POLONIA. To Thee, O Lord, my spirit climbs,
To Thee from every lonely hill
I burn to sacrifice my will
A thousand and a thousand times.
And such my boundless love to Thee
I wish each will of mine a living soul could be.
Would that my love I could have shown,
By leaving for Thy sake, instead
Of that poor crown that press'd my head,
Some proud, imperial crown and throne —
Some empire which the sun surveys
Through all its daily course and gilds with constant rays.
This lowly grot, 'neath rocks uphurled,
In which I dwell, though poor and small,
A spur of that stupendous wall,
The eighth great wonder of the world,
Doth in its little space excel
The grandest palace where a king doth dwell.
Far better on some natural lawn
To see the morn its gems bestrew,
Or watch it weeping pearls of dew
Within the white arms of the dawn;
Or view, before the sun, the stars
Drive o'er the brightening plain their swiftly-fading cars.
Far better in the mighty main,
As night comes on, and clouds grow grey,
To see the golden coach of day
Drive down amid the waves of Spain.
But be it dark, or be it bright,
O Lord! I praise Thy name by day and night.
Than to endure the inner strife,
The specious glare, but real weight
Of pomp, and power, and pride, and state,
And all the vanities of life;
How would we shudder could we deem
That life itself, in truth, is but a fleeting dream.
* * * * *
SCENE VII.
LUIS. — POLONIA.
LUIS [aside]. True to my purpose on I go,
With footsteps firm and bosom brave,
Seeking for that mysterious cave
Wherein the pitying heavens will show
How I salvation there may gain,
By bearing in this life the Purgatorial pain.
[To POLONIA.
Tell me, O holy woman! thou
Who in these wilds a home hast found,
A dweller in this mountain ground
Obedient to some sacred vow,
Which is the road to Patrick's cave,
Where penitential man his soul in life may save?