AN OLD LOVE-TALE.
Chares of Mytilené, ages gone,When the young Alexander's conquering starFlamed on the wondering world, being indeedThe comrade of his arms, from the far EastBrought back this story of requited love.
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A Prince there was of Media, next of bloodTo the great King Hystaspes, fair of formAs brave of soul, who to his flower of ageWas come, but never yet had known the dartOf Cypris, being but a soldier bold,Too much by trenchèd camps and wars' alarmsEngrossed, to leave a thought for things of love.
Now, at this selfsame time, by TanaisOmartes ruled, a just and puissant king.No son was his, only one daughter fair,Odatis, of whose beauty and whose worthFame filled the furthest East. Only as yet,Of all the suitors for her hand, came noneWho touched her maiden heart; but, fancy free,She dwelt unwedded, lonely as a star.
Till one fair night in springtide, when the heartBlossoms as does the earth, Cypris, the Queen,Seeing that love is sweet for all to taste,And pitying these loveless parted lives,Deep in the sacred silence of the night,From out the ivory gate sent down on themA happy dream, so that the Prince had sightOf fair Odatis in her diademAnd habit as she lived, and saw the charm
And treasure of her eyes, and knew her nameAnd country as it was; while to the maidThere came a like fair vision of the PrinceLeading to fight the embattled Median hosts,Young, comely, brave, clad in his panoplyAnd pride of war, so strong, so fair, so true,That straight, the virgin coldness of her soulMelted beneath the vision, as the snowIn springtime at the kisses of the sun.
And when they twain awoke to common dayFrom that blest dream, still on their trancèd eyesThe selfsame vision lingered. He a formLovelier than all his life had known, more pureAnd precious than all words; she a strong soulYet tender, comely with the fire, the forceOf youthful manhood; saw both night and day
Nor ever from their mutual hearts the formOf that celestial vision waned nor grewFaint with the daily stress of common life,As do our mortal phantasies, but stillHe, while the fiery legions clashed and broke,Saw one sweet face above the flash of spears;She in high palace pomps, or household tasks,Or 'mid the glittering courtier-crowded hallsSaw one brave ardent gaze, one manly form.
Now while in dreams of love these lovers livedWho never met in waking hours, who knew notWhether with unrequited love they burned, or whetherIn mutual yearnings blest; the King Omartes,Grown anxious for his only girl, and knowingHow blest it is to love, would bid her chooseWhom she would wed, and summoning the maid,With fatherly counsels pressed on her; but she:
"Father, I am but young; I pray you, ask notThat I should wed; nay, rather let me liveMy life within your house. I cannot wed.I can love only one, who is the PrinceOf Media, but I know not if indeedHis love is his to give, or if he knowMy love for him; only a heavenly vision,Sent in the sacred silence of the night,Revealed him to me as I know he is.Wherefore, my father, though thy will be law,Have pity on me; let me love my love,If not with recompense of love, alone;For I can love none else."
Then the King said:"Daughter, to me thy happiness is life,And more; but now, I pray thee, let my wordsSink deep within thy mind. Thou canst not knowIf this strange vision through the gate of truthCame or the gate of error. OftentimesThe gods send strong delusions to ensnareToo credulous hearts. Thou canst not know, in sooth,If 'twas the Prince thou saw'st, or, were it he,If love be his to give; and if it were,I could not bear to lose thee, for indeedI have no son to take my place, or pourLibations on my tomb, and shouldst thou wedA stranger, and be exiled from thy home,What were my life to me? Nay, daughter, dreamNo more, but with some chieftain of my realmPrepare thyself to wed. With the new moonA solemn banquet will I make, and bidWhatever of high descent and generous youthOur country holds. There shalt thou make thy choiceOf whom thou wilt, nor will I seek to bindThy unfettered will; only I fain would see theeIn happy wedlock bound, and feel the touchOf childish hands again, and soothe my ageWith sight of thy fair offspring round my knees."
Then she, because she loved her sire and fainWould do his will, left him without a word,Obedient to his hest; but day and nightThe one unfading image of her dreamFilled all her longing sight, and day and nightThe image of her Prince in all the prideAnd bravery of battle shone on her.Nor was there any strength in her to healThe wound which love had made, by reasonings cold,Or musing on the phantasies of love;But still the fierce dart of the goddess burnedWithin her soul, as when a stricken deerO'er hill and dale escaping bears with herThe barb within her side; and oft aloneWithin her secret chamber she would nameThe name of him she loved, and oft by night,When sleep had bound her fast, her pale lips formedThe syllables of his name. Through the long hours,Waking or sleeping, were her thoughts on him;So that the unfilled yearning long deferredMade her heart sick, and like her heart, her formWasted, her fair cheek paled, and from her eyesLooked out the silent suffering of her soul
Now, when the day drew near which brought the feast,One of her slaves, who loved her, chanced to hearHer sweet voice wandering in dreams, and caughtThe Prince's name; and, being full of griefAnd pity for her pain, and fain to aidThe gentle girl she loved, made haste to sendA messenger to seek the Prince and tell himHow he was loved, and when the feast should be,And how the King would have his daughter wed.But to the Princess would she breathe no wordOf what was done, till, almost on the eveOf the great feast, seeing her wan and paleAnd all unhappy, falling at her knees,She, with a prayer for pardon, told her all.
But when the Princess heard her, virgin shame—Love drawing her and Pride of MaidenhoodIn opposite ways till all distraught was she—Flushed her pale cheek, and fired her tearful eyes.Yet since she knew that loving thought alonePrompted the deed, being soft and pitiful,She bade her have no fear, and though at firstUnwilling, by degrees a newborn hopeChased all her shame away, and once againA long unwonted rose upon her cheekBloomed, and a light long vanished fired her eyes.
Meanwhile upon the plains in glorious warThe brave Prince led his conquering hosts; but still,Amid the shock of battle and the crashOf hostile spears, one vision filled his soulAmid the changes of the hard-fought day,Throughout the weary watches of the night,The dream, the happy dream, returned again.Always the selfsame vision of a maidFairer than earthly, filled his eyes and tookThe savour from the triumph, ay, and touchedThe warrior's heart with an unwonted ruth,So that he shrank as never yet beforeFrom every day's monotony of blood,And saw with unaccustomed pain the sumOf death and pain, and hopeless shattered lives,Because a softer influence touched his soul.
Till one night, on the day before the feastWhich King Omartes destined for his peers,While now his legions swept their conquering wayA hundred leagues or more from Tanais,There came the message from the slave, and heWithin his tent, after the well-fought day,Resting with that fair image in his eyes,Woke suddenly to know that he was loved.
Then, in a moment, putting from him sleepAnd well-earned rest, he bade his charioteerYoke to his chariot three unbroken coltsWhich lately o'er the endless Scythian plainCareered, untamed; and, through the sleeping camp,Beneath the lucid aspect of the night,He sped as speeds the wind. The great stars hungLike lamps above the plain; the great stars sankAnd faded in the dawn; the hot red sunLeapt from the plain; noon faded into eve;Again the same stars lit the lucid night;And still, with scarce a pause, those fierce hoofs dashedAcross the curved plain onward, till he sawFar off the well-lit palace casements gleamWherein his love was set.
Then instantlyHe checked his panting team, the rapid wheelsCeased, and his mail and royal garb he hidBeneath a white robe such as nobles useBy Tanais; and to the lighted hallHe passed alone, afoot, giving commandTo him who drove, to await him at the gate.
Now, when the Prince drew near the vestibule,The feast long time had sped, and all the guestsHad eaten and drunk their fill; and he unseen,Through the close throng of serving men and maidsAround the door, like some belated guestTo some obscurer station slipped, and tookThe wine-cup with the rest, who marvelled notTo see him come, nor knew him; only sheWho sent the message whispered him a word:"Have courage; she is there, and cometh soon.Be brave; she loves thee only; watch and wait."
Even then the King Omartes, where he sateOn high among his nobles, gave commandTo summon from her maiden chamber forthThe Princess. And obedient to the call,Robed in pure white, clothed round with maiden shame,Full of vague hope and tender yearning love,To the high royal throne Odatis came.
And when the Prince beheld the maid, and sawThe wonder which so long had filled his soul—His vision of the still night clothed with lifeAnd breathing earthly air—and marked the heaveOf her white breast, and saw the tell-tale flushCrimson her cheek with maiden modesty,Scarce could his longing eager arms forbearTo clasp the virgin round, so fair she seemed.But, being set far down from where the KingSat high upon the daïs 'midst the crowdOf eager emulous faces looking love,None marked his passionate gaze, or stretched-forth hands;Till came a pause, which hushed the deep-drawn sighOf admiration, as the jovial King,Full tender of his girl, but flushed with wine,Spake thus to her:
"Daughter, to this high feastAre bidden all the nobles of our land.Now, therefore, since to wed is good, and lifeTo the unwedded woman seems a loadWhich few may bear, and none desire, I prithee,This jewelled chalice taking, mingle wineAs well thou knowest, and the honeyed draughtGive to some noble youth of those thou seestAlong the well-ranged tables, knowing wellThat him to whom thou givest, thou shalt wed.I fetter not thy choice, girl. I grow old;I have no son to share the weight of rule,And fain would see thy children ere I die."
Then, with a kiss upon her blushing cheek,He gave the maid the cup. The cressets' lightFell on the jewelled chalice, which gave backA thousand answering rays. Silent she stoodA moment, half in doubt, then down the fileOf close-ranked eager faces flushed with hope,And eyes her beauty kindled more than wine,Passed slow, a breathing statue. Her white robeAmong the purple and barbaric goldShowed like the snowy plumage of a dove,As down the hall, the cup within her hands,She, now this way regarding and now that,Passed, with a burning blush upon her cheek;And on each youthful noble her large eyesRested a moment only, icy cold,Though many indeed were there, brave, fair to see,Fit for a maiden's love; but never at allThe one overmastering vision of her dreamRose on her longing eyes, till hope itselfGrew faint, and, ere she gained the end, she turnedSickening to where, along the opposite wall,Sate other nobles young and brave as those,But not the fated vision of her dream.
Meanwhile the Prince, who 'mid the close-set throngOf humbler guests was hidden, saw her comeAnd turn ere she had marked him, and againDown the long line of princely revellersPass slow as in a dream; and all his soulGrew sick with dread lest haply, seeing notThe one expected face, and being meekAnd dutiful, and reverencing her sire,She in despair might make some sudden choiceAnd leave him without love. And as she wentHe could not choose but gaze, as oft in sleepSome dreadful vision chains us that we failTo speak or move, though to be still is death.And once he feared that she had looked on himAnd passed, and once he thought he saw her pauseBy some tall comely youth; and then she reachedThe opposite end, and as she turned her faceAnd came toward him again and where the jarsOf sweet wine stood for mingling, with a boundHis heart went out to her; for now her cheekPale as the white moon sailing through the sky,And the dead hope within her eyes, and painAnd hardly conquered tears, made sure his soul,Knowing that she was his.
But she, dear heart,Being sick indeed with love, and in despair,Yet reverencing her duty to her sire,Turned half-distraught to fill the fated cupAnd with it mar her life.
But as she stoodAlone within the vestibule and pouredThe sweet wine forth, slow, trembling, blind with tears,A voice beside her whispered, "Love, I am here!"And looking round her, at her side she sawA youthful mailed form—the festal robeFlung backward, and the face, the mouth, the eyesWhereof the vision filled her night and day.
Then straight, without a word, with one deep sigh,She held the wine-cup forth. He poured forth firstLibation to the goddess, and the restDrained at a draught, and cast his arms round her,And down the long-drawn sounding colonnadeSnatched her to where without, beneath the dawn,The brave steeds waited and the charioteer.His robe he round her threw; they saw the flareOf torches at the gate; they heard the shoutsOf hot pursuit grow fainter; till at last,In solitude, across the rounding plainThey flew through waking day, until they cameTo Media, and were wed. And soon her sire,Knowing their love, consented, and they livedLong happy lives; such is the might of Love.
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That is the tale the soldier from the East,Chares of Mytilené, ages gone,Told oftentimes at many a joyous feastIn Hellas; and he said that all the folkIn Media loved it, and their painters limnedThe story in the temples of their gods,And in the stately palaces of kings,Because they reverenced the might of Love.
I.
AT THE EISTEDDFOD.
The close-ranked faces rise,With their watching, eager eyes,And the banners and the mottoes blaze above;And without, on either hand,The eternal mountains stand,And the salt sea river ebbs and flows again,And through the thin-drawn bridge the wandering winds complain.
Here is the Congress met,The bardic senate set,And young hearts flutter at the voice of fate;All the fair August daySong echoes, harpers play.And on the unaccustomed ear the strangePenillion rise and fall through change and counter-change.
Oh Mona, land of song!Oh mother of Wales! how longFrom thy dear shores an exile have I been!Still from thy lonely plains,Ascend the old sweet strains,And at the mine, or plough, or humble home,The dreaming peasant hears diviner music come.
This innocent, peaceful strife,This struggle to fuller life,Is still the one delight of Cymric souls—Swell, blended rhythms! stillThe gay pavilions fill.Soar, oh young voices, resonant and fair;Still let the sheathed sword gleam above the bardic chair.
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The Menai ebbs and flows,And the song-tide wanes and goes,And the singers and the harp-players are dumb;The eternal mountains riseLike a cloud upon the skies,And my heart is full of joy for the songs that are still,The deep sea and the soaring hills, and the steadfastOmnipotent Will.
II.
AT THE MEETING FIELD.
Here is the complement of what I sawWhen late I sojourned in the halls of song,The greater stronger Force, the higher Law,Of those which carry Cymric souls along.
No dim Cathedral's fretted aisles were there,No gay pavilion fair, with banners hung:The eloquent pleading voice, the deep hymns sung,The bright sun, and the clear unfettered air,
These were the only ritual, this the fane,A poor fane doubtless and a feeble riteFor those who find religion in dim light,Strange vestments, incensed air, and blazoned pane.
But the rapt crowd, the reverent mute throng,When the vast listening semi-circle round,Rang to the old man's voice serenely strong,Or swept along in stormy bursts of sound.
Where found we these in temples made with hands?Where the low moan which marks the awakened soul?Where, this rude eloquence whose strong waves rollDeep waters, swift to bear their Lord's commands?
Where found we these? 'neath what high fretted dome?I know not. I have knelt 'neath many, yetHave heard few words so rapt and burning come,Nor marked so many eyes divinely wet,
As here I knew—"What will you do, oh friends,When life ebbs fast and the dim light is low,When sunk in gloom the day of pleasure ends,And the night cometh, and your being runs slow,
And nought is left you of your revelries,Your drunken days, your wantonness, your ill—And lo! the last dawn rises cold and chill,And lo! the lightning of All-seeing eyes,
What will you do?" And when the low voice ceased,And from the gathered thousands surged the hymn,Some strong power choked my voice, my eyes grew dim,I knew that old man eloquent, a priest.
There is a consecration not of man,Nor given by laid-on hands nor acted rite,A priesthood fixed since the firm earth began,A dedication to the eye of Light,
And this is of them. What the form of creedI care not, hardly the fair tongue I know,But this I know that when the concourse freedFrom that strong influence, went sedate and slow,
I thought when on the Galilean shoreBy the Great Priest the multitudes were led,The bread of life, miraculously more,Sufficed for all who came, and they were fed.
"Surely," said a voice, "O Lord, Thy judgmentsAre dreadful and hard to understand.Thy laws which Thou madest, they withstand Thee,They stand against Thee and Thy command:Thy poor, they are with us evermore;They suffer terrible things and sore;They are starved, they are sick, they die,And there is none to help or heed;They come with a great and bitter cryThey hardly dare to whisper, as they plead;And there is none to hear them, God or man;And it is little indeed that all our pity can."
What, and shall I be moved to tears,As I sit in this still chamber here alone,By the pity of it,—the childish lives that groan,The miseries and the sorrows, the hopes and the fearsOf this wonderful legend of life, that is one and the sameThough it differ in weal and in happiness, honour and fame,—Shall I turn, who am no more than a worm, to Thee,From the pity of it—the want, the misery,And with strong yearnings beat, and rebellions wild,Seeing death written, and pain, in the face of a child;—And yet art Thou unmoved!Ah, Lord, if Thou sawest surely!—and yet Thou dost see;And if Thou knewest indeed!—and yet all things are clear to Thee.
For, Lord, of a truth Thy great ones,Who have not their wealth of their own desert,Live ever equal lives and sure,And are never vexed nor suffer hurt,But through long untroubled years endureUntil they join Thee, and are in bliss;Or, maybe, are carried away from Thee, and missThy Face, which is too pure for them to see,And are thenceforth in misery:But, nevertheless, upon the earthThey come to neither sorrow nor dearth.They are great, and they live out their lives, and Thou lettest them be;Thou dost not punish them here, if they despiseThy poor and pass them by with averted eyes.They are strong and mighty, and never in danger to fall;But Thou, Lord, art mighty and canst, and yet carest not at all.
But wherefore is it that such things are;—That want and famine, and blood and warAre everywhere, and do prevail?And wherefore is it the same monotonous taleIs ever told by the lips of men?For there is hardly so hard a heartIn the breast of a man who has taken his partIn the world, and has little children around his knees,But is filled with great love for them as Thou art for these,And would give his life for their good, and is filled day and nightWith fatherly thoughts of fear and yearning for right,And grows sick, if evil come nigh them body or soul,And yet is but a feeble thing, without strength or control.But Thou art almighty for good; yet Thy plagues, they come,Hunger and want and disease, in a terrible sum;And the poor fathers waste, and are stricken with slow decay;And the children fall sick, and are starving, day after day;And the hospital wards are choked; and the fire and the floodVex men still, and the leaguered cities are bathed in blood.
Ay, yet not the less, O Lord,I know Thou art just and art good indeedThis is it that doth perplex my thought,So that I rest not content in any creed.If I knew that Thou wert the Lord of Ill,Then were I untouched still,And, if I would, might worship at Thy shrine;Or if my mind might prove no Will DivineInspired the dull mechanical reign of Law.But now, while Thou art surely, and art good,And wouldst Thy creatures have in happiness,Alway the sword, the plague prevail no less,Not less, not less Thy laws are based in blood.And such deep inequalities of lotConfuse our thought, as if Thy hand were notAll blessings, health and wealth and honours spentOn some unworthy sordid instrument;Thy highest gift of genius flung awayOn some vile thing of meanest clay,Who fouls the ingrate lips, touched with Thy fire,With worse than common mire:How should I fail alone, when all things groan,To let my weak voice take a pleading tone!How should I speak a comfortable wordWhen such things are, O Lord!
This is the cry that goes up for everTo Heaven from weak and striving souls:But the calm Voice makes answer to them never;The undelaying chariot onward rolls.
But another voice: O Lord of all, I bless Thee,I bless Thee and give thanks for all.Thou hast kept me from my childhood up,Thou hast not let me fallAll the fair days of my youthThou wast beside, me and Thy truth.I bless Thee that Thou didst withholdThe blight of fame, the curse of gold;Because Thou hast spared my soul as yet,Amid the wholesome toil of each swift day,The tumult and the fretWhich carry worldly lives from Thee away.I thank Thee for the sorrows Thou hast sent,Being in all things contentTo see in every loss a greater gain,A joy in every pain;The losses I have known, since still I knowLives, hidden with Thee, are and grow.I do not know, I cannot tell,How it may be, yet death and pain are well:I know that Thou art good and mild,Though sickness take and break the helpless child;'Twas Thou, none else, that gav'st the mother's love,And even her anguish came from Thee above.I am content to be that which Thou wilt:Tho' humble be my pathway and obscure,Yet from all stain of guiltKeep Thou me pure.Or if Thy evil still awhile must findIts seat within my mind,Be it as Thou wilt, I am not afraid.
And for the world Thy hand has made,Thy beautiful world, so wondrous fair:Thy mysteries of dawn, Thy unclouded days;Thy mountains, soaring high through Thy pure air;Thy glittering sea, sounding perpetual praise;Thy starlit skies whence worlds unnumbered gaze;Thy earth, which in Thy bounteous summer-tideIs clad in flowery robes and glorified;Thy still primeval forests, deeply stirredBy Thy great winds as by an unknown word;Thy fair, light-winged creatures, blithe and free;Thy dear brutes living, dying, silently:Shall I from them no voice to praise Thee find?Thy praise is hymned by every balmy windThat wanders o'er a wilderness of flowers;By every happy brute which asks not why,But rears its brood and is content to die.From Thee has come whatever good is ours;—The gift of love that doth exalt the race;The gift of childhood with its nameless grace;The gift of age which slow through ripe decay,Like some fair fading sunset dies away;The gift of homes happy with honest wealth,And fair lives flowering in unbroken health,—All these are Thine, and the good gifts of brain,Which to heights greater than the earth can gain,And can our little minds project to Thee,Through Infinite Space—across Eternity.For these I praise Thy name; but above allThe precious gifts Thy bounteous hand lets fall,I praise Thee for the power to love the Right,Though Wrong awhile show fairer to the sight;The power to sin, the dreadful power to chooseThe evil portion and the good refuse;And last, when all the power of ill is spent,The power to seek Thy face and to repent
This is the answering cry that goes for everTo Heaven from blest contented souls:But the calm Voice makes answer to them never;The undelaying chariot onward rolls.
Look out, O Love, across the sea:A soft breeze fans the summer night,The low waves murmur lovingly,And lo! the fitful beacon's light.
Some day perchance, when I am gone,And muse by far-off tropic seas,You may be gazing here alone,On starlit waves and skies like these.
Or perhaps together, you and I,Alone, enwrapt, no others by,Shall watch again that fitful flame,And know that we are not the same.
Or maybe we shall come no more,But from some unreturning shore,In dreams shall see that light again,And hear that starlit sea complain.
Christopher! There is many a name of TimeHigher than this in pride and empery;There is a name which like a diademSits on the imperial front, so that men stillBow down to Cæsar;—deathless names enoughOf bard and sage, soldier and king, which seizeOur thought, and in one moment bear us forthAcross the immemorial centuriesTo Time's first dawns—a bright band set on high,Who watch the surging of the restless seaWhose waves are generations. Yet not oneMore strange and quaint and sweet than Christopher's,Who bare the Christ.
In the expiring daysOf the old heathen ages lived the manWho bore it first. The elder Pagan godsWere paling now, and from the darkling grovesAnd hollow aisles of their resounding fanesThe thin shapes fled for ever. A new GodAwoke the souls of men; and yet the shrinesOf Aphrodité and of Phoebus stillDrew their own votaries. The flower of faith,Plucked from its roots, and thrown aside to die,Is slow to wither, keeping some thin ghostAnd counterfeit of fairness, though the lifeHas fled for ever, and 'twas a dead thingTo which the Pagan bowed.
In the far EastHe served, a soldier. Nature, which so oftIs grudging of her blessings—mating nowThe sluggish brain and stalwart form, and nowUpon the cripple's limbs setting the crownOf godlike wisdom—gave with generous handBeauty and force to this one, mighty limbsAnd giant strength, joined with the choicer giftOf thoughts which soar, and will which dares, and highAmbition which aspires and is fulfilledIn riches and in honour.
Every yearOf prosperous manhood left him greater grownAnd mightier. Evermore the siren voiceOf high adventure called o'er land and sea;The magical voice, heard but by nobler souls,Which dulls all lower music. More than kingThis great knight-errant showed; a king of menWho still before his strong eyes day and nightSaw power shining star-like on the hills,And set his face to gain it. LuxuryHeld him nor sensual ease who was too greatFor silken fetters, a strong soul and handBent to a higher end than theirs, and touchedTo higher issues; a fair beacon setUpon a lordly hill above the marshOf common life, but all the more laid bareTo the beating of the whirlwind.
Every soulKnows its particular weakness: so for himThis great strong soul set in its pride of place;The charm of Power worked like a spell; high powerUnchecked, untrammelled, fixed with none to ruleAbove it, this could bend the nobler soulWhich naught might conquer. Over land and sea,Hiring his mighty arm and strength, he faredTo sovereign after sovereign, always seekingA stronger than the last: until at lengthHe found a puissant prince, so high, so great,The strong sway held him, and he lived contentA sleeping soul, not knowing good or ill,Resting in act, and with it satisfied—A careless striving soul who sought no more.
But midst the miry ways of this sad world,As now he fared unmoved, the frequent sightOf evil; the blind rage which takes and swaysThe warrior after battle till he quenchHis thirst in blood and torture; the great painWhich everywhere cries heavenward, every dayWith unregarded suffrage; the foul wrongsWhich are done on earth for ever; the dark sinsSinned and yet unrequited; the great sumAnd mystery of Evil, worked on himNot to allure, not to repel, but onlyWith that strange spell of power which knows to takeThe strong soul captive. Here was power enough,Mightier than mortal strength. The greatest kingWhom ever he had served compared with thisShowed puny as a child; this power which tookThe mightiest in chains, now forcing themTo wrong and blood and ill, now binding themWith adamant chains within the sensual styWhere they lay bound for ever. Here was forceTo limit Heaven itself. So this strong soulBowed to it, taking Evil for his lord,A voluntary thrall. Yet not to himThe smooth foul ways of sense, the paths of wrong,Brought pleasure of themselves; only to knowThe unrestrainèd passion surge, a beatOf satisfied life, the glory and the glowOf full untempered being. And so long timeHe served the Lord of Evil: deeds of wrongAnd anger, deeds of soft and sensual sin,All these he knew, a careless satisfied soul,So that for dread of him men named his name"The unrighteous;" but he cared not: power and fameSufficed him long, and hid from him the fashionOf his own life and by what perilous waysHe walked, and by what fathomless black seas,Abysmal deeps, and treacherous gulphs of Ill.
Till one day as they wandered (so the tale)Through a thick wood whence came no gleam of lightTo break the ghostly shadows—with amazeHe saw his master the great Lord of IllCower down as from a blow and hide his eyesFrom some white ghostly figure. As he gazedThe old chains fell from him, and with a glanceHe rose up free for ever. For his soulMet that great symbol of all sacrificeWhich men have worshipped since; the soft sad eyes,The agonised limbs nailed to the Tree of DeathWhich is the Tree of Life; and all the pastFell from him, and the mystery of LoveAnd Death and Evil; Might which gives itselfTo liberate the world and dying breaksThe vanquished strength of Hell; all these transformedHis very being, and straightway the strong soul,Spurning his ancient chain, stood fair and freeAlone, a moment with the scars of gyvesUpon his neck and limbs, and then fell downProstrate upon the earth, the mild eyes stillBent on him pitiful. There he lay stretchedThrough the long night of sorrow, till at lastThe sun rose on his soul, and on the earth,And the pure dawn returning brought the day.
And when he rose the ancient masteryAnd thirst for power, springing anew in him,Once more, resistless, over land and seaImpelled him, seeking this new mightier LordWho broke the power of Ill. So through all landsHe passed, a passionate pilgrim, but found notThe Prince he sought, only great princes, strongAnd valorous he found, who bowed them downBefore the power of Evil; but for themHe took no thought, who had seen their master blenchBefore the Lord of Light; but him indeedHe saw not yet; filled with the pride of life,A satisfied soul which bowed not down to wrong,Touched with desire for good, since good was strong,But loving strength alone.
So as he faredHe came upon a dark and stony landWhere smiled no flower; there, in a humble cell,There dwelt an aged man; no other thingOf life was there, only wan age, which dweltUpon the brink of death. The giant strengthWas flagging now, while on the distant hillsThe sun was sinking and the gray of nightStole upward. Through the plain beneath the cellA broad black river raged, where was no bridgeFor travellers; but a dark road stole to itO'ergloomed by cypress, and no boat was thereNor ferry, evermore beyond the shadeBreast-high the strong stream roared by black as death.
There sate he on the brink and saw no soulAs he gazed on the stream of death. Great miseryAnd weakness took him, and he laid him downOn that cold strand. Till, when his heart beat slowAnd his life drooped, lo! on the further shoreThe sunset, lingering for a moment, firedA thousand palace windows and the spiresAnd domes of a fair city; then the nightFell downward on them, but the unconquered soulWithin the failing body leaped and knewThat it had seen the city of the King.
Then swooned he for awhile, and when he knewHis life again he heard a reverend voiceSpeak through the gloom. And all the sun had setAnd all the hills were hidden.
"Son, thou com'stTo seek the Lord of Life. There is no wayBut through yon cruel river. Thou wert strong;Take rest and thought till thy strength come to thee.Arise, the dawn is near."
Then they twain went,And there that sick soul rested many days.
And when the strong man's strength was come again,His old guide led him forth to where the roadSank in that black swift stream. The hills were dark,There was no city to see, nought but thick cloud,And still that black flood roaring. Then he heardThe old voice whisper, "Not of strength aloneCome they who find the Master, but cast downAnd weak and wandering. Oftentimes with feetWayworn and weary limbs, they come and passThe deeps and are transformed; but he who comesOf his own strength from him long time the KingHides him as erst from thee. Yet, because strengthWell used is a good gift, I bid thee plungeIn yon cold stream, and seek to wash from theeThe stains of life. No harm shall come to thee,Nor in those chill dark waters shall thy feetSlip, nor thy life be swallowed. It is thineTo bear in thy strong arms the fainting soulsOf pilgrims who press onward day and nightSeeking the Lord of Light. Thou, who so longDidst serve the Lord of Evil, now shalt serveA higher; and because great penancesAre fitting for great wrong, here shalt thou toilLong time till haply thou shalt lose the stainOf sense and of the world, then shall thy eyesSee that thou wouldst.Go suffer and be strong."
Then that strong soul, treading those stony ways,Went down into the waters. Painful soulsCried to him from the brink; sad lives, which nowHad reached their toilsome close; worn wayfarers,Who after lifelong strivings and great painAnd buffetings had gained the perilous streamWith heaven beyond; wan age and budding youthAnd childhood fallen untimely. He stooped downWith wonder mixed with pity, raising upThe weakling limbs, and bearing in his armsThe heavy burden, through the chill dark depthsOf those cold swirling waters without fearStrode onward. Oftentimes the dreadful forceOf that resistless current, which had whelmedA lower soul, bore on him; oftentimesThe icy cold, too great for feebler hearts,Assailed him, yet his mighty stature stillStrode upright through the deep to the far shore,And those poor pilgrims with reviving soulsBlessed him, and left the waters and grew whiteAnd glorified, and in their eyes he knewA wonder and a rapture as they sawThe palace of the King, the domes, the spires,The shining oriels sunlit into gold,The white forms on the brink to welcome them,And the clear heights, and the discovered heaven.
But never on his eyes for all his toilThat bright sun broke, nor those fair palace roofsAs erst upon his weakness. Day and nightThe selfsame cloud hung heavy on the hills,Blotting the glorious vision. Day and nightHe laboured unrewarded, with no gleamOf that eternal glory, which yet shoneUpon those fainting souls, whom his strong armsBore upward. Day and night he laboured still,Amid the depths of death. Ay, he would riseAt midnight, when the cry of fainting soulsCalled to him on the brink, and so go downWithout one thought of fear. Yea, though the floodsRoared horribly, and deep called unto deep,Through all those hidden depths he strode unmoved,A strong, laborious, unrewarded soul.
Was it because the stain and blot of wrongWere on him still uncleansed? I cannot tell.The stain of ill eats deep, and nought can cleanse it,Nay hardly tears of blood. But to my thoughtNot thus the legend runs; rather I deemThat what of good he loved was only strength,The pride of conscious Power—that which had led himTo strong rude wrong, the same sense, working on him,Led him through weariness of wrong to useHis strength for goodness. Oftentimes RemorseComes not of hatred of the wrong, nor loveOf the good, but rather from the shame which PrideKnows which has gone astray and spent itselfUpon unworthy ends. So this strong soulLaboured on unfulfilled. Yet who shall traceBy what hidden processes of waste and painThe great Will is fulfilled, and doth achieveThe victory of Good?
So the slow yearsPassed, till the giant strength at times would flagA little, yet no feebleness was there,But still the strong limbs carried him unmovedThrough those black depths of death. Till one still night,At midnight when the world was sunk in sleep,The summons came, "A Pilgrim!" and he sawWith a new-born compassion, on the shoreA childish form await him; a soft smileWas on the lips, a sweet sad glance divineWithin the eyes, as in a child's eyes oftKnowledge not earthly, infinite weakness, striveFor mastery. As the strong man stooped and tookThe weakling to his breast, through the great mightOf Pity, grown to strength, he took the deepWith that light load in his arms.
But as he went,The strength greater than human, the strong limbsWhich bore long time unfaltering the great painAnd burden of our life; the fearless heartWhich never blenched before, though the winds beatAnd all the night was blind; these failed him now,And as by some o'erwhelming load dragged down,His flagging footsteps tottered; the cold waveRose higher around him, the once mighty headBowed-down, the waters rising to his lipEngulfed in the depths; the weight of all the earthSeemed on his shoulders—all the sorrow, the sin,The burden of the Race—and a great cryCame from him, "Help! I sink, I faint, I die,I perish beneath my burden! Help, O KingOf Heaven, for I am spent and can no more!My strength is gone, the waters cover me,I stand not of myself. Help, Lord and King!"
Then suddenly from his spent life he feltThe great load taken; through the midnight gloomThere burst the glorious vision of his dream—The palace of the King, the domes, the spires,The shining oriels sunlit into gold,The heaven of heavens discovered; then a voice,"Rise, Christopher! thou hast found thy King, and turnBack to the earth, for I have need of thee.Thou hast sustained the whole world, bearing meThe Lord of Earth and Heaven. Rise, turn awhileTo the old shore of Time; I am the PrinceThou seekest; I a little child, the KingOf Earth and Heaven. I have marked thy toils,Labours, and sorrows; I have seen thy sins,Thy tears, and thy repentance. Rise and beMy Servant always. And if thou shalt seekA sign of me, I give this sign to thee:Set thou thy staff to-night upon the vergeOf these dark waters, and with early dawnSeek it, and thou shalt find it blossomed forthInto such sweet white blooms as year by yearThe resurrection of the springtide bringsTo clothe the waste of winter. This shall beThe sign of what has been."
And that strong soul,Vanquished at length, obeyed, and with the dawnWhere stood his staff there sprung the perfumed cupAnd petals of a lily: so the tale.Nay, but it was the rude strength of his soulWhich blossomed into purity, and sprangInto a higher self, beneath the gazeOf a little child! Nay, but it was the mightOf too great strength, which laid its robes of prideDown on the ground, and stood, naked, erect,Before its Lord, shamefast yet beautiful!Nay, but it was the old self, stripped and purgedOf ingrained wrong, which from the stream of DeathStood painful on the stable earth again,And was regenerate through humility!
So for the remnant of his days he servedThe Lord of Goodness; a strong staff of rightYet humble. Till the Pagan GovernorBade him deny the Prince who succoured him,And he refusing, gained a martyr's crownIn cruel death, and is Saint Christopher!
The sad slow dawn of winter; frozen treesAnd trampled snow within a lonely wood;One shrouded form, which to the city flees;And one, a masquer, lying in his blood.
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A full sun blazing with unclouded day,Till the bright waters mingle with the sky;And on the dazzling verge, uplifted high,White sails mysterious slowly pass away.
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Hidden in a trackless and primæval wood,Long-buried temples of an unknown race,And one colossal idol; on its faceA changeless sneer, blighting the solitude.
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A fair girl half undraped, who blithely sings;Her white robe poised upon one budding breast;While at her side, invisible, unconfessed,Love folds her with the shelter of his wings.
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Black clouds embattled on a lurid sky,And one keen flash, like an awakened soul,Piercing the hidden depths, till momentlyOne seems to hear enormous thunders roll.
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Two helpless girls upon a blazing wall,The keen flames leaping always high and higher;But faster, faster than the hungry fire,Brave hearts which climb to save them ere they fall.
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A youthful martyr, looking to the skiesFrom rack and stake, from torment and disgrace;And suddenly heaven opened to his eyes,A beckoning hand, a tender heavenly face.
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A home on a fair English hill; awayStretch undulating plains, of gold and green,With park and lake and glade, and homestead grey;And crowning all, the blue sea dimly seen.
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A lifeless, voiceless, world of age-long snow,Where the long winter creeps through endless night,And safe within a low hut's speck of light,Strong souls alert and hopeful, by the glow.
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A great ship forging slowly from the shore,And on the broad deck weeping figures bent;And on the gliding pierhead, sorrow-spent,Those whom the voyagers shall see no more.
Who is there but at times has seen,While his past days before him stand,In all the chances which have been,The guidance of a hidden Hand,
Which still has ruled his growing life,Through weal and woe, through joy and pain,Through fancied good, through useless strife,And empty pleasure sought in vain;
Which often has withheld the meedHe longed for once, with yearnings blind,And given the truest prize indeed,The harvest of a blessed mind;
And so has taken the common lotContent, whate'er the Ruler would,Since all that has been, or is not,Springs from a hidden root of good?
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Yet some there are maybe to-day,Whose childhood at the mother's kneeWas taught to bow itself and pray,Nor ever thirsted to be free,
Who now, 'mid warring voices loud,Have lost the faith they held before,Nor through the jangling of the crowdCan hear the earlier message more.
A brute Fate vexes them, the reignOf dumb laws, speeding onward still,Regardless of the waste and pain,Which all the labouring earth do fill.
They look to see the rule of Right;They find it not, and in its steadBut slow survivals, born of Might,And all the early Godhead dead;
They see it not, and droop and faintAnd are unhappy, doubting God;Yet every step their feet have trodWas trodden before them by a saint.
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Oh, doubting soul, look up, beholdThe eternal heavens above thy head,The solid earth beneath, its mouldCompacted of the unnumbered dead.
Here the eternal problems grow,And with each day are solved and done,When some spent life, like melting snow,Breathes forth its essence to the sun.
As death is, life is—without end;Wrong with right mingles, joy with pain;Forbid two meeting streams to blend,'Twere not more hopeless, nor more vain.
Though Death with Life, though Wrong with Right,Are bound within the scheme of things,Yet can our souls, on soaring wings,Gain to a loftier purer height,
Where death is not, nor any life,Nor right nor wrong, nor joy nor pain;But changeless Being, lacking strife,Doth through all change, unchanged remain.
Should wrong prevail o'er all the earth,'Twere nought if only we discernThe one great truth, which if we learn,All else beside is little worth.
That Right, is that which must prevail,If not here, there, if not now, then,Is the one Truth which shall not fail,For all the doubt and fears of men.
What if a myriad ages stillOf wrong and pain, of waste and blood,Confuse our thought, triumphant GoodAt length, at last, our souls can fill
With such assurance as the VoiceWhich from the blazing mountain pealed,And bade the kneeling hosts rejoiceThat God was in His laws revealed.
Nay even might our thought conceiveThe final victory of Ill,Not so, were it folly to believeThat Right is higher, purer still.
Who knows the Eternal "Ought" knows wellThat whoso loves and seeks the Right,For him God shines with changeless light,Ay, to the lowest deeps of Hell.
And whoso knoweth God indeed,The fixed foundations of his creedKnow neither changing nor decay,Though all creation pass away.
My love, my love, if I were old,My body bent, my blood grown cold,With thin white hairs upon my brow,Say wouldst thou think of me as now?Wouldst thou cling to me still,As down life's sloping hillWe came at last through the unresting years?Art thou prepared for tears,For time's sure-coming losses,For life's despites and crosses,My love, my love?
Ah! brief our little, little day;Ah! years that fleet so fast away;Before our summer scarce begun,Look, spring and blossom-tide are done!When all things hasten past,How should love only last?How should our souls alone unchanged remain?—Come pleasure or come pain,In days of joy and gladness,In years of grief and sadness,Love shall be love!
I seemed to pace the dreadful corridorsOf a still foreign prison, blank and white,And in a bare and solitary cellTo find a lonely woman, soft of voiceAnd mild of eye, who never till life's endShould pass those frowning gates. Methought I asked herThe story of her crime, and what hard fateLeft her, so gentle seeming, fettered there,Hopeless, a murderess at whose very nameMen shuddered still. And to my questioningMethought that dreadful soul made answer thus:
"Yes, I suppose I liked him, though I know not;I hardly know what love may be; how should I?—I a young girl wedded without my will,As is our custom here, to a man old,Not perhaps in years, but dark experiences.What had we two in common, that worn man,And I, an untrained girl? It was not strangeIf when that shallow boy, with his bold tongue,And his gay eyes, and curls, and budding beard,Flattered me, I was weak. I think all womenAre weak sometimes, and overprone to loveWhen the man is young, and straight, and 'twas a triumphTo see the disappointed envious jadesWince as he passed them carelessly, nor heededTheir shallow wiles to trap him,—ay, a triumph!And that was all; I hardly know, indeed,If it was love that drove, or only prideTo hold what others grudged me. Vain he was,And selfish, and a coward, as you shall hear,Handsome enough, I grant you, to betrayA stronger soul than mine. Indeed, I think,He never cared for me nor I for him(For there were others after him): I knew it,Then chiefest, when our comedy of lifeWas turning at the last to tragedy.
"Now that I was unfaithful, a false wife,I value not men's sneers at a pin's point,We have a right to love and to be loved;Not the mere careless tolerance of the spouseWho has none to give. True, if I were a nun,Vowed to a white and cloistered life, no doubt'Twere otherwise. They tell me there are womenWho are so rapt by thoughts of the poor, of churches,Of public ends, of charity, of schools,Of Heaven knows what, they live their lives untouchedBy passion; but for us, who are but women,Not bred on moonlight, perhaps of common clay,Untrained for aught but common bourgeois life,Life is no mystical pale procession windingIts way from the cradle to the grave, but ratherA thing of hot swift flushes, fierce delights,Good eating, dances, wines, and all the rest,When the occasion comes. I never loved him,I tell you; therefore, perhaps, I did no sin.
"But when this fellow must presume to boast,Grow cold, have scruples for his soul and mine,And turn to other younger lives, and passMy door to-day with this one, then with that,And all the gossips of the quarter sneered,And knew I was deserted, do you think itA wonder that my eyes, opened at last,Saw all the folly and the wickedness(If sweet it were, where were the wickedness?)Which bore such bitter fruit? Think you it strangeThat I should turn for aid, ay, and revenge,To my wronged spouse—if wronged he be, indeed,Who doth consent as he did? When I told him,Amid my tears, he made but small pretenceOf jealousy at all; only his prideWas perhaps a little wounded. And indeedIt took such long confessions, such grave painOf soul, such agony of remorse of mineTo move him but a little, that I grewSo weary of it all, it almost checkedMy penitence, and left me free to chooseAnother for my love; but at the last,Long labour, feigned reports, the neighbours' sneers,These drove him at the last, good easy man,To such a depth of hatred, that my taskGrew lighter, and my heart.
He bade me writeLoving appeals, recalling our past daysTogether; and I wrote them, using allThe armoury of loving cozening wordsWith which craft arms us women: but in vain,For whether some new love engrossed, or whetherHe wearied of me and my love, I know not,Only, in spite of all, no answer came.
"At length, since I could get no word from him,My husband bade me write—or was it IWho thought of the device? Pray you believe me,I would speak nothing else than the whole truth,But these sad dreadful deeds confuse the brain.Well, perhaps 'twas I, who knew his weakness wellI do not know, but somehow it came to passI wrote a crafty letter, begging of him,By all our former kindness, former wrong,If for the last time, recognizing wellThat all was done between us evermore,We might, for one last evening, meet and partAnd, knowing he was needy, and his greed,—'If only he would come,' I wrote to him,'I had some secret savings, and desired—For what need comes there closer than a friend's?—To help him in his trouble.'Swift there came—The viper!—hypocritical words of love:Yes, he would come, for the old love still lived,He knew it, ah, too well; not all the glamourOf other eyes and lips could ever quenchThe fire of that mad passion. He would come,Loving as ever, longing for the day.
"Now when we had the answer, straight we three—My husband and myself, and his weak brother,Whose daughter to her first communion wentThat very day,—and I, too, took the HostAs earnest of changed life,—we three, I say,At a little feast we made to celebrateThe brothers reconciled (in familiesThere come dissensions, as you know), devisedHis punishment. We hired, in a still suburb,A cottage standing backward from the street,Beyond an avenue of sycamores;A lonely place, unnoticed. Day by dayWe went, we three together—for I fearedLest, if there were no third, the strength of youthMight bear my husband down—we went to makeAll needful preparations. First we spreadOver all the floor a colour like to blood,For deep's the stain of blood, and what shall cleanse it?Also, my husband, from a neighbouring wood,Had brought a boar-trap, sharp with cruel knivesAnd jaggèd teeth, to close with a snap and tearThe wild beast caught within it. But I deemedThe risk too great, the prey might slip away;Therefore, that he might meet his punishment,And to prevent the sound of cries and groans,My husband fashioned for his lips a gag,And on the mantel left it, and the meansTo strike a light. And being thus prepared,We three returned to Paris; there long timeWe sate eating and drinking of the best,As those do who have taken a resolveWhence no escape is, save to do and die.
"Then the two men went back and left me there,With all my part to do. It was an hourOr more before the time when my poor dupeHad fixed to meet me. Wandering thus aloneThrough the old streets, seeing the common sightsOf every day, the innocent child-facesHoming from school, so like my little ones,I seemed to lose all count of time. At length,Because it was the Ascension Feast, there cameA waft of music from the open doorsOf a near church, and, entering in, I foundThe incensed air, all I remembered well—The lights, the soaring chants, the kneeling crowds,When I believed and knelt. They seemed to sootheMy half bewildered fancy, and I thought—What if a woman, who mayhap had sinnedBut lightly, wishing to repair her wrong,And bound thereby to some dark daring deedOf peril, should come here, and kneel awhile,And ask a blessing for the deed, of herWho is Heaven's Queen and knows our weaknessesBeing herself a woman! So I kneltIn worship, and the soaring voices clearAnd the dim heights and worship-laden airFilled me with comfort for my soul, and nervedMy failing heart, and winged time's lagging flight,Till lo the hour was come when I should goTo meet him for the last time.
"When we leftThe city far behind, the sweet May nightWas falling on the quiet village street;There was a scent of hawthorn on the airAs we passed on with feint of loving words,—Passed slow like lovers to the appointed place,Passed to the place of punishment and doom.
"But when we reached the darkling avenueOf sycamores, which to the silent houseLed through a palpable gloom, I felt him shudderWith some blind vague presentiment of ill,And he would go no further; but I clungAround him close, laughed all his fear to scorn,Whispered words in his ear, and step by step,My soul on reparation being set,Drew him reluctant to the fated doorWhere lay my spouse in ambush, and swift death.
"I think I hear the dreadful noise of the key,Turning within the disused lock, the hallBreathing a false desertion, the loud soundOf both our footsteps echoing through the house.I could not choose but tremble. Yet I knew'Twas but a foolish weakness. Then I struckA match, and in the burst of sudden lightI saw the ruddy cheek grown ashy pale,And as he doffed his hat, I marked the curlsOn his white forehead, and the boyish graceWhich hung around him still, and almost feltCompassion. Then the darkness came again,And hid him, and I groped to find his hand,Clutched it with mine, and led him to the door.
"But when within the darkling room we wereWhere swift death waited him, not dalliance,Three times my trembling fingers failed to wakeThe twinkling light which scarce could pierce the gloomWhich hid my husband. Oh, to see his faceWhen the dark aspect and the furious eyesGlared out on him! 'I am lost!' he cried, 'I am lost!'And then the sound of swift and desperate fightAnd a death struggle. Listening, as I stoodWithout, with that mean craven hound, our brother,I heard low cries of rage, and knew despairAnd youth had nerved the unarmed in such sortAs made the conflict doubtful. Then I rushedBetween them, threw my arms around him, cloggedHis force and held him fast, crying the while,'Wretch, would you kill my husband!'—held him fast,As coils a serpent round the escaping deer,Until my husband, hissing forth his hate,'Villain, I pierce thy heart as thou hast mine,'Stabbed through and through his heart.
"But oh, but ohThe lonely road, beneath the dreadful stars!To the swift stream, we three—nay, nay, we four—One on the child's poor carriage covered o'er,And three who drew him onward, on the road,That dead thing, having neither eye nor ear,Which late was full of life, and strife, and hate.On that dumb silence, came no wayfarer,And once the covering which concealed our loadSlipped down, and left the ghastly blood-stained thingOpen to prying eyes, but none were there;And then the darkling river, and the soundWhen, with lead coiled around it, the dead corpseSank with a sullen plunge within the deep,And took with it the tokens of our crime.
"Then with a something of relief, as thoseWho have passed through some great peril all unharmed,We went and burned the blood-stained signs of death,And left the dreadful place, and once more spedTo Paris and to sleep, till the new day,Now risen to high noon, touched our sad dreams.
"And that day, since we could not work as yet,We to the Picture Gallery went, and thereWe took our fill of nude voluptuous limbs,Mingled with scenes of horror bathed in blood,Such as our painters love. So week by week,Careless and unafraid, we spent our days,Till when that sad night faded; swift there rose,Bursting the weights that kept it, the pale corpse,A damning witness from the deep, and broughtThe dreadful past again, and with it doom.
"You know how we were tried, and how things went,The cozening speeches, the brow-beating judge,The petty crafts which make the pleader's art,The dolts who sit in judgment, when the oneWho knows all must be silent; but you know notThe intolerable burden of suspense,The hard and hateful gaze of hungry eyesWhich gloat upon your suffering. When doom cameIt was well to know the worst, and hear no moreThe half-forgotten horrors. But I thinkThe sense of common peril, common wrong,Knits us in indissoluble unity,Closer than years of converse. When my husband,Braving his doom, embraced me as he went;'Wife, so thou live I care not,' all my heartWent out to him for a moment, and I cried,'Let me die too, my guilt is more than his.'
"Some quibble marred the sentence, and once moreThe miserable tale was told afresh:Once more I stood before those hungry eyes,And when 'twas done we went forth slaves for life,Both with an equal doom, and ever sinceWe suffer the same pains in solitude,Slaves fettered fast, whom only death sets free.
"That is my tale told truly. Now you know,Sir, of what fashion I am made: a womanGentle, you see, and mild eyed. If I sinnedSurely there was temptation, and I soughtSuch reparation as I could. There are hereTigresses, and not women, black of browAnd strong of arm, who have struck down or stabbedHusband, or child, or lover, not as I,But driven by rage and jealousy, and drink!These creatures of the devil, as I passI see them shrink and shudder. The young priestOf the prison, a well-favoured lad he is,When I confessed to him bore on his browCold drops of agony; the Sister grewSo pale at what I told her, that I thoughtShe was like to swoon away, until I soothed her.Poor wretch, she has much to learn; and here I am,And shall be till my hair turns grey, my eyesGrow dim, and I have clean forgotten allThat brought me here, and all my former lifeFades like a once-heard tale. In the long nights,As I lie alone in my cell like any nun,I wake sometimes with a start, and seem to hearThat rusty lock turn, and those echoing feetDown that dark passage, and I seem to seeThe dreadful stare of those despairing eyes,And then there sounds, a plunge in the deep, and ILie shivering till the dawn. I have no comfortExcept the holy Mass; for see you, sir,I was devout until they scoffed at me.And now I know there is a hell indeed,Since this place is on earth. I do not thinkI have much cause to fear death, should it come;For whoso strives for Duty, all the SaintsAnd the Madonna needs must love, and I,I have done what penitence could do; and hereWhat have I of reward?—my children takenAs clean from me as if they were dead indeed,Trained to forget their mother. Sir, I see,Beyond these shallow phantasms of life;And this I hold, that one whose conscience showsAs clear as mine must needs be justified.