICOTT.
And you deny
That the Lord's Day is holy.

EDITH.
Every day
Is the Lords Day. It runs through all our lives,
As through the pages of the Holy Bible,
"Thus saith the Lord."

ENDICOTT.
You are accused of making
An horrible disturbance, and affrighting
The people in the Meeting-house on Sunday.
What answer make you?

EDITH.
I do not deny
That I was present in your Steeple-house
On the First Day; but I made no disturbance.

ENDICOTT. Why came you there?

EDITH.
Because the Lord commanded.
His word was in my heart, a burning fire
Shut up within me and consuming me,
And I was very weary with forbearing;
I could not stay.

ENDICOTT.
'T was not the Lord that sent you;
As an incarnate devil did you come!

EDITH. On the First Day, when, seated in my chamber, I heard the bells toll, calling you together, The sound struck at my life, as once at his, The holy man, our Founder, when he heard The far-off bells toll in the Vale of Beavor. It sounded like a market bell to call The folk together, that the Priest might set His wares to sale. And the Lord said within me, "Thou must go cry aloud against that Idol, And all the worshippers thereof." I went Barefooted, clad in sackcloth, and I stood And listened at the threshold; and I heard The praying and the singing and the preaching, Which were but outward forms, and without power. Then rose a cry within me, and my heart Was filled with admonitions and reproofs. Remembering how the Prophets and Apostles Denounced the covetous hirelings and diviners, I entered in, and spake the words the Lord Commanded me to speak. I could no less.

ENDICOTT. Are you a Prophetess?

EDITH.
Is it not written,
"Upon my handmaidens will I pour out
My spirit, and they shall prophesy"?

ENDICOTT.
Enough;
For out of your own mouth are you condemned!
Need we hear further?

THE JUDGES.
We are satisfied.

ENDICOTT. It is sufficient. Edith Christison, The sentence of the Court is, that you be Scourged in three towns, with forty stripes save one, Then banished upon pain of death!

EDITH.
Your sentence
Is truly no more terrible to me
Than had you blown a feather into the the air,
And, as it fell upon me, you had said,
Take heed it hurt thee not! God's will he done!

WENLOCK CHRISTISON (unseen in the crowd). Woe to the city of blood! The stone shall cry Out of the wall; the beam from out the timber Shall answer it! Woe unto him that buildeth A town with blood, and stablisheth a city By his iniquity!

ENDICOTT.
Who is it makes
Such outcry here?

CHRISTISON (coming forward).
I, Wenlock Christison!

ENDICOTT. Banished on pain of death, why come you here?

CHRISTISON. I come to warn you that you shed no more The blood of innocent men! It cries aloud For vengeance to the Lord!

ENDICOTT.
Your life is forfeit
Unto the law; and you shall surely die,
And shall not live.

CHRISTISON.
Like unto Eleazer,
Maintaining the excellence of ancient years
And the honor of his gray head, I stand before you;
Like him disdaining all hypocrisy,
Lest, through desire to live a little longer,
I get a stain to my old age and name!

ENDICOTT. Being in banishment, on pain of death, You come now in among us in rebellion.

CHRISTISON. I come not in among you in rebellion, But in obedience to the Lord of heaven. Not in contempt to any Magistrate, But only in the love I bear your souls, As ye shall know hereafter, when all men Give an account of deeds done in the body! God's righteous judgments ye cannot escape.

ONE OF THE JUDGES. Those who have gone before you said the same, And yet no judgment of the Lord hath fallen Upon us.

CHRISTISON.
He but waiteth till the measure
Of your iniquities shall be filled up,
And ye have run your race. Then will his wrath
Descend upon you to the uttermost!
For thy part, Humphrey Atherton, it hangs
Over thy head already. It shall come
Suddenly, as a thief doth in the night,
And in the hour when least thou thinkest of it!

ENDICOTT. We have a law, and by that law you die.

CHRISTISON. I, a free man of England and freeborn, Appeal unto the laws of mine own nation!

ENDICOTT. There's no appeal to England from this Court! What! do you think our statutes are but paper? Are but dead leaves that rustle in the wind? Or litter to be trampled under foot? What say ye, Judges of the Court,—what say ye? Shall this man suffer death? Speak your opinions.

ONE OF THE JUDGES. I am a mortal man, and die I must, And that erelong; and I must then appear Before the awful judgment-seat of Christ, To give account of deeds done in the body. My greatest glory on that day will be, That I have given my vote against this man.

CHRISTISON. If, Thomas Danforth, thou hast nothing more To glory in upon that dreadful day Than blood of innocent people, then thy glory Will be turned into shame! The Lord hath said it!

ANOTHER JUDGE. I cannot give consent, while other men Who have been banished upon pain of death Are now in their own houses here among us.

ENDICOTT. Ye that will not consent, make record of it. I thank my God that I am not afraid To give my judgment. Wenlock Christison, You must be taken back from hence to prison, Thence to the place of public execution, There to be hanged till you be dead—dead,—dead.

CHRISTISON. If ye have power to take my life from me,— Which I do question,—God hath power to raise The principle of life in other men, And send them here among you. There shall be No peace unto the wicked, saith my God. Listen, ye Magistrates, for the Lord hath said it! The day ye put his servitors to death, That day the Day of your own Visitation, The Day of Wrath shall pass above your heads, And ye shall be accursed forevermore!

To EDITH, embracing her.

Cheer up, dear heart! they have not power to harm us.

[Exeunt CHRISTISON and EDITH guarded. The Scene closes.

---

SCENE II. — A street. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT and UPSALL.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Scourged in three towns! and yet the busy people Go up and down the streets on their affairs Of business or of pleasure, as if nothing Had happened to disturb them or their thoughts! When bloody tragedies like this are acted, The pulses of a nation should stand still The town should be in mourning, and the people Speak only in low whispers to each other.

UPSALL. I know this people; and that underneath A cold outside there burns a secret fire That will find vent and will not be put out, Till every remnant of these barbarous laws Shall be to ashes burned, and blown away.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Scourged in three towns! It is incredible Such things can be! I feel the blood within me Fast mounting in rebellion, since in vain Have I implored compassion of my father!

UPSALL. You know your father only as a father; I know him better as a Magistrate. He is a man both loving and severe; A tender heart; a will inflexible. None ever loved him more than I have loved him. He is an upright man and a just man In all things save the treatment of the Quakers.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Yet I have found him cruel and unjust Even as a father. He has driven me forth Into the street; has shut his door upon me, With words of bitterness. I am as homeless As these poor Quakers are.

UPSALL.
Then come with me.
You shall be welcome for your father's sake,
And the old friendship that has been between us.
He will relent erelong. A father's anger
Is like a sword without a handle, piercing
Both ways alike, and wounding him that wields it
No less than him that it is pointed at.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III. — The prison. Night. EDITH reading the Bible by a lamp.

EDITH. "Blessed are ye when men shall persecute you, And shall revile you, and shall say against you All manner of evil falsely for my sake! Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, for great Is your reward in heaven. For so the prophets, Which were before you, have been persecuted."

Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Edith!

EDITH.
Who is it that speaketh?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Saul of Tarsus:
As thou didst call me once.

EDITH (coming forward).
Yea, I remember.
Thou art the Governor's son.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
I am ashamed
Thou shouldst remember me.

EDITH.
Why comest thou
Into this dark guest-chamber in the night?
What seekest thou?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Forgiveness!

EDITH.
I forgive
All who have injured me. What hast thou done?

JOHN ENDICOTT. I have betrayed thee, thinking that in this I did God service. Now, in deep contrition, I come to rescue thee.

EDITH.
From what?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
From prison.
EDITH.
I am safe here within these gloomy walls.

JOHN ENDICOTT. From scourging in the streets, and in three towns!

EDITH. Remembering who was scourged for me, I shrink not Nor shudder at the forty stripes save one.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Perhaps from death itself!

EDITH.
I fear not death,
Knowing who died for me.

JOHN ENDICOTT (aside).
Surely some divine
Ambassador is speaking through those lips
And looking through those eyes! I cannot answer!

EDITH. If all these prison doors stood opened wide I would not cross the threshold,—not one step. There are invisible bars I cannot break; There are invisible doors that shut me in, And keep me ever steadfast to my purpose.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Thou hast the patience and the faith of Saints!

EDITH. Thy Priest hath been with me this day to save me, Not only from the death that comes to all, But from the second death!

JOHN ENDICOTT.
The Pharisee!
My heart revolts against him and his creed!
Alas! the coat that was without a seam
Is rent asunder by contending sects;
Each bears away a portion of the garment,
Blindly believing that he has the whole!

EDITH. When Death, the Healer, shall have touched our eyes With moist clay of the grave, then shall we see The truth as we have never yet beheld it. But he that overcometh shall not be Hurt of the second death. Has he forgotten The many mansions in our father's house?

JOHN ENDICOTT. There is no pity in his iron heart! The hands that now bear stamped upon their palms The burning sign of Heresy, hereafter Shall be uplifted against such accusers, And then the imprinted letter and its meaning Will not be Heresy, but Holiness!

EDITH. Remember, thou condemnest thine own father!

JOHN ENDICOTT. I have no father! He has cast me off. I am as homeless as the wind that moans And wanders through the streets. Oh, come with me! Do not delay. Thy God shall be my God, And where thou goest I will go.

EDITH.
I cannot.
Yet will I not deny it, nor conceal it;
From the first moment I beheld thy face
I felt a tenderness in my soul towards thee.
My mind has since been inward to the Lord,
Waiting his word. It has not yet been spoken.

JOHN ENDICOTT. I cannot wait. Trust me. Oh, come with me!

EDITH. In the next room, my father, an old man, Sitteth imprisoned and condemned to death, Willing to prove his faith by martyrdom; And thinkest thou his daughter would do less?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, life is sweet, and death is terrible!

EDITH. I have too long walked hand in hand with death To shudder at that pale familiar face. But leave me now. I wish to be alone.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Not yet. Oh, let me stay.

EDITH.
Urge me no more.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Alas! good-night. I will not say good-by!

EDITH. Put this temptation underneath thy feet. To him that overcometh shall be given The white stone with the new name written on it, That no man knows save him that doth receive it, And I will give thee a new name, and call thee Paul of Damascus, and not Saul of Tarsus.

[Exit ENDICOTT. EDITH sits down again to read the Bible.

---

ACT IV.

SCENE I. — King Street, in front of the town-house. KEMPTHORN in the pillory. MERRY and a crowd of lookers-on.

KEMPTHORN (sings).
The world is full of care,
Much like unto a bubble;
Women and care, and care and women,
And women and care and trouble.

Good Master Merry, may I say confound?

MERRY. Ay, that you may.

KEMPTHORN.
Well, then, with your permission,
Confound the Pillory!

MERRY.
That's the very thing
The joiner said who made the Shrewsbury stocks.
He said, Confound the stocks, because they put him
Into his own. He was the first man in them.

KEMPTHORN. For swearing, was it?

MERRY.
No, it was for charging;
He charged the town too much; and so the town,
To make things square, set him in his own stocks,
And fined him five pounds sterling,—just enough
To settle his own bill.

KEMPTHORN.
And served him right;
But, Master Merry, is it not eight bells?

MERRY. Not quite.

KEMPTHORN.
For, do you see? I'm getting tired
Of being perched aloft here in this cro' nest
Like the first mate of a whaler, or a Middy
Mast-headed, looking out for land! Sail ho!
Here comes a heavy-laden merchant-man
With the lee clews eased off and running free
Before the wind. A solid man of Boston.
A comfortable man, with dividends,
And the first salmon, and the first green peas.

A gentleman passes.

He does not even turn his head to look. He's gone without a word. Here comes another, A different kind of craft on a taut bow-line,— Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, A pious and a ponderous citizen, Looking as rubicund and round and splendid As the great bottle in his own shop window!

DEACON FIRMIN passes.

And here's my host of the Three Mariners, My creditor and trusty taverner, My corporal in the Great Artillery! He's not a man to pass me without speaking.

COLE looks away and passes.

Don't yaw so; keep your luff, old hypocrite! Respectable, ah yes, respectable, You, with your seat in the new Meeting-house, Your cow-right on the Common! But who's this? I did not know the Mary Ann was in! And yet this is my old friend, Captain Goldsmith, As sure as I stand in the bilboes here. Why, Ralph, my boy!

Enter RALPH GOLDSMITH.

GOLDSMITH.
Why, Simon, is it you?
Set in the bilboes?

KEMPTHORN.
Chock-a-block, you see,
And without chafing-gear.

GOLDSMITH.
And what's it for?

KEMPTHORN. Ask that starbowline with the boat-hook there, That handsome man.

MERRY (bowing).
For swearing.

KEMPTHORN.

In this town
They put sea-captains in the stocks for swearing,
And Quakers for not swearing. So look out.

GOLDSMITH. I pray you set him free; he meant no harm; 'T is an old habit he picked up afloat.

MERRY. Well, as your time is out, you may come down, The law allows you now to go at large Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the Common.

KEMPTHORN. Now, hearties, bear a hand! Let go and haul.

KEMPTHORN is set free, and comes forward, shaking GOLDSMITH'S hand.

KEMPTHORN. Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

GOLDSMITH.
God bless you, Simon!

KEMPTHORN. Now let us make a straight wake for the tavern Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole commander; Where we can take our ease, and see the shipping, And talk about old times.

GOLDSMITH.
First I must pay
My duty to the Governor, and take him
His letters and despatches. Come with me.

KEMPTHORN. I'd rather not. I saw him yesterday.

GOLDSMITH. Then wait for me at the Three Nuns and Comb.

KEMPTHORN. I thank you. That's too near to the town pump. I will go with you to the Governor's, And wait outside there, sailing off and on; If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal.

MERRY. Shall I go with you and point out the way?

GOLDSMITH. Oh no, I thank you. I am not a stranger Here in your crooked little town.

MERRY.
How now, sir?
Do you abuse our town? [Exit.

GOLDSMITH.
Oh, no offence.

KEMPTHORN. Ralph, I am under bonds for a hundred pound.

GOLDSMITH. Hard lines. What for?

KEMPTHORN.
To take some Quakers back
I brought here from Barbadoes in the Swallow.
And how to do it I don't clearly see,
For one of them is banished, and another
Is sentenced to be hanged! What shall I do?

GOLDSMITH.
Just slip your hawser on some cloudy night;
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon!
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — Street in front of the prison. In the background a gateway and several flights of steps leading up terraces to the Governor's house. A pump on one side of the street. JOHN ENDICOTT, MERRY, UPSALL, and others. A drum beats.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh shame, shame, shame!

MERRY.
Yes, it would be a shame
But for the damnable sin of Heresy!

JOHN ENDICOTT. A woman scourged and dragged about our streets!

MERRY. Well, Roxbury and Dorchester must take Their share of shame. She will be whipped in each! Three towns, and Forty Stripes save one; that makes Thirteen in each.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
And are we Jews or Christians?
See where she comes, amid a gaping crowd!
And she a child. Oh, pitiful! pitiful!
There's blood upon her clothes, her hands, her feet!

Enter MARSHAL and a drummer. EDITH, stripped to the waist, followed by the hangman with a scourge, and a noisy crowd.

EDITH. Here let me rest one moment. I am tired. Will some one give me water?

MERRY.
At his peril.

UPSALL. Alas! that I should live to see this day!

A WOMAN. Did I forsake my father and my mother And come here to New England to see this?

EDITH. I am athirst. Will no one give me water?

JOHN ENDICOTT (making his way through the crowd with water). In the Lord's name!

EDITH (drinking.

In his name I receive it!
Sweet as the water of Samaria's well
This water tastes. I thank thee. Is it thou?
I was afraid thou hadst deserted me.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Never will I desert thee, nor deny thee. Be comforted.

MERRY.
O Master Endicott,
Be careful what you say.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Peace, idle babbler!

MERRY. You'll rue these words!

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Art thou not better now?

EDITH. They've struck me as with roses.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Ah, these wounds!
These bloody garments!

EDITH.
It is granted me
To seal my testimony with my blood.

JOHN ENDICOTT. O blood-red seal of man's vindictive wrath! O roses in the garden of the Lord! I, of the household of Iscariot, I have betrayed in thee my Lord and Master.

WENLOCK CHRISTISON appears above, at the window of the prison, stretching out his hands through the bars.

CHRISTISON. Be of good courage, O my child! my child! Blessed art thou when men shall persecute thee! Fear not their faces, saith the Lord, fear not, For I am with thee to deliver thee.

A CITIZEN. Who is it crying from the prison yonder.

MERRY. It is old Wenlock Christison.

CHRISTISON.
Remember
Him who was scourged, and mocked, and crucified!
I see his messengers attending thee.
Be steadfast, oh, be steadfast to the end!

EDITH (with exultation). I cannot reach thee with these arms, O father! But closely in my soul do I embrace thee And hold thee. In thy dungeon and thy death I will be with thee, and will comfort thee.

MARSHAL. Come, put an end to this. Let the drum beat.

The drum beats. Exeunt all but JOHN ENDICOTT, UPSALL, and MERRY.

CHRISTISON. Dear child, farewell! Never shall I behold Thy face again with these bleared eyes of flesh; And never wast thou fairer, lovelier, dearer Than now, when scourged and bleeding, and insulted For the truth's sake. O pitiless, pitiless town! The wrath of God hangs over thee; and the day Is near at hand when thou shalt be abandoned To desolation and the breeding of nettles. The bittern and the cormorant shall lodge Upon thine upper lintels, and their voice Sing in thy windows. Yea, thus saith the Lord!

JOHN ENDICOTT.
Awake! awake! ye sleepers, ere too late,
And wipe these bloody statutes from your books!
[Exit.

MERRY. Take heed; the walls have ears!

UPSALL.
At last, the heart
Of every honest man must speak or break!

Enter GOVERNOR ENDICOTT with his halberdiers.

ENDICOTT. What is this stir and tumult in the street?

MERRY. Worshipful sir, the whipping of a girl, And her old father howling from the prison.

ENDICOTT (to his halberdiers). Go on.

CHRISTISON.
Antiochus! Antiochus!
O thou that slayest the Maccabees! The Lord
Shall smite thee with incurable disease,
And no man shall endure to carry thee!

MERRY. Peace, old blasphemer!

CHRISTISON.
I both feel and see
The presence and the waft of death go forth
Against thee, and already thou dost look
Like one that's dead!

MERRY (pointing).
And there is your own son,
Worshipful sir, abetting the sedition.

ENDICOTT. Arrest him. Do not spare him.

MERRY (aside).
His own child!
There is some special providence takes care
That none shall be too happy in this world!
His own first-born.

ENDICOTT.
O Absalom, my son!

[Exeunt; the Governor with his halberdiers ascending the steps of his house.

SCENE III. — The Governor's private room. Papers upon the table.

ENDICOTT and BELLINGHAM

ENDICOTT. There is a ship from England has come in, Bringing despatches and much news from home, His majesty was at the Abbey crowned; And when the coronation was complete There passed a mighty tempest o'er the city, Portentous with great thunderings and lightnings.

BELLINGHAM. After his father's, if I well remember, There was an earthquake, that foreboded evil.

ENDICOTT. Ten of the Regicides have been put to death! The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw Have been dragged from their graves, and publicly Hanged in their shrouds at Tyburn.

BELLINGHAM.
Horrible!

ENDICOTT. Thus the old tyranny revives again. Its arm is long enough to reach us here, As you will see. For, more insulting still Than flaunting in our faces dead men's shrouds, Here is the King's Mandamus, taking from us, From this day forth, all power to punish Quakers.

BELLINGHAM. That takes from us all power; we are but puppets, And can no longer execute our laws.

ENDICOTT. His Majesty begins with pleasant words, "Trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well;" Then with a ruthless hand he strips from me All that which makes me what I am; as if From some old general in the field, grown gray In service, scarred with many wounds, Just at the hour of victory, he should strip His badge of office and his well-gained honors, And thrust him back into the ranks again.

Opens the Mandamus and hands it to BELLINGHAM; and, while he is reading, ENDICOTT walks up and down the room.

Here, read it for yourself; you see his words Are pleasant words—considerate—not reproachful— Nothing could be more gentle—or more royal; But then the meaning underneath the words, Mark that. He says all people known as Quakers Among us, now condemned to suffer death Or any corporal punishment whatever, Who are imprisoned, or may be obnoxious To the like condemnation, shall be sent Forthwith to England, to be dealt with there In such wise as shall be agreeable Unto the English law and their demerits. Is it not so?

BELLINGHAM (returning the paper).
Ay, so the paper says.

ENDICOTT. It means we shall no longer rule the Province; It means farewell to law and liberty, Authority, respect for Magistrates, The peace and welfare of the Commonwealth. If all the knaves upon this continent Can make appeal to England, and so thwart The ends of truth and justice by delay, Our power is gone forever. We are nothing But ciphers, valueless save when we follow Some unit; and our unit is the King! 'T is he that gives us value.

BELLINGHAM.
I confess
Such seems to be the meaning of this paper,
But being the King's Mandamus, signed and sealed,
We must obey, or we are in rebellion.

ENDICOTT.
I tell you, Richard Bellingham,—I tell you,
That this is the beginning of a struggle
Of which no mortal can foresee the end.
I shall not live to fight the battle for you,
I am a man disgraced in every way;
This order takes from me my self-respect
And the respect of others. 'T is my doom,
Yes, my death-warrant, but must be obeyed!
Take it, and see that it is executed
So far as this, that all be set at large;
But see that none of them be sent to England
To bear false witness, and to spread reports
That might be prejudicial to ourselves.
[Exit BELLINGHAM.

There's a dull pain keeps knocking at my heart,
Dolefully saying, "Set thy house in order,
For thou shalt surely die, and shalt not live!
For me the shadow on the dial-plate
Goeth not back, but on into the dark!
[Exit.

SCENE IV. — The street. A crowd, reading a placard on the door of the Meeting-house. NICHOLAS UPSALL among them. Enter John Norton.

NORTON. What is this gathering here?

UPSALL.
One William Brand,
An old man like ourselves, and weak in body,
Has been so cruelly tortured in his prison,
The people are excited, and they threaten
To tear the prison down.

NORTON.
What has been done?

UPSALL. He has been put in irons, with his neck And heels tied close together, and so left From five in the morning until nine at night.

NORTON. What more was done?

UPSALL.
He has been kept five days
In prison without food, and cruelly beaten,
So that his limbs were cold, his senses stopped.

NORTON. What more?

UPSALL.
And is this not enough?

NORTON.
Now hear me.
This William Brand of yours has tried to beat
Our Gospel Ordinances black and blue;
And, if he has been beaten in like manner,
It is but justice, and I will appear
In his behalf that did so. I suppose
That he refused to work.

UPSALL.
He was too weak.
How could an old man work, when he was starving?

NORTON. And what is this placard?

UPSALL.
The Magistrates,
To appease the people and prevent a tumult,
Have put up these placards throughout the town,
Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt with
Impartially and sternly by the Court.

NORTON (tearing down the placard).
Down with this weak and cowardly concession,
This flag of truce with Satan and with Sin!
I fling it in his face! I trample it
Under my feet! It is his cunning craft,
The masterpiece of his diplomacy,
To cry and plead for boundless toleration.
But toleration is the first-born child
Of all abominations and deceits.
There is no room in Christ's triumphant army
For tolerationists. And if an Angel
Preach any other gospel unto you
Than that ye have received, God's malediction
Descend upon him! Let him be accursed!
[Exit.

UPSALL.
Now, go thy ways, John Norton, go thy ways,
Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call thee!
But even now there cometh out of England,
Like an o'ertaking and accusing conscience,
An outraged man, to call thee to account
For the unrighteous murder of his son!
[Exit.

SCENE V. — The Wilderness. Enter EDITH.

EDITH. How beautiful are these autumnal woods! The wilderness doth blossom like the rose, And change into a garden of the Lord! How silent everywhere! Alone and lost Here in the forest, there comes over me An inward awfulness. I recall the words Of the Apostle Paul: "In journeyings often, Often in perils in the wilderness, In weariness, in painfulness, in watchings, In hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness;" And I forget my weariness and pain, My watchings, and my hunger and my thirst. The Lord hath said that He will seek his flock In cloudy and dark days, and they shall dwell Securely in the wilderness, and sleep Safe in the woods! Whichever way I turn, I come back with my face towards the town. Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it. O cruel town! I know what waits me there, And yet I must go back; for ever louder I hear the inward calling of the Spirit, And must obey the voice. O woods that wear Your golden crown of martyrdom, blood-stained, From you I learn a lesson of submission, And am obedient even unto death, If God so wills it. [Exit.

JOHN ENDICOTT (within).
Edith! Edith! Edith!

He enters.

It is in vain! I call, she answers not;
I follow, but I find no trace of her!
Blood! blood! The leaves above me and around me
Are red with blood! The pathways of the forest,
The clouds that canopy the setting sun
And even the little river in the meadows
Are stained with it! Where'er I look, I see it!
Away, thou horrible vision! Leave me! leave me!
Alas! you winding stream, that gropes its way
Through mist and shadow, doubling on itself,
At length will find, by the unerring law
Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of man,
Groping through mist and shadow, and recoiling
Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious ways
Subject to law? and when thou seemest to wander
The farthest from thy goal, art thou still drawing
Nearer and nearer to it, till at length
Thou findest, like the river, what thou seekest?
[Exit.

---

ACT V.

SCENE I. — Daybreak. Street in front of UPSALL's house. A light in the window. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.

JOHN ENDICOTT. O silent, sombre, and deserted streets, To me ye 're peopled with a sad procession, And echo only to the voice of sorrow! O houses full of peacefulness and sleep, Far better were it to awake no more Than wake to look upon such scenes again! There is a light in Master Upsall's window. The good man is already risen, for sleep Deserts the couches of the old.

Knocks at UPSALL's door.

UPSALL (at the window).
Who's there?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Am I so changed you do not know my voice?

UPSALL. I know you. Have you heard what things have happened?

JOHN ENDICOTT. I have heard nothing.

UPSALL.
Stay; I will come down.

JOHN ENDICOTT. I am afraid some dreadful news awaits me! I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient To know the worst. Oh, I am very weary With waiting and with watching and pursuing!

Enter UPSALL.

UPSALL. Thank God, you have come back! I've much to tell you. Where have you been?

JOHN ENDICOTT.
You know that I was seized,
Fined, and released again. You know that Edith,
After her scourging in three towns, was banished
Into the wilderness, into the land
That is not sown; and there I followed her,
But found her not. Where is she?

UPSALL.
She is here.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, do not speak that word, for it means death!

UPSALL. No, it means life. She sleeps in yonder chamber. Listen to me. When news of Leddra's death Reached England, Edward Burroughs, having boldly Got access to the presence of the King, Told him there was a vein of innocent blood Opened in his dominions here, which threatened To overrun them all. The King replied. "But I will stop that vein!" and he forthwith Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates, That they proceed no further in this business. So all are pardoned, and all set at large.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Thank God! This is a victory for truth! Our thoughts are free. They cannot be shut up In prison wall, nor put to death on scaffolds!

UPSALL. Come in; the morning air blows sharp and cold Through the damp streets.

JOHN ENDICOTT.
It is the dawn of day
That chases the old darkness from our sky,
And tills the land with liberty and light.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — The parlor of the Three Mariners. Enter KEMPTHORN.

KEMPTHORN. A dull life this,—a dull life anyway! Ready for sea; the cargo all aboard, Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing From nor'-nor'-west; and I, an idle lubber, Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond! I said to Ralph, says I, "What's to be done?" Says he: "Just slip your hawser in the night; Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon." But that won't do; because, you see, the owners Somehow or other are mixed up with it. Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole Thinks as important as the Rule of Three.

Reads.

"Make no comparisons; make no long meals." Those are good rules and golden for a landlord To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed! "Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths." I drink to the King's, whatever he may say And, as to ill opinions, that depends. Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion, And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion; And both of these opinions I'll maintain As long as there's a shot left in the locker.

Enter EDWARD BUTTER, with an ear-trumpet.

BUTTER. Good morning, Captain Kempthorn.

KEMPTHORN.
Sir, to you.
You've the advantage of me. I don't know you.
What may I call your name?

BUTTER.
That's not your name?

KEMPTHORN. Yes, that's my name. What's yours?

BUTTER.
My name is Butter.
I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth.

KEMPTHORN. Will you be seated?

BUTTER.
What say? Who's conceited?

KEMPTHORN.

Will you sit down?

BUTTER.
Oh, thank you.

KEMPTHORN.
Spread yourself
Upon this chair, sweet Butter.

BUTTER (sitting down).
A fine morning.

KEMPTHORN. Nothing's the matter with it that I know of. I have seen better, and I have seen worse. The wind's nor'west. That's fair for them that sail.

BUTTER. You need not speak so loud; I understand you. You sail to-day.

KEMPTHORN.
No, I don't sail to-day.
So, be it fair or foul, it matters not.
Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here.

BUTTER. No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke.

KEMPTHORN. Then, will you drink? There's good ale at this inn.

BUTTER. No, thank you. It's against the law to drink.

KEMPTHORN. Well, almost everything's against the law In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing, You're sure to fetch up soon on something else.

BUTTER. And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. I am not one of those who think a sup Of this New England air is better worth Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale.

KEMPTHORN. Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air. But, as I said, I do not sail to-day.

BUTTER. Ah yes; you sail today.

KEMPTHORN.
I'm under bonds
To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes;
And one of them is banished, and another
Is sentenced to be hanged.

BUTTER.
No, all are pardoned,
All are set free by order of the Court;
But some of them would fain return to England.
You must not take them. Upon that condition
Your bond is cancelled.

KEMPTHORN.
Ah, the wind has shifted!
I pray you, do you speak officially?

BUTTER. I always speak officially. To prove it, Here is the bond.

Rising and giving a paper.

KEMPTHORN.
And here's my hand upon it,
And look you, when I say I'll do a thing
The thing is done. Am I now free to go?

BUTTER. What say?

KEMPTHORN.
I say, confound the tedious man
With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go?

BUTTER.
You're free to go, by order of the Court.
Your servant, sir.
[Exit.

KEMPTHORN (shouting from the window).
Swallow, ahoy! Hallo!
If ever a man was happy to leave Boston,
That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow!

Re-enter BUTTER.

BUTTER. Pray, did you call?

KEMPTHORN.
Call! Yes, I hailed the Swallow.

BUTTER. That's not my name. My name is Edward Butter. You need not speak so loud.

KEMPTHORN (shaking hands).
Good-by! Good-by!

BUTTER. Your servant, sir.

KEMPTHORN.
And yours a thousand times!
[Exeunt.

SCENE III. — GOVERNOR ENDICOTT'S private room. An open window.

ENDICOTT seated in an arm-chair. BELLINGHAM standing near.

ENDICOTT. O lost, O loved! wilt thou return no more? O loved and lost, and loved the more when lost! How many men are dragged into their graves By their rebellious children! I now feel The agony of a father's breaking heart In David's cry, "O Absalom, my son!"

BELLINGHAM. Can you not turn your thoughts a little while To public matters? There are papers here That need attention.

ENDICOTT.
Trouble me no more!
My business now is with another world,
Ah, Richard Bellingham! I greatly fear
That in my righteous zeal I have been led
To doing many things which, left undone,
My mind would now be easier. Did I dream it,
Or has some person told me, that John Norton
Is dead?

BELLINGHAM.
You have not dreamed it. He is dead,
And gone to his reward. It was no dream.

ENDICOTT. Then it was very sudden; for I saw him Standing where you now stand, not long ago.

BELLINGHAM. By his own fireside, in the afternoon, A faintness and a giddiness came o'er him; And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he cried, "The hand of God is on me!" and fell dead.

ENDICOTT. And did not some one say, or have I dreamed it, That Humphrey Atherton is dead?

BELLINGHAM.
Alas!
He too is gone, and by a death as sudden.
Returning home one evening, at the place
Where usually the Quakers have been scourged,
His horse took fright, and threw him to the ground,
So that his brains were dashed about the street.

ENDICOTT. I am not superstitions, Bellingham, And yet I tremble lest it may have been A judgment on him.

BELLINGHAM.
So the people think.
They say his horse saw standing in the way
The ghost of William Leddra, and was frightened.
And furthermore, brave Richard Davenport,
The captain of the Castle, in the storm
Has been struck dead by lightning.

ENDICOTT.
Speak no more.
For as I listen to your voice it seems
As if the Seven Thunders uttered their voices,
And the dead bodies lay about the streets
Of the disconsolate city! Bellingham,
I did not put those wretched men to death.
I did but guard the passage with the sword
Pointed towards them, and they rushed upon it!
Yet now I would that I had taken no part
In all that bloody work.

BELLINGHAM.
The guilt of it
Be on their heads, not ours.

ENDICOTT.
Are all set free?

BELLINGHAM. All are at large.

ENDICOTT.
And none have been sent back
To England to malign us with the King?

BELLINGHAM. The ship that brought them sails this very hour, But carries no one back.

A distant cannon.

ENDICOTT.
What is that gun?

BELLINGHAM. Her parting signal. Through the window there, Look, you can see her sails, above the roofs, Dropping below the Castle, outward bound.

ENDICOTT. O white, white, white! Would that my soul had wings As spotless as those shining sails to fly with! Now lay this cushion straight. I thank you. Hark! I thought I heard the hall door open and shut! I thought I beard the footsteps of my boy!

BELLINGHAM. It was the wind. There's no one in the passage.

ENDICOTT. O Absalom, my son! I feel the world Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, sinking! Death knocks! I go to meet him! Welcome, Death!

Rises, and sinks back dead; his head failing aside upon his shoulder.

BELLINGHAM. O ghastly sight! Like one who has been hanged! Endicott! Endicott! He makes no answer!

Raises Endicott's head.

He breathes no more! How bright this signet-ring Glitters upon his hand, where he has worn it Through such long years of trouble, as if Death Had given him this memento of affection, And whispered in his ear, "Remember me!" How placid and how quiet is his face, Now that the struggle and the strife are ended Only the acrid spirit of the times Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest in peace, Courageous heart! Forever rest in peace!

---

GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

GILES COREY Farmer. JOHN HATHORNE Magistrate. COTTON MATHER Minister of the Gospel. JONATHAN WALCOT A youth. RICHARD GARDNER Sea-Captain. JOHN GLOYD Corey's hired man. MARTHA Wife of Giles Corey. TITUBA An Indian woman. MARY WALCOT One of the Afflicted.

The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692.

---

PROLOGUE.

Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,— These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past,

Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and, amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms,— Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest,— Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace?

'T was but a village then; the goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead.

Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! And 't is no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things!"

Something of this our scene to-night will show; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone, This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.

ACT I.

SCENE I. — The woods near Salem Village. Enter TITUBA, with a basket of herbs.

TITUBA. Here's monk's-hood, that breeds fever in the blood; And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts; And henbane, that will shake them with convulsions; And meadow-saffron and black hellebore, That rack the nerves, and puff the skin with dropsy; And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye-bright, That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheumatisms; I know them, and the places where they hide In field and meadow; and I know their secrets, And gather them because they give me power Over all men and women. Armed with these, I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, Am stronger than the captain with his sword, Am richer than the merchant with his money, Am wiser than the scholar with his books, Mightier than Ministers and Magistrates, With all the fear and reverence that attend them! For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy, Can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts, Or fall into delirium and convulsions; I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand; A touch from me and they are weak with pain, A look from me, and they consume and die. The death of cattle and the blight of corn, The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire,— These are my doings, and they know it not. Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me!

Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a riding-whip in his hand.

MATHER. Methinks that I have come by paths unknown Into the land and atmosphere of Witches; For, meditating as I journeyed on, Lo! I have lost my way! If I remember Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned That tells the story of a man who, praying For one that was possessed by Evil Spirits, Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face; I, journeying to circumvent the Witches, Surely by Witches have been led astray. I am persuaded there are few affairs In which the Devil doth not interfere. We cannot undertake a journey even, But Satan will be there to meddle with it By hindering or by furthering. He hath led me Into this thicket, struck me in the face With branches of the trees, and so entangled The fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles, That I must needs dismount, and search on foot For the lost pathway leading to the village.

Re-enter TITUBA.

What shape is this? What monstrous apparition, Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way? Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman—

TITUBA. I am a woman, but I am not good, I am a Witch!

MATHER.
Then tell me, Witch and woman,
For you must know the pathways through this wood,
Where lieth Salem Village?

TITUBA.
Reverend sir,
The village is near by. I'm going there
With these few herbs. I'll lead you. Follow me.

MATHER. First say, who are you? I am loath to follow A stranger in this wilderness, for fear Of being misled, and left in some morass. Who are you?

TITUBA.
I am Tituba the Witch,
Wife of John Indian.

MATHER.
You are Tituba?
I know you then. You have renounced the Devil,
And have become a penitent confessor,
The Lord be praised! Go on, I'll follow you.
Wait only till I fetch my horse, that stands
Tethered among the trees, not far from here.

TITUBA. Let me get up behind you, reverend sir.

MATHER. The Lord forbid! What would the people think, If they should see the Reverend Cotton Mather Ride into Salem with a Witch behind him? The Lord forbid!

TITUBA.
I do not need a horse!
I can ride through the air upon a stick,
Above the tree-tops and above the houses,
And no one see me, no one overtake me.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE'S. A clock in the corner. Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

HATHORNE. You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome here Beneath my humble roof.

MATHER.
I thank your Worship.

HATHORNE. Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued With your long ride through unfrequented woods.

They sit down.

MATHER. You know the purport of my visit here,— To be advised by you, and counsel with you, And with the Reverend Clergy of the village, Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you; And see with mine own eyes the wonders told Of spectres and the shadows of the dead, That come back from their graves to speak with men.

HATHORNE. Some men there are, I have known such, who think That the two worlds—the seen and the unseen, The world of matter and the world of spirit— Are like the hemispheres upon our maps, And touch each other only at a point. But these two worlds are not divided thus, Save for the purposes of common speech, They form one globe, in which the parted seas All flow together and are intermingled, While the great continents remain distinct.

MATHER. I doubt it not. The spiritual world Lies all about us, and its avenues Are open to the unseen feet of phantoms That come and go, and we perceive them not, Save by their influence, or when at times A most mysterious Providence permits them To manifest themselves to mortal eyes.

HATHORNE. You, who are always welcome here among us, Are doubly welcome now. We need your wisdom, Your learning in these things to be our guide. The Devil hath come down in wrath upon us, And ravages the land with all his hosts.

MATHER. The Unclean Spirit said, "My name is Legion!" Multitudes in the Valley of Destruction! But when our fervent, well-directed prayers, Which are the great artillery of Heaven, Are brought into the field, I see them scattered And driven like autumn leaves before the wind.

HATHORNE. You as a Minister of God, can meet them With spiritual weapons: but, alas! I, as a Magistrate, must combat them With weapons from the armory of the flesh.

MATHER. These wonders of the world invisible,— These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations,— The multiplied and manifold afflictions With which the aged and the dying saints Have their death prefaced and their age imbittered,— Are but prophetic trumpets that proclaim The Second Coming of our Lord on earth. The evening wolves will be much more abroad, When we are near the evening of the world.

HATHORNE. When you shall see, as I have hourly seen, The sorceries and the witchcrafts that torment us, See children tortured by invisible spirits, And wasted and consumed by powers unseen, You will confess the half has not been told you.

MATHER. It must be so. The death-pangs of the Devil Will make him more a Devil than before; And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace will be heated Seven times more hot before its putting out.

HATHORNE. Advise me, reverend sir. I look to you For counsel and for guidance in this matter. What further shall we do?

MATHER.
Remember this,
That as a sparrow falls not to the ground
Without the will of God, so not a Devil
Can come down from the air without his leave.
We must inquire.

HATHORNE.
Dear sir, we have inquired;
Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through,
And then resifted it.

MATHER.
If God permits
These Evil Spirits from the unseen regions
To visit us with surprising informations,
We must inquire what cause there is for this,
But not receive the testimony borne
By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt
In the accused.

HATHORNE.
Upon such evidence
We do not rest our case. The ways are many
In which the guilty do betray themselves.

MATHER. Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness, That on one side no innocent blood be shed By too excessive zeal, and on the other No shelter given to any work of darkness.

HATHORNE. For one, I do not fear excess of zeal. What do we gain by parleying with the Devil? You reason, but you hesitate to act! Ah, reverend sir! believe me, in such cases The only safety is in acting promptly. 'T is not the part of wisdom to delay In things where not to do is still to do A deed more fatal than the deed we shrink from. You are a man of books and meditation, But I am one who acts.

MATHER.
God give us wisdom
In the directing of this thorny business,
And guide us, lest New England should become
Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor
In the opinion of the world abroad!

The clock strikes.

I never hear the striking of a clock Without a warning and an admonition That time is on the wing, and we must quicken Our tardy pace in journeying Heavenward, As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward!

They rise.

HATHORNE. Then let us make all haste; and I will show you In what disguises and what fearful shapes The Unclean Spirits haunt this neighborhood, And you will pardon my excess of zeal.

MATHER.
Ah, poor New England! He who hurricanoed
The house of Job is making now on thee
One last assault, more deadly and more snarled
With unintelligible circumstances
Than any thou hast hitherto encountered!
[Exeunt.

SCENE III. — A room in WALCOT'S House. MARY WALCOT seated in an arm-chair. TITUBA with a mirror.

MARY. Tell me another story, Tituba. A drowsiness is stealing over me Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes, I am awake, and in another world. Dim faces of the dead and of the absent Come floating up before me,—floating, fading, And disappearing.

TITUBA.
Look into this glass.
What see you?

MARY.
Nothing but a golden vapor.
Yes, something more. An island, with the sea
Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge.
What land is this?

TITUBA.
It is San Salvador,
Where Tituba was born. What see you now?

MARY. A man all black and fierce.

TITUBA.
That is my father.
He was an Obi man, and taught me magic,—
Taught me the use of herbs and images.
What is he doing?

MARY.
Holding in his hand
A waxen figure. He is melting it
Slowly before a fire.

TITUBA.
And now what see you?

MARY. A woman lying on a bed of leaves, Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying!

TITUBA. That is the way the Obi men destroy The people they dislike! That is the way Some one is wasting and consuming you.

MARY. You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save me From those who make me pine and waste away! Who are they? Tell me.

TITUBA.
That I do not know,
But you will see them. They will come to you.

MARY. No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it! I am too weak to bear it! I am dying.

Fails into a trance.

TITUBA. Hark! there is some one coming!

Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and WALCOT.

WALCOT.
There she lies,
Wasted and worn by devilish incantations!
O my poor sister!

MATHER.
Is she always thus?

WALCOT. Nay, she is sometimes tortured by convulsions.

MATHER. Poor child! How thin she is! How wan and wasted!

HATHORNE. Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep.

MATHER. Some fearful vision haunts her.

HATHORNE.
You now see
With your own eyes, and touch with your own hands,
The mysteries of this Witchcraft.

MATHER.
One would need
The hands of Briareus and the eyes of Argus
To see and touch them all.

HATHORNE.
You now have entered
The realm of ghosts and phantoms,—the vast realm
Of the unknown and the invisible,
Through whose wide-open gates there blows a wind
From the dark valley of the shadow of Death,
That freezes us with horror.

MARY (starting).
Take her hence!
Take her away from me. I see her there!
She's coming to torment me!

WALCOT (taking her hand.
O my sister!
What frightens you? She neither hears nor sees me.
She's in a trance.

MARY.
Do you not see her there?

TITUBA. My child, who is it?

MARY.
Ah, I do not know,
I cannot see her face.

TITUBA.
How is she clad?

MARY. She wears a crimson bodice. In her hand She holds an image, and is pinching it Between her fingers. Ah, she tortures me! I see her face now. It is Goodwife Bishop! Why does she torture me? I never harmed her! And now she strikes me with an iron rod! Oh, I am beaten!

MATHER.
This is wonderful!.
I can see nothing! Is this apparition
Visibly there, and yet we cannot see it?

HATHORNE. It is. The spectre is invisible Unto our grosser senses, but she sees it.

MARY. Look! look! there is another clad in gray! She holds a spindle in her hand, and threatens To stab me with it! It is Goodwife Corey! Keep her away! Now she is coming at me! Oh, mercy! mercy!

WALCOT (thrusting with his sword.
There is nothing there!

MATHER to HATHORNE. Do you see anything?

HATHORNE.
The laws that govern
The spiritual world prevent our seeing
Things palpable and visible to her.
These spectres are to us as if they were not.
Mark her; she wakes.

TITUBA touches her, and she awakes.

MARY.
Who are these gentlemen?

WALCOT. They are our friends. Dear Mary, are you better?

MARY. Weak, very weak.

Taking a spindle from her lap, and holding it up.

How came this spindle here?

TITUBA. You wrenched it from the hand of Goodwife Corey When she rushed at you.

HATHORNE.
Mark that, reverend sir!

MATHER. It is most marvellous, most inexplicable!

TITUBA. (picking up a bit of gray cloth from the floor). And here, too, is a bit of her gray dress, That the sword cut away.

MATHER.
Beholding this,
It were indeed by far more credulous
To be incredulous than to believe.
None but a Sadducee, who doubts of all
Pertaining to the spiritual world,
Could doubt such manifest and damning proofs!

HATHORNE. Are you convinced?

MATHER to MARY.
Dear child, be comforted!
Only by prayer and fasting can you drive
These Unclean Spirits from you. An old man
Gives you his blessing. God be with you, Mary!

ACT II

SCENE I. — GILES COREY's farm. Morning. Enter COREY, with a horseshoe and a hammer.

COREY. The Lord hath prospered me. The rising sun Shines on my Hundred Acres and my woods As if he loved them. On a morn like this I can forgive mine enemies, and thank God For all his goodness unto me and mine. My orchard groans with russets and pearmains; My ripening corn shines golden in the sun; My barns are crammed with hay, my cattle thrive The birds sing blithely on the trees around me! And blither than the birds my heart within me. But Satan still goes up and down the earth; And to protect this house from his assaults, And keep the powers of darkness from my door, This horseshoe will I nail upon the threshold.

Nails down the horseshoe.

There, ye night-hags and witches that torment The neighborhood, ye shall not enter here!— What is the matter in the field?—John Gloyd! The cattle are all running to the woods!— John Gloyd! Where is the man?

Enter JOHN GLOYD.
Look there!
What ails the cattle? Are they all bewitched?
They run like mad.

GLOYD.
They have been overlooked.

COREY. The Evil Eye is on them sure enough. Call all the men. Be quick. Go after them!

Exit GLOYD and enter MARTHA.

MARTHA. What is amiss?

COREY.
The cattle are bewitched.
They are broken loose and making for the woods.

MARTHA. Why will you harbor such delusions, Giles? Bewitched? Well, then it was John Gloyd bewitched them; I saw him even now take down the bars And turn them loose! They're only frolicsome.

COREY. The rascal!

MARTHA.
I was standing in the road,
Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I saw him.

COREY. With Proctor's wife? And what says Goodwife Proctor?

MARTHA. Sad things indeed; the saddest you can hear Of Bridget Bishop. She's cried out upon!

COREY. Poor soul! I've known her forty year or more. She was the widow Wasselby, and then She married Oliver, and Bishop next. She's had three husbands. I remember well My games of shovel-board at Bishop's tavern In the old merry days, and she so gay With her red paragon bodice and her ribbons! Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a Witch!

MARTHA. They'll little help her now,—her caps and ribbons, And her red paragon bodice and her plumes, With which she flaunted in the Meeting-house! When next she goes there, it will be for trial.

COREY. When will that be?

MARTHA.
This very day at ten.

COREY. Then get you ready. We'll go and see it. Come; you shall ride behind me on the pillion.

MARTHA. Not I. You know I do not like such things. I wonder you should. I do not believe In Witches nor in Witchcraft.

COREY.
Well, I do.
There's a strange fascination in it all.
That draws me on and on. I know not why.

MARTHA. What do we know of spirits good or ill, Or of their power to help us or to harm us?

COREY. Surely what's in the Bible must be true. Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul? Did not the Witch of Endor bring the ghost Of Samuel from his grave? The Bible says so.

MARTHA. That happened very long ago.

COREY.
With God
There is no long ago.

MARTHA.
There is with us.

COREY. And Mary Magdalene had seven devils, And he who dwelt among the tombs a legion!

MARTHA.
God's power is infinite. I do not doubt it.
If in His providence He once permitted
Such things to be among the Israelites,
It does not follow He permits them now,
And among us who are not Israelites.
But we will not dispute about it, Giles.
Go to the village if you think it best,
And leave me here; I'll go about my work.
[Exit into the house.

COREY. And I will go and saddle the gray mare. The last word always. That is woman's nature. If an old man will marry a young wife, He must make up his mind to many things. It's putting new cloth into an old garment, When the strain comes, it is the old gives way.

Goes to the door.

Oh, Martha! I forgot to tell you something. I've had a letter from a friend of mine, A certain Richard Gardner of Nantucket, Master and owner of a whaling-vessel; He writes that he is coming down to see us. I hope you'll like him.

MARTHA.
I will do my best.

COREY.
That's a good woman. Now I will be gone.
I've not seen Gardner for this twenty year;
But there is something of the sea about him,—
Something so open, generous, large; and strong,
It makes me love him better than a brother.
[Exit.

MARTHA comes to the door.

MARTHA. Oh these old friends and cronies of my husband, These captains from Nantucket and the Cape, That come and turn my house into a tavern With their carousing! Still, there's something frank In these seafaring men that makes me like them. Why, here's a horseshoe nailed upon the doorstep! Giles has done this to keep away the Witches. I hope this Richard Gardner will bring him A gale of good sound common-sense to blow The fog of these delusions from his brain!

COREY (within). Ho! Martha! Martha!

Enter COREY.
Have you seen my saddle?

MARTHA. I saw it yesterday.

COREY.
Where did you see it?

MARTHA. On a gray mare, that somebody was riding Along the village road.

COREY.
Who was it? Tell me.

MARTHA. Some one who should have stayed at home.

COREY (restraining himself).
I see!
Don't vex me, Martha. Tell me where it is.

MARTHA. I've hidden it away.

COREY.
Go fetch it me.

MARTHA. Go find it.

COREY.
No. I'll ride down to the village
Bareback; and when the people stare and say,
"Giles Corey, where's your saddle?" I will answer,
"A Witch has stolen it." How shall you like that!

MARTHA. I shall not like it.

COREY.
Then go fetch the saddle.
[Exit MARTHA.

If an old man will marry a young wife, Why then—why then—why then—he must spell Baker!

Enter MARTHA with the saddle, which she throws down.

MARTHA. There! There's the saddle.

COREY.
Take it up.

MARTHA. I won't!

COREY. Then let it lie there. I'll ride to the village, And say you are a Witch.

MARTHA.
No, not that, Giles.

She takes up the saddle.

COREY.
Now come with me, and saddle the gray mare
With your own hands; and you shall see me ride
Along the village road as is becoming
Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, your husband!
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — The Green in front of the Meeting-house in Salem village. People coming and going. Enter GILES COREY.

COREY. A melancholy end! Who would have thought That Bridget Bishop e'er would come to this? Accused, convicted, and condemned to death For Witchcraft! And so good a woman too!

A FARMER. Good morrow, neighbor Corey.

COREY (not hearing him).
Who is safe?
How do I know but under my own roof
I too may harbor Witches, and some Devil
Be plotting and contriving against me?

FARMER. He does not hear. Good morrow, neighbor Corey!

COREY Good morrow.

FARMER.
Have you seen John Proctor lately?

COREY. No, I have not.

FARMER.
Then do not see him, Corey.

COREY. Why should I not?

FARMER.
Because he's angry with you.
So keep out of his way. Avoid a quarrel.

COREY. Why does he seek to fix a quarrel on me?

FARMER. He says you burned his house.

COREY.
I burn his house?
If he says that, John Proctor is a liar!
The night his house was burned I was in bed,
And I can prove it! Why, we are old friends!
He could not say that of me.

FARMER.
He did say it.
I heard him say it.

COREY.
Then he shall unsay it.

FARMER.
He said you did it out of spite to him
For taking part against you in the quarrel
You had with your John Gloyd about his wages.
He says you murdered Goodell; that you trampled
Upon his body till he breathed no more.
And so beware of him; that's my advice!
[Exit.

COREY. By heaven! this is too much! I'll seek him out, And make him eat his words, or strangle him. I'll not be slandered at a time like this, When every word is made an accusation, When every whisper kills, and every man Walks with a halter round his neck!

Enter GLOYD in haste.

What now?
GLOYD.
I came to look for you. The cattle—

COREY.
Well,
What of them? Have you found them?

GLOYD.
They are dead.
I followed them through the woods, across the meadows;
Then they all leaped into the Ipswich River,
And swam across, but could not climb the bank,
And so were drowned.

COREY.
You are to blame for this;
For you took down the bars, and let them loose.

GLOYD. That I deny. They broke the fences down. You know they were bewitched.

COREY.
Ah, my poor cattle!
The Evil Eye was on them; that is true.
Day of disaster! Most unlucky day!
Why did I leave my ploughing and my reaping
To plough and reap this Sodom and Gomorrah?
Oh, I could drown myself for sheer vexation!
[Exit.

GLOYD.
He's going for his cattle. He won't find them.
By this time they have drifted out to sea.
They will not break his fences any more,
Though they may break his heart. And what care I?
[Exit.

SCENE III. — COREY's kitchen. A table with supper. MARTHA knitting.

MARTHA.

He's come at last. I hear him in the passage. Something has gone amiss with him today; I know it by his step, and by the sound The door made as he shut it. He is angry.

Enter COREY with his riding-whip. As he speaks he takes off his hat and gloves and throws them down violently.

COREY. I say if Satan ever entered man He's in John Proctor!

MARTHA.
Giles, what is the matter?
You frighten me.

COREY.
I say if any man
Can have a Devil in him, then that man
Is Proctor,—is John Proctor, and no other!

MARTHA. Why, what has he been doing?

COREY.
Everything!
What do you think I heard there in the village?

MARTHA. I'm sure I cannot guess. What did you hear?

COREY. He says I burned his house!

MARTHA.
Does he say that?

COREY. He says I burned his house. I was in bed And fast asleep that night; and I can prove it.

MARTHA. If he says that, I think the Father of Lies Is surely in the man.

COREY.
He does say that
And that I did it to wreak vengeance on him
For taking sides against me in the quarrel
I had with that John Gloyd about his wages.
And God knows that I never bore him malice
For that, as I have told him twenty times

MARTHA. It is John Gloyd has stirred him up to this. I do not like that Gloyd. I think him crafty, Not to be trusted, sullen and untruthful. Come, have your supper. You are tired and hungry.

COREY. I'm angry, and not hungry.

MARTHA.
Do eat something.
You'll be the better for it.

COREY (sitting down).
I'm not hungry.

MARTHA. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.

COREY. It has gone down upon it, and will rise To-morrow, and go down again upon it. They have trumped up against me the old story Of causing Goodell's death by trampling on him.

MARTHA. Oh, that is false. I know it to be false.

COREY. He has been dead these fourteen years or more. Why can't they let him rest? Why must they drag him Out of his grave to give me a bad name? I did not kill him. In his bed he died, As most men die, because his hour had come. I have wronged no man. Why should Proctor say Such things bout me? I will not forgive him Till he confesses he has slandered me. Then, I've more trouble. All my cattle gone.

MARTHA. They will come back again.

COREY.
Not in this world.
Did I not tell you they were overlooked?
They ran down through the woods, into the meadows,
And tried to swim the river, and were drowned.
It is a heavy loss.

MARTHA.
I'm sorry for it.

COREY. All my dear oxen dead. I loved them, Martha, Next to yourself. I liked to look at them, And watch the breath come out of their wide nostrils, And see their patient eyes. Somehow I thought It gave me strength only to look at them. And how they strained their necks against the yoke If I but spoke, or touched them with the goad! They were my friends; and when Gloyd came and told me They were all drowned, I could have drowned myself From sheer vexation; and I said as much To Gloyd and others.

MARTHA.
Do not trust John Gloyd
With anything you would not have repeated.

COREY. As I came through the woods this afternoon, Impatient at my loss, and much perplexed With all that I had heard there in the village, The yellow leaves lit up the trees about me Like an enchanted palace, and I wished I knew enough of magic or of Witchcraft To change them into gold. Then suddenly A tree shook down some crimson leaves upon me, Like drops of blood, and in the path before me Stood Tituba the Indian, the old crone.

MARTHA. Were you not frightened?

COREY.
No, I do not think
I know the meaning of that word. Why frightened?
I am not one of those who think the Lord
Is waiting till He catches them some day
In the back yard alone! What should I fear?
She started from the bushes by the path,
And had a basket full of herbs and roots
For some witch-broth or other,—the old hag.

MARTHA. She has been here to-day.

COREY.
With hand outstretched
She said: "Giles Corey, will you sign the Book?"
"Avaunt!" I cried: "Get thee behind me, Satan!"
At which she laughed and left me. But a voice
Was whispering in my ear continually:
"Self-murder is no crime. The life of man
Is his, to keep it or to throw away!"

MARTHA. 'T was a temptation of the Evil One! Giles, Giles! why will you harbor these dark thoughts?

COREY (rising). I am too tired to talk. I'll go to bed.

MARTHA. First tell me something about Bridget Bishop. How did she look? You saw her? You were there?

COREY. I'll tell you that to-morrow, not to-night. I'll go to bed.

MARTHA.
First let us pray together.

COREY. I cannot pray to-night.

MARTHA.
Say the Lord's Prayer,
And that will comfort you.

COREY.
I cannot say,
"As we forgive those that have sinned against us,"
When I do not forgive them.

MARTHA (kneeling on the hearth).
God forgive you!

COREY. I will not make believe! I say to-night There's something thwarts me when I wish to pray, And thrusts into my mind, instead of prayers, Hate and revenge, and things that are not prayers. Something of my old self,—my old, bad life,— And the old Adam in me rises up, And will not let me pray. I am afraid The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can't pray, I will not make believe!

[Exit COREY. MARTHA continues kneeling.

ACT III.

SCENE I. — GILES COREY'S kitchen. Morning. COREY and MARTHA sitting at the breakfast-table.

COREY (rising). Well, now I've told you all I saw and heard Of Bridget Bishop; and I must be gone.

MARTHA. Don't go into the village, Giles, to-day. Last night you came back tired and out of humor.

COREY. Say, angry; say, right angry. I was never In a more devilish temper in my life. All things went wrong with me.

MARTHA.
You were much vexed;
So don't go to the village.

COREY (going).
No, I won't.
I won't go near it. We are going to mow
The Ipswich meadows for the aftermath,
The crop of sedge and rowens.

MARTHA.
Stay a moment,
I want to tell you what I dreamed last night.
Do you believe in dreams?

COREY.
Why, yes and no.
When they come true, then I believe in them
When they come false, I don't believe in them.
But let me hear. What did you dream about?

MARTHA. I dreamed that you and I were both in prison; That we had fetters on our hands and feet; That we were taken before the Magistrates, And tried for Witchcraft, and condemned to death! I wished to pray; they would not let me pray; You tried to comfort me, and they forbade it. But the most dreadful thing in all my dream Was that they made you testify against me! And then there came a kind of mist between us; I could not see you; and I woke in terror. I never was more thankful in my life Than when I found you sleeping at my side!

COREY (with tenderness).
It was our talk last night that made you dream.
I'm sorry for it. I'll control myself
Another time, and keep my temper down!
I do not like such dreams.—Remember, Martha,
I'm going to mow the Ipswich River meadows;
If Gardner comes, you'll tell him where to find me.
[Exit.

MARTHA.
So this delusion grows from bad to worse
First, a forsaken and forlorn old woman,
Ragged and wretched, and without a friend;
Then something higher. Now it's Bridget Bishop;
God only knows whose turn it will be next!
The Magistrates are blind, the people mad!
If they would only seize the Afflicted Children,
And put them in the Workhouse, where they should be,
There'd be an end of all this wickedness.
[Exit.

SCENE II. — A street in Salem Village. Enter MATHER and HATHORNE.

MATHER. Yet one thing troubles me.

HATHORNE.
And what is that?

MATHER. May not the Devil take the outward shape Of innocent persons? Are we not in danger, Perhaps, of punishing some who are not guilty?

HATHORNE. As I have said, we do not trust alone To spectral evidence.

MATHER.
And then again,
If any shall be put to death for Witchcraft,
We do but kill the body, not the soul.
The Unclean Spirits that possessed them once
Live still, to enter into other bodies.
What have we gained? Surely, there's nothing gained.

HATHORNE. Doth not the Scripture say, "Thou shalt not suffer A Witch to live"?

MATHER.
The Scripture sayeth it,
But speaketh to the Jews; and we are Christians.
What say the laws of England?

HATHORNE.
They make Witchcraft
Felony without the benefit of Clergy.
Witches are burned in England. You have read—
For you read all things, not a book escapes you—
The famous Demonology of King James?

MATHER. A curious volume. I remember also The plot of the Two Hundred, with one Fian, The Registrar of the Devil, at their head, To drown his Majesty on his return From Denmark; how they sailed in sieves or riddles Unto North Berwick Kirk in Lothian, And, landing there, danced hand in hand, and sang, "Goodwife, go ye before! good wife, go ye! If ye'll not go before, goodwife, let me!" While Geilis Duncan played the Witches' Reel Upon a jews-harp.

HATHORNE.
Then you know full well
The English law, and that in England Witches,
When lawfully convicted and attainted,
Are put to death.

MATHER.
When lawfully convicted;
That is the point.

HATHORNE.
You heard the evidence
Produced before us yesterday at the trial
Of Bridget Bishop.

MATHER.
One of the Afflicted,
I know, bore witness to the apparition
Of ghosts unto the spectre of this Bishop,
Saying, "You murdered us!" of the truth whereof
There was in matter of fact too much Suspicion.

HATHORNE. And when she cast her eyes on the Afflicted, They were struck down; and this in such a manner There could be no collusion in the business. And when the accused but laid her hand upon them, As they lay in their swoons, they straight revived, Although they stirred not when the others touched them.

MATHER. What most convinced me of the woman's guilt Was finding hidden in her cellar wall Those poppets made of rags, with headless pins Stuck into them point outwards, and whereof She could not give a reasonable account.

HATHORNE.
When you shall read the testimony given
Before the Court in all the other cases,
I am persuaded you will find the proof
No less conclusive than it was in this.
Come, then, with me, and I will tax your patience
With reading of the documents so far
As may convince you that these sorcerers
Are lawfully convicted and attainted.
Like doubting Thomas, you shall lay your hand
Upon these wounds, and you will doubt no more.
{Exeunt.

SCENE III. — A room in COREY's house. MARTHA and two Deacons of the church.

MARTHA. Be seated. I am glad to see you here. I know what you are come for. You are come To question me, and learn from my own lips If I have any dealings with the Devil; In short, if I'm a Witch.

DEACON (sitting down).
Such is our purpose.
How could you know beforehand why we came?

MARTHA. 'T was only a surmise.

DEACON.
We came to ask you,
You being with us in church covenant,
What part you have, if any, in these matters.

MARTHA. And I make answer, No part whatsoever. I am a farmer's wife, a working woman; You see my spinning-wheel, you see my loom, You know the duties of a farmer's wife, And are not ignorant that my life among you Has been without reproach until this day. Is it not true?

DEACON.
So much we're bound to own,
And say it frankly, and without reserve.

MARTHA. I've heard the idle tales that are abroad; I've heard it whispered that I am a Witch; I cannot help it. I do not believe In any Witchcraft. It is a delusion.

DEACON. How can you say that it is a delusion, When all our learned and good men believe it,— Our Ministers and worshipful Magistrates?

MARTHA. Their eyes are blinded and see not the truth. Perhaps one day they will be open to it.

DEACON. You answer boldly. The Afflicted Children Say you appeared to them.

MARTHA.
And did they say
What clothes I came in?

DEACON.
No, they could not tell.
They said that you foresaw our visit here,
And blinded them, so that they could not see
The clothes you wore.

MARTHA.
The cunning, crafty girls!
I say to you, in all sincerity,
I never have appeared to anyone
In my own person. If the Devil takes
My shape to hurt these children, or afflict them,
I am not guilty of it. And I say
It's all a mere delusion of the senses.

DEACON. I greatly fear that you will find too late It is not so.

MARTHA (rising).
They do accuse me falsely.
It is delusion, or it is deceit.
There is a story in the ancient Scriptures
Which I much wonder comes not to your minds.
Let me repeat it to you.

DEACON.
We will hear it.

MARTHA. It came to pass that Naboth had a vineyard Hard by the palace of the King called Ahab. And Ahab, King of Israel, spake to Naboth, And said to him, Give unto me thy vineyard, That I may have it for a garden of herbs, And I will give a better vineyard for it, Or, if it seemeth good to thee, its worth In money. And then Naboth said to Ahab, The Lord forbid it me that I should give The inheritance of my fathers unto thee. And Ahab came into his house displeased And heavy at the words which Naboth spake, And laid him down upon his bed, and turned His face away; and he would eat no bread. And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, came And said to him, Why is thy spirit sad? And he said unto her, Because I spake To Naboth, to the Jezreelite, and said, Give me thy vineyard; and he answered, saying, I will not give my vineyard unto thee. And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, said, Dost thou not rule the realm of Israel? Arise, eat bread, and let thy heart be merry; I will give Naboth's vineyard unto thee. So she wrote letters in King Ahab's name, And sealed them with his seal, and sent the letters Unto the elders that were in his city Dwelling with Naboth, and unto the nobles; And in the letters wrote, Proclaim a fast; And set this Naboth high among the people, And set two men, the sons of Belial, Before him, to bear witness and to say, Thou didst blaspheme against God and the King; And carry him out and stone him, that he die! And the elders and the nobles in the city Did even as Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, Had sent to them and written in the letters.

And then it came to pass, when Ahab heard Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose to go Down unto Naboth's vineyard, and to take Possession of it. And the word of God Came to Elijah, saying to him, Arise, Go down to meet the King of Israel In Naboth's vineyard, whither he hath gone To take possession. Thou shalt speak to him, Saying, Thus saith the Lord! What! hast thou killed And also taken possession? In the place Wherein the dogs have licked the blood of Naboth Shall the dogs lick thy blood,—ay, even thine!

Both of the Deacons start from their seats.

And Ahab then, the King of Israel,
Said, Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?
Elijah the Prophet answered, I have found thee!
So will it be with those who have stirred up
The Sons of Belial here to bear false witness
And swear away the lives of innocent people;
Their enemy will find them out at last,
The Prophet's voice will thunder, I have found thee!
[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. — Meadows on Ipswich River, COREY and his men mowing; COREY in advance.

COREY. Well done, my men. You see, I lead the field! I'm an old man, but I can swing a scythe Better than most of you, though you be younger.

Hangs his scythe upon a tree.

GLOYD (aside to the others). How strong he is! It's supernatural. No man so old as he is has such strength. The Devil helps him!

COREY (wiping his forehead).
Now we'll rest awhile,
And take our nooning. What's the matter with you?
You are not angry with me,—are you, Gloyd?
Come, come, we will not quarrel. Let's be friends.
It's an old story, that the Raven said,
"Read the Third of Colossians and fifteenth."

GLOYD. You're handier at the scythe, but I can beat you At wrestling.

COREY.
Well, perhaps so. I don't know.
I never wrestled with you. Why, you're vexed!
Come, come, don't bear a grudge.

GLOYD.
You are afraid.

COREY. What should I be afraid of? All bear witness The challenge comes from him. Now, then, my man.

They wrestle, and GLOYD is thrown.

ONE OF THE MEN. That's a fair fall.

ANOTHER.
'T was nothing but a foil!

OTHERS. You've hurt him!

COREY (helping GLOYD rise).
No; this meadow-land is soft.
You're not hurt,—are you, Gloyd?

GLOYD (rising).
No, not much hurt.

COREY. Well, then, shake hands; and there's an end of it. How do you like that Cornish hug, my lad? And now we'll see what's in our basket here.

GLOYD (aside). The Devil and all his imps are in that man! The clutch of his ten fingers burns like fire!

COREY (reverentially taking off his hat). God bless the food He hath provided for us, And make us thankful for it, for Christ's sake!

He lifts up a keg of cider, and drinks from it.

GLOYD. Do you see that? Don't tell me it's not Witchcraft Two of us could not lift that cask as he does!

COREY puts down the keg, and opens a basket. A voice is heard calling.

VOICE. Ho! Corey, Corey!

COREY.
What is that? I surely
Heard some one calling me by name!

VOICE.
Giles Corey!

Enter a boy, running, and out of breath.

BOY. Is Master Corey here?

COREY.
Yes, here I am.
BOY.
O Master Corey!

COREY.
Well?

BOY.
Your wife—your wife—

COREY. What's happened to my wife?

BOY.
She's sent to prison!

COREY. The dream! the dream! O God, be merciful!

BOY. She sent me here to tell you.

COREY (putting on his jacket).
Where's my horse?
Don't stand there staring, fellows.
Where's my horse?
[Exit COREY.

GLOYD. Under the trees there. Run, old man, run, run! You've got some one to wrestle with you now Who'll trip your heels up, with your Cornish hug. If there's a Devil, he has got you now. Ah, there he goes! His horse is snorting fire!

ONE OF THE MEN. John Gloyd, don't talk so! It's a shame to talk so! He's a good master, though you quarrel with him.

GLOYD. If hard work and low wages make good masters, Then he is one. But I think otherwise. Come, let us have our dinner and be merry, And talk about the old man and the Witches. I know some stories that will make you laugh.

They sit down on the grass, and eat.

Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody Good, Who have not got a decent tooth between them, And yet these children—the Afflicted Children— Say that they bite them, and show marks of teeth Upon their arms!

ONE OF THE MEN.
That makes the wonder greater.
That's Witchcraft. Why, if they had teeth like yours,
'T would be no wonder if the girls were bitten!

GLOYD. And then those ghosts that come out of their graves And cry, "You murdered us! you murdered us!"

ONE OF THE MEN. And all those Apparitions that stick pins Into the flesh of the Afflicted Children!

GLOYD. Oh those Afflicted Children! They know well Where the pins come from. I can tell you that. And there's old Corey, he has got a horseshoe Nailed on his doorstep to keep off the Witches, And all the same his wife has gone to prison.

ONE OF THE MEN. Oh, she's no Witch. I'll swear that Goodwife Corey Never did harm to any living creature. She's a good woman, if there ever was one.

GLOYD. Well, we shall see. As for that Bridget Bishop, She has been tried before; some years ago A negro testified he saw her shape Sitting upon the rafters in a barn, And holding in its hand an egg; and while He went to fetch his pitchfork, she had vanished. And now be quiet, will you? I am tired, And want to sleep here on the grass a little.

They stretch themselves on the grass.

ONE OF THE MEN. There may be Witches riding through the air Over our heads on broomsticks at this moment, Bound for some Satan's Sabbath in the woods To be baptized.

GLOYD.
I wish they'd take you with them,
And hold you under water, head and ears,
Till you were drowned; and that would stop your talking,
If nothing else will. Let me sleep, I say.

ACT IV

SCENE I. — The Green in front of the village Meeting-house. An excited crowd gathering. Enter JOHN GLOYD.

A FARMER. Who will be tried to-day?

A SECOND.
I do not know.
Here is John Gloyd. Ask him; he knows.

FARMER.
John Gloyd,
Whose turn is it to-day?

GLOYD.
It's Goodwife Corey's.

FARMER. Giles Corey's wife?

GLOYD.
The same. She is not mine.
It will go hard with her with all her praying.
The hypocrite! She's always on her knees;
But she prays to the Devil when she prays.
Let us go in.

A trumpet blows.

FARMER.
Here come the Magistrates.

SECOND FARMER. Who's the tall man in front?

GLOYD.
Oh, that is Hathorne,
A Justice of the Court, and a Quarter-master
In the Three County Troop. He'll sift the matter.
That's Corwin with him; and the man in black
Is Cotton Mather, Minister of Boston.

Enter HATHORNE and other Magistrates on horseback, followed by the Sheriff, constables, and attendants on foot. The Magistrates dismount, and enter the Meeting-house, with the rest.

FARMER.

The Meeting-house is full. I never saw So great a crowd before.

GLOYD.
No matter. Come.
We shall find room enough by elbowing
Our way among them. Put your shoulder to it.

FARMER. There were not half so many at the trial Of Goodwife Bishop.

GLOYD.
Keep close after me.
I'll find a place for you. They'll want me there.
I am a friend of Corey's, as you know,
And he can't do without me just at present.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — Interior of the Meeting-house. MATHER and the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a raised platform. MARTHA in chains. COREY near her. MARY WALCOT in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them GLOYD. Confusion and murmurs during the scene.

HATHORNE. Call Martha Corey.

MARTHA.
I am here.

HATHORNE.
Come forward.

She ascends the platform.

The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you Of having on the tenth of June last past, And divers other times before and after, Wickedly used and practised certain arts Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations, Against one Mary Walcot, single woman, Of Salem Village; by which wicked arts The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented, Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted, Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute Made and provided in that case. What say you?

MARTHA. Before I answer, give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE. We have not sent for you, nor are we here, To hear you pray, but to examine you In whatsoever is alleged against you. Why do you hurt this person?

MARTHA.
I do not.
I am not guilty of the charge against me.

MARY. Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now! Avoid, avoid, Witch!

MARTHA.
I am innocent.
I never had to do with any Witchcraft
Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.

MARY. You are a gospel Witch!

MARTHA (clasping her hands).
Ah me! ah me!
Oh, give me leave to pray!

MARY (stretching out her hands).
She hurts me now.
See, she has pinched my hands!

HATHORNE.
Who made these marks
Upon her hands?

MARTHA.
I do not know. I stand
Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.

HATHORNE. Who hurt her then?

MARTHA.
I know not.

HATHORNE.
Do you think
She is bewitched?

MARTHA.
Indeed I do not think so.
I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.

HATHORNE. Then answer me: When certain persons came To see you yesterday, how did you know Beforehand why they came?

MARTHA.
I had had speech;
The children said I hurt them, and I thought
These people came to question me about it.

HATHORNE. How did you know the children had been told To note the clothes you wore?

MARTHA.
My husband told me
What others said about it.

HATHORNE.
Goodman Corey,
Say, did you tell her?

COREY.
I must speak the truth;
I did not tell her. It was some one else.

HATHORNE. Did you not say your husband told you so? How dare you tell a lie in this assembly? Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.

MARTHA bites her lips, and is silent.

You bite your lips, but do not answer me!

MARY. Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!

HATHORNE. You said your husband told you.

MARTHA.
Yes, he told me
The children said I troubled them.

HATHORNE.
Then tell me,
Why do you trouble them?

MARTHA.
I have denied it.

MARY. She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle; And, when my brother thrust her with his sword, He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.

Shows them.

HATHORNE. And there are persons here who know the truth Of what has now been said. What answer make you?

MARTHA. I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE. Whom would you pray to?

MARTHA.
To my God and Father.

HATHORNE. Who is your God and Father?

MARTHA.
The Almighty!

HATHORNE. Doth he you pray to say that he is God? It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.

MARY. There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.

HATHORNE. What does it say to you?

MARTHA.
I see no shape.

HATHORNE. Did you not hear it whisper?

MARTHA.
I heard nothing.

MARY. What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!

Falls into a swoon.

HATHORNE. You see this woman cannot stand before you. If you would look for mercy, you must look In God's way, by confession of your guilt. Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?

MARTHA. I do not know. He who appeared of old In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified, May come in whatsoever shape he chooses. I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!

COREY. O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.

HATHORNE. No; stand aside, old man.

MARY (starting up).
Look there! Look there!
I see a little bird, a yellow bird
Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.
Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!

MARTHA.
I see nothing.

HATHORNE. 'T is the Familiar Spirit that attends her.

MARY. Now it has flown away. It sits up there Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.

MARTHA. Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes. Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.

She leans against the railing.

MARY. Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!

HATHORNE. Did you not carry once the Devil's Book To this young woman?

MARTHA.
Never.

HATHORNE.
Have you signed it,
Or touched it?

MARTHA.
No; I never saw it.

HATHORNE. Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?

MARTHA. No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds, I cannot help it. I am innocent.

HATHORNE. Did you not say the Magistrates were blind? That you would open their eyes?

MARTHA (with a scornful laugh).
Yes, I said that;
If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!
If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!
Can the innocent be guilty?

HATHORNE.
Did you not
On one occasion hide your husband's saddle
To hinder him from coming to the sessions?

MARTHA. I thought it was a folly in a farmer To waste his time pursuing such illusions.

HATHORNE. What was the bird that this young woman saw Just now upon your hand?

MARTHA.
I know no bird.

HATHORNE. Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?

MARTHA. No, never, never!

HATHORNE.
What then was the Book
You showed to this young woman, and besought her
To write in it?

MARTHA.
Where should I have a book?
I showed her none, nor have none.

MARY.
The next Sabbath
Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey
Will not be there!

MARTHA.
Ah, you are all against me.
What can I do or say?

HATHORNE.
You can confess.

MARTHA. No, I cannot, for I am innocent.

HATHORNE. We have the proof of many witnesses That you are guilty.

MARTHA.
Give me leave to speak.
Will you condemn me on such evidence,—
You who have known me for so many years?
Will you condemn me in this house of God,
Where I so long have worshipped with you all?
Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine
So many times at our Lord's Table with you?
Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know
That I have led a blameless life among you,
That never any whisper of suspicion
Was breathed against me till this accusation.
And shall this count for nothing? Will you take
My life away from me, because this girl,
Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,
Accuses me of things I blush to name?

HATHORNE. What! is it not enough? Would you hear more? Giles Corey!

COREY.
I am here.

HATHORNE.
Come forward, then.

COREY ascends the platform.

Is it not true, that on a certain night You were impeded strangely in your prayers? That something hindered you? and that you left This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone Upon the hearth?

COREY.
Yes; I cannot deny it.

HATHORNE. Did you not say the Devil hindered you?

COREY. I think I said some words to that effect.

HATHORNE. Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle, To you belonging, broke from their enclosure And leaped into the river, and were drowned?

COREY. It is most true.

HATHORNE.
And did you not then say
That they were overlooked?

COREY.
So much I said.
I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,
A net I cannot break, cannot escape from! (Aside).

HATHORNE. Who did these things?

COREY.
I do not know who did them.

HATHORNE. Then I will tell you. It is some one near you; You see her now; this woman, your own wife.

COREY. I call the heavens to witness, it is false! She never harmed me, never hindered me In anything but what I should not do. And I bear witness in the sight of heaven, And in God's house here, that I never knew her As otherwise than patient, brave, and true, Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, A virtuous and industrious and good wife!

HATHORNE. Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech; You are a witness, not an advocate! Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.

MARTHA. O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!

MARY. Go, go and join the Witches at the door. Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them? Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late. [Exit MARTHA; COREY following.

COREY. The dream! the dream! the dream!

HATHORNE.
What does he say?
Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself
Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery
By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?

COREY. I know my death is foreordained by you, Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.

During the rest of the scene he remains silent.

HATHORNE. Do you refuse to plead?—'T were better for you To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.— Do you not hear me?—Answer, are you guilty? Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty? Where is John Gloyd?

GLOYD (coming forward).
Here am I.

HATHORNE.
Tell the Court
Have you not seen the supernatural power
Of this old man? Have you not seen him do
Strange feats of strength?

GLOYD.
I've seen him lead the field,
On a hot day, in mowing, and against
Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him.
He threw me like a feather. I have seen him
Lift up a barrel with his single hands,
Which two strong men could hardly lift together,
And, holding it above his head, drink from it.

HATHORNE. That is enough; we need not question further. What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?

MARY. See there! See there!

HATHORNE.
What is it? I see nothing.

MARY. Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder By stamping on his body! In his shroud He comes here to bear witness to the crime!

The crowd shrinks back from COREY in horror.

HATHORNE. Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die! It might have been an easier death. Your doom Will be on your own head, and not on ours. Twice more will you be questioned of these things; Twice more have room to plead or to confess. If you are contumacious to the Court, And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer, Then by the Statute you will be condemned To the peine forte et dure! To have your body Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead! And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!

ACT V.

SCENE I. — COREy's farm as in Act II., Scene I. Enter RICHARD GARDNER, looking round him.

GARDNER. Here stands the house as I remember it. The four tall poplar-trees before the door; The house, the barn, the orchard, and the well, With its moss-covered bucket and its trough; The garden, with its hedge of currant-bushes; The woods, the harvest-fields; and, far beyond, The pleasant landscape stretching to the sea. But everything is silent and deserted! No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of herds, No sound of flails, that should be beating now; Nor man nor beast astir. What can this mean?

Knocks at the door.

What ho! Giles Corey! Hillo-ho! Giles Corey!— No answer but the echo from the barn, And the ill-omened cawing of the crow, That yonder wings his flight across the fields, As if he scented carrion in the air.

Enter TITUBA with a basket.

What woman's this, that, like an apparition, Haunts this deserted homestead in broad day? Woman, who are you?

TITUBA.
I'm Tituba.
I am John Indian's wife. I am a Witch.

GARDNER. What are you doing here?

TITUBA.
I am gathering herbs,—
Cinquefoil, and saxifrage, and pennyroyal.

GARDNER (looking at the herbs). This is not cinquefoil, it is deadly nightshade! This is not saxifrage, but hellebore! This is not pennyroyal, it is henbane! Do you come here to poison these good people?

TITUBA. I get these for the Doctor in the Village. Beware of Tituba. I pinch the children; Make little poppets and stick pins in them, And then the children cry out they are pricked. The Black Dog came to me and said, "Serve me!" I was afraid. He made me hurt the children.

GARDNER. Poor soul! She's crazed, with all these Devil's doings.

TITUBA. Will you, sir, sign the book?

GARDNER.
No, I'll not sign it.
Where is Giles Corey? Do you know Giles Corey!

TITUBA. He's safe enough. He's down there in the prison.

GARDNER. Corey in prison? What is he accused of?

TITURA. Giles Corey and Martha Corey are in prison Down there in Salem Village. Both are witches. She came to me and whispered, "Kill the children!" Both signed the Book!

GARDNER.

Begone, you imp of darkness!
You Devil's dam!

TITUBA.
Beware of Tituba!
[Exit.

GARDNER.
How often out at sea on stormy nights,
When the waves thundered round me, and the wind
Bellowed, and beat the canvas, and my ship
Clove through the solid darkness, like a wedge,
I've thought of him upon his pleasant farm,
Living in quiet with his thrifty housewife,
And envied him, and wished his fate were mine!
And now I find him shipwrecked utterly,
Drifting upon this sea of sorceries,
And lost, perhaps, beyond all aid of man!
[Exit.

SCENE II.. — The prison. GILES COREY at a table on which are some papers.

COREY. Now I have done with earth and all its cares; I give my worldly goods to my dear children; My body I bequeath to my tormentors, And my immortal soul to Him who made it. O God! who in thy wisdom dost afflict me With an affliction greater than most men Have ever yet endured or shall endure, Suffer me not in this last bitter hour For any pains of death to fall from Thee!

MARTHA is heard singing.
Arise, O righteous Lord!
And disappoint my foes;
They are but thine avenging sword,
Whose wounds are swift to close.

COREY. Hark, hark! it is her voice! She is not dead! She lives! I am not utterly forsaken!

MARTHA, singing.
By thine abounding grace,
And mercies multiplied,
I shall awake, and see thy face;
I shall be satisfied.

COREY hides his face in his hands. Enter the JAILER, followed by RICHARD GARDNER.

JAILER. Here's a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner, A friend of yours, who asks to speak with you.

COREY rises. They embrace.

COREY. I'm glad to see you, ay, right glad to see you.

GARDNER. And I am most sorely grieved to see you thus.

COREY. Of all the friends I had in happier days, You are the first, ay, and the only one, That comes to seek me out in my disgrace! And you but come in time to say farewell, They've dug my grave already in the field. I thank you. There is something in your presence, I know not what it is, that gives me strength. Perhaps it is the bearing of a man Familiar with all dangers of the deep, Familiar with the cries of drowning men, With fire, and wreck, and foundering ships at sea!

GARDNER. Ah, I have never known a wreck like yours! Would I could save you!

COREY.
Do not speak of that.
It is too late. I am resolved to die.

GARDNER. Why would you die who have so much to live for?— Your daughters, and—

COREY.
You cannot say the word.
My daughters have gone from me. They are married;
They have their homes, their thoughts, apart from me;
I will not say their hearts,—that were too cruel.
What would you have me do?

GARDNER.
Confess and live.
COREY.
That's what they said who came here yesterday
To lay a heavy weight upon my conscience
By telling me that I was driven forth
As an unworthy member of their church.

GARDNER. It is an awful death.

COREY.
'T is but to drown,
And have the weight of all the seas upon you.

GARDNER. Say something; say enough to fend off death Till this tornado of fanaticism Blows itself out. Let me come in between you And your severer self, with my plain sense; Do not be obstinate.

COREY.
I will not plead.
If I deny, I am condemned already,
In courts where ghosts appear as witnesses,
And swear men's lives away. If I confess,
Then I confess a lie, to buy a life
Which is not life, but only death in life.
I will not bear false witness against any,
Not even against myself, whom I count least.

GARDNER (aside). Ah, what a noble character is this!

COREY. I pray you, do not urge me to do that You would not do yourself. I have already The bitter taste of death upon my lips; I feel the pressure of the heavy weight That will crush out my life within this hour; But if a word could save me, and that word Were not the Truth; nay, if it did but swerve A hair's-breadth from the Truth, I would not say it!

GARDNER (aside). How mean I seem beside a man like this!

COREY. As for my wife, my Martha and my Martyr,— Whose virtues, like the stars, unseen by day, Though numberless, do but await the dark To manifest themselves unto all eyes,— She who first won me from my evil ways, And taught me how to live by her example, By her example teaches me to die, And leads me onward to the better life!

SHERIFF (without). Giles Corey! Come! The hour has struck!

COREY.
I come!
Here is my body; ye may torture it,
But the immortal soul ye cannot crush!
[Exeunt.

SCENE III— A street in the Village. Enter GLOYD and others.

GLOYD. Quick, or we shall be late!

A MAN.
That's not the way.
Come here; come up this lane.

GLOYD.
I wonder now
If the old man will die, and will not speak?
He's obstinate enough and tough enough
For anything on earth.

A bell tolls.

Hark! What is that?

A MAN. The passing bell. He's dead!

GLOYD.
We are too late.
[Exeunt in haste.

SCENE IV. — A field near the graveyard, GILES COREY lying dead, with a great stone on his breast. The Sheriff at his head, RICHARD GARDNER at his feet. A crowd behind. The bell tolling. Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

HATHORNE. This is the Potter's Field. Behold the fate Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, and, when questioned, Refuse to plead their guilt or innocence, And stubbornly drag death upon themselves.

MATHER. O sight most horrible! In a land like this, Spangled with Churches Evangelical, Inwrapped in our salvations, must we seek In mouldering statute-books of English Courts Some old forgotten Law, to do such deeds? Those who lie buried in the Potter's Field Will rise again, as surely as ourselves That sleep in honored graves with epitaphs; And this poor man, whom we have made a victim, Hereafter will be counted as a martyr!

---

FINALE
SAINT JOHN

SAINT JOHN wandering over the face of the Earth.

SAINT JOHN. The Ages come and go, The Centuries pass as Years; My hair is white as the snow, My feet are weary and slow, The earth is wet with my tears The kingdoms crumble, and fall Apart, like a ruined wall, Or a bank that is undermined By a river's ceaseless flow, And leave no trace behind! The world itself is old; The portals of Time unfold On hinges of iron, that grate And groan with the rust and the weight, Like the hinges of a gate That hath fallen to decay; But the evil doth not cease; There is war instead of peace, Instead of Love there is hate; And still I must wander and wait, Still I must watch and pray, Not forgetting in whose sight, A thousand years in their flight Are as a single day.

The life of man is a gleam Of light, that comes and goes Like the course of the Holy Stream. The cityless river, that flows From fountains no one knows, Through the Lake of Galilee, Through forests and level lands, Over rocks, and shallows, and sands Of a wilderness wild and vast, Till it findeth its rest at last In the desolate Dead Sea! But alas! alas for me Not yet this rest shall be!

What, then! doth Charity fail? Is Faith of no avail? Is Hope blown out like a light By a gust of wind in the night? The clashing of creeds, and the strife Of the many beliefs, that in vain Perplex man's heart and brain, Are naught but the rustle of leaves, When the breath of God upheaves The boughs of the Tree of Life, And they subside again! And I remember still The words, and from whom they came, Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!

And Him evermore I behold Walking in Galilee, Through the cornfield's waving gold, In hamlet, in wood, and in wold, By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. He toucheth the sightless eyes; Before Him the demons flee; To the dead He sayeth: Arise! To the living: Follow me! And that voice still soundeth on From the centuries that are gone, To the centuries that shall be! From all vain pomps and shows, From the pride that overflows, And the false conceits of men; From all the narrow rules And subtleties of Schools, And the craft of tongue and pen; Bewildered in its search, Bewildered with the cry, Lo, here! lo, there, the Church! Poor, sad Humanity Through all the dust and heat Turns back with bleeding feet, By the weary road it came, Unto the simple thought By the great Master taught, And that remaineth still: Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!

---

JUDAS MACCABAEUS.

ACT I.

The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem.

SCENE I. — ANTIOCHUS; JASON.

ANTIOCHUS. O Antioch, my Antioch, my city! Queen of the East! my solace, my delight! The dowry of my sister Cleopatra When she was wed to Ptolemy, and now Won back and made more wonderful by me! I love thee, and I long to be once more Among the players and the dancing women Within thy gates, and bathe in the Orontes, Thy river and mine. O Jason, my High-Priest, For I have made thee so, and thou art mine, Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful?

JASON. Never, my Lord.

ANTIOCHUS. Then hast thou never seen The wonder of the world. This city of David Compared with Antioch is but a village, And its inhabitants compared with Greeks Are mannerless boors.

JASON. They are barbarians, And mannerless.

ANTIOCHUS. They must be civilized. They must be made to have more gods than one; And goddesses besides.

JASON. They shall have more.

ANTIOCHUS. They must have hippodromes, and games, and baths, Stage-plays and festivals, and most of all The Dionysia.

JASON. They shall have them all.

ANTIOCHUS. By Heracles! but I should like to see These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and arrayed In skins of fawns, with drums and flutes and thyrsi, Revel and riot through the solemn streets Of their old town. Ha, ha! It makes me merry Only to think of it!—Thou dost not laugh.

JASON. Yea, I laugh inwardly.

ANTIOCHUS. The new Greek leaven Works slowly in this Israelitish dough! Have I not sacked the Temple, and on the altar Set up the statue of Olympian Zeus To Hellenize it?

JASON. Thou hast done all this.

ANTIOCHUS. As thou wast Joshua once and now art Jason, And from a Hebrew hast become a Greek, So shall this Hebrew nation be translated, Their very natures and their names be changed, And all be Hellenized.

JASON. It shall be done.

ANTIOCHUS. Their manners and their laws and way of living Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn their language, And learn the lovely speech of Antioch. Where hast thou been to-day? Thou comest late.

JASON. Playing at discus with the other priests In the Gymnasium.

ANTIOCHUS. Thou hast done well. There's nothing better for you lazy priests Than discus-playing with the common people. Now tell me, Jason, what these Hebrews call me When they converse together at their games.

JASON. Antiochus Epiphanes, my Lord; Antiochus the Illustrious.

ANTIOCHUS. O, not that; That is the public cry; I mean the name They give me when they talk among themselves, And think that no one listens; what is that?

JASON. Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord!

ANTIOCHUS. Antiochus the Mad! Ay, that is it. And who hath said it? Who hath set in motion That sorry jest?

JASON. The Seven Sons insane Of a weird woman, like themselves insane.

ANTIOCHUS. I like their courage, but it shall not save them. They shall be made to eat the flesh of swine, Or they shall die. Where are they?

JASON. In the dungeons Beneath this tower.

ANTIOCHUS. There let them stay and starve, Till I am ready to make Greeks of them, After my fashion.

JASON. They shall stay and starve.— My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria Await thy pleasure.

ANTIOCHUS. Why not my displeasure? Ambassadors are tedious. They are men Who work for their own ends, and not for mine There is no furtherance in them. Let them go To Apollonius, my governor There in Samaria, and not trouble me. What do they want?

JASON. Only the royal sanction To give a name unto a nameless temple Upon Mount Gerizim.

ANTIOCHUS. Then bid them enter. This pleases me, and furthers my designs. The occasion is auspicious. Bid them enter.

---

SCENE II. — ANTIOCHUS; JASON; THE SAMARITAN AMBASSADORS.

ANTIOCHUS. Approach. Come forward; stand not at the door Wagging your long beards, but demean yourselves As doth become Ambassadors. What seek ye?

AN AMBASSADOR. An audience from the King.

ANTIOCHUS. Speak, and be brief. Waste not the time in useless rhetoric. Words are not things.

AMBASSADOR (reading). "To King Antiochus, The God, Epiphanes; a Memorial From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem."

ANTIOCHUS. Sidonians?

AMBASSADOR. Ay, my Lord.

ANTIOCHUS. Go on, go on! And do not tire thyself and me with bowing!

AMBASSADOR (reading). "We are a colony of Medes and Persians."

ANTIOCHUS. No, ye are Jews from one of the Ten Tribes; Whether Sidonians or Samaritans Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to me; Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews. When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred with them; When the Jews suffer, ye are Medes and Persians: I know that in the days of Alexander Ye claimed exemption from the annual tribute In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said, Your fields had not been planted in that year.

AMBASSADOR (reading). "Our fathers, upon certain frequent plagues, And following an ancient superstition, Were long accustomed to observe that day Which by the Israelites is called the Sabbath, And in a temple on Mount Gerizim Without a name, they offered sacrifice. Now we, who are Sidonians, beseech thee, Who art our benefactor and our savior, Not to confound us with these wicked Jews, But to give royal order and injunction To Apollonius in Samaria. Thy governor, and likewise to Nicanor, Thy procurator, no more to molest us; And let our nameless temple now be named The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius."

ANTIOCHUS. This shall be done. Full well it pleaseth me Ye are not Jews, or are no longer Jews, But Greeks; if not by birth, yet Greeks by custom. Your nameless temple shall receive the name Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go!

SCENE III. — ANTIOCHUS; JASON.

ANTIOCHUS. My task is easier than I dreamed. These people Meet me half-way. Jason, didst thou take note How these Samaritans of Sichem said They were not Jews? that they were Medes and Persians, They were Sidonians, anything but Jews? 'T is of good augury. The rest will follow Till the whole land is Hellenized.

JASON. My Lord, These are Samaritans. The tribe of Judah Is of a different temper, and the task Will be more difficult.

ANTIOCHUS. Dost thou gainsay me?

JASON. I know the stubborn nature of the Jew. Yesterday, Eleazer, an old man, Being fourscore years and ten, chose rather death By torture than to eat the flesh of swine.

ANTIOCHUS. The life is in the blood, and the whole nation Shall bleed to death, or it shall change its faith!

JASON. Hundreds have fled already to the mountains Of Ephraim, where Judas Maccabaeus Hath raised the standard of revolt against thee.

ANTIOCHUS. I will burn down their city, and will make it Waste as a wilderness. Its thoroughfares Shall be but furrows in a field of ashes. It shall be sown with salt as Sodom is! This hundred and fifty-third Olympiad Shall have a broad and blood-red sea upon it, Stamped with the awful letters of my name, Antiochus the God, Epiphanes!— Where are those Seven Sons?

JASON. My Lord, they wait Thy royal pleasure.

ANTIOCHUS. They shall wait no longer!

ACT II.

The Dungeons in the Citadel.

SCENE I. — THE MOTHER of the SEVEN SONS alone, listening.

THE MOTHER. Be strong, my heart! Break not till they are dead, All, all my Seven Sons; then burst asunder, And let this tortured and tormented soul Leap and rush out like water through the shards Of earthen vessels broken at a well. O my dear children, mine in life and death, I know not how ye came into my womb; I neither gave you breath, nor gave you life, And neither was it I that formed the members Of every one of you. But the Creator, Who made the world, and made the heavens above us, Who formed the generation of mankind, And found out the beginning of all things, He gave you breath and life, and will again Of his own mercy, as ye now regard Not your own selves, but his eternal law. I do not murmur, nay, I thank thee, God, That I and mine have not been deemed unworthy To suffer for thy sake, and for thy law, And for the many sins of Israel. Hark! I can hear within the sound of scourges! I feel them more than ye do, O my sons! But cannot come to you. I, who was wont To wake at night at the least cry ye made, To whom ye ran at every slightest hurt, I cannot take you now into my lap And soothe your pain, but God will take you all Into his pitying arms, and comfort you, And give you rest.

A VOICE (within). What wouldst thou ask of us? Ready are we to die, but we will never Transgress the law and customs of our fathers.

THE MOTHER. It is the Voice of my first-born! O brave And noble boy! Thou hast the privilege Of dying first, as thou wast born the first.

THE SAME VOICE (within). God looketh on us, and hath comfort in us; As Moses in his song of old declared, He in his servants shall be comforted.

THE MOTHER. I knew thou wouldst not fail!—He speaks no more, He is beyond all pain!

ANTIOCHUS. (within). If thou eat not Thou shalt be tortured throughout all the members Of thy whole body. Wilt thou eat then?

SECOND VOICE. (within). No.

THE MOTHER. It is Adaiah's voice. I tremble for him. I know his nature, devious as the wind, And swift to change, gentle and yielding always. Be steadfast, O my son!

THE SAME VOICE (within). Thou, like a fury, Takest us from this present life, but God, Who rules the world, shall raise us up again Into life everlasting.

THE MOTHER. God, I thank thee That thou hast breathed into that timid heart Courage to die for thee. O my Adaiah, Witness of God! if thou for whom I feared Canst thus encounter death, I need not fear; The others will not shrink.

THIRD VOICE (within). Behold these hands Held out to thee, O King Antiochus, Not to implore thy mercy, but to show That I despise them. He who gave them to me Will give them back again.

THE MOTHER. O Avilan, It is thy voice. For the last time I hear it; For the last time on earth, but not the last. To death it bids defiance and to torture. It sounds to me as from another world, And makes the petty miseries of this Seem unto me as naught, and less than naught. Farewell, my Avilan; nay, I should say Welcome, my Avilan; for I am dead Before thee. I am waiting for the others. Why do they linger?

FOURTH VOICE (within). It is good, O King, Being put to death by men, to look for hope From God, to be raised up again by him. But thou—no resurrection shalt thou have To life hereafter.

THE MOTHER. Four! already four! Three are still living; nay, they all are living, Half here, half there. Make haste, Antiochus, To reunite us; for the sword that cleaves These miserable bodies makes a door Through which our souls, impatient of release, Rush to each other's arms.

FIFTH VOICE (within). Thou hast the power; Thou doest what thou wilt. Abide awhile, And thou shalt see the power of God, and how He will torment thee and thy seed.

THE MOTHER. O hasten; Why dost thou pause? Thou who hast slain already So many Hebrew women, and hast hung Their murdered infants round their necks, slay me, For I too am a woman, and these boys Are mine. Make haste to slay us all, And hang my lifeless babes about my neck.

SIXTH VOICE (within). Think not, Antiochus, that takest in hand To strive against the God of Israel, Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his wrath Shall overtake thee and thy bloody house.

THE MOTHER. One more, my Sirion, and then all is ended. Having put all to bed, then in my turn I will lie down and sleep as sound as they. My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved! And those bright golden locks, that I so oft Have curled about these fingers, even now Are foul with blood and dust, like a lamb's fleece, Slain in the shambles.—Not a sound I hear. This silence is more terrible to me Than any sound, than any cry of pain, That might escape the lips of one who dies. Doth his heart fail him? Doth he fall away In the last hour from God? O Sirion, Sirion, Art thou afraid? I do not hear thy voice. Die as thy brothers died. Thou must not live!

SCENE II. — THE MOTHER; ANTIOCHUS; SIRION,

THE MOTHER. Are they all dead?

ANTIOCHUS. Of all thy Seven Sons One only lives. Behold them where they lie How dost thou like this picture?

THE MOTHER. God in heaven! Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die By the recoil of his own wickedness? Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies That were my children once, and still are mine, I cannot watch o'er you as Rispah watched In sackcloth o'er the seven sons of Saul, Till water drop upon you out of heaven And wash this blood away! I cannot mourn As she, the daughter of Aiah, mourned the dead, From the beginning of the barley-harvest Until the autumn rains, and suffered not The birds of air to rest on them by day, Nor the wild beasts by night. For ye have died A better death, a death so full of life That I ought rather to rejoice than mourn.— Wherefore art thou not dead, O Sirion? Wherefore art thou the only living thing Among thy brothers dead? Art thou afraid?

ANTIOCHUS. O woman, I have spared him for thy sake, For he is fair to look upon and comely; And I have sworn to him by all the gods That I would crown his life with joy and honor, Heap treasures on him, luxuries, delights, Make him my friend and keeper of my secrets, If he would turn from your Mosaic Law And be as we are; but he will not listen.

THE MOTHER. My noble Sirion!

ANTIOCHUS. Therefore I beseech thee, Who art his mother, thou wouldst speak with him, And wouldst persuade him. I am sick of blood.

THE MOTHER. Yea, I will speak with him and will persuade him. O Sirion, my son! have pity on me, On me that bare thee, and that gave thee suck, And fed and nourished thee, and brought thee up With the dear trouble of a mother's care Unto this age. Look on the heavens above thee, And on the earth and all that is therein; Consider that God made them out of things That were not; and that likewise in this manner Mankind was made. Then fear not this tormentor But, being worthy of thy brethren, take Thy death as they did, that I may receive thee Again in mercy with them.

ANTIOCHUS. I am mocked, Yea, I am laughed to scorn.

SIRION. Whom wait ye for? Never will I obey the King's commandment, But the commandment of the ancient Law, That was by Moses given unto our fathers. And thou, O godless man, that of all others Art the most wicked, be not lifted up, Nor puffed up with uncertain hopes, uplifting Thy hand against the servants of the Lord, For thou hast not escaped the righteous judgment Of the Almighty God, who seeth all things!

ANTIOCHUS. He is no God of mine; I fear him not.

SIRION. My brothers, who have suffered a brief pain, Are dead; but thou, Antiochus, shalt suffer The punishment of pride. I offer up My body and my life, beseeching God That he would speedily be merciful Unto our nation, and that thou by plagues Mysterious and by torments mayest confess That he alone is God.

ANTIOCHUS. Ye both shall perish By torments worse than any that your God, Here or hereafter, hath in store for me.

THE MOTHER. My Sirion, I am proud of thee!

ANTIOCHUS. Be silent! Go to thy bed of torture in yon chamber, Where lie so many sleepers, heartless mother! Thy footsteps will not wake them, nor thy voice, Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy troubled dreams, Thy children crying for thee in the night!

THE MOTHER. O Death, that stretchest thy white hands to me, I fear them not, but press them to my lips, That are as white as thine; for I am Death, Nay, am the Mother of Death, seeing these sons All lying lifeless.—Kiss me, Sirion.

ACT III.

The Battle-field of Beth-horon.

SCENE I. — JUDAS MACCABAEUS in armor before his tent.

JUDAS. The trumpets sound; the echoes of the mountains Answer them, as the Sabbath morning breaks Over Beth-horon and its battle-field, Where the great captain of the hosts of God, A slave brought up in the brick-fields of Egypt, O'ercame the Amorites. There was no day Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. The sun stood still; the hammers of the hail Beat on their harness; and the captains set Their weary feet upon the necks of kings, As I will upon thine, Antiochus, Thou man of blood!—Behold the rising sun Strikes on the golden letters of my banner, Be Elohim Yehovah! Who is like To thee, O Lord, among the gods!—Alas! I am not Joshua, I cannot say, "Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, and thou Moon, In Ajalon!" Nor am I one who wastes The fateful time in useless lamentation; But one who bears his life upon his hand To lose it or to save it, as may best Serve the designs of Him who giveth life.

SCENE II — JUDAS MACCABAEUS; JEWISH FUGITIVES.

JUDAS. Who and what are ye, that with furtive steps Steal in among our tents?

FUGITIVES. O Maccabaeus, Outcasts are we, and fugitives as thou art, Jews of Jerusalem, that have escaped From the polluted city, and from death.

JUDAS. None can escape from death. Say that ye come To die for Israel, and ye are welcome. What tidings bring ye?

FUGITIVES. Tidings of despair. The Temple is laid waste; the precious vessels, Censers of gold, vials and veils and crowns, And golden ornaments, and hidden treasures, Have all been taken from it, and the Gentiles With revelling and with riot fill its courts, And dally with harlots in the holy places.

JUDAS. All this I knew before.

FUGITIVES. Upon the altar Are things profane, things by the law forbidden; Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or our Feasts, But on the festivals of Dionysus Must walk in their processions, bearing ivy To crown a drunken god.

JUDAS. This too I know. But tell me of the Jews. How fare the Jews?

FUGITIVES. The coming of this mischief hath been sore And grievous to the people. All the land Is full of lamentation and of mourning. The Princes and the Elders weep and wail; The young men and the maidens are made feeble; The beauty of the women hath been changed.

JUDAS. And are there none to die for Israel? 'T is not enough to mourn. Breastplate and harness Are better things than sackcloth. Let the women Lament for Israel; the men should die.

FUGITIVES. Both men and women die; old men and young: Old Eleazer died: and Mahala With all her Seven Sons.

JUDAS. Antiochus, At every step thou takest there is left A bloody footprint in the street, by which The avenging wrath of God will track thee out! It is enough. Go to the sutler's tents; Those of you who are men, put on such armor As ye may find; those of you who are women, Buckle that armor on; and for a watchword Whisper, or cry aloud, "The Help of God."

SCENE III. — JUDAS MACCABAEUS; NICANOR.

NICANOR. Hail, Judas Maccabaeus!

JUDAS. Hail!—Who art thou That comest here in this mysterious guise Into our camp unheralded?

NICANOR. A herald Sent from Nicanor.

JUDAS. Heralds come not thus. Armed with thy shirt of mail from head to heel, Thou glidest like a serpent silently Into my presence. Wherefore dost thou turn Thy face from me? A herald speaks his errand With forehead unabashed. Thou art a spy sent by Nicanor.

NICANOR. No disguise avails! Behold my face; I am Nicanor's self.

JUDAS. Thou art indeed Nicanor. I salute thee. What brings thee hither to this hostile camp Thus unattended?

NICANOR. Confidence in thee. Thou hast the nobler virtues of thy race, Without the failings that attend those virtues. Thou canst be strong, and yet not tyrannous, Canst righteous be and not intolerant. Let there be peace between us.

JUDAS. What is peace? Is it to bow in silence to our victors? Is it to see our cities sacked and pillaged, Our people slain, or sold as slaves, or fleeing At night-time by the blaze of burning towns; Jerusalem laid waste; the Holy Temple Polluted with strange gods? Are these things peace?

NICANOR. These are the dire necessities that wait On war, whose loud and bloody enginery I seek to stay. Let there be peace between Antiochus and thee.

JUDAS. Antiochus? What is Antiochus, that he should prate Of peace to me, who am a fugitive? To-day he shall be lifted up; to-morrow Shall not be found, because he is returned Unto his dust; his thought has come to nothing. There is no peace between us, nor can be, Until this banner floats upon the walls Of our Jerusalem.

NICANOR. Between that city And thee there lies a waving wall of tents, Held by a host of forty thousand foot, And horsemen seven thousand. What hast thou To bring against all these?

JUDAS. The power of God, Whose breath shall scatter your white tents abroad, As flakes of snow.

NICANOR. Your Mighty One in heaven Will not do battle on the Seventh Day; It is his day of rest.

JUDAS. Silence, blasphemer. Go to thy tents.

NICANOR. Shall it be war or peace?

JUDAS. War, war, and only war. Go to thy tents That shall be scattered, as by you were scattered The torn and trampled pages of the Law, Blown through the windy streets.

NICANOR. Farewell, brave foe!

JUDAS. Ho, there, my captains! Have safe-conduct given Unto Nicanor's herald through the camp, And come yourselves to me.—Farewell, Nicanor!

SCENE IV. — JUDAS MACCABAEUS; CAPTAINS AND SOLDIERS.

JUDAS. The hour is come. Gather the host together For battle. Lo, with trumpets and with songs The army of Nicanor comes against us. Go forth to meet them, praying in your hearts, And fighting with your hands.

CAPTAINS. Look forth and see! The morning sun is shining on their shields Of gold and brass; the mountains glisten with them, And shine like lamps. And we who are so few And poorly armed, and ready to faint with fasting, How shall we fight against this multitude?

JUDAS. The victory of a battle standeth not In multitudes, but in the strength that cometh From heaven above. The Lord forbid that I Should do this thing, and flee away from them. Nay, if our hour be come, then let us die; Let us not stain our honor.

CAPTAINS. 'T is the Sabbath. Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, Maccabaeus?

JUDAS. Ay; when I fight the battles of the Lord, I fight them on his day, as on all others. Have ye forgotten certain fugitives That fled once to these hills, and hid themselves In caves? How their pursuers camped against them Upon the Seventh Day, and challenged them? And how they answered not, nor cast a stone, Nor stopped the places where they lay concealed, But meekly perished with their wives and children, Even to the number of a thousand souls? We who are fighting for our laws and lives Will not so perish.

CAPTAINS. Lead us to the battle!

JUDAS. And let our watchword be, "The Help of God!" Last night I dreamed a dream; and in my vision Beheld Onias, our High-Priest of old, Who holding up his hands prayed for the Jews. This done, in the like manner there appeared An old man, and exceeding glorious, With hoary hair, and of a wonderful And excellent majesty. And Onias said: "This is a lover of the Jews, who prayeth Much for the people and the Holy City,— God's prophet Jeremias." And the prophet Held forth his right hand and gave unto me A sword of gold; and giving it he said: "Take thou this holy sword, a gift from God, And with it thou shalt wound thine adversaries."

CAPTAINS. The Lord is with us!

JUDAS. Hark! I hear the trumpets Sound from Beth-horon; from the battle-field Of Joshua, where he smote the Amorites, Smote the Five Kings of Eglon and of Jarmuth, Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jerusalem, As we to-day will smite Nicanor's hosts And leave a memory of great deeds behind us.

CAPTAINS and SOLDIERS. The Help of God!

JUDAS. Be Elohim Yehovah! Lord, thou didst send thine Angel in the time Of Esekias, King of Israel, And in the armies of Sennacherib Didst slay a hundred fourscore and five thousand. Wherefore, O Lord of heaven, now also send Before us a good angel for a fear, And through the might of thy right arm let those Be stricken with terror that have come this day Against thy holy people to blaspheme!

ACT IV.

The outer Courts of the Temple at Jerusalem.

SCENE I. — JUDAS MACCABAEUS; CAPTAINS; JEWS.

JUDAS. Behold, our enemies are discomfited. Jerusalem is fallen; and our banners Float from her battlements, and o'er her gates Nicanor's severed head, a sign of terror, Blackens in wind and sun.

CAPTAINS. O Maccabaeus, The citadel of Antiochus, wherein The Mother with her Seven Sons was murdered, Is still defiant.

JUDAS. Wait.

CAPTAINS. Its hateful aspect Insults us with the bitter memories Of other days.

JUDAS. Wait; it shall disappear And vanish as a cloud. First let us cleanse The Sanctuary. See, it is become Waste like a wilderness. Its golden gates Wrenched from their hinges and consumed by fire; Shrubs growing in its courts as in a forest; Upon its altars hideous and strange idols; And strewn about its pavement at my feet Its Sacred Books, half burned and painted o'er With images of heathen gods.

JEWS. Woe! woe! Our beauty and our glory are laid waste! The Gentiles have profaned our holy places!

(Lamentation and alarm of trumpets.)

JUDAS. This sound of trumpets, and this lamentation, The heart-cry of a people toward the heavens, Stir me to wrath and vengeance. Go, my captains; I hold you back no longer. Batter down The citadel of Antiochus, while here We sweep away his altars and his gods.

SCENE II. — JUDAS MACCABAEUS; JASON; JEWS,

JEWS. Lurking among the ruins of the Temple, Deep in its inner courts, we found this man, Clad as High-Priest.

JUDAS. I ask not who thou art. I know thy face, writ over with deceit As are these tattered volumes of the Law With heathen images. A priest of God Wast thou in other days, but thou art now A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou art Jason.

JASON. I am thy prisoner, Judas Maccabaeus, And it would ill become me to conceal My name or office.

JUDAS. Over yonder gate There hangs the head of one who was a Greek. What should prevent me now, thou man of sin, From hanging at its side the head of one Who born a Jew hath made himself a Greek?

JASON. Justice prevents thee.

JUDAS. Justice? Thou art stained With every crime against which the Decalogue Thunders with all its thunder.

JASON. If not Justice, Then Mercy, her handmaiden.

JUDAS. When hast thou At any time, to any man or woman, Or even to any little child, shown mercy?

JASON. I have but done what King Antiochus Commanded me.

JUDAS. True, thou hast been the weapon With which he struck; but hast been such a weapon, So flexible, so fitted to his hand, It tempted him to strike. So thou hast urged him To double wickedness, thine own and his. Where is this King? Is he in Antioch Among his women still, and from his windows Throwing down gold by handfuls, for the rabble To scramble for?

JASON. Nay, he is gone from there, Gone with an army into the far East.

JUDAS. And wherefore gone?

JASON. I know not. For the space Of forty days almost were horsemen seen Running in air, in cloth of gold, and armed With lances, like a band of soldiery; It was a sign of triumph.

JUDAS. Or of death. Wherefore art thou not with him?

JASON. I was left For service in the Temple.

JUDAS. To pollute it, And to corrupt the Jews; for there are men Whose presence is corruption; to be with them Degrades us and deforms the things we do.

JASON. I never made a boast, as some men do, Of my superior virtue, nor denied The weakness of my nature, that hath made me Subservient to the will of other men.

JUDAS. Upon this day, the five and twentieth day Of the month Caslan, was the Temple here Profaned by strangers,—by Antiochus And thee, his instrument. Upon this day Shall it be cleansed. Thou, who didst lend thyself Unto this profanation, canst not be A witness of these solemn services. There can be nothing clean where thou art present. The people put to death Callisthenes, Who burned the Temple gates; and if they find thee Will surely slay thee. I will spare thy life To punish thee the longer. Thou shalt wander Among strange nations. Thou, that hast cast out So many from their native land, shalt perish In a strange land. Thou, that hast left so many Unburied, shalt have none to mourn for thee, Nor any solemn funerals at all, Nor sepulchre with thy fathers.—Get thee hence!

(Music. Procession of Priests and people, with citherns, harps, and cymbals. JUDAS MACCABAEUS puts himself at their head, and they go into the inner courts.)

SCENE III. — JASON, alone.

JASON. Through the Gate Beautiful I see them come With branches and green boughs and leaves of palm, And pass into the inner courts. Alas! I should be with them, should be one of them, But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness, That cometh unto all, I fell away From the old faith, and did not clutch the new, Only an outward semblance of belief; For the new faith I cannot make mine own, Not being born to it. It hath no root Within me. I am neither Jew nor Greek, But stand between them both, a renegade To each in turn; having no longer faith In gods or men. Then what mysterious charm, What fascination is it chains my feet, And keeps me gazing like a curious child Into the holy places, where the priests Have raised their altar?—Striking stones together, They take fire out of them, and light the lamps In the great candlestick. They spread the veils, And set the loaves of showbread on the table. The incense burns; the well-remembered odor Comes wafted unto me, and takes me back To other days. I see myself among them As I was then; and the old superstition Creeps over me again!—A childish fancy!— And hark! they sing with citherns and with cymbals, And all the people fall upon their faces, Praying and worshipping!—I will away Into the East, to meet Antiochus Upon his homeward journey, crowned with triumph. Alas! to-day I would give everything To see a friend's face, or to hear a voice That had the slightest tone of comfort in it!

ACT V.

The Mountains of Ecbatana.

SCENE I. — ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; ATTENDANTS.

ANTIOCHUS. Here let us rest awhile. Where are we, Philip? What place is this?

PHILIP. Ecbatana, my Lord; And yonder mountain range is the Orontes.

ANTIOCHUS. The Orontes is my river at Antioch. Why did I leave it? Why have I been tempted By coverings of gold and shields and breastplates To plunder Elymais, and be driven From out its gates, as by a fiery blast Out of a furnace?

PHILIP. These are fortune's changes.

ANTIOCHUS. What a defeat it was! The Persian horsemen Came like a mighty wind, the wind Khamaseen, And melted us away, and scattered us As if we were dead leaves, or desert sand.

PHILIP. Be comforted, my Lord; for thou hast lost But what thou hadst not.

ANTIOCHUS. I, who made the Jews Skip like the grasshoppers, am made myself To skip among these stones.

PHILIP. Be not discouraged. Thy realm of Syria remains to thee; That is not lost nor marred.

ANTIOCHUS. O, where are now The splendors of my court, my baths and banquets? Where are my players and my dancing women? Where are my sweet musicians with their pipes, That made me merry in the olden time? I am a laughing-stock to man and brute. The very camels, with their ugly faces, Mock me and laugh at me.

PHILIP. Alas! my Lord, It is not so. If thou wouldst sleep awhile, All would be well.

ANTIOCHUS. Sleep from mine eyes is gone, And my heart faileth me for very care. Dost thou remember, Philip, the old fable Told us when we were boys, in which the bear Going for honey overturns the hive, And is stung blind by bees? I am that beast, Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais.

PHILIP. When thou art come again to Antioch These thoughts will be as covered and forgotten As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot-wheels In the Egyptian sands.

ANTIOCHUS. Ah! when I come Again to Antioch! When will that be? Alas! alas!

SCENE II — ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; A MESSENGER

MESSENGER. May the King live forever!

ANTIOCHUS. Who art thou, and whence comest thou?

MESSENGER. My Lord, I am a messenger from Antioch, Sent here by Lysias.

ANTIOCHUS. A strange foreboding Of something evil overshadows me. I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures; I know not Hebrew; but my High-Priest Jason, As I remember, told me of a Prophet Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea Like a man's hand and soon the heaven was black With clouds and rain. Here, Philip, read; I cannot; I see that cloud. It makes the letters dim Before mine eyes.

PHILIP (reading). "To King Antiochus, The God, Epiphanes."

ANTIOCHUS. O mockery! Even Lysias laughs at me!—Go on, go on.

PHILIP (reading). "We pray thee hasten thy return. The realm Is falling from thee. Since thou hast gone from us The victories of Judas Maccabaeus Form all our annals. First he overthrew Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on, And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. And then Emmaus fell; and then Bethsura; Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, And Maccabaeus marched to Carnion."

ANTIOCHUS. Enough, enough! Go call my chariot-men; We will drive forward, forward, without ceasing, Until we come to Antioch. My captains, My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and Nicanor, Are babes in battle, and this dreadful Jew Will rob me of my kingdom and my crown. My elephants shall trample him to dust; I will wipe out his nation, and will make Jerusalem a common burying-place, And every home within its walls a tomb!

(Throws up his hands, and sinks into the arms of attendants, who lay him upon a bank.)

PHILIP. Antiochus! Antiochus! Alas, The King is ill! What is it, O my Lord?

ANTIOCHUS. Nothing. A sudden and sharp spasm of pain, As if the lightning struck me, or the knife Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 'T is passed, even as it came. Let us set forward.

PHILIP. See that the chariots be in readiness We will depart forthwith.

ANTIOCHUS. A moment more. I cannot stand. I am become at once Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead me. Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name Thou wouldst be named,—it is alike to me,— If I knew how to pray, I would entreat To live a little longer.

PHILIP. O my Lord, Thou shalt not die; we will not let thee die!

ANTIOCHUS. How canst thou help it, Philip? O the pain! Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield against This unseen weapon. God of Israel, Since all the other gods abandon me, Help me. I will release the Holy City. Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Temple. Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy To be so much as buried, shall be equal Unto the citizens of Antioch. I will become a Jew, and will declare Through all the world that is inhabited The power of God!

PHILIP. He faints. It is like death. Bring here the royal litter. We will bear him In to the camp, while yet he lives.

ANTIOCHUS. O Philip, Into what tribulation am I come! Alas! I now remember all the evil That I have done the Jews; and for this cause These troubles are upon me, and behold I perish through great grief in a strange land.

PHILIP. Antiochus! my King!

ANTIOCHUS.
Nay, King no longer.
Take thou my royal robes, my signet-ring,
My crown and sceptre, and deliver them
Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator;
And unto the good Jews, my citizens,
In all my towns, say that their dying monarch
Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health.
I who, puffed up with pride and arrogance,
Thought all the kingdoms of the earth mine own,
If I would but outstretch my hand and take them,
Meet face to face a greater potentate,
King Death—Epiphanes—the Illustrious!
[Dies.

MICHAEL ANGELO

Michel, piu che mortal, Angel divino. — ARIOSTO.

Similamente operando all' artista ch' a l'abito dell' arte e man che trema. — DANTE, Par. xiii., st. 77.

---

DEDICATION.

Nothing that is shall perish utterly,
But perish only to revive again
In other forms, as clouds restore in rain
The exhalations of the land and sea.
Men build their houses from the masonry
Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain
Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain
To throb in hearts that are, or are to be.
So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust
Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones,
I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust
Their roots among the loose disjointed stones,
Which to this end I fashion as I must.
Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.

---

PART FIRST.

I.
PROLOGUE AT ISCHIA

The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA, and JULIA GONZAGA.

VITTORIA. Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?

JULIA. To-morrow, dearest.

VITTORIA.
Do not say to-morrow.
A whole month of to-morrows were too soon.
You must not go. You are a part of me.

JULIA. I must return to Fondi.

VITTORIA.
The old castle
Needs not your presence. No one waits for you.
Stay one day longer with me. They who go
Feel not the pain of parting; it is they
Who stay behind that suffer. I was thinking
But yesterday how like and how unlike
Have been, and are, our destinies. Your husband,
The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemed
A father to you rather than a husband,
Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flower
And promise of his youth, was taken from me
As by a rushing wind. The breath of battle
Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more,
Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our love
Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them.
Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears;
But mine the grief of an impassioned woman,
Who drank her life up in one draught of love.

JULIA. Behold this locket. This is the white hair Of my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love, This amaranth, and beneath it the device Non moritura. Thus my heart remains True to his memory; and the ancient castle, Where we have lived together, where he died, Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.

VITTORIA. I did not mean to chide you.

JULIA.
Let your heart
Find, if it can, some poor apology
For one who is too young, and feels too keenly
The joy of life, to give up all her days
To sorrow for the dead. While I am true
To the remembrance of the man I loved
And mourn for still, I do not make a show
Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded
And, like Veronica da Gambara,
Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth
In coach of sable drawn by sable horses,
As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day
Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays.

VITTORIA. Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?

JULIA. A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar. You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino; And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my portrait. That is not a sin.

VITTORIA. Only a vanity.

JULIA.
He painted yours.

VITTORIA. Do not call up to me those days departed When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories, Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.

JULIA.
Yet without illusions
What would our lives become, what we ourselves?
Dreams or illusions, call them what you will,
They lift us from the commonplace of life
To better things.

VITTORIA.
Are there no brighter dreams,
No higher aspirations, than the wish
To please and to be pleased?

JULIA.
For you there are;
I am no saint; I feel the world we live in
Comes before that which is to be here after,
And must be dealt with first.

VITTORIA.
But in what way?

JULIA. Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.

VITTORIA.
And for whom is meant
This portrait that you speak of?

JULIA.
For my friend
The Cardinal Ippolito.

VITTORIA.
For him?

JULIA Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 'T is always flattering to a woman's pride To be admired by one whom all admire.

VITTORIA. Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard, He is a Cardinal; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.

JULIA.
You forget
The horror of that night, when Barbarossa,
The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast
To seize me for the Sultan Soliman;
How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping,
He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped,
And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed,
Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there
Among the brigands. Then of all my friends
The Cardinal Ippolito was first
To come with his retainers to my rescue.
Could I refuse the only boon he asked
At such a time, my portrait?

VITTORIA.
I have heard
Strange stories of the splendors of his palace,
And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince,
He rides through Rome with a long retinue
Of Ethiopians and Numidians
And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses,
Making a gallant show. Is this the way
A Cardinal should live?

JULIA.
He is so young;
Hardly of age, or little more than that;
Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters,
A poet, a musician, and a scholar;
Master of many languages, and a player
On many instruments. In Rome, his palace
Is the asylum of all men distinguished
In art or science, and all Florentines
Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin,
Duke Alessandro.

VITTORIA.
I have seen his portrait,
Painted by Titian. You have painted it
In brighter colors.

JULIA.
And my Cardinal,
At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace,
Keeps a tame lion!

VITTORIA.
And so counterfeits
St. Mark, the Evangelist!

JULIA.
Ah, your tame lion
Is Michael Angelo.

VITTORIA.
You speak a name
That always thrills me with a noble sound,
As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo!
A lion all men fear and none can tame;
A man that all men honor, and the model
That all should follow; one who works and prays,
For work is prayer, and consecrates his life
To the sublime ideal of his art,
Till art and life are one; a man who holds
Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak
Of great things done, or to be done, his name
Is ever on their lips.

JULIA.
You too can paint
The portrait of your hero, and in colors
Brighter than Titian's; I might warn you also
Against the dangers that beset your path;
But I forbear.

VITTORIA.
If I were made of marble,
Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo,
He might admire me: being but flesh and blood,
I am no more to him than other women;
That is, am nothing.

JULIA.
Does he ride through Rome
Upon his little mule, as he was wont,
With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan,
As when I saw him last?

VITTORIA.
Pray do not jest.
I cannot couple with his noble name
A trivial word! Look, how the setting sun
Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento,
And changes Capri to a purple cloud!
And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke,
And the great city stretched upon the shore
As in a dream!

JULIA.
Parthenope the Siren!

VITTORIA. And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor! It is beautiful!

JULIA. I have no heart to feel the beauty of it! My feet are weary, pacing up and down These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past, It is too sad. I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.

VITTORIA.
I will go with you; for I would not lose
One hour of your dear presence. 'T is enough
Only to be in the same room with you.
I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak;
If I but see you, I am satisfied.
[They go in.

---

MONOLOGUE: THE LAST JUDGMENT

MICHAEL ANGELO's Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me? Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not. The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound; They only heard the sound of their own voices.

Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me? Fra Bastian, my Era Bastian, might have done it; But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes, Press down his lids; and so the burden falls On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. That is the title they cajole me with, To make me do their work and leave my own; But having once begun, I turn not back. Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets To the four corners of the earth, and wake The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels, Open your books and read? Ye dead awake! Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death, As men who suddenly aroused from sleep Look round amazed, and know not where they are!

In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy To be uplifted on its wings, and listen To the prophetic voices in the air That call us onward. Then the work we do Is a delight, and the obedient hand Never grows weary. But how different is it En the disconsolate, discouraged hours, When all the wisdom of the world appears As trivial as the gossip of a nurse In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless,

What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, That I have drawn her face among the angels, Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams, That through the vacant chambers of my heart Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me? 'T is said that Emperors write their names in green When under age, but when of age in purple. So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all, Writes his in green at first, but afterwards In the imperial purple of our blood. First love or last love,—which of these two passions Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair, The star of morning or the evening star? The sunrise or the sunset of the heart? The hour when we look forth to the unknown, And the advancing day consumes the shadows, Or that when all the landscape of our lives Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories Rise like a tender haze, and magnify The objects we behold, that soon must vanish?

What matters it to me, whose countenance
Is like the Laocoon's, full of pain; whose forehead
Is a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score years
Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish;
To me, the artisan, to whom all women
Have been as if they were not, or at most
A sudden rush of pigeons in the air,
A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence?
I am too old for love; I am too old
To flatter and delude myself with visions
Of never-ending friendship with fair women,
Imaginations, fantasies, illusions,
In which the things that cannot be take shape,
And seem to be, and for the moment are.
[Convent bells ring.

Distant and near and low and loud the bells, Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves In their dim cloisters. The descending sun Seems to caress the city that he loves, And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. I will go forth and breathe the air a while.

II.
SAN SILVESTRO

A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestra on Monte Cavallo.

VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others.

VITTORIA. Here let us rest a while, until the crowd Has left the church. I have already sent For Michael Angelo to join us here.

MESSER CLAUDIO. After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse On the Pauline Epistles, certainly Some words of Michael Angelo on Art Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.

MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; Diana or Madonna, which I know not! In attitude and aspect formed to be At once the artist's worship and despair!

VITTORIA. Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I met your messenger upon the way, And hastened hither.

VITTORIA.
It is kind of you
To come to us, who linger here like gossips
Wasting the afternoon in idle talk.
These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered I saw but the Marchesa.

VITTORIA.
Take this seat
Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,
Who still maintains that our Italian tongue
Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence
We will not quarrel with him.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Eccellenza—

VITTORIA. Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.

MESSER CLAUDIO. 'T is the abuse of them and not the use I deprecate.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
The use or the abuse
It matters not. Let them all go together,
As empty phrases and frivolities,
And common as gold-lace upon the collar
Of an obsequious lackey.

VITTORIA.
That may be,
But something of politeness would go with them;
We should lose something of the stately manners
Of the old school.

MESSER CLAUDIO.
Undoubtedly.

VITTORlA.
But that
Is not what occupies my thoughts at present,
Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.
It was to counsel me. His Holiness
Has granted me permission, long desired,
To build a convent in this neighborhood,
Where the old tower is standing, from whose top
Nero looked down upon the burning city.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It is an inspiration!

VITTORIA.
I am doubtful
How I shall build; how large to make the convent,
And which way fronting.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, to build, to build!
That is the noblest art of all the arts.
Painting and sculpture are but images,
Are merely shadows cast by outward things
On stone or canvas, having in themselves
No separate existence. Architecture,
Existing in itself, and not in seeming
A something it is not, surpasses them
As substance shadow. Long, long years ago,
Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,
I saw the statue of Laocoon
Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost
Writhing in pain; and as it tore away
The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,
Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony
From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel
At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands
This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds
Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins
Of temples in the Forum here in Rome.
If God should give me power in my old age
To build for Him a temple half as grand
As those were in their glory, I should count
My age more excellent than youth itself,
And all that I have hitherto accomplished
As only vanity.

VITTORIA.
I understand you.
Art is the gift of God, and must be used
Unto His glory. That in art is highest
Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed
The horses of Italicus, they won
The race at Gaza, for his benediction
O'erpowered all magic; and the people shouted
That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art
Which bears the consecration and the seal
Of holiness upon it will prevail
Over all others. Those few words of yours
Inspire me with new confidence to build.
What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,
Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If strong enough.

VITTORIA.
If not, it can be strengthened.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I see no bar nor drawback to this building, And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, We may together view the site.

VITTORIA.
I thank you.
I did not venture to request so much.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria—

VITTORIA.
What, again, Maestro?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech. I am too old to change.

III.
CARDINAL IPPOLITO.

A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.

JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.

NARDI. I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. My heart begins to fail me. What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost; And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.

Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.

IPPOLITO. I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.

NARDI.
I wait to see
The Cardinal.

IPPOLITO.
I am the Cardinal.
And you?

NARDI.
Jacopo Nardi.

IPPOLITO.
You are welcome
I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi
Had told me of your coming.

NARDI.
'T was his son
That brought me to your door.

IPPOLITO.
Pray you, be seated.
You seem astonished at the garb I wear,
But at my time of life, and with my habits,
The petticoats of a Cardinal would be—
Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk,
Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed
Like an old dowager. It were putting wine
Young as the young Astyanax into goblets
As old as Priam.

NARDI.
Oh, your Eminence
Knows best what you should wear.

IPPOLITO.
Dear Messer Nardi,
You are no stranger to me. I have read
Your excellent translation of the books
Of Titus Livius, the historian
Of Rome, and model of all historians
That shall come after him. It does you honor;
But greater honor still the love you bear
To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals
I hope your hand will write, in happier days
Than we now see.

NARDI.
Your Eminence will pardon
The lateness of the hour.

IPPOLITO.
The hours I count not
As a sun-dial; but am like a clock,
That tells the time as well by night as day.
So no excuse. I know what brings you here.
You come to speak of Florence.

NARDI.
And her woes.

IPPOLITO. The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.

NARDI.
Alas, that such a scourge
Should fall on such a city!

IPPOLITO.
When he dies,
The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo,
The beast obscene, should be the monument
Of this bad man.

NARDI.
He walks the streets at night
With revellers, insulting honest men.
No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents
Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor
Of women and all ancient pious customs
Are quite forgotten now. The offices
Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri
Have been abolished. All the magistrates
Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead.
The very memory of all honest living
Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue
Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.

IPPOLITO. And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,—our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,—lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.

NARDI.
What a change
Ten little years have made! We all remember
Those better days, when Niccola Capponi,
The Gonfaloniere, from the windows
Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets,
Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ
Was chosen King of Florence; and already
Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead
Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!

IPPOLITO. Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.

NARDI.
Little hope
Of help is there from him. He has betrothed
His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke.
What hope have we from such an Emperor?

IPPOLITO. Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, Or honest men the Duke.

NARDI.
We have determined
To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay
Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear
More than I hope.

IPPOLITO.
The Emperor is busy
With this new war against the Algerines,
And has no time to listen to complaints
From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them,
But go myself. All is in readiness
For my departure, and to-morrow morning
I shall go down to Itri, where I meet
Dante da Castiglione and some others,
Republicans and fugitives from Florence,
And then take ship at Gaeta, and go
To join the Emperor in his new crusade
Against the Turk. I shall have time enough
And opportunity to plead our cause.

NARDI, rising. It is an inspiration, and I hail it As of good omen. May the power that sends it Bless our beloved country, and restore Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence Is now outside its gates. What lies within Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, For you have need of rest. Good-night.

IPPOLITO.
Good-night.

Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.

IPPOLITO. Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me!

FRA SEBASTIANO.
As we passed each other,
I saw that he was weeping.

IPPOLITO.
Poor old man!

FRA SEBASTIANO. Who is he?

IPPOLITO.
Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul;
One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best
And noblest of them all; but he has made me
Sad with his sadness. As I look on you
My heart grows lighter. I behold a man
Who lives in an ideal world, apart
From all the rude collisions of our life,
In a calm atmosphere.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Your Eminence
Is surely jesting. If you knew the life
Of artists as I know it, you might think
Far otherwise.

IPPOLITO.
But wherefore should I jest?
The world of art is an ideal world,—
The world I love, and that I fain would live in;
So speak to me of artists and of art,
Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians
That now illustrate Rome.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Of the musicians,
I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro
And chapel-master of his Holiness,
Who trains the Papal choir.

IPPOLITO.
In church this morning,
I listened to a mass of Goudimel,
Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus,
In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang
With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian,
A Neapolitan love-song.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
You amaze me.
Was it a wanton song?

IPPOLITO.
Not a divine one.
I am not over-scrupulous, as you know,
In word or deed, yet such a song as that.
Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir,
And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;
There's something wrong in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
There's something wrong
In everything. We cannot make the world
Go right. 'T is not my business to reform
The Papal choir.

IPPOLITO.
Nor mine, thank Heaven.
Then tell me of the artists.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Naming one
I name them all; for there is only one.
His name is Messer Michael Angelo.
All art and artists of the present day
Centre in him.

IPPOLITO.
You count yourself as nothing!

FRA SEBASTIANO. Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait-painter; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.

IPPOLITO.
And you have had
The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying
Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothing
A privilege like that? See there the portrait
Rebuking you with its divine expression.
Are you not penitent? He whose skilful hand
Painted that lovely picture has not right
To vilipend the art of portrait-painting.
But what of Michael Angelo?

FRA SEBASTIANO.
But lately
Strolling together down the crowded Corso,
We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence
Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature,
Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover
Of all things beautiful, especially
When they are Arab horses, much admired,
And could not praise enough.

IPPOLITO, to an attendant.
Hassan, to-morrow,
When I am gone, but not till I am gone,—
Be careful about that,—take Barbarossa
To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor,
Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi,
Near to the Capitol; and take besides
Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say
Your master sends them to him as a present.

FRA SEBASTIANO. A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.

IPPOLITO.
You think him like
Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse
Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil
Have I translated in Italian verse,
And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it,
Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy
I am reminded of another town
And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess
Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely,
The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa,
And all that followed?

FRA SEBASTIANO.
A most strange adventure;
A tale as marvellous and full of wonder
As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti;
Almost incredible!

IPPOLITO.
Were I a painter
I should not want a better theme than that:
The lovely lady fleeing through the night
In wild disorder; and the brigands' camp
With the red fire-light on their swarthy faces.
Could you not paint it for me?

FRA SEBASTIANO.
No, not I.
It is not in my line.

IPPOLITO.
Then you shall paint
The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him
A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel
Something like admiration for a man
Who dared this strange adventure.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
I will do it.
But catch the corsair first.

IPPOLITO.
You may begin
To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither;
Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs
Beneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it.
'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscription
In Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,—
There is no God but God.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
How beautiful
In fashion and in finish! It is perfect.
The Arsenal of Venice can not boast
A finer sword.

IPPOLITO.
You like it? It is yours.

FRA SEBASTIANO. You do not mean it.

IPPOLITO.
I am not a Spaniard,
To say that it is yours and not to mean it.
I have at Itri a whole armory
Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait
Of Barbarossa, it will be of use.
You have not been rewarded as you should be
For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble
Into the scale, and make the balance equal.
Till then suspend it in your studio;
You artists like such trifles.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
I will keep it
In memory of the donor. Many thanks.

IPPOLITO. Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, The old dead city, with the old dead people; Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning I start for Itri, and go thence by sea To join the Emperor, who is making war Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge The beautiful Gonzaga.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
An achievement
Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando.
Berni and Ariosto both shall add
A canto to their poems, and describe you
As Furioso and Innamorato.
Now I must say good-night.

IPPOLITO.
You must not go;
First you shall sup with me. My seneschal
Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,—
I like to give the whole sonorous name,
It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,—
Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,
And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells:
These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban
That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys
Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus
Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast
Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even;
So we will go to supper, and be merry.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!

IPPOLITO. 'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago; Who knows?—perhaps the story is not true.

IV.
BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLES

Room in the Palace of JULIA GONZAGA. Night.

JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO.

JULIA. Do not go yet.

VALDESSO.
The night is far advanced;
I fear to stay too late, and weary you
With these discussions.

JULIA.
I have much to say.
I speak to you, Valdesso, with that frankness
Which is the greatest privilege of friendship.—
Speak as I hardly would to my confessor,
Such is my confidence in you.

VALDESSO.
Dear Countess
If loyalty to friendship be a claim
Upon your confidence, then I may claim it.

JULIA. Then sit again, and listen unto things That nearer are to me than life itself.

VALDESSO. In all things I am happy to obey you, And happiest then when you command me most.

JULIA. Laying aside all useless rhetoric, That is superfluous between us two, I come at once unto the point and say, You know my outward life, my rank and fortune; Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Trajetto, A widow rich and flattered, for whose hand In marriage princes ask, and ask it only To be rejected. All the world can offer Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it, It is not in the way of idle boasting, But only to the better understanding Of what comes after.

VALDESSO.
God hath given you also
Beauty and intellect; and the signal grace
To lead a spotless life amid temptations,
That others yield to.

JULIA.
But the inward life,—
That you know not; 't is known but to myself,
And is to me a mystery and a pain.
A soul disquieted, and ill at ease,
A mind perplexed with doubts and apprehensions,
A heart dissatisfied with all around me,
And with myself, so that sometimes I weep,
Discouraged and disgusted with the world.

VALDESSO. Whene'er we cross a river at a ford, If we would pass in safety, we must keep Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore beyond, For if we cast them on the flowing stream, The head swims with it; so if we would cross The running flood of things here in the world, Our souls must not look down, but fix their sight On the firm land beyond.

JULIA.
I comprehend you.
You think I am too worldly; that my head
Swims with the giddying whirl of life about me.
Is that your meaning?

VALDESSO.
Yes; your meditations
Are more of this world and its vanities
Than of the world to come.

JULIA.
Between the two
I am confused.

VALDESSO.
Yet have I seen you listen
Enraptured when Fra Bernardino preached
Of faith and hope and charity.

JULIA.
I listen,
But only as to music without meaning.
It moves me for the moment, and I think
How beautiful it is to be a saint,
As dear Vittoria is; but I am weak
And wayward, and I soon fall back again
To my old ways, so very easily.
There are too many week-days for one Sunday.

VALDESSO. Then take the Sunday with you through the week, And sweeten with it all the other days.

JULIA. In part I do so; for to put a stop To idle tongues, what men might say of me If I lived all alone here in my palace, And not from a vocation that I feel For the monastic life, I now am living With Sister Caterina at the convent Of Santa Chiara, and I come here only On certain days, for my affairs, or visits Of ceremony, or to be with friends. For I confess, to live among my friends Is Paradise to me; my Purgatory Is living among people I dislike. And so I pass my life in these two worlds, This palace and the convent.

VALDESSO.
It was then
The fear of man, and not the love of God,
That led you to this step. Why will you not
Give all your heart to God?

JULIA.
If God commands it,
Wherefore hath He not made me capable
Of doing for Him what I wish to do
As easily as I could offer Him
This jewel from my hand, this gown I wear,
Or aught else that is mine?

VALDESSO.
The hindrance lies
In that original sin, by which all fell.

JULIA. Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind To wish well to that Adam, our first parent, Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, And brought such ills upon us.

VALDESSO.
We ourselves,
When we commit a sin, lose Paradise,
As much as he did. Let us think of this,
And how we may regain it.

JULIA.
Teach me, then,
To harmonize the discord of my life,
And stop the painful jangle of these wires.

VALDESSO. That is a task impossible, until You tune your heart-strings to a higher key Than earthly melodies.

JULIA.
How shall I do it?
Point out to me the way of this perfection,
And I will follow you; for you have made
My soul enamored with it, and I cannot
Rest satisfied until I find it out.
But lead me privately, so that the world
Hear not my steps; I would not give occasion
For talk among the people.

VALDESSO.
Now at last
I understand you fully. Then, what need
Is there for us to beat about the bush?
I know what you desire of me.

JULIA.
What rudeness!
If you already know it, why not tell me?

VALDESSO. Because I rather wait for you to ask it With your own lips.

JULIA.
Do me the kindness, then,
To speak without reserve; and with all frankness,
If you divine the truth, will I confess it.

VALDESSO. I am content.

JULIA.
Then speak.

VALDESSO.
You would be free
From the vexatious thoughts that come and go
Through your imagination, and would have me
Point out some royal road and lady-like
Which you may walk in, and not wound your feet;
You would attain to the divine perfection,
And yet not turn your back upon the world;
You would possess humility within,
But not reveal it in your outward actions;
You would have patience, but without the rude
Occasions that require its exercise;
You would despise the world, but in such fashion
The world should not despise you in return;
Would clothe the soul with all the Christian graces,
Yet not despoil the body of its gauds;
Would feed the soul with spiritual food,
Yet not deprive the body of its feasts;
Would seem angelic in the sight of God,
Yet not too saint-like in the eyes of men;
In short, would lead a holy Christian life
In such a way that even your nearest friend
Would not detect therein one circumstance
To show a change from what it was before.
Have I divined your secret?

JULIA.
You have drawn
The portrait of my inner self as truly
As the most skilful painter ever painted
A human face.

VALDESSO.
This warrants me in saying
You think you can win heaven by compromise,
And not by verdict.

JULIA
You have often told me
That a bad compromise was better even
Than a good verdict.

VALDESSO.
Yes, in suits at law;
Not in religion. With the human soul
There is no compromise. By faith alone
Can man be justified.

JULIA.
Hush, dear Valdesso;
That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you,
Proclaim it from the house-top, but preserve it
As something precious, hidden in your heart,
As I, who half believe and tremble at it.

VALDESSO. I must proclaim the truth.

JULIA.
Enthusiast!
Why must you? You imperil both yourself
And friends by your imprudence. Pray, be patient.
You have occasion now to show that virtue
Which you lay stress upon. Let us return
To our lost pathway. Show me by what steps
I shall walk in it.
[Convent bells are heard.

VALDESSO.
Hark! the convent bells
Are ringing; it is midnight; I must leave you.
And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear Countess,
Since you to-night have made me your confessor,
If I so far may venture, I will warn you
Upon one point.

JULIA.
What is it? Speak, I pray you,
For I have no concealments in my conduct;
All is as open as the light of day.
What is it you would warn me of?

VALDESSO.
Your friendship
With Cardinal Ippolito.

JULIA.
What is there
To cause suspicion or alarm in that,
More than in friendships that I entertain
With you and others? I ne'er sat with him
Alone at night, as I am sitting now
With you, Valdesso.

VALDESSO.
Pardon me; the portrait
That Fra Bastiano painted was for him.
Is that quite prudent?

JULIA.
That is the same question
Vittoria put to me, when I last saw her.
I make you the same answer. That was not
A pledge of love, but of pure gratitude.
Recall the adventure of that dreadful night
When Barbarossa with two thousand Moors
Landed upon the coast, and in the darkness
Attacked my castle. Then, without delay,
The Cardinal came hurrying down from Rome
To rescue and protect me. Was it wrong
That in an hour like that I did not weigh
Too nicely this or that, but granted him
A boon that pleased him, and that flattered me?

VALDESSO. Only beware lest, in disguise of friendship Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm But strategy. And now I take my leave.

JULIA.
Farewell; but ere you go look forth and see
How night hath hushed the clamor and the stir
Of the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moon
Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver;
The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps;
And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts
His plume of smoke. How beautiful it is!
[Voices in the street.

GIOVAN ANDREA. Poisoned at Itri.

ANOTHER VOICE.
Poisoned? Who is poisoned?

GIOVAN ANDREA.
The Cardinal Ippolito, my master.
Call it malaria. It was sudden.
[Julia swoons.

V.
VITTORIA COLONNA

A room in the Torre Argentina.

VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA.

VITTORIA. Come to my arms and to my heart once more; My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you, For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow. I know what you have suffered.

JULIA.
Name it not.
Let me forget it.

VITTORIA.
I will say no more.
Let me look at you. What a joy it is
To see your face, to hear your voice again!
You bring with you a breath as of the morn,
A memory of the far-off happy days
When we were young. When did you come from Fondi?

JULIA. I have not been at Fondi since—

VITTORIA.
Ah me!
You need not speak the word; I understand you.

JULIA. I came from Naples by the lovely valley The Terra di Lavoro.

VITTORIA.
And you find me
But just returned from a long journey northward.
I have been staying with that noble woman
Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.

JULIA. Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth That I am eager to hear more of her And of her brilliant court.

VITTORIA.
You shall hear all
But first sit down and listen patiently
While I confess myself.

JULIA.
What deadly sin
Have you committed?

VITTORIA.
Not a sin; a folly
I chid you once at Ischia, when you told me
That brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.

JULIA Well I remember it.

VITTORIA.
Then chide me now,
For I confess to something still more strange.
Old as I am, I have at last consented
To the entreaties and the supplications
Of Michael Angelo—

JULIA
To marry him?

VITTORIA. I pray you, do not jest with me! You now, Or you should know, that never such a thought Entered my breast. I am already married. The Marquis of Pescara is my husband, And death has not divorced us.

JULIA.
Pardon me.
Have I offended you?

VITTORIA.
No, but have hurt me.
Unto my buried lord I give myself,
Unto my friend the shadow of myself,
My portrait. It is not from vanity,
But for the love I bear him.

JULIA.
I rejoice
To hear these words. Oh, this will be a portrait
Worthy of both of you! [A knock.

VITTORIA.
Hark! He is coming.

JULIA. And shall I go or stay?

VITTORIA.
By all means, stay.
The drawing will be better for your presence;
You will enliven me.

JULIA.
I shall not speak;
The presence of great men doth take from me
All power of speech. I only gaze at them
In silent wonder, as if they were gods,
Or the inhabitants of some other planet.

Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.

VITTORIA. Come in.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I fear my visit is ill-timed;
I interrupt you.

VITTORIA.
No; this is a friend
Of yours as well as mine,—the Lady Julia,
The Duchess of Trajetto.

MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA.
I salute you.
'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady;
Pardon me if I say that having seen it,
One never can forget it.

JULIA.
You are kind
To keep me in your memory.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
It is
The privilege of age to speak with frankness.
You will not be offended when I say
That never was your beauty more divine.

JULIA. When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended.

VITTORIA. Now this is gallantry enough for one; Show me a little.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, my gracious lady,
You know I have not words to speak your praise.
I think of you in silence. You conceal
Your manifold perfections from all eyes,
And make yourself more saint-like day by day.
And day by day men worship you the wore.
But now your hour of martyrdom has come.
You know why I am here.

VITTORIA.
Ah yes, I know it,
And meet my fate with fortitude. You find me
Surrounded by the labors of your hands:
The Woman of Samaria at the Well,
The Mater Dolorosa, and the Christ
Upon the Cross, beneath which you have written
Those memorable words of Alighieri,
"Men have forgotten how much blood it costs."

MICHAEL ANGELO. And now I come to add one labor more, If you will call that labor which is pleasure, And only pleasure.

VITTORIA.
How shall I be seated?

MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio.

Just as you are. The light falls well upon you.

VITTORIA. I am ashamed to steal the time from you That should be given to the Sistine Chapel. How does that work go on?

MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing.
But tardily.
Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alike
Are dull and torpid. To die young is best,
And not to be remembered as old men
Tottering about in their decrepitude.

VITTORIA. My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten The story of Sophocles in his old age?

MICHAEL ANGELO. What story is it?

VITTORIA.
When his sons accused him,
Before the Areopagus, of dotage,
For all defence, he read there to his Judges
The Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,—
The work of his old age.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is an illusion
A fabulous story, that will lead old men
Into a thousand follies and conceits.

VITTORIA. So you may show to cavilers your painting Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Now you and Lady Julia shall resume The conversation that I interrupted.

VITTORIA. It was of no great import; nothing more Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, And what I saw there in the ducal palace. Will it not interrupt you?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not the least.

VITTORIA. Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, And yet magnificent in all his ways; Not hospitable unto new ideas, But from state policy, and certain reasons Concerning the investiture of the duchy, A partisan of Rome, and consequently Intolerant of all the new opinions.

JULIA. I should not like the Duke. These silent men, Who only look and listen, are like wells That have no water in them, deep and empty. How could the daughter of a king of France Wed such a duke?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
The men that women marry
And why they marry them, will always be
A marvel and a mystery to the world.

VITTORIA. And then the Duchess,—how shall I describe her, Or tell the merits of that happy nature, Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing? Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature, Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through Each look and attitude and word and gesture; A kindly grace of manner and behavior, A something in her presence and her ways That makes her beautiful beyond the reach Of mere external beauty; and in heart So noble and devoted to the truth, And so in sympathy with all who strive After the higher life.

JULIA. She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.

VITTORIA. Then the devout and honorable women That grace her court, and make it good to be there; Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, The Magdalena and the Cherubina, And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; All lovely women, full of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.

JULIA. Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.

VITTORIA. No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; I fear he hardly would have comprehended The women that I speak of.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yet he wrote
The story of Griselda. That is something
To set down in his favor.

VITTORIA.
With these ladies
Was a young girl, Olympia Morate,
Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar,
Famous in all the universities.
A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel,
And in the daily round of household cares,
Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is now
A favorite of the Duchess and companion
Of Princess Anne. This beautiful young Sappho
Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes
That she had written, with a voice whose sadness
Thrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me look
Into the future time, and ask myself
What destiny will be hers.

JULIA.
A sad one, surely.
Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season;
And these precocious intellects portend
A life of sorrow or an early death.

VITTORIA. About the court were many learned men; Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, The Duke's physician; and a pale young man, Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess Doth much delight to talk with and to read, For he hath written a book of Institutes The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it The Koran of the heretics.

JULIA.
And what poets
Were there to sing you madrigals, and praise
Olympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses?

VITTORIA. No; for great Ariosto is no more. The voice that filled those halls with melody Has long been hushed in death.

JULIA.
You should have made
A pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb,
And laid a wreath upon it, for the words
He spake of you.

VITTORIA.
And of yourself no less,
And of our master, Michael Angelo.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Of me?

VITTORIA.
Have you forgotten that he calls you
Michael, less man than angel, and divine?
You are ungrateful.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
A mere play on words.
That adjective he wanted for a rhyme,
To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.

VITTORIA. Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, Who, being looked upon with much disfavor By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.

MICHAEL ANGELO. There let him stay with Pietro Aretino, The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine. The title is so common in our mouths, That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, And will deserve it better than some poets.

VITTORIA. What bee hath stung you?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
One that makes no honey;
One that comes buzzing in through every window,
And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thought
Passed through my mind, but it is gone again;
I spake too hastily.

JULIA.
I pray you, show me
What you have done.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not yet; it is not finished.

---

PART SECOND

I
MONOLOGUE

A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal city Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness Alighted from his mule! A fugitive From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls His thunders at the house of the Colonna, With endless bitterness!—Among the nuns In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides me For my too frequent letters, that disturb Her meditations, and that hinder me And keep me from my work; now graciously She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, And says that she will keep it: with one hand Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading.

"Profoundly I believed that God would grant you A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; I wished for that which I now see fulfilled So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. Nor more could be desired, or even so much. And greatly I rejoice that you have made The angel on the right so beautiful; For the Archangel Michael will place you, You, Michael Angelo, on that new day Upon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that, How can I better serve you than to pray To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you To hold me altogether yours in all things."

Well, I will write less often, or no more,
But wait her coming. No one born in Rome
Can live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome,
And must return to it. I, who am born
And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine,
Feel the attraction, and I linger here
As if I were a pebble in the pavement
Trodden by priestly feet. This I endure,
Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere
Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves
That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,
In ages past. I feel myself exalted
To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,
Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more,
And most of all, because the great Colonna
Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to me
An inspiration. Now that she is gone,
Rome is no longer Rome till she return.
This feeling overmasters me. I know not
If it be love, this strong desire to be
Forever in her presence; but I know
That I, who was the friend of solitude,
And ever was best pleased when most alone,
Now weary grow of my own company.
For the first time old age seems lonely to me.
[Opening the Divina Commedia.
I turn for consolation to the leaves
Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue,
Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,
Betray the heat in which they were engendered.
A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread
Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts
With immortality. In courts of princes
He was a by-word, and in streets of towns
Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,
Himself a prophet. I too know the cry,
Go up, thou bald head! from a generation
That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food
The soul can feed on. There's not room enough
For age and youth upon this little planet.
Age must give way. There was not room enough
Even for this great poet. In his song
I hear reverberate the gates of Florence,
Closing upon him, never more to open;
But mingled with the sound are melodies
Celestial from the gates of paradise.
He came, and he is gone. The people knew not
What manner of man was passing by their doors,
Until he passed no more; but in his vision
He saw the torments and beatitudes
Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left
Behind him this sublime Apocalypse.

I strive in vain to draw here on the margin The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, But the Colonna's. Each hath his ideal, The image of some woman excellent, That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman, Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.

II
VITERBO

VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.

VITTORIA.
Parting with friends is temporary death,
As all death is. We see no more their faces,
Nor hear their voices, save in memory;
But messages of love give us assurance
That we are not forgotten. Who shall say
That from the world of spirits comes no greeting,
No message of remembrance? It may be
The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence,
Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers
Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us
As friends, who wait outside a prison wall,
Through the barred windows speak to those within.
[A pause.

As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, As quiet as a heart that beats no more, This convent seems. Above, below, all peace! Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, Are with me here, and the tumultuous world Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. O gentle spirit, unto the third circle Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, Who, living in the faith and dying for it, Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh For thee as being dead, but for myself That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, Once so benignant to me, upon mine, That open to their tears such uncontrolled And such continual issue. Still awhile Have patience; I will come to thee at last. A few more goings in and out these doors, A few more chimings of these convent bells, A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears, And the long agony of this life will end, And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, Have patience; I will come to thee at last. Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens, Or wander far above the city walls, Bear unto him this message, that I ever Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.

By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, And melts into the air. Ah, would that I Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!

III
MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINI

MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire.

BENVENUTO. A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Welcome, my Benvenuto.

BENVENUTO.
That is what
My father said, the first time he beheld
This handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome.
I come to take my leave. I start for Florence
As fast as horse can carry me. I long
To set once more upon its level flags
These feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements.
Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence.
The Sacristy is not finished.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Speak not of it!
How damp and cold it was! How my bones ached
And my head reeled, when I was working there!
I am too old. I will stay here in Rome,
Where all is old and crumbling, like myself,
To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to Rome.

BENVENUTO. And all lead out of it.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
There is a charm,
A certain something in the atmosphere,
That all men feel, and no man can describe.

BENVENUTO. Malaria?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yes, malaria of the mind,
Out of this tomb of the majestic Past!
The fever to accomplish some great work
That will not let us sleep. I must go on
Until I die.

BENVENUTO. Do you ne'er think of Florence?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yes; whenever
I think of anything beside my work,
I think of Florence. I remember, too,
The bitter days I passed among the quarries
Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta;
Road-building in the marshes; stupid people,
And cold and rain incessant, and mad gusts
Of mountain wind, like howling dervishes,
That spun and whirled the eddying snow about them
As if it were a garment; aye, vexations
And troubles of all kinds, that ended only
In loss of time and money.

BENVENUTO.
True; Maestro,
But that was not in Florence. You should leave
Such work to others. Sweeter memories
Cluster about you, in the pleasant city
Upon the Arno.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
In my waking dreams
I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi,
Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower;
And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides
With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts,
A splendid vision! Time rides with the old
At a great pace. As travellers on swift steeds
See the near landscape fly and flow behind them,
While the remoter fields and dim horizons
Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them,
So in old age things near us slip away,
And distant things go with as. Pleasantly
Come back to me the days when, as a youth,
I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens
Of Medici, and saw the antique statues,
The forms august of gods and godlike men,
And the great world of art revealed itself
To my young eyes. Then all that man hath done
Seemed possible to me. Alas! how little
Of all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!

BENVENUTO. Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, And the Last Judgment answer. Is it finished?

MICHAEL ANGELO. The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment Has been the cause of more vexation to me Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, A man punctilious and over nice, Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion, Are better suited to a common bagnio, Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel. To punish him I painted him as Minos And leave him there as master of ceremonies In the Infernal Regions. What would you Have done to such a man?

BENVENUTO.
I would have killed him.
When any one insults me, if I can
I kill him, kill him.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Oh, you gentlemen,
Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords,
Are ready with your weapon; and have all
A taste for homicide.

BENVENUTO.
I learned that lesson
Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome,
Some twenty years ago. As I was standing
Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo
With Alessandro Bene, I beheld
A sea of fog, that covered all the plain,
And hid from us the foe; when suddenly,
A misty figure, like an apparition,
Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback.
At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired.
The figure vanished; and there rose a cry
Out of the darkness, long and fierce and loud,
With imprecations in all languages.
It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon,
That I had slain.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rome should be grateful to you.

BENVENUTO. But has not been; you shall hear presently. During the siege I served as bombardier, There in St. Angelo. His Holiness, One day, was walking with his Cardinals On the round bastion, while I stood above Among my falconets. All thought and feeling, All skill in art and all desire of fame, Were swallowed up in the delightful music Of that artillery. I saw far off, Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati, A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak; And firing at him with due aim and range, I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain. His Holiness, delighted beyond measure With such display of gunnery, and amazed To see the man in scarlet cut in two, Gave me his benediction, and absolved me From all the homicides I had committed In service of the Apostolic Church, Or should commit thereafter. From that day I have not held in very high esteem The life of man.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
And who absolved Pope Clement?
Now let us speak of Art.

BENVENUTO.
Of what you will.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, Since by a turn of fortune he became Friar of the Signet?

BENVENUTO.
Faith, a pretty artist
To pass his days in stamping leaden seals
On Papal bulls!

MICHAEL ANGELO. He has grown fat and lazy, As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. He paints no more, since he was sent to Fondi By Cardinal Ippolito to paint The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have seen him As I did, riding through the city gate, In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen, Completely armed, to frighten the banditti. I think he would have frightened them alone, For he was rounder than the O of Giotto.

BENVENUTO. He must have looked more like a sack of meal Than a great painter.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Well, he is not great
But still I like him greatly. Benvenuto
Have faith in nothing but in industry.
Be at it late and early; persevere,
And work right on through censure and applause,
Or else abandon Art.

BENVENUTO.
No man works harder
Then I do. I am not a moment idle.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And what have you to show me?

BENVENUTO.
This gold ring,
Made for his Holiness,—my latest work,
And I am proud of it. A single diamond
Presented by the Emperor to the Pope.
Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it;
I have reset it, and retinted it
Divinely, as you see. The jewellers
Say I've surpassed Targhetta.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Let me see it.
A pretty jewel.

BENVENUTO.
That is not the expression.
Pretty is not a very pretty word
To be applied to such a precious stone,
Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and set
By Benvenuto!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Messer Benvenuto,
I lose all patience with you; for the gifts
That God hath given you are of such a kind,
They should be put to far more noble uses
Than setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome.
You can do greater things.

BENVENUTO.
The God who made me
Knows why he made me what I am,—a goldsmith,
A mere artificer.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Oh no; an artist
Richly endowed by nature, but who wraps
His talent in a napkin, and consumes
His life in vanities.

BENVENUTO.
Michael Angelo
May say what Benvenuto would not bear
From any other man. He speaks the truth.
I know my life is wasted and consumed
In vanities; but I have better hours
And higher aspirations than you think.
Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo,
Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness,
In a celestial vision I beheld
A crucifix in the sun, of the same substance
As is the sun itself. And since that hour
There is a splendor round about my head,
That may be seen at sunrise and at sunset
Above my shadow on the grass. And now
I know that I am in the grace of God,
And none henceforth can harm me.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
None but one,—
None but yourself, who are your greatest foe.
He that respects himself is safe from others;
He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

BENVENUTO. I always wear one.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
O incorrigible!
At least, forget not the celestial vision.
Man must have something higher than himself
To think of.

BENVENUTO.
That I know full well. Now listen.
I have been sent for into France, where grow
The Lilies that illumine heaven and earth,
And carry in mine equipage the model
Of a most marvellous golden salt-cellar
For the king's table; and here in my brain
A statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountain
Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful.
I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor.
And so farewell, great Master. Think of me
As one who, in the midst of all his follies,
Had also his ambition, and aspired
To better things.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Do not forget the vision.

[Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia.

Now in what circle of his poem sacred Would the great Florentine have placed this man? Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood, Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, I know not, but most surely not with those Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is one Whose passions, like a potent alkahest, Dissolve his better nature, he is not That despicable thing, a hypocrite; He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them. Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise.

IV
FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO

MICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.

MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. Who is it?

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Wait, for I am out of breath
In climbing your steep stairs.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, my Bastiano,
If you went up and down as many stairs
As I do still, and climbed as many ladders,
It would be better for you. Pray sit down.
Your idle and luxurious way of living
Will one day take your breath away entirely.
And you will never find it.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Well, what then?
That would be better, in my apprehension,
Than falling from a scaffold.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
That was nothing
It did not kill me; only lamed me slightly;
I am quite well again.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
But why, dear Master,
Why do you live so high up in your house,
When you could live below and have a garden,
As I do?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
From this window I can look
On many gardens; o'er the city roofs
See the Campagna and the Alban hills;
And all are mine.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Can you sit down in them,
On summer afternoons, and play the lute
Or sing, or sleep the time away?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I never
Sleep in the day-time; scarcely sleep at night.
I have not time. Did you meet Benvenuto
As you came up the stair?

FRA SEBASTIANO.
He ran against me
On the first landing, going at full speed;
Dressed like the Spanish captain in a play,
With his long rapier and his short red cloak.
Why hurry through the world at such a pace?
Life will not be too long.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
It is his nature,—
A restless spirit, that consumes itself
With useless agitations. He o'erleaps
The goal he aims at. Patience is a plant
That grows not in all gardens. You are made
Of quite another clay.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
And thank God for it.
And now, being somewhat rested, I will tell you
Why I have climbed these formidable stairs.
I have a friend, Francesco Berni, here,
A very charming poet and companion,
Who greatly honors you and all your doings,
And you must sup with us.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not I, indeed.
I know too well what artists' suppers are.
You must excuse me.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
I will not excuse you.
You need repose from your incessant work;
Some recreation, some bright hours of pleasure.

MICHAEL ANGELO. To me, what you and other men call pleasure Is only pain. Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,—nothing more. I cannot go. The Sibylline leaves of life Grow precious now, when only few remain. I cannot go.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Berni, perhaps, will read
A canto of the Orlando Inamorato.

MICHAEL ANGELO. That is another reason for not going. If aught is tedious and intolerable, It is a poet reading his own verses,

FRA SEBASTIANO. Berni thinks somewhat better of your verses Than you of his. He says that you speak things, And other poets words. So, pray you, come.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If it were now the Improvisatore, Luigia Pulci, whom I used to hear With Benvenuto, in the streets of Florence, I might be tempted. I was younger then And singing in the open air was pleasant.

FRA SEBASTIANO. There is a Frenchman here, named Rabelais, Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doctor, And secretary to the embassy: A learned man, who speaks all languages, And wittiest of men; who wrote a book Of the Adventures of Gargantua, So full of strange conceits one roars with laughter At every page; a jovial boon-companion And lover of much wine. He too is coming.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Then you will not want me, who am not witty, And have no sense of mirth, and love not wine. I should be like a dead man at your banquet. Why should I seek this Frenchman, Rabelais? And wherefore go to hear Francesco Berni, When I have Dante Alighieri here. The greatest of all poets?

FRA SEBASTIANO.
And the dullest;
And only to be read in episodes.
His day is past. Petrarca is our poet.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Petrarca is for women and for lovers And for those soft Abati, who delight To wander down long garden walks in summer, Tinkling their little sonnets all day long, As lap dogs do their bells.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
I love Petrarca.
How sweetly of his absent love he sings
When journeying in the forest of Ardennes!
"I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs and breezes
And leaves and birds lamenting, and the waters
Murmuring flee along the verdant herbage."

MICHAEL ANGELO. Enough. It is all seeming, and no being. If you would know how a man speaks in earnest, Read here this passage, where St. Peter thunders In Paradise against degenerate Popes And the corruptions of the church, till all The heaven about him blushes like a sunset. I beg you to take note of what he says About the Papal seals, for that concerns Your office and yourself.

FRA SEBASTIANO, reading.
Is this the passage?
"Nor I be made the figure of a seal
To privileges venal and mendacious,
Whereat I often redden and flash with fire!"—
That is not poetry.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
What is it, then?

FRA SEBASTIANO. Vituperation; gall that might have spirited From Aretino's pen.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Name not that man!
A profligate, whom your Francesco Berni
Describes as having one foot in the brothel
And the other in the hospital; who lives
By flattering or maligning, as best serves
His purpose at the time. He writes to me
With easy arrogance of my Last Judgment,
In such familiar tone that one would say
The great event already had occurred,
And he was present, and from observation
Informed me how the picture should be painted.

FRA SEBASTIANO. What unassuming, unobtrusive men These critics are! Now, to have Aretino Aiming his shafts at you brings back to mind The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble Of envious Florentines, that at your David Threw stones at night. But Aretino praised you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. His praises were ironical. He knows How to use words as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture!

FRA SEBASTIANO. My portrait of Vittoria Colonna.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It makes her look as she will look hereafter, When she becomes a saint!

FRA SEBASTIANO.
A noble woman!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes In marble, and can paint diviner pictures, Since I have known her.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
And you like this picture.
And yet it is in oil; which you detest.

MICHAEL ANGELO. When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered The use of oil in painting, he degraded His art into a handicraft, and made it Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn Or wayside wine-shop. 'T is an art for women, Or for such leisurely and idle people As you, Fra Bastiano. Nature paints not In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds And flying vapors.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
And how soon they fade!
Behold yon line of roofs and belfries painted
Upon the golden background of the sky,
Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait
Of Cimabue. See how hard the outline,
Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow.
Yet that is nature.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
She is always right.
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest
Is the best picture.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Leonardo thinks
The open air too bright. We ought to paint
As if the sun were shining through a mist.
'T is easier done in oil than in distemper.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Do not revive again the old dispute; I have an excellent memory for forgetting, But I still feel the hurt. Wounds are not healed By the unbending of the bow that made them.

FRA SEBASTIANO. So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb.

MICHAEL ANGELO. But that is past. Now I am angry with you, Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat And indolent, you do not paint at all.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Why should I paint? Why should I toil and sweat, Who now am rich enough to live at ease, And take my pleasure?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
When Pope Leo died,
He who had been so lavish of the wealth
His predecessors left him, who received
A basket of gold-pieces every morning,
Which every night was empty, left behind
Hardly enough to pay his funeral.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I care for banquets, not for funerals, As did his Holiness. I have forbidden All tapers at my burial, and procession Of priests and friars and monks; and have provided The cost thereof be given to the poor!

MICHAEL ANGELO. You have done wisely, but of that I speak not. Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children; But who to-day would know that he had lived, If he had never made those gates of bronze In the old Baptistery,—those gates of bronze, Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. His wealth is scattered to the winds; his children Are long since dead; but those celestial gates Survive, and keep his name and memory green.

FRA SEBASTIANO. But why should I fatigue myself? I think That all things it is possible to paint Have been already painted; and if not, Why, there are painters in the world at present Who can accomplish more in two short months Than I could in two years; so it is well That some one is contented to do nothing, And leave the field to others.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
O blasphemer!
Not without reason do the people call you
Sebastian del Piombo, for the lead
Of all the Papal bulls is heavy upon you,
And wraps you like a shroud.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Misericordia!
Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, and sharp
The words you speak, because the heart within you
Is sweet unto the core.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
How changed you are
From the Sebastiano I once knew,
When poor, laborious, emulous to excel,
You strove in rivalry with Badassare
And Raphael Sanzio.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
Raphael is dead;
He is but dust and ashes in his grave,
While I am living and enjoying life,
And so am victor. One live Pope is worth
A dozen dead ones.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Raphael is not dead;
He doth but sleep; for how can he be dead
Who lives immortal in the hearts of men?
He only drank the precious wine of youth,
The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintage
Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of men.
The gods have given him sleep. We never were
Nor could be foes, although our followers,
Who are distorted shadows of ourselves,
Have striven to make us so; but each one worked
Unconsciously upon the other's thought;
Both giving and receiving. He perchance
Caught strength from me, and I some greater sweetness
And tenderness from his more gentle nature.
I have but words of praise and admiration
For his great genius; and the world is fairer
That he lived in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO.
We at least are friends;
So come with me.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
No, no; I am best pleased
When I'm not asked to banquets. I have reached
A time of life when daily walks are shortened,
And even the houses of our dearest friends,
That used to be so near, seem far away.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Then we must sup without you. We shall laugh At those who toil for fame, and make their lives A tedious martyrdom, that they may live A little longer in the mouths of men! And so, good-night.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Good-night, my Fra Bastiano.

[Returning to his work.

How will men speak of me when I am gone, When all this colorless, sad life is ended, And I am dust? They will remember only The wrinkled forehead, the marred countenance, The rudeness of my speech, and my rough manners, And never dream that underneath them all There was a woman's heart of tenderness. They will not know the secret of my life, Locked up in silence, or but vaguely hinted In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance survive Some little space in memories of men! Each one performs his life-work, and then leaves it; Those that come after him will estimate His influence on the age in which he lived.

V
PALAZZO BELVEDERE

TITIAN'S studio. A painting of Danae with a curtain before it. TITIAN, MICHAEL ANGELO, and GIORGIO VASARI.

MICHAEL ANGELO. So you have left at last your still lagoons, Your City of Silence floating in the sea, And come to us in Rome.

TITIAN.
I come to learn,
But I have come too late. I should have seen
Rome in my youth, when all my mind was open
To new impressions. Our Vasari here
Leads me about, a blind man, groping darkly
Among the marvels of the past. I touch them,
But do not see them.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
There are things in Rome
That one might walk bare-footed here from Venice
But to see once, and then to die content.

TITIAN. I must confess that these majestic ruins Oppress me with their gloom. I feel as one Who in the twilight stumbles among tombs, And cannot read the inscriptions carved upon them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I felt so once; but I have grown familiar With desolation, and it has become No more a pain to me, but a delight.

TITIAN. I could not live here. I must have the sea, And the sea-mist, with sunshine interwoven Like cloth of gold; must have beneath my windows The laughter of the waves, and at my door Their pattering footsteps, or I am not happy.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Then tell me of your city in the sea, Paved with red basalt of the Paduan hills. Tell me of art in Venice. Three great names, Giorgione, Titian, and the Tintoretto, Illustrate your Venetian school, and send A challenge to the world. The first is dead, But Tintoretto lives.

TITIAN.
And paints with fires
Sudden and splendid, as the lightning paints
The cloudy vault of heaven.

GIORGIO.
Does he still keep
Above his door the arrogant inscription
That once was painted there,—"The color of Titian,
With the design of Michael Angelo"?

TITIAN. Indeed, I know not. 'T was a foolish boast, And does no harm to any but himself. Perhaps he has grown wiser.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
When you two
Are gone, who is there that remains behind
To seize the pencil falling from your fingers?

GIORGIO. Oh there are many hands upraised already To clutch at such a prize, which hardly wait For death to loose your grasp,—a hundred of them; Schiavone, Bonifazio, Campagnola, Moretto, and Moroni; who can count them, Or measure their ambition?

TITIAN.
When we are gone
The generation that comes after us
Will have far other thoughts than ours. Our ruins
Will serve to build their palaces or tombs.
They will possess the world that we think ours,
And fashion it far otherwise.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I hear
Your son Orazio and your nephew Marco
Mentioned with honor.

TITIAN.
Ay, brave lads, brave lads.
But time will show. There is a youth in Venice,
One Paul Cagliari, called the Veronese,
Still a mere stripling, but of such rare promise
That we must guard our laurels, or may lose them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear That, when we die, with us all art will die. 'T is but a fancy. Nature will provide Others to take our places. I rejoice To see the young spring forward in the race, Eager as we were, and as full of hope And the sublime audacity of youth.

TITIAN. Men die and are forgotten. The great world Goes on the same. Among the myriads Of men that live, or have lived, or shall live What is a single life, or thine or mime, That we should think all nature would stand still If we were gone? We must make room for others.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danae, of which I hear such praise.

TITIAN, drawing hack the curtain.

What think you?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
That Acrisius did well
To lock such beauty in a brazen tower
And hide it from all eyes.

TITIAN.
The model truly
Was beautiful.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And more, that you were present, And saw the showery Jove from high Olympus Descend in all his splendor.

TITIAN.
From your lips
Such words are full of sweetness.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
You have caught
These golden hues from your Venetian sunsets.

TITIAN. Possibly.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Or from sunshine through a shower
On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic.
Nature reveals herself in all our arts.
The pavements and the palaces of cities
Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills.
Red lavas from the Euganean quarries
Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces
Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam
Reflected in your waters and your pictures.
And thus the works of every artist show
Something of his surroundings and his habits.
The uttermost that can be reached by color
Is here accomplished. Warmth and light and softness
Mingle together. Never yet was flesh
Painted by hand of artist, dead or living,
With such divine perfection.

TITIAN.
I am grateful
For so much praise from you, who are a master;
While mostly those who praise and those who blame
Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly
Their censure sounds like praise, their praise like censure.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Wonderful! wonderful! The charm of color Fascinates me the more that in myself The gift is wanting. I am not a painter.

GIORGIO. Messer Michele, all the arts are yours, Not one alone; and therefore I may venture To put a question to you.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Well, speak on.

GIORGIO. Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese Have made me umpire in dispute between them Which is the greater of the sister arts, Painting or sculpture. Solve for me the doubt.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Sculpture and painting have a common goal, And whosoever would attain to it, Whichever path he take, will find that goal Equally hard to reach.

GIORGIO.
No doubt, no doubt;
But you evade the question.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
When I stand
In presence of this picture, I concede
That painting has attained its uttermost;
But in the presence of my sculptured figures
I feel that my conception soars beyond
All limit I have reached.

GIORGIO.
You still evade me.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Giorgio Vasari, I have often said That I account that painting as the best Which most resembles sculpture. Here before us We have the proof. Behold those rounded limbs! How from the canvas they detach themselves, Till they deceive the eye, and one would say, It is a statue with a screen behind it!

TITIAN. Signori, pardon me; but all such questions Seem to me idle.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Idle as the wind.
And now, Maestro, I will say once more
How admirable I esteem your work,
And leave you, without further interruption.

TITIAN. Your friendly visit hath much honored me.

GIOROIO. Farewell.

MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, going out.

If the Venetian painters knew
But half as much of drawing as of color,
They would indeed work miracles in art,
And the world see what it hath never seen.

VI
PALAZZO CESARINI

VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing near her.

JULIA. It grieves me that I find you still so weak And suffering.

VITTORIA.
No, not suffering; only dying.
Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn;
We shudder for a moment, then awake
In the broad sunshine of the other life.
I am a shadow, merely, and these hands,
These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husband
Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud of
Because he thought them so, are faded quite,—
All beauty gone from them.

JULIA.
Ah, no, not that.
Paler you are, but not less beautiful.

VITTORIA. Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o'er our features when we die. Thank you. And now sit down beside me here How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour When most I need you!

JULIA.
Do you ever need me?

VICTORIA.

Always, and most of all to-day and now. Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, One afternoon, upon the castle terrace At Ischia, on the day before you left me?

JULIA. Well I remember; but it seems to me Something unreal, that has never been,— Something that I have read of in a book, Or heard of some one else.

VITTORIA.
Ten years and more
Have passed since then; and many things have happened
In those ten years, and many friends have died:
Marco Flaminio, whom we all admired
And loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso,
The noble champion of free thought and speech;
And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend.

JULIA. Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death O'ercomes me now, as it o'ercame me then. Let me forget it; for my memory Serves me too often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.

VITTORIA. Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, The good Fra Bernardino has departed, Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught That He who made us all without our help Could also save us without aid of ours. Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata Banished from court because of this new doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought Locked in your breast.

JULIA.
I will be very prudent
But speak no more, I pray; it wearies you.

VITTORIA. Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.

JULIA. Most willingly. What shall I read?

VITTORIA.
Petrarca's
Triumph of Death. The book lies on the table;
Beside the casket there. Read where you find
The leaf turned down. 'T was there I left off reading.

JULIA, reads.

"Not as a flame that by some force is spent,
But one that of itself consumeth quite,
Departed hence in peace the soul content,
In fashion of a soft and lucent light
Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes,
Keeping until the end its lustre bright.
Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows
That without wind on some fair hill-top lies,
Her weary body seemed to find repose.
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,
When now the spirit was no longer there,
Was what is dying called by the unwise.
E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair"—

Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?— She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something Above her in the air. I can see naught Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!— She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.

[The mirror falls and breaks.

VITTORIA. Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.

JULIA.
Holy Virgin!
Her body sinks together,—she is dead!

[Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap.

Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.

JULIA. Hush! make no noise.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
How is she?

JULIA.
Never better.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Then she is dead!

JULIA.
Alas! yes, she is dead!
Even death itself in her fair face seems fair.
How wonderful! The light upon her face
Shines from the windows of another world.
Saint only have such faces. Holy Angels!
Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest!

[Kisses Vittoria's hand.

---

PART THIRD

I
MONOLOGUE

Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall. Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding Upon his hand the model of a church, As German artists paint him; and what years, What weary years, must drag themselves along, Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes! And what then? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan Was told to add a step to his short sword.

[A pause.

And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music And merriment, that used to make our lives Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence Like madrigals sung in the street at night By passing revellers? It is strange indeed That he should die before me. 'T is against The laws of nature that the young should die, And the old live; unless it be that some Have long been dead who think themselves alive, Because not buried. Well, what matters it, Since now that greater light, that was my sun, Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me, And, like a ruined wall, the world around me Crumbles away, and I am left alone. I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts Are now my sole companions,—thoughts of her, That like a benediction from the skies Come to me in my solitude and soothe me. When men are old, the incessant thought of Death Follows them like their shadow; sits with them At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep; And when they wake already is awake, And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly It is in us to make an enemy Of this importunate follower, not a friend! To me a friend, and not an enemy, Has he become since all my friends are dead.

II
VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO

POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.

JULIUS. Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, With Michael Angelo? What has he done, Or left undone, that ye are set against him? When one Pope dies, another is soon made; And I can make a dozen Cardinals, But cannot make one Michael Angelo.

CARDINAL SALVIATI. Your Holiness, we are not set against him; We but deplore his incapacity. He is too old.

JULIUS.
You, Cardinal Salviati,
Are an old man. Are you incapable?
'T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. Your Holiness remembers he was charged With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge; Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load Of timber and travertine; and yet for years The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it To Baccio Bigio.

JULIUS.
Always Baccio Bigio!
Is there no other architect on earth?
Was it not he that sometime had in charge
The harbor of Ancona.

CARDINAL MARCELLO.
Ay, the same.

JULIUS. Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio Did greater damage in a single day To that fair harbor than the sea had done Or would do in ten years. And him you think To put in place of Michael Angelo, In building the Basilica of St. Peter! The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers His error when he comes to leap the ditch.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. He does not build; he but demolishes The labors of Bramante and San Gallo.

JULIUS. Only to build more grandly.

CARDINAL MARCELLO.
But time passes:
Year after year goes by, and yet the work
Is not completed. Michael Angelo
Is a great sculptor, but no architect.
His plans are faulty.

JULIUS.
I have seen his model,
And have approved it. But here comes the artist.
Beware of him. He may make Persians of you,
To carry burdens on your backs forever.

SCENE II.

The same: MICHAEL ANGELO.

JULIUS. Come forward, dear Maestro! In these gardens All ceremonies of our court are banished. Sit down beside me here.

MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down.
How graciously
Your Holiness commiserates old age
And its infirmities!

JULIUS.
Say its privileges.
Art I respect. The building of this palace
And laying out these pleasant garden walks
Are my delight, and if I have not asked
Your aid in this, it is that I forbear
To lay new burdens on you at an age
When you need rest. Here I escape from Rome
To be at peace. The tumult of the city
Scarce reaches here.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
How beautiful it is,
And quiet almost as a hermitage!

JULIUS. We live as hermits here; and from these heights O'erlook all Rome and see the yellow Tiber Cleaving in twain the city, like a sword, As far below there as St. Mary's bridge. What think you of that bridge?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I would advise
Your Holiness not to cross it, or not often
It is not safe.

JULIUS.
It was repaired of late.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Some morning you will look for it in vain; It will be gone. The current of the river Is undermining it.

JULIUS.
But you repaired it.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I strengthened all its piers, and paved its road With travertine. He who came after me Removed the stone, and sold it, and filled in The space with gravel.

JULIUS.
Cardinal Salviati
And Cardinal Marcello, do you listen?
This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio.

MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. There is some mystery here. These Cardinals Stand lowering at me with unfriendly eyes.

JULIUS. Now let us come to what concerns us more Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter's; Certain supposed defects or imperfections, You doubtless can explain.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
This is no longer
The golden age of art. Men have become
Iconoclasts and critics. They delight not
In what an artist does, but set themselves
To censure what they do not comprehend.
You will not see them bearing a Madonna
Of Cimabue to the church in triumph,
But tearing down the statue of a Pope
To cast it into cannon. Who are they
That bring complaints against me?

JULIUS.
Deputies
Of the commissioners; and they complain
Of insufficient light in the Three Chapels.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Your Holiness, the insufficient light Is somewhere else, and not in the Three Chapels. Who are the deputies that make complaint?

JULIUS. The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, Here present.

MICHAEL ANGELO, rising.
With permission, Monsignori,
What is it ye complain of?

CARDINAL MARCELLO,
We regret
You have departed from Bramante's plan,
And from San Gallo's.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Since the ancient time
No greater architect has lived on earth
Than Lazzari Bramante. His design,
Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted.
Merits all praise, and to depart from it
Would be departing from the truth. San Gallo,
Building about with columns, took all light
Out of this plan; left in the choir dark corners
For infinite ribaldries, and lurking places
For rogues and robbers; so that when the church
Was shut at night, not five and twenty men
Could find them out. It was San Gallo, then,
That left the church in darkness, and not I.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels Is but a single window.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Monsignore,
Perhaps you do not know that in the vaulting
Above there are to go three other windows.

CARDINAL SALVIATI. How should we know? You never told us of it.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I neither am obliged, nor will I be, To tell your Eminence or any other What I intend or ought to do. Your office Is to provide the means, and see that thieves Do not lay hands upon them. The designs Must all be left to me.

CARDINAL MARCELLO.
Sir architect,
You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudely
In presence of his Holiness, and to us
Who are his cardinals.

MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat.
I do not forget
I am descended from the Counts Canossa,
Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda,
Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Patrimony.
I, too, am proud to give unto the Church
The labor of these hands, and what of life
Remains to me. My father Buonarotti
Was Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese.
I am not used to have men speak to me
As if I were a mason, hired to build
A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays
So much an hour.

CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside.
No wonder that Pope Clement
Never sat down in presence of this man,
Lest he should do the same; and always bade him
Put on his hat, lest he unasked should do it!

MICHAEL ANGELO. If any one could die of grief and shame, I should. This labor was imposed upon me; I did not seek it; and if I assumed it, 'T was not for love of fame or love of gain, But for the love of God. Perhaps old age Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition; I may be doing harm instead of good. Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me; Take off from me the burden of this work; Let me go back to Florence.

JULIUS.
Never, never,
While I am living.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Doth your Holiness
Remember what the Holy Scriptures say
Of the inevitable time, when those
Who look out of the windows shall be darkened,
And the almond-tree shall flourish?

JULIUS.
That is in
Ecclesiastes.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
And the grasshopper
Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail,
Because man goeth unto his long home.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all
Is vanity.

JULIUS.
Ah, were to do a thing
As easy as to dream of doing it,
We should not want for artists. But the men
Who carry out in act their great designs
Are few in number; ay, they may be counted
Upon the fingers of this hand. Your place
Is at St. Peter's.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I have had my dream,
And cannot carry out my great conception,
And put it into act.

JULIUS.
Then who can do it?
You would but leave it to some Baccio Bigio
To mangle and deface.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rather than that
I will still bear the burden on my shoulders
A little longer. If your Holiness
Will keep the world in order, and will leave
The building of the church to me, the work
Will go on better for it. Holy Father,
If all the labors that I have endured,
And shall endure, advantage not my soul,
I am but losing time.

JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO'S shoulders.
You will be gainer
Both for your soul and body.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not events
Exasperate me, but the funest conclusions
I draw from these events; the sure decline
Of art, and all the meaning of that word:
All that embellishes and sweetens life,
And lifts it from the level of low cares
Into the purer atmosphere of beauty;
The faith in the Ideal; the inspiration
That made the canons of the church of Seville
Say, "Let us build, so that all men hereafter
Will say that we were madmen." Holy Father,
I beg permission to retire from here.

JULIUS. Go; and my benediction be upon you.

[Michael Angelo goes out.

My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo Must not be dealt with as a common mason. He comes of noble blood, and for his crest Bear two bull's horns; and he has given us proof That he can toss with them. From this day forth Unto the end of time, let no man utter The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence. All great achievements are the natural fruits Of a great character. As trees bear not Their fruits of the same size and quality, But each one in its kind with equal ease, So are great deeds as natural to great men As mean things are to small ones. By his work We know the master. Let us not perplex him.

III
BINDO ALTOVITI

A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house.

MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.

BINDO. Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!

BINDO. What brings you forth so early?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
The same reason
That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,—
The air of this delicious summer morning.
What news have you from Florence?

BINDO.
Nothing new;
The same old tale of violence and wrong.
Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo,
When in procession, through San Gallo's gate,
Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds,
Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori
Were led as prisoners down the streets of Florence,
Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people,
Hope is no more, and liberty no more.
Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; Silence and solitude are in her streets.

BINDO. Ah yes; and often I repeat the words You wrote upon your statue of the Night, There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo: "Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; To see not, feel not, is a benediction; Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers."

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, The fallen fortunes, and the desolation Of Florence are to me a tragedy Deeper than words, and darker than despair. I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, Have loved her with the passion of a lover, And clothed her with all lovely attributes That the imagination can conceive, Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, And trodden in the dust beneath the feet Of an adventurer! It is a grief Too great for me to bear in my old age.

BINDO. I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, For Benvenuto writes that he is coming To be my guest in Rome.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Those are good tidings.
He hath been many years away from us.

BINDO. Pray you, come in.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I have not time to stay,
And yet I will. I see from here your house
Is filled with works of art. That bust in bronze
Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the master
That works in such an admirable way,
And with such power and feeling?

BINDO.
Benvenuto.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah? Benvenuto? 'T is a masterpiece! It pleases me as much, and even more, Than the antiques about it; and yet they Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it By far too high. The light comes from below, And injures the expression. Were these windows Above and not beneath it, then indeed It would maintain its own among these works Of the old masters, noble as they are. I will go in and study it more closely. I always prophesied that Benvenuto, With all his follies and fantastic ways, Would show his genius in some work of art That would amaze the world, and be a challenge Unto all other artists of his time.

[They go in.

IV
IN THE COLISEUM

MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERI

CAVALIERI. What have you here alone, Messer Michele?

MICHAEL ANGELO. I come to learn.

CAVALIERI.
You are already master,
And teach all other men.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Nay, I know nothing;
Not even my own ignorance, as some
Philosopher hath said. I am a schoolboy
Who hath not learned his lesson, and who stands
Ashamed and silent in the awful presence
Of the great master of antiquity
Who built these walls cyclopean.

CAVALIERI.
Gaudentius
His name was, I remember. His reward
Was to be thrown alive to the wild beasts
Here where we now are standing.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Idle tales.

CAVALIERI. But you are greater than Gaudentius was, And your work nobler.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Silence, I beseech you.

CAVALIERI. Tradition says that fifteen thousand men Were toiling for ten years incessantly Upon this amphitheatre.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Behold
How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers,
The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn
By wind and rain of thrice five hundred years;
Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold
To ornament our palaces and churches,
Or to be trodden under feet of man
Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains
Still opening its fair bosom to the sun,
And to the constellations that at night
Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.

CAVALIERI. The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise; Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw, With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect Its hundred thousand petals were not Saints, But senators in their Thessalian caps, And all the roaring populace of Rome; And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins, Who came to see the gladiators die, Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I spake not of its uses, but its beauty.

CAVALIERI. The sand beneath our feet is saturate With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones Are awful witnesses against a people Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Tomaso Cavalieri, on my word, You should have been a preacher, not a painter! Think you that I approve such cruelties, Because I marvel at the architects Who built these walls, and curved these noble arches? Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider How mean our work is, when compared with theirs! Look at these walls about us and above us! They have been shaken by earthquake; have been made A fortress, and been battered by long sieges; The iron clamps, that held the stones together, Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed Out of the solid rock, and were a part Of the foundations of the world itself.

CAVALIERI. Your work, I say again, is nobler work, In so far as its end and aim are nobler; And this is but a ruin, like the rest. Its vaulted passages are made the caverns Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts Of murdered men.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
A thousand wild flowers bloom
From every chink, and the birds build their nests
Among the ruined arches, and suggest
New thoughts of beauty to the architect,
Now let us climb the broken stairs that lead
Into the corridors above, and study
The marvel and the mystery of that art
In which I am a pupil, not a master.
All things must have an end; the world itself
Must have an end, as in a dream I saw it.
There came a great hand out of heaven, and touched
The earth, and stopped it in its course. The seas
Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss;
The forests and the fields slid off, and floated
Like wooded islands in the air. The dead
Were hurled forth from their sepulchres; the living
Were mingled with them, and themselves were dead,—
All being dead; and the fair, shining cities
Dropped out like jewels from a broken crown.
Naught but the core of the great globe remained,
A skeleton of stone. And over it
The wrack of matter drifted like a cloud,
And then recoiled upon itself, and fell
Back on the empty world, that with the weight
Reeled, staggered, righted, and then headlong plunged
Into the darkness, as a ship, when struck
By a great sea, throws off the waves at first
On either side, then settles and goes down
Into the dark abyss, with her dead crew.

CAVALIERI. But the earth does not move.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Who knows? who knowst?
There are great truths that pitch their shining tents
Outside our walls, and though but dimly seen
In the gray dawn, they will be manifest
When the light widens into perfect day.
A certain man, Copernicus by name,
Sometime professor here in Rome, has whispered
It is the earth, and not the sun, that moves.
What I beheld was only in a dream,
Yet dreams sometimes anticipate events,
Being unsubstantial images of things
As yet unseen.

V
MACELLO DE' CORVI

MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI.

MICHAEL ANGELO. So, Benvenuto, you return once more To the Eternal City. 'T is the centre To which all gravitates. One finds no rest Elsewhere than here. There may be other cities That please us for a while, but Rome alone Completely satisfies. It becomes to all A second native land by predilection, And not by accident of birth alone.

BENVENUTO. I am but just arrived, and am now lodging With Bindo Altoviti. I have been To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father, And now am come in haste to kiss the hands Of my miraculous Master.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
And to find him
Grown very old.

BENVENUTO.
You know that precious stones
Never grow old.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Half sunk beneath the horizon,
And yet not gone. Twelve years are a long while.
Tell me of France.

BENVENUTO.
It were too long a tale
To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say
The King received me well, and loved me well;
Gave me the annual pension that before me
Our Leonardo had, nor more nor less,
And for my residence the Tour de Nesle,
Upon the river-side.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
A princely lodging.

BENVENUTO. What in return I did now matters not, For there are other things, of greater moment, I wish to speak of. First of all, the letter You wrote me, not long since, about my bust Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You said, "My Benvenuto, I for many years Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, And now I know you as no less a sculptor." Ah, generous Master! How shall I e'er thank you For such kind language?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
By believing it.
I saw the bust at Messer Bindo's house,
And thought it worthy of the ancient masters,
And said so. That is all.

BENVENUTO.
It is too much;
And I should stand abashed here in your presence,
Had I done nothing worthier of your praise
Than Bindo's bust.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
What have you done that's better?

BENVENUTO. When I left Rome for Paris, you remember I promised you that if I went a goldsmith I would return a sculptor. I have kept The promise I then made.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Dear Benvenuto,
I recognized the latent genius in you,
But feared your vices.

BENVENUTO.
I have turned them all
To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature,
That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me
Where meekness could not, and where patience could not,
As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze
A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft
In his left hand the head of the Medusa,
And in his right the sword that severed it;
His right foot planted on the lifeless corse;
His face superb and pitiful, with eyes
Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I see it as it should be.

BENVENUTO.
As it will be
When it is placed upon the Ducal Square,
Half-way between your David and the Judith
Of Donatello.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rival of them both!

BENVENUTO. But ah, what infinite trouble have I had With Bandinello, and that stupid beast, The major-domo of Duke Cosimo, Francesco Ricci, and their wretched agent Gorini, who came crawling round about me Like a black spider, with his whining voice That sounded like the buzz of a mosquito! Oh, I have wept in utter desperation, And wished a thousand times I had not left My Tour do Nesle, nor e'er returned to Florence, Or thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods They told the Grand Duke, to impede my work, And make me desperate!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
The nimble lie
Is like the second-hand upon a clock;
We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth
Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen,
And wins at last, for the clock will not strike
Till it has reached the goal.

BENVENUTO.
My obstinacy
Stood me in stead, and helped me to o'ercome
The hindrances that envy and ill-will
Put in my way.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
When anything is done
People see not the patient doing of it,
Nor think how great would be the loss to man
If it had not been done. As in a building
Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation
All would be wanting, so in human life
Each action rests on the foregone event,
That made it possible, but is forgotten
And buried in the earth.

BENVENUTO.
Even Bandinello,
Who never yet spake well of anything,
Speaks well of this; and yet he told the Duke
That, though I cast small figures well enough,
I never could cast this.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
But you have done it,
And proved Ser Bandinello a false prophet.
That is the wisest way.

BENVENUTO.
And ah, that casting
What a wild scene it was, as late at night,
A night of wind and rain, we heaped the furnace
With pine of Serristori, till the flames
Caught in the rafters over us, and threatened
To send the burning roof upon our heads;
And from the garden side the wind and rain
Poured in upon us, and half quenched our fires.
I was beside myself with desperation.
A shudder came upon me, then a fever;
I thought that I was dying, and was forced
To leave the work-shop, and to throw myself
Upon my bed, as one who has no hope.
And as I lay there, a deformed old man
Appeared before me, and with dismal voice,
Like one who doth exhort a criminal
Led forth to death, exclaimed, "Poor Benvenuto,
Thy work is spoiled! There is no remedy!"
Then, with a cry so loud it might have reached
The heaven of fire, I bounded to my feet,
And rushed back to my workmen. They all stood
Bewildered and desponding; and I looked
Into the furnace, and beheld the mass
Half molten only, and in my despair
I fed the fire with oak, whose terrible heat
Soon made the sluggish metal shine and sparkle.
Then followed a bright flash, and an explosion,
As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us.
The covering of the furnace had been rent
Asunder, and the bronze was flowing over;
So that I straightway opened all the sluices
To fill the mould. The metal ran like lava,
Sluggish and heavy; and I sent my workmen
To ransack the whole house, and bring together
My pewter plates and pans, two hundred of them,
And cast them one by one into the furnace
To liquefy the mass, and in a moment
The mould was filled! I fell upon my knees
And thanked the Lord; and then we ate and drank
And went to bed, all hearty and contented.
It was two hours before the break of day.
My fever was quite gone.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
A strange adventure,
That could have happened to no man alive
But you, my Benvenuto.

BENVENUTO.
As my workmen said
To major-domo Ricci afterward,
When he inquired of them: "'T was not a man,
But an express great devil."

MICHAEL ANGELO.
And the statue?

BENVENUTO. Perfect in every part, save the right foot Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke. There was just bronze enough to fill the mould; Not a drop over, not a drop too little. I looked upon it as a miracle Wrought by the hand of God.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
And now I see
How you have turned your vices into virtues.

BENVENUTO. But wherefore do I prate of this? I came To speak of other things. Duke Cosimo Through me invites you to return to Florence, And offers you great honors, even to make you One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators.

MICHAEL ANGELO. His Senators! That is enough. Since Florence Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme; All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me! I hoped to see my country rise to heights Of happiness and freedom yet unreached By other nations, but the climbing wave Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again Back to the common level, with a hoarse Death rattle in its throat. I am too old To hope for better days. I will stay here And die in Rome. The very weeds, that grow Among the broken fragments of her ruins, Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers Of other cities; and the desolate ring Of the Campagna round about her walls Fairer than all the villas that encircle The towns of Tuscany.

BENVENUTO.
But your old friends!

MICHAEL ANGELO. All dead by violence. Baccio Valori Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned; Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. Is Florence then a place for honest men To flourish in? What is there to prevent My sharing the same fate?

BENVENUTO.
Why this: if all
Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Is Aretino dead?

BENVENUTO.
He lives in Venice,
And not in Florence.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is the same to me
This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers
Call the Divine, as if to make the word
Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it
And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me
A letter written for the public eye,
And with such subtle and infernal malice,
I wonder at his wickedness. 'T is he
Is the express great devil, and not you.
Some years ago he told me how to paint
The scenes of the Last Judgment.

BENVENUTO.
I remember.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom With which I represent it.

BENVENUTO.
Hypocrite!

MICHAEL ANGELO. He says I show mankind that I am wanting In piety and religion, in proportion As I profess perfection in my art. Profess perfection? Why, 't is only men Like Bugiardini who are satisfied With what they do. I never am content, But always see the labors of my hand Fall short of my conception.

BENVENUTO.
I perceive
The malice of this creature. He would taint you
With heresy, and in a time like this!
'T is infamous!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I represent the angels
Without their heavenly glory, and the saints
Without a trace of earthly modesty.

BENVENUTO. Incredible audacity!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
The heathen
Veiled their Diana with some drapery,
And when they represented Venus naked
They made her by her modest attitude,
Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian,
Do so subordinate belief to art
That I have made the very violation
Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins
A spectacle at which all men would gaze
With half-averted eyes even in a brothel.

BENVENUTO. He is at home there, and he ought to know What men avert their eyes from in such places; From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine.

MICHAEL ANGELO. But divine Providence will never leave The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished; And the more marvellous it is, the more 'T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame! And finally, if in this composition I had pursued the instructions that he gave me Concerning heaven and hell and paradise, In that same letter, known to all the world, Nature would not be forced, as she is now, To feel ashamed that she invested me With such great talent; that I stand myself A very idol in the world of art. He taunts me also with the Mausoleum Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason That men persuaded the inane old man It was of evil augury to build His tomb while he was living; and he speaks Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me, And calls it robbery;—that is what he says. What prompted such a letter?

BENVENUTO.
Vanity.
He is a clever writer, and he likes
To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face
Of every honest man, as swordsmen do
Their rapiers on occasion, but to show
How skilfully they do it. Had you followed
The advice he gave, or even thanked him for it,
You would have seen another style of fence.
'T is but his wounded vanity, and the wish
To see his name in print. So give it not
A moment's thought; it soon will be forgotten.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I will not think of it, but let it pass For a rude speech thrown at me in the street, As boys threw stones at Dante.

BENVENUTO.
And what answer
Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo?
He does not ask your labor or your service;
Only your presence in the city of Florence,
With such advice upon his work in hand
As he may ask, and you may choose to give.

MICHAEL ANGELO. You have my answer. Nothing he can offer Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here, And only here, the building of St. Peter's. What other things I hitherto have done Have fallen from me, are no longer mine; I have passed on beyond them, and have left them As milestones on the way. What lies before me, That is still mine, and while it is unfinished No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me, By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor, Till I behold the finished dome uprise Complete, as now I see it in my thought.

BENVENUTO. And will you paint no more?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
No more.

BENVENUTO.
'T is well.
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature,
That fashions all her works in high relief,
And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth,
Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire;
Men, women, and all animals that breathe
Are statues, and not paintings. Even the plants,
The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured,
And colored later. Painting is a lie,
A shadow merely.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Truly, as you say,
Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
Phantoms that seem to live. The most majestic
Of the three sister arts is that which builds;
The eldest of them all, to whom the others
Are but the hand-maids and the servitors,
Being but imitation, not creation.
Henceforth I dedicate myself to her.

BENVENUTO. And no more from the marble hew those forms That fill us all with wonder?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Many statues
Will there be room for in my work. Their station
Already is assigned them in my mind.
But things move slowly. There are hindrances,
Want of material, want of means, delays
And interruptions, endless interference
Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes
And jealousies of artists, that annoy me.
But twill persevere until the work
Is wholly finished, or till I sink down
Surprised by death, that unexpected guest,
Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps in,
Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop
To all our occupations and designs.
And then perhaps I may go back to Florence;
This is my answer to Duke Cosimo.

VI
MICHAEL ANGELO'S STUDIO

MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO.

MICHAEL ANGELO, pausing in his work. Urbino, thou and I are both old men. My strength begins to fail me.

URBINO.
Eccellenza.
That is impossible. Do I not see you
Attack the marble blocks with the same fury
As twenty years ago?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is an old habit.
I must have learned it early from my nurse
At Setignano, the stone-mason's wife;
For the first sounds I heard were of the chisel
chipping away the stone.

URBINO.
At every stroke
You strike fire with your chisel.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ay, because
The marble is too hard.

URBINO.
It is a block
That Topolino sent you from Carrara.
He is a judge of marble.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I remember.
With it he sent me something of his making,—
A Mercury, with long body and short legs,
As if by any possibility
A messenger of the gods could have short legs.
It was no more like Mercury than you are,
But rather like those little plaster figures
That peddlers hawk about the villages
As images of saints. But luckily
For Topolino, there are many people
Who see no difference between what is best
And what is only good, or not even good;
So that poor artists stand in their esteem
On the same level with the best, or higher.

URBINO. How Eccellenza laughed!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Poor Topolino!
All men are not born artists, nor will labor
E'er make them artists.

URBINO.
No, no more
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals.
One must be chosen for it. I have been
Your color-grinder six and twenty years,
And am not yet an artist.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Some have eyes
That see not; but in every block of marble
I see a statue,—see it as distinctly
As if it stood before me shaped and perfect
In attitude and action. I have only
To hew away the stone walls that imprison
The lovely apparition, and reveal it
To other eyes as mine already see it.
But I grow old and weak. What wilt thou do
When I am dead, Urbino?

URBINO.
Eccellenza,
I must then serve another master.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Never!
Bitter is servitude at best. Already
So many years hast thou been serving me;
But rather as a friend than as a servant.
We have grown old together. Dost thou think
So meanly of this Michael Angelo
As to imagine he would let thee serve,
When he is free from service? Take this purse,
Two thousand crowns in gold.

URBINO.
Two thousand crowns!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die A beggar in a hospital.

URBINO.
Oh, Master!

MICHAEL ANGELO. I cannot have them with me on the journey That I am undertaking. The last garment That men will make for me will have no pockets.

URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO. My generous master!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Hush!

URBINO.
My Providence!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not a word more. Go now to bed, old man. Thou hast served Michael Angelo. Remember, Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master.

VII
THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA

MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How still it is among these ancient oaks! Surges and undulations of the air Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall With scarce a sound. Such sylvan quietudes Become old age. These huge centennial oaks, That may have heard in infancy the trumpets Of Barbarossa's cavalry, deride Man's brief existence, that with all his strength He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year. This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk, Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its arms The cradled nests of birds, when all the men That now inhabit this vast universe, They and their children, and their children's children, Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more. Through openings in the trees I see below me The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade Of the tall poplars on the river's brink. O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse! I who have never loved thee as I ought, But wasted all my years immured in cities, And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets, Now come to thee for refuge. Here is peace. Yonder I see the little hermitages Dotting the mountain side with points of light, And here St. Julian's convent, like a nest Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. Beyond the broad, illimitable plain Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo's quoit, That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside, Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers. And now, instead of these fair deities Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads; And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund, Replace the old Silenus with his ass.

Here underneath these venerable oaks, Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age, A brother of the monastery sits, Lost in his meditations. What may be The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him? Good-evening, holy father.

MONK.
God be with you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon a stranger if he interrupt Your meditations.

MONK.
It was but a dream,—
The old, old dream, that never will come true;
The dream that all my life I have been dreaming,
And yet is still a dream.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
All men have dreams:
I have had mine; but none of them came true;
They were but vanity. Sometimes I think
The happiness of man lies in pursuing,
Not in possessing; for the things possessed
Lose half their value. Tell me of your dream.

MONK. The yearning of my heart, my sole desire, That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right, While all the others bend and bow to it; The passion that torments me, and that breathes New meaning into the dead forms of prayer, Is that with mortal eyes I may behold The Eternal City.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rome?

MONK.
There is but one;
The rest are merely names. I think of it
As the Celestial City, paved with gold,
And sentinelled with angels.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Would it were.
I have just fled from it. It is beleaguered
By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of Alva.

MONK. But still for me 't is the Celestial City, And I would see it once before I die.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Each one must bear his cross.

MONK.
Were it a cross
That had been laid upon me, I could bear it,
Or fall with it. It is a crucifix;
I am nailed hand and foot, and I am dying!

MICHAEL ANGELO. What would you see in Rome?

MONK.
His Holiness.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Him that was once the Cardinal Caraffa? You would but see a man of fourscore years, With sunken eyes, burning like carbuncles, Who sits at table with his friends for hours, Cursing the Spaniards as a race of Jews And miscreant Moors. And with what soldiery Think you he now defends the Eternal City?

MONK. With legions of bright angels.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
So he calls them;
And yet in fact these bright angelic legions
Are only German Lutherans.

MONK, crossing himself.
Heaven protect us?

MICHAEL ANGELO. What further would you see?

MONK.
The Cardinals,
Going in their gilt coaches to High Mass.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Men do not go to Paradise in coaches.

MONK. The catacombs, the convents, and the churches; The ceremonies of the Holy Week In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany, The Feast of the Santissima Bambino At Ara Coeli. But I shall not see them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. These pompous ceremonies of the Church Are but an empty show to him who knows The actors in them. Stay here in your convent, For he who goes to Rome may see too much. What would you further?

MONK.
I would see the painting
of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.

MICHAEL ANGELO. The smoke of incense and of altar candles Has blackened it already.

MONK.
Woe is me!
Then I would hear Allegri's Miserere,
Sung by the Papal choir.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
A dismal dirge!
I am an old, old man, and I have lived
In Rome for thirty years and more, and know
The jarring of the wheels of that great world,
Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife.
Therefore I say to you, remain content
Here in your convent, here among your woods,
Where only there is peace. Go not to Rome.
There was of old a monk of Wittenberg
Who went to Rome; you may have heard of him;
His name was Luther; and you know what followed.

[The convent bell rings.

MONK, rising. It is the convent bell; it rings for vespers. Let us go in; we both will pray for peace.

VIII
THE DEAD CHRIST.

MICHAEL ANGELO'S studio. MICHAEL ANGELO, with a light, working upon the Dead Christ. Midnight.

MICHAEL ANGELO. O Death, why is it I cannot portray Thy form and features? Do I stand too near thee? Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back, As being thy disciple, not thy master? Let him who knows not what old age is like Have patience till it comes, and he will know. I once had skill to fashion Life and Death And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death; And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi Wrote underneath my statue of the Night In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago!

Grateful to me is sleep! More grateful now Than it was then; for all my friends are dead; And she is dead, the noblest of them all. I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death, Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow Stricken her into marble; and I kissed Her cold white hand. What was it held me back From kissing her fair forehead, and those lips, Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful to me is sleep!

Enter GIORGIO VASARI.

GIORGIO. Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know not Which of the two it is.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
How came you in?

GIORGIO. Why, by the door, as all men do.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ascanio
Must have forgotten to bolt it.

GIORGIO.
Probably.
Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit,
That I could slip through bolted door or window?
As I was passing down the street, I saw
A glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chink
Of chisel upon marble. So I entered,
To see what keeps you from your bed so late.

MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp. You have been revelling with your boon companions, Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me At an untimely hour.

GIORGIO.
The Pope hath sent me.
His Holiness desires to see again
The drawing you once showed him of the dome
Of the Basilica.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
We will look for it.

GIORGIO. What is the marble group that glimmers there Behind you?

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Nothing, and yet everything,—
As one may take it. It is my own tomb,
That I am building.

GIORGIO.
Do not hide it from me.
By our long friendship and the love I bear you,
Refuse me not!

MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp.
Life hath become to me
An empty theatre,—its lights extinguished,
The music silent, and the actors gone;
And I alone sit musing on the scenes
That once have been. I am so old that Death
Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come with him
And some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down,
And my last spark of life will be extinguished.
Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair!
So near to death, and yet so far from God!

TRANSLATIONS

PRELUDE

As treasures that men seek,
Deep-buried in sea-sands,
Vanish if they but speak,
And elude their eager hands,

So ye escape and slip,
O songs, and fade away,
When the word is on my lip
To interpret what ye say.

Were it not better, then,
To let the treasures rest
Hid from the eyes of men,
Locked in their iron chest?

I have but marked the place,
But half the secret told,
That, following this slight trace,
Others may find the gold.

FROM THE SPANISH
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE

O let the soul her slumbers break, Let thought be quickened, and awake; Awake to see How soon this life is past and gone, And death comes softly stealing on, How silently!

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, Our hearts recall the distant day With many sighs; The moments that are speeding fast We heed not, but the past,—the past, More highly prize.

Onward its course the present keeps, Onward the constant current sweeps, Till life is done; And, did we judge of time aright, The past and future in their flight Would be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay; Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Remembered like a tale that's told, They pass away.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave.

Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill, There all are equal; side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng Of orators and sons of song, The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not His deity.

This world is but the rugged road Which leads us to the bright abode Of peace above; So let us choose that narrow way, Which leads no traveller's foot astray From realms of love,

Our cradle is the starting-place, Life is the running of the race, We reach the goal When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, For which we wait.

Yes, the glad messenger of love, To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came; Born amid mortal cares and fears. He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us, chances strange, Disastrous accident, and change, That come to all; Even in the most exalted state, Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; The strongest fall.

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek In the clear eye and blushing cheek, The hues that play O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, When hoary age approaches slow, Ah; where are they?

The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name, Heroes emblazoned high to fame, In long array; How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more; Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that without a stain, Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride, With what untimely speed they glide, How soon depart! Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, The vassals of a mistress they, Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles till the grave Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, They fade and die; But in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirits doom Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all, But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race, Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, Brook no delay, but onward speed With loosened rein; And, when the fatal snare is near, We strive to check our mad career, But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art The human face, As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright With heavenly grace,

How busily each passing hour Should we exert that magic power, What ardor show, To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name, Neither its glory nor its shame Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories.

Little avails it now to know Of ages passed so long ago, Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like day's of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon? Where are the courtly gallantries? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done?

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene? What but the garlands, gay and green, That deck the tomb?

Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odors sweet? Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Low at their feet?

Where is the song of Troubadour? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride; O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside!

But O how false and full of guile That world, which wore so soft a smile But to betray! She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away.

The countless gifts, the stately walls, The loyal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold;

The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, They passed away.

His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, Unskilled to reign; What a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry Was in his train!

But he was mortal; and the breath, That flamed from the hot forge of Death, Blasted his years; Judgment of God! that flame by thee, When raging fierce and fearfully, Was quenched in tears!

Spain's haughty Constable, the true And gallant Master, whom we knew Most loved of all; Breathe not a whisper of his pride, He on the gloomy scaffold died, Ignoble fall!

The countless treasures of his care, His villages and villas fair, His mighty power, What were they all but grief and shame, Tears and a broken heart, when came The parting hour?

His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, Their underlings;

What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate With power and pride? What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, Grew dim and died?

So many a duke of royal name, Marquis and count of spotless fame, And baron brave, That might the sword of empire wield, All these, O Death, hast thou concealed In the dark grave!

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, In peaceful days, or war's alarms, When thou dost show. O Death, thy stern and angry face, One stroke of thy all-powerful mace Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed; High battlements intrenched around, Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep, All these cannot one victim keep, O Death, from thee, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, And thy strong shafts pursue their path Unerringly.

O World! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed! Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed.

Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom.

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care.

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow Its form departs.

And he, the good man's shield and shade, To whom all hearts their homage paid, As Virtue's son, Roderic Manrique, he whose name Is written on the scroll of Fame, Spain's champion;

His signal deeds and prowess high Demand no pompous eulogy. Ye saw his deeds! Why should their praise in verse be sung? The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs.

To friends a friend; how kind to all The vassals of this ancient hall And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! And to the valiant and the free How brave a chief!

What prudence with the old and wise: What grace in youthful gayeties; In all how sage! Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave A lion's rage.

His was Octavian's prosperous star, The rush of Caesar's conquering car At battle's call; His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill And the indomitable will Of Hannibal.

His was a Trajan's goodness, his A Titus' noble charities And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might Of Tully, to maintain the right In truth's just cause;

The clemency of Antonine, Aurelius' countenance divine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will;

In tented field and bloody fray, An Alexander's vigorous sway And stern command; The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land.

He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, Nor massive plate; He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, City and tower and castled wall Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave; And there the warrior's hand did gain The rents, and the long vassal train, That conquest gave.

And if, of old, his halls displayed The honored and exalted grade His worth had gained, So, in the dark, disastrous hour, Brothers and bondsmen of his power His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold, In the stern warfare, which of old 'T was his to share, Such noble leagues he made, that more And fairer regions, than before, His guerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced, Which, with the hand of youth, he traced On history's page; But with fresh victories he drew Each fading character anew In his old age.

By his unrivalled skill, by great And veteran service to the state, By worth adored, He stood, in his high dignity, The proudest knight of chivalry, Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains Beneath a tyrant's galling chains And cruel power; But by fierce battle and blockade, Soon his own banner was displayed From every tower.

By the tried valor of his hand, His monarch and his native land Were nobly served; Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved.

And when so oft, for weal or woe, His life upon the fatal throw Had been cast down; When he had served, with patriot zeal, Beneath the banner of Castile, His sovereign's crown;

And done such deeds of valor strong, That neither history nor song Can count them all; Then, on Ocana's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, With sudden call,

Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare To leave this world of toil and care With joyful mien; Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armor for the fray, The closing scene.

"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; Loud on the last stern battle-plain They call thy name.

"Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man, nor fear To meet the foe; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave On earth below.

"A life of honor and of worth Has no eternity on earth, 'T is but a name; And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads To want and shame.

"The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high And proud estate; The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit A joy so great.

"But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears; And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears.

"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land, In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength And dauntless hand.

"Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty, The third, the better life on high Shalt thou possess."

"O Death, no more, no more delay; My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest; The will of Heaven my will shall be, I bow to the divine decree, To God's behest.

"My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart Breathes forth no sigh; The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will That we shall die.

"O thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth; Thou, that to thy divinity A human nature didst ally By mortal birth,

"And in that form didst suffer here Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, And not for merits of my own, O, pardon me!"

As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind; Encircled by his family, Watched by affection's gentle eye So soft and kind;

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest.

---

SONNETS

I
THE GOOD SHEPHERD

(EL BUEN PASTOR)
BY LOPE DE VEGA

Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,
Who mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree,
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long!
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains;
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be;
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.
Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy flock art dying,
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.
O, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying,
Wait for me! Yet why ask it, when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me!

II
TO-MORROW

(MANANA)
BY LOPE DE VEGA

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
O strange delusion! that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet.
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
"Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How he persists to knock and wait for thee!"
And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow,
"To-morrow we will open," I replied,
And when the morrow came I answered still "To-morrow."

III
THE NATIVE LAND

(EL PATRIO CIELO)
BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA

Clear fount of light! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade!
Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath;
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.
Beloved country! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.

IV
THE IMAGE OF GOD

(LA IMAGEN DE DIOS)
BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA

O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright!
Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given,
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays;
Yet in the hoary winter of my days,
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven.
Celestial King! O let thy presence pass
Before my spirit, and an image fair
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,
And owes its being to the gazer's eye.

V
THE BROOK

(A UN ARROYUELO)
ANONYMOUS

Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze.
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!
O sweet simplicity of days gone by!
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!

---

ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS.

In the chapter with this title in Outre-Mer, besides Illustrations from Byron and Lockhart are the three following examples, contributed by Mr. Longfellow.

I

Rio Verde, Rio Verde!
Many a corpse is bathed in thee,
Both of Moors and eke of Christians,
Slain with swords most cruelly.

And thy pure and crystal waters
Dappled are with crimson gore;
For between the Moors and Christians
Long has been the fight and sore.

Dukes and Counts fell bleeding near thee,
Lords of high renown were slain,
Perished many a brave hidalgo
Of the noblemen of Spain.

II

"King Alfonso the Eighth, having exhausted his treasury in war, wishes to lay a tax of five farthings upon each of the Castillan hidalgos, in order to defray the expenses of a journey from Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the king was met with disdain by the noblemen who had been assembled on the occasion."

Don Nuno, Count of Lara,
In anger and in pride,
Forgot all reverence for the king,
And thus in wrath replied:

"Our noble ancestors," quoth he,
"Ne'er such a tribute paid;
Nor shall the king receive of us
What they have once gainsaid.

"The base-born soul who deems it just
May here with thee remain;
But follow me, ye cavaliers,
Ye noblemen of Spain."

Forth followed they the noble Count,
They marched to Glera's plain;
Out of three thousand gallant knights
Did only three remain.

They tied the tribute to their spears,
They raised it in the air,
And they sent to tell their lord the king
That his tax was ready there.

"He may send and take by force," said they,
"This paltry sum of gold;
But the goodly gift of liberty
Cannot be bought and sold."

III

"One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which describes Bernardo's march to Roncesvalles. He sallies forth 'with three thousand Leonese and more,' to protect the glory and freedom of his native land. From all sides, the peasantry of the land flock to the hero's standard."

The peasant leaves his plough afield,
The reaper leaves his hook,
And from his hand the shepherd-boy.
Lets fall the pastoral crook.

The young set up a shout of joy,
The old forget their years,
The feeble man grows stout of heart.
No more the craven fears.

All rush to Bernard's standard,
And on liberty they call;
They cannot brook to wear the yoke,
When threatened by the Gaul.

"Free were we born," 't is thus they cry
"And willingly pay we
The duty that we owe our king
By the divine decree.

"But God forbid that we obey
The laws of foreign knaves,
Tarnish the glory of our sires,
And make our children slaves.

"Our hearts have not so craven grown,
So bloodless all our veins,
So vigorless our brawny arms,
As to submit to chains.

"Has the audacious Frank, forsooth,
Subdued these seas and lands?
Shall he a bloodless victory have?
No, not while we have hands.

"He shall learn that the gallant Leonese
Can bravely fight and fall,
But that they know not how to yield;
They are Castilians all.

"Was it for this the Roman power
Of old was made to yield
Unto Numantia's valiant hosts
On many a bloody field?

"Shall the bold lions that have bathed
Their paws in Libyan gore,
Crouch basely to a feebler foe,
And dare the strife no more?

"Let the false king sell town and tower,
But not his vassals free;
For to subdue the free-born soul
No royal power hath he!"

---

VIDA DE SAN MILLAN

BY GONZALO DE BERCEO

And when the kings were in the field,—their squadrons in array,— With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray; But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes,— These were a numerous army,—a little handful those.

And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughts on high; And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright, Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more white.

They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen, And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen; The one, he held a crosier,—a pontiff's mitre wore; The other held a crucifix,—such man ne'er saw before.

Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they,— And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid way; They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook.

The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again; They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain, And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins.

And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle-ground, They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around; Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along, A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng.

Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky, The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high; The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen before.

Down went the misbelievers,—fast sped the bloody fight,— Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with fright: Full sorely they repented that to the field they came, For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame.

Another thing befell them,—they dreamed not of such woes,— The very arrows that the Moors shot front their twanging bows Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full sore, And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore.

. . . . . . . . .

Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John; And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood.

---

SAN MIGUEL, THE CONVENT

(SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA)
BY GONZALO DE BERCEO

San Miguel de la Tumba is a convent vast and wide; The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side: It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide.

Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood, Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood; To the Madonna's glory there an altar high was placed, And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced.

Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled, And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child; The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her side; Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified.

. . . . . . . . .

Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung,— A moscader, or fan for flies, 'tis called in vulgar tongue; From the feathers of the peacock's wing 't was fashioned bright and fair, And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there.

It chanced that, for the people's sins, fell the lightning's blasting stroke: Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke; The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book; And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook.

. . . . . . . . .

But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild, It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child; It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone, Nor injure in a farthing's worth the image or the throne.

The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen; Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween; Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine.

---

SONG

She is a maid of artless grace, Gentle in form, and fair of face,

Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,
If ship, or sail or evening star
Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,
If steel, or sword, or battle-field
Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock
Beneath the shadowy tree,
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge
Be half so fair as she!

SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK

(LETRILLA QUE LLEVABA POR REGISTRO EN SU BREVIARIO)
BY SANTA TERESA DE AVILA

Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee; All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance Attaineth to all things; Who God possesseth In nothing is wanting; Alone God sufficeth.

---

FROM THE CANCIONEROS

I
EYES SO TRISTFUL, EYES SO TRISTFUL

(OJOS TRISTES, OJOS TRISTES)
BY DIEGO DE SALDANA

Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, Heart so full of care and cumber, I was lapped in rest and slumber, Ye have made me wakeful, wistful!

In this life of labor endless Who shall comfort my distresses? Querulous my soul and friendless In its sorrow shuns caresses. Ye have made me, ye have made me Querulous of you, that care not, Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not Say to what ye have betrayed me.

II
SOME DAY, SOME DAY

(ALGUNA VEZ)
BY CRISTOBAL DE GASTILLOJO

Some day, some day O troubled breast, Shalt thou find rest.

If Love in thee To grief give birth, Six feet of earth Can more than he; There calm and free And unoppressed Shalt thou find rest.

The unattained In life at last, When life is passed, Shall all be gained; And no more pained, No more distressed, Shalt thou find rest.

III
COME, O DEATH, SO SILENT FLYING

(VEN, MUERTE TAN ESCONDIDA)
BY EL COMMENDADOR ESCRIVA

Come, O Death, so silent flying That unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. For thy sure approach perceiving, In my constancy and pain I new life should win again, Thinking that I am not living. So to me, unconscious lying, All unknown thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. Unto him who finds thee hateful, Death, thou art inhuman pain; But to me, who dying gain, Life is but a task ungrateful. Come, then, with my wish complying, All unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me.

IV
GLOVE OF BLACK IN WHITE HAND BARE

Glove of black in white hand bare, And about her forehead pale Wound a thin, transparent veil, That doth not conceal her hair; Sovereign attitude and air, Cheek and neck alike displayed With coquettish charms arrayed, Laughing eyes and fugitive;— This is killing men that live, 'T is not mourning for the dead.

---

FROM THE SWEDISH AND DANISH

PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF'S SAGA

BY ESAIAS TEGNÉR

I
FRITHIOF'S HOMESTEAD

Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on three sides Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the ocean. Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of the hillsides Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field. Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains, Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned reindeers Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the greensward Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the milk-pail. 'Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were numberless flocks of Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds, Flock-wise spread o'er the heavenly vault when it bloweth in springtime. Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered storm-winds, Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their fodder. Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all white with steel shoes. Th' banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred) Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule-tide. Through the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the High-seat Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree: Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet. Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black, Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver), Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness. Oft, when the moon through the cloudrack flew, related the old man Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West and the White Sea. Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the graybeard's Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Scald was thinking of Brage, Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer's Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned ever the fire-flame Glad on its stone-built hearth; and thorough the wide-mouthed smoke-flue Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall. Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among them Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall were resplendent, White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon's disk of silver. Ever and anon went a maid round the hoard, and filled up the drink-horns, Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her reflection Blushed, too, even as she; this gladdened the drinking champions.

II
A SLEDGE-RIDE ON THE ICE

King Ring with his queen to the banquet did fare, On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear,

"Fare not o'er the ice," the stranger cries; "It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies."

"The king drowns not easily," Ring outspake; "He who's afraid may go round the lake."

Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound,

The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free; He snorteth flames, so glad is he.

"Strike out," screamed the king, "my trotter good, Let us see if thou art of Sleipner's blood."

They go as a storm goes over the lake. No heed to his queen doth the old man take.

But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, He passeth them by as swift as he will.

He carves many runes in the frozen tide, Fair Ingeborg o'er her own name doth glide.

III
FRITHIOF'S TEMPTATION

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles the sun, And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to the ocean run; Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds 'gin to ope, And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope.

Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the sport: Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the Court; Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway, And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for their prey.

See, the Queen of the Chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not at the sight! Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white. Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two, And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue.

Gaze not at her eyes' blue heaven, gaze not at her golden hair! Oh beware! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware! Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting play, List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of May.

Now the huntsman's band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale! Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail. All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes, But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the Valkyr comes.

. . . . . . . . . .

Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof's knee his head, Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war's alarm, On his shield, or as an infant sleeps upon its mother's arm.

As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon the bough; "Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at a blow: Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave, Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the grave,"

Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough: "Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's eye beholds thee now. Coward! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old man slay! Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a hero's fame this way."

Thus the two wood-birds did warble: Frithiof took his war-sword good, With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand, but on light, unfolded wings, Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun, upsprings.

Straight the ancient king awakens. "Sweet has been my sleep," he said; "Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man's blade. But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning's brother, where is he? Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?"

"It avails not," Frithiof answered; "in the North are other swords: Sharp, O monarch! is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words; Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem; Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them."

IV
FRITHIOF'S FAREWELL

No more shall I see In its upward motion The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave: The fates decree. On the waste of the ocean There is my fatherland, there is my grave.

Go not to the strand, Ring, with thy bride, After the stars spread their light through the sky. Perhaps in the sand, Washed up by the tide, The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie.

Then, quoth the king, "'T is mournful to hear A man like a whimpering maiden cry. The death-song they sing Even now in mine ear, What avails it? He who is born must die."

---

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER

BY ESAIAS TEGNÉR

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village
Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen.
On the spire of the bell
Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime.
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses,
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet
Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace! with lips rosy-tinted
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest.
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor
Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection.
Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed,
(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet,
Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children's children,
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes,
While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet.
Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season
When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven,
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism.
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches.
There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron.
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver
Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers.
But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horberg,
Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work.
Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling,
And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets.
Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching.
Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ,
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits.
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle,
So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal
Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land
Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven,
And each face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor.
Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher.
Father he hight and he was in the parish; a Christianly plainness
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters.
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel
Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur
Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam.
As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly
Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation)
Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos,
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man:
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver.
All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered.
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel.
Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service,
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man.
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came,
Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert.
Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel
Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their places,
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming.
But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies,
Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens,—
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavement
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginning
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man's
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted.
Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer,
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied.
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them.
And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words,
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple,
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning.
E'en as the green-growing bud unfolds when Springtide approaches.
Leaf by leaf puts forth, and warmed, by the radiant sunshine,
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom
Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes,
So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation,
Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers
Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer.
Now went the old man up to the altar;—and straightway transfigured
(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher.
Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were transparent
Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off.
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, lie spake and he questioned.
"This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered,
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven,
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom;
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor
Downward rains from the heaven;—to-day on the threshold of childhood
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election,
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth.
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence,
Seed for the coming days; without revocation departeth
Now from your lips the confession; Bethink ye, before ye make answer!
Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher.
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood.
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey; the multitude hears you,
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy
Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal.
Thus, then,—believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created?
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united?
Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise!) to cherish
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother?
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living,
Th' heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer,
Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness?
Will ye promise me this before God and man?"—With a clear voice
Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly-breathing
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teacher
Clouds with the lightnings therein, and lie spake in accents more gentle,
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers.
"Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcome!
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters!
Yet,—for what reason not children? Of such is the kingdom of heaven.
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father,
Ruling them all as his household,—forgiving in turn and chastising,
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us.
Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue
Resteth the Christian Faith: she herself from on high is descended.
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine,
Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for
Oh, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley,
Oh, how soon will ye come,—too soon!—and long to turn backward
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother,
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was for given
Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven!
Seventy years have I lived already; the Father eternal
Gave rue gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence,
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them,
Known them all again;—the were my childhood's acquaintance.
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence,
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's childhood
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed,
Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life's roaring billows
Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not in the ship she is sleeping.
Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert
Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth
Naught of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble,
Follows so long as she may her friend; oh do not reject her,
For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens.
Prayer is Innocence' friend; and willingly flieth incessant
'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven,
Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit
Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward.
Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions,
Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets,
Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels.
Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven
Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit's longings are worship;
Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty.
Aid when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us,
Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard,
Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowiug children
Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them,
Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us,
Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune
Kneels before the Eternal's throne; and with hands interfolded,
Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings.
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven?
What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received?
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who
Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when the world be created.
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory.
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven,
Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them as nothing
Who shall stand in his presence? The wrath of the judge is terrific,
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck.
Yet,—why are ye afraid, ye children? This awful avenger,
Ah! is a merciful God! God's voice was not in the earthquake,
Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.
Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number
Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only.
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit
Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven.
Quench, oh quench not that flame! It is the breath of your being.
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother
Loved you, as God has loved you; for 't was that you may be happy
Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour
Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed.
Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other
Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma,—Atonement!
Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement.
Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father;
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection
Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing
Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only.
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren:
One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also.
Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead
Readest thou not in his face thou origin? Is he not sailing
Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided
By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother?
Hateth he thee, forgive! For 't is sweet to stammer one letter
Of the Eternal's language;—on earth it is called Forgiveness!
Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his temples?
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say, dost thou know him?
Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example,
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings,
Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly shepherd
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother.
This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it.
Love is the creature's welfare, with God; but Love among mortals
Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting,
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids.
Hope,—so is called upon earth, his recompense, Hope, the befriending,
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows!
Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise,
Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven,
Him, who has given us more; for to us has Hope been transfigured,
Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance.
Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection,
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble.
Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's,
For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending.
There enraptured she wanders. and looks at the figures majestic,
Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her homestead.
Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous
Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring,
Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than
Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide.
Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness
Not what they seemed,—but what they were only. Blessed is he who
Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until death's hand
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you?
Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading
Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection,
Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its father.
Sounds of his coming already I hear,—see dimly his pinions,
Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not before him.
Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face standing
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors;
Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic,
Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured,
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem,
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather,
Never forgets he the weary;—then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter!
Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise,
Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not
Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven.
God of the universe, hear me! thou fountain of Love everlasting,
Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy heaven!
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these,
Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father.
May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation,
Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me,
Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them,
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness,
Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me!"
Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old man
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure.
Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly
With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents,
Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them.
Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper.
Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts high and holy,
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness.
"On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard!
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely,
Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is accomplished,
Warm is the heart;—I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven.
What I began accomplish I now; what failing therein is
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father.
Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven,
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement?
What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often.
Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token,
Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the beginning
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the
Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atonement.
Infinite is the fall,—the Atonement infinite likewise.
See! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward,
Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions,
Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals.
Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms
Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels,
Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp's strings,
Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger.
Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement,
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent.
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her.
Downward to earth he came and, transfigured, thence reascended,
Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit,
Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement.
Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token.
Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting
Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision.
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed
Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended,
Penitence wee ping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows
Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement
Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup.
But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom,
Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body,
And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh
Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father!
Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?"
Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children,
"Yes!" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications,
Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem:
"O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions,
Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us!"
Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids,
Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols.
Oh, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday,
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the church yard
Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver
But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a
Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members.
Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it
Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there
Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer.
Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds
Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple.
Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces,
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings,
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses.

KING CHRISTIAN

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK

King Christian stood by the lofty mast
In mist and smoke;
His sword was hammering so fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,
In mist and smoke.
"Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can!
Who braves of Denmark's Christian
The stroke?"

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar,
Now is the hour!
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,
And smote upon the foe full sore,
And shouted Loud, through the tempest's roar,
"Now is the hour!"
"Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly!
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy
The power?"

North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent
Thy murky sky!
Then champions to thine arms were sent;
Terror and Death glared where he went;
From the waves was heard a wail, that
rent
Thy murky sky!
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol',
Let each to Heaven commend his soul,
And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might!
Dark-rolling wave!
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might
Dark-rolling wave!
And amid pleasures and alarm;
And war and victory, be thine arms
My grave!

---

THE ELECTED KNIGHT

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain,
Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide,
But never, ah never can meet with the man
A tilt with him dare ride.

He saw under the hillside
A Knight full well equipped;
His steed was black, his helm was barred;
He was riding at full speed.

He wore upon his spurs
Twelve little golden birds;
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang,
And there sat all the birds and sang.

He wore upon his mail
Twelve little golden wheels;
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew,
And round and round the wheels they flew.

He wore before his breast
A lance that was poised in rest;
And it was sharper than diamond-stone,
It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan.

He wore upon his helm
A wreath of ruddy gold;
And that gave him the Maidens Three,
The youngest was fair to behold.

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon
If he were come from heaven down;
"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he,
"So will I yield me unto thee."

"I am not Christ the Great,
Thou shalt not yield thee yet;
I am an Unknown Knight,
Three modest Maidens have me bedight."

"Art thou a Knight elected,
And have three Maidens thee bedight
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day,
For all the Maidens' honor!"

The first tilt they together rode
They put their steeds to the test,
The second tilt they together rode,
They proved their manhood best.

The third tilt they together rode,
Neither of them would yield;
The fourth tilt they together rode,
They both fell on the field.

Now lie the lords upon the plain,
And their blood runs unto death;
Now sit the Maidens in the high tower,
The youngest sorrows till death.

---

CHILDHOOD

BY JENS IMMANUEL BAGGESEN

There was a time when I was very small,
When my whole frame was but an ell in height;
Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall,
And therefore I recall it with delight.

I sported in my tender mother's arms,
And rode a-horseback on best father's knee;
Alike were sorrows, passions and alarms,
And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me,

Then seemed to me this world far less in size,
Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far;
Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise,
And longed for wings that I might catch a star.

I saw the moon behind the island fade,
And thought, "Oh, were I on that island there,
I could find out of what the moon is made,
Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!"

Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western skies,
Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night,
And yet upon the morrow early rise,
And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light;

And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father,
Who made me, and that lovely sun on high,
And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung together,
Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all the sky.

With childish reverence, my young lips did say
The prayer my pious mother taught to me:
"O gentle God! oh, let me strive alway
Still to be wise, and good, and follow Thee!"

So prayed I for my father and my mother,
And for my sister, and for all the town;
The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother,
Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and down.

They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished,
And all the gladness, all the peace I knew!
Now have I but their memory, fondly cherished;—
God! may I never lose that too!

---

FROM THE GERMAN

THE HAPPIEST LAND

There sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups,
Around the rustic board
Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.

But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
"Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare
With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there.

"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,
And dashed his heard with wine;
"I had rather live in Laplaud,
Than that Swabian land of thine!

"The goodliest land on all this earth,
It is the Saxon land
There have I as many maidens
As fingers on this hand!"

"Hold your tongues! both Swabian
and Saxon!"
A bold Bohemian cries;
"If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies.

"There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, "Ye may no more contend,—
There lies the happiest land!"

---

THE WAVE

BY CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE

"Whither, thou turbid wave?
Whither, with so much haste,
As if a thief wert thou?"
"I am the Wave of Life,
Stained with my margin's dust;
From the struggle and the strife
Of the narrow stream I fly
To the Sea's immensity,
To wash from me the slime
Of the muddy banks of Time."

---

THE DEAD

BY ERNST STOCKMANN

How they so softly rest,
All they the holy ones,
Unto whose dwelling-place
Now doth my soul draw near!
How they so softly rest,
All in their silent graves,
Deep to corruption
Slowly don-sinking!
And they no longer weep,
Here, where complaint is still!
And they no longer feel,
Here, where all gladness flies!
And, by the cypresses
Softly o'ershadowed
Until the Angel
Calls them, they slumber!

---

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP

BY WILHELM MULLER

"The rivers rush into the sea,
By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily
Their noisy trumpets blow.
"The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play;
And everything, that can sing and fly,
Goes with us, and far away.
"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither,
or whence,
With thy fluttering golden band?"—
"I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea
I haste from the narrow land.
"Full and swollen is every sail;
I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,
And it will not let me stand still.
"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?
Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house
With merry companions all."—
"I need not and seek not company,
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

"High over the sails, high over the mast,
Who shall gainsay these joys?
When thy merry companions are still, at last,
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.
"Who neither may rest, nor listen may,
God bless them every one!
I dart away, in the bright blue day,
And the golden fields of the sun.

"Thus do I sing my merry song,
Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,
Neither Poet nor Printer may know.'

---

WHITHER?

BY WILHELM MULLER

I heard a brooklet gushing
From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,
So fresh and wondrous clear.
I know not what came o'er me,
Nor who the counsel gave;
But I must hasten downward,
All with my pilgrim-stave;

Downward, and ever farther,
And ever the brook beside;
And ever fresher murmured,
And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O brooklet, say I
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur?
That can no murmur be;
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing
Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,
And wander merrily near;
The wheels of a mill are going
In every brooklet clear.

---

BEWARE!

(HUT DU DICH!)

I know a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown,
Take care!
She gives a side-glance and looks down,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue,
Take care!
And what she says, it is not true,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She has a bosom as white as snow,
Take care!
She knows how much it is best to show,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair,
Take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

---

SONG OF THE BELL

Bell! thou soundest merrily,
When the bridal party
To the church doth hie!
Bell! thou soundest solemnly.
When, on Sabbath morning,
Fields deserted lie!

Bell! thou soundest merrily;
Tellest thou at evening,
Bed-time draweth nigh!
Bell! thou soundest mournfully.
Tellest thou the bitter
Parting hath gone by!

Say! how canst thou mourn?
How canst thou rejoice?
Thou art but metal dull!
And yet all our sorrowings,
And all our rejoicings,
Thou dost feel them all!

God hath wonders many,
Which we cannot fathom,
Placed within thy form!
When the heart is sinking,
Thou alone canst raise it,
Trembling in the storm!

---

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA

BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND

"Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That Castle by the Sea?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.
"And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow."
"Well have I seen that castle,
That Castle by the Sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly."
"The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry chime?
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?"
"The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly,
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye."
"And sawest thou on the turrets
The King and his royal bride?
And the wave of their crimson mantles?
And the golden crown of pride?
"Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there?
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?"
"Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe,
No maiden was by their side!"

---

THE BLACK KNIGHT

BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND

'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness.
Thus began the King and spake:
"So from the halls
Of ancient hofburg's walls,
A luxuriant Spring shall break."

Drums and trumpets echo loudly,
Wave the crimson banners proudly,
From balcony the King looked on;
In the play of spears,
Fell all the cavaliers,
Before the monarch's stalwart son.

To the barrier of the fight
Rode at last a sable Knight.
"Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!"
"Should I speak it here,
Ye would stand aghast with fear;
I am a Prince of mighty sway!"

When he rode into the lists,
The arch of heaven grew black with mists,
And the castle 'gan to rock;
At the first blow,
Fell the youth from saddle-bow,
Hardly rises from the shock.

Pipe and viol call the dances,
Torch-light through the high halls glances;
Waves a mighty shadow in;
With manner bland
Doth ask the maiden's hand,
Doth with her the dance begin.

Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around;
From breast and hair
Down fall from her the fair
Flowerets, faded, to the ground.

To the sumptuous banquet came
Every Knight and every Dame,
'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,
With mournful mind
The ancient King reclined,
Gazed at them in silent thought.

Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took:
"Golden wine will make you whole!"
The children drank,
Gave many a courteous thank:
"O, that draught was very cool!"

Each the father's breast embraces,
Son and daughter; and their faces
Colorless grow utterly;
Whichever way
Looks the fear-struck father gray,
He beholds his children die.

"Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth;
Take me, too, the joyless father!"
Spake the grim Guest,
From his hollow, cavernous breast;
"Roses in the spring I gather!"

---

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND

BY JOHAN GAUDENZ VON SALISSEEWIS

Into the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand To the land of the great Departed, Into the Silent Land!

---

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL

BY JOHAN LUDWIG UHLAND

OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; He rises at the banquet board, And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!"

The butler hears the words with pain, The house's oldest seneschal, Takes slow from its silken cloth again The drinking-glass of crystal tall; They call it The Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!" The graybeard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light: "This glass of flashing crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!

"'T was right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! Deep draughts drink we right willingly: And willingly ring, with merry call, Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!"

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Like to the song of a nightingale Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

"For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; King! klang!—with a harder blow than all Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!"

As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift, the wild flames start; The guests in dust are scattered all, With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword; He in the night had scaled the wall, Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The graybeard in the desert hall, He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!"

---

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR

BY GUSTAV PFIZER

A youth, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent
And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,—away!
Too long did it remain!
So long, that both by night and day
It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;
To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;
Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,
I bathe mine eyes and see;
And wander through the world once more,
A youth so light and free.

Two locks—and they are wondrous fair—
Left me that vision mild;
The brown is from the mother's hair,
The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red;
And when the dark lock I behold,
I wish that I were dead.

---

THE HEMLOCK TREE.

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!
Green not alone in summer time,
But in the winter's frost and rime!
O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!
To love me in prosperity,
And leave me in adversity!
O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!
So long as summer laughs she sings,
But in the autumn spreads her wings.
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!
It flows so long as falls the rain,
In drought its springs soon dry again.
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!

---

ANNIE OF THARAW

BY SIMON DACH

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,—

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,—

Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes,

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

---

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR

BY JULIUS MOSEN

Forms of saints and kings are standing
The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them
Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,—wound about him,
As their robes the sowers wind,—
Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike,
High in wind and tempest wild;
O, were I like him exalted,
I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,—green leaves and blossoms,—
To the doors of heaven would hear,
Calling even in storm and tempest,
Round me still these birds of air.

---

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL

BY JULIUS MOSEN

On the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,
Sees he how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 't would free the Saviour,
Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness:
"Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear, as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

---

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS

BY HEINRICH HEINE

The sea hath its pearls,
The heaven hath its stars;
But my heart, my heart,
My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea and the heaven;
Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls and stars
Flashes and beams my love.

Thou little, youthful maiden,
Come unto my great heart;
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven
Are melting away with love!

---

POETIC APHORISMS

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU

MONEY

Whereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care, Who once has had it has despair.

THE BEST MEDICINES

Joy and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor's nose.

SIN

Man-like is it to fall into sin, Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, God-like is it all sin to leave.

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.

LAW OF LIFE

Live I, so live I, To my Lord heartily, To my Prince faithfully, To my Neighbor honestly. Die I, so die I.

CREEDS

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.

THE RESTLESS HEART

A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round; If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

CHRISTIAN LOVE

Whilom Love was like a tire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.

ART AND TACT

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

RETRIBUTION

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

TRUTH

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.

RHYMES

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' ears, They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.

---

SILENT LOVE

Who love would seek,
Let him love evermore
And seldom speak;
For in love's domain
Silence must reign;
Or it brings the heart
Smart
And pain.

---

BLESSED ARE THE DEAD

BY SIMON DACH

Oh, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended! Ye have arisen From the cares which keep us still in prison.

We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Our undertakings Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.

Ye meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; No cross nor trial Hinders your enjoyments with denial.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; Ye have that for which we still endeavor. To you are chanted Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.

Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? Who here would languish Longer in bewailing and in anguish?

Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! With Thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.

---

WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS

BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE