POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "AMYAS LEIGH," " HYPATIA," &C. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TIOKNOR AND FIELDS 
 
 MDCCCLVI. 
 

 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
 AUTHOR'S EDITION. 
 

 / 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Saint's Tragedy 25 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE 233 
 
 THE THREE FISHERS 235 
 
 WEARILY STRETCHES THE SAND .... 236 
 
 SAPPHO 238 
 
 A MYTH 240 
 
 THE ANGLER'S QUESTIONS . . . . . 241 
 
 THE WORD'S ANSWER .' 241 
 
 THE DEAD CHURCH 242 
 
 A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG 243 
 
 THERE SITS A BIRD 244 
 
 TWIN STARS ALOFT 245 
 
 YOUNG MARY 246 
 
 THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING . .247 
 
 EPICEDIUM ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL 248 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 250 
 
 MY HUNTING SONG ....... 252 
 
 SONGS '. 253 
 
 THE UGLY PRINCESS . . . . . . 254 
 
 A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE 255 
 
 SONNET 256 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 A. D. 415. OVER THE CAMP FIRES .... 259 
 
 A. D. 1100. EVIL SPED THE BATTLE PLAY . . 266 
 
 A. D. 1400. EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER *. , . 268 
 
 A. D. 1500. THE DEER STEALER . . . . 270 
 
 A. D. 1580. AH TYRANT LOVE 274 
 
 A.D.I 740. THE LAST BUCCANEER . . . 275 
 
 A. D. 1848. A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER 278 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S SONG, 1849 ... . . . 282 
 
 THE DAY OF THE LORD 283 
 
THE 
 
 SAINT'S tragedy: 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY, 
 
 IiAHTDGRAVINE OP THUEINGIA, 
 
 SAINT OF THE ROMISH CALENDAR. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. F. D. MAURICE, M.A. 
 
 The writer of this play does not differ with his countrymen 
 generally, as to the nature and requirements of a Drama. He 
 has learnt from our Great Masters that it should exhibit human 
 beings engaged in some earnest struggle, certain outward 
 aspects of which may possibly be a spectacle for the amuse- 
 ment of idlers, but which in itself is for the study and sympa- 
 thy of those who are struggling themselves. A Drama, he 
 feels, should not aim at the inculcation of any definite maxim; 
 the moral of it lies in the action and the character. It must 
 )e drawn out of them by the heart and experience of the 
 Eader, not forced upon him by the author. The men and 
 "vomen whom he presents are not to be his spokesmen ; they 
 as to utter themselves freely in such language, grave or 
 mrthful, as best expresses what they feel and what they are. 
 Tb age to which tifocy belong is neither to be contemplated as 
 if i were apart from us, nor is it to be measured by our rules, 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 neither to be held up as a model, nor to be condemned for its 
 strangeness. The passions which worked in it must be those 
 which are working in ourselves. To the same eternal laws 
 and principles are we, and it, amenable. By beholding these 
 a poet is to raise himself, and may hope to raise his readers, 
 above antiquarian tastes and modern conventions. The unity 
 of the play cannot be conferred upon it by any artificial 
 arrangements ; it must depend upon the relation of the differ- 
 ent persons and events to the central subject. No nice ad- 
 justments of success and failure to right and wrong must 
 constitute its poetical justice. In some deeper way than this, 
 if at all, must the conscience of the readers be satisfied that 
 there is an order in the universe, and that the poet has per- 
 ceived and asserted it. 
 
 Long before these principles were reduced into formal 
 canons of orthodoxy, even while they encountered the strong 
 opposition of critics, they were unconsciously recognized by 
 Englishmen as sound and national. Yet I question whether a 
 clergyman, writing in conformity with them, might not have 
 incurred censure in former times, and may not incur it now. 
 The privilege of expressing his own thoughts, sufferings, sym- 
 pathies, in any form of verse is easily conceded to him ; if he 
 liked to use a dialogue instead of a monologue, for the purpose 
 of enforcing a duty, or illustrating a doctrine, no one would 
 find fault with him ; if he produced an actual Drama for the / 
 purpose of defending or denouncing a particular character, / 
 or period, or system of opinions, the compliments of onev 
 party might console him for the abuse or contempt of another/ 
 
 But it seems to be supposed that he is bound to keep ir 
 view one or other of these ends : while to divest himself o/ 
 his own individuality that he may enter into the working <f 
 other spirits ; to lay aside the authority which pronounces o^ 
 
PEEFACE. 9 
 
 opinion, or one habit of mind, to be right and another wrong, 
 that he may exhibit them in their actual strife ; to deal with 
 questions, not in an abstract shape, but mixed up with the 
 affections, passions, relations of human creatures — is a course 
 which must lead him, it is thought, into a great forgetfulness 
 of his office, and of all that is involved in it. 
 
 No one can have less interest than I have in claiming 
 poetical privileges for the clergy ; and no one, I believe, is 
 more thoroughly convinced that the standard which society 
 prescribes for us, and to which we ordinarily conform our- 
 selves, instead of being too severe and lofty, is far too secular 
 and grovelling. But I apprehend the limitations of this kind 
 which are imposed upon us are themselves exceedingly secu- 
 lar, betokening an entire misconception of the nature of our 
 work, proceeding from maxims and habits which tend to 
 make it utterly insignificant and abortive. If a man confines 
 himself to the utterance of his own experiences, those experi- 
 ences are likely to become every day more narrow and less 
 real. If he confines himself to the defence of certain propo- 
 sitions, he is sure gradually to lose all sense of the connection 
 between those propositions and his own life, or the life of man. 
 In either case he becomes utterly ineffectual as a teacher. 
 Those whose education and character are different from his 
 own, whose processes of mind have therefore been different, 
 are utterly unintelligible to him. Even a cordial desire for 
 sympathy is not able to break through the prickly hedge of 
 habits, notions, and technicalities, which separates them. Often- 
 times the desire itself is extinguished in those who ought to 
 cherish it most, by the fear of meeting with something por- 
 tentous or dangerous. Nor can he defend a dogma better 
 than he communes with men ; for he knows not that which 
 attacks it. He supposes it to be a set of book arguments, 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 whereas it is something lying very deep in the heart of the 
 disputant, into which he has never penetrated. 
 
 Hence there is a general complaint that we " are ignorant 
 of the thoughts and feelings of our contemporaries ; " most 
 attribute this to a fear of looking below the surface, lest we 
 should find hollo wness within ; many like to have it so, be- 
 cause they have thus an excuse for despising us* But surely 
 such an ignorance is more inexcusable in us, than in the 
 priests of any nation : we, less than any, are kept from the 
 sun and air ; our discipline is less than any contrived merely 
 to make us acquainted with the commonplaces of divinity. 
 We are enabled, nay, obliged, from our youth upwards, to 
 mix with people of our own age, who are destined for all 
 occupations and modes of life 5 to share in their studies, their 
 enjoyments, their perplexities, their temptations. Experience, 
 often so dearly bought, is surely not meant to be thrown away : 
 whether it has been obtained without the sacrifice of that 
 which is most precious, or whether the lost blessing has been 
 restored twofold, and good is understood, not only as the oppo- 
 site of evil, but as the deliverance from it, we cannot be meant 
 to forget all that we have been learning. The teachers of 
 other nations may reasonably mock us, as having less of direct 
 book-lore than themselves; they should not be able to say, 
 that we are without the compensation of knowing a little more 
 of living creatures. 
 
 A clergyman, it seems to me, should be better able than 
 other men to cast aside that which is merely accidental, either 
 in his own character, or in the character of the age to which 
 he belongs, and to apprehend that which is essential and 
 eternal. His acceptance of fixed creeds, which belong as 
 much to one generation as another, and which have survived 
 amid all changes and convulsions, should raise him especially 
 
PREFACE. 11 
 
 above the temptation to exalt the fashion of his own time, or 
 of any past one ; above the affectation of the obsolete, ^,bove 
 slavery to the present, and above that strange mixture of both 
 which some display, who weep because the beautiful visions 
 of the Past are departed, and admire themselves for being 
 able to weep over them — and dispense with them. His rev- 
 erence for the Bible should make him feel that we most realize 
 our own personality when we most connect it with that of our 
 fellow-men ; that acts are not to be contemplated apart from 
 the actor ; that more of what is acceptable to the God of 
 Truth may come forth in men striving with infinite confusion 
 and often uttering words like the east wind, than in those who 
 can discourse calmly and eloquently about a righteousness 
 and mercy which they know only by hearsay. The belief 
 which a minister of God has in the eternity of the distinction 
 between right and wrong should especially dispose him to 
 recognize that distinction apart from mere circumstance and 
 opinion. The confidence which he must have that the life of 
 each man, and the life of this world, is a drama, in which a 
 perfectly Good and True Being is unveiling His own pur- 
 poses, and carrying on a conflict with evil, which must issue in 
 complete victory, should make him eager to discover in every 
 portion of history, in every biography, a divine " Morality " 
 and " Mystery " — a morality, though it deals with no abstract 
 personages — a mystery, though the subject of it be the doings 
 of the most secular men. 
 
 The subject of this Play is certainly a dangerous one. It 
 suggests questions which are deeply interesting at the present 
 time. It involves the whole character and spirit of the Middle 
 Ages. A person who had not an enthusiastic admiration for 
 the character of Elizabeth would not be worthy to speak of 
 her ; it seems to me, that he would be still less worthy, if he 
 
12 PREFACE. 
 
 did not admire far more fervently that ideal of the female 
 character which God has established, and not man — which 
 she imperfectly realized — which often exhibited itself in her 
 in spite of her own more confused, though apparently more 
 lofty ideal ; which may be manifested more simply, and there- 
 fore more perfectly, in the England of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, than in the Germany of the thirteenth. To enter into 
 the meaning of self-sacrifice — to sympathize with any one 
 who aims at it — not to be misled by counterfeits of it — not 
 to be unjust to the truth which may be mixed with those 
 counterfeits — is a difficult task, but a necessary one for any 
 one who takes this work in hand. How far our author has 
 attained these ends, others must decide. I am sure that h# 
 will not have failed from forgetting them. He has, I believe, 
 faithfully studied all the documents of the period within his 
 reach, making little use of modern narratives ; he has medi- 
 tated upon the past in its connection with the present ; has 
 never allowed his reading to become dry by disconnecting it 
 with what he has seen and felt, or made his partial experi- 
 ences a measure for the acts which they help him to under- 
 stand. He has entered upon his work at least in a true and 
 faithful spirit, not regarding it as an amusement for leisure 
 hours, but as something to be done seriously, if done at all ; 
 as if he was as much " under the Great Taskmaster's eye " 
 in this as in any other duty of his calling. In certain passages 
 and scenes he seemed to me to have been a little too bold for 
 the taste and temper of this age. But having written them 
 deliberately, from a conviction that morality is in peril from 
 fastidiousness, and that it is not safe to look at questions which 
 are really agitating people's hearts merely from the outside — 
 he has, and I believe rightly, retained what I should, from 
 cowardice, have wished him to exclude. I have no doubt, that 
 
PREFACE. 13 
 
 any one who wins a victory over the fear of opinion, and 
 especially over the opinion of the religious world, strengthens 
 his own moral character, and acquires a greater fitness for his 
 high service. 
 
 Whether Poetry is again to revive among us, or whether 
 the power is to be wholly stifled by our accurate notions about 
 the laws and conditions under which it is to be exercised, is a 
 question upon which there is room for great differences of 
 opinion. Judging from the past, I should suppose that till 
 Poetry becomes less self-conscious, less self-concentrated, more 
 dramatical in spirit, if not in form, it will not have the quali- 
 ties which can powerfully affect Englishmen. Not only were 
 the Poets of our most national age dramatists, but there seems 
 an evident dramatical tendency in those who wrote what we 
 are wont to call narrative, or epic, poems. Take away the 
 dramatic faculty from Chaucer, and the Canterbury Tales 
 become indeed, what they have been most untruly called, 
 mere versions of French or Italian Fables. Milton may have 
 been right in changing the form of Paradise Lost, — we are 
 bound to believe that he was right ; for what appeal can there 
 be against his genius ? But he could Dot destroy the essentially 
 dramatic character of a work which sets forth the battle be- 
 tween good and evil, and the Will of Man at once the Theatre 
 and the Prize of the conflict. Is it not true, that there is in 
 the very substance of the English mind, that which naturally 
 predisposes us to sympathy with the Drama, and this though 
 we are, perhaps, the most untheatrical of all people ? The love 
 of action, the impatience of abstraction, the equity which leads 
 us to desire that every one may have a fair hearing, the re- 
 serve which had rather detect personal experience than have 
 it announced — tendencies all easily perverted to evil, often 
 leading to results the most contradictory, yet capable of the 
 
14 PREFACE. 
 
 noblest cultivation, seem to explain the fact, that writers of 
 this kind should have flourished so greatly among us, and that 
 scarcely any others should permanently interest us. 
 
 These remarks do not concern poetical literature alone, or 
 chiefly. Those habits of mind, of which I have spoken, ought 
 to make us the best historians. If Germany has a right to 
 claim the whole realm of the abstract, if Frenchmen under- 
 stand the framework of society better than we do, there is in 
 the national dramas of Shakspeare an historical secret which 
 neither the philosophy of the one nor the acute observation 
 of the other can discover. Yet these dramas are almost the 
 only satisfactory expression of that historical faculty, which, I 
 believe, is latent in us. The zeal of our factions, a result of 
 our national activity, has made earnest history dishonest ; our 
 English justice has fled to indifferent and skeptical writers for 
 the impartiality which it sought in vain elsewhere. This 
 resource has failed, — the indifferentism of Hume could not 
 secure him against his Scotch prejudices,* or against gross 
 unfairness when any thing disagreeably positive and vehement 
 came in his way. Moreover, a practical people demand move- 
 ment and life, not mere judging and balancing. For a time 
 there was a reaction in favour of party history, but it could 
 not last long ; already we are glad to seek in Eanke or Miche- 
 let that which seems denied us at home. Much, no doubt, 
 may be gained from such sources ; but I am convinced that 
 this is not the produce which we are meant generally to im- 
 port ; for this we may trust to well-directed native industry. 
 The time is, I hope, at hand, when those who are most in 
 earnest will feel that therefore they are most bound to be 
 just — when they will confess the exceeding wickedness of 
 the desire to extort or suppress a fact, or misrepresent a char- 
 acter — when they will ask as solemnly to be delivered from 
 
PREFACE. 15 
 
 the temptation to this, as to any crime which is punished by- 
 law. 
 
 The clergy ought especially to lead the way in this refor- 
 mation. They have erred grievously in perverting history to 
 their own purposes. What was a sin in others was in them a 
 blasphemy, because they professed to acknowledge God as the 
 Ruler of the world, and hereby they showed that they valued 
 their own conclusions above the facts which reveal His order. 
 They owe, therefore, a great amende to their country, and 
 they should consider seriously how they can make it most 
 effectually. I look upon this Play as an effort in this direc- 
 tion, which I trust may be followed by many more. On this 
 ground alone, even if its poetical worth was less than I believe 
 it is, I should, as a clergyman, be thankful for its publication. 
 
 F. D. M. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 The story which I have here put into a dramatic form 
 is one familiar to Romanists, and perfectly and circum- 
 stantially authenticated. Abridged versions of it, care- 
 fully softened and sentimentalized, 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. From consulting this work I have 
 hitherto abstained, in order that I might draw my facts 
 and opinions, entire and unbiased, 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 labours, 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 understood from religious 
 
 2 
 
18 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and veracious persons, or read in approved writings, viz ; 
 " The Book of the Sayings of Elizabeth's Four Ladies 
 (Chita, Isentrudis, 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 Prcedic.) "which begins 
 thus, Mulierem fortem" 
 
 " Not satisfied with these," he " visited monasteries, 
 castles, and towns, interrogated the most aged and vera- 
 cious persons, and wrote letters, seeking for completeness 
 and truth in all things ; " and thus composed his biog- 
 raphy, 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 vari- 
 ous characters ; and have given in the Notes all neces- 
 sary references to the biography in Canisius's collection. 
 My part has therefore been merely to show how the 
 conduct of my heroine was not only possible, but to a 
 certain degree 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 became a 
 type of two great mental struggles of the Middle Age ; 
 first, of that between Scriptural or unconscious, and 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 Popish, or conscious, purity ; in a word, between inno- 
 cence and prudery ; next, of the struggle between healthy 
 human affection, and, 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 ex- 
 isted in the mind of Elizabeth, and of all who with 
 similar characters shall have found themselves under 
 similar influences, is a necessity that must be evident to 
 all who know any thing 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 exhibited the sense 
 of infinite duty and loyalty to Christ alone, as the main- 
 spring of all her noblest deeds, it is merely in accord- 
 ance with Dietrich's biography. The omission of all 
 Mariolatry is remarkable. My business is to copy that 
 omission, as I should in the opposite case have copied 
 the introduction of Virgin-worship into the original tale. 
 The business of those who make Mary, to women espe- 
 cially, the complete substitute for the Saviour, — I had 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 almost said, for all Three Persons of the Trinity, is to 
 explain, if they can, her non-appearance in this case. 
 
 Lewis, again, I have drawn as I found him, possessed 
 of all virtues but those of action; in knowledge, in 
 moral courage, in spiritual attainment, infinitely inferior 
 to his wife, and depending on her to be taught to pray ; 
 giving her higher faculties nothing to rest on in himself, 
 and leaving the noblest offices of a husband to be sup- 
 plied by a spiritual director. He thus becomes a type 
 of the husbands of the Middle Age, and of the woman- 
 worship of chivalry. Woman-worship, " the honour 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 wed- 
 lock 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 themselves 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 exclusions 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 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 truly great men as Dunstan, Becket, and Dominic, and 
 of many more whom, if we hate, we shall never under- 
 stand, while we shall be but too likely, in our own way 
 to copy them. 
 
 Walter of Varila, a more fictitious character, repre- 
 sents the " healthy animalism " of the Teutonic mind, 
 with its mixture of deep earnestness and hearty merri- 
 ment. His dislike of priestly sentimentalities 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 unsuspected channels, through chivalry, 
 through the minne-singers, through the lay-inventors, or 
 rather importers, of pointed architecture, through the 
 German school of painting, through the politics 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 misuse of Scripture, far more coarse, arbi- 
 trary, 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. 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I put them there because they were there — because the 
 Middle Age was, in the gross, a coarse, barbarous, and 
 profligate age — 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 Manichean asceticism of the 
 Medieval 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 Eliza- 
 beth's absence, in order to preserve their only use and 
 meaning. 
 
 So rough and common life a 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 exquisite dreams as the 
 fictions of Fouque, and of certain modems whose grace- 
 ful minds, like some enchanted well, 
 
 In whose calm depths the pure and beautiful 
 Alone are mirrored, 
 
 are, on account of their very sweetness and simplicity, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 singularly unfitted to convey any true likeness 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 biog- 
 rapher 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 short- 
 comings of this its realization, no one can ever be so 
 painfully sensible, as I am already myself. 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 
 
 \ 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of my own assertion ? Do I believe them to be, as call- 
 ings from God, spiritual, sacramental, divine, eternal ? 
 Or am I at heart regarding and using them, like the 
 Papist, merely as heaven's indulgences 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, in 
 the enjoyment of which they themselves all the while 
 unblushingly indulge — insulting thus their own wives 
 and mothers, — nibbling ignorantly at the very root of 
 that household purity, which constitutes the distinctive 
 superiority of Protestant over Popish nations ; — again 
 my book will have done its work. 
 
 If, lastly, it shall awake one pious Protestant to recog- 
 nize, 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 antichrists 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. 
 
THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 
 
CHARACTERS. 
 
 > Vassals of Lewis. 
 
 Elizabeth, daughter of ilie King of Hungary. 
 
 Lewis, Landgrave of Thuri?igia, betrothed to her in childhood. 
 
 Henry, brother of Lewis. 
 
 Walter, of Varila, 
 
 Rudolf, the Cupbearer, 
 
 Leutolf, of Erlstetten, 
 
 Hartwig, of Erba, 
 
 Count Hugo, 
 
 Count of Saym, &c. 
 
 Conrad, of Marpurg, a Monk, the Pope's Commissioner for 
 
 the suppression of heresy. 
 Gerard, his Chaplain. 
 
 Bishop of Bamberg, uncle of Elizabeth, Sfc. Sfc. 
 Sophia, Dowager Landgravine. 
 Agnes, her daughter, sister of Lewis. 
 Isentrudis, Elizabeth's nurse. 
 Guta, her favourite maiden. 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 The Scene lies principally in Eisenach, and the Wartburg ; 
 changing afterwards to Bamberg, and finally to Marpurg. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 (Epimetheus.) 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 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. 
 
28 PROEM. 
 
 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. 
 
 v. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 (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 bear the wrecks of ancient labour, 
 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. 
 
PROEM. 29 
 
 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. 
 
32 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT i. 
 
 Jesus, let me enter in, 
 Wrap me safe from noise and sin ; 
 Let me list the angels' songs, 
 See the picture of Thy wrongs ; 
 
 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 door-step 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. 
 
 Isen. 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. 
 
 Isen. 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 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 33 
 
 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. 
 
 Isen. Oh, how their hungry mouths 
 
 Did water at the booty ! Such a prize, 
 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 '11 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 eyes : 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 G-uta, only live : 
 Your eyes alone have souls. I shall go mad ! 
 Oh ! that they would but leave me all alone, 
 3 
 
34 the saint's tragedy. [ACT I. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 hen. They are of this world, thou art not, poor 
 child, 
 Therefore they hate thee, as they did thy betters. 
 
 JEliz. But, Lewis, nurse ? 
 
 Isen. He, child ? he is thy knight ; 
 
 Espoused from childhood : thou hast a claim upon him. 
 One that thou 'It need, alas ! — though, I remember — 
 'Tis 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 gewgaws 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. 
 
 Isen. Go to ; the chafe 
 
 Comes not by wearing chains but feeling them. 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 35 
 
 Eliz. Alas ! here comes a knight across the court ; 
 O, hide me, nurse ! What 's here ? this door is fast. 
 
 Isen. Nay, 'tis a friend : he brought my princess 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, 
 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 ? 
 
 Isen. 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 ? 
 
 Isen. 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 ? 
 
36 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 Isen. (iveeps.) Oh, God ! my child ! And if I told 
 thee all, 
 How could'st 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. 
 
 Wal. Ah ! my princess ! accept your liegeman's knee ; 
 Down, down, rheumatic flesh ! 
 
 Eliz, Ah ! Count Walter ! you are too tall to kneel to 
 little girls. 
 
 Wal. What ? shall two hundred weight of hypocrisy 
 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. 
 
 Isen. You shall jest long before she 's merry. 
 
 Wal. 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 but- 
 terflies as you suck here together on the thistle-head of 
 royalty ? 
 
SCENE I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 37 
 
 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. 
 
 Wal. 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." 
 
 Wal. 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 unguen- 
 tum, as they say, out of the French book. 
 
 Wal. 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 gentlemen, 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 awhile, 
 and then when they are well infected, well perfumed 
 with the wind of our vices, dropping them off, as tad- 
 poles do their tails, joint by joint, into the mud ! to strain 
 at such gnats as an ill-mouthed colt or a riotous puppy, 
 and swallow that camel of camels, a page ! 
 
38 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 Page. Do you call me a camel, Sir ? 
 Wal. 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 yourself; for every 
 one is not as fond as you of beggars' brats, and what 
 their clothes leave behind them. 
 
 hen. {Strikes him.) Monkey ! To whom are you 
 speaking ? 
 
 Eliz. Oh, peace, peace, peace ! I'll go with him. 
 
 Page. Then be quick, my music-master's waiting. 
 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 
 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. 
 
 Wal. Tell them I'm busy. 
 
 Knight. Busy ? St. Martin ! Knitting stockings, eh ? 
 To clothe the poor withal ? Is that your business ? 
 
SCENE I. J the saint's tragedy. 39 
 
 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. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Wal. The boy 's no fool, — 
 
 As good a heart as her's, 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 on 't. 
 
 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. 
 
 Wal. Humph ! Some are rogues enough for 't. As it 
 falls out, I ride with him to-day. 
 
 Isen. Upon what business ? 
 
 Wal. Some shaveling has been telling him that there 
 are heretics on his land ; stadings, worshippers 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 
 
40 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT i. 
 
 nothing will serve but I must ride with him round half a 
 dozen hamlets, where, with God's help, I will show him 
 a manstye or two, that shall astonish his delicate chivalr j. 
 
 Isen. 0, 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. 
 0, right us, Count. 
 
 Wed. I will, I will : go in 
 
 And dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately. 
 
 Scene IL 
 A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter riding. 
 
 Lew. So all these lands are mine ; these yellow 
 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 : 
 I have a right to bark at trespassers. 
 Hare 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 
 
SCENE II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 41 
 
 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 seisin. 
 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." 
 Wal. 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 ? 'Tis 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. 
 
 Lew. 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 favour ? 
 
 To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turned 
 
 To that Valhalla, where the virgin saints 
 
 And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven ? 
 
42 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox, 
 To .chew the grass cut for me ? 
 
 Wal. 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, 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 Lew. 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 ? 
 
 Wal. Oh ! plenty, Sir ; 
 
 Which no man yet has done or e'er will do. 
 It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured ; 
 It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly ; 
 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. • 
 
SCEXE II.] the saint's tragedy. 43 
 
 Lew. I'll crowd my court and dais with men of God, 
 As doth my peerless namesake, King of France. 
 
 Wal. Priests, Sir ? The Frenchman keeps two coun- 
 sellors 
 Worth any drove of priests. 
 
 Lew. And who are they ? 
 
 Wal. God and his lady-love. (Aside.) He '11 open at 
 that— 
 
 Lew. I could be that man's squire. 
 
 Wal. (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. 
 
 Lew. Mass ! who more fitted ? 
 
 Wat 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 churchplate, 
 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. 
 
 Lew. Copy? wherein? 
 
 Wal. 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 ; 
 
44 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT i. 
 
 Example, but no 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 it> 
 
 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. 
 
 Lew. And dug and built, it seems. 
 
 Wal. 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 
 These men have made their ownership worth something. 
 Here comes one of them. 
 
 Lew. 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 
 
SCENE n.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 45 
 
 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 labours of God's poor elect. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Lew. In such a nook, now, 
 
 To nestle from this noisy world — 
 
 Con. — And drop 
 
 The burden of thyself upon the threshold. 
 
 Lew. Think what rich dreams may haunt those lowly 
 roofs ! 
 
 Con. Rich dreams, — and more ; their dreams will find 
 fulfilment — 
 Their discipline breeds strength" — 'Tis 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, 
 Oh choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth, 
 Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains, 
 Cast by for the next bauble ! 
 
 Lew. ; Tis too true ! 
 
 I dread no toil : toil is the true knight's pastime — - 
 Faith fails, the will intense and fixed, so easy 
 
46 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 To thee, cut off from life and love, whose powers 
 In one close channel must condense their stream : 
 But- 1, 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 ? 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Lew. Be it so ; 
 
 But love you have foresworn ; and what were life 
 Without that chivalry, which bends man's knees 
 Before God's image and his glory, best 
 Bevealed in woman's beauty ? 
 
 Con. Ah ! poor worldlings ! 
 
 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 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 47 
 
 "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 ! 
 
 Lew. "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 ? 
 
 Lew. I do, I do. I'd live 
 
 And die for each and all the three. 
 
48 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 Con. Then go — 
 
 Entangled in the Magdalen's tresses lie ; 
 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. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Lew. 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. 
 
 Lew. 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. 
 
SCENE n.] the saint's tragedy. 49 
 
 I tempt thee heavenward — from yon azure walls 
 Unearthly beauties beckon — God's own mother 
 Waits longing for thy choice — 
 
 Lew. Is this a dream ? 
 
 Wal. 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 
 And huge conceit ? Cast off God's gift of manhood, 
 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 ? 
 
 Lew. 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 labour field, 
 And she and it both mine : — That were possession ! 
 
 Con. The flesh, fair youth — 
 
 Wal. Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt ! 
 
 We are past your burrow now. Come, come, Lord 
 
 Landgrave, 
 Look round, and find your saint. 
 4 
 
50 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 Lew. 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, 
 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. 
 
 WaL What, Sir ? the Princess ? 
 
 Ye saints in heaven, I thank you ! 
 
 Lew. Oh, who else, 
 
 Who else the minutest lineament fulfils 
 Of this my cherished portrait ? 
 
 WaL So— 'tis 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 
 
SCENE II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 51 
 
 better mated than you expected, when you find her — a 
 woman. For flesh and blood she is, and that young 
 blood, — whom her childish misusage 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. 
 
 Lew. Loves me! My Count, that word is quickly 
 spoken ; 
 And yet, if it be true, it thrusts me forth 
 Upon a shoreless sea of untried passion, 
 From whence is no return. 
 
 Wal. 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 ? 
 
 Lew. 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 thea I 
 She, who to me was as a nightingale 
 
52 the saint's tragedy. [act i. 
 
 That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered, 
 To passing angels melancholy music — 
 Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars, 
 Those 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 ! 
 
 Wal You love her then ? 
 
 Lew. Look ! If yon solid mountain were all gold, 
 And each particular tree a band of jewels, 
 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. 
 
 Wal 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. 
 
 Lew. 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 ? 
 
 Wal. To a man, my Lord. 
 
 Lew. Here 's chivalry ! Well, that 's soon brought to 
 bar. 
 The quarrel 's mine ; my lance shall clear that stain. 
 
SCENE TI.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 53 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Lew. 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 ! 
 'Tis not too late. 
 
 Wal. Too late, my royal eyas ? 
 
 You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze ere long — 
 She has no mind to slip to cover. 
 
 Lew. 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. 
 
 Wal. Then the serfs 
 
 Must wait ? 
 
 Lew. Why not? This day to them, too, blessing 
 brings, 
 Which clears from envious webs their guardian angel's 
 w ino-s. [Exeunt. 
 
54 the saint's TKAGEDY. [ACT i. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 A Chamber in the Castle. Sophia, Elizabeth, Agnes, 
 Isentrude, fyc, re-entering. 
 
 Soph. What ! you will not ? You hear, dame Isen- 
 trude, 
 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 shamelessness to go so gay. 
 
 Soph. Felt ? What then ? Every foolish wench has 
 feelings 
 In these religious days, and thinks it carnal 
 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-bed 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 
 
SCENE III.] the saint's tragedy. 55 
 
 "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. 
 
 Isen. Beseech you, Madam, — 
 
 "Weep not, my darling. 
 
 Soph. Tut — I'll 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 ? 
 
 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 ou\ 
 
 Isen. Proud hussy! Thou shalt set thy foot on her 
 neck yet, darling, 
 "When thou art Landgravine. 
 
 Miz. And when will that be ? 
 
56 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 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'll take the veil with you. 
 
 Eliz. 'Twere but a moment's work, — 
 
 To slip into the convent there below, 
 And be at peace forever. And you, my nurse ? 
 
 Isen. I will go with thee, child, where'er thou goest. 
 But Lewis ? 
 
 Eliz. All ! my brother ! No, I dare not — 
 I dare not turn forever 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 
 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 permission 
 to speak with you. 
 
 Eliz. With me ? What 's this new terror ? 
 
 Tell him I wait him. 
 
SCENE III.] the saint's tragedy. 57 
 
 Isen. (Aside.) Ah ! my old heart sinks- 
 
 God send us rescue ! Here the champion comes. 
 
 Count Walter enters. 
 
 Wal. Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious princess — 
 Plague, what comes next ! I had something orthodox 
 
 ready ; 
 'Tis 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 
 TTnworthy of his worship. [ Gives a letter and jewel. 
 
 Isen. Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam ! 
 
 [Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps her hands f 
 
 and bursts into childish laughter. ~\ 
 Why here 's my Christmas tree come after Lent — 
 Espousals ? pledges ? by our childish love ? 
 Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars, — 
 And pretty presents come of them ! Look, G-uta ! 
 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 ? 
 
58 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT I. 
 
 Wal. 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'll go — I am not mistress of myself — 
 Send for him — bring 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 ! 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 The Bridal Feast. Elizabeth, Lewis, Sophia, and Com- 
 pany seated at the Dais table. Court Minstrel and Court 
 Fool sitting on the Dais step. 
 
 Min. How gayly smile the heavens, 
 The light winds whisper gay ; 
 
SCENE IV.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY- 59 
 
 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 
 
 Domine libera 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 He warm within. 
 Monks. A luxu et avaritia 
 
 Domine libera nos. 
 Min. Hark ! from the bridal bower, 
 
 Rings out the bridesmaid's song ; 
 
 " 'Tis the mystic hour of an untried power, 
 
 The bride she tarries long." 
 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. 
 
60 the saint's tragedy. [act I. 
 
 Monies. A carnis illectamentis 
 
 Domine libera 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. 
 T?ool. Satins and silks, and feathers and lace, 
 
 Win gild life's piU ; 
 
 In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old, 
 
 Fine ladies will never fall ill. 
 Monks. A vanitatibus SEeculi 
 
 Domine libera nos. 
 
 [Sophia descends from the Dais, leading Elizabeth. 
 
 Ladies follow.'] 
 Soph, [to the Fool.] Silence, you screech-owl. 
 Come strew flowers, fair ladies, 
 And lead unto 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 — 'tis well, for else 
 The spectre of my duties and my dangers 
 Would whelm my heart with terror. Ah ! poor self! 
 Thou took'st this for the term and bourne of troubles — 
 And now 'tis here, thou findest it the gate 
 Of new sin-cursed infinities of labour, 
 
SCENE IV.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 61 
 
 Where thou must do, or die ! 
 
 [Aloud. - ] Lead on. I'll 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. 
 
62 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. a.d. 1221-7. 
 
 Elizabeth's Bower. Night. Lewis sleeping in an Alcove. 
 Elizabeth lying on the Floor in the Foreground. 
 
 Eliz. No streak jet 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 ? "Pis mine own will keeps me here — 
 And yet I hate myself for that same will : 
 Fightings within and out ! How easy 'twere, 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. 
 
 ****** 
 
 And yet I swore to love him. — So I do 
 
 No more than I have sworn. Am I to blame 
 
SCENE I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. . 63 
 
 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 hi jealous ire 
 Should smite mine earthly spouse? Have I two hus- 
 bands ? 
 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 ; 
 
64 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 The earth seems one vast bride-bed. Doth God tempt us ? 
 
 Is 't all a veil to blind our eyes from Him ? 
 
 A fire-fly at the candle ! 'Tis 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 ? 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 65 
 
 Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the 
 
 highest blue. 
 Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence — 
 Joining praises through the ages — Is it all a minstrel's 
 
 dream ? 
 Alas ! he wakes. [Lewis rises, 
 
 Lew. 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 dis- 
 sembling 
 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 ! 'twas I — my maidens — 
 
 Lew. 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. 
 
 Leiv. 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 — knighthood — 
 
 5 
 
66 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 A mother's joys — a hard-earned field of glory — 
 By tribulation come — so doth G-od's kingdom. 
 
 Lew. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures 
 
 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 ? 
 It pleases me to bear what you call pain, 
 Therefore to me 'tis 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'll say no more — 
 Not even to thee — command, and I'll obey thee. 
 
 Lew. Thou casket of all graces ! fourfold wonder 
 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 ! 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 67 
 
 Gay smiling martyrdom ! Shall I forbid thee ? 
 
 Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness ? 
 
 Thy courage by my weakness ? Where thou darest, 
 
 I'll 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 
 
 'Twas beautiful, 'twas Christ-like — had I thought 
 
 That thou wert such: — 
 
 Eliz. You would have loved me still ? 
 
 Lew. I had gone mad, I think, at every parting 
 At mine own terrors for thee. No ; I'll learn to glory 
 In that which makes thee glorious ! Noble stains ! 
 I'll 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 ? 
 
 Lew . To-night, my sister — 
 
 Henceforth I'll 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. 
 
68 THE SAINT'S TR A.G-EDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A Chamber in the Castle. Elizabeth — the Fool — Isentrupis 
 — Gut a 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. 
 
 See the rivers, how they run, 
 Changeless to a 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 stream of time 
 Wafts thee down to weal or woe. 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 69 
 
 Eliz. That 's a sweet song, and yet it does not chime 
 With my heart's inner voice. "Where had you it, 
 Guta ? 
 Quia. From a nun who was a shepherdess in her 
 youth — sadly plagued she was by a cruel step-mother, till 
 she fled to a convent and found rest to her soul. 
 
 Fool. No doubt ; nothing so pleasant as giving up one's 
 own 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 cour- 
 age to say " I did it." JSTow you shall see the shep- 
 herdess's baby, dressed in my cap and bells. 
 
 [Sings. 
 WTien 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. 
 
 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. 
 
70 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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 ; 
 'Tis no business of his where it goes. 
 
 Eliz. Far too well sung for such a saucy song. 
 So go. 
 
 Fool. Ay, I'll 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, 
 Like the chill silence of an autumn sun : 
 While action, like the roaring southwest 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, 
 
SCENE II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 71 
 
 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, — fuhiess God, — 
 Till we touch Him, and like a snow-flake, melt 
 Upon His light-sphere's keen circumference ! 
 
 Miz. Hast thou felt this ? 
 
 Guta. In part. 
 
 Miz. 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 labour. 
 No ! He must come to me, not I to Him ; 
 If I see God, beloved, I must see Him 
 In mine own self; — 
 
 Gttta. Thyself? 
 
 Miz. 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 
 
72 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lew-. 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. 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 73 
 
 Lew. Let a knight go down 
 
 And say to the holy man, the Landgrave Lewis 
 With humble greetings prays his blessedness 
 To make these secular walls the spirit's temple 
 At least to-night. 
 
 Miss. 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 Ms 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. 
 
 Lew. 'Tis too true ! 
 
 I have felt it long ; we stand, two weakling children, 
 
74 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Lew. Yes ! thou, my queen, who making thyself once 
 mine, 
 Hast made me sevenfold thine ; I own thee guide 
 Of my devotions, mine ambition's loadstar, 
 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, fyc. 
 
 Con. Peace to this house. 
 
 Eliz. Hail to your holiness. 
 
 Lew. The odour 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. 
 
 (Jon. Children, I am the servant of Christ's servants — 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 75 
 
 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 — 
 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 
 
76 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Shall drive home jour rebukes ; for both we need you — 
 Our snares are many, and our sins are more. 
 So say not nay — I'll speak with you apart. 
 
 [Elizabeth and Conrad retire. 
 
 Lew. [aside.~\ Well, Walter, mine, how like you the 
 good legate ? 
 
 Wed. Walter has seen nought of him but his eye ; 
 And that don't please him. 
 
 Lew. How so, sir ! that face 
 
 Is pure and meek — a calm and thoughtful eye. 
 
 Wed. A shallow, stony, steadfast eye ; that looks at 
 neither man nor beast in the face, but at something in- 
 visible a yard before him, through you and past you, at a 
 fascination, a ghost of fixed purposes 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 earthy 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. 
 
 Leiv. 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 v 
 Of my most peerless lady, whose discernment 
 
SCENE II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 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 mean time 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 
 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. 
 
 Lew. What, still at lessons ? Come, my fairest sister, 
 Usher the holy man unto his lodgings. [Exeunt. 
 
 Wal. [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 neigh- 
 
78 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 hours, 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 eat 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 rat's-bane is waiting for me. 
 
 Scene HE. 
 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 fulfilment : 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, 
 
SCENE III.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 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 ! 
 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 ; 'twill cost her pain — 
 But what of that ? there are worse things than pain— 
 What ! not yet here ? I'll 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 ? 
 
80 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACTn. 
 
 Eliz. In all I can, 
 
 And be a wife. 
 
 Guta. 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'll 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. 
 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. 
 
 Isen. 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'll dare, I'll welcome 
 Him and his means, though they were racks and flames. 
 Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel. [Exeunt 
 
SCENE IV.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 I 
 
 Scene IV. 
 A Chamber. Guta, Isentrudis, and a Lady. 
 
 Lady. Doubtless she is most holy-— but for wisdom — 
 Say if 'tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures, 
 And mountebank it in the public ways 
 Till she becomes a jest ? 
 
 Isen. 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 palms 
 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. 
 
 Isen. Oh, think, she 's not seventeen yet. 
 
 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. 
 6 
 
82 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying an empty 
 
 basket. 
 
 Isen. What 's here, my princess ? Guta, fetch her 
 robes ! 
 Rest, rest, my child ! 
 
 Miz. [ 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. 
 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 role her. 
 
SCESE IV.] the saint's tragedy. 83 
 
 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'll be thy pupil. 
 Farewell. Heaven bless thy labours and thy lesson. [Exit. 
 
 Lsen. We are alone. Now tell me, dearest lady, 
 How came you in this plight ? 
 
 Eliz. Oh ! chide not, nurse— 
 
84 THE SAIXTS TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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 cliildren 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 for bread — 
 
 She chid them down, and hid her face and wept ; 
 
 I had given all — I took my cloak, my shoes, 
 
 (What could I else ? 'Twas 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 honour. 
 
SCENE IV.J THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 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 ; henceforth I 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 water-fall ! — I had no message — 
 How 's this ? 
 
 Isen, We passed it by, as matter of no moment 
 Upon the sudden coming of your guests. 
 
86 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Eliz. JNb moment ! 'Tis enough to have driven lnm 
 forth— 
 And that 's enough to damn me : I'll not chide you — 
 I can see nothing but mj loss ; I'll to him — 
 I'll 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 entenng, Elizabeth 
 comes forward to meet him. 
 
 Con. What dost thou, daughter ? 
 
 Eliz. Ah, my honoured 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, 'tis 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. 87 
 
 And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping 
 Implies a height to stoop from. 
 
 JEliz. Could I see 
 
 My Saviour in His poor ! 
 
 Con. Thou shalt hereafter : 
 
 But now to wash Christ's feet were dangerous honour 
 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 member 
 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 ! 
 
 JEliz. 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 
 
 JEliz. 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 — 
 The mother lies in childbed — Say, in time 
 
88 the saint's tragedy. [act n. 
 
 I'll bring the baby to the font myself. 
 
 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 neighbour 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 doctrine. 
 I'll be with you anon. [Goes, up into the Hall. 
 
 Isenteudis enters with a basket. 
 
 Isen. 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. 89 
 
 Wal. Why, my fair rose-bud — 
 
 A trifle overblown, but not less sweet — ■ 
 I have been pining for you, till my hair 
 Is as gray as any badger's. 
 
 Isen. I'll not jest. 
 
 Wal. What? has my wall-eyed Saint shown you his 
 temper ? 
 
 Isen. The first of his peevish fancies was, that she 
 should eat nothing which was not honestly and peaceably 
 come by. 
 
 Wal. Why, I heard that you too had joined that sect. 
 
 Isen. And more fool I. But ladies are bound to set 
 an example — while they are not bound to ask where every 
 thing 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. 
 
 Wal. Poor Eves ! if the world leaves you innocent, the 
 Church will not. Between the devil and the director, 
 you are sure to get your share of the apples of knowledge ! 
 
 Isen. True enough. She complained to Conrad of her 
 scruples, and he told her, that by the law was the knowl- 
 edge of sin. 
 
 Wal. 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 
 
90 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDT. [act II. 
 
 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. 
 
 Wal. 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 ? 
 
 Isen. Terms of peace ? Do you call it peace to be 
 delivered over to his nuns' tender mercies, myself and 
 Guta, as well as our lady, — as if we had been bond-slaves 
 and blackamoors ? 
 
 Wal. You need not have submitted. 
 
 Isen. What ? could I bear to see my poor child wander- 
 ing up and down, wringing her hands like a mad wo- 
 man — I who have Uvea for no one else this sixteen years ? 
 Guta talked sentiment, — called it a glorious cross, and so 
 forth. — I took it as it came. 
 
 Wal. And got no quarter, I'll warrant. 
 
 Isen. Don't talk of it — my poor , back tingles at the 
 thought ! 
 
 Wal. 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? 
 
 Wal. 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 
 
SCENE VI.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 91 
 
 bully Ms 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 interest 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 honour in his own country. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Dawn. A rocky 'path leading to a mountain Chapel. A Peasant 
 sitting on a stone with dog and Crossbow. 
 
 Peasant singing. 
 Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning, 
 Gayly 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 
 Gill spends — therein lies the true division of labour. 
 What 's thy name ? 
 
 Woodc. Be'est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that dost 
 so catechize 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. 
 
92 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Woodc. Mary sain us, what be they like ? 
 
 Peas. Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking farmers' 
 crops into butcher's meat by night, without 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 has domin- 
 ion 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 sleep- 
 mice and woodpeckers. 
 
 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. Had'st 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 ? 
 
SCENE VI.] the saint's tragedy. 93 
 
 "Who would grub out his life in the same croft, when he 
 has free-warren of all fields between this and Ehine ? 
 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 ; 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 creeping 
 Up to their Lord in the might of their love. 
 
 What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring Thee, 
 Odour, and light, and the magic of gold ; 
 
94 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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.'] 
 
 Peas. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, with a 
 mighty sweet voice. 
 
 Woodc. Wench, indeed ! Where be thy manners ? 
 'Tis 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 gentle- 
 man now — heaven help her ! Ah ! thou has lost a 
 chance — thou might'st have run out promiscuously, and 
 
SCENE VII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 down on thy knees, and begged thy pardon for the new 
 comer'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 haircloth ; 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 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. 
 
 Tlie Gateway of a Castle. Elizabeth and her suite standing 
 at the top of 'a flight of steps. Mob below. 
 
 Peas. 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 — 
 
 3d Voice. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen 
 leas — 
 
 4th Voice. Our harness and our shoes are boiled for 
 food — 
 
96 the saint's tragedy. [act n. 
 
 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 11 never struggle. 
 
 All. Bread, bread ! 
 
 J&liz. 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. 
 
 Voice below. Ay, she can find enough to feast her 
 minions. 
 
 Woman's Voice. How can she know what 'tis, 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 livelong day — 
 Nor will, till you are served. I sent for wheat, 
 From Kohi and from the Rhine-land days ago, 
 Oh God ! why comes it not ? 
 
 'Enter from below Count Walter, with a Merchant 
 
 Wal. Stand back ; you '11 choke me, rascals : 
 Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the corn — 
 Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, 
 
SCENE VII.] the saint's tragedy. 97 
 
 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. 
 
 Wal. The scoundrel wants 
 
 Three times its value. 
 
 Merchant. Not a penny less — 
 
 I 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 fore- 
 stalling dog ! 
 
 Wal. 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 honour for the difference. 
 7 
 
98 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Mer. Not a penny — 
 
 I trust no nobles. I must make my profit — 
 I'll 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 
 
 Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and prayers, 
 
 And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears. 
 
 [In the mean time Walter, 8fc, have been throwing 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 ? 
 
 Wal. 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. 'Twere rude to doubt it. 
 
 Mer. Ye rascal barons ! 
 
SCENE VII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 99 
 
 What ! Are we burghers monkeys for your pastime ? 
 "We '11 clear the odds. [Seizes Walter. 
 
 Wal. Soft, friend ! — a worm will turn. 
 Voices below. Throw him down ! 
 Wal. 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, Sj-c., disperse. 
 Eliz. Now then — there's many a one lies faint at 
 home — 
 I'll go to them myself. 
 
 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 lacqueyed equipage, 
 And dole my halfpence from a satin purse — 
 I am their sister — I must look like one. 
 I am their queen — I'll prove myself the greatest 
 By being the minister of all. So come — 
 Now to my pastime. \_Aside.~] 
 
 And in happy toil 
 Forget this whirl of doubt — We are weak, we are weak, 
 
 L rfC. 
 
100 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act II. 
 
 Only when still — put thou thine hand to the plough, 
 The spirit drives thee on. 
 * Isen. You live too fast ! w 
 
 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, 
 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 VIE 
 
 A Chamber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo, Sfc, Ab- 
 bot, and Knights. 
 
 Count Hugo. I can't forget it, as I am a Christian 
 man. To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, and be 
 told, there was no beer allowed in the house — her Lady- 
 ship had given all the malt to the poor. 
 
 Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh ? 
 
SCENE vm.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 101 
 
 G. 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 ple- 
 beian dough ! Indeed, sir, we have no right to lessen 
 wantonly the amount of human enjoyment ! 
 
 C. Wal. In heaven's name, what would you have her 
 do, while the people were eating grass ? 
 
 G. 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 benevolences of providence remained undis- 
 turbed by her ladyship's carnal tenderness — what a boon 
 had this famine been ! 
 
 G. Wal. How then, man ? 
 
 Abbot. How many a poor soul would have been 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. 
 
 3d Gount. 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. 
 
102 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 G. Wal. What would you say to the Princess, who 
 talks of breaking up all her parks to wheat next year ? 
 
 3d Count. Ask her to take on the thirty families, who 
 were just going to tramp off those three hundred acres 
 into the Rhine-land, if she had not kept them in both 
 senses this winter, and left them on my hands — once beg- 
 gars, always beggars. 
 
 G. 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 farmer's 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. 
 
 G. Wal. 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 covet- 
 ousness. But look you, sirs, private selfishness may be 
 public weal, and yet private selfishness be just as surely 
 damned, for all that. 
 
 3d Gount. I hold, sir, that every alms is a fresh badge 
 of slavery. 
 
 C. Wal. I don't deny it. 
 
 3d Gount. Then teach them independence. 
 
 G. Wal. How? By tempting them to turn thieves, 
 when begging fails ? By keeping their stomachs just at 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 103 
 
 desperation-point ? By starving them out here, to march 
 off, starving all the way, to some town, in search of em- 
 ployment, 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. 
 
 3d Count. And how, prithee? By teaching them, 
 like our fair Landgravine, to open their mouths for all 
 that drops ? Thuringia is become a kennel of beggars 
 in her hands. 
 
 C. Wal. In hers ? In ours, sir ! 
 
 Abbot. Idleness, sir, deceit, and immorality, are the 
 three children of this same barbarous self-indulgence in 
 alms-giving. Leave the poor alone. Let want teach 
 them the need of self-exertion, and misery prove the 
 foolishness of crime. 
 
 C. Wal. How ? Teach them to become men by leav- 
 ing them brutes ? 
 
 Abbot. Oh, sir, there we step in, with the consolations 
 and instructions of the faith. 
 
 C. Wal. Ay, but while the grass is growing the steed 
 is starving ; and in the mean time, how will the callow 
 chick Grace, stand against the tough old game-cock, 
 Hunger ? 
 
 3d Count. Then how, in the name of patience, would 
 you have us alter things ? 
 
 C. Wal. We cannot alter them, sir — but they will be 
 altered, never fear. 
 
 Omnes. How ? How ? 
 
104 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 G. Wal. 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 — 
 
 G. Huyo. The world 's upside down. 
 
 0. Wal. And the Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 
 Omnes. On us ! Do you call us the idlers ? 
 
 G. Wal. Some dare to do so — But fear not — In the 
 fulness of time, all that 's lightest is sure to come to the 
 the top again. 
 
 G. Hugo. But what rascal calls us idlers ? 
 
 Omnes. Name, name. 
 
 G. Wal. Why, if you ask me — I heard a shrewd ser- 
 mon the other day on that same idleness and immorality 
 text of the Abbot's. — 'Twas Conrad, the Princess's 
 director, preached it. And a fashionable cap it is, 
 though it will fit more than will like to wear it. Shall I 
 give it you ? Shall I preach ? 
 
 G. Hugo. A tub for Varila ! Stand on the table, now, 
 toss back thy hood like any Franciscan, and preach 
 away. 
 
 G. Wal. Idleness, quoth he, (Conrad, mind you,) — 
 idleness and immorality ! Where have they learnt them, 
 but from you 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 bet- 
 ters,' fattening on church lands, neglecting sacraments, 
 defying excommunications, trading in benefices, hiring 
 the clergy for your puppets and flatterers, making the 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 105 
 
 ministry, the episcopate itself, a lumber-room wherein to 
 stow away the idiots and spendthrifts of your families, 
 the confidants of your mistresses, the cast-off pedagogues 
 of your boys ? 
 
 Omnes. The scoundrel ! 
 
 G. Wed. 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 vil- 
 lage gossips do not whisper some dark story of lust and 
 oppression, of decrepit debauchery, of hereditary doom ? 
 
 Omnes. We '11 hang this monk. 
 
 O. Wed. Hear me out, and you'll burn him. His 
 sermon was like a hail-storm, 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 paradise 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 pre- 
 
106 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 lates, hired stalking-horses of the rich, who would fain 
 gloss over their own sloth and cowardice with the wisdom 
 which cometh not from above, but is earthly, sensual, 
 devilish ; aping the heartless cant of an aristocracy who 
 made them — use them — and despise them. That was his 
 sermon. 
 
 Abbot. Paul and Barnabas ! What an outpouring of 
 the spirit ! — Were not his hoodship the Pope's legate, 
 now — accidents might happen to him, going home at 
 night ; eh ? Sir Hugo ? 
 
 G. If. 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, ''Tis 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. 
 
 Lew. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, Count 
 Walter ? 
 Your blessing, Father Abbot : what deep matters 
 Have called our worships to this conference ? 
 
 G H. [ Aside."] Up, Count ; you are spokesman. 
 
 3d Count. Most exalted Prince, 
 
 Whose peerless knighthood, like the remeant sun, 
 After too long a night, regilds our clay, 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 107 
 
 Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams 
 Of your celestial lady's matron graces — 
 
 Abbot. \_Aside.~\ Ut vinum optimum amati mei 
 Dulciter descendens ! 
 
 3d Count. Think not we mean to praise or disap- 
 prove — 
 The acts of saintly souls must only plead 
 In foro conscientias : 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 postponed 
 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. 
 
 Lew. We see your drift. 
 
 Go, sirrah, [ To a Page,] pray the Princess to illumine 
 Our conclave with her beauties. 'Tis our manner 
 To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple, 
 Unless the accused and the accuser both 
 Meet face to face. 
 
 3d Count. Excuse, high-mightiness, — 
 
 We bring no accusation ; facts, your Highness, 
 Wait for your sentence, not our prsejudicium. 
 
 Lew. Give us the facts, then, sir ; in the lady's pres- 
 ence, 
 Her nearness to ourselves — perchance her reasons — - 
 May make them somewhat dazzling. 
 
108 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT1L 
 
 Abb. 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. 
 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. 
 
 O. Wed. 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 ! 
 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 — almshouses 
 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 sempstresses, my lord, and pastry-cooks 
 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, 
 
SCENE VIII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 109 
 
 Instead of putting gold in circulation 
 By balls, shani-fights, and dinners ; 'tis most sad, sir, 
 But she has swept your treasury out as clean — 
 As was the widow's cruse, who fed Elijah. 
 
 Lew. Ruined, no doubt ! Lo ! here the culprit comes. 
 
 [Elizabeth enters. 
 Come hither, dearest. These, my knights and nobles, 
 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 ! 
 
 Lew. Not I, fair, but my counsellors, 
 
 In courtesy, need some reply. 
 
 Eliz. My Lords ; 
 
 Doubtless, you speak but as your duty bids you : 
 I know you love my husband ; do you think 
 My love is less than yours ? 'Twas for his honor 
 I dared 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, 
 
110 
 
 the saint's tragedy. 
 
 [act II. 
 
 My public censure, or disgraceful penance 
 May expiate, and yet confirm my waste, 
 1 oiler this poor body to the buffets 
 Of sternest justice : where I dared not spare 
 My husband's lands. I dare not spare myself. 
 
 Lew, Xo ! 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 
 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 store-house ? 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 Xeuburg. love, and Wartburg. 
 Their worn old old stones will hardly pay the carriage, 
 And foreign foes may pay untimely visits. 
 
 O. Wal. And home foes, too : if these philosophers 
 Put up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter, 
 The scythes will be among our horses' legs 
 Before next harvest. 
 
 Lew. 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 
 
SCEHEVm.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. Ill 
 
 With scents of Paradise. Farewell, my Lords. 
 
 MHz. 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. 
 
 G. Wal. 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' tenderness, too oft forget " — Truly 
 spoken ! Lord Abbot, does not your spiritual eye discern 
 coals of fire on Count Hugo's head ? 
 
 G. Hugo. Where, and a plague ? Where ? 
 
 G. Wal. Nay, I spake mystically, — there is nought 
 there but what beer will quench before nightfall. Here, 
 peeping rabbit, \_To a page at the door,~] out of your bur- 
 row, and show these gentles to their lodgings. We will 
 meet at the gratias. 
 
 [They go out. 
 
 C. Wal. \_Alone.~\ Well : — if Hugo is a brute, he at 
 least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, and hon- 
 est ; 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 persuaded himself of his own benevo- 
 lence. 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 
 
112 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT ii. 
 
 woman : in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping : instead 
 of God's grace, a few schoolboy 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 phi- 
 lanthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Elizabeth's Bower. Elizabeth and Lewis sitting 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 ! 
 
 Lew. Ah, turn away those swarthy diamonds' blaze ! 
 Mine eyes are dizzy, and my faint sense reels 
 In the rich fragrance of those purple tresses. 
 
SCENE IX.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 113 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Lew. 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. 
 
 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, darling, 
 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. 
 
 Lew. 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. 
 
 8 
 
114 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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 ? 
 No, but by thinking that I fall. — 'Tis 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 ! 
 
 Leiv. Beloved, if I went away to war — 
 
 Eliz. Oh, God ! More wars ? More partings ? 
 
 Lew. Nay, my sister— i 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Lew. 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, 
 
SCENE IX.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 115 
 
 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. 
 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 labour 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. 
 
116 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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 oft, I fear to ask. — Give me thy purse. 
 
 Lew. 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 ? 
 
 Lew. Nay ; go ask my steward — 
 
 Take what you will — this purse I want myself. 
 
 Eliz. Ah ! now I guess. You have some trinket 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. 
 
 Lew. Ah ! love — look not so calm — 
 
 Eliz, Fear not — I shall weep soon. 
 
 How long is it since you vowed ? 
 
SCENE IX.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 117 
 
 Lew. A week or more. 
 
 Eliz. Brave heart ! And all that time your tender- 
 ness 
 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 ? 
 
 Lew. Alas, too true ! 
 
 Eliz. O break not, heart ! [Conrad enters. 
 
 Ah ! here my master comes, 
 No weeping before him. 
 
 Lew. 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 husband 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 out-come of your " father's care ? " 
 
118 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Was it not enough, to poison all my joys 
 
 With foulest scruples ? — show me nameless sms, 
 
 Where I, unconscious babe, blessed God for all things, 
 
 But you must thus intrigue away my night 
 
 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. 'Tis well- 
 
 In pity to your weakness I must deign 
 To do what ne'er I did — excuse myself. 
 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'll 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 — 
 
SCENE IX.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. H9 
 
 Drink it to the lees, and thou shalt find within 
 A pearl of price. 
 
 jSUz. 'Tis bitter ! 
 
 Con. Bitter ' tml ^ : 
 
 Even I, to whom the storm of earthly love 
 Is but a dim remembrance— Courage ! Courage I 
 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— 
 
 Miz. Oh, spare mine ears ! 
 Gon , 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 ? 
 
 Mist. Have mercy ! 
 
 Goflm Wilt thou ? Sit not thus 
 
 Watching the sightless air : no angel hi it 
 But asks thee what I ask : the fiend alone 
 Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him ? 
 
 Miz. I will devote him ;— a crusader's wife 1 
 I'll glory in it. Thou speakest words from God— 
 . And God shall have him ! Go now-good, my master ; 
 
 My poor brain swims. fM CoNRAD ' 
 
 Yes— a crusader's wife ! 
 
 And a crusader's widow ! 
 
 [Bursts into tears, and dashes herself on the floor.] 
 
120 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 Scene X. 
 
 A Street in the Town of Sclimalcald. Bodies of Crusading 
 Troops defiling past. Lewis and Elizabeth with, their 
 Suite in the foreground. 
 
 Lew. 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 ! 
 
 Lew. The bugle calls. — Farewell, my love, nfy lady, 
 Queen, sister, saint ! One last long kiss. — Farewell ! 
 
 Eliz. One kiss — and then another — and another — 
 Till 'tis 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 ? 
 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 — forever. 
 
 Why look'st thou so, poor girl ? I say, forever. 
 
 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 
 
SCENE X.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 121 
 
 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 ! lost ! lost ! 
 
 Lady. Oh stay, and watch this pomp. 
 
 Eliz. Well said — we '11 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. 
 
 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. 
 
122 the saint's TRAGEDY. lACT II. 
 
 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. 
 
 We know the doom before us ; 
 The dangers of the road ; 
 
SCENE x.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 12S 
 
 Have mercy, mercy, Jesu blest, 
 When we He 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 posts and the moors of the North. 
 
124 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT II. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 [Old Monk looking after them.] 
 
 Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! 
 
 The buiying-place of God ! 
 
 Why gay and bold, in steel and gold, 
 
 O'er the paths where Christ hath trod ? 
 
 [ The Scene closes. 
 
SCENE i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 125 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 A Chamber in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting in Widow's 
 weeds ; Guta and Isentrudis by her. 
 
 hen. What? Always thus, my princess ? Is this wise, 
 By day with fasts, and ceaseless coil of labour ; 
 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. 
 
 Bliz. 'Tis 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. 
 
 Isen. And death for life — your cheeks are wan and 
 sharp 
 
126 the saint's tragedy. I" act m - 
 
 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, forgive 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 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 127 
 
 Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, 
 Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries, 
 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, whene'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 all our castles — live in bowers of rushes — 
 Oh God ! that I were with him in the dungeon ! 
 Soph. He is not taken. 
 Eliz. No ! he would have fought to the death ! 
 
128 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT III 
 
 There 's treachery ! What paynhn 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. 
 
 JEliz. [ Clasping her hands on her knees.~] The world 
 
 is dead to me, and all its smiles ! 
 Isen. 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 — 
 
 
BCENE I.] , THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 129 
 
 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 land- 
 gravate 
 Is somewhat to you, surely — and your smiles 
 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 heaven-ward, weeping still we see : 
 God's love with keen flame purges, like the lightning 
 
 flash, 
 Gold which is purest, purer still must be." 
 
 [Gut a 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 shuddering 
 fancy down 
 
 9 
 
130 the saint's TRAGEDY. |ACT III. 
 
 "With dread of like fierce anguish. 
 
 Agnes. Speak ! Oh, speak ! 
 
 Guta. 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 cheek's ice-field j keenest memories 
 
 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, 
 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. 
 
SCENE I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 131 
 
 Isen. [entering.~\ As after wolf wolf presses, leaping 
 through the snow-glades, 
 So woe on woe throngs surging up. 
 
 Guta. What ? treason ? 
 
 Isen. 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 ? 
 
 Isen. 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 purple brow : 
 Oh, that the traitors saw her now ! 
 They know not, sightless fools, the heart they break. 
 [Elizabeth enters sloivly.] 
 
 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. 
 
132 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT III. 
 
 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 com- 
 mands — 
 Isen. The Landgrave, dolt ? 
 
 Eliz. I might have saved him ! 
 
 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 mumming — 
 
 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 — 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 133 
 
 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 
 Eternal homes, built deep hi 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'll follow to the death. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 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. 
 
134 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT III. 
 
 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'll 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. 
 
 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'll 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. 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 135 
 
 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 
 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: 
 
136 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACTlfl. 
 
 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, 'tis 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 ! 
 Hark ! What 's that rushing ! White doves — one — 
 
 two — three — 
 Fleeing before the gale. — My children's spirits ! 
 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 awhile 
 That gulf too black for speech — My husband 's dead ! 
 I dare not thmk on 't. 
 
 A small bird dead in the snow ! Alas ! poor minstrel ! 
 A week ago, before this very window, 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 137 
 
 He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight ; 
 And housewives blest hirn 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'll trust yet — 
 Some have gone mad for less ; but why should I ? 
 Who live in time, and not eternity. 
 'Twill 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. 
 Lo ! here 's my ancient foe. What want you, Sir ? 
 
 [Hugo enters. 
 
 Hugo. Want ? Faith, 'tis you who want, not I, my 
 Lady — 
 I hear, you are gone a begging through the town ; 
 So for your husband's sake, I'll take you in ; 
 For though I can't forget your scurvy usage, 
 
138 the saint's tragedy. [act ra. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 2c? 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, 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 
 
SCENE II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 139 
 
 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. 
 
 1st Peas. Well — I'll 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 any thing, if you '11 but go to-day : 
 At once, mind. [Giving him the Letter. 
 
 1st Peas. Ay, I'll go. Now, you '11 remember ? 
 
 Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzengen. 
 God and his saints deal with you, as you deal 
 With us this day. [Exit 
 
 2d Peas. What ! art thou fallen in love promiscuously ? 
 
 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. 
 
140 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT III. 
 
 2d Peas. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke : 
 
 Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain. 
 
 1st Peas. Dost think? Well — I'll not fret myself 
 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 awhile, 
 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 Guta 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, 'twas 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, 
 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 ? 
 
SCENE n.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 141 
 
 Q u ta. Oli ! 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. 
 
 j sen% 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. 
 
 j sen . 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 
 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— 
 
142 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT in. 
 
 I washed my garments in the brook hard by — 
 And came here, all the wiser. 
 
 Guta. Miscreant hag ! 
 
 hen. Alas, you '11 freeze. 
 
 Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch 
 
 Could harbor such a spite ? 
 
 JEliz. 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. 'Tis crumbled into dust ! 
 Oh ! I have leant upon an arm of flesh — 
 And here 's its strength ! I'll 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. 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 143 
 
 Art cold, young knight ? 
 Knights must not cry — Go slide, and warm thyself. 
 Where shall Ave 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 ! 
 20 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 ! 
 
 Isen. Bethink you, child — 
 
 Eliz. Oh yes — I'll think — we '11 to our tavern friends ; 
 If they be brutes, 'twas my sin left them so. 
 
 Guta. Tis 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 awhile in peace. The storms are still. 
 Beneath her eider robe the patient earth 
 
144 the saint's tragedy. [act in. 
 
 Watches in silence for the sun : we '11 sit 
 
 And gaze up with her at the changeless heaven," 
 
 Until this tyranny be overpast. 
 
 Come \_Aside.~] Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 
 {They enter a neighbouring 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 — 'tis true : I was not worthy — 
 But there was meaning in that first wild fancy ; 
 
SCENE ill.] the saint's tragedy. 145 
 
 'Twas 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, 
 
 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 '11 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 — 'tis blank horror. Yet if grief's good for me, 
 Let me go down into grief's 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, 
 10 
 
146 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT III. 
 
 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 
 Did scorch like flame : if one looked cold on me, 
 I strait 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. 
 
 Mm. In self-defence — 
 
 I am too weak to live by half my conscience ; 
 I have no wit to way 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 I'll soar 
 Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free. 
 
 The Bishop of Bamberg enters. Conrad following. 
 
 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. 
 
 Con. 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 
 
SCENE m.] the saint's tragedy. 147 
 
 picked up a spice of chivalry to the ladies, I should long 
 ago have turned out you and your regulars, to cant else- 
 where. Plague on this gout — I must sit. 
 
 Eliz. Let me settle your cushion, uncle. 
 
 Bishop. So ! girl ! I sent for you from Botenstain. 
 I had a mind, now, to have kept you there until your 
 wits returned, and you would say Yes 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 children," — not run after monks, and what not — 
 What 's good for the filly, is good for the mare, 
 I. 
 
148 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT in. 
 
 Eliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch — 
 To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone. 
 
 Bishop. Ahem ! — a pious notion — in moderation. We 
 must be moderate, my child, moderate : I hate over- 
 doing any thing — 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 ? 
 
 Con. The saints forbid ! Now — ere I lose a mo- 
 ment — [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 judgment : 
 Your courage will forgive an honest warmth. 
 God knows, I serve no private interests. 
 
 Bishop. Your orders, 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. 
 
SCENE HI.] the saint's tragedy. 149 
 
 Con. Or too unlike it : 
 
 You know the world, your grace ; you know the sex — 
 Bishop. Ahem ! As a spectator. 
 Con. Philosophice — 
 
 Just so — You know their rage for shaven crowns — 
 How they '11 deny their God — b"ut 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 
 Bream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on bride-cake. 
 It saves from worse — we are not all Abelards. 
 
 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, 'twill only soar the higher : 
 Give it but line, my lord, 'twill 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 favour. 
 
 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 drynurse to three 
 starving brats. 
 
150 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT III. 
 
 Con. The minor's guardian guards the minors' lands. 
 
 Bishop. Unless they are pitched away in building 
 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. Those fees, just now, would gladly be remitted. 
 
 Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when Rome 's 
 too rich to take ! 
 
 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 
 
SCENE III.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 151 
 
 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.] Uncle, I am determined. 
 
 Bishop. So am I. 
 
 You shall to Marpurg with this holy man. 
 
 Eliz. Ah, there you speak again like mine own uncle. 
 I'll 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 honour, show 
 In our own worship, honourable minds. 
 
 [Exit Elizabeth. 
 
 Bishop. A messenger ! How far off are they, then ? 
 
 Serv. Some two days' journey, sir. 
 
 Bishop. Two days' journey, and nought prepared ? 
 Here chaplain — Brother Hippodamas ! Chaplain, I 
 say ! [Hippodamas enters.] Call the apparitor — ride 
 off with him, right and left. — Don't wait even to take 
 
152 the saint's TRAGEDY. [act ill. 
 
 jour 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 garments. Mass ! we must show our smartest before 
 these crusaders — they '11 be full of new fashions, I war- 
 rant '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 armourer — vestryman, I mean — look out my 
 newest robes — Plague on this gout ! 
 
 [Exeunt, following the Bishop. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 The Nave of Bamberg Cathedral. A Procession entering the 
 West Door, headed by Elizabeth and the Bishop, Nobles, 
 Sfc. religiously bearing the Coffin which incloses Lewis's 
 Bones. 
 
 1st Lady. See ! the procession comes — the mob streams 
 in 
 At every door. Hark ! how the steeples thunder 
 Their solemn base 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. 
 
 1st Peas. Oh dear ! oh dear ! If any man had told 
 me that I should ride forty miles on this errand, to see 
 
SCENE IV.] the saint's tragedy. 153 
 
 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. 
 
 1st Peas. Never we. He knew where a yeoman'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 the world's creaking wheels. 
 
 1st 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 him atop and feeding : 
 that 's his calling and election, his oil of anointing, his 
 salvum fac ?-egem, his yeomen of the wardrobe, who keeps 
 the velvet-piled side of this world uppermost, lest his 
 delicate eyes should see the warp that holds it. 
 
 2c? 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 Babylon 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 ! 
 
 2c? Lady. And for hunting, and another Siegfried. 
 
154 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT III. 
 
 Knight. If he was Siegfried the gay, she was Chriem- 
 hild the grim ; and as likely to prove a firebrand as the 
 girl in the ballad. 
 
 1st Lady. Gay, indeed ! His smiles were like plum- 
 cake, 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, ! " 
 Eh! Mother? 
 
 Old Woman. "Till when she grew wizened, and he 
 grew cold, 
 The balance lay even 'twixt young and old." 
 
 Monk. Thus Satan bears witness perforce against the 
 vanities of Venus ! But what 's this babbling ? Carola- 
 tiones in the holy place ? Tace, vetula ! taceas, taceto 
 also, and that forthwith. 
 
 Old Woman. Tace in your teeth, and taceas also, beg- 
 ging box ! Who put the halter round his waist to keep it 
 off his neck, who ? Get behind 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 now-a- 
 days by friars in the nave ? Help ! good folks ! Where 
 be these rooks a going ? 
 
 Knight. The monk has vanished. 
 
SCENE iv.] the saint's tragedy. 155 
 
 1st Peas. It's ill letting out waters, lie 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 a'most a born 
 natural, poor soul. It was a temptation to deal with her. 
 
 2c? 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 '11 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 ! 
 
 JEliz. \In a low voice.'] I saw all< Israel scattered on 
 the hills 
 As sheep that have no shepherd ! Oh, my people ! 
 Who crowd with greedy eyes round this my jewel, 
 Poor ivory, token of his outward beauty — 
 Oh ! had ye known his spirit ! — Let his wisdom 
 Inform your light hearts with that Saviour's likeness 
 For whom he died ! So had ye kept him with you ; 
 And from the coming evils gentle Heaven 
 Had not withdrawn the righteous : 'tis too late ! 
 
 1st Lady. There now, she smiles ; do you think she 
 ever loved him ? 
 
 Knight. Never creature, but mealy-mouthed inquisitors, 
 and shaven singing birds. She looks now as glad to be 
 rid of him as any colt broke loose. 
 
156 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT in. 
 
 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 miserable, and so die a 
 saint. 
 
 Knight. Will you pray to her, my fair queen ? 
 
 2c? 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 goddess ; 
 My saint, my idol, my — ahem ! 
 
 1st Lady. That well *s run dry. 
 
 Look, how she trembles — Now she sinks, all shivering 
 Upon the pavement — Why, you '11 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. 
 
 JEliz. 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 
 
SCENE IV. J THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 157 
 
 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 manhood, 
 
 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 — 
 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 cham- 
 pions — 
 Rudolf, the Cupbearer, Leutolf of Erlstetten, 
 Hartwig of Erba, and our loved Count Walter, 
 Our nights and vassals, sojourners among you. 
 Follow us. [ Exit Elizabeth, frc. ; the crowd following. 
 
153 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Night. The Church of a Convent. Elizabeth, Conrad 
 Gerard, Monks, an Abbess, Nuns, Sfc, 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 highflown fancies 
 Which but last week, beside your husband's bier, 
 You vapoured 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 misjit 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, 
 
SCENE I. J the saint's tkagedt. 159 
 
 Or those old hags, Christ's brides — Think of your horn- 
 book — 
 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. 
 
 JEliz. 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 his 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. 
 
 [Cone ad 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 ! 
 
160 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IT. 
 
 His ghost's sad eyes upbraid me ! Spare nie, spare me ! 
 
 I'd love thee still, if I dared ; but I fear Grod. 
 
 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 'twere 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 me 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 mainspring 
 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, 
 
SCENE I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 161 
 
 These homeless moors of life toiled through, to wake, 
 
 And find blank nothing ! Is that angel- world 
 
 A gaudy window, which we paint ourselves 
 
 To hide the dead yoid 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 further 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.] 
 
 " Bongs' daughters were among thine honourable 
 
 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." 
 11 
 
162 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 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 ? 
 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? 
 
 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'll 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 now do 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 
 
SCENE I.] 'THE saint's tragedy. 163 
 
 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 — 
 
 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'll 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. 
 
164 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 Eliz. tio ! no ! no ! no ! I will not die in the dark : 
 I'll breathe the free 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, &c. 
 
 Ger. Alas ! poor lady ! 
 
 Con. Why alas, my son ! 
 
 She longs to die a saint, and here 's the way to it. 
 
 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 through- 
 out — 
 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 our Leviathan with a hook, 
 
SCENE I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 165 
 
 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 ; 
 Be all thou darest ;— that will keep thy brains fall. 
 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 ? 
 
 Q orim 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 — 
 
166 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 An angel's spotless plume, laid there for me : 
 Then from the hill-side, 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 
 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 Elizabeth's Hut. 
 Count Walter and Count Pama of Hungary en- 
 tering. 
 
 G. Pama. I have prepared my nerves for a shock. 
 
 G. Wal. 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. 
 
 G. Pama. Creeping, I opine, into widows' houses, and 
 for a pretence making long prayers. 
 
 G. Wal. Don't quote Scripture here, sir, especially in 
 that gross literal way ! The new lights here have taught 
 
SCENE ii.] the saint's tragedy. 167 
 
 us that Scripture's saying one thing, is a certain proof 
 that it means another. Except, by the bye, in one text. 
 
 G. Pama. What 's that ? 
 
 G. Wal. " Ask, and it shall be given you." 
 
 G. Pama. Ah ! So we are to take nothing literally, 
 and they may take literally every thing themselves ? 
 
 G. Wal. Humph ! As for your text, see if they do 
 not saddle it on us before the day is out, as glibly as ever 
 you laid it on them. Here comes the lady's tyrant, of 
 whom I told you. 
 
 Conrad advances from the Hut. 
 
 Gon. And what may Count Walter's valour want 
 here ? [Count Walter turns his back. 
 
 G. Pama. I come, sir priest, from Andreas, king re- 
 nowned 
 Of Hungary, ambassador unworthy 
 Unto the Landgravine, his saintly daughter ; 
 And fain would be directed to her presence. 
 
 Gon. That is as I shall choose. But I'll not stop you. 
 I do not build with straw. I'll 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. 
 
 G. Wal. Bah! but they will serve your turn — and 
 hers. 
 
168 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 Con. What do you mean ? 
 
 G. Wal. "When you have cut her 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 
 fancying 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 in charity in a single 
 day five hundred marks and more ? Is it not my contin- 
 ual labour 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 labour ? Did she not 
 of late take into her own house a paralytic boy, whose 
 loathsomeness 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 bless- 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 169 
 
 ings 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 ? 
 
 G. Wal. 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 half- 
 penny for every halfpenny-worth of eternal life ; earth her 
 chess-board, and the men and women on it, merely pawns 
 for her to play a winning 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. Wal. Go to — go to. I have watched you and your 
 crew, how you preach up selfish ambition for divine 
 charity, and call prurient longings celestial love, while 
 you blaspheme that very marriage 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. Wal. (Drawing.) Liar ! At last ! 
 
 C. Pama. In God's name, sir, what if the Princess 
 find us ? 
 
 G. Wal. Ay — for her sake. But put that name on me 
 
170 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 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 toward the Cottage. 
 
 Con. [_Alone.~\ Were I as once I was, I could re- 
 venge : 
 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 ! 
 
 [Exit. The Counts return from the Cottage. 
 
 G. Pama. Shortly she will return ; here to expect her 
 Is duty both, and honour. Pardon me — 
 Her humours are well known here ? Passers by 
 Will guess who 'tis we visit ? 
 
 G. Wal. Very likely. 
 
 G. Pama. Well, travellers see strange things — and do 
 them too. 
 Hem ! this turf-smoke affects my breath : we might 
 Draw back a space. 
 
 G. Wal. Certie, 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 ! 
 
SCENE II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 171 
 
 C. Pama. But ah ! what lodging ! 'Tis 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 earthern crock or two ! Why, sir, a dungeon 
 Were scarce more frightful : such a choice must argue 
 Aberrant senses, or degenerate blood ? 
 G. Wal What ? Were things foul ? 
 C. Pama. I marked not, sir. 
 
 G. Wal Idid - 
 
 You might have eat your dinner off the floor. 
 
 C. Pama. Off any spot, sir, which a princess's foot 
 Had hallowed by its touch. 
 
 C. Wal. Most courtierly. 
 
 Keep, keep, those sweet saws for the lady's self. 
 \_Aside.~] Unless that shock of the nerves shall send them 
 flying. 
 G. Pama. Yet whence this depth of poverty? I 
 thought 
 You and her champions had recovered for her 
 Her lands and titles. 
 
 O. Wal Ay ; that coward Henry 
 
 Gave them all back as lightly as he took them : 
 Certie, 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 ! 
 
 G. Pama. Then she refused them ? 
 
172 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 O. 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 ! " 
 
 G Pama. Humph ! 
 
 O. Wal. Why here — no, 't cannot be — 
 
 C. Pama. What hither comes 
 
 Forth from the hospital, where, as they told us, 
 The Princess labours in her holy duties ? 
 A particoloured 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 him.] 
 Stop, my fair queen of rags and patches, turn 
 Those solemn eyes a moment from your distaff, 
 And say, what tidings your magnificence 
 Can bring us of the Princess ? 
 
 Eliz. I am she. 
 
 [Count Pama crosses himself and falls on his knees.] 
 
 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 Tillage-maid, 
 A royal scion ? 
 
 C. Wal. [Kneeling.'] My beloved mistress ! 
 
( 
 
 SCENE n.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 173 
 
 Eliz. Ah ! faithful friend ! 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. 
 
 G. Pama. But hear me, madam — 
 
 If you return with me (o'erwhelming honour ! 
 For such mean body-guard 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 clwn. 
 
 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 
 On these poor sheep the wolf whose fangs have gored 
 
 me, 
 God's bolt would smite me dead. 
 
 G. 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 — 
 
174 the saint's tragedy. Tact iv. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Miz. 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 foresworn, 
 And know no more : I have a heavenly spouse, 
 Whose service doth all other claims annul. 
 
 G. Wal. Ah lady, dearest lady, be but ruled ! 
 Your Saviour will be there as near as here. 
 
 Miz. 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 ? 
 
 G. Pama. Pardon me, madam, if my grosser wit 
 Fail to conceive your sense. 
 
 Miz. 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 
 
SCENE III.] the saint's tragedy. 175 
 
 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. 
 
 O. Wal. C. Pama. Farewell, sweet saint ! [Exeunt. 
 
 JEUz. 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 honour 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 sleep* 
 ing on a Mattress. Elizabeth watching 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. 
 
 I remember two young lovers, 
 In a golden gleam. 
 
176 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 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'll be patient — 
 Here 's something yet more wretched than myself. 
 Sleep thou on still, poor charge — though I'll 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 
 
SCENE III.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 177 
 
 Our rightful rank in God's great universe, 
 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 — 
 12 
 
178 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV 
 
 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 
 
 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? 'Tis nearly time 
 to wake her 
 To do her penance. 
 
 2d Woman. Wait awhile, for love : 
 
 Indeed, I am almost ashamed to punish 
 A bag of skin and bones. 
 
 1st Woman. 'Tis 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, 
 
SCENE III.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 179 
 
 And little stronger than water. 
 
 1st Woman. Plague on this watching ! 
 
 What work, to make a saint a fine lady ! 
 See now, if she had been some labourer's daughter, 
 She might have saved herself, for aught he cared ; 
 But now — 
 
 2c? Woman. Hush ! here the master comes : 
 I hear him. — 
 
 Conrad enters. 
 
 Con. My peace, most holy, wise, and watchful war- 
 dens ! 
 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 a 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. 
 
180 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV 
 
 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 
 awhile. 
 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- scull ! 
 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
SCENE ill.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 181 
 
 2d Woman. The Aldenburgers. 
 
 Con. Well, well, what more misdoings ? 
 
 [ Aside.] Pah ! I am sick on % 
 [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 ! 'tis easy 
 To beget great deeds ; but in the rearing of them — 
 The threading in cool blood each mean detail, 
 And furzebrake of half-pertinent circumstance — 
 There lies the self-denial. 
 
 Women \_In a loiv 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. 
 
 MHz. Oh ! She was but a worldling 1 
 
 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, igno 
 
 ranee, 
 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 
 
182 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 Watching by God's elect ? or nightly tiger, 
 
 Who waits upon a dainty point of honour 
 
 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 triumph 
 
 Which eyes its victim's writhings, still will mingle 
 
 A sympathetic thrill of lust — say, pity. 
 
 Eliz. [Awaking. - ] I am heard ! She is saved ! 
 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. 
 
 1st Woman. Ay ! ay ! a fine excuse for lazy women, 
 Who cry nightmare with lying on their backs. 
 
 Eliz. I will be heard ! I am a prophetess ! 
 God hears me, why not ye ? 
 
 Con. Quench not the spirit : 
 
 If He have spoken, daughter, we must listen. 
 
 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 
 
SCENE III.] THE SAINTS TRAGEDY. 183 
 
 Among the steeples, then she shrieked aloud, 
 i 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 stfch — 
 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 still small 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. 'Twas more ! 'twas more ! I've tests : 
 
 From youth I have lived in two alternate worlds, 
 And night is live like day. This was no goblin ! 
 '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. 
 
184 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 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 ? 'Tis 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'll 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, 
 And maim thine usefulness : thou dost elude 
 
SCENE ill.] the saint's tragedy. 185 
 
 My wise restrictions still : 'Tis 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 'tis 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, Domine, servam tuam. 
 
186 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 The Same. Elizabeth lying on Straw in a corner. A crowd 
 of Women round her. Conrad entering. 
 
 Con. As I expected — 
 A sermon-moDgering 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 ! 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. 
 \_Adva,7icing.~\ Hail ! holy ones ! 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. 
 
SCENE IV. J THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 187 
 
 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. 
 
 Hun. Strange, she said nought ; 
 
 I had hoped she had grown more pure. 
 
 (j on% 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! 
 
 3d 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'll pray for you, and so you '11 go to Heaven. 
 
188 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Three friends ! and I have none ! 
 
 When Lazarus lay dead, He groaned in spirit, 
 
 And wept — like any widow — Jesus wept ! 
 
 I'll 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 ? [ -4 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 loiu voice.'] Through the stifling room 
 Floats strange perfume ; 
 Through the crumbling thatch 
 The angels watch, 
 Over the rotting roof-tree. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 189 
 
 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 — 
 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? 
 
190 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT IV. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 
 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 forever 
 Our sins, our works, and that same new-made star. 
 Woman. Poor soul ! she wanders ! 
 Con. Wanders, fool ? her madness 
 
SCENE IV.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 191 
 
 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 ! 
 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 — 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
192 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT iv. 
 
 Dost tliou 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 bridegroom— 
 
 The spouse of souls. 
 
 Miz. 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.] 
 
SCENE I.J THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 191 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. a.d. 1235. 
 
 A Convent at Marpurg. Cloisters of the Infirmary. Two 
 aged Monks sitting. 
 
 1st Monk. So they will publish to-day the Landgra- 
 vine'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 jackdaws in a belfry ! 
 
 2c? 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. 
 
 1st Monk. 'Tis 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 — Munditise 
 mundanis. 
 
 1st Monk. Catch him a flat 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. 
 
 1st Monk. There will be precious offerings made to- 
 day, of which our house will get its share. 
 
 2d Monk. Not we ; she always favoured the Francis- 
 cans most. 
 
 13 
 
194 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 1st 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 inventions, now, 
 for letting grand folk serve God and mammon at once, 
 and emptying honest monasteries, where men give up all 
 for the Gospel's sake. And now these Pharisees of 
 Franciscans will go off with full pockets — 
 
 1st Monk. While we poor publicans — 
 
 2c? Monk. Shall not come home all of us justified, I 
 think. 
 
 1st 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 together, 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 ? 
 
 2d Monk. I'll 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. 
 
 1st Monk. "Who carries his poll screwed on overtight, 
 and sits with his eyes shut in chapel ? 
 
 2d Monk. The same. Such a one to be in evil sa- 
 vour — to have the splendour of the pontifical countenance 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 195 
 
 turned from him, as though he had 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 commission — ■ 
 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 gentlemen " — and finally, that he who thinketh he 
 standeth, were wise to take heed lest he fall. 
 
 1st Monk. And what said Conrad ? 
 
 2d Monk. Out upon a man that cannot keep his lips ! 
 Who spake of Conrad ? That quidam, however, answered 
 nought, but — how, " to his own master he stood or fell " 
 — how " he laboured not for the Pope but for the Papa- 
 cy ; " and so forth. 
 
 1st Monk. Here is awful doctrine ! Behold the fruit 
 of your reformers !. This comes of their realized 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 ? 
 
196 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT v. 
 
 2d Monk. Thou hast indeed. Thou knowest that the 
 old paths are best, and livest in most pious abhorrence of 
 all amendment. 
 
 1st Monk. Do you hear that shout ? There is the 
 procession returning from the tomb. 
 
 2c? Monk. Hark to the tramp of the horse-hoofs ! A 
 gallant show, I'll warrant ! 
 
 1st 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, Con- 
 rad's chaplain, with our dinner. 
 
 [Gerard enters across the Court.] 
 
 1st Monk. A kindly youth and a godly, but — reforma- 
 tion bitten, like the rest. 
 
 2d Monk. Never care. Boys must take the reigning 
 madness in religion, as they do the measles — once for all. 
 
 1st Monk. Once too often for him. His face is too, 
 too like Abel's in the chap el- window. Ut sis vitalis 
 metuo, puer ! 
 
 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 month while we open ours. 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 197 
 
 2d Monk. Most splendid all, no doubt ? 
 Ger. A garden, sir, 
 
 Wherein all rainbowed flowers were heaped together ; 
 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 father-land 
 Counts worthy of its love. 
 
 1st Monk. 'Twas but her right. 
 
 Who spoke the oration ? 
 
 Ger. Who but Conrad ? 
 
 2d Monk. Well- 
 
 That 's honour 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 
 
198 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACTV 
 
 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 
 
 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 colours 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, 
 Honour and shame — her daring — Heaven's stern guid- 
 ance, 
 Did each the other so outblaze. 
 
 Is* Monk. Great signs 
 
 Did wait on her from youth. 
 
 2d Monk. There went a tale 
 
 Of one, a Zingar wizard, who, on her birthnight, 
 
SCENE I.J the saint's tragedy. 399 
 
 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 
 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 splendour : 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, 
 
200 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 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 ? 
 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 doctors' 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 
 
SCENE I.] the saint's tragedy. 201 
 
 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. 
 
 1st Monk. Well done ! and what said Conrad ? 
 
 Ger. Oh, he smiled, 
 
 As who should say, " 'Twas 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, 
 " 'Twas thus she schooled her soft and shuddering flesh 
 To dare and suffer for you ! — Thus she won 
 The ear of God for you ! " Gay ladies sighed, 
 And stern knights wept, and growled, and wept again. 
 And then he told her alms, her mighty labours, 
 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 
 
202 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 Gained courage, till a shout proclaimed lier 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-odours : 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. 
 
 1st Honk. Oh, fair olive, 
 
 Rich with the Spirit's unction, how thy boughs 
 Rain balsams on us ! 
 
 2 c? Monk. Thou didst sell thine all — 
 And bought'st the priceless pearl ! 
 
 1st Monk. Thou holocaust of Abel 
 
 By Cain in vain despised ! 
 
 2c? 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 ! 
 
 [$"C, $-c, ad libitum. 
 
 Scene II. 
 A Room in a Convent at Mayence. Conrad alone. 
 Con. The work is done ! Diva Elizabeth ! 
 
SCENE II.] the saint's tragedy. 203 
 
 And I have trained one saint before I die ! 
 
 Yet now 'tis 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 ? 
 
 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 
 
204 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 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 1 again? 
 
 What matter what I feel, or like, or fear ? 
 
 Come what G-od 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. [Sleeps. 
 
 [Gerard sings.] 
 
 Qui fugiens mundi gravia, 
 
 Contempsit carnis bravia, 
 
 Cupidinisque somnia, 
 
 Lucratur, perdens, omnia. 
 
 Hunc gestant ulnis angeli, 
 Ne lapis officiat pedi ; 
 
scene il] the saint's tragedy. 205 
 
 Ne luce timor occupet, 
 Aut nocte pestis incubet. 
 
 Huic coeli lilia germinant ; 
 
 Arrisus sponsi permanent ; 
 
 Ac nomen in fidelibus 
 
 Quam filiorum melius. [Sleeps.] 
 
 ****** 
 
 [Conrad aivaking.~\ 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 ! 
 Oh 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 vanitas ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
206 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 How? Gerard; sleeping? 
 
 Couldst thou not watch with me one hour, my son ? 
 
 Ger. [aw airing. ~\ 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 honour) 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 naught 
 
 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'll not tell thee : 
 I have seen more than man can see, and live : 
 God, when He grants the tree of knowledge, bans 
 The luckless seer from off the tree of life, 
 Lest he become as gods; and burst with pride ; 
 
SCENE III.] the saint's tragedy. 207 
 
 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 ! 'Tis 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. 
 
 A road between Eisenach and Marpurg. Peasants waiting by 
 the road-side. Walter of Varila, the Count of Saym, 
 and other Gentlemen, entering on horseback. 
 
 Gent. Talk not of honour — Hell 's a-flame within me : 
 Foul water quenches fire as well as fair ; 
 
208 THE saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT in. 
 
 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 parchments, 
 
 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 knew 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 ha\e lain and worshipped — 
 
 Food for fierce flames ! And on the self same day — 
 
 The day that they were seized — unheard — unargued — 
 
 No witness, but one vile convicted thief — 
 
 The dog is dead and buried : Well done, henchmen ! 
 
 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 forever 
 
 Before the blessed rood, and prayed for me. 
 
 Art sure he comes this road ? 
 
SCENE ill.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 209 
 
 C. Saym. My messenger 
 
 Saw him start forth, and watched him past the cross- 
 ways : 
 An hour will bring him here. 
 
 G. Wal. How ? ambuscading ? 
 
 I'll not sit by, while helpless priests are butchered ; 
 Shame, gentles ! 
 
 G. 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. 
 
 G. Wal. I will not see it ; I'm old, and sick of blood. 
 She loved him, while she lived ; and charged me once, 
 As her sworn liegeman, not to harm the knave. 
 I'll 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. 
 
 G. 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 
 14 
 
210 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 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 swallowed 
 
 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 ! 'Tis a sign, a sign ! 
 
 [A heretic preacher mounts a stone. — Peasants gather round him.] 
 These are 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 unconscious reason 
 Informs to just conclusions. "We will hear them. 
 
 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 after- 
 wards. 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, saith the prophet, 
 ye make a god, and part serveth to roast — to roast the 
 
SCEKEIII.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 211 
 
 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 I 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 
 argument—This man hath shed blood, even Conrad; 
 ergo, as he saith himself, ye, if ye are men, shall shed his 
 blood. Doth he not himself say ergo? 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 convicted out of his own mouth ? Arise there- 
 fore, be valiant-for this day he is delivered into your 
 
 hand ! 
 
 [Chanting heard in the distance^ 
 
 Peasant. Hush ! here the psalm-singers come I 
 [Conrad enters on a mule, chanting the psalter, Gerard following.} 
 Con. My peace with you, my children ! 
 
212 the saint's TRAGEDY. [ACT V. 
 
 1st Voice. Psalm us no psalms ; bless us no devil's 
 blessings : 
 Your balms will break our beads. 
 
 [A murmur rises. 
 
 2d Voice. You are welcome, sir; we are a-waiting 
 for you. 
 
 3d Voice. Has he been shriven to-day ? 
 
 4th Voice. Where is your ergo, Master Conrad ? 
 Faugh ! 
 How both the fellows smell of smoke ! 
 
 6th 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 ! 
 
 4th Voice. We will, we will : why smit'st him not, 
 thou with the pole-axe ? 
 
 3d Voice. Nay, now, the first blow costs most, and 
 heals last : 
 Besides, the dog 's a priest, at worst. 
 
 O. Saym. Mass ! How the shaveling rascal stands at 
 bay ! 
 There 's not a rogue of them dare face his eye ! 
 True Domini canis ! 'Ware the bloodhound's teeth, curs ! 
 
 Preacher. What ! Are ye afraid ? The huntsman 's 
 here at last 
 
SCENE III.] THE saint's tragedy. 213 
 
 Without his whip ! Down with him, craven hounds ! 
 I'll help ye 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 ! 'Tis 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 vengeance 
 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 ACT I. 
 
 The references, unless it be otherwise specified, are to the Eight Books 
 concerning Saint Elizabeth, by Dietrich the Thuringian : in Basn age's 
 Canisius, Vol. IV., p. 113, (Antwerp, 1725.) 
 
 Page 31. 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 ' sanctas indolis,' from the very cradle. 
 
 P. 32. ' St. John's sworn maid.' Cf. Lib. I. § 4. ' She chose by lot 
 for her patron, St. John the protector of virginity.' 
 
 P. 33. ' Fit for my princess.' Cf. Lib. I. § 2. ' He sent with his 
 daughter vessels of gold, silver baths, jewels, pillows all of silk. No 
 such things, so precious or so many, were e/yer seen in Thuringen 
 land.' 
 
 Ibid. ' Most friendless.' Cf. Lib. I. §§ 5, 6. ' The courtiers used 
 bitterly to insult her, &c. Her mother and sister-in-law, given to 
 worldly pomp, differed from her exceedingly ; ' and much more con- 
 cerning ' the persecutions which she endured patiently in youth.' 
 
 P. 34. ' 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 hid 
 den 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 honour 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.' 
 
 P. 35. ' 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. 37. ' The blind archer, Love.' For information about the pagan 
 orientalism of the Troubadours, the blasphemous 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. 39. ' Stadings.' The Stadings, according to Fleury, in A d. 1233, 
 were certain unruly fen-men, who refused to pay tithes, committed 
 
216 NOTES. 
 
 great cruelties on religious of both sexes, worshipped, or were said to 
 worship, a black cat, &c, considered the devil as a very ill-used per- 
 sonage, and the rightful lord of themselves and the world, and were 
 cf the most profligate morals. An impartial and philosophic inves- 
 tigation of this and other early continental heresies, is much wanted. 
 
 P. 52. < All gold.' Cf. Lib. I. § 7. For Walter's interference and 
 Lewis's answer, which I have paraphrased. 
 
 P. 54. ' Is crowned with thorns.' Cf. Lib. I. § 5, for this anecdote 
 and her defence, which I have in like manner paraphrased. 
 
 Ibid. ' Their pardon.' Cf. Lib. I. § 3, for this quaint method of self 
 humiliation. 
 
 P. 55. ' 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. 57. ' 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.' 
 
 Ibid. ' A crystal clear.' Cf. Lib. I. § 7. 
 
 P. 60. ' Our fairest bride.' Cf. Lib. I. § 8. ' No one henceforth 
 dared oppose the marriage by word or plot,' ' and all 
 
 mouths were stopped.' 
 
 NOTES TO ACT II. 
 
 P. 62; p. 64; p. 65; p. 66. Cf. Lib. II. §§ 1, 5, 11, 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 whicli 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 naivete" and 
 deep-hearted sympathy, and have no wish to disgust all my readers 
 with him, I shall give it for the most part untranslated. In the mean 
 time, those who may be shocked at certain 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 now-a-days ally 
 themselves with religion — that the hotbed imaginations which used 
 to batten on Rousseau and Byron, have now risen at least as high as 
 the Viesdes Saints, and St. Francois de Sales' PhilotheaV The truth 
 
NOTES. 217 
 
 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 he fed— by foul 
 means, if not bj r 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 spiritual 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. 
 
 ' Erat inter eos honorabile connubium, et thorus immaculatus, non 
 in ardore libidinis, sed in conjugalis sanctimonias 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 some- 
 times sleeping, sometimes conniving at her, often begging her, in com- 
 passion to her delicacy, not to afflict herself indiscreetly, often sup- 
 porting 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 hus- 
 band of her soul. 
 
 ' Nor certainly was there less faith in the husband who did not 
 oppose such and so great a wife, but rather favoured her, and tem- 
 pered her fervour 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 followed her husband through rough roads, and 
 no small distances, and severe wind and weather, led rather by emo- 
 tions of sincerity than of carnality: for the chaste presence of a modest 
 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 mean time from my couch." | 
 
 ' Fugiebat oblectamenta carnalia, et ideo stratum molliorem, et viri 
 contubernium secretissimum, quantum licuit, declinavit. Quern quamvis 
 prcBcordialis amoris affectu diligeret, querulabatur tamen dolens, quod 
 virginalis decorem floris non meruit conservare. Castigabat etiam plagis 
 multis, et lacerabat diris verberibus carnem puella innocens et pudica. 
 
 ' In principio quidem diebus quadragesimal, sextisque feriis aliis 
 occultas solebat accipere disciplinas, lsetam coram, hominibus se os- 
 tentants. Post verb convalescens et proficiens in gratia, deserto dilecti 
 thoro surgens, fecit se in secreto cubiculo per ancillarum manus gravi 
 
218 NOTES. 
 
 ter sfepissime verberari, ad lectumque mariti reversa hilarem se ex- 
 hibuit et jocundam. 
 
 ' Vere felices conjuges, in quorum consortio tanta munditia, in col- 
 loquio pudicitia reperta est. In quibus amor Christi concupiscentiam 
 extinxit, devotio refrenavit petulantiam, fervor spiritus excussit sonmo- 
 lentiam, oratio tutavit conscientiam, charitas benefaciendi facultatem 
 tribuit et lastitiam ! ' 
 
 P. 79. ' In every scruple,' Cf. Lib. III. § 9, bow Lewis ' consented 
 that Elizabeth his wife should make a vow of obedience and conti- 
 nence at the will of the said Conrad, salvdjure matrimonii.'' 
 
 P. 81. ' The open street.' Cf. Lib. II. § 11. ' On the Kogation 
 days, when certain persons doing contrary to the decrees of the saints 
 are decorated with precious and luxurious garments, the Princess, 
 dressed in serge and barefooted, used to follow most devoutly the Pro- 
 cession 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." ' 
 
 Ibid. ' The poor of Christ.' Cf. Lib. II. §§6, 11, et passim. Eliza- 
 beth's labours 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 quotations. 
 
 P. 83. < I'll 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. 85. ' 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. 89. ' Peaceably come by.' Cf. Lib. II. § 6. 
 
 P. 90. ' Bond slaves.' Cf. Note 11. 
 
 P. 93. ' Elizabeth passes.' Cf. Lib. II. § 5. ' This most Christian 
 mother, impletis purgationis sum 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 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 another biogra- 
 pher.) 
 
 P. 95. ' 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 Alrnaine ; and lasting for nearly two years, destro} r ed 
 many with hunger. Then Elizabeth, 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 desideranti, ad 
 
 mulgendum se prsebuit ! ' — See p. 162. 
 
NOTES. 219 
 
 P. 107. ' Ladies' tenderness.' Cf. Lib. III. § 8. < When the cour 
 tiers and stewards complained on his return of the Lady Elizabeth's 
 too great extravagance in alms-giving, " Let her alone," quoth he, "to 
 do good, and to give whatever she will for God's sake, only keep 
 Wartburg and Neuenburg in my hands." ' 
 
 P. 116. I A crusader's cross.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 1. '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, 
 says Heinrich Stero, in his annals, but having got as far as Sicily, 
 came back again, — misei-ably disappointing and breaking up the expe- 
 dition, whereof the greater part died at the various ports, — and was 
 excommunicated for so doing;) 'and Lewis, landgrave of the Thurin- 
 
 gians, took the cross likewise in the name of Jesus Christ, and 
 
 did not immediately fix the badge which he had received to his gar- 
 ment, as the manner 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. 120. ' 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 wishing to depart without taking leave 
 of them.' 
 
 Then follows Dietrich's only poetic attempt, which Basnage calls a 
 1 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 altoquitur cordis pros dohre, 
 Illis mota viscera, corda tremuerunt, 
 Dum alter in alterius colla irruerunt, 
 JExpetentes oscula, quce vix receperunt 
 Propter multiiudines, quce eos compresserunt. 
 Mater tenensjilium, 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 altemari vultus. 
 Flebant omnes pariter, senex et adultus, 
 Turbse cum militibus, cultus et incultus. 
 Eja ! Quis non plangeret, cum videret Jlentes 
 Tot honestos nohles, tarn diversas gentes, 
 Cum Thuringis Saxones illuc venientes, 
 TJt viderent socios suos abscedentes. 
 
220 NOTES. 
 
 Amico luctamine cuncti certavere, 
 Quis eum diutius posset retinere ; 
 Quidam collo brachiis, quidam inhcesere x 
 Vestibus, nee poterat cuiquam respondere. 
 Tandem se de manibus eximens suorem 
 Magnatorum socius et peregrinorum, 
 Admixtus tandem coztui cruce signatorum 
 Non visurus amplius terrain Thuringorum I 
 
 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 pro- 
 fessional 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, ' mounting his 
 
 horse with many knights, &c about the end of the 
 
 month of June, set forth in the name of the Lord, praising 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 journey; 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 ex- 
 hortations of Rudolf the Cupbearer. What groans, think you, what 
 sobs, what struggles, what yearnings of the heart must there have 
 
 been ? Yet they part, and go on their way The Lord 
 
 went forth exulting, as a giant to run his course; the Lady returned 
 lamenting, as a widow, and teai-s were on her cheeks. Then putting 
 off the garments of joy, she took the dress of widowhood. The mis- 
 tress 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 daugh- 
 ter, 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.' 
 
 NOTES TO ACT III. 
 
 P. 125. ' 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 watchings, genuflexions, prayers, and disci- 
 plines.' And again, Lib. IV. § 3, just quoted. 
 
 P. 127. ' The will of God.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 6. ' The mother-in-law 
 said to her daughter-in-law, " Be brave, my beloved daughter; nor be 
 disturbed at that which hath happened by divine ordinance to thy 
 husband, my son." Whereto she answered boldly, "If my brother is 
 
NOTES. 221 
 
 captive, he can be freed by the help of God and our friends." " He is 
 dead," quoth the other. Then she, clasping her hands upon her knees, 
 " The world is dead to me, and all that is pleasant in the world." 
 Having said this, suddenly springing up with tears, she rushed swiftly 
 through the whole length of the palace, and being entirely beside 
 herself, would have run on to the world's end, usque quaque, if a wall 
 had not stopped her; and others coming up, led her away from the 
 wall to which she had clung.' 
 
 , P. 128. ' 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 crossing the court dressed only 
 in his gown and slippers, he met this lion loose and raging against 
 him. He thereon threatened 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. 
 
 P. 132; p. 138. Cf. Lib. IV. § 7. 
 
 ' Now shortly after the news of Lewis's death, certain vassals 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 
 
 annoyances and spite. She therefore bade them farewell, saying, " I 
 would willingly thank mankind, if they would give me any reason 
 for so doing." So she returned to her former filthy cell.' 
 
 P. 133. 'White as whales' bone,' (i.e. the tooth of the narwhal;) a 
 common simile in the older poets. 
 
 P. 139. ' The nuns of Kitzingen.' Cf. Lib. V. § 1. ' After this, the 
 noble Lady the Abbess of Kitzingen, Elizabeth's aunt according to 
 the flesh, brought her away honourably to Eckembert, Lord Bishop 
 of Bamberg.' 
 
 P. 141. ' Aged crone.' Cf. Lib. IV. where this whole story is 
 related word for word. 
 
 P. 145. 'I'd mar this face.' Cf. Lib. V. § 1. '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 loath me when so foully 
 disfigured.' 
 
 P. 147. ' Botenstain.' Cf. ibid. ' The Bishop commanded that she 
 should be taken to Botenstain with her maids, until he should give 
 her away in marriage.' 
 
 Ibid. ' Bear children.' Ibid. ' The venerable man, knowing that 
 the apostle says, " I will that the younger widows marry, and bear 
 
222 NOTES. 
 
 children," thought of giving her in marriage to some one — an inten 
 tion which she perceived. And protested on the strength of her 
 " votum continentia." ' 
 
 P. 150. ' The tented field.' All records of the worthy Bishop on 
 which I have fallen, describe him as ' virum militia strenuissiraum,' 
 — 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, destroy- 
 ing 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 keep- 
 ing that Lent in durance vile. In a.d. 1237, he was left by the Em- 
 peror as ' vir magnanimus et bellicosus,' in charge of Austria, 
 during the troubles with Duke Frederick ; and died in 1240. 
 
 P. 152. ' Lewis's bones.' Cf. Lib. V. § 3. 
 
 P. 156. ' 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.) 
 
 P. 157. ' The close hard by.' Cf. Lib. V. § 4. 
 
 NOTES TO ACT IV. 
 
 P. 158. ' Your self-imposed vows.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 1. ' 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," 
 all pomps of this kind (a misprint, one hopes, for mundi), in imitation 
 of Christ; and "omnino se exuit et nudavit," stripped herself utterly 
 naked, to follow Him naked, in the steps of poverty.' 
 
 P. 162. ' All worldly goods.' A paraphrase of her own words. 
 
 P. 163. ' Thine own needs.' ' But when she was going to renounce 
 her possessions also, the prudent Conrad stopped her.' The reflec- 
 tions which follow are Dietrich's own. 
 
 P. 164. ' The likeness of the fiend,' &c. 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 Con- 
 rad—the Romish Saint alone carries it honestly out into practice. 
 
NOTES. 223 
 
 P. 166. ' With pine boughs.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 2. ' Entering 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 Mar- 
 
 purg, was built for her a humble cottage of clay and timber.' 
 
 Ibid. ' Count Pama.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 6. 
 
 P. 168. ' 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, and therefore drove 
 
 from her all those of her former household in whom she used to solace 
 or delight herself. 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 clinging to God 
 alone.' 
 
 P. 168. < A leprous boy.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 8. 
 
 She had several of these proteges, successively, whose diseases are 
 too disgusting to be specified, on Avhom she lavished the most menial 
 cares. All the other stories of her benevolence which occur in these 
 two pages are related by Dietrich. 
 
 P. 169. ' 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 ardour 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. 171. ' Lands and titles.' Cf. Lib. V. §§ 7, 8. 
 
 P. 172. ' Spinning wool.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 6. ' And crossing himself 
 for wonder, the Count Pama cried out and. said, " Was it ever seen to 
 this clay that a king's daughter should spin wool ? " " All his messages 
 from her father," says Dietrich, " were of no avail." ' 
 
 P. 178. ' 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, fre- 
 quently reported her to her master for having transgressed her obe- 
 dience, 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. 180. ' That she dared not.' Cf. Lib. VII. § 4. ' When her most 
 intimate friends, Isentrudis and Guta,' (whom another account de 
 scribes as in great poverty,) 'came to see her, she dared not give 
 them any thing, even for food, nor, without special license, salute 
 them.' 
 
 Ibid. ' 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 
 
224 NOTES. 
 
 on your own food 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." ' 
 
 P. 180. ' Even on her bed.' Cf. Lib. VI. §§ 5, 6. 
 
 P. 182. « 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 suf- 
 fer; 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 in- 
 voked 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 conspiracy against her, is worthy 
 notice. ' Reginam occidere nolile timer e bonum est. Si omnes consentiunt 
 ego non contradico.'' To be read as a full consent, or as a flat refusal, 
 according to the success of the plot. 
 
 P. 184. ' Any living soul.' Dietrich has much on this point, headed, 
 ' How master Conrad exercised Saint Elizabeth in the bi'eaking of her 
 
 own will And at last forbad her entirely to give alms; 
 
 whereon she employed herself in washing lepers and other infirm folk. 
 In the mean time she was languishing, and inwardly tortured with 
 emotions of compassion.' 
 
 I may here say, that in representing Elizabeth's early death as ac- 
 celerated by a ' broken heart,' I have, I believe, told the truth, though 
 I find no hint of any thing of the kind in Dietrich. The religious public 
 of a petty town in the 13th century, round the death-bed of a royal 
 saint, would of course treasure up most carefully all incidents con- 
 nected with her latter days; but they would hardly record sentiments 
 or expressions 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 make both her life and her 
 tomb miraculous. I have composed 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. 186. ' Eructate sweet doctrine.' The expressions are Dietrich's 
 own. 
 
 Ibid. « In her coffin yet.' Cf. Lib. VHI. § 1. 
 
 P. 187. ' So she said.' Cf. ibid. 
 
 Ibid. ' The poor of Christ.' ' She begged her master to distribute 
 all to the pooi', except a worthless tunic in which she wished to be 
 buried. She made no will: she would have no heir besides Christ,' 
 (i. e. the poor.) 
 
 P. 188. « Martha and their brother,' &c. 
 
 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 
 
NOTES. 225 
 
 sitting by her side, heard in her throat a very sweet sound, ...... 
 
 and saying, " Oh, my mistress, how sweetly thou didst sing! " she an- 
 swered, "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." ' 
 
 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," &c. 
 Having said this she was silent. A wonderful thing. Then most 
 sweet voices were heard in her throat, without 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 herself heard the harmony of the heavenly hosts, &c. &c." 
 
 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 bystanders, 
 " 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 the 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 Mon- 
 tanus in her name,) " are the venerable mysteries of our faith, our rich- 
 est 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. 191. ' 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 valour of their 
 
 faith, tore off the hair of her head, and the nails of her fingers, (" even 
 the tips of her ears, ei mamillarum papillas," says untranslatably Mon- 
 tanus 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. 
 
 15 
 
226 NOTES. 
 
 P. 192. ' 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 af- 
 fections of mind towards God, and inflamed in spirit with most divine 
 utterances and conversations, at length she rested from jubilating, and 
 inclining her head as if falling into a sweet sleep, expired.' 
 
 NOTES TO ACT V. 
 
 P. 193. ' 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, collected, and pressed on the notice of the Arch- 
 bishop of Maintz, the miraculous statements necessary for that honour. 
 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 Eomish Christendom, and is the very cul- 
 mination of the whole story, or relinquish my only opportunity of 
 doing Conrad justice, by exhibiting the remaining side of his char- 
 acter. 
 
 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 have only corroborated the moral of my poem, supposing that 
 there is one. But I was fettered by the poverty of my own imagina- 
 tion, and ' do manus lectoribus.' 
 
 P. 194. ' Third Minors.' The order of the Third Minors of St. 
 Francis of Assisi, was an invention of the comprehensive mind of that 
 truly great man, by which ' Avorldlings ' were enabled to participate 
 in the spiritual advantages of the Franciscan rule and discipline, with 
 out 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 perse- 
 cuted, and all but exterminated, by the jealousy of the Eegular 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. 195. ' Lest he fall.' Cf. Fleury Eccl Annals, in Anno 1233. 
 ' Doctor Conrad of Marpurg, the King Henry, son of the Emperor 
 Frederick, &c, called an assembly at Mayence to examine persons 
 accused as heretics. Among whom the Count of Saym demanded a 
 delay to justify himself. As for the others who did not appear, Con- 
 rad gave the cross to those who would take up ai-rns 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 precipi- 
 tation in his judgments, and of having burned irop legerement under 
 
NOTES. 227 
 
 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. 197. ' The Kaiser.' Cf. Lib. VIH § 12, for a list of the worthies 
 present. 
 
 P. 198. ' A Zingar wizard.' Cf. Lib. I. § 1. 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, &c, &c, " 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 Helden-buch. ) 
 
 ' 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 litera- 
 ture, 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 introduced 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 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 a 
 few 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. 199. ' 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 Surias, 
 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.) 
 
 Ibid. ' Sainthood's palm.' Cf. Lib. VIH. _§§ 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, (i. e. miracles,) two altars were built in her praise in that 
 chapel, which while Siegfried, Archbishop of Mayence, was consecrat- 
 ing, 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 
 
228 NOTES. 
 
 Archbishop and faithfully prove their assertions by witnesses. 
 
 . . . Then the Most Holy Father, Pope Gregory the Ninth, 
 
 having made diligent 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 ordaining, his clemency dis- 
 posing, 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 how the 
 corpse when exposed diffused round a miraculous fragrance.' ) 
 
 § 11. '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 obla- 
 tions.' 
 
 § 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 honoured by the dignity of the 
 Pontifical office, and the reverent care of Imperial Majesty. And 
 she avIio, 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 countenance,) 
 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 eternity.' 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 making 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 departure 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 meritis," as a reward for 
 her holy deeds, remedies are conferred. Also, to all diseases, neces- 
 sities, and dangers, assistance is given. And, moreover, by the many 
 corpses, " puta sedecim" say sixteen, wonderfully raised to life by her 
 self, becomes known to the faithful the magnificence of the virtues 
 of the Most High glorifying His saint. To that Most High be glory 
 and honour forever. Amen.' 
 
 So ends Dietrich's story. 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. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 229 
 
 P. 200. ' Gallant gentleman.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 6. 
 
 P. 202. ' Took the crown.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 12. 
 
 Ibid. The 'olive' and the 'pearl' are Dietrich's own figures. 
 The others follow the method of scriptural interpretation, usual in the 
 writers of that age. 
 
 P. 212. ' Domini canes,' ' The Lord's hounds,' a punning sobriquet 
 of the Dominican inquisitors, in allusion to their profession. 
 
 P. 214. ' Folquet,' Bishop of 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 his chief abettor, the 
 infamous Simon de Montfort. He died a.d. 1231. See Sismondi, 
 Lit. of Southern Europe, Cap. VI. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 " 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 wi' foam, 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 ii. 
 
 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. 
 
234: THE SANDS OF DEE. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Oh ! " is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
 A tress o' 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." 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 ! 
 
THE THREE FISHERS. 
 
 Three fishers went sailing out into the "West, 
 Out into 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 harbour bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the light-house 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 harbour 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 
 For those who will never come back 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. 
 
WEARILY STRETCHES THE SAND. 
 
 * * # * * * * * 
 
 Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge 
 
 to the cloudland ; 
 Wearily onward I ride, watching the wild wave alone. 
 Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, icvdeZ yatov, 
 Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour 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 ? 
 Green leaves would fret me with beauty ; my heart has 
 
 no time to bepraise them ; 
 Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud — these wake 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. 
 
WEAHILY STRETCHES THE SAND. 237 
 
 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. 
 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. 
 ## * *** * * 
 
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 awhile. 
 
 She lay among the myrtles on the cliff ; 
 
 Amd 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-channel'd 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, 
 
sappho. 239 
 
 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 
 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." 
 
A MYTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 A floating, a floating 
 Across the sleeping sea, 
 All night I heard a singing bird 
 Upon the topmast tree. 
 
 ii. 
 " Oh came you from the isles of Greece 
 Or from the banks of Seine ; 
 Or off some tree in forests free, 
 Which fringe the western main ? " 
 
 in. 
 " 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." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Oh sing and wake the dawning — 
 Oh whistle for the wind ; 
 The night is long, the current strong, 
 My boat it lags behind." 
 
 v. 
 
 " 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." 
 
THE ANGLER'S QUESTIONS. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE WORD'S ANSWER. 
 
 " Oh green is the colour of faith and truth, 
 And rose the colour of love and youth, 
 And brown 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." 
 16 
 
THE DEAD CHURCH. 
 
 i. 
 
 Wild, wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing ? 
 
 Dark, dark night, wilt thou never wear away ? 
 
 Cold, cold church, in thy death sleep lying, 
 
 Thy Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter- 
 day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sigh- 
 ing ; 
 
 Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain ; 
 
 Weep, dear Lord, where thy bride is lying ; 
 
 Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health 
 again. 
 
A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG. 
 
 i. 
 
 The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing 
 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." 
 
 II. 
 
 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 to live yet for thee." 
 
THERE SITS A BIED. 
 
 There sits a bird on every tree, 
 
 With a heigh-ho ! 
 There sits a bird on every tree, 
 Sings to his love, as I to thee, 
 
 With a heigh-ho, and a heigh-ho ! 
 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 There grows a flower on every bough, 
 
 With a heigh-ho ! 
 There grows a flower on every bough, 
 Its gay leaves kiss — I'll show you how : 
 
 With a heigh-ho, and a heigh-ho ! 
 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 The sun 's a bridegroom, earth a bride ; 
 
 With a heigh-ho ! 
 The sun 's a bridegroom, earth a bride ; 
 They court from morn to eventide : 
 The earth shall pass, but love abide. 
 
 With a heigh-ho, and a heigh-ho ! 
 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
TWIN STARS ALOFT. 
 
 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, 
 Shall, hand in hand, pursue our way ; 
 
 Shed round us order, love, and light, 
 And shine unto the perfect day. 
 
YOUNG MARY. 
 
 Young Mary walked sadly down through the green clover, 
 And sighed as she looked at the babe at her breast ; 
 
 " My roses are faded, my false love a rover, 
 
 The green graves they call me, ' Come home to your 
 rest.' " 
 
 Then by rode a soldier in gorgeous arraying, 
 
 And " where is your bride-ring, my fair maid ! " he 
 cried ; 
 
 " I ne'er had a bride-ring, by false man's betraying, 
 Nor token of love but this babe at my side. 
 
 " Tho' gold could not buy me, sweet words could deceive 
 me; 
 
 So faithful and lonely till death I must roam." 
 " O Mary, sweet Mary, look up and forgive me, 
 
 "With wealth and with glory your true love comes home. 
 
 " So give my own babe, those soft arms adorning, 
 I'll wed you and cherish you, never to stray ; 
 
 For it 's many a dark and a wild cloudy morning 
 Turns out by the noon-time a sunshiny clay." 
 
THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING. 
 
 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 my baby in his cradle in the churchyard 
 
 Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 
 
EPICEDIUM ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 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 honour falls to such as we 
 From hearts of heroes yet unborn. 
 
EPICEDIUM. 249 
 
 Who in the blaze of riper day 
 Of purer science, holier laws, 
 Bless us, faint heralds of their cause, 
 Dim beacons of their glorious way. 
 
 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 ? 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 It chanced upon the merry, merry Christmas eve 
 
 I went sighing past the church, across the moorland 
 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 
 hi vain, 
 Till the earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christ- 
 mas bells be cheery." 
 
 Then arose a joyous clamour 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. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 251 
 
 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." 
 
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 — 
 Follow them, hark to them, darlings ! as on they go, 
 Leaping and sweeping down into 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 louder the world-echoes cheer us : 
 Gentlemen, sportsmen, you ought to live up to us, 
 Lift us and lead us, and hallo our game to us — 
 We cannot take the hounds off, and no shame to us — 
 Don't be left staring alone ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 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 for thee ! 
 
 Ask if I love thee ? How else could I borrow 
 Pride from man's calumny, strength from thy sorrow ? 
 Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride 
 Knowing no bliss, save to toil and to bide 
 Weeping for thee ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 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. 
 
THE UGLY PRINCESS. 
 
 i. 
 
 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. 
 
 ii. 
 
 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 They little know what dreams have been 
 My playmates, night and day ; 
 
 Of equal kindness, helpful care, 
 A mother's perfect sway. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
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, — 
 
 The iron homes of iron-hearted lords, 
 
 Now crumbling back to ruin year by year, — 
 
 Because the ancient eyrie of his race 
 
 Is trenched and walled by busy-handed men, 
 
 And all his forest-chace and woodland wild, 
 
 Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe, 
 
 Are trim with grapes, which swell from hour to hour 
 
 And toss 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 love 
 
 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. 
 
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. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 17 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 A. D. 415. 
 
 Over the camp-fires 
 Drank I with heroes, 
 Under the Donau bank 
 Warm in the snow-trench t 
 Sagamen heard I there, 
 Men of the Longbeards, 
 Cunning and ancient, 
 Honey-sweet-voiced. 
 Scaring the wolf cub, 
 Scaring the horn-owl out, 
 Shaking the snow-wreaths 
 Down from the pine-boughs, 
 Up to the star-roof 
 Hang out their song. 
 Singing how Winil men, 
 Over the ice-floes 
 Sledging from Scanland on 
 Came unto Scoring ; 
 Singing of Gambara 
 
260 a. d. 415. 
 
 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, 
 
 Clothyarn, and rings, and beeves ; 
 
 Else at the raven's meal 
 
 Bide the sharp bill's doom." 
 
 Clutching the dwarf's 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 of heart stalked they : 
 Loud wept the women all, 
 Loud wept the Alruna wife ; 
 Sore was their need. 
 
 Out of the morning land, 
 Over the snow-drifts, 
 Beautiful Freya came, 
 Tripping to Scoring. 
 
a. d. 415. 261 
 
 White were the moorlands 
 
 And frozen before her ; 
 
 But green were the moorlands, 
 
 And blooming behind her, 
 
 Out of her golden 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, 
 
 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 ; 
 
 While their mothers, thrall-weary, 
 
 Must grind for the Wendels." 
 
262 A. d. 415. 
 
 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 it 
 
 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 out 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 : — 
 
 " Who then shall greet him ? 
 
 Women alone are here : 
 
 Far on the moorlands 
 
 Behind the war-lindens, 
 
a. d. 415. 203 
 
 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. 
 
264 a. d. 415. 
 
 " Who are these heroes tall, — 
 Lusty-limbed Longbeards ? 
 Over the swans' bath 
 Why cry they to me ? 
 Bones should be crashing fast, 
 Wolves should be full-fed, 
 Where'er 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. 
 
a. d. 415. 265 
 
 " Cunning are women all, 
 Bold and importunate ! 
 Longbeards their name shall be, 
 Ravens shall thank them : 
 Where the women are heroes, 
 What must the men be like ? 
 Theirs is the victory; 
 No need of me ! " * 
 
 * This punning legend may be seen in Paul Warnefrid's Gesta 
 Langobardorum. Unfortunately, however, for the story, Langbardr 
 is said by the learned to have nothing to do with beards at all, but 
 probably to mean " Longswords." The metre and language are 
 intended as imitations of those of the earlier Eddaic poems. 
 
A. D. 1100. 
 
 Evil sped the battle play- 
 On the Pope Calixtus' day, 
 Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords, 
 In Sangelac 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 pinion, moults its crest. 
 Let us call the Swan-neck here, 
 She that was his lemman dear, 
 She shall know him in his stound ; 
 Foot of colt, and scent of hound, 
 Eye of hawk, and wing of dove, 
 Carry woman to her love." 
 
a. d. 1100. 267 
 
 Up and spake the Swan-neck high, 
 " Go ! to all your thanes, let cry- 
 How I loved him best of all, 
 -I whom men his lemman call ; 
 Better knew his body fair 
 Than the mother, which him bare. 
 When ye lived in health 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 armes 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 forever ; 
 Angels all from thrall deliver ; 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
A. D. 1400. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was Earl Haldan's daughter 
 She look'd across the sea ; 
 She look'd across the water, 
 And long and loud laugh'd she : 
 " The locks of six princesses 
 Must be my marriage-fee, 
 So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! 
 Who comes a-wooing me ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 It was Earl Haldan's daughter, 
 She walked along the sand ; 
 When she was aware of a knight so fair, 
 Come 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 ? " 
 
 ni. 
 
 " The locks of five princesses 
 I won beyond the sea ; 
 I shore their golden tresses, 
 To fringe a cloak for thee. 
 
a. d. 1400. 2G9 
 
 One handfull jet is wanting, 
 But one of all the tale ; 
 So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! 
 Furl up thy velvet sail ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 He leapt into the water, 
 That rover young and bold ; 
 He gript Earl Haldan's daughter, 
 He shore 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, and away ! " 
 
A. D. 1500. 
 
 Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's 
 
 trade, 
 To bow my back in miry fallows, over plow 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'll die by 
 
 sword. 
 
 Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, 
 Scrabbling over sheets o' parchment with a weery, weery 
 
 pen, 
 Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow 
 
 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. 
 
a. d. 1500. 271 
 
 Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian 
 
 bands, 
 Pining weery months in castles, looking over wasted lands, 
 Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome 
 
 sights o' war — 
 There 's blood on my hand enough, 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 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 on the open 
 
 fell; 
 And so it was that I got the heart to wander far and 
 
 neer, 
 Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonny 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 fells are free 
 
1272 a. d. 1500. 
 
 To a knight that carries hawk and spurs, and a hind 
 like me. 
 
 So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the 
 
 deer ; 
 Ranging far fra frowning faces, and the douce folk here ; 
 Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping madly 
 
 down the screes, 
 Speering out fra' 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, ringing round 
 
 the sky ! — 
 That 's a bonnier life than stumbling owr'e the muck to 
 
 hog and kye. 
 
 And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my 
 
 deer, 
 Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws to dangle 
 
 in the air ; 
 But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal 
 
 me fra the tree, 
 And bury me up on the brown, brown muirs, where I 
 
 aye loved to be. 
 
 Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far 
 away, 
 
A. D. 1500. 
 
 273 
 
 Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great 
 
 harts bray ; 
 And if my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll sit glowering at 
 
 the sky, 
 The live long night on the black hill sides where the dun 
 
 deer lie. 
 
 18 
 
A. D. 1580. 
 
 Ah tyrant Love, Megsera'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 dragon's teeth alone 
 
 In Venus' lawns by lovers' hands be sown ? 
 Nay, gentlest Cupid ; 'twas my pride unbid 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 ; 
 Forever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel 
 
 On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel. 
 
A. D. 1740. 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards 
 
 of plate and gold, 
 Which he wrung by cruel tortures from the Indian folk 
 
 of old ; 
 Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as 
 
 stone, 
 Which flog men and keel-haul them and starve them to 
 
 the bone. 
 
276 a. d. 1740. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 v. 
 
 Oh sweet it was in Aves 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 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. 
 
a. d. 1740. 277 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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. 
 
A. D. 1848. 
 
 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 
 
a. d. 1848. 279 
 
 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 labourer's wife. 
 
 e> 
 
 A labourer 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 pointers' feet ; 
 
 There 's blood on the game you sell, squire, 
 And there 's blood on the game you eat. 
 
 You have sold the labouring-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 ; 
 
280 a. d. 1848. 
 
 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 cursed 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 ? 
 
 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 repaid us by penny-club rules. 
 
a. d. 1848. 281 
 
 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 daughters' 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 hi 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. 
 
 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. 
 
PEOPLE'S SONG, 1849. 
 
 I. 
 
 Weep, weep, weep and weep, 
 For pauper, dolt, and slave ! 
 Hark from wasted moor and fen, 
 Feverous alley, workhouse den, 
 Swells the wail of Saxon men — 
 Work ! or the grave ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 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 our warrant ! 
 
 in. 
 
 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 ? 
 
THE DAY OF THE LORD. 
 
 The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand ! 
 
 Its storms roll up the sky : 
 A nation sleeps starving on heaps of gold; 
 
 All dreamers toss and sigh ; 
 The night is darkest before the dawn — 
 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 ! 
 Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves, 
 Crawl to the battle-field — sneak to your graves, 
 In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
284 THE DAT OP THE LORD. 
 
 Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 
 While the Lord of all ages is here ? 
 
 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. 
 
Boston, 135 Washington Stkeet, 
 April, 1856. 
 
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