PART THREE

THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES

JOHN ENDICOTT

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

JOHN ENDICOTT Governor. JOHN ENDICOTT His son. RICHARD BELLINGHAM Deputy Governor. JOHN NORTON Minister of the Gospel. EDWARD BUTTER Treasurer. WALTER MERRY Tithing-man. NICHOLAS UPSALL An old citizen. SAMUEL COLE Landlord of the Three Mariners.

SIMON KEMPTHORN RALPH GOLDSMITH Sea-Captains.

WENLOCK CHRISTISON EDITH, his daughter EDWARD WHARTON Quakers Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, etc.

The Scene is in Boston in the year 1665.

PROLOGUE.

To-night we strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest; And bring to light, upon the blotted page, The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.

Rise, then, O buried city that hast been; Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, And let our curious eyes behold once more The pointed gable and the pent-house door, The Meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes, The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!

Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last; Let us behold your faces, let us hear The words ye uttered in those days of fear Revisit your familiar haunts again,-- The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet Once more upon the pavement of the street!

Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, If he perchance misdate the day or year, And group events together, by his art, That in the Chronicles lie far apart; For as the double stars, though sundered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star, So facts of history, at a distance seen, Into one common point of light convene.

"Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end? Why drag again into the light of day The errors of an age long passed away?" I answer: "For the lessons that they teach: The tolerance of opinion and of speech. Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,--these three; And greatest of them all is Charity."

Let us remember, if these words be true, That unto all men Charity is due; Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame, Lest we become copartners in the shame, Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake, And persecute the dead for conscience' sake.

Therefore it is the author seeks and strives To represent the dead as in their lives, And lets at times his characters unfold Their thoughts in their own language, strong and bold; He only asks of you to do the like; To hear hint first, and, if you will, then strike.

## ACT I.

## SCENE I. -- Sunday afternoon. The interior of the Meeting-house.

On the pulpit, an hour-glass; below, a box for contributions. JOHN NORTON in the pulpit. GOVERNOR ENDICOTT in a canopied seat, attended by four halberdiers. The congregation singing.

The Lord descended from above, And bowed the heavens high; And underneath his feet He cast The darkness of the sky.

On Cherubim and Seraphim Right royally He rode, And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad.

NORTON (rising and turning the hourglass on the pulpit). I heard a great voice from the temple saying Unto the Seven Angels, Go your ways; Pour out the vials of the wrath of God Upon the earth. And the First Angel went And poured his vial on the earth; and straight There fell a noisome and a grievous sore On them which had the birth-mark of the Beast, And them which worshipped and adored his image. On us hath fallen this grievous pestilence. There is a sense of terror in the air; And apparitions of things horrible Are seen by many; from the sky above us The stars fall; and beneath us the earth quakes! The sound of drums at midnight from afar, The sound of horsemen riding to and fro, As if the gates of the invisible world Were opened, and the dead came forth to warn us,-- All these are omens of some dire disaster Impending over us, and soon to fall, Moreover, in the language of the Prophet, Death is again come up into our windows, To cut off little children from without, And young men from the streets. And in the midst Of all these supernatural threats and warnings Doth Heresy uplift its horrid head; A vision of Sin more awful and appalling Than any phantasm, ghost, or apparition, As arguing and portending some enlargement Of the mysterious Power of Darkness!

EDITH, barefooted, and clad in sackcloth, with her hair hanging loose upon her shoulders, walks slowly up the aisle, followed by WHARTON and other Quakers. The congregation starts up in confusion.

EDITH (to NORTON, raising her hand). Peace!

NORTON. Anathema maranatha! The Lord cometh!

EDITH. Yea, verily He cometh, and shall judge The shepherds of Israel who do feed themselves, And leave their flocks to eat what they have trodden Beneath their feet.

NORTON. Be silent, babbling woman! St. Paul commands all women to keep silence Within the churches.

EDITH. Yet the women prayed And prophesied at Corinth in his day; And, among those on whom the fiery tongues Of Pentecost descended, some were women!

NORTON. The Elders of the Churches, by our law, Alone have power to open the doors of speech And silence in the Assembly. I command you!

EDITH. The law of God is greater than your laws! Ye build your church with blood, your town with crime; The heads thereof give judgment for reward; The priests thereof teach only for their hire; Your laws condemn the innocent to death; And against this I bear my testimony!

NORTON. What testimony?

EDITH. That of the Holy Spirit, Which, as your Calvin says, surpasseth reason.

NORTON. The laborer is worthy of his hire.

EDITH. Yet our great Master did not teach for hire, And the Apostles without purse or scrip Went forth to do his work. Behold this box Beneath thy pulpit. Is it for the poor? Thou canst not answer. It is for the Priest And against this I bear my testimony.

NORTON. Away with all these Heretics and Quakers! Quakers, forsooth! Because a quaking fell On Daniel, at beholding of the Vision, Must ye needs shake and quake? Because Isaiah Went stripped and barefoot, must ye wail and howl? Must ye go stripped and naked? must ye make A wailing like the dragons, and a mourning As of the owls? Ye verify the adage That Satan is God's ape! Away with them!

Tumult. The Quakers are driven out with violence, EDITH following slowly. The congregation retires in confusion.

Thus freely do the Reprobates commit Such measure of iniquity as fits them For the intended measure of God's wrath And even in violating God's commands Are they fulfilling the divine decree! The will of man is but an instrument Disposed and predetermined to its action According unto the decree of God, Being as much subordinate thereto As is the axe unto the hewer's hand!

He descends from the pulpit, and joins GOVERNOR ENDICOTT, who comes forward to meet him.

The omens and the wonders of the time, Famine, and fire, and shipwreck, and disease, The blast of corn, the death of our young men, Our sufferings in all precious, pleasant things, Are manifestations of the wrath divine, Signs of God's controversy with New England. These emissaries of the Evil One, These servants and ambassadors of Satan, Are but commissioned executioners Of God's vindictive and deserved displeasure. We must receive them as the Roman Bishop Once received Attila, saying, I rejoice You have come safe, whom I esteem to be The scourge of God, sent to chastise his people. This very heresy, perchance, may serve The purposes of God to some good end. With you I leave it; but do not neglect The holy tactics of the civil sword.

ENDICOTT. And what more can be done?

NORTON. The hand that cut The Red Cross from the colors of the king Can cut the red heart from this heresy. Fear not. All blasphemies immediate And heresies turbulent must be suppressed By civil power.

ENDICOTT. But in what way suppressed?

NORTON. The Book of Deuteronomy declares That if thy son, thy daughter, or thy wife, Ay, or the friend which is as thine own soul, Entice thee secretly, and say to thee, Let us serve other gods, then shalt thine eye Not pity him, but thou shalt surely kill him, And thine own hand shall be the first upon him To slay him.

ENDICOTT. Four already have been slain; And others banished upon pain of death. But they come back again to meet their doom, Bringing the linen for their winding-sheets. We must not go too far. In truth, I shrink From shedding of more blood. The people murmur At our severity.

NORTON. Then let them murmur! Truth is relentless; justice never wavers; The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy; The noble order of the Magistracy Cometh immediately from God, and yet This noble order of the Magistracy Is by these Heretics despised and outraged.

ENDICOTT. To-night they sleep in prison. If they die, They cannot say that we have caused their death. We do but guard the passage, with the sword Pointed towards them; if they dash upon it, Their blood will be on their own heads, not ours.

NORTON. Enough. I ask no more. My predecessor Coped only with the milder heresies Of Antinomians and of Anabaptists. He was not born to wrestle with these fiends. Chrysostom in his pulpit; Augustine In disputation; Timothy in his house! The lantern of St. Botolph's ceased to burn When from the portals of that church he came To be a burning and a shining light Here in the wilderness. And, as he lay On his death-bed, he saw me in a vision Ride on a snow-white horse into this town. His vision was prophetic; thus I came, A terror to the impenitent, and Death On the pale horse of the Apocalypse To all the accursed race of Heretics! [Exeunt.

## SCENE II. -- A street. On one side, NICHOLAS UPSALL's house; on

the other, WALTER MERRY's, with a flock of pigeons on the roof. UPSALL seated in the porch of his house.

UPSALL. O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair, How welcome to the weary and the old! Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares! Day of the Lord, as all our days should be! Ah, why will man by his austerities Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, And make of thee a dungeon of despair!

WALTER MERRY (entering and looking round him). All silent as a graveyard! No one stirring; No footfall in the street, no sound of voices! By righteous punishment and perseverance, And perseverance in that punishment, At last I have brought this contumacious town To strict observance of the Sabbath day. Those wanton gospellers, the pigeons yonder, Are now the only Sabbath-breakers left. I cannot put them down. As if to taunt me, They gather every Sabbath afternoon In noisy congregation on my roof, Billing and cooing. Whir! take that, ye Quakers.

Throws a stone at the pigeons. Sees UPSALL.

Ah! Master Nicholas!

UPSALL. Good afternoon, Dear neighbor Walter.

MERRY. Master Nicholas, You have to-day withdrawn yourself from meeting.

UPSALL. Yea, I have chosen rather to worship God Sitting in silence here at my own door.

MERRY. Worship the Devil! You this day have broken Three of our strictest laws. First, by abstaining From public worship. Secondly, by walking Profanely on the Sabbath.

UPSALL. Not one step. I have been sitting still here, seeing the pigeons Feed in the street and fly about the roofs.

MERRY. You have been in the street with other intent Than going to and from the Meeting-house. And, thirdly, you are harboring Quakers here. I am amazed!

UPSALL. Men sometimes, it is said, Entertain angels unawares.

MERRY. Nice angels! Angels in broad-brimmed hats and russet cloaks, The color of the Devil's nutting-bag. They came Into the Meeting-house this afternoon More in the shape of devils than of angels. The women screamed and fainted; and the boys Made such an uproar in the gallery I could not keep them quiet.

UPSALL. Neighbor Walter, Your persecution is of no avail.

MERRY. 'T is prosecution, as the Governor says, Not persecution.

UPSALL. Well, your prosecution; Your hangings do no good.

MERRY. The reason is, We do not hang enough. But, mark my words, We'll scour them; yea, I warrant ye, we'll scour them! And now go in and entertain your angels, And don't be seen here in the street again Till after sundown! There they are again!

Exit UPSALL. MERRY throws another stone at the pigeons, and then goes into his house.

## SCENE III. -- A room in UPSALL'S house. Night. EDITH, WHARTON,

and other Quakers seated at a table. UPSALL seated near them, Several books on the table.

WHARTON. William and Marmaduke, our martyred brothers, Sleep in untimely graves, if aught untimely Can find place in the providence of God, Where nothing comes too early or too late. I saw their noble death. They to the scaffold Walked hand in hand. Two hundred armed men And many horsemen guarded them, for fear Of rescue by the crowd, whose hearts were stirred.

EDITH. O holy martyrs!

WHARTON. When they tried to speak, Their voices by the roll of drums were drowned. When they were dead they still looked fresh and fair, The terror of death was not upon their faces. Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek woman, Has passed through martyrdom to her reward; Exclaiming, as they led her to her death, "These many days I've been in Paradise." And, when she died, Priest Wilson threw the hangman His handkerchief, to cover the pale face He dared not look upon.

EDITH. As persecuted, Yet not forsaken; as unknown, yet known; As dying, and behold we are alive; As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing always; As having nothing, yet possessing all!

WHARTON. And Leddra, too, is dead. But from his prison, The day before his death, he sent these words Unto the little flock of Christ: "What ever May come upon the followers of the Light,-- Distress, affliction, famine, nakedness, Or perils in the city or the sea, Or persecution, or even death itself,-- I am persuaded that God's armor of Light, As it is loved and lived in, will preserve you. Yea, death itself; through which you will find entrance Into the pleasant pastures of the fold, Where you shall feed forever as the herds That roam at large in the low valleys of Achor. And as the flowing of the ocean fills Each creek and branch thereof, and then retires, Leaving behind a sweet and wholesome savor; So doth the virtue and the life of God Flow evermore into the hearts of those Whom He hath made partakers of His nature; And, when it but withdraws itself a little, Leaves a sweet savor after it, that many Can say they are made clean by every word That He hath spoken to them in their silence."

EDITH (rising and breaking into a kind of chant). Truly we do but grope here in the dark, Near the partition-wall of Life and Death, At every moment dreading or desiring To lay our hands upon the unseen door! Let us, then, labor for an inward stillness,-- An inward stillness and an inward healing; That perfect silence where the lips and heart Are still, and we no longer entertain Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions, But God alone speaks in us, and we wait In singleness of heart, that we may know His will, and in the silence of our spirits, That we may do His will, and do that only!

A long pause, interrupted by the sound of a drum approaching; then shouts in the street, and a loud knocking at the door.

MARSHAL. Within there! Open the door!

MERRY. Will no one answer?

MARSHAL. In the King's name! Within there!

MERRY. Open the door!

UPSALL (from the window). It is not barred. Come in. Nothing prevents you. The poor man's door is ever on the latch. He needs no bolt nor bar to shut out thieves; He fears no enemies, and has no friends Importunate enough to need a key.

Enter JOHN ENDICOTT, the MARSHAL, MERRY, and a crowd. Seeing the Quakers silent and unmoved, they pause, awe-struck. ENDICOTT opposite EDITH.

MARSHAL. In the King's name do I arrest you all! Away with them to prison. Master Upsall, You are again discovered harboring here These ranters and disturbers of the peace. You know the law.

UPSALL. I know it, and am ready To suffer yet again its penalties.

EDITH (to ENDICOTT). Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of Tarsus?

## ACT II.

## SCENE I. -- JOHN ENDICOTT's room. Early morning.

JOHN ENDICOTT. "Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of Tarsus?" All night these words were ringing in mine ears! A sorrowful sweet face; a look that pierced me With meek reproach; a voice of resignation That had a life of suffering in its tone; And that was all! And yet I could not sleep, Or, when I slept, I dreamed that awful dream! I stood beneath the elm-tree on the Common, On which the Quakers have been hanged, and heard A voice, not hers, that cried amid the darkness, "This is Aceldama, the field of blood! I will have mercy, and not sacrifice!"

Opens the window and looks out.

The sun is up already; and my heart Sickens and sinks within me when I think How many tragedies will be enacted Before his setting. As the earth rolls round, It seems to me a huge Ixion's wheel, Upon whose whirling spokes we are bound fast, And must go with it! Ah, how bright the sun Strikes on the sea and on the masts of vessels, That are uplifted, in the morning air, Like crosses of some peaceable crusade! It makes me long to sail for lands unknown, No matter whither! Under me, in shadow, Gloomy and narrow, lies the little town, Still sleeping, but to wake and toil awhile, Then sleep again. How dismal looks the prison, How grim and sombre in the sunless street,-- The prison where she sleeps, or wakes and waits For what I dare not think of,--death, perhaps! A word that has been said may be unsaid: It is but air. But when a deed is done It cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts Reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow. 'T is time for morning prayers. I will go down. My father, though severe, is kind and just; And when his heart is tender with devotion,-- When from his lips have fallen the words, "Forgive us As we forgive,"--then will I intercede For these poor people, and perhaps may save them. [Exit.

## SCENE II. -- Dock Square. On one side, the tavern of the Three

Mariners. In the background, a quaint building with gables; and, beyond it, wharves and shipping. CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN and others seated at a table before the door. SAMUEL COLE standing near them.

KEMPTHORN. Come, drink about! Remember Parson Melham, And bless the man who first invented flip!

They drink.

COLE. Pray, Master Kempthorn, where were you last night?

KEMPTHORN. On board the Swallow, Simon Kempthorn, master, Up for Barbadoes, and the Windward Islands.

COLE. The town was in a tumult.

KEMPTHORN. And for what?

COLE. Your Quakers were arrested.

KEMPTHORN. How my Quakers?

COLE. These you brought in your vessel from Barbadoes. They made an uproar in the Meeting-house Yesterday, and they're now in prison for it. I owe you little thanks for bringing them To the Three Mariners.

KEMPTHORN. They have not harmed you. I tell you, Goodman Cole, that Quaker girl Is precious as a sea-bream's eye. I tell you It was a lucky day when first she set Her little foot upon the Swallow's deck, Bringing good luck, fair winds, and pleasant weather.

COLE. I am a law-abiding citizen; I have a seat in the new Meeting-house, A cow-right on the Common; and, besides, Am corporal in the Great Artillery. I rid me of the vagabonds at once.

KEMPTHORN. Why should you not have Quakers at your tavern If you have fiddlers?

COLE. Never! never! never! If you want fiddling you must go elsewhere, To the Green Dragon and the Admiral Vernon, And other such disreputable places. But the Three Mariners is an orderly house, Most orderly, quiet, and respectable. Lord Leigh said he could be as quiet here As at the Governor's. And have I not King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, all framed and glazed, Hanging in my best parlor?

KEMPTHORN. Here's a health To good King Charles. Will you not drink the King? Then drink confusion to old Parson Palmer.

COLE. And who is Parson Palmer? I don't know him.

KEMPTHORN. He had his cellar underneath his pulpit, And so preached o'er his liquor, just as you do.

A drum within.

COLE. Here comes the Marshal.

MERRY (within). Make room for the Marshal.

KEMPTHORN. How pompous and imposing he appears! His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail, And all his streamers fluttering in the wind. What holds he in his hand?

COLE. A proclamation.

Enter the MARSHAL, with a proclamation; and MERRY, with a halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among whom are UPSALL and JOHN ENDICOTT. A pile is made of the books.

MERRY. Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend To the new laws enacted by the Court.

MARSHAL (reads). "Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers, Who take upon themselves to be commissioned Immediately of God, and furthermore Infallibly assisted by the Spirit To write and utter blasphemous opinions, Despising Government and the order of God In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking To turn the people from their faith, and thus Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;-- This Court, considering the premises, And to prevent like mischief as is wrought By their means in our land, doth hereby order, That whatsoever master or commander Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers, Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth One hundred pounds, and for default thereof Be put in prison, and continue there Till the said sum be satisfied and paid."

COLE. Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that?

KEMPTHORN. I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds!

MARSHAL (reads). "If any one within this Jurisdiction Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal Quakers or other blasphemous Heretics, Knowing them so to be, every such person Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings For each hour's entertainment or concealment, And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid, Until the forfeiture be wholly paid!"

Murmurs in the crowd.

KEMPTHORN. Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come!

COLE. Knowing them so to be!

KEMPTHORN. At forty shillings The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds!

COLE. Knowing them so to be! That is the law.

MARSHAL (reads). "And it is further ordered and enacted, If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction, Every male Quaker for the first offence Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept At labor in the Workhouse, till such time As he be sent away at his own charge. And for the repetition of the offence Shall have his other ear cut off, and then Be branded in the palm of his right hand. And every woman Quaker shall be whipt Severely in three towns; and every Quaker, Or he or she, that shall for a third time Herein again offend, shall have their tongues Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death."

Loud murmurs. The voice of CHRISTISON in the crowd.

O patience of the Lord! How long, how long, Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect?

MERRY. Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace!

MARSHAL (reads). "Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction Who shall defend the horrible opinions Of Quakers, by denying due respect To equals and superiors, and withdrawing From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving The abusive and destructive practices Of this accursed sect, in opposition To all the orthodox received opinions Of godly men shall be forthwith commit ted Unto close prison for one month; and then Refusing to retract and to reform The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death. By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary." Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books.

Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted.

UPSALL. I testify against these cruel laws! Forerunners are they of some judgment on us; And, in the love and tenderness I bear Unto this town and people, I beseech you, O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found As fighters against God!

JOHN ENDICOTT (taking UPSALL'S hand). Upsall, I thank you For speaking words such as some younger man, I, or another, should have said before you. Such laws as these are cruel and oppressive; A blot on this fair town, and a disgrace To any Christian people.

MERRY (aside, listening behind them). Here's sedition! I never thought that any good would come Of this young popinjay, with his long hair And his great boots, fit only for the Russians Or barbarous Indians, as his father says!

THE VOICE. Woe to the bloody town! And rightfully Men call it the Lost Town! The blood of Abel Cries from the ground, and at the final judgment The Lord will say, "Cain, Cain! Where is thy brother?"

MERRY. Silence there in the crowd!

UPSALL (aside). 'T is Christison!

THE VOICE. O foolish people, ye that think to burn And to consume the truth of God, I tell you That every flame is a loud tongue of fire To publish it abroad to all the world Louder than tongues of men!

KEMPTHORN (springing to his feet). Well said, my hearty! There's a brave fellow! There's a man of pluck! A man who's not afraid to say his say, Though a whole town's against him. Rain, rain, rain, Bones of St. Botolph, and put out this fire!

The drum beats. Exeunt all but MERRY, KEMPTHORN, and COLE.

MERRY. And now that matter's ended, Goodman Cole, Fetch me a mug of ale, your strongest ale.

KEMPTHORN (sitting down). And me another mug of flip; and put Two gills of brandy in it. [Exit COLE.

MERRY. No; no more. Not a drop more, I say. You've had enough.

KEMPTHORN. And who are you, sir?

MERRY. I'm a Tithing-man, And Merry is my name.

KEMPTHORN. A merry name! I like it; and I'll drink your merry health Till all is blue.

MERRY. And then you will be clapped Into the stocks, with the red letter D Hung round about your neck for drunkenness. You're a free-drinker,--yes, and a free-thinker!

KEMPTHORN. And you are Andrew Merry, or Merry Andrew.

MERRY. My name is Walter Merry, and not Andrew.

KEMPTHORN. Andrew or Walter, you're a merry fellow; I'll swear to that.

MERRY. No swearing, let me tell you. The other day one Shorthose had his tongue Put into a cleft stick for profane swearing.

COLE brings the ale.

KEMPTHORN. Well, where's my flip? As sure as my name's Kempthorn--

MERRY. Is your name Kempthorn?

KEMPTHORN. That's the name I go by.

MERRY. What, Captain Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow?

KEMPTHORN. No other.

MERRY (touching him on the shoulder). Then you're wanted. I arrest you In the King's name.

KEMPTHORN. And where's your warrant?

MERRY (unfolding a paper, and reading). Here. Listen to me. "Hereby you are required, In the King's name, to apprehend the body Of Simon Kempthorn, mariner, and him Safely to bring before me, there to answer All such objections as are laid to him, Touching the Quakers." Signed, John Endicott.

KEMPTHORN. Has it the Governor's seal?

MERRY. Ay, here it is.

KEMPTHORN. Death's head and cross-bones. That's a pirate's flag!

MERRY. Beware how you revile the Magistrates; You may be whipped for that.

KEMPTHORN. Then mum's the word.

Exeunt MERRY and KEMPTHORN.

COLE. There's mischief brewing! Sure, there's mischief brewing. I feel like Master Josselyn when he found The hornet's nest, and thought it some strange fruit, Until the seeds came out, and then he dropped it. [Exit.

## Scene III. -- A room in the Governor's house, Enter GOVERNOR

ENDICOTT and MERRY.

ENDICOTT. My son, you say?

MERRY. Your Worship's eldest son.

ENDICOTT. Speaking against the laws?

MERRY. Ay, worshipful sir.

ENDICOTT. And in the public market-place?

MERRY. I saw him With my own eyes, heard him with my own ears.

ENDICOTT. Impossible!

MERRY. He stood there in the crowd With Nicholas Upsall, when the laws were read To-day against the Quakers, and I heard him Denounce and vilipend them as unjust, And cruel, wicked, and abominable.

ENDICOTT. Ungrateful son! O God! thou layest upon me A burden heavier than I can bear! Surely the power of Satan must be great Upon the earth, if even the elect Are thus deceived and fall away from grace!

MERRY. Worshipful sir! I meant no harm--

ENDICOTT. 'T is well. You've done your duty, though you've done it roughly, And every word you've uttered since you came Has stabbed me to the heart!

MERRY. I do beseech Your Worship's pardon!

ENDICOTT. He whom I have nurtured And brought up in the reverence of the Lord! The child of all my hopes and my affections! He upon whom I leaned as a sure staff For my old age! It is God's chastisement For leaning upon any arm but His!

MERRY. Your Worship!--

ENDICOTT. And this comes from holding parley With the delusions and deceits of Satan. At once, forever, must they be crushed out, Or all the land will reek with heresy! Pray, have you any children?

MERRY. No, not any.

ENDICOTT. Thank God for that. He has delivered you From a great care. Enough; my private griefs Too long have kept me from the public service.

Exit MERRY, ENDICOTT seats himself at the table and arranges his papers.

The hour has come; and I am eager now To sit in judgment on these Heretics.

A knock.

Come in. Who is it? (Not looking up).

JOHN ENDICOTT. It is I.

ENDICOTT (restraining himself). Sit down!

JOHN ENDICOTT (sitting down). I come to intercede for these poor people Who are in prison, and await their trial.

ENDICOTT. It is of them I wished to speak with you. I have been angry with you, but 't is passed. For when I hear your footsteps come or go, See in your features your dead mother's face, And in your voice detect some tone of hers, All anger vanishes, and I remember The days that are no more, and come no more, When as a child you sat upon my knee, And prattled of your playthings, and the games You played among the pear trees in the orchard!

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, let the memory of my noble mother Plead with you to be mild and merciful! For mercy more becomes a Magistrate Than the vindictive wrath which men call justice!

ENDICOTT. The sin of heresy is a deadly sin. 'T is like the falling of the snow, whose crystals The traveller plays with, thoughtless of his danger, Until he sees the air so full of light That it is dark; and blindly staggering onward, Lost and bewildered, he sits down to rest; There falls a pleasant drowsiness upon him, And what he thinks is sleep, alas! is death.

JOHN ENDICOTT. And yet who is there that has never doubted? And doubting and believing, has not said, "Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief"?

ENDICOTT. In the same way we trifle with our doubts, Whose shining shapes are like the stars descending; Until at last, bewildered and dismayed, Blinded by that which seemed to give us light, We sink to sleep, and find that it is death,

Rising.

Death to the soul through all eternity! Alas that I should see you growing up To man's estate, and in the admonition And nurture of the law, to find you now Pleading for Heretics!

JOHN ENDICOTT (rising). In the sight of God, Perhaps all men are Heretics. Who dares To say that he alone has found the truth? We cannot always feel and think and act As those who go before us. Had you done so, You would not now be here.

ENDICOTT. Have you forgotten The doom of Heretics, and the fate of those Who aid and comfort them? Have you forgotten That in the market-place this very day You trampled on the laws? What right have you, An inexperienced and untravelled youth, To sit in judgment here upon the acts Of older men and wiser than yourself, Thus stirring up sedition in the streets, And making me a byword and a jest?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Words of an inexperienced youth like me Were powerless if the acts of older men Were not before them. 'T is these laws themselves Stir up sedition, not my judgment of them.

ENDICOTT. Take heed, lest I be called, as Brutus was, To be the judge of my own son. Begone! When you are tired of feeding upon husks, Return again to duty and submission, But not till then.

JOHN ENDICOTT. I hear and I obey! [Exit. ENDICOTT. Oh happy, happy they who have no children! He's gone! I hear the hall door shut behind him. It sends a dismal echo through my heart, As if forever it had closed between us, And I should look upon his face no more! Oh, this will drag me down into my grave,-- To that eternal resting-place wherein Man lieth down, and riseth not again! Till the heavens be no more, he shall not wake, Nor be roused from his sleep; for Thou dost change His countenance and sendest him away! [Exit.

## ACT III.

## SCENE I. -- The Court of Assistants, ENDICOTT, BELLINGHAM,

ATHERTON, and other magistrates. KEMPTHORN, MERRY, and constables. Afterwards WHARTON, EDITH, and CHRISTISON.

ENDICOTT. Call Captain Simon Kempthorn.

MERRY. Simon Kempthorn, Come to the bar!

KEMPTHORN comes forward.

ENDICOTT. You are accused of bringing Into this Jurisdiction, from Barbadoes, Some persons of that sort and sect of people Known by the name of Quakers, and maintaining Most dangerous and heretical opinions, Purposely coming here to propagate Their heresies and errors; bringing with them And spreading sundry books here, which contain Their doctrines most corrupt and blasphemous, And contrary to the truth professed among us. What say you to this charge?

KEMPTHORN.

I do acknowledge, Among the passengers on board the Swallow Were certain persons saying Thee and Thou. They seemed a harmless people, mostways silent,

## Particularly when they said their prayers.

ENDICOTT. Harmless and silent as the pestilence! You'd better have brought the fever or the plague Among us in your ship! Therefore, this Court, For preservation of the Peace and Truth, Hereby commands you speedily to transport, Or cause to be transported speedily, The aforesaid persons hence unto Barbadoes, From whence they came; you paying all the charges Of their imprisonment.

KEMPTHORN. Worshipful sir, No ship e'er prospered that has carried Quakers Against their will! I knew a vessel once--

ENDICOTT. And for the more effectual performance Hereof you are to give security In bonds amounting to one hundred pounds. On your refusal, you will be committed To prison till you do it.

KEMPTHORN. But you see I cannot do it. The law, sir, of Barbadoes Forbids the landing Quakers on the island.

ENDICOTT. Then you will be committed. Who comes next?

MERRY. There is another charge against the Captain.

ENDICOTT. What is it?

MERRY. Profane swearing, please your Worship. He cursed and swore from Dock Square to the Court-house,

ENDICOTT. Then let him stand in the pillory for one hour.

[Exit KEMPTHORN with constable.

Who's next?

MERRY. The Quakers.

ENDICOTT. Call them.

MERRY. Edward Wharton, Come to the bar!

WHARTON. Yea, even to the bench.

ENDICOTT. Take off your hat.

WHARTON. My hat offendeth not. If it offendeth any, let him take it; For I shall not resist.

ENDICOTT. Take off his hat. Let him be fined ten shillings for contempt.

MERRY takes off WHARTON'S hat.

WHARTON. What evil have I done?

ENDICOTT. Your hair's too long; And in not putting off your hat to us You've disobeyed and broken that commandment Which sayeth "Honor thy father and thy mother."

WHARTON. John Endicott, thou art become too proud; And loved him who putteth off the hat, And honoreth thee by bowing of the body, And sayeth "Worshipful sir!" 'T is time for thee To give such follies over, for thou mayest Be drawing very near unto thy grave.

ENDICOTT. Now, sirrah, leave your canting. Take the oath.

WHARTON. Nay, sirrah me no sirrahs!

ENDICOTT. Will you swear?

WHARTON. Nay, I will not.

ENDICOTT. You made a great disturbance And uproar yesterday in the Meeting-house, Having your hat on.

WHARTON. I made no disturbance; For peacefully I stood, like other people. I spake no words; moved against none my hand; But by the hair they haled me out, and dashed Their hooks into my face.

ENDICOTT. You, Edward Wharton, On pain of death, depart this Jurisdiction Within ten days. Such is your sentence. Go.

WHARTON. John Endicott, it had been well for thee If this day's doings thou hadst left undone But, banish me as far as thou hast power, Beyond the guard and presence of my God Thou canst not banish me.

ENDICOTT. Depart the Court; We have no time to listen to your babble. Who's next? [Exit WHARTON.

MERRY. This woman, for the same offence.

EDITH comes forward.

ENDICOTT. What is your name?

EDITH. 'T is to the world unknown, But written in the Book of Life.

ENDICOTT. Take heed It be not written in the Book of Death! What is it?

EDITH. Edith Christison.

ENDICOTT (with eagerness). The daughter Of Wenlock Christison?

EDITH. I am his daughter.

ENDICOTT. Your father hath given us trouble many times. A bold man and a violent, who sets At naught the authority of our Church and State, And is in banishment on pain of death. Where are you living?

EDITH. In the Lord.

ENDICOTT. Make answer Without evasion. Where?

EDITH. My outward being Is in Barbadoes.

ENDICOTT. Then why come you here?

EDITH. I come upon an errand of the Lord.

ENDICOTT. 'Tis not the business of the Lord you're doing; It is the Devil's. Will you take the oath? Give her the Book.

MERRY offers the Book.

EDITH. You offer me this Book To swear on; and it saith, "Swear not at all, Neither by heaven, because it is God's Throne, Nor by the earth, because it is his footstool!" I dare not swear.

ENDICOTT. You dare not? Yet you Quakers Deny this book of Holy Writ, the Bible, To be the Word of God.

EDITH (reverentially). Christ is the Word, The everlasting oath of God. I dare not.

ENDICOTT. You own yourself a Quaker,--do you not?

EDITH. I own that in derision and reproach I am so called.

ENDICOTT. Then you deny the Scripture To be the rule of life.

EDITH. Yea, I believe The Inner Light, and not the Written Word, To be the rule of life.

ENDICOTT. And you deny That the Lord's Day is holy.

EDITH. Every day Is the Lords Day. It runs through all our lives, As through the pages of the Holy Bible, "Thus saith the Lord."

ENDICOTT. You are accused of making An horrible disturbance, and affrighting The people in the Meeting-house on Sunday. What answer make you?

EDITH. I do not deny That I was present in your Steeple-house On the First Day; but I made no disturbance.

ENDICOTT. Why came you there?

EDITH. Because the Lord commanded. His word was in my heart, a burning fire Shut up within me and consuming me, And I was very weary with forbearing; I could not stay.

ENDICOTT. 'T was not the Lord that sent you; As an incarnate devil did you come!

EDITH. On the First Day, when, seated in my chamber, I heard the bells toll, calling you together, The sound struck at my life, as once at his, The holy man, our Founder, when he heard The far-off bells toll in the Vale of Beavor. It sounded like a market bell to call The folk together, that the Priest might set His wares to sale. And the Lord said within me, "Thou must go cry aloud against that Idol, And all the worshippers thereof." I went Barefooted, clad in sackcloth, and I stood And listened at the threshold; and I heard The praying and the singing and the preaching, Which were but outward forms, and without power. Then rose a cry within me, and my heart Was filled with admonitions and reproofs. Remembering how the Prophets and Apostles Denounced the covetous hirelings and diviners, I entered in, and spake the words the Lord Commanded me to speak. I could no less.

ENDICOTT. Are you a Prophetess?

EDITH. Is it not written, "Upon my handmaidens will I pour out My spirit, and they shall prophesy"?

ENDICOTT. Enough; For out of your own mouth are you condemned! Need we hear further?

THE JUDGES. We are satisfied.

ENDICOTT. It is sufficient. Edith Christison, The sentence of the Court is, that you be Scourged in three towns, with forty stripes save one, Then banished upon pain of death!

EDITH. Your sentence Is truly no more terrible to me Than had you blown a feather into the the air, And, as it fell upon me, you had said, Take heed it hurt thee not! God's will he done!

WENLOCK CHRISTISON (unseen in the crowd). Woe to the city of blood! The stone shall cry Out of the wall; the beam from out the timber Shall answer it! Woe unto him that buildeth A town with blood, and stablisheth a city By his iniquity!

ENDICOTT. Who is it makes Such outcry here?

CHRISTISON (coming forward). I, Wenlock Christison!

ENDICOTT. Banished on pain of death, why come you here?

CHRISTISON. I come to warn you that you shed no more The blood of innocent men! It cries aloud For vengeance to the Lord!

ENDICOTT. Your life is forfeit Unto the law; and you shall surely die, And shall not live.

CHRISTISON. Like unto Eleazer, Maintaining the excellence of ancient years And the honor of his gray head, I stand before you; Like him disdaining all hypocrisy, Lest, through desire to live a little longer, I get a stain to my old age and name!

ENDICOTT. Being in banishment, on pain of death, You come now in among us in rebellion.

CHRISTISON. I come not in among you in rebellion, But in obedience to the Lord of heaven. Not in contempt to any Magistrate, But only in the love I bear your souls, As ye shall know hereafter, when all men Give an account of deeds done in the body! God's righteous judgments ye cannot escape.

ONE OF THE JUDGES. Those who have gone before you said the same, And yet no judgment of the Lord hath fallen Upon us.

CHRISTISON. He but waiteth till the measure Of your iniquities shall be filled up, And ye have run your race. Then will his wrath Descend upon you to the uttermost! For thy part, Humphrey Atherton, it hangs Over thy head already. It shall come Suddenly, as a thief doth in the night, And in the hour when least thou thinkest of it!

ENDICOTT. We have a law, and by that law you die.

CHRISTISON. I, a free man of England and freeborn, Appeal unto the laws of mine own nation!

ENDICOTT. There's no appeal to England from this Court! What! do you think our statutes are but paper? Are but dead leaves that rustle in the wind? Or litter to be trampled under foot? What say ye, Judges of the Court,--what say ye? Shall this man suffer death? Speak your opinions.

ONE OF THE JUDGES. I am a mortal man, and die I must, And that erelong; and I must then appear Before the awful judgment-seat of Christ, To give account of deeds done in the body. My greatest glory on that day will be, That I have given my vote against this man.

CHRISTISON. If, Thomas Danforth, thou hast nothing more To glory in upon that dreadful day Than blood of innocent people, then thy glory Will be turned into shame! The Lord hath said it!

ANOTHER JUDGE. I cannot give consent, while other men Who have been banished upon pain of death Are now in their own houses here among us.

ENDICOTT. Ye that will not consent, make record of it. I thank my God that I am not afraid To give my judgment. Wenlock Christison, You must be taken back from hence to prison, Thence to the place of public execution, There to be hanged till you be dead--dead,--dead.

CHRISTISON. If ye have power to take my life from me,-- Which I do question,--God hath power to raise The principle of life in other men, And send them here among you. There shall be No peace unto the wicked, saith my God. Listen, ye Magistrates, for the Lord hath said it! The day ye put his servitors to death, That day the Day of your own Visitation, The Day of Wrath shall pass above your heads, And ye shall be accursed forevermore!

To EDITH, embracing her.

Cheer up, dear heart! they have not power to harm us.

[Exeunt CHRISTISON and EDITH guarded. The Scene closes.

## SCENE II. -- A street. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT and UPSALL.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Scourged in three towns! and yet the busy people Go up and down the streets on their affairs Of business or of pleasure, as if nothing Had happened to disturb them or their thoughts! When bloody tragedies like this are acted, The pulses of a nation should stand still The town should be in mourning, and the people Speak only in low whispers to each other.

UPSALL. I know this people; and that underneath A cold outside there burns a secret fire That will find vent and will not be put out, Till every remnant of these barbarous laws Shall be to ashes burned, and blown away.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Scourged in three towns! It is incredible Such things can be! I feel the blood within me Fast mounting in rebellion, since in vain Have I implored compassion of my father!

UPSALL. You know your father only as a father; I know him better as a Magistrate. He is a man both loving and severe; A tender heart; a will inflexible. None ever loved him more than I have loved him. He is an upright man and a just man In all things save the treatment of the Quakers.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Yet I have found him cruel and unjust Even as a father. He has driven me forth Into the street; has shut his door upon me, With words of bitterness. I am as homeless As these poor Quakers are.

UPSALL. Then come with me. You shall be welcome for your father's sake, And the old friendship that has been between us. He will relent erelong. A father's anger Is like a sword without a handle, piercing Both ways alike, and wounding him that wields it No less than him that it is pointed at. [Exeunt.

## SCENE III. -- The prison. Night. EDITH reading the Bible by a

lamp.

EDITH. "Blessed are ye when men shall persecute you, And shall revile you, and shall say against you All manner of evil falsely for my sake! Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, for great Is your reward in heaven. For so the prophets, Which were before you, have been persecuted."

Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Edith!

EDITH. Who is it that speaketh?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Saul of Tarsus: As thou didst call me once.

EDITH (coming forward). Yea, I remember. Thou art the Governor's son.

JOHN ENDICOTT. I am ashamed Thou shouldst remember me.

EDITH. Why comest thou Into this dark guest-chamber in the night? What seekest thou?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Forgiveness!

EDITH. I forgive All who have injured me. What hast thou done?

JOHN ENDICOTT. I have betrayed thee, thinking that in this I did God service. Now, in deep contrition, I come to rescue thee.

EDITH. From what?

JOHN ENDICOTT. From prison. EDITH. I am safe here within these gloomy walls.

JOHN ENDICOTT. From scourging in the streets, and in three towns!

EDITH. Remembering who was scourged for me, I shrink not Nor shudder at the forty stripes save one.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Perhaps from death itself!

EDITH. I fear not death, Knowing who died for me.

JOHN ENDICOTT (aside). Surely some divine Ambassador is speaking through those lips And looking through those eyes! I cannot answer!

EDITH. If all these prison doors stood opened wide I would not cross the threshold,--not one step. There are invisible bars I cannot break; There are invisible doors that shut me in, And keep me ever steadfast to my purpose.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Thou hast the patience and the faith of Saints!

EDITH. Thy Priest hath been with me this day to save me, Not only from the death that comes to all, But from the second death!

JOHN ENDICOTT. The Pharisee! My heart revolts against him and his creed! Alas! the coat that was without a seam Is rent asunder by contending sects; Each bears away a portion of the garment, Blindly believing that he has the whole!

EDITH. When Death, the Healer, shall have touched our eyes With moist clay of the grave, then shall we see The truth as we have never yet beheld it. But he that overcometh shall not be Hurt of the second death. Has he forgotten The many mansions in our father's house?

JOHN ENDICOTT. There is no pity in his iron heart! The hands that now bear stamped upon their palms The burning sign of Heresy, hereafter Shall be uplifted against such accusers, And then the imprinted letter and its meaning Will not be Heresy, but Holiness!

EDITH. Remember, thou condemnest thine own father!

JOHN ENDICOTT. I have no father! He has cast me off. I am as homeless as the wind that moans And wanders through the streets. Oh, come with me! Do not delay. Thy God shall be my God, And where thou goest I will go.

EDITH. I cannot. Yet will I not deny it, nor conceal it; From the first moment I beheld thy face I felt a tenderness in my soul towards thee. My mind has since been inward to the Lord, Waiting his word. It has not yet been spoken.

JOHN ENDICOTT. I cannot wait. Trust me. Oh, come with me!

EDITH. In the next room, my father, an old man, Sitteth imprisoned and condemned to death, Willing to prove his faith by martyrdom; And thinkest thou his daughter would do less?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, life is sweet, and death is terrible!

EDITH. I have too long walked hand in hand with death To shudder at that pale familiar face. But leave me now. I wish to be alone.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Not yet. Oh, let me stay.

EDITH. Urge me no more.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Alas! good-night. I will not say good-by!

EDITH. Put this temptation underneath thy feet. To him that overcometh shall be given The white stone with the new name written on it, That no man knows save him that doth receive it, And I will give thee a new name, and call thee Paul of Damascus, and not Saul of Tarsus.

[Exit ENDICOTT. EDITH sits down again to read the Bible.

## ACT IV.

## SCENE I. -- King Street, in front of the town-house. KEMPTHORN

in the pillory. MERRY and a crowd of lookers-on.

KEMPTHORN (sings). The world is full of care, Much like unto a bubble; Women and care, and care and women, And women and care and trouble.

Good Master Merry, may I say confound?

MERRY. Ay, that you may.

KEMPTHORN. Well, then, with your permission, Confound the Pillory!

MERRY. That's the very thing The joiner said who made the Shrewsbury stocks. He said, Confound the stocks, because they put him Into his own. He was the first man in them.

KEMPTHORN. For swearing, was it?

MERRY. No, it was for charging; He charged the town too much; and so the town, To make things square, set him in his own stocks, And fined him five pounds sterling,--just enough To settle his own bill.

KEMPTHORN. And served him right; But, Master Merry, is it not eight bells?

MERRY. Not quite.

KEMPTHORN. For, do you see? I'm getting tired Of being perched aloft here in this cro' nest Like the first mate of a whaler, or a Middy Mast-headed, looking out for land! Sail ho! Here comes a heavy-laden merchant-man With the lee clews eased off and running free Before the wind. A solid man of Boston. A comfortable man, with dividends, And the first salmon, and the first green peas.

A gentleman passes.

He does not even turn his head to look. He's gone without a word. Here comes another, A different kind of craft on a taut bow-line,-- Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, A pious and a ponderous citizen, Looking as rubicund and round and splendid As the great bottle in his own shop window!

DEACON FIRMIN passes.

And here's my host of the Three Mariners, My creditor and trusty taverner, My corporal in the Great Artillery! He's not a man to pass me without speaking.

COLE looks away and passes.

Don't yaw so; keep your luff, old hypocrite! Respectable, ah yes, respectable, You, with your seat in the new Meeting-house, Your cow-right on the Common! But who's this? I did not know the Mary Ann was in! And yet this is my old friend, Captain Goldsmith, As sure as I stand in the bilboes here. Why, Ralph, my boy!

Enter RALPH GOLDSMITH.

GOLDSMITH. Why, Simon, is it you? Set in the bilboes?

KEMPTHORN. Chock-a-block, you see, And without chafing-gear.

GOLDSMITH. And what's it for?

KEMPTHORN. Ask that starbowline with the boat-hook there, That handsome man.

MERRY (bowing). For swearing.

KEMPTHORN.

In this town They put sea-captains in the stocks for swearing, And Quakers for not swearing. So look out.

GOLDSMITH. I pray you set him free; he meant no harm; 'T is an old habit he picked up afloat.

MERRY. Well, as your time is out, you may come down, The law allows you now to go at large Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the Common.

KEMPTHORN. Now, hearties, bear a hand! Let go and haul.

KEMPTHORN is set free, and comes forward, shaking GOLDSMITH'S hand.

KEMPTHORN. Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

GOLDSMITH. God bless you, Simon!

KEMPTHORN. Now let us make a straight wake for the tavern Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole commander; Where we can take our ease, and see the shipping, And talk about old times.

GOLDSMITH. First I must pay My duty to the Governor, and take him His letters and despatches. Come with me.

KEMPTHORN. I'd rather not. I saw him yesterday.

GOLDSMITH. Then wait for me at the Three Nuns and Comb.

KEMPTHORN. I thank you. That's too near to the town pump. I will go with you to the Governor's, And wait outside there, sailing off and on; If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal.

MERRY. Shall I go with you and point out the way?

GOLDSMITH. Oh no, I thank you. I am not a stranger Here in your crooked little town.

MERRY. How now, sir? Do you abuse our town? [Exit.

GOLDSMITH. Oh, no offence.

KEMPTHORN. Ralph, I am under bonds for a hundred pound.

GOLDSMITH. Hard lines. What for?

KEMPTHORN. To take some Quakers back I brought here from Barbadoes in the Swallow. And how to do it I don't clearly see, For one of them is banished, and another Is sentenced to be hanged! What shall I do?

GOLDSMITH. Just slip your hawser on some cloudy night; Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon! [Exeunt.

## SCENE II. -- Street in front of the prison. In the background a

gateway and several flights of steps leading up terraces to the Governor's house. A pump on one side of the street. JOHN ENDICOTT, MERRY, UPSALL, and others. A drum beats.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh shame, shame, shame!

MERRY. Yes, it would be a shame But for the damnable sin of Heresy!

JOHN ENDICOTT. A woman scourged and dragged about our streets!

MERRY. Well, Roxbury and Dorchester must take Their share of shame. She will be whipped in each! Three towns, and Forty Stripes save one; that makes Thirteen in each.

JOHN ENDICOTT. And are we Jews or Christians? See where she comes, amid a gaping crowd! And she a child. Oh, pitiful! pitiful! There's blood upon her clothes, her hands, her feet!

Enter MARSHAL and a drummer. EDITH, stripped to the waist, followed by the hangman with a scourge, and a noisy crowd.

EDITH. Here let me rest one moment. I am tired. Will some one give me water?

MERRY. At his peril.

UPSALL. Alas! that I should live to see this day!

A WOMAN. Did I forsake my father and my mother And come here to New England to see this?

EDITH. I am athirst. Will no one give me water?

JOHN ENDICOTT (making his way through the crowd with water). In the Lord's name!

EDITH (drinking.

In his name I receive it! Sweet as the water of Samaria's well This water tastes. I thank thee. Is it thou? I was afraid thou hadst deserted me.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Never will I desert thee, nor deny thee. Be comforted.

MERRY. O Master Endicott, Be careful what you say.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Peace, idle babbler!

MERRY. You'll rue these words!

JOHN ENDICOTT. Art thou not better now?

EDITH. They've struck me as with roses.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Ah, these wounds! These bloody garments!

EDITH. It is granted me To seal my testimony with my blood.

JOHN ENDICOTT. O blood-red seal of man's vindictive wrath! O roses in the garden of the Lord! I, of the household of Iscariot, I have betrayed in thee my Lord and Master.

WENLOCK CHRISTISON appears above, at the window of the prison, stretching out his hands through the bars.

CHRISTISON. Be of good courage, O my child! my child! Blessed art thou when men shall persecute thee! Fear not their faces, saith the Lord, fear not, For I am with thee to deliver thee.

A CITIZEN. Who is it crying from the prison yonder.

MERRY. It is old Wenlock Christison.

CHRISTISON. Remember Him who was scourged, and mocked, and crucified! I see his messengers attending thee. Be steadfast, oh, be steadfast to the end!

EDITH (with exultation). I cannot reach thee with these arms, O father! But closely in my soul do I embrace thee And hold thee. In thy dungeon and thy death I will be with thee, and will comfort thee.

MARSHAL. Come, put an end to this. Let the drum beat.

The drum beats. Exeunt all but JOHN ENDICOTT, UPSALL, and MERRY.

CHRISTISON. Dear child, farewell! Never shall I behold Thy face again with these bleared eyes of flesh; And never wast thou fairer, lovelier, dearer Than now, when scourged and bleeding, and insulted For the truth's sake. O pitiless, pitiless town! The wrath of God hangs over thee; and the day Is near at hand when thou shalt be abandoned To desolation and the breeding of nettles. The bittern and the cormorant shall lodge Upon thine upper lintels, and their voice Sing in thy windows. Yea, thus saith the Lord!

JOHN ENDICOTT. Awake! awake! ye sleepers, ere too late, And wipe these bloody statutes from your books! [Exit.

MERRY. Take heed; the walls have ears!

UPSALL. At last, the heart Of every honest man must speak or break!

Enter GOVERNOR ENDICOTT with his halberdiers.

ENDICOTT. What is this stir and tumult in the street?

MERRY. Worshipful sir, the whipping of a girl, And her old father howling from the prison.

ENDICOTT (to his halberdiers). Go on.

CHRISTISON. Antiochus! Antiochus! O thou that slayest the Maccabees! The Lord Shall smite thee with incurable disease, And no man shall endure to carry thee!

MERRY. Peace, old blasphemer!

CHRISTISON. I both feel and see The presence and the waft of death go forth Against thee, and already thou dost look Like one that's dead!

MERRY (pointing). And there is your own son, Worshipful sir, abetting the sedition.

ENDICOTT. Arrest him. Do not spare him.

MERRY (aside). His own child! There is some special providence takes care That none shall be too happy in this world! His own first-born.

ENDICOTT. O Absalom, my son!

[Exeunt; the Governor with his halberdiers ascending the steps of his house.

## SCENE III. -- The Governor's private room. Papers upon the

table.

ENDICOTT and BELLINGHAM

ENDICOTT. There is a ship from England has come in, Bringing despatches and much news from home, His majesty was at the Abbey crowned; And when the coronation was complete There passed a mighty tempest o'er the city, Portentous with great thunderings and lightnings.

BELLINGHAM. After his father's, if I well remember, There was an earthquake, that foreboded evil.

ENDICOTT. Ten of the Regicides have been put to death! The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw Have been dragged from their graves, and publicly Hanged in their shrouds at Tyburn.

BELLINGHAM. Horrible!

ENDICOTT. Thus the old tyranny revives again. Its arm is long enough to reach us here, As you will see. For, more insulting still Than flaunting in our faces dead men's shrouds, Here is the King's Mandamus, taking from us, From this day forth, all power to punish Quakers.

BELLINGHAM. That takes from us all power; we are but puppets, And can no longer execute our laws.

ENDICOTT. His Majesty begins with pleasant words, "Trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well;" Then with a ruthless hand he strips from me All that which makes me what I am; as if From some old general in the field, grown gray In service, scarred with many wounds, Just at the hour of victory, he should strip His badge of office and his well-gained honors, And thrust him back into the ranks again.

Opens the Mandamus and hands it to BELLINGHAM; and, while he is reading, ENDICOTT walks up and down the room.

Here, read it for yourself; you see his words Are pleasant words--considerate--not reproachful-- Nothing could be more gentle--or more royal; But then the meaning underneath the words, Mark that. He says all people known as Quakers Among us, now condemned to suffer death Or any corporal punishment whatever, Who are imprisoned, or may be obnoxious To the like condemnation, shall be sent Forthwith to England, to be dealt with there In such wise as shall be agreeable Unto the English law and their demerits. Is it not so?

BELLINGHAM (returning the paper). Ay, so the paper says.

ENDICOTT. It means we shall no longer rule the Province; It means farewell to law and liberty, Authority, respect for Magistrates, The peace and welfare of the Commonwealth. If all the knaves upon this continent Can make appeal to England, and so thwart The ends of truth and justice by delay, Our power is gone forever. We are nothing But ciphers, valueless save when we follow Some unit; and our unit is the King! 'T is he that gives us value.

BELLINGHAM. I confess Such seems to be the meaning of this paper, But being the King's Mandamus, signed and sealed, We must obey, or we are in rebellion.

ENDICOTT. I tell you, Richard Bellingham,--I tell you, That this is the beginning of a struggle Of which no mortal can foresee the end. I shall not live to fight the battle for you, I am a man disgraced in every way; This order takes from me my self-respect And the respect of others. 'T is my doom, Yes, my death-warrant, but must be obeyed! Take it, and see that it is executed So far as this, that all be set at large; But see that none of them be sent to England To bear false witness, and to spread reports That might be prejudicial to ourselves. [Exit BELLINGHAM.

There's a dull pain keeps knocking at my heart, Dolefully saying, "Set thy house in order, For thou shalt surely die, and shalt not live! For me the shadow on the dial-plate Goeth not back, but on into the dark! [Exit.

## SCENE IV. -- The street. A crowd, reading a placard on the door

of the Meeting-house. NICHOLAS UPSALL among them. Enter John Norton.

NORTON. What is this gathering here?

UPSALL. One William Brand, An old man like ourselves, and weak in body, Has been so cruelly tortured in his prison, The people are excited, and they threaten To tear the prison down.

NORTON. What has been done?

UPSALL. He has been put in irons, with his neck And heels tied close together, and so left From five in the morning until nine at night.

NORTON. What more was done?

UPSALL. He has been kept five days In prison without food, and cruelly beaten, So that his limbs were cold, his senses stopped.

NORTON. What more?

UPSALL. And is this not enough?

NORTON. Now hear me. This William Brand of yours has tried to beat Our Gospel Ordinances black and blue; And, if he has been beaten in like manner, It is but justice, and I will appear In his behalf that did so. I suppose That he refused to work.

UPSALL. He was too weak. How could an old man work, when he was starving?

NORTON. And what is this placard?

UPSALL. The Magistrates, To appease the people and prevent a tumult, Have put up these placards throughout the town, Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt with Impartially and sternly by the Court.

NORTON (tearing down the placard). Down with this weak and cowardly concession, This flag of truce with Satan and with Sin! I fling it in his face! I trample it Under my feet! It is his cunning craft, The masterpiece of his diplomacy, To cry and plead for boundless toleration. But toleration is the first-born child Of all abominations and deceits. There is no room in Christ's triumphant army For tolerationists. And if an Angel Preach any other gospel unto you Than that ye have received, God's malediction Descend upon him! Let him be accursed! [Exit.

UPSALL. Now, go thy ways, John Norton, go thy ways, Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call thee! But even now there cometh out of England, Like an o'ertaking and accusing conscience, An outraged man, to call thee to account For the unrighteous murder of his son! [Exit.

## SCENE V. -- The Wilderness. Enter EDITH.

EDITH. How beautiful are these autumnal woods! The wilderness doth blossom like the rose, And change into a garden of the Lord! How silent everywhere! Alone and lost Here in the forest, there comes over me An inward awfulness. I recall the words Of the Apostle Paul: "In journeyings often, Often in perils in the wilderness, In weariness, in painfulness, in watchings, In hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness;" And I forget my weariness and pain, My watchings, and my hunger and my thirst. The Lord hath said that He will seek his flock In cloudy and dark days, and they shall dwell Securely in the wilderness, and sleep Safe in the woods! Whichever way I turn, I come back with my face towards the town. Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it. O cruel town! I know what waits me there, And yet I must go back; for ever louder I hear the inward calling of the Spirit, And must obey the voice. O woods that wear Your golden crown of martyrdom, blood-stained, From you I learn a lesson of submission, And am obedient even unto death, If God so wills it. [Exit.

JOHN ENDICOTT (within). Edith! Edith! Edith!

He enters.

It is in vain! I call, she answers not; I follow, but I find no trace of her! Blood! blood! The leaves above me and around me Are red with blood! The pathways of the forest, The clouds that canopy the setting sun And even the little river in the meadows Are stained with it! Where'er I look, I see it! Away, thou horrible vision! Leave me! leave me! Alas! you winding stream, that gropes its way Through mist and shadow, doubling on itself, At length will find, by the unerring law Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of man, Groping through mist and shadow, and recoiling Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious ways Subject to law? and when thou seemest to wander The farthest from thy goal, art thou still drawing Nearer and nearer to it, till at length Thou findest, like the river, what thou seekest? [Exit.

## ACT V.

## SCENE I. -- Daybreak. Street in front of UPSALL's house. A light

in the window. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT.

JOHN ENDICOTT. O silent, sombre, and deserted streets, To me ye 're peopled with a sad procession, And echo only to the voice of sorrow! O houses full of peacefulness and sleep, Far better were it to awake no more Than wake to look upon such scenes again! There is a light in Master Upsall's window. The good man is already risen, for sleep Deserts the couches of the old.

Knocks at UPSALL's door.

UPSALL (at the window). Who's there?

JOHN ENDICOTT. Am I so changed you do not know my voice?

UPSALL. I know you. Have you heard what things have happened?

JOHN ENDICOTT. I have heard nothing.

UPSALL. Stay; I will come down.

JOHN ENDICOTT. I am afraid some dreadful news awaits me! I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient To know the worst. Oh, I am very weary With waiting and with watching and pursuing!

Enter UPSALL.

UPSALL. Thank God, you have come back! I've much to tell you. Where have you been?

JOHN ENDICOTT. You know that I was seized, Fined, and released again. You know that Edith, After her scourging in three towns, was banished Into the wilderness, into the land That is not sown; and there I followed her, But found her not. Where is she?

UPSALL. She is here.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Oh, do not speak that word, for it means death!

UPSALL. No, it means life. She sleeps in yonder chamber. Listen to me. When news of Leddra's death Reached England, Edward Burroughs, having boldly Got access to the presence of the King, Told him there was a vein of innocent blood Opened in his dominions here, which threatened To overrun them all. The King replied. "But I will stop that vein!" and he forthwith Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates, That they proceed no further in this business. So all are pardoned, and all set at large.

JOHN ENDICOTT. Thank God! This is a victory for truth! Our thoughts are free. They cannot be shut up In prison wall, nor put to death on scaffolds!

UPSALL. Come in; the morning air blows sharp and cold Through the damp streets.

JOHN ENDICOTT. It is the dawn of day That chases the old darkness from our sky, And tills the land with liberty and light. [Exeunt.

## SCENE II. -- The parlor of the Three Mariners. Enter KEMPTHORN.

KEMPTHORN. A dull life this,--a dull life anyway! Ready for sea; the cargo all aboard, Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing From nor'-nor'-west; and I, an idle lubber, Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond! I said to Ralph, says I, "What's to be done?" Says he: "Just slip your hawser in the night; Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon." But that won't do; because, you see, the owners Somehow or other are mixed up with it. Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole Thinks as important as the Rule of Three.

Reads.

"Make no comparisons; make no long meals." Those are good rules and golden for a landlord To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed! "Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths." I drink to the King's, whatever he may say And, as to ill opinions, that depends. Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion, And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion; And both of these opinions I'll maintain As long as there's a shot left in the locker.

Enter EDWARD BUTTER, with an ear-trumpet.

BUTTER. Good morning, Captain Kempthorn.

KEMPTHORN. Sir, to you. You've the advantage of me. I don't know you. What may I call your name?

BUTTER. That's not your name?

KEMPTHORN. Yes, that's my name. What's yours?

BUTTER. My name is Butter. I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth.

KEMPTHORN. Will you be seated?

BUTTER. What say? Who's conceited?

KEMPTHORN.

Will you sit down?

BUTTER. Oh, thank you.

KEMPTHORN. Spread yourself Upon this chair, sweet Butter.

BUTTER (sitting down). A fine morning.

KEMPTHORN. Nothing's the matter with it that I know of. I have seen better, and I have seen worse. The wind's nor'west. That's fair for them that sail.

BUTTER. You need not speak so loud; I understand you. You sail to-day.

KEMPTHORN. No, I don't sail to-day. So, be it fair or foul, it matters not. Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here.

BUTTER. No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke.

KEMPTHORN. Then, will you drink? There's good ale at this inn.

BUTTER. No, thank you. It's against the law to drink.

KEMPTHORN. Well, almost everything's against the law In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing, You're sure to fetch up soon on something else.

BUTTER. And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. I am not one of those who think a sup Of this New England air is better worth Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale.

KEMPTHORN. Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air. But, as I said, I do not sail to-day.

BUTTER. Ah yes; you sail today.

KEMPTHORN. I'm under bonds To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes; And one of them is banished, and another Is sentenced to be hanged.

BUTTER. No, all are pardoned, All are set free by order of the Court; But some of them would fain return to England. You must not take them. Upon that condition Your bond is cancelled.

KEMPTHORN. Ah, the wind has shifted! I pray you, do you speak officially?

BUTTER. I always speak officially. To prove it, Here is the bond.

Rising and giving a paper.

KEMPTHORN. And here's my hand upon it, And look you, when I say I'll do a thing The thing is done. Am I now free to go?

BUTTER. What say?

KEMPTHORN. I say, confound the tedious man With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go?

BUTTER. You're free to go, by order of the Court. Your servant, sir. [Exit.

KEMPTHORN (shouting from the window). Swallow, ahoy! Hallo! If ever a man was happy to leave Boston, That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow!

Re-enter BUTTER.

BUTTER. Pray, did you call?

KEMPTHORN. Call! Yes, I hailed the Swallow.

BUTTER. That's not my name. My name is Edward Butter. You need not speak so loud.

KEMPTHORN (shaking hands). Good-by! Good-by!

BUTTER. Your servant, sir.

KEMPTHORN. And yours a thousand times! [Exeunt.

## SCENE III. -- GOVERNOR ENDICOTT'S private room. An open window.

ENDICOTT seated in an arm-chair. BELLINGHAM standing near.

ENDICOTT. O lost, O loved! wilt thou return no more? O loved and lost, and loved the more when lost! How many men are dragged into their graves By their rebellious children! I now feel The agony of a father's breaking heart In David's cry, "O Absalom, my son!"

BELLINGHAM. Can you not turn your thoughts a little while To public matters? There are papers here That need attention.

ENDICOTT. Trouble me no more! My business now is with another world, Ah, Richard Bellingham! I greatly fear That in my righteous zeal I have been led To doing many things which, left undone, My mind would now be easier. Did I dream it, Or has some person told me, that John Norton Is dead?

BELLINGHAM. You have not dreamed it. He is dead, And gone to his reward. It was no dream.

ENDICOTT. Then it was very sudden; for I saw him Standing where you now stand, not long ago.

BELLINGHAM. By his own fireside, in the afternoon, A faintness and a giddiness came o'er him; And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he cried, "The hand of God is on me!" and fell dead.

ENDICOTT. And did not some one say, or have I dreamed it, That Humphrey Atherton is dead?

BELLINGHAM. Alas! He too is gone, and by a death as sudden. Returning home one evening, at the place Where usually the Quakers have been scourged, His horse took fright, and threw him to the ground, So that his brains were dashed about the street.

ENDICOTT. I am not superstitions, Bellingham, And yet I tremble lest it may have been A judgment on him.

BELLINGHAM. So the people think. They say his horse saw standing in the way The ghost of William Leddra, and was frightened. And furthermore, brave Richard Davenport, The captain of the Castle, in the storm Has been struck dead by lightning.

ENDICOTT. Speak no more. For as I listen to your voice it seems As if the Seven Thunders uttered their voices, And the dead bodies lay about the streets Of the disconsolate city! Bellingham, I did not put those wretched men to death. I did but guard the passage with the sword Pointed towards them, and they rushed upon it! Yet now I would that I had taken no part In all that bloody work.

BELLINGHAM. The guilt of it Be on their heads, not ours.

ENDICOTT. Are all set free?

BELLINGHAM. All are at large.

ENDICOTT. And none have been sent back To England to malign us with the King?

BELLINGHAM. The ship that brought them sails this very hour, But carries no one back.

A distant cannon.

ENDICOTT. What is that gun?

BELLINGHAM. Her parting signal. Through the window there, Look, you can see her sails, above the roofs, Dropping below the Castle, outward bound.

ENDICOTT. O white, white, white! Would that my soul had wings As spotless as those shining sails to fly with! Now lay this cushion straight. I thank you. Hark! I thought I heard the hall door open and shut! I thought I beard the footsteps of my boy!

BELLINGHAM. It was the wind. There's no one in the passage.

ENDICOTT. O Absalom, my son! I feel the world Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, sinking! Death knocks! I go to meet him! Welcome, Death!

Rises, and sinks back dead; his head failing aside upon his shoulder.

BELLINGHAM. O ghastly sight! Like one who has been hanged! Endicott! Endicott! He makes no answer!

Raises Endicott's head.

He breathes no more! How bright this signet-ring Glitters upon his hand, where he has worn it Through such long years of trouble, as if Death Had given him this memento of affection, And whispered in his ear, "Remember me!" How placid and how quiet is his face, Now that the struggle and the strife are ended Only the acrid spirit of the times Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest in peace, Courageous heart! Forever rest in peace!

GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

GILES COREY Farmer. JOHN HATHORNE Magistrate. COTTON MATHER Minister of the Gospel. JONATHAN WALCOT A youth. RICHARD GARDNER Sea-Captain. JOHN GLOYD Corey's hired man. MARTHA Wife of Giles Corey. TITUBA An Indian woman. MARY WALCOT One of the Afflicted.

The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692.

PROLOGUE.

Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,-- These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past,

Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and, amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms,-- Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest,-- Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace?

'T was but a village then; the goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead.

Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! And 't is no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things!"

Something of this our scene to-night will show; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone, This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.

## ACT I.

## SCENE I. -- The woods near Salem Village. Enter TITUBA, with a

basket of herbs.

TITUBA. Here's monk's-hood, that breeds fever in the blood; And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts; And henbane, that will shake them with convulsions; And meadow-saffron and black hellebore, That rack the nerves, and puff the skin with dropsy; And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye-bright, That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheumatisms; I know them, and the places where they hide In field and meadow; and I know their secrets, And gather them because they give me power Over all men and women. Armed with these, I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, Am stronger than the captain with his sword, Am richer than the merchant with his money, Am wiser than the scholar with his books, Mightier than Ministers and Magistrates, With all the fear and reverence that attend them! For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy, Can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts, Or fall into delirium and convulsions; I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand; A touch from me and they are weak with pain, A look from me, and they consume and die. The death of cattle and the blight of corn, The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire,-- These are my doings, and they know it not. Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me!

Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a riding-whip in his hand.

MATHER. Methinks that I have come by paths unknown Into the land and atmosphere of Witches; For, meditating as I journeyed on, Lo! I have lost my way! If I remember Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned That tells the story of a man who, praying For one that was possessed by Evil Spirits, Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face; I, journeying to circumvent the Witches, Surely by Witches have been led astray. I am persuaded there are few affairs In which the Devil doth not interfere. We cannot undertake a journey even, But Satan will be there to meddle with it By hindering or by furthering. He hath led me Into this thicket, struck me in the face With branches of the trees, and so entangled The fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles, That I must needs dismount, and search on foot For the lost pathway leading to the village.

Re-enter TITUBA.

What shape is this? What monstrous apparition, Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way? Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman--

TITUBA. I am a woman, but I am not good, I am a Witch!

MATHER. Then tell me, Witch and woman, For you must know the pathways through this wood, Where lieth Salem Village?

TITUBA. Reverend sir, The village is near by. I'm going there With these few herbs. I'll lead you. Follow me.

MATHER. First say, who are you? I am loath to follow A stranger in this wilderness, for fear Of being misled, and left in some morass. Who are you?

TITUBA. I am Tituba the Witch, Wife of John Indian.

MATHER. You are Tituba? I know you then. You have renounced the Devil, And have become a penitent confessor, The Lord be praised! Go on, I'll follow you. Wait only till I fetch my horse, that stands Tethered among the trees, not far from here.

TITUBA. Let me get up behind you, reverend sir.

MATHER. The Lord forbid! What would the people think, If they should see the Reverend Cotton Mather Ride into Salem with a Witch behind him? The Lord forbid!

TITUBA. I do not need a horse! I can ride through the air upon a stick, Above the tree-tops and above the houses, And no one see me, no one overtake me. [Exeunt.

## SCENE II. -- A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE'S. A clock in the

corner. Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

HATHORNE. You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome here Beneath my humble roof.

MATHER. I thank your Worship.

HATHORNE. Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued With your long ride through unfrequented woods.

They sit down.

MATHER. You know the purport of my visit here,-- To be advised by you, and counsel with you, And with the Reverend Clergy of the village, Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you; And see with mine own eyes the wonders told Of spectres and the shadows of the dead, That come back from their graves to speak with men.

HATHORNE. Some men there are, I have known such, who think That the two worlds--the seen and the unseen, The world of matter and the world of spirit-- Are like the hemispheres upon our maps, And touch each other only at a point. But these two worlds are not divided thus, Save for the purposes of common speech, They form one globe, in which the parted seas All flow together and are intermingled, While the great continents remain distinct.

MATHER. I doubt it not. The spiritual world Lies all about us, and its avenues Are open to the unseen feet of phantoms That come and go, and we perceive them not, Save by their influence, or when at times A most mysterious Providence permits them To manifest themselves to mortal eyes.

HATHORNE. You, who are always welcome here among us, Are doubly welcome now. We need your wisdom, Your learning in these things to be our guide. The Devil hath come down in wrath upon us, And ravages the land with all his hosts.

MATHER. The Unclean Spirit said, "My name is Legion!" Multitudes in the Valley of Destruction! But when our fervent, well-directed prayers, Which are the great artillery of Heaven, Are brought into the field, I see them scattered And driven like autumn leaves before the wind.

HATHORNE. You as a Minister of God, can meet them With spiritual weapons: but, alas! I, as a Magistrate, must combat them With weapons from the armory of the flesh.

MATHER. These wonders of the world invisible,-- These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations,-- The multiplied and manifold afflictions With which the aged and the dying saints Have their death prefaced and their age imbittered,-- Are but prophetic trumpets that proclaim The Second Coming of our Lord on earth. The evening wolves will be much more abroad, When we are near the evening of the world.

HATHORNE. When you shall see, as I have hourly seen, The sorceries and the witchcrafts that torment us, See children tortured by invisible spirits, And wasted and consumed by powers unseen, You will confess the half has not been told you.

MATHER. It must be so. The death-pangs of the Devil Will make him more a Devil than before; And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace will be heated Seven times more hot before its putting out.

HATHORNE. Advise me, reverend sir. I look to you For counsel and for guidance in this matter. What further shall we do?

MATHER. Remember this, That as a sparrow falls not to the ground Without the will of God, so not a Devil Can come down from the air without his leave. We must inquire.

HATHORNE. Dear sir, we have inquired; Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through, And then resifted it.

MATHER. If God permits These Evil Spirits from the unseen regions To visit us with surprising informations, We must inquire what cause there is for this, But not receive the testimony borne By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt In the accused.

HATHORNE. Upon such evidence We do not rest our case. The ways are many In which the guilty do betray themselves.

MATHER. Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness, That on one side no innocent blood be shed By too excessive zeal, and on the other No shelter given to any work of darkness.

HATHORNE. For one, I do not fear excess of zeal. What do we gain by parleying with the Devil? You reason, but you hesitate to act! Ah, reverend sir! believe me, in such cases The only safety is in acting promptly. 'T is not the part of wisdom to delay In things where not to do is still to do A deed more fatal than the deed we shrink from. You are a man of books and meditation, But I am one who acts.

MATHER. God give us wisdom In the directing of this thorny business, And guide us, lest New England should become Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor In the opinion of the world abroad!

The clock strikes.

I never hear the striking of a clock Without a warning and an admonition That time is on the wing, and we must quicken Our tardy pace in journeying Heavenward, As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward!

They rise.

HATHORNE. Then let us make all haste; and I will show you In what disguises and what fearful shapes The Unclean Spirits haunt this neighborhood, And you will pardon my excess of zeal.

MATHER. Ah, poor New England! He who hurricanoed The house of Job is making now on thee One last assault, more deadly and more snarled With unintelligible circumstances Than any thou hast hitherto encountered! [Exeunt.

## SCENE III. -- A room in WALCOT'S House. MARY WALCOT seated in an

arm-chair. TITUBA with a mirror.

MARY. Tell me another story, Tituba. A drowsiness is stealing over me Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes, I am awake, and in another world. Dim faces of the dead and of the absent Come floating up before me,--floating, fading, And disappearing.

TITUBA. Look into this glass. What see you?

MARY. Nothing but a golden vapor. Yes, something more. An island, with the sea Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge. What land is this?

TITUBA. It is San Salvador, Where Tituba was born. What see you now?

MARY. A man all black and fierce.

TITUBA. That is my father. He was an Obi man, and taught me magic,-- Taught me the use of herbs and images. What is he doing?

MARY. Holding in his hand A waxen figure. He is melting it Slowly before a fire.

TITUBA. And now what see you?

MARY. A woman lying on a bed of leaves, Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying!

TITUBA. That is the way the Obi men destroy The people they dislike! That is the way Some one is wasting and consuming you.

MARY. You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save me From those who make me pine and waste away! Who are they? Tell me.

TITUBA. That I do not know, But you will see them. They will come to you.

MARY. No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it! I am too weak to bear it! I am dying.

Fails into a trance.

TITUBA. Hark! there is some one coming!

Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and WALCOT.

WALCOT. There she lies, Wasted and worn by devilish incantations! O my poor sister!

MATHER. Is she always thus?

WALCOT. Nay, she is sometimes tortured by convulsions.

MATHER. Poor child! How thin she is! How wan and wasted!

HATHORNE. Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep.

MATHER. Some fearful vision haunts her.

HATHORNE. You now see With your own eyes, and touch with your own hands, The mysteries of this Witchcraft.

MATHER. One would need The hands of Briareus and the eyes of Argus To see and touch them all.

HATHORNE. You now have entered The realm of ghosts and phantoms,--the vast realm Of the unknown and the invisible, Through whose wide-open gates there blows a wind From the dark valley of the shadow of Death, That freezes us with horror.

MARY (starting). Take her hence! Take her away from me. I see her there! She's coming to torment me!

WALCOT (taking her hand. O my sister! What frightens you? She neither hears nor sees me. She's in a trance.

MARY. Do you not see her there?

TITUBA. My child, who is it?

MARY. Ah, I do not know, I cannot see her face.

TITUBA. How is she clad?

MARY. She wears a crimson bodice. In her hand She holds an image, and is pinching it Between her fingers. Ah, she tortures me! I see her face now. It is Goodwife Bishop! Why does she torture me? I never harmed her! And now she strikes me with an iron rod! Oh, I am beaten!

MATHER. This is wonderful!. I can see nothing! Is this apparition Visibly there, and yet we cannot see it?

HATHORNE. It is. The spectre is invisible Unto our grosser senses, but she sees it.

MARY. Look! look! there is another clad in gray! She holds a spindle in her hand, and threatens To stab me with it! It is Goodwife Corey! Keep her away! Now she is coming at me! Oh, mercy! mercy!

WALCOT (thrusting with his sword. There is nothing there!

MATHER to HATHORNE. Do you see anything?

HATHORNE. The laws that govern The spiritual world prevent our seeing Things palpable and visible to her. These spectres are to us as if they were not. Mark her; she wakes.

TITUBA touches her, and she awakes.

MARY. Who are these gentlemen?

WALCOT. They are our friends. Dear Mary, are you better?

MARY. Weak, very weak.

Taking a spindle from her lap, and holding it up.

How came this spindle here?

TITUBA. You wrenched it from the hand of Goodwife Corey When she rushed at you.

HATHORNE. Mark that, reverend sir!

MATHER. It is most marvellous, most inexplicable!

TITUBA. (picking up a bit of gray cloth from the floor). And here, too, is a bit of her gray dress, That the sword cut away.

MATHER. Beholding this, It were indeed by far more credulous To be incredulous than to believe. None but a Sadducee, who doubts of all Pertaining to the spiritual world, Could doubt such manifest and damning proofs!

HATHORNE. Are you convinced?

MATHER to MARY. Dear child, be comforted! Only by prayer and fasting can you drive These Unclean Spirits from you. An old man Gives you his blessing. God be with you, Mary!

## ACT II

## SCENE I. -- GILES COREY's farm. Morning. Enter COREY, with a

horseshoe and a hammer.

COREY. The Lord hath prospered me. The rising sun Shines on my Hundred Acres and my woods As if he loved them. On a morn like this I can forgive mine enemies, and thank God For all his goodness unto me and mine. My orchard groans with russets and pearmains; My ripening corn shines golden in the sun; My barns are crammed with hay, my cattle thrive The birds sing blithely on the trees around me! And blither than the birds my heart within me. But Satan still goes up and down the earth; And to protect this house from his assaults, And keep the powers of darkness from my door, This horseshoe will I nail upon the threshold.

Nails down the horseshoe.

There, ye night-hags and witches that torment The neighborhood, ye shall not enter here!-- What is the matter in the field?--John Gloyd! The cattle are all running to the woods!-- John Gloyd! Where is the man?

Enter JOHN GLOYD. Look there! What ails the cattle? Are they all bewitched? They run like mad.

GLOYD. They have been overlooked.

COREY. The Evil Eye is on them sure enough. Call all the men. Be quick. Go after them!

Exit GLOYD and enter MARTHA.

MARTHA. What is amiss?

COREY. The cattle are bewitched. They are broken loose and making for the woods.

MARTHA. Why will you harbor such delusions, Giles? Bewitched? Well, then it was John Gloyd bewitched them; I saw him even now take down the bars And turn them loose! They're only frolicsome.

COREY. The rascal!

MARTHA. I was standing in the road, Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I saw him.

COREY. With Proctor's wife? And what says Goodwife Proctor?

MARTHA. Sad things indeed; the saddest you can hear Of Bridget Bishop. She's cried out upon!

COREY. Poor soul! I've known her forty year or more. She was the widow Wasselby, and then She married Oliver, and Bishop next. She's had three husbands. I remember well My games of shovel-board at Bishop's tavern In the old merry days, and she so gay With her red paragon bodice and her ribbons! Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a Witch!

MARTHA. They'll little help her now,--her caps and ribbons, And her red paragon bodice and her plumes, With which she flaunted in the Meeting-house! When next she goes there, it will be for trial.

COREY. When will that be?

MARTHA. This very day at ten.

COREY. Then get you ready. We'll go and see it. Come; you shall ride behind me on the pillion.

MARTHA. Not I. You know I do not like such things. I wonder you should. I do not believe In Witches nor in Witchcraft.

COREY. Well, I do. There's a strange fascination in it all. That draws me on and on. I know not why.

MARTHA. What do we know of spirits good or ill, Or of their power to help us or to harm us?

COREY. Surely what's in the Bible must be true. Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul? Did not the Witch of Endor bring the ghost Of Samuel from his grave? The Bible says so.

MARTHA. That happened very long ago.

COREY. With God There is no long ago.

MARTHA. There is with us.

COREY. And Mary Magdalene had seven devils, And he who dwelt among the tombs a legion!

MARTHA. God's power is infinite. I do not doubt it. If in His providence He once permitted Such things to be among the Israelites, It does not follow He permits them now, And among us who are not Israelites. But we will not dispute about it, Giles. Go to the village if you think it best, And leave me here; I'll go about my work. [Exit into the house.

COREY. And I will go and saddle the gray mare. The last word always. That is woman's nature. If an old man will marry a young wife, He must make up his mind to many things. It's putting new cloth into an old garment, When the strain comes, it is the old gives way.

Goes to the door.

Oh, Martha! I forgot to tell you something. I've had a letter from a friend of mine, A certain Richard Gardner of Nantucket, Master and owner of a whaling-vessel; He writes that he is coming down to see us. I hope you'll like him.

MARTHA. I will do my best.

COREY. That's a good woman. Now I will be gone. I've not seen Gardner for this twenty year; But there is something of the sea about him,-- Something so open, generous, large; and strong, It makes me love him better than a brother. [Exit.

MARTHA comes to the door.

MARTHA. Oh these old friends and cronies of my husband, These captains from Nantucket and the Cape, That come and turn my house into a tavern With their carousing! Still, there's something frank In these seafaring men that makes me like them. Why, here's a horseshoe nailed upon the doorstep! Giles has done this to keep away the Witches. I hope this Richard Gardner will bring him A gale of good sound common-sense to blow The fog of these delusions from his brain!

COREY (within). Ho! Martha! Martha!

Enter COREY. Have you seen my saddle?

MARTHA. I saw it yesterday.

COREY. Where did you see it?

MARTHA. On a gray mare, that somebody was riding Along the village road.

COREY. Who was it? Tell me.

MARTHA. Some one who should have stayed at home.

COREY (restraining himself). I see! Don't vex me, Martha. Tell me where it is.

MARTHA. I've hidden it away.

COREY. Go fetch it me.

MARTHA. Go find it.

COREY. No. I'll ride down to the village Bareback; and when the people stare and say, "Giles Corey, where's your saddle?" I will answer, "A Witch has stolen it." How shall you like that!

MARTHA. I shall not like it.

COREY. Then go fetch the saddle. [Exit MARTHA.

If an old man will marry a young wife, Why then--why then--why then--he must spell Baker!

Enter MARTHA with the saddle, which she throws down.

MARTHA. There! There's the saddle.

COREY. Take it up.

MARTHA. I won't!

COREY. Then let it lie there. I'll ride to the village, And say you are a Witch.

MARTHA. No, not that, Giles.

She takes up the saddle.

COREY. Now come with me, and saddle the gray mare With your own hands; and you shall see me ride Along the village road as is becoming Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, your husband! [Exeunt.

## SCENE II. -- The Green in front of the Meeting-house in Salem

village. People coming and going. Enter GILES COREY.

COREY. A melancholy end! Who would have thought That Bridget Bishop e'er would come to this? Accused, convicted, and condemned to death For Witchcraft! And so good a woman too!

A FARMER. Good morrow, neighbor Corey.

COREY (not hearing him). Who is safe? How do I know but under my own roof I too may harbor Witches, and some Devil Be plotting and contriving against me?

FARMER. He does not hear. Good morrow, neighbor Corey!

COREY Good morrow.

FARMER. Have you seen John Proctor lately?

COREY. No, I have not.

FARMER. Then do not see him, Corey.

COREY. Why should I not?

FARMER. Because he's angry with you. So keep out of his way. Avoid a quarrel.

COREY. Why does he seek to fix a quarrel on me?

FARMER. He says you burned his house.

COREY. I burn his house? If he says that, John Proctor is a liar! The night his house was burned I was in bed, And I can prove it! Why, we are old friends! He could not say that of me.

FARMER. He did say it. I heard him say it.

COREY. Then he shall unsay it.

FARMER. He said you did it out of spite to him For taking part against you in the quarrel You had with your John Gloyd about his wages. He says you murdered Goodell; that you trampled Upon his body till he breathed no more. And so beware of him; that's my advice! [Exit.

COREY. By heaven! this is too much! I'll seek him out, And make him eat his words, or strangle him. I'll not be slandered at a time like this, When every word is made an accusation, When every whisper kills, and every man Walks with a halter round his neck!

Enter GLOYD in haste.

What now? GLOYD. I came to look for you. The cattle--

COREY. Well, What of them? Have you found them?

GLOYD. They are dead. I followed them through the woods, across the meadows; Then they all leaped into the Ipswich River, And swam across, but could not climb the bank, And so were drowned.

COREY. You are to blame for this; For you took down the bars, and let them loose.

GLOYD. That I deny. They broke the fences down. You know they were bewitched.

COREY. Ah, my poor cattle! The Evil Eye was on them; that is true. Day of disaster! Most unlucky day! Why did I leave my ploughing and my reaping To plough and reap this Sodom and Gomorrah? Oh, I could drown myself for sheer vexation! [Exit.

GLOYD. He's going for his cattle. He won't find them. By this time they have drifted out to sea. They will not break his fences any more, Though they may break his heart. And what care I? [Exit.

## SCENE III. -- COREY's kitchen. A table with supper. MARTHA

knitting.

MARTHA.

He's come at last. I hear him in the passage. Something has gone amiss with him today; I know it by his step, and by the sound The door made as he shut it. He is angry.

Enter COREY with his riding-whip. As he speaks he takes off his hat and gloves and throws them down violently.

COREY. I say if Satan ever entered man He's in John Proctor!

MARTHA. Giles, what is the matter? You frighten me.

COREY. I say if any man Can have a Devil in him, then that man Is Proctor,--is John Proctor, and no other!

MARTHA. Why, what has he been doing?

COREY. Everything! What do you think I heard there in the village?

MARTHA. I'm sure I cannot guess. What did you hear?

COREY. He says I burned his house!

MARTHA. Does he say that?

COREY. He says I burned his house. I was in bed And fast asleep that night; and I can prove it.

MARTHA. If he says that, I think the Father of Lies Is surely in the man.

COREY. He does say that And that I did it to wreak vengeance on him For taking sides against me in the quarrel I had with that John Gloyd about his wages. And God knows that I never bore him malice For that, as I have told him twenty times

MARTHA. It is John Gloyd has stirred him up to this. I do not like that Gloyd. I think him crafty, Not to be trusted, sullen and untruthful. Come, have your supper. You are tired and hungry.

COREY. I'm angry, and not hungry.

MARTHA. Do eat something. You'll be the better for it.

COREY (sitting down). I'm not hungry.

MARTHA. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.

COREY. It has gone down upon it, and will rise To-morrow, and go down again upon it. They have trumped up against me the old story Of causing Goodell's death by trampling on him.

MARTHA. Oh, that is false. I know it to be false.

COREY. He has been dead these fourteen years or more. Why can't they let him rest? Why must they drag him Out of his grave to give me a bad name? I did not kill him. In his bed he died, As most men die, because his hour had come. I have wronged no man. Why should Proctor say Such things bout me? I will not forgive him Till he confesses he has slandered me. Then, I've more trouble. All my cattle gone.

MARTHA. They will come back again.

COREY. Not in this world. Did I not tell you they were overlooked? They ran down through the woods, into the meadows, And tried to swim the river, and were drowned. It is a heavy loss.

MARTHA. I'm sorry for it.

COREY. All my dear oxen dead. I loved them, Martha, Next to yourself. I liked to look at them, And watch the breath come out of their wide nostrils, And see their patient eyes. Somehow I thought It gave me strength only to look at them. And how they strained their necks against the yoke If I but spoke, or touched them with the goad! They were my friends; and when Gloyd came and told me They were all drowned, I could have drowned myself From sheer vexation; and I said as much To Gloyd and others.

MARTHA. Do not trust John Gloyd With anything you would not have repeated.

COREY. As I came through the woods this afternoon, Impatient at my loss, and much perplexed With all that I had heard there in the village, The yellow leaves lit up the trees about me Like an enchanted palace, and I wished I knew enough of magic or of Witchcraft To change them into gold. Then suddenly A tree shook down some crimson leaves upon me, Like drops of blood, and in the path before me Stood Tituba the Indian, the old crone.

MARTHA. Were you not frightened?

COREY. No, I do not think I know the meaning of that word. Why frightened? I am not one of those who think the Lord Is waiting till He catches them some day In the back yard alone! What should I fear? She started from the bushes by the path, And had a basket full of herbs and roots For some witch-broth or other,--the old hag.

MARTHA. She has been here to-day.

COREY. With hand outstretched She said: "Giles Corey, will you sign the Book?" "Avaunt!" I cried: "Get thee behind me, Satan!" At which she laughed and left me. But a voice Was whispering in my ear continually: "Self-murder is no crime. The life of man Is his, to keep it or to throw away!"

MARTHA. 'T was a temptation of the Evil One! Giles, Giles! why will you harbor these dark thoughts?

COREY (rising). I am too tired to talk. I'll go to bed.

MARTHA. First tell me something about Bridget Bishop. How did she look? You saw her? You were there?

COREY. I'll tell you that to-morrow, not to-night. I'll go to bed.

MARTHA. First let us pray together.

COREY. I cannot pray to-night.

MARTHA. Say the Lord's Prayer, And that will comfort you.

COREY. I cannot say, "As we forgive those that have sinned against us," When I do not forgive them.

MARTHA (kneeling on the hearth). God forgive you!

COREY. I will not make believe! I say to-night There's something thwarts me when I wish to pray, And thrusts into my mind, instead of prayers, Hate and revenge, and things that are not prayers. Something of my old self,--my old, bad life,-- And the old Adam in me rises up, And will not let me pray. I am afraid The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can't pray, I will not make believe!

[Exit COREY. MARTHA continues kneeling.

## ACT III.

## SCENE I. -- GILES COREY'S kitchen. Morning. COREY and MARTHA

sitting at the breakfast-table.

COREY (rising). Well, now I've told you all I saw and heard Of Bridget Bishop; and I must be gone.

MARTHA. Don't go into the village, Giles, to-day. Last night you came back tired and out of humor.

COREY. Say, angry; say, right angry. I was never In a more devilish temper in my life. All things went wrong with me.

MARTHA. You were much vexed; So don't go to the village.

COREY (going). No, I won't. I won't go near it. We are going to mow The Ipswich meadows for the aftermath, The crop of sedge and rowens.

MARTHA. Stay a moment, I want to tell you what I dreamed last night. Do you believe in dreams?

COREY. Why, yes and no. When they come true, then I believe in them When they come false, I don't believe in them. But let me hear. What did you dream about?

MARTHA. I dreamed that you and I were both in prison; That we had fetters on our hands and feet; That we were taken before the Magistrates, And tried for Witchcraft, and condemned to death! I wished to pray; they would not let me pray; You tried to comfort me, and they forbade it. But the most dreadful thing in all my dream Was that they made you testify against me! And then there came a kind of mist between us; I could not see you; and I woke in terror. I never was more thankful in my life Than when I found you sleeping at my side!

COREY (with tenderness). It was our talk last night that made you dream. I'm sorry for it. I'll control myself Another time, and keep my temper down! I do not like such dreams.--Remember, Martha, I'm going to mow the Ipswich River meadows; If Gardner comes, you'll tell him where to find me. [Exit.

MARTHA. So this delusion grows from bad to worse First, a forsaken and forlorn old woman, Ragged and wretched, and without a friend; Then something higher. Now it's Bridget Bishop; God only knows whose turn it will be next! The Magistrates are blind, the people mad! If they would only seize the Afflicted Children, And put them in the Workhouse, where they should be, There'd be an end of all this wickedness. [Exit.

## SCENE II. -- A street in Salem Village. Enter MATHER and

HATHORNE.

MATHER. Yet one thing troubles me.

HATHORNE. And what is that?

MATHER. May not the Devil take the outward shape Of innocent persons? Are we not in danger, Perhaps, of punishing some who are not guilty?

HATHORNE. As I have said, we do not trust alone To spectral evidence.

MATHER. And then again, If any shall be put to death for Witchcraft, We do but kill the body, not the soul. The Unclean Spirits that possessed them once Live still, to enter into other bodies. What have we gained? Surely, there's nothing gained.

HATHORNE. Doth not the Scripture say, "Thou shalt not suffer A Witch to live"?

MATHER. The Scripture sayeth it, But speaketh to the Jews; and we are Christians. What say the laws of England?

HATHORNE. They make Witchcraft Felony without the benefit of Clergy. Witches are burned in England. You have read-- For you read all things, not a book escapes you-- The famous Demonology of King James?

MATHER. A curious volume. I remember also The plot of the Two Hundred, with one Fian, The Registrar of the Devil, at their head, To drown his Majesty on his return From Denmark; how they sailed in sieves or riddles Unto North Berwick Kirk in Lothian, And, landing there, danced hand in hand, and sang, "Goodwife, go ye before! good wife, go ye! If ye'll not go before, goodwife, let me!" While Geilis Duncan played the Witches' Reel Upon a jews-harp.

HATHORNE. Then you know full well The English law, and that in England Witches, When lawfully convicted and attainted, Are put to death.

MATHER. When lawfully convicted; That is the point.

HATHORNE. You heard the evidence Produced before us yesterday at the trial Of Bridget Bishop.

MATHER. One of the Afflicted, I know, bore witness to the apparition Of ghosts unto the spectre of this Bishop, Saying, "You murdered us!" of the truth whereof There was in matter of fact too much Suspicion.

HATHORNE. And when she cast her eyes on the Afflicted, They were struck down; and this in such a manner There could be no collusion in the business. And when the accused but laid her hand upon them, As they lay in their swoons, they straight revived, Although they stirred not when the others touched them.

MATHER. What most convinced me of the woman's guilt Was finding hidden in her cellar wall Those poppets made of rags, with headless pins Stuck into them point outwards, and whereof She could not give a reasonable account.

HATHORNE. When you shall read the testimony given Before the Court in all the other cases, I am persuaded you will find the proof No less conclusive than it was in this. Come, then, with me, and I will tax your patience With reading of the documents so far As may convince you that these sorcerers Are lawfully convicted and attainted. Like doubting Thomas, you shall lay your hand Upon these wounds, and you will doubt no more. {Exeunt.

## SCENE III. -- A room in COREY's house. MARTHA and two Deacons of

the church.

MARTHA. Be seated. I am glad to see you here. I know what you are come for. You are come To question me, and learn from my own lips If I have any dealings with the Devil; In short, if I'm a Witch.

DEACON (sitting down). Such is our purpose. How could you know beforehand why we came?

MARTHA. 'T was only a surmise.

DEACON. We came to ask you, You being with us in church covenant, What part you have, if any, in these matters.

MARTHA. And I make answer, No part whatsoever. I am a farmer's wife, a working woman; You see my spinning-wheel, you see my loom, You know the duties of a farmer's wife, And are not ignorant that my life among you Has been without reproach until this day. Is it not true?

DEACON. So much we're bound to own, And say it frankly, and without reserve.

MARTHA. I've heard the idle tales that are abroad; I've heard it whispered that I am a Witch; I cannot help it. I do not believe In any Witchcraft. It is a delusion.

DEACON. How can you say that it is a delusion, When all our learned and good men believe it,-- Our Ministers and worshipful Magistrates?

MARTHA. Their eyes are blinded and see not the truth. Perhaps one day they will be open to it.

DEACON. You answer boldly. The Afflicted Children Say you appeared to them.

MARTHA. And did they say What clothes I came in?

DEACON. No, they could not tell. They said that you foresaw our visit here, And blinded them, so that they could not see The clothes you wore.

MARTHA. The cunning, crafty girls! I say to you, in all sincerity, I never have appeared to anyone In my own person. If the Devil takes My shape to hurt these children, or afflict them, I am not guilty of it. And I say It's all a mere delusion of the senses.

DEACON. I greatly fear that you will find too late It is not so.

MARTHA (rising). They do accuse me falsely. It is delusion, or it is deceit. There is a story in the ancient Scriptures Which I much wonder comes not to your minds. Let me repeat it to you.

DEACON. We will hear it.

MARTHA. It came to pass that Naboth had a vineyard Hard by the palace of the King called Ahab. And Ahab, King of Israel, spake to Naboth, And said to him, Give unto me thy vineyard, That I may have it for a garden of herbs, And I will give a better vineyard for it, Or, if it seemeth good to thee, its worth In money. And then Naboth said to Ahab, The Lord forbid it me that I should give The inheritance of my fathers unto thee. And Ahab came into his house displeased And heavy at the words which Naboth spake, And laid him down upon his bed, and turned His face away; and he would eat no bread. And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, came And said to him, Why is thy spirit sad? And he said unto her, Because I spake To Naboth, to the Jezreelite, and said, Give me thy vineyard; and he answered, saying, I will not give my vineyard unto thee. And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, said, Dost thou not rule the realm of Israel? Arise, eat bread, and let thy heart be merry; I will give Naboth's vineyard unto thee. So she wrote letters in King Ahab's name, And sealed them with his seal, and sent the letters Unto the elders that were in his city Dwelling with Naboth, and unto the nobles; And in the letters wrote, Proclaim a fast; And set this Naboth high among the people, And set two men, the sons of Belial, Before him, to bear witness and to say, Thou didst blaspheme against God and the King; And carry him out and stone him, that he die! And the elders and the nobles in the city Did even as Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, Had sent to them and written in the letters.

And then it came to pass, when Ahab heard Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose to go Down unto Naboth's vineyard, and to take Possession of it. And the word of God Came to Elijah, saying to him, Arise, Go down to meet the King of Israel In Naboth's vineyard, whither he hath gone To take possession. Thou shalt speak to him, Saying, Thus saith the Lord! What! hast thou killed And also taken possession? In the place Wherein the dogs have licked the blood of Naboth Shall the dogs lick thy blood,--ay, even thine!

Both of the Deacons start from their seats.

And Ahab then, the King of Israel, Said, Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? Elijah the Prophet answered, I have found thee! So will it be with those who have stirred up The Sons of Belial here to bear false witness And swear away the lives of innocent people; Their enemy will find them out at last, The Prophet's voice will thunder, I have found thee! [Exeunt.

## SCENE IV. -- Meadows on Ipswich River, COREY and his men mowing;

COREY in advance.

COREY. Well done, my men. You see, I lead the field! I'm an old man, but I can swing a scythe Better than most of you, though you be younger.

Hangs his scythe upon a tree.

GLOYD (aside to the others). How strong he is! It's supernatural. No man so old as he is has such strength. The Devil helps him!

COREY (wiping his forehead). Now we'll rest awhile, And take our nooning. What's the matter with you? You are not angry with me,--are you, Gloyd? Come, come, we will not quarrel. Let's be friends. It's an old story, that the Raven said, "Read the Third of Colossians and fifteenth."

GLOYD. You're handier at the scythe, but I can beat you At wrestling.

COREY. Well, perhaps so. I don't know. I never wrestled with you. Why, you're vexed! Come, come, don't bear a grudge.

GLOYD. You are afraid.

COREY. What should I be afraid of? All bear witness The challenge comes from him. Now, then, my man.

They wrestle, and GLOYD is thrown.

ONE OF THE MEN. That's a fair fall.

ANOTHER. 'T was nothing but a foil!

OTHERS. You've hurt him!

COREY (helping GLOYD rise). No; this meadow-land is soft. You're not hurt,--are you, Gloyd?

GLOYD (rising). No, not much hurt.

COREY. Well, then, shake hands; and there's an end of it. How do you like that Cornish hug, my lad? And now we'll see what's in our basket here.

GLOYD (aside). The Devil and all his imps are in that man! The clutch of his ten fingers burns like fire!

COREY (reverentially taking off his hat). God bless the food He hath provided for us, And make us thankful for it, for Christ's sake!

He lifts up a keg of cider, and drinks from it.

GLOYD. Do you see that? Don't tell me it's not Witchcraft Two of us could not lift that cask as he does!

COREY puts down the keg, and opens a basket. A voice is heard calling.

VOICE. Ho! Corey, Corey!

COREY. What is that? I surely Heard some one calling me by name!

VOICE. Giles Corey!

Enter a boy, running, and out of breath.

BOY. Is Master Corey here?

COREY. Yes, here I am. BOY. O Master Corey!

COREY. Well?

BOY. Your wife--your wife--

COREY. What's happened to my wife?

BOY. She's sent to prison!

COREY. The dream! the dream! O God, be merciful!

BOY. She sent me here to tell you.

COREY (putting on his jacket). Where's my horse? Don't stand there staring, fellows. Where's my horse? [Exit COREY.

GLOYD. Under the trees there. Run, old man, run, run! You've got some one to wrestle with you now Who'll trip your heels up, with your Cornish hug. If there's a Devil, he has got you now. Ah, there he goes! His horse is snorting fire!

ONE OF THE MEN. John Gloyd, don't talk so! It's a shame to talk so! He's a good master, though you quarrel with him.

GLOYD. If hard work and low wages make good masters, Then he is one. But I think otherwise. Come, let us have our dinner and be merry, And talk about the old man and the Witches. I know some stories that will make you laugh.

They sit down on the grass, and eat.

Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody Good, Who have not got a decent tooth between them, And yet these children--the Afflicted Children-- Say that they bite them, and show marks of teeth Upon their arms!

ONE OF THE MEN. That makes the wonder greater. That's Witchcraft. Why, if they had teeth like yours, 'T would be no wonder if the girls were bitten!

GLOYD. And then those ghosts that come out of their graves And cry, "You murdered us! you murdered us!"

ONE OF THE MEN. And all those Apparitions that stick pins Into the flesh of the Afflicted Children!

GLOYD. Oh those Afflicted Children! They know well Where the pins come from. I can tell you that. And there's old Corey, he has got a horseshoe Nailed on his doorstep to keep off the Witches, And all the same his wife has gone to prison.

ONE OF THE MEN. Oh, she's no Witch. I'll swear that Goodwife Corey Never did harm to any living creature. She's a good woman, if there ever was one.

GLOYD. Well, we shall see. As for that Bridget Bishop, She has been tried before; some years ago A negro testified he saw her shape Sitting upon the rafters in a barn, And holding in its hand an egg; and while He went to fetch his pitchfork, she had vanished. And now be quiet, will you? I am tired, And want to sleep here on the grass a little.

They stretch themselves on the grass.

ONE OF THE MEN. There may be Witches riding through the air Over our heads on broomsticks at this moment, Bound for some Satan's Sabbath in the woods To be baptized.

GLOYD. I wish they'd take you with them, And hold you under water, head and ears, Till you were drowned; and that would stop your talking, If nothing else will. Let me sleep, I say.

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. -- The Green in front of the village Meeting-house. An

excited crowd gathering. Enter JOHN GLOYD.

A FARMER. Who will be tried to-day?

A SECOND. I do not know. Here is John Gloyd. Ask him; he knows.

FARMER. John Gloyd, Whose turn is it to-day?

GLOYD. It's Goodwife Corey's.

FARMER. Giles Corey's wife?

GLOYD. The same. She is not mine. It will go hard with her with all her praying. The hypocrite! She's always on her knees; But she prays to the Devil when she prays. Let us go in.

A trumpet blows.

FARMER. Here come the Magistrates.

SECOND FARMER. Who's the tall man in front?

GLOYD. Oh, that is Hathorne, A Justice of the Court, and a Quarter-master In the Three County Troop. He'll sift the matter. That's Corwin with him; and the man in black Is Cotton Mather, Minister of Boston.

Enter HATHORNE and other Magistrates on horseback, followed by the Sheriff, constables, and attendants on foot. The Magistrates dismount, and enter the Meeting-house, with the rest.

FARMER.

The Meeting-house is full. I never saw So great a crowd before.

GLOYD. No matter. Come. We shall find room enough by elbowing Our way among them. Put your shoulder to it.

FARMER. There were not half so many at the trial Of Goodwife Bishop.

GLOYD. Keep close after me. I'll find a place for you. They'll want me there. I am a friend of Corey's, as you know, And he can't do without me just at present. [Exeunt.

## SCENE II. -- Interior of the Meeting-house. MATHER and the

Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a raised platform. MARTHA in chains. COREY near her. MARY WALCOT in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them GLOYD. Confusion and murmurs during the scene.

HATHORNE. Call Martha Corey.

MARTHA. I am here.

HATHORNE. Come forward.

She ascends the platform.

The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you Of having on the tenth of June last past, And divers other times before and after, Wickedly used and practised certain arts Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations, Against one Mary Walcot, single woman, Of Salem Village; by which wicked arts The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented, Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted, Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute Made and provided in that case. What say you?

MARTHA. Before I answer, give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE. We have not sent for you, nor are we here, To hear you pray, but to examine you In whatsoever is alleged against you. Why do you hurt this person?

MARTHA. I do not. I am not guilty of the charge against me.

MARY. Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now! Avoid, avoid, Witch!

MARTHA. I am innocent. I never had to do with any Witchcraft Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.

MARY. You are a gospel Witch!

MARTHA (clasping her hands). Ah me! ah me! Oh, give me leave to pray!

MARY (stretching out her hands). She hurts me now. See, she has pinched my hands!

HATHORNE. Who made these marks Upon her hands?

MARTHA. I do not know. I stand Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.

HATHORNE. Who hurt her then?

MARTHA. I know not.

HATHORNE. Do you think She is bewitched?

MARTHA. Indeed I do not think so. I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.

HATHORNE. Then answer me: When certain persons came To see you yesterday, how did you know Beforehand why they came?

MARTHA. I had had speech; The children said I hurt them, and I thought These people came to question me about it.

HATHORNE. How did you know the children had been told To note the clothes you wore?

MARTHA. My husband told me What others said about it.

HATHORNE. Goodman Corey, Say, did you tell her?

COREY. I must speak the truth; I did not tell her. It was some one else.

HATHORNE. Did you not say your husband told you so? How dare you tell a lie in this assembly? Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.

MARTHA bites her lips, and is silent.

You bite your lips, but do not answer me!

MARY. Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!

HATHORNE. You said your husband told you.

MARTHA. Yes, he told me The children said I troubled them.

HATHORNE. Then tell me, Why do you trouble them?

MARTHA. I have denied it.

MARY. She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle; And, when my brother thrust her with his sword, He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.

Shows them.

HATHORNE. And there are persons here who know the truth Of what has now been said. What answer make you?

MARTHA. I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE. Whom would you pray to?

MARTHA. To my God and Father.

HATHORNE. Who is your God and Father?

MARTHA. The Almighty!

HATHORNE. Doth he you pray to say that he is God? It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.

MARY. There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.

HATHORNE. What does it say to you?

MARTHA. I see no shape.

HATHORNE. Did you not hear it whisper?

MARTHA. I heard nothing.

MARY. What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!

Falls into a swoon.

HATHORNE. You see this woman cannot stand before you. If you would look for mercy, you must look In God's way, by confession of your guilt. Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?

MARTHA. I do not know. He who appeared of old In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified, May come in whatsoever shape he chooses. I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!

COREY. O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.

HATHORNE. No; stand aside, old man.

MARY (starting up). Look there! Look there! I see a little bird, a yellow bird Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me. Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!

MARTHA. I see nothing.

HATHORNE. 'T is the Familiar Spirit that attends her.

MARY. Now it has flown away. It sits up there Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.

MARTHA. Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes. Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.

She leans against the railing.

MARY. Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!

HATHORNE. Did you not carry once the Devil's Book To this young woman?

MARTHA. Never.

HATHORNE. Have you signed it, Or touched it?

MARTHA. No; I never saw it.

HATHORNE. Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?

MARTHA. No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds, I cannot help it. I am innocent.

HATHORNE. Did you not say the Magistrates were blind? That you would open their eyes?

MARTHA (with a scornful laugh). Yes, I said that; If you call me a sorceress, you are blind! If you accuse the innocent, you are blind! Can the innocent be guilty?

HATHORNE. Did you not On one occasion hide your husband's saddle To hinder him from coming to the sessions?

MARTHA. I thought it was a folly in a farmer To waste his time pursuing such illusions.

HATHORNE. What was the bird that this young woman saw Just now upon your hand?

MARTHA. I know no bird.

HATHORNE. Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?

MARTHA. No, never, never!

HATHORNE. What then was the Book You showed to this young woman, and besought her To write in it?

MARTHA. Where should I have a book? I showed her none, nor have none.

MARY. The next Sabbath Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey Will not be there!

MARTHA. Ah, you are all against me. What can I do or say?

HATHORNE. You can confess.

MARTHA. No, I cannot, for I am innocent.

HATHORNE. We have the proof of many witnesses That you are guilty.

MARTHA. Give me leave to speak. Will you condemn me on such evidence,-- You who have known me for so many years? Will you condemn me in this house of God, Where I so long have worshipped with you all? Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine So many times at our Lord's Table with you? Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know That I have led a blameless life among you, That never any whisper of suspicion Was breathed against me till this accusation. And shall this count for nothing? Will you take My life away from me, because this girl, Who is distraught, and not in her right mind, Accuses me of things I blush to name?

HATHORNE. What! is it not enough? Would you hear more? Giles Corey!

COREY. I am here.

HATHORNE. Come forward, then.

COREY ascends the platform.

Is it not true, that on a certain night You were impeded strangely in your prayers? That something hindered you? and that you left This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone Upon the hearth?

COREY. Yes; I cannot deny it.

HATHORNE. Did you not say the Devil hindered you?

COREY. I think I said some words to that effect.

HATHORNE. Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle, To you belonging, broke from their enclosure And leaped into the river, and were drowned?

COREY. It is most true.

HATHORNE. And did you not then say That they were overlooked?

COREY. So much I said. I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer, A net I cannot break, cannot escape from! (Aside).

HATHORNE. Who did these things?

COREY. I do not know who did them.

HATHORNE. Then I will tell you. It is some one near you; You see her now; this woman, your own wife.

COREY. I call the heavens to witness, it is false! She never harmed me, never hindered me In anything but what I should not do. And I bear witness in the sight of heaven, And in God's house here, that I never knew her As otherwise than patient, brave, and true, Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, A virtuous and industrious and good wife!

HATHORNE. Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech; You are a witness, not an advocate! Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.

MARTHA. O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!

MARY. Go, go and join the Witches at the door. Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them? Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late. [Exit MARTHA; COREY following.

COREY. The dream! the dream! the dream!

HATHORNE. What does he say? Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?

COREY. I know my death is foreordained by you, Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.

During the rest of the scene he remains silent.

HATHORNE. Do you refuse to plead?--'T were better for you To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.-- Do you not hear me?--Answer, are you guilty? Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty? Where is John Gloyd?

GLOYD (coming forward). Here am I.

HATHORNE. Tell the Court Have you not seen the supernatural power Of this old man? Have you not seen him do Strange feats of strength?

GLOYD. I've seen him lead the field, On a hot day, in mowing, and against Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him. He threw me like a feather. I have seen him Lift up a barrel with his single hands, Which two strong men could hardly lift together, And, holding it above his head, drink from it.

HATHORNE. That is enough; we need not question further. What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?

MARY. See there! See there!

HATHORNE. What is it? I see nothing.

MARY. Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder By stamping on his body! In his shroud He comes here to bear witness to the crime!

The crowd shrinks back from COREY in horror.

HATHORNE. Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die! It might have been an easier death. Your doom Will be on your own head, and not on ours. Twice more will you be questioned of these things; Twice more have room to plead or to confess. If you are contumacious to the Court, And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer, Then by the Statute you will be condemned To the peine forte et dure! To have your body Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead! And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!

## ACT V.

## SCENE I. -- COREy's farm as in Act II., Scene I. Enter RICHARD

GARDNER, looking round him.

GARDNER. Here stands the house as I remember it. The four tall poplar-trees before the door; The house, the barn, the orchard, and the well, With its moss-covered bucket and its trough; The garden, with its hedge of currant-bushes; The woods, the harvest-fields; and, far beyond, The pleasant landscape stretching to the sea. But everything is silent and deserted! No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of herds, No sound of flails, that should be beating now; Nor man nor beast astir. What can this mean?

Knocks at the door.

What ho! Giles Corey! Hillo-ho! Giles Corey!-- No answer but the echo from the barn, And the ill-omened cawing of the crow, That yonder wings his flight across the fields, As if he scented carrion in the air.

Enter TITUBA with a basket.

What woman's this, that, like an apparition, Haunts this deserted homestead in broad day? Woman, who are you?

TITUBA. I'm Tituba. I am John Indian's wife. I am a Witch.

GARDNER. What are you doing here?

TITUBA. I am gathering herbs,-- Cinquefoil, and saxifrage, and pennyroyal.

GARDNER (looking at the herbs). This is not cinquefoil, it is deadly nightshade! This is not saxifrage, but hellebore! This is not pennyroyal, it is henbane! Do you come here to poison these good people?

TITUBA. I get these for the Doctor in the Village. Beware of Tituba. I pinch the children; Make little poppets and stick pins in them, And then the children cry out they are pricked. The Black Dog came to me and said, "Serve me!" I was afraid. He made me hurt the children.

GARDNER. Poor soul! She's crazed, with all these Devil's doings.

TITUBA. Will you, sir, sign the book?

GARDNER. No, I'll not sign it. Where is Giles Corey? Do you know Giles Corey!

TITUBA. He's safe enough. He's down there in the prison.

GARDNER. Corey in prison? What is he accused of?

TITURA. Giles Corey and Martha Corey are in prison Down there in Salem Village. Both are witches. She came to me and whispered, "Kill the children!" Both signed the Book!

GARDNER.

Begone, you imp of darkness! You Devil's dam!

TITUBA. Beware of Tituba! [Exit.

GARDNER. How often out at sea on stormy nights, When the waves thundered round me, and the wind Bellowed, and beat the canvas, and my ship Clove through the solid darkness, like a wedge, I've thought of him upon his pleasant farm, Living in quiet with his thrifty housewife, And envied him, and wished his fate were mine! And now I find him shipwrecked utterly, Drifting upon this sea of sorceries, And lost, perhaps, beyond all aid of man! [Exit.

## SCENE II.. -- The prison. GILES COREY at a table on which are

some papers.

COREY. Now I have done with earth and all its cares; I give my worldly goods to my dear children; My body I bequeath to my tormentors, And my immortal soul to Him who made it. O God! who in thy wisdom dost afflict me With an affliction greater than most men Have ever yet endured or shall endure, Suffer me not in this last bitter hour For any pains of death to fall from Thee!

MARTHA is heard singing. Arise, O righteous Lord! And disappoint my foes; They are but thine avenging sword, Whose wounds are swift to close.

COREY. Hark, hark! it is her voice! She is not dead! She lives! I am not utterly forsaken!

MARTHA, singing. By thine abounding grace, And mercies multiplied, I shall awake, and see thy face; I shall be satisfied.

COREY hides his face in his hands. Enter the JAILER, followed by RICHARD GARDNER.

JAILER. Here's a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner, A friend of yours, who asks to speak with you.

COREY rises. They embrace.

COREY. I'm glad to see you, ay, right glad to see you.

GARDNER. And I am most sorely grieved to see you thus.

COREY. Of all the friends I had in happier days, You are the first, ay, and the only one, That comes to seek me out in my disgrace! And you but come in time to say farewell, They've dug my grave already in the field. I thank you. There is something in your presence, I know not what it is, that gives me strength. Perhaps it is the bearing of a man Familiar with all dangers of the deep, Familiar with the cries of drowning men, With fire, and wreck, and foundering ships at sea!

GARDNER. Ah, I have never known a wreck like yours! Would I could save you!

COREY. Do not speak of that. It is too late. I am resolved to die.

GARDNER. Why would you die who have so much to live for?-- Your daughters, and--

COREY. You cannot say the word. My daughters have gone from me. They are married; They have their homes, their thoughts, apart from me; I will not say their hearts,--that were too cruel. What would you have me do?

GARDNER. Confess and live. COREY. That's what they said who came here yesterday To lay a heavy weight upon my conscience By telling me that I was driven forth As an unworthy member of their church.

GARDNER. It is an awful death.

COREY. 'T is but to drown, And have the weight of all the seas upon you.

GARDNER. Say something; say enough to fend off death Till this tornado of fanaticism Blows itself out. Let me come in between you And your severer self, with my plain sense; Do not be obstinate.

COREY. I will not plead. If I deny, I am condemned already, In courts where ghosts appear as witnesses, And swear men's lives away. If I confess, Then I confess a lie, to buy a life Which is not life, but only death in life. I will not bear false witness against any, Not even against myself, whom I count least.

GARDNER (aside). Ah, what a noble character is this!

COREY. I pray you, do not urge me to do that You would not do yourself. I have already The bitter taste of death upon my lips; I feel the pressure of the heavy weight That will crush out my life within this hour; But if a word could save me, and that word Were not the Truth; nay, if it did but swerve A hair's-breadth from the Truth, I would not say it!

GARDNER (aside). How mean I seem beside a man like this!

COREY. As for my wife, my Martha and my Martyr,-- Whose virtues, like the stars, unseen by day, Though numberless, do but await the dark To manifest themselves unto all eyes,-- She who first won me from my evil ways, And taught me how to live by her example, By her example teaches me to die, And leads me onward to the better life!

SHERIFF (without). Giles Corey! Come! The hour has struck!

COREY. I come! Here is my body; ye may torture it, But the immortal soul ye cannot crush! [Exeunt.

## SCENE III-- A street in the Village. Enter GLOYD and others.

GLOYD. Quick, or we shall be late!

A MAN. That's not the way. Come here; come up this lane.

GLOYD. I wonder now If the old man will die, and will not speak? He's obstinate enough and tough enough For anything on earth.

A bell tolls.

Hark! What is that?

A MAN. The passing bell. He's dead!

GLOYD. We are too late. [Exeunt in haste.

## SCENE IV. -- A field near the graveyard, GILES COREY lying dead,

with a great stone on his breast. The Sheriff at his head, RICHARD GARDNER at his feet. A crowd behind. The bell tolling. Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

HATHORNE. This is the Potter's Field. Behold the fate Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, and, when questioned, Refuse to plead their guilt or innocence, And stubbornly drag death upon themselves.

MATHER. O sight most horrible! In a land like this, Spangled with Churches Evangelical, Inwrapped in our salvations, must we seek In mouldering statute-books of English Courts Some old forgotten Law, to do such deeds? Those who lie buried in the Potter's Field Will rise again, as surely as ourselves That sleep in honored graves with epitaphs; And this poor man, whom we have made a victim, Hereafter will be counted as a martyr!

FINALE

SAINT JOHN

SAINT JOHN wandering over the face of the Earth.

SAINT JOHN. The Ages come and go, The Centuries pass as Years; My hair is white as the snow, My feet are weary and slow, The earth is wet with my tears The kingdoms crumble, and fall Apart, like a ruined wall, Or a bank that is undermined By a river's ceaseless flow, And leave no trace behind! The world itself is old; The portals of Time unfold On hinges of iron, that grate And groan with the rust and the weight, Like the hinges of a gate That hath fallen to decay; But the evil doth not cease; There is war instead of peace, Instead of Love there is hate; And still I must wander and wait, Still I must watch and pray, Not forgetting in whose sight, A thousand years in their flight Are as a single day.

The life of man is a gleam Of light, that comes and goes Like the course of the Holy Stream. The cityless river, that flows From fountains no one knows, Through the Lake of Galilee, Through forests and level lands, Over rocks, and shallows, and sands Of a wilderness wild and vast, Till it findeth its rest at last In the desolate Dead Sea! But alas! alas for me Not yet this rest shall be!

What, then! doth Charity fail? Is Faith of no avail? Is Hope blown out like a light By a gust of wind in the night? The clashing of creeds, and the strife Of the many beliefs, that in vain Perplex man's heart and brain, Are naught but the rustle of leaves, When the breath of God upheaves The boughs of the Tree of Life, And they subside again! And I remember still The words, and from whom they came, Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!

And Him evermore I behold Walking in Galilee, Through the cornfield's waving gold, In hamlet, in wood, and in wold, By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. He toucheth the sightless eyes; Before Him the demons flee; To the dead He sayeth: Arise! To the living: Follow me! And that voice still soundeth on From the centuries that are gone, To the centuries that shall be! From all vain pomps and shows, From the pride that overflows, And the false conceits of men; From all the narrow rules And subtleties of Schools, And the craft of tongue and pen; Bewildered in its search, Bewildered with the cry, Lo, here! lo, there, the Church! Poor, sad Humanity Through all the dust and heat Turns back with bleeding feet, By the weary road it came, Unto the simple thought By the great Master taught, And that remaineth still: Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!

********

JUDAS MACCABAEUS.

## ACT I.

The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem.

## SCENE I. -- ANTIOCHUS; JASON.

ANTIOCHUS. O Antioch, my Antioch, my city! Queen of the East! my solace, my delight! The dowry of my sister Cleopatra When she was wed to Ptolemy, and now Won back and made more wonderful by me! I love thee, and I long to be once more Among the players and the dancing women Within thy gates, and bathe in the Orontes, Thy river and mine. O Jason, my High-Priest, For I have made thee so, and thou art mine, Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful?

JASON. Never, my Lord.

ANTIOCHUS. Then hast thou never seen The wonder of the world. This city of David Compared with Antioch is but a village, And its inhabitants compared with Greeks Are mannerless boors.

JASON. They are barbarians, And mannerless.

ANTIOCHUS. They must be civilized. They must be made to have more gods than one; And goddesses besides.

JASON. They shall have more.

ANTIOCHUS. They must have hippodromes, and games, and baths, Stage-plays and festivals, and most of all The Dionysia.

JASON. They shall have them all.

ANTIOCHUS. By Heracles! but I should like to see These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and arrayed In skins of fawns, with drums and flutes and thyrsi, Revel and riot through the solemn streets Of their old town. Ha, ha! It makes me merry Only to think of it!--Thou dost not laugh.

JASON. Yea, I laugh inwardly.

ANTIOCHUS. The new Greek leaven Works slowly in this Israelitish dough! Have I not sacked the Temple, and on the altar Set up the statue of Olympian Zeus To Hellenize it?

JASON. Thou hast done all this.

ANTIOCHUS. As thou wast Joshua once and now art Jason, And from a Hebrew hast become a Greek, So shall this Hebrew nation be translated, Their very natures and their names be changed, And all be Hellenized.

JASON. It shall be done.

ANTIOCHUS. Their manners and their laws and way of living Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn their language, And learn the lovely speech of Antioch. Where hast thou been to-day? Thou comest late.

JASON. Playing at discus with the other priests In the Gymnasium.

ANTIOCHUS. Thou hast done well. There's nothing better for you lazy priests Than discus-playing with the common people. Now tell me, Jason, what these Hebrews call me When they converse together at their games.

JASON. Antiochus Epiphanes, my Lord; Antiochus the Illustrious.

ANTIOCHUS. O, not that; That is the public cry; I mean the name They give me when they talk among themselves, And think that no one listens; what is that?

JASON. Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord!

ANTIOCHUS. Antiochus the Mad! Ay, that is it. And who hath said it? Who hath set in motion That sorry jest?

JASON. The Seven Sons insane Of a weird woman, like themselves insane.

ANTIOCHUS. I like their courage, but it shall not save them. They shall be made to eat the flesh of swine, Or they shall die. Where are they?

JASON. In the dungeons Beneath this tower.

ANTIOCHUS. There let them stay and starve, Till I am ready to make Greeks of them, After my fashion.

JASON. They shall stay and starve.-- My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria Await thy pleasure.

ANTIOCHUS. Why not my displeasure? Ambassadors are tedious. They are men Who work for their own ends, and not for mine There is no furtherance in them. Let them go To Apollonius, my governor There in Samaria, and not trouble me. What do they want?

JASON. Only the royal sanction To give a name unto a nameless temple Upon Mount Gerizim.

ANTIOCHUS. Then bid them enter. This pleases me, and furthers my designs. The occasion is auspicious. Bid them enter.

## SCENE II. -- ANTIOCHUS; JASON; THE SAMARITAN AMBASSADORS.

ANTIOCHUS. Approach. Come forward; stand not at the door Wagging your long beards, but demean yourselves As doth become Ambassadors. What seek ye?

AN AMBASSADOR. An audience from the King.

ANTIOCHUS. Speak, and be brief. Waste not the time in useless rhetoric. Words are not things.

AMBASSADOR (reading). "To King Antiochus, The God, Epiphanes; a Memorial From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem."

ANTIOCHUS. Sidonians?

AMBASSADOR. Ay, my Lord.

ANTIOCHUS. Go on, go on! And do not tire thyself and me with bowing!

AMBASSADOR (reading). "We are a colony of Medes and Persians."

ANTIOCHUS. No, ye are Jews from one of the Ten Tribes; Whether Sidonians or Samaritans Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to me; Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews. When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred with them; When the Jews suffer, ye are Medes and Persians: I know that in the days of Alexander Ye claimed exemption from the annual tribute In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said, Your fields had not been planted in that year.

AMBASSADOR (reading). "Our fathers, upon certain frequent plagues, And following an ancient superstition, Were long accustomed to observe that day Which by the Israelites is called the Sabbath, And in a temple on Mount Gerizim Without a name, they offered sacrifice. Now we, who are Sidonians, beseech thee, Who art our benefactor and our savior, Not to confound us with these wicked Jews, But to give royal order and injunction To Apollonius in Samaria. Thy governor, and likewise to Nicanor, Thy procurator, no more to molest us; And let our nameless temple now be named The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius."

ANTIOCHUS. This shall be done. Full well it pleaseth me Ye are not Jews, or are no longer Jews, But Greeks; if not by birth, yet Greeks by custom. Your nameless temple shall receive the name Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go!

## SCENE III. -- ANTIOCHUS; JASON.

ANTIOCHUS. My task is easier than I dreamed. These people Meet me half-way. Jason, didst thou take note How these Samaritans of Sichem said They were not Jews? that they were Medes and Persians, They were Sidonians, anything but Jews? 'T is of good augury. The rest will follow Till the whole land is Hellenized.

JASON. My Lord, These are Samaritans. The tribe of Judah Is of a different temper, and the task Will be more difficult.

ANTIOCHUS. Dost thou gainsay me?

JASON. I know the stubborn nature of the Jew. Yesterday, Eleazer, an old man, Being fourscore years and ten, chose rather death By torture than to eat the flesh of swine.

ANTIOCHUS. The life is in the blood, and the whole nation Shall bleed to death, or it shall change its faith!

JASON. Hundreds have fled already to the mountains Of Ephraim, where Judas Maccabaeus Hath raised the standard of revolt against thee.

ANTIOCHUS. I will burn down their city, and will make it Waste as a wilderness. Its thoroughfares Shall be but furrows in a field of ashes. It shall be sown with salt as Sodom is! This hundred and fifty-third Olympiad Shall have a broad and blood-red sea upon it, Stamped with the awful letters of my name, Antiochus the God, Epiphanes!-- Where are those Seven Sons?

JASON. My Lord, they wait Thy royal pleasure.

ANTIOCHUS. They shall wait no longer!

## ACT II.

The Dungeons in the Citadel.

## SCENE I. -- THE MOTHER of the SEVEN SONS alone, listening.

THE MOTHER. Be strong, my heart! Break not till they are dead, All, all my Seven Sons; then burst asunder, And let this tortured and tormented soul Leap and rush out like water through the shards Of earthen vessels broken at a well. O my dear children, mine in life and death, I know not how ye came into my womb; I neither gave you breath, nor gave you life, And neither was it I that formed the members Of every one of you. But the Creator, Who made the world, and made the heavens above us, Who formed the generation of mankind, And found out the beginning of all things, He gave you breath and life, and will again Of his own mercy, as ye now regard Not your own selves, but his eternal law. I do not murmur, nay, I thank thee, God, That I and mine have not been deemed unworthy To suffer for thy sake, and for thy law, And for the many sins of Israel. Hark! I can hear within the sound of scourges! I feel them more than ye do, O my sons! But cannot come to you. I, who was wont To wake at night at the least cry ye made, To whom ye ran at every slightest hurt, I cannot take you now into my lap And soothe your pain, but God will take you all Into his pitying arms, and comfort you, And give you rest.

A VOICE (within). What wouldst thou ask of us? Ready are we to die, but we will never Transgress the law and customs of our fathers.

THE MOTHER. It is the Voice of my first-born! O brave And noble boy! Thou hast the privilege Of dying first, as thou wast born the first.

THE SAME VOICE (within). God looketh on us, and hath comfort in us; As Moses in his song of old declared, He in his servants shall be comforted.

THE MOTHER. I knew thou wouldst not fail!--He speaks no more, He is beyond all pain!

ANTIOCHUS. (within). If thou eat not Thou shalt be tortured throughout all the members Of thy whole body. Wilt thou eat then?

SECOND VOICE. (within). No.

THE MOTHER. It is Adaiah's voice. I tremble for him. I know his nature, devious as the wind, And swift to change, gentle and yielding always. Be steadfast, O my son!

THE SAME VOICE (within). Thou, like a fury, Takest us from this present life, but God, Who rules the world, shall raise us up again Into life everlasting.

THE MOTHER. God, I thank thee That thou hast breathed into that timid heart Courage to die for thee. O my Adaiah, Witness of God! if thou for whom I feared Canst thus encounter death, I need not fear; The others will not shrink.

THIRD VOICE (within). Behold these hands Held out to thee, O King Antiochus, Not to implore thy mercy, but to show That I despise them. He who gave them to me Will give them back again.

THE MOTHER. O Avilan, It is thy voice. For the last time I hear it; For the last time on earth, but not the last. To death it bids defiance and to torture. It sounds to me as from another world, And makes the petty miseries of this Seem unto me as naught, and less than naught. Farewell, my Avilan; nay, I should say Welcome, my Avilan; for I am dead Before thee. I am waiting for the others. Why do they linger?

FOURTH VOICE (within). It is good, O King, Being put to death by men, to look for hope From God, to be raised up again by him. But thou--no resurrection shalt thou have To life hereafter.

THE MOTHER. Four! already four! Three are still living; nay, they all are living, Half here, half there. Make haste, Antiochus, To reunite us; for the sword that cleaves These miserable bodies makes a door Through which our souls, impatient of release, Rush to each other's arms.

FIFTH VOICE (within). Thou hast the power; Thou doest what thou wilt. Abide awhile, And thou shalt see the power of God, and how He will torment thee and thy seed.

THE MOTHER. O hasten; Why dost thou pause? Thou who hast slain already So many Hebrew women, and hast hung Their murdered infants round their necks, slay me, For I too am a woman, and these boys Are mine. Make haste to slay us all, And hang my lifeless babes about my neck.

SIXTH VOICE (within). Think not, Antiochus, that takest in hand To strive against the God of Israel, Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his wrath Shall overtake thee and thy bloody house.

THE MOTHER. One more, my Sirion, and then all is ended. Having put all to bed, then in my turn I will lie down and sleep as sound as they. My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved! And those bright golden locks, that I so oft Have curled about these fingers, even now Are foul with blood and dust, like a lamb's fleece, Slain in the shambles.--Not a sound I hear. This silence is more terrible to me Than any sound, than any cry of pain, That might escape the lips of one who dies. Doth his heart fail him? Doth he fall away In the last hour from God? O Sirion, Sirion, Art thou afraid? I do not hear thy voice. Die as thy brothers died. Thou must not live!

## SCENE II. -- THE MOTHER; ANTIOCHUS; SIRION,

THE MOTHER. Are they all dead?

ANTIOCHUS. Of all thy Seven Sons One only lives. Behold them where they lie How dost thou like this picture?

THE MOTHER. God in heaven! Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die By the recoil of his own wickedness? Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies That were my children once, and still are mine, I cannot watch o'er you as Rispah watched In sackcloth o'er the seven sons of Saul, Till water drop upon you out of heaven And wash this blood away! I cannot mourn As she, the daughter of Aiah, mourned the dead, From the beginning of the barley-harvest Until the autumn rains, and suffered not The birds of air to rest on them by day, Nor the wild beasts by night. For ye have died A better death, a death so full of life That I ought rather to rejoice than mourn.-- Wherefore art thou not dead, O Sirion? Wherefore art thou the only living thing Among thy brothers dead? Art thou afraid?

ANTIOCHUS. O woman, I have spared him for thy sake, For he is fair to look upon and comely; And I have sworn to him by all the gods That I would crown his life with joy and honor, Heap treasures on him, luxuries, delights, Make him my friend and keeper of my secrets, If he would turn from your Mosaic Law And be as we are; but he will not listen.

THE MOTHER. My noble Sirion!

ANTIOCHUS. Therefore I beseech thee, Who art his mother, thou wouldst speak with him, And wouldst persuade him. I am sick of blood.

THE MOTHER. Yea, I will speak with him and will persuade him. O Sirion, my son! have pity on me, On me that bare thee, and that gave thee suck, And fed and nourished thee, and brought thee up With the dear trouble of a mother's care Unto this age. Look on the heavens above thee, And on the earth and all that is therein; Consider that God made them out of things That were not; and that likewise in this manner Mankind was made. Then fear not this tormentor But, being worthy of thy brethren, take Thy death as they did, that I may receive thee Again in mercy with them.

ANTIOCHUS. I am mocked, Yea, I am laughed to scorn.

SIRION. Whom wait ye for? Never will I obey the King's commandment, But the commandment of the ancient Law, That was by Moses given unto our fathers. And thou, O godless man, that of all others Art the most wicked, be not lifted up, Nor puffed up with uncertain hopes, uplifting Thy hand against the servants of the Lord, For thou hast not escaped the righteous judgment Of the Almighty God, who seeth all things!

ANTIOCHUS. He is no God of mine; I fear him not.

SIRION. My brothers, who have suffered a brief pain, Are dead; but thou, Antiochus, shalt suffer The punishment of pride. I offer up My body and my life, beseeching God That he would speedily be merciful Unto our nation, and that thou by plagues Mysterious and by torments mayest confess That he alone is God.

ANTIOCHUS. Ye both shall perish By torments worse than any that your God, Here or hereafter, hath in store for me.

THE MOTHER. My Sirion, I am proud of thee!

ANTIOCHUS. Be silent! Go to thy bed of torture in yon chamber, Where lie so many sleepers, heartless mother! Thy footsteps will not wake them, nor thy voice, Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy troubled dreams, Thy children crying for thee in the night!

THE MOTHER. O Death, that stretchest thy white hands to me, I fear them not, but press them to my lips, That are as white as thine; for I am Death, Nay, am the Mother of Death, seeing these sons All lying lifeless.--Kiss me, Sirion.

## ACT III.

The Battle-field of Beth-horon.

## SCENE I. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS in armor before his tent.

JUDAS. The trumpets sound; the echoes of the mountains Answer them, as the Sabbath morning breaks Over Beth-horon and its battle-field, Where the great captain of the hosts of God, A slave brought up in the brick-fields of Egypt, O'ercame the Amorites. There was no day Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. The sun stood still; the hammers of the hail Beat on their harness; and the captains set Their weary feet upon the necks of kings, As I will upon thine, Antiochus, Thou man of blood!--Behold the rising sun Strikes on the golden letters of my banner, Be Elohim Yehovah! Who is like To thee, O Lord, among the gods!--Alas! I am not Joshua, I cannot say, "Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, and thou Moon, In Ajalon!" Nor am I one who wastes The fateful time in useless lamentation; But one who bears his life upon his hand To lose it or to save it, as may best Serve the designs of Him who giveth life.

## SCENE II -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; JEWISH FUGITIVES.

JUDAS. Who and what are ye, that with furtive steps Steal in among our tents?

FUGITIVES. O Maccabaeus, Outcasts are we, and fugitives as thou art, Jews of Jerusalem, that have escaped From the polluted city, and from death.

JUDAS. None can escape from death. Say that ye come To die for Israel, and ye are welcome. What tidings bring ye?

FUGITIVES. Tidings of despair. The Temple is laid waste; the precious vessels, Censers of gold, vials and veils and crowns, And golden ornaments, and hidden treasures, Have all been taken from it, and the Gentiles With revelling and with riot fill its courts, And dally with harlots in the holy places.

JUDAS. All this I knew before.

FUGITIVES. Upon the altar Are things profane, things by the law forbidden; Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or our Feasts, But on the festivals of Dionysus Must walk in their processions, bearing ivy To crown a drunken god.

JUDAS. This too I know. But tell me of the Jews. How fare the Jews?

FUGITIVES. The coming of this mischief hath been sore And grievous to the people. All the land Is full of lamentation and of mourning. The Princes and the Elders weep and wail; The young men and the maidens are made feeble; The beauty of the women hath been changed.

JUDAS. And are there none to die for Israel? 'T is not enough to mourn. Breastplate and harness Are better things than sackcloth. Let the women Lament for Israel; the men should die.

FUGITIVES. Both men and women die; old men and young: Old Eleazer died: and Mahala With all her Seven Sons.

JUDAS. Antiochus, At every step thou takest there is left A bloody footprint in the street, by which The avenging wrath of God will track thee out! It is enough. Go to the sutler's tents; Those of you who are men, put on such armor As ye may find; those of you who are women, Buckle that armor on; and for a watchword Whisper, or cry aloud, "The Help of God."

## SCENE III. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; NICANOR.

NICANOR. Hail, Judas Maccabaeus!

JUDAS. Hail!--Who art thou That comest here in this mysterious guise Into our camp unheralded?

NICANOR. A herald Sent from Nicanor.

JUDAS. Heralds come not thus. Armed with thy shirt of mail from head to heel, Thou glidest like a serpent silently Into my presence. Wherefore dost thou turn Thy face from me? A herald speaks his errand With forehead unabashed. Thou art a spy sent by Nicanor.

NICANOR. No disguise avails! Behold my face; I am Nicanor's self.

JUDAS. Thou art indeed Nicanor. I salute thee. What brings thee hither to this hostile camp Thus unattended?

NICANOR. Confidence in thee. Thou hast the nobler virtues of thy race, Without the failings that attend those virtues. Thou canst be strong, and yet not tyrannous, Canst righteous be and not intolerant. Let there be peace between us.

JUDAS. What is peace? Is it to bow in silence to our victors? Is it to see our cities sacked and pillaged, Our people slain, or sold as slaves, or fleeing At night-time by the blaze of burning towns; Jerusalem laid waste; the Holy Temple Polluted with strange gods? Are these things peace?

NICANOR. These are the dire necessities that wait On war, whose loud and bloody enginery I seek to stay. Let there be peace between Antiochus and thee.

JUDAS. Antiochus? What is Antiochus, that he should prate Of peace to me, who am a fugitive? To-day he shall be lifted up; to-morrow Shall not be found, because he is returned Unto his dust; his thought has come to nothing. There is no peace between us, nor can be, Until this banner floats upon the walls Of our Jerusalem.

NICANOR. Between that city And thee there lies a waving wall of tents, Held by a host of forty thousand foot, And horsemen seven thousand. What hast thou To bring against all these?

JUDAS. The power of God, Whose breath shall scatter your white tents abroad, As flakes of snow.

NICANOR. Your Mighty One in heaven Will not do battle on the Seventh Day; It is his day of rest.

JUDAS. Silence, blasphemer. Go to thy tents.

NICANOR. Shall it be war or peace?

JUDAS. War, war, and only war. Go to thy tents That shall be scattered, as by you were scattered The torn and trampled pages of the Law, Blown through the windy streets.

NICANOR. Farewell, brave foe!

JUDAS. Ho, there, my captains! Have safe-conduct given Unto Nicanor's herald through the camp, And come yourselves to me.--Farewell, Nicanor!

## SCENE IV. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; CAPTAINS AND SOLDIERS.

JUDAS. The hour is come. Gather the host together For battle. Lo, with trumpets and with songs The army of Nicanor comes against us. Go forth to meet them, praying in your hearts, And fighting with your hands.

CAPTAINS. Look forth and see! The morning sun is shining on their shields Of gold and brass; the mountains glisten with them, And shine like lamps. And we who are so few And poorly armed, and ready to faint with fasting, How shall we fight against this multitude?

JUDAS. The victory of a battle standeth not In multitudes, but in the strength that cometh From heaven above. The Lord forbid that I Should do this thing, and flee away from them. Nay, if our hour be come, then let us die; Let us not stain our honor.

CAPTAINS. 'T is the Sabbath. Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, Maccabaeus?

JUDAS. Ay; when I fight the battles of the Lord, I fight them on his day, as on all others. Have ye forgotten certain fugitives That fled once to these hills, and hid themselves In caves? How their pursuers camped against them Upon the Seventh Day, and challenged them? And how they answered not, nor cast a stone, Nor stopped the places where they lay concealed, But meekly perished with their wives and children, Even to the number of a thousand souls? We who are fighting for our laws and lives Will not so perish.

CAPTAINS. Lead us to the battle!

JUDAS. And let our watchword be, "The Help of God!" Last night I dreamed a dream; and in my vision Beheld Onias, our High-Priest of old, Who holding up his hands prayed for the Jews. This done, in the like manner there appeared An old man, and exceeding glorious, With hoary hair, and of a wonderful And excellent majesty. And Onias said: "This is a lover of the Jews, who prayeth Much for the people and the Holy City,-- God's prophet Jeremias." And the prophet Held forth his right hand and gave unto me A sword of gold; and giving it he said: "Take thou this holy sword, a gift from God, And with it thou shalt wound thine adversaries."

CAPTAINS. The Lord is with us!

JUDAS. Hark! I hear the trumpets Sound from Beth-horon; from the battle-field Of Joshua, where he smote the Amorites, Smote the Five Kings of Eglon and of Jarmuth, Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jerusalem, As we to-day will smite Nicanor's hosts And leave a memory of great deeds behind us.

CAPTAINS and SOLDIERS. The Help of God!

JUDAS. Be Elohim Yehovah! Lord, thou didst send thine Angel in the time Of Esekias, King of Israel, And in the armies of Sennacherib Didst slay a hundred fourscore and five thousand. Wherefore, O Lord of heaven, now also send Before us a good angel for a fear, And through the might of thy right arm let those Be stricken with terror that have come this day Against thy holy people to blaspheme!

## ACT IV.

The outer Courts of the Temple at Jerusalem.

## SCENE I. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; CAPTAINS; JEWS.

JUDAS. Behold, our enemies are discomfited. Jerusalem is fallen; and our banners Float from her battlements, and o'er her gates Nicanor's severed head, a sign of terror, Blackens in wind and sun.

CAPTAINS. O Maccabaeus, The citadel of Antiochus, wherein The Mother with her Seven Sons was murdered, Is still defiant.

JUDAS. Wait.

CAPTAINS. Its hateful aspect Insults us with the bitter memories Of other days.

JUDAS. Wait; it shall disappear And vanish as a cloud. First let us cleanse The Sanctuary. See, it is become Waste like a wilderness. Its golden gates Wrenched from their hinges and consumed by fire; Shrubs growing in its courts as in a forest; Upon its altars hideous and strange idols; And strewn about its pavement at my feet Its Sacred Books, half burned and painted o'er With images of heathen gods.

JEWS. Woe! woe! Our beauty and our glory are laid waste! The Gentiles have profaned our holy places!

(Lamentation and alarm of trumpets.)

JUDAS. This sound of trumpets, and this lamentation, The heart-cry of a people toward the heavens, Stir me to wrath and vengeance. Go, my captains; I hold you back no longer. Batter down The citadel of Antiochus, while here We sweep away his altars and his gods.

## SCENE II. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; JASON; JEWS,

JEWS. Lurking among the ruins of the Temple, Deep in its inner courts, we found this man, Clad as High-Priest.

JUDAS. I ask not who thou art. I know thy face, writ over with deceit As are these tattered volumes of the Law With heathen images. A priest of God Wast thou in other days, but thou art now A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou art Jason.

JASON. I am thy prisoner, Judas Maccabaeus, And it would ill become me to conceal My name or office.

JUDAS. Over yonder gate There hangs the head of one who was a Greek. What should prevent me now, thou man of sin, From hanging at its side the head of one Who born a Jew hath made himself a Greek?

JASON. Justice prevents thee.

JUDAS. Justice? Thou art stained With every crime against which the Decalogue Thunders with all its thunder.

JASON. If not Justice, Then Mercy, her handmaiden.

JUDAS. When hast thou At any time, to any man or woman, Or even to any little child, shown mercy?

JASON. I have but done what King Antiochus Commanded me.

JUDAS. True, thou hast been the weapon With which he struck; but hast been such a weapon, So flexible, so fitted to his hand, It tempted him to strike. So thou hast urged him To double wickedness, thine own and his. Where is this King? Is he in Antioch Among his women still, and from his windows Throwing down gold by handfuls, for the rabble To scramble for?

JASON. Nay, he is gone from there, Gone with an army into the far East.

JUDAS. And wherefore gone?

JASON. I know not. For the space Of forty days almost were horsemen seen Running in air, in cloth of gold, and armed With lances, like a band of soldiery; It was a sign of triumph.

JUDAS. Or of death. Wherefore art thou not with him?

JASON. I was left For service in the Temple.

JUDAS. To pollute it, And to corrupt the Jews; for there are men Whose presence is corruption; to be with them Degrades us and deforms the things we do.

JASON. I never made a boast, as some men do, Of my superior virtue, nor denied The weakness of my nature, that hath made me Subservient to the will of other men.

JUDAS. Upon this day, the five and twentieth day Of the month Caslan, was the Temple here Profaned by strangers,--by Antiochus And thee, his instrument. Upon this day Shall it be cleansed. Thou, who didst lend thyself Unto this profanation, canst not be A witness of these solemn services. There can be nothing clean where thou art present. The people put to death Callisthenes, Who burned the Temple gates; and if they find thee Will surely slay thee. I will spare thy life To punish thee the longer. Thou shalt wander Among strange nations. Thou, that hast cast out So many from their native land, shalt perish In a strange land. Thou, that hast left so many Unburied, shalt have none to mourn for thee, Nor any solemn funerals at all, Nor sepulchre with thy fathers.--Get thee hence!

(Music. Procession of Priests and people, with citherns, harps, and cymbals. JUDAS MACCABAEUS puts himself at their head, and they go into the inner courts.)

## SCENE III. -- JASON, alone.

JASON. Through the Gate Beautiful I see them come With branches and green boughs and leaves of palm, And pass into the inner courts. Alas! I should be with them, should be one of them, But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness, That cometh unto all, I fell away From the old faith, and did not clutch the new, Only an outward semblance of belief; For the new faith I cannot make mine own, Not being born to it. It hath no root Within me. I am neither Jew nor Greek, But stand between them both, a renegade To each in turn; having no longer faith In gods or men. Then what mysterious charm, What fascination is it chains my feet, And keeps me gazing like a curious child Into the holy places, where the priests Have raised their altar?--Striking stones together, They take fire out of them, and light the lamps In the great candlestick. They spread the veils, And set the loaves of showbread on the table. The incense burns; the well-remembered odor Comes wafted unto me, and takes me back To other days. I see myself among them As I was then; and the old superstition Creeps over me again!--A childish fancy!-- And hark! they sing with citherns and with cymbals, And all the people fall upon their faces, Praying and worshipping!--I will away Into the East, to meet Antiochus Upon his homeward journey, crowned with triumph. Alas! to-day I would give everything To see a friend's face, or to hear a voice That had the slightest tone of comfort in it!

## ACT V.

The Mountains of Ecbatana.

## SCENE I. -- ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; ATTENDANTS.

ANTIOCHUS. Here let us rest awhile. Where are we, Philip? What place is this?

PHILIP. Ecbatana, my Lord; And yonder mountain range is the Orontes.

ANTIOCHUS. The Orontes is my river at Antioch. Why did I leave it? Why have I been tempted By coverings of gold and shields and breastplates To plunder Elymais, and be driven From out its gates, as by a fiery blast Out of a furnace?

PHILIP. These are fortune's changes.

ANTIOCHUS. What a defeat it was! The Persian horsemen Came like a mighty wind, the wind Khamaseen, And melted us away, and scattered us As if we were dead leaves, or desert sand.

PHILIP. Be comforted, my Lord; for thou hast lost But what thou hadst not.

ANTIOCHUS. I, who made the Jews Skip like the grasshoppers, am made myself To skip among these stones.

PHILIP. Be not discouraged. Thy realm of Syria remains to thee; That is not lost nor marred.

ANTIOCHUS. O, where are now The splendors of my court, my baths and banquets? Where are my players and my dancing women? Where are my sweet musicians with their pipes, That made me merry in the olden time? I am a laughing-stock to man and brute. The very camels, with their ugly faces, Mock me and laugh at me.

PHILIP. Alas! my Lord, It is not so. If thou wouldst sleep awhile, All would be well.

ANTIOCHUS. Sleep from mine eyes is gone, And my heart faileth me for very care. Dost thou remember, Philip, the old fable Told us when we were boys, in which the bear Going for honey overturns the hive, And is stung blind by bees? I am that beast, Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais.

PHILIP. When thou art come again to Antioch These thoughts will be as covered and forgotten As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot-wheels In the Egyptian sands.

ANTIOCHUS. Ah! when I come Again to Antioch! When will that be? Alas! alas!

## SCENE II -- ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; A MESSENGER

MESSENGER. May the King live forever!

ANTIOCHUS. Who art thou, and whence comest thou?

MESSENGER. My Lord, I am a messenger from Antioch, Sent here by Lysias.

ANTIOCHUS. A strange foreboding Of something evil overshadows me. I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures; I know not Hebrew; but my High-Priest Jason, As I remember, told me of a Prophet Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea Like a man's hand and soon the heaven was black With clouds and rain. Here, Philip, read; I cannot; I see that cloud. It makes the letters dim Before mine eyes.

PHILIP (reading). "To King Antiochus, The God, Epiphanes."

ANTIOCHUS. O mockery! Even Lysias laughs at me!--Go on, go on.

PHILIP (reading). "We pray thee hasten thy return. The realm Is falling from thee. Since thou hast gone from us The victories of Judas Maccabaeus Form all our annals. First he overthrew Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on, And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. And then Emmaus fell; and then Bethsura; Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, And Maccabaeus marched to Carnion."

ANTIOCHUS. Enough, enough! Go call my chariot-men; We will drive forward, forward, without ceasing, Until we come to Antioch. My captains, My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and Nicanor, Are babes in battle, and this dreadful Jew Will rob me of my kingdom and my crown. My elephants shall trample him to dust; I will wipe out his nation, and will make Jerusalem a common burying-place, And every home within its walls a tomb!

(Throws up his hands, and sinks into the arms of attendants, who lay him upon a bank.)

PHILIP. Antiochus! Antiochus! Alas, The King is ill! What is it, O my Lord?

ANTIOCHUS. Nothing. A sudden and sharp spasm of pain, As if the lightning struck me, or the knife Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 'T is passed, even as it came. Let us set forward.

PHILIP. See that the chariots be in readiness We will depart forthwith.

ANTIOCHUS. A moment more. I cannot stand. I am become at once Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead me. Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name Thou wouldst be named,--it is alike to me,-- If I knew how to pray, I would entreat To live a little longer.

PHILIP. O my Lord, Thou shalt not die; we will not let thee die!

ANTIOCHUS. How canst thou help it, Philip? O the pain! Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield against This unseen weapon. God of Israel, Since all the other gods abandon me, Help me. I will release the Holy City. Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Temple. Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy To be so much as buried, shall be equal Unto the citizens of Antioch. I will become a Jew, and will declare Through all the world that is inhabited The power of God!

PHILIP. He faints. It is like death. Bring here the royal litter. We will bear him In to the camp, while yet he lives.

ANTIOCHUS. O Philip, Into what tribulation am I come! Alas! I now remember all the evil That I have done the Jews; and for this cause These troubles are upon me, and behold I perish through great grief in a strange land.

PHILIP. Antiochus! my King!

ANTIOCHUS. Nay, King no longer. Take thou my royal robes, my signet-ring, My crown and sceptre, and deliver them Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator; And unto the good Jews, my citizens, In all my towns, say that their dying monarch Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health. I who, puffed up with pride and arrogance, Thought all the kingdoms of the earth mine own, If I would but outstretch my hand and take them, Meet face to face a greater potentate, King Death--Epiphanes--the Illustrious! [Dies.

*****

MICHAEL ANGELO

Michel, piu che mortal, Angel divino. -- ARIOSTO.

Similamente operando all' artista ch' a l'abito dell' arte e man che trema. -- DANTE, Par. xiii., st. 77.

DEDICATION.

Nothing that is shall perish utterly, But perish only to revive again In other forms, as clouds restore in rain The exhalations of the land and sea. Men build their houses from the masonry Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain To throb in hearts that are, or are to be. So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones, I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust Their roots among the loose disjointed stones, Which to this end I fashion as I must. Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.

PART FIRST.

I.

PROLOGUE AT ISCHIA

The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA, and JULIA GONZAGA.

VITTORIA. Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?

JULIA. To-morrow, dearest.

VITTORIA. Do not say to-morrow. A whole month of to-morrows were too soon. You must not go. You are a part of me.

JULIA. I must return to Fondi.

VITTORIA. The old castle Needs not your presence. No one waits for you. Stay one day longer with me. They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer. I was thinking But yesterday how like and how unlike Have been, and are, our destinies. Your husband, The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemed A father to you rather than a husband, Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flower And promise of his youth, was taken from me As by a rushing wind. The breath of battle Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more, Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our love Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them. Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears; But mine the grief of an impassioned woman, Who drank her life up in one draught of love.

JULIA. Behold this locket. This is the white hair Of my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love, This amaranth, and beneath it the device Non moritura. Thus my heart remains True to his memory; and the ancient castle, Where we have lived together, where he died, Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.

VITTORIA. I did not mean to chide you.

JULIA. Let your heart Find, if it can, some poor apology For one who is too young, and feels too keenly The joy of life, to give up all her days To sorrow for the dead. While I am true To the remembrance of the man I loved And mourn for still, I do not make a show Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded And, like Veronica da Gambara, Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth In coach of sable drawn by sable horses, As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays.

VITTORIA. Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?

JULIA. A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar. You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino; And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my portrait. That is not a sin.

VITTORIA. Only a vanity.

JULIA. He painted yours.

VITTORIA. Do not call up to me those days departed When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories, Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.

JULIA. Yet without illusions What would our lives become, what we ourselves? Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, They lift us from the commonplace of life To better things.

VITTORIA. Are there no brighter dreams, No higher aspirations, than the wish To please and to be pleased?

JULIA. For you there are; I am no saint; I feel the world we live in Comes before that which is to be here after, And must be dealt with first.

VITTORIA. But in what way?

JULIA. Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.

VITTORIA. And for whom is meant This portrait that you speak of?

JULIA. For my friend The Cardinal Ippolito.

VITTORIA. For him?

JULIA Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 'T is always flattering to a woman's pride To be admired by one whom all admire.

VITTORIA. Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard, He is a Cardinal; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.

JULIA. You forget The horror of that night, when Barbarossa, The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast To seize me for the Sultan Soliman; How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped, And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed, Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there Among the brigands. Then of all my friends The Cardinal Ippolito was first To come with his retainers to my rescue. Could I refuse the only boon he asked At such a time, my portrait?

VITTORIA. I have heard Strange stories of the splendors of his palace, And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince, He rides through Rome with a long retinue Of Ethiopians and Numidians And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses, Making a gallant show. Is this the way A Cardinal should live?

JULIA. He is so young; Hardly of age, or little more than that; Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters, A poet, a musician, and a scholar; Master of many languages, and a player On many instruments. In Rome, his palace Is the asylum of all men distinguished In art or science, and all Florentines Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin, Duke Alessandro.

VITTORIA. I have seen his portrait, Painted by Titian. You have painted it In brighter colors.

JULIA. And my Cardinal, At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace, Keeps a tame lion!

VITTORIA. And so counterfeits St. Mark, the Evangelist!

JULIA. Ah, your tame lion Is Michael Angelo.

VITTORIA. You speak a name That always thrills me with a noble sound, As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo! A lion all men fear and none can tame; A man that all men honor, and the model That all should follow; one who works and prays, For work is prayer, and consecrates his life To the sublime ideal of his art, Till art and life are one; a man who holds Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak Of great things done, or to be done, his name Is ever on their lips.

JULIA. You too can paint The portrait of your hero, and in colors Brighter than Titian's; I might warn you also Against the dangers that beset your path; But I forbear.

VITTORIA. If I were made of marble, Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo, He might admire me: being but flesh and blood, I am no more to him than other women; That is, am nothing.

JULIA. Does he ride through Rome Upon his little mule, as he was wont, With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan, As when I saw him last?

VITTORIA. Pray do not jest. I cannot couple with his noble name A trivial word! Look, how the setting sun Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, And changes Capri to a purple cloud! And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke, And the great city stretched upon the shore As in a dream!

JULIA. Parthenope the Siren!

VITTORIA. And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor! It is beautiful!

JULIA. I have no heart to feel the beauty of it! My feet are weary, pacing up and down These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past, It is too sad. I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.

VITTORIA. I will go with you; for I would not lose One hour of your dear presence. 'T is enough Only to be in the same room with you. I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak; If I but see you, I am satisfied. [They go in.

MONOLOGUE: THE LAST JUDGMENT

MICHAEL ANGELO's Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me? Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not. The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound; They only heard the sound of their own voices.

Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me? Fra Bastian, my Era Bastian, might have done it; But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes, Press down his lids; and so the burden falls On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. That is the title they cajole me with, To make me do their work and leave my own; But having once begun, I turn not back. Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets To the four corners of the earth, and wake The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels, Open your books and read? Ye dead awake! Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death, As men who suddenly aroused from sleep Look round amazed, and know not where they are!

In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy To be uplifted on its wings, and listen To the prophetic voices in the air That call us onward. Then the work we do Is a delight, and the obedient hand Never grows weary. But how different is it En the disconsolate, discouraged hours, When all the wisdom of the world appears As trivial as the gossip of a nurse In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless,

What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, That I have drawn her face among the angels, Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams, That through the vacant chambers of my heart Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me? 'T is said that Emperors write their names in green When under age, but when of age in purple. So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all, Writes his in green at first, but afterwards In the imperial purple of our blood. First love or last love,--which of these two passions Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair, The star of morning or the evening star? The sunrise or the sunset of the heart? The hour when we look forth to the unknown, And the advancing day consumes the shadows, Or that when all the landscape of our lives Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories Rise like a tender haze, and magnify The objects we behold, that soon must vanish?

What matters it to me, whose countenance Is like the Laocoon's, full of pain; whose forehead Is a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score years Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish; To me, the artisan, to whom all women Have been as if they were not, or at most A sudden rush of pigeons in the air, A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence? I am too old for love; I am too old To flatter and delude myself with visions Of never-ending friendship with fair women, Imaginations, fantasies, illusions, In which the things that cannot be take shape, And seem to be, and for the moment are. [Convent bells ring.

Distant and near and low and loud the bells, Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves In their dim cloisters. The descending sun Seems to caress the city that he loves, And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. I will go forth and breathe the air a while.

II.

SAN SILVESTRO

A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestra on Monte Cavallo.

VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others.

VITTORIA. Here let us rest a while, until the crowd Has left the church. I have already sent For Michael Angelo to join us here.

MESSER CLAUDIO. After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse On the Pauline Epistles, certainly Some words of Michael Angelo on Art Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.

MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; Diana or Madonna, which I know not! In attitude and aspect formed to be At once the artist's worship and despair!

VITTORIA. Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I met your messenger upon the way, And hastened hither.

VITTORIA. It is kind of you To come to us, who linger here like gossips Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered I saw but the Marchesa.

VITTORIA. Take this seat Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei, Who still maintains that our Italian tongue Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence We will not quarrel with him.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Eccellenza--

VITTORIA. Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.

MESSER CLAUDIO. 'T is the abuse of them and not the use I deprecate.

MICHAEL ANGELO. The use or the abuse It matters not. Let them all go together, As empty phrases and frivolities, And common as gold-lace upon the collar Of an obsequious lackey.

VITTORIA. That may be, But something of politeness would go with them; We should lose something of the stately manners Of the old school.

MESSER CLAUDIO. Undoubtedly.

VITTORlA. But that Is not what occupies my thoughts at present, Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele. It was to counsel me. His Holiness Has granted me permission, long desired, To build a convent in this neighborhood, Where the old tower is standing, from whose top Nero looked down upon the burning city.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It is an inspiration!

VITTORIA. I am doubtful How I shall build; how large to make the convent, And which way fronting.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow. Long, long years ago, Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, I saw the statue of Laocoon Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost Writhing in pain; and as it tore away The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard, Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins Of temples in the Forum here in Rome. If God should give me power in my old age To build for Him a temple half as grand As those were in their glory, I should count My age more excellent than youth itself, And all that I have hitherto accomplished As only vanity.

VITTORIA. I understand you. Art is the gift of God, and must be used Unto His glory. That in art is highest Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed The horses of Italicus, they won The race at Gaza, for his benediction O'erpowered all magic; and the people shouted That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art Which bears the consecration and the seal Of holiness upon it will prevail Over all others. Those few words of yours Inspire me with new confidence to build. What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps, Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If strong enough.

VITTORIA. If not, it can be strengthened.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I see no bar nor drawback to this building, And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, We may together view the site.

VITTORIA. I thank you. I did not venture to request so much.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria--

VITTORIA. What, again, Maestro?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech. I am too old to change.

III.

CARDINAL IPPOLITO.

A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.

JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.

NARDI. I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. My heart begins to fail me. What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost; And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.

Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.

IPPOLITO. I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.

NARDI. I wait to see The Cardinal.

IPPOLITO. I am the Cardinal. And you?

NARDI. Jacopo Nardi.

IPPOLITO. You are welcome I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi Had told me of your coming.

NARDI. 'T was his son That brought me to your door.

IPPOLITO. Pray you, be seated. You seem astonished at the garb I wear, But at my time of life, and with my habits, The petticoats of a Cardinal would be-- Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed Like an old dowager. It were putting wine Young as the young Astyanax into goblets As old as Priam.

NARDI. Oh, your Eminence Knows best what you should wear.

IPPOLITO. Dear Messer Nardi, You are no stranger to me. I have read Your excellent translation of the books Of Titus Livius, the historian Of Rome, and model of all historians That shall come after him. It does you honor; But greater honor still the love you bear To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals I hope your hand will write, in happier days Than we now see.

NARDI. Your Eminence will pardon The lateness of the hour.

IPPOLITO. The hours I count not As a sun-dial; but am like a clock, That tells the time as well by night as day. So no excuse. I know what brings you here. You come to speak of Florence.

NARDI. And her woes.

IPPOLITO. The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.

NARDI. Alas, that such a scourge Should fall on such a city!

IPPOLITO. When he dies, The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, The beast obscene, should be the monument Of this bad man.

NARDI. He walks the streets at night With revellers, insulting honest men. No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor Of women and all ancient pious customs Are quite forgotten now. The offices Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri Have been abolished. All the magistrates Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. The very memory of all honest living Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.

IPPOLITO. And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,--our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,--lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.

NARDI. What a change Ten little years have made! We all remember Those better days, when Niccola Capponi, The Gonfaloniere, from the windows Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets, Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ Was chosen King of Florence; and already Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!

IPPOLITO. Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.

NARDI. Little hope Of help is there from him. He has betrothed His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke. What hope have we from such an Emperor?

IPPOLITO. Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, Or honest men the Duke.

NARDI. We have determined To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear More than I hope.

IPPOLITO. The Emperor is busy With this new war against the Algerines, And has no time to listen to complaints From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them, But go myself. All is in readiness For my departure, and to-morrow morning I shall go down to Itri, where I meet Dante da Castiglione and some others, Republicans and fugitives from Florence, And then take ship at Gaeta, and go To join the Emperor in his new crusade Against the Turk. I shall have time enough And opportunity to plead our cause.

NARDI, rising. It is an inspiration, and I hail it As of good omen. May the power that sends it Bless our beloved country, and restore Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence Is now outside its gates. What lies within Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, For you have need of rest. Good-night.

IPPOLITO. Good-night.

Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.

IPPOLITO. Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me!

FRA SEBASTIANO. As we passed each other, I saw that he was weeping.

IPPOLITO. Poor old man!

FRA SEBASTIANO. Who is he?

IPPOLITO. Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul; One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best And noblest of them all; but he has made me Sad with his sadness. As I look on you My heart grows lighter. I behold a man Who lives in an ideal world, apart From all the rude collisions of our life, In a calm atmosphere.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Your Eminence Is surely jesting. If you knew the life Of artists as I know it, you might think Far otherwise.

IPPOLITO. But wherefore should I jest? The world of art is an ideal world,-- The world I love, and that I fain would live in; So speak to me of artists and of art, Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians That now illustrate Rome.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Of the musicians, I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro And chapel-master of his Holiness, Who trains the Papal choir.

IPPOLITO. In church this morning, I listened to a mass of Goudimel, Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus, In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, A Neapolitan love-song.

FRA SEBASTIANO. You amaze me. Was it a wanton song?

IPPOLITO. Not a divine one. I am not over-scrupulous, as you know, In word or deed, yet such a song as that. Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place; There's something wrong in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. There's something wrong In everything. We cannot make the world Go right. 'T is not my business to reform The Papal choir.

IPPOLITO. Nor mine, thank Heaven. Then tell me of the artists.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Naming one I name them all; for there is only one. His name is Messer Michael Angelo. All art and artists of the present day Centre in him.

IPPOLITO. You count yourself as nothing!

FRA SEBASTIANO. Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait-painter; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.

IPPOLITO. And you have had The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothing A privilege like that? See there the portrait Rebuking you with its divine expression. Are you not penitent? He whose skilful hand Painted that lovely picture has not right To vilipend the art of portrait-painting. But what of Michael Angelo?

FRA SEBASTIANO. But lately Strolling together down the crowded Corso, We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature, Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover Of all things beautiful, especially When they are Arab horses, much admired, And could not praise enough.

IPPOLITO, to an attendant. Hassan, to-morrow, When I am gone, but not till I am gone,-- Be careful about that,--take Barbarossa To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor, Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, Near to the Capitol; and take besides Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say Your master sends them to him as a present.

FRA SEBASTIANO. A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.

IPPOLITO. You think him like Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil Have I translated in Italian verse, And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it, Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy I am reminded of another town And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely, The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa, And all that followed?

FRA SEBASTIANO. A most strange adventure; A tale as marvellous and full of wonder As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti; Almost incredible!

IPPOLITO. Were I a painter I should not want a better theme than that: The lovely lady fleeing through the night In wild disorder; and the brigands' camp With the red fire-light on their swarthy faces. Could you not paint it for me?

FRA SEBASTIANO. No, not I. It is not in my line.

IPPOLITO. Then you shall paint The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel Something like admiration for a man Who dared this strange adventure.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I will do it. But catch the corsair first.

IPPOLITO. You may begin To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither; Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs Beneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it. 'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscription In Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,-- There is no God but God.

FRA SEBASTIANO. How beautiful In fashion and in finish! It is perfect. The Arsenal of Venice can not boast A finer sword.

IPPOLITO. You like it? It is yours.

FRA SEBASTIANO. You do not mean it.

IPPOLITO. I am not a Spaniard, To say that it is yours and not to mean it. I have at Itri a whole armory Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. You have not been rewarded as you should be For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble Into the scale, and make the balance equal. Till then suspend it in your studio; You artists like such trifles.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I will keep it In memory of the donor. Many thanks.

IPPOLITO. Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, The old dead city, with the old dead people; Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning I start for Itri, and go thence by sea To join the Emperor, who is making war Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge The beautiful Gonzaga.

FRA SEBASTIANO. An achievement Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. Berni and Ariosto both shall add A canto to their poems, and describe you As Furioso and Innamorato. Now I must say good-night.

IPPOLITO. You must not go; First you shall sup with me. My seneschal Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,-- I like to give the whole sonorous name, It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,-- Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi, And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells: These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even; So we will go to supper, and be merry.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!

IPPOLITO. 'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago; Who knows?--perhaps the story is not true.

IV.

BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLES

Room in the Palace of JULIA GONZAGA. Night.

JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO.

JULIA. Do not go yet.

VALDESSO. The night is far advanced; I fear to stay too late, and weary you With these discussions.

JULIA. I have much to say. I speak to you, Valdesso, with that frankness Which is the greatest privilege of friendship.-- Speak as I hardly would to my confessor, Such is my confidence in you.

VALDESSO. Dear Countess If loyalty to friendship be a claim Upon your confidence, then I may claim it.

JULIA. Then sit again, and listen unto things That nearer are to me than life itself.

VALDESSO. In all things I am happy to obey you, And happiest then when you command me most.

JULIA. Laying aside all useless rhetoric, That is superfluous between us two, I come at once unto the point and say, You know my outward life, my rank and fortune; Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Trajetto, A widow rich and flattered, for whose hand In marriage princes ask, and ask it only To be rejected. All the world can offer Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it, It is not in the way of idle boasting, But only to the better understanding Of what comes after.

VALDESSO. God hath given you also Beauty and intellect; and the signal grace To lead a spotless life amid temptations, That others yield to.

JULIA. But the inward life,-- That you know not; 't is known but to myself, And is to me a mystery and a pain. A soul disquieted, and ill at ease, A mind perplexed with doubts and apprehensions, A heart dissatisfied with all around me, And with myself, so that sometimes I weep, Discouraged and disgusted with the world.

VALDESSO. Whene'er we cross a river at a ford, If we would pass in safety, we must keep Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore beyond, For if we cast them on the flowing stream, The head swims with it; so if we would cross The running flood of things here in the world, Our souls must not look down, but fix their sight On the firm land beyond.

JULIA. I comprehend you. You think I am too worldly; that my head Swims with the giddying whirl of life about me. Is that your meaning?

VALDESSO. Yes; your meditations Are more of this world and its vanities Than of the world to come.

JULIA. Between the two I am confused.

VALDESSO. Yet have I seen you listen Enraptured when Fra Bernardino preached Of faith and hope and charity.

JULIA. I listen, But only as to music without meaning. It moves me for the moment, and I think How beautiful it is to be a saint, As dear Vittoria is; but I am weak And wayward, and I soon fall back again To my old ways, so very easily. There are too many week-days for one Sunday.

VALDESSO. Then take the Sunday with you through the week, And sweeten with it all the other days.

JULIA. In part I do so; for to put a stop To idle tongues, what men might say of me If I lived all alone here in my palace, And not from a vocation that I feel For the monastic life, I now am living With Sister Caterina at the convent Of Santa Chiara, and I come here only On certain days, for my affairs, or visits Of ceremony, or to be with friends. For I confess, to live among my friends Is Paradise to me; my Purgatory Is living among people I dislike. And so I pass my life in these two worlds, This palace and the convent.

VALDESSO. It was then The fear of man, and not the love of God, That led you to this step. Why will you not Give all your heart to God?

JULIA. If God commands it, Wherefore hath He not made me capable Of doing for Him what I wish to do As easily as I could offer Him This jewel from my hand, this gown I wear, Or aught else that is mine?

VALDESSO. The hindrance lies In that original sin, by which all fell.

JULIA. Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind To wish well to that Adam, our first parent, Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, And brought such ills upon us.

VALDESSO. We ourselves, When we commit a sin, lose Paradise, As much as he did. Let us think of this, And how we may regain it.

JULIA. Teach me, then, To harmonize the discord of my life, And stop the painful jangle of these wires.

VALDESSO. That is a task impossible, until You tune your heart-strings to a higher key Than earthly melodies.

JULIA. How shall I do it? Point out to me the way of this perfection, And I will follow you; for you have made My soul enamored with it, and I cannot Rest satisfied until I find it out. But lead me privately, so that the world Hear not my steps; I would not give occasion For talk among the people.

VALDESSO. Now at last I understand you fully. Then, what need Is there for us to beat about the bush? I know what you desire of me.

JULIA. What rudeness! If you already know it, why not tell me?

VALDESSO. Because I rather wait for you to ask it With your own lips.

JULIA. Do me the kindness, then, To speak without reserve; and with all frankness, If you divine the truth, will I confess it.

VALDESSO. I am content.

JULIA. Then speak.

VALDESSO. You would be free From the vexatious thoughts that come and go Through your imagination, and would have me Point out some royal road and lady-like Which you may walk in, and not wound your feet; You would attain to the divine perfection, And yet not turn your back upon the world; You would possess humility within, But not reveal it in your outward actions; You would have patience, but without the rude Occasions that require its exercise; You would despise the world, but in such fashion The world should not despise you in return; Would clothe the soul with all the Christian graces, Yet not despoil the body of its gauds; Would feed the soul with spiritual food, Yet not deprive the body of its feasts; Would seem angelic in the sight of God, Yet not too saint-like in the eyes of men; In short, would lead a holy Christian life In such a way that even your nearest friend Would not detect therein one circumstance To show a change from what it was before. Have I divined your secret?

JULIA. You have drawn The portrait of my inner self as truly As the most skilful painter ever painted A human face.

VALDESSO. This warrants me in saying You think you can win heaven by compromise, And not by verdict.

JULIA You have often told me That a bad compromise was better even Than a good verdict.

VALDESSO. Yes, in suits at law; Not in religion. With the human soul There is no compromise. By faith alone Can man be justified.

JULIA. Hush, dear Valdesso; That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you, Proclaim it from the house-top, but preserve it As something precious, hidden in your heart, As I, who half believe and tremble at it.

VALDESSO. I must proclaim the truth.

JULIA. Enthusiast! Why must you? You imperil both yourself And friends by your imprudence. Pray, be patient. You have occasion now to show that virtue Which you lay stress upon. Let us return To our lost pathway. Show me by what steps I shall walk in it. [Convent bells are heard.

VALDESSO. Hark! the convent bells Are ringing; it is midnight; I must leave you. And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear Countess, Since you to-night have made me your confessor, If I so far may venture, I will warn you Upon one point.

JULIA. What is it? Speak, I pray you, For I have no concealments in my conduct; All is as open as the light of day. What is it you would warn me of?

VALDESSO. Your friendship With Cardinal Ippolito.

JULIA. What is there To cause suspicion or alarm in that, More than in friendships that I entertain With you and others? I ne'er sat with him Alone at night, as I am sitting now With you, Valdesso.

VALDESSO. Pardon me; the portrait That Fra Bastiano painted was for him. Is that quite prudent?

JULIA. That is the same question Vittoria put to me, when I last saw her. I make you the same answer. That was not A pledge of love, but of pure gratitude. Recall the adventure of that dreadful night When Barbarossa with two thousand Moors Landed upon the coast, and in the darkness Attacked my castle. Then, without delay, The Cardinal came hurrying down from Rome To rescue and protect me. Was it wrong That in an hour like that I did not weigh Too nicely this or that, but granted him A boon that pleased him, and that flattered me?

VALDESSO. Only beware lest, in disguise of friendship Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm But strategy. And now I take my leave.

JULIA. Farewell; but ere you go look forth and see How night hath hushed the clamor and the stir Of the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moon Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver; The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps; And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts His plume of smoke. How beautiful it is! [Voices in the street.

GIOVAN ANDREA. Poisoned at Itri.

ANOTHER VOICE. Poisoned? Who is poisoned?

GIOVAN ANDREA. The Cardinal Ippolito, my master. Call it malaria. It was sudden. [Julia swoons.

V.

VITTORIA COLONNA

A room in the Torre Argentina.

VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA.

VITTORIA. Come to my arms and to my heart once more; My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you, For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow. I know what you have suffered.

JULIA. Name it not. Let me forget it.

VITTORIA. I will say no more. Let me look at you. What a joy it is To see your face, to hear your voice again! You bring with you a breath as of the morn, A memory of the far-off happy days When we were young. When did you come from Fondi?

JULIA. I have not been at Fondi since--

VITTORIA. Ah me! You need not speak the word; I understand you.

JULIA. I came from Naples by the lovely valley The Terra di Lavoro.

VITTORIA. And you find me But just returned from a long journey northward. I have been staying with that noble woman Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.

JULIA. Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth That I am eager to hear more of her And of her brilliant court.

VITTORIA. You shall hear all But first sit down and listen patiently While I confess myself.

JULIA. What deadly sin Have you committed?

VITTORIA. Not a sin; a folly I chid you once at Ischia, when you told me That brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.

JULIA Well I remember it.

VITTORIA. Then chide me now, For I confess to something still more strange. Old as I am, I have at last consented To the entreaties and the supplications Of Michael Angelo--

JULIA To marry him?

VITTORIA. I pray you, do not jest with me! You now, Or you should know, that never such a thought Entered my breast. I am already married. The Marquis of Pescara is my husband, And death has not divorced us.

JULIA. Pardon me. Have I offended you?

VITTORIA. No, but have hurt me. Unto my buried lord I give myself, Unto my friend the shadow of myself, My portrait. It is not from vanity, But for the love I bear him.

JULIA. I rejoice To hear these words. Oh, this will be a portrait Worthy of both of you! [A knock.

VITTORIA. Hark! He is coming.

JULIA. And shall I go or stay?

VITTORIA. By all means, stay. The drawing will be better for your presence; You will enliven me.

JULIA. I shall not speak; The presence of great men doth take from me All power of speech. I only gaze at them In silent wonder, as if they were gods, Or the inhabitants of some other planet.

Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.

VITTORIA. Come in.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I fear my visit is ill-timed; I interrupt you.

VITTORIA. No; this is a friend Of yours as well as mine,--the Lady Julia, The Duchess of Trajetto.

MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA. I salute you. 'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady; Pardon me if I say that having seen it, One never can forget it.

JULIA. You are kind To keep me in your memory.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It is The privilege of age to speak with frankness. You will not be offended when I say That never was your beauty more divine.

JULIA. When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended.

VITTORIA. Now this is gallantry enough for one; Show me a little.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, my gracious lady, You know I have not words to speak your praise. I think of you in silence. You conceal Your manifold perfections from all eyes, And make yourself more saint-like day by day. And day by day men worship you the wore. But now your hour of martyrdom has come. You know why I am here.

VITTORIA. Ah yes, I know it, And meet my fate with fortitude. You find me Surrounded by the labors of your hands: The Woman of Samaria at the Well, The Mater Dolorosa, and the Christ Upon the Cross, beneath which you have written Those memorable words of Alighieri, "Men have forgotten how much blood it costs."

MICHAEL ANGELO. And now I come to add one labor more, If you will call that labor which is pleasure, And only pleasure.

VITTORIA. How shall I be seated?

MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio.

Just as you are. The light falls well upon you.

VITTORIA. I am ashamed to steal the time from you That should be given to the Sistine Chapel. How does that work go on?

MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing. But tardily. Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alike Are dull and torpid. To die young is best, And not to be remembered as old men Tottering about in their decrepitude.

VITTORIA. My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten The story of Sophocles in his old age?

MICHAEL ANGELO. What story is it?

VITTORIA. When his sons accused him, Before the Areopagus, of dotage, For all defence, he read there to his Judges The Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,-- The work of his old age.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 'T is an illusion A fabulous story, that will lead old men Into a thousand follies and conceits.

VITTORIA. So you may show to cavilers your painting Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Now you and Lady Julia shall resume The conversation that I interrupted.

VITTORIA. It was of no great import; nothing more Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, And what I saw there in the ducal palace. Will it not interrupt you?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not the least.

VITTORIA. Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, And yet magnificent in all his ways; Not hospitable unto new ideas, But from state policy, and certain reasons Concerning the investiture of the duchy, A partisan of Rome, and consequently Intolerant of all the new opinions.

JULIA. I should not like the Duke. These silent men, Who only look and listen, are like wells That have no water in them, deep and empty. How could the daughter of a king of France Wed such a duke?

MICHAEL ANGELO. The men that women marry And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.

VITTORIA. And then the Duchess,--how shall I describe her, Or tell the merits of that happy nature, Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing? Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature, Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through Each look and attitude and word and gesture; A kindly grace of manner and behavior, A something in her presence and her ways That makes her beautiful beyond the reach Of mere external beauty; and in heart So noble and devoted to the truth, And so in sympathy with all who strive After the higher life.

JULIA. She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.

VITTORIA. Then the devout and honorable women That grace her court, and make it good to be there; Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, The Magdalena and the Cherubina, And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; All lovely women, full of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.

JULIA. Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.

VITTORIA. No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; I fear he hardly would have comprehended The women that I speak of.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Yet he wrote The story of Griselda. That is something To set down in his favor.

VITTORIA. With these ladies Was a young girl, Olympia Morate, Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar, Famous in all the universities. A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel, And in the daily round of household cares, Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is now A favorite of the Duchess and companion Of Princess Anne. This beautiful young Sappho Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes That she had written, with a voice whose sadness Thrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me look Into the future time, and ask myself What destiny will be hers.

JULIA. A sad one, surely. Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season; And these precocious intellects portend A life of sorrow or an early death.

VITTORIA. About the court were many learned men; Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, The Duke's physician; and a pale young man, Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess Doth much delight to talk with and to read, For he hath written a book of Institutes The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it The Koran of the heretics.

JULIA. And what poets Were there to sing you madrigals, and praise Olympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses?

VITTORIA. No; for great Ariosto is no more. The voice that filled those halls with melody Has long been hushed in death.

JULIA. You should have made A pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb, And laid a wreath upon it, for the words He spake of you.

VITTORIA. And of yourself no less, And of our master, Michael Angelo.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Of me?

VITTORIA. Have you forgotten that he calls you Michael, less man than angel, and divine? You are ungrateful.

MICHAEL ANGELO. A mere play on words. That adjective he wanted for a rhyme, To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.

VITTORIA. Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, Who, being looked upon with much disfavor By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.

MICHAEL ANGELO. There let him stay with Pietro Aretino, The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine. The title is so common in our mouths, That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, And will deserve it better than some poets.

VITTORIA. What bee hath stung you?

MICHAEL ANGELO. One that makes no honey; One that comes buzzing in through every window, And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thought Passed through my mind, but it is gone again; I spake too hastily.

JULIA. I pray you, show me What you have done.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not yet; it is not finished.

PART SECOND

I

MONOLOGUE

A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal city Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness Alighted from his mule! A fugitive From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls His thunders at the house of the Colonna, With endless bitterness!--Among the nuns In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides me For my too frequent letters, that disturb Her meditations, and that hinder me And keep me from my work; now graciously She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, And says that she will keep it: with one hand Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading.

"Profoundly I believed that God would grant you A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; I wished for that which I now see fulfilled So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. Nor more could be desired, or even so much. And greatly I rejoice that you have made The angel on the right so beautiful; For the Archangel Michael will place you, You, Michael Angelo, on that new day Upon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that, How can I better serve you than to pray To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you To hold me altogether yours in all things."

Well, I will write less often, or no more, But wait her coming. No one born in Rome Can live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome, And must return to it. I, who am born And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine, Feel the attraction, and I linger here As if I were a pebble in the pavement Trodden by priestly feet. This I endure, Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen, In ages past. I feel myself exalted To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked, Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more, And most of all, because the great Colonna Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to me An inspiration. Now that she is gone, Rome is no longer Rome till she return. This feeling overmasters me. I know not If it be love, this strong desire to be Forever in her presence; but I know That I, who was the friend of solitude, And ever was best pleased when most alone, Now weary grow of my own company. For the first time old age seems lonely to me. [Opening the Divina Commedia. I turn for consolation to the leaves Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue, Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava, Betray the heat in which they were engendered. A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts With immortality. In courts of princes He was a by-word, and in streets of towns Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet, Himself a prophet. I too know the cry, Go up, thou bald head! from a generation That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food The soul can feed on. There's not room enough For age and youth upon this little planet. Age must give way. There was not room enough Even for this great poet. In his song I hear reverberate the gates of Florence, Closing upon him, never more to open; But mingled with the sound are melodies Celestial from the gates of paradise. He came, and he is gone. The people knew not What manner of man was passing by their doors, Until he passed no more; but in his vision He saw the torments and beatitudes Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left Behind him this sublime Apocalypse.

I strive in vain to draw here on the margin The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, But the Colonna's. Each hath his ideal, The image of some woman excellent, That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman, Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.

II

VITERBO

VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.

VITTORIA.

## Parting with friends is temporary death,

As all death is. We see no more their faces, Nor hear their voices, save in memory; But messages of love give us assurance That we are not forgotten. Who shall say That from the world of spirits comes no greeting, No message of remembrance? It may be The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence, Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us As friends, who wait outside a prison wall, Through the barred windows speak to those within. [A pause.

As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, As quiet as a heart that beats no more, This convent seems. Above, below, all peace! Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, Are with me here, and the tumultuous world Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. O gentle spirit, unto the third circle Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, Who, living in the faith and dying for it, Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh For thee as being dead, but for myself That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, Once so benignant to me, upon mine, That open to their tears such uncontrolled And such continual issue. Still awhile Have patience; I will come to thee at last. A few more goings in and out these doors, A few more chimings of these convent bells, A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears, And the long agony of this life will end, And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, Have patience; I will come to thee at last. Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens, Or wander far above the city walls, Bear unto him this message, that I ever Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.

By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, And melts into the air. Ah, would that I Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!

III

MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINI

MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire.

BENVENUTO. A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Welcome, my Benvenuto.

BENVENUTO. That is what My father said, the first time he beheld This handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome. I come to take my leave. I start for Florence As fast as horse can carry me. I long To set once more upon its level flags These feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements. Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence. The Sacristy is not finished.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Speak not of it! How damp and cold it was! How my bones ached And my head reeled, when I was working there! I am too old. I will stay here in Rome, Where all is old and crumbling, like myself, To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to Rome.

BENVENUTO. And all lead out of it.

MICHAEL ANGELO. There is a charm, A certain something in the atmosphere, That all men feel, and no man can describe.

BENVENUTO. Malaria?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Yes, malaria of the mind, Out of this tomb of the majestic Past! The fever to accomplish some great work That will not let us sleep. I must go on Until I die.

BENVENUTO. Do you ne'er think of Florence?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Yes; whenever I think of anything beside my work, I think of Florence. I remember, too, The bitter days I passed among the quarries Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta; Road-building in the marshes; stupid people, And cold and rain incessant, and mad gusts Of mountain wind, like howling dervishes, That spun and whirled the eddying snow about them As if it were a garment; aye, vexations And troubles of all kinds, that ended only In loss of time and money.

BENVENUTO. True; Maestro, But that was not in Florence. You should leave Such work to others. Sweeter memories Cluster about you, in the pleasant city Upon the Arno.

MICHAEL ANGELO. In my waking dreams I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi, Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower; And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts, A splendid vision! Time rides with the old At a great pace. As travellers on swift steeds See the near landscape fly and flow behind them, While the remoter fields and dim horizons Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them, So in old age things near us slip away, And distant things go with as. Pleasantly Come back to me the days when, as a youth, I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens Of Medici, and saw the antique statues, The forms august of gods and godlike men, And the great world of art revealed itself To my young eyes. Then all that man hath done Seemed possible to me. Alas! how little Of all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!

BENVENUTO. Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, And the Last Judgment answer. Is it finished?

MICHAEL ANGELO. The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment Has been the cause of more vexation to me Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, A man punctilious and over nice, Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion, Are better suited to a common bagnio, Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel. To punish him I painted him as Minos And leave him there as master of ceremonies In the Infernal Regions. What would you Have done to such a man?

BENVENUTO. I would have killed him. When any one insults me, if I can I kill him, kill him.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Oh, you gentlemen, Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords, Are ready with your weapon; and have all A taste for homicide.

BENVENUTO. I learned that lesson Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome, Some twenty years ago. As I was standing Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo With Alessandro Bene, I beheld A sea of fog, that covered all the plain, And hid from us the foe; when suddenly, A misty figure, like an apparition, Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback. At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired. The figure vanished; and there rose a cry Out of the darkness, long and fierce and loud, With imprecations in all languages. It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon, That I had slain.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Rome should be grateful to you.

BENVENUTO. But has not been; you shall hear presently. During the siege I served as bombardier, There in St. Angelo. His Holiness, One day, was walking with his Cardinals On the round bastion, while I stood above Among my falconets. All thought and feeling, All skill in art and all desire of fame, Were swallowed up in the delightful music Of that artillery. I saw far off, Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati, A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak; And firing at him with due aim and range, I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain. His Holiness, delighted beyond measure With such display of gunnery, and amazed To see the man in scarlet cut in two, Gave me his benediction, and absolved me From all the homicides I had committed In service of the Apostolic Church, Or should commit thereafter. From that day I have not held in very high esteem The life of man.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And who absolved Pope Clement? Now let us speak of Art.

BENVENUTO. Of what you will.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, Since by a turn of fortune he became Friar of the Signet?

BENVENUTO. Faith, a pretty artist To pass his days in stamping leaden seals On Papal bulls!

MICHAEL ANGELO. He has grown fat and lazy, As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. He paints no more, since he was sent to Fondi By Cardinal Ippolito to paint The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have seen him As I did, riding through the city gate, In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen, Completely armed, to frighten the banditti. I think he would have frightened them alone, For he was rounder than the O of Giotto.

BENVENUTO. He must have looked more like a sack of meal Than a great painter.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Well, he is not great But still I like him greatly. Benvenuto Have faith in nothing but in industry. Be at it late and early; persevere, And work right on through censure and applause, Or else abandon Art.

BENVENUTO. No man works harder Then I do. I am not a moment idle.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And what have you to show me?

BENVENUTO. This gold ring, Made for his Holiness,--my latest work, And I am proud of it. A single diamond Presented by the Emperor to the Pope. Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it; I have reset it, and retinted it Divinely, as you see. The jewellers Say I've surpassed Targhetta.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Let me see it. A pretty jewel.

BENVENUTO. That is not the expression. Pretty is not a very pretty word To be applied to such a precious stone, Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and set By Benvenuto!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Messer Benvenuto, I lose all patience with you; for the gifts That God hath given you are of such a kind, They should be put to far more noble uses Than setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome. You can do greater things.

BENVENUTO. The God who made me Knows why he made me what I am,--a goldsmith, A mere artificer.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Oh no; an artist Richly endowed by nature, but who wraps His talent in a napkin, and consumes His life in vanities.

BENVENUTO. Michael Angelo May say what Benvenuto would not bear From any other man. He speaks the truth. I know my life is wasted and consumed In vanities; but I have better hours And higher aspirations than you think. Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo, Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness, In a celestial vision I beheld A crucifix in the sun, of the same substance As is the sun itself. And since that hour There is a splendor round about my head, That may be seen at sunrise and at sunset Above my shadow on the grass. And now I know that I am in the grace of God, And none henceforth can harm me.

MICHAEL ANGELO. None but one,-- None but yourself, who are your greatest foe. He that respects himself is safe from others; He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

BENVENUTO. I always wear one.

MICHAEL ANGELO. O incorrigible! At least, forget not the celestial vision. Man must have something higher than himself To think of.

BENVENUTO. That I know full well. Now listen. I have been sent for into France, where grow The Lilies that illumine heaven and earth, And carry in mine equipage the model Of a most marvellous golden salt-cellar For the king's table; and here in my brain A statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountain Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful. I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor. And so farewell, great Master. Think of me As one who, in the midst of all his follies, Had also his ambition, and aspired To better things.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Do not forget the vision.

[Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia.

Now in what circle of his poem sacred Would the great Florentine have placed this man? Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood, Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, I know not, but most surely not with those Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is one Whose passions, like a potent alkahest, Dissolve his better nature, he is not That despicable thing, a hypocrite; He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them. Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise.

IV.

FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO

MICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.

MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. Who is it?

FRA SEBASTIANO. Wait, for I am out of breath In climbing your steep stairs.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, my Bastiano, If you went up and down as many stairs As I do still, and climbed as many ladders, It would be better for you. Pray sit down. Your idle and luxurious way of living Will one day take your breath away entirely. And you will never find it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Well, what then? That would be better, in my apprehension, Than falling from a scaffold.

MICHAEL ANGELO. That was nothing It did not kill me; only lamed me slightly; I am quite well again.

FRA SEBASTIANO. But why, dear Master, Why do you live so high up in your house, When you could live below and have a garden, As I do?

MICHAEL ANGELO. From this window I can look On many gardens; o'er the city roofs See the Campagna and the Alban hills; And all are mine.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Can you sit down in them, On summer afternoons, and play the lute Or sing, or sleep the time away?

MICHAEL ANGELO. I never Sleep in the day-time; scarcely sleep at night. I have not time. Did you meet Benvenuto As you came up the stair?

FRA SEBASTIANO. He ran against me On the first landing, going at full speed; Dressed like the Spanish captain in a play, With his long rapier and his short red cloak. Why hurry through the world at such a pace? Life will not be too long.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It is his nature,-- A restless spirit, that consumes itself With useless agitations. He o'erleaps The goal he aims at. Patience is a plant That grows not in all gardens. You are made Of quite another clay.

FRA SEBASTIANO. And thank God for it. And now, being somewhat rested, I will tell you Why I have climbed these formidable stairs. I have a friend, Francesco Berni, here, A very charming poet and companion, Who greatly honors you and all your doings, And you must sup with us.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not I, indeed. I know too well what artists' suppers are. You must excuse me.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I will not excuse you. You need repose from your incessant work; Some recreation, some bright hours of pleasure.

MICHAEL ANGELO. To me, what you and other men call pleasure Is only pain. Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,--nothing more. I cannot go. The Sibylline leaves of life Grow precious now, when only few remain. I cannot go.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Berni, perhaps, will read A canto of the Orlando Inamorato.

MICHAEL ANGELO. That is another reason for not going. If aught is tedious and intolerable, It is a poet reading his own verses,

FRA SEBASTIANO. Berni thinks somewhat better of your verses Than you of his. He says that you speak things, And other poets words. So, pray you, come.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If it were now the Improvisatore, Luigia Pulci, whom I used to hear With Benvenuto, in the streets of Florence, I might be tempted. I was younger then And singing in the open air was pleasant.

FRA SEBASTIANO. There is a Frenchman here, named Rabelais, Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doctor, And secretary to the embassy: A learned man, who speaks all languages, And wittiest of men; who wrote a book Of the Adventures of Gargantua, So full of strange conceits one roars with laughter At every page; a jovial boon-companion And lover of much wine. He too is coming.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Then you will not want me, who am not witty, And have no sense of mirth, and love not wine. I should be like a dead man at your banquet. Why should I seek this Frenchman, Rabelais? And wherefore go to hear Francesco Berni, When I have Dante Alighieri here. The greatest of all poets?

FRA SEBASTIANO. And the dullest; And only to be read in episodes. His day is past. Petrarca is our poet.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Petrarca is for women and for lovers And for those soft Abati, who delight To wander down long garden walks in summer, Tinkling their little sonnets all day long, As lap dogs do their bells.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I love Petrarca. How sweetly of his absent love he sings When journeying in the forest of Ardennes! "I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs and breezes And leaves and birds lamenting, and the waters Murmuring flee along the verdant herbage."

MICHAEL ANGELO. Enough. It is all seeming, and no being. If you would know how a man speaks in earnest, Read here this passage, where St. Peter thunders In Paradise against degenerate Popes And the corruptions of the church, till all The heaven about him blushes like a sunset. I beg you to take note of what he says About the Papal seals, for that concerns Your office and yourself.

FRA SEBASTIANO, reading. Is this the passage? "Nor I be made the figure of a seal To privileges venal and mendacious, Whereat I often redden and flash with fire!"-- That is not poetry.

MICHAEL ANGELO. What is it, then?

FRA SEBASTIANO. Vituperation; gall that might have spirited From Aretino's pen.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Name not that man! A profligate, whom your Francesco Berni Describes as having one foot in the brothel And the other in the hospital; who lives By flattering or maligning, as best serves His purpose at the time. He writes to me With easy arrogance of my Last Judgment, In such familiar tone that one would say The great event already had occurred, And he was present, and from observation Informed me how the picture should be painted.

FRA SEBASTIANO. What unassuming, unobtrusive men These critics are! Now, to have Aretino Aiming his shafts at you brings back to mind The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble Of envious Florentines, that at your David Threw stones at night. But Aretino praised you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. His praises were ironical. He knows How to use words as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture!

FRA SEBASTIANO. My portrait of Vittoria Colonna.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It makes her look as she will look hereafter, When she becomes a saint!

FRA SEBASTIANO. A noble woman!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes In marble, and can paint diviner pictures, Since I have known her.

FRA SEBASTIANO. And you like this picture. And yet it is in oil; which you detest.

MICHAEL ANGELO. When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered The use of oil in painting, he degraded His art into a handicraft, and made it Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn Or wayside wine-shop. 'T is an art for women, Or for such leisurely and idle people As you, Fra Bastiano. Nature paints not In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds And flying vapors.

FRA SEBASTIANO. And how soon they fade! Behold yon line of roofs and belfries painted Upon the golden background of the sky, Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait Of Cimabue. See how hard the outline, Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow. Yet that is nature.

MICHAEL ANGELO. She is always right. The picture that approaches sculpture nearest Is the best picture.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Leonardo thinks The open air too bright. We ought to paint As if the sun were shining through a mist. 'T is easier done in oil than in distemper.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Do not revive again the old dispute; I have an excellent memory for forgetting, But I still feel the hurt. Wounds are not healed By the unbending of the bow that made them.

FRA SEBASTIANO. So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb.

MICHAEL ANGELO. But that is past. Now I am angry with you, Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat And indolent, you do not paint at all.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Why should I paint? Why should I toil and sweat, Who now am rich enough to live at ease, And take my pleasure?

MICHAEL ANGELO. When Pope Leo died, He who had been so lavish of the wealth His predecessors left him, who received A basket of gold-pieces every morning, Which every night was empty, left behind Hardly enough to pay his funeral.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I care for banquets, not for funerals, As did his Holiness. I have forbidden All tapers at my burial, and procession Of priests and friars and monks; and have provided The cost thereof be given to the poor!

MICHAEL ANGELO. You have done wisely, but of that I speak not. Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children; But who to-day would know that he had lived, If he had never made those gates of bronze In the old Baptistery,--those gates of bronze, Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. His wealth is scattered to the winds; his children Are long since dead; but those celestial gates Survive, and keep his name and memory green.

FRA SEBASTIANO. But why should I fatigue myself? I think That all things it is possible to paint Have been already painted; and if not, Why, there are painters in the world at present Who can accomplish more in two short months Than I could in two years; so it is well That some one is contented to do nothing, And leave the field to others.

MICHAEL ANGELO. O blasphemer! Not without reason do the people call you Sebastian del Piombo, for the lead Of all the Papal bulls is heavy upon you, And wraps you like a shroud.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Misericordia! Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, and sharp The words you speak, because the heart within you Is sweet unto the core.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How changed you are From the Sebastiano I once knew, When poor, laborious, emulous to excel, You strove in rivalry with Badassare And Raphael Sanzio.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Raphael is dead; He is but dust and ashes in his grave, While I am living and enjoying life, And so am victor. One live Pope is worth A dozen dead ones.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Raphael is not dead; He doth but sleep; for how can he be dead Who lives immortal in the hearts of men? He only drank the precious wine of youth, The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintage Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of men. The gods have given him sleep. We never were Nor could be foes, although our followers, Who are distorted shadows of ourselves, Have striven to make us so; but each one worked Unconsciously upon the other's thought; Both giving and receiving. He perchance Caught strength from me, and I some greater sweetness And tenderness from his more gentle nature. I have but words of praise and admiration For his great genius; and the world is fairer That he lived in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. We at least are friends; So come with me.

MICHAEL ANGELO. No, no; I am best pleased When I'm not asked to banquets. I have reached A time of life when daily walks are shortened, And even the houses of our dearest friends, That used to be so near, seem far away.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Then we must sup without you. We shall laugh At those who toil for fame, and make their lives A tedious martyrdom, that they may live A little longer in the mouths of men! And so, good-night.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Good-night, my Fra Bastiano.

[Returning to his work.

How will men speak of me when I am gone, When all this colorless, sad life is ended, And I am dust? They will remember only The wrinkled forehead, the marred countenance, The rudeness of my speech, and my rough manners, And never dream that underneath them all There was a woman's heart of tenderness. They will not know the secret of my life, Locked up in silence, or but vaguely hinted In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance survive Some little space in memories of men! Each one performs his life-work, and then leaves it; Those that come after him will estimate His influence on the age in which he lived.

V

PALAZZO BELVEDERE

TITIAN'S studio. A painting of Danae with a curtain before it. TITIAN, MICHAEL ANGELO, and GIORGIO VASARI.

MICHAEL ANGELO. So you have left at last your still lagoons, Your City of Silence floating in the sea, And come to us in Rome.

TITIAN. I come to learn, But I have come too late. I should have seen Rome in my youth, when all my mind was open To new impressions. Our Vasari here Leads me about, a blind man, groping darkly Among the marvels of the past. I touch them, But do not see them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. There are things in Rome That one might walk bare-footed here from Venice But to see once, and then to die content.

TITIAN. I must confess that these majestic ruins Oppress me with their gloom. I feel as one Who in the twilight stumbles among tombs, And cannot read the inscriptions carved upon them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I felt so once; but I have grown familiar With desolation, and it has become No more a pain to me, but a delight.

TITIAN. I could not live here. I must have the sea, And the sea-mist, with sunshine interwoven Like cloth of gold; must have beneath my windows The laughter of the waves, and at my door Their pattering footsteps, or I am not happy.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Then tell me of your city in the sea, Paved with red basalt of the Paduan hills. Tell me of art in Venice. Three great names, Giorgione, Titian, and the Tintoretto, Illustrate your Venetian school, and send A challenge to the world. The first is dead, But Tintoretto lives.

TITIAN. And paints with fires Sudden and splendid, as the lightning paints The cloudy vault of heaven.

GIORGIO. Does he still keep Above his door the arrogant inscription That once was painted there,--"The color of Titian, With the design of Michael Angelo"?

TITIAN. Indeed, I know not. 'T was a foolish boast, And does no harm to any but himself. Perhaps he has grown wiser.

MICHAEL ANGELO. When you two Are gone, who is there that remains behind To seize the pencil falling from your fingers?

GIORGIO. Oh there are many hands upraised already To clutch at such a prize, which hardly wait For death to loose your grasp,--a hundred of them; Schiavone, Bonifazio, Campagnola, Moretto, and Moroni; who can count them, Or measure their ambition?

TITIAN. When we are gone The generation that comes after us Will have far other thoughts than ours. Our ruins Will serve to build their palaces or tombs. They will possess the world that we think ours, And fashion it far otherwise.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I hear Your son Orazio and your nephew Marco Mentioned with honor.

TITIAN. Ay, brave lads, brave lads. But time will show. There is a youth in Venice, One Paul Cagliari, called the Veronese, Still a mere stripling, but of such rare promise That we must guard our laurels, or may lose them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear That, when we die, with us all art will die. 'T is but a fancy. Nature will provide Others to take our places. I rejoice To see the young spring forward in the race, Eager as we were, and as full of hope And the sublime audacity of youth.

TITIAN. Men die and are forgotten. The great world Goes on the same. Among the myriads Of men that live, or have lived, or shall live What is a single life, or thine or mime, That we should think all nature would stand still If we were gone? We must make room for others.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danae, of which I hear such praise.

TITIAN, drawing hack the curtain.

What think you?

MICHAEL ANGELO. That Acrisius did well To lock such beauty in a brazen tower And hide it from all eyes.

TITIAN. The model truly Was beautiful.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And more, that you were present, And saw the showery Jove from high Olympus Descend in all his splendor.

TITIAN. From your lips Such words are full of sweetness.

MICHAEL ANGELO. You have caught These golden hues from your Venetian sunsets.

TITIAN. Possibly.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Or from sunshine through a shower On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. Nature reveals herself in all our arts. The pavements and the palaces of cities Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills. Red lavas from the Euganean quarries Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam Reflected in your waters and your pictures. And thus the works of every artist show Something of his surroundings and his habits. The uttermost that can be reached by color Is here accomplished. Warmth and light and softness Mingle together. Never yet was flesh Painted by hand of artist, dead or living, With such divine perfection.

TITIAN. I am grateful For so much praise from you, who are a master; While mostly those who praise and those who blame Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly Their censure sounds like praise, their praise like censure.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Wonderful! wonderful! The charm of color Fascinates me the more that in myself The gift is wanting. I am not a painter.

GIORGIO. Messer Michele, all the arts are yours, Not one alone; and therefore I may venture To put a question to you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Well, speak on.

GIORGIO. Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese Have made me umpire in dispute between them Which is the greater of the sister arts, Painting or sculpture. Solve for me the doubt.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Sculpture and painting have a common goal, And whosoever would attain to it, Whichever path he take, will find that goal Equally hard to reach.

GIORGIO. No doubt, no doubt; But you evade the question.

MICHAEL ANGELO. When I stand In presence of this picture, I concede That painting has attained its uttermost; But in the presence of my sculptured figures I feel that my conception soars beyond All limit I have reached.

GIORGIO. You still evade me.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Giorgio Vasari, I have often said That I account that painting as the best Which most resembles sculpture. Here before us We have the proof. Behold those rounded limbs! How from the canvas they detach themselves, Till they deceive the eye, and one would say, It is a statue with a screen behind it!

TITIAN. Signori, pardon me; but all such questions Seem to me idle.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Idle as the wind. And now, Maestro, I will say once more How admirable I esteem your work, And leave you, without further interruption.

TITIAN. Your friendly visit hath much honored me.

GIOROIO. Farewell.

MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, going out.

If the Venetian painters knew But half as much of drawing as of color, They would indeed work miracles in art, And the world see what it hath never seen.

VI

PALAZZO CESARINI

VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing near her.

JULIA. It grieves me that I find you still so weak And suffering.

VITTORIA. No, not suffering; only dying. Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life. I am a shadow, merely, and these hands, These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husband Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud of Because he thought them so, are faded quite,-- All beauty gone from them.

JULIA. Ah, no, not that. Paler you are, but not less beautiful.

VITTORIA. Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o'er our features when we die. Thank you. And now sit down beside me here How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour When most I need you!

JULIA. Do you ever need me?

VICTORIA.

Always, and most of all to-day and now. Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, One afternoon, upon the castle terrace At Ischia, on the day before you left me?

JULIA. Well I remember; but it seems to me Something unreal, that has never been,-- Something that I have read of in a book, Or heard of some one else.

VITTORIA. Ten years and more Have passed since then; and many things have happened In those ten years, and many friends have died: Marco Flaminio, whom we all admired And loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso, The noble champion of free thought and speech; And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend.

JULIA. Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death O'ercomes me now, as it o'ercame me then. Let me forget it; for my memory Serves me too often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.

VITTORIA. Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, The good Fra Bernardino has departed, Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught That He who made us all without our help Could also save us without aid of ours. Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata Banished from court because of this new doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought Locked in your breast.

JULIA. I will be very prudent But speak no more, I pray; it wearies you.

VITTORIA. Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.

JULIA. Most willingly. What shall I read?

VITTORIA. Petrarca's Triumph of Death. The book lies on the table; Beside the casket there. Read where you find The leaf turned down. 'T was there I left off reading.

JULIA, reads.

"Not as a flame that by some force is spent, But one that of itself consumeth quite, Departed hence in peace the soul content, In fashion of a soft and lucent light Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes, Keeping until the end its lustre bright. Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows That without wind on some fair hill-top lies, Her weary body seemed to find repose. Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes, When now the spirit was no longer there, Was what is dying called by the unwise. E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair"--

Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?-- She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something Above her in the air. I can see naught Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!-- She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.

[The mirror falls and breaks.

VITTORIA. Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.

JULIA. Holy Virgin! Her body sinks together,--she is dead!

[Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap.

Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.

JULIA. Hush! make no noise.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How is she?

JULIA. Never better.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Then she is dead!

JULIA. Alas! yes, she is dead! Even death itself in her fair face seems fair. How wonderful! The light upon her face Shines from the windows of another world. Saint only have such faces. Holy Angels! Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest!

[Kisses Vittoria's hand.

PART THIRD

I

MONOLOGUE

Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall. Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding Upon his hand the model of a church, As German artists paint him; and what years, What weary years, must drag themselves along, Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes! And what then? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan Was told to add a step to his short sword.

[A pause.

And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music And merriment, that used to make our lives Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence Like madrigals sung in the street at night By passing revellers? It is strange indeed That he should die before me. 'T is against The laws of nature that the young should die, And the old live; unless it be that some Have long been dead who think themselves alive, Because not buried. Well, what matters it, Since now that greater light, that was my sun, Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me, And, like a ruined wall, the world around me Crumbles away, and I am left alone. I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts Are now my sole companions,--thoughts of her, That like a benediction from the skies Come to me in my solitude and soothe me. When men are old, the incessant thought of Death Follows them like their shadow; sits with them At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep; And when they wake already is awake, And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly It is in us to make an enemy Of this importunate follower, not a friend! To me a friend, and not an enemy, Has he become since all my friends are dead.

II

VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO

POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.

JULIUS. Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, With Michael Angelo? What has he done, Or left undone, that ye are set against him? When one Pope dies, another is soon made; And I can make a dozen Cardinals, But cannot make one Michael Angelo.

CARDINAL SALVIATI. Your Holiness, we are not set against him; We but deplore his incapacity. He is too old.

JULIUS. You, Cardinal Salviati, Are an old man. Are you incapable? 'T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. Your Holiness remembers he was charged With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge; Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load Of timber and travertine; and yet for years The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it To Baccio Bigio.

JULIUS. Always Baccio Bigio! Is there no other architect on earth? Was it not he that sometime had in charge The harbor of Ancona.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. Ay, the same.

JULIUS. Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio Did greater damage in a single day To that fair harbor than the sea had done Or would do in ten years. And him you think To put in place of Michael Angelo, In building the Basilica of St. Peter! The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers His error when he comes to leap the ditch.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. He does not build; he but demolishes The labors of Bramante and San Gallo.

JULIUS. Only to build more grandly.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. But time passes: Year after year goes by, and yet the work Is not completed. Michael Angelo Is a great sculptor, but no architect. His plans are faulty.

JULIUS. I have seen his model, And have approved it. But here comes the artist. Beware of him. He may make Persians of you, To carry burdens on your backs forever.

## SCENE II.

The same: MICHAEL ANGELO.

JULIUS. Come forward, dear Maestro! In these gardens All ceremonies of our court are banished. Sit down beside me here.

MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down. How graciously Your Holiness commiserates old age And its infirmities!

JULIUS. Say its privileges. Art I respect. The building of this palace And laying out these pleasant garden walks Are my delight, and if I have not asked Your aid in this, it is that I forbear To lay new burdens on you at an age When you need rest. Here I escape from Rome To be at peace. The tumult of the city Scarce reaches here.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How beautiful it is, And quiet almost as a hermitage!

JULIUS. We live as hermits here; and from these heights O'erlook all Rome and see the yellow Tiber Cleaving in twain the city, like a sword, As far below there as St. Mary's bridge. What think you of that bridge?

MICHAEL ANGELO. I would advise Your Holiness not to cross it, or not often It is not safe.

JULIUS. It was repaired of late.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Some morning you will look for it in vain; It will be gone. The current of the river Is undermining it.

JULIUS. But you repaired it.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I strengthened all its piers, and paved its road With travertine. He who came after me Removed the stone, and sold it, and filled in The space with gravel.

JULIUS. Cardinal Salviati And Cardinal Marcello, do you listen? This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio.

MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. There is some mystery here. These Cardinals Stand lowering at me with unfriendly eyes.

JULIUS. Now let us come to what concerns us more Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter's; Certain supposed defects or imperfections, You doubtless can explain.

MICHAEL ANGELO. This is no longer The golden age of art. Men have become Iconoclasts and critics. They delight not In what an artist does, but set themselves To censure what they do not comprehend. You will not see them bearing a Madonna Of Cimabue to the church in triumph, But tearing down the statue of a Pope To cast it into cannon. Who are they That bring complaints against me?

JULIUS. Deputies Of the commissioners; and they complain Of insufficient light in the Three Chapels.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Your Holiness, the insufficient light Is somewhere else, and not in the Three Chapels. Who are the deputies that make complaint?

JULIUS. The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, Here present.

MICHAEL ANGELO, rising. With permission, Monsignori, What is it ye complain of?

CARDINAL MARCELLO, We regret You have departed from Bramante's plan, And from San Gallo's.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Since the ancient time No greater architect has lived on earth Than Lazzari Bramante. His design, Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted. Merits all praise, and to depart from it Would be departing from the truth. San Gallo, Building about with columns, took all light Out of this plan; left in the choir dark corners For infinite ribaldries, and lurking places For rogues and robbers; so that when the church Was shut at night, not five and twenty men Could find them out. It was San Gallo, then, That left the church in darkness, and not I.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels Is but a single window.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Monsignore, Perhaps you do not know that in the vaulting Above there are to go three other windows.

CARDINAL SALVIATI. How should we know? You never told us of it.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I neither am obliged, nor will I be, To tell your Eminence or any other What I intend or ought to do. Your office Is to provide the means, and see that thieves Do not lay hands upon them. The designs Must all be left to me.

CARDINAL MARCELLO. Sir architect, You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudely In presence of his Holiness, and to us Who are his cardinals.

MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat. I do not forget I am descended from the Counts Canossa, Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda, Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Patrimony. I, too, am proud to give unto the Church The labor of these hands, and what of life Remains to me. My father Buonarotti Was Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese. I am not used to have men speak to me As if I were a mason, hired to build A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays So much an hour.

CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside. No wonder that Pope Clement Never sat down in presence of this man, Lest he should do the same; and always bade him Put on his hat, lest he unasked should do it!

MICHAEL ANGELO. If any one could die of grief and shame, I should. This labor was imposed upon me; I did not seek it; and if I assumed it, 'T was not for love of fame or love of gain, But for the love of God. Perhaps old age Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition; I may be doing harm instead of good. Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me; Take off from me the burden of this work; Let me go back to Florence.

JULIUS. Never, never, While I am living.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Doth your Holiness Remember what the Holy Scriptures say Of the inevitable time, when those Who look out of the windows shall be darkened, And the almond-tree shall flourish?

JULIUS. That is in Ecclesiastes.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And the grasshopper Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail, Because man goeth unto his long home. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all Is vanity.

JULIUS. Ah, were to do a thing As easy as to dream of doing it, We should not want for artists. But the men Who carry out in act their great designs Are few in number; ay, they may be counted Upon the fingers of this hand. Your place Is at St. Peter's.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I have had my dream, And cannot carry out my great conception, And put it into act.

JULIUS. Then who can do it? You would but leave it to some Baccio Bigio To mangle and deface.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Rather than that I will still bear the burden on my shoulders A little longer. If your Holiness Will keep the world in order, and will leave The building of the church to me, the work Will go on better for it. Holy Father, If all the labors that I have endured, And shall endure, advantage not my soul, I am but losing time.

JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO'S shoulders. You will be gainer Both for your soul and body.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not events Exasperate me, but the funest conclusions I draw from these events; the sure decline Of art, and all the meaning of that word: All that embellishes and sweetens life, And lifts it from the level of low cares Into the purer atmosphere of beauty; The faith in the Ideal; the inspiration That made the canons of the church of Seville Say, "Let us build, so that all men hereafter Will say that we were madmen." Holy Father, I beg permission to retire from here.

JULIUS. Go; and my benediction be upon you.

[Michael Angelo goes out.

My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo Must not be dealt with as a common mason. He comes of noble blood, and for his crest Bear two bull's horns; and he has given us proof That he can toss with them. From this day forth Unto the end of time, let no man utter The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence. All great achievements are the natural fruits Of a great character. As trees bear not Their fruits of the same size and quality, But each one in its kind with equal ease, So are great deeds as natural to great men As mean things are to small ones. By his work We know the master. Let us not perplex him.

III

BINDO ALTOVITI

A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house.

MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.

BINDO. Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!

BINDO. What brings you forth so early?

MICHAEL ANGELO. The same reason That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,-- The air of this delicious summer morning. What news have you from Florence?

BINDO. Nothing new; The same old tale of violence and wrong. Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo, When in procession, through San Gallo's gate, Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds, Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori Were led as prisoners down the streets of Florence, Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people, Hope is no more, and liberty no more. Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; Silence and solitude are in her streets.

BINDO. Ah yes; and often I repeat the words You wrote upon your statue of the Night, There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo: "Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; To see not, feel not, is a benediction; Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers."

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, The fallen fortunes, and the desolation Of Florence are to me a tragedy Deeper than words, and darker than despair. I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, Have loved her with the passion of a lover, And clothed her with all lovely attributes That the imagination can conceive, Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, And trodden in the dust beneath the feet Of an adventurer! It is a grief Too great for me to bear in my old age.

BINDO. I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, For Benvenuto writes that he is coming To be my guest in Rome.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Those are good tidings. He hath been many years away from us.

BINDO. Pray you, come in.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I have not time to stay, And yet I will. I see from here your house Is filled with works of art. That bust in bronze Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the master That works in such an admirable way, And with such power and feeling?

BINDO. Benvenuto.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah? Benvenuto? 'T is a masterpiece! It pleases me as much, and even more, Than the antiques about it; and yet they Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it By far too high. The light comes from below, And injures the expression. Were these windows Above and not beneath it, then indeed It would maintain its own among these works Of the old masters, noble as they are. I will go in and study it more closely. I always prophesied that Benvenuto, With all his follies and fantastic ways, Would show his genius in some work of art That would amaze the world, and be a challenge Unto all other artists of his time.

[They go in.

IV

IN THE COLISEUM

MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERI

CAVALIERI. What have you here alone, Messer Michele?

MICHAEL ANGELO. I come to learn.

CAVALIERI. You are already master, And teach all other men.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Nay, I know nothing; Not even my own ignorance, as some Philosopher hath said. I am a schoolboy Who hath not learned his lesson, and who stands Ashamed and silent in the awful presence Of the great master of antiquity Who built these walls cyclopean.

CAVALIERI. Gaudentius His name was, I remember. His reward Was to be thrown alive to the wild beasts Here where we now are standing.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Idle tales.

CAVALIERI. But you are greater than Gaudentius was, And your work nobler.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Silence, I beseech you.

CAVALIERI. Tradition says that fifteen thousand men Were toiling for ten years incessantly Upon this amphitheatre.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Behold How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers, The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn By wind and rain of thrice five hundred years; Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold To ornament our palaces and churches, Or to be trodden under feet of man Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains Still opening its fair bosom to the sun, And to the constellations that at night Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.

CAVALIERI. The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise; Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw, With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect Its hundred thousand petals were not Saints, But senators in their Thessalian caps, And all the roaring populace of Rome; And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins, Who came to see the gladiators die, Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I spake not of its uses, but its beauty.

CAVALIERI. The sand beneath our feet is saturate With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones Are awful witnesses against a people Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Tomaso Cavalieri, on my word, You should have been a preacher, not a painter! Think you that I approve such cruelties, Because I marvel at the architects Who built these walls, and curved these noble arches? Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider How mean our work is, when compared with theirs! Look at these walls about us and above us! They have been shaken by earthquake; have been made A fortress, and been battered by long sieges; The iron clamps, that held the stones together, Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed Out of the solid rock, and were a part Of the foundations of the world itself.

CAVALIERI. Your work, I say again, is nobler work, In so far as its end and aim are nobler; And this is but a ruin, like the rest. Its vaulted passages are made the caverns Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts Of murdered men.

MICHAEL ANGELO. A thousand wild flowers bloom From every chink, and the birds build their nests Among the ruined arches, and suggest New thoughts of beauty to the architect, Now let us climb the broken stairs that lead Into the corridors above, and study The marvel and the mystery of that art In which I am a pupil, not a master. All things must have an end; the world itself Must have an end, as in a dream I saw it. There came a great hand out of heaven, and touched The earth, and stopped it in its course. The seas Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss; The forests and the fields slid off, and floated Like wooded islands in the air. The dead Were hurled forth from their sepulchres; the living Were mingled with them, and themselves were dead,-- All being dead; and the fair, shining cities Dropped out like jewels from a broken crown. Naught but the core of the great globe remained, A skeleton of stone. And over it The wrack of matter drifted like a cloud, And then recoiled upon itself, and fell Back on the empty world, that with the weight Reeled, staggered, righted, and then headlong plunged Into the darkness, as a ship, when struck By a great sea, throws off the waves at first On either side, then settles and goes down Into the dark abyss, with her dead crew.

CAVALIERI. But the earth does not move.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Who knows? who knowst? There are great truths that pitch their shining tents Outside our walls, and though but dimly seen In the gray dawn, they will be manifest When the light widens into perfect day. A certain man, Copernicus by name, Sometime professor here in Rome, has whispered It is the earth, and not the sun, that moves. What I beheld was only in a dream, Yet dreams sometimes anticipate events, Being unsubstantial images of things As yet unseen.

V

MACELLO DE' CORVI

MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI.

MICHAEL ANGELO. So, Benvenuto, you return once more To the Eternal City. 'T is the centre To which all gravitates. One finds no rest Elsewhere than here. There may be other cities That please us for a while, but Rome alone Completely satisfies. It becomes to all A second native land by predilection, And not by accident of birth alone.

BENVENUTO. I am but just arrived, and am now lodging With Bindo Altoviti. I have been To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father, And now am come in haste to kiss the hands Of my miraculous Master.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And to find him Grown very old.

BENVENUTO. You know that precious stones Never grow old.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Half sunk beneath the horizon, And yet not gone. Twelve years are a long while. Tell me of France.

BENVENUTO. It were too long a tale To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say The King received me well, and loved me well; Gave me the annual pension that before me Our Leonardo had, nor more nor less, And for my residence the Tour de Nesle, Upon the river-side.

MICHAEL ANGELO. A princely lodging.

BENVENUTO. What in return I did now matters not, For there are other things, of greater moment, I wish to speak of. First of all, the letter You wrote me, not long since, about my bust Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You said, "My Benvenuto, I for many years Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, And now I know you as no less a sculptor." Ah, generous Master! How shall I e'er thank you For such kind language?

MICHAEL ANGELO. By believing it. I saw the bust at Messer Bindo's house, And thought it worthy of the ancient masters, And said so. That is all.

BENVENUTO. It is too much; And I should stand abashed here in your presence, Had I done nothing worthier of your praise Than Bindo's bust.

MICHAEL ANGELO. What have you done that's better?

BENVENUTO. When I left Rome for Paris, you remember I promised you that if I went a goldsmith I would return a sculptor. I have kept The promise I then made.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Dear Benvenuto, I recognized the latent genius in you, But feared your vices.

BENVENUTO. I have turned them all To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature, That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me Where meekness could not, and where patience could not, As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft In his left hand the head of the Medusa, And in his right the sword that severed it; His right foot planted on the lifeless corse; His face superb and pitiful, with eyes Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I see it as it should be.

BENVENUTO. As it will be When it is placed upon the Ducal Square, Half-way between your David and the Judith Of Donatello.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Rival of them both!

BENVENUTO. But ah, what infinite trouble have I had With Bandinello, and that stupid beast, The major-domo of Duke Cosimo, Francesco Ricci, and their wretched agent Gorini, who came crawling round about me Like a black spider, with his whining voice That sounded like the buzz of a mosquito! Oh, I have wept in utter desperation, And wished a thousand times I had not left My Tour do Nesle, nor e'er returned to Florence, Or thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods They told the Grand Duke, to impede my work, And make me desperate!

MICHAEL ANGELO. The nimble lie Is like the second-hand upon a clock; We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, And wins at last, for the clock will not strike Till it has reached the goal.

BENVENUTO. My obstinacy Stood me in stead, and helped me to o'ercome The hindrances that envy and ill-will Put in my way.

MICHAEL ANGELO. When anything is done People see not the patient doing of it, Nor think how great would be the loss to man If it had not been done. As in a building Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation All would be wanting, so in human life Each action rests on the foregone event, That made it possible, but is forgotten And buried in the earth.

BENVENUTO. Even Bandinello, Who never yet spake well of anything, Speaks well of this; and yet he told the Duke That, though I cast small figures well enough, I never could cast this.

MICHAEL ANGELO. But you have done it, And proved Ser Bandinello a false prophet. That is the wisest way.

BENVENUTO. And ah, that casting What a wild scene it was, as late at night, A night of wind and rain, we heaped the furnace With pine of Serristori, till the flames Caught in the rafters over us, and threatened To send the burning roof upon our heads; And from the garden side the wind and rain Poured in upon us, and half quenched our fires. I was beside myself with desperation. A shudder came upon me, then a fever; I thought that I was dying, and was forced To leave the work-shop, and to throw myself Upon my bed, as one who has no hope. And as I lay there, a deformed old man Appeared before me, and with dismal voice, Like one who doth exhort a criminal Led forth to death, exclaimed, "Poor Benvenuto, Thy work is spoiled! There is no remedy!" Then, with a cry so loud it might have reached The heaven of fire, I bounded to my feet, And rushed back to my workmen. They all stood Bewildered and desponding; and I looked Into the furnace, and beheld the mass Half molten only, and in my despair I fed the fire with oak, whose terrible heat Soon made the sluggish metal shine and sparkle. Then followed a bright flash, and an explosion, As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us. The covering of the furnace had been rent Asunder, and the bronze was flowing over; So that I straightway opened all the sluices To fill the mould. The metal ran like lava, Sluggish and heavy; and I sent my workmen To ransack the whole house, and bring together My pewter plates and pans, two hundred of them, And cast them one by one into the furnace To liquefy the mass, and in a moment The mould was filled! I fell upon my knees And thanked the Lord; and then we ate and drank And went to bed, all hearty and contented. It was two hours before the break of day. My fever was quite gone.

MICHAEL ANGELO. A strange adventure, That could have happened to no man alive But you, my Benvenuto.

BENVENUTO. As my workmen said To major-domo Ricci afterward, When he inquired of them: "'T was not a man, But an express great devil."

MICHAEL ANGELO. And the statue?

BENVENUTO. Perfect in every part, save the right foot Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke. There was just bronze enough to fill the mould; Not a drop over, not a drop too little. I looked upon it as a miracle Wrought by the hand of God.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And now I see How you have turned your vices into virtues.

BENVENUTO. But wherefore do I prate of this? I came To speak of other things. Duke Cosimo Through me invites you to return to Florence, And offers you great honors, even to make you One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators.

MICHAEL ANGELO. His Senators! That is enough. Since Florence Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme; All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me! I hoped to see my country rise to heights Of happiness and freedom yet unreached By other nations, but the climbing wave Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again Back to the common level, with a hoarse Death rattle in its throat. I am too old To hope for better days. I will stay here And die in Rome. The very weeds, that grow Among the broken fragments of her ruins, Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers Of other cities; and the desolate ring Of the Campagna round about her walls Fairer than all the villas that encircle The towns of Tuscany.

BENVENUTO. But your old friends!

MICHAEL ANGELO. All dead by violence. Baccio Valori Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned; Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. Is Florence then a place for honest men To flourish in? What is there to prevent My sharing the same fate?

BENVENUTO. Why this: if all Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Is Aretino dead?

BENVENUTO. He lives in Venice, And not in Florence.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 'T is the same to me This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers Call the Divine, as if to make the word Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me A letter written for the public eye, And with such subtle and infernal malice, I wonder at his wickedness. 'T is he Is the express great devil, and not you. Some years ago he told me how to paint The scenes of the Last Judgment.

BENVENUTO. I remember.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom With which I represent it.

BENVENUTO. Hypocrite!

MICHAEL ANGELO. He says I show mankind that I am wanting In piety and religion, in proportion As I profess perfection in my art. Profess perfection? Why, 't is only men Like Bugiardini who are satisfied With what they do. I never am content, But always see the labors of my hand Fall short of my conception.

BENVENUTO. I perceive The malice of this creature. He would taint you With heresy, and in a time like this! 'T is infamous!

MICHAEL ANGELO. I represent the angels Without their heavenly glory, and the saints Without a trace of earthly modesty.

BENVENUTO. Incredible audacity!

MICHAEL ANGELO. The heathen Veiled their Diana with some drapery, And when they represented Venus naked They made her by her modest attitude, Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian, Do so subordinate belief to art That I have made the very violation Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins A spectacle at which all men would gaze With half-averted eyes even in a brothel.

BENVENUTO. He is at home there, and he ought to know What men avert their eyes from in such places; From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine.

MICHAEL ANGELO. But divine Providence will never leave The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished; And the more marvellous it is, the more 'T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame! And finally, if in this composition I had pursued the instructions that he gave me Concerning heaven and hell and paradise, In that same letter, known to all the world, Nature would not be forced, as she is now, To feel ashamed that she invested me With such great talent; that I stand myself A very idol in the world of art. He taunts me also with the Mausoleum Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason That men persuaded the inane old man It was of evil augury to build His tomb while he was living; and he speaks Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me, And calls it robbery;--that is what he says. What prompted such a letter?

BENVENUTO. Vanity. He is a clever writer, and he likes To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face Of every honest man, as swordsmen do Their rapiers on occasion, but to show How skilfully they do it. Had you followed The advice he gave, or even thanked him for it, You would have seen another style of fence. 'T is but his wounded vanity, and the wish To see his name in print. So give it not A moment's thought; it soon will be forgotten.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I will not think of it, but let it pass For a rude speech thrown at me in the street, As boys threw stones at Dante.

BENVENUTO. And what answer Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo? He does not ask your labor or your service; Only your presence in the city of Florence, With such advice upon his work in hand As he may ask, and you may choose to give.

MICHAEL ANGELO. You have my answer. Nothing he can offer Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here, And only here, the building of St. Peter's. What other things I hitherto have done Have fallen from me, are no longer mine; I have passed on beyond them, and have left them As milestones on the way. What lies before me, That is still mine, and while it is unfinished No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me, By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor, Till I behold the finished dome uprise Complete, as now I see it in my thought.

BENVENUTO. And will you paint no more?

MICHAEL ANGELO. No more.

BENVENUTO. 'T is well. Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings. Even the plants, The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured, And colored later. Painting is a lie, A shadow merely.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Truly, as you say, Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live. The most majestic Of the three sister arts is that which builds; The eldest of them all, to whom the others Are but the hand-maids and the servitors, Being but imitation, not creation. Henceforth I dedicate myself to her.

BENVENUTO. And no more from the marble hew those forms That fill us all with wonder?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Many statues Will there be room for in my work. Their station Already is assigned them in my mind. But things move slowly. There are hindrances, Want of material, want of means, delays And interruptions, endless interference Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes And jealousies of artists, that annoy me. But twill persevere until the work Is wholly finished, or till I sink down Surprised by death, that unexpected guest, Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps in, Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop To all our occupations and designs. And then perhaps I may go back to Florence; This is my answer to Duke Cosimo.

VI

MICHAEL ANGELO'S STUDIO

MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO.

MICHAEL ANGELO, pausing in his work. Urbino, thou and I are both old men. My strength begins to fail me.

URBINO. Eccellenza. That is impossible. Do I not see you Attack the marble blocks with the same fury As twenty years ago?

MICHAEL ANGELO. 'T is an old habit. I must have learned it early from my nurse At Setignano, the stone-mason's wife; For the first sounds I heard were of the chisel chipping away the stone.

URBINO. At every stroke You strike fire with your chisel.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ay, because The marble is too hard.

URBINO. It is a block That Topolino sent you from Carrara. He is a judge of marble.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I remember. With it he sent me something of his making,-- A Mercury, with long body and short legs, As if by any possibility A messenger of the gods could have short legs. It was no more like Mercury than you are, But rather like those little plaster figures That peddlers hawk about the villages As images of saints. But luckily For Topolino, there are many people Who see no difference between what is best And what is only good, or not even good; So that poor artists stand in their esteem On the same level with the best, or higher.

URBINO. How Eccellenza laughed!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Poor Topolino! All men are not born artists, nor will labor E'er make them artists.

URBINO. No, no more Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals. One must be chosen for it. I have been Your color-grinder six and twenty years, And am not yet an artist.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Some have eyes That see not; but in every block of marble I see a statue,--see it as distinctly As if it stood before me shaped and perfect In attitude and action. I have only To hew away the stone walls that imprison The lovely apparition, and reveal it To other eyes as mine already see it. But I grow old and weak. What wilt thou do When I am dead, Urbino?

URBINO. Eccellenza, I must then serve another master.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Never! Bitter is servitude at best. Already So many years hast thou been serving me; But rather as a friend than as a servant. We have grown old together. Dost thou think So meanly of this Michael Angelo As to imagine he would let thee serve, When he is free from service? Take this purse, Two thousand crowns in gold.

URBINO. Two thousand crowns!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die A beggar in a hospital.

URBINO. Oh, Master!

MICHAEL ANGELO. I cannot have them with me on the journey That I am undertaking. The last garment That men will make for me will have no pockets.

URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO. My generous master!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Hush!

URBINO. My Providence!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not a word more. Go now to bed, old man. Thou hast served Michael Angelo. Remember, Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master.

VII

THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA

MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How still it is among these ancient oaks! Surges and undulations of the air Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall With scarce a sound. Such sylvan quietudes Become old age. These huge centennial oaks, That may have heard in infancy the trumpets Of Barbarossa's cavalry, deride Man's brief existence, that with all his strength He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year. This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk, Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its arms The cradled nests of birds, when all the men That now inhabit this vast universe, They and their children, and their children's children, Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more. Through openings in the trees I see below me The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade Of the tall poplars on the river's brink. O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse! I who have never loved thee as I ought, But wasted all my years immured in cities, And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets, Now come to thee for refuge. Here is peace. Yonder I see the little hermitages Dotting the mountain side with points of light, And here St. Julian's convent, like a nest Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. Beyond the broad, illimitable plain Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo's quoit, That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside, Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers. And now, instead of these fair deities Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads; And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund, Replace the old Silenus with his ass.

Here underneath these venerable oaks, Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age, A brother of the monastery sits, Lost in his meditations. What may be The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him? Good-evening, holy father.

MONK. God be with you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon a stranger if he interrupt Your meditations.

MONK. It was but a dream,-- The old, old dream, that never will come true; The dream that all my life I have been dreaming, And yet is still a dream.

MICHAEL ANGELO. All men have dreams: I have had mine; but none of them came true; They were but vanity. Sometimes I think The happiness of man lies in pursuing, Not in possessing; for the things possessed Lose half their value. Tell me of your dream.

MONK. The yearning of my heart, my sole desire, That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right, While all the others bend and bow to it; The passion that torments me, and that breathes New meaning into the dead forms of prayer, Is that with mortal eyes I may behold The Eternal City.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Rome?

MONK. There is but one; The rest are merely names. I think of it As the Celestial City, paved with gold, And sentinelled with angels.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Would it were. I have just fled from it. It is beleaguered By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of Alva.

MONK. But still for me 't is the Celestial City, And I would see it once before I die.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Each one must bear his cross.

MONK. Were it a cross That had been laid upon me, I could bear it, Or fall with it. It is a crucifix; I am nailed hand and foot, and I am dying!

MICHAEL ANGELO. What would you see in Rome?

MONK. His Holiness.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Him that was once the Cardinal Caraffa? You would but see a man of fourscore years, With sunken eyes, burning like carbuncles, Who sits at table with his friends for hours, Cursing the Spaniards as a race of Jews And miscreant Moors. And with what soldiery Think you he now defends the Eternal City?

MONK. With legions of bright angels.

MICHAEL ANGELO. So he calls them; And yet in fact these bright angelic legions Are only German Lutherans.

MONK, crossing himself. Heaven protect us?

MICHAEL ANGELO. What further would you see?

MONK. The Cardinals, Going in their gilt coaches to High Mass.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Men do not go to Paradise in coaches.

MONK. The catacombs, the convents, and the churches; The ceremonies of the Holy Week In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany, The Feast of the Santissima Bambino At Ara Coeli. But I shall not see them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. These pompous ceremonies of the Church Are but an empty show to him who knows The actors in them. Stay here in your convent, For he who goes to Rome may see too much. What would you further?

MONK. I would see the painting of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.

MICHAEL ANGELO. The smoke of incense and of altar candles Has blackened it already.

MONK. Woe is me! Then I would hear Allegri's Miserere, Sung by the Papal choir.

MICHAEL ANGELO. A dismal dirge! I am an old, old man, and I have lived In Rome for thirty years and more, and know The jarring of the wheels of that great world, Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife. Therefore I say to you, remain content Here in your convent, here among your woods, Where only there is peace. Go not to Rome. There was of old a monk of Wittenberg Who went to Rome; you may have heard of him; His name was Luther; and you know what followed.

[The convent bell rings.

MONK, rising. It is the convent bell; it rings for vespers. Let us go in; we both will pray for peace.

VIII

THE DEAD CHRIST.

MICHAEL ANGELO'S studio. MICHAEL ANGELO, with a light, working upon the Dead Christ. Midnight.

MICHAEL ANGELO. O Death, why is it I cannot portray Thy form and features? Do I stand too near thee? Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back, As being thy disciple, not thy master? Let him who knows not what old age is like Have patience till it comes, and he will know. I once had skill to fashion Life and Death And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death; And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi Wrote underneath my statue of the Night In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago!

Grateful to me is sleep! More grateful now Than it was then; for all my friends are dead; And she is dead, the noblest of them all. I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death, Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow Stricken her into marble; and I kissed Her cold white hand. What was it held me back From kissing her fair forehead, and those lips, Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful to me is sleep!

Enter GIORGIO VASARI.

GIORGIO. Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know not Which of the two it is.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How came you in?

GIORGIO. Why, by the door, as all men do.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ascanio Must have forgotten to bolt it.

GIORGIO. Probably. Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, That I could slip through bolted door or window? As I was passing down the street, I saw A glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chink Of chisel upon marble. So I entered, To see what keeps you from your bed so late.

MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp. You have been revelling with your boon companions, Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me At an untimely hour.

GIORGIO. The Pope hath sent me. His Holiness desires to see again The drawing you once showed him of the dome Of the Basilica.

MICHAEL ANGELO. We will look for it.

GIORGIO. What is the marble group that glimmers there Behind you?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Nothing, and yet everything,-- As one may take it. It is my own tomb, That I am building.

GIORGIO. Do not hide it from me. By our long friendship and the love I bear you, Refuse me not!

MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp. Life hath become to me An empty theatre,--its lights extinguished, The music silent, and the actors gone; And I alone sit musing on the scenes That once have been. I am so old that Death Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come with him And some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down, And my last spark of life will be extinguished. Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair! So near to death, and yet so far from God!

*****

TRANSLATIONS

PRELUDE

As treasures that men seek, Deep-buried in sea-sands, Vanish if they but speak, And elude their eager hands,

So ye escape and slip, O songs, and fade away, When the word is on my lip To interpret what ye say.

Were it not better, then, To let the treasures rest Hid from the eyes of men, Locked in their iron chest?

I have but marked the place, But half the secret told, That, following this slight trace, Others may find the gold.

FROM THE SPANISH

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE

O let the soul her slumbers break, Let thought be quickened, and awake; Awake to see How soon this life is past and gone, And death comes softly stealing on, How silently!

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, Our hearts recall the distant day With many sighs; The moments that are speeding fast We heed not, but the past,--the past, More highly prize.

Onward its course the present keeps, Onward the constant current sweeps, Till life is done; And, did we judge of time aright, The past and future in their flight Would be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay; Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Remembered like a tale that's told, They pass away.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave.

Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill, There all are equal; side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng Of orators and sons of song, The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not His deity.

This world is but the rugged road Which leads us to the bright abode Of peace above; So let us choose that narrow way, Which leads no traveller's foot astray From realms of love,

Our cradle is the starting-place, Life is the running of the race, We reach the goal When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, For which we wait.

Yes, the glad messenger of love, To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came; Born amid mortal cares and fears. He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us, chances strange, Disastrous accident, and change, That come to all; Even in the most exalted state, Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; The strongest fall.

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek In the clear eye and blushing cheek, The hues that play O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, When hoary age approaches slow, Ah; where are they?

The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name, Heroes emblazoned high to fame, In long array; How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more; Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that without a stain, Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride, With what untimely speed they glide, How soon depart! Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, The vassals of a mistress they, Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles till the grave Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, They fade and die; But in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirits doom Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all, But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race, Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, Brook no delay, but onward speed With loosened rein; And, when the fatal snare is near, We strive to check our mad career, But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art The human face, As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright With heavenly grace,

How busily each passing hour Should we exert that magic power, What ardor show, To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name, Neither its glory nor its shame Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories.

Little avails it now to know Of ages passed so long ago, Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like day's of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon? Where are the courtly gallantries? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done?

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene? What but the garlands, gay and green, That deck the tomb?

Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odors sweet? Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Low at their feet?

Where is the song of Troubadour? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride; O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside!

But O how false and full of guile That world, which wore so soft a smile But to betray! She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away.

The countless gifts, the stately walls, The loyal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold;

The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, They passed away.

His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, Unskilled to reign; What a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry Was in his train!

But he was mortal; and the breath, That flamed from the hot forge of Death, Blasted his years; Judgment of God! that flame by thee, When raging fierce and fearfully, Was quenched in tears!

Spain's haughty Constable, the true And gallant Master, whom we knew Most loved of all; Breathe not a whisper of his pride, He on the gloomy scaffold died, Ignoble fall!

The countless treasures of his care, His villages and villas fair, His mighty power, What were they all but grief and shame, Tears and a broken heart, when came The parting hour?

His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, Their underlings;

What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate With power and pride? What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, Grew dim and died?

So many a duke of royal name, Marquis and count of spotless fame, And baron brave, That might the sword of empire wield, All these, O Death, hast thou concealed In the dark grave!

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, In peaceful days, or war's alarms, When thou dost show. O Death, thy stern and angry face, One stroke of thy all-powerful mace Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed; High battlements intrenched around, Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep, All these cannot one victim keep, O Death, from thee, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, And thy strong shafts pursue their path Unerringly.

O World! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed! Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed.

Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom.

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care.

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow Its form departs.

And he, the good man's shield and shade, To whom all hearts their homage paid, As Virtue's son, Roderic Manrique, he whose name Is written on the scroll of Fame, Spain's champion;

His signal deeds and prowess high Demand no pompous eulogy. Ye saw his deeds! Why should their praise in verse be sung? The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs.

To friends a friend; how kind to all The vassals of this ancient hall And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! And to the valiant and the free How brave a chief!

What prudence with the old and wise: What grace in youthful gayeties; In all how sage! Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave A lion's rage.

His was Octavian's prosperous star, The rush of Caesar's conquering car At battle's call; His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill And the indomitable will Of Hannibal.

His was a Trajan's goodness, his A Titus' noble charities And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might Of Tully, to maintain the right In truth's just cause;

The clemency of Antonine, Aurelius' countenance divine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will;

In tented field and bloody fray, An Alexander's vigorous sway And stern command; The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land.

He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, Nor massive plate; He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, City and tower and castled wall Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave; And there the warrior's hand did gain The rents, and the long vassal train, That conquest gave.

And if, of old, his halls displayed The honored and exalted grade His worth had gained, So, in the dark, disastrous hour, Brothers and bondsmen of his power His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold, In the stern warfare, which of old 'T was his to share, Such noble leagues he made, that more And fairer regions, than before, His guerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced, Which, with the hand of youth, he traced On history's page; But with fresh victories he drew Each fading character anew In his old age.

By his unrivalled skill, by great And veteran service to the state, By worth adored, He stood, in his high dignity, The proudest knight of chivalry, Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains Beneath a tyrant's galling chains And cruel power; But by fierce battle and blockade, Soon his own banner was displayed From every tower.

By the tried valor of his hand, His monarch and his native land Were nobly served; Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved.

And when so oft, for weal or woe, His life upon the fatal throw Had been cast down; When he had served, with patriot zeal, Beneath the banner of Castile, His sovereign's crown;

And done such deeds of valor strong, That neither history nor song Can count them all; Then, on Ocana's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, With sudden call,

Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare To leave this world of toil and care With joyful mien; Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armor for the fray, The closing scene.

"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; Loud on the last stern battle-plain They call thy name.

"Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man, nor fear To meet the foe; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave On earth below.

"A life of honor and of worth Has no eternity on earth, 'T is but a name; And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads To want and shame.

"The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high And proud estate; The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit A joy so great.

"But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears; And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears.

"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land, In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength And dauntless hand.

"Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty, The third, the better life on high Shalt thou possess."

"O Death, no more, no more delay; My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest; The will of Heaven my will shall be, I bow to the divine decree, To God's behest.

"My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart Breathes forth no sigh; The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will That we shall die.

"O thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth; Thou, that to thy divinity A human nature didst ally By mortal birth,

"And in that form didst suffer here Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, And not for merits of my own, O, pardon me!"

As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind; Encircled by his family, Watched by affection's gentle eye So soft and kind;

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest.

SONNETS

I

THE GOOD SHEPHERD

(EL BUEN PASTOR)

BY LOPE DE VEGA

Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, Who mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy flock art dying, O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. O, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying, Wait for me! Yet why ask it, when I see, With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me!

II

TO-MORROW

(MANANA)

BY LOPE DE VEGA

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion! that I did not greet Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried, "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still "To-morrow."

III

THE NATIVE LAND

(EL PATRIO CIELO)

BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA

Clear fount of light! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fade! Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath; But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. Beloved country! banished from thy shore, A stranger in this prison-house of clay, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! Heavenward the bright perfections I adore Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.

IV

THE IMAGE OF GOD

(LA IMAGEN DE DIOS)

BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA

O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height, Centred in one the future and the past, Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast The world obscures in me what once was bright! Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given, To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; Yet in the hoary winter of my days, Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. Celestial King! O let thy presence pass Before my spirit, and an image fair Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, As the reflected image in a glass Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, And owes its being to the gazer's eye.

V

THE BROOK

(A UN ARROYUELO)

ANONYMOUS

Laugh of the mountain!--lyre of bird and tree! Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! The soul of April, unto whom are born The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! Although, where'er thy devious current strays, The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by! Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!

ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS.

In the chapter with this title in Outre-Mer, besides Illustrations from Byron and Lockhart are the three following examples, contributed by Mr. Longfellow.

I

Rio Verde, Rio Verde! Many a corpse is bathed in thee, Both of Moors and eke of Christians, Slain with swords most cruelly.

And thy pure and crystal waters Dappled are with crimson gore; For between the Moors and Christians Long has been the fight and sore.

Dukes and Counts fell bleeding near thee, Lords of high renown were slain, Perished many a brave hidalgo Of the noblemen of Spain.

II

"King Alfonso the Eighth, having exhausted his treasury in war, wishes to lay a tax of five farthings upon each of the Castillan hidalgos, in order to defray the expenses of a journey from Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the king was met with disdain by the noblemen who had been assembled on the occasion."

Don Nuno, Count of Lara, In anger and in pride, Forgot all reverence for the king, And thus in wrath replied:

"Our noble ancestors," quoth he, "Ne'er such a tribute paid; Nor shall the king receive of us What they have once gainsaid.

"The base-born soul who deems it just May here with thee remain; But follow me, ye cavaliers, Ye noblemen of Spain."

Forth followed they the noble Count, They marched to Glera's plain; Out of three thousand gallant knights Did only three remain.

They tied the tribute to their spears, They raised it in the air, And they sent to tell their lord the king That his tax was ready there.

"He may send and take by force," said they, "This paltry sum of gold; But the goodly gift of liberty Cannot be bought and sold."

III

"One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which describes Bernardo's march to Roncesvalles. He sallies forth 'with three thousand Leonese and more,' to protect the glory and freedom of his native land. From all sides, the peasantry of the land flock to the hero's standard."

The peasant leaves his plough afield, The reaper leaves his hook, And from his hand the shepherd-boy. Lets fall the pastoral crook.

The young set up a shout of joy, The old forget their years, The feeble man grows stout of heart. No more the craven fears.

All rush to Bernard's standard, And on liberty they call; They cannot brook to wear the yoke, When threatened by the Gaul.

"Free were we born," 't is thus they cry "And willingly pay we The duty that we owe our king By the divine decree.

"But God forbid that we obey The laws of foreign knaves, Tarnish the glory of our sires, And make our children slaves.

"Our hearts have not so craven grown, So bloodless all our veins, So vigorless our brawny arms, As to submit to chains.

"Has the audacious Frank, forsooth, Subdued these seas and lands? Shall he a bloodless victory have? No, not while we have hands.

"He shall learn that the gallant Leonese Can bravely fight and fall, But that they know not how to yield; They are Castilians all.

"Was it for this the Roman power Of old was made to yield Unto Numantia's valiant hosts On many a bloody field?

"Shall the bold lions that have bathed Their paws in Libyan gore, Crouch basely to a feebler foe, And dare the strife no more?

"Let the false king sell town and tower, But not his vassals free; For to subdue the free-born soul No royal power hath he!"

VIDA DE SAN MILLAN

BY GONZALO DE BERCEO

And when the kings were in the field,--their squadrons in array,-- With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray; But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes,-- These were a numerous army,--a little handful those.

And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughts on high; And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright, Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more white.

They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen, And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen; The one, he held a crosier,--a pontiff's mitre wore; The other held a crucifix,--such man ne'er saw before.

Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they,-- And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid way; They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook.

The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again; They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain, And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins.

And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle-ground, They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around; Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along, A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng.

Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky, The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high; The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen before.

Down went the misbelievers,--fast sped the bloody fight,-- Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with fright: Full sorely they repented that to the field they came, For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame.

Another thing befell them,--they dreamed not of such woes,-- The very arrows that the Moors shot front their twanging bows Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full sore, And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore.

. . . . . . . . .

Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John; And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood.

SAN MIGUEL, THE CONVENT

(SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA)

BY GONZALO DE BERCEO

San Miguel de la Tumba is a convent vast and wide; The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side: It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide.

Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood, Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood; To the Madonna's glory there an altar high was placed, And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced.

Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled, And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child; The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her side; Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified.

. . . . . . . . .

Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung,-- A moscader, or fan for flies, 'tis called in vulgar tongue; From the feathers of the peacock's wing 't was fashioned bright and fair, And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there.

It chanced that, for the people's sins, fell the lightning's blasting stroke: Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke; The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book; And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook.

. . . . . . . . .

But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild, It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child; It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone, Nor injure in a farthing's worth the image or the throne.

The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen; Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween; Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine.

. . . . . . . . .

SONG

She is a maid of artless grace, Gentle in form, and fair of face,

Tell me, thou ancient mariner, That sailest on the sea, If ship, or sail or evening star Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, Whose shining arms I see, If steel, or sword, or battle-field Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock Beneath the shadowy tree, If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge Be half so fair as she!

SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK

(LETRILLA QUE LLEVABA POR REGISTRO EN SU BREVIARIO)

BY SANTA TERESA DE AVILA

Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee; All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance Attaineth to all things; Who God possesseth In nothing is wanting; Alone God sufficeth.

FROM THE CANCIONEROS

I

EYES SO TRISTFUL, EYES SO TRISTFUL

(OJOS TRISTES, OJOS TRISTES)

BY DIEGO DE SALDANA

Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, Heart so full of care and cumber, I was lapped in rest and slumber, Ye have made me wakeful, wistful!

In this life of labor endless Who shall comfort my distresses? Querulous my soul and friendless In its sorrow shuns caresses. Ye have made me, ye have made me Querulous of you, that care not, Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not Say to what ye have betrayed me.

II

SOME DAY, SOME DAY

(ALGUNA VEZ)

BY CRISTOBAL DE GASTILLOJO

Some day, some day O troubled breast, Shalt thou find rest.

If Love in thee To grief give birth, Six feet of earth Can more than he; There calm and free And unoppressed Shalt thou find rest.

The unattained In life at last, When life is passed, Shall all be gained; And no more pained, No more distressed, Shalt thou find rest.

III

COME, O DEATH, SO SILENT FLYING

(VEN, MUERTE TAN ESCONDIDA)

BY EL COMMENDADOR ESCRIVA

Come, O Death, so silent flying That unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. For thy sure approach perceiving, In my constancy and pain I new life should win again, Thinking that I am not living. So to me, unconscious lying, All unknown thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. Unto him who finds thee hateful, Death, thou art inhuman pain; But to me, who dying gain, Life is but a task ungrateful. Come, then, with my wish complying, All unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me.

IV

GLOVE OF BLACK IN WHITE HAND BARE

Glove of black in white hand bare, And about her forehead pale Wound a thin, transparent veil, That doth not conceal her hair; Sovereign attitude and air, Cheek and neck alike displayed With coquettish charms arrayed, Laughing eyes and fugitive;-- This is killing men that live, 'T is not mourning for the dead.

FROM THE SWEDISH AND DANISH

PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF'S SAGA

BY ESAIAS TEGNÉR

I

FRITHIOF'S HOMESTEAD

Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on three sides Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the ocean. Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of the hillsides Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field. Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains, Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned reindeers Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the greensward Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the milk-pail. 'Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were numberless flocks of Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds, Flock-wise spread o'er the heavenly vault when it bloweth in springtime. Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered storm-winds, Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their fodder. Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all white with steel shoes. Th' banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred) Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule-tide. Through the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the High-seat Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree: Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet. Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black, Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver), Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness. Oft, when the moon through the cloudrack flew, related the old man Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West and the White Sea. Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the graybeard's Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Scald was thinking of Brage, Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer's Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned ever the fire-flame Glad on its stone-built hearth; and thorough the wide-mouthed smoke-flue Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall. Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among them Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall were resplendent, White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon's disk of silver. Ever and anon went a maid round the hoard, and filled up the drink-horns, Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her reflection Blushed, too, even as she; this gladdened the drinking champions.

II

A SLEDGE-RIDE ON THE ICE

King Ring with his queen to the banquet did fare, On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear,

"Fare not o'er the ice," the stranger cries; "It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies."

"The king drowns not easily," Ring outspake; "He who's afraid may go round the lake."

Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound,

The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free; He snorteth flames, so glad is he.

"Strike out," screamed the king, "my trotter good, Let us see if thou art of Sleipner's blood."

They go as a storm goes over the lake. No heed to his queen doth the old man take.

But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, He passeth them by as swift as he will.

He carves many runes in the frozen tide, Fair Ingeborg o'er her own name doth glide.

III

FRITHIOF'S TEMPTATION

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles the sun, And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to the ocean run; Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds 'gin to ope, And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope.

Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the sport: Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the Court; Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway, And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for their prey.

See, the Queen of the Chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not at the sight! Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white. Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two, And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue.

Gaze not at her eyes' blue heaven, gaze not at her golden hair! Oh beware! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware! Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting play, List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of May.

Now the huntsman's band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale! Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail. All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes, But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the Valkyr comes.

. . . . . . . . . .

Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof's knee his head, Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war's alarm, On his shield, or as an infant sleeps upon its mother's arm.

As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon the bough; "Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at a blow: Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave, Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the grave,"

Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough: "Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's eye beholds thee now. Coward! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old man slay! Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a hero's fame this way."

Thus the two wood-birds did warble: Frithiof took his war-sword good, With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand, but on light, unfolded wings, Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun, upsprings.

Straight the ancient king awakens. "Sweet has been my sleep," he said; "Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man's blade. But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning's brother, where is he? Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?"

"It avails not," Frithiof answered; "in the North are other swords: Sharp, O monarch! is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words; Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem; Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them."

IV

FRITHIOF'S FAREWELL

No more shall I see In its upward motion The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave: The fates decree. On the waste of the ocean There is my fatherland, there is my grave.

Go not to the strand, Ring, with thy bride, After the stars spread their light through the sky. Perhaps in the sand, Washed up by the tide, The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie.

Then, quoth the king, "'T is mournful to hear A man like a whimpering maiden cry. The death-song they sing Even now in mine ear, What avails it? He who is born must die."

*****

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER

BY ESAIAS TEGNÉR

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the spire of the bell Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses, Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace! with lips rosy-tinted Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, (There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children's children, So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven, Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horberg, Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling, And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets.

Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, And each face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. Father he hight and he was in the parish; a Christianly plainness Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam. As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man: Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel.

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their places, Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies, Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens,-- Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavement Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginning Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man's Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer, Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them. And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words, Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. E'en as the green-growing bud unfolds when Springtide approaches. Leaf by leaf puts forth, and warmed, by the radiant sunshine, Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer.

Now went the old man up to the altar;--and straightway transfigured (So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were transparent Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, lie spake and he questioned.

"This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven, Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom; Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor Downward rains from the heaven;--to-day on the threshold of childhood Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence, Seed for the coming days; without revocation departeth Now from your lips the confession; Bethink ye, before ye make answer! Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. Enter not with a lie on Life's journey; the multitude hears you, Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. Thus, then,--believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created? Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united? Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise!) to cherish God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother? Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, Th' heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness? Will ye promise me this before God and man?"--With a clear voice Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly-breathing Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teacher Clouds with the lightnings therein, and lie spake in accents more gentle, Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers.

"Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcome! Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters! Yet,--for what reason not children? Of such is the kingdom of heaven. Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, Ruling them all as his household,--forgiving in turn and chastising, That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue Resteth the Christian Faith: she herself from on high is descended. Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for Oh, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, Oh, how soon will ye come,--too soon!--and long to turn backward Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was for given Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven! Seventy years have I lived already; the Father eternal Gave rue gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them, Known them all again;--the were my childhood's acquaintance. Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's childhood Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life's roaring billows Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not in the ship she is sleeping. Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth Naught of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble, Follows so long as she may her friend; oh do not reject her, For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. Prayer is Innocence' friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven, Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions, Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets, Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels. Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit's longings are worship; Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. Aid when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowiug children Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them, Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune Kneels before the Eternal's throne; and with hands interfolded, Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven? What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received? Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when the world be created. Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory. Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them as nothing Who shall stand in his presence? The wrath of the judge is terrific, Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. Yet,--why are ye afraid, ye children? This awful avenger, Ah! is a merciful God! God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. Quench, oh quench not that flame! It is the breath of your being. Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother Loved you, as God has loved you; for 't was that you may be happy Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed. Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma,--Atonement! Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father; Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren: One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead Readest thou not in his face thou origin? Is he not sailing Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother? Hateth he thee, forgive! For 't is sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language;--on earth it is called Forgiveness! Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his temples? Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say, dost thou know him? Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly shepherd Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. Love is the creature's welfare, with God; but Love among mortals Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. Hope,--so is called upon earth, his recompense, Hope, the befriending, Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows! Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, Him, who has given us more; for to us has Hope been transfigured, Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance. Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection, Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's, For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. There enraptured she wanders. and looks at the figures majestic, Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her homestead. Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring, Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide. Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness Not what they seemed,--but what they were only. Blessed is he who Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until death's hand Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you? Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection, Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its father. Sounds of his coming already I hear,--see dimly his pinions, Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not before him. Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face standing Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors; Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured, Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, Never forgets he the weary;--then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter! Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. God of the universe, hear me! thou fountain of Love everlasting, Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy heaven! Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father. May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation, Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me, Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them, Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness, Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me!"

Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old man Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure. Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper. Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts high and holy, Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. "On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard! Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is accomplished, Warm is the heart;--I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. What I began accomplish I now; what failing therein is I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement? What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the beginning Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atonement. Infinite is the fall,--the Atonement infinite likewise. See! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels, Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp's strings, Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent. Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her. Downward to earth he came and, transfigured, thence reascended, Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit, Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, Penitence wee ping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father! Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?" Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, "Yes!" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications, Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem: "O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us!" Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. Oh, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday, Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the church yard Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple.

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces, Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings, Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses.

*******

KING CHRISTIAN

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK

King Christian stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, In mist and smoke. "Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can! Who braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke?"

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is the hour! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted Loud, through the tempest's roar, "Now is the hour!" "Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power?"

North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent Thy murky sky! Then champions to thine arms were sent; Terror and Death glared where he went; From the waves was heard a wail, that rent Thy murky sky! From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', Let each to Heaven commend his soul, And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might! Dark-rolling wave! Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight Goes to meet danger with despite, Proudly as thou the tempest's might Dark-rolling wave! And amid pleasures and alarm; And war and victory, be thine arms My grave!

THE ELECTED KNIGHT

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, But never, ah never can meet with the man A tilt with him dare ride.

He saw under the hillside A Knight full well equipped; His steed was black, his helm was barred; He was riding at full speed.

He wore upon his spurs Twelve little golden birds; Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, And there sat all the birds and sang.

He wore upon his mail Twelve little golden wheels; Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, And round and round the wheels they flew.

He wore before his breast A lance that was poised in rest; And it was sharper than diamond-stone, It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan.

He wore upon his helm A wreath of ruddy gold; And that gave him the Maidens Three, The youngest was fair to behold.

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down; "Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, "So will I yield me unto thee."

"I am not Christ the Great, Thou shalt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me bedight."

"Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee bedight So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, For all the Maidens' honor!"

The first tilt they together rode They put their steeds to the test, The second tilt they together rode, They proved their manhood best.

The third tilt they together rode, Neither of them would yield; The fourth tilt they together rode, They both fell on the field.

Now lie the lords upon the plain, And their blood runs unto death; Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, The youngest sorrows till death.

CHILDHOOD

BY JENS IMMANUEL BAGGESEN

There was a time when I was very small, When my whole frame was but an ell in height; Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall, And therefore I recall it with delight.

I sported in my tender mother's arms, And rode a-horseback on best father's knee; Alike were sorrows, passions and alarms, And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me,

Then seemed to me this world far less in size, Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise, And longed for wings that I might catch a star.

I saw the moon behind the island fade, And thought, "Oh, were I on that island there, I could find out of what the moon is made, Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!"

Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western skies, Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night, And yet upon the morrow early rise, And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light;

And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father, Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung together, Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all the sky.

With childish reverence, my young lips did say The prayer my pious mother taught to me: "O gentle God! oh, let me strive alway Still to be wise, and good, and follow Thee!"

So prayed I for my father and my mother, And for my sister, and for all the town; The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother, Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and down.

They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished, And all the gladness, all the peace I knew! Now have I but their memory, fondly cherished;-- God! may I never lose that too!

FROM THE GERMAN

THE HAPPIEST LAND

There sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups, Around the rustic board Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word.

But, when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, "Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there.

"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing, And dashed his heard with wine; "I had rather live in Laplaud, Than that Swabian land of thine!

"The goodliest land on all this earth, It is the Saxon land There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!"

"Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!" A bold Bohemian cries; "If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies.

"There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn." . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, "Ye may no more contend,-- There lies the happiest land!"

THE WAVE

BY CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE

"Whither, thou turbid wave? Whither, with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou?"

"I am the Wave of Life, Stained with my margin's dust; From the struggle and the strife Of the narrow stream I fly To the Sea's immensity, To wash from me the slime Of the muddy banks of Time."

THE DEAD

BY ERNST STOCKMANN

How they so softly rest, All they the holy ones, Unto whose dwelling-place Now doth my soul draw near! How they so softly rest, All in their silent graves, Deep to corruption Slowly don-sinking!

And they no longer weep, Here, where complaint is still! And they no longer feel, Here, where all gladness flies! And, by the cypresses Softly o'ershadowed Until the Angel Calls them, they slumber!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP

BY WILHELM MULLER

"The rivers rush into the sea, By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow.

"The clouds are passing far and high, We little birds in them play; And everything, that can sing and fly, Goes with us, and far away.

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence, With thy fluttering golden band?"-- "I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea I haste from the narrow land.

"Full and swollen is every sail; I see no longer a hill, I have trusted all to the sounding gale, And it will not let me stand still.

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house With merry companions all."--

"I need not and seek not company, Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

"High over the sails, high over the mast, Who shall gainsay these joys? When thy merry companions are still, at last, Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may, God bless them every one! I dart away, in the bright blue day, And the golden fields of the sun.

"Thus do I sing my merry song, Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my whole life long, Neither Poet nor Printer may know.'

WHITHER?

BY WILHELM MULLER

I heard a brooklet gushing From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me, Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave;

Downward, and ever farther, And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured, And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going? Whither, O brooklet, say I Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur? That can no murmur be; 'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going In every brooklet clear.

BEWARE!

(HUT DU DICH!)

I know a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

SONG OF THE BELL

Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell! thou soundest solemnly. When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie!

Bell! thou soundest merrily; Tellest thou at evening, Bed-time draweth nigh! Bell! thou soundest mournfully. Tellest thou the bitter

## Parting hath gone by!

Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice? Thou art but metal dull! And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings, Thou dost feel them all!

God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom, Placed within thy form! When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it, Trembling in the storm!

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA

BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND

"Hast thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the Sea? Golden and red above it The clouds float gorgeously.

"And fain it would stoop downward To the mirrored wave below; And fain it would soar upward In the evening's crimson glow."

"Well have I seen that castle, That Castle by the Sea, And the moon above it standing, And the mist rise solemnly."

"The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?"

"The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly, But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, And tears came to mine eye."

"And sawest thou on the turrets The King and his royal bride? And the wave of their crimson mantles? And the golden crown of pride?

"Led they not forth, in rapture, A beauteous maiden there? Resplendent as the morning sun, Beaming with golden hair?"

"Well saw I the ancient parents, Without the crown of pride; They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, No maiden was by their side!"

THE BLACK KNIGHT

BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND

'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, When woods and fields put off all sadness. Thus began the King and spake: "So from the halls Of ancient hofburg's walls, A luxuriant Spring shall break."

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Wave the crimson banners proudly, From balcony the King looked on; In the play of spears, Fell all the cavaliers, Before the monarch's stalwart son.

To the barrier of the fight Rode at last a sable Knight. "Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!" "Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear; I am a Prince of mighty sway!"

When he rode into the lists, The arch of heaven grew black with mists, And the castle 'gan to rock; At the first blow, Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Hardly rises from the shock.

Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch-light through the high halls glances; Waves a mighty shadow in; With manner bland Doth ask the maiden's hand, Doth with her the dance begin.

Danced in sable iron sark, Danced a measure weird and dark, Coldly clasped her limbs around; From breast and hair Down fall from her the fair Flowerets, faded, to the ground.

To the sumptuous banquet came Every Knight and every Dame, 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought.

Pale the children both did look, But the guest a beaker took: "Golden wine will make you whole!" The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank: "O, that draught was very cool!"

Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces Colorless grow utterly; Whichever way Looks the fear-struck father gray, He beholds his children die.

"Woe! the blessed children both Takest thou in the joy of youth; Take me, too, the joyless father!" Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast; "Roses in the spring I gather!"

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND

BY JOHAN GAUDENZ VON SALISSEEWIS

Into the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand To the land of the great Departed, Into the Silent Land!

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL

BY JOHAN LUDWIG UHLAND

OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; He rises at the banquet board, And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!"

The butler hears the words with pain, The house's oldest seneschal, Takes slow from its silken cloth again The drinking-glass of crystal tall; They call it The Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!" The graybeard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light: "This glass of flashing crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!

"'T was right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! Deep draughts drink we right willingly: And willingly ring, with merry call, Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!"

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Like to the song of a nightingale Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

"For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; King! klang!--with a harder blow than all Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!"

As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift, the wild flames start; The guests in dust are scattered all, With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword; He in the night had scaled the wall, Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The graybeard in the desert hall, He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!"

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR

BY GUSTAV PFIZER

A youth, light-hearted and content, I wander through the world Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,--away! Too long did it remain! So long, that both by night and day It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought; To a grave so cold and deep The mother beautiful was brought; Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er, I bathe mine eyes and see; And wander through the world once more, A youth so light and free.

Two locks--and they are wondrous fair-- Left me that vision mild; The brown is from the mother's hair, The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold, Pale grows the evening-red; And when the dark lock I behold, I wish that I were dead.

THE HEMLOCK TREE.

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches! Green not alone in summer time, But in the winter's frost and rime! O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! To love me in prosperity, And leave me in adversity! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example! So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings. The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! It flows so long as falls the rain, In drought its springs soon dry again. The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!

ANNIE OF THARAW

BY SIMON DACH

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,--

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,--

Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes,

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR

BY JULIUS MOSEN

Forms of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,--wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind,-- Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike, High in wind and tempest wild; O, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,-- To the doors of heaven would hear, Calling even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL

BY JULIUS MOSEN

On the cross the dying Saviour Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken, Sees he how with zealous care At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring, With its beak it doth not cease, From the cross 't would free the Saviour, Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness: "Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is called the crossbill; Covered all with blood so clear, In the groves of pine it singeth Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS

BY HEINRICH HEINE

The sea hath its pearls, The heaven hath its stars; But my heart, my heart, My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea and the heaven; Yet greater is my heart, And fairer than pearls and stars Flashes and beams my love.

Thou little, youthful maiden, Come unto my great heart; My heart, and the sea, and the heaven Are melting away with love!

POETIC APHORISMS

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU

MONEY

Whereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care, Who once has had it has despair.

THE BEST MEDICINES

Joy and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor's nose.

SIN

Man-like is it to fall into sin, Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, God-like is it all sin to leave.

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.

LAW OF LIFE

Live I, so live I, To my Lord heartily, To my Prince faithfully, To my Neighbor honestly. Die I, so die I.

CREEDS

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.

THE RESTLESS HEART

A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round; If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

CHRISTIAN LOVE

Whilom Love was like a tire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.

ART AND TACT

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

RETRIBUTION

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

TRUTH

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.

RHYMES

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' ears, They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.

SILENT LOVE

Who love would seek, Let him love evermore And seldom speak; For in love's domain Silence must reign; Or it brings the heart Smart And pain.

BLESSED ARE THE DEAD

BY SIMON DACH

Oh, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended! Ye have arisen From the cares which keep us still in prison.

We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Our undertakings Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.

Ye meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; No cross nor trial Hinders your enjoyments with denial.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; Ye have that for which we still endeavor. To you are chanted Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.

Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? Who here would languish Longer in bewailing and in anguish?

Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! With Thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.

WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS

BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

I

Thou that from the heavens art, Every pain and sorrow stillest, And the doubly wretched heart Doubly with refreshment fillest, I am weary with contending! Why this rapture and unrest? Peace descending Come, ah, come into my breast!

II

O'er all the hill-tops Is quiet now, In all the tree-tops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt rest.

REMORSE

BY AUGUST VON PLATEN

How I started up in the night, in the night, Drawn on without rest or reprieval! The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight, As I wandered so light In the night, in the night, Through the gate with the arch mediaeval.

The mill-brook rushed from the rocky height, I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning; Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight, As they glided so light In the night, in the night, Yet backward not one was returning.

O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright, The stars in melodious existence; And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;-- They sparkled so light In the night, in the night, Through the magical, measureless distance.

And upward I gazed in the night, in the night, And again on the waves in their fleeting; Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight, Now silence thou light, In the night, in the night, The remorse in thy heart that is beating.

FORSAKEN.

Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn, Something with passion clasp or perish, And in itself to ashes burn.

So to this child my heart is clinging, And its frank eyes, with look intense, Me from a world of sin are bringing Back to a world of innocence.

Disdain must thou endure forever; Strong may thy heart in danger be! Thou shalt not fail! but ah, be never False as thy father was to me.

Never will I forsake thee, faithless, And thou thy mother ne'er forsake, Until her lips are white and breathless, Until in death her eyes shall break.

ALLAH

BY SIEGFRIED AUGUST MAHLMANN

Allah gives light in darkness, Allah gives rest in pain, Cheeks that are white with weeping Allah paints red again.

The flowers and the blossoms wither, Years vanish with flying fleet; But my heart will live on forever, That here in sadness beat.

Gladly to Allah's dwelling Yonder would I take flight; There will the darkness vanish, There will my eyes have sight.

**********

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON

THE GRAVE

For thee was a house built Ere thou wast born, For thee was a mould meant Ere thou of mother camest. But it is not made ready, Nor its depth measured, Nor is it seen How long it shall be. Now I bring thee Where thou shalt be; Now I shall measure thee, And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not Highly timbered, It is unhigh and low; When thou art therein, The heel-ways are low, The side-ways unhigh. The roof is built Thy breast full nigh, So thou shalt in mould Dwell full cold, Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house, And dark it is within; There thou art fast detained And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell, And worms shall divide thee. Thus thou art laid,

And leavest thy friends Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee, And descend after thee; For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see.

BEOWULF'S EXPEDITION TO HEORT.

Thus then, much care-worn, The son of Healfden Sorrowed evermore, Nor might the prudent hero His woes avert. The war was too hard, Too loath and longsome, That on the people came, Dire wrath and grim, Of night-woes the worst. This from home heard Higelac's Thane, Good among the Goths, Grendel's deeds. He was of mankind In might the strongest, At that day Of this life, Noble and stalwart. He bade him a sea-ship, A goodly one, prepare. Quoth he, the war-king, Over the swan's road, Seek he would The mighty monarch, Since he wanted men. For him that journey His prudent fellows Straight made ready, Those that loved him. They excited their souls, The omen they beheld. Had the good-man Of the Gothic people Champions chosen, Of those that keenest He might find, Some fifteen men. The sea-wood sought he. The warrior showed, Sea-crafty man! The land-marks, And first went forth. The ship was on the waves, Boat under the cliffs. The barons ready To the prow mounted. The streams they whirled The sea against the sands. The chieftains bore On the naked breast Bright ornaments, War-gear, Goth-like. The men shoved off, Men on their willing way, The bounden wood. Then went over the sea-waves, Hurried by the wind, The ship with foamy neck, Most like a sea-fowl, Till about one hour Of the second day The curved prow Had passed onward So that the sailors The land saw, The shore-cliffs shining, Mountains steep, And broad sea-noses. Then was the sea-sailing Of the Earl at an end. Then up speedily The Weather people On the land went, The sea-bark moored, Their mail-sarks shook, Their war-weeds. God thanked they, That to them the sea-journey Easy had been. Then from the wall beheld The warden of the Scyldings, He who the sea-cliffs Had in his keeping, Bear o'er the balks The bright shields, The war-weapons speedily. Him the doubt disturbed In his mind's thought, What these men might be. Went then to the shore, On his steed riding, The Thane of Hrothgar. Before the host he shook His warden's-staff in hand, In measured words demanded: "What men are ye War-gear wearing, Host in harness, Who thus the brown keel Over the water-street Leading come Hither over the sea? I these boundaries As shore-warden hold, That in the Land of the Danes Nothing loathsome With a ship-crew Scathe us might. . . . Ne'er saw I mightier Earl upon earth Than is your own, Hero in harness. Not seldom this warrior Is in weapons distinguished; Never his beauty belies him, His peerless countenance! Now would I fain Your origin know, Ere ye forth As false spies Into the Land of the Danes Farther fare. Now, ye dwellers afar-off! Ye sailors of the sea! Listen to my One-fold thought. Quickest is best To make known Whence your coming may be."

THE SOUL'S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODY

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON

Much it behoveth Each one of mortals, That he his soul's journey In himself ponder, How deep it may be. When Death cometh, The bonds he breaketh By which were united The soul and the body.

Long it is thenceforth Ere the soul taketh From God himself Its woe or its weal; As in the world erst, Even in its earth-vessel, It wrought before.

The soul shall come Wailing with loud voice, After a sennight, The soul, to find The body That it erst dwelt in;-- Three hundred winters, Unless ere that worketh The Eternal Lord, The Almighty God, The end of the world.

Crieth then, so care-worn, With cold utterance, And speaketh grimly, The ghost to the dust: "Dry dust! thou dreary one! How little didst thou labor for me! In the foulness of earth Thou all wearest away Like to the loam! Little didst thou think How thy soul's journey Would be thereafter, When from the body It should be led forth."

FROM THE FRENCH

SONG

FROM THE PARADISE OF LOVE

Hark! hark! Pretty lark! Little heedest thou my pain! But if to these longing arms Pitying Love would yield the charms Of the fair With smiling air, Blithe would beat my heart again.

Hark! hark! Pretty lark! Little heedest thou my pain! Love may force me still to bear, While he lists, consuming care; But in anguish Though I languish, Faithful shall my heart remain.

Hark! hark! Pretty lark! Little heedest thou my pain! Then cease, Love, to torment me so; But rather than all thoughts forego Of the fair With flaxen hair, Give me back her frowns again.

Hark! hark! Pretty lark! Little heedest thou my pain!

SONG

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, Breathed so softly in my ear? Say, dost thou bear his fate severe To Love's poor martyr doomed to die? Come, tell me quickly,--do not lie; What secret message bring'st thou here? And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, Breathed so softly in my ear? May heaven conduct thee to thy will And safely speed thee on thy way; This only I would humbly pray,-- Pierce deep,--but oh! forbear to kill. And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, Breathed so softly in my ear?

THE RETURN OF SPRING

BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS

Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again. Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.

River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.

SPRING

BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS

Gentle Spring! in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display! For Winter maketh the light heart sad, And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, When thy merry step draws near. Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, Their beards of icicles and snow; And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, We must cower over the embers low; And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Mope like birds that are changing feather. But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, When thy merry step draws near. Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh; Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for naught both late and early, Is banished afar by the new-born year, When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP

BY CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE

Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; 'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee! His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought! Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light! Even at the price of thine, give me repose! Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again; Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN

FROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND

The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, And a faint shudder through his members ran. Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. Then raising in his arms the man of God, Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. "Rest, Sire," he cried,--"for rest thy suffering needs." The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds! The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! But death steals on,--there is no hope of life; In paradise, where Almoners live again, There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain."

Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, "O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! Why lingers death to lay me in my grave! Beloved France! how have the good and brave Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!" Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, "My gentle friend!--what parting full of woe! Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;-- Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee! Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, The Hebrew Prophets from the second death." Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, He went, and one by one unaided drew To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore;-- No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, He blessed them in God's name, with faith that He Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.

The Archbishop, then, on whom God's benison rest, Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-- His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, And many a wound his swollen visage bore. Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, Death comes apace,--no hope of cure relieves. Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed That God, who for our sins was mortal made, Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, In paradise would place him by His side.

Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, In battle great and eke great orison;-- 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion; God grant to him His holy benison.

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE

BY JACQUES JASMIN

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright; Let me attempt it with an English quill; And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.

I

At the foot of the mountain height Where is perched Castel Cuille, When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree In the plain below were growing white, This is the song one might perceive On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, Seemed from the clouds descending; When lo! a merry company Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep Of the hillside steep, They wind aslant Towards Saint Amant, Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys With merry sallies Singing their chant:

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, The sun of March was shining brightly, And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, A rustic bridal, oh! how sweet it is! To sounds of joyous melodies, That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens Gayly frolicking, A band of youngsters Wildly rollicking! Kissing, Caressing, With fingers pressing, Till in the veriest Madness of mirth, as they dance, They retreat and advance, Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest; While the bride, with roguish eyes, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: "Those who catch me Married verily This year shall be!"

And all pursue with eager haste, And all attain what they pursue, And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, And the linen kirtle round her waist.

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among These youthful maidens fresh and fair, So joyous, with such laughing air, Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue? And yet the bride is fair and young! Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? O no! for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow! What lovers! they give not a single caress! To see them so careless and cold to-day, These are grand people, one would say. What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?

It is, that half-way up the hill, In yon cottage, by whose walls Stand the cart-house and the stalls, Dwelleth the blind orphan still, Daughter of a veteran old; And you must know, one year ago, That Margaret, the young and tender, Was the village pride and splendor, And Baptiste her lover bold. Love, the deceiver, them ensnared; For them the altar was prepared; But alas! the summer's blight, The dread disease that none can stay, The pestilence that walks by night, Took the young bride's sight away.

All at the father's stern command was changed; Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled; Returned but three short days ago, The golden chain they round him throw, He is enticed, and onward led To marry Angela, and yet Is thinking ever of Margaret.

Then suddenly a maiden cried, "Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's side A woman, bent and gray with years, Under the mulberry-trees appears, And all towards her run, as fleet As had they wings upon their feet.

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. She telleth fortunes, and none complain. She promises one a village swain, Another a happy wedding-day, And the bride a lovely boy straightway. All comes to pass as she avers; She never deceives, she never errs.

But for this once the village seer Wears a countenance severe, And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white Her two eyes flash like cannons bright Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, Who, like a statue, stands in view; Changing color as well he might, When the beldame wrinkled and gray Takes the young bride by the hand, And, with the tip of her reedy wand Making the sign of the cross, doth say:-- "Thoughtless Angela, beware! Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!" And she was silent; and the maidens fair Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear; But on a little streamlet silver-clear, What are two drops of turbid rain? Saddened a moment, the bridal train Resumed the dance and song again; The bridegroom only was pale with fear;-- And down green alleys Of verdurous valleys, With merry sallies, They sang the refrain:--

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

II

And by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet, Thus lamented Margaret, In her cottage lone and dreary;--

"He has arrived! arrived at last! Yet Jane has named him not these three days past; Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! And knows that of my night he is the star! Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, And count the moments since he went away! Come! keep the promise of that happier day, That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! What joy have I without thee? what delight? Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; Day for the others ever, but for me Forever night! forever night! When he is gone 't is dark! my soul is sad! I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad. When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude; Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes! Within them shines for me a heaven of love, A heaven all happiness, like that above, No more of grief! no more of lassitude! Earth I forget,--and heaven, and all distresses, When seated by my side my hand he presses; But when alone, remember all! Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, I need some bough to twine around! In pity come! be to my suffering kind! True love, they say, in grief doth more abound! What then--when one is blind?

"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave! O God! what thoughts within me waken! Away! he will return! I do but rave! He will return! I need not fear! He swore it by our Saviour dear; He could not come at his own will; Is weary, or perhaps is ill! Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, Prepares for me some sweet surprise! But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see! And that deceives me not! 't is he! 't is he!"

And the door ajar is set, And poor, confiding Margaret Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; 'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:-- "Angela the bride has passed! I saw the wedding guests go by; Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked? For all are there but you and I!"

"Angela married! and not send To tell her secret unto me! O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?" "My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend!"

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks; An icy hand, as heavy as lead, Descending, as her brother speaks, Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, Suspends awhile its life and heat. She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.

At length, the bridal song again Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.

"Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! Sister, dost thou hear them singing? How merrily they laugh and jest! Would we were bidden with the rest! I would don my hose of homespun gray, And my doublet of linen striped and gay; Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!"

"I know it!" answered Margaret; Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, Mastered again; and its hand of ice Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! "Paul, be not sad! 'T is a holiday; To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! But leave me now for a while alone." Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, And, as he whistled along the hall, Entered Jane, the crippled crone.

"Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! But thou art cold,--art chill as death; My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?" "Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; And, as I listened to the song, I thought my turn would come erelong, Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. Thy cards forsooth can never lie, To me such joy they prophesy, Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide When they behold him at my side. And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? It must seem long to him;--methinks I see him now!" Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: "Thy love I cannot all approve; We must not trust too much to happiness;-- Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!" "The more I pray, the more I love! It is no sin, for God is on my side!" It was enough; and Jane no more replied.

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; But to deceive the beldame old She takes a sweet, contented air; Speak of foul weather or of fair, At every word the maiden smiles! Thus the beguiler she beguiles; So that, departing at the evening's close, She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!"

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, How differently!

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, The one puts on her cross and crown, Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, And flaunting, fluttering up and down, Looks at herself, and cannot rest, The other, blind, within her little room, Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; But in their stead for something gropes apart, That in a drawer's recess doth lie, And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air, 'Mid kisses ringing, And joyous singing, Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, And whispers, as her brother opes the door, "O God! forgive me now!"

And then the orphan, young and blind, Conducted by her brother's hand, Towards the church, through paths unscanned, With tranquil air, her way doth wind. Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, Round her at times exhale, And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, But brumal vapors gray.

Near that castle, fair to see, Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, Marvels of nature and of art, And proud of its name of high degree, A little chapel, almost bare At the base of the rock, is builded there; All glorious that it lifts aloof, Above each jealous cottage roof, Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, And its blackened steeple high in air, Round which the osprey screams and sails.

"Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!" Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we ascend!" "Yes; seest thou not our journey's end? Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry? The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know! Dost thou remember when our father said, The night we watched beside his bed, 'O daughter, I am weak and low; Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!' And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud; And here they brought our father in his shroud. There is his grave; there stands the cross we set; Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret? Come in! The bride will be here soon: Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!"

She could no more,--the blind girl, weak and weary! A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, "What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"--and she started, And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; But Paul, impatient, urges evermore Her steps towards the open door; And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, And with her head, as Paul talks on again, Touches the crown of filigrane Suspended from the low-arched portal, No more restrained, no more afraid, She walks, as for a feast arrayed, And in the ancient chapel's sombre night They both are lost to sight.

At length the bell, With booming sound, Sends forth, resounding round. Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain; And yet the guests delay not long, For soon arrives the bridal train, And with it brings the village throng.

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, "How beautiful! how beautiful she is!".

But she must calm that giddy head, For already the Mass is said; At the holy table stands the priest; The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it; Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, He must pronounce one word at least! 'T is spoken; and sudden at the grooms-man's side "'T is he!" a well-known voice has cried. And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! "Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death, As holy water be my blood for thee!" And calmly in the air a knife suspended! Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, For anguish did its work so well, That, ere the fatal stroke descended, Lifeless she fell!

At eve instead of bridal verse, The De Profundis filled the air; Decked with flowers a simple hearse To the churchyard forth they bear; Village girls in robes of snow Follow, weeping as they go; Nowhere was a smile that day, No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:--

"The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home! Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away! So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!"

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAI

I hear along our street Pass the minstrel throngs; Hark! they play so sweet, On their hautboys, Christmas songs! Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire.

Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang, with many a change, Christmas carols until morn. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

These good people sang Songs devout and sweet; While the rafters rang, There they stood with freezing feet. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire.

Nuns in frigid veils At this holy tide, For want of something else, Christmas songs at times have tried. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them fill the night expire!

Washerwomen old, To the sound they beat, Sing by rivers cold, With uncovered heads and feet. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire.

Who by the fireside stands Stamps his feet and sings; But he who blows his hands Not so gay a carol brings. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

CONSOLATION

To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the Death of his Daughter.

BY FRANCOISE MALHERBE

Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal? And shall the sad discourse Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal, Only augment its force?

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descending By death's frequented ways, Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending, Where thy lost reason strays?

I know the charms that made her youth a benediction: Nor should I be content, As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes To fates the most forlorn; A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses, The space of one brief morn.

* * * * *

Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling; All prayers to him are vain; Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing, He leaves us to complain.

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover, Unto these laws must bend; The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre Cannot our kings defend.

To murmur against death, in petulant defiance, Is never for the best; To will what God doth will, that is the only science That gives us any rest.

TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU

BY FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE

Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, Richelieu! until the hour of death, Whatever road man chooses, Fate Still holds him subject to her breath. Spun of all silks, our days and nights Have sorrows woven with delights; And of this intermingled shade Our various destiny appears, Even as one sees the course of years Of summers and of winters made.

Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; Sometimes impending peril lowers Beyond the seaman's skill to save, The Wisdom, infinitely wise, That gives to human destinies Their foreordained necessity, Has made no law more fixed below, Than the alternate ebb and flow Of Fortune and Adversity.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD

BY JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF NISMES

An angel with a radiant face, Above a cradle bent to look, Seemed his own image there to trace, As in the waters of a brook.

"Dear child! who me resemblest so," It whispered, "come, O come with me! Happy together let us go, The earth unworthy is of thee!

"Here none to perfect bliss attain; The soul in pleasure suffering lies; Joy hath an undertone of pain, And even the happiest hours their sighs.

"Fear doth at every portal knock; Never a day serene and pure From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock Hath made the morrow's dawn secure.

"What then, shall sorrows and shall fears Come to disturb so pure a brow? And with the bitterness of tears These eyes of azure troubled grow?

"Ah no! into the fields of space, Away shalt thou escape with me; And Providence will grant thee grace Of all the days that were to be.

"Let no one in thy dwelling cower, In sombre vestments draped and veiled; But let them welcome thy last hour, As thy first moments once they hailed.

"Without a cloud be there each brow; There let the grave no shadow cast; When one is pure as thou art now, The fairest day is still the last."

And waving wide his wings of white, The angel, at these words, had sped Towards the eternal realms of light!-- Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!

ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES

BY JOSEPH MERY

From this high portal, where upsprings The rose to touch our hands in play, We at a glance behold three things-- The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; I drown my best friends in the deep; And those who braved icy tempests, here Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!

The Town says: I am filled and fraught With tumult and with smoke and care; My days with toil are overwrought, And in my nights I gasp for air.

The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide To the pale climates of the North; Where my last milestone stands abide The people to their death gone forth.

Here, in the shade, this life of ours, Full of delicious air, glides by Amid a multitude of flowers As countless as the stars on high;

These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, Bathed with an azure all divine, Where springs the tree that gives us oil, The grape that giveth us the wine;

Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er, Where springtime of the Hesperides Begins, but endeth nevermore;

Under these leafy vaults and walls, That unto gentle sleep persuade; This rainbow of the waterfalls, Of mingled mist and sunshine made;

Upon these shores, where all invites, We live our languid life apart; This air is that of life's delights, The festival of sense and heart;

This limpid space of time prolong, Forget to-morrow in to-day, And leave unto the passing throng The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

TO MY BROOKLET

BY JEAN FRANCOIS DUCIS

Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, Hid in the covert of the wood! Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, Like thee I love the solitude.

O brooklet, let my sorrows past Lie all forgotten in their graves, Till in my thoughts remain at last Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.

The lily by thy margin waits;-- The nightingale, the marguerite; In shadow here he meditates His nest, his love, his music sweet.

Near thee the self-collected soul Knows naught of error or of crime; Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, Transform his musings into rhyme.

Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, Pursuing still thy course, shall I Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?

BARRÉGES

BY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! You, may these eyes behold no more, Rave on the horizon of our plains.

Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, Impracticable avenues!

Ye torrents, that with might and main Break pathways through the rocky walls, With your terrific waterfalls Fatigue no more my weary brain!

Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, Arise, ye pictures of delight! Ye brooks, that water in your flight The flowers and harvests of our farms!

You I perceive, ye meadows green, Where the Garonne the lowland fills, Not far from that long chain of hills, With intermingled vales between.

You wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, Methinks from my own hearth must come; With speed, to that beloved home, Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!

And bear me thither, where the soul In quiet may itself possess, Where all things soothe the mind's distress, Where all things teach me and console.

WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN?

Will ever the dear days come back again, Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom, And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom Of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain? I know not; but a presence will remain Forever and forever in this room, Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,-- A phantom of the heart, and not the brain. Delicious days! when every spoken word Was like a foot-fall nearer and more near, And a mysterious knocking at the gate Of the heart's secret places, and we heard In the sweet tumult of delight and fear A voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!"

AT LA CHAUDEAU

BY XAVIER MARMIER

At La Chaudeau,--'t is long since then: I was young,--my years twice ten; All things smiled on the happy boy, Dreams of love and songs of joy, Azure of heaven and wave below, At La Chaudeau.

At La Chaudeau I come back old: My head is gray, my blood is cold; Seeking along the meadow ooze, Seeking beside the river Seymouse, The days of my spring-time of long ago At La Chaudeau.

At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brain Ever grows old with grief and pain; A sweet remembrance keeps off age; A tender friendship doth still assuage The burden of sorrow that one may know At La Chaudeau.

At La Chaudeau, had fate decreed To limit the wandering life I lead, Peradventure I still, forsooth, Should have preserved my fresh green youth, Under the shadows the hill-tops throw At La Chaudeau.

At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends, Happy to be where God intends; And sometimes, by the evening fire, Think of him whose sole desire Is again to sit in the old chateau At La Chaudeau.

A QUIET LIFE.

Let him who will, by force or fraud innate, Of courtly grandeurs gain the slippery height; I, leaving not the home of my delight, Far from the world and noise will meditate. Then, without pomps or perils of the great, I shall behold the day succeed the night; Behold the alternate seasons take their flight, And in serene repose old age await. And so, whenever Death shall come to close The happy moments that my days compose, I, full of years, shall die, obscure, alone! How wretched is the man, with honors crowned, Who, having not the one thing needful found, Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.

THE WINE OF JURANÇON

BY CHARLES CORAN

Little sweet wine of Jurançon, You are dear to my memory still! With mine host and his merry song, Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.

Twenty years after, passing that way, Under the trellis I found again Mine host, still sitting there au frais, And singing still the same refrain.

The Jurançon, so fresh and bold, Treats me as one it used to know; Souvenirs of the days of old Already from the bottle flow,

With glass in hand our glances met; We pledge, we drink. How sour it is Never Argenteuil piquette Was to my palate sour as this!

And yet the vintage was good, in sooth; The self-same juice, the self-same cask! It was you, O gayety of my youth, That failed in the autumnal flask!

FRIAR LUBIN

BY CLEMENT MAROT

To gallop off to town post-haste, So oft, the times I cannot tell; To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,-- Friar Lubin will do it well. But a sober life to lead, To honor virtue, and pursue it, That's a pious, Christian deed,-- Friar Lubin can not do it.

To mingle, with a knowing smile, The goods of others with his own, And leave you without cross or pile, Friar Lubin stands alone. To say 't is yours is all in vain, If once he lays his finger to it; For as to giving back again, Friar Lubin cannot do it.

With flattering words and gentle tone, To woo and win some guileless maid, Cunning pander need you none,-- Friar Lubin knows the trade. Loud preacheth he sobriety, But as for water, doth eschew it; Your dog may drink it,--but not he; Friar Lubin cannot do it.

ENVOY When an evil deed 's to do Friar Lubin is stout and true; Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, Friar Lubin cannot do it.

RONDEL

BY JEAN FROISSART

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Naught see I fixed or sure in thee! I do not know thee,--nor what deeds are thine: Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me: Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!

MY SECRET

BY FELIX ARVERS

My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery, A love eternal in a moment's space conceived; Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed. Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received. For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing, She will go on her way distraught and without hearing These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend, Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty, "Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.

FROM THE ITALIAN

THE CELESTIAL PILOT

PURGATORIO II. 13-51.

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning, Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor Appeared to me,--may I again behold it! A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath, Little by little, there came forth another. My master yet had uttered not a word, While the first whiteness into wings unfolded; But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee! Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! See, how he scorns all human arguments, So that no oar he wants, nor other sail Than his own wings, between so distant shores! See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" And then, as nearer and more near us came The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, So that the eye could not sustain his presence, But down I cast it; and he came to shore With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, So that the water swallowed naught thereof. Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! Beatitude seemed written in his face! And more than a hundred spirits sat within. "In exitu Israel de Aegypto!" Thus sang they all together in one voice, With whatso in that Psalm is after written. Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, And he departed swiftly as he came.

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE

PURGATORIO XXVIII. 1-33.

Longing already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which tempered to the eyes the newborn day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. A gently-breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, Whereat the tremulous branches readily Did all of them bow downward towards that side Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; Yet not from their upright direction bent So that the little birds upon their tops Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; But with full-throated joy, the hours of prime Singing received they in the midst of foliage That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could see no more the place where I had entered. And lo! my further course cut off a river, Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves, Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

BEATRICE.

PURGATORIO XXX. 13-33, 85-99, XXXI. 13-21.

Even as the Blessed, at the final summons, Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, Wearing again the garments of the flesh, So, upon that celestial chariot, A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, Ministers and messengers of life eternal. They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis," And scattering flowers above and round about, "Manibus o date lilia plenis." Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, And the other heaven with light serene adorned, And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, So that, by temperate influence of vapors, The eye sustained his aspect for long while; Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, Which from those hands angelic were thrown up, And down descended inside and without, With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, Vested in colors of the living flame. . . . . . . Even as the snow, among the living rafters Upon the back of Italy, congeals, Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, Like as a taper melts before a fire, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, Before the song of those who chime forever After the chiming of the eternal spheres; But, when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" The ice, that was about my heart congealed, To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. . . . . . . Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth, To understand it one had need of sight. Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark; So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

TO ITALY

BY VINCENZO DA FILICAJA

Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear The fatal gift of beauty, and possess The dower funest of infinite wretchedness Written upon thy forehead by despair; Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair. That they might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who in the splendor of thy loveliness Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare! Then from the Alps I should not see descending Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, Nor should I see thee girded with a sword Not thine, and with the stranger's arm contending, Victor or vanquished, slave forever more.

SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE [The following translations are from the poems of Michael Angelo as revised by his nephew Michael Angelo the Younger, and were made before the publication of the original text by Guasti.]

I

THE ARTIST

Nothing the greatest artist can conceive That every marble block doth not confine Within itself; and only its design The hand that follows intellect can achieve. The ill I flee, the good that I believe, In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine, Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny, If in thy heart both death and love find place At the same time, and if my humble brain, Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.

II

FIRE

Not without fire can any workman mould The iron to his preconceived design, Nor can the artist without fire refine And purify from all its dross the gold; Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine I hope to rise again with the divine, Whom death augments, and time cannot make old. O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns Within me still to renovate my days, Though I am almost numbered with the dead! If by its nature unto heaven returns This element, me, kindled in its blaze, Will it bear upward when my life is fled.

III

YOUTH AND AGE

Oh give me back the days when loose and free To my blind passion were the curb and rein, Oh give me back the angelic face again, With which all virtue buried seems to be! Oh give my panting footsteps back to me, That are in age so slow and fraught with pain, And fire and moisture in the heart and brain, If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for thee! If it be true thou livest alone, Amor, On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts, In an old man thou canst not wake desire; Souls that have almost reached the other shore Of a diviner love should feel the darts, And be as tinder to a holier fire.

IV

OLD AGE

The course of my long life hath reached at last, In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea, The common harbor, where must rendered be Account of all the actions of the past. The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast, Made art an idol and a king to me, Was an illusion, and but vanity Were the desires that lured me and harassed. The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore, What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,-- One sure, and one forecasting its alarms? Painting and sculpture satisfy no more The soul now turning to the Love Divine, That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms.

V

TO VITTORIA COLONNA

Lady, how can it chance--yet this we see In long experience--that will longer last A living image carved from quarries vast Than its own maker, who dies presently? Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be, And even Nature is by Art at surpassed; This know I, who to Art have given the past, But see that Time is breaking faith with me. Perhaps on both of us long life can I Either in color or in stone bestow, By now portraying each in look and mien; So that a thousand years after we die, How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe, And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen.

VI

TO VITTORIA COLONNA

When the prime mover of my many sighs Heaven took through death from out her earthly place, Nature, that never made so fair a face, Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes. O fate, unheeding my impassioned cries! O hopes fallacious! O thou spirit of grace, Where art thou now? Earth holds in its embrace Thy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts the skies. Vainly did cruel death attempt to stay The rumor of thy virtuous renown, That Lethe's waters could not wash away! A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down, Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey, Except through death, a refuge and a crown.

VII

DANTE

What should be said of him cannot be said; By too great splendor is his name attended; To blame is easier those who him offended, Than reach the faintest glory round him shed. This man descended to the doomed and dead For our instruction; then to God ascended; Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid, Who from his country's, closed against him, fled. Ungrateful land! To its own prejudice Nurse of his fortunes; and this showeth well, That the most perfect most of grief shall see. Among a thousand proofs let one suffice, That as his exile hath no parallel, Ne'er walked the earth a greater man than he.

VIII

CANZONE

Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the years, The vanished years, alas, I do not find Among them all one day that was my own! Fallacious hope; desires of the unknown, Lamenting, loving, burning, and in tears (For human passions all have stirred my mind), Have held me, now I feel and know, confined Both from the true and good still far away. I perish day by day; The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fail, infirm and weary.

THE NATURE OF LOVE

BY GUIDO GUINIZELLI

To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade; Love was not felt till noble heart beat high, Nor before love the noble heart was made. Soon as the sun's broad flame Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air; Yet was not till he came: So love springs up in noble breasts, and there Has its appointed space, As heat in the bright flames finds its allotted place. Kindles in noble heart the fire of love, As hidden virtue in the precious stone: This virtue comes not from the stars above, Till round it the ennobling sun has shone; But when his powerful blaze Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart Strange virtue in their rays; And thus when Nature doth create the heart Noble and pure and high, Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE

SONG

BY GIL VICENTE

If thou art sleeping, maiden, Awake and open thy door, 'T is the break of day, and we must away, O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.

Wait not to find thy slippers, But come with thy naked feet; We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, And waters wide and fleet.

FROM EASTERN SOURCES

THE FUGITIVE

A TARTAR SONG

I

"He is gone to the desert land I can see the shining mane Of his horse on the distant plain, As he rides with his Kossak band!

"Come back, rebellious one! Let thy proud heart relent; Come back to my tall, white tent, Come back, my only son!

"Thy hand in freedom shall Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, On the swans of the Seven Lakes, On the lakes of Karajal.

"I will give thee leave to stray And pasture thy hunting steeds In the long grass and the reeds Of the meadows of Karaday.

"I will give thee my coat of mail, Of softest leather made, With choicest steel inlaid; Will not all this prevail?"

II

"This hand no longer shall Cast my hawks, when morning breaks, On the swans of the Seven Lakes, On the lakes of Karajal.

"I will no longer stray And pasture my hunting steeds In the long grass and the reeds Of the meadows of Karaday.

"Though thou give me thy coat of mall, Of softest leather made, With choicest steel inlaid, All this cannot prevail.

"What right hast thou, O Khan, To me, who am mine own, Who am slave to God alone, And not to any man?

"God will appoint the day When I again shall be By the blue, shallow sea, Where the steel-bright sturgeons play.

"God, who doth care for me, In the barren wilderness, On unknown hills, no less Will my companion be.

"When I wander lonely and lost In the wind; when I watch at night Like a hungry wolf, and am white And covered with hoar-frost;

"Yea, wheresoever I be, In the yellow desert sands, In mountains or unknown lands, Allah will care for me!"

III

Then Sobra, the old, old man,-- Three hundred and sixty years Had he lived in this land of tears, Bowed down and said, "O Khan!

"If you bid me, I will speak. There's no sap in dry grass, No marrow in dry bones! Alas, The mind of old men is weak!

"I am old, I am very old: I have seen the primeval man, I have seen the great Gengis Khan, Arrayed in his robes of gold.

"What I say to you is the truth; And I say to you, O Khan, Pursue not the star-white man, Pursue not the beautiful youth.

"Him the Almighty made, And brought him forth of the light, At the verge and end of the night, When men on the mountain prayed.

"He was born at the break of day, When abroad the angels walk; He hath listened to their talk, And he knoweth what they say.

"Gifted with Allah's grace, Like the moon of Ramazan When it shines in the skies, O Khan, Is the light of his beautiful face.

"When first on earth he trod, The first words that he said Were these, as he stood and prayed, There is no God but God!

"And he shall be king of men, For Allah hath heard his prayer, And the Archangel in the air, Gabriel, hath said, Amen!"

THE SIEGE OF KAZAN

Black are the moors before Kazan, And their stagnant waters smell of blood: I said in my heart, with horse and man, I will swim across this shallow flood.

Under the feet of Argamack, Like new moons were the shoes he bare, Silken trappings hung on his back, In a talisman on his neck, a prayer.

My warriors, thought I, are following me; But when I looked behind, alas! Not one of all the band could I see, All had sunk in the black morass!

Where are our shallow fords? and where The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates? From the prison windows our maidens fair Talk of us still through the iron grates.

We cannot hear them; for horse and man Lie buried deep in the dark abyss! Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan! Ah! was ever a grief like this?

THE BOY AND THE BROOK

Down from yon distant mountain height The brooklet flows through the village street; A boy comes forth to wash his hands, Washing, yes washing, there he stands, In the water cool and sweet.

Brook, from what mountain dost thou come, O my brooklet cool and sweet! I come from yon mountain high and cold, Where lieth the new snow on the old, And melts in the summer heat.

Brook, to what river dost thou go? O my brooklet cool and sweet! I go to the river there below Where in bunches the violets grow, And sun and shadow meet.

Brook, to what garden dost thou go? O my brooklet cool and sweet! I go to the garden in the vale Where all night long the nightingale Her love-song doth repeat.

Brook, to what fountain dost thou go? O my brooklet cool and sweet! I go to the fountain at whose brink The maid that loves thee comes to drink, And whenever she looks therein, I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, And my joy is then complete.

TO THE STORK

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing Thy flight from the far-away! Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring, Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, O Stork! descend Upon our roof to rest; In our ash-tree, O my friend, My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain, O Stork, to thee I impart The thousand sorrows, the pain And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go, Away from this tree of ours, The withering winds did blow, And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky, Cloudy and dark and drear; They were breaking the snow on high, And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca's rocky wall, From the rock of Varaca unrolled, the snow came and covered all, And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow Was hidden away and lost, Mid the rose-trees that in it grow Were withered by snow and frost.

FROM THE LATIN

VIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE

MELIBOEUS. Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spreading beech-tree reclining, Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands. We our country's bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish, We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow, Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fair Amaryllis.

TITYRUS. O Meliboeus, a god for us this leisure created, For he will be unto me a god forever; his altar Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from our sheepfolds. He, my heifers to wander at large, and myself, as thou seest, On my rustic reed to play what I will, hath permitted.

MELIBOEUS. Truly I envy not, I marvel rather; on all sides In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, my goats I am driving, Heartsick, further away; this one scarce, Tityrus, lead I; For having here yeaned twins just now among the dense hazels, Hope of the flock, ah me! on the naked flint she hath left them. Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been insensate, Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I remember; Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex predicted, Nevertheless, who this god may be, O Tityrus, tell me.

TITYRUS. O Meliboeus, the city that they call Rome, I imagined, Foolish I! to be like this of ours, where often we shepherds Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate offspring. Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and kids to their mothers, Thus to compare great things with small had I been accustomed. But this among other cities its head as far hath exalted As the cypresses do among the lissome viburnums.

MELIBOEUS. And what so great occasion of seeing Rome hath possessed thee?

TITYRUS. Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in my inertness, After the time when my beard fell whiter front me in shaving,-- Yet she looked upon me, and came to me after a long while, Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left me. For I will even confess that while Galatea possessed me Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was there. Though from my wattled folds there went forth many a victim, And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city ungrateful, Never did my right hand return home heavy with money.

MELIBOEUS. I have wondered why sad thou invokedst the gods, Amaryllis, And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang on the branches! Tityrus hence was absent! Thee, Tityrus, even the pine-trees, Thee, the very fountains, the very copses were calling.

TITYRUS. What could I do? No power had I to escape from my bondage, Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize gods so propitious. Here I beheld that youth, to whom each year, Meliboeus, During twice six days ascends the smoke of our altars. Here first gave he response to me soliciting favor: "Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, and yoke up your bullocks."

MELIBOEUS. Fortunate old man! So then thy fields will be left thee, And large enough for thee, though naked stone and the marish All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy rush may encompass. No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes shall endanger, Nor of the neighboring flock the dire contagion inject them. Fortunate old man! Here among familiar rivers, And these sacred founts, shalt thou take the shadowy coolness. On this side, a hedge along the neighboring cross-road, Where Hyblaean bees ever feed on the flower of the willow, Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep shall persuade thee. Yonder, beneath the high rock, the pruner shall sing to the breezes, Nor meanwhile shalt thy heart's delight, the hoarse wood-pigeons, Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from aerial elm-trees.

TITYRUS. Therefore the agile stags shall sooner feed in the ether, And the billows leave the fishes bare on the sea-shore. Sooner, the border-lands of both overpassed, shall the exiled Parthian drink of the Soane, or the German drink of the Tigris, Than the face of him shall glide away from my bosom!

MELIBOEUS. But we hence shall go, a part to the thirsty Afries, Part to Scythia come, and the rapid Cretan Oaxes, And to the Britons from all the universe utterly sundered. Ah, shall I ever, a long time hence, the bounds of my country And the roof of my lowly cottage covered with greensward Seeing, with wonder behold,--my kingdoms, a handful of wheat-ears! Shall an impious soldier possess these lands newly cultured, And these fields of corn a barbarian? Lo, whither discord Us wretched people hath brought! for whom our fields we have planted! Graft, Meliboeus, thy pear-trees now, put in order thy vine-yards. Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so happy aforetime. Never again henceforth outstretched in my verdurous cavern Shall I behold you afar from the bushy precipice hanging. Songs no more shall I sing; not with me, ye goats, as your shepherd, Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or blooming laburnum.

TITYRUS. Nevertheless, this night together with me canst thou rest thee Here on the verdant leaves; for us there are mellowing apples, Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted cream in abundance; And the high roofs now of the villages smoke in the distance, And from the lofty mountains are falling larger the shadows.

OVID IN EXILE

AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE.

TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy X.

Should any one there in Rome remember Ovid the exile, And, without me, my name still in the city survive;

Tell him that under stars which never set in the ocean I am existing still, here in a barbarous land.

Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, and the Bessi and Getae; Names how unworthy to be sung by a genius like mine!

Yet when the air is warm, intervening Ister defends us: He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his waves.

But when the dismal winter reveals its hideous aspect, When all the earth becomes white with a marble-like frost;

And when Boreas is loosed, and the snow hurled under Arcturus, Then these nations, in sooth, shudder and shiver with cold.

Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun nor the rain can dissolve it; Boreas hardens it still, makes it forever remain.

Hence, ere the first ha-s melted away, another succeeds it, And two years it is wont, in many places, to lie.

And so great is the power of the Northwind awakened, it levels Lofty towers with the ground, roofs uplifted bears off.

Wrapped in skins, and with trousers sewed, they contend with the weather, And their faces alone of the whole body are seen.

Often their tresses, when shaken, with pendent icicles tinkle, And their whitened beards shine with the gathering frost.

Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of the vessels; No more draughts of wine,--pieces presented they drink.

Why should I tell you how all the rivers are frozen and solid, And from out of the lake frangible water is dug?

Ister,--no narrower stream than the river that bears the papyrus,-- Which through its many mouths mingles its waves with the deep;

Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its cerulean waters, Under a roof of ice, winding its way to the sea.

There where ships have sailed, men go on foot; and the billows, Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses indent.

Over unwonted bridges, with water gliding beneath them, The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian carts.

Scarcely shall I be believed; yet when naught is gained by a falsehood, Absolute credence then should to a witness be given.

I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all compacted, And a slippery crust pressing its motionless tides.

'T is not enough to have seen, I have trodden this indurate ocean; Dry shod passed my foot over its uppermost wave.

If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is, Leander! Then thy death had not been charged as a crime to the Strait.

Nor can the curved dolphins uplift themselves from the water; All their struggles to rise merciless winter prevents;

And though Boreas sound with roar of wings in commotion, In the blockaded gulf never a wave will there be;

And the ships will stand hemmed in by the frost, as in marble, Nor will the oar have power through the stiff waters to cleave.

Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the fishes adhering, Yet notwithstanding this some of them still were alive.

Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent Boreas freezes Whether the salt-sea wave, whether the refluent stream,--

Straightway,--the Ister made level by arid blasts of the North-wind,-- Comes the barbaric foe borne on his swift-footed steed;

Foe, that powerful made by his steed and his far-flying arrows, All the neighboring land void of inhabitants makes.

Some take flight, and none being left to defend their possessions, Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder become;

Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the country, And what riches beside indigent peasants possess.

Some as captives are driven along, their hands bound behind them, Looking backward in vain toward their Lares and lands.

Others, transfixed with barbed arrows, in agony perish, For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison been dipped.

What they cannot carry or lead away they demolish, And the hostile flames burn up the innocent cots.

Even when there is peace, the fear of war is impending; None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows the soil any more.

Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees not, And the sluggish land slumbers in utter neglect.

No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of its vine-leaves, No fermenting must fills and o'erflows the deep vats.

Apples the region denies; nor would Acontius have found here Aught upon which to write words for his mistress to read.

Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees we behold here,-- Places, alas! unto which no happy man would repair.

Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide upon all sides, Has this region been found only my prison to be?

TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy XII.

Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended, Winter Maeotian seems longer than ever before;

And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of Helle, Now makes the hours of the day equal with those of the night.

Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet gather, Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing the seed.

Now the meadows are blooming with flowers of various colors, And with untaught throats carol the garrulous birds.

Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her merciless mother, Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little homes;

And the blade that lay hid, covered up in the furrows of Ceres, Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate head.

Where there is ever a vine, the bud shoots forth from the tendrils, But from the Getic shore distant afar is the vine!

Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the branches are swelling, But from the Getic land distant afar is the tree!

Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in due order Give place the windy wars of the vociferous bar.

Now they are riding the horses; with light arms now they are playing, Now with the ball, and now round rolls the swift-flying hoop:

Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is anointed, He in the Virgin's Fount bathes, over-wearied, his limbs.

Thrives the stage; and applause, with voices at variance, thunders, And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound.

Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy, Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys.

But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving, And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake.

Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before o'er the Ister Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous cart.

Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels already are steering, And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will be.

Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having saluted, Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and whence he hath come.

Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from regions adjacent, And incautious unless ploughing the neighboring sea.

Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes, Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid.

Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh, Surely on this account he the more welcome will be.

Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and the waters Propontic, Unto the steady South-wind, some one is spreading his sails.

Whosoever he is, the news he can faithfully tell me, Which may become a part and an approach to the truth.

He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs of Caesar, Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the Latian Jove;

And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the rebellious, Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain hast laid.

Whoso shall tell me these things, that not to have seen will afflict me, Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be.

Woe is me! Is the house of Ovid in Scythian lands now? And doth punishment now give me its place for a home?

Grant, ye gods, that Caesar make this not my house and my homestead, But decree it to be only the inn of my pain.