THE WORKS OF
 
 [BRARY 
 
 fHE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAT [FORMA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD 
 
 FOR THE 
 ENGLISH READING ROOM
 
 PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 
 
 The illustration is from the famous painting by the late Sir 
 Frederick Leighton, President of the Royal Academy 
 
 Andromeda was the beautiful daughter of 
 King Cepheus and Cassiopeia. When her 
 mother boasted that her daughter was more 
 beautiful than the Nereids, the latter prayed 
 Poseidon to revenge the insult. Accordingly, a 
 sea monster appeared, whose wrath could be 
 appeased only by the sacrifice of Andromeda. 
 Andromeda was fastened to a rock near the 
 sea, and left as a prey to the monster ; but 
 Perseus, returning from his victorious battle 
 with Medusa, saw the beautiful victim, slew 
 the monster, and received Andromeda as his 
 reward. 
 
 Poems,
 
 THE BIDEFORD EDITIOl 
 
 NOVELS, POEMS & LETTER 
 OF CHARLES KINGSLEY 
 
 POEM 
 
 BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 THE CO-OPERATIVE 
 PUBLICATION SOCIETY
 
 Copyright, 1899 
 BY J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY
 
 THE NOVELS 
 AND POEMS OF 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY 
 
 Vol. 14
 
 TO MY WIFE
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 THE story which I have here put into a dra- 
 matic form is one familiar to Romanists, 
 and perfectly and circumstantially authenticated. 
 Abridged versions of it, carefully softened and sen- 
 timentalized, may be read in any Romish collection 
 of Lives of the Saints. An enlarged edition has 
 been published in France, I believe by Count 
 Montalembert, and translated, with illustrations, 
 by an English gentleman, which admits certain, 
 miraculous legends, of later date, and, like other 
 prodigies, worthless to the student of human 
 character. From consulting this work I have 
 hitherto abstained, in order that I might draw 
 my facts and opinions, entire and unbiassed, from 
 the original Biography of Elizabeth, by Dietrich 
 of Appold, her contemporary, as given entire by 
 Canisius. 
 
 Dietrich was born in Thuringia, near the scene of 
 Elizabeth's labors, a few years before her death ; 
 had conversed with those who had seen her, and 
 calls to witness " God and the elect angels," that he 
 had inserted nothing but what he had either under- 
 stood from religious and veracious persons, or read 
 in approved writings, viz. " The Book of the Say- 
 ings of Elizabeth 's Four Ladies (Guta, hentrudis*
 
 xii Introductory 
 
 and two others)" ; " The Letter which Conrad of 
 Marpurg, her Director, wrote to Pope Gregory the 
 Ninth " (these two documents still exist) ; " The 
 Sermon of Otto" (de Ordine Pradic.}, which be- 
 gins thus : " Mulierem fortem." 
 
 " Not satisfied with these," he " visited monaster- 
 ies, castles, and towns, interrogated the most aged 
 and veracious persons, and wrote letters, seeking 
 for completeness and truth in all things; " and 
 thus composed his biography, from which that in 
 Surius (Acta Sanctorum), Jacobus de Voragine, 
 Alban Butler, and all others which I have seen, 
 are copied with a very few additions and many 
 prudent omissions. 
 
 Wishing to adhere strictly to historical truth, I 
 have followed the received account, not only in 
 the incidents, but often in the language which it 
 attributes to its various characters ; and have given 
 in the Notes all necessary references to the biog- 
 raphy in Canisius' collection. My part has there- 
 fore been merely to show how the conduct of my 
 heroine was not only possible, but to a certain de- 
 gree necessary, for a character of earnestness and 
 piety such as hers, working under the influences 
 of the Middle Age. 
 
 In deducing fairly, from the phenomena of her 
 life, the character of Elizabeth, she necessarily be- 
 came a type of two great mental struggles of the 
 Middle Age; first, of that between Scriptural or 
 unconscious, and popish or conscious, purity: in 
 a word, between innocence and prudery ; next, of 
 the struggle between healthy human affection, and
 
 Introductory xiii 
 
 the Manichean contempt with which a celibate 
 clergy would have all men regard the names of 
 husband, wife, and parent. To exhibit this latter 
 falsehood in its miserable consequences, when re- 
 ceived into a heart of insight and determination 
 sufficient to follow out all belief to its ultimate 
 practice, is the main object of my Poem. That a 
 most degrading and agonizing contradiction on 
 these points must have existed in the mind of 
 Elizabeth, and of all who with similar characters 
 shall have found themselves under similar influ- 
 ences, is a necessity that must be evident to all 
 who know anything of the deeper affections of 
 men. In the idea of a married Romish saint, these 
 miseries should follow logically from the Romish 
 view of human relations. In Elizabeth's case their 
 existence is proved equally logically from the 
 acknowledged facts of her conduct. 
 
 I may here observe, that if I have in no case 
 made her allude to the Virgin Mary, 'and ex- 
 hibited the sense of infinite duty and loyalty to 
 Christ alone, as the mainspring of all her noblest 
 deeds, it is merely in accordance with Dietrich's 
 biography. The omission of all Mariolatry is 
 remarkable. My business is to copy that omis- 
 sion, as I should in the opposite case have copied 
 the introduction of Virgin-worship into the origi- 
 nal tale. The business of those who make Mary, 
 to women especially, the complete substitute for 
 the Saviour I had almost said, for all Three 
 Persons of the Trinity is to explain, if they 
 can, her non-appearance in this case.
 
 xiv Introductory 
 
 Lewis, again, I have drawn as I found him, pos- 
 sessed of all virtues but those of action ; in knowl- 
 edge, in moral courage, in spiritual attainment, 
 infinitely inferior to his wife, and depending on 
 her to be taught to pray ; giving her higher facul- 
 ties nothing to rest on in himself, and leaving the 
 noblest offices of a husband to be supplied by 
 a spiritual director. He thus becomes a type of 
 the husbands of the Middle Age, and of the wo- 
 man-worship of chivalry. Woman-worship, " the 
 honor due to the weaker vessel," is indeed of God, 
 and woe to the nation and to the man in whom it 
 dies. But in the Middle Age, this feeling had no 
 religious root, by which it could connect itself 
 rationally, either with actual wedlock or with the 
 noble yearnings of men's spirits, and it. therefore 
 could not but die down into a semi-sensual dream 
 of female-saint-worship, or fantastic idolatry of 
 mere physical beauty, leaving the women them- 
 selves an easy prey to the intellectual allurements 
 of the more educated and subtle priesthood. 
 
 In Conrad's case, again, I have fancied that I 
 discover in the various notices of his life a noble 
 nature warped and blinded by its unnatural exclu- 
 sions from those family ties through which, we first 
 discern or describe God and our relations to Him, 
 and forced to concentrate his whole faculties in, 
 the service, not so much of a God of Truth as of a 
 Catholic system. In his character will be found, I 
 hope, some implicit apology for the failings of 
 such truly great men as Dunstan, Becket, and 
 Dominic, and of many more whom, if we hate,
 
 Introductory xv 
 
 we shall never understand, while we shall be but 
 too likely, in our own way, to copy them. 
 
 Walter of Varila, a more fictitious character, rep- 
 resents the " healthy animalism " of the Teutonic 
 mind, with its mixture of deep earnestness and 
 hearty merriment. His dislike of priestly senti- 
 mentalities is no anachronism. Even in his day, 
 a noble lay-religion, founded on faith in the divine 
 and universal symbolism of humanity and nature, 
 was gradually arising, and venting itself, from time 
 to time, as I conceive, through many most unsus- 
 pected channels, through chivalry, through the 
 minnesingers, through the lay inventors, or 
 rather importers, of pointed architecture, through 
 the German school of painting, through the poli- 
 tics of the free towns, till it attained complete 
 freedom in Luther and his associate reformers. 
 
 For my fantastic quotations of Scripture, if they 
 shall be deemed irreverent, I can only say, that 
 they were the fashion of the time, from prince to 
 peasant that there is scarcely one of them with 
 which I have not actually met in the writings of 
 the period that those writings abound with mis- 
 use of Scripture, far more coarse, arbitrary, and 
 ridiculous, than any which I have dared to insert 
 that I had no right to omit so radical a charac- 
 teristic of the Middle Age. 
 
 For the more coarse and homely passages with 
 which the drama is interspersed, I must make the 
 same apology. I put them there because they 
 were there because the Middle Age was, in the 
 gross, a coarse, barbarous, and profligate age
 
 xvi Introductory 
 
 because it was necessary, in order to bring out 
 fairly the beauty of the central character, to show 
 " the crooked and perverse generation " in which 
 she was " a child of God without rebuke." It was, 
 in fact, the very ferocity and foulness of the time 
 which, by a natural revulsion, called forth at the 
 same time the Apostolic holiness and the Man- 
 ichean asceticism of the Mediaeval Saints. The 
 world was so bad that, to be Saints at all, they 
 were compelled to go out of the world. It was 
 necessary, moreover, in depicting the poor man's 
 patroness, to show the material on which she 
 worked; and those who know the poor, know 
 also that we can no more judge truly of their 
 characters in the presence of their benefactors, 
 than we can tell by seeing clay in the potter's 
 hands what it was in its native pit. These scenes 
 have, therefore, been laid principally in Elizabeth's 
 absence, in order to preserve their only use and 
 meaning. 
 
 So rough and common a life-picture of the 
 Middle Age will, I am afraid, whether faithful or 
 not, be far from acceptable to those who take their 
 notions of that period principally from such exqui- 
 site dreams as the fictions of Fouqu, and of cer- 
 tain moderns whose graceful minds, like some 
 enchanted well, 
 
 In whose calm depths the pure and beautiful 
 Alone are mirrored, 
 
 are, on account of their very sweetness and sim- 
 plicity, singularly unfitted to convey any true like
 
 Introductory xvii 
 
 ness of the coarse and stormy Middle Age. I have 
 been already accused, by others than Romanists, 
 of profaning this whole subject i.e. of telling the 
 whole truth, pleasant or not, about it. But really, 
 time enough has been lost in ignorant abuse of 
 that period, and time enough also, lately, in blind 
 adoration of it. When shall we learn to see it as 
 it was ? the dawning manhood of Europe rich 
 with all the tenderness, the simplicity, the enthu- 
 siasm of youth but also darkened, alas! with its 
 full share of youth's precipitance and extravagance, 
 fierce passions and blind self-will its virtues and 
 its vices colossal, and, for that very reason, always 
 haunted by the twin-imp of the colossal the 
 caricatured. 
 
 Lastly, the many miraculous stories which the 
 biographer of Elizabeth relates of her I had no 
 right, for the sake of truth, to interweave in the 
 plot, while it was necessary to indicate at least 
 their existence. I have, therefore, put such of 
 them as seemed least absurd into the mouth of 
 Conrad, to whom, in fact, they owe their original 
 publication, and have done so, as I hope, not 
 without a just ethical purpose. 
 
 Such was my idea: of the inconsistencies and 
 shortcomings of this its realization, no one can 
 ever be so painfully sensible as I am already my- 
 self. If, however, this book shall cause one 
 Englishman honestly to ask himself, "I, as a 
 Protestant, have been accustomed to assert the 
 purity and dignity of the offices of husband, wife, 
 and parent. Have I ever examined the grounds
 
 xviii Introductory 
 
 of my own assertion? Do I believe them to be as 
 callings from God, spiritual, sacramental, divine, 
 eternal? Or am I at heart regarding and using 
 them, like the Papist, merely as heaven's indul- 
 gences to the infirmities of fallen man?" then 
 will my book have done its work. 
 
 If, again, it shall deter one young man from 
 the example of those miserable dilettanti, who 
 in books and sermons are whimpering meagre 
 second-hand praises of celibacy depreciating as 
 carnal and degrading those family ties to which 
 they owe their own existence, and in the enjoy- 
 ment of which they themselves all the while un- 
 blushingly indulge insulting thus their own 
 wives and mothers nibbling ignorantly at the 
 very root of that household purity which consti- 
 tutes the distinctive superiority of Protestant over 
 Popish nations again my book will have done 
 its work. 
 
 If, lastly, it shall awaken one pious Protestant to 
 recognize, in some, at least, of the Saints of the 
 Middle Age, beings not only of the same passions, 
 but of the same Lord, the same faith, the same 
 baptism, as themselves, Protestants, not the less 
 deep and true, because utterly unconscious and 
 practical mighty witnesses against the two anti- 
 christs of their age the tyranny of feudal caste, 
 and the phantoms which Popery substitutes for 
 the living Christ then also will my little book 
 indeed have done its work. 
 
 C.K. 
 1848.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGM 
 
 1847. THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY i 
 
 NOTES 173 
 
 1852. ANDROMEDA 193 
 
 1835. HYPOTHESES HYPOCHONDRIACS 221 
 
 " TREHILL WELL 224 
 
 1839. IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL 226 
 
 " THE WEIRD LADY 227 
 
 1841. PALINODIA . . . 229 
 
 1842. A HOPE 231 
 
 1845. THE POETRY OF A ROOT CROP 232 
 
 " CHILD BALLAD 233 
 
 1847. AIRLY BEACON 234 
 
 " SAPPHO 235 
 
 " THE YOUNG KNIGHT 37 
 
 " A NEW FOREST BALLAD 239 
 
 " THE RED KING 242 
 
 w THE OUTLAW 245 
 
 " SING HEIGH-HO! 248 
 
 1848. THE BAD SQUIRE 249 
 
 " SCOTCH SONG S3 
 
 " A MARCH 254
 
 xx Contents 
 
 1848. THE NIGHT BIRD 255 
 
 " THE DEAD CHURCH .256 
 
 " A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG 257 
 
 44 OLD AND NEW 258 
 
 44 THE WATCHMAN 259 
 
 44 THE WORLD'S AGE 260 
 
 44 MY HUNTING SONG 261 
 
 44 ALTON LOCKE'S SONG 262 
 
 44 THE DAY OF THE LORD 263 
 
 44 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 265 
 
 44 OLD SAWS NEW SET 267 
 
 " A GREEK FABLE TO AN ENGLISH MORAL ... 267 
 
 44 ENGLAND FOR THE ENGLISH 269 
 
 1849. A LAMENT 271 
 
 44 THE STARLINGS 272 
 
 41 THE SANDS OF DEE 273 
 
 44 THE TIDE ROCK 274 
 
 44 ELEGIACS 275 
 
 44 DARTSIDE 277 
 
 " SONNET , 278 
 
 1851. THE THREE FISHERS 279 
 
 " MARGARET TO DOLCINO 281 
 
 44 DOLCINO TO MARGARET 282 
 
 44 THE UGLY PRINCESS 283 
 
 44 SONNET 284 
 
 44 THE SWAN-NECK 285 
 
 1852. A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE 287 
 
 44 THE LONGBEARDS' SAGA. A. D. 400 288
 
 Contents xxi 
 
 PACK 
 
 1852. SAINT MAURA. A. D 304 293 
 
 " ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL ... 302 
 
 M HEXAMETERS 304 
 
 1853. THE OUBIT 305 
 
 " To Miss MITFORD 306 
 
 1854. BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER .... 307 
 
 " FRANK LEIGH'S SONG. A. D. 1586 309 
 
 " ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND 310 
 
 1856. A FAREWELL 313 
 
 To G. A. G * 314 
 
 " THE SOUTH WIND . . . " 315 
 
 " THE INVITATION 316 
 
 " Go HARK! 320 
 
 " FISHING SONG 321 
 
 1857. THE LAST BUCCANEER 322 
 
 " THE KNIGHT'S RETURN 325 
 
 " PEN-Y-GWRYDD , . 326 
 
 1862. ODE 328 
 
 44 SONGS FROM THE WATER-BABIES 
 THE TIDE RIVER 
 
 YOUNG AND OLD 
 
 333 
 334 
 
 THE SUMMER SEA 335 
 
 MY LITTLE DOLL 
 THE KNIGHT'S LEAP 
 
 335 
 337 
 
 " THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG. A. D. 395 . 339 
 
 1865. ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BEL- 
 
 GIANS 345 
 
 1866. MARTIN LIGHTFOOT'S SONG 347 
 
 2
 
 xxii Contents 
 
 MM 
 
 1867 EASTER WEEK 349 
 
 " DRIFTING AWAY 350 
 
 1868. CHRISTMAS DAY 351 
 
 1870. SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 355 
 
 " THE MANGO-TREE 356 
 
 " THE PRIEST'S HEART 358 
 
 " "QU'EST-CE QU'IL DIT" 360 
 
 THE LEGEND OF LA BREA . , 361 
 
 1871. HYMN 368 
 
 1872. THE DELECTABLE DAY .......... 370 
 
 " JUVENTUS MUNDI 371 
 
 1873. VALENTINE'S DAY 374 
 
 1874. BALLAD 375
 
 POEMS
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 ELIZABETH, daughter of the King of Hungary. 
 
 LEWIS, Landgrave of Thuringia, betrothed to her in 
 
 childhood. 
 
 HENRY, brother of Lewis. 
 WALTER of Varila, 
 RUDOLF the Cupbearer, 
 
 LEUTOLF of ' Erlstetten, 
 
 Vassals of Lewis. 
 
 HARTWIG of Erba, 
 
 COUNT HUGO, 
 
 COUNT OF SAYM, etc. 
 
 CONRAD of Marpurg, a Monk, the Pope's Commissioner for 
 
 the suppression of heresy. 
 GERARD, his Chaplain. 
 
 BISHOP OF BAMBERG, uncle of Elizabeth, etc. etc. 
 SOPHIA, Dowager Landgravine. 
 AGNES, her daughter, sister' of Lewis. 
 ISENTRUDIS, Elizabeth's nurse. 
 GUTA, her favorite maiden. 
 
 Etc. etc. etc. 
 
 The Scene lies principally in Eisenach, and the Wart- 
 burg; changing afterwards to Bamberg, and finally to 
 Marpurg.
 
 PROEM 
 
 (EPIMETHEUS) 
 
 WAKE again, Teutonic Father-ages, 
 Speak again, beloved primaeval creeds; 
 
 Flash ancestral spirit from your pages, 
 Wake the greedy age to noble deeds. 
 
 II 
 Tell us, how of old our saintly mothers 
 
 Schooled themselves by vigil, fast, and prayer; 
 Learnt to love as Jesus loved before them, 
 
 While they bore the cross which poor men bear. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Tell us how our stout crusading fathers 
 
 Fought and died for God, and not for gold; 
 
 Let their love, their faith, their boyish daring, 
 Distance-mellowed, gild the days of old. 
 
 IV 
 
 Tell us how the sexless workers, thronging, 
 Angel-tended, round the convent doors, 
 
 Wrought to Christian faith and holy order 
 Savage hearts alike and barren moors. 
 
 Ye who built the churches where we worship, 
 Ye who framed the laws by which we move, 
 
 Fathers, long belied, and long forsaken, 
 Oh ! forgive the children of your love !
 
 xxviii Proem 
 
 (PROMETHEUS) 
 
 i 
 Speak ! but ask us not to be as ye were ! 
 
 All but God is changing day by day. 
 He who breathes on man the plastic spirit 
 
 Bids us mould ourselves its robe of clay. 
 
 II 
 Old anarchic floods of revolution, 
 
 Drowning ill and good alike in night, 
 Sink, and bare the wrecks of ancient labor, 
 
 Fossil-teeming, to the searching light. 
 
 in 
 
 There will we find laws, which shall interpret, 
 Through the simpler past, existing life ; 
 
 Delving up from mines and fairy caverns 
 Charmed blades, to cut the age's strife. 
 
 IV 
 
 What though fogs may stream from draining 
 
 waters ? 
 
 We will till the clays to mellow loam ; 
 Wake the graveyard of our fathers' spirits ; 
 
 Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade and 
 bloom. 
 
 v 
 Old decays but foster new creations ; 
 
 Bones and ashes feed the golden corn ; 
 Fresh elixirs wander every moment, 
 
 Down the veins through which the live past 
 feeds its child, the live unborn.
 
 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY 
 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE I. A.D. 1220 
 
 The Doorway of a closed Chapel in the Wartburg. 
 ELIZABETH sitting on the Steps. 
 
 Eliz. BABY JESUS, who dost lie 
 Far above that stormy sky, 
 In Thy mother's pure caress, 
 Stoop and save the motherless. 
 
 Happy birds ! whom Jesus leaves 
 Underneath His sheltering eaves; 
 There they go to play and sleep, 
 May not I go in to weep? 
 
 All without is mean and small, 
 All within is vast and tall ; 
 All without is harsh and shrill, 
 All within is hushed and still. 
 
 Jesus, let me enter in, 
 Wrap me safe from noise and sin. 
 Let me list the angels' songs, 
 See the picture of Thy wrongs ; 
 
 B Vol. H
 
 2 The Saint's Tragedy [Act 1 
 
 Let me kiss Thy wounded feet, 
 Drink Thine incense, faint and sweet, 
 While the clear bells call Thee down 
 From Thine everlasting throne. 
 
 At Thy doorstep low I bend, 
 Who have neither kin nor friend ; 
 Let me here a shelter find, 
 Shield the shorn lamb from the wind. 
 
 Jesu, Lord, my heart will break : 
 Save me for Thy great love's sake ! 
 
 Enter ISENTRUDIS. 
 
 hen. Aha! I had missed my little bird from 
 
 the nest, 
 
 And judged that she was here. What's this? 
 fie, tears? 
 
 Eliz. Go ! you despise me like the rest. 
 
 hen. Despise you? 
 
 What's here? King Andrew's child? St. John's 
 
 sworn maid? 
 
 Who dares despise you? Out upon these Saxons ! 
 They sang another note when I was younger, 
 When from the rich East came my queenly pearl, 
 Lapt on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroes 
 Rode by her side, and far behind us stretched 
 The barbs and sumpter mules, a royal train, 
 Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems, 
 Wedges of gold, and furniture of silver, 
 Fit for my princess. 
 
 Eliz. Hush now, I Ve heard all, nurse, 
 
 A thousand times. 
 
 hen. Oh, how their hungry mouths 
 
 Did water at the booty ! Such a prize,
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 3 
 
 Since the three Kings came wandering into Coin, 
 They ne'er saw, nor their fathers ; well they 
 
 knew it ! 
 
 Oh, how they fawned on us ! " Great Isentrudis ! " 
 " Sweet ^babe ! " The Landgravine did thank her 
 
 saints 
 
 As if you, or your silks, had fallen from heaven ; 
 And now she wears your furs, and calls us gipsies. 
 Come tell your nurse your griefs; we'll weep 
 
 together, 
 Strangers in this strange land. 
 
 Eliz. I am most friendless. 
 
 The Landgravine and Agnes you may see them 
 Begrudge the food I eat, and call me friend 
 Of knaves and serving-maids ; the burly knights 
 Freeze me with cold blue eye : no saucy page 
 But points and whispers, " There goes our pet nun ; 
 Would but her saintship leave her gold behind, 
 We'd give herself her furlough." Save me ! save me ! 
 All here are ghastly dreams ; dead masks of stone, 
 And you and I, and Guta, only live : 
 Your eyes alone have souls. I shall go mad ! 
 Oh ! that they would but leave me all alone, 
 To teach poor girls, and work within my chamber, 
 With mine own thoughts, and all the gentle angels 
 Which glance about my dreams at morning-tide ; 
 Then I should be as happy as the birds 
 Which sing at my bower window. Once I longed 
 To be beloved, now would they but forget me ! 
 Most vile I must be, or they could not hate me ! 
 Isen. They are of this world, thou art not, poor 
 
 child 4 
 
 Therefore they hate thee, as they did thy betters. 
 Eliz. But, Lewis, nurse? 
 Isen. He, child? he is thy knight;
 
 4 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Espoused from childhood : thou hast a claim upon 
 
 him. 
 
 One that thou 'It need, alas ! though, I remem- 
 ber 
 
 'T is fifteen years agone when in one cradle 
 We laid two fair babes for a marriage token ; 
 And when your lips met, then you smiled, and 
 
 twined 
 
 Your little limbs together. Pray the Saints 
 That token stand ! He calls thee love and sister, 
 And brings thee gew-gaws from the wars : that 's 
 
 much ! 
 At least he 's thine if thou love him. 
 
 Eliz. If I love him? 
 
 What is this love? Why, is he not my brother 
 And I his sister? Till these weary wars, 
 The one of us without the other never 
 Did weep or laugh : what is 't should change us 
 
 now? 
 You shake your head and smile. 
 
 fsen. Go to ; the chafe 
 
 Comes not by wearing chains, but feeling them. 
 Eliz. Alas! here comes a knight across the 
 
 court ; 
 
 O, hide me, nurse ! What 's here? this door is fast. 
 hen. Nay, 't is a friend : he brought my prin- 
 cess hither, 
 
 Walter of Varila ; I feared him once 
 He used to mock our state, and say, good wine 
 Should want no bush, and that the cage was gay, 
 But that the bird must sing before he praised it. 
 Yet he 's a kind heart, while his bitter tongue 
 Awes these court popinjays at times to manners. 
 He will smile sadly too, when he meets my maiden; 
 And once he said, he was your liegeman sworn,
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 5 
 
 Since my lost mistress, weeping, to his charge 
 Trusted the babe she saw no more. God help us ! 
 
 Eliz. How did my mother die, nurse? 
 
 hen. She died, my child. 
 
 Eliz. But how ? Why turn away ? 
 
 Too long I Ve guessed at some dread mystery 
 I may not hear : and in my restless dreams, 
 Night after night, sweeps by a frantic rout 
 Of grinning fiends, fierce horses, bodiless hands, 
 Which clutch at one to whom my spirit yearns 
 As to a mother. There 's some fearful tie 
 Between me and that spirit-world, which God 
 Brands with His terrors on my troubled mind. 
 Speak ! tell me, nurse ! is she in heaven or hell? 
 
 hen. God knows, my child: there are masses 
 
 for her soul 
 Each day in every Zingar minster sung. 
 
 Eliz. But was she holy ? Died she in the Lord ? 
 
 hen. (weeps). Oh, God! my child! And if I 
 
 told thee all, 
 How couldst thou mend it? 
 
 Eliz. Mend it? Oh, my Saviour! 
 
 I 'd die a saint ! 
 Win heaven for her by prayers, and build great 
 
 minsters, 
 
 Chantries, and hospitals for her; wipe out 
 By mighty deeds our race's guilt and shame 
 But thus, poor witless orphan ! ( Weeps.) 
 
 COUNT WALTER enters. 
 
 Wai. Ah ! my princess ! accept your liegeman',, 
 
 knee; 
 Down, down, rheumatic flesh ! 
 
 Eliz. Ah ! Count Walter ! you are too tall to 
 kneel to little girls.
 
 6 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Wai. What? shall two hundredweight of hypoc- 
 risy bow down to his four-inch wooden saint, and 
 the same weight of honesty not worship his four- 
 foot live one? And I have a jest for you, shall 
 make my small queen merry and wise. 
 
 I sen. You shall jest long before she 's merry. 
 
 Wai. Ah ! dowers and dowagers again ! The 
 money root of all evil. 
 
 What comes here? [A Page enters. 
 
 A long-winged grasshopper, all gold, green, and 
 gauze? How these young pea-chicks must needs 
 ape the grown peacock's frippery ! Prithee, now, 
 how many such butterflies as you suck here 
 together on the thistle-head of royalty? 
 
 Page. Some twelve gentlemen of us, Sir 
 apostles of the blind archer, Love owning no 
 divinity but almighty beauty no faith, no hope, 
 no charity, but those which are kindled at her eyes. 
 
 Wai. Saints ! what 's all this ? 
 
 Page. Ah, Sir! none but countrymen swear by 
 the saints nowadays : no oaths but allegorical 
 ones, Sir, at the high table ; as thus, " By the 
 sleeve of beauty, Madam ; " or again, " By Love 
 his martyrdoms, Sir Count ; " or to a potentate, 
 "As Jove's imperial mercy shall hear my vows, 
 High Mightiness." 
 
 Wai. Where did the evil one set you on finding 
 all this heathenry? 
 
 Page. Oh ! we are all barristers of Love's court, 
 Sir; we have Ovid's gay science conned, Sir, ad 
 unguentum, as they say, out of the French book. 
 
 Wai. So? There are those come from Rome 
 then will whip you and Ovid out with the same 
 rod which the dandies of Provence felt lately to 
 their sorrow. Oh ! what blinkards are we gentle-
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 7 
 
 men, to train any dumb beasts more carefully 
 than we do Christians ; that a man shall keep his 
 dog-breakers, and his horse-breakers, and his 
 hawk-breakers, and never hire him a boy-breaker 
 or two ! that we should live without a qualm at 
 dangling such a flock of mimicking parroquets 
 at our heels a while, and then, when they are well 
 infected, well perfumed with the wind of our vices, 
 dropping them off, as tadpoles do their tails, joint 
 by joint into the mud ! to strain at such gnats as 
 an ill-mouthed colt or a riotous puppy, and swal- 
 low that camel of camels, a page ! 
 
 Page. Do you call me a camel, Sir? 
 
 Wai. What 's your business ? 
 
 Page. My errand is to the Princess here. 
 
 Eliz. To me? 
 
 Page. Yes; the Landgravine expects you at 
 high mass; so go in, and mind you clean your- 
 self; for every one is not as fond as you of beg- 
 gars' brats, and what their clothes leave behind 
 them. 
 
 I sen. (strikes him}. Monkey! To whom are 
 you speaking? 
 
 Eliz. Oh, peace, peace, peace ! I '11 go with 
 him. 
 
 Page. Then be quick, my music-master 's wait- 
 ing. Corpo di Bacco ! as if our elders did not 
 teach us to whom we ought to be rude ! 
 
 [Ex. ELIZ. and PAGE. 
 
 Isen. See here, Sir Saxon, how this pearl of 
 
 price 
 
 Is faring in your hands ! The peerless image, 
 To whom this court is but the tawdry frame, 
 The speck of light amid its murky baseness, 
 The salt which keeps it all from rotting, cast
 
 8 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 To be the common fool, the laughing stock 
 For every beardless knave to whet his wit on ! 
 Tar-blooded Germans ! Here 's another of them. 
 
 [A young Knight enters. 
 Knight. Heigh! Count! What? learning to 
 
 sing psalms? They are waiting 
 For you in the manage-school, to give your 
 
 judgment 
 On that new Norman mare. 
 
 Wai. Tell them I 'm busy. 
 
 Knight. Busy? St. Martin ! Knitting stockings, 
 
 eh? 
 
 To clothe the poor withal? Is that your business? 
 I passed that canting baby on the stairs ; 
 Would heaven that she had tripped, and broke 
 
 her goose-neck, 
 And left us heirs de facto. So, farewell. {Exit. 
 
 Wai. A very pretty quarrel ! matter enough 
 To spoil a wagon-load of ash-staves on, 
 And break a dozen fools' backs across their 
 
 cantlets. 
 What's Lewis doing? 
 
 Isen. Oh befooled, 
 
 Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot 
 Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel 
 Sticks at his miry heels. 
 
 Wai. The boy 's no fool, 
 
 As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given 
 To hunt the nearest butterfly, and light 
 The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it 
 
 The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or ' 
 
 Isen. And quickly, for there 's treason in the wind. 
 They '11 keep her dower, and send her home with 
 
 shame 
 Before the year 's out
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 9 
 
 Wai. Humph ! Some are rogues enough for 't. 
 As it falls out, I ride with him to-day. 
 
 hen. Upon what business? 
 
 Wai. Some shaveling has been telling him that 
 there are heretics on his land: Stadings, wor- 
 shippers of black cats, baby-eaters, and such like. 
 He consulted me; I told him it would be time 
 enough to see to the heretics when all the good 
 Christians had been well looked after. I suppose 
 the novelty of the thing smit him, for now nothing 
 will serve but I must ride with him round half a 
 dozen hamlets, where, with God's help, I will show 
 him a man sty or two, that shall astonish his deli- 
 cate chivalry. 
 
 hen. Oh, here 's your time ! Speak to him, noble 
 
 Walter. 
 
 Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace; 
 Prick his dull heart with shame at his own coldness. 
 Oh, right us, Count. 
 
 Wai. I will, I will : go in 
 
 And dry your eyes. \Exeunt separately. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 A Landscape in Thuringia. LEWIS and WALTER 
 riding. 
 
 Lewis. So all these lands are mine; these yel- 
 low meads 
 
 These village greens, and forest-fretted hills, 
 With dizzy castles crowned. Mine ! Why that 
 
 word 
 
 Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt. 
 What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride, 
 Can these things fatten? Mass ! I had forgot:
 
 io The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 I have a right to bark at trespassers. 
 
 Rare privilege ! While every fowl and bush, 
 
 According to its destiny and nature 
 
 (Which were they truly mine, my power could 
 
 alter), 
 
 Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me. 
 Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks 
 The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat, 
 If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows 
 The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds 
 Into an age of sleep, 'twere something : and those 
 
 men 
 O'er whom that one word " ownership " uprears 
 
 me 
 
 If I could make them lift a finger up 
 But of their own free will, I 'd own my seizin. 
 But now when if I sold them, life and limb, 
 There 's not a sow would litter one pig less 
 Than when men called her mine. Possession 's 
 
 naught ; 
 
 A parchment ghost ; a word I am ashamed 
 To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits, 
 And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers, 
 Should mock, and cry, " Vain man, not thine, but 
 
 ours." 
 Wai. Possession's naught? Possession's beef 
 
 and ale 
 Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel. Are 
 
 they naught? 
 
 Possession means to sit astride of the world, 
 Instead of having it astride of you ; 
 Is that naught? 'T is the easiest trade of all too; 
 For he that 's fit for nothing else, is fit 
 To own good land, and on the slowest dolt 
 His state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best.
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 1 
 
 Lewis. How now? What need then of long 
 
 discipline, 
 
 Not to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul ; 
 To courtesies and high self-sacrifice, 
 To order and obedience, and the grace 
 Which makes commands, requests, and service, 
 
 favor ? 
 
 To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turned 
 To that Valhalla, where the virgin saints 
 And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven? 
 Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox 
 To chew the grass cut for me? 
 
 Wai. Why? Because 
 
 I have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler. 
 All callings want their proper 'prentice time 
 But this of ruling; it comes by mother-wit; 
 And if the wit be not exceeding great, 
 'T is best the wit be most exceeding small ; 
 And he that holds the reins should let the horse 
 Range on, feed where he will, live and let live. 
 Custom and selfishness will keep all steady 
 For half a life. Six months before you die 
 You may begin to think of interfering. 
 
 Lewis. Alas ! while each day blackens with 
 
 fresh clouds, 
 
 Complaints of ague, fever, crumbling huts, 
 Of land thrown out to the forest, game and keepers, 
 Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike; 
 Need, greed, stupidity : To clear such ruin 
 Would task the rich prime of some noble hero 
 But can I nothing do? 
 
 Wai. Oh! plenty, Sir; 
 
 Which no man yet has done or e'er will do. 
 It rests with you, whether the priest be honored ; 
 It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly ;
 
 1 2 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn ; 
 It rests with you, whether those toiling peasants 
 Lift to their masters free and loyal eyes, 
 Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves. 
 It rests with you and will rest. 
 
 Lewis. I '11 crowd my court and dais with men 
 
 of God, 
 
 As doth my peerless namesake, King of France. 
 Wai. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two 
 
 counsellors 
 Worth any drove of priests. 
 
 Lewis. And who are they? 
 
 Wai. God and his lady-love, (aside') He '11 
 
 open at that 
 
 Lewis. I could be that man's squire. 
 Wai. (aside ) Again run riot 
 
 Now for another cast, (aloud) If you 'd sleep 
 
 sound, Sir, 
 You '11 let priests pray for you, but school you 
 
 never. 
 
 Lewis. Mass ! who more fitted ? 
 Wai. None, if you could trust them ; 
 
 But they are the people's creatures; poor men 
 
 give them 
 Their power at the church, and take it back at the 
 
 ale-house : 
 
 Then what's the friar to the starving peasant? 
 Just what the abbot is to the greedy noble 
 A scarecrow to lear wolves. Go ask the church- 
 plate, 
 
 Safe in knight's cellars, how these priests are feared. 
 Bruised reeds when you most need them. No, 
 
 my Lord ; 
 Copy them, trust them never. 
 
 Lewis, Copy? wherein?
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 3 
 
 Wai. In letting every man 
 
 Do what he likes, and only seeing he does it 
 As you do your work well. That 's the Church 
 
 secret 
 
 For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer ; 
 Example, but not meddling. See that hollow 
 I knew it once all heath, and deep peat-bog 
 I drowned a black mare in that self-same spot 
 Hunting with your good father : Well, he gave 
 One jovial night, to six poor Erfurt monks 
 Six picked-visaged, wan, bird-fingered wights 
 All in their rough hair shirts, like hedgehogs 
 
 starved 
 I told them, six weeks' work would break their 
 
 hearts : 
 They answered, Christ would help, and Christ's 
 
 great mother, 
 And make them strong when weakest: So they 
 
 settled : 
 And starved and froze. 
 
 Lewis. And dug and built, it 
 
 seems. 
 Wai. Faith, that 's true. See as garden walls 
 
 draw snails, 
 They have drawn a hamlet round ; the slopes are 
 
 blue, 
 Knee-deep with flax, the orchard boughs are 
 
 breaking 
 With strange outlandish fruits. See those young 
 
 rogues 
 Marching to school; no poachers here, Lord 
 
 Landgrave, 
 
 Too much to be done at home ; there 's not a village 
 Of yours, now, thrives like this. By God's good 
 
 help
 
 14 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 These men have made their ownership worth 
 
 something. 
 Here comes one of them. 
 
 Lewis. I would speak to him 
 
 And learn his secret. We '11 await him here. 
 
 Enter CONRAD. 
 
 Con. Peace to you, reverend and war-worn 
 
 knight, 
 
 And you, fair youth, upon whose swarthy lip 
 Blooms the rich promise of a noble manhood. 
 Methinks, if simple monks may read your thoughts, 
 That with no envious or distasteful eyes 
 Ye watch the labors of God's poor elect. 
 
 Wai. Why we were saying, how you cunning 
 
 rooks 
 Pitch as by instinct on the fattest fallows. 
 
 Con. For He who feeds the ravens, promiseth 
 Our bread and water sure, and leads us on 
 By peaceful streams in pastures green to lie, 
 Beneath our Shepherd's eye. 
 
 Lewis. In such a nook, now, 
 To nestle from this noisy world 
 
 Con. And drop 
 
 The burden of thyself upon the threshold. 
 
 Lewis. Think what rich dreams may haunt those 
 lowly roofs ! 
 
 Con. Rich dreams, and more; their dreams 
 
 will find fulfilment 
 
 Their discipline breeds strength 'T is we alone 
 Can join the patience of the laboring ox 
 Unto the eagle's foresight, not a fancy 
 Of ours, but grows in time to mighty deeds ; 
 Victories in heavenly warfare : but yours, yours, Sir,
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 5 
 
 Oh, choke them, choke the panting hopes of 
 
 youth, 
 
 Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains, 
 Cast by for the next bauble ! 
 
 Lewis. 'T is too true ! 
 
 I dread no toil ; toil is the true knight's pastime 
 Faith fails, the will intense and fixed, so easy 
 To thee, cut off from life and love, whose powers 
 In one close channel must condense their stream : 
 But I, to whom this life blooms rich and busy, 
 Whose heart goes out a-Maying all the year 
 In this new Eden in my fitful thought 
 What skill is there, to turn my faith to sight 
 To pierce blank heaven, like some trained falconer 
 After his game, beyond all human ken? 
 
 Wai. And walk into the bog beneath your feet. 
 
 Con. And change it to firm land by magic step ! 
 Build there cloud-cleaving spires, beneath whose 
 
 shade 
 
 Great cities rise for vassals ; to call forth 
 From plough and loom the rank unlettered hinds, 
 And make them saints and heroes send them 
 
 forth 
 
 To sway with heavenly craft the spirit of princes ; 
 Change nations' destinies, and conquer worlds 
 With love, more mighty than the sword; what, 
 
 Count? 
 
 Art thou ambitious? practical? we monks 
 Can teach you somewhat there too. 
 
 Lewis. Be it so ; 
 
 But love you have forsworn ; and what were life 
 Without that chivalry, which bends man's knees 
 Before God's image and His glory, best 
 Revealed in woman's beauty? 
 
 Con. Ah ! poor worldlings !
 
 1 6 ' The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Little you dream what maddening ecstasies, 
 
 What rich ideals haunt, by day and night, 
 
 Alone, and in the crowd, even to the death, 
 
 The servitors of that celestial court 
 
 Where peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns, 
 
 In whom all Eden dreams of womanhood, 
 
 All grace of form, hue, sound, all beauty strewn 
 
 Like pearls unstrung, about this ruined world, 
 
 Have their fulfilment and their archetype. 
 
 Why hath the rose its scent, the lily grace? 
 
 To mirror forth her loveliness, from whom, 
 
 Primeval fount of grace, their livery came : 
 
 Pattern of Seraphs ! only worthy ark 
 
 To bear her God athwart the floods of time ! 
 
 Lewis. Who dare aspire to her? Alas, not I! 
 To me she is a doctrine, and a picture : 
 I cannot live on dreams. 
 
 Con. She hath her train : 
 
 There thou may'st choose thy love : If world-wide 
 
 lore 
 
 Shall please thee, and the Cherub's glance of fire, 
 Let Catharine lift thy soul, and rapt with her 
 Question the mighty dead, until thou float 
 Tranced on the ethereal ocean of her spirit. 
 If pity father passion in thee, hang 
 Above Eulalia's tortured loveliness ; 
 And for her sake, and in her strength, go forth 
 To do and suffer greatly. Dost thou long 
 For some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness, 
 Whose wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instincts 
 Alone keep sane? 
 
 Lewis. I do, I do. I 'd live 
 
 And die for each and all the three. 
 
 Con. Then go 
 
 Entangled in the Magdalen's tresses lie;
 
 Scene II] The Saint* s Tragedy 17 
 
 Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips 
 Dare to approach her feet, and thou shalt start 
 To find the canvas warm with life, and matter 
 A moment transubstantiate to heaven. 
 
 Wai. Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take 
 An indigestion for a troop of angels. 
 Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens, 
 Where not a stringy head of kale is cut 
 But breeds a vision or a revelation. 
 
 Lewis. Hush, hush, Count ! Speak, strange 
 
 monk, strange words, and waken 
 Longings more strange than either. 
 
 Con. Then, if proved, 
 
 As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love, 
 Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul 
 At length may soar : perchance Oh, bliss too 
 
 great 
 
 For thought yet possible! 
 
 Receive some token smile or hallowing touch 
 Of that white hand, beneath whose soft caress 
 The raging world is smoothed, and runs its course 
 To shadow forth her glory. 
 
 Lewis. Thou dost tempt me 
 
 That were a knightly quest. 
 
 Con. Ay, here's true love. 
 Love's heaven, without its hell ; the golden fruit 
 Without the foul husk, which at Adam's fall 
 Did crust it o'er with filth and selfishness. 
 I tempt thee heavenward from yon azure walls 
 Unearthly beauties beckon God's own mother 
 Waits longing for thy choice 
 
 Lewis. Is this a dream? 
 
 Wai. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you ! 
 Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies, 
 These male hysterics, by starvation bred
 
 1 8 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 And huge conceit? Cast off God's gift of man- 
 hood, 
 
 And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone 
 With snapping at the sham one in the water? 
 What were you born a man for? 
 
 Lewis. Ay, I know it : 
 
 I cannot live on dreams. Oh, for one friend, 
 Myself, yet not myself; one not so high 
 But she could love me, not too pure to pardon 
 My sloth and meanness ! Oh ! for flesh and 
 
 blood, 
 
 Before whose feet I could adore, yet love ! 
 How easy then were duty ! From her lips 
 To learn my daily task ; in her pure eyes 
 To see the living type of those heaven-glories 
 I dare not look on ; let her work her will 
 Of love and wisdom on these straining hinds ; 
 To squire a saint around her labor field, 
 And she and it both mine : That were posses- 
 sion! 
 
 Con. The flesh, fair youth 
 
 Wai. Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt! 
 
 We are past your burrow now. Come, come, 
 
 Lord Landgrave. 
 Look round, and find your saint. 
 
 Lewis. Alas ! one such 
 
 One such, I know, who upward from one cradle 
 Beside me like a sister No, thank God ! no 
 
 sister ! 
 
 Has grown and grown, and with her mellow shade 
 Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own 
 
 hue, 
 
 And even now is budding into blossom, 
 Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still 
 Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained,
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 9 
 
 And leave no living copies of its beauty 
 
 To after ages. Ah ! be less, sweet maid, 
 
 Less than thyself! Yet no my wife thou 
 
 might'st be, 
 
 If less than thus but not the saint thou art. 
 What ! shall my selfish longings drag thee down 
 From maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship? 
 That were a caitiff deed ! Oh, misery ! 
 Is wedlock treason to that purity, 
 Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock? 
 Elizabeth ! my saint ! [Exit CONRAD. 
 
 Wai. What, Sir? the Princess? 
 
 Ye saints in heaven, I thank you ! 
 
 Lewis. Oh, who else, 
 
 Who else the minutest lineament fulfils 
 Of this my cherished portrait? 
 
 Wai. So 't is well. 
 
 Hear me, my Lord. You think this dainty princess 
 Too perfect for you, eh? That's well again ; 
 For that whose price after fruition falls 
 May well too high be rated ere enjoyed 
 In plain words, if she looks an angel now, you 
 will be better mated than you expected, when you 
 find her a woman. For flesh and blood she is, 
 and that young blood, whom her childish mis- 
 usage and your brotherly love; her loneliness and 
 your protection; her springing fancy and (for I 
 may speak to you as a son) your beauty and 
 knightly grace, have so bewitched, and as some 
 say, degraded, that briefly, she loves you, and 
 briefly, better, her few friends fear, than you love 
 her. 
 
 Lewis. Loves me ! My Count, that word is 
 
 quickly spoken ; 
 And yet, if it be true, it thrusts me forth
 
 20 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Upon a shoreless sea of untried passion, 
 From whence is no return. 
 
 Wai. By Siegfried's sword, 
 
 My words are true, and I came here to say them, 
 To thee, my son in all but blood. 
 Mass, I 'm no gossip. Why? What ails the boy? 
 Lewis. Loves me ! Henceforth let no man, 
 
 peering down 
 
 Through the dim glittering mine of future years, 
 Say to himself " Too much ! this cannot be ! " 
 To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon: 
 Before the hourly miracle of life 
 Blindfold we stand, and sigh, as though God were 
 
 not. 
 
 I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered, 
 And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted, 
 And priceless flowers, o'er which I trod unheeding, 
 Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then ! 
 She who to me was as a nightingale 
 That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered, 
 To passing angels melancholy music 
 Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars, 
 Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining 
 Down from the cloud-world of her unknown 
 
 fancy 
 
 She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight 
 Seemed all too gross who might have been a 
 
 saint 
 
 And companied with angels thus to pluck 
 The spotless rose of her own maidenhood 
 To give it unto me ! 
 
 Wai. You love her then? 
 
 Lewis. Look ! If yon solid mountain were all 
 
 gold, 
 And each particular tree a band of jewels,
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 21 
 
 And from its womb the Niebelungen hoard 
 With elfin wardens called me, " Leave thy love 
 And be our master " I would turn away 
 And know no wealth but her. 
 
 Wai. Shall I say this to her ? 
 
 I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed, 
 But now, between her friends and persecutors, 
 My life 's a burden. 
 
 Lewis. Persecutors ! Who ? 
 
 Alas ! I guess it I had known my mother 
 Too light for that fair saint, but who else dare 
 
 wink 
 When she is by? My knights? 
 
 Wai. To a man, my Lord. 
 
 Lewis. Here's chivalry! Well, that's soon 
 
 brought to bar. 
 
 The quarrel 's mine ; my lance shall clear that stain. 
 Wai. Quarrel with your knights? Cut your 
 
 own chair-legs off! 
 They do but sail with the stream. Her passion, 
 
 Sir, 
 Broke shell and ran out twittering before yours 
 
 did, 
 
 And unrequited love is mortal sin 
 With this chaste world. My boy, my boy, I tell 
 
 you, 
 The fault lies nearer home. 
 
 Lewis. I have played the coward 
 
 And in the sloth of false humility, 
 Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve. 
 How laggard I must seem to her, though she love 
 
 me; 
 Playing with hawks and hounds, while she sits 
 
 weeping ! 
 'T is not too late.
 
 22 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Wai. Too late, my royal eyas? 
 
 You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze ere 
 
 long 
 She has no mind to slip to cover. 
 
 Lewis Come 
 
 We '11 back we '11 back ; and you shall bear the 
 
 message ; 
 
 I am ashamed to speak. Tell her I love her 
 That I should need to tell her ! Say, my coyness 
 Was bred of worship, not of coldness. 
 
 Wai. Then the serfs 
 
 Must wait? 
 
 Lewis. Why not? This day to them, too, bless- 
 ing brings, 
 
 Which clears from envious webs their guardian 
 angel's wings. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 A Chamber in the Castle. SOPHIA, ELIZABETH, 
 AGNES, ISENTRUDIS, etc., re-entering. 
 
 Soph. What! you will not? You hear, Dame 
 
 Isentrudis, 
 
 She will not wear her coronet in the church, 
 Because, forsooth, the crucifix within 
 Is crowned with thorns. You hear her. 
 
 Eliz. Noble mother ! 
 
 How could I flaunt this bauble in His face 
 Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me 
 I felt it shamlessness to go so gay. 
 
 Soph. Felt? What then? Every foolish wench 
 
 has feelings 
 In these religious days, and thinks it carnal
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 23 
 
 To wash her dishes, and obey her parents 
 No wonder they ape you, if you ape them 
 Go to ! I hate this humble-minded pride, 
 Self-willed submission to your own pert fancies ; 
 This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits, 
 Who make their oddities their test for grace, 
 And peer about to catch the general eye ; 
 Ah ! I have watched you throw your playmates 
 
 down 
 
 To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon. 
 Here's sanctity to shame your cousin and me 
 Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency ; 
 If God has made you noble, use your rank, 
 If you but know how. You Landgravine ? You 
 
 mated 
 
 With gentle Lewis? Why, belike you '11 cowl him, 
 As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor 
 
 spouse ; 
 
 No one Hedwiga at a time 's enough, 
 My son shall die no monk. 
 
 hen. Beseech you, Madam, 
 
 Weep not, my darling. 
 
 Soph. Tut I '11 speak my mind. 
 
 We '11 have no saints. Thank heaven, my saintliness 
 Ne'er troubled my good man, by day or night 
 We '11 have no saints, I say ; far better for you, 
 And no doubt pleasanter You know your 
 
 place 
 
 At least you know your place, to take to cloisters, 
 And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin, 
 With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens, 
 Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge. 
 There 's nothing noble in you, but your blood ; 
 And that one almost doubts. Who art thou, 
 
 child?
 
 24 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Isen. The daughter, please your highness, 
 Of Andreas, King of Hungary, your better; 
 And your son's spouse. 
 
 Soph. I had forgotten, truly 
 
 And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant, 
 And mine : come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies 
 To say their prayers, and set the Saints the 
 fashion. 
 
 [SOPHIA and AGNES go out. 
 
 Isen. Proud hussy ! Thou shalt set thy foot 
 
 on her neck yet, darling, 
 When thou art Landgravine. 
 
 Eliz. And when will that be? 
 
 No, she speaks truth ! I should have been a 
 
 nun. 
 
 These are the wages of my cowardice, 
 Too weak to face the world, too weak to leave it ! 
 
 Guta. I '11 take the veil with you. 
 
 Eliz. 'T were but a moment's work, 
 
 To slip into the convent there below, 
 And be at peace for ever. And you, my nurse? 
 
 hen. I will go with thee, child, where'er thou 
 
 goest. 
 But Lewis? 
 
 Eliz. Ah ! my brother ! No, I dare not 
 I dare not turn for ever from this hope, 
 Though it be dwindled to a thread of mist. 
 Oh ! that we two could flee and leave this Babel ! 
 Oh ! if he were but some poor chapel-priest, 
 In lonely mountain valleys far away ; 
 And I his serving-maid, to work his vestments, 
 And dress his scrap of food, and see him stand 
 Before the altar like a rainbowed saint ; 
 To take the blessed wafer from his hand, 
 Confess my heart to him, and all night long
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 25 
 
 Pray for him while he slept, or through the lattice 
 Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts 
 Swell in his big deep eyes. Alas ! that dream 
 Is wilder than the one that 's fading even now ! 
 Who 's here ? [A Page enters. 
 
 Page. The Count of Varila, Madam, begs per- 
 mission to speak with you. 
 
 Eliz. With me? What 's this new 
 
 terror? 
 Tell him I wait him. 
 
 hen. (aside). Ah! my old heart sinks 
 God send us rescue ! Here the champion comes. 
 
 COUNT WALTER enters. 
 
 Wai. Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious 
 
 Princess 
 
 Plague, what comes next? I had something or- 
 thodox ready; 
 T is dropped out by the way. Mass ! here 's the 
 
 pith on 't. 
 
 Madam, I come a-wooing; and for one 
 Who is as only worthy of your love, 
 As you of his ; he bids me claim the spousals 
 Made long ago between you, and yet leaves 
 Your fancy free, to grant or pass that claim ; 
 And being that Mercury is not my planet, 
 He hath advised himself to set herein, 
 With pen and ink, what seemed good to him, 
 As passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge 
 Unworthy of his worship. [Gives a letter and jewel, 
 hen. Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam I 
 Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps 
 her hands, and bursts into childish laughter. 
 Why here's my Christmas tree come after Lent 
 Espousals? pledges? by our childish love? 
 C Vol. 14
 
 26 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars, 
 And pretty presents come of them ! Look, Guta ! 
 A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse, 
 The blessed rood. He told me once one night, 
 When we did sit in the garden What was I 
 
 saying? 
 
 Wai. My fairest Princess, as ambassador, 
 
 What shall I answer? 
 
 Eliz. Tell him tell him God ! 
 
 Have I grown mad, or a child, within the moment? 
 The earth has lost her gray sad hue, and blazes 
 With her old life-light ; hark ! yon wind 's a song 
 Those clouds are angels' robes. That fiery west 
 Is paved with smiling faces. I am a woman, 
 And all things bid me love ! my dignity 
 Is thus to cast my virgin pride away, 
 And find my strength in weakness. Busy brain ! 
 Thou keep'st pace with my heart; old lore, old 
 
 fancies, 
 Buried for years, leap from their tombs, and 
 
 proffer 
 
 Their magic service to my new-born spirit. 
 I '11 go I am not mistress of myself 
 Send for him bririg him to me he is mine ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 Isen. Ah ! blessed Saints ! how changed upon 
 
 the moment! 
 
 She is grown taller, trust me, and her eye 
 Flames like a fresh-caught hind's. She that was 
 
 christened 
 A brown mouse for her stillness ! Good my 
 
 Lord! 
 Now shall mine old bones see the grave in peace 1
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 27 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The Bridal Feast. ELIZABETH, LEWIS, SOPHIA, 
 and Company seated at the Dais table. Court 
 Minstrel and Court Fool sitting on the Dais steps. 
 
 Min. How gaily smile the heavens, 
 The light winds whisper gay ; 
 For royal birth and knightly worth 
 Are knit to one to-day. 
 Fool (drowning his voice}. 
 
 So we '11 flatter them up, and we '11 
 
 cocker them up 
 Till we turn young brains; 
 And pamper the brach till we make her 
 
 a wolf, 
 
 And get bit by the legs for our pains. 
 Monks (chanting without}. 
 A fastu et superbia 
 
 Doming lib era nos. 
 
 Min. 'Neath sandal red and samite", 
 Are knights and ladies set; 
 The henchmen tall stride through the 
 
 hall, 
 
 The board with wine is wet. 
 Fool. Oh ! merrily growls the starving hind, 
 At my full skin ; 
 
 And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl, 
 While I lie warm within. 
 Monks. A luxu et avaritia 
 
 Domine liber a nos. 
 Min, Hark ! from the bridal bower, 
 
 Rings out the bridesmaid's song ; 
 
 " 'T is the mystic hour of an untried power 
 
 The bride she tarries long."
 
 28 The Saint's Tragedy [Act I 
 
 Fool. She 's schooling herself and she 's steeling 
 
 herself, 
 
 Against the dreary day, 
 When she '11 pine and sigh from her lattice 
 
 high 
 
 For the knight that 's far away. 
 Monks. A carnis illectamentis 
 
 Domine lib era nos. 
 
 Min. Blest maid ! fresh roses o'er thee 
 The careless years shall fling; 
 While days and nights shall new delights 
 To sense and fanCy bring. 
 Fool. Satins and silks, and feathers and lace, 
 Will gild life's pill; 
 
 In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old, 
 Fine ladies will never fall ill. 
 Monks. A vanitatibus sceculi 
 
 Domine libera nos. 
 
 [SOPHIA descends from the Dais, leading ELIZA- 
 BETH, Ladies follow.'] 
 
 Sophia (to the Foot). Silence, you screech-owl. 
 
 Come strew flowers, fair ladies, 
 And lead into .her bower our fairest bride, 
 The cynosure of love and beauty here, 
 Who shrines heaven's graces in earth's richest 
 
 casket. 
 Eliz. I come, (aside) Here, Guta, take those 
 
 monks a fee 
 
 Tell them I thank them bid them pray for me. 
 I am half mazed with trembling joy within, 
 And noisy wassail round. T is well, for else 
 The spectre of my duties and my dangers 
 Would whelm my heart with terror. Ah! poor 
 
 self!
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 29 
 
 Thou took'st this for the term and bourne of 
 
 troubles 
 
 And now 't is here, thou findest it the gate 
 Of new sin-cursed infinities of labor, 
 Where thou must do, or die ! 
 
 (aloud} Lead on. I '11 follow. [Exeunt. 
 Fool. There, now. No fee for the fool ; and yet 
 my prescription was as good as those old Jeremies'. 
 But in law, physic, and divinity folks had sooner 
 be poisoned in Latin, than saved in the mother- 
 tongue.
 
 ACT II 
 
 SCENE I. A.D. 1221-27 
 
 ELIZABETH'S Bower. Night. LEWIS sleeping in 
 an Alcove. ELIZABETH lying on the Floor in the 
 Foreground. 
 
 Eliz. No streak yet in the blank and eyeless 
 
 east 
 
 More weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver 
 On these bare boards, within a step of bliss. 
 Why peevish ? 'T is mine own will keeps me here 
 And yet I hate myself for that same will : 
 Fightings within and out ! How easy 't were, now, 
 Just to be like the rest, and let life run 
 To use up to the rind what joys God sends us, 
 Not thus forestall His rod : What ! and so lose 
 The strength which comes by suffering? Well, if 
 
 grief 
 
 Be gain, mine 's double fleeing thus the snare 
 Of yon luxurious and unnerving down, 
 And widowed from mine Eden. And why widowed ? 
 Because they tell me, love is of the flesh, 
 And that 's our house-bred foe, the adder in our 
 
 bosoms. 
 Which warmed to life, will sting us. They must 
 
 know 
 
 I do confess mine ignorance, Oh, Lord ! 
 
 Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove.
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 3 1 
 
 And yet I swore to love him. So I do 
 No more than I have sworn. Am I to blame 
 If God makes wedlock that, which if it be not, 
 It were a shame for modest lips to speak it, 
 And silly doves are better mates than we? 
 And yet our love is Jesus' due, and all things 
 Which share with Him divided empery 
 Are snares and idols " To love, to cherish, and 
 to obey ! " 
 
 Oh ! deadly riddle ! Rent and twofold life ! 
 
 Oh ! cruel troth ! To keep thee or to break thee 
 
 Alike seems sin ! Oh ! thou beloved tempter. 
 
 [ Turning toward the bed. 
 Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself 
 From God divert thy lesson? Wilt provoke Him? 
 What if mine heavenly Spouse in jealous ire 
 Should smite mine earthly spouse? Have I two 
 
 husbands? 
 The words are horror yet they are orthodox ! 
 
 \_Rises and goes to the window. 
 
 How many many brows of happy lovers 
 
 The fragrant lips of night even now are kissing ! 
 
 Some wandering hand in hand through arched 
 
 lanes ; 
 
 Some listening for loved voices at the lattice ; 
 Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss ; 
 Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms, 
 Whose touch makes sleep rich life. The very birds 
 Within their nests are wooing ! So much love ! 
 All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace; 
 The earth seems one vast bride-bed. Doth God 
 
 tempt us? 
 Is't all a veil to blind our eyes from Him?
 
 32 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 A fire-fly at the candle. 'T is love leads him ; 
 Love 's light, and light is love : Oh, Eden ! Eden ! 
 Eve was a virgin there, they say ; God knows. 
 Must all this be as it had never been? 
 Is it all a fleeting type of higher love? 
 Why, if the lesson 's pure, is not the teacher 
 Pure also? Is it my shame to feel no shame? 
 Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness? 
 Shall base emotions picture Christ's embrace? 
 Rest, rest, torn heart! Yet where? in earth or 
 
 heaven ? 
 Still, from out the bright abysses, gleams our 
 
 Lady's silver footstool, 
 Still the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the 
 
 night-clouds fleet below. 
 Oh ! that I were walking, far above, upon that 
 
 dappled pavement, 
 Heaven's floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon 
 
 where we lie. 
 Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that 
 
 platform, sliding silent, 
 
 Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical ! 
 They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up 
 
 the secret fountains 
 Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through 
 
 their dreary prison clay. 
 Love ! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou 
 
 seek'st the lowest hollows? 
 Sure some vapors float up from thee, mingling 
 
 with the highest blue. 
 
 Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one exist- 
 ence 
 Joining praises through the ages Is it all a 
 
 minstrel's dream? 
 Alas ! he wakes. [LEWIS rises.
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 33 
 
 Lewis. Ah ! faithless beauty, 
 
 Is this your promise, that whene'er you prayed 
 I should be still the partner of your vigils, 
 And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay 
 
 dissembling 
 
 When she who woke you, took my feet for yours : 
 Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce. 
 Alas! what's this? These shoulders' cushioned 
 
 ice, 
 
 And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all, 
 And weeping furrows traced ! Ah ! precious life- 
 blood ! 
 Who has done this? 
 
 Eliz. Forgive ! 't was I my maidens 
 
 Lewis. O ruthless hags ! 
 
 Eliz. Not so, not so They wept 
 
 When I did bid them, as I bid thee now 
 To think of nought but love. 
 
 Lewis. Elizabeth ! 
 
 Speak ! I will know the meaning of this madness ! 
 
 Eliz. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls, 
 In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh 
 By such sharp lessons. I must tread their paths, 
 If I would climb the mountains where they rest. 
 Grief is the gate of bliss why wedlock knight- 
 hood 
 
 A mother's joy a hard-earned field of glory 
 By tribulation come so doth God's kingdom. 
 
 Lewis. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tor- 
 tures 
 
 Are these the love of God? Is He well pleased 
 With this stern holocaust of health and joy? 
 
 Eliz. What ! Am I not as gay a lady-love 
 As ever clipt in arms a noble knight? 
 Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day?
 
 34 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 It pleases me to bear what you call pain, 
 Therefore to me 't is pleasure : joy and grief 
 Are the will's creatures ; martyrs kiss the stake 
 The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze 
 The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count 
 His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, 
 
 love, 
 
 Eve's curse lays suffering, as their natural lot, 
 On womankind, till custom makes it light. 
 I know the use of pain ; bar not the leech 
 Because his cure is bitter 'Tis such medicine 
 Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak 
 
 devotion, 
 For which you say you love me. Ay, which 
 
 brings 
 
 Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy 
 As its attendant angel I '11 say no more 
 Not even to thee command, and I '11 obey thee. 
 Lewis. Thou casket of all graces ! fourfold won- 
 der 
 
 Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom ! Canst thou 
 Beatify the ascetic's savagery 
 To heavenly prudence? Horror melts to pity, 
 And pity kindles to adoring shower 
 Of radiant tears ! Thou tender cruelty ! 
 Gay smiling martyrdom! Shall I forbid thee? 
 Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness? 
 Thy courage by my weakness? Where thou 
 
 darest, 
 
 I '11 shudder and submit. I kneel here spell-bound 
 Before my bleeding Saviour's living likeness 
 To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such 
 
 things, 
 
 Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood 
 Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 35 
 
 'T was beautiful, *t was Christ-like had I thought 
 That them wert such : 
 
 Eliz. You would have loved me still ? 
 
 Lewis. I have gone mad, I think, at every part- 
 ing 
 At mine own terrors for thee. No ; I '11 learn to 
 
 glory 
 
 In that which makes thee glorious ! Noble stains ! 
 I '11 call them rose leaves out of paradise 
 Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped 
 From martyrs' diadems, prints of Jesus' cross 
 Too truly borne, alas ! 
 
 Eliz. I think, mine own, 
 
 I am forgiven at last? 
 
 Lewis. To-night, my sister 
 
 Henceforth I '11 clasp thee to my heart so fast 
 Thou shalt not 'scape unnoticed. 
 
 Eliz. (laughing) We shall see 
 
 Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss, 
 And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 A Chamber in the Castle. ELIZABETH the Fool 
 ISENTRUDIS GUTA singing. 
 
 Far among the lonely hills, 
 As I lay beside my sheep, 
 Rest came down upon my soul, 
 From the everlasting deep. 
 
 Changeless march the stars above, 
 Changeless morn succeeds to even; 
 And the everlasting hills, 
 Changeless watch the changeless heaven.
 
 36 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 See the rivers, how they run, 
 Changeless to the changeless sea; 
 All around is forethought sure, 
 Fixed will and stern decree. 
 
 Can the sailor move the main? 
 Will the potter heed the clay? 
 Mortal ! where the spirit drives, 
 Thither must the wheels obey. 
 
 Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive : 
 Where thy path is, thou shalt go. 
 He who made the streams of time 
 Wafts thee down to weal or woe. 
 
 Eliz. That 's a sweet song, and yet it does not 
 
 chime 
 
 With my heart's inner voice. Where had you it, 
 Guta? 
 
 Guta. From a nun who was a shepherdess in 
 her youth sadly plagued she was by a cruel 
 stepmother, till she fled to a convent and found 
 rest to her soul. 
 
 Fool. No doubt ; nothing so pleasant as giving up 
 one's will in one's own way. But she might have 
 learnt all that without taking cold on the hill-tops. 
 
 Eliz. Where then, Fool? 
 
 Fool. At any market-cross where two or three 
 rogues are together, who have neither grace to 
 mend, nor courage to say " I did it." Now you 
 shall see the shepherdess' baby dressed in my cap 
 and bells. \Sings. 
 
 When I was a greenhorn and young, 
 And wanted to be and to do, 
 I puzzled my brains about choosing my line, 
 Till I found out the way that things go.
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 37 
 
 The same piece of clay makes a tile, 
 
 A pitcher, a taw, or a brick : 
 
 Dan Horace knew life ; you may cut out a saint, 
 
 Or a bench, from the self-same stick. 
 
 The urchin who squalls in a jail, 
 By circumstance turns out a rogue ; 
 While the castle-born brat is a senator born, 
 Or a saint, if religion 's in vogue. 
 
 We fall on our legs in this world, 
 
 Blind kittens, tossed in neck and heels : 
 
 'Tis Dame Circumstance licks Nature's cubs into 
 
 shape, 
 She 's the mill-head, if we are the wheels. 
 
 Then why puzzle and fret, plot and dream ? 
 He that 's wise will just follow his nose ; 
 Contentedly fish, while he swims with the 
 
 stream ; 
 'T is no business of his where it goes. 
 
 Eliz. Far too well sung for such a saucy song. 
 So go. 
 
 Fool. Ay, I '11 go. Whip the dog out of church, 
 and then rate him for being no Christian. 
 
 [Exit Fool. 
 
 Eliz. Guta, there is sense in that knave's 
 
 ribaldry : 
 
 We must not thus baptize our idleness, 
 And call it resignation: Which is love? 
 To do God's will, or merely suffer it? 
 I do not love that contemplative life : 
 No ! I must headlong into seas of toil, 
 Leap forth from self, and spend my soul on others. 
 Oh ! contemplation palls upon the spirit,
 
 38 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Like the chill silence of an autumn sun : 
 While action, like the roaring south-west wind, 
 Sweeps laden with elixirs, with rich draughts 
 Quickening the wombed earth. 
 
 Guta. And yet what bliss, 
 
 When dying in the darkness of God's light, 
 The soul can pierce these blinding webs of nature, 
 And float up to The Nothing, which is all things 
 The ground of being, where self-forgetful silence 
 Is emptiness, emptiness, fulness, fulness, God, 
 Till we touch Him, and like a snow-flake, melt 
 Upon His light-sphere's keen circumference ! 
 
 Eliz. Hastthou felt this? 
 
 Guta. In part. 
 
 Eliz. Oh, happy Guta ! 
 
 Mine eyes are dim and what if I mistook 
 For God's own self, the phantoms of my brain? 
 And who am I, that my own will's intent 
 Should put me face to face with the living God ? 
 I, thus thrust down from the still lakes of thought 
 Upon a boiling crater-field of labor. 
 No ! He must come to me, not I to Him ; 
 If I see God, beloved, I must see Him 
 In mine own self: 
 
 Guta. Thyself? 
 
 Eliz. Why start, my sister? 
 
 God is revealed in the Crucified : 
 The Crucified must be revealed in me : 
 I must put on His righteousness ; show forth 
 His sorrow's glory ; hunger, weep with Him ; 
 Writhe with His stripes, and let this aching flesh 
 Sink through His fiery baptism into death, 
 That I may rise with Him, and in His likeness 
 May ceaseless heal the sick, and soothe the sad, 
 And give away like Him this flesh and blood
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 39 
 
 To feed His lambs ay we must die with Him 
 To sense and love 
 
 Guta. To love ? What then becomes 
 
 Of marriage vows? 
 
 Eliz. I know it so speak not of them. 
 
 Oh ! that 's the flow, the chasm in all my longings, 
 Which I have spanned with cobweb arguments, 
 Yet yawns before me still, where'er I turn, 
 To bar me from perfection ; had I given 
 My virgin all to Christ ! I was not worthy ! 
 I could not stand alone ! 
 
 Guta. Here comes your husband. 
 
 Eliz. He comes ! my sun ! and every thrilling vein 
 Proclaims my weakness. 
 
 LEWIS enters. 
 
 Lewis. Good news, my Princess; in the street 
 
 below 
 
 Conrad, the man of God from Marpurg, stands, 
 And from a bourne-stone to the simple folk 
 Does thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance, 
 And dread of all foul heresies ; his eyes 
 On heaven still set, save when with searching frown 
 He lours upon the crowd, who round him cower 
 Like quails beneath the hawk, and gape, and 
 
 tremble, 
 
 Now raised to heaven, now down again to hell. 
 I stood beside and heard ; like any doe's 
 My heart did rise and fall. 
 
 Eliz. Oh, let us hear him ! 
 
 We too need warning ; shame, if we let pass, 
 Unentertained, God's angels on their way. 
 Send for him, brother. 
 
 Lewis. Let a knight go down 
 
 And say to the holy man, the Landgrave Lewis
 
 40 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 With humble greetings prays his blessedness 
 To make these secular walls the spirit's temple 
 At least to-night. 
 
 Eliz. Now go, my ladies, both 
 
 Prepare fit lodgings, let your courtesies 
 Retain in our poor courts the man of God. 
 
 [Exeunt. LEWIS and ELIZABETH are left alone. 
 Now hear me, best beloved : I have marked this 
 
 man: 
 And that which hath scared others, draws me 
 
 towards him : 
 
 He has the graces which I want ; his sternness 
 I envy for its strength ; his fiery boldness 
 I call the earnestness which dares not trifle 
 With life's huge stake ; his coldness but the calm 
 Of one who long hath found, and keeps unwavering, 
 Clear purpose still ; he hath the gift which speaks 
 The deepest things most simply ; in his eye 
 I dare be happy weak I dare not be. 
 With such a guide, to save this little heart 
 The burden of self-rule Oh half my work 
 Were eased, and I could live for thee and thine, 
 And take no thought of self. Oh, be not jealous, 
 Mine own, mine idol ! For thy sake I ask it 
 I would but be a mate and help more meet 
 For all thy knightly virtues. 
 
 Lewis. 'T is too true ! 
 
 I have felt it long; we stand, two weakling chil- 
 dren, 
 
 Under too huge a burden, while temptations 
 Like adders swarm up round : I must be led 
 But thou alone shalt lead me. 
 
 Eliz. I? beloved! 
 
 This load more? Strengthen, Lord, the feeble 
 knees !
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 41 
 
 Lewis. Yes ! them, my queen, who making thy- 
 self once mine, 
 
 Hast made me sevenfold thine; I own thee guide 
 Of my devotions, mine ambition's lodestar, 
 The Saint whose shrine I serve with lance and lute ; 
 If thou wilt have a ruler, let him be, 
 Through thee, the ruler of thy slave. [Kneels to her. 
 
 Eliz. Oh, kneel not 
 
 But grant my prayer If we shall find this man, 
 As well I know him, worthy, let him be 
 Director of my conscience and my actions 
 With all but thee Within love's inner shrine 
 We shall be still alone But joy! here comes 
 Our embassy, successful. 
 
 Enter CONRAD, with COUNT WALTER, Monks, 
 Ladies, etc. 
 
 Conrad. Peace to this house. 
 
 Eliz. Hail to your holiness. 
 
 Lewis. The odor of your sanctity and might, 
 With balmy steam and gales of Paradise, 
 Forestalls you hither. 
 
 Eliz. Bless us doubly, master, 
 
 With holy doctrine, and with holy prayers. 
 
 Con. Children, I am the servant of Christ's 
 
 servants 
 
 And needs must yield to those who may command 
 By right of creed ; I do accept your bounty 
 Not for myself, but for that priceless name, 
 Whose dread authority and due commission, 
 Attested by the seal of His vicegerent, 
 I bear unworthy here ; through my vile lips 
 Christ and His vicar thank you ; on myself 
 And these, my brethren, Christ's adopted poor
 
 42 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 A menial's crust, and some waste nook, or dog- 
 hutch, 
 
 Wherein the worthless flesh may nightly hide, 
 Are best bestowed. 
 
 Eliz. You shall be where you will 
 
 Do what you will ; unquestioned, unobserved, 
 Enjoy, refrain ; silence and solitude, 
 The better part which such like spirits choose, 
 We will provide ; only be you our master, 
 And we your servants, for a few short days: 
 Oh, blessed days ! 
 
 Con. Ah, be not hasty, madam ; 
 
 Think whom you welcome ; one who has no skill 
 To wink and speak smooth things ; whom fear of 
 
 God 
 
 Constrains to daily wrath; who brings, alas ! 
 A sword, not peace : within whose bones the word 
 Burns like a pent-up fire, and makes him bold, 
 If aught in you or yours shall seem amiss, 
 To cry aloud and spare not; let me go, 
 To pray for you as I have done long time, 
 Is sweeter than to chide you. 
 
 Eliz. Then your prayers 
 
 Shall drive home your rebukes ; for both we need 
 
 you 
 
 Our snares are many, and our sins are more. 
 So say not nay I '11 speak with you apart. 
 
 [ELIZABETH and CONRAD retire. 
 Lewis (aside). Well, Walter mine, how like you 
 
 the good legate? 
 Wai. Walter has seen nought of him but his 
 
 eye; 
 And that don't please him. 
 
 Lewis. How so, sir ! that face 
 
 Is pure and meek a calm and thoughtful eye.
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 43 
 
 WaL A shallow, stony, steadfast eye ; that looks 
 at neither man nor beast in the face, but at some- 
 thing invisible a yard before him, through you and 
 past you, at a fascination, a ghost of fixed pur- 
 poses that haunts him, from which neither reason 
 nor pity will turn him. I have seen such an eye 
 in men possessed with devils, or with self: sleek, 
 passionless men, who are too refined to be manly, 
 and measure their grace by their effeminacy; 
 crooked vermin, who swarm up in pious times, 
 being drowned out of their earthly haunts by the 
 spring-tide of religion; and so making a gain of 
 godliness, swim upon the first of the flood, till it 
 cast them ashore on the firm beach of wealth 
 and station. I always mistrust those wall-eyed 
 saints. 
 
 Lewis, Beware, Sir Count; your keen and 
 
 worldly wit 
 
 Is good for worldly uses, not to tilt 
 Withal at holy men and holy things. 
 He pleases well the spiritual sense 
 Of my most peerless lady, whose discernment 
 Is still the touchstone of my grosser fancy: 
 He is her friend, and mine : and you must love him 
 Even for our sakes alone, (to a bystander} A 
 word with you, sir. 
 
 \In the meantime ELIZABETH and CONRAD are 
 talking together^ 
 
 Eliz. I would be taught 
 
 Con. It seems you claim some knowledge, 
 
 By choosing thus your teacher. 
 
 Eliz. I would know more 
 
 Con. Go then to the schools and be no wiser, 
 
 madam ; 
 And let God's charge here run to waste, to seek
 
 44 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 The bitter fruit of knowledge hunt the rainbow 
 O'er hill and dale, while wisdom rusts at home. 
 
 Eliz. I would be holy, master 
 
 Con. Be so, then. 
 
 God's will stands fair: 'tis thine which fails, if any. 
 
 Eliz. I would know how to rule 
 
 Con. Then must thou learn 
 
 The needs of subjects, and be ruled thyself. 
 Sink, if thou longest to rise ; become most small 
 The strength which comes by weakness makes 
 thee great. 
 
 Eliz. I will. 
 
 Lewis. What, still at lessons? Come, my fairest 
 
 sister, 
 Usher the holy man unto his lodgings. \Exeunt. 
 
 Wai. (alone). So, so, the birds are limed: 
 Heaven grant that we do not soon see them stowed 
 in separate cages. Well, here my prophesying 
 ends. I shall go to my lands, and see how much 
 the gentlemen my neighbors have stolen off them 
 the last week, Priests? Frogs in the king's 
 bedchamber! What says the song? 
 
 I once had a hound, a right good hound, 
 
 A hound both fleet and strong: 
 
 He ate at my board, and he slept by my bed, 
 
 And ran with me all the day long. 
 
 But my wife took a priest, a shaveling priest, 
 
 And " such friendships are carnal," quoth he. 
 
 So my wife and her priest they drugged the poor 
 
 beast, 
 And the ratsbane is waiting for me.
 
 Scene in] The Saint's Tragedy 45 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Gateway of a Convent. Night. 
 Enter CONRAD. 
 
 Con. This night she swears obedience to me ! 
 
 Wondrous Lord! 
 How hast Thou opened a path, where my young 
 
 dreams 
 
 May find fu/filment : there are prophecies 
 Upon her, make me bold. Why comes she not? 
 She should be here by now. Strange, how I 
 
 shrink 
 
 I, who ne'er yet felt fear of man or fiend. 
 Obedience to my will ! An awful charge ! 
 But yet, to have the training of her sainthood ; 
 To watch her rise above this wild world's waves 
 Like floating water-lily, towards heaven's light 
 Opening its virgin snows, with golden eye 
 Mirroring the golden sun ; to be her champion, 
 And war with fiends for her ; that were a " quest " ; 
 That were true chivalry; to bring my Judge 
 This jewel for His crown; this noble soul, 
 Worth thousand prudish clods of barren clay, 
 Who mope for heaven because earth's grapes are 
 
 sour 
 Her, full of youth, flushed with the heart's rich 
 
 first-fruits, 
 
 Tangled in earthly pomp and earthly love. 
 Wife? Saint by her face she should be : with such 
 
 looks 
 
 The queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing came 
 Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic 
 Sank fainting, drunk with beauty: she is most 
 
 fair!
 
 46 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Pooh ! I know nought of fairness this I know, 
 
 She calls herself my slave, with such an air 
 
 As speaks her queen, not slave; that shall be 
 
 looked to 
 
 She must be pinioned, or she will range abroad 
 Upon too bold a wing ; 't will cost her pain 
 But what of that? there are worse things than 
 
 pain 
 
 What ! not yet here ? I '11 in, and there await her 
 In prayer before the altar : I have need on 't : 
 And shall have more before this harvest 's ripe. 
 
 As CONRAD goes out, ELIZABETH, ISENTRUDIS, and 
 GUTA enter. 
 
 Eliz. I saw him just before us : let us onward ; 
 We must not seem to loiter. 
 
 Isen. Then you promise 
 
 Exact obedience to his sole direction 
 Henceforth in every scruple? 
 
 Eliz. In all I can, 
 
 And be a wife. 
 
 Gut a. Is it not a double bondage? 
 
 A husband's will is clog enough. Be sure, 
 Though free, I crave more freedom. 
 
 Eliz. So do I 
 
 This servitude shall free me from myself. 
 Therefore I '11 swear. 
 
 Isen. To what? 
 
 Eliz. I know not wholly : 
 
 But this I know, that I shall swear to-night 
 To yield my will unto a wiser will ; 
 To see God's truth through eyes which, like the 
 
 eagle's, 
 From higher Alps undazzled eye the sun.
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 47 
 
 Compelled to discipline from which my sloth 
 Would shrink, unbidden, to deep devious paths 
 Which my dull sight would miss, I now can plunge, 
 And dare life's eddies fearless. 
 
 hen. You will repent it. 
 
 Eliz. I do repent, even now. Therefore I'll 
 
 swear, 
 
 And bind myself to that, which once being right, 
 Will not be less right, when I shrink from it. 
 No ; if the end be gained if I be raised 
 To freer, nobler use, I '11 dare, I '11 welcome 
 Him and his means, though they were racks and 
 
 flames. 
 Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 A Chamber. GUTA, ISENTRUDIS, and a Lady. 
 
 Lady. Doubtless she is most holy but for 
 
 wisdom 
 
 Say if 't is wise to spurn all rules, all censures, 
 And mountebank it in the public ways 
 Till she becomes a jest? 
 
 hen. How's this? 
 
 Lady. For one thing 
 
 Yestreen I passed her in the open street, 
 Following the vocal line of chanting priests, 
 Clad in rough serge, and with her bare soft feet 
 Wooing the ruthless flints ; the gaping crowd 
 Unknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostle 
 Her tender limbs; she saw me as she passed 
 And blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal. 
 
 hen. Oh, think, she 's not seventeen yet.
 
 48 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Guta. Why expect 
 
 Wisdom with love in all? Each has his gift 
 Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stop 
 And various pitch ; each with its proper notes 
 Thrilling beneath the self-same breath of God. 
 Though poor alone, yet joined, they 're harmony. 
 Besides these higher spirits must not bend 
 To common methods ; in their inner world 
 They move by broader laws, at whose expression 
 We must adore, not cavil : here she comes 
 The ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ. 
 
 ELIZABETH enters without cloak or shoes t carrying 
 an empty basket. 
 
 hen. What's here, my Princess? Guta, fetch 
 
 her robes ! 
 Rest, rest, my child ! 
 
 Eliz. (throwing herself on a seat). Oh! I have 
 
 seen such things ! 
 
 I shudder still ; your bright looks dazzle me ; 
 As those who long in hideous darkness pent 
 Blink at the daily light; this room 's too gay ! 
 We sit in a cloud, and sing, like pictured angels, 
 And say, the world runs smooth while right below 
 Welters the black fermenting heap of life 
 On which our state is built: I saw this day 
 What we might be, and still be Christian women : 
 And mothers too I saw one, laid in childbed 
 These three cold weeks upon the black damp straw; 
 No nurses, cordials, or that nice parade 
 With which we try to balk the curse of Eve 
 And yet she laughed, and showed her buxom boy, 
 And said, another week, so please the Saints, 
 She 'd be at work a-field. Look here and here 
 
 \_Pointing round the room.
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 49 
 
 I saw no such things there ; and yet they lived. 
 Our wanton accidents take root, and grow 
 To vaunt themselves God's laws, until our clothes, 
 Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters 
 Become ourselves, and we would fain forget 
 There live who need them not. 
 
 [GuTA offers to robe her. 
 Let be, beloved ' 
 
 I will taste somewhat this same poverty 
 Try these temptations, grudges, gnawing shames, 
 For which 'tis blamed; how probe an unfelt evil? 
 Would'st be the poor man's friend ? Must freeze 
 
 with him 
 
 Test sleepless hunger let thy crippled back 
 Ache o'er the endless furrow ; how was He, 
 The blessed One, made perfect? Why, by grief 
 The fellowship of voluntary grief 
 He read the tear-stained book of poor men's souls, 
 As I must learn to read it. Lady ! lady ! 
 Wear but one robe the less forego one meal 
 And thou shalt taste the core of many tales 
 Which now flit past thee, like a minstrel's songs, 
 The sweeter for their sadness. 
 
 Lady. Heavenly wisdom ! 
 
 Forgive me ! 
 
 Eliz. How? What wrong is mine, fair dame? 
 
 Lady. I thought you, to my shame less wise 
 
 than holy. 
 
 But you have conquered : I will test these sorrows 
 On mine own person; I have toyed too long 
 In painted pinnace down the stream of life, 
 Witched with the landscape, while the weary rowers 
 Faint at the groaning oar : I '11 be thy pupil. 
 Farewell. Heaven bless thy labors and thy lesson. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 D Vol. H
 
 50 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Isen. We are alone. Now tell me, dearest lady, 
 How came you in this plight? 
 
 Eliz. Oh! chide not, nurse 
 
 My heart is full and yet I went not far 
 Even here, close by, where my own bower looks 
 
 down 
 
 Upon that unknown sea of wavy roofs, 
 I turned into an alley 'neath the wall 
 And stepped from earth to hell. The light of 
 
 heaven, 
 
 The common air, was narrow, gross, and dun; 
 The tiles did drop from the eaves ; the unhinged 
 
 doors 
 
 Tottered o'er inky pools, where reeked and curdled 
 The offal of a life ; the gaunt-haunched swine 
 Growled at their christened playmates o'er the 
 
 scraps. 
 Shrill mothers cursed ; wan children wailed ; sharp 
 
 coughs 
 
 Rang through the crazy chambers; hungry eyes 
 Glared dumb reproach, and old perplexity, 
 Too stale for words ; o'er still and webless looms 
 The listless craftsmen through their elf-locks 
 
 scowled ; 
 
 These were my people! all I had, I gave 
 They snatched it thankless (was it not their own? 
 Wrung from their veins, returning all too late?) ; 
 Or in the new delight of rare possession, 
 Forgot the giver ; one did sit apart, 
 And shivered on a stone ; beneath her rags 
 Nestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys, 
 Grown old before their youth; they cried fof 
 
 bread 
 
 She chid them down, and hid her face and wept; 
 I had given all I took my cloak, my shoes
 
 Soene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 5 1 
 
 (What could I else ? T was but a moment's want, 
 Which she had borne and borne, day after day), 
 And clothed her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet, 
 Then slunk ashamed away to wealth and honor. 
 
 CONRAD enters. 
 
 What! Conrad? unannounced! This is too bold! 
 Peace ! I have lent myself and I must take 
 The usury of that loan: your pleasure, master? 
 
 Con. Madam, but yesterday, I bade your 
 
 presence, 
 
 To hear the preached word of God ; I preached 
 And yet you came not. Where is now your oath ? 
 Where is the right to bid, you gave to me ? 
 Am I your ghostly guide? I asked it not. 
 Of your own will you tendered that, which, given, 
 Became not choice, but duty. What is here? 
 Think not that alms, or lowly-seeming garments, 
 Self-willed humilities, pride's decent mummers, 
 Can raise above obedience ; she from God 
 Her sanction draws, while these we forge ourselves, 
 Mere tools to clear her necessary path. 
 Go free thou art no slave : God doth not own 
 Unwilling service, and His ministers 
 Must lure, not drag in leash ; henceforthl leave thee : 
 Riot in thy self-willed fancies ; pick thy steps 
 By thine own will-o'-the-wisp toward the pit; 
 Farewell, proud girl. \Exit CONRAD, 
 
 Eliz. Oh, God ! What have I done? 
 
 I have cast off the clue of this world's maze, 
 And, like an idiot, let my boat adrift 
 Above the waterfall ! I had no message 
 How's this? 
 
 I sen. We passed it by, as matter of no moment 
 Upon the sudden coming of your guests.
 
 52 The Saint's Tragedy [Act H 
 
 Eliz. No moment ! 'T is enough to have driven 
 
 him forth 
 And that 's enough to damn me : I '11 not chide 
 
 you 
 
 I can see nothing but my loss ; I '11 to him 
 I '11 go in sackcloth, bathe his feet with tears 
 And know nor sleep nor food till I am forgiven 
 And you must with me, ladies. Come and find 
 
 him. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 A Hall in the Castle. In the background a Group of 
 diseased and deformed Beggars; CONRAD enter- 
 ing ', ELIZABETH comes forward to meet him. 
 
 Con. What dost thou, daughter? 
 
 Eliz. Ah, my honored master ! 
 
 That name speaks pardon, sure. 
 
 Con. What dost thou, daughter? 
 
 Eliz. I have been washing these poor people's 
 feet. 
 
 Con. A wise humiliation. 
 
 Eliz. So I meant it 
 
 And use it as a penance for my pride ; 
 And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likings 
 Or stubborn self-conceit, 't is none to me. 
 I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits : 
 Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves, 
 Not cures, our lofty mind. 
 
 Con. Thou speakest well 
 
 The knave who serves unto another's needs 
 Knows himself abler than the man who needs him ;
 
 Scene V] The Saint's Tragedy 53 
 
 And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping 
 Implies a height to stoop from. 
 
 Eliz. Could I see 
 
 My Saviour in His poor ! 
 
 Con. Thou shalt hereafter : 
 
 But now to wash Christ's feet were dangerous 
 
 honor 
 For weakling grace; would you be humble, 
 
 daughter, 
 
 You must look up, not down, and see yourself 
 A paltry atom, sap-transmitting vein 
 Of Christ's vast vine ; the pettiest joint and mem- 
 ber 
 
 Of His great body ; own no strength, no will, 
 Save that which from the ruling head's command 
 Through me, as nerve, derives ; let thyself die 
 And dying, rise again to fuller life. 
 To be a whole is to be small and weak 
 To be a part is to be great and mighty 
 In the one spirit of the mighty whole 
 The spirit of the martyrs and the Saints 
 The spirit of the Queen, on whose towered neck 
 We hang, blest ringlets ! 
 
 Eliz. Why ! thine eyes flash fire ! 
 
 Con. But hush ! such words are not for courts 
 
 and halls 
 Alone with God and me, thou shalt hear more. 
 
 [Exit CONRAD. 
 
 Eliz. As when rich chanting ceases suddenly 
 And the rapt sense collapses ! Oh, that Lewis 
 Could feed my soul thus ! But to work to 
 
 work 
 
 What wilt thou, little maid? Ah, I forgot thee 
 Thy mother lies in childbed Say, in time 
 I '11 bring the baby to the font myself.
 
 54 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 It knits them unto me, and me to them, 
 
 That bond of sponsorship How now, good 
 
 dame 
 Whence then so sad? 
 
 Woman. An 't please your nobleness, 
 
 My neighbor Gretl is with her husband laid 
 In burning fever. 
 
 Eliz. I will come to them. 
 
 Woman. Alack, the place is foul for such as 
 
 you; 
 
 And fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers ; 
 If you could send 
 
 Eliz. What ? where I am afraid 
 
 To go myself, send others? That's strange doc- 
 trine. 
 I '11 be with you anon. \Goes up into the Hall. 
 
 ISENTRUDIS enters with a basket. 
 
 /sen. Why, here 's a weight these cordials 
 
 now, and simples, 
 
 Want a stout page to bear them ; yet her fancy 
 Is still to go alone, to help herself. 
 Where will 't all end? In madness, or the grave? 
 No limbs can stand these drudgeries: no spirit 
 The fretting harrow which this ruffian priest 
 Calls education 
 Ah ! here comes our Count. 
 
 [COUNT WALTER enters as from a journey^ 
 
 Too late, sir, and too seldom Where have you 
 
 been 
 These four months past, while we are sold for 
 
 bond-slaves 
 Unto a peevish friar?
 
 Scene V] The Saint's Tragedy 55 
 
 Wai. Why, my fair rosebud 
 
 A trifle overblown, but not less sweet 
 I have been pining for you, till my hair 
 Is as gray as any badger's. 
 
 hen. I '11 not jest 
 
 Wai. What? has my wall-eyed Saint shown 
 you his temper? 
 
 hen. The first of his peevish fancies was, that 
 she should eat nothing which was not honestly and 
 peaceably come by. 
 
 Wai. Why, I heard that you too had joined 
 that sect. 
 
 hen. And more fool I. But ladies are bound 
 to set an example while they are not bound to 
 ask where everything comes from : with her, poor 
 child, scruples and starvation were her daily diet; 
 meal after meal she rose from table empty, unless 
 the Landgrave nodded and winked her to some 
 lawful eatable ; till she that used to take her food 
 like an angel, without knowing it, was thinking 
 from morning to night whether she might eat this, 
 that, or the other. 
 
 Wai. Poor Eves ! if the world leaves you in- 
 nocent, the Church will not. Between the devil 
 and the director, you are sure to get your share 
 of the apples of knowledge. 
 
 hen. True enough. She complained to Con- 
 rad of her scruples, and he told her, that by the 
 law was the knowledge of sin. 
 
 Wai. But what said Lewis? 
 
 Isen. As much bewitched as she, sir. He has 
 told her, and more than her, that were it not for 
 the laughter and ill-will of his barons, he would 
 join her in the same abstinence. But all this is 
 child's play to the friar's last outbreak.
 
 56 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Wai. Ah ! the sermon which you all forgot, 
 when the Marchioness of Misnia came suddenly? 
 I heard that war had been proclaimed on that 
 score ; but what terms of peace were concluded ? 
 
 I sen. Terms of peace ! Do you call it peace to 
 be delivered over to his nuns' tender mercies, my- 
 self and Guta, as well as our lady, as if we had 
 been bond-slaves and blackamoors? 
 
 Wai. You need not have submitted. 
 
 Jsen. What ! could I bear to see my poor child 
 wandering up and down, wringing her hands like a 
 mad woman I who have lived for no one else this 
 sixteen years? Guta talked sentiment called it 
 a glorious cross, and so forth. I took it as it came. 
 
 Wai. And got no quarter, I '11 warrant. 
 
 Isen. Don't talk of it my poor back tingles 
 at the thought. 
 
 Wai. The sweet Saints think every woman 
 of the world no better than she should be ; and 
 without meaning to be envious, owe you all a 
 grudge for past flirtations. As I am a knight, now 
 it 's over, I like you all the better for it. 
 
 Isen. What? 
 
 Wai. When I see a woman who will stand by 
 her word, and two who will stand by their mistress. 
 And the monk, too there 's mettle in him. I 
 took him for a canting carpet-haunter; but be 
 sure, the man who will bully his own patrons has 
 an honest purpose in him, though it bears strange 
 fruit on this wicked hither-side of the grave. Now, 
 my fair nymph of the birchen-tree, use your in- 
 terest to find me supper and lodging; for your 
 elegant squires of the trencher look surly on me 
 here: I am the prophet who has no honor in his 
 own country. [Exeunt.
 
 Scene VI] The Saint's Tragedy 57 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 .Dawn. A rocky path leading to a mountain Chapel. 
 A Peasant sitting on a stone with dog and cross- 
 bow. 
 
 Peasant (singing). 
 
 Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning, 
 Gaily the huntsman down green droves must roam : 
 Over the wild moor, in grayest wane of evening, 
 Weary the huntsman comes wandering home ; 
 
 Home, home, 
 If he has one. Who comes here? 
 
 [A Woodcutter enters with a laden ass.] 
 
 What art going about? 
 
 Woodcutter. To warm other folks' backs. 
 
 Peas. Thou art in the common lot Jack earns 
 and Jill spends therein lies the true division of 
 labor. What 's thy name? 
 
 Woodc. Be'est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that 
 dost so catechise me? 
 
 Peas. Both I am a keeper, for I keep all I 
 catch ; and a charmer, for I drive bad spirits out 
 of honest men's turnips. 
 
 Woodc. Mary sain us, what be they like? 
 
 Peas. Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking 
 farmers' crops into butcher's meat by night, with- 
 out leave or license. 
 
 Woodc. By token, thou 'rt a deer stealer? 
 
 Peas. Stealer, quoth he? I have dominion. I 
 do what I like with mine own. 
 
 Woodc. Thine own? 
 
 Peas. Yea, marry for, saith the priest, man
 
 58 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 has dominion over the beast of the field and the 
 fowl of the air : so I, being as I am a man, as men 
 go, have dominion over the deer in my trade, as 
 you have in yours over sleepmice and wood- 
 peckers. 
 
 Woodc, Then every man has a right to be a 
 poacher. 
 
 Peas. Every man has his gift, and the tools 
 go to him that can use them. Some are born 
 workmen ; some have souls above work. I 'm 
 one of that metal. I was meant to own land, 
 and do nothing; but the angel that deals out 
 babies' souls, mistook the cradles, and spoilt 
 a gallant gentleman ! Well I forgive him ! 
 there were many born the same night and 
 work wears the wits. 
 
 Woodc. I had sooner draw in a yoke than hunt 
 in a halter. Hadst best repent and mend thy 
 ways. 
 
 Peas. The way-warden may do that : I wear out 
 no ways, I go across country. Mend! saith he? 
 Why I can but starve at worst, or groan with the 
 rheumatism, which you do already. And who 
 would reek and wallow o' nights in the same 
 straw, like a stalled cow, when he may have 
 his choice of all the clean holly bushes in the 
 forest? Who would grub out his life in the 
 same croft, when he has free-warren of all fields 
 between this and Rhine? Not I. I have dirtied 
 my share of spades myself; but I slipped my leash 
 and went self-hunting. 
 
 Woodc. But what if thou be caught and brought 
 up before the Prince? 
 
 Peas. He don't care for game. He has put 
 down his kennel, and keeps a tame saint instead :
 
 Scene VI] The Saint's Tragedy 59 
 
 and when I am driven in, I shall ask my pardon of 
 her in St. John's name. They say that for his 
 sake she '11 give away the shoes off her feet. 
 
 Woodc. I would not stand in your shoes for all 
 the top and lop in the forest. Murder! Here 
 comes a ghost! Run up the bank shove the 
 jackass into the ditch. 
 
 [A white figure comes up the path with lights.] 
 
 Peas. A ghost or a watchman, and one 's as bad 
 as the other so we may take to cover for the 
 time. 
 
 ELIZABETH enters, meanly clad, carrying her new- 
 born infant ; ISENTRUDIS following with a taper 
 and gold pieces on a salver, ELIZABETH passes , 
 singing. 
 
 Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping, 
 Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above ; 
 Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently creep- 
 ing 
 Up to the Lord in the might of their love. 
 
 What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring 
 
 Thee, 
 
 Odor, and light, and the magic of gold ; 
 Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must sing 
 
 Thee, 
 Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they grow 
 
 old. 
 
 What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I tender, 
 Life of mine own life, the fruit of my love ; 
 Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render 
 Count of the precious charge, kneeling above. 
 
 \They pass up the path. The Peasants come out.]
 
 60 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Peas. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, 
 with a mighty sweet voice. 
 
 Woodc. Wench, indeed? Where be thy man- 
 ners? T is her Ladyship the Princess. 
 
 Peas. The Princess ! Ay, I thought those little 
 white feet were but lately out of broadcloth still, 
 I say, a mighty sweet voice I wish she had not 
 sung so sweetly it makes things to arise in a body's 
 head, does that singing: a wonderful handsome 
 lady ! a royal lady ! 
 
 Woodc. But a most unwise one. Did ye mind 
 the gold? If I had such a trencher full, it should 
 sleep warm in a stocking, instead of being made a 
 brother to owls here, for every rogue to snatch at. 
 
 Peas. Why, then? who dare harm such as her, 
 man? 
 
 Woodc. Nay, nay, none of us, we are poor folks, 
 we fear God and the king. But if she had met a 
 gentleman now heaven help her! Ah! thou 
 hast lost a chance thou might' st have run 
 out promiscuously, and down on thy knees, 
 and begged thy pardon for the newcomer's sake. 
 There was a chance, indeed. 
 
 Peas. Pooh, man, I have done nothing but lose 
 chances all my days. I fell into the fire the day I 
 was christened, and ever since I am like a fresh- 
 trimmed fir-tree ; every foul feather sticks to me. 
 
 Woodc. Go, shrive thyself, and the priest will 
 scrub off thy turpentine with a new hair-cloth; 
 and now, good-day, the maids are a-waiting for 
 their firewood. 
 
 Peas. A word before you go Take warning 
 by me avoid that same serpent, wisdom Pray 
 to the Saints to make you a blockhead Never 
 send your boys to school For Heaven knows, a
 
 Scene VII] The Saint's Tragedy 6 1 
 
 poor man that will live honest, and die in his bed, 
 ought to have no more scholarship than a parson, 
 and no more brains than your jackass. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 The Gateway of a Castle. ELIZABETH and her 
 suite standing at the top of a flight of steps. 
 Mob below. 
 
 Peasant. Bread ! Bread ! Bread ! give us bread ; 
 
 we perish. 
 
 1st Voice. Ay, give, give, give ! God knows, 
 we 're long past earning. 
 
 2d Voice. Our skeleton children lie along in the 
 roads 
 
 $d Voice. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen 
 leas 
 
 4[th Voice. Our harness and our shoes are boiled 
 for food 
 
 Old Man's Voice. Starved, withered, autumn 
 
 hay that thanks the scythe ! 
 Send out your swordsmen, mow the dry bents 
 
 down, 
 And make this long death short we'll never 
 
 struggle. 
 
 All. Bread! Bread! 
 Eliz. Ay, bread Where is it, knights and 
 
 servants? 
 
 Why, butler, seneschal, this food forthcomes not ! 
 Butler. Alas, we Ve eaten all ourselves ; heaven 
 
 knows 
 
 The pages broke the buttery hatches down 
 The boys were starved almost.
 
 62 The Saint's Tragedy [ActH 
 
 Yoke below. Ay, she can find enough to feast 
 
 her minions. 
 Woman's Voice. How can she know what 't is, 
 
 for months and months 
 
 To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows, 
 Bearing about a living babe within you? 
 And then at night to fat yourself and it 
 On fir-bark, madam, and water. 
 
 Eliz. My good dame 
 
 That which you bear, I bear: for food, God 
 
 knows, 
 
 I have not tasted food this live-long day 
 Nor will till you are served. I sent for wheat 
 From Koln and from the Rhine-land, days ago : 
 
 God ! why comes it not? 
 
 Enter from below, COUNT WALTER, with a Mer- 
 chant. 
 
 Wai. Stand back ; you '11 choke me, rascals : 
 Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the 
 
 corn 
 
 Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, 
 With no white wings, but good white wheat, my 
 
 boys, 
 Quarters on quarters if you '11 pay for it. 
 
 Eliz. Oh ! give him all he asks. 
 
 Wai. The scoundrel wants 
 
 Three times its value. 
 
 Merchant. Not a penny less 
 
 1 bought it on speculation I must live 
 
 I get my bread by buying corn that 's cheap, 
 And selling where 'tis dearest. Mass, you need it, 
 And you must pay according to your need. 
 
 Mob. Hang him ! hang all regraters hang 
 the forestalling dog !
 
 Scene vn] The Saint's Tragedy 63 
 
 Wai. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule. 
 
 Eliz. Nay, Count; the corn is his, and his the 
 
 right 
 To fix conditions for his own. 
 
 Mer. Well spoken ! 
 
 A wise and royal lady ! She will see 
 The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn 
 Three months on venture. Now, so help me 
 
 Saints, 
 
 I am a loser by it, quite a loser 
 So help me Saints, I am. 
 
 Eliz. You will not sell it 
 
 Save at a price which, by the bill you tender, 
 Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, I 
 
 grudge not 
 I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes and 
 
 jewels. 
 
 Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food 
 And now I have no more. Abate, or trust 
 Our honor for the difference. 
 
 Mer. Not a penny 
 
 I trust no nobles. I must make my profit 
 I '11 have my price, or take it back again. 
 
 Eliz. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man, 
 Who for thy selfish gains dost welcome make 
 God's wrath, and battenest on thy fellows' woes, 
 What? wilt thou turn from heaven's gate, open to 
 
 thee, 
 
 Through which thy charity may passport be, 
 And win thy long greed's pardon? Oh, for once 
 Dare to be great ; show mercy to thyself ! 
 See how that boiling sea of human heads 
 Waits open-mouthed to bless thee : speak the 
 
 word, 
 And their triumphant quire of jubilation
 
 64 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and 
 
 prayers, 
 And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears. 
 
 [In the meantime WALTER, etc., have been throw- 
 ing down the wheat to the Mob.~\ 
 
 Mob. God bless the good Count ! Bless the 
 
 holy Princess 
 
 Hurrah for wheat Hurrah for one full stomach. 
 Mer. Ah ! that 's my wheat ! treason, my wheat. 
 
 my money 
 
 Eliz. Where is the wretch's wheat? 
 
 Wai. Below, my lady; 
 
 We counted on the charm of your sweet words, 
 And so did for him what, your sermon ended, 
 He would have done himself. 
 
 Knight. 'T were rude to doubt ifc 
 
 Mer. Ye rascal barons ! 
 
 What! Are we burghers monkeys for your pas- 
 time? 
 We '11 clear the odds. [Seizes WALTER. 
 
 Wai. Soft, friend a worm will turn. 
 
 Voices btlow. Throw him down ! 
 
 Wai. Dost hear that, friend ? 
 
 Those pups are keen-toothed ; they have eat of late 
 Worse bacon to their bread than thee. Come, 
 
 come, 
 
 Put up thy knife ; we '11 give thee market-price 
 And if thou must have more why, take it out 
 In board and lodging in the castle dungeon. 
 
 [WALTER leads him out ; the Mob, etc. , disperse] 
 
 Eliz. Now then there 's many a one lies faint 
 
 at home 
 \ '11 go to them myself.
 
 Scene VII] The Saint's Tragedy 65 
 
 Isen. What now? start forth 
 
 In this most bitter frost, so thinly clad? 
 
 Eliz. Tut, tut, I wear my working dress to-day, 
 And those who work, robe lightly 
 
 Isen. Nay, my child, 
 
 For once keep up your rank. 
 
 Eliz. Then I had best 
 
 Roll to their door in lackeyed equipage, 
 And dole my halfpence from my satin purse 
 I am their sister I must look like one. 
 I am their queen I '11 prove myself the greatest 
 By being the minister of all. So come 
 Now to my pastime, (asidi) And in happy toil 
 Forget this whirl of doubt We are weak, we are 
 
 weak, 
 Only when still: put thou thine hand to the 
 
 plough, 
 The spirit drives thee on. 
 
 Isen. You live too fast ! 
 
 Eliz. Too fast? We live too slow our gummy 
 
 blood 
 Without fresh purging airs from heaven, would 
 
 choke 
 
 Slower and slower, till it stopped and froze. 
 God ! fight we not within a cursed world, 
 Whose very air teems thick with leagued fiends 
 Each word we speak has infinite effects 
 Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell 
 And this our one chance through eternity 
 To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake, 
 Or like the meteor stone, though whelmed itself, 
 Kindle the dry moors into fruitful blaze 
 And yet we live too fast ! 
 
 Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad, if thou wilt: 
 Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven,
 
 66 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 And that thy last deed ere the judgment-day. 
 When all 's done, nothing 's done. There 's rest 
 
 above 
 Below let work be death, if work be love ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 A Chamber in the Castle. Counts WALTER, HUGO, 
 etc., Abbot, and Knights. 
 
 Count Hugo. I can't forget it, as I am a Chris- 
 tian man. To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, 
 and be told there was no beer allowed in the house 
 her ladyship had given all the malt to the poor. 
 
 Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh? 
 
 C. Hugo. The life itself, Sir, the life itself. All 
 that barley, that would have warmed many an 
 honest fellow's coppers, wasted in filthy cakes. 
 
 Abbot. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into 
 plebeian dough ! Indeed, Sir, we have no right to 
 lessen wantonly the amount of human enjoyment. 
 
 C. Wai. In Heaven's name, what would you 
 have her do, while the people were eating grass? 
 
 C. Hugo. Nobody asked them to eat it ; nobody 
 asked them to be there to eat it ; if they will breed 
 like rabbits, let them feed like rabbits, say I I 
 never married till I could keep a wife. 
 
 Abbot. Ah, Count Walter ! How sad to see a 
 man of your sense so led away by his feelings ! 
 Had but this dispensation been left to work 
 itself out, and evolve the blessing implicit in all 
 Heaven's chastenings ! Had but the stern benev- 
 olences of providence remained undisturbed by 
 her ladyship's carnal tenderness what a boon 
 had this famine been !
 
 Scene VIII] The Saint's Tragedy 67 
 
 C. Wai. How then, man? 
 
 Abbot. How many a poor soul would be lying 
 
 Ah, blessed thought ! in Abraham's bosom; 
 who must now toil on still in this vale of tears ! 
 Pardon this pathetic dew I cannot but feel as a 
 churchman. 
 
 $d Count. Look at it in this way, Sir. There are 
 too many of us too many Where you have one 
 job you have three workmen. Why, I threw three 
 hundred acres into pasture myself this year it 
 saves money, and risk, and trouble, and tithes. 
 
 C. Wai. What would you say to the Princess, 
 who talks of breaking up all her parks to wheat 
 next year? 
 
 ^d Count. Ask her to take on the thirty families, 
 who were just going to tramp off those three hun- 
 dred acres into the Rhine-land, if she had not kept 
 them in both senses this winter, and left them on 
 my hands once beggars, always beggars. 
 
 C. Hugo. Well, I 'm a practical man, and I say, 
 the sharper the famine, the higher are prices, and 
 the higher I sell, the more I can spend ; so the 
 money circulates, Sir, that 's the word like water 
 
 sure to run downwards again; and so it's as 
 broad as it's long; and here's a health if there 
 was any beer to the farmers' friends, " A bloody 
 war and a wet harvest." 
 
 Abbot Strongly put, though correctly. For 
 the self-interest of each it is which produces in the 
 aggregate the happy equilibrium of all. 
 
 C. Wai. Well the world is right well made, 
 that 's certain ; and He who made the Jews' sin 
 our salvation may bring plenty out of famine, and 
 comfort out of covetousness. But look you, Sirs, 
 private selfishness may be public weal, and yet
 
 68 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 private selfishness be just as surely damned, for all 
 that. 
 
 $d Count. I hold, Sir, that every alms is a fresh 
 badge of slavery. 
 
 C. Wai. I don't deny it. 
 
 $d Count. Then teach them independence. 
 
 C. Wai. How? By tempting them to turn 
 thieves, when begging fails? By keeping their 
 stomachs just at desperation-point? By starving 
 them out here, to march off, starving all the way, 
 to some town, in search of employment, of which, 
 if they find it, they know no more than my horse ? 
 Likely ! No, Sir, to make men of them, put them 
 not out of the reach, but out of the need, of 
 charity. 
 
 ^d Count. And how, prithee? By teaching 
 them, like our fair Landgravine, to open their 
 mouth for all that drops? Thuringia is become a 
 kennel of beggars in her hands. 
 
 C. Wai. In hers ? In ours, Sir ! 
 
 Abbot. Idleness, Sir, deceit, and immorality, are 
 the three children of this same barbarous self-in- 
 dulgence in almsgiving. Leave the poor alone. 
 Let want teach them the need of self-exertion, and 
 misery prove the foolishness of crime. 
 
 C. Wai. How? Teach them to become men 
 by leaving them brutes? 
 
 Abbot. Oh, Sir, there we step in, with the con- 
 solations and instructions of the faith. 
 
 C. Wai. Ay, but while the grass is growing the 
 steed is starving; and in the meantime, how will 
 the callow chick Grace, stand against the tough 
 old game-cock Hunger? 
 
 Zd Count. Then how, in the name of patience, 
 would you have us alter things?
 
 Scene viii] The Saint's Tragedy 69 
 
 C. Wai. We cannot alter them, Sir but they 
 will be altered, never fear. 
 
 Omnes. How? How? 
 
 C. Wai. Do you see this hour-glass ? Here 's 
 the state: This air stands for the idlers; this 
 sand for the workers. When all the sand has run 
 to the bottom, God in heaven just turns the hour- 
 glass, and then 
 
 C. Hugo. The world 's upside down. 
 
 C. Wai. And the Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 
 Omnes. On us ? Do you call us the idlers? 
 
 C. Wai. Some dare to do so But fear not 
 In the fulness of time, all that 's lightest is sure to 
 come to the top again. 
 
 C. Hugo. But what rascal calls us idlers ? 
 
 Omnes. Name, name. 
 
 C. Wai. Why, if you ask me I heard a shrewd 
 sermon the other day on that same idleness and 
 immorality text of the Abbot's. T was Conrad, 
 the Princess' director, preached it. And a fash- 
 ionable cap it is, though it will fit more than will like 
 to wear it. Shall I give it you? Shall I preach? 
 
 C. Hugo. A tub for Varila ! Stand on the 
 table, now, toss back thy hood like any Francis- 
 can, and preach away. 
 
 C. Wai. Idleness, quoth he (Conrad, mind you), 
 idleness and immorality? Where have they 
 learnt them, but from your nobles? There was a 
 saucy monk, for you. But there 's worse coming. 
 Religion? said he, how can they respect it, when 
 they see you, " Their betters," fattening on church 
 lands, neglecting sacraments, defying excommuni- 
 cations, trading in benefices, hiring the clergy for 
 your puppets and flatterers, making the ministry, 
 the episcopate itself, a lumber-room wherein to
 
 70 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 stow away the idiots and spendthrifts of your fam- 
 ilies, the confidants of your mistresses, the cast-off 
 pedagogues of your boys? 
 
 Omnes. The scoundrel ! 
 
 C. Wai. Was he not? But hear again 
 Immorality? roars he; and who has corrupted 
 them but you ? Have not you made every castle 
 a weed-bed, from which the newest corruptions 
 of the Court stick like thistle-down, about the 
 empty heads of stable-boys and serving-maids? 
 Have you not kept the poor worse housed than 
 your dogs and your horses, worse fed than your 
 pigs and your sheep? Is there an ancient house 
 among you, again, of which village gossips do 
 not whisper some dark story of lust and oppres- 
 sion, of decrepit debauchery, of hereditary doom? 
 
 Omnes. We '11 hang this monk. 
 
 C. Wai. Hear me out, and you '11 burn him. 
 His sermon was like a hailstorm, the tail of the 
 shower the sharpest. Idleness? he asked next of 
 us all: how will they work, when they see you 
 landlords sitting idle above them, in a fool's para- 
 dise of luxury and riot, never looking down but to 
 squeeze from them an extra drop of honey like 
 sheep-boys stuffing themselves with blackberries 
 while the sheep are licking up flukes in every 
 ditch? And now you wish to leave the poor man 
 in the slough, whither your neglect and your 
 example have betrayed him, and made his too apt 
 scholarship the excuse for your own remorseless 
 greed ! As a Christian, I am ashamed of you 
 all; as a churchman, doubly ashamed of those 
 prelates, hired stalking-horses of the rich, who 
 would fain gloss over their own sloth and coward- 
 ice with the wisdom which cometh not from
 
 Scene VIII] The Saint's Tragedy 71 
 
 above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish ; aping the 
 artless cant of an aristocracy who made them 
 use them and despise them. That was his 
 sermon. 
 
 Abbot. Paul and Barnabas ! What an outpour- 
 ing of the spirit ! Were not his hoodship the 
 Pope's legate, now accidents might happen to 
 him, going home at night; eh, Sir Hugo? 
 
 C. Hugo. If he would but come my way ! 
 
 For " the mule it was slow, and the lane it was dark, 
 When out of the copse leapt a gallant young spark. 
 Says, T is not for nought you Ve been begging all 
 
 day: 
 So remember your toll, since you travel our way." 
 
 Abbot. Hush ! Here comes the Landgrave. 
 LEWIS enters. 
 
 Lewis. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, 
 
 Count Walter? 
 
 Your blessing, Father Abbot: what deep matters 
 Have called our worships to this conference? 
 
 C. Hugo (aside). Up, Count; you are spokes- 
 man. 
 
 ^d Count. Exalted Prince, 
 
 Whose peerless knighthood, like the remeant sun, 
 After too long a night, regilds our clay, 
 Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams 
 Of your celestial lady's matron graces 
 
 Abbot (aside). Ut vinum optimum amati mei 
 Dulciter descendens ! 
 
 $d Count. Think not we mean to praise or dis- 
 approve , 
 The acts of saintly souls must only plead
 
 72 The Saint's Tragedy [Act n 
 
 In foro conscientice : grosser minds, 
 Whose humbler aim is but the public weal, 
 Know of no mesh which holds them: yet, great 
 
 Prince, 
 
 Some dare not see their sovereign's strength post- 
 poned 
 
 To private grace, and sigh, that generous hearts, 
 And ladies' tenderness, too oft forgetting 
 That wisdom is the highest charity, 
 Will interfere, in pardonable haste, 
 With Heaven's stern providence. 
 
 Lewis. We see your drift. 
 
 Go, sirrah {to a Page) ; pray the Princess to 
 
 illumine 
 
 Our conclave with her beauties. 'T is our manner 
 To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple, 
 Unless the accused and the accuser both 
 Meet face to face. 
 
 $d Count. Excuse, High-mightiness, 
 
 We bring no accusation; facts, your Highness, 
 Wait for your sentence, not Q\\* prcejudicium. 
 
 Lewis. Give us the facts, then, sir; in the lady's 
 
 presence, 
 
 Her nearness to ourselves perchance her rea- 
 sons 
 May make them somewhat dazzling. 
 
 Abbot, Nay, my Lord ; 
 
 I, as a Churchman, though with these your nobles 
 Both in commission and opinion one, 
 Am yet most loth, my Lord, to set my seal 
 To aught which this harsh world might call 
 
 complaint 
 
 Against a princely saint a chosen vessel 
 An argosy celestial in whom error 
 Is but the young luxuriance of her grace.
 
 Scene Vilfj The Saint's Tragedy 73 
 
 The Count of Varila, as bound to neither, 
 
 For both shall speak, and all which late has passed 
 
 Upon the matter of this famine open. 
 
 C. Wai. Why, if I must speak out then I'll 
 
 confess 
 
 To have stood by, and seen the Landgravine 
 Do most strange deeds ; and in her generation 
 Show no more wit than other babes of light. 
 First, she has given away, to starving rascals, 
 The stores of grain she might have sold, good lack I 
 For any price she asked ; has pawned your jewels, 
 And mortgaged sundry farms, and all for food. 
 Has sunk vast sums in fever-hospitals, 
 For rogues whom famine sickened almhouses 
 For sluts whose husbands died schools for their 
 
 brats. 
 
 Most sad vagaries ! but there 's worse to come. 
 The dulness of the Court has ruined trade : 
 The jewellers and clothiers don't come near us ; 
 The semptresses, my Lord, and pastrycooks 
 Have quite forgot their craft; she has turned all 
 
 heads, 
 
 And made the ladies starve, and wear old clothes, 
 And run about with her to nurse the sick, 
 Instead of putting gold in circulation 
 By balls, sham-fights, and dinners ; 't is most sad, 
 
 sir, 
 
 But she has swept your treasury out as clean 
 As was the widow's cruse, who fed Elijah. 
 
 Lewis. Ruined, no doubt ! Lo ! here the cul- 
 prit comes. 
 
 ELIZABETH enters. 
 
 Come hither, dearest. These, my knights and 
 
 nobles, 
 E Vol. U
 
 74 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Lament your late unthrift (your conscience speaks 
 
 The causes of their blame) ; and wish you warned, 
 
 As wisdom is the highest charity, 
 
 No more to interfere, from private feeling, 
 
 With Heaven's stern laws, or maim the sovereign's 
 
 wealth, 
 To save superfluous villains' worthless lives. 
 
 Eliz. Lewis ! 
 
 Lewis. Not I, fair, but my counsellors, 
 
 In courtesy, need some reply. 
 
 Eliz. My Lords; 
 
 Doubtless, you speak as your duty bids you : 
 I know you love my husband : do you think 
 My love is less than yours ? 'T was for his honor 
 I dare not lose a single silly sheep 
 Of all the flock which God had trusted to him. 
 True, I had hoped by this No matter what 
 Since to your sense it bears a different hue. 
 I keep no logic. For my gifts, thank God, 
 They cannot be recalled ; for those poor souls, 
 My pensioners even for my husband's knightly 
 
 name, 
 
 Oh ! ask not back that slender loan of comfort 
 My folly has procured them : if, my Lords, 
 My public censure, or disgraceful penance 
 May expiate, and yet confirm my waste, 
 I offer this poor body to the buffets 
 Of sternest justice : when I dared not spare 
 My husband's lands, I dare not spare myself. 
 
 Lewis. No! no! My noble sister ? What? my 
 
 Lords ! 
 
 If her love move you not, her wisdom may. 
 She knows a deeper statecraft, sirs, than you : 
 She will not throw away the substance, Abbot, 
 To save the accident ; waste living souls
 
 Scene VIII] The Saint's Tragedy 75 
 
 To keep, or hope to keep, the means of life. 
 Our wisdom and our swords may fill our coffers, 
 But will they breed us men, my Lords, or mothers? 
 God blesses in the camp a noble rashness : 
 Then why not in the storehouse ? He that lends 
 To Him, need never fear to lose his venture. 
 Spend on, my Queen. You will not sell my castles ? 
 Nay, you must leave us Neuburg, love, and Wart- 
 burg. 
 
 Their worn old stones will hardly pay the carriage, 
 And foreign foes may pay untimely visits. 
 
 C. Wai. And home foes, too : if these philoso- 
 phers 
 
 Put up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter, 
 The scythes will be among our horses' legs 
 Before next harvest. 
 
 Lewis. Fear not for our welfare : 
 
 We have a guardian here, well skilled to keep 
 Peace for our seneschal, while angels, stooping 
 To catch the tears she sheds for us in absence, 
 Will sain us from the roaming adversary 
 With scents of Paradise. Farewell, my Lords. 
 Eliz. Nay, I must pray your knighthoods 
 
 You must honor 
 
 Our dais and bower as private guests to-day. 
 Thanks for your gentle warning ; may my weakness 
 To such a sin be never tempted more ! 
 
 \Exeunt ELIZABETH and LEWIS. 
 C. Wai. Thus, as if virtue were not its own 
 reward, is it paid over and above with beef and 
 ale? Weep not, tender-hearted Count! Though 
 " generous hearts," my Lord, " and ladies' tender- 
 ness, too oft forget " Truly spoken ! Lord 
 Abbot, does not your spiritual eye discern coals 
 of fire on Count Hugo's head?
 
 76 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 C. Hugo. Where, and a plague? Where? 
 
 C. Wai. Nay, I speak mystically, there is 
 nought there but what beer will quench before 
 nightfall. Here, peeping rabbit (to a Page at the 
 door), out of your burrow, and show these gentles 
 to their lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. 
 
 [ They go out. 
 
 C. Wai. (alone}. Well: if Hugo is a brute, 
 he at least makes no secret of it. He is an old 
 boar, and honest ; he wears his tushes outside, for 
 a warning to all men. But for the rest ! Whited 
 sepulchres ! and not one of them but has half per- 
 suaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all 
 cruelties, save me from your small pedant, 
 your closet philosopher, who has just courage 
 enough to bestride his theory, without wit to 
 see whither it will carry him. In experience a 
 child : in obstinacy, a woman : in nothing a man, 
 but in logic-chopping: instead of God's grace, 
 a few school-boy saws about benevolence, and 
 industry, and independence there is his metal. 
 If the world will be mended on his principles, 
 well. If not, poor world ! but principles must 
 be carried out, though through blood and famine : 
 for truly, man was made for theories, not theories 
 for man. A doctrine is these men's God touch 
 but that shrine, and lo ! your simpering phil- 
 anthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican. 
 
 ' [Exit.
 
 Scene IX] The Saint's Tragedy 77 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 ELIZABETH'S Bower. ELIZABETH and LEWIS sit- 
 ting together. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Eliz. Oh ! that we two were Maying 
 
 Down the stream of the soft spring breeze ; 
 Like children with violets playing 
 In the shade of the whispering trees. 
 
 Oh ! that we two sat dreaming 
 
 On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down 
 
 Watching the white mist steaming 
 
 Over river and mead and town. 
 
 Oh ! that we two lay sleeping 
 
 In our nest in the churchyard sod, 
 
 With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's 
 
 breast, 
 And our souls at home with God ! 
 
 Lewis. Ah, turn away those swarthy diamonds' 
 
 blaze ! 
 
 Mine eyes are dizzy, and my faint sense reels 
 In the rich fragrance of those purple tresses. 
 Oh, to be thus, and thus, day after day ! 
 To sleep, and wake, and find it yet no dream 
 My atmosphere, my hourly food, such bliss 
 As to have dreamt of, five short years agone, 
 Had seemed a mad conceit. 
 
 Eliz. Five years agone? 
 
 Lewis. I know not ; for upon our marriage-day 
 I slipped from time into eternity ; 
 Where each day teems with centuries of life, 
 And centuries were but one wedding morn.
 
 78 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Eliz. Lewis, I am too happy ! floating higher 
 Than e'er my will had dared to soar, though 
 
 able; 
 
 But circumstance, which is the will of God, 
 Beguiled my cowardice to that, which, daring, 
 I found most natural, when I feared it most. 
 Love would have had no strangeness in mine eyes, 
 Save from the prejudice which others taught me 
 They should know best. Yet now this wedlock 
 
 seems 
 
 A second infancy's baptismal robe, 
 A heaven, my spirit's antenatal home, 
 Lost in blind pining girlhood found now, found ! 
 {Aside} What have I said? Do I blaspheme? 
 
 Alas! 
 I neither made these thoughts, nor can unmake 
 
 them. 
 
 Lewis. Ay, marriage is the life-long miracle, 
 The self-begetting wonder, daily fresh ; 
 The Eden, where the spirit and the flesh 
 Are one again, and new-born souls walk free, 
 And name in mystic language all things new, 
 Naked, and not ashamed. [ELiz. hides her face. 
 Eliz. Oh ! God ! were that true ! 
 
 \Clasps him round the neck. 
 There, there, no more 
 I love thee, and I love thee, and I love thee 
 More than rich thoughts can dream, or mad lips 
 
 speak ; 
 
 But how, or why, whether with soul or body, 
 I will not know. Thou art mine. Why question 
 
 further? 
 
 (Aside) Ay if I fall by loving, I will love, 
 And be degraded! how? by my own troth- 
 plight?
 
 Scene IX] The Saint's Tragedy 79 
 
 No, but by thinking that I fall. 'T is written 
 That whatsoe'er is not of faith is sin. 
 Oh ! Jesu Lord ! Hast Thou not made me thus? 
 Mercy ! My brain will burst : I cannot leave him ! 
 Lewis. Beloved, if I went away to war 
 Eliz. Oh, God ! More wars ? More partings ? 
 Lewis. Nay, my sister 
 
 My trust but longs to glory in its surety: 
 What would' st thou do ? 
 
 Eliz. What I have done already. 
 
 Have I not followed thee, through drought and 
 
 frost, 
 Through flooded swamps, rough glens, and wasted 
 
 lands, 
 
 Even while I panted most with thy dear loan 
 Of double life? 
 
 Lewis. My saint ! but what if I bid thee 
 
 To be my seneschal, and here with prayers, 
 With sober thrift, and noble bounty shine, 
 Alone and peerless? And suppose nay, start 
 
 not 
 
 I only said suppose the war was long, 
 Our camps far off, and that some winter, love, 
 Or two, pent back this Eden stream, where now 
 Joys upon joys like sunlit ripples pass, 
 Alike, yet ever new. What would'st thou do, 
 
 love ? 
 Eliz. A year? A year ! A cold, blank, widowed 
 
 year! 
 Strange, that mere words should chill my heart 
 
 with fear 
 
 This is no hall of doom, 
 No impious Soldan's feast of old, 
 Where o'er the madness of the foaming gold, 
 A fleshless hand its woe on tainted walls enrolled.
 
 8o The Saint's Tragedy [Act n 
 
 Yet by thy wild words raised, 
 In Love's most careless revel, 
 Looms through the future's fog a shade of evil, 
 And all my heart is glazed. 
 Alas ! What would I do ? 
 I would lie down and weep, and weep, 
 Till the salt current of my tears should sweep 
 My soul, like floating weed, adown a fitful sleep, 
 
 A lingering half-night through. 
 Then when the mocking bells did wake 
 My hollow eyes to twilight gray, 
 I would address my spiritless limbs to pray, 
 And nerve myself with stripes to meet the weary 
 
 day, 
 
 And labor for thy sake. 
 Until by vigils, fasts, and tears, 
 The flesh was grown so spare and light, 
 That I could slip its mesh, and flit by night 
 O'er sleeping sea and land to thee or Christ 
 
 till morning light 
 Peace! Why these fears? 
 Life is too short for mean anxieties : 
 Soul ! thou must work, though blindfold. 
 
 Come, beloved, 
 
 I must turn robber. I have begged of late 
 So soft, I fear to ask. Give me thy purse. 
 Lewis. No, not my purse : stay Where is 
 
 all that gold 
 
 I gave you, when the Jews came here from Koln? 
 Eliz. Oh, those few coins? I spent them all 
 
 next day 
 
 On a new chapel on the Eisenthal ; 
 There were no choristers but nightingales 
 No teachers there save bees : how long is this? 
 Have you turned niggard?
 
 Scene IX] The Saint's Tragedy 8 1 
 
 Lewis. Nay ; go ask my steward 
 
 Take what you will this purse I want myself. 
 
 Eliz. Ah ! now I guess. You have some trin- 
 ket for me 
 
 You promised late to buy no more such baubles 
 And now you are ashamed. Nay, I must see 
 
 \Snatches his purse. LEWIS hides his face, 
 
 Ah, God! what's here? A new crusader's cross? 
 Whose? Nay, nay turn not from me; I guess 
 
 all 
 
 You need not tell me ; it is very well 
 According to the meed of my deserts : 
 Yes very well. 
 
 Lewis. Ah ! love look not so calm 
 Eliz. Fear not I shall weep soon. 
 
 How long is it since you vowed ? 
 Lewis. A week or more. 
 
 Eliz. Brave heart! And all that time your 
 
 tenderness 
 
 Kept silence, knowing my weak foolish soul. 
 
 [ Weeps. 
 Oh, love ! Oh, life ! Late found, and soon, soon 
 
 lost! 
 
 A bleak sunrise, a treacherous morning gleam, 
 And now, ere mid-day, all my sky is black 
 With whirling drifts once more ! The march is 
 
 fixed 
 For this day month, is 't not? 
 
 Lewis. Alas, too true ! 
 
 Eliz. O break not, heart ! 
 
 CONRAD enters. 
 
 Ah ! here my master comes. 
 No weeping before him.
 
 82 The Saint's Tragedy [Actll 
 
 Lewis. Speak to the holy man : 
 
 He can give strength and comfort, which poor I 
 Need even more than you. Here, saintly master, 
 I leave her to your holy eloquence. Farewell ! 
 God help us both ! [Exit LEWIS. 
 
 Eliz. (rising). You know, sir, that my hus- 
 band has taken the cross ! 
 
 Con. I do ; all praise to God ! 
 
 Eliz. But none to you : 
 
 Hard-hearted ! Am I not enough your slave? 
 Can I obey you more when he is gone 
 Than now I do? Wherein, pray, has he hindered 
 This holiness of mine, for which you make me 
 Old ere my womanhood? [CONRAD offers to go. 
 
 Stay, Sir, and tell me 
 
 Is this the outcome of your " father's care " ? 
 Was it not enough to poison all my joys 
 With foulest scruples ? show me nameless sins, 
 Where I, unconscious babe, blessed God for all 
 
 things, 
 
 But you must thus intrigue away my knight 
 And plunge me down this gulf of widowhood ! 
 And I not twenty yet a girl an orphan 
 That cannot stand alone ! Was I too happy? 
 Oh, God ! what lawful bliss do I not buy 
 And balance with the smart of some sharp 
 
 penance? 
 
 Hast thou no pity? None? Thou drivest me 
 To fiendish doubts: Thou, Jesus' messenger? 
 
 Con. This to your master ! 
 Eliz. This to any one 
 
 Who dares to part me from my love. 
 
 Con. 'T is well 
 
 In pity to your weakness I must deign 
 To do what ne'er I did excuse myself.
 
 Scene IX] The Saint's Tragedy' 83 
 
 I say, I knew not of your husband's purpose ; 
 God's spirit, not I, moved him : perhaps I sinned 
 In that I did not urge it myself. 
 
 Eliz. Thou traitor ! 
 
 So thou would'st part us? 
 
 Con. Aught that makes thee greater 
 
 I '11 dare. This very outburst proves in thee 
 Passions unsanctified, and carnal leanings 
 Upon the creatures thou would'st fain transcend. 
 Thou badest me cure thy weakness. Lo, God 
 
 brings thee 
 
 The tonic cup I feared to mix: be brave 
 Drink it to the lees, and thou shalt find within 
 A pearl of price. 
 
 Eliz. T is bitter ! 
 
 Con. Bitter, truly: 
 
 Even I, to whom the storm of earthly love 
 Is but a dim remembrance Courage 1 Courage ! 
 There 's glory in 't ; fulfil thy sacrifice ; 
 Give up thy noblest on the noblest service 
 God's sun has looked on, since the chosen twelve 
 Went conquering, and to conquer, forth. If he 
 fall 
 
 Eliz. Oh, spare mine ears ! 
 
 Con. He falls a blessed martyr, 
 
 To bid thee welcome through the gates of pearl; 
 And next to his shall thine own guerdon be 
 If thou devote him willing to thy God. 
 Wilt thou? 
 
 Eliz. Have mercy ! 
 
 Con. Wilt thou ? Sit not thus 
 
 Watching the sightless air : no angel in it 
 But asks thee what I ask : the fiend alone 
 Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him? 
 
 Eliz. I will devote him ; a crusader's wife 1
 
 84 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 I '11 glory in it. Thou speakest words from God 
 And God shall have him ! Go now good, my 
 
 master ; 
 My poor brain swims. [Exit CONRAD 
 
 Yes a crusader's wife ! 
 And a crusader's widow ! 
 
 [Bursts into tears, and dashes herself on the floor. 
 
 SCENE X 
 
 A Street in the Town of Schtnakald. Bodies of 
 Crusading Troops defiling past. LEWIS and 
 ELIZABETH -with their Suite in the foreground. 
 
 Lewis. Alas ! the time is near ; I must be 
 
 gone 
 
 There are our liegemen ; how you '11 welcome us, 
 Returned in triumph, bowed with paynim spoils, 
 Beneath the victor cross, to part no more ! 
 
 Eliz. Yes we shall part no more, where next 
 
 we meet 
 Enough to have stood here once on such an 
 
 errand ! 
 Lewis. The bugle calls. Farewell, my love, 
 
 my lady, 
 
 Queen, sister, saint ! One last long kiss Fare- 
 well! 
 Eliz. One kiss and then another and 
 
 another 
 
 Till 't is too late to go and so return 
 Oh God ! forgive that craven thought ! There, 
 
 take him 
 
 Since Thou dost need him. I have kept him ever 
 Thine, when most mine ; and shall I now deny 
 
 Thee?
 
 Scene X] The Saint's Tragedy 85 
 
 Oh ! go yes, go Thou 'It not forget to pray, 
 
 [LEWIS goes. 
 
 With me, at our old hour ? Alas ! he 's gone 
 And lost thank God he hears me not for ever. 
 Why look'st thou so, poor girl ? I say, for ever. 
 The day I found the bitter blessed cross, 
 Something did strike my heart like keen cold steel, 
 Which quarries daily there with dead dull pains 
 Whereby I know that we shall meet no more. 
 Come ! Home, maids, home ! Prepare me 
 
 widow's weeds 
 
 For he is dead to me, and I must soon 
 Die too to him, and many things ; and mark me 
 Breathe not his name, lest this love-pampered 
 
 heart 
 Should sicken to vain yearnings Lost 1 lost ! 
 
 lost! 
 
 Lady. Oh stay, and watch this pomp. 
 Eliz. Well said we'll stay; so this bright 
 
 enterprise 
 
 Shall blanch our private clouds, and steep our soul 
 Drunk with the spirit of great Christendom. 
 
 CRUSADER CHORUS. 
 \Men-at-Arms pass, singing^ 
 
 The tomb of God before us, 
 
 Our fatherland behind, 
 
 Our ships shall leap o'er billows steep, 
 
 Before a charmed wind. 
 
 Above our van great angels 
 
 Shall fight along the sky ; 
 
 While martyrs pure and crowned saints 
 
 To God for rescue cry.
 
 86 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 The red-cross knights and yeomen 
 Throughout the holy town, 
 In faith and might, on left and right, 
 Shall tread the paynim down. 
 
 Till on the Mount Moriah 
 The Pope of Rome shall stand ; 
 The Kaiser and the King of France 
 Shall guard him on each hand. 
 
 There shall he rule all nations, 
 With crozier and with sword ; 
 And pour on all the heathen, 
 The wrath of Christ the Lord. 
 
 [ Women bystanders.} 
 
 Christ is a rock in the bare salt land, 
 
 To shelter our knights from the sun and sand : 
 
 Christ the Lord is a summer sun, 
 
 To ripen the grain while they are gone. 
 
 Then you who fight in the bare salt land, 
 And you who work at home, 
 Fight and work for Christ the Lord, 
 Until His kingdom come. 
 
 [Old Knights pass.} 
 
 Our stormy sun is sinking ; 
 Our sands are running low ; 
 In one fair fight, before the night, 
 Our hard-worn hearts shall glow. 
 
 We cannot pine in cloister ; 
 
 We cannot fast and pray ; 
 
 The sword which built our load of guilt 
 
 Must wipe that guilt away.
 
 Scene X] The Saint's Tragedy 87 
 
 We know the doom before us ; 
 The dangers of the road ; 
 Have mercy, mercy, Jesu blest, 
 When we lie low in blood. 
 
 When we lie gashed and gory, 
 The holy walls within, 
 Sweet Jesu, think upon our end, 
 And wipe away our sin. 
 
 \Boy Crusaders pass.] 
 
 The Christ-child sits on high : 
 He looks through the merry blue sky ; 
 He holds in His hand a bright lily-band, 
 For the boys who for Him die. 
 
 On holy Mary's arm, 
 
 Wrapt safe from terror and harm, 
 
 Lulled by the breeze in the paradise trees, 
 
 Their souls sleep soft and warm. 
 
 Knight David, young and true, 
 
 The giant Soldan slew, 
 
 And our arms so light, for the Christ-child's right, 
 
 Like noble deeds can do. 
 
 [ Young Knights pass.] 
 
 The rich East blooms fragrant before us ; 
 
 All Fairy-land beckons us forth ; 
 
 We must follow the crane in her flight o'er the 
 
 main, 
 From the frosts and the moors^of the North. 
 
 Our sires in the youth of the nations 
 Swept westward through plunder and blood, 
 But a holier quest calls us back to the East, 
 We fight for the kingdom of God.
 
 88 The Saint's Tragedy [Act II 
 
 Then shrink not, and sigh not, fair ladies, 
 
 The red cross which flames on each arm and each 
 
 shield, 
 Through philtre and spell, and the black charms 
 
 of hell, 
 Shall shelter our true love in camp and in field. 
 
 \_0ld Monk, looking after them.] 
 
 Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! 
 
 The burying place of God ! 
 
 Why gay and bold, in steel and gold, 
 
 O'er the paths where Christ hath trod? 
 
 [ The Scene closes.
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 A Chamber in the Wartburg. ELIZABETH sitting 
 in Widow's weeds ; GUTA and ISENTRUDIS by 
 her. 
 
 Isen. What? Always thus, my Princess? Is 
 
 this wise, 
 
 By day with fasts and ceaseless coil of labor; 
 About the ungracious poor hands, eyes, feet, 
 
 brain, 
 
 O'ertasked alike 'mid sin and filth, which make 
 Each sense a plague by night with cruel stripes, 
 And weary watchings on the freezing stone, 
 To double all your griefs, and burn life's candle, 
 As village gossips say, at either end ? 
 The good book bids the heavy-hearted drink, 
 And so forget their woe. 
 
 Eliz. T is written too 
 
 In that same book, nurse, that the days shall come 
 When the bridegroom shall be taken away and 
 
 then 
 
 Then shall they mourn and fast : I needed weaning 
 From sense and earthly joys ; by this way only 
 May I win God to leave in mine own hands 
 My luxury's cure : Oh ! I may bring him back, 
 By working out to its full depth the chastening 
 The need of which his loss proves : I but barter 
 Less grief for greater pain for widowhood.
 
 90 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 hen. And death for life your cheeks are wan 
 
 and sharp 
 
 As any three-days' moon you are shifting always 
 Uneasily and stiff, now, on your seat, 
 As from some secret pain. 
 
 Eliz. Why watch me thus ? 
 
 You cannot know and yet you know too much 
 I tell you, nurse, pain 's comfort, when the flesh 
 Aches with the aching soul in harmony, 
 And even in woe, we are one: the heart must 
 
 speak 
 
 Its passion's strangeness in strange symbols out, 
 Or boil, till it bursts inly. 
 
 Guta. Yet, methinks, 
 
 You might have made this widowed solitude 
 A holy rest a spell of soft gray weather, 
 Beneath whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts 
 Might bud and burgeon. 
 
 Eliz. That 's a gentle dream ; 
 
 But nature shows nought like it : every winter, 
 When the great sun has turned his face away, 
 The earth goes down into the vale of grief, 
 And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in 
 
 sables, 
 
 Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay 
 Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses 
 As I may yet ! 
 
 Isen. There, now my foolish child ! 
 
 You faint : come come to your chamber 
 
 Eliz. Oh, forgixfc me ! 
 
 But hope at times throngs in so rich and full, 
 It mads the brain like wine : come with me, nurse, 
 Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales 
 Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, 
 Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries,
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 91 
 
 Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe. 
 Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands 
 Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years, 
 Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses 
 Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud. 
 Come, open all your lore. 
 
 [SOPHIA and AGNES enter.} 
 
 My mother-in-law ! 
 
 (Aside^) Shame on thee, heart ! why sink, when- 
 e'er we meet? 
 Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, 
 
 of metal 
 
 Beyond us worldlings : shrink not, if the time 
 Be come which needs its use 
 
 Eliz. What means this preface ? Ah ! your 
 
 looks are big 
 With sudden woes speak out. 
 
 Soph. Be calm, and hear 
 
 The will of God toward my son, thy husband. 
 Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then what 
 
 of that? 
 There are friends will rescue him there 's gold 
 
 for ransom 
 
 We '11 sell our castles live in bowers of rushes 
 Oh God ! that I were with him in the dungeon 1 
 Soph. He is not taken. 
 
 Eliz. No ! he would have fought to the death ! 
 There 's treachery ! What paynim dog dare face 
 His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage, 
 And eyed the cowering monster to his den? 
 Speak! Has he fled? or worse? 
 
 Soph. Child, he is dead. 
 
 Eliz. (clasping her hands on her knees). The 
 world is dead to me, and all its smiles 1
 
 92 The Saint's Tragedy [Act HI 
 
 hen. Oh, woe ! my Prince ! and doubly woe, 
 my daughter! 
 
 [ELIZABETH springs up and rushes out. 
 Oh, stop her stop my child ! She will go mad 
 Dash herself down Fly Fly She is not 
 
 made 
 Of hard, light stuff, like you. 
 
 [ISENTRUDIS and GUTA run out. 
 Soph. I had expected some such passionate 
 
 outbreak 
 
 At the first news : you see now, Lady Agnes, 
 These saints, who fain would " wean themselves 
 
 from earth," 
 
 Still yield to the affections they despise 
 When the game's earnest Now ere they 
 return 
 
 Your brother, child, is dead 
 
 Agnes. I know it too well. 
 
 So young so brave so blest! And she 
 
 she loved him 
 
 Oh ! I repent of all the foolish scoffs 
 With which I crossed her. 
 
 Soph. Yes the Landgrave 's dead -^ 
 
 Attend to me Alas ! my son ! my son ! 
 He was my first-born ! But he has a brother 
 Agnes ! we must not let this foreign gipsy, 
 Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress, 
 Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands, 
 To my son's prejudice There are barons, child, 
 Who will obey a knight, but not a saint : 
 I must at once to them. 
 
 Agnes. Oh, let me stay. 
 
 Soph. As you shall please Your brother's 
 
 landgravate 
 Is somewhat to you, surely and your smiles
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 93 
 
 Are worth gold pieces in a court intrigue. 
 For her, on her own principles, a downfall 
 Is a chastening mercy and a likely one. 
 Agnes. Oh ! let me stay, and comfort her ! 
 Soph. Romance ! 
 
 You girls adore a scene as lookers on. 
 
 [Exit SOPHIA. 
 Agnes (alone). Well spoke the old monks, 
 
 peaceful watching life's turmoil, 
 " Eyes which look heavenward, weeping still we see : 
 God's love with keen flame purges, like the light- 
 ning flash, 
 Gold which is purest, purer still must be." 
 
 [GuTA enters^ 
 
 Alas ! Returned alone ! Where has my sister been? 
 Guta. Thank heaven you hear alone, for such 
 
 sad sight would haunt 
 
 Henceforth your young hopes crush your shud- 
 dering fancy down 
 With dread of like fierce anguish. 
 You saw her bound forth : we towards her bower 
 
 in haste 
 Ran trembling : spell-bound there, before her 
 
 bridal-bed 
 She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the 
 
 northern dawn, 
 Across her worn cheeks' ice-field ; keenest mem* 
 
 ories then 
 Rushed with strong shudderings through her as 
 
 the winged shaft 
 Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled 
 
 her forth 
 Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and 
 
 corridor,
 
 94 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly 
 
 wind 
 Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty 
 
 helms 
 Along the walls rang clattering, and above her 
 
 waved 
 Dead heroes' banners: swift and yet more swift 
 
 she drove 
 Still seeking aimless; sheer against the opposing 
 
 wall 
 At last dashed reckless there with frantic fingers 
 
 clutched 
 
 Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage 
 Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe, 
 With inarticulate moans, and folded hands, 
 She followed those who led her, as if the sun 
 On her life's dial had gone back seven years, 
 And she were once again the dumb sad child 
 We knew her ere she married. 
 
 hen. (entering). As after wolf, wolf presses, 
 
 leaping through the snow-glades, 
 So woe on woe throngs surging up. 
 
 Guta. What? treason? 
 
 hen. Treason, and of the foulest. From her 
 
 state she's rudely thrust; 
 Her keys are seized; her weeping babies pent 
 
 from her: 
 
 The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance, 
 And greet their fallen censor's new mischance. 
 Agnes. Alas ! Who dared to do this wrong? 
 hen. Your mother and your mother's son 
 Judge you, if it was knightly done. 
 
 Guta. See ! see ! she comes, with heaving 
 
 breast, 
 With bursting eyes, and purpled brow:
 
 Scene FJ The Saint's Tragedy 95 
 
 Oh that the traitors saw her now ! 
 They know not, sightless fools, the heart they 
 break. 
 
 ELIZABETH enters slowly. 
 
 Eliz. He is in purgatory now ! Alas ! 
 Angels ! be pitiful ! deal gently with him ! 
 His sins were gentle ! That 's one cause left for 
 
 living 
 
 To pray, and pray for him : why all these months 
 I prayed, and here 's my answer : Dead of a 
 
 fever ! 
 
 Why thus ? so soon ! Only six years for love ! 
 While any formal, heartless matrimony, 
 Patched up by Court intrigues, and threats of 
 
 cloisters, 
 
 Drags on for six times six, and peasant slaves 
 Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand 
 Slip from life's oozy bank, to float at ease. 
 
 \_A knocking at the door. 
 That 's some petitioner. 
 
 Go to I will not hear them : why should I work, 
 When he is dead ? Alas ! was that my sin ? 
 Was he, not Christ, my lode-star? Why not warn 
 
 me? 
 Too late! What's this foul dream? Dead at 
 
 Otranto 
 
 Parched by Italian suns no woman by him 
 He was too chaste ! Nought but rude men to 
 
 nurse ! 
 
 If I had been there, I should have watched by him 
 Guessed every fancy God ! I might have saved 
 
 him ! \_A servant-man bursts in. 
 
 Servant. Madam, the Landgrave gave me strict 
 
 commands
 
 96 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Isen. The Landgrave, dolt? 
 Eliz. I might have saved him 1 
 
 Servant (to Isen.). Ay, saucy madam ! 
 The Landgrave Henry, lord and master, 
 Freer than the last, and yet no waster, 
 Who will not stint a poor knave's beer, 
 Or spin out Lent through half the year. 
 Why I see double ! 
 
 Eliz. Who spoke there of the Landgrave? 
 
 What's this drunkard? 
 
 Give him his answer 'Tis no time for mum- 
 ming 
 Serv. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you 
 
 out 
 
 Safe through his gates, and that at once, my Lady. 
 Come! 
 
 Eliz. Why that's hasty I must take my 
 
 children 
 
 Ah ! I forgot they would not let me see them. 
 I must pack up my jewels 
 
 Serv. You '11 not need it 
 
 His lordship has the keys. 
 
 Eliz. He has indeed. 
 
 Why, man ! I am thy children's godmother 
 I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness 
 Art thou a bird, that when the old tree falls, 
 Flits off, and sings in the sapling? 
 
 [ The man seizes her arm, 
 
 Keep thine hands off 
 
 I'll not be shamed Lead on. Farewell, my 
 
 Ladies. 
 Follow not! There's want to spare on earth 
 
 already ; 
 
 And mine own woe is weight enough for me. 
 Go back, and say, Elizabeth has yet
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 97 
 
 Eternal homes, built deep in poor men's hearts ; 
 And, in the alleys underneath the wall, 
 Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure, 
 More sure than adamant, purer than white whales' 
 
 bone, 
 
 Which now she claims. Lead on : a people's love 
 shall right me. \_Exit with Servant. 
 
 Guta. Where now, dame? 
 
 hen. Where, but after her? 
 
 Guta. True heart ! 
 I '11 follow to the death. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n 
 
 A Street. ELIZABETH and GUTA at the door of a 
 Convent. Monks in the Porch. 
 
 Eliz. You are afraid to shelter me afraid. 
 And so you thrust me forth, to starve and freeze. 
 Soon said. Why palter o'er these mean excuses, 
 Which tempt me to despise you ? 
 
 Monks. Ah ! my lady, 
 
 We know your kindness but we poor religious 
 Are bound to obey God's ordinance, and submit 
 Unto the powers that be, who have forbidden 
 All men, alas ! to give you food or shelter. 
 
 Eliz. Silence ! I '11 go. Better in God's hand 
 
 than man's. 
 
 He shall kill us, if we die. This bitter blast 
 Warping the leafless willows, yon white snow- 
 storms, 
 
 Whose wings, like vengeful angels, cope the vault, 
 They are God's, We '11 trust to them. 
 
 [ Monks go in. 
 
 F Vol. 14
 
 98 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Guta. Mean-spirited ! 
 
 Fair frocks hide foul hearts. Why, their altar now 
 Is blazing with your gifts. 
 
 Eliz. How long their altar? 
 
 To God I gave and God shall pay me back. 
 Fool ! to have put my trust in living man, 
 And fancied that I bought God's love, by buying 
 The greedy thanks of these His earthly tools ! 
 Well here's one lesson learnt! I thank thee, 
 
 Lord! 
 
 Henceforth I '11 straight to Thee, and to Thy poor. 
 What? Isentrudis not returned? Alas! 
 Where are those children? 
 
 They will not have the heart to keep them from me 
 Oh ! have the traitors harmed them ? 
 
 Guta. Do not think it. 
 
 The dowager has a woman's heart. 
 
 Eliz. Ay, ay 
 
 But she's a mother and mothers will dare all 
 
 things 
 
 Oh ! Love can make us fiends, as well as angels. 
 My babies ! Weeping? Oh, have mercy, Lord ! 
 On me heap all Thy wrath I understand it : 
 What can blind senseless terror do for them? 
 Guta. Plead, plead your penances ! Great God, 
 
 consider 
 
 All she has done and suffered, and forbear 
 To smite her like a worldling ! 
 
 Eliz. Silence, girl! 
 
 I 'd plead my deeds, if mine own character, 
 My strength of will had fathered them : but no 
 They are His, who worked them in me, in despite 
 Of mine own selfish and luxurious will 
 Shall I bribe Him with His own? For pain, I tell 
 
 thee,
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 99 
 
 I need more pain than mine own will inflicts, 
 Pain which shall break that will. Yet spare them, 
 
 Lord! 
 
 Go to I am a fool to wish them life 
 And greater fool to miscall life, this headache 
 This nightmare of our gross and crude digestion 
 This fog which steams up from our freezing clay 
 While waking heaven 's beyond. No ! slay them, 
 
 traitors ! 
 
 Cut through the channels of those innocent breaths 
 Whose music charmed my lone nights, ere they 
 
 learn 
 To love the world, and hate the wretch who bore 
 
 them ! [ Weeps. 
 
 Guta. This storm will blind us both : come here, 
 
 and shield you 
 Behind this buttress. 
 
 Eliz. What 's a wind to me ? 
 
 I can see up the street here, if they come 
 They do not come ! Oh ! my poor weanling 
 
 lambs 
 
 Struck dead by carrion ravens ! 
 What then, I have borne worse. But yesterday 
 I thought I had a husband and now now ! 
 Guta ! He called a holy man before he died ? 
 
 Guta. The Bishop of Jerusalem, 't is said, 
 With holy oil, and with the blessed body 
 Of Him for whom he died, did speed him duly 
 Upon his heavenward flight. 
 
 Eliz. Oh happy bishop ! 
 
 Where are those children? If I had but seen him ! 
 I could have borne all then. One word one kiss I 
 Hark! What's that rushing! White doves 
 
 one two three 
 Fleeing before the gale. My children's spirits I
 
 I oo The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Stay, babies stay for me ! What ! Not a 
 
 moment? 
 
 And I so nearly ready to be gone? 
 Guta. Still on your children? 
 Eliz. Oh ! this grief is light 
 
 And floats a-top well, well ; it hides a while 
 That gulf too black for speech My husband 's 
 
 dead! 
 
 I dare not think on 't. 
 A small bird dead in the snow! Alas! poor 
 
 minstrel ! 
 
 A week ago, before this very window, 
 He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight; 
 And housewives blest him for a merry singer : 
 And now he freezes at their doors, like me. 
 Poor foolish brother ! didst thou look for payment? 
 Guta. But thou hast light in darkness : he has 
 
 none 
 
 The bird 's the sport of time, while our life's floor 
 Is laid upon eternity ; no crack in it 
 But shows the underlying heaven. 
 
 Eliz. Art sure? 
 
 Does this look like it, girl ! No I '11 trust yet 
 Some have gone mad for less; but why should I? 
 Who live in time, and not eternity. 
 'T will end, girl, end ; no cloud across the sun 
 But passes at the last, and gives us back 
 The face of God once more. 
 
 Guta. See here they come, 
 
 Dame Isentrudis and your children, all 
 Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling 
 
 snow-drifts. 
 
 Eliz. Oh Lord, my Lord ! I thank Thee ! 
 Loving, and merciful, and tender-hearted, 
 And even in fiercest wrath remembering mercy.
 
 Scene IF) The Saint's Tragedy i o i 
 
 Lo ! here 's my ancient foe. What want you, 
 
 Sir? [HUGO enters. 
 
 Hugo, Want? Faith, 't is you who want, not I, 
 
 my Lady 
 
 I hear, you are gone a-begging through the town ; 
 So, for your husband's sake, I '11 take you in; 
 For though I can't forget your scurvy usage, 
 He was a very honest sort of fellow, 
 Though mad as a March hare; so come you in. 
 Eliz. But know you, sir, that all my husband's 
 
 vassals 
 Are bidden bar their doors to me? 
 
 Hugo. I know it: 
 
 And therefore come you in: my house is mine: 
 No upstarts shall lay down the law to me ; 
 Not they, mass: but mind you, no canting here 
 No psalm-singing; all candles out at eight: 
 Beggars must not be choosers. Come along ! 
 Eliz. I thank you, sir; and for my children's 
 
 sake 
 I do accept your bounty, {aside) Down, proud 
 
 heart 
 
 Bend lower lower ever : thus God deals with thee. 
 Go, Guta, send the children after me. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Two Peasants enter. 
 
 1st Peas. Here 's Father January taken a lease 
 of March month, and put in Jack Frost for bailiff. 
 What be I to do for spring-feed if the weather 
 holds, and my ryelands as bare as the back of 
 my hand? 
 
 2d Peas. That's your luck. Freeze on, say I, 
 and may Mary Mother send us snow a yard deep. 
 I have ten ton of hay yet to sell ten ton,
 
 102 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 man there 's my luck : every man for himself, 
 and Why here comes that handsome canting 
 girl, used to be about the Princess. 
 
 GUTA enters. 
 
 Guta. Well met, fair sirs! I know you kind 
 
 and loyal, 
 
 And bound by many a favor to my mistress : 
 Say, will you bear this letter for her sake 
 Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady 
 Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen? 
 
 2d Peas. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among 
 
 cabbage. 
 
 She told me once, God's curse would overtake me, 
 For grinding of the poor : her turn 's come now. 
 
 Guta. Will you, then, help her? She will pay 
 you richly. 
 
 1st. Peas. Ay? How, dame? How? Where 
 will the money come from? 
 
 Guta. God knows 
 
 1st Peas. And you do not. 
 
 Guta. Why, but last winter, 
 
 When all your stacks were fired, she lent you gold. 
 
 i st Peas. Well I '11 be generous : as the times 
 
 are hard, 
 
 Say, if I take your letter, will you promise 
 To marry me yourself ? 
 
 Guta. Ay, marry you, 
 
 Or anything, if you '11 but go to-day : 
 At once, mind. [Giving- him the letter. 
 
 1st Peas. Ay, I '11 go. Now, you '11 remember? 
 
 Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen. 
 God and His saints deal with you, as you deal 
 With us this day. [Exit.
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 103 
 
 2d Peas. What ! art thou fallen in love promis- 
 cuously? 
 
 1st Peas. Why, see, now, man; she has her 
 
 mistress' ear; 
 
 And if I marry her, no doubt they '11 make me 
 Bailiff, or land-steward ; and there 's noble pickings 
 In that same line. 
 
 2d Peas. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke : 
 Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain. 
 
 ist Peas. Dost think ? Well I '11 not fret my- 
 self about it. 
 
 See, now, before I start, I must get home 
 Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze; 
 And then to get my supper, and my horse's: 
 And then a man will need to sit a while, 
 And take his snack of brandy for digestion; 
 And then to fettle up my sword and buckler ; 
 And then, bid 'em all good-bye: and by that time 
 'Twill be 'most nightfall I'll just go to-morrow. 
 Off here she comes again. [Exeunt. 
 
 ISENTRUDIS and GlJTA enter, with the Children. 
 Guta. I warned you of it ; I knew she would not 
 
 stay 
 
 An hour, thus treated like a slave an idiot. 
 Isen. Well, 't was past bearing: so we are thrust 
 
 forth 
 
 To starve again. Are all your jewels gone? 
 Guta. All pawned and eaten and for her, you 
 
 know, 
 
 She never bore the worth of one day's meal 
 About her dress. We can but die No foe 
 Can ban us from that rest. 
 
 Isen. Ay, but these children ! Well if it 
 must be,
 
 104 The Saint's Tragedy [Act ill 
 
 Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand 
 My wedding-ring; the man who gave it me 
 Should be in heaven and there he '11 know my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Take it, girl, take it. Where's the Princess now? 
 She stopped before a crucifix to pray ; 
 But why so long? 
 
 Guta. Oh ! prayer, to her rapt soul, 
 
 Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee, 
 Who, scent-enchanted, on the latest flower, 
 Heedless of cold, will linger listless on, 
 And freeze in odorous dreams. 
 
 Isen. Ah ! here she comes. 
 
 Guta. Dripping from head to foot with wet and 
 
 mire! 
 How's this? 
 
 ELIZABETH entering. 
 
 Eliz. How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood: 
 I met a friend just now, who told me truths 
 Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart 
 Would God I had known them earlier ! and 
 
 enforced 
 
 Her lesson so, as I shall ne'er forget it 
 In body or in mind. 
 
 Isen. What means all this? 
 
 Eliz. You know the stepping-stones across the 
 
 ford. 
 
 There as I passed, a certain aged crone, 
 Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year, 
 Met me mid-stream thrust past me stoutly on 
 And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire. 
 There as I lay and weltered, " Take that, Madam, 
 For all your selfish hypocritic pride 
 Which thought it such a vast humility
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 05 
 
 To wash us poor folks' feet, and use our bodies 
 For staves to build withal your Jacob's-ladder. 
 What ! you would mount to heaven upon our backs? 
 The ass has thrown his rider." She crept on 
 I washed my garments in the brook hard by 
 And came here, all the wiser. 
 
 Guta. Miscreant hag ! 
 
 Isen. Alas, you '11 freeze. 
 
 Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch 
 
 Could harbor such a spite? 
 
 Eliz. Nay, who could dream 
 
 She would have guessed my heart so well? Dull 
 
 boors 
 
 See deeper than we think, and hide within 
 Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths, 
 Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose. 
 They grind among the iron facts of life, 
 And have no time for self-deception. 
 
 Isen. Come 
 
 Put on my cloak stand here, behind the wall. 
 Oh ! is it come to this? She '11 die of cold. 
 
 Guta. Ungrateful fiend ! 
 
 Eliz. Let be we must not think on 't 
 
 The scoff was true I thank her I thank God 
 This too I needed. I had built myself 
 A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven, 
 Of poor men's praise and prayers, and subtle pride 
 At mine own alms. 'T is crumbled into dust ! 
 Oh ! I have leant upon an arm of flesh 
 And here 's its strength ! I '11 walk by faith 
 
 by faith 
 
 And rest my weary heart on Christ alone 
 On Him, the all-sufficient ! 
 Shame on me ! dreaming thus about myself, 
 While you stand shivering here. [To her little Son.
 
 106 The Saint's Tragedy [Act in 
 
 Art cold, young knight? 
 
 Knights must not cry Go slide, and warm thyself. 
 Where shall we lodge to-night? 
 
 Isen. There 's no place open, 
 
 But that foul tavern, where we lay last night. 
 Elizabeth's Son (clinging to her). Oh, mother, 
 
 mother ! go not to that house 
 Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and 
 
 scowled, 
 And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly 
 
 songs 
 Of you and us. Oh mother ! let us be ! 
 
 Eliz. Hark ! look ! His father's voice ! his 
 
 very eye 
 
 Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down 
 In luscious rest again 1 
 
 Isen. Bethink you, child 
 
 Eliz. Oh yes I '11 think we '11 to our tavern 
 
 friends ; 
 
 If they be brutes, 't was my sin left them so. 
 Guta. 'T is but for a night or two : three days 
 
 will bring 
 The Abbess hither. 
 
 Isen. And then to Bamberg straight 
 
 For knights and men-at-arms! Your uncle's 
 
 wrath 
 Guta {aside}. Hush! hush! you'll fret her, if 
 
 you talk of vengeance. 
 Isen. Come to our shelter. 
 Children. Oh stay here, stay here ! 
 
 Behind these walls. 
 Eliz. Ay stay a while in peace. The storms 
 
 are still. 
 
 Beneath her eider robe the patient earth 
 Watches in silence for the sun : we '11 sit
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 1 07 
 
 And gaze up with her at the changeless heaven, 
 Until this tyranny be overpast. 
 Come, (aside) Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 
 [ They enter a neighboring Ruin. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 A Chamber in the Bishop's Palace at Bamberg. 
 ELIZABETH and GUTA. 
 
 Guta. You have determined? 
 
 Eliz. Yes to go with him. 
 
 I have kept my oath too long to break it now. 
 I will to Marpurg, and there waste away 
 In meditation and in pious deeds, 
 Till God shall set me free. 
 
 Guta. How if your uncle 
 
 Will have you marry? Day and night, they say, 
 He talks of nothing else. 
 
 Eliz. Never, girl, never! 
 
 Save me from that at least, oh God ! 
 
 Guta. He spoke 
 
 Of giving us, your maidens, to his knights 
 In carnal wedlock : but I fear him not : 
 For God's own word is pledged to keep me pure 
 I am a maid. 
 
 Eliz. And I, alas ! am none ! 
 
 Oh, Guta ! dost thou mock my widowed love? 
 I was a wife 't is true : I was not worthy 
 But there was meaning in that first wild fancy; 
 T was but the innocent springing of the sap 
 The witless yearning of an homeless heart 
 Do I not know that God has pardoned me? 
 But now to rouse and turn of mine own will,
 
 io8 The Saint's Tragedy [Act in 
 
 In cool and full foreknowledge, this worn soul 
 Again to that, which, when God thrust it on me, 
 Bred but one shame of ever-gnawing doubt, 
 Were No, my burning cheeks! We'll say no 
 
 more. 
 Ah ! loved and lost ! Though God's chaste grace 
 
 should fail me, 
 
 My weak idolatry of thee would give 
 Strength that should keep me true : with mine own 
 
 hands 
 
 I 'd mar this tear-worn face, till petulant man 
 Should loathe its scarred and shapeless ugliness. 
 Guta. But your poor children? What becomes 
 
 of them ? 
 Eliz. Oh! she who was not worthy of a 
 
 husband 
 Does not deserve his children. What are they, 
 
 darlings, 
 
 But snares to keep me from my heavenly spouse 
 By picturing the spouse I must forget? 
 Well 't is blank horror. Yet if grief's good for 
 
 me, 
 
 Let me down into griefs blackest pit, 
 And follow out God's cure by mine own deed. 
 Guta. What will your kinsfolk think ? 
 Eliz. What will they think ! 
 
 What pleases them. That argument's a staff 
 Which breaks whene'er you lean on 't. Trust me, 
 
 girl 
 
 That fear of man sucks out love's soaring ether, 
 Baffles faith's heavenward eyes, and drops us 
 
 down, 
 
 To float, like plumeless birds, on any stream. 
 Have I not proved it? 
 There was a time with me, when every eye
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 109 
 
 Did scorch like flame : if one looked cold on me, 
 I straight accused myself of mortal sins : 
 Each fopling was my master: I have lied 
 From very fear of mine own serving-maids. 
 That 's past, thank God's good grace ! 
 
 Guta. And now you leap 
 
 To the other end of the line. 
 
 Eliz. In self-defence. 
 
 I am too weak to live by half my conscience ; 
 I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean ; 
 Life is too short for logic ; what I do 
 I must do simply ; God alone must judge 
 For God alone shall guide, and God's elect 
 I shrink from earth's chill frosts too much to 
 
 crawl 
 
 I have snapped opinion's chains, and now 1 11 soar 
 Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free. 
 
 The BISHOP of BAMBERG enters. CONRAD fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 Bishop. The Devil plagued St. Antony in the 
 likeness of a lean friar ! Between mad monks and 
 mad women, bedlam 's broke loose, I think. 
 
 Can. When the spirit first descended on the 
 elect, seculars then, too, said mocking, "These 
 men are full of new wine." 
 
 Bishop. Seculars, truly! If I had not in my 
 secularity picked up a spice of chivalry to the 
 ladies, I should long ago have turned out you and 
 your regulars, to cant elsewhere. Plague on this 
 gout I must sit. 
 
 Eliz. Let me settle your cushion, uncle. 
 
 Bishop. So! girl! I sent for you from Boten- 
 stain. I had a mind, now, to have kept you there 
 until your wits returned, and you would say Yes
 
 1 10 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 to some young noble suitor. As if I had not had 
 trouble enough about your dower ! If I had had 
 to fight for it, I should not have minded : but 
 these palavers and conferences have fretted me 
 into the gout : and now you would throw all away 
 again, tired with your toy, I suppose. What shall 
 I say to the Counts, Varila, and the Cupbearer, 
 and all the noble knights who will hazard their 
 lands and lives, in trying" to right you with that 
 traitor ? I am ashamed to look them in the face ! 
 To give all up to the villain ! To pay him for 
 his treason ! 
 
 Eliz. Uncle, I give but what to me is worthless. 
 He loves these baubles let him keep them, then : 
 I have my dower. 
 
 Bishop. To squander on nuns and beggars, at 
 this rogue's bidding? Why not marry some 
 honest man ? You may have your choice of kings 
 and princes; and if you have been happy with 
 one gentleman, Mass ! say I, why can't you be 
 happy with another? What saith the Scripture? 
 " I will that the younger widows marry, bear chil- 
 dren," not run after monks, and what not 
 What's good for the filly, is good for the mare, 
 say I. 
 
 Eliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch 
 To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone. 
 
 Bishop. Ahem ! a pious notion in modera- 
 tion. We must be moderate, my child, moderate: 
 I hate overdoing anything especially religion. 
 
 Con. Madam, between your uncle and myself 
 This question in your absence were best mooted. 
 
 [Exit ELIZABETH. 
 
 Bishop. How, priest? do you order her about 
 like a servant-maid ?
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 1 1 r 
 
 Con. The saints forbid ! Now ere I lose a 
 
 moment {Kneeling. 
 
 (Aside) All things to all men be and so save 
 
 some 
 
 (Aloud} Forgive, your grace, forgive me, 
 If mine unmannered speech in aught have clashed 
 With your more tempered and melodious judg- 
 ment : 
 
 Your courage will forgive an honest warmth. 
 God knows, I serve no private interests. 
 Bishop. Your order 's, hey ? to wit ? 
 Con. My Lord, my Lord, 
 
 There may be higher aims : but what I said, 
 I said but for our Church, and our cloth's honor. 
 Ladies' religion, like their love, we know, 
 Requires a gloss of verbal exaltation, 
 Lest the sweet souls should understand themselves ; 
 And clergymen must talk up to the mark. 
 
 Bishop. We all know, Gospel preached in the 
 
 mother-tongue 
 Sounds too like common sense. 
 
 Con. Or too unlike it : 
 
 You know the world, your grace ; you know the 
 
 sex 
 
 Bishop. Ahem ! As a spectator. 
 Con. Philosophic^ 
 
 Just so You know their rage for shaven crowns 
 How they '11 deny their God but not their priest 
 Flirts scandal-mongers in default of both come 
 Platonic love worship of art and genius 
 Idols which make them dream of heaven, as 
 
 girls 
 Dream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on 
 
 bridecake. 
 It saves from worse we are not all Abelards.
 
 1 1 2 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Bishop (aside). Some of us have his tongue, if 
 
 not his face. 
 Con. There lies her fancy ; do but balk her of 
 
 it 
 
 She '11 bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared. 
 Head her from that she '11 wed some pink-faced 
 
 boy 
 
 The more low-bred and penniless, the likelier. 
 Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool. 
 Tug at the kite, 't will only soar the higher : 
 Give it but line, my lord, 't will drop like slate. 
 Use but that eagle's glance, whose daring foresight 
 In chapter, camp, and council, wins the wonder 
 Of timid trucklers Scan results and outcomes 
 The scale is heavy in your grace's favor. 
 
 Bishop. Bah ! priest ! What can this Marpurg- 
 
 madness do for me? 
 
 Con. Leave you the tutelage of all her children. 
 Bishop. Thank you to play the dry-nurse to 
 
 three starving brats. 
 Con. The minor's guardian guards the minor's 
 
 lands. 
 
 Bishop. Unless they are pitched away in build- 
 ing hospitals. 
 Con. Instead of fattening in your wisdom's 
 
 keeping. 
 Bishop. Well, well, but what gross scandal to 
 
 the family! 
 
 Con. The family, my lord, would gain a saint. 
 Bishop. Ah ! monk, that canonization costs a 
 
 frightful sum. 
 
 Con. These fees, just now, would gladly be re- 
 mitted. 
 
 Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when 
 Rome 's too rich to take J
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 1 1 3 
 
 Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher's see 
 Were so o'ercursed by Mammon ! But you grieve, 
 I know, to see foul weeds of heresy 
 Of late o'errun your diocese. 
 
 Bishop. Ay, curse them ! 
 
 I've hanged some dozens. 
 
 Con. Worthy of yourself! 
 
 But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph 
 Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze 
 May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale 
 Of Holy Church again 
 
 Bishop. To singe their wings? 
 
 Con. They '11 not come near enough. Again 
 
 there are 
 
 Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert 
 A churchman's energies were better spent 
 In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark 
 Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope 
 To this her huge capacity for sainthood 
 Set her, a burning and a shining light 
 To all your people Such a sacrifice, 
 Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood, 
 Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise 
 For the next world as for this; will clear your 
 
 name 
 
 From calumnies which argue worldliness ; 
 Buy of itself the joys of paradise ; 
 And clench your Lordship's interest with the pontiff. 
 
 Bishop. Well, well, we '11 think on 't. 
 
 Con. Sir, I doubt you not 
 
 Re-enter ELIZABETH. 
 
 Eliz. Uncle, I am determined. 
 Bishop. So am I. 
 
 You shall to Marpurg with this holy man.
 
 114 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Eliz. Ah, there you speak again like my own 
 
 uncle. 
 
 I '11 go to rest (aside) and die. I only wait 
 To see the bones of my beloved laid 
 In some fit resting-place. A messenger 
 Proclaims them near. Oh, God ! 
 
 Bishop. We '11 go, my child, 
 
 And meeting them with all due honor, show 
 In our own worship, honorable minds. 
 
 \Exit ELIZABETH. 
 A messenger ! How far off are they, then? 
 
 Serv. Some two days' journey, sir. 
 
 Bishop. Two days' journey, and nought pre- 
 pared? Here, chaplain Brother Hippodamas ! 
 Chaplain, I say! (HlPPODAMAS enters.} Call the 
 apparitor ride off with him, right and left 
 Don't wait even to take your hawk Tell my 
 knights to be with me, with all their men-at-arms, 
 at noon on the second day. Let all be of the best, 
 say the brightest of arms and the newest of gar- 
 ments. Mass ! we must show our smartest before 
 these crusaders they '11 be full of new fashions, 
 I warrant 'em the monkeys that have seen the 
 world. And here, boy (to a Page), set me a stoup 
 of wine in the oriel-room, and another for this 
 good monk. 
 
 Con. Pardon me, blessedness but holy rule 
 
 Bishop. Oh ! I forgot. A pail of water and a 
 peck of beans for the holy man ! Order up my 
 equerry, and bid my armorer vestryman, I mean 
 look out my newest robes. Plague on this 
 gout. 
 
 \_Exeunt, following the Bishop.
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 1 1 5 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The Nave of Bamberg Cathedral. A procession en- 
 tering the West Door headed by ELIZABETH and 
 the Bishop, Nobles, etc. Religious bearing the 
 Coffin which encloses LEWIS' Bones. 
 
 1st Lady. See! the procession comes the 
 
 mob streams in 
 
 At every door. Hark ! how the steeples thunder 
 Their solemn bass above the wailing choir. 
 
 2d Lady. They will stop at the screen. 
 
 Knight. And there, as I hear, open the coffin. 
 Push forward, ladies, to that pillar: thence you 
 will see all. 
 
 ist Peasant. Oh dear ! oh dear ! If any man had 
 told me that I should ride forty miles on this 
 errand, to see him that went out flesh come home 
 grass, like the flower of the field ! 
 
 2d Peas. We have changed him, but not 
 mended him, say I, friend. 
 
 I st Peas. Never we. He knew where a yeo- 
 man's heart lay ! One that would clap a man on 
 the back when his cow died, and behave like a 
 gentleman to him that never met you after a 
 hailstorm without lightening himself of a few 
 pocket-burners. 
 
 2d Peas. Ay, that's your poor-man's plaster: 
 that's your right grease for this world's creaking 
 wheels. 
 
 ist Peas. Nay, that's your rich man's plaster 
 too, and covers the multitude of sins. That's 
 your big pike's swimming-bladder, that keeps
 
 1 1 6 The Saint's Tragedy [Act ill 
 
 him atop and feeding: that's his calling and 
 election, his oil of anointing, his salvum fac 
 regent, his yeoman of the wardrobe, who keeps 
 the velvet-piled side of this world uppermost, 
 lest his delicate eyes should see the warp that 
 holds it. 
 
 2d Peas. Who 's the warp, then? 
 
 1st Peas. We, man, the friezes and fustians, that 
 rub on till we get frayed through with overwork, 
 and then all 's abroad, and the nakedness of Baby- 
 lon is discovered, and catch who catch can. 
 
 Old Woman. Pity they only brought his bones 
 home ! He would have made a lovely corpse, 
 surely. He was a proper man ! 
 
 1st Lady. Oh, the mincing step he had with 
 him ! and the delicate hand on a horse, fingering 
 the reins as St. Cicely does the organ-keys ! 
 
 zd Lady. And for hunting, another Siegfried. 
 
 Knight. If he was Siegfried the gay, she was 
 Chriemhild the grim; and as likely to prove a 
 firebrand as the girl in the ballad. 
 
 1st Lady. Gay, indeed ! His smiles were like 
 plumcake, the sweeter the deeper iced. I never 
 saw him speak civil word to woman, but to her. 
 
 2d Lady. Oh, ye Saints! There was honey 
 spilt on the ground ! If I had such a knight, I'd 
 never freeze alone on the chamber-floor, like some 
 that never knew when they were well off. I'd 
 never elbow him off to crusades with my pruderies. 
 " Pluck your apples while they're ripe, 
 
 And pull your flowers in May, O ! " 
 Eh! Mother? 
 
 Old Woman. " Till when she grew wizened, and 
 he grew cold, 
 
 The balance lay even 'twixt young and old."
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 117 
 
 Monk. Thus Satan bears witness perforce 
 against the vanities of Venus ! But what's this 
 babbling? Carolationes in the holy place? Tace, 
 vetula! taceas, taceto also, and that forthwith. \ 
 
 Old Woman. Tace in your teeth, and taceas 
 also, begging-box ! Who put the halter round 
 his waist to keep it off his neck, who ? Get be- 
 hind your screen, sirrah ! Am I not a burgher's 
 wife? Am I not in the nave? Am I not on my 
 own ground ? Have I brought up eleven children, 
 without nurse wet or dry, to be taced nowadays 
 by friars in the nave? Help ! good folks ! Where 
 be these rooks a-going? 
 
 Knight. The monk has vanished. 
 
 \st Peas. It 's ill letting out waters, he finds. 
 Who is that old gentleman, sir, holds the Princess 
 so tight by the hand ? 
 
 Knight. Her uncle, knave, the Bishop. 
 
 1st Peas. Very right, he: for she's almost a 
 born natural, poor soul. It was a temptation to 
 deal with her. 
 
 2d Peas. Thou didst cheat her shockingly, 
 Frank, time o' the famine, on those nine sacks 
 of maslin meal. 
 
 Knight. Go tell her of it, rascal, and she'll 
 thank you for it, and give you a shilling for 
 helping her to a " cross." 
 
 Old Woman. Taceing free women in the nave ! 
 This comes of your princesses, that turn the world 
 upside down, and demean themselves to hob and 
 nob with these black baldicoots ! 
 
 Eliz. ( in a low voice). I saw all Israel scat- 
 tered on the hills 
 
 As sheep that have no shepherd ! Oh, my people ! 
 Who crowd with greedy eyes round this my jewel,
 
 1 1 8 The Saint's Tragedy [Act III 
 
 Poor ivory, token of his outward beauty 
 Oh ! had ye known his spirit ! Let his wisdom 
 Inform your light hearts with that Saviour's like- 
 ness 
 For whom he died ! So had ye kept him with 
 
 you; 
 
 And from the coming evils gentle Heaven 
 Had not withdrawn the righteous : 't is too late ! 
 
 1st Lady. There now, she smiles; do you think 
 she ever loved him ? 
 
 Knight. Never creature, but mealy-mouthed in- 
 quisitors, and shaven singing birds. She looks 
 now as glad to be rid of him as any colt broke 
 loose. 
 
 1st Lady. What will she do now, when this farce 
 is over ? 
 
 2d Lady. Found an abbey, that's the fashion, 
 and elect herself abbess set up the first week for 
 queen-of-all-souls tyrannize over hysterical girls, 
 who are forced to thank her for making them mis- 
 erable, and so die a saint. 
 
 Knight. Will you pray to her, my fair queen ? 
 
 2d Lady. Not I, sir ; the old Saints send me 
 lovers enough, and to spare yourself for one. 
 
 1st Lady. There is the giant-killer slain. But 
 see they have stopped : who is that raising the 
 coffin lid ? 
 
 2d Lady. Her familiar spirit, Conrad the heretic- 
 catcher. 
 
 Knight. I do defy him ! Thou art my only god- 
 dess; 
 My saint, my idol, my ahem ! 
 
 ist Lady. That well's run dry. 
 
 Look, how she trembles Now she sinks, all shiv- 
 ering,
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 1 1 9 
 
 Upon the pavement Why, you'll see nought 
 
 there 
 
 Flirting behind the pillar Now she rises 
 And choking down that proud heart, turns to the 
 
 altar 
 Her hand upon the coffin. 
 
 Eliz. I thank thee, gracious Lord, who hast 
 
 fulfilled 
 
 Thine handmaid's mighty longings, with the sight 
 Of my beloved's bones, and dost vouchsafe 
 This consolation to the desolate. 
 I grudge not, Lord, the victim which we gave 
 
 Thee, 
 
 Both he and I, of his most precious life, 
 To aid Thine holy city : though Thou knowest 
 His sweetest presence was to this world's joy 
 As sunlight to the taper Oh! hadst Thou 
 
 spared 
 
 Had Thy great mercy let us, hand in hand, 
 Have toiled through houseless shame, on beggar's 
 
 dole, 
 I had been blest : Thou hast him, Lord, Thou hast 
 
 him 
 
 Do with us what Thou wilt ! If at the price 
 Of this one silly hair, in spite of Thee, 
 I could reclothe these wan bones with his man- 
 hood, 
 
 And clasp to my shrunk heart my hero's self 
 I would not give it ! 
 
 I will weep no more 
 Lead on, most holy ; on the sepulchre 
 Which stands beside the choir, lay down your 
 
 burden. \To the people. 
 
 Now, gentle hosts, within the close hard by, 
 Will we our court, as queen of sorrows, hold
 
 120 The Saint's Tragedy [Act in 
 
 The green graves underneath us, and above 
 
 The all-seeing vault, which is the eye of God, 
 
 Judge of the widow and the fatherless. 
 
 There will I plead my children's wrongs, and there, 
 
 If, as I think, there boil within your veins 
 
 The deep sure currents of your race's manhood, 
 
 Ye '11 nail the orphans' badge upon your shields, 
 
 And own their cause for God's. We name our 
 
 champions 
 
 Rudolf, the Cupbearer, Leutolf of Erlstetten, 
 Hartwig of Erba, and our loved Count Walter, 
 Our knights and vassals, sojourners among you. 
 Follow us. 
 
 [Exit ELIZABETH, etc.; the crowd following.
 
 ACT IV 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Night. The Church of a Convent. ELIZABETH, 
 CONRAD, GERARD, Monks, an Abbess, Nuns, etc., 
 in the distance. 
 
 Conrad. What's this new weakness? At your 
 
 own request 
 
 We come to hear your self-imposed vows 
 And now you shrink: where are the high-flown 
 
 fancies 
 
 Which but last week, beside your husband's bier, 
 You vapored forth? Will you become a jest? 
 You might have counted this tower's cost, before 
 You blazoned thus your plans abroad. 
 
 Eliz. Oh ! spare me ! 
 
 Con. Spare? Spare yourself; and spare big 
 
 easy words, 
 Which prove your knowledge greater than your 
 
 grace. 
 Eliz. Is there no middle path? No way to 
 
 keep 
 
 My love for them, and God, at once unstained? 
 Con. If this were God's world, Madam, and not 
 
 the devil's, 
 It might be done. 
 
 Eliz. God's world, man ! Why, God made it 
 The faith asserts it God's. 
 
 Con. Potentially 
 
 As every christened rogue 's a child of God, 
 G Vol. 14
 
 122 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Or those old hags, Christ's brides Think of your 
 
 hornbook 
 The world, the flesh, and the devil a goodly 
 
 leash ! 
 
 And yet God made all three. I know the fiend ; 
 And you should know the world : be sure, be sure. 
 The flesh is not a stork among the cranes. 
 Our nature, even in Eden gross and vile, 
 And by miraculous grace alone upheld, 
 Is now itself, and foul, and damned, must die 
 Ere we can live ; let halting worldlings, Madam, 
 Maunder against earth's ties, yet clutch them still. 
 Eliz. And yet God gave them to me 
 Con. In the world ; 
 
 Your babes are yours according to the flesh ; 
 How can you hate the flesh, and love its fruit? 
 Eliz. The Scripture bids me love them. 
 Con. Truly so, 
 
 While you are forced to keep them ; when God's 
 
 mercy 
 
 Doth from the flesh and world deliverance offer, 
 Letting you bestow them elsewhere, then your love 
 May cease with its own usefulness, and the spirit 
 Range in free battle lists; I'll not waste reasons 
 We '11 leave you, Madam, to the Spirit's voice. 
 
 [CONRAD and GERARD withdraw. 
 Eliz. (alone?) Give up his children ! Why, I 'd 
 
 not give up 
 
 A lock of hair, a glove his hand had hallowed : 
 And they are his gift ; his pledge ; his flesh and 
 
 blood 
 
 Tossed off for my ambition ! Ah ! my husband ! 
 His ghost's sad eyes upbraid me ! Spare me, spare 
 
 me! 
 I d love thee still, if I dared ; but I fear God.
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 123 
 
 And shall I never more see loving eyes 
 
 Look into mine, until my dying day? 
 
 That's this world's bondage: Christ would have 
 
 me free, 
 
 And 't were a pious deed to cut myself 
 The last, last strand, and fly : but whither? whither? 
 What if I cast away the bird i' the hand 
 And found none in the bush? Tis possible 
 What right have I to arrogate Christ's bride-bed ? 
 Crushed, widowed, sold to traitors? I, o'er whom 
 His billows and His storms are sweeping? God's 
 
 not angry: 
 
 No, not so much as we with buzzing fly ; 
 Or in the moment of His wrath's awakening 
 We should be nothing. No there's worse 
 
 than that 
 
 What if He but sat still, and let be be? 
 And these deep sorrows, which my vain conceit 
 Calls chastenings meant for me my ailments' 
 
 cure 
 
 Were lessons for some angels far away, 
 And I the corpus vile for the experiment? 
 The grinding of the sharp and pitiless wheels 
 Of some high Providence, which had its main- 
 spring 
 
 Ages ago, and ages hence its end? 
 That were too horrible ! 
 To have torn up all the roses from my garden, 
 And planted thorns instead; to have forged my 
 
 griefs, 
 And hugged the griefs I dared not forge; made 
 
 earth 
 
 A hell, for hope of heaven ; and after all, 
 These homeless moors of life toiled through, to 
 
 wake,
 
 1 24 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 And find blank nothing ! Is that angel-world 
 
 A gaudy window, which we paint ourselves 
 
 To hide the dead void night beyond? The 
 
 present? 
 
 Why here 's the present like this arched gloom, 
 It hems our blind souls in, and roofs them over 
 With adamantine vault, whose only voice 
 Is our own wild prayers' echo: and our future? 
 It rambles out in endless aisles of mist, 
 The farther still the darker Oh, my Saviour ! 
 My God ! where art Thou ? That 's but a tale about 
 
 Thee, 
 
 That crucifix above it does but show Thee 
 As Thou wast once, but not as Thou art now 
 Thy grief, but not Thy glory : where 's that gone ? 
 I see it not without me, and within me 
 Hell reigns, not Thou ! 
 
 [Dashes herself down on the altar steps. 
 
 Monks in the distance chanting. 
 
 "Kings' daughters were among thine honorable 
 
 women" 
 Eliz. Kings' daughters ! I am one ! 
 
 Monks. " Hearken, oh, daughter, and consider ; 
 
 incline thine ear: 
 Forget also thine own people, and thy father's 
 
 house, 
 
 So shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty: 
 For He is thy Lord God, and worship thou Him." 
 
 Eliz. (springing up}. I will forget them ! 
 They stand between my soul and its allegiance. 
 Thou art my God : what matter if Thou love me ?
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 125 
 
 I am Thy bond-slave, purchased with Thy life- 
 blood ; 
 
 I will remember nothing, save that debt. 
 Do with me what Thou wilt. Alas, my babies ! 
 He loves them they '11 not need me. 
 
 CONRAD advancing. 
 
 Con. How now, Madam 1 
 
 Have these your prayers unto a nobler will 
 Won back that wandering heart? 
 
 Eliz. God's will is spoken ! 
 
 The flesh is weak ; the spirit's fixed, and dares, 
 Stay ! confess, sir, 
 
 Did not yourself set on your brothers here 
 To sing me to your purpose? 
 
 Con. As I live 
 
 I meant it not ; yet had I bribed them to it, 
 Those words were no less God's. 
 
 Eliz. I know it, I know it; 
 
 And I '11 obey them : come, the victim 's ready. 
 [Lays her hand on the altar. GERARD, Abbess, and 
 
 Monks descend and advance] 
 
 All worldly goods and wealth, which once I loved, 
 I do now count but dross : and my beloved, 
 The children of my womb, I now regard 
 As if they were another's. God is witness. 
 My pride is to despise myself; my joy 
 All insults, sneers, and slanders of mankind ; 
 No creature now I love, but God alone. 
 Oh, to be clear, clear, clear, of all but Him ! 
 Lo, here I strip me of all earthly helps 
 
 [ Tearing off her clothes. 
 
 Naked and barefoot through the world to follow 
 My naked Lord And for my filthy pelf 
 
 Con. Stop, Madam
 
 1 26 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Eliz. Why so, sir? 
 
 Con. Upon thine oath ! 
 
 Thy wealth is God's, not thine How darest 
 
 renounce 
 
 The trust He lays on thee ? I do command thee, 
 Being, as Aaron, in God's stead, to keep it 
 Inviolate, for the Church and thine own needs. 
 
 Eliz. Be it so I have no part nor lot in 't 
 There I have spoken. 
 
 Abbess. Oh, noble soul ! which neither gold, 
 
 nor love, 
 Nor scorn can bend ! 
 
 Gerard. And think what pure devotions, 
 
 What holy prayers must they have been, whose 
 
 guerdon 
 Is such a flood of grace ! 
 
 Nuns. What love again ! 
 
 What flame of charity, which thus prevails 
 In virtue's guest ! 
 
 Eliz. Is self-contempt learnt thus? 
 
 I '11 home. 
 
 Abbess. And yet how blest, in these cool shades 
 To rest with us, as in a land-locked pool, 
 Touched last and lightest by the ruffling breeze. 
 
 Eliz. No ! no ! no ! no ! I will not die in the 
 
 dark: 
 
 I '11 breathe free the fresh air until the last, 
 Were it but a month I have such things to do 
 Great schemes brave schemes and such a little 
 
 time! 
 
 Though now I am harnessed light as any foot-page. 
 Come, come, my ladies. [Exeunt ELIZABETH, etc. 
 
 Ger. Alas, poor lady ! 
 
 Con. Why alas, my son ? 
 
 She longs to die a saint, and here 's the way to it
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 1 27 
 
 Ger. Yet why so harsh? why with remorseless 
 
 knife 
 Home to the stem prune back each bough and 
 
 bud? 
 
 I thought the task of education was 
 To strengthen, not to crush ; to train and feed 
 Each subject toward fulfilment of its nature, 
 According to the mind of God, revealed 
 In laws, congenital with every kind 
 And character of man. 
 
 Con. A heathen dream ! 
 
 Young souls but see the gay and warm outside, 
 And work but in the shallow upper soil. 
 Mine deeper, and the sour and barren rock 
 Will stop you soon enough. Who trains God's 
 
 Saints, 
 He must transform, not pet Nature 's corrupt 
 
 throughout 
 
 A gaudy snake, which must be crushed, not tamed, 
 A cage of unclean birds, deceitful ever ; 
 Born in the likeness of the fiend, which Adam 
 Did at the Fall, the Scripture saith, put on. 
 Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook, 
 To make him sport for thy maidens? Scripture 
 
 saith 
 
 Who is the prince of this world so forget not. 
 Ger. Forgive, if my more weak and carnal 
 
 judgment 
 
 Be startled by your doctrines, and doubt trembling 
 The path whereon you force yourself and her. 
 Con. Startled ? Belike belike let doctrines 
 
 be; 
 Thou shalt be judged by thy works; so see to 
 
 them, 
 And let divines split hairs: dare all thou canst;
 
 1 28 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Be all thou darest; that will keep the brains full. 
 Have thy tools ready, God will find thee work 
 Then up, and play the man. Fix well thy 
 
 purpose 
 
 Let one idea, like an orbed sun, 
 Rise radiant in thine heaven ; and then round it 
 All doctrines, forms, and disciplines will range 
 As dim parhelia, or as needful clouds, 
 Needful, but mist-begotten, to be dashed 
 Aside, when fresh shall serve thy purpose better. 
 
 Ger, How? dashed aside? 
 
 Con. Yea, dashed aside why not? 
 
 The truths, my son, are safe in God's abysses 
 While we patch up the doctrines to look like them. 
 The best are tarnished mirrors clumsy bridges, 
 Whereon, as on firm soil, the mob may walk 
 Across the gulf of doubt, and know no danger. 
 We, who see heaven, may see the hell which girds it. 
 Blind trust .for them. When I came here from 
 
 Rome, 
 
 Among the Alps, all through one frost-bound dawn, 
 Waiting with sealed lips the noisy day, 
 I walked upon a marble mead of snow 
 An angel's spotless plume, laid there for me : 
 Then from the hillside, in the melting noon, 
 Looked down the gorge, and lo ! no bridge, no 
 
 snow 
 
 But seas of writhing glacier, gashed and scored 
 With splintered gulfs, and fathomless crevasses, 
 Blue lips of hell, which sucked down roaring rivers 
 The fiends who fled the sun. The path of Saints 
 Is such ; so shall she look from heaven, and see 
 The road which led her thither. Now we '11 go, 
 And find some lonely cottage for her lodging; 
 Her shelter now is but a crumbling ruin
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 29 
 
 Roofed in with pine boughs discipline more 
 
 healthy 
 For soul, than body : She 's not ripe for death. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Open space in a Suburb of Marpurg, near ELIZA- 
 BETH'S Hut. COUNT WALTER and COUNT PAMA 
 of Hungary entering. 
 
 C. Pama. I have prepared my nerves for a 
 shock. 
 
 C- Wai. You are wise, for the world's upside 
 down here. The last gateway brought us out of 
 Christendom into the New Jerusalem, the fifth 
 Monarchy, where the Saints possess the earth. 
 Not a beggar here but has his pockets full of fair 
 ladies' tokens : not a barefooted friar but rules a 
 princess. 
 
 C. Pama. Creeping, I opine, into widows' houses, 
 and for a pretence making long prayers. 
 
 C. Wai. Don't quote Scripture here, sir, espe- 
 cially in that gross, literal way ! The new lights 
 here have taught us that Scripture's saying one 
 thing, is a certain proof that it means another. 
 Except, by the by, in one text. 
 
 C. Pama. What 's that? 
 
 C. Wai. " Ask, and it shall be given you." 
 
 C. Pama. Ah ! So we are to take nothing lit- 
 erally, that they may take literally everything 
 themselves ? 
 
 C. Wai. Humph ! As for your text, see if they 
 do not saddle it on us before the day is out, as
 
 130 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 glibly as ever you laid it on them. Here comes 
 the lady's tyrant, of whom I told you. 
 
 CONRAD advances from the Hut. 
 
 Con. And what may Count Walter's valor want 
 here ? [COUNT WALTER turns his back. 
 
 C. Pama. I come, Sir| Priest, from Andreas, 
 
 king renowned 
 
 Of Hungary, ambassador unworthy 
 Unto the Landgravine, his saintly daughter; 
 And fain would be directed to her presence. 
 
 Con. That is as I shall choose. But I'll not 
 
 stop you. 
 
 I do not build with straw. I '11 trust my pupils 
 To worldlings' honeyed tongues, who make long 
 
 prayers, 
 
 And enter widows' houses for pretence. 
 There dwells the lady, who has chosen too long 
 The better part, to have it taken from her. 
 Besides that with strange dreams and revelations 
 She has of late been edified. 
 
 C. Wai. Bah 1 but they will serve your turn 
 and hers. 
 
 Con. What do you mean? 
 
 C. Wai. When you have her cut off from child 
 and friend, and even Isentrudis and Guta, as I 
 hear, are thrust out by you to starve, and she 
 sits there, shut up like a bear in a hole, to feed 
 on her own substance; if she has not some of 
 these visions to look at, how is she, or any other 
 of your poor self-gorged prisoners, to help fancy- 
 ing herself the only creature on earth? 
 
 Con. How now? Who more than she, in faith 
 and practice, a living member of the Communion 
 of Saints? Did she not lately publicly dispense
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 3 1 
 
 in charity in a single day five hundred marks and 
 more? Is it not my continual labor to keep her 
 from utter penury through her extravagance in 
 almsgiving? For whom does she take thought 
 but for the poor, on whom, day and night, she 
 spends her strength? Does she not tend them 
 from the cradle, nurse them, kiss their sores, feed 
 them, bathe them, with her own hands, clothe 
 them, living and dead, with garments, the produce 
 of her own labor? Did she not of late take into 
 her own house a paralytic boy, whose loathsome- 
 ness had driven away every one else? And now 
 that we have removed that charge, has she not 
 with her a leprous boy, to whose necessities she 
 ministers hourly, by day and night? What valley 
 but blesses her for some school, some chapel, 
 some convent, built by her munificence? Are 
 not the hospices, which she has founded in divers 
 towns, the wonder of Germany? wherein she 
 daily feeds and houses a multitude of the infirm 
 poor of Christ? Is she not followed at every step 
 by the blessings of the poor? Are not her hourly 
 intercessions for the souls and bodies of all around 
 incessant, world-famous, mighty to save? While 
 she lives only for the Church of Christ, will you 
 accuse her of selfish isolation? 
 
 C. Wai. I tell you, monk, if she were not 
 healthier by God's making than ever she will be 
 by yours, her charity would be by this time 
 double-distilled selfishness; the mouths she fed, 
 cupboards to store good works in ; the backs she 
 warmed, clothes'-horses to hang out her wares 
 before God ; her alms not given, but fairly paid, 
 a halfpenny for every halfpenny- worth of eternal 
 life; earth her chess-board, and the men and
 
 132 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 women on it merely pawns for her to play a win- 
 ning game puppets and horn-books to teach her 
 unit holiness a private workshop in which to work 
 out her own salvation. Out upon such charity ! 
 
 Con. God hath appointed that our virtuous deeds 
 Each merit their rewards. 
 
 C. Wai. Go to go to. I have watched you 
 and your crew, how you preach up selfish ambi- 
 tion for divine charity and call prurient longings 
 celestial love, while you blaspheme that very mar- 
 riage from whose mysteries you borrow all your 
 cant. The day will come when every husband 
 and father will hunt you down like vermin ; and 
 may I live to see it. 
 
 Con. Out on thee, heretic ! 
 
 C. Wai. {drawing). Liar! At last? 
 
 C. Pama. In God's name, sir, what if the Prin- 
 cess find us? 
 
 C. Wai. Ay for her sake. But put that name 
 on me again, as you do on every good Catholic 
 who will not be your slave and puppet, and if thou 
 goest home with ears and nose, there is no hot 
 blood in Germany. 
 
 [ They move towards the Cottage. 
 
 Con. (alone). Were I as once I was, I could 
 
 revenge : 
 
 But now all private grudges wane like mist 
 In the keen sunlight of my full intent ; 
 And this man counts but for some sullen bull 
 Who paws and mutters at unheeding pilgrims 
 His empty wrath : yet let him bar my path, 
 Or stay me but one hour in my life-purpose, 
 And I will fell him as a savage beast, 
 God's foe, not mine. Beware thyself, Sir Count 1 
 [Exit. The Counts return from the Cottage.
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 1 3 3 
 
 C. Pama. Shortly she will return ; here to ex- 
 pect her 
 
 Is duty both, and honor. Pardon me 
 Her humors are well known here? Passers by 
 Will guess who 'tis we visit? 
 
 C. Wai. Very likely. 
 
 C. Pama. Well, travellers see strange things 
 
 and do them too. 
 
 Hem ! this turf-smoke affects my breath : we might 
 Draw back a space. 
 
 C. Wai. Gertie, we were in luck, 
 
 Or both our noses would have been snapped off 
 By those two she-dragons; how their sainthoods 
 
 squealed 
 
 To see a brace of beards peep in ! Poor child ! 
 Two sweet companions for her loneliness ! 
 
 C. Pama. But ah ! what lodging ! 'T is at that 
 
 my heart bleeds ! 
 That hut, whose rough and smoke-embrowned 
 
 spars 
 
 Dip to the cold clay floor on either side ! 
 Her seats bare deal ! her only furniture 
 Some earthen crock or two ! Why, sir, a dungeon 
 Were scarce more frightful : such a choice must 
 
 argue 
 Aberrant senses, or degenerate blood ! 
 
 C f Wai. What? Were things foul? 
 
 C. Pama. I marked not, sir. 
 
 C. Wai. I did. 
 
 You might have eat your dinner off the floor. 
 
 C. Pama. Off any spot, sir, which a princess* 
 
 foot 
 Had hallowed by its touch. 
 
 C. Wai. Most courtierly. 
 
 Keep, keep those sweet saws for the lady's self.
 
 1 34 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 (Aside) Unless that shock of the nerves shall send 
 them flying. 
 
 C. Pa-ma. Yet whence this depth of poverty? 
 
 I thought 
 
 You and her champions had recovered for her 
 Her lands and titles. 
 
 C. Wai. Ay ; that coward Henry 
 
 Gave them all back as lightly as he took them : 
 Gertie, we were four gentle applicants 
 And Rudolph told him some unwelcome truths 
 Would God that all of us might hear our sins, 
 As Henry heard that day ! 
 
 C. Pama. Then she refused them? 
 
 C. WaL " It ill befits," quoth she, " my royal 
 
 blood, 
 
 To take extorted gifts ; I tender back 
 By you to him, for this his mortal life, 
 That which he thinks by treason cheaply bought ; 
 To which my son shall, in his father's right, 
 By God's good will, succeed. For that dread 
 
 height 
 May Christ by many woes prepare his youth ! " 
 
 C. Pama. Humph ! 
 
 C. Wai. Why here no, 't cannot be 
 
 C. Pama. What hither comes 
 
 Forth from the hospital, where, as they told us, 
 The Princess labors in her holy duties? 
 A parti-colored ghost that stalks for penance? 
 Ah ! a good head of hair, if she had kept it 
 A thought less lank ; a handsome face too, trust me, 
 But worn to fiddle-strings ; well, we '11 be knightly 
 
 [As ELIZABETH meets /tint.] 
 
 Stop, my fair queen of rags and patches, turn 
 Those solemn eyes a moment from your distaff,
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 135 
 
 And say, what tidings your magnificence 
 Can bring us of the Princess ? 
 
 Eliz. I am she. 
 
 [COUNT PAMA crosses himself and falls on his 
 
 kneesJ] 
 
 C. Pama. Oh, blessed saints and martyrs ! 
 
 Open, earth ! 
 
 And hide my recreant knighthood in thy gulf! 
 Yet, mercy, Madam ! for till this strange day 
 Who e'er saw spinning wool, like village-maid, 
 A royal scion? 
 
 C. Wai. {kneeling). My beloved mistress ! 
 Eliz. Ah ! faithful friend I Rise, gentles, rise, 
 
 for shame; 
 Nay, blush not, gallant sir. You have seen, ere 
 
 now, 
 Kings' daughters do worse things than spinning 
 
 wool, 
 
 Yet never reddened. Speak your errand out. 
 C. Pama. I from your father, Madam 
 Eliz, Oh ! I divine ; 
 
 And grieve that you so far have journeyed, sir, 
 Upon a bootless quest. 
 
 C. Pama. But hear me, Madam 
 
 If you return with me (o'erwhelming honor ! 
 For such mean bodyguard too precious treasure) 
 Your father offers to you half his wealth ; 
 And countless hosts, whose swift and loyal blades 
 From traitorous grasp shall vindicate your crown. 
 Eliz. Wealth? I have proved it, and have 
 
 tossed it from me : 
 
 I will not stoop again to load with clay. 
 War? I have proved that too: should I turn 
 loose
 
 1 36 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 On these poor sheep the wolf whose fangs have 
 
 gored me, 
 God's bolt would smite me dead. 
 
 C. Pama. Madam, by his gray hairs he doth 
 
 entreat you. 
 Eliz. Alas! small comfort would they find in 
 
 me ! 
 
 I am a stricken and most luckless deer, 
 Whose bleeding track but draws the hounds of 
 
 wrath 
 
 Where'er I pause a moment He has children 
 Bred at his side, to nurse him in his age 
 While I am but an alien and a changeling, 
 Whom, ere my plastic sense could impress take 
 Either of his feature or his voice, he lost. 
 
 C. Pama. Is it so? Then pardon, Madam, but 
 
 your father 
 
 Must by a father's right command 
 Eliz. Command ! Ay, that 's the phrase of the 
 
 world: well tell him, 
 
 But tell him gently too that child and father 
 Are names, whose earthly sense I have forsworn, 
 And know no more : I have a heavenly spouse, 
 Whose service doth all other claims annul. 
 
 C. Wai. Ah, lady, dearest lady, be but ruled ! 
 Your Saviour will be there as near as here. 
 
 Eliz. What? Thou too, friend ? Dost thou not 
 
 know me better? 
 
 Wouldst have me leave undone what I begin? 
 ( To COUNT PAMA) My father took the cross, sir : 
 
 so did I : 
 
 As he would die at his post, so will I die : 
 He is a warrior : ask him, should I leave 
 This my safe fort, and well-proved vantage-ground, 
 To roam on this world's flat and fenceless steppes?
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 137 
 
 C. Pama. Pardon me, Madam, if my grosser wit 
 Fail to conceive your sense. 
 
 Eliz. It is not needed. 
 
 Be but the mouthpiece to my father, sir ; 
 And tell him for I would not anger him 
 Tell him, I am content say, happy tell him 
 I prove my kin by prayers for him, and masses 
 For her who bore me. We shall meet on high. 
 And say, his daughter is a mighty tree, 
 From whose wide roots a thousand sapling suckers, 
 Drink half their life ; she dare not snap the threads, 
 And let her offshoots wither. So farewell. 
 Within the convent there, as mine own guests, 
 You shall be fitly lodged. Come here no more. 
 
 C. Wai. C. Pama, Farewell, sweet Saint ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Eliz. May God go with you both. 
 
 No ! I will win for him a nobler name, 
 Than captive crescents, piles of turbaned heads, 
 Or towns retaken from the Tartar, give. 
 In me he shall be greatest; my report 
 Shall through the ages win the quires of heaven 
 To love and honor him ; and hinds, who bless 
 The poor man's patron saint, shall not forget 
 How she was fathered with a worthy sire. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Night. Interior of ELIZABETH'S Hut. A leprous 
 Boy sleeping on a Mattress. ELIZABETH watch- 
 ing by him. 
 
 Eliz. My shrunk limbs, stiff from many a blow, 
 
 Are crazed with pain. 
 A long dim formless fog-bank, creeping low, 
 
 Dulls all my brain.
 
 1 3 8 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 I remember two young lovers, 
 
 In a golden gleam. 
 Across the brooding darkness shrieking hovers 
 
 That fair, foul dream. 
 
 My little children call to me, 
 
 "Mother! so soon forgot?" 
 
 From out dark nooks their yearning faces startle 
 
 me, 
 Go, babes ! I know you not ! 
 
 Pray ! pray ! or thou 'It go mad. 
 
 The past 's our own : 
 
 No fiend can take that from us ! Ah, poor boy ! 
 Had I, like thee, been bred from my black birth- 
 hour 
 
 In filth and shame, counting the soulless months 
 Only by some fresh ulcer ! I '11 be patient 
 Here 's something yet more wretched than myself. 
 Sleep thou on still, poor charge though I '11 not 
 
 grudge 
 
 One moment of my sickening toil about thee, 
 Best counsellor dumb preacher, who dost warn 
 
 me 
 
 How much I have enjoyed, how much have left, 
 Which thou hast never known. How am I 
 
 wretched ? 
 
 The happiness thou hast from me, is mine, 
 And makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret 
 Could we but crush that ever-craving lust 
 For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose our life, 
 Our barren unit life, to find again 
 A thousand lives in those for whom we die. 
 So were we men and women, and should hold 
 Our rightful rank in God's great universe,
 
 Scene ill] The Saint's Tragedy 1 39 
 
 Wherein, in heaven and earth, by will or nature, 
 Nought lives for self All, all from crown to 
 
 footstool 
 
 The Lamb, before the world's foundations slain 
 The angels, ministers to God's elect 
 The sun, who only shines to light a world 
 The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers 
 The fleeting streams, who in their ocean-graves 
 Flee the decay of stagnant self-content 
 The oak, ennobled by the shipwright's axe 
 The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower 
 The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms, 
 Born only to be prey for every bird 
 All spend themselves for others : and shall man, 
 Earth's rosy blossom image of his God 
 Whose twofold being is the mystic knot 
 Which couples earth and heaven doubly bound 
 As being both worm and angel, to that service 
 By which both worms and angels hold their life 
 Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt, 
 Refuse, without some hope of further wage 
 Which he calls Heaven, to be what God has made 
 
 him? 
 
 No ! let him show himself the creature's lord 
 By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice 
 Which they perforce by nature's law must suffer. 
 This too I had to learn (I thank thee, Lord !), 
 To lie crushed down in darkness and the pit 
 To lose all heart and hope and yet to work. 
 What lesson could I draw from all my own woes 
 Ingratitude, oppression, widowhood 
 While I could hug myself in vain conceits 
 Of self-contented sainthood inward raptures 
 Celestial palms and let ambition's gorge 
 Taint heaven, as well as earth? Is selfishness
 
 140 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 For time, a sin spun out to eternity 
 Celestial prudence? Shame ! Oh, thrust me forth, 
 Forth, Lord, from self, until I toil and die 
 No more for Heaven and bliss, but duty, Lord, 
 Duty to Thee, although my meed should be 
 The hell which I deserve ! [Sleeps. 
 
 
 
 Two Women enter. 
 
 1st Woman. What! snoring still? T is nearly 
 
 time to wake her 
 To do her penance. 
 
 2d Woman. Wait a while, for love : 
 
 Indeed, I am almost ashamed to punish 
 A bag of skin and bones. 
 
 ist Woman. 'T is for her good : 
 
 She has had her share of pleasure in this life 
 With her gay husband ; she must have her pain. 
 We bear it as a thing of course ; we know 
 What mortifications are, although I say it 
 That should not. 
 
 2d Woman. Why, since my old tyrant died, 
 Fasting I 've sought the Lord, like any Anna, 
 And never tasted fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, 
 And little stronger than water. 
 
 1st Woman. Plague on this watching ! 
 
 What work, to make a saint of a fine lady ! 
 See now, if she had been some laborer's daughter, 
 She might have saved herself, for aught he cared; 
 But now 
 
 2d Woman. Hush ! here the master comes : 
 I hear him. 
 
 CONRAD enters. 
 
 Con. My peace, most holy, wise, and watchful 
 wardens !
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 141 
 
 She sleeps? Well, what complaints have you to 
 
 bring 
 
 Since last we met? How? blowing up the fire? 
 Cold is the true saint's element he thrives 
 Like Alpine gentians, where the frost is keenest 
 For there Heaven 's nearest and the ether purest 
 (Aside} And he most bitter. 
 
 2d Woman. Ah ! sweet master, 
 
 We are not yet as perfect as yourself. 
 
 Con. But how has she behaved ? 
 
 1st Woman. Just like herself 
 
 Now ruffling up like any tourney queen ; 
 Now weeping in dark corners ; then next minute 
 Begging for penance on her knees. 
 
 2d Woman. One trick 's cured ; 
 
 That lust of giving ; Isentrude and Guta, 
 The hussies, came here begging but yestreen, 
 Vowed they were starving. 
 
 Con. Did she give to them? 
 
 2d Woman. She told them that she dared not. 
 
 Con. Good. For them, 
 
 I will take measures that they shall not want : 
 But see you tell her not : she must be perfect. 
 
 1st Woman. Indeed, there 's not much chance 
 
 of that a while. 
 
 There 's others, might be saints, if they were young, 
 And handsome, and had titles to their names, 
 If they were helped toward heaven, now 
 
 Con. Silence, horse-skull! 
 
 Thank God, that you are allowed to use a finger 
 Towards building up His chosen tabernacle. 
 
 2d Woman. I consider that she blasphemes the 
 means of grace. 
 
 Con. Eh? that's a point, indeed. 
 
 2d Woman. Why yesterday,
 
 142 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Within the church, before a mighty crowd, 
 
 She mocked at all the lovely images, 
 
 And said " the money had been better spent 
 
 On food and clothes, instead of paint and gilding: 
 
 They were but pictures, whose reality 
 
 We ought to bear within us." 
 
 Con. Awful doctrine ! 
 
 1st Woman. Look at her carelessness, again 
 
 the distaff 
 
 Or woolcomb in her hands, even on her bed. 
 Then, when the work is done, she lets those nuns 
 Cheat her of half the price. 
 
 2d Woman. The Aldenburgers. 
 
 Con. Well, well, what more misdoings ? 
 
 (aside) Pah ! I am sick on 't. 
 (Aloud} Go sit, and pray by her until she wakes. 
 
 The Women retire. CONRAD sits down by the fire. 
 
 I am dwindling to a peddling chamber-chaplain, 
 Who hunts for crabs and ballads in maids' sleeves, 
 I, who have shuffled kingdoms. Oh ! 't is easy 
 To beget great deeds ; but in the rearing of them 
 The threading in cold blood each mean detail, 
 And furzebrake of half-pertinent circumstance 
 There lies the self-denial. 
 
 Women (in a low voice}. Master ! sir, look here ! 
 
 Eliz. (rising). Have mercy, mercy, Lord ! 
 
 Con. What is it, my daughter? No she 
 
 answers not 
 
 Her eyeballs through their sealed lids are bursting, 
 And yet she sleeps : her body does but mimic 
 The absent soul's enfranchised wanderings 
 In the spirit-world. 
 
 Eliz. Oh ! she was but a worldling!
 
 Scene ill] The Saint's Tragedy 143 
 
 And think, good Lord, if that this world is hell, 
 What wonder if poor souls whose lot is fixed here, 
 Meshed down by custom, wealth, rank, pleasure, 
 
 ignorance, 
 
 Do hellish things in it? Have mercy, Lord ; 
 Even for my sake, and all my woes, have mercy ! 
 Con. There! she is laid again Some bedlam 
 
 dream. 
 
 So here I sit ; am I a guardian angel 
 Watching by God's elect? or nightly tiger, 
 Who waits upon a dainty point of honor 
 To clutch his prey, till it shall wake and move ? 
 We '11 waive that question : there 's eternity 
 To answer that in. 
 
 How like a marble-carven nun she lies 
 Who prays with folded palms upon her tomb, 
 Until the resurrection ! Fair and holy ! 
 Oh, happy Lewis ! Had I been a knight 
 A man at all What 's this? I must be brutal, 
 Or I shall love her : and yet that 's no safeguard ; 
 I have marked it oft: ay with that devilish jtri- 
 
 umph 
 
 Which eyes its victim's writhings, still will mingle 
 A sympathetic thrill of lust say, pity. 
 
 Eliz. (awaking). I am heard ! She is saved I 
 Where am I ? What ! have I overslept myself? 
 Oh, do not beat me ! I will tell you all 
 I have had awful dreams of the other world. 
 
 \st Woman. Ay ! ay ! a fine excuse for lazy 
 
 women, 
 
 Who cry nightmare with lying on their backs. 
 Eliz. I will be heard 1 I am a prophetess ! 
 God hears me, why not ye ? 
 
 Con. Quench not the spirit: 
 
 If He have spoken, daughter, we must listen.
 
 144 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Eliz. Methought from out the red and heaving 
 
 earth 
 
 My mother rose, whose broad and queenly limbs 
 A fiery arrow did impale, and round 
 Pursuing tongues oozed up of nether fire, 
 And fastened on her : like a winter-blast 
 Among the steeples, then she shrieked aloud, 
 " Pray for me, daughter ; save me from this 
 
 torment, 
 
 For thou canst save ! " And then she told a tale ; 
 It was not true my mother was not such 
 Oh, God ! The pander to a brother's sin ! 
 
 1st Woman. There now? The truth is out! 
 
 I told you, sister, 
 About that mother - 
 
 Con. Silence, hags ! what then ? 
 
 Eliz. She stretched her arms, and sank. Was 
 
 it a sin 
 
 To love that sinful mother? There I lay 
 And in the spirit far away I prayed ; 
 What words I spoke, I know not, nor how long; 
 Until a small still voice sighed, " Child, thou art 
 
 heard:" 
 
 Then on the pitchy dark a small bright cloud 
 Shone out, and swelled, and neared, and grew to 
 
 form, 
 
 Till from it blazed my pardoned mother's face 
 With nameless glory ! Nearer still she pressed, 
 And bent her lips to mine a mighty spasm 
 Ran crackling through my limbs, and thousand 
 
 bells 
 
 Rang in my dizzy ears And so I woke. 
 Con. 'Twas but a dream. 
 Eliz. 'T was more ! 'T was more 1 
 
 I've tests:
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 145 
 
 From youth I have lived in two alternate worlds, 
 And night is live like day. This was no goblin I 
 'Twas a true vision, and my mother's soul 
 Is freed by my poor prayers from penal fires, 
 And waits for me in bliss. 
 
 Con, Well be it so then. 
 
 Thou seest herein what prize obedience merits. 
 Now to press forwards : I require your presence 
 Within the square, at noon, to witness there 
 The fiery doom most just and righteous doom 
 Of two convicted and malignant heretics, 
 Who at the stake shall expiate their crime, 
 And pacify God's wrath against this land 
 
 Eliz. No ! no ! I will not go ! 
 
 Con. What's here? 
 
 Thou wilt not? 
 I'll drive thee there with blows. 
 
 Eliz. Then I will bear them, 
 
 Even as I bore the last, with thankful thoughts 
 Upon those stripes my Lord endured for me. 
 Oh, spare them, sir ! poor blindfold sons of men ! 
 No saint but daily errs, and must they burn, 
 Ah, God ! for an opinion ? 
 
 Con. Fool ! opinions ? 
 
 Who cares for their opinions ? 'T is rebellion 
 Against the system which upholds the world 
 For which they die : so, lest the infection spread, 
 We must cut off the members, whose disease 
 We 'd pardon, could they keep it to themselves. 
 
 [ELIZABETH weeps. 
 
 Well, I '11 not urge it, Thou hast other work 
 But for thy petulant words do thou this penance : 
 I do forbid thee here, to give henceforth 
 Food, coin, or clothes, to any living soul. 
 Thy thriftless waste doth scandalize the elect, 
 
 H Vol. 14
 
 146 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 And maim thine usefulness : thou dost elude 
 My wise restrictions still : 'T is great, to live 
 Poor, among riches ; when thy wealth is spent, 
 Want is not merit, but necessity. 
 
 Eliz. Oh, let me give ! 
 
 That only pleasure have I left on earth ! 
 
 Con. And for that very cause thou must forego it, 
 And so be perfect. She who lives in pleasure 
 Is dead, while yet she lives ; grace brings no merit 
 When 't is the express of our own self-will. 
 To shrink from what we practise ; do God's work 
 In spite of loathings ; that 's the path of saints. 
 I have said. [Exit with the Women. 
 
 Eliz. Well ! I am freezing fast I have grown 
 
 of late 
 
 Too weak to nurse my sick ; and now this outlet, 
 This one last thawing spring of fellow-feeling, 
 Is choked with ice Come, Lord, and set me free. 
 Think me not hasty ! measure not mine age, 
 Oh, Lord, by these my four-and-twenty winters. 
 I have lived three lives three lives. 
 For fourteen years I was an idiot girl : 
 Then I was born again ; and for five years, 
 I lived ! I lived ! and then I died once more ; 
 One day when many knights came marching by, 
 And stole away we '11 talk no more of that. 
 And so these four years since, I have been dead, 
 And all my life is hid with Christ in God. 
 Nunc igitur dimittas, Doming, seruam tuam.
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 147 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The same. ELIZABETH lying on Straw in a corner. 
 A crowd of Women round her. CONRAD en- 
 tering. 
 
 Con. As I expected 
 
 A sermon-raongering herd about her death-bed, 
 Stifling her with fusty sighs, as flocks of rooks 
 Despatch, with pious pecks, a wounded brother. 
 Cant, howl, and whimper I Not an old fool in the 
 
 town 
 
 Who thinks herself religious, but must see 
 The last of the show and -mob the deer to death. 
 (Advancing) Hail! holy ones I How fares your 
 
 charge to-day? 
 
 Abbess. After the blessed sacrament received, 
 As surfeited with those celestial viands, 
 And with the blood of life intoxicate, 
 She lay entranced : and only stirred at times 
 To eructate sweet edifying doctrine 
 Culled from your darling sermons. 
 
 Woman. Heavenly grace 
 
 Imbues her so throughout, that even when pricked 
 She feels no pain. 
 
 Con. A miracle, no doubt. 
 
 Heaven's work is ripe, and like some more I know, 
 Having begun in the spirit, in the flesh 
 She's now made perfect: she hath had warnings, 
 
 too, 
 
 Of her decease ; and prophesied to me, 
 Three weeks ago, when I lay like to die, 
 That I should see her in her coffin yet.
 
 1 48 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Abbess. Tis said, she heard in dreams her 
 
 Saviour call her 
 To mansions built for her from everlasting. 
 
 Con. Ay, so she said. 
 
 Abbess. But tell me, in her confession 
 
 Was there no holy shame no self-abhorrence 
 For the vile pleasures of her carnal wedlock? 
 
 Con. She said no word thereon: as for her 
 
 shrift, 
 
 No Chrisom child could show a chart of thoughts 
 More spotless than were hers. 
 
 Nun. Strange, she said nought ; 
 
 I had hoped she had grown more pure. 
 
 Con. When, next, I asked her, 
 
 How she would be interred; "In the vilest weeds," 
 Quoth she, " my poor hut holds ; I will not pamper 
 When dead, that flesh, which living I despised. 
 And for my wealth, see it to the last doit 
 Bestowed upon the poor of Christ." 
 
 2d Woman. Oh grace ! 
 
 ^d Woman. Oh soul to this world poor, but 
 rich toward God ! 
 
 Eliz. (awaking). Hark ! how they cry for bread ! 
 Poor souls ! be patient ! 
 I have spent all 
 I'll sell myself for a slave feed them with the 
 
 price. 
 
 Come, Guta! Nurse! We must be up and doing ! 
 Alas ! they are gone, and begging ! 
 Go ! go ! They '11 beat me, if I give you aught : 
 I '11 pray for you, and so you '11 go to Heaven. 
 I am a saint God grants me all I ask. 
 But I must love no creature. Why, Christ 
 
 loved 
 Mary He loved, and Martha, and their brother
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 149 
 
 Three friends ! and I have none ! 
 
 When Lazarus lay dead, He groaned in spirit, 
 
 And wept like any widow Jesus wept ! 
 
 I '11 weep, weep, weep ! pray for that " gift of tears." 
 
 They took my friends away, but not my eyes, 
 
 Oh, husband, babes, friends, nurse ! To die alone ! 
 
 Crack, frozen brain ! Melt, icicle within ! 
 
 Women. Alas ! sweet saint ! By bitter pangs 
 
 she wins 
 Her crown of endless glory! 
 
 Con. But she wins it ! 
 
 Stop that vile sobbing ; she 's unmanned enough 
 Without your maudlin sympathy. 
 
 Eliz. What? weeping? 
 
 Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me 
 Weep for yourselves. 
 
 Women. We do, alas ! we do ! 
 
 What are we without you ? \_A pause. 
 
 Woman. Oh, listen, listen ! 
 
 What sweet sounds from her fast-closed lips are 
 
 welling, 
 As from the caverned shaft, deep miners' songs? 
 
 Eliz. (in a low voice) . Through the stifling room 
 Floats strange perfume ; 
 Through the crumbling thatch 
 The angels watch, 
 Over the rotting roof-tree. 
 They warble, and flutter, and hover and glide, 
 Wafting old sounds to my dreary bedside, 
 Snatches of songs which I used to know 
 When I slept by my nurse, and the swallows 
 Called me at day-dawn from under the eaves. 
 
 Hark to them ! Hark to them now 
 Fluting like woodlarks, tender and low 
 Cool rustling leaves tinkling waters
 
 1 50 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Sheepbells over the lea 
 In their silver plumes Eden-gales whisper 
 In their hands Eden-lilies not for me not for 
 me 
 
 No crown for the poor fond bride ! 
 
 The song told me so, 
 
 Long, long ago, 
 How the maid chose the white lily ; 
 
 But the bride she chose 
 
 The red red rose, 
 And by its thorn died she. 
 
 Well in my Father's house are many mansions 
 
 I have trodden the waste howling ocean-foam, 
 
 Till I stand upon Canaan's shore, 
 Where Crusaders from Zion's towers call me 
 home, 
 
 To the saints who are gone before. 
 
 Con. Still on Crusaders? [Aside. 
 
 Abbess. What was that sweet song, which just 
 
 now, my Princess, 
 You murmured to yourself ? 
 
 Eliz. Did you not hear 
 
 A little bird between me and the wall, 
 That sang and sang? 
 
 Abbess. We heard him not, fair Saint. 
 
 Eliz. I heard him, and his merry carol revelled 
 Through all my brain, and woke my parched throat 
 To join his song : then angel melodies 
 Burst through the dull dark, and the mad air 
 
 quivered 
 Unutterable music. Nay, you heard him. 
 
 Abbess. Nought save yourself. 
 
 Eliz. Slow hours ! Was that the cock-crow?
 
 Scene IV] The Saint's Tragedy 1 5 1 
 
 Woman. St Peter's bird did call. 
 
 Eliz. Then I must 
 
 up 
 
 To matins, and to work No, my work 's over. 
 And what is it, what? 
 
 One drop of oil on the salt seething ocean ! 
 Thank God, that One was born at this same hour, 7 
 Who did our work for us : we '11 talk of Him : 
 We shall go mad with thinking of ourselves 
 We '11 talk of Him, and of that new-made star, 
 Which, as He stooped into the Virgin's side, 
 From off His finger, like a signet-gem, 
 He dropped in the empyrean for a sign. 
 But the first tear He shed at this His birth-hour, 
 When He crept weeping forth to see our woe, 
 Fled up to Heaven in mist, and hid for ever 
 Our sins, our works, and that same new-made star. 
 
 Woman. Poor soul ! she wanders ! 
 
 Con. Wanders, fool? her madness 
 
 Is worth a million of your paters, mumbled 
 At every station between 
 
 Eliz. Oh ! thank God 
 
 Our eyes are dim ! What should we do, if he, 
 The sneering fiend, who laughs at all our toil, 
 Should meet us face to face ? 
 
 Con. We 'd call him fool. 
 
 Eliz. There! There! Fly, Satan, fly! Tis 
 gone ! 
 
 Con. The victory 's gained at last ! 
 The fiend is baffled, and her saintship sure I 
 Oh, people blest of Heaven ! 
 
 Eliz. Oh, master, master, 
 
 You will not let the mob, when I lie dead, 
 Make me a show paw over all my limbs 
 Pull out my hair pluck off my finger-nails
 
 152 The Saint's Tragedy [Act IV 
 
 Wear scraps of me for charms and amulets, 
 
 As if I were a mummy, or a drug? 
 
 As they have done to others I have seen it 
 
 Nor set me up in ugly naked pictures 
 
 In every church, that cold world-hardened wits 
 
 May gossip o'er my secret tortures ? Promise 
 
 Swear to me ! I demand it 1 
 
 Con. No man lights 
 
 A candle, to be hid beneath a bushel : 
 Thy virtues are the Church's dower : endure 
 All which the edification of the faithful 
 Makes needful to be published. 
 
 Eliz. Oh, my God ! 
 
 I had stripped myself of all, but modesty ! 
 Dost Thou claim yet that victim ? Be it so. 
 Now take me home ! I have no more to give Thee ! 
 So weak and yet no pain why, now nought 
 
 ails me ! 
 
 How dim the lights burn ! Here 
 Where are you, children? 
 Alas ! I had forgotten. 
 
 Now I must sleep for ere the sun shall rise, 
 I must begone upon a long, long journey 
 To him I love. 
 
 Con. She means her heavenly Bride- 
 
 groom 
 The Spouse of souls. 
 
 Eliz. I said, to him I love. 
 
 Let me sleep, sleep. 
 You will not need to wake me so good-night. 
 
 \_Folds herself into an attitude of repose. The scene 
 closes.
 
 ACT V 
 
 SCENE I. A. D. 1235. 
 
 A Convent at Marpurg. Cloisters of the Infirmary. 
 Two aged Monks sitting. 
 
 ist Monk. So they will publish to-day the Land- 
 gravine's canonization, and translate her to the 
 new church prepared for her. Alack, now, that all 
 the world should be out sight-seeing and saint- 
 making, and we laid up here, like two lame jack- 
 daws in a belfry ! 
 
 2d Monk. Let be, man let be. We have 
 seen sights and saints in our time. And, truly, 
 this insolatio suits my old bones better than 
 processioning. 
 
 I st Monk. 'T is pleasant enough in the sun, were 
 it not for the flies. Look there 's a lizard. 
 Come you here, little run-about ; here 's game for 
 you. 
 
 2d Monk. A tame fool, and a gay one Mun- 
 ditia mundanis. 
 
 ist Monk. Catch him a fat fly my hand 
 shaketh. 
 
 2d Monk. If one of your new-lights were here, 
 now, he 'd pluck him for a fiend, as Dominic did 
 the live sparrow in chapel. 
 
 ist Monk. There will be precious offerings made 
 to-day, of which our house will get its share.
 
 154 The Saint's Tragedy [ActV 
 
 2d Monk. Not we; she always favored the 
 Franciscans most. 
 
 ist Monk. Twas but fair they were her kith 
 and kin. She lately put on the habit of their third 
 minors. 
 
 2d Monk. So have half the fine gentlemen and 
 ladies in Europe. There 's one of your new inven- 
 tions, now, for letting grand folks serve God and 
 mammon at once, and emptying honest monas- 
 teries, where men give up all for the Gospel's 
 sake. And now these Pharisees of Franciscans 
 will go off with full pockets 
 
 ist Monk. While we poor publicans 
 
 2d Monk. Shall not come home all of us jus- 
 tified, I think. 
 
 ist Monk. How? Is there scandal among us? 
 
 2d Monk. Ask not ask not. Even a fool, 
 when he holds his peace, is counted wise. Of all 
 sins, avoid that same gossiping. 
 
 1st Monk. Nay, tell me now. Are we not like 
 David and Jonathan ? Have we not worked to- 
 gether, prayed together, journeyed together, and 
 been soundly flogged together, more by token, any 
 time this forty years? And now is news so plenty, 
 that thou darest to defraud me of a morsel ? 
 
 2dMonk. I '11 tell thee but be secret. I knew 
 a man hard by the convent (names are dangerous, 
 and a bird of the air shall carry the matter), one 
 that hath a mighty eye for a heretic, if thou 
 knowest him. 
 
 ist Monk. Who carries his poll screwed on 
 over-tight, and sits with his eyes shut in chapel? 
 
 zd Monk. The same. Such a one to be in evil 
 savor to have the splendor of the pontifical 
 countenance turned from him, as though he had
 
 Scene rj The Saint's Tragedy 155 
 
 taken Christians for Amalekites, and slain the 
 people of the Lord. 
 
 1st Monk. How now? 
 
 2d Monk. I only speak as I hear : for my sister's 
 son is chaplain, for the time being, to a certain 
 Archisacerdos, a foreigner, now lodging where 
 thou knowest. The young man being hid, after 
 some knavery, behind the arras, in come our 
 quidam and that prelate. The quidam, surly and 
 Saxon the guest, smooth and Italian ; his words 
 softer than butter, yet very swords: that this 
 quidam had " exceeded the bounds of his com- 
 mission launched out into wanton and lawless 
 cruelty burnt noble ladies unheard, of whose 
 innocence the Holy See had proof defiled the 
 Catholic faith in the eyes of the weaker sort and 
 alienated the minds of many nobles and gentle- 
 men " and finally, that he who thinketh he 
 standeth, were wise to take heed lest he fall. 
 
 ist Monk. And what said Conrad? 
 
 2d Monk. Out upon a man that cannot keep his 
 lips ! Who spake of Conrad ? That quidam, how- 
 ever, answered nought, but how "to his own 
 master he stood or fell " how " he labored not 
 for the Pope but for the Papacy " ; and so forth. 
 
 ist Monk. Here is awful doctrine ! Behold the 
 fruit of your reformers ! This comes of their real- 
 ized ideas, and centralizations, and organizations, 
 till a monk cannot wink in chapel without being 
 blinded with the lantern, or fall sick on Fridays, 
 for fear of the rod. Have I not testified? Have I 
 not foretold ? 
 
 2d Monk. Thou hast indeed. Thou knowest 
 that the old paths are best, and livest in most 
 pious abhorrence of all amendment.
 
 156 The Saint's Tragedy [Act v 
 
 ist Monk. Do you hear that shout? There is 
 the procession returning from the tomb. 
 
 2d Monk. Hark to the tramp of the horse-hoofs ! 
 A gallant show, I '11 warrant ! 
 
 ist Monk. Time was, now, when we were young 
 bloods together in the world, such a roll as that 
 would have set our hearts beating against their 
 cages! 
 
 2d Monk. Ay, ay. We have seen sport in our 
 day; we have paraded and curvetted, eh? and 
 heard scabbards jingle ? We know the sly touch 
 of the heel, that set him on his hind legs before 
 the right window. Vanitas vanitatum omnia 
 vanitas ! Here comes Gerard, Conrad's chaplain, 
 with our dinner. 
 
 GERARD enters across the Court. 
 
 ist Monk. A kindly youth and a godly, but 
 reformation-bitten, like the rest. 
 
 2d Monk. Never care. Boys must take the 
 reigning madness in religion, as they do the 
 measles once for all. 
 
 ist Monk. Once too often for him. His face 
 is too, too like Abel's in the chapel-window. Ut 
 sis vitalis metuo, puerl 
 
 Ger. Hail, fathers. I have asked permission of 
 the prior to minister your refection, and bring 
 you thereby the first news of the pageant. 
 
 1st Monk. Blessings on thee for a good boy. 
 Give us the trenchers, and open thy mouth while 
 we open ours. 
 
 2,d Monk. Most splendid all, no doubt? 
 
 Ger. A garden, sir, 
 
 Wherein all rainbowed flowers were heaped 
 together;
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 157 
 
 A sea of silk and gold, of blazoned banners, 
 And chargers housed ; such glorious press, be sure, 
 Thuringen-land ne'er saw. 
 
 2d Monk. Just hear the boy ! 
 
 Who rode beside the bier? 
 
 Ger. Frederic the Kaiser, 
 
 Henry the Landgrave, brother of her husband ; 
 The Princesses, too, Agnes, and her mother ; 
 And every noble name, sir, at whose war-cry 
 The Saxon heart leaps up ; with them the prelates 
 Of Treves, of Coin, and Maintz why name them 
 
 all? 
 
 When all were there, whom this our fatherland 
 Counts worthy of its love. 
 
 1st Monk. T was but her right. 
 
 Who spoke the oration? 
 
 Ger. Who but Conrad? 
 
 2d Monk. Well 
 
 That 's honor to our house. 
 
 1st Monk. Come, tell us all. 
 
 2d Monk. In order, boy: thou hast a ready 
 tongue. 
 
 Ger. He raised from off her face the pall, and 
 
 " Lo ! " 
 
 He cried, " That saintly flesh which ye of late 
 With sacrilegious hands, ere yet entombed, 
 Had in your superstitious selfishness 
 Almost torn piecemeal. Fools! Gross-hearted 
 
 fools ! 
 
 These limbs are God's, not yours : in life for you 
 They spent themselves ; now till the judgment-day 
 By virtue of the Spirit embalmed they lie 
 Touch them who dare. No ! Would you find 
 
 your Saint, 
 Look up, not down, where even now she prays
 
 1 58 The Saint's Tragedy [Act V 
 
 Beyond that blazing orb for you and me. 
 
 Why hither bring her corpse ? Why hide her clay 
 
 In jewelled ark beneath God's mercy-seat 
 
 A speck of dust among these boundless aisles, 
 
 Uprushing pillars, star-bespangled roofs, 
 
 Whose colors mimic Heaven's unmeasured blue, 
 
 Save to remind you, how she is not here, 
 
 But risen with Him that rose, and by His blaze 
 
 Absorbed, lives in the God for whom she died ? 
 
 Know her no more according to the flesh ; 
 
 Or only so, to brand upon your thoughts 
 
 How she was once a woman flesh and blood, 
 
 Like you yet how unlike ! Hark while I tell ye." 
 
 2d Monk. How liked the mob all this? They 
 hate him sore. 
 
 Ger. Half awed, half sullen, till his golden lips 
 Entranced all ears with tales so sad and strange, 
 They seemed one life-long miracle : bliss and woe, 
 Honor and shame her daring Heaven's stern 
 
 guidance, 
 Did each the other so outblaze. 
 
 I st Monk. Great signs . 
 
 Did wait on her from youth. 
 
 2d Monk. There went a tale 
 
 Of one, a Zingar wizard, who, on her birthnight, 
 He here in Eisenach, she in Presburg lying, 
 Declared her natal moment, and the glory 
 Which should befall her by the grace of God. 
 
 Ger. He spoke of that, and many a wonder 
 
 more, 
 
 Melting all hearts to worship how a robe 
 Which from her shoulders, at a royal feast, 
 To some importunate as alms she sent, 
 By miracle within her bower was hung again: 
 And how on her own couch the Incarnate Son
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 159 
 
 In likeness of a leprous serf, she laid : 
 And many a wondrous tale, till now unheard ; 
 Which, from her handmaid's oath and attestation, 
 Siegfried of Maintz to far Perugia sent, 
 And sainted Umbria's labyrinthine hills, 
 Even to the holy Council, where the Patriarchs 
 Of Antioch and Jerusalem, and with them 
 A host of prelates, magnates, knights, and nobles, 
 Decreed and canonized her sainthood's palm. 
 1st Monk. Mass, they could do no less. 
 Ger. So thought my master-^ 
 
 For, " Thus," quoth he, " the primates of the Faith 
 Have, in the bull which late was read to you, 
 Most wisely ratified the will of God 
 Revealed in her life's splendor: for the next 
 
 count 
 
 These miracles wherewith since death she shines 
 Since ye must have your signs, ere ye believe, 
 And since without such tests the Roman Father 
 Allows no saints to take their seats in Heaven, 
 Why, there ye have them ; not a friar, I find, 
 Or old wife in the streets, but counts some dozens 
 Of blind, deaf, halt, dumb, palsied, and hysterical, 
 Made whole at this her tomb. A corpse or two 
 Was raised, they say, last week : Will that content 
 
 you? 
 Will that content her? Earthworms ! Would ye 
 
 please the dead, 
 
 Bring sinful souls, not limping carcasses 
 To test her power on; which of you hath done 
 
 that? 
 
 Has any glutton learnt from her to fast? 
 Or oily burgher dealt away his pelf? 
 Has any painted Jezebel in sackcloth 
 Repented of her vanities? Your patron?
 
 160 The Saint's Tragedy [Act V 
 
 Think ye, that spell and flame of intercession, 
 Melting God's iron will, which for your sakes 
 She purchased by long agonies, was but meant 
 To save your doctor's bills? If any soul 
 Hath been by her made holier, let it speak ! " 
 2d Monk. Well spoken, Legate ! Easier asked 
 
 than answered. 
 Ger. Not so, for on the moment, from the 
 
 crowd 
 
 Sprang out a gay and gallant gentleman 
 Well known in fight and tourney, and aloud 
 With sobs and blushes told, how he long time 
 Had wallowed deep in mire of fleshly sin, 
 And loathed, and fell again, and loathed in vain ; 
 Until the story of her saintly grace 
 Drew him unto her tomb ; there long prostrate 
 With bitter cries he sought her, till at length 
 The image of her perfect loveliness 
 Transfigured all his soul, and from his knees 
 He rose new-born, and, since that blessed day, 
 In chastest chivalry, a spotless knight, 
 Maintains the widow's and the orphan's cause. 
 ist Monk. Well done! and what said Conrad? 
 Ger. Oh, he smiled, 
 
 As who should say, " 'T was but the news I looked 
 
 for." 
 
 Then, pointing to the banners borne on high, 
 Where the sad story of her nightly penance 
 Was all too truly painted " Look ! " he cried, 
 " 'T was thus she schooled her soft and shuddering 
 
 flesh 
 
 To dare and suffer for you ! " Gay ladies sighed, 
 And stern knights wept, and growled, and wept 
 
 again. 
 And then he told her alms, her mighty labors,
 
 Scene I] The Saint's Tragedy 1 6 1 
 
 Among God's poor, the schools wherein she 
 
 taught; 
 
 The babes she brought to the font, the hospitals 
 Founded from her own penury, where she tended 
 The leper and the fever-stricken serf 
 With meanest office ; how a dying slave 
 Who craved in vain for milk she stooped to feed 
 From her own bosom. At that crowning tale 
 Of utter love, the dullest hearts caught fire 
 Contagious from his lips the Spirit's breath 
 Low to the earth, like dewy-laden corn, 
 Bowed the ripe harvest of that mighty host ; 
 Knees bent, all heads were bare; rich dames 
 
 aloud 
 
 Bewailed their cushioned sloth ; old foes held out 
 Long parted hands ; low murmured vows and 
 
 prayers 
 
 Gained courage, till a shout proclaimed her saint, 
 And jubilant thunders shook the ringing air, 
 Till birds dropped stunned, and passing clouds 
 
 bewept 
 
 With crystal drops, like sympathizing angels, 
 Those wasted limbs, whose sainted ivory round 
 Shed Eden-odors : from his royal head 
 The Kaiser took his crown, and on the bier 
 Laid the rich offering; dames tore off their jewels 
 Proud nobles heaped with gold and gems her corse 
 
 Whom living they despised : I saw no more 
 
 Mine eyes were blinded with a radiant mist 
 And I ran here to tell you. 
 
 ist Monk. Oh, fair olive, 
 
 Rich with the Spirit's unction, how thy boughs 
 Rain balsams on us ! 
 
 2d Monk. Thou didst sell thine all 
 And bought'st the priceless pearl !
 
 1 62 The Saint's Tragedy [Act V 
 
 ist Monk. Thou holocaust of Abel. 
 
 By Cain in vain despised ! 
 
 2d Monk. Thou angels' playmate 
 Of yore, but now their judge ! 
 
 Ger. Thou alabaster, 
 
 Broken at last, to fill the house of God 
 With rich celestial fragrance ! 
 
 {Etc. ttc., ad libitum. 
 
 SCENE II 
 A Room in a Convent at Mayencc. CONRAD alone. 
 
 Con. The work is done ! Diva Elizabeth ! 
 And I have trained one saint before I die ! 
 Yet now 't is done, is 't well done ? On my lips 
 Is triumph; but what echo in my heart? 
 Alas ! the inner voice is sad and dull, 
 Even at the crown and shout of victory. 
 Oh ! I had hugged this purpose to my heart, 
 Cast by for it all ruth, all pride, all scruples ; 
 Yet now its face, that seemed as pure as crystal, 
 Shows fleshly, foul, and stained with tears and gore ! 
 We make, and moil, like children in their gardens, 
 And spoil with dabbled hands, our flowers i' the 
 
 planting. 
 
 And yet a saint is made ! Alas, those children ! 
 Was there no gentler way? I know not any: 
 I plucked the gay moth from the spider's web ; 
 What if my hasty hand have smirched its feathers? 
 Sure, if the whole be good, each several part 
 May for its private blots forgiveness gain, 
 As in man's tabernacle, vile elements 
 Unite to one fair stature. Who '11 gainsay it?
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 163 
 
 The whole is good ; another saint in heaven ; 
 
 Another bride within the Bridegroom's arms ; 
 
 And she will pray for me ! And yet what matter? 
 
 Better that I, this paltry sinful unit, 
 
 Fall fighting, crushed into the nether pit, 
 
 If my dead corpse may bridge the path to Heaven, 
 
 And damn itself, to save the souls of others. 
 
 A noble ruin: yet small comfort in it; 
 
 In it, or in aught else 
 
 A blank dim cloud before mine inward sense 
 
 Dulls all the past : she spoke of such a cloud 
 
 I struck her for't, and said it was a fiend 
 
 She 's happy now, before the throne of God 
 
 I should be merry ; yet my heart's floor sinks 
 
 As on a fast day ; sure some evil bodes. 
 
 Would it were here, that I might see its eyes ! 
 
 The future only is unbearable ! 
 
 We quail before the rising thunderstorm 
 
 Which thrills and whispers in the stifled air, 
 
 Yet blench not, when it falls. Would it were here ! 
 
 [Pause."} 
 
 I fain would sleep, yet dare not : all the air 
 Throngs thick upon me with the pregnant terror 
 Of life unseen, yet near. I dare not meet them, 
 As if I sleep I shall do I again? 
 What matter what I feel, or like, or fear? 
 Come what God sends. Within there Brother 
 Gerard ! 
 
 GERARD enters. 
 
 Watch here an hour, and pray. The fiends are 
 
 busy. 
 So hold my hand. (Crosses himself.) Come 
 
 on, I fear you not
 
 164 The Saint's Tragedy [ActV 
 
 GERARD sings. 
 
 Qui fugiens mundi gravia 
 Contempsit carnis bravia, 
 Cupidinisque somnia, 
 Lucratur, perdens, omnia. 
 
 Hunc gestant ulnis angeli, 
 Ne lapis officiat pedi ; 
 Ne luce timor occupet, 
 Aut nocte pestis incubet 
 
 Huic cceli lilia germinant; 
 
 Arrisus sponsi permanent; 
 
 Ac nomen in fidelibus 
 
 Quam filiorum medius. [Sleeps. 
 
 Conrad (awaking). Stay! Spirits, stay! Art 
 
 thou a hell-born phantasm, 
 Or word too true, sent by the mother of God? 
 Oh, tell me, queen of Heaven ! 
 O God ! if she, the city of the Lord, 
 Who is the heart, the brain, the ruling soul 
 Of half the earth ; wherein all kingdoms, laws, 
 Authority, and faith do culminate, 
 And draw from her their sanction and their use; 
 The lighthouse founded on the rock of ages, 
 Whereto the Gentiles look, and still are healed ; 
 The tree whose rootlets drink of every river, 
 Whose boughs drop Eden fruits on seaward isles ; 
 Christ's seamless coat, rainbowed with gems and 
 
 hues 
 
 Of all degrees and uses, rend, and tarnish, 
 And crumble into dust ! 
 Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitasf
 
 Scene II] The Saint's Tragedy 165 
 
 Oh! to have prayed, and toiled and lied for 
 
 this! 
 
 For this to have crushed out the heart of youth, 
 And sat by calm, while living bodies burned ! 
 How ! Gerard ; sleeping ! 
 
 Couldst thou not watch with me one hour, my son? 
 Ger. (awaking). How! have I slept? Shame 
 
 on my vaporous brain ! 
 
 And yet there crept along my hand from thine 
 A leaden languor, and the drowsy air 
 Teemed thick with humming wings I slept 
 
 perforce. 
 
 Forgive me (while for breach of holy rule 
 Due penance shall seem honor) my neglect. 
 Con. I should have beat thee for't an hour 
 
 agone 
 
 Now I judge no man. What are rules and methods ? 
 I have seen things which make my brain-sphere 
 
 reel: 
 
 My magic teraph-bust, full-packed, and labelled, 
 With saws, ideas, dogmas, ends, and theories, 
 Lies shivered into dust. Pah ! we do squint 
 Each through his loophole, and then dream, broad 
 
 heaven 
 
 Is but the patch we see. But let none know ; 
 Be silent, Gerard, wary. 
 
 Ger. Nay I know nought 
 
 Of that which moves thee: though I fain would 
 
 ask 
 
 Con. I saw our mighty Mother, Holy Church, 
 Sit like a painted harlot : round her limbs 
 An oily snake had coiled, who smiled, and smiled, 
 And lisped the name of Jesus I '11 not tell thee : 
 I have seen more than man can see, and live : 
 God, when He grants the tree of knowledge, bans
 
 166 
 
 The Saint's Tragedy [Act V 
 
 The luckless seer from off the tree of life, 
 Lest he become as gods, and burst with pride; 
 Or sick at sight of his own nothingness, 
 Lie down, and be a fiend: my time is near: 
 Well I have neither child, nor kin, nor friend, 
 Save thee, my son ; I shall go lightly forth. 
 Thou knowest we start for Marpurg on the 
 
 morrow ? 
 Thou wilt go with me? 
 
 Ger. Ay, to death, my master ; 
 
 Yet boorish heretics, with grounded throats, 
 Mutter like sullen bulls ; the Count of Saym, 
 And many gentlemen, they say, have sworn 
 A fearful oath : there 's danger in the wind. 
 
 Con. They have their quarrel ; I was keen and 
 
 hasty : 
 
 Gladio qui utitur, peribit gladio. 
 When Heaven is strong, then Hell is strong: Thou 
 fear'st not? 
 
 Ger. No ! though their name were legion ! T is 
 
 for thee 
 
 Alone I quake, lest by some pious boldness 
 Thou quench the light of Israel. 
 
 Con. Light ? my son ! 
 
 There shall no light be quenched, when I lie dark. 
 Our path trends outward : we will forth to-morrow. 
 Now let 's to chapel ; matin bells are ringing. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 167 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 A road between Eisenach and Marpurg. Peasants 
 waiting by the road-side. WALTER OF VAJULA, 
 the COUNT OF SAYM, and other Gentlemen falter- 
 ing on horseback. 
 
 ^* \&~~ L \ If I , 
 
 V - \ i 
 
 Gent. Talk not of honor Hell 's a 
 me: v 
 
 a flame within 
 
 Foul water quenches fire as well as fair ; 
 
 If I do meet him he shall die the death, 
 
 Come fair, come foul : I tell you, there are wrongs 
 
 The fumbling piecemeal law can never touch, 
 
 Which bring of themselves to the injured, right 
 
 divine, 
 
 Straight from the fount of right, above all parch- 
 ments, 
 
 To be their own avengers : dainty lawyers, 
 If one shall slay the adulterer in the act, 
 Dare not condemn him : girls have stabbed their 
 
 tyrants, 
 And common sense has crowned them saints; yet 
 
 what 
 What were their wrongs to mine? All gone ! All 
 
 gone! 
 
 My noble boys, whom I had trained, poor fools, 
 To win their spurs, and ride afield with me ! 
 I could have spared them but my wife ! my lady \ 
 Those dainty limbs, which no eyes but mine 
 Before that ruffian mob Too much for man ! 
 Too much, stern Heaven! Those eyes, those 
 
 hands, 
 
 Those tender feet, where I have lain and wor- 
 shipped
 
 1 68 The Saint's Tragedy [ActV 
 
 Food for fierce flames! And on the self-same 
 day 
 
 The day that they were seized unheard un- 
 argued 
 
 No witness, but one vile convicted thief 
 
 The dog is dead and buried : Well done, hench- 
 men ! 
 
 They are not buried ! Pah ! their ashes flit 
 
 About the common air ; we pass them breathe 
 them! 
 
 The self-same day! If I had had one look ! 
 
 One word one single tiny spark of word, 
 
 Such as two swallows change upon the wing! 
 
 She was no heretic : she knelt for ever 
 
 Before the blessed rood, and prayed for me. 
 
 Art sure he comes this road? 
 
 C. Saym. My messenger 
 
 Saw him start forth, and watched him past the 
 crossways. 
 
 An hour will bring him here. 
 
 C. Wai. How! ambuscading? 
 
 I '11 not sit by, while helpless priests are butchered. 
 
 Shame, gentles ! 
 
 C. Saym. On my word, I knew not on 't 
 
 Until this hour : my quarrel 's not so sharp, 
 
 But I may let him pass : my name is righted 
 
 Before the Emperor, from all his slanders ; 
 
 And what 's revenge to me ? 
 
 Gent. Ay, ay forgive and forget 
 
 The vermin 's trapped and we '11 be gentle- 
 handed, 
 
 And lift him out, and bid his master speed him, 
 
 Him and his firebrands. He shall never pass me. 
 C. Wai. I will not see it ; I 'm old, and sick of 
 blood.
 
 Scene ill] The Saint's Tragedy 1 69 
 
 She loved him, while she lived ; and charged me 
 once, 
 
 As her sworn liegeman, not to harm the knave. 
 
 I '11 home : yet, knights, if aught untoward happen, 
 
 And you should need a shelter, come to me : 
 
 My walls are strong. Home, knaves ! we '11 seek 
 our wives, 
 
 And beat our swords to ploughshares when 
 folks let us. 
 
 [Exeunt COUNT WALTER and Suite. 
 C. Saym. He 's gone, brave heart ! But sir, 
 you will not dare? 
 
 The Pope's own Legate think there's danger 
 
 in't. 
 Gent. Look, how athwart yon sullen sleeping flats 
 
 That frowning thunder-cloud sails pregnant 
 hither ; 
 
 And black against its sheeted gray, one bird 
 
 Flags fearful onward 'Tis his cursed soul! 
 
 Now thou shalt quake, raven ! The self-same day ! 
 
 He cannot 'scape ! The storm is close upon him ! 
 
 There ! There ! the wreathing spouts have swal- 
 lowed him ! 
 
 He 's gone ! and see, the keen blue spark leaps out 
 
 From crag to crag, and every vaporous pillar 
 
 Shouts forth his death-doom ! T is a sign, a sign ! 
 
 [A heretic preacher mounts a stone. Peasants gather 
 round him.'] 
 
 These are the starved unlettered hinds, forsooth, 
 He hunted down like vermin for a doctrine. 
 They have their rights, their wrongs ; their lawless 
 
 laws, 
 
 Their witless arguings, which unconcious reason 
 Informs to just conclusions. We will hear them. 
 I Vol. 14
 
 1 70 The Saint's Tragedy [Act V 
 
 Preacher. My brethren, I have a message to 
 you : therefore hearken with all your ears for 
 now is the day of salvation. It is written, that the 
 children of this world are in their generation wiser 
 than the children of light and truly: for the 
 children of this world, when they are troubled 
 with vermin, catch them and hear no more of 
 them. But you, the children of light, the elect 
 saints, the poor of this world rich in faith, let the 
 vermin eat your lives out, and then fall down and 
 worship them afterwards. You are all besotted 
 hag-ridden drunkards sitting in the stocks, and 
 bowing down to the said stocks, and making a god 
 thereof. Of part, said the prophet, ye make a god, 
 and part serveth to roast to roast the flesh of 
 your sons and of your daughters ; and then ye cry, 
 "Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire; " and a 
 special fire ye have seen ! The ashes of your 
 wives and of your brothers cleave to your 
 clothes. Cast them up to Heaven, cry aloud, 
 and quit yourselves like men ! 
 
 Gent. He speaks God's truth ! We are Heaven's 
 
 justicers ! 
 Our woes anoint us kings ! Peace Hark again ! 
 
 Preacher. Therefore, as said before in the 
 next place It is written, that there shall be a 
 two-edged sword in the hand of the saints. But 
 the saints have but two swords Was there a 
 sword or shield found among ten thousand in 
 Israel? Then let Israel use his fists, say I, the 
 preacher ! For this man hath shed blood, and by 
 man shall his blood be shed. Now behold an argu- 
 ment. This man hath shed blood, even Conrad; 
 ergo, as he saith himself, ye, if ye are men, shall 
 6hed his blood. Doth he not himself say ergo?
 
 Scene III] The Saint's Tragedy 171 
 
 Hath he not said ergo to the poor saints, to your 
 sons and your daughters, whom he hath burned in 
 the fire to Moloch? " Ergo, thou art a heretic" 
 " Ergo, thou shalt burn." Is he not therefore con- 
 victed out of his own mouth? Arise, therefore, 
 be valiant for this day he is delivered into your 
 hand! 
 
 [Chanting heard in the distance^ 
 Peasant. Hush! here the psalm-singers come! 
 
 CONRAD enters on a mule, chanting the psalter, 
 GERARD following. 
 
 Con. My peace with you, my children ! 
 
 1st Voice. Psalm us no psalms; bless us no 
 
 devil's blessings : 
 
 Your balms will break our heads. [A murmur rises. 
 2d Voice. You are welcome, sir; we are a-wait- 
 
 ing for you. 
 
 $d Voice. Has he been shriven to-day? 
 4th Voice. Where is your ergo, Master Conrad? 
 
 Faugh ! 
 How both the fellows smell of smoke ! 
 
 $th Voice. A strange leech he, to suck, and 
 
 suck, and suck, 
 And look no fatter for't! 
 
 Old Woman. Give me back my sons ! 
 Old Man. Give me back the light of mine eyes, 
 Mine only daughter ! 
 
 My only one ! He hurled her over the cliffs ! 
 Avenge me, lads, you are young ! 
 
 ^th Voice. We will, we will: why smit'st him 
 
 not, thou with the pole-axe? 
 ^d Voice. Nay, now, the first blow costs most, 
 
 and heals last: 
 Besides, the dog 's a priest, at worst.
 
 172 The Saint's Tragedy [ActV 
 
 C. Saym. Mass! How the shaveling rascal 
 
 stands at bay ! 
 
 There 's not a rogue of them dare face his eye ! 
 True Domini canes! 'Ware the bloodhound's 
 
 teeth, curs ! 
 
 Preacher. What! Are yc afraid? The hunts- 
 man 's here at last 
 
 Without his whip ! Down with him, craven hounds ! 
 
 I '11 help you to 't. [Springs from the stone. 
 
 Gent. Ay, down with him ! Mass, have these 
 
 yelping boors 
 
 More heart than I? [Spurs his horse forward. 
 Mob. A knight ! a champion ! 
 Voice. He 's not mortal man ! 
 
 See how his eyes shine ! 'T is the archangel ! 
 St. Michael come to the rescue ! Ho ! St. Michael ! 
 
 [He lunges at CONRAD. GERARD turns the lance 
 aside, and throws his arms round CONRAD.] 
 
 Ger. My master ! my master ! The chariot of 
 Israel and the horses thereof! 
 Oh call down fire from Heaven ! 
 
 [A peasant strikes down GERARD. CONRAD, over 
 the body.~\ 
 
 Alas ! my son ! This blood shall cry for venge- 
 ance 
 Before the throne of God ! 
 
 Gent. And cry in vain! 
 
 Follow thy minion ! Join Folquet in hell ! 
 
 [Bears CONRAD down on his lance-point. 
 Con. I am the vicar of the Vicar of Christ : 
 Who touches me doth touch the Son of God. 
 
 [ The mob close over him.~\ 
 Oh God ! a martyr's crown ! Elizabeth ! [Dies.
 
 NOTES TO THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY 
 ACT I 
 
 THE references, unless it be otherwise specified, are to the Eight 
 Books concerning Saint Elizabeth, by Dietrich the Thuringian ; 
 in Basnage's Canisius, Vol. IV. p. 113 (Antwerp, 1725). 
 
 Page i. Cf. Lib. I. 3. Dietrich is eloquent about her 
 youthful inclination for holy places, and church doors, even 
 when shut, and gives many real proofs of her " sanctae 
 indolis," from the very cradle. 
 
 P. 2. " St. John's sworn maid." Cf. Lib. I. 4. " She 
 chose by lot for her patron, St. John the protector of 
 virginity." 
 
 Ibid. " Fit for my princess." Cf. Lib. I. 2. "He sent 
 with his daughter vessels of gold, silver baths, jewels, pil- 
 lows all of silk. No such things, so precious or so many, 
 were ever seen in Thuringen-land." 
 
 P. 3. "Most friendless." Cf. Lib. I. 5, 6. "The 
 courtiers used bitterly to insult her, etc. Her mother and 
 sister-in-law, given to worldly pomp, differed from her exceed- 
 ingly; " and much more concerning " the persecutions which 
 she endured patiently in youth." 
 
 P. 4. "In one cradle." Cf. Lib. I. 2. "The princess 
 was laid in the cradle of her boy-spouse," and, says another, 
 " the infants embraced with smiles, from whence the 
 bystanders drew a joyful omen of their future happiness." 
 
 Ibid. If thou love him." Cf. Lib. I. 6. " The Lord 
 by His hidden inspiration so inclined towards her the heart 
 of the prince, that in the solitude of secret and mutual love 
 he used to speak sweetly to her heart, with kindness and 
 consolation ; and was always wont, on returning home, to 
 honor her with presents, and soothe her with embraces." It 
 was their custom, says Dietrich, to the last to call each 
 other in common conversation " Brother " and " Sister."
 
 174 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 P. 5. "To his charge." Cf. Lib. I. 7. "Walter of 
 Varila, a good man, who, having been sent by the prince's 
 father into Hungary, had brought the blessed Elizabeth into 
 Thuringen-land." 
 
 P. 6. " The blind archer, Love." For information 
 about the pagan orientalism of the Troubadours, the blas- 
 phemous bombast by which they provoked their persecution 
 in Provence, and their influence on the Courts of Europe, 
 see Sismondi, Lit. Southern Europe, Cap. III. -VI. 
 
 P. 9. " Stadings." The Stadings, according to Fleury, 
 in A.D. 1233, were certain unruly fenmen, who refused to 
 pay tithes, committed great cruelties on religious of both 
 sexes, worshipped, or were said to worship, a black cat, etc., 
 considered the devil as a very ill-used personage, and the 
 rightful lord of themselves and the world, and were of the 
 most profligate morals. An impartial and philosophic 
 investigation of this and other early continental heresies is 
 much wanted. 
 
 P. 20. " All gold." Cf. Lib. I. 7, for Walter's interfer- 
 ence and Lewis's answer, which I have paraphrased. 
 
 P. 22. " Is crowned with thorns." Cf. Lib. I. 5, for 
 this anecdote and her defence, which I have in like manner 
 paraphrased. 
 
 P. 23. " Their pardon." Cf. Lib. I. 3, for this quaint 
 method of self-humiliation. 
 
 Ibid. " You know your place." Cf. Lib. I. 6. " The 
 vassals and relations of her betrothed persecuted her openly, 
 and plotted to send her back to her father divorced. . . . 
 Sophia also did all she could to place her in a convent. . . . 
 She delighted in the company of maids and servants, so that 
 Sophia used to say sneeringly to her, 'You should have 
 been counted among the slaves who drudge, and not among 
 the princes who rule.' " 
 
 P. 25. Childish laughter." Cf. Lib. I. 7. " The holy 
 maiden, receiving the mirror, showed her joy by delighted 
 laughter:" and again, II. 8, "They loved each other in 
 the charity of the Lord, to a degree beyond all belief." 
 
 P. 26. "A crystal clear." Cf. Lib. I. 7. 
 
 P. 28. " Our fairest bride." Cf. Lib. I. 8. " No one 
 henceforth dared oppose the marriage by word or plot, . . . 
 and all mouths were stopped."
 
 Notes 175 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Pp- 30-35- Cf. Lib. II. i, 5, u, et passim. 
 
 Hitherto, my notes have been a careful selection of the 
 few grains of characteristic fact which I could find among 
 Dietrich's lengthy professional reflections ; but the chapter 
 on which this scene is founded is remarkable enough to 
 be given whole, and as I have a long-standing friendship for 
 the good old monk, who is full of honest naivetd and deep- 
 hearted sympathy, and have no wish to disgust all my 
 readers with him, I shall give it for the most part untrans- 
 lated. In the meantime those who may be shocked at cer- 
 tain expressions in this poem, borrowed from the Romish 
 devotional school, may verify my language at the Romish 
 booksellers', who find just now a rapidly increasing sale for 
 such ware. And is it not after all a hopeful sign for the age 
 that even the most questionable literary tastes must nowa- 
 days ally themselves with religion that the hotbed imagi- 
 nations which used to batten on Rousseau and Byron have 
 now risen at least as high as the Vies des Saints and St. 
 Francois de Sales' Philothea ? The truth is, that in such a 
 time as this, in the dawn of an age of faith, whose future 
 magnificence we may surely prognosticate from the slowness 
 and complexity of its self-developing process, spiritual 
 " Werterism," among other strange prolusions, must have 
 its place. The emotions and the imaginations will assert 
 their just right to be fed by foul means if not by fair ; and 
 even self-torture will have charms after the utter dryness 
 and life-in-death of mere ecclesiastical pedantry. It is 
 good, mournful though it be, that a few, even by gorging 
 themselves with poison, should indicate the rise of a spirit- 
 ual hunger if we do but take their fate as a warning to 
 provide wholesome food before the new craving has 
 extended itself to the many. It is good that religion should 
 have its Werterism, in order that hereafter Werterism may 
 have its religion. But to my quotations wherein the 
 reader will judge how difficult it has been for me to satisfy 
 at once the delicacy of the English mind and that historic 
 truth which the highest art demands.
 
 176 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 " Erat inter eos honorabile connubium, et thorus immacu- 
 latus, non in ardore libidinis, sed in conjugalis sanctimoniae 
 castitate. For the holy maiden, as soon as she was married, 
 began to macerate her flesh with many watchings, rising 
 every night to pray ; her husband sometimes sleeping, 
 sometimes conniving at her, often begging her, in compas- 
 sion to her delicacy, not to afflict herself indiscreetly, often 
 supporting her with his hand when she prayed." (" And," 
 says another of her biographers, "being taught by her to 
 pray with her.") "Great, truly, was the devotion of this 
 young girl, who, rising from the bed of her carnal husband, 
 sought Christ, whom she loved as the true husband of htr 
 soul. 
 
 " Nor certainly was there less faith in the husband who did 
 not oppose such and so great a wife, but rather favored her, 
 and tempered her fervor with over-kind prudence. Affected, 
 therefore, by the sweetness of this modest love, and mutual 
 society, they could not bear to be separated for any length 
 of time or distance. The lady, therefore, frequently fol- 
 lowed her husband through rough roads, and no small dis- 
 tances, and severe wind and weather, led rather by emotions 
 of sincerity than of carnality : for the chaste presence of a mod- 
 tst husband offered no obstacle to that devout spouse in the 
 way of praying, watching, or otherwise doing good" 
 
 Then follows the story of her nurse waking Lewis instead 
 of her, and Lewis's easy good-nature about this, as about 
 every other event of life. " And so, after these unwearied 
 watchings, it often happened that praying for an excessive 
 length of time, she fell asleep on a mat beside her husband's 
 bed, and being reproved for it by her maidens, answered : 
 ' Though I cannot always pray, yet I can do violence to my 
 own flesh by tearing myself in the meantime from my couch.' " 
 
 " Fugiebat oblectamenta carnalia, et ideo stratum molli- 
 orem, et viri contubernium secretissimum, quantum licuit, de- 
 clinavit. Quern quamvis prcecordialis amoris affectu delige- 
 ret,querulabatur tamen dolens,quodvirginalisdecoremfloris 
 non meruit conservare. Castigabat etiam plagis multis, et 
 lacerabat diris verberibus carnem puella innocens et pudica. 
 
 " In principle quidem diebus quadragesimae, sextisque feriis 
 aliis occultas solebat accipere disciplinas, lastam coram homi- 
 nibus se ostentans. Post verb convalescens et proficiens in 
 gratia, deserto dilecti thoro surgens, fecit_se in secreto cubi-
 
 Notes 1 77 
 
 culo per ancillarum manus graviter saepissime verberari, ad 
 lectumque mariti reversa hilarem se exhibuit et jocundam. 
 
 41 Vere felices conjuges, in quorum consortio tanta munditia, 
 in colloquio pudicitia reperta est. In quibus amor Christi 
 concupiscentiam extinxit, devotio refrenavit petulantiam, fer- 
 vor spiritus excussit somnolentiam, oratio tutavit conscien- 
 tiam, charitas benefaciendi facultatem tribuit et laetitiam ! " 
 
 P. 46. " In every scruple." Cf. Lib. III. 9, how Lewis 
 " consented that Elizabeth his wife should make a vow of 
 obedience and continence at the will of the said Conrad, 
 salv&jure matrimonii" 
 
 P. 47. "The open street." Cf. Lib. II. 11. "On the 
 Rogation days, when certain persons doing contrary to the 
 decrees of the saints are decorated with precious and luxuri- 
 ous garments, the Princess, dressed in serge and barefooted, 
 used to follow most devoutly the Procession of the Cross and 
 the relics of the Saints, and place herself always at sermon 
 among the poorest women ; knowing (says Dietrich) that 
 seeds cast into the valleys spring up into the richest crop of 
 corn." 
 
 P. 48. "The poor of Christ." Cf. Lib. II. 6, u, et 
 
 passim. Elizabeth's labors among the poor are too well 
 known throughout one half at least of Christendom, where 
 she is, par excellence, the patron of the poor, to need quota- 
 tions. 
 
 P. 49. "Ill be thy pupil." Cf.Lib. II. 4. "She 
 used also, by words and examples, to oblige the worldly 
 ladies who came to her to give up the vanity of the world, 
 at least in some one particular." 
 
 P. 51. "Conrad enters." Cf. Lib. III. 9, where this 
 story of the disobeyed message and the punishment inflicted 
 by Conrad for it, is told word for word. 
 
 P. 55. " Peaceably come by." Cf. Lib. II. 6. 
 P. 56. "Bond-slaves." Cf. Note n. 
 
 P. 59. "Elizabeth passes." Cf. Lib. II. 5. "This 
 most Christian mother, impletis purgationis sute diebus, 
 used to dress herself in serge, and taking in her arms her 
 new-born child, used to go forth secretly, barefooted, by the 
 difficult descent from the castle, by a rough and rocky road
 
 1/8 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 to a remote church, carrying her infant in her own arms, after 
 the example of the Virgin Mother, and offering him upon 
 the altar to the Lord with a taper " (and with gold, says an- 
 other biographer). 
 
 P. 61. "Give us bread." Cf. Lib. III. 6. "A. D. 1225, 
 while the Landgrave was gone to Italy to the Emperor, a 
 severe famine arose throughout all Almaine ; and lasting for 
 nearly two years, destroyed many with hunger. Then Eliza- 
 beth, moved with compassion for the miserable, collected all 
 the corn from her granaries, and distributed it as alms for 
 the poor. She also built a hospital at the foot of the Wart- 
 burg, wherein she placed all those who could not wait for 
 the general distribution. ... She sold her own ornaments 
 to feed the members of Christ . . . Cuidam misero lac desi- 
 deranti, ad mulgendum se praebuit ! " 
 
 P. 72. Ladies' tenderness." Cf. Lib. III. 8. "When 
 the courtiers and stewards complained on his return of the 
 Lady Elizabeth's too great extravagance in almsgiving, Let 
 her alone,' quoth he, ' to do good, and to give whatever she 
 will for God's sake, only keep Wartburg and Neuenberg in 
 my hands.' " 
 
 P. 81. "A crusader's cross." Cf. Lib. IV. i. "In 
 the year 1227 there was a general ' Passagium ' to the Holy 
 Land, in which Frederick the Emperor also crossed the seas " 
 (or rather did not cross the seas, says Heinrich Stero, in his 
 annals, but having got as far as Sicily, came back again 
 miserably disappointing and breaking up the expedition, 
 whereof the greater part died at the various ports and 
 was excommunicated for so doing) ; " and Lewis, landgrave 
 of the Thuringians, took the cross likewise in the name of 
 Jesus Christ, and . . . did not immediately fix the badge 
 which he had received to his garment, as the matter is, lest 
 his wife, who loved him with the most tender affection, seeing 
 this, should be anxious and disturbed, . . . but she found it 
 while turning over his purse, and fainted, struck down with 
 a wonderful consternation." 
 
 P. 84. " I must be gone." Cf . Lib. IV. 2. A chapter 
 in which Dietrich rises into a truly noble and pathetic strain. 
 " Coming to Schmalcald," he says, " Lewis found his dearest 
 friends, whom he had ordered to meet him there, not wish- 
 ing to depart without taking leave of them."
 
 Notes 1 79 
 
 Then follows Dietrich's only poetic attempt, which Basnage 
 calls a "carmen ineptum, foolish ballad," and most unfairly, 
 as all readers should say, if I had any hope of doing justice 
 in a translation to this genial fragment of an old dramatic 
 ballad, and its simple objectivity, as of a writer so impressed 
 (like all true Teutonic poets in those earnest days) with the 
 pathos and greatness of his subject that he never tries to 
 " improve " it by reflections, and preaching at his readers, 
 but thinks it enough just to tell his story, sure that it will 
 speak for itself to all hearts. 
 
 Quibus valefaciens cum moerore 
 Commisit suis fratribus natos cum uxore : 
 Matremque deosculatos filial! more, 
 Vix earn alloquitur cordis pra dolore, 
 Illis mota viscera, corda tremuerunt, 
 Dum alter in alterius colla irruerunt, 
 Expetentes oscula, quce vix receperunt 
 Propttr multitudines, qua eos eompresserunt. 
 Mater tenens filium, uxorque maritum, 
 In diversa pertrahunt, et tenent invitum, 
 Fratres cum militibus velut compeditum 
 Stringunt, nee discedere sinunt expeditum. 
 Erat in exercitu maximus tumultus, 
 Cum carorum cernerent alter nari vultus. 
 Flebant omnes pariter, senex et adultus, 
 Turbce cum militibus, cultus et incultus. 
 Eja ! Quit non plangeret, cum videret flentti 
 Tot honestos nobiles, tarn diver sas gentes, 
 Cum Thuringis Saxones illuc venientes, 
 Ut viderent socios suos abscedentes. 
 Amico luctamine cuncti certavere, 
 Quis eum diutius posset retinere ; 
 Quidam collo brachiis, quidam inhccserc 
 Vestibui, nee poterat cuiquam respondere, 
 Tandem se de manibus eximens suorum 
 Magnatorum socius et peregrinorum, 
 Admixtuf tandem ccetui cruce signatorum 
 Non visurus amplius terram Thuringorum ! 
 
 Surely there is a heart of flesh in the old monk which, 
 when warmed by a really healthy subject, can toss aside 
 Scripture parodies and professional Stoic sentiment, and 
 describe with such life and pathos, like any eye-witness, a 
 scene which occurred, in fact, two years before his birth. 
 
 " And thus this Prince of Peace" he continues, " mount-
 
 180 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 ing his horse with many knights, etc. . . . abont the end of 
 the month of June, set forth in the name of the Lord, prais- 
 ing him in heart and voice, and weeping and singing were 
 heard side by side. And close by followed, with saddest 
 heart, that most faithful lady after her sweetest prince, her 
 most loving spouse, never, alas ! to behold him more. And 
 when she was going to return, the force of love and the 
 agony of separation forced her on with him one day's jour- 
 ney : and yet that did not suffice. She went on, still unable 
 to bear the parting, another full day's journey. ... At last 
 they part, at the exhortations of Rudolph the Cupbearer. 
 What groans think you, what sobs, what struggles, and 
 yearnings of the heart must there have been? Yet they 
 part, and go on their way. . . . The Lord went forth exult- 
 ing, as a giant to run his course ; the lady returned lament- 
 ing, as a widow, and tears were on her cheeks. Then 
 putting off the garments of joy, she took the dress of widow- 
 hood. The mistress of nations, sitting alone, she turned 
 herself utterly to God to her former good works, adding 
 better ones." 
 
 Their children were " Hermann, who became Landgraf ; 
 a daughter who married the Duke of Brabant ; another, 
 who, remaining in virginity, became a nun of Aldenburg, of 
 which place she is Lady Abbess until this day." 
 
 ACT III 
 
 P. 89. "On the freezing stone." Cf. Lib. II. 5. "In 
 
 the absence of her husband she used to lay aside her gay 
 garments, conducted herself devoutly as a widow, and waited 
 for the return of her beloved, passing her nights in watch- 
 ings, genuflections, prayers, and disciplines." And again, 
 Lib. IV. 3, just quoted. 
 
 P. 91. " The will of God." Cf. Lib. IV. 6. "The 
 mother-in-law said to her daughter-in-law, ' Be brave, my be- 
 loved daughter; nor be disturbed at that which hath hap- 
 pened by divine ordinance to thy husband, my son.' Whereto 
 she answered boldly, ' If my brother is captive, he can be 
 freed by the help of God and our friends. 1 ' He is dead,'
 
 Notes 1 8 1 
 
 quoth the other. Then she, clasping her hands upon het 
 knees, ' The world is dead to me, and all that rs pleasant in 
 the world.' Having said this, suddenly springing up with 
 tears, she rushed swiftly through the whole length of the pal- 
 ace, and being entirely beside herself, would have run on to 
 the world's end, usque gudque, if a wall had not stopped her ; 
 and others coming up, led her away from the wall to which 
 she had clung." 
 
 Ibid. " Yon lion's rage." Cf. Lib. III. 2. There was 
 a certain lion in the court of the Prince ; and it came to pass 
 on a time that rising from his bed in the morning, and cross- 
 ing the court dressed only in his gown and slippers, he met 
 this lion loose and raging against him. He thereon threat- 
 ened the beast with his raised fist, and rated it manfully, till 
 laying aside its fierceness, it lay down at the knight's feet, 
 and fawned on him, wagging its tail." So Dietrich. 
 
 Pp. 92-109. Cf. Lib. IV. 7. 
 
 " Now shortly after the news of Lewis's death, certain vas- 
 sals of her late husband (with Henry, her brother-in-law) 
 cast her out of the castle and of all her possessions. . . . 
 She took refuge that night in a certain tavern, . . . and 
 went at midnight to the matins of the ' Minor Brothers.' 
 . . . And when no one dare give her lodging, took refuge in 
 the church. . . . And when her little ones were brought to 
 her from the castle, amid most bitter frost, she knew not 
 where to lay their heads. ... She entered a priest's house, 
 and fed her family miserably enough, by pawning what she 
 had. There was in that town an enemy of hers, having a 
 roomy house. . . . Whither she entered at his bidding, and 
 was forced to dwell with her whole family in a very narrow 
 space, ... her host and hostess heaped her with annoy- 
 ances and spite. She therefore bade them farewell, saying, 
 4 1 would willingly thank mankind if they would give me any 
 reason for so doing.' So she returned to her former filthy 
 cell." 
 
 P. 97. " White as whales' bone " (*'. e. the tooth of the nar- 
 whal) ; a common simile in the older poets. 
 
 P. 102. "The nuns of Kitzingen." Cf. Lib. V. I. 
 " After this, the noble Lady the Abbess of Kitzingen, Eliza- 
 beth's aunt according to the flesh, brought her away honor- 
 ably to Eckembert, Lord Bishop of Bamberg."
 
 1 82 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 P. 104. "Aged crone." Cf. Lib. IV. 8, where this 
 whole story is related word for word. 
 
 P. 108. " I 'd mar this face." Cf. Lib. V. i. " If I 
 could not," said she, " escape by any other means, I would 
 with my own hands cut off my nose, that so every man might 
 loathe me when so foully disfigured." 
 
 P. 109. " Botenstain." Cf. ibid. "The bishop com- 
 manded that she should be taken to Botenstain with her 
 maids, until he should give her away in marriage." 
 
 P. no. "Bear children." Ibid. "The venerable man, 
 knowing that the Apostle says, 'I will that the younger 
 widows marry and bear children,' thought of giving her in 
 marriage to some one an intention which she perceived, 
 and protested on the strength of her 'votum continentiae.'" 
 
 P. 113. "The tented field." All records of the worthy 
 Bishop on which I have fallen, describe him as " virum militia 
 strenuissimum," a mighty man of war. We read of him, in 
 Stero of Altaich's Chronicle, A. D. 1232, making war on the 
 Duke of Carinthia, destroying many of his castles, and laying 
 waste a great part of his land ; and next year, being seized 
 by some bailiff of the Duke's, and keeping that Lent in 
 durance vile. In A. D. 1237, he was left by the Emperor as 
 " vir magnanimus et bellicosus," in charge of Austria, during 
 the troubles with Duke Frederick; and died in 1240. 
 
 P. 115. " Lewis's bones." Cf. Lib. V. 3. 
 
 P. 119. "I thank thee." Cf. Lib. V. 4. "What agony 
 and love there was then in her heart, He alone can tell who 
 knows the hearts of all the sons of men. I believe that her 
 grief was renewed, and all her bones trembled, when she 
 saw the bones of her beloved separated one from another 
 (the corpse had been dug up at Otranto, and boiled}. But 
 though absorbed in so great a woe, at last she remembered 
 God, and recovering her spirit said" (Her words I have 
 paraphrased as closely as possible). 
 Ibid. " The close hard by." Cf . Lib. V. 4.
 
 Notes 183 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 P. 121. "Your self-imposed vows." Cf. Lib. IV. I. 
 " On Good Friday, when the altars were exhibited bare in 
 remembrance of the Saviour who hung bare on the cross for 
 us, she went into a certain chapel, and in the presence of 
 Master Conrad, and certain Franciscan brothers, laying her 
 holy hands on the bare altar, renounced her own will, her 
 parents, children, relations, ' et omnibus hujus modi pompis, 1 
 all pomps of this kind (a misprint, one hopes, for mundi), in 
 imitation of Christ ; and ' omnin6 se exuit et nudavit,' stripped 
 herself utterly naked, to follow Him naked, in the steps of 
 poverty." 
 
 P. 125. " All worldly goods." A paraphrase of her own 
 words. 
 
 P. 126. " Thine own needs." " But when she was going 
 to renounce her possessions also, the prudent Conrad stopped 
 her." The reflections which follow are Dietrich's own. 
 
 P. 127. " The likeness of the fiend," etc. I have put this 
 daring expression into Conrad's mouth, as the ideal outcome 
 of the teaching of Conrad's age on this point and of much 
 teaching also which miscalls itself Protestant, in our own 
 age. The doctrine is not, of course, to be found totidem 
 verbis in the formularies of any sect yet almost all sects 
 preach it, and quote Scripture for it as boldly as Conrad 
 the Romish Saint alone carries it honestly out into practice. 
 
 P. 129. "With pine boughs." Cf. Lib. VI. 2. "Enter- 
 ing a certain desolate court, she betook herself, ' sub gradu 
 cujusdam caminatse,' to the projection of a certain furnace, 
 where she roofed herself in with boughs. ... In the mean- 
 time, in the town of Marpurg, was built for her a humble 
 cottage of clay and timber." 
 
 Ibid. " Count Pama." Cf. Lib. VI. 6. 
 
 P. 130. " Isentrudis and Guta." Cf. Lib. VII. 4. Now 
 Conrad, as a prudent man, perceiving that this disciple of 
 Christ wished to arrive at the highest pitch of perfection, 
 studied to remove all which he thought would retard her,
 
 184 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 . . . and therefore drove from her all those of her former 
 household in whom she used to solace or delight her- 
 self. Thus the holy priest deprived this servant of God 
 of all society, that so the constancy of her obedience might 
 become known, and occasion might be given to her for cling- 
 ing to God alone." 
 
 P. 131. "A leprous boy." Cf. Lib. VI. 8. 
 
 She had several of these prote'ge's, successively, whose 
 diseases are too disgusting to be specified, on whom she 
 lavished the most menial cares. All the other stories of her 
 benevolence which occur in these two pages are related by 
 Dietrich. 
 
 Ibid. " Mighty to save." Cf. Lib. VII. 7- Where we 
 read, amongst other matters, how the objects of her prayers 
 used to become while she was speaking so intensely hot, that 
 they not only smoked, and nearly melted, but burnt the 
 fingers of those who touched them : from whence Dietrich 
 bids us " learn with what an ardor of charity she used to 
 burn, who would dry up with her heat the flow of worldly 
 desire, and inflame to the love of eternity." 
 
 P. 134. " Lands and titles." Cf. Lib. V. 7, 8. 
 
 P. 135. " Spinning wool." Cf. Lib. VI. 6. "And cross- 
 ing himself for wonder, the Count Pama cried out and said, 
 ' Was it ever seen to this day that a king's daughter should 
 spin wool ? ' All his messages from her father (says Dietrich) 
 were of no avail." 
 
 P. 140. "To do her penance." Cf. Lib. VII. 4. "Now 
 he had placed with her certain austere women, from whom 
 she endured much oppression patiently for Christ's sake, who, 
 watching her rigidly, frequently reported her to her master 
 for having transgressed her obedience in giving something 
 to the poor, or begging others to give. And when thus 
 accused she often received many blows from her master, 
 insomuch that he used to strike her in the face, which she 
 earnestly desired to endure patiently in memory of the stripes 
 of the Lord." 
 
 P. 141. "That she dared not." Cf. Lib. VII. 4. 
 "When her most intimate friends, Isentrudis and Guta" 
 (whom another account describes as in great poverty), " came 
 tn see her, she dared not give them anything, even for food, 
 nor, without special license, salute them."
 
 Notes 185 
 
 P. 142. "To bear within us." " Seeing in the church of 
 certain monks who ' professed poverty ' images sumptuously 
 gilt, she said to about twenty-four of them, 'You had better 
 to have spent this money on your own tood and clothes, for 
 we ought to have the reality of these images written in our 
 hearts.' And if any one mentioned a beautiful image before 
 her she used to say, ' I have no need of such an image. I 
 carry the thing itself in my bosom.' " 
 
 Ibid. Even on her bed." Cf. Lib. VI. 5, 6. 
 
 P. 144. " My mother rose." Cf. Lib. VI. 8. " Her 
 mother, who had been long ago " (when Elizabeth was nine 
 years old) " miserably slain by the Hungarians, appeared to 
 her in her dreams upon her knees, and said, ' My beloved 
 child! pray for the agonies which I suffer; for thou canst.' 
 Elizabeth waking, prayed earnestly, and falling asleep again, 
 her mother appeared to her and told her that she was freed, 
 and that Elizabeth's prayers would hereafter benefit all who 
 invoked her." Of the causes of her mother's murder the 
 less that is said the better, but the prudent letter which the 
 Bishop of Gran sent back when asked to join in the con- 
 spiracy against her is worthy notice. " Reginam occiderc 
 nolite timere bonum est. Si omnes consentiunt ego non 
 conrtadtco." To be read as a full consent, or as a flat re- 
 fusal, according to the success of the plot. 
 
 P. 145. " Any living soul." Dietrich has much on this 
 point, headed, " How Master Conrad exercised Saint Eliza- 
 beth in the breaking of her own will. . . . And at last forbade 
 her entirely to give alms ; whereon she employed herself in 
 washing lepers and other infirm folk. In the meantime she 
 was languishing, and inwardly tortured with emotions of 
 compassion." 
 
 I may here say that in representing Elizabeth's early death 
 as accelerated by a " broken heart " I have, I believe, told 
 the truth, though I find no hint of anything of the kind in 
 Dietrich. The religious public of a petty town in the I3th 
 century round the death-bed of a royal saint would of course 
 treasure up most carefully all incidents connected with her 
 latter days ; but they would hardly record sentiments or ex- 
 pressions which might seem to their notions to derogate in 
 any way from her saintship. Dietrich, too, looking at the 
 subject as a monk and not as a man, would consider it just 
 as much his duty to make her death-scene rapturous as to
 
 1 86 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 make both her life and her tomb miraculous. I have com- 
 posed these last scenes in the belief that Elizabeth and all 
 her compeers will be recognized as real saints, in proportion 
 as they are felt to have been real men and women. 
 
 P. 147. " Eructate sweet doctrine." The expressions are 
 Dietrich's own. 
 
 Ibid. " In her coffin yet." Cf. Lib. VIII. I. 
 
 P. 148. " So she said." Cf. ibid. 
 
 Ibid. " The poor of Christ." " She begged her master 
 to distribute all to the poor, except a worthless tunic in which 
 she wished to be buried. She made no will : she would have 
 no heir beside Christ " (i.e. the poor). 
 
 Ibid. " Martha and their brother," etc. 
 
 I have compressed the events of several days into one in 
 this scene. I give Dietrich's own account, omitting his 
 reflections. 
 
 " When she had been ill twelve days and more one of her 
 maids sitting by her bed heard in her throat a very sweet 
 sound, . . . and saying, ' Oh, my mistress, how sweetly thou 
 didst sing ! ' she answered, ' I tell thee, I heard a little bird 
 between me and the wall sing merrily ; who with his sweet 
 song so stirred me up that I could not but sing myself. 1 " 
 
 Again, 3. " The last day she remained till evening most 
 devout, having been made partaker of the celestial table, 
 and inebriated with that most pure blood of life, which is 
 Christ. The word of truth was continually on her lips, and 
 opening her mouth of wisdom, she spake of the best things, 
 which she had heard in sermons ; eructating from her heart 
 good words, and the law of clemency was heard on her tongue. 
 She told from the abundance of her heart how the Lord Jesus 
 condescended to console Mary and Martha at the raising 
 again of their brother Lazarus, and then, speaking of His 
 weeping with them over the dead, she eructated the memory 
 of the abundance of the Lord's sweetness, affectu et effectu 
 (in feeling and expression ?). Certain religious persons who 
 were present, hearing these words, fired with devotion by the 
 grace which filled her lips, melted into tears. To whom the 
 saint of God, now dying, recalled the sweet words of her 
 Lord as He went to death, saying, ' Daughters of Jerusalem,' 
 etc. Having said this she was silent. A wonderful thing. 
 Then most sweet voices were heard in her throat, without
 
 Notes 187 
 
 any motion of her lips ; and she asked of those round, Did 
 ye not hear some singing with me ? ' ' Whereon none of the 
 faithful are allowed to doubt,' says Dietrich, ' when she her- 
 self heard the harmony of the heavenly hosts, etc. etc.' . . . 
 From that time to twilight she lay, as if exultant and jubilant, 
 showing signs of remarkable devotion, till the crowing of the 
 cock. Then, as if secure in the Lord, she said to the by- 
 standers, ' What should we do if the fiend showed himself 
 to us ? ' And shortly afterwards, with a loud and clear voice, 
 ' Fly ! fly ! ' as if repelling the daemon." 
 
 " At the cock-crow she said, ' Here is the hour in which 
 the Virgin brought forth her child Jesus and laid him in a 
 manger. . . . Let us talk of Him, and of that new star which 
 He created by His omnipotence, which never before was 
 seen.' 'For these' (says Montanus in her name) 'are the 
 venerable mysteries of our faith, our richest blessings, our 
 fairest ornaments: in these all the reason of our hope 
 flourishes, faith grows, charity burns.' " 
 
 The novelty of the style and matter will, I hope, excuse 
 its prolixity with most readers. If not, I have still my 
 reasons for inserting the greater part of this chapter. 
 
 P. 152. " I demand it." How far I am justified in putting 
 such fears into her mouth the reader may judge. Cf. Lib. 
 VIII. 5. " The devotion of the people demanding it, her 
 body was left unburied till the fourth day in the midst of a 
 multitude." . . . 
 
 " The flesh," says Dietrich, " had the tenderness of a living 
 body, and was easily moved hither and thither at the will of 
 those who handled it. ... And many, sublime in the valor 
 of their faith, tore off the hair of her head and the nails of 
 her fingers (' even the tips of her ears, et mamillarum 
 papillas? says untranslatably Montanus of Spire), and kept 
 them as relics." The reference relating to the pictures of 
 her disciplines and the effect which they produced on the 
 crowd I have unfortunately lost. 
 
 Ibid. "And yet no pain." Cf. Lib. VIII. 4. "She 
 said, ' Though I am weak I feel no disease or pain,' and so 
 through that whole day and night, as hath been said, having 
 been elevated with most holy affections of mind towards 
 God, and inflamed in spirit with most divine utterances and 
 conversations, at length she rested from jubilating, and in- 
 clining her head as if falling into a sweet sleep, expired."
 
 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 ACT v, 
 
 P. 153. ''Canonization." Cf. Lib. VIII. 10. If I have 
 in the last scene been guilty of a small anachronism, I have 
 in this been guilty of a great one. Conrad was of course a 
 prime means of Elizabeth's canonization, and, as Dietrich 
 and his own " Letter to Pope Gregory the Ninth " show, col- 
 lected, and pressed on the notice of the Archbishop of Maintz, 
 the miraculous statements necessary for that honor. But he 
 died two years before the actual publication of her canoniza- 
 tion. It appeared to me that by following the exact facts I 
 must either lose sight of the final triumph, which connects 
 my heroine for ever with Germany and all Romish Christen- 
 dom, and is the very culmination of the whole story, or 
 relinquish my only opportunity of doing Conrad justice, 
 by exhibiting the remaining side of his character. 
 
 I am afraid that I have erred, and that the most strict 
 historic truth would have coincided, as usual, with the 
 highest artistic effect, while it would only have corroborated 
 the moral of my poem, supposing that there is one. But I 
 was fettered by the poverty of my own imagination, and 
 " do manus lectori bus." 
 
 P. 154. " Third Minors." The order of the Third Minors 
 of St. Francis of Assisi was an invention of the comprehen- 
 sive mind of that truly great man, by which " worldlings " 
 were enabled to participate in the spiritual advantages of 
 the Franciscan rule and discipline without neglect or 
 suspension of their civic and family duties. But it was 
 an institution too enlightened for its age; and family and 
 civic ties were destined for a far nobler consecration. The 
 order was persecuted and all but exterminated by the 
 jealousy of the Regular Monks, not, it seems, without 
 papal connivance. Within a few years after its foundation 
 it numbered amongst its members the noblest knights and 
 ladies of Christendom, St. Louis of France among the 
 number. 
 
 P. 155. "Lest he fall." Cf. Fleury, EccL Annals, in 
 Anno 1233. " Doctor Conrad of Marpurg, the King Henry, 
 son of the Emperor Frederick, etc., called an Assembly at
 
 Notes 189 
 
 Mayence to examine persons accused as heretics. Among 
 whom the Count of Saym demanded a delay to justify him- 
 self. As for the others who did not appear, Conrad gave 
 the cross to those who would take up arms against them. At 
 which these supposed heretics were so irritated, that on his 
 return they lay in wait for him near Marpurg, and killed 
 him, with brother Gerard, of the order of Minors, a holy 
 man. Conrad was accused of precipitation in his judgments, 
 and of having burned trap Itglrement under pretext of 
 heresy, many noble and not noble, monks, nuns, burghers, 
 and peasants. For he had them executed the same day 
 that they were accused, without allowing any appeal." 
 
 P. 157. "The Kaiser." Cf. Lib. VIII. 12, for a list 
 of the worthies present. 
 
 P. 158. "A Zingar wizard." Cf. Lib. I. I. The 
 magician's name was Klingsohr. He has been introduced 
 by Novalis into his novel of Heinrich Von Ofterdingen, as 
 present at the famous contest of the Minnesingers on the 
 Wartburg. Here is Dietrich's account : 
 
 " There were in those days in the Landgrave's court six 
 knights, nobles, etc. etc., ' cantilenarum confectores summi,' 
 song-wrights of the highest excellence " (either one of them 
 or Klingsohr himself was the author of the Nibelungen-lied, 
 and the Heldenbuch). 
 
 " Now there dwelt then in the parts of Hungary, in the 
 land which is called the ' Seven Castles,' a certain rich 
 nobleman, worth 3000 marks a year, a philosopher, practised 
 from his youth in secular literature, but nevertheless learned 
 in the sciences of Necromancy and Astronomy. This master 
 Klingsohr was sent for by the Prince to judge between the 
 songs of these knights aforesaid. Who, before he was intro- 
 duced to the Landgrave, sitting one night in Eisenach, in 
 the court of his lodging, looked very earnestly upon the 
 stars, and being asked if he had perceived any secrets, ' Know 
 that this night is born a daughter to the King of Hungary, 
 who shall be called Elizabeth, and shall be a saint, and shall 
 be given to wife to the son of this prince, in the fame of 
 whose sanctity all the earth shall exult and be exalted.' 
 
 "See! He who by Balaam the wizard foretold the 
 mystery of his own incarnation, himself foretold by this 
 wizard the name and birth of his fore-chosen handmaid 
 Elizabeth." (A comparison, of which Basnage says, that
 
 190 The Saints Tragedy 
 
 he cannot deny it to be intolerable.) I am not bound to 
 explain all strange stories, but considering who and whence 
 Klingsohr was, and the fact that the treaty of espousals 
 took place two months afterwards, "adhuc sugens ubera 
 desponsata est," it is not impossible that King Andrew and 
 his sage vassal may have had some previous conversation 
 on the destination of the unborn princess. 
 
 P. 158. "A robe." Cf. Lib. II. 9, for this story, on 
 which Dietrich observes, " Thus did her Heavenly Father 
 clothe his lily Elizabeth, as Solomon in all his glory could 
 not do." 
 
 Ibid. "The Incarnate Son." This story is told, I think, 
 by Surius, and has been introduced, with an illustration by 
 a German artist of the highest note, into a modern prose 
 biography of this saint. (I have omitted much more of the 
 same kind.) 
 
 P. 159. "Sainthood's palm." Cf. Lib. VIII. 7, 8,9. 
 " While to declare the merits of his handmaid Elizabeth, in 
 the place where her body rested, Almighty God was thus 
 multiplying the badges of her virtues (*.*. miracles), two 
 altars were built in her praise in that chapel, which while 
 Siegfried, Archbishop of Mayence, was consecrating, as he 
 had evidently been commanded in a vision, at the prayers 
 of that devout man master Conrad, preacher of the word of 
 God ; the said preacher commanded all who had received 
 any grace of healing from the merits of Elizabeth, to 
 appear next day before the Archbishop and faithfully 
 prove their assertions by witnesses. . . . Then the Most 
 Holy Father, Pope Gregory the Ninth, having made dili- 
 gent examination of the miracles transmitted to him, 
 trusting at the same time to mature and prudent counsels, 
 and the Holy Spirit's providence, above all, so ordain- 
 ing, his clemency disposing, and his grace admonishing, 
 decreed that the Blessed Elizabeth was to be written among 
 the catalogue of the saints on earth, since in heaven she 
 rejoices as written in the Book of Life." . . . 
 
 Then follow four chapters, headed severally 
 
 9. " Of the solemn canonization of the Blessed 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 10. " Of the translation of the Blessed Elizabeth (and
 
 Notes 191 
 
 how the corpse when exposed diffused round a miraculous 
 fragrance)." 
 
 ii. "Of the desire of the people to see, embrace, and 
 kiss (says Dietrich) those sacred bones, the organs of the 
 Holy Spirit, from which flowed so many graces of 
 sanctities." 
 
 12. "Of the sublime persons who were present, and 
 their oblations." 
 
 13. " A consideration of the divine mercy about this 
 matter." 
 
 " Behold ! she who despised the glory of the world, and 
 refused the company of magnates, is magnificently honored 
 by the dignity of the Pontifical office, and the reverent care 
 of Imperial Majesty. And she who, seeking the lowest 
 place in this life, sat on the ground, slept in the dust, is now 
 raised on high, by the hands of Kings and Princes. ... It 
 transcends all heights of temporal glory, to have been made 
 like the saints in glory. For all the rich among the people 
 ' vultum ejus deprecantur ' (pray for the light of her counte- 
 nance), and kings and princes offer gifts, magnates adore 
 her, and all nations serve her. Nor without reason, for ' she 
 sold all and gave to the poor,' and counting all her substance 
 for nothing, bought for herself this priceless pearl of eter- 
 nity." One would be sorry to believe that such utterly 
 mean considerations of selfish vanity, expressing as they do 
 an extreme respect for the very pomps and vanities which 
 they praise the saints for despising, really went to the mak- 
 ing of any saint, Romish or other. 
 
 14. "Of the sacred oil which flowed from the bones of 
 Elizabeth. I subjoin the " Epilogus." 
 
 " Moreover, even as the elect handmaid of God, the most 
 blessed Elizabeth, had shone during her life with wonderful 
 signs of her virtues, so since the day of her blessed depar- 
 ture up to the present time, she is resplendent through the 
 various quarters of the world with illustrious prodigies of 
 miracles, the Divine power glorifying her. For to the blind, 
 dumb, deaf, and lame, dropsical, possessed, and leprous, 
 shipwrecked, and captives, ' ipsius mentis,' as a reward for 
 her holy deeds, remedies are conferred. Also, to all dis- 
 eases, necessities, and dangers, assistance is given. And, 
 moreover, by the many corpses, 'puta sedccim? say sixteen,
 
 192 The Saint's Tragedy 
 
 wonderfully raised to life- by herself, becomes known to the- 
 faithful the magnificence of the virtues of the Most High 
 glorifying His saint. To that Most High be glory and 
 honor forever. Amen. 1 ' 
 
 So ends Dietrich's stony. The reader has by this time, I 
 hope, read enough to justify, in every sense, Conrad's "A 
 corpse or two was raised, they say, last week," and much 
 more of the funeral oration which I have put into his mouth. 
 
 P. 160. " Gallant Gentleman," Cf. Lib, VIII. 6. 
 
 P. 161. "Took his crown." Cf. Lib. VIII. 12. 
 
 Ibid. The " olive '* and the " pearl " are Dietrich's own 
 figures. The others follow the- method of scriptural inter- 
 pretation, usual in the writers of that age. 
 
 P. 172'. " Domini cames, ** The Lord's hounds," a pun- 
 ning sobriquet of the Donmrican inquisitors, in aflusron to 
 their profession!. 
 
 Hnd. "Folquet," Bishop ot Toulouse, who had been 
 in early life a Troubadour, distinguished himself by his 
 ferocity and perfidy in the crusade against the Albigenses 
 and Troubadours, especially- at the surrender of Toulouse, in 
 company with nis chief abettor, the iniamons Simon de 
 Morrtfort. He died A. D. 1231* See Sismondi, Lit. of 
 Southern Europe, Cap. VI.
 
 1852] Andromeda 193 
 
 ANDROMEDA 
 
 OVER the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore 
 
 to the southward, 
 Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired 
 
 JEihlop people, 
 Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the 
 
 dyer and carver, 
 Skilful, but feeble of heart; for they know not 
 
 the lords of Olympus, 
 Lovers of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor 
 
 Pallas Athen6, 
 Teacher of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might 
 
 in the battle; 
 Share not the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the 
 
 songs of Apollo. 
 Fearing the stars of the sky, and the roll of the 
 
 blue salt water, 
 Fearing all things that have life in the womb of 
 
 the seas and the rivers, 
 Eating no fish to this day, nor ploughing the 
 
 main, like the Phoenics, 
 Manful with black-beaked ships, they abide in a 
 
 sorrowful region, 
 Vexed with the earthquake, and flame, and the 
 
 sea-floods, scourge of Poseidon. 
 Whelming the dwellings of men, and the toils 
 
 of the slow-footed oxen, 
 
 Drowning the barley and flax, and the hard- 
 T earned gold of the harvest, 
 
 Vol. 14
 
 194 Andromeda [1852 
 
 Up to the hillside vines, and the pastures skirting 
 
 the woodland, 
 Inland the floods came yearly; and after the 
 
 waters a monster, 
 Bred of the slime, like the worms which are bred 
 
 from the slime of the Nile-bank, 
 Shapeless, a terror to see ; and by night it swam 
 
 out to the seaward, 
 Daily returning to feed with the dawn, and 
 
 devoured of the fairest, 
 Cattle, and children, and maids, till the terrified 
 
 people fled inland. 
 Fasting in sackcloth and ashes they came, both 
 
 the king and his people, 
 Came to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the 
 
 terrible sea-gods, 
 Hard by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the 
 
 world-wide deluge 
 Sank to the inner abyss ; and the lake where the 
 
 fish of the goddess, 
 Holy, undying, abide; whom the priests feed 
 
 daily with dainties. 
 There to the mystical fish, high-throned in her 
 
 chamber of cedar, 
 Burnt they the fat of the flock; till the flame 
 
 shone far to the seaward. 
 Three days fasting they prayed: but the fourth 
 
 day the priests of the goddess, 
 Cunning in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime 
 
 of the people. 
 All day long they cast, till the house of the 
 
 monarch was taken, 
 Cepheus, king of the land; and the faces of all 
 
 gathered blackness. 
 Then once more they cast; and Cassiopceia was 
 
 taken,
 
 1852] Andromeda 195 
 
 Deep-bosomed wife of the king, whom oft far- 
 seeing Apollo 
 Watched well-pleased from the welkin, the fairest 
 
 of JEthiop women : 
 Fairest, save only her daughter ; for down to the 
 
 ankle her tresses 
 Rolled, blue-black as the night, ambrosial, joy to 
 
 beholders. 
 Awful and fair she arose, most like in her coming 
 
 to Here, 
 Queen before whom the Immortals arise, as she 
 
 comes on Olympus, 
 Out of the chamber of gold, which her son 
 
 Hephsestos has wrought her. 
 Such in her stature and eyes, and the broad white 
 
 light of her forehead. 
 Stately she came from her place, and she spoke in 
 
 the midst of the people. 
 " Pure are my hands from blood : most pure this 
 
 heart in my bosom. 
 Yet one fault I remember this day; one word 
 
 have I spoken; 
 Rashly I spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the 
 
 sea should have heard it. 
 Watching my child at her bath, as she plunged in 
 
 the joy of her girlhood, 
 Fairer I called her in pride than Atergati, queen 
 
 of the ocean. 
 Judge ye if this be my sin, for I know none other." 
 
 She ended ; 
 Wrapping her head in her mantle she stood, and 
 
 the people were silent. 
 Answered the dark-browed priests, " No word, 
 
 once spoken, returneth, 
 Even if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our 
 
 rashness ?
 
 196 Andromeda [185* 
 
 That which is done, that abides; and the wrath 
 
 of the sea is against us; 
 Hers, and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god, 
 
 lord of the sheepfolds. 
 Fairer than her hast thou boasted thy daughter? 
 
 Ah folly ! for hateful, 
 Hateful are they to the gods, whoso, impious, 
 
 liken a mortal, 
 Fair though he be, to their glory; and hateful is 
 
 that which is likened, 
 Grieving the eyes of their pride, and abominate, 
 
 doomed to their anger. 
 What shall be likened to gods? The unknown, 
 
 who deep in the darkness 
 Ever abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible, 
 
 shapeless. 
 Woe to the queen ; for the land is defiled, and the 
 
 people accursed. 
 Take thou her therefore by night, thou ill-starred 
 
 Cassiopceia, 
 Take her with us in the night, when the moon 
 
 sinks low to the westward ; 
 Bind her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge 
 
 of the monster, 
 Far on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the 
 
 surges for ever ; 
 So may the goddess accept her, and so may the 
 
 land make atonement, 
 Purged by her blood from its sin: so obey thou 
 
 the doom of the rulers." 
 Bitter in soul they went out, Cepheus and 
 
 Cassiopceia, 
 Bitter in soul ; and their hearts whirled round, as 
 
 the leaves in the eddy. 
 Weak was the queen, and rebelled : but the king, 
 
 like a shepherd of people,
 
 1852] Andromeda 197 
 
 Willed not the land should waste ; so he yielded 
 
 the life of his daughter. 
 Deep in the wane of the night, as the moon sank 
 
 low to the westward, 
 They by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror 
 
 of darkness around them, 
 Stole, as ashamed, to a deed which became not the 
 
 light of the sunshine, 
 Slowly, the priests, and the queen, and the virgin 
 
 bound in the galley. 
 Slowly they rowed to the rocks : but Cepheus far 
 
 in the palace 
 Sate in the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a 
 
 shepherd of people, 
 Choking his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves wailed 
 
 loudly around him. 
 They on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the 
 
 surges for ever, 
 Set her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face 
 
 to the eastward. 
 Under a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped 
 
 down to the water ; 
 There they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped 
 
 like a goddess, 
 Lifting her long white arms wide-spread to the walls 
 
 of the basalt, 
 Chaining them, ruthless, with brass; and they 
 
 called on the might of the Rulers. 
 " Mystical fish of the seas, dread Queen whom 
 
 ^Ethiops honor, 
 Whelming the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp 
 
 as the sting-ray, 
 Thou, and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord 
 
 of the sheepfold, 
 Scorching the earth all day, and then resting at 
 
 night in thy bosom,
 
 198 Andromeda [1852 
 
 Take ye this one life for many, appeased by the 
 
 blood of a maiden, 
 
 Fairest, and born of the fairest, a queen, most price- 
 less of victims." 
 Thrice they spat as they went by the maid : but 
 
 her mother delaying 
 Fondled her child to the last, heart-crushed ; and 
 
 the warmth of her weeping 
 Fell on the breast of the maid, as her woe broke 
 
 forth into wailing. 
 " Daughter ! my daughter ! forgive me ! O curse 
 
 not the murderess ! Curse not ! 
 How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods 
 
 grudge glory to mothers? 
 
 Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride- 
 bed of Cepheus, 
 Loving I fed thee and tended, and loving rejoiced 
 
 in thy beauty, 
 Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing 
 
 thy locks as I combed them ; 
 Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest thee: 
 
 yet blessing I slew thee ! 
 How have I sinned, but in love? O swear to me, 
 
 swear to thy mother, 
 Never to haunt me with curse, as I go to the grave 
 
 in my sorrow, 
 Childless and lone : may the gods never send me 
 
 another, to slay it ! 
 See, I embrace thy knees soft knees, where no 
 
 babe will be fondled 
 Swear to me never to curse me, the hapless one, 
 
 not in the death-pang." 
 Weeping she clung to the knees of the maid; 
 
 and the maid low answered 
 " Curse thee ! Not in the death-pang ! " The 
 
 heart of the lady was lightened.
 
 Andromeda 199 
 
 Slowly she went by the ledge ; and the maid was 
 
 alone in the darkness. 
 Watching the pulse of the oars die down, as her 
 
 own died with them, 
 
 Tearless, dumb with amaze she stood, as a storm- 
 stunned nestling 
 Fallen from bough or from eave lies dumb, which 
 
 the home-going herdsman 
 Fancies a stone, till he catches the light of its 
 
 terrified eyeball. 
 So through the long long hours the maid stood 
 
 helpless and hopeless, 
 Wide-eyed, downward gazing in vain at the black 
 
 blank darkness. 
 
 Feebly at last she began, while wild thoughts bub- 
 bled within her 
 " Guiltless I am : why thus, then? Are gods more 
 
 ruthless than mortals? 
 Have they no mercy for youth? no love for the 
 
 souls who have loved them? 
 Even as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy 
 
 margin, 
 Blessing thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it 
 
 breathed on my forehead, 
 Bowing my head to thy tempest, and opening my 
 
 heart to thy children, 
 Silvery fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe 
 
 things of the water, 
 Tenderly casting them back, as they gasped on the 
 
 beach in the sunshine, 
 Home to their mother in vain ! for mine sits 
 
 childless in anguish ! 
 Oh false sea ! false sea ! I dreamed what I dreamed 
 
 of thy goodness ; 
 Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the 
 
 plash of thy ripple :
 
 2oo Andromeda [1852 
 
 False and devouring thou art, and the great world 
 
 dark and despiteful." 
 Awed by her own rash words she was still : and 
 
 her eyes to the seaward 
 Looked for an answer of wrath: far off, in the 
 
 heart of the darkness, 
 Bright white mists rose slowly ; beneath them the 
 
 wandering ocean 
 Glimmered and glowed to the deepest abyss ; and 
 
 the knees of the maiden 
 Trembled and sank in her fear, as afar, like a dawn 
 
 in the midnight, 
 Rose from their seaweed chamber the choir of the 
 
 mystical sea-maids. 
 Onward toward her they came, and her heart beat 
 
 loud at their coming, 
 Watching the bliss of the gods, as they wakened 
 
 the cliffs with their laughter. 
 Onward they came in their joy, and before them 
 
 the roll of the surges 
 Sank, as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green 
 
 foam-flecked marble, 
 Awed ; and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of 
 
 the mountain were silent. 
 Onward they came in their joy, and around 
 
 them the lamps of the sea-nymphs, 
 Myriad fiery globes, swam panting and heaving; 
 
 and rainbows 
 Crimson and azure and emerald, were broken in 
 
 star-showers, lighting 
 Far through the wine-dark depths of the crystal, 
 
 the gardens of Nereus, 
 Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the 
 
 palms of the ocean. 
 Onward they came in their joy, more white than 
 
 the foam which they scattered,
 
 1852] Andromeda 201 
 
 Laughing and singing, and tossing and twining, 
 
 while eager, the Tritons 
 Blinded with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and 
 
 above them in worship 
 Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past 
 
 them on silvery pinions 
 Echoing softly their laughter; around them the 
 
 wantoning dolphins 
 Sighed as they plunged, full of love ; and the great 
 
 sea-horses which bore them 
 Curved up their crests in their pride to the delicate 
 
 arms of the maidens, 
 Pawing the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall, un- 
 
 harming, 
 Sparkled and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, 
 
 and the coils of the mermen. 
 Onward they went in their joy, bathed round with 
 
 the fiery coolness, 
 Needing nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal : 
 
 but others, 
 Pitiful, floated in silence apart; in their bosoms 
 
 the sea-boys, 
 Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by the 
 
 anger of Nereus ; 
 Hapless, whom never again on strand or on quay 
 
 shall their mothers 
 Welcome with garlands and vows to the temple, 
 
 but wearily pining 
 Gaze over island and bay for the sails of the 
 
 sunken ; they heedless 
 Sleep in soft bosoms for ever, and dream of the 
 
 surge and the sea-maids. 
 Onward they passed in their joy ; on their brows 
 
 neither sorrow nor anger; 
 Self-sufficing, as gods, never heeding the woe of 
 
 the maiden.
 
 2O2 Andromeda [1852 
 
 She would have shrieked for their mercy: but 
 
 shame made her dumb ; and their eyeballs 
 Stared on her careless and still, like the eyes in 
 
 the house of the idols. 
 Seeing they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on 
 
 the murmuring ripple. 
 Stunned by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed, as 
 
 the glory departed. 
 " Oh fair shapes ! far fairer than I ! Too fair to 
 
 be ruthless ! 
 Gladden mine eyes once more with your splendor, 
 
 unlike to my fancies ; 
 You, then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in 
 
 the plash of the ripple. 
 Awful I deemed you and formless; inhuman, 
 
 monstrous as idols; 
 Lo, when ye came, ye were women, more loving 
 
 and lovelier, only ; 
 Like in all else ; and I blest you : why blest ye not 
 
 me for my worship ? 
 Had you no mercy for me, thus guiltless? Ye 
 
 pitied the sea-boys : 
 Why not me, then, more hapless by far? Does 
 
 your sight and your knowledge 
 End with the marge of the waves ? Is the world 
 
 which ye dwell in not our world?" 
 
 Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll 
 
 and a roaring; 
 Downward the breeze came indignant, and leapt 
 
 with a howl to the water, 
 Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars and 
 
 clefts of the basalt 
 Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain grew 
 
 mad with the noises ;
 
 1852] Andromeda 203 
 
 Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing and 
 
 tossing of weed-beds, 
 Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, while 
 
 thundering surges 
 Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they champed 
 
 at the roots of the mountain. 
 Hour after hour in the darkness the wind rushed 
 
 fierce to the landward. 
 Drenching the maiden with spray ; she shivering, 
 
 weary and drooping, 
 
 Stood with her heart full of thoughts, till the foam- 
 crests gleamed in the twilight, 
 Leaping and laughing around, and the east grew 
 
 red with the dawning. 
 Then on the ridge of the hills rose the broad 
 
 bright sun in his glory. 
 Hurling his arrows abroad on the glittering crests 
 
 of the surges, 
 Gilding the soft round bosoms of wood, and the 
 
 downs of the coastland ; 
 Gilding the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced 
 
 teeth of the ledges, 
 Showing the maiden her home through the veil of 
 
 her locks, as they floated 
 Glistening, damp with the spray, in a long black 
 
 cloud to the landward. 
 High in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from 
 
 the homesteads; 
 Softly the low of the herds, and the pipe of the 
 
 out-going herdsman, 
 Slid to her ear on the water, and melted her heart 
 
 into weeping. 
 
 Shuddering, she tried to forget them ; and strain- 
 ing her eyes to the seaward, 
 Watched for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, 
 
 to the terrible Sun-god.
 
 204 Andromeda [1852 
 
 " Dost thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild 
 
 dark sister be ruthless ; 
 
 Dost thou not pity me here, as thou seest me deso- 
 late, weary, 
 Sickened with shame and despair, like a kid torn 
 
 young from its mother? 
 What if my beauty insult thee, then blight it : but 
 
 me Oh spare me ! 
 
 Spare me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing, un- 
 bearable ! See me, 
 See me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless ! 
 
 See how I shudder, 
 Fancying only my doom. Wilt thou shine thus 
 
 bright, when it takes me ? 
 Are there no deaths save this, great Sun? No 
 
 fiery arrow, 
 Lightning, or deep-mouthed wave? Why thus? 
 
 What music in shrieking, 
 Pleasure in warm live limbs torn slowly? And 
 
 dar'st thou behold them ? 
 Oh, thou hast watched worse deeds ! All sights 
 
 are alike to thy brightness ! 
 What if thou waken the birds to their song, dost 
 
 thou waken no sorrow ; 
 Waken no sick to their pain ; no captive to wrench 
 
 at his fetters? 
 Smile on the garden and fold, and on maidens 
 
 who sing at the milking ; 
 Flash into tapestried chambers, and peep in the 
 
 eyelids of lovers, 
 Showing the blissful their bliss Dost love, then, 
 
 the place where thou smilest? 
 Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the 
 
 shrieks of the widow? 
 Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest 
 
 the path of the vulture?
 
 1852] Andromeda 205 
 
 Lovest thou these, that thou gazest so gay on my 
 
 tears, and my mother's, 
 Laughing alike at the horror of one, and the bliss 
 
 of another ? 
 What dost thou care, in thy sky, for the joys and 
 
 the sorrows of mortals ? 
 Colder art thou than the nymphs : in thy broad 
 
 bright eye is no seeing. 
 Hadst thou a soul as much soul as the slaves in 
 
 the house of my father, 
 Wouldst thou not save ? Poor thralls ! they pitied 
 
 me, clung to me weeping, 
 Kissing my hands and my feet What are gods, 
 
 more ruthless than mortals? 
 Worse than the souls which they rule ? Let me 
 
 die : they war not with ashes ! " 
 Sudden she ceased, with a shriek : in the spray, 
 
 like a hovering foam-bow, 
 Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in the 
 
 bloom of his manhood, 
 Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial; over his 
 
 shoulder 
 Hung for a veil of his beauty the gold-fringed 
 
 folds of the goat-skin, 
 Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun flashed 
 
 clear on its clearness. 
 Curved on his thigh lay a falchion, and under the 
 
 gleam of his helmet 
 Eyes more blue than the main shone awful; 
 
 around him Athene" 
 Shed in her love such grace, such state, and 
 
 terrible daring. 
 Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering 
 
 pinions, 
 Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced 
 
 gold of his sandals ;
 
 206 Andromeda [1852 
 
 Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping the 
 
 crests like a sea-gull ; 
 Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in 
 
 the joy of his leaping. 
 Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock ; and the 
 
 maiden in wonder 
 Gazed for a while, and then hid in the dark- rolling 
 
 wave of her tresses, 
 Fearful, the light of her eyes ; while the boy (for 
 
 her sorrow had awed him) 
 Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist 
 
 on the cliffs at the sunrise. 
 Fearful at length she looked forth : he was gone : 
 
 she, wild with amazement, 
 Wailed for her mother aloud : but the wail of the 
 
 wind only answered. 
 Sudden he flashed into sight, by her side ; in his 
 
 pity and anger 
 
 Moist were his eyes ; and his breath like a rose- 
 bed, as bolder and bolder, 
 Hovering under her brows, like a swallow that 
 
 haunts by the house-eaves, 
 Delicate-handed, he lifted the veil of her hair; 
 
 while the maiden 
 Motionless, frozen with fear, wept loud; till his 
 
 lips unclosing 
 Poured from their pearl-strung portal the musical 
 
 wave of his wonder. 
 
 " Ah, well spoke she, the wise one, the gray- 
 eyed Pallas Athene", 
 " Known to Immortals alone are the prizes which 
 
 lie for the heroes 
 Ready prepared at their feet ; for requiring a little, 
 
 the rulers 
 Pay back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless 
 
 of pleasure,
 
 1852] Andromeda 207 
 
 Thirsting for honor and toil, fares forth on a 
 
 perilous errand 
 Led by the guiding of gods, and strong in the 
 
 strength of Immortals. 
 
 Thus have they led me to thee : from afar, un- 
 knowing, I marked thee, 
 Shining, a snow-white cross on the dark-green 
 
 walls of the sea-cliff; 
 Carven in marble I deemed thee, a perfect work of 
 
 the craftsman. 
 Likeness of Amphitrit6, or far-famed Queen 
 
 Cythereia. 
 Curious I came, till I saw how thy tresses streamed 
 
 in the sea-wind, 
 Glistening, black as the night, and thy lips moved 
 
 slow in thy wailing. 
 Speak again now Oh speak ! For my soul is 
 
 stirred to avenge thee; 
 
 Tell me what barbarous horde, without law, un- 
 righteous and heartless, 
 Hateful to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, 
 
 a shame to the sunlight, 
 Scorn and prize to the sailor : but my prize now ; 
 
 for a coward, 
 Coward and shameless were he, who so finding a 
 
 glorious jewel 
 Cast on the wayside by fools, would not win it and 
 
 keep it and wear it, 
 Even as I will thee ; for I swear by the head of 
 
 my father, 
 Bearing thee over the sea-wave, to wed thee in 
 
 Argos the fruitful, 
 Beautiful, meed of my toil no less than this head 
 
 which I carry, 
 Hidden here fearful Oh speak ! "
 
 208 Andromeda [185* 
 
 But the maid, still dumb with amazement, 
 Watered her bosom with weeping, and longed for 
 
 her home and her mother. 
 Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed off her 
 
 tears as he hovered, 
 Roving at will, as a bee, on the brows of a rock 
 
 nymph-haunted, 
 
 Garlanded over with vine, and acanthus, and clam- 
 bering roses, 
 Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams glance 
 
 clear in the mossbeds, 
 Hums on from blossom to blossom, and mingles 
 
 the sweets as he tastes them. 
 Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet 
 
 closer and closer, 
 Praying her still to speak 
 
 " Not cruel nor rough did my mother 
 Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths of 
 
 the brass-covered dungeon ; 
 Neither in vain, as I think, have I talked with the 
 
 cunning of Hermes, 
 Face unto face, as a friend; or from gray-eyed 
 
 Pallas Athen6 
 Learnt what is fit, and respecting myself, to respect 
 
 in my dealings 
 Those whom the gods should love ; so fear not ; 
 
 to chaste espousals 
 Only I woo thee, and swear, that a queen, and alone 
 
 without rival 
 By me thou sittest in Argos of Hellas, throne of 
 
 my fathers, 
 Worshipped by fair-haired kings: whycallest thou 
 
 still on thy mother? 
 
 Why did she leave thee thus here? For no foe- 
 man has bound thee ; no foeman
 
 1852] Andromeda 209 
 
 Winning with strokes of the sword such a prize, 
 
 would so leave it behind him." 
 Just as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quiver- 
 ing nostril, 
 Plunges in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes 
 
 of the rider; 
 Soon, grown bold by despair, submits to the will 
 
 of his master, 
 Tamer and tamer each hour, and at last, in the 
 
 pride of obedience, 
 Answers the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck 
 
 to be fondled, 
 Cowed by the need that maid grew tame ; while 
 
 the hero indignant 
 Tore at the fetters which held her : the brass, too 
 
 cunningly tempered, 
 Held to the rock by the nails, deep wedged : till 
 
 the boy, red with anger, 
 Drew from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a falchion 
 
 of diamond 
 " Now let the work of the smith try strength with 
 
 the arms of Immortals ! " 
 Dazzling it fell ; and the blade, as the vine-hook 
 
 shears off the vine-bough, 
 Carved through the strength of the brass, till her 
 
 arms fell soft on his shoulder. 
 Once she essayed to escape : but the ring of the 
 
 water was round her, 
 Round her the ring of his arms; and despairing 
 
 she sank on his bosom. 
 Then, like a fawn when startled, she looked with a 
 
 shriek to the seaward. 
 " Touch me not, wretch that I am ! For accursed, 
 
 a shame and a hissing, 
 Guiltless, accurst no less, I await the revenge of the 
 
 sea-gods.
 
 21 o Andromeda [185* 
 
 Yonder it comes ! Ah go ! Let me perish unseen, 
 
 if I perish ! 
 Spare me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless 
 
 fangs must tear me 
 Piecemeal ! Enough to endure by myself in the 
 
 light of the sunshine 
 Guiltless, the death of a kid ! " 
 
 But the boy still lingered around her, 
 Loth, like a boy, to forego her, and waken the 
 
 cliffs with his laughter. 
 "Yon is the foe, then? A beast of the sea? I 
 
 had deemed him immortal. 
 
 Titan, or Proteus' self, or Nereus, foeman of sailors : 
 Yet would I fight with them all, but Poseidon, 
 
 shaker of mountains, 
 Uncle of mine, whom I fear, as is fit ; for he haunts 
 
 on Olympus, 
 Holding the third of the world ; and the gods all 
 
 rise at his coming. 
 Unto none else will I yield, god-helped : how then 
 
 to a monster, 
 Child of the earth and of night, unreasoning, 
 
 shapeless, accursed?" 
 " Art thou, too, then a god ? " 
 
 " No god I," smiling he answered ; 
 " Mortal as thou, yet divine : but mortal the herds 
 
 of the ocean, 
 Equal to men in that only, and less in all else ; for 
 
 they nourish 
 Blindly the life of the lips, untaught by the gods, 
 
 without wisdom : 
 Shame if I fled before such ! 
 
 In her heart new life was enkindled, 
 Worship and trust, fair parents of love: but she 
 answered him sighing.
 
 1852] Andromeda 211 
 
 "Beautiful, why wilt thou die? Is the light of 
 
 the sun, then, so worthless, 
 Worthless to sport with thy fellows in flowery 
 
 glades of the forest, 
 Under the broad green oaks, where never again 
 
 shall I wander, 
 Tossing the ball with my maidens, or wreathing 
 
 the altar in garlands, 
 Careless, with dances and songs, till the glens rang 
 
 loud to our laughter. 
 Too full of death the sad earth is already: the halls 
 
 full of weepers, 
 Quarried by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam 
 
 white on the sea-floor, 
 Numberless, gnawn by the herds who attend on 
 
 the pitiless sea-gods, 
 Even as mine will be soon: and yet noble it seems 
 
 to me, dying, 
 Giving my life for a people, to save to the arms of 
 
 their lovers 
 Maidens and youths for a while: thee, fairest of 
 
 all, shall I slay thee ? 
 Add not thy bones to the many, thus angering 
 
 idly the dread ones ! 
 Either the monster will crush, or the sea-queen's 
 
 self overwhelm thee, 
 Vengeful, in tempest and foam, and the thundering 
 
 walls of the surges. 
 Why wilt thou follow me down? can we love in 
 
 the black blank darkness? 
 Love in the realms of the dead, in the land where 
 
 all is forgotten? 
 Why wilt thou follow me down? is it joy, on the 
 
 desolate oozes, 
 Meagre to flit, gray ghosts in the depths of the 
 
 gray salt water?
 
 212 Andromeda [1852 
 
 Beautiful ! why wilt them die, and defraud fair 
 
 girls of thy manhood? 
 Surely one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles 
 
 of the ocean. 
 
 Go thy way ; I mine ; for the gods grudge pleas- 
 ure to mortals." 
 Sobbing she ended her moan, as her neck, like 
 
 a storm-bent lily, 
 Drooped with the weight of her woe, and her 
 
 limbs sank, weary with watching, 
 Soft on the hard-ledged rock : but the boy, with 
 
 his eye on the monster, 
 Clasped her, and stood, like a god; and his lips 
 
 curved proud as he answered 
 " Great are the pitiless sea-gods: but greater 
 
 the Lords of Olympus ; 
 Greater the ./Egis-wielder, and greater is she who 
 
 attends him. 
 Clear-eyed Justice her name is, the counsellor, 
 
 loved of Athen6; 
 Helper of heroes, who dare, in the god-given might 
 
 of their manhood, 
 Greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens and 
 
 the forests 
 Smite the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood 
 
 of the giants, 
 Twyformed, strange, without like, who obey not 
 
 the golden-haired Rulers. 
 Vainly rebelling they rage, till they die by the 
 
 swords of the heroes, 
 Even as this must die ; for I burn with the wrath 
 
 of my father, 
 Wandering, led by Athene 1 ; and dare whatsoever 
 
 betides me. 
 
 Led by Athen I won from the gray-haired ter- 
 rible sisters
 
 1852] Andromeda 213 
 
 Secrets hidden from men, when I found them 
 
 asleep on the sand-hills, 
 Keeping their eye and their tooth, till they showed 
 
 me the perilous pathway 
 Over the waterless ocean, the valley that led to 
 
 the Gorgon. 
 Here too I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautiful 
 
 horror ; 
 
 Taught by Athene" I slew her, and saw not her- 
 self, but her image, 
 Watching the mirror of brass, in the shield which 
 
 a goddess had lent me. 
 Cleaving her brass-scaled throat, as she lay with 
 
 her adders around her, 
 Fearless I bore off her head, in the folds of the 
 
 mystical goat-skin 
 Hide of Amaltheie", fair nurse of the ./Egis- 
 
 wielder. 
 Hither I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to 
 
 my foemen, 
 Freezing the seer to stone ; to hide thine eyes 
 
 from the horror. 
 Kiss me but once, and I go." 
 
 Then lifting her neck, like a sea-bird 
 Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white 
 
 swells of her bosom, 
 Blushing she kissed him: afar, on the topmost 
 
 Idalian summit, 
 Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the 
 
 queen Aphrodite". 
 Loosing his arms from her waist he flew 
 
 upward, awaiting the sea-beast. 
 Onward it came from the southward, as bulky and 
 
 black as a galley, 
 Lazily coasting along, as the fish fled leaping 
 
 before it;
 
 214 Andromeda [1852 
 
 Lazily breasting the ripple, and watching by sand- 
 bar and headland, 
 
 Listening for laughter of maidens at bleaching, or 
 song of the fisher, 
 
 Children at play on the pebbles, or cattle that 
 pawed on the sand-hills. 
 
 Rolling and dripping it came, where bedded in 
 glistening purple 
 
 Cold on the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides 
 of the maiden, 
 
 Trembling, her face in her hands, and her tresses 
 
 afloat on the water. 
 
 As when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, 
 royally crested, 
 
 Flags on by creek and by cove, and in scorn of 
 the anger of Nereus 
 
 Ranges the king of the shore ; if he see on a glit- 
 tering shallow, 
 
 Chasing the bass and the mullet, the fin of a wal- 
 lowing dolphin, 
 
 Halting, he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the 
 weight of his quarry, 
 
 Whether to clutch it alive, or to fall on the 
 wretch like a plummet, 
 
 Stunning with terrible talon the life of the brain in 
 the hindhead : 
 
 Then rushes up with a scream, and stooping the 
 wrath of his eyebrows 
 
 Falls from the sky, like a star, while the wind 
 rattles hoarse in his pinions. 
 
 Over him closes the foam for a moment ; and then 
 from the sand-bed 
 
 Rolls up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams 
 white in the sunshine. 
 
 Thus fell the boy on the beast, unveiling the face 
 of the Gorgon j
 
 1852] Andromeda 215 
 
 Thus fell the boy on the beast ; thus rolled up the 
 beast in his horror, 
 
 Once as the dead eyes glared into his ; then his 
 sides, death-sharpened, 
 
 Stiffened and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the 
 
 wandering water. 
 
 Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leapt back 
 again to his treasure ; 
 
 Leapt back again, full blest, toward arms spread 
 wide to receive him. 
 
 Brimful of honor he clasped her, and brimful of 
 love she caressed him, 
 
 Answering lip with lip; while above them the 
 queen Aphrodit6 
 
 Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, am- 
 brosial odors, 
 
 Givers of longing, and rapture, and chaste con- 
 tent in espousals. 
 
 Happy whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the 
 
 queen Aphrodit ! 
 
 Laughing she called to her sister, the chaste 
 Tritonid Athen6, 
 
 "Seest thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the 
 ^Egis-wielder? 
 
 How he has turned himself wholly to love, and 
 caresses a damsel, 
 
 Dreaming no longer of honor, or danger, or Pallas 
 Athene^ 
 
 Sweeter, it seems, to the young my gifts are; so 
 yield me the stripling; 
 
 Yield him me now, lest he die in his prime, like 
 
 hapless Adonis." 
 
 Smiling she answered in turn, that chaste Trito- 
 nid Athen : 
 
 " Dear unto me, no less than to thee, is the wed- 
 lock of heroes ;
 
 2 1 6 Andromeda [i 8 5 a 
 
 Dear, who can worthily win him a wife not 
 
 unworthy; and noble, 
 Pure with the pure to beget brave children, the 
 
 like of their father. 
 Happy, who thus stands linked to the heroes who 
 
 were, and who shall be ; 
 Girdled with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for 
 
 his mother 
 Watches his steps with the eyes of the gods ; and 
 
 his wife and his children 
 Move him to plan and to do in the farm and the 
 
 camp and the council. 
 Thence comes weal to a nation: but woe upon 
 
 woe when the people 
 Mingle in love at their will, like the brutes, not 
 
 heeding the future." 
 Then from her gold-strung loom, where she 
 
 wrought in her chamber of cedar, 
 Awful and fair she arose ; and she went by the 
 
 glens of Olympus: 
 Went by the isles of the sea, and the wind never 
 
 ruffled her mantle; 
 Went by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked 
 
 fleets of the Phoenics ; 
 Came to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the 
 
 surges for ever, 
 Bearing the wealth of the gods for a gift to the 
 
 bride of a hero. 
 There she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped 
 
 like Immortals ; 
 Solemn and sweet was her smile, while their hearts 
 
 beat loud at her coming ; 
 Solemn and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to 
 
 the pair in her wisdom. 
 
 " Three things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by 
 the founts of Olympus,
 
 1852] Andromeda 217 
 
 Wisdom, and prowess, and beauty ; and freely we 
 
 pour them on mortals ; 
 Pleased at our image in man, as a father at his in 
 
 his children. 
 One thing only we grudge to mankind: when a 
 
 hero, unthankful, 
 Boasts of our gifts as his own, stiff-necked, and 
 
 dishonors the givers, 
 
 Turning our weapons against us. Him Ate" fol- 
 lows avenging; 
 Slowly she tracks him and sure, as a lyme-hound ; 
 
 sudden she grips him, 
 Crushing him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a 
 
 terror to folly. 
 This we avenge, as is fit ; in all else never weary of 
 
 giving. 
 Come, then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge 
 
 pleasure to mortals." 
 Loving and gentle she spoke: but the maid 
 
 stood in awe, as the goddess 
 Plaited with soft swift finger her tresses, and decked 
 
 her in jewels, 
 Armlet and anklet and earbell; and over her 
 
 shoulders a necklace, 
 Heavy, enamelled, the flower of the gold and the 
 
 brass of the mountain. 
 Trembling with joy she gazed, so well Haephaistos 
 
 had made it, 
 Deep in the forges of ^Etna, while Chans his lady 
 
 beside him, 
 Mingled, her grace in his craft, as he wrought for 
 
 his sister Athene 1 . 
 Then on the brows of the maiden a veil bound 
 
 Pallas Athen^ ; 
 Ample it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of 
 
 weaving. 
 
 K Vol. 14
 
 2i 8 Andromeda [1852 
 
 Ages and ages agone it was wrought on the heights 
 
 of Olympus, 
 Wrought in the gold-strung loom, by the finger 
 
 of cunning Athene\ 
 In it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb 
 
 of the ocean ; 
 Nereid, siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy 
 
 fishes 
 Glittering round, many-hued, on the flame-red 
 
 folds of the mantle. 
 In it she wove, too, a town where gray-haired 
 
 kings sat in judgment; 
 Sceptre in hand in the market they sat, doing right 
 
 by the people, 
 
 Wise : while above watched Justice, and near, far- 
 seeing Apollo. 
 Round it she wove for a fringe all herbs of the 
 
 earth and the water, 
 Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and 
 
 lilies, 
 Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the 
 
 palms of the ocean : 
 Now from Olympus she bore it, a dower to the 
 
 bride of a hero. 
 Over the limbs of the damsel she wrapt it: the 
 
 maid still trembled, 
 Shading her face with her hands ; for the eyes of 
 
 the goddess were awful. 
 Then, as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds 
 
 blow landward, 
 Stately she bent to the damsel, and breathed on 
 
 her : under her breathing 
 Taller and fairer she grew ; and the goddess spoke 
 
 in her wisdom. 
 " Courage I give thee ; the heart of a queen, and 
 
 the mind of Immortals ;
 
 i8ja] Andromeda 219 
 
 Godlike to talk with the gods, and to look on 
 
 their eyes unshrinking ; 
 Fearing the sun and the stars no more, and the 
 
 blue salt water ; 
 Fearing us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of 
 
 the heroes ; 
 Chastely and wisely to govern thyself and thy 
 
 house and thy people, 
 Bearing a god-like race to thy spouse, till dying I 
 
 set thee 
 High for a star in the heavens, a sign and a hope 
 
 to the seamen, 
 Spreading thy long white arms all night in the 
 
 heights of the aether, 
 Hard by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while 
 
 near thee thy mother 
 Sits in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial 
 
 tresses. 
 All night long thou wilt shine; all day thou wilt 
 
 feast on Olympus, 
 Happy, the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the 
 
 god-begotten." 
 
 Blissful, they turned them to go : but the fair- 
 tressed Pallas Athen6 
 Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver 
 
 Olympus ; 
 Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the 
 
 isles and the mainland ; 
 Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless 
 
 abysses, 
 High in the home of the summer, the seats of the 
 
 happy Immortals, 
 Shrouded in keen deep blaze, unapproachable; 
 
 there ever youthful 
 Hebe, Harmonic, and the daughter of Jove, 
 
 Aphrodite^
 
 220 Andromeda [1851 
 
 Whirled in the white-linked dance with the gold- 
 crowned Hours and the Graces, 
 Hand within hand, while clear piped Phoebe, 
 
 queen of the woodlands. 
 All day long they rejoiced: but Athene still in 
 
 her chamber 
 Bent herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud 
 
 to her singing, 
 Chanting of order and right, and of foresight, 
 
 warden of nations ; 
 Chanting of labor and craft, and of wealth in the 
 
 port and the garner ; 
 Chanting of valor and fame, and the man who 
 
 can fall with the foremost, 
 Fighting for children and wife, and the field which 
 
 his father bequeathed him. 
 Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new 
 
 lessons for mortals : 
 Happy, who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied 
 
 Athene". 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1852.
 
 1835] Hypotheses Hypochondriacs 221 
 
 HYPOTHESES HYPOCHONDRIAC^ 1 
 
 AND should she die, her grave should be 
 
 Upon the bare top of a sunny hill, 
 
 Among the moorlands of her own fair land, 
 
 Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones 
 
 In gorse and heather all embosomed. 
 
 There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb 
 
 Above her gentle corse ; the ponderous pile 
 
 Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs. 
 
 The turf should lightly lie, that marked her home. 
 
 A sacred spot it would be every bird 
 
 That came to watch her lone grave should be holy. 
 
 The deer should browse around her undisturbed ; 
 
 The whin bird by, her lonely nest should build 
 
 All fearless ; for in life she loved to see 
 
 Happiness in all things 
 
 And we would come on summer days 
 
 When all around was bright, and set us down 
 
 And think of all that lay beneath that turf 
 
 On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles 
 
 His long, shrill, painful song, as though he plained 
 
 For her that loved him and his pleasant hills ; 
 
 And we would dream again of bygone days 
 
 Until our eyes should swell with natural tears 
 
 For brilliant hopes all faded into air ! 
 
 As, on the sands of Irak, near approach 
 
 1 This and the following poem were written at school in early 
 boyhood.
 
 222 Hypotheses Hypochondriacae [1835 
 
 Destroys the traveller's vision of still lakes, 
 
 And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green ; 
 
 And leaves behind the drear reality 
 
 Of shadeless, same, yet everchanging sand ! 
 
 And when the sullen clouds rose thick on high 
 
 Mountains on mountains rolling and dark mist 
 
 Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud, 
 
 When on her grave swept by the moaning wind 
 
 Bending the heather-bells then would I come 
 
 And watch by her, in silent loneliness, 
 
 And smile upon the storm as knowing well 
 
 The lightning's flash would surely turn aside, 
 
 Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleeps 
 
 All that gave life and love to one fond heart ! 
 
 I talk of things that are not ; and if prayers 
 
 By night and day availed from my weak lips, 
 
 Then should they never be ! till I was gone, 
 
 Before the friends I loved, to my long home. 
 
 O pardon me, if e'er I say too much ; my mind 
 
 Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth, 
 
 As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond 
 
 Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul 
 
 With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time 
 
 And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests. 
 
 Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o'er my brain 
 
 By indistinctness made more terrible, 
 
 And incubi mock at me with fierce eyes 
 
 Upon my couch : and visions, crude and dire, 
 
 Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity, 
 
 Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity, 
 
 Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain, 
 
 Seen, heard, as though they were material, 
 
 All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me, 
 
 And lead my soul away from earth and heaven 
 
 Until I doubt whether I be or not !
 
 1835] Hypotheses Hypochondriacs 223 
 
 And then I see all frightful shapes lank ghosts, 
 Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand, 
 Herbless and void of living voice tall mountains 
 Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable, 
 On which perchance I climb for infinite years; 
 
 broad seas, 
 
 Studded with islands numberless, that stretch 
 Beyond the regions of the sun, and fade 
 Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds, 
 Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever I 
 Or space of ether, where I hang for aye ! 
 A speck, an atom inconsumable 
 Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless ! 
 And oft I fancy, I am weak and old 
 And all who loved me, one by one, are dead, 
 And I am left alone and cannot die ! 
 Surely there is no rest on earth for souls 
 Whose dreams are like a madman's ! I am young 
 And much is yet before me after years 
 May bring peace with them to my weary heart ! 
 
 HKLSTOX, 1835.
 
 224 Trehill Well [1835 
 
 TREHILL WELL 
 
 THERE stood a low and ivied roof, 
 
 As gazing rustics tell, 
 In times of chivalry and song 
 
 'Yclept the holy well. 
 
 Above the ivies' branchlets gray 
 
 In glistening clusters shone ; 
 While round the base the grass-blades bright 
 
 And spiry fox-glove sprung. 
 
 The brambles clung in graceful bands, 
 
 Chequering the old gray stone 
 With shining leaflets, whose bright face 
 
 In autumn's tinting shone. 
 
 Around the fountain's eastern base 
 
 A babbling brooklet sped, 
 With sleepy murmur purling soft 
 
 Adown its gravelly bed. 
 
 Within the cell the filmy ferns 
 
 To woo the clear wave bent; 
 And cushioned mosses to the stone 
 
 Their quaint embroidery lent. 
 
 The fountain's face lay still as glass 
 
 Save where the streamlet free 
 Across the basin's gnarled lip 
 
 Flowed ever silently.
 
 i835] Trehill Well 225 
 
 Above the well a little nook 
 
 Once held, as rustics tell, 
 All garland-decked, an image of 
 
 The Lady of the Well. 
 
 They tell of tales of mystery, 
 
 Of darkling deeds of woe ; 
 But no ! such doings might not brook 
 
 The holy streamlet's flow. 
 
 Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, 
 
 Of melancholy dreams, 
 By that fair fount whose sunny wall 
 
 Basks in the western beams. 
 
 When last I saw that little stream, 
 
 A form of light there stood, 
 That seemed like a precious gem, 
 
 Beneath that archway rude : 
 
 And as I gazed with love and awe 
 
 Upon that sylph-like thing, 
 Methought that airy form must be 
 
 The fairy of the spring. 
 
 HILSTON, 1835.
 
 226 In an Illuminated Missal [1839 
 
 IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL 1 
 
 I WOULD have loved: there are no mates in 
 
 heaven ; 
 
 I would be great : there is no pride in heaven ; 
 I would have sung, as doth the nightingale 
 The summer's night beneath the moone pale, 
 But Saintes hymnes alone in heaven prevail. 
 My love, my song, my skill, my high intent, 
 Have I within this seely book y-pent : 
 And all that beauty which from every part 
 I treasured still alway within mine heart, 
 Whether of form or face angelical, 
 Or herb or flower, or lofty cathedral, 
 Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred, 
 In quaint devices deftly blazoned. 
 
 Lord, in this tome to Thee I sanctify 
 
 The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy. 
 
 1839. 
 
 1 Lines supposed to be found written in an illuminated missal.
 
 1839] The Weird Lady 227 
 
 THE WEIRD LADY 
 
 THE swevens came up round Harold the Earl, 
 
 Like motes in the sunne"s beam ; 
 And over him stood the Weird Lady, 
 In her charmed castle over the sea, 
 
 Sang " Lie thou still and dream." 
 
 " Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold, 
 
 Since thou hast been with me ; 
 The rust has eaten thy harness bright, 
 And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light, 
 
 That was so fair and free." 
 
 Mary Mother she stooped from heaven ; 
 She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven, 
 
 To don his harness on ; 
 And over the land and over the sea 
 He wended abroad to his own countrie, 
 
 A weary way to gon. 
 
 O but his beard was white with eld, 
 
 O but his hair was gray ; 
 He stumbled on by stock and stone, 
 And as he journeyed he made his moan 
 
 Along that weary way. 
 
 Earl Harold came to his castle wall ; 
 
 The gate was burnt with fire ; 
 Roof and rafter were fallen down, 
 The folk were strangers all in the town, 
 
 And strangers all in the shire.
 
 228 The Weird Lady [1839 
 
 Earl Harold came to a house of nuns, 
 And he heard the dead-bell toll ; 
 
 He saw the sexton stand by a grave ; 
 
 "Now Christ have mercy, who did us save, 
 Upon yon fair nun's soul." 
 
 The nuns they came from the convent gate 
 
 By one, by two, by three ; 
 They sang for the soul of a lady bright 
 Who died for the love of a traitor knight: 
 
 It was his own lady. 
 
 He stayed the corpse beside the grave ; 
 
 " A sign, a sign ! " quod he. 
 " Mary Mother who rulest heaven, 
 Send me a sign if I be forgiven 
 
 By the woman who so loved me." 
 
 A white dove out of the coffin flew ; 
 
 Earl Harold's mouth it kist ; 
 He fell on his face, wherever he stood ; 
 And the white dove carried his soul to God 
 
 Or ever the bearers wist, 
 
 DURHAM, 1839.
 
 1841] Palinodia 229 
 
 PALINODIA 
 
 YE mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes, 
 And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven, 
 I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes 
 Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse 
 Unbroken by the petty incidents 
 Of noisy life : Oh hear me once again ! 
 
 Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft, 
 Above the murmur of the uneasy world, 
 My thoughts in exultation held their way : 
 Whose tremulous whispers through the rustling 
 
 glade 
 
 Were once to me unearthly tones of love, 
 Joy without object, wordless music, stealing 
 Through all my soul, until my pulse beat fast 
 With aimless hope, and unexpressed desire 
 Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deep 
 Through all thy restless waves, and wasting shores, 
 Of silent labor, and eternal change ; 
 First teacher of the dense immensity 
 Of ever-stirring life, in thy strange forms 
 Of fish, and shell, and worm, and oozy weed : 
 To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleep 
 Have been a deep and breathless joy : Oh hear ! 
 
 Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your 
 
 child! 
 Upon thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature,
 
 230 Palinodia [1841 
 
 Where my young spirit dreamt its years away, 
 
 Give me once more to nestle : I have strayed 
 
 Far through another world, which is not thine. 
 
 Through sunless cities, and the weary haunts 
 
 Of smoke-grimed labor, and foul revelry 
 
 My flagging wing has swept. A mateless bird's 
 
 My pilgrimage has been ; through sin, and doubt, 
 
 And darkness, seeking love. Oh hear me, Nature ! 
 
 Receive me once again : but not alone ; 
 
 No more alone, Great Mother ! I have brought 
 
 One who has wandered, yet not sinned, like me. 
 
 Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie ; 
 
 And in the light of thine immortal eyes 
 
 Let our souls mingle, till The Father calls 
 
 To some eternal home the charge He gives thec. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE, 1841.
 
 1842] A Hope 231 
 
 A HOPE 
 
 TWIN stars, aloft in ether clear, 
 Around each other roll alway, 
 
 Within one common atmosphere 
 Of their own mutual light and day. 
 
 And myriad happy eyes are bent 
 Upon their changeless love alway ; 
 
 As, strengthened by their one intent, 
 They pour the flood of life and day. 
 
 So we through this world's waning night 
 May, hand in hand, pursue our way ; 
 
 Shed round us order, love, and light, 
 And shine unto the perfect day. 
 
 1842.
 
 232 The Poetry of a Root Crop [1845 
 
 THE POETRY OF A ROOT CROP 
 
 UNDERNEATH their eider-robe 
 Russet swede and golden globe, 
 Feathered carrot, burrowing deep, 
 Steadfast wait in charmed sleep ; 
 Treasure-houses wherein lie, 
 Locked by angels' alchemy, 
 Milk and hair, and blood, and bone, 
 Children of the barren stone ; 
 Children of the flaming Air, 
 With his blue eye keen and bare, 
 Spirit-peopled smiling down 
 On frozen field and toiling town 
 Toiling town that will not heed 
 God His voice for rage and greed; 
 Frozen fields that surpliced lie, 
 Gazing patient at the sky ; 
 Like some marble carven nun, 
 With folded hands when work is done, 
 Who mute upon her tomb doth pray, 
 Till the resurrection day. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1845.
 
 1 845] Child Ballad 233 
 
 CHILD BALLAD 
 
 JESUS, He loves one and all, 
 Jesus, He loves children small, 
 Their souls are waiting round His feet 
 On high, before His mercy-seat. 
 
 While He wandered here below 
 Children small to Him did go, 
 At His feet they knelt and prayed, 
 On their heads His hands He laid. 
 
 Came a Spirit on them then, 
 Better than of mighty men, 
 A Spirit faithful, pure and mild, 
 A Spirit fit for king and child. 
 
 Oh ! that Spirit give to me, 
 Jesu Lord, where'er I be I 
 
 1845-
 
 234 Airly Beacon [1847 
 
 AIRLY BEACON 
 
 AlRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon; 
 
 Oh the pleasant sight to see 
 Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, 
 
 While my love climbed up to me ! 
 
 Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ; 
 
 Oh the happy hours we lay 
 Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, 
 
 Courting through the summer's day ! 
 
 Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ; 
 
 Oh the weary haunt for me, 
 All alone on Airly Beacon, 
 
 With his baby on my knee I 
 
 1847.
 
 1847] Sappho 235 
 
 SAPPHO 
 
 SHE lay among the myrtles on the cliff, 
 Above her glared the noon ; beneath, the sea. 
 Upon the white horizon Atho's peak 
 Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead; 
 The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair; 
 The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below 
 The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun ; 
 The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings ; 
 The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge, 
 And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest; 
 And Mother Earth watched by him as he slept, 
 And hushed her myriad children for a while. 
 She lay among the myrtles on the cliff ; 
 And sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear, 
 But left her tossing still ; for night and day 
 A mighty hunger yearned within her heart, 
 Till all her veins ran fever ; and her cheek, 
 Her long thin hands, and ivory-channelled feet, 
 Were wasted with the wasting of her soul. 
 Then peevishly she flung her on her face, 
 And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare, 
 And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool 
 Her crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward : 
 And then she raised her head, and upward cast 
 Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid light 
 Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair, 
 As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks
 
 236 Sappho [1847 
 
 Of deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon. 
 Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched the shell, 
 And waked wild music from its silver strings ; 
 Then tossed it sadly by. " Ah, hush ! " she cries; 
 " Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine ! 
 Why mock my discords with thine harmonies? 
 Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine, 
 Only to echo back in every tone 
 The moods of nobler natures than thine own." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1847. 
 
 From " Yeast."
 
 1847] The Young Knight 237 
 
 THE YOUNG KNIGHT 
 
 A PARABLE 
 
 A GAY young knight in Burley stood, 
 
 Beside him pawed his steed so good, 
 
 His hands he wrung as he were wood, 
 
 With waiting for his love O ! 
 
 " Oh, will she come, or will she stay, 
 Or will she waste the weary day 
 With fools who wish her far away, 
 And hate her for her love O?" 
 
 But by there came a mighty boar, 
 His jowl and tushes red with gore, 
 And on his curled snout he bore 
 A bracelet rich and rare O ! 
 
 The knight he shrieked, he ran, he flew, 
 He searched the wild wood through and through, 
 But found nought save a mantle blue, 
 Low rolled within the brake O ! 
 
 He twined the wild brier, red and white, 
 Upon his head the garland dight, 
 The green leaves withered black as night, 
 And burnt into his brain O !
 
 238 The Young Knight [1847 
 
 A fire blazed up within his breast, 
 He mounted on an aimless quest, 
 He laid his virgin lance in rest, 
 
 And through the forest drove O ! 
 
 By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, 
 Through leat and furze brake fast drove he, 
 Until he saw the homeless sea, 
 
 That called with all its waves O ! 
 
 He laughed aloud to hear the roar, 
 And rushed his horse adown the shore, 
 The deep surge rolled him o'er and o'er, 
 And swept him down the tide 1 
 
 NEW FOREST, July 12, 1847.
 
 1847] A New Forest Ballad 239 
 
 A NEW FOREST BALLAD 
 
 OH she tripped over Ocknell plain, 
 
 And down by Bradley Water ; 
 And the fairest maid on the forest side 
 
 Was Jane, the keeper's daughter. 
 
 She went and went through the broad gray lawns 
 
 As down the red sun sank, 
 And chill as the scent of a new-made grave 
 
 The mist smelt cold and dank. 
 
 " A token, a token ! " that fair maid cried, 
 
 " A token that bodes me sorrow ; 
 For they that smell the grave by night 
 
 Will see the corpse to-morrow. 
 
 " My own true love in Burley Walk 
 
 Does hunt to-night, I fear ; 
 And if he meet my father stern, 
 
 His. game may cost him dear. 
 
 " Ah, here 's a curse on hare and grouse, 
 
 A curse on hart and hind ; 
 And a health to the squire in all England, 
 
 Leaves never a head behind." 
 
 Her true love shot a mighty hart 
 
 Among the standing rye, 
 When on him leapt that keeper old 
 
 From the fern where he did lie.
 
 240 A New Forest Ballad [1847 
 
 The forest laws were sharp and stern, 
 
 The forest blood was keen ; 
 They lashed together for life and death 
 
 Beneath the hollies green. 
 
 The metal good and the walnut wood 
 
 Did soon in flinders flee ; 
 They tost the orts to south and north, 
 
 And grappled knee to knee. 
 
 They wrestled up, they wrestled down, 
 
 They wrestled still and sore; 
 Beneath their feet the myrtle sweet 
 
 Was stamped to mud and gore. 
 
 Ah, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon, 
 
 That starest with never a frown 
 On all the grim and the ghastly things 
 
 That are wrought in thorpe and town : 
 
 And yet, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon, 
 
 That night hadst never the grace 
 To lighten two dying Christian men 
 
 To see one another's face. 
 
 They wrestled up, they wrestled down, 
 
 They wrestled sore and still, 
 The fiend who blinds the eyes of men 
 
 That night he had his will. 
 
 Like stags full spent, among the bent 
 
 They dropped a while to rest ; 
 When the young man drove his saying knife 
 
 Deep in the old man's breast.
 
 1847] A New Forest Ballad 241 
 
 The old man drove his gunstock down 
 
 Upon the young man's head ; 
 And side by side, by the water brown, 
 
 Those yeomen twain lay dead. 
 
 They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard ; 
 
 They dug them side by side ; 
 Two yeomen lie there, and a maiden fair 
 A widow and never a bride. 
 
 IN THE NEW FOREST, 1847. 
 
 Vol. 14
 
 242 The Red King [1847 
 
 THE RED KING 
 
 THE King was drinking in Malwood Hall, 
 
 There came in a monk before them all : 
 
 He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight, 
 
 Stood over against the dais aright ; 
 
 And, " The word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King, 
 
 The word of the Lord to thee I bring. 
 
 A grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen ; 
 
 I saw thee lie under the hollins green, 
 
 And through thine heart an arrow keen ; 
 
 And out of thy body a smoke did rise, 
 
 Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies : 
 
 So if thou God's anointed be 
 
 I rede thee unto thy soul thou see. 
 
 For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold, 
 
 False knight to Christ, for gain and gold ; 
 
 And for this thy forest were digged down all, 
 
 Steading and hamlet and churches tall ; 
 
 And Christs poor were ousten forth, 
 
 To beg their bread from south to north. 
 
 So tarry at home, and fast and pray, 
 
 Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day." 
 
 The monk he vanished where he stood ; 
 King William sterte up wroth and wood ; 
 Quod he, " Fools' wits will jump together; 
 The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather
 
 1847] The Red King 243 
 
 Have turned the brains for us both, I think ; 
 
 And monks are curst when they fall to drink. 
 
 A lothly sweven I dreamt last night, 
 
 How there hoved anigh me a griesly knight, 
 
 Did smite me down to the pit of hell ; 
 
 I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell. 
 
 There 's Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie, 
 
 So he of you all shall hunt with me ; 
 
 A grimly brace for a hart to see." 
 
 The Red King down from Malwood came ; 
 His heart with wine was all a-flame, 
 His eyne were shotten, red as blood, 
 He rated and swore, wherever he rode. 
 They roused a hart, that grimly brace, 
 A hart of ten, a hart of grease, 
 Fled over against the kinge"s place. 
 The sun it blinded the kinge"s ee, 
 A fathom behind his hocks shot he : 
 
 " Shoot thou," quod he, " in the fiend^s nama, 
 To lose such a quarry were seven years' shame." 
 And he hove up his hand to mark the game. 
 Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot ; 
 For whether the saints they swerved the shot, 
 Or whether by treason, men knowen not, 
 But under the arm, in a secret part, 
 The iron fled through the kinge"s heart. 
 The turf it squelched where the Red King fell; 
 And the fiends they carried his soul to hell, 
 Quod " His master's name it hath sped him well." 
 
 Tyrrel he smited full grim that day, 
 Quod " Shooting of kings is no bairns' play ; " 
 And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away. 
 As he pricked along by Fritham plain,
 
 244 The Red King [1847 
 
 The green tufts flew behind like rain ; 
 
 The waters were out, and over the sward : 
 
 He swam his horse like a stalwart lord : 
 
 Men clepen that water Tyrrel's ford. 
 
 By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, 
 
 Through glade and furze brake fast drove he, ' 
 
 Until he heard the roaring sea ; 
 
 Quod he, " Those gay waves they call me." 
 
 By Mary's grace a seely boat 
 
 On Christchurch bar did lie afloat ; 
 
 He gave the shipmen mark and groat, 
 
 To ferry him over to Normandie, 
 
 And there he fell to sanctuarie ; 
 
 God send his soul all bliss to see. 
 
 And fend our princes every one, 
 From foul mishap and trahison ; 
 But kings that harrow Christian men, 
 Shall England never bide again. 
 
 IN THE NEW FOREST, 1847.
 
 1847] The Outlaw 245 
 
 THE OUTLAW 
 
 OH, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my 
 
 father's trade, 
 To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe 
 
 and spade. 
 Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some 
 
 courtier lord, 
 Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I '11 die 
 
 by sword. 
 
 Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, 
 
 Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a 
 weary weary pen; 
 
 Looking through the lang stane windows at a nar- 
 row strip o" sky, 
 
 Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away 
 and die. 
 
 Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang 
 
 furred gown, 
 Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the 
 
 noisy dusty town; 
 Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er 
 
 his wares, 
 Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on 
 
 cares.
 
 246 The Outlaw [1847 
 
 Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian 
 
 bands, 
 Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted 
 
 lands. 
 Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the 
 
 grewsome sights o' war 
 There 's blood on my hand eneugh, mither ; it 's ill 
 
 to make it mair. 
 
 If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been 
 
 douce and still, 
 And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and 
 
 laugh my fill ; 
 Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies 
 
 at my knee : 
 But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve 's no 
 
 for me. 
 
 For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken 
 
 full well 
 How you lay all night up among the deer out on 
 
 the open fell ; 
 And so it was that I won the heart to wander far 
 
 and near, 
 Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie 
 
 dun deer. 
 
 Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief 
 that steals ; 
 
 I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills ; 
 
 For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bon- 
 nie fells are free 
 
 To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gan- 
 grel loon like me.
 
 l8 47] The Outlaw 247 
 
 So I 'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt 
 
 the deer, 
 Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce 
 
 folk here ; 
 Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping 
 
 down the screes, 
 Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up 
 
 the simmer breeze. 
 
 Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o* 
 the brae, 
 
 As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer 
 a' the day. 
 
 Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ring- 
 ing round the sky 
 
 That's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the 
 muck to colt and kye. 
 
 And when I 'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling 
 
 o' my deer, 
 Ye '11 no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to 
 
 dangle in the air; 
 But ye '11 send up my twa douce brethren, and 
 
 ye '11 steal me frae the tree, 
 And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, 
 
 where I aye looed to be. 
 
 Ye '11 bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a 
 glen far away, 
 
 Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the 
 great harts bray ; 
 
 And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I '11 go glow- 
 ering at the sky, 
 
 The livelong night on the black hill sides where 
 the dun deer lie. 
 
 IN THE NEW FOREST, 1847.
 
 248 Sing Hcigh-Ho [1847 
 
 SING HEIGH-HO! 
 
 THERE sits a bird on every tree j 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 
 There sits a bird on every tree, 
 And courts his love as I do thee ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho f 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 There grows a flower on every bough ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 
 There grows a flower on every bough, 
 Its petals kiss I '11 show you how: 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 From sea to stream the salmon roam ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 
 From sea to stream the salmon roam ; 
 Each finds a mate, and leads her home ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 The sun 's a bridegroom, earth a bride ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 
 They court from morn till eventide: 
 The earth shall pass, but love abide. 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 EVKRSLEY, 1847.
 
 1848] The Bad Squire 249 
 
 THE BAD SQUIRE 
 
 THE merry brown hares came leaping 
 
 Over the crest of the hill, 
 Where the clover and corn lay sleeping 
 
 Under the moonlight still. 
 
 Leaping late and early, 
 
 Till under their bite and their tread 
 The swedes and the wheat and the barley 
 
 Lay cankered and trampled and dead. 
 
 A poacher's widow sat sighing 
 
 On the side of the white chalk bank, 
 
 Where under the gloomy fir-woods 
 One spot in the ley throve rank. 
 
 She watched a long tuft of clover, 
 Where rabbit or hare never ran ; 
 
 For its black sour haulm covered over 
 The blood of a murdered man. 
 
 She thought of the dark plantation, 
 
 And the hares, and her husband's blood, 
 
 And the voice of her indignation 
 Rose up to the throne of God. 
 
 " I am long past wailing and whining 
 I have wept too much in my life : 
 
 I 've had twenty years of pining 
 As an English laborer's wife.
 
 250 The Bad Squire [1848 
 
 " A laborer in Christian England, 
 
 Where they cant of a Saviour's name, 
 
 And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's 
 For a few more brace of game. 
 
 " There 's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, 
 There 's blood on your pointer's feet ; 
 
 There 's blood on the game you sell, squire, 
 And there 's blood on the game you eat. 
 
 " You have sold the laboring-man, squire, 
 
 Body and soul to shame, 
 To pay for your seat in the House, squire, 
 
 And to pay for the feed of your game. 
 
 " You made him a poacher yourself, squire, 
 When you 'd give neither work nor meat, 
 
 And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden 
 At our starving children's feet ; 
 
 " When, packed in one reeking chamber, 
 Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; 
 
 While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed, 
 And the walls let in the day. 
 
 " When we lay in the burning fever 
 
 On the mud of the cold clay floor, 
 Till you parted us all for three months, squire, 
 
 At the dreary workhouse door. 
 
 "We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders? 
 
 What self-respect could we keep, 
 Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, 
 
 Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep ?
 
 1848] The Bad Squire 251 
 
 " Our daughters with base-born babies 
 Have wandered away in their shame, 
 
 If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, 
 Your misses might do the same. 
 
 " Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking 
 
 With handfuls of coals and rice, 
 Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting 
 
 A little below cost price? 
 
 " You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, 
 And take to allotments and schools, 
 
 But you Ve run up a debt that will never 
 Be paid us by penny-club rules. 
 
 " In the season of shame and sadness, 
 
 In the dark and dreary day, 
 When scrofula, gout, and madness 
 
 Are eating your race away ; 
 
 " When to kennels and liveried varlets 
 You have cast your daughter's bread, 
 
 And, worn out with liquor and harlots, 
 Your heir at your feet lies dead ; 
 
 " When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector, 
 Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, 
 
 You will find in your God the protector 
 Of the freeman you fancied your slave." 
 
 She looked at the tuft of clover, 
 
 And wept till her heart grew light ; 
 And at last, when her passion was over, 
 
 Went wandering into the night
 
 252 The Bad Squire [1848 
 
 But the merry brown hares came leaping 
 
 Over the uplands still, 
 Where the clover and corn lay sleeping 
 
 On the side of the white chalk hill. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848. 
 
 From " Yeast."
 
 1848] Scotch Song 253 
 
 SCOTCH SONG 
 
 OH, forth she went like a braw, braw bride 
 
 To meet her winsome groom, 
 When she was aware of twa bonny birds 
 
 Sat biggin' in the broom. 
 
 The tane it built with the green, green moss, 
 
 But and the bents sae fine, 
 And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair 
 
 Linked up wi' siller twine. 
 
 ." O whaur gat ye the green, green moss, 
 
 whaur the bents sae fine ? 
 
 And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair 
 That ance was tress o' mine ? " 
 
 " We gat the moss fra' the elditch aile, 
 The bents fra' the whinny muir, "."" 
 
 And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair, 
 To please his braw new fere." 
 
 " Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves, 
 
 And strew them saft o'er me ; 
 My token 's tint, my love is fause, 
 
 1 '11 lay me doon and dee." 
 
 1848.
 
 254 A March [1848 
 
 A MARCH 
 
 DREARY East winds howling o'er us ; 
 
 Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us; 
 
 Mire and ice and snow and sleet ; 
 
 Aching backs and frozen feet; 
 
 Knees which reel as marches quicken, 
 
 Ranks which thin as corpses thicken ; 
 
 While with carrion birds we eat, 
 
 Calling puddle-water sweet, 
 As we pledge the health of our general, who fares 
 
 as rough as we : 
 
 What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death 
 by such as he? 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848.
 
 1848] The Night Bird 255 
 
 THE NIGHT BIRD 
 
 A FLOATING, a floating 
 Across the sleeping sea, 
 All night I heard a singing bird 
 Upon the topmost tree. 
 
 " Oh came you off the isles of Greece, 
 Or off the banks of Seine ; 
 Or off some tree in forests free, 
 Which fringe the western main?" 
 
 " I came not off the old world 
 Nor yet from off the new 
 But I am one of the birds of God 
 Which sing the whole night through." 
 
 " Oh sing, and wake the dawning 
 Oh whistle for the wind ; 
 The night is long, the current strong, 
 My boat it lags behind." 
 
 " The current sweeps the old world, 
 The current sweeps the new ; 
 The wind will blow, the dawn will glow 
 Ere thou hast sailed them through." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848.
 
 256 The Dead Church [1848 
 
 THE DEAD CHURCH 
 
 WILD wild wind, wilt them never cease thy sighing? 
 
 Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away? 
 Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying, 
 
 The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine 
 Easter-day. 
 
 Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and 
 
 sighing; 
 Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath 
 
 lain. 
 
 Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying ; 
 Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life 
 and health again. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848.
 
 1848] A Parable from Liebig 257 
 
 A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG 
 
 THE church bells were ringing, the devil sat sing- 
 ing 
 
 On the stump of a rotting old tree ; 
 " Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow 
 
 old, 
 And the world is nigh ready for me." 
 
 The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing, 
 And smiled as he crumbled the tree ; 
 
 "Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to 
 
 cherish, 
 And the world is too live yet for thee." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848.
 
 258 Old and New [1848 
 
 OLD AND NEW 
 
 A PARABLE 
 
 SEE how the autumn leaves float by decaying, 
 Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream. 
 So fleet the works of men, back to their earth 
 
 again ; 
 Ancient and holy things fade like a dream. 
 
 Nay ! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying, 
 
 Clothing with tender hues orchard and glen ; 
 
 So, though old forms pass by, ne'er shall their 
 
 spirit die, 
 Look ! England's bare boughs show green leaf 
 
 again. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848.
 
 1848] The Watchman 259 
 
 THE WATCHMAN 
 
 " WATCHMAN, what of the night? " 
 
 " The stars are out in the sky, 
 And the merry round moon will be rising soon, 
 
 For us to go sailing by." 
 
 " Watchman, what of the night? " 
 
 " The tide flows in from the sea ; 
 There 's water to float a little cockboat 
 
 Will carry such fishers as we." 
 
 " Watchman, what of the night? " 
 
 " The night is a fruitful time ; 
 When to many a pair are born children fair, 
 
 To be christened at morning chime." 
 
 1848.
 
 260 The World's Age [1848 
 
 THE WORLD'S AGE 
 
 WHO will say the world is dying? 
 
 Who will say our prime is past? 
 Sparks from Heaven, within us lying, 
 
 Flash, and will flash till the last. 
 Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken; 
 
 Man a tool to buy and sell ; 
 Earth a failure, God-forsaken, 
 
 Anteroom of Hell. 
 
 Still the race of Hero-spirits 
 
 Pass the lamp from hand to hand; 
 Age from age the Words inherits 
 
 " Wife, and Child, and Fatherland," 
 Still the youthful hunter gathers 
 
 Fiery joy from wold and wood ; 
 He will dare as dared his fathers 
 
 Give him cause as good. 
 
 While a slave bewails his fetters ; 
 
 While an orphan pleads in vain; 
 While an infant lisps his letters, 
 
 Heir of all the age's gain ; 
 While a lip grows ripe for kissing; 
 
 While a moan from man is wrung; 
 Know, by every want and blessing, 
 
 That the world is young. 
 
 1848.
 
 1848] My Hunting Song 261 
 
 MY HUNTING SONG 
 
 FORWARD ! Hark forward 's the cry ! 
 One more fence and we 're out on the open, 
 So to us at once, if you want to live near us ! 
 Hark to them, ride to them, beauties ! as on 
 
 they go, 
 
 Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below ! 
 Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye 
 
 is slow, 
 Find themselves staring alone. 
 
 So the great cause flashes by; 
 Nearer and clearer its purposes open, 
 While louder and prouder the world-echoes 
 
 cheer us: 
 
 Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us, 
 Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us 
 We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame 
 
 to us 
 Don't be left staring alone! 
 
 EVERSLKY, 1848.
 
 262 Alton Locke's Song [1848 
 
 ALTON LOCKE'S SONG 
 
 WEEP, weep, weep and weep, 
 For pauper, dolt, and slave ! 
 Hark ! from wasted moor and fen 
 Feverous alley, stifling den, 
 Swells the wail of Saxon men 
 Work ! or the grave ! 
 
 Down, down, down and down 
 With idler, knave, and tyrant! 
 
 Why for sluggards cark and moil? 
 
 He that will not live by toil 
 
 Has no right on English soil! 
 God's word 's our warrant ! 
 
 Up, up, up and up ! 
 
 Face your game and play it ! 
 The night is past, behold the sun ! 
 The idols fall, the lie is done ! 
 The Judge is set, the doom begun ! 
 
 Who shall stay it? 
 
 ON TORRIDGE, May, 1848.
 
 1848] The Day of the Lord 263 
 
 THE DAY OF THE LORD 
 
 THE Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand : 
 
 Its storms roll up the sky : 
 The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold; 
 
 All dreamers toss and sigh ; 
 The night is darkest before the morn ; 
 When the pain is sorest the child is born, 
 And the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 Gather you, gather you, angels of God 
 
 Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; 
 Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old, 
 
 Come down, and renew us her youth. 
 
 Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 
 
 Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, 
 
 To the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell 
 
 Famine, and Plague, and War ; 
 Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 
 
 Gather, and fall in the snare ! 
 Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, 
 Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave, 
 In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 
 While the Lord of all ages is here?
 
 264 The Day of the Lord [1848 
 
 True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 
 
 And those who can suffer, can dare. 
 Each old age of gold was an iron age too, 
 And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, 
 In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 ON THE TORRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE, 
 September 10, 1848.
 
 1848] A Christmas Carol 265 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 IT chanced upon the merry merry Christmas 
 
 eve, 
 
 I went sighing past the church across the moor- 
 land dreary 
 " Oh ! never sin and want and woe this earth will 
 
 leave, 
 And the bells but mock the wailing round, they 
 
 sing so cheery. 
 How long, O Lord ! how long before Thou come 
 
 again ? 
 Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland 
 
 dreary 
 The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor 
 
 men toil in vain, 
 
 Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though 
 Christmas bells be cheery." 
 
 Then arose a joyous clamor from the wild-fowl 
 
 on the mere, 
 Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear 
 
 bells ringing, 
 And a voice within cried " Listen ! Christmas 
 
 carols even here ! 
 
 Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the 
 stars and snows are singing. 
 
 M VoL 14
 
 266 A Christmas Carol [1848 
 
 Blind ! I live, I love, I reign ; and all the nations 
 
 through 
 With the thunder of my judgments even now 
 
 are ringing. 
 
 Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do, 
 Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear 
 through it angels singing." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1848.
 
 1848] Old Saws New Set 267 
 
 OLD SAWS NEW SET 1 
 
 A GREEK TABLE TO AN ENGLISH MORAL 
 
 I MET John Clod the other day quite out of sorts 
 
 and pensive, 
 And grumbling at the government as idle and 
 
 expensive, 
 " With taxing food and clothes and light, they 've 
 
 almost broke our backs ; 
 And when shall we poor chaps get back our 
 
 money's worth, I ax? 
 I seed upon the paper what a lot we have to 
 
 pay: 
 They promises us all reform, but they cart no dirt 
 
 away. 
 This government does nothing, sir, I've most a 
 
 mind to riot." 
 " So had the frogs, friend John," quoth I, " bat 
 
 they got little by it." 
 "How's that, then?" "Why, these frogs had 
 
 lived for many a hundred year, 
 Like jolly old republicans, without distress or fear ; 
 When having grown more civilized, the sapient 
 
 croakers found, 
 That all they wanted was a king, just like the 
 
 nations round. 
 
 > Published for the first time in any collected edition.
 
 268 Old Saws New Set [1848 
 
 So for a king they prayed Jove heard and 
 
 kindly tossed a log 
 Down out of heaven among them all, and flattened 
 
 many a frog. 
 The great unsquashed croaked loyal awe, and 
 
 swore on bended knees, 
 To carry out with fire and sword whate'er their 
 
 king might please : 
 But his majesty pleased nothing no ! he would n't 
 
 even swear. 
 To find their dear-bought whistle dumb, was more 
 
 than frogs could bear. 
 1 A king ! ' they squalled again. Jove laughed, 
 
 ' They can't let well alone ; 
 Why, lazy rulers leave at least each man to mind 
 
 his own ; 
 Well, then, here 's something practical, this 
 
 government shall work.' 
 And Iris post from Belgium fetched a patriarchal 
 
 stork. 
 
 The stork surveyed his subjects with a true Mai- 
 
 thusian air 
 * Ah ! over population ! There 's the mischief, I 
 
 declare ! 
 The bog will get quite pauperized ! ' he stretched 
 
 two yard-long bills, 
 And sucked down luckless frog on frog, and as he 
 
 gulped his pills, 
 ' Your individual sufferings, my brothers, may be 
 
 great, 
 But then, like starving artisans, your suffering feeds 
 
 the State/
 
 1848] Old Saws New Set 269 
 
 In vain they shrieked to Jove ; ' It 's now too late, 
 
 my friends, to talk; 
 You 've had your choice you cut King Log, you 
 
 cannot cut King Stork.' " 
 
 Moral 
 
 New brooms sweep clean but then new boots 
 
 are apt to prove too tight ; 
 Each party tries its nostrums if they could but 
 
 hit the right ! 
 Things might be better, babies know but then 
 
 things might be worse. 
 Reforms are God's own blessings Revolutions 
 
 oft His curse. 
 
 ENGLAND FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 OUR demagogues, as wise old Aristophanes may 
 show, 
 
 Are playing just the game they played two thou- 
 sand years ago. 
 
 " They work," says he, " like seamen when they 
 go to fish for eels ; 
 
 They stir the mud, and foul the ponds, and so 
 they fill their creels. 
 
 For fools, like eels, pop up their heads, whene'er 
 they scent a riot; 
 
 And orators in shoals would starve, if once the 
 State grew quiet."
 
 270 Old Saws New Set [1848 
 
 Moral 
 
 Let workmen plead the workmen's cause, and 
 
 trust no flatterer's cant, 
 Hold fast by English fortitude you '11 ne'er need 
 
 Irish rant.
 
 1849] A Lament 271 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 THE merry merry lark was up and singing, 
 And the hare was out and feeding on the lea ; 
 
 And the merry merry bells below were ringing, 
 When my child's laugh rang through me. 
 
 Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow- 
 yard, 
 
 And the lark beside the dreary winter sea ; 
 And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard 
 
 Sleeps sound till the bell brings me. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1849.
 
 272 The Starlings [1849 
 
 THE STARLINGS 
 
 EARLY in spring time, on raw and windy morn- 
 ings, 
 
 Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the star- 
 lings sing 
 
 " Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for 
 
 building wearily? 
 Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun." 
 
 Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings, 
 Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings 
 
 sing 
 " Ah that sweet March month, when we and our 
 
 mates were courting merrily; 
 Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1849.
 
 1849] The Sands of Dec 273 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE 
 
 " O MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee ; " 
 The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The western tide crept up along the sand, 
 And o'er and o'er the sand, 
 And round and round the sand, 
 As far as eye could see. 
 
 The rolling mist came down and hid the land : 
 And never home came she. 
 
 " Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's hair 
 Above the nets at sea? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
 The cruel crawling foam, 
 The cruel hungry foam, 
 To her grave beside the sea : 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1849.
 
 274 The Tide Rock [1849 
 
 THE TIDE ROCK 
 
 How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is 
 
 done. 
 With broad bright side beneath the broad bright 
 
 sun, 
 
 Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleep- 
 ing. 
 
 Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses 
 From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping. 
 So many a wife for cruel man's caresses 
 Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear 
 A gallant front to this world's gaudy glare. 
 
 ILFRACOMBE, 1849.
 
 1849] Elegiacs 275 
 
 ELEGIACS 
 
 WEARILY stretches the sand to the surge, and the 
 
 surge to the cloudland ; 
 
 Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone. 
 Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, xvBet yatatv, 
 Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labor 
 
 and strife ; 
 No more on magical steed borne free through the 
 
 regions of ether, 
 But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew 
 
 for gold. 
 Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet 
 
 winter hang o'er me 
 What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow 
 
 and shame? 
 Blossoms would fret me with beauty; my heart 
 
 has no time to bepraise them ; 
 Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearn- 
 ing within. 
 Sing not, thou sky-lark above ! even angels pass 
 
 hushed by the weeper. 
 Scream on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your 
 
 desolate cry. 
 Sweep the dry sand on, thou wild wind, to drift 
 
 o'er the shell and the sea-weed ; 
 Sea-weed and shell, like my dreams, swept down 
 
 the pitiless tide.
 
 276 Elegiacs [1849 
 
 Just is the wave which uptore us; 'tis Nature's 
 
 own law which condemns us ; 
 Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith 
 
 of the sand ! 
 Joy to the oak of the mountain : he trusts to the 
 
 might of the rock-clefts ; 
 Deeply he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth 
 
 of the stone. 
 
 SANDS, DEVONSHIRE, 
 February^ 1849.
 
 1849] Dartside 277 
 
 DARTSIDE 
 
 I CANNOT tell what you say, green leaves, 
 
 I cannot tell what you say : 
 But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
 
 And a word in you this day. 
 
 I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, 
 
 I cannot tell what you say : 
 But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
 
 And a word in you this day. 
 
 I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, 
 
 I cannot tell what you say : 
 But I know that in you too a spirit doth live, 
 
 And a word doth speak this day. 
 
 " Oh green is the color of faith and truth, 
 And rose the color of love and youth, 
 
 And 'jrown of the fruitful clay. 
 Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young, 
 And her bridal day shall come ere long, 
 And you shall know what the rocks and the streams 
 And the whispering woodlands say." 
 
 DREW'S TEIGNTON, DARTMOOR, 
 1, 1849.
 
 278 Sonnet [1849 
 
 SONNET 
 
 OH, them hadst been a wife for Shakespeare's self 1 
 No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest 
 Above the treasures of that perfect breast, 
 Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars 
 Through which thy soul awes ours : yet thou art 
 
 bound 
 
 Oh waste of nature ! to a craven hound ; 
 To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf; 
 Athen to a Satyr : was that link 
 Forged by The Father's hand ? Man's reason bars 
 The bans which God allowed. Ay, so we think : 
 Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest, 
 
 Than thus made strong by suffering ; and more 
 great 
 
 In martyrdom, than throned as Caesar's mate. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1849.
 
 1851] The Three Fishers 279 
 
 THE THREE FISHERS 
 
 THREE fishers went sailing away to the West, 
 
 Away to the West as the sun went down ; 
 Each thought on the woman who loved him the 
 
 best, 
 And the children stood watching them out of 
 
 the town ; 
 
 For men must work, and women must weep, 
 And there 's little to earn and many to keep, 
 Though the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
 
 And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
 
 down ; 
 They looked at the squall, and they looked at the 
 
 shower, 
 And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and 
 
 brown. 
 
 But men must work, and women must weep, 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
 And the women are weeping and wringing their 
 hands
 
 280 The Three Fishers [1851 
 
 For those who will never come home to the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must weep, 
 And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep ; 
 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 
 
 EVKRSLEY, June 35, 1851.
 
 1851] Margaret to Dolcino 281 
 
 MARGARET TO DOLCINO 
 
 ASK if I love thee ? Oh, smiles cannot tell 
 Plainer what tears are now showing too well. 
 Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear: 
 Had I not loved thee, I had not been here, 
 Weeping by thee. 
 
 Ask if I love thee ? How else could I borrow 
 Pride from man's slander, and strength from my 
 
 sorrow? 
 
 Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride, 
 Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide 
 Weeping by thee. 
 
 ANDERNACH ON THE RHINE, 
 August, 1851.
 
 282 Dolcino to Margaret [1851 
 
 DOLCINO TO MARGARET 
 
 THE world goes up and the world goes down, 
 And the sunshine follows the rain ; 
 
 And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown 
 Can never come over again, 
 
 Sweet wife : 
 No, never come over again. 
 
 For woman is warm though man be cold, 
 And the night will hallow the day ; 
 
 Till the heart which at even was weary and old 
 Can rise in the morning gay, 
 
 Sweet wife ; 
 To its work in the morning gay. 
 
 ANDKRNACH, 1851*
 
 1851] The Ugly Princess 283 
 
 THE UGLY PRINCESS 
 
 MY parents bow, and lead them forth, 
 
 For all the crowd to see 
 Ah well ! the people might not care 
 
 To cheer a dwarf like me. 
 
 They little know how I could love, 
 
 How I could plan and toil, 
 To swell those drudges' scanty gains, 
 
 Their mites of rye and oil. 
 
 They little know what dreams have been 
 My playmates, night and day ; 
 
 Of equal kindness, helpful care, 
 A mother's perfect sway. 
 
 Now earth to earth in convent walls, 
 To earth in churchyard sod : 
 
 I was not good enough for man, 
 And so am given to God. 
 
 BERTRICH IN THE EIFEL, 1851.
 
 284 Sonnet [1851 
 
 SONNET 
 
 THE baby sings not on its mother's breast; 
 
 Nor nightingales who nestle side by side ; 
 
 Nor I by thine : but let us only part, 
 
 Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still, 
 
 As having uttered all, must speak again 
 
 Oh stunted thoughts! Oh chill and fettered 
 
 rhyme ! 
 
 Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest, 
 Losing its proper home, can find no rest : 
 
 So, like a child who whiles away the time 
 With dance and carol till the eventide, 
 Watching its mother homeward through the glen ; 
 Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart, 
 Tells to his listening mate within the nest 
 The wonder of his star-entranced heart 
 Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill 
 
 Forth all my being bubbles into song ; 
 
 And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and 
 strong. 
 
 BERTRICH, 1851.
 
 1851] The Swan-neck 285 
 
 THE SWAN-NECK 
 
 EVIL sped the battle play 
 On the Pope Calixtus' day ; 
 Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords, 
 In Senlac slept the sleep of swords. 
 Harold Earl, shot over shield, 
 Lay along the autumn weald ; 
 Slaughter such was never none 
 Since the Ethelings England won. 
 
 Thither Lady Githa came, 
 Weeping sore for grief and shame ; 
 How may she her first-born tell? 
 Frenchmen stript him where he fell, 
 Gashed and marred his comely face ; 
 Who can know him in his place? 
 
 Up and spake two brethren wise, 
 " Youngest hearts have keenest eyes ; 
 Bird which leaves its mother's nest, 
 Moults its pinions, moults its crest. 
 Let us call the Swan-neck here, 
 She that was his leman dear ; 
 She shall know him in this stound ; 
 Foot of wolf, and scent of hound, 
 Eye of hawk, and wing of dove, 
 Carry woman to her love." 
 
 Up and spake the Swan-neck high, 
 " Go ! to all your thanes let cry
 
 286 The Swan-neck [1851 
 
 How I loved him best of all, 
 I whom men his leman call ; 
 Better knew his body fair 
 Than the mother which him bare. 
 When ye lived in wealth and glee 
 Then ye scorned to look on me ; 
 God hath brought the proud ones low 
 After me afoot to go." 
 
 Rousing erne and sallow glede, 
 Rousing gray wolf off his feed, 
 Over franklin, earl, and thane, 
 Heaps of mother-naked slain, 
 Round the red field tracing slow, 
 Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow; 
 Never blushed nor turned away, 
 Till she found him where he lay; 
 Clipt him in her arme"s fair, 
 Wrapt him in her yellow hair, 
 Bore him from the battle-stead, 
 Saw him laid in pall of lead, 
 Took her to a minster high, 
 For Earl Harold's soul to cry. 
 
 Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver; 
 Jesu rest his soul for ever ; 
 Angles all from thrall deliver ; 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 EVERSLEV, 1851.
 
 1 85 2] A Thought from the Rhine 287 
 
 A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE 
 
 I HEARD an Eagle crying all alone 
 
 Above the vineyards through the summer night, 
 
 Among the skeletons of robber towers : 
 
 Because the ancient eyrie of his race 
 
 Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men; 
 
 And all his forest-chace and woodland wild, 
 
 Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe, 
 
 Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to 
 
 hour, 
 
 And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun 
 For joy at their own riches : So, I thought, 
 The great devourers of the earth shall sit, 
 Idle and impotent, they know not why, 
 Down-staring from their barren height of state 
 On nations grown too wise to slay and slave, 
 The puppets of the few ; while peaceful lore 
 And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth, 
 With wonders which they fear and hate, as he, 
 The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below. 
 
 ON THE RHINE, 1852.
 
 288 The Longbeards' Saga [1852 
 
 THE LONGBEARDS' SAGA. A. D. 400 
 
 OVER the camp-fires 
 Drank I with heroes, 
 Under the Donau bank, 
 Warm in the snow trench: 
 Sagamen heard I there, 
 Men of the Longbeards, 
 Cunning and ancient, 
 Honey-sweet-voiced. 
 Scaring the wolf cub, 
 Scaring the horn-owl, 
 Shaking the snow-wreaths 
 Down from the pine-boughs, 
 Up to the star roof 
 Rang out their song. 
 Singing how Winil men, 
 Over the ice-floes 
 Sledging from Scanland 
 Came unto Scoring; 
 Singing of Gambara, 
 Freya's beloved, 
 Mother of Ayo, 
 Mother of Ibor. 
 Singing of Wendel men 
 Ambri and Assi ; 
 How to the Winilfolk 
 Went they with war-words, 
 " Few are ye, strangers, 
 And many are we : 
 Pay us now toll and fee,
 
 1852] The Longbeards* Saga 289 
 
 Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves: 
 
 Else at the raven's meal 
 
 Bide the sharp bill's doom." 
 
 Clutching the dwarfs work then, 
 
 Clutching the bullock's shell, 
 
 Girding gray iron on, 
 
 Forth fared the Winils all, 
 
 Fared the Alruna's sons, 
 
 Ayo and Ibor. 
 
 Mad at heart stalked they : 
 
 Loud wept the women all, 
 
 Loud the Alruna wife ; 
 
 Sore was their need. 
 
 Out of the morning land, 
 
 Over the snow-drifts. 
 
 Beautiful Freya came, 
 
 Tripping to Scoring. 
 
 White were the moorlands, 
 
 And frozen before her: 
 
 Green were the moorlands, 
 
 And blooming behind her. 
 
 Out of her gold locks 
 
 Shaking the spring flowers, 
 
 Out of her garments 
 
 Shaking the south wind, 
 
 Around in the birches 
 
 Awaking the throstles, 
 
 And making chaste housewives all 
 
 Long for their heroes home, 
 
 Loving and love-giving, 
 
 Came she to Scoring. 
 
 Came unto Gambara, 
 
 Wisest of Valas, 
 
 " Vala, why weepest thou? 
 
 Far in the wide-blue, 
 
 Vol. \
 
 290 The Longbeards' Saga [1852 
 
 High up in the Elfin-home, 
 
 Heard I thy weeping." 
 
 " Stop not my weeping, 
 
 Till one can fight seven. 
 
 Sons have I, heroes tall, 
 
 First in the sword-play; 
 
 This day at the Wendels' hands 
 
 Eagles must tear them. 
 
 Their mothers, thrall-weary, 
 
 Must grind for the Wendels." 
 
 Wept the Alruna wife; 
 
 Kissed her fair Freya : 
 
 " Far off in the morning land, 
 
 High in Valhalla, 
 
 A window stands open ; 
 
 Its sill is the snow-peaks, 
 
 Its posts are the water-spouts, 
 
 Storm-rack its lintel ; 
 
 Gold cloud-flakes above 
 
 Are piled for the roofing, 
 
 Far up to the Elfin-home, 
 
 High in the wide-blue. 
 
 Smiles out each morning thence 
 
 Odin Allfather; 
 
 From under the cloud-eaves 
 
 Smiles out on the heroes, 
 
 Smiles on chaste housewives all, 
 
 Smiles on the brood-mares, 
 
 Smiles on the smiths' work : 
 
 And theirs is the sword-luck, 
 
 With them is the glory, 
 
 So Odin hath sworn it, 
 
 Who first in the morning 
 
 Shall meet him and greet him." 
 
 Still the Alruna wept :
 
 1 8 jz] The Longbeards' Saga 291 
 
 " Who then shall greet him ? 
 
 Women alone are here : 
 
 Far on the moorlands 
 
 Behind the war-lindens, 
 
 In vain for the bill's doom 
 
 Watch Winil heroes all, 
 
 One against seven." 
 
 Sweetly the Queen laughed : 
 
 " Hear thou my counsel now; 
 
 Take to thee cunning, 
 
 Beloved of Freya. 
 
 Take thou thy women-folk, 
 
 Maidens and wives : 
 
 Over your ankles 
 
 Lace on the white war-hose ; 
 
 Over your bosoms 
 
 Link up the hard mail-nets; 
 
 Over your lips 
 
 Plait long tresses with cunning; 
 
 So war-beasts full-bearded 
 
 King Odin shall deem you, 
 
 When off the gray sea-beach 
 
 At sunrise ye greet him." 
 
 Night's son was driving 
 
 His golden-haired horses up; 
 
 Over the eastern firths 
 
 High flashed their manes. 
 
 Smiled from the cloud-eaves out 
 
 Allfather Odin, 
 
 Waiting the battle-sport : 
 
 Freya stood by him. 
 
 " Who are these heroes tall, 
 
 Lusty-limbed Longbeards? 
 
 Over the swans' bath
 
 292 The Longbeards' Saga [1852 
 
 Why cry they to me? 
 Bones should be crashing fast, 
 Wolves should be full-fed, 
 Where such, mad-hearted, 
 Swing hands in the sword-play." 
 
 Sweetly laughed Freya : 
 
 " A name thou hast given them, 
 
 Shames neither thee nor them, 
 
 Well can they wear it. 
 
 Give them the victory, 
 
 First have they greeted thee ; 
 
 Give them the victory. 
 
 Yokefellow mine! 
 
 Maidens and wives are these, 
 
 Wives of the Winils ; 
 
 Few are their heroes 
 
 And far on the war-road, 
 
 So over the swans' bath 
 
 They cry .unto thee." 
 
 Royally laughed he then ; 
 Dear was that craft to him, 
 Odin Allfather, 
 Shaking the clouds. 
 " Cunning are women all, 
 Bold and importunate ! 
 Longbeards their name shall be, 
 Ravens shall thank them : 
 Where women are heroes, 
 What must the men be? 
 Theirs is the victory; 
 No need of me ! " 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1852. 
 From " Hypatia"
 
 1852] Saint Maura 293 
 
 SAINT MAURA. A. D. 304 
 
 THANK God ! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last! 
 The guards are crouching underneath the rock ; 
 The lights are fading in the town below, 
 Around the cottage which this morn was ours. 
 Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone ; 
 Alone upon our crosses with our God ; 
 While all the angels watch us from the stars. 
 Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him, 
 And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign 
 Of what awaits him ! Oh look on him, Lord ! 
 Look, and remember how he saved Thy lamb ! 
 
 Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love, 
 Never till now loved utterly ! Oh say, 
 Say you forgive me ? No you must not speak : 
 You said it to me hours ago long hours ! 
 Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes 
 Speak to the people, call them home to God, 
 A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church ; 
 And plead from off the tree with outspread arms, 
 To show them that the Son of God endured 
 For them and me. Hush ! I alone will speak, 
 And while away the hours till dawn for you. 
 I know you have forgiven me ; as I lay 
 Beneath your feet, while they were binding me, 
 I knew I was forgiven then ! When I cried 
 " Here am I, husband ! The lost lamb returned, 
 All re-baptized in blood ! " and you said, " Come !
 
 294 Saint Maura [1852 
 
 Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more ! " 
 From that same moment all my pain was gone ; 
 And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled 
 Love love! Alas, those eyes ! They made me 
 
 fall. 
 
 I could not bear to see them bleeding, dark, 
 Never, no never to look into mine ; 
 Never to watch me round the little room 
 Singing about my work, or flash on me 
 Looks bright with counsel. Then they drove me 
 
 mad 
 
 With talk of nameless tortures waiting you 
 And I could save you ! You would hear your 
 
 love 
 
 They knew you loved me, cruel men ! And then 
 Then came a dream ; to say one little word, 
 One easy wicked word, we both might say, 
 And no one hear us, but the lictors round ; 
 One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains, 
 And both, both free ! And life had just begun 
 Only three months short months your wedded 
 
 wife 
 
 Only three months within the cottage there 
 Hoping I bore your child. . . . 
 Ah ! husband ! Saviour ! God ! think gently of me ! 
 I am forgiven ! . . . 
 
 And then another dream ; 
 A flash so quick, I could not bear the blaze ; 
 I could not see the smoke among the light 
 To wander out through unknown lands, and lead 
 You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, 
 On, on, until we died ; and stand each day 
 To glory in you, as you preached and prayed. 
 From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, 
 
 those words.
 
 1852] Saint Maura 295 
 
 Mingled with fire and honey you would wake, 
 Bend, save whole nations ! would not that atone 
 For one short word ? ay, make it right, to save 
 You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord? 
 And so and so alas ! you knew the rest ! 
 You answered me. . . . 
 
 Ah cruel words ! No ! Blessed, godlike words ! 
 You had done nobly had you struck me dead, 
 Instead of striking me to life ! the temptress ! . . . 
 
 " Traitress ! apostate ! dead to God and me ! " 
 
 " The smell of death upon me ? " so it was ! 
 True ! true ! well spoken, hero ! Oh they snapped, 
 Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice 
 Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. 
 There was but one right thing in the world to do ; 
 And I must do it. ... Lord, have mercy ! Christ ! 
 Help through my womanhood : or I shall fail 
 Yet, as I failed before! ... I could not speak, 
 I could not speak for shame and misery, 
 And terror of my sin, and of the things 
 I knew were coming : but in heaven, in heaven ! 
 There we should meet, perhaps and by that time 
 I might be worthy of you once again 
 Of you, and of my God. ... So I went out. 
 
 Will you hear more, and so forget the pain? 
 And yet I dread to tell you what comes next; 
 Your love will feel it alb again for me. 
 No ! it is over ; and the woe that 's dead 
 Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love ! 
 Say, shall I tell you ? Ah ! your lips are dry ! 
 To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat, 
 And they will give you water. One to-day, 
 A soldier, gave me water in a sponge 
 Upon a reed, and said, " Too fair ! too young!
 
 296 Saint Maura [185* 
 
 She might have been a gallant soldier's wife ! " 
 And then I cried, " I am a soldier's wife ! 
 A hero's ! " And he smiled, but let me drink. 
 God bless him for it ! 
 
 So they led me back : 
 And as I went, a voice was in my ears 
 Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath 
 And blaze of all the garden slopes below, 
 And through the harvest-voices, and the moan 
 Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, 
 And round the shining rivers, and the peaks 
 Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, 
 And round the ancient stones about my feet. 
 Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried, 
 "My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak 
 To give thee strength to say so ? " Then my soul 
 Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, 
 While all the people made a ring around, 
 And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly 
 " Well ! hast thou brought him to a better mind? " 
 "No ! He has brought me to a better mind ! " 
 I cried, and said beside I know not what 
 Words which I learnt from thee I trust in God 
 Nought fierce or rude for was I not a girl 
 Three months ago beneath my mother's roof ? 
 I thought of that. She might be there ! I looked 
 She was not there ! I hid my face and wept. 
 And when I looked again, the judge's eye 
 Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought 
 " She knows what shame is still ; so strip her.'* 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 I shrieked, " Not that, Sir ! Any pain ! So young 
 I am a wife too I am not my own, 
 But his my husband's!" But they took my 
 
 shawl,
 
 1852] Saint Maura 297 
 
 And tore my tunic off, and there I stood 
 
 Before them all. . . . Husband ! you love me 
 
 still? 
 
 Indeed I pleaded ! Oh, shine out, kind moon, 
 And let me see him smile ! Oh ! how I prayed, 
 While some cried " Shame ! " and some, " She is 
 
 too young ! " 
 And some mocked ugly words : God shut my 
 
 ears. 
 
 And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. 
 While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, 
 And all the earth and air were full of eyes, 
 Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning 
 
 flame, 
 
 Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow : 
 And yet no earthquake came ! And then I knew 
 This body was not yours alone, but God's 
 His loan He needed it : and after that 
 The worst was come, and any torture more 
 A change a lightening ; and I did not shriek 
 Once only once, when first I felt the whip 
 It coiled so keen around my side, and sent 
 A fire-flash through my heart which choked me 
 
 then 
 
 I shrieked that once. The foolish echo rang 
 So far and long I prayed you might not hear. 
 And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, 
 Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears 
 Of humming bees around the limes at home ; 
 And I was all alone with you and God. 
 And what they did to me I hardly know ; 
 I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, 
 It was not after all so very sharp : 
 So do not pity me. It made me pray ; 
 Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,
 
 298 Saint Maura 
 
 And you m God : and once, when I looked down, 
 And saw an ugly sight so many wounds ! 
 "What matter? " thought I. " His dear eyes are 
 
 dark; 
 
 For them alone I kept these limbs so white 
 A foolish pride ! As God wills now. 'T is just." 
 But then the judge spoke out in haste : " She 
 
 is mad, 
 
 Or fenced by magic arts ! She feels no pain ! " 
 He did not know I was on fire within : 
 Better he should not ; so his sin was less. 
 Then he cried fiercely, " Take the slave away, 
 And crucify her by her husband's side ! " 
 And at those words a film came on my face 
 A sickening rush of joy was that the end ? 
 That my reward ? I rose, and tried to go 
 But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge; 
 And all the buildings melted into mist: 
 So how they brought me here I cannot tell 
 Here, here, by you until the judgment-day, 
 And after that for ever and for ever ! 
 Ah ! If I could but reach that hand ! One touch I 
 One finger tip, to send the thrill through me 
 I felt but yesterday ! No ! I can wait : 
 Another body ! Oh, new limbs are ready, 
 Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, 
 Kept for us in the treasuries of God. 
 They will not mar the love they try to speak, 
 They will not fail my soul, as these have done ! 
 
 Will you hear more? Nay you know all the 
 
 rest: 
 
 Yet those poor eyes alas ! they could not see 
 My waking, when you hung above me there 
 With hands outstretched to bless the penitent
 
 1852] Saint Maura 299 
 
 Your penitent even like The Lord Himself 
 
 I gloried in you ! like The Lord Himself! 
 
 Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown 
 
 Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow 
 
 To make you like Him show you as you were ! 
 
 I told them so ! I bid them look on you, 
 
 And see there what was the highest throne on 
 
 earth 
 
 The throne of suffering, where the Son of God 
 Endured and triumphed for them. But they 
 
 laughed ; 
 
 All but one soldier, gray with many scars ; 
 And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, 
 And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud 
 You heard me ! You know all ! I am at peace. 
 Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon 
 Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, 
 And kept me happy, when they dragged me back 
 From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, 
 And bound my wrists and ankles Do not sigh : 
 I prayed, and bore it : and since they raised me up 
 My eyes have never left your face, my own, my 
 
 own, 
 Nor will, till death comes ! . . . 
 
 Do I feel much pain? 
 Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot 
 
 bear. 
 
 It has become like part of my own life, 
 Or part of God's life in me honor bliss! 
 I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; 
 Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. 
 I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . 
 I cannot stir. Ah God ! these shoots of fire 
 Through all my limbs ! Hush, selfish girl ! He 
 
 hears you !
 
 300 Saint Maura [1852 
 
 Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed? 
 Yes ; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil 
 Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, now 
 You said, one blessed night, they were too slender, 
 Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife 
 Perhaps a martyr's : You forgot the strength 
 Which God can give. The cord has cut them 
 
 through ; 
 
 And yet my voice has never faltered yet. 
 Oh ! do not groan, or I shall long and pray 
 That you may die : and you must not die yet. 
 Not yet they told tis we might Kve three 
 
 days . . . 
 Two days for you to preach! Two days to 
 
 speak 
 Words which may wake the dead ! 
 
 Hush ! is he sleeping ? 
 
 They say that men have slept upon the cross ; 
 So why not he? ... Thanks, Lord! I hear him 
 
 breathe : 
 
 And he will preach Thy word to-morrow ! save 
 Souls, crowds, for Thee ! And they will know his 
 
 worth 
 Years hence poor things, they know not what 
 
 they do ! 
 
 And crown him martyr ; and his name will ring 
 Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars 
 Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to 
 
 see 
 His triumph Preacher ! Martyr ! Ah and 
 
 me? 
 
 If they must couple my poor name with his, 
 Let them tell all the truth -say how I loved him,
 
 1852] Saint Maura 301 
 
 And tried to damn him by that love ! Oh Lord ! 
 Returning good for evil ! and was this 
 The payment I deserved for such a sin? 
 To hang here on my cross, and look at him 
 Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven ! 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1852.
 
 302 Death of a Certain Journal [1852 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN 
 JOURNAL 1 
 
 So die, thou child of stormy dawn, 
 Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse ; 
 Chilled early by the bigot's curse, 
 The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn. 
 
 Fair death, to fall in teeming June, 
 When every seed which drops to earth 
 Takes root, and wins a second birth 
 From steaming shower and gleaming moon. 
 
 Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain ; 
 Thou rain of God, make fat the land ; 
 That roots which parch in burning sand 
 May bud to flower and fruit again. 
 
 To grace, perchance, a fairer morn 
 In mightier lands beyond the sea, 
 While honor falls to such as we 
 From hearts of heroes yet unborn, 
 
 Who in the light of fuller day, 
 Of purer science, holier laws, 
 Bless us, faint heralds of their cause, 
 Dim beacons of their glorious way. 
 
 1 The Christian Socialist, started by the Council of Associates 
 for promotion of Co-operation.
 
 1852] Death of a Certain Journal 303 
 
 Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil 
 Round cape and isle, in port and cove, 
 Resistless, star-led from above : 
 What though our tiny wave recoil? 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1852.
 
 304 Hexameters [1852 
 
 HEXAMETERS 
 
 LINGER no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell 
 
 and cathedral; 
 Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them 
 
 who knew not the Father, 
 
 Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bride- 
 groom was taken from them. 
 Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm 
 
 rich youth of the nations, 
 Child-like in virtue and faith, though child-like in 
 
 passion and pleasure ; 
 Child-like still, and still near to their God, while 
 
 the day-spring of Eden 
 Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian 
 
 Mountains. 
 Down to the Mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the 
 
 roots of our Manhood, 
 Mothers of us in our cradles ; of us once more in 
 
 our glory, 
 New-born body and soul, in the great pure world 
 
 which shall be, 
 In the renewing of all things, when man shall 
 
 return to his Eden 
 Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the 
 
 slander of conscience 
 Free in the sunshine of Godhead and fearlessly 
 
 smile on his Father. 
 Down to the mothers I go yet with thee still ! 
 
 be with me, thou purest ! 
 
 Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the day- 
 spring of God go before us. 
 
 EVERSLKY, 1852.
 
 1853] The Oubit 305 
 
 THE OUBIT 1 
 
 IT was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang ; 
 A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang 
 " My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my 
 
 wings ; 
 I shew her soon my soul 's aboon the warks o' 
 
 creeping things." 
 
 This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the 
 
 linn, 
 A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that 
 
 oubit in : 
 O when he took the water, the saumon fry they 
 
 rose, 
 And tigg*d him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail 
 
 and toes. 
 
 Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor 
 
 cubit's shame ; 
 Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus 
 
 at hame ; 
 O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the 
 
 Muses woo ; 
 For critics lie, like saumon fry, to make their 
 
 meals o' you. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1853. 
 
 1 Found among Sandy Mackaye's papers, of a hairy oubit who 
 would not mind his mother.
 
 306 To Miss Mitford [1853 
 
 THE single eye, the daughter of the light ; 
 Well pleased to recognize in lowliest shade 
 Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made 
 By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright. 
 The taste severe, yet graceful, trained aright 
 In classic depth and clearness, and repaid 
 By thanks and honor from the wise and staid 
 By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight, 
 And high communion with the eloquent throng 
 Of those who purified our speech and song 
 All these are yours. The same examples lure, 
 You in each woodland, me on breezy moor 
 With kindred aim the same sweet path along, 
 To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1853.
 
 1854] Earl Haldan's Daughter 307 
 
 BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S 
 DAUGHTER 
 
 IT was Earl Haldan's daughter, 
 
 She looked across the sea; 
 She looked across the water ; 
 
 And long and loud laughed she : 
 " The locks of six princesses 
 
 Must be my marriage fee, 
 So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! 
 
 Who comes a wooing me? " 
 
 It was Earl Haldan's daughter, 
 
 She walked along the sand ; 
 When she was aware of a knight so fair, 
 
 Came sailing to the land. 
 His sails were all of velvet, 
 
 His mast of beaten gold, 
 And " Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! 
 
 Who saileth here so bold ? " 
 
 " The locks of five princesses 
 
 I won beyond the sea ; 
 I dipt their golden tresses, 
 
 To fringe a cloak for thee. 
 One handful yet is wanting, 
 
 But one of all the tale ; 
 So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat t 
 
 Furl up thy velvet sail ! "
 
 308 Earl Haldan's Daughter [1854 
 
 He leapt into the water, 
 
 That rover young and bold ; 
 He gript Earl Haldan's daughter, 
 
 He dipt her locks of gold : 
 " Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, 
 
 The tale is full to-day. 
 Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! 
 
 Sail Westward ho ! away ! " 
 
 DEVONSHIRE, 1854. 
 
 From " Westward ff t n
 
 1854] Frank Leigh's Song 309 
 
 FRANK LEIGH'S SONG A.D. 1586 
 
 AH tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing, 
 Why thus requite my sighs with venom'd smart? 
 
 Ah ruthless dove, the vulture's talons wearing, 
 Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart? 
 
 Is this my meed? Must dragons' teeth alone 
 
 In Venus' lawns by lovers' hands be sown? 
 
 Nay, gentlest Cupid ; 't was my pride undid me ; 
 
 Nay, guiltless dove ; by mine own wound I fell. 
 To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me : 
 
 I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell ; 
 For ever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel 
 On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel. 
 
 DEVONSHIRE, 1854. 
 
 From " Westward Hot"
 
 310 Ode to the North-East Wind [1854 
 
 ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND 
 
 WELCOME, wild North-easter ! 
 
 Shame it is to see 
 Odes to every zephyr ; 
 
 Ne'er a verse to thee. 
 Welcome, black North-easter ! 
 
 O'er the German foam ; 
 O'er the Danish moorlands, 
 
 From thy frozen home. 
 Tired we are of summer, 
 
 Tired of gaudy glare, 
 Showers soft and steaming, 
 
 Hot and breathless air. 
 Tired of listless dreaming, 
 
 Through the lazy day: 
 Jovial wind of winter 
 
 Turns us out to play ! 
 Sweep the golden reed-beds; 
 
 Crisp the lazy dyke ; 
 Hunger into madness 
 
 Every plunging pike. 
 Fill the lake with wild-fowl ; 
 
 Fill the marsh with snipe ; 
 While on dreary moorlands 
 
 Lonely curlew pipe. 
 Through the black fir-forest 
 
 Thunder harsh and dry,
 
 1854] Ode to the North-East Wind 311 
 
 Shattering down the snow-flakes 
 
 Off the curdled sky. 
 Hark ! The brave North-easter ! 
 
 Breast-high lies the scent, 
 On by holt and headland, 
 
 Over heath and bent. 
 Chime, ye dappled darlings, 
 
 Through the sleet and snow. 
 Who can over-ride you ? 
 
 Let the horses go ! 
 Chime, ye dappled darlings, 
 
 Down the roaring blast ; 
 You shall see a fox die 
 
 Ere an hour be past. 
 Go ! and rest to-morrow, 
 
 Hunting in your dreams, 
 While our skates are ringing 
 
 O'er the frozen streams. 
 Let the luscious South-wind 
 
 Breathe in lovers' sighs, 
 While the lazy gallants 
 
 Bask in ladies' eyes. 
 What does he but soften 
 
 Heart alike and pen? 
 'T is the hard gray weather 
 
 Breeds hard English men. 
 What 's the soft South-wester? 
 
 'T is the ladies' breeze, 
 Bringing home their true-loves 
 
 Out of all the seas : 
 But the black North-easter, 
 
 Through the snowstorm hurled, 
 Drives our English hearts of oak 
 
 Seaward round the world. 
 Come, as came our fathers,
 
 312 Ode to the North-East Wind [1854 
 
 Heralded by thee, 
 Conquering from the eastward, 
 
 Lords by land and sea. 
 Come ; and strong within us 
 
 Stir the Vikings' blood ; 
 Bracing brain and sinew ; 
 
 Blow, thou wind of God ! 
 
 1854-
 
 1856] A Farewell 313 
 
 TO c. E. G. 
 
 MY fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 
 
 No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; 
 Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, 
 For every day. 
 
 I '11 tell you how to sing a clearer carol 
 
 Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down ; 
 To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel 
 
 Than Shakespeare's crown. 
 
 Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
 
 Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ; 
 And so make Life, Death, and that vast For Ever, 
 One grand sweet song. 
 
 February i, 1856. 
 
 Vol. 14
 
 314 To G. A. G. [1856 
 
 To G. A. G. 
 
 A HASTY jest I once let fall 
 As jests are wont to be, untrue 
 As if the sum of joy to you 
 
 Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball. 
 
 Your eyes met mine: I did not blame; 
 You saw it: but I touched too near 
 Some noble nerve ; a silent tear 
 
 Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame. 
 
 I do not wish those words unsaid. 
 Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you 
 In that one look to woman grew, 
 
 While with a child, I thought, I played. 
 
 Next to mine own beloved so long ! 
 
 I have not spent my heart in vain. 
 
 I watched the blade ; I see the grain ; 
 A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1856.
 
 1856] The South Wind 315 
 
 THE SOUTH WIND 
 A FISHERMAN'S BLESSINGS 
 
 OH blessed drums of Aldershot ! 
 
 Oh blessed South-west train ! 
 Oh blessed, blessed Speaker's clock, 
 
 All prophesying rain! 
 
 Oh blessed yaffil, laughing loud ! 
 
 Oh blessed falling glass ! 
 Oh blessed fan of cold gray cloud ! 
 
 Oh blessed smelling grass ! 
 
 Oh bless'd South wind that toots his horn 
 Through every hole and crack ! 
 
 I *m off at eight to-morrow morn, 
 To bring such fishes back ! 
 
 EVERSLEY, April i, 1856.
 
 316 The Invitation [1856 
 
 THE INVITATION 
 
 TO TOM HUGHES 
 
 COME away with me, Tom, 
 Term and talk are done ; 
 My poor lads are reaping, 
 Busy every one. 
 Curates mind the parish, 
 Sweepers mind the court; 
 We '11 away to Snowdon 
 For our ten days' sport ; 
 Fish the August evening 
 Till the eve is past, 
 Whoop like boys, at pounders 
 Fairly played and grassed. 
 When they cease to dimple, 
 Lunge, and swerve, and leap, 
 Then up over Siabod, 
 Choose our nest, and sleep. 
 Up a thousand feet, Tom, 
 Round the lion's head, 
 Find soft stones to leeward 
 And make up our bed. 
 Eat our bread and bacon, 
 Smoke the pipe of peace, 
 And, ere we be drowsy, 
 Give our boots a grease. 
 Homer's heroes did so, 
 Why not such as we? 
 What are sheets and servants? 
 Superfluity !
 
 1856] The Invitation 317 
 
 Pray for wives and children 
 Safe in slumber curled, 
 Then to chat till midnight 
 O'er this babbling world 
 Of the workmen's college, 
 Of the price of grain, 
 Of the tree of knowledge, 
 Of the chance of rain ; 
 If Sir A. goes Romeward, 
 If Miss B. sings true, 
 If the fleet comes homeward, 
 If the mare will do, 
 Anything and everything 
 Up there in the sky 
 Angels understand us, 
 And no " saints " are by. 
 Down, and bathe at day-dawn, 
 Tramp from lake to lake, 
 Washing brain and heart clean 
 Every step we take. 
 Leave to Robert Browning 
 Beggars, fleas, and vines, 
 Leave to mournful Ruskin 
 Popish Apennines, 
 Dirty Stones of Venice 
 And his Gas-lamps Seven 
 We Ve the stones of Snowdon 
 And the lamps of heaven. 
 Where 's the mighty credit 
 In admiring Alps? 
 Any goose sees " glory " 
 In their " snowy scalps." 
 Leave such signs and wonders 
 For the dullard brain, 
 As aesthetic brandy,
 
 3 J 8 The Invitation [1856 
 
 Opium and cayenne. 
 Give me Bramshill common 
 (St. John's harriers by), 
 Or the vale of Windsor, 
 England's golden eye. 
 Show me life and progress, 
 Beauty, health, and man; 
 Houses fair, trim gardens, 
 Turn where'er I can. 
 Or, if bored with " High Art," 
 And such popish stuff, 
 One's poor ears need airing, j 
 Snowdon 's high enough. 
 While we find God's signet 
 Fresh on English ground, 
 Why go gallivanting 
 With the nations round? 
 Though we try no ventures 
 Desperate or strange ; 
 Feed on common-places 
 In a narrow range ; 
 Never sought for Franklin 
 Round the frozen Capes; 
 Even, with Macdougall, 1 
 Bagged our brace of apes; 
 Never had our chance, Tom, 
 In that black Redan ; 
 Can't avenge poor Brereton 2 
 
 1 Bishop of Labuan, in Borneo. 
 
 2 Mr. William Brereton, a young officer who left the English 
 Navy to follow Rajah Brooke's fortunes in Borneo. He was 
 made ruler of the Sarebus and Sakarran tribes of Dyaks, and 
 showed great executive ability; but died in 1854, at the early age 
 of 23 years. His father, the Reverend Charles Brereton, was 
 largely instrumental in establishing a Church of England mission 
 in Borneo.
 
 1-85 6 ] The Invitation 319 
 
 Out in Sakarran ; 
 Tho' we earn our bread, Tom, 
 By the dirty pen, 
 What we can we will be, 
 Honest Englishmen. 
 Do the work that 's nearest, 
 Though it 's dull at whiles, 
 Helping, when we meet them, 
 Lame dogs over stiles ; 
 See in every hedgerow 
 Marks of angels' feet, 
 Epics in each pebble 
 Underneath our feet; 
 Once a year, like schoolboys, 
 Robin-Hooding go, 
 Leaving fops and fogies 
 A thousand feet below. 
 
 EVERSLEY, August 1856.
 
 320 Go Hark! [1856 
 
 GO HARK! 
 
 YON sound 's neither sheep-bell nor bark, 
 
 They 're running they 're running, Go hark ! 
 
 The sport may be lost by a moment's delay ; 
 
 So whip up the puppies and scurry away. 
 Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell, 
 There 's a gate at the bottom I know it full well ; 
 And they 're running they 're running, 
 Go hark! 
 
 They 're running they 're running, Go hark 1 
 One fence and we 're out of the park; 
 Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook, 
 Then smash at the bullfinch ; no time for a look ; 
 Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind ; 
 He 's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind, 
 And they 're running they 're running, 
 Go hark ! 
 
 They're running they 're running, Go hark ! 
 
 Let them run on and run till it 's dark ! 
 
 Well with them we are, and well with them we '11 
 
 be, 
 While there 's wind in our horses and daylight 
 
 to see: 
 
 Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight, 
 And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night 
 Of They 're running they 're running, 
 Go hark ! 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1856.
 
 1856] Fishing Song 321 
 
 FISHING SONG 
 
 TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES 
 
 OH, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, 
 To point us out this way to glory 
 They 're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, 
 
 And all their pounders myth and story. 
 Blow Snowdon ! What 's Lake Gwynant to Kill- 
 
 arney, 
 
 Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, 
 blarney? 
 
 So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose, 
 
 I '11 tell you where we think of going, 
 To swate and far o'er cliff and scar, 
 
 Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing ; 
 Blow Snowdon ! There 's a hundred lakes to try in, 
 And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, 
 frying. 
 
 Geology and botany 
 
 A hundred wonders shall diskiver, 
 We '11 flog and troll in strid and hole, 
 
 And skim the cream of lake and river. 
 Blow Snowdon ! give me Ireland for my pennies, 
 Hurrah ! for salmon, grilse, and Dennis, Dennis, 
 Dennis ! 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1856.
 
 322 The Last Buccaneer [1857 
 
 THE LAST BUCCANEER 
 
 OH England is a pleasant place for them that 's rich 
 
 and high, 
 But England is a cruel place for such poor folks 
 
 as I; 
 
 And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again 
 As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish 
 
 main. 
 
 There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift 
 
 and stout, 
 All furnished well with small arms and cannons 
 
 round about; 
 And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair 
 
 and free 
 To choose their valiant captains and obey them 
 
 loyally. 
 
 Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his 
 
 hoards of plate and gold, 
 Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian 
 
 folk of old ; 
 Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as 
 
 hard as stone, 
 Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve 
 
 them to the bone.
 
 1857] The Last Buccaneer 323 
 
 Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that 
 
 shone like gold, 
 And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous 
 
 to behold ; 
 And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast 
 
 did flee, 
 To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from 
 
 sea. 
 
 Oh sweet it was in Avs to hear the landward- 
 
 breeze, 
 A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the 
 
 trees, 
 With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to 
 
 the roar 
 Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never 
 
 touched the shore. 
 
 But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things 
 
 must be; 
 So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put 
 
 down were we. 
 All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the 
 
 booms at night ; 
 And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the 
 
 fight. 
 
 Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass 
 
 beside, 
 Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young 
 
 thing she died ; 
 
 But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, 
 And brought me home to England here, to beg 
 
 until I die.
 
 324 The Last Buccaneer [1857 
 
 And now I 'm old and going I 'm sure I can't 
 
 tell where ; 
 One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be 
 
 worse off there : 
 
 If I might but be a sea-dove, I 'd fly across the main, 
 To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once 
 
 again. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1857.
 
 1857] The Knight's Return 325 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S RETURN 
 
 HARK ! hark ! hark ! 
 
 The lark sings high in the dark. 
 
 The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan, 
 
 The raven croaks from the Raven-stone ; 
 
 What care I for his boding groan, 
 
 Riding the moorland to come to mine own? 
 
 Hark! hark! hark! 
 
 The lark sings high in the dark. 
 
 Hark! hark! hark! 
 
 The lark sings high in the dark. 
 
 Long have I wander'd by land and by sea, 
 
 Long have I ridden by moorland and lea ; 
 
 Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee, 
 
 Sits at the window and watches for me ! 
 
 Hark! hark! hark! 
 
 The lark sings high in the dark. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR Music. 
 1857.
 
 326 Pen-y-Gwrydd [1857 
 
 PEN-Y-GWRYDD 
 
 TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ. 
 
 THERE is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful 
 
 dear, 
 Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't pronounce it, 
 
 dear), 
 Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys 
 
 three 
 
 One is the vale of Gywnant, so well beloved by me, 
 One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name, 
 And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows 
 
 the same ; 
 
 Between which radiations vast mountains does arise, 
 As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish 
 
 will rise, 
 That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, 
 
 my boy, 
 Just about ten o'clock at night ; and then I wish 
 
 you joy. 
 
 Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write, 
 (Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't 
 
 mind it quite), 
 
 And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week, 
 For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading 
 
 parties meek, 
 And there to live like fighting-cocks at almost a 
 
 bob a day,
 
 1857] Pen-y-Gwrydd 327 
 
 And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and 
 
 cut away, 
 All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn 
 
 pool, 
 And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or 
 
 I 'm a fool. 
 And that 's my game, which, if you like, respond 
 
 to me by post ; 
 But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days 
 
 at most. 
 Flies is no object ; I can tell some three or four 
 
 will do, 
 And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties 
 
 and sells 'em too. 
 Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise 
 
 just now, 
 And so, goes to my children's school and 'umbly 
 
 makes my bow. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1857.
 
 328 
 
 Ode [1862 
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVON- 
 SHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 CAMBRIDGE, 1 862 1 
 
 HENCE a while, severer Muses ; 
 
 Spare your slaves till drear October. 
 
 Hence; for Alma Mater chooses 
 
 Not to be for ever sober : 
 
 But, like stately matron gray, 
 
 Calling child and grandchild round her, 
 
 Will for them at least be gay ; 
 
 Share for once their holiday ; 
 
 And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, 
 Cheerier-hearted on the morrow 
 Rise to grapple care and sorrow, 
 Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the 
 children's play. 
 
 So go, for in your places 
 Already, as you see 
 
 (Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), 
 Venus holds court among her sinless graces, 
 With many a nymph from many a park and lea. 
 She, pensive, waits the merrier faces 
 Of those your wittier sisters three, 
 
 1 This Ode was set to Professor Sterndale Bennet's music, and 
 sung in the Senate House, Cambridge, on the Day of Installation.
 
 1 862] Ode 329 
 
 O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, 
 To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide ; 
 
 And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, 
 
 Tune our fancies by her eyes. 
 
 Then let the young be glad, 
 
 Fair girl and gallant lad, 
 
 And sun themselves to-day 
 
 By lawn and garden gay ; 
 
 'T is play befits the noon 
 
 Of rosy-girdled June ; 
 
 Who dare frown if heaven shall smile? 
 
 Blest, who can forget a while ; 
 
 The world before them, and above 
 
 The light of universal love. 
 Go, then, let the young be gay ; 
 From their heart as from their dress 
 Let darkness and let mourning pass away, 
 While we the staid and worn look on and bless. 
 
 Health to courage firm and high ! 
 Health to Granta's chivalry ! 
 Wisely finding, day by day, 
 Play in toil, and toil in play. 
 Granta greets them, gliding down 
 On by park and spire and town ; 
 Humming mills and golden meadows, 
 Barred with elm and poplar shadows ; 
 Giant groves, and learned halls ; 
 Holy fanes and pictured walls. 
 Yet she bides not here ; around 
 Lies the Muses' sacred ground. 
 Most she lingers, where below 
 Gliding wherries come and go ; 
 Stalwart footsteps shake the shores; 
 Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars ;
 
 330 Ode [1861 
 
 Rings aloft the exultant cry 
 
 For the bloodless victory. 
 
 There she greets the sports, which breed 
 
 Valiant lads for England's need ; 
 
 Wisely rinding, day by day, 
 
 Play in toil, and toil in play. 
 
 Health to courage, firm and high ! 
 
 Health to Granta's chivalry ! 
 
 Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay, 
 
 For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day. 
 
 Known long to you, and known through you to 
 
 fame, 
 
 Are Chatsworth's hall, and Cavendish's name. 
 You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet 
 A worthy patron for your ancient seat ; 
 And bid her sons from him example take, 
 Of learning purely sought for learning's sake, 
 Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent; 
 And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent. 
 
 Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir; 
 
 Fit thy notes to our desire. 
 
 Long may he sit the chiefest here, 
 
 Meet us and greet us, year by year ; 
 Long inherit, sire and son, 
 All that their race has wrought and won, 
 Since that great Cavendish came again, 
 Round the world and over the main, 
 Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold, 
 Past good Queen Bess' palace of old ; 
 With jewel and ingot packed in his hold, 
 And sails of damask and cloth of gold ; 
 While never a sailor-boy on board 
 But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord,
 
 1862] Ode 331 
 
 With the spoils he had won 
 
 In the Isles of the Sun, 
 
 And the shores of fairy-land, 
 And yet held for the crown of the goodly show, 
 That queenly smile from the Palace window, 
 
 And that wave of a queenly hand. 
 
 Yes, let the young be gay, 
 
 And sun themselves to-day; 
 And from their hearts, as from their dress, 
 
 Let mourning pass away. 
 
 But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing. 
 And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our 
 
 being. 
 
 Can we forget one friend, 
 
 Can we forget one face, 
 
 Which cheered us toward our end, 
 
 Which nerved us for our race? 
 
 Oh sad to toil, and yet forego 
 
 One presence which has made us know 
 
 To God-like-souls how deep our debt! 
 
 We would not, if we could, forget. 
 
 Severer Muses, linger yet; 
 Speak out for us one pure and rich regret. 
 Thou, Clio, who, with awful pen, 
 Gravest great names upon the hearts of men, 
 Speak of a fate beyond our ken ; 
 A gem late found and lost too soon ; 1 
 A sun gone down at highest noon ; 
 A tree from Odin's ancient root, 
 Which bore for men the ancient fruit, 
 
 1 His royal Highness the Prince Consort, Chancellor of 
 Cambridge University.
 
 332 Ode [1862 
 
 Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong, 
 And cunning lore, and soothing song, 
 Snapt in mid-growth, and leaving unaware 
 The flock unsheltered and the pasture bare. 
 Nay, let us take what God shall send, 
 Trusting bounty without end. 
 God ever lives ; and Nature, 
 Beneath His high dictature, 
 Hale and teeming, can replace 
 Strength by strength and grace, by grace, 
 Hope by hope, and friend by friend : 
 Trust ; and take what God shall send. 
 
 So shall Alma Mater see 
 
 Daughters fair and wise 
 Train new lands of liberty 
 
 Under stranger skies ; 
 Spreading round the teeming earth 
 English science, manhood, worth. 
 
 1862.
 
 1862] The Water-Babies " 333 
 
 SONGS FROM "THE WATER-BABIES" 
 
 THE TIDE RIVER 
 
 CLEAR and cool, clear and cool, 
 By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool ; 
 
 Cool and clear, cool and clear, 
 By shining shingle, and foaming wear ; 
 Under the crag where the ouzel sings, 
 And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, 
 Undefiled, for the undefiled ; 
 
 Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 
 
 Dank and foul, dank and foul, 
 By the smoky town in its murky cowl : 
 
 Foul and dank, foul and dank, 
 By wharf and sewer and slimy bank ; 
 Darker and darker the further I go, 
 Baser and baser the richer I grow ; 
 
 Who dare sport with the sin-defiled ? 
 Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. 
 
 Strong and free, strong and free, 
 The floodgates are open, away to the sea. 
 
 Free and strong, free and strong, 
 Cleansing my streams as I hurry along 
 To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, 
 And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
 
 334 " The Water-Babies " [i 86a 
 
 As I lose myself in the infinite main, 
 
 Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. 
 
 Undefiled, for the undefined ; 
 Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 
 
 From " The Water-Babies.* 
 
 liVERSLEY, 1862. 
 
 YOUNG AND OLD 
 
 WHEN all the world is young, lad, 
 
 And all the trees are green ; 
 And every goose a swan, lad, 
 
 And every lass a queen ; 
 Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 
 
 And round the world away ; 
 Young blood must have its course, lad, 
 
 And every dog his day. 
 
 When all the world is old, lad, 
 
 And all the trees are brown ; 
 And all the sport is stale, lad, 
 
 And all the wheels run down ; 
 Creep home, and take your place there, 
 
 The spent and maimed among : 
 God grant you find one face there, 
 
 You loved when all was young. 
 
 From " The Water-Babi3. n 
 1862.
 
 i86 2 ] " The Water-Babies " 335 
 
 THE SUMMER SEA 
 
 SOFT, soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding, 
 Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer 
 
 sea; 
 
 Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining 
 Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe 
 
 and me. 
 
 Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding, 
 Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and 
 
 sea; 
 
 Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding, 
 Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless 
 
 babe and me. 
 
 From " The Water-Babies.* 
 i86a. 
 
 MY LITTLE DOLL 
 
 I ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, 
 
 The prettiest doll in the world ; 
 Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, 
 
 And her hair was so charmingly curled ; 
 But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 
 
 As I played in the heath one day; 
 And I cried for more than a week, dears, 
 
 But I never could find where she lay. 
 
 I found my poor little doll, dears, 
 As I played in the heath one day:
 
 336 " The Water-Babies " [1862 
 
 Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, 
 For her paint is all washed away, 
 
 And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, 
 And her hair not the least bit curled : 
 
 Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, 
 The prettiest doll in the world. 
 
 From " The WaUr-Babits." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1862.
 
 1 86 2] The Knight's Leap 337 
 
 THE KNIGHTS LEAP 
 
 A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR 
 
 " So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine ; 
 
 And the water is spent and gone? 
 Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine : 
 
 I never shall drink but this one. 
 
 " And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse, 
 And lead him me round to the door : 
 
 He must take such a leap to-night perforce, 
 As horse never took before. 
 
 " I have fought my fight, I have lived my life, 
 
 I have drunk my share of wine ; 
 From Trier to Coin there was never a knight 
 
 Led a merrier life than mine. 
 
 " I have lived by the saddle for years two score ; 
 
 And if I must die on tree, 
 
 Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of 
 yore, 
 
 Is the properest timber for me. 
 
 " So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, 
 
 How the Altenahr hawk can die : 
 If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest, 
 
 He must take to his wings and fly." 
 
 P Vol. 14
 
 3 3 8 The Knight's Leap [1862 
 
 He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine, 
 And he mounted his horse at the door ; 
 
 And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine, 
 As man never drained before. 
 
 He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight, 
 And he leapt him out over the wall ; 
 
 Out over the cliff, out into the night, 
 Three hundred feet of fall. 
 
 They found him next morning below in the glen, 
 
 With never a bone in him whole 
 A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen, 
 
 For such a bold rider's soul. 
 
 EVEKSLKY, X862.
 
 1862] Song of the Little Baltung 339 
 
 THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG 
 A.D. 395 
 
 A HARPER came over the Danube so wide, 
 
 And he came into Alaric's hall, 
 And he sang the song of the little Baltung 
 
 To him and his heroes all. 
 
 How the old old Bait and the young young Bait 
 
 Rode out of Caucaland, 
 With the royal elephant's trunk on helm 
 
 And the royal lance in hand. 
 
 Thuringer heroes, counts and knights, 
 
 Pricked proud in their meinie ; 
 For they were away to the great Kaiser, 
 
 In Byzant beside the sea. 
 
 And when they came to the Danube so wide 
 
 They shouted from off the shore, 
 " Come over, come over, ye Roman slaves, 
 
 And ferry your masters o'er." 
 
 And when they came to Adrian's burgh, 
 With its towers so smooth and high, 
 
 " Come out, come out, ye Roman knaves, 
 And see your lords ride by."
 
 340 Song of the Little Baltung [1862 
 
 But when they came to the long long walls 
 
 That stretch from sea to sea, 
 That old old Bait let down his chin, 
 
 And a thoughtful man grew he. 
 
 " Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern, 
 
 But never will I scoff more, 
 If these be the walls which kept him out 
 
 From the Micklegard there on the shore." 
 
 Then out there came the great Kaiser, 
 
 With twice ten thousand men ; 
 But never a Thuring was coward enough 
 
 To wish himself home again. 
 
 " Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich, 
 
 And beg thy life this day ; 
 The Kaiser is lord of all the world, 
 
 And who dare say him nay? " 
 
 <> 
 
 " I never came out of Caucaland 
 
 To beg for less nor more ; 
 But to see the pride of the great Kaiser, 
 
 In his Micklegard here by the shore. 
 
 " I never came out of Caucaland 
 
 To bow to mortal wight, 
 But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser p 
 
 And God defend my right." 
 
 He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser, 
 
 And he kissed him courteouslie, 
 And he has ridden with Athanarich 
 
 That wonder-town to see.
 
 1862] Song of the Little Baltung 341 
 
 He showed him his walls of marble white 
 
 A mile o'erhead they shone ; 
 Quoth the Bait, "Who would leap into that 
 garden, 
 
 King Siegfried's boots must own." 
 
 He showed him his engines of arsmetrick 
 
 And his wells of quenchless flame, 
 And his flying rocks, that guarded his walls 
 
 From all that against him came. 
 
 He showed him his temples and pillared halls, 
 
 And his streets of houses high ; 
 And his watch-towers tall, where his star-gazers 
 
 Sit reading the signs of the sky. 
 
 He showed him his ships with their hundred oars, 
 
 And their sides like a castle wall, 
 That fetch home the plunder of all the world, 
 
 At the Kaiser's beck and call. 
 
 He showed him all nations of every tongue 
 
 That are bred beneath the sun, 
 How they flowed together in Micklegard street 
 
 As the brooks flow all into one. 
 
 He showed him the shops of the china ware, 
 
 And of silk and sendal also, 
 And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes 
 
 On arches aloft that go. 
 
 He showed him ostrich and unicorn, 
 
 Ape, lion, and tiger keen ; 
 And elephants wise roared " Hail Kaiser!" 
 
 As though they had Christians been.
 
 34 2 Song of the Little Baltung [1862 
 
 He showed him the hoards of the dragons and 
 trolls, 
 
 Rare jewels and heaps of gold 
 "Hast thou seen, in all thy hundred years, 
 
 Such as these, thou king so old?" 
 
 Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise, 
 
 And could of gramarye, 
 And he cast a spell on that old old Bait, 
 
 Till lowly and meek spake he. 
 
 "Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard, 
 
 What I held for chapmen's lies ; 
 But now do I know of the Micklegard, 
 
 By the sight of mine own eyes. 
 
 "Woden in Valhalla, 
 
 But thou on earth art God ; 
 And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser, 
 
 On his own head lies his blood." 
 
 Then out and spake that little Baltung, 
 
 Rode at the king's right knee, 
 Quoth " Fridigern slew false Kaiser Valens, 
 
 And he died like you or me." 
 
 "And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy, 
 
 Rides at the king's right knee?" 
 "Oh I am the Baltung, boy Alaric, 
 
 And as good a man as thee." 
 
 "As good as me, thou pretty bold boy, 
 
 With down upon thy chin?" 
 " Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on me, 
 
 The best of thy realm to win."
 
 1862] Song of the Little Baltung 343 
 
 "If thou be so fierce, them little wolf cub, 
 
 Or ever thy teeth be grown ; 
 Then I must guard my two young sons 
 
 Lest they should lose their own." 
 
 "Oh, it's I will guard your two lither lads, 
 
 In their burgh beside the sea, 
 And it's I will prove true man to them 
 
 If they will prove true to me. 
 
 "But it's you must warn your two lither lads, 
 
 And warn them bitterly, 
 That if I shall find them two false Kaisers, 
 
 High hanged they both shall be." 
 
 Now they are gone into the Kaiser's palace 
 
 To eat the peacock fine, 
 And they are gone into the Kaiser's palace 
 
 To drink the good Greek wine. 
 
 The Kaiser alone, and the old old Bait, 
 
 They sat at the cedar board ; 
 And round them served on the bended knee 
 
 Full many a Roman lord. 
 
 "What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich? 
 
 What makes thee look so pale?" 
 " I fear I am poisoned, thou cunning Kaiser, 
 
 For I feel my heart-strings fail. 
 
 " Oh would I had kept that great great oath 
 
 I swore by the horse's head, 
 I would never set foot on Roman ground 
 
 Till the day that I lay dead.
 
 344 Song of the Little Baltung [1862 
 
 " Oh would I were home in Caucaland, 
 
 To hear my harpers play, 
 And to drjftk my last of the nut-brown ale, 
 
 While I gave the gold rings away. 
 
 " Oh would I were home in Caucaland, 
 
 To hear the Gothmen's horn, 
 And watch the waggons, and brown brood mares 
 
 And the tents where I was born. 
 
 " But now I must die between four stone walls 
 
 In Byzant beside the sea : 
 And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung, 
 
 So God shall deal with thee." 
 
 The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths, 
 
 And he buried him royally, 
 And he set on his barrow an idol of gold, 
 
 Where all Romans must bow the knee. 
 
 And now the Goths are the Kaiser's men, 
 And guard him with lance and sword, 
 
 And the little Baltung is his sworn son-at-arms, 
 And eats at the Kaiser's board. 
 
 And the Kaiser's two sons are two false white lads 
 
 That a clerk may beat with cane. 
 The clerk that should beat that little Baltung 
 
 Would never sing mass again. 
 
 Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without, 
 
 And beaten gold within: * 
 But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung 
 
 With the down upon his chin.
 
 1862] Song of the Little Baltung 345 
 
 Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser's garden 
 
 Is Rome and Italian land : 
 But it all shall fall to the little Baltung 
 
 When he shall take lance in hand. 
 
 And when he is parting the plunder of Rome, 
 
 He shall pay for this song of mine, 
 Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold, 
 
 But one cup of Italian wine. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1862.
 
 346 On the Death of King Leopold [1865 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING 
 OF THE BELGIANS 1 
 
 A KING is dead ! Another master mind 
 
 Is summoned from the world-wide council hall. 
 
 Ah, for some seer, to say what lurks behind 
 To read the mystic writing on the wall ! 
 
 Be still, fond man : nor ask thy fate to know. 
 
 Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings. 
 Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe, 
 
 Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings. 
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE, 
 November 10, 1865. 
 
 1 Impromptu lines written in the album of the Crown Princess 
 of Germany.
 
 i866] Martin Lightfoot's Song 347 
 
 MARTIN LIGHTFOOT'S SONG 1 
 
 COME harken, harken, gentles all, 
 
 Come harken unto me, 
 And I '11 sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon 
 
 Came swimming out over the sea. 
 
 He ranged west, he ranged east, 
 
 And far and wide ranged he ; 
 He took his bite out of every beast 
 
 Lives under the greenwood tree. 
 
 Then by there came a silly old wolf, 
 " And I '11 serve you," quoth he ; 
 
 Quoth the Lyon, " My paw is heavy enough, 
 So what wilt thou do for me ? " 
 
 Then by there came a cunning old fox, 
 
 "And I'll serve you," quoth he; 
 Quoth the Lyon, " My wits are sharp enough, 
 
 So what wilt thou do for me ? " 
 
 Then by there came a white, white dove, 
 
 Flew off Our Lady's knee; 
 Sang " It 's I will be your true, true love, 
 
 If you '11 be true to me." 
 
 1 Supposed to be sung at Crowland Minster to Leofric, the 
 Wake's Mass Priest, when news was received of Hereward's 
 second marriage to Alftruda.
 
 348 Martin Lightfoot's Song [1866 
 
 " And what will you do, you bonny white dove? 
 
 And what will you do for me? " 
 " Oh, it's I'll bring you to Our Lady's love, 
 
 In the ways of chivalrie." 
 
 He followed the dove that Wood-Lyon 
 
 By mere and wood and wold, 
 Till he is come to a perfect knight, 
 
 Like the Paladin of old. 
 
 He ranged east, he ranged west, 
 
 And far and wide ranged he 
 And ever the dove won him honor and fame 
 
 In the ways of chivalrie. 
 
 Then by there came a foul old sow, 
 
 Came rookling under the tree ; 
 And "It's I will be true love to you, 
 
 If you '11 be true to me." 
 
 "And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow? 
 
 And what wilt thou do for me?" 
 " Oh, there hangs in my snout a jewel of gold, 
 
 And that will I give to thee." 
 
 He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon ; 
 
 To the rookling sow took he ; 
 And the dove flew up to Our Lady's bosom ; 
 
 And never again throve he. 
 
 From" Hereward the Wakt." 
 1866.
 
 1 867] Easter Week 349 
 
 EASTER WEEK 
 
 CWRITTEN FOR MUSIC TO BE SUNG AT A PARISH 
 INDUSTRIAL EXHIBITION) 
 
 SEE the land, her Easter keeping, 
 
 Rises as her Maker rose. 
 Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, 
 
 Burst at last from winter snows. 
 Earth with heaven above rejoices ; 
 
 Fields and gardens hail the spring ; 
 Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, 
 
 While the wild birds build and sing. 
 
 You, to whom your Maker granted 
 
 Powers to those sweet birds unknown, 
 Use the craft by God implanted ; 
 
 Use the reason not your own. 
 Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, 
 
 Each his Easter tribute bring 
 Work of fingers, chant of voices, 
 
 Like the birds who build and sing. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1867.
 
 350 Drifting Away [1867 
 
 DRIFTING AWAY 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 THEY drift away. Ah, God ! they drift for ever. 
 I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea, 
 Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river, 
 Round whom the tide-waifs hang then drift to 
 sea. 
 
 I watch them drift the old familiar faces, 
 Who fished and rode with me, by stream and wold, 
 Till ghosts, not men, fill old beloved places, 
 And, ah ! the land is rank with churchyard mould. 
 
 I watch them drift the youthful aspirations, 
 Shores, landmarks, beacons, drift alike. 
 
 I watch them drift the poets and the statesmen ; 
 The very streams run upward from the sea. 
 
 Yet overhead the boundless arch of heaven 
 Still fades to night, still blazes into day. 
 
 
 
 Ah, God ! My God ! Thou wilt not drift awayl 
 
 November, 1867.
 
 1 868] Christmas Day 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 
 
 How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? 
 A northern Christmas, such as painters love, 
 And kinsfolk shaking hands but once a year, 
 And dames who tell old legends by the fire? 
 Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, 
 Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, 
 And makes the old man merry with the young, 
 Through the short sunshine, through the longer 
 night? 
 
 Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist 
 And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, 
 And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping porch ; 
 One twilight, without rise or set of sun, 
 Till beetles drone along the hollow lane, 
 And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats 
 Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then 
 At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, 
 The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, 
 And shadows sweeping on from down to down 
 Before the salt Atlantic gale : yet come 
 In whatsoever garb, or gay, or sad, 
 Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas Day. 
 
 How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? 
 To sailors lounging on the lonely deck 
 Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him, 
 Who by some noisome harbor of the East, 
 Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales,
 
 352 Christmas Day [1868 
 
 Spoils of the tropic forests ; year by year 
 Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning 
 Himself half heathen? How to those brave 
 
 hearts ! 
 
 Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride 
 Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands 
 Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, 
 To free a tyrant's captives ? How to those 
 New patriarchs of the new-found underworld 
 Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, 
 And count their flocks' increase? To them that 
 
 day 
 
 Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze 
 Of full midsummer sun : to them that morn, 
 Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft, 
 Shall tell of nought but summer: but to them, 
 Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, 
 They spring into the saddle, thrills may come 
 From that great heart of Christendom which beats 
 Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of 
 
 youth ; 
 
 Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home ; 
 Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers' knee ; 
 Of innocent faces upturned once again 
 In awe and joy to listen to the tale 
 Of God made man, and in a manger laid 
 May soften, purify, and raise the soul 
 From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain, 
 And phantoms of this dream which some call life, 
 Toward the eternal facts ; for here or there, 
 Summer or winter, 't will be Christmas Day. 
 
 Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year, 
 What 't is to be a man : to curb and spurn 
 The tyrant in us; that ignobler self
 
 1 868] Christmas Day 353 
 
 Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, 
 And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, 
 No purpose, save its share in that wild war 
 In which, through countless ages, living things 
 Compete in internecine greed. Ah God ! 
 Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord ? 
 That we are brutes, great God, we know too well : 
 Apes daintier-featured ; silly birds who flaunt 
 Their plumes unheeding of the fowler's step ; 
 Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs.; 
 Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel, 
 Instead of teeth and claws ; all these we are. 
 Are we no more than these, save in degree? 
 No more than these ; and born but to compete 
 To envy and devour, like beast or herb ; 
 Mere fools of nature ; puppets of strong lusts, 
 Taking the sword, to perish with the sword 
 Upon the universal battle-field, 
 Even as the things upon the moor outside? 
 The heath eats up green grass and delicate 
 
 flowers, 
 
 The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, 
 The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch ; 
 And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, 
 Eats what he lists ; the strong eat up the weak, 
 The many eat the few ; great nations, small ; 
 And he who cometh in the name of all 
 He, greediest, triumphs by the greed of all ; 
 And, armed by his own victims, eats up all : 
 While ever out of the eternal heavens 
 Looks patient down the great magnanimous God, 
 Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice 
 All to Himself? Nay, but Himself to one ; 
 Who taught mankind on that first Christmas Day, 
 What 't was to be a man ; to give, not take ;
 
 354 Christmas Day [1868 
 
 To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; 
 To help, not crush ; if need, to die, not live. 
 
 Oh blessed day, which givest the eternal lie 
 To self, and sense, and all the brute within ; 
 Oh, come to us, amid this war of life ; 
 To hall and hovel, come ; to all who toil 
 In senate, shop, or study; and to those 
 Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world, 
 Ill-warned, and sorely tempted, ever face 
 Nature's brute powers, and men unmanned to 
 
 brutes 
 
 Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas Day. 
 Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem ; 
 The kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine : 
 And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1868.
 
 1870] September 21, 1870 355 
 
 SEPTEMBER 21, 
 
 SPEAK low, speak little : who may sing 
 While yonder cannon-thunders boom? 
 
 Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring: 
 Nor " pipe amid the crack of doom." 
 
 And yet the pines sing overhead, 
 
 The robins by the alder-pool, 
 The bees about the garden-bed, 
 
 The children dancing home from school. 
 
 And ever at the loom of Birth 
 
 The mighty Mother weaves and sings: 
 
 She weaves fresh robes for mangled earth ; 
 She sings fresh hopes for desperate things. 
 
 And thou, too : if through Nature's calm 
 Some strain of music touch thine ears, 
 
 Accept and share that soothing balm, 
 
 And sing, though choked with pitying tears. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1870. 
 
 1 Time of the Franco-Prussian War.
 
 356 The Mango-Tree [1870 
 
 THE MANGO-TREE 
 
 HE wiled me through the furzy croft; 
 
 He wiled me down the sandy lane. 
 He told his boy's love, soft and oft, 
 
 Until I told him mine again. 
 
 We married, and we sailed the main; 
 
 A soldier, and a soldier's wife. 
 We marched through many a burning plain; 
 
 We sighed for many a gallant life. 
 
 But his God kept it safe from harm. 
 
 He toiled, and dared, and earned command; 
 And those three stripes upon his arm 
 
 Were more to me than gold or land. 
 
 Sure he would win some great renown : 
 
 Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. 
 
 One night the fever struck him down. 
 I sat, and stared, and saw him die. 
 
 I had his children one, two, three. 
 
 One week I had them, blithe and sound. 
 The next beneath this mango-tree, 
 
 By him in barrack burying-ground. 
 
 I sit beneath the mango-shade ; 
 
 I live my five years' life all o'er 
 Round yonder stems his children played; 
 
 He mounted guard at yonder door.
 
 1870] The Mango-Tree 357 
 
 *T is I, not they, am gone and dead. 
 
 They live ; they know ; they feel ; they see. 
 Their spirits light the golden shade 
 
 Beneath the giant mango-tree. 
 
 All things, save I, are full of life: 
 The minas, pluming velvet breasts ; 
 
 The monkeys, in their foolish strife ; 
 
 The swooping hawks, the swinging nests ; 
 
 The lizards basking on the soil, 
 
 The butterflies who sun their wings ; 
 
 The bees about their household toil, 
 They live, they love, the blissful things. 
 
 Each tender purple mango-shoot, 
 
 That folds and droops so bashful down; 
 
 It lives; it sucks some hidden root; 
 It rears at last a broad green crown. 
 
 It blossoms ; and the children cry 
 " Watch when the mango-apples fall." 
 
 It lives : but rootless, fruitless, I 
 
 I breathe and dream ; and that is all. 
 
 Thus am I dead : yet cannot die : 
 
 But still within my foolish brain 
 There hangs a pale blue evening sky; 
 
 A furzy croft; a sandy lane. 
 
 1870.
 
 358 The Priest's Heart [1870 
 
 THE PRIEST'S HEART 
 
 IT was Sir John, the fair young Priest, 
 
 He strode up off the strand ; 
 But seven fisher maidens he left behind 
 
 All dancing hand in hand. 
 
 He came unto the wise wife's house : 
 " Now, Mother, to prove your art ; 
 
 To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes 
 Out of a young man's heart." 
 
 " My son, you went for a holy man, 
 
 Whose heart was set on high ; 
 Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books; 
 
 Man's love fleets lightly by." 
 
 " I had liever to talk with May Carleton, 
 Than with all the saints in Heaven; 
 
 I had liever to sit by May Carleton 
 Than climb the spheres seven. 
 
 " I have watched and fasted, early and late, 
 
 I have prayed to all above ; 
 But I find no cure save churchyard mould, 
 
 For the pain which men call love." 
 
 " Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse: 
 
 Enough that ill be ill 
 I know of a spell to draw May Carleton, 
 
 And bend her to your will."
 
 1870] The Priest's Heart 359 
 
 " If thou didst that which thou canst not do, 
 
 Wise woman though thou be, 
 I would run and run till I buried myself 
 
 In the surge of yonder sea. 
 
 " Scathless for me are maid and wife, 
 
 And scathless shall they bide. 
 Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart 
 
 That aches in my left side." 
 
 She charmed him with the white witchcraft, 
 
 She charmed him with the black, 
 But he turned his fair young face to the wall, 
 
 Till she heard his heart-strings crack. 
 
 1870.
 
 360 "Qu'est-ce Qu'il Dit" [1870 
 
 "QU'EST-CE QU'IL DIT" 1 
 
 ESPION aile de la jeune amante 
 De 1'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri? 
 Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre 
 Pourquoi, pourquoi demander " Qu'est-ce qu'il 
 dit?" 
 
 "Qu'est-ce qu'il dit? " Ce que tu dis toi-meme 
 Chaque mois de ce printemps eternel ; 
 Ce que disent les papillons qui s'entre-baisent, 
 Ce que dit tout beau jeune etre a toute belle. 
 
 Importun ! Attende quelques lustres : 
 Quand les souvenirs 1'emmencront ici 
 Mere, grand'mere, pale, lasse, ct fidele, 
 Demande mais doucement " Et le vieillard, 
 
 Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?" 
 
 TRINIDAD, January 10, 1870. 
 
 1 The Qu'est-ce qu'il dit is a Tropical bird.
 
 1870] The Legend of La Brea 361 
 
 THE LEGEND OF LA BREA 1 
 
 DOWN beside the loathly Pitch Lake, 
 
 In the stately Morichal, 2 
 Sat an ancient Spanish Indian, 
 
 Peering through the columns tall. 
 
 Watching vainly for the flashing 
 
 Of the jewelled colibris ; 8 
 Listening vainly for their humming 
 
 Round the honey-blossomed trees. 
 
 " Few," he sighed, " they come, and fewer, 
 
 To the cocorite" * bowers ; 
 Murdered, madly, through the forests 
 
 Which of yore were theirs and ours." 
 
 By there came a negro hunter, 
 Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong, 
 
 Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs, 
 As he loped and lounged along. 
 
 1 This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told 
 almost word for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian 
 who went by the name of Senor Trinidada. The manners and 
 customs which the ballad describes, and the cruel and dangerous 
 destruction of the beautiful birds of Trinidad, are facts which may 
 be easily verified by any one who will take the trouble to visit the 
 West Indies. 
 
 * A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south 
 shore of the Pitch Lake. 
 
 * Humming-birds. * Maximiliana palms. 
 
 ft Vol. 14
 
 362 The Legend of La Brea [1870 
 
 Rusty firelock on his shoulder ; 
 
 Rusty cutlass on his thigh ; 
 Never jollier British subject 
 
 Rollicked underneath the sky. 
 
 British law to give him safety, 
 British fleets to guard his shore, 
 
 And a square of British freehold 
 He had all we have, and more. 
 
 Fattening through the endless summer, 
 Like his own provision ground, 
 
 He had reached the summum bonum 
 Which our latest wits have found. 
 
 So he thought ; and in his hammock 
 Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane, 
 
 Toasted plantains at the fire-stick, 
 
 Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again. 
 
 Had a wife in his ajoupa 1 
 
 Or, at least, what did instead ; 
 Children, too, who died so early, 
 
 He 'd no need to earn their bread. 
 
 Never stole, save what he needed, 
 From the Crown woods round about; 
 
 Never lied, except when summoned 
 Let the warden find him out. 
 
 Never drank, except at market; 
 
 Never beat his sturdy mate ; 
 She could hit as hard as he could, 
 
 And had just as hard a pate. 
 
 1 Hut of timber and palm-leaves.
 
 1870] The Legend of La Brea 363 
 
 Had no care for priest nor parson, 
 Hope of heaven nor fear of hell ; 
 
 And in all his views of nature 
 Held with Comte and Peter Bell. 
 
 Healthy, happy, silly, kindly, 
 
 Neither care nor toil had he, 
 Save to work an hour at sunrise, 
 
 And then hunt the colibri. 
 
 Not a bad man; not a good man: 
 
 Scarce a man at all, one fears, 
 If the Man be that within us 
 
 Which is born of fire and tears. 
 
 Round the palm-stems, round the creepers, 
 
 Flashed a feathered jewel past, 
 Ruby-crested, topaz-throated, 
 
 Plucked the cocorite" bast, 
 
 Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, 1 
 Whirred away to build his nest, 
 
 Hung at last, with happy humming, 
 Round some flower he fancied best 
 
 Up then went the rusty muzzle, 
 
 " Dat de tenth I shot to-day : " 
 But out sprang the Indian shouting, 
 
 Balked the negro of his prey. 
 
 " Eh, you Senor Trinidada ! 
 
 What dis new ondacent plan ? 
 Spoil a genl'man's chance ob shooting? 
 
 I as good as any man. 
 
 1 From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton.
 
 364 The Legend of La Brea [1870 
 
 "Dese not your woods; dese de Queen's 
 woods : 
 
 You seem not know whar you ar, 
 Gibbin' yuself dese buckra airs here, 
 
 You black Indian Papist ! Dar ! " 
 
 Stately, courteous, stood the Indian ; 
 
 Pointed through the palm-tree shade: 
 " Does the gentleman of color 
 
 Know how yon Pitch Lake was made? " 
 
 Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled 
 Through his nerves a shudder ran 
 
 Saw a snake-like eye that held him ; 
 Saw he 'd met an Obeah man. 
 
 Saw a fetish such a bottle 
 
 Buried at his cottage door ; 
 Toad and spider, dirty water, 
 
 Rusty nails, and nine charms more. 
 
 Saw in vision such a cock's head 
 In the path and it was white ! 
 
 Saw Brinvilliers 1 in his pottage : 
 
 Faltered, cold and damp with fright 
 
 Fearful is the chance of poison : 
 Fearful, too, the great unknown : 
 
 Magic brings some positivists 
 Humbly on their marrow-bone. 
 
 Like the wedding-guest enchanted, 
 There he stood, a trembling cur; 
 
 While the Indian told his story, 
 Like the Ancient Mariner. 
 
 1 Spigelia anthelmia, a too well-known poison-plant
 
 1870] The Legend of La Brea 365 
 
 Told how " Once that loathly Pitch Lake 
 
 Was a garden bright and fair ; 
 How the Chaymas off the mainland 
 
 Built their palm ajoupas there. 
 
 " How they throve, and how they fattened, 
 Hale and happy, safe and strong; 
 
 Passed the livelong days in feasting ; 
 Passed the nights in dance and song. 
 
 " Till they cruel grew, and wanton : 
 
 Till they killed the colibris. 
 Then outspoke the great Good Spirit, 
 
 Who can see through all the trees. 
 
 " Said ' And what have I not sent you, 
 Wanton Chaymas, many a year? 
 
 Lapp, 1 agouti, 2 cachicame, 3 
 Quenc 4 and guazu-pita deer. 
 
 " ' Fish I sent you, sent you turtle, 
 Chip-chip, 5 conch, flamingo red, 
 
 Woodland paui, 6 horned screamer, 7 
 And blue ramier 8 overhead. 
 
 "'Plums from balata 9 and mombin, 10 
 
 Tania, 11 manioc, 12 water-vine; 18 
 Let you fell my slim manacques, 14 
 
 Tap my sweet moriche wine. 18 
 
 1 Ccelogenys Paca. 2 Wild cavy. * Armadillo. 
 
 * Peccary hog. 6 Trigonia. 6 Penelope. 
 
 7 Palamedea. 8 Dove. ' Mimusops. 
 
 10 Spondias. " An esculent Arum. 
 
 M Jatropha manihot, " Cassava." u Vitis Caribaea. 
 
 14 Euterpe, " mountain cabbage " palm. 15 Mauritia palm.
 
 366 The Legend of La Brea [1870 
 
 " ' Sent rich plantains, l food of angels ; 
 
 Rich ananas, 2 food of kings ; 
 Grudged you none of all my treasures : 
 
 Save these lovely useless things.' 
 
 " But the Chaymas' ears were deafened ; 
 
 Blind their eyes, and could not see 
 How a blissful Indian's spirit 
 
 Lived in every colibri. 
 
 " Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow, 
 
 Ever fair and ever new; 
 Whirring round the dear old woodland, 
 
 Feeding on the honey-dew. 
 
 " Till one evening roared the earthquake : 
 Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed : 
 
 And the Guaraons at morning 
 
 Gathered here, as men who dreamed. 
 
 " Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas ; 
 
 Hut and hammock, man and hound : 
 And above the Chayma village 
 
 Boiled with pitch the cursed ground. 
 
 " Full, and too full ; safe and too safe ; 
 
 Negro man, take care, take care. 
 He that wantons with God's bounties 
 
 Of God's wrath had best beware. 
 
 " For the saucy, reckless, heartless, 
 
 Evil days are sure in store. 
 You may see the negro sinking 
 
 As the Chayma sank of yore." 
 
 1 Musa. a Pine-apple.
 
 1870] The Legend of La Brea 367 
 
 Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter 
 
 " Eh, what superstitious talk ! 
 Nyam 1 am nyam, an' maney maney ; 
 
 Birds am birds, like park am park ; 
 
 An' dere 's twenty thousand birdskins 
 
 Ardered jes' now fram New Yark." 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1870. 
 
 iFood
 
 368 Hymn [1871 
 
 HYMN 1 
 
 ACCEPT this building, gracious Lord, 
 
 No temple though it be ; 
 We raised it for our suffering kin, 
 
 And so, Good Lord, for Thee. 
 
 Accept our little gift, and give 
 
 To all who here may dwell, 
 The will and power to do their work, 
 
 Or bear their sorrows well. 
 
 From Thee all skill and science flow ; 
 
 All pity, care, and love, 
 All calm and courage, faith and hope, 
 
 Oh ! pour them from above. 
 
 And part them, Lord, to each and all, 
 
 As each and all shall need, 
 To rise like incense, each to Thee, 
 
 In noble thought and deed. 
 
 And hasten, Lord, that perfect day, 
 When pain and death shall cease ; 
 
 And Thy just rule shall fill the earth, 
 With health, and light, and peace. 
 
 1 Sung by 1000 School Children at the opening of the New 
 Wing of the Children's Hospital, Birmingham.
 
 1871] Hymn 369 
 
 When ever blue the sky shall gleam, 
 
 And ever green the sod ; 
 And man's rude work deface no more, 
 
 The Paradise of God. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1871. 

 
 370 The Delectable Day [1872 
 
 THE DELECTABLE DAY 
 
 THE boy on the famous gray pony, 
 Just bidding good-bye at the door, 
 
 Plucking up maiden heart for the fences 
 Where his brother won honor of yore. 
 
 The walk to " the Meet " with fair children, 
 
 And women as gentle as gay, 
 Ah ! how do we male hogs in armor 
 
 Deserve such companions as they? 
 
 The afternoon's wander to windward, 
 To meet the dear boy coming back ; 
 
 And to catch, down the turns of the valley, 
 The last weary chime of the pack. 
 
 The climb homeward by park and by moorland, 
 
 And through the fir forests again, 
 While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, 
 
 Like an ocean of seething champagne. 
 
 And at night the septette of Beethoven, 
 And the grandmother by in her chair, 
 
 And the foot of all feet on the sofa 
 Beating delicate time to the air. 
 
 Ah, God ! a poor soul can but thank Thee 
 
 For such a delectable day ! 
 Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, 
 
 To-morrow again have their way ! 
 
 EVERSLKY, 6tk November, 187*.
 
 1872] Juventus Mundi 371 
 
 JUVENTUS MUNDI 
 
 LIST a tale a fairy sent us 
 
 Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. 
 
 When Love and all the world was young, 
 
 And birds conversed as well as sung; 
 
 And men still faced this fair creation 
 
 With humor, heart, imagination. 
 
 Who come hither from Morocco 
 
 Every spring on the sirocco? 
 
 In russet she, and he in yellow, 
 
 Singing ever clear and mellow, 
 
 " Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, 
 
 Did he beat you ? Did he beat you ? " 
 
 Phyllopneustes wise folk call them, 
 
 But don't know what did befall them, 
 
 Why they ever thought of coming 
 
 All that way to hear gnats humming, 
 
 Why they built not nests but houses, 
 
 Like the bumble-bees and mousies. 
 
 Nor how little birds got wings, 
 
 Nor what 't is the small cock sings 
 
 How should they know stupid fogies? 
 
 They dare n't even believe in bogies. 
 
 Once they were a girl and boy, 
 
 Each the other's life and joy. 
 
 He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, 
 
 Only they were brown, not snowy, 
 
 Till an Arab found them playing
 
 372 Juventus Mundi ['872 
 
 Far beyond the Atlas straying, 
 
 Tied the helpless things together, 
 
 Drove them in the burning weather, 
 
 In his slave-gang many a league, 
 
 Till they dropped from wild fatigue. 
 
 Up he caught his whip of hide, 
 
 Lashed each soft brown back and side 
 
 Till their little brains were burst 
 
 With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst. 
 
 Over her the poor boy lay, 
 
 Tried to keep the blows away, 
 
 Till they stiffened into clay, 
 
 And the ruffian rode away : 
 
 Swooping o'er the tainted ground, 
 
 Carrion vultures gathered round, 
 
 And the gaunt hyenas ran 
 
 Tracking up the caravan. 
 
 But ah, wonder ! that was gone 
 
 Which they meant to feast upon. 
 
 And, for each, a yellow wren, 
 
 One a cock, and one a hen, 
 
 Sweetly warbling, flitted forth 
 
 O'er the desert toward the north. 
 
 But a shade of bygone sorrow, 
 
 Like a dream upon the morrow, 
 
 Round his tiny brainlet clinging, 
 
 Sets the wee cock ever singing, 
 
 " Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, 
 
 Did he beat you ? Did he beat you ? " 
 
 Vultures croaked, and hopped and flopped, 
 
 But their evening meal was stopped. 
 
 And the gaunt hyenas foul 
 
 Sat down on their tails to howl. 
 
 Northward towards the cool spring weather, 
 
 Those two wrens fled on together,
 
 1872] Juventus Mundi 373 
 
 On to England o'er the sea, 
 
 Where all folks alike are free. 
 
 There they built a cabin, wattled 
 
 Like the huts where first they prattled, 
 
 Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, 
 
 Many a tiny feathered baby. 
 
 But in autumn south they go 
 
 Past the Straits and Atlas' snow, 
 
 Over desert, over mountain, 
 
 To the palms beside the fountain, 
 
 Where, when once they lived before, he 
 
 Told her first the old, old story. 
 
 " What do the doves say? Curuck-Coo, 
 
 You love me and I love you." 
 
 1872.
 
 374 Valentine's Day [1873 
 
 VALENTINE'S DAY 
 
 OH ! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the 
 
 south 
 Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by 
 
 the stream ; 
 I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny 
 
 mouth, 
 
 And sing my tiny life away in one melodious 
 dream. 
 
 I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine 
 
 and the sky, 
 And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cozy 
 
 nest; 
 And if some one came and shot me dead, why then 
 
 I could but die, 
 
 With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at 
 their best. 
 
 EVERSLEY, 1873.
 
 1 874] Ballad 375 
 
 BALLAD 1 
 
 LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORREE 
 
 I. 
 
 " ARE you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, 
 Lorraine, Lorrle? 
 
 Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, 
 
 Barum, Baree. 
 You 're booked to ride your capping race to-day 
 
 at Coulterlee, 
 You 're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world 
 
 to see, 
 
 To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win 
 the run for me. 
 
 Barum, Barum," etc. 
 
 2. 
 
 She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, 
 
 Lorraine, Lorree, 
 
 " I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see, 
 And I will not ride Vindictive with this baby on 
 
 my knee ; 
 He 's killed a boy, he 's killed a man, and why must 
 
 he kill me?" 
 
 1 Last poem. Written in illness, in the Rocky Mountains.
 
 37 6 Ballad [1874 
 
 3- 
 
 " Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, 
 
 Lorree, 
 
 Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, 
 And land him safe across the brook, and win the 
 
 blank for me, 
 It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no 
 
 keep from me." 
 
 4- 
 
 " That husbands could be cruel," said Lorraine, 
 
 Lorraine, Lorree, 
 " That husbands could be cruel, I have known for 
 
 seasons three ; 
 But oh ! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for 
 
 me, 
 And be killed across a fence at last for all the 
 
 world to see ! " 
 
 5- 
 
 She mastered young Vindictive Oh ! the gallant 
 
 lass was she, 
 And kept him straight and won the race as near as 
 
 near could be ; 
 But he killed her at the brook against a pollard 
 
 willow tree, 
 Oh ! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all 
 
 the world to see, 
 And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, 
 
 Lorre*e. 
 
 COLORADO, U. S. A. 
 Jutu, 1874.