Mosada: A dramatic poem

by W. B. Yeats

[Ebremar enters—they all bow to him.]

First Inquisitor. My suit to you—

Ebremar. I will not hear; the Moorish girl must die.
I will burn heresy from this mad earth,
And—

First Inquisitor. Mercy is the manna of the world.

Ebremar. The wages of sin is death.

Second Monk.No use.

First Inquisitor. My lord, if it must be, I pray descend
Yourself into the dungeon 'neath our feet
And importune with weighty words this Moor,
That she foreswear her heresies and save
Her soul from seas of endless flame in hell.

Ebremar. I speak alone with servants of the Cross
And dying men—and yet—but no, farewell.

Second Monk. No use.

Ebremar. Away! [They go.] Hear oh! thou enduring God,
Who giveth to the golden-crested wren
Her hanging mansion. Give to me, I pray,
The burthen of thy truth. Reach down thy hands
And fill me with thy rage, that I may bruise
The heathen. Yea, and shake the sullen kings
Upon their thrones. The lives of men shall flow
As quiet as the little rivulets
Beneath the sheltering shadow of thy Church,
And thou shalt bend, enduring God, the knees
Of the great warriors whose names have sung
The world to its fierce infancy again.