Wal. And got no quarter, I'll warrant.

Isen. Don't talk of it—my poor back tingles at the thought.

Wal. The sweet Saints think every woman of the world no better than she should be; and without meaning to be envious, owe you all a grudge for past flirtations. As I am a knight, now it's over, I like you all the better for it.

Isen. What?

Wal. When I see a woman who will stand by her word, and two who will stand by their mistress. And the monk, too—there's mettle in him. I took him for a canting carpet-haunter; but be sure, the man who will bully his own patrons has an honest purpose in him, though it bears strange fruit on this wicked hither-side of the grave. Now, my fair nymph of the birchen-tree, use your interest to find me supper and lodging; for your elegant squires of the trencher look surly on me here: I am the prophet who has no honour in his own country. [Exeunt.]

SCENE VI

Dawn. A rocky path leading to a mountain Chapel. A Peasant sitting on a stone with dog and cross-bow.

Peasant [singing].

Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning, Gaily the huntsman down green droves must roam: Over the wild moor, in grayest wane of evening, Weary the huntsman comes wandering home; Home, home, If he has one. Who comes here?

[A Woodcutter enters with a laden ass.]

What art going about?

Woodcutter. To warm other folks' backs.

Peas. Thou art in the common lot—Jack earns and Gill spends— therein lies the true division of labour. What's thy name?

Woodc. Be'est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that dost so catechise me?

Peas. Both—I am a keeper, for I keep all I catch; and a charmer, for I drive bad spirits out of honest men's turnips.

Woodc. Mary sain us, what be they like?

Peas. Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking farmers' crops into butcher's meat by night, without leave or licence.

Woodc. By token, thou'rt a deer-stealer?

Peas. Stealer, quoth he? I have dominion. I do what I like with mine own.

Woodc. Thine own?

Peas. Yea, marry—for, saith the priest, man has dominion over the beast of the field and the fowl of the air: so I, being as I am a man, as men go, have dominion over the deer in my trade, as you have in yours over sleep-mice and woodpeckers.

Woodc. Then every man has a right to be a poacher.

Peas. Every man has his gift, and the tools go to him that can use them. Some are born workmen; some have souls above work. I'm one of that metal. I was meant to own land, and do nothing; but the angel that deals out babies' souls, mistook the cradles, and spoilt a gallant gentleman! Well—I forgive him! there were many born the same night—and work wears the wits.

Woodc. I had sooner draw in a yoke than hunt in a halter. Hadst best repent and mend thy ways.

Peas. The way-warden may do that: I wear out no ways, I go across country. Mend! saith he? Why I can but starve at worst, or groan with the rheumatism, which you do already. And who would reek and wallow o' nights in the same straw, like a stalled cow, when he may have his choice of all the clean holly bushes in the forest? Who would grub out his life in the same croft, when he has free-warren of all fields between this and Rhine? Not I. I have dirtied my share of spades myself; but I slipped my leash and went self- hunting.

Woodc. But what if thou be caught and brought up before the Prince?

Peas. He don't care for game. He has put down his kennel, and keeps a tame saint instead: and when I am driven in, I shall ask my pardon of her in St. John's name. They say that for his sake she'll give away the shoes off her feet.

Woodc. I would not stand in your shoes for all the top and lop in the forest. Murder! Here comes a ghost! Run up the bank—shove the jackass into the ditch.

[A white figure comes up the path with lights.]

Peas. A ghost or a watchman, and one's as bad as the other—so we may take to cover for the time.

[Elizabeth enters, meanly clad, carrying her new-born infant; Isentrudis following with a taper and gold pieces on a salver. Elizabeth passes, singing.]

Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping, Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above; Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently creeping Up to the Lord in the might of their love.

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring Thee, Odour, and light, and the magic of gold; Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must sing Thee, Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they grow old.

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I tender, Life of mine own life, the fruit of my love; Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render Count of the precious charge, kneeling above.

[They pass up the path. The Peasants come out.]

Peas. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, with a mighty sweet voice.

Woodc. Wench, indeed? Where be thy manners? 'Tis her Ladyship— the Princess.

Peas. The Princess! Ay, I thought those little white feet were but lately out of broadcloth—still, I say, a mighty sweet voice—I wish she had not sung so sweetly—it makes things to arise in a body's head, does that singing: a wonderful handsome lady! a royal lady!

Woodc. But a most unwise one. Did ye mind the gold? If I had such a trencherful, it should sleep warm in a stocking, instead of being made a brother to owls here, for every rogue to snatch at.

Peas. Why, then? who dare harm such as her, man?

Woodc. Nay, nay, none of us, we are poor folks, we fear God and the king. But if she had met a gentleman now—heaven help her! Ah! thou hast lost a chance—thou might'st have run out promiscuously, and down on thy knees, and begged thy pardon for the newcomer's sake. There was a chance, indeed.

Peas. Pooh, man, I have done nothing but lose chances all my days. I fell into the fire the day I was christened, and ever since I am like a fresh-trimmed fir-tree; every foul feather sticks to me.

Woodc. Go, shrive thyself, and the priest will scrub off thy turpentine with a new haircloth; and now, good-day, the maids are a- waiting for their firewood.

Peas. A word before you go—Take warning by me—avoid that same serpent, wisdom—Pray to the Saints to make you a blockhead—Never send your boys to school—For Heaven knows, a poor man that will live honest, and die in his bed, ought to have no more scholarship than a parson, and no more brains than your jackass.

SCENE VII

The Gateway of a Castle. Elizabeth and her suite standing at the top of a flight of steps. Mob below.

Peas. Bread! Bread! Bread! give us bread; we perish.

1st Voice. Ay, give, give, give! God knows, we're long past earning.

2d Voice. Our skeleton children lie along in the roads—

3d Voice. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen leas—

4th Voice. Our harness and our shoes are boiled for food—

Old Man's Voice. Starved, withered, autumn hay that thanks the scythe! Send out your swordsmen, mow the dry bents down, And make this long death short—we'll never struggle.

All. Bread! Bread!

Eliz. Ay, bread—Where is it, knights and servants? Why butler, seneschal, this food forthcomes not!

Butler. Alas, we've eaten all ourselves: heaven knows The pages broke the buttery hatches down— The boys were starved almost.

Voice below. Ay, she can find enough to feast her minions.

Woman's Voice. How can she know what 'tis, for months and months To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows, Bearing about a living babe within you? And then at night to fat yourself and it On fir-bark, madam, and water.

Eliz. My good dame— That which you bear, I bear: for food, God knows, I have not tasted food this live-long day— Nor will till you are served. I sent for wheat From Koln and from the Rhine-land, days ago: O God! why comes it not?

[Enter from below, Count Walter, with a Merchant.]

Wal. Stand back; you'll choke me, rascals: Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the corn— Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, With no white wings, but good white wheat, my boys, Quarters on quarters—if you'll pay for it.

Eliz. Oh! give him all he asks.

Wal. The scoundrel wants Three times its value.

Merchant. Not a penny less— I bought it on speculation—I must live— I get my bread by buying corn that's cheap, And selling where 'tis dearest. Mass, you need it, And you must pay according to your need.

Mob. Hang him! hang all regraters—hang the forestalling dog!

Wal. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule.

Eliz. Nay, Count; the corn is his, and his the right To fix conditions for his own.

Mer. Well spoken! A wise and royal lady! She will see The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn Three months on venture. Now, so help me Saints, I am a loser by it, quite a loser— So help me Saints, I am.

Eliz. You will not sell it Save at a price which, by the bill you tender, Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, I grudge not— I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes and jewels. Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food— And now I have no more.—Abate, or trust Our honour for the difference.

Mer. Not a penny— I trust no nobles. I must make my profit— I'll have my price, or take it back again.

Eliz. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man, Who for thy selfish gains dost welcome make God's wrath, and battenest on thy fellows' woes, What? wilt thou turn from heaven's gate, open to thee, Through which thy charity may passport be, And win thy long greed's pardon? Oh, for once Dare to be great; show mercy to thyself! See how that boiling sea of human heads Waits open-mouthed to bless thee: speak the word, And their triumphant quire of jubilation Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and prayers, And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears.

[In the meantime Walter, etc., have been throwing down the wheat to the mob.]

Mob. God bless the good Count!—Bless the holy Princess— Hurrah for wheat—Hurrah for one full stomach.

Mer. Ah! that's my wheat! treason, my wheat, my money!

Eliz. Where is the wretch's wheat?

Wal. Below, my lady; We counted on the charm of your sweet words, And so did for him what, your sermon ended, He would have done himself.

Knight. 'Twere rude to doubt it.

Mer. Ye rascal barons! What! Are we burghers monkeys for your pastime? We'll clear the odds. [Seizes Walter.]

Wal. Soft, friend—a worm will turn.

Voices below. Throw him down.

Wal. Dost hear that, friend? Those pups are keen-toothed; they have eat of late Worse bacon to their bread than thee. Come, come, Put up thy knife; we'll give thee market-price— And if thou must have more—why, take it out In board and lodging in the castle dungeon.

[Walter leads him out; the Mob, etc., disperse.]

Eliz. Now then—there's many a one lies faint at home— I'll go to them myself.

Isen. What now? start forth In this most bitter frost, so thinly clad?

Eliz. Tut, tut, I wear my working dress to-day, And those who work, robe lightly—

Isen. Nay, my child, For once keep up your rank.

Eliz. Then I had best Roll to their door in lacqueyed equipage, And dole my halfpence from my satin purse— I am their sister—I must look like one. I am their queen—I'll prove myself the greatest By being the minister of all. So come— Now to my pastime, [aside] And in happy toil Forget this whirl of doubt—We are weak, we are weak, Only when still: put thou thine hand to the plough, The spirit drives thee on.

Isen. You live too fast!

Eliz. Too fast? We live too slow—our gummy blood Without fresh purging airs from heaven, would choke Slower and slower, till it stopped and froze. God! fight we not within a cursed world, Whose very air teems thick with leagued fiends— Each word we speak has infinite effects— Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell— And this our one chance through eternity To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake, Or like the meteor stone, though whelmed itself, Kindle the dry moors into fruitful blaze— And yet we live too fast! Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad, if thou wilt: Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven, And that thy last deed ere the judgment-day. When all's done, nothing's done. There's rest above— Below let work be death, if work be love! [Exeunt.]

SCENE VIII

A Chamber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo, etc., Abbot, and Knights.

Count Hugo. I can't forget it, as I am a Christian man. To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, and be told there was no beer allowed in the house—her Ladyship had given all the malt to the poor.

Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh?

C. Hugo. The life itself, Sir, the life itself. All that barley, that would have warmed many an honest fellow's coppers, wasted in filthy cakes.

Abbot. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into plebeian dough! Indeed, Sir, we have no right to lessen wantonly the amount of human enjoyment!

C. Wal. In heaven's name, what would you have her do, while the people were eating grass?

C. Hugo. Nobody asked them to eat it; nobody asked them to be there to eat it; if they will breed like rabbits, let them feed like rabbits, say I—I never married till I could keep a wife.

Abbot. Ah, Count Walter! How sad to see a man of your sense so led away by his feelings! Had but this dispensation been left to work itself out, and evolve the blessing implicit in all heaven's chastenings! Had but the stern benevolences of providence remained undisturbed by her ladyship's carnal tenderness—what a boon had this famine been!

C. Wal. How then, man?

Abbot. How many a poor soul would be lying—Ah, blessed thought!— in Abraham's bosom; who must now toil on still in this vale of tears!—Pardon this pathetic dew—I cannot but feel as a Churchman.

3d Count. Look at it in this way, Sir. There are too many of us— too many—Where you have one job you have three workmen. Why, I threw three hundred acres into pasture myself this year—it saves money, and risk, and trouble, and tithes.

C. Wal. What would you say to the Princess, who talks of breaking up all her parks to wheat next year?

3d Count. Ask her to take on the thirty families, who were just going to tramp off those three hundred acres into the Rhine-land, if she had not kept them in both senses this winter, and left them on my hands—once beggars, always beggars.

C. Hugo. Well, I'm a practical man, and I say, the sharper the famine, the higher are prices, and the higher I sell, the more I can spend; so the money circulates, Sir, that's the word—like water— sure to run downwards again; and so it's as broad as it's long; and here's a health—if there was any beer—to the farmers' friends, 'A bloody war and a wet harvest.'

Abbot. Strongly put, though correctly. For the self-interest of each it is which produces in the aggregate the happy equilibrium of all.

C. Wal. Well—the world is right well made, that's certain; and He who made the Jews' sin our salvation may bring plenty out of famine, and comfort out of covetousness. But look you, Sirs, private selfishness may be public weal, and yet private selfishness be just as surely damned, for all that.

3d Count. I hold, Sir, that every alms is a fresh badge of slavery.

C. Wal. I don't deny it.

3d Count. Then teach them independence.

C. Wal. How? By tempting them to turn thieves, when begging fails? By keeping their stomachs just at desperation-point? By starving them out here, to march off, starving all the way, to some town, in search of employment, of which, if they find it, they know no more than my horse? Likely! No, Sir, to make men of them, put them not out of the reach, but out of the need, of charity.

3d Count. And how, prithee? By teaching them, like our fair Landgravine, to open their mouth for all that drops? Thuringia is become a kennel of beggars in her hands.

C. Wal. In hers? In ours, Sir!

Abbot. Idleness, Sir, deceit, and immorality, are the three children of this same barbarous self-indulgence in almsgiving. Leave the poor alone. Let want teach them the need of self- exertion, and misery prove the foolishness of crime.

C. Wal. How? Teach them to become men by leaving them brutes?

Abbot. Oh, Sir, there we step in, with the consolations and instructions of the faith.

C. Wal. Ay, but while the grass is growing the steed is starving; and in the meantime, how will the callow chick Grace stand against the tough old game-cock Hunger?

3d Count. Then how, in the name of patience, would you have us alter things?

C. Wal. We cannot alter them, Sir—but they will be altered, never fear.

Omnes. How? How?

C. Wal. Do you see this hour-glass?—Here's the state: This air stands for the idlers;—this sand for the workers. When all the sand has run to the bottom, God in heaven just turns the hour-glass, and then—

C. Hugo. The world's upside down.

C. Wal. And the Lord have mercy upon us!

Omnes. On us? Do you call us the idlers?

C. Wal. Some dare to do so—But fear not—In the fulness of time, all that's lightest is sure to come to the top again.

C. Hugo. But what rascal calls us idlers?

Omnes. Name, name.

C. Wal. Why, if you ask me—I heard a shrewd sermon the other day on that same idleness and immorality text of the Abbot's.—'Twas Conrad, the Princess's director, preached it. And a fashionable cap it is, though it will fit more than will like to wear it. Shall I give it you? Shall I preach?

C. Hugo. A tub for Varila! Stand on the table, now, toss back thy hood like any Franciscan, and preach away.

C. Wal. Idleness, quoth he [Conrad, mind you],—idleness and immorality? Where have they learnt them, but from your nobles? There was a saucy monk for you. But there's worse coming. Religion? said he, how can they respect it, when they see you, 'their betters,' fattening on church lands, neglecting sacraments, defying excommunications, trading in benefices, hiring the clergy for your puppets and flatterers, making the ministry, the episcopate itself, a lumber-room wherein to stow away the idiots and spendthrifts of your families, the confidants of your mistresses, the cast-off pedagogues of your boys?

Omnes. The scoundrel!

C. Wal. Was he not?—But hear again—Immorality? roars he; and who has corrupted them but you? Have you not made every castle a weed- bed, from which the newest corruptions of the Court stick like thistle-down, about the empty heads of stable-boys and serving maids? Have you not kept the poor worse housed than your dogs and your horses, worse fed than your pigs and your sheep? Is there an ancient house among you, again, of which village gossips do not whisper some dark story of lust and oppression, of decrepit debauchery, of hereditary doom?

Omnes. We'll hang this monk.

C. Wal. Hear me out, and you'll burn him. His sermon was like a hailstorm, the tail of the shower the sharpest. Idleness? he asked next of us all: how will they work, when they see you landlords sitting idle above them, in a fool's paradise of luxury and riot, never looking down but to squeeze from them an extra drop of honey— like sheep-boys stuffing themselves with blackberries while the sheep are licking up flukes in every ditch? And now you wish to leave the poor man in the slough, whither your neglect and your example have betrayed him, and made his too apt scholarship the excuse for your own remorseless greed! As a Christian, I am ashamed of you all; as a Churchman, doubly ashamed of those prelates, hired stalking-horses of the rich, who would fain gloss over their own sloth and cowardice with the wisdom which cometh not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish; aping the artless cant of an aristocracy who made them—use them—and despise them. That was his sermon.

Abbot. Paul and Barnabas! What an outpouring of the spirit!—Were not his hoodship the Pope's legate, now—accidents might happen to him, going home at night; eh, Sir Hugo?

C. Hugo. If he would but come my way! For 'the mule it was slow, and the lane it was dark, When out of the copse leapt a gallant young spark. Says, 'Tis not for nought you've been begging all day: So remember your toll, since you travel our way.'

Abbot. Hush! Here comes the Landgrave.

[Lewis enters.]

Lewis. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, Count Walter? Your blessing, Father Abbot: what deep matters Have called our worships to this conference?

C. Hugo [aside]. Up, Count; you are spokesman.

3d Count. Exalted Prince, Whose peerless knighthood, like the remeant sun, After too long a night, regilds our clay, Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams Of your celestial lady's matron graces—

Abbot [aside]. Ut vinum optimum amati mei Dulciter descendens!

3 Count. Think not we mean to praise or disapprove— The acts of saintly souls must only plead In foro conscientiae: grosser minds, Whose humbler aim is but the public weal, Know of no mesh which holds them: yet, great Prince, Some dare not see their sovereign's strength postponed To private grace, and sigh, that generous hearts, And ladies' tenderness, too oft forgetting That wisdom is the highest charity, Will interfere, in pardonable haste, With heaven's stern providence.

Lewis. We see your drift. Go, sirrah [to a Page]; pray the Princess to illumine Our conclave with her beauties. 'Tis our manner To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple, Unless the accused and the accuser both Meet face to face.

3d Count. Excuse, high-mightiness,— We bring no accusation; facts, your Highness, Wait for your sentence, not our praejudicium.

Lewis. Give us the facts, then, Sir; in the lady's presence, Her nearness to ourselves—perchance her reasons— May make them somewhat dazzling.

Abbot. Nay, my Lord; I, as a Churchman, though with these your nobles Both in commission and opinion one, Am yet most loth, my Lord, to set my seal To aught which this harsh world might call complaint Against a princely saint—a chosen vessel— An argosy celestial—in whom error Is but the young luxuriance of her grace. The Count of Varila, as bound to neither, For both shall speak, and all which late has passed Upon the matter of this famine open.

C. Wal. Why, if I must speak out—then I'll confess To have stood by, and seen the Landgravine Do most strange deeds; and in her generation Show no more wit than other babes of light. First, she has given away, to starving rascals, The stores of grain she might have sold, good lack! For any price she asked; has pawned your jewels, And mortgaged sundry farms, and all for food. Has sunk vast sums in fever-hospitals, For rogues whom famine sickened—almshouses For sluts whose husbands died—schools for their brats. Most sad vagaries! but there's worse to come. The dulness of the Court has ruined trade: The jewellers and clothiers don't come near us; The sempstresses, my lord, and pastrycooks Have quite forgot their craft; she has turned all heads And made the ladies starve, and wear old clothes, And run about with her to nurse the sick, Instead of putting gold in circulation By balls, sham-fights, and dinners; 'tis most sad, sir, But she has swept your treasury out as clean— As was the widow's cruse, who fed Elijah.

Lewis. Ruined, no doubt! Lo! here the culprit comes.

[Elizabeth enters.]

Come hither, dearest. These, my knights and nobles, Lament your late unthrift (your conscience speaks The causes of their blame); and wish you warned, As wisdom is the highest charity, No more to interfere, from private feeling, With heaven's stern laws, or maim the sovereign's wealth, To save superfluous villains' worthless lives.

Eliz. Lewis!

Lewis. Not I, fair, but my counsellors, In courtesy, need some reply.

Eliz. My Lords; Doubtless, you speak as your duty bids you: I know you love my husband: do you think My love is less than yours? 'Twas for his honour I dare not lose a single silly sheep Of all the flock which God had trusted to him. True, I had hoped by this—No matter what— Since to your sense it bears a different hue. I keep no logic. For my gifts, thank God, They cannot be recalled; for those poor souls, My pensioners—even for my husband's knightly name, Oh! ask not back that slender loan of comfort My folly has procured them: if, my Lords, My public censure, or disgraceful penance May expiate, and yet confirm my waste, I offer this poor body to the buffets Of sternest justice: when I dared not spare My husband's lands, I dare not spare myself.

Lewis. No! no! My noble sister? What? my Lords! If her love move you not, her wisdom may. She knows a deeper statecraft, Sirs, than you: She will not throw away the substance, Abbot, To save the accident; waste living souls To keep, or hope to keep, the means of life. Our wisdom and our swords may fill our coffers, But will they breed us men, my Lords, or mothers? God blesses in the camp a noble rashness: Then why not in the storehouse? He that lends To Him, need never fear to lose his venture. Spend on, my Queen. You will not sell my castles? Nay, you must leave us Neuburg, love, and Wartburg. Their worn old stones will hardly pay the carriage, And foreign foes may pay untimely visits.

C. Wal. And home foes, too; if these philosophers Put up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter, The scythes will be among our horses' legs Before next harvest.

Lewis. Fear not for our welfare: We have a guardian here, well skilled to keep Peace for our seneschal, while angels, stooping To catch the tears she sheds for us in absence, Will sain us from the roaming adversary With scents of Paradise. Farewell, my Lords.

Eliz. Nay,—I must pray your knighthoods—You must honour Our dais and bower as private guests to-day. Thanks for your gentle warning; may my weakness To such a sin be never tempted more!

[Exeunt Elizabeth and Lewis.]

C. Wal. Thus, as if virtue were not its own reward, is it paid over and above with beef and ale? Weep not, tender-hearted Count! Though 'generous hearts,' my Lord, 'and ladies' tenderness, too oft forget'—Truly spoken! Lord Abbot, does not your spiritual eye discern coals of fire on Count Hugo's head?

C. Hugo. Where, and a plague? Where?

C. Wal. Nay, I speak mystically,—there is nought there but what beer will quench before nightfall. Here, peeping rabbit [to a Page at the door], out of your burrow, and show these gentles to their lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. [They go out.]

C. Wal [alone]. Well:—if Hugo is a brute, he at least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, and honest; he wears his tushes outside, for a warning to all men. But for the rest!—Whited sepulchres! and not one of them but has half persuaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all cruelties, save me from your small pedant,—your closet philosopher, who has just courage enough to bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it will carry him. In experience, a child: in obstinacy, a woman: in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping: instead of God's grace, a few schoolboy saws about benevolence, and industry, and independence—there is his metal. If the world will be mended on his principles, well. If not, poor world!—but principles must be carried out, though through blood and famine: for truly, man was made for theories, not theories for man. A doctrine is these men's God—touch but that shrine, and lo! your simpering philanthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican. [Exit.]

SCENE IX

Elizabeth's bower. Elizabeth and Lewis sitting together.

Song

Eliz. Oh that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing In the shade of the whispering trees!

Oh that we two sat dreaming On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down Watching the white mist steaming Over river and mead and town!

Oh that we two lay sleeping In our nest in the churchyard sod, With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast, And our souls at home with God!

Lewis. Ah, turn away those swarthy diamonds' blaze! Mine eyes are dizzy, and my faint sense reels In the rich fragrance of those purple tresses. Oh, to be thus, and thus, day after day! To sleep, and wake, and find it yet no dream— My atmosphere, my hourly food, such bliss As to have dreamt of, five short years agone, Had seemed a mad conceit.

Eliz. Five years agone?

Lewis. I know not; for upon our marriage-day I slipped from time into eternity; Where each day teems with centuries of life, And centuries were but one wedding morn.

Eliz. Lewis, I am too happy! floating higher Than e'er my will had dared to soar, though able; But circumstance, which is the will of God, Beguiled my cowardice to that, which, darling, I found most natural, when I feared it most. Love would have had no strangeness in mine eyes, Save from the prejudice which others taught me— They should know best. Yet now this wedlock seems A second infancy's baptismal robe, A heaven, my spirit's antenatal home, Lost in blind pining girlhood—found now, found! [Aside] What have I said? Do I blaspheme? Alas! I neither made these thoughts, nor can unmake them.

Lewis. Ay, marriage is the life-long miracle, The self-begetting wonder, daily fresh; The Eden, where the spirit and the flesh Are one again, and new-born souls walk free, And name in mystic language all things new, Naked, and not ashamed. [Eliz. hides her face.]

Eliz. O God! were that true!

[Clasps him round the neck.]

There, there, no more— I love thee, and I love thee, and I love thee— More than rich thoughts can dream, or mad lips speak; But how, or why, whether with soul or body, I will not know. Thou art mine.—Why question further? [Aside] Ay if I fall by loving, I will love, And be degraded!—how? by my own troth-plight? No, but my thinking that I fall.—'Tis written That whatsoe'er is not of faith is sin.— O Jesu Lord! Hast Thou not made me thus? Mercy! My brain will burst: I cannot leave him!

Lewis. Beloved, if I went away to war—

Eliz. O God! More wars? More partings?

Lewis. Nay, my sister— My trust but longs to glory in its surety: What would'st thou do?

Eliz. What I have done already. Have I not followed thee, through drought and frost, Through flooded swamps, rough glens, and wasted lands, Even while I panted most with thy dear loan Of double life?

Lewis. My saint! but what if I bid thee To be my seneschal, and here with prayers, With sober thrift, and noble bounty shine, Alone and peerless? And suppose—nay, start not— I only said suppose—the war was long, Our camps far off, and that some winter, love, Or two, pent back this Eden stream, where now Joys upon joys like sunlit ripples pass, Alike, yet ever new.—What would'st thou do, love?

Eliz. A year? A year! A cold, blank, widowed year! Strange, that mere words should chill my heart with fear— This is no hall of doom, No impious Soldan's feast of old, Where o'er the madness of the foaming gold, A fleshless hand its woe on tainted walls enrolled. Yet by thy wild words raised, In Love's most careless revel, Looms through the future's fog a shade of evil, And all my heart is glazed.— Alas! What would I do? I would lie down and weep, and weep, Till the salt current of my tears should sweep My soul, like floating weed, adown a fitful sleep, A lingering half-night through. Then when the mocking bells did wake My hollow eyes to twilight gray, I would address my spiritless limbs to pray, And nerve myself with stripes to meet the weary day, And labour for thy sake. Until by vigils, fasts, and tears, The flesh was grown so spare and light, That I could slip its mesh, and flit by night O'er sleeping sea and land to thee—or Christ—till morning light. Peace! Why these fears? Life is too short for mean anxieties: Soul! thou must work, though blindfold. Come, beloved, I must turn robber.—I have begged of late So soft, I fear to ask.—Give me thy purse.

Lewis. No, not my purse:—stay—Where is all that gold I gave you, when the Jews came here from Koln?

Eliz. Oh, those few coins? I spent them all next day On a new chapel on the Eisenthal; There were no choristers but nightingales— No teachers there save bees: how long is this? Have you turned niggard?

Lewis. Nay; go ask my steward— Take what you will—this purse I want myself.

Eliz. Ah! now I guess. You have some trinket for me— You promised late to buy no more such baubles— And now you are ashamed.—Nay, I must see—

[Snatches his purse. Lewis hides his face.]

Ah, God! what's here? A new crusader's cross? Whose? Nay, nay—turn not from me; I guess all— You need not tell me; it is very well— According to the meed of my deserts: Yes—very well.

Lewis. Ah, love!—look not so calm—

Eliz. Fear not—I shall weep soon. How long is it since you vowed?

Lewis. A week or more.

Eliz. Brave heart! And all that time your tenderness Kept silence, knowing my weak foolish soul. [Weeps.] O love! O life! Late found, and soon, soon lost! A bleak sunrise,—a treacherous morning gleam,— And now, ere mid-day, all my sky is black With whirling drifts once more! The march is fixed For this day month, is't not?

Lewis. Alas, too true!

Eliz. Oh break not, heart!

[Conrad enters.]

Ah! here my master comes. No weeping before him.

Lewis. Speak to the holy man: He can give strength and comfort, which poor I Need even more than you. Here, saintly master, I leave her to your holy eloquence. Farewell! God help us both! [Exit Lewis.]

Eliz [rising]. You know, Sir, that my husband has taken the cross!

Con. I do; all praise to God!

Eliz. But none to you: Hard-hearted! Am I not enough your slave? Can I obey you more when he is gone Than now I do? Wherein, pray, has he hindered This holiness of mine, for which you make me Old ere my womanhood? [Conrad offers to go.] Stay, Sir, and tell me Is this the outcome of your 'father's care'? Was it not enough to poison all my joys With foulest scruples?—show me nameless sins, Where I, unconscious babe, blessed God for all things, But you must thus intrigue away my knight And plunge me down this gulf of widowhood! And I not twenty yet—a girl—an orphan— That cannot stand alone! Was I too happy? O God! what lawful bliss do I not buy And balance with the smart of some sharp penance? Hast thou no pity? None? Thou drivest me To fiendish doubts: Thou, Jesus' messenger?

Con. This to your master!

Eliz. This to any one Who dares to part me from my love.

Con. 'Tis well— In pity to your weakness I must deign To do what ne'er I did—excuse myself. I say, I knew not of your husband's purpose; God's spirit, not I, moved him: perhaps I sinned In that I did not urge it myself.

Eliz. Thou traitor! So thou would'st part us?

Con. Aught that makes thee greater I'll dare. This very outburst proves in thee Passions unsanctified, and carnal leanings Upon the creatures thou would'st fain transcend. Thou badest me cure thy weakness. Lo, God brings thee The tonic cup I feared to mix:—be brave— Drink it to the lees, and thou shalt find within A pearl of price.

Eliz. 'Tis bitter!

Con. Bitter, truly: Even I, to whom the storm of earthly love Is but a dim remembrance—Courage! Courage! There's glory in't; fulfil thy sacrifice; Give up thy noblest on the noblest service God's sun has looked on, since the chosen twelve Went conquering, and to conquer, forth. If he fall—

Eliz. Oh, spare mine ears!

Con. He falls a blessed martyr, To bid thee welcome through the gates of pearl; And next to his shall thine own guerdon be If thou devote him willing to thy God. Wilt thou?

Eliz. Have mercy!

Con. Wilt thou? Sit not thus Watching the sightless air: no angel in it But asks thee what I ask: the fiend alone Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him?

Eliz. I will devote him;—a crusader's wife! I'll glory in it. Thou speakest words from God— And God shall have him! Go now—good my master; My poor brain swims. [Exit Conrad.] Yes—a crusader's wife! And a crusader's widow!

[Bursts into tears, and dashes herself on the floor.]

SCENE X

A street in the town of Schmalcald. Bodies of Crusading troops defiling past. Lewis and Elizabeth with their suite in the foreground.

Lewis. Alas! the time is near; I must be gone— There are our liegemen; how you'll welcome us, Returned in triumph, bowed with paynim spoils, Beneath the victor cross, to part no more!

Eliz. Yes—we shall part no more, where next we meet. Enough to have stood here once on such an errand!

Lewis. The bugle calls.—Farewell, my love, my lady, Queen, sister, saint! One last long kiss—Farewell!

Eliz. One kiss—and then another—and another— Till 'tis too late to go—and so return— O God! forgive that craven thought! There, take him Since Thou dost need him. I have kept him ever Thine, when most mine; and shall I now deny Thee? Oh! go—yes, go—Thou'lt not forget to pray,

[Lewis goes.]

With me, at our old hour? Alas! he's gone And lost—thank God he hears me not—for ever. Why look'st thou so, poor girl? I say, for ever. The day I found the bitter blessed cross, Something did strike my heart like keen cold steel, Which quarries daily there with dead dull pains— Whereby I know that we shall meet no more. Come! Home, maids, home! Prepare me widow's weeds— For he is dead to me, and I must soon Die too to him, and many things; and mark me— Breathe not his name, lest this love-pampered heart Should sicken to vain yearnings—Lost! lost! lost!

Lady. Oh stay, and watch this pomp.

Eliz. Well said—we'll stay; so this bright enterprise Shall blanch our private clouds, and steep our soul Drunk with the spirit of great Christendom.

CRUSADER CHORUS.

[Men-at-Arms pass, singing.]

The tomb of God before us, Our fatherland behind, Our ships shall leap o'er billows steep, Before a charmed wind.

Above our van great angels Shall fight along the sky; While martyrs pure and crowned saints To God for rescue cry.

The red-cross knights and yeomen Throughout the holy town, In faith and might, on left and right, Shall tread the paynim down.

Till on the Mount Moriah The Pope of Rome shall stand; The Kaiser and the King of France Shall guard him on each hand.

There shall he rule all nations, With crozier and with sword; And pour on all the heathen The wrath of Christ the Lord.

[Women—bystanders.]

Christ is a rock in the bare salt land, To shelter our knights from the sun and sand: Christ the Lord is a summer sun, To ripen the grain while they are gone.

Then you who fight in the bare salt land, And you who work at home, Fight and work for Christ the Lord, Until His kingdom come.

[Old Knights pass.]

Our stormy sun is sinking; Our sands are running low; In one fair fight, before the night, Our hard-worn hearts shall glow.

We cannot pine in cloister; We cannot fast and pray; The sword which built our load of guilt Must wipe that guilt away.

We know the doom before us; The dangers of the road; Have mercy, mercy, Jesu blest, When we lie low in blood.

When we lie gashed and gory, The holy walls within, Sweet Jesu, think upon our end, And wipe away our sin.

[Boy Crusaders pass.]

The Christ-child sits on high: He looks through the merry blue sky; He holds in His hand a bright lily-band, For the boys who for Him die.

On holy Mary's arm, Wrapt safe from terror and harm, Lulled by the breeze in the paradise trees, Their souls sleep soft and warm.

Knight David, young and true, The giant Soldan slew, And our arms so light, for the Christ-child's right, Like noble deeds can do.

[Young Knights pass.]

The rich East blooms fragrant before us; All Fairyland beckons us forth; We must follow the crane in her flight o'er the main, From the frosts and the moors of the North.

Our sires in the youth of the nations Swept westward through plunder and blood, But a holier quest calls us back to the East, We fight for the kingdom of God.

Then shrink not, and sigh not, fair ladies, The red cross which flames on each arm and each shield, Through philtre and spell, and the black charms of hell, Shall shelter our true love in camp and in field.

[Old Monk, looking after them.]

Jerusalem, Jerusalem! The burying place of God! Why gay and bold, in steel and gold, O'er the paths where Christ hath trod?

[The Scene closes.]



ACT III



SCENE I

A chamber in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting in widow's weeds; Guta and Isentrudis by her.

Isen. What? Always thus, my Princess? Is this wise, By day with fasts and ceaseless coil of labour; About the ungracious poor—hands, eyes, feet, brain O'ertasked alike—'mid sin and filth, which make Each sense a plague—by night with cruel stripes, And weary watchings on the freezing stone, To double all your griefs, and burn life's candle, As village gossips say, at either end? The good book bids the heavy-hearted drink, And so forget their woe.

Eliz. 'Tis written too In that same book, nurse, that the days shall come When the bridegroom shall be taken away—and then— Then shall they mourn and fast: I needed weaning From sense and earthly joys; by this way only May I win God to leave in mine own hands My luxury's cure: oh! I may bring him back, By working out to its full depth the chastening The need of which his loss proves: I but barter Less grief for greater—pain for widowhood.

Isen. And death for life—your cheeks are wan and sharp As any three-days' moon—you are shifting always Uneasily and stiff, now, on your seat, As from some secret pain.

Eliz. Why watch me thus? You cannot know—and yet you know too much— I tell you, nurse, pain's comfort, when the flesh Aches with the aching soul in harmony, And even in woe, we are one: the heart must speak Its passion's strangeness in strange symbols out, Or boil, till it bursts inly.

Guta. Yet, methinks, You might have made this widowed solitude A holy rest—a spell of soft gray weather, Beneath whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts Might bud and burgeon.

Eliz. That's a gentle dream; But nature shows nought like it: every winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into the vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay— Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses— As I may yet!—

Isen. There, now—my foolish child! You faint: come—come to your chamber—

Eliz. Oh, forgive me! But hope at times throngs in so rich and full, It mads the brain like wine: come with me, nurse, Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries, Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe. Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years, Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud. Come, open all your lore.

[Sophia and Agnes enter.]

My mother-in-law!

[Aside] Shame on thee, heart! why sink, whene'er we meet?

Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of metal Beyond us worldlings: shrink not, if the time Be come which needs its use—

Eliz. What means this preface? Ah! your looks are big With sudden woes—speak out.

Soph. Be calm, and hear The will of God toward my son, thy husband.

Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then—what of that? There are friends will rescue him—there's gold for ransom— We'll sell our castles—live in bowers of rushes— O God! that I were with him in the dungeon!

Soph. He is not taken.

Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death! There's treachery! What paynim dog dare face His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage, And eyed the cowering monster to his den? Speak! Has he fled? or worse?

Soph. Child, he is dead.

Eliz [clasping her hands on her knees.]. The world is dead to me, and all its smiles!

Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter.

[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.]

Oh, stop her—stop my child! She will go mad— Dash herself down—Fly—Fly—She is not made Of hard, light stuff, like you.

Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak At the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes, These saints, who fain would 'wean themselves from earth,' Still yield to the affections they despise When the game's earnest—Now—ere they return— Your brother, child, is dead—

Agnes. I know it too well. So young—so brave—so blest!—And she—she loved him— Oh! I repent of all the foolish scoffs With which I crossed her.

Soph. Yes—the Landgrave's dead— Attend to me—Alas! my son! my son! He was my first-born! But he has a brother— Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy, Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress, Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands, To my son's prejudice—There are barons, child, Who will obey a knight, but not a saint: I must at once to them.

Agnes. Oh, let me stay.

Soph. As you shall please—Your brother's landgravate Is somewhat to you, surely—and your smiles Are worth gold pieces in a court intrigue. For her, on her own principles, a downfall Is a chastening mercy—and a likely one.

Agnes. Oh! let me stay, and comfort her!

Soph. Romance! You girls adore a scene—as lookers on.

[Exit Sophia.]

Agnes [alone]. Well spoke the old monks, peaceful watching life's turmoil, 'Eyes which look heavenward, weeping still we see: God's love with keen flame purges, like the lightning flash, Gold which is purest, purer still must be.'

[Guta enters.]

Alas! Returned alone! Where has my sister been?

Guta. Thank heaven you hear alone, for such sad sight would haunt Henceforth your young hopes—crush your shuddering fancy down With dread of like fierce anguish. You saw her bound forth: we towards her bower in haste Ran trembling: spell-bound there, before her bridal-bed She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the northern dawn, Across her worn cheeks' ice-field; keenest memories then Rushed with strong shudderings through her—as the winged shaft Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled her forth Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and corridor, Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly wind Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty helms Along the walls ran clattering, and above her waved Dead heroes' banners; swift and yet more swift she drove Still seeking aimless; sheer against the opposing wall At last dashed reckless—there with frantic fingers clutched Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe, With inarticulate moans, and folded hands, She followed those who led her, as if the sun On her life's dial had gone back seven years, And she were once again the dumb sad child We knew her ere she married.

Isen [entering]. As after wolf wolf presses, leaping through the snow-glades, So woe on woe throngs surging up.

Guta. What? treason?

Isen. Treason, and of the foulest. From her state she's rudely thrust; Her keys are seized; her weeping babies pent from her: The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance, And greet their fallen censor's new mischance.

Agnes. Alas! Who dared to do this wrong?

Isen. Your mother and your mother's son— Judge you, if it was knightly done.

Guta. See! see! she comes, with heaving breast, With bursting eyes, and purpled brow: Oh that the traitors saw her now! They know not, sightless fools, the heart they break.

[Elizabeth enters slowly.]

Eliz. He is in purgatory now! Alas! Angels! be pitiful! deal gently with him! His sins were gentle! That's one cause left for living— To pray, and pray for him: why all these months I prayed,—and here's my answer: Dead of a fever! Why thus? so soon! Only six years for love! While any formal, heartless matrimony, Patched up by Court intrigues, and threats of cloisters, Drags on for six times six, and peasant slaves Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand Slip from life's oozy bank, to float at ease.

[A knocking at the door.]

That's some petitioner. Go to—I will not hear them: why should I work, When he is dead? Alas! was that my sin? Was he, not Christ, my lodestar? Why not warn me? Too late! What's this foul dream? Dead at Otranto— Parched by Italian suns—no woman by him— He was too chaste! Nought but rude men to nurse!— If I had been there, I should have watched by him— Guessed every fancy—God! I might have saved him!

[A servant-man bursts in.]

Servant. Madam, the Landgrave gave me strict commands—

Isen. The Landgrave, dolt?

Eliz. I might have saved him!

Servant [to Isen.] Ay, saucy madam!— The Landgrave Henry, lord and master, Freer than the last, and yet no waster, Who will not stint a poor knave's beer, Or spin out Lent through half the year. Why—I see double!

Eliz. Who spoke there of the Landgrave? What's this drunkard? Give him his answer—'Tis no time for mumming—

Serv. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you out Safe through his gates, and that at once, my Lady. Come!

Eliz. Why—that's hasty—I must take my children Ah! I forgot—they would not let me see them. I must pack up my jewels—

Serv. You'll not need it— His Lordship has the keys.

Eliz. He has indeed. Why, man!—I am thy children's godmother— I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness— Art thou a bird, that when the old tree falls, Flits off, and sings in the sapling?

[The man seizes her arm.]

Keep thine hands off— I'll not be shamed—Lead on. Farewell, my Ladies. Follow not! There's want to spare on earth already; And mine own woe is weight enough for me. Go back, and say, Elizabeth has yet Eternal homes, built deep in poor men's hearts; And, in the alleys underneath the wall, Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure, More sure than adamant, purer than white whales' bone, Which now she claims. Lead on: a people's love shall right me. [Exit with Servant.]

Guta. Where now, dame?

Isen. Where, but after her?

Guta. True heart! I'll follow to the death. [Exeunt.]

SCENE II

A street. Elizabeth and Guta at the door of a Convent. Monks in the porch.

Eliz. You are afraid to shelter me—afraid. And so you thrust me forth, to starve and freeze. Soon said. Why palter o'er these mean excuses, Which tempt me to despise you?

Monks. Ah! my lady, We know your kindness—but we poor religious Are bound to obey God's ordinance, and submit Unto the powers that be, who have forbidden All men, alas! to give you food or shelter.

Eliz. Silence! I'll go. Better in God's hand than man's. He shall kill us, if we die. This bitter blast Warping the leafless willows, yon white snow-storms, Whose wings, like vengeful angels, cope the vault, They are God's,—We'll trust to them.

[Monks go in.]

Guta. Mean-spirited! Fair frocks hide foul hearts. Why, their altar now Is blazing with your gifts.

Eliz. How long their altar? To God I gave—and God shall pay me back. Fool! to have put my trust in living man, And fancied that I bought God's love, by buying The greedy thanks of these His earthly tools! Well—here's one lesson learnt! I thank thee, Lord! Henceforth I'll straight to Thee, and to Thy poor. What? Isentrudis not returned? Alas! Where are those children? They will not have the heart to keep them from me— Oh! have the traitors harmed them?

Guta. Do not think it. The dowager has a woman's heart.

Eliz. Ay, ay— But she's a mother—and mothers will dare all things— Oh! Love can make us fiends, as well as angels. My babies! Weeping? Oh, have mercy, Lord! On me heap all thy wrath—I understand it: What can blind senseless terror do for them?

Guta. Plead, plead your penances! Great God, consider All she has done and suffered, and forbear To smite her like a worldling!

Eliz. Silence, girl! I'd plead my deeds, if mine own character, My strength of will had fathered them: but no— They are His, who worked them in me, in despite Of mine own selfish and luxurious will— Shall I bribe Him with His own? For pain, I tell thee I need more pain than mine own will inflicts, Pain which shall break that will.—Yet spare them, Lord! Go to—I am a fool to wish them life— And greater fool to miscall life, this headache— This nightmare of our gross and crude digestion— This fog which steams up from our freezing clay— While waking heaven's beyond. No! slay them, traitors! Cut through the channels of those innocent breaths Whose music charmed my lone nights, ere they learn To love the world, and hate the wretch who bore them!

[Weeps.]

Guta. This storm will blind us both: come here, and shield you Behind this buttress.

Eliz. What's a wind to me? I can see up the street here, if they come— They do not come!—Oh! my poor weanling lambs— Struck dead by carrion ravens! What then, I have borne worse. But yesterday I thought I had a husband—and now—now! Guta! He called a holy man before he died?

Guta. The Bishop of Jerusalem, 'tis said, With holy oil, and with the blessed body Of Him for whom he died, did speed him duly Upon his heavenward flight.

Eliz. O happy bishop! Where are those children? If I had but seen him! I could have borne all then. One word—one kiss! Hark! What's that rushing? White doves—one—two—three— Fleeing before the gale. My children's spirits! Stay, babies—stay for me! What! Not a moment? And I so nearly ready to be gone?

Guta. Still on your children?

Eliz. Oh! this grief is light And floats a-top—well, well; it hides a while That gulf too black for speech—My husband's dead! I dare not think on't. A small bird dead in the snow! Alas! poor minstrel! A week ago, before this very window, He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight; And housewives blest him for a merry singer: And now he freezes at their doors, like me. Poor foolish brother! didst thou look for payment?

Guta. But thou hast light in darkness: he has none— The bird's the sport of time, while our life's floor Is laid upon eternity; no crack in it But shows the underlying heaven.

Eliz. Art sure? Does this look like it, girl? No—I'll trust yet— Some have gone mad for less; but why should I? Who live in time, and not eternity. 'Twill end, girl, end; no cloud across the sun But passes at the last, and gives us back The face of God once more.

Guta. See here they come, Dame Isentrudis and your children, all Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling snow-drifts.

Eliz. O Lord, my Lord! I thank thee! Loving and merciful, and tender-hearted, And even in fiercest wrath remembering mercy. Lo! here's my ancient foe. What want you, Sir?

[Hugo enters.]

Hugo. Want? Faith, 'tis you who want, not I, my Lady— I hear, you are gone a begging through the town; So, for your husband's sake, I'll take you in; For though I can't forget your scurvy usage, He was a very honest sort of fellow, Though mad as a March hare; so come you in.

Eliz. But know you, Sir, that all my husband's vassals Are bidden bar their doors to me?

Hugo. I know it: And therefore come you in; my house is mine: No upstarts shall lay down the law to me; Not they, mass: but mind you, no canting here— No psalm-singing; all candles out at eight: Beggars must not be choosers. Come along!

Eliz. I thank you, Sir; and for my children's sake I do accept your bounty. [aside] Down, proud heart— Bend lower—lower ever: thus God deals with thee. Go, Guta, send the children after me. [Exeunt severally.]

[Two Peasants enter.]

1st Peas. Here's Father January taken a lease of March month, and put in Jack Frost for bailiff. What be I to do for spring-feed if the weather holds,—and my ryelands as bare as the back of my hand?

2d Peas. That's your luck. Freeze on, say I, and may Mary Mother send us snow a yard deep. I have ten ton of hay yet to sell—ten ton, man—there's my luck: every man for himself, and—Why here comes that handsome canting girl, used to be about the Princess.

[Guta enters.]

Guta. Well met, fair sirs! I know you kind and loyal, And bound by many a favour to my mistress: Say, will you bear this letter for her sake Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen?

2d Peas. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among cabbage. She told me once, God's curse would overtake me, For grinding of the poor: her turn's come now.

Guta. Will you, then, help her? She will pay you richly.

1st Peas. Ay? How, dame? How? Where will the money come from?

Guta. God knows—

1st Peas. And you do not.

Guta. Why, but last winter, When all your stacks were fired, she lent you gold.

1st Peas. Well—I'll be generous: as the times are hard, Say, if I take your letter, will you promise To marry me yourself?

Guta. Ay, marry you, Or anything, if you'll but go to-day: At once, mind. [Giving him the letter.]

1st Peas. Ay, I'll go. Now, you'll remember?

Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen. God and His saints deal with you, as you deal With us this day. [Exit.]

2d Peas. What! art thou fallen in love promiscuously?

1st Peas. Why, see, now, man; she has her mistress' ear; And if I marry her, no doubt they'll make me Bailiff, or land-steward; and there's noble pickings In that same line.

2d Peas. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke: Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain.

1st Peas. Dost think? Well—I'll not fret myself about it. See, now, before I start, I must get home Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze; And then to get my supper, and my horse's: And then a man will need to sit a while, And take his snack of brandy for digestion; And then to fettle up my sword and buckler; And then, bid 'em all good-bye: and by that time 'Twill be 'most nightfall—I'll just go to-morrow. Off—here she comes again. [Exeunt.]

[Isentrudis and Guta enter, with the children.]

Guta. I warned you of it; I knew she would not stay An hour, thus treated like a slave—an idiot.

Isen. Well, 'twas past bearing: so we are thrust forth To starve again. Are all your jewels gone?

Guta. All pawned and eaten—and for her, you know, She never bore the worth of one day's meal About her dress. We can but die—No foe Can ban us from that rest.

Isen. Ay, but these children!—Well—if it must be, Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand My wedding-ring; the man who gave it me Should be in heaven—and there he'll know my heart. Take it, girl, take it. Where's the Princess now? She stopped before a crucifix to pray; But why so long?

Guta. Oh! prayer, to her rapt soul, Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee, Who, scent-enchanted, on the latest flower, Heedless of cold, will linger listless on, And freeze in odorous dreams.

Isen. Ah! here she comes.

Guta. Dripping from head to foot with wet and mire! How's this?

[Elizabeth entering.]

Eliz. How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood: I met a friend just now, who told me truths Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart— Would God I had known them earlier!—and enforced Her lesson so, as I shall ne'er forget it In body or in mind.

Isen. What means all this?

Eliz. You know the stepping-stones across the ford. There as I passed, a certain aged crone, Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year, Met me mid-stream—thrust past me stoutly on— And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire. There as I lay and weltered,—'Take that, Madam, For all your selfish hypocritic pride Which thought it such a vast humility To wash us poor folk's feet, and use our bodies For staves to build withal your Jacob's-ladder. What! you would mount to heaven upon our backs? The ass has thrown his rider.' She crept on— I washed my garments in the brook hard by— And came here, all the wiser.

Guta. Miscreant hag!

Isen. Alas, you'll freeze.

Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch Could harbour such a spite?

Eliz. Nay, who could dream She would have guessed my heart so well? Dull boors See deeper than we think, and hide within Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths, Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose. They grind among the iron facts of life, And have no time for self-deception.

Isen. Come— Put on my cloak—stand here, behind the wall. Oh! is it come to this? She'll die of cold.

Guta. Ungrateful fiend!

Eliz. Let be—we must not think on't. The scoff was true—I thank her—I thank God— This too I needed. I had built myself A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven, Of poor men's praise and prayers, and subtle pride At mine own alms. 'Tis crumbled into dust! Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh— And here's its strength! I'll walk by faith—by faith And rest my weary heart on Christ alone— On him, the all-sufficient! Shame on me! dreaming thus about myself, While you stand shivering here. [To her little Son.] Art cold, young knight? Knights must not cry—Go slide, and warm thyself. Where shall we lodge to-night?

Isen. There's no place open, But that foul tavern, where we lay last night.

Elizabeth's Son [clinging to her]. O mother, mother! go not to that house— Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and scowled, And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly songs Of you and us. O mother! let us be!

Eliz. Hark! look! His father's voice!—his very eye— Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down In luscious rest again!

Isen. Bethink you, child—

Eliz. Oh yes—I'll think—we'll to our tavern friends; If they be brutes, 'twas my sin left them so.

Guta. 'Tis but for a night or two: three days will bring The Abbess hither.

Isen. And then to Bamberg straight For knights and men-at-arms! Your uncle's wrath—

Guta [aside]. Hush! hush! you'll fret her, if you talk of vengeance.

Isen. Come to our shelter.

Children. Oh stay here, stay here! Behind these walls.

Eliz. Ay—stay a while in peace. The storms are still. Beneath her eider robe the patient earth Watches in silence for the sun: we'll sit And gaze up with her at the changeless heaven, Until this tyranny be overpast. Come. [aside] Lost! Lost! Lost! [They enter a neighbouring ruin.]

SCENE III

A Chamber in the Bishop's Palace at Bamberg. Elizabeth and Guta.

Guta. You have determined?

Eliz. Yes—to go with him. I have kept my oath too long to break it now. I will to Marpurg, and there waste away In meditation and in pious deeds, Till God shall set me free.

Guta. How if your uncle Will have you marry? Day and night, they say, He talks of nothing else.

Eliz. Never, girl, never! Save me from that at least, O God!

Guta. He spoke Of giving us, your maidens, to his knights In carnal wedlock: but I fear him not: For God's own word is pledged to keep me pure— I am a maid.

Eliz. And I, alas! am none! O Guta! dost thou mock my widowed love? I was a wife—'tis true: I was not worthy— But there was meaning in that first wild fancy; 'Twas but the innocent springing of the sap— The witless yearning of an homeless heart— Do I not know that God has pardoned me? But now—to rouse and turn of mine own will, In cool and full foreknowledge, this worn soul Again to that, which, when God thrust it on me, Bred but one shame of ever-gnawing doubt, Were—No, my burning cheeks! We'll say no more. Ah! loved and lost! Though God's chaste grace should fail me, My weak idolatry of thee would give Strength that should keep me true: with mine own hands I'd mar this tear-worn face, till petulant man Should loathe its scarred and shapeless ugliness.

Guta. But your poor children? What becomes of them?

Eliz. Oh! she who was not worthy of a husband Does not deserve his children. What are they, darlings, But snares to keep me from my heavenly spouse By picturing the spouse I must forget? Well—'tis blank horror. Yet if grief's good for me, Let me down into grief's blackest pit, And follow out God's cure by mine own deed.

Guta. What will your kinsfolk think?

Eliz. What will they think! What pleases them. That argument's a staff Which breaks whene'er you lean on't. Trust me, girl, That fear of man sucks out love's soaring ether, Baffles faith's heavenward eyes, and drops us down, To float, like plumeless birds, on any stream. Have I not proved it? There was a time with me, when every eye Did scorch like flame: if one looked cold on me, I straight accused myself of mortal sins: Each fopling was my master: I have lied From very fear of mine own serving-maids.— That's past, thank God's good grace!

Guta. And now you leap To the other end of the line.

Eliz. In self-defence. I am too weak to live by half my conscience; I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean; Life is too short for logic; what I do I must do simply; God alone must judge— For God alone shall guide, and God's elect— I shrink from earth's chill frosts too much to crawl— I have snapped opinion's chains, and now I'll soar Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free.

[The bishop of Bamberg enters. Conrad following.]

Bishop. The Devil plagued St. Antony in the likeness of a lean friar! Between mad monks and mad women, bedlam's broke loose, I think.

Con. When the Spirit first descended on the elect, seculars then, too, said mocking, 'These men are full of new wine.'

Bishop. Seculars, truly! If I had not in my secularity picked up a spice of chivalry to the ladies, I should long ago have turned out you and your regulars, to cant elsewhere. Plague on this gout—I must sit.

Eliz. Let me settle your cushion, uncle.

Bishop. So! girl! I sent for you from Botenstain. I had a mind, now, to have kept you there until your wits returned, and you would say Yes to some young noble suitor. As if I had not had trouble enough about your dower!—If I had had to fight for it, I should not have minded:—but these palavers and conferences have fretted me into the gout: and now you would throw all away again, tired with your toy, I suppose. What shall I say to the Counts, Varila, and the Cupbearer, and all the noble knights who will hazard their lands and lives in trying to right you with that traitor? I am ashamed to look them in the face! To give all up to the villain!—To pay him for his treason!

Eliz. Uncle, I give but what to me is worthless. He loves these baubles—let him keep them, then: I have my dower.

Bishop. To squander on nuns and beggars, at this rogue's bidding? Why not marry some honest man? You may have your choice of kings and princes; and if you have been happy with one gentleman, Mass! say I, why can't you be happy with another? What saith the Scripture? 'I will that the younger widows marry, bear children,'— not run after monks, and what not—What's good for the filly, is good for the mare, say I.

Eliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch— To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone.

Bishop. Ahem!—a pious notion—in moderation. We must be moderate, my child, moderate: I hate overdoing anything—especially religion.

Con. Madam, between your uncle and myself This question in your absence were best mooted.

[Exit Elizabeth.]

Bishop. How, priest? do you order her about like a servant-maid?

Con. The saints forbid! Now—ere I lose a moment—

[Kneeling.]

[Aside] All things to all men be—and so save some— [Aloud] Forgive, your grace, forgive me, If mine unmannered speech in aught have clashed With your more tempered and melodious judgment: Your courage will forgive an honest warmth. God knows, I serve no private interests.

Bishop. Your order's, hey? to wit?

Con. My lord, my lord, There may be higher aims: but what I said, I said but for our Church, and our cloth's honour. Ladies' religion, like their love, we know, Requires a gloss of verbal exaltation, Lest the sweet souls should understand themselves; And clergymen must talk up to the mark.

Bishop. We all know, Gospel preached in the mother-tongue Sounds too like common sense.

Con. Or too unlike it: You know the world, your grace; you know the sex—

Bishop. Ahem! As a spectator.

Con. Philosophice— Just so—You know their rage for shaven crowns— How they'll deny their God—but not their priest— Flirts—scandal-mongers—in default of both come Platonic love—worship of art and genius— Idols which make them dream of heaven, as girls Dream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on bridecake. It saves from worse—we are not all Abelards.

Bishop [aside]. Some of us have his tongue, if not his face.

Con. There lies her fancy; do but balk her of it— She'll bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared. Head her from that—she'll wed some pink-faced boy— The more low-bred and penniless, the likelier. Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool. Tug at the kite, 'twill only soar the higher: Give it but line, my lord, 'twill drop like slate. Use but that eagle's glance, whose daring foresight In chapter, camp, and council, wins the wonder Of timid trucklers—Scan results and outcomes— The scale is heavy in your grace's favour.

Bishop. Bah! priest! What can this Marpurg-madness do for me?

Con. Leave you the tutelage of all her children.

Bishop. Thank you—to play the dry-nurse to three starving brats.

Con. The minor's guardian guards the minor's lands.

Bishop. Unless they are pitched away in building hospitals.

Con. Instead of fattening in your wisdom's keeping.

Bishop. Well, well,—but what gross scandal to the family!

Con. The family, my lord, would gain a saint.

Bishop. Ah! monk, that canonisation costs a frightful sum.

Con. These fees, just now, would gladly be remitted.

Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when Rome's too rich to take!

Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher's see Were so o'ercursed by Mammon! But you grieve, I know, to see foul weeds of heresy Of late o'errun your diocese.

Bishop. Ay, curse them! I've hanged some dozens.

Con. Worthy of yourself! But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph— Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale Of Holy Church again—

Bishop. To singe their wings?

Con. They'll not come near enough. Again—there are Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert A churchman's energies were better spent In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark— Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope To this her huge capacity for sainthood— Set her, a burning and a shining light To all your people—Such a sacrifice, Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood, Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise For the next world as for this; will clear your name From calumnies which argue worldliness; Buy of itself the joys of paradise; And clench your lordship's interest with the pontiff.

Bishop. Well, well, we'll think on't.

Con. Sir, I doubt you not.

[Re-enter Elizabeth.]

Eliz. Uncle, I am determined.

Bishop. So am I. You shall to Marpurg with this holy man.

Eliz. Ah, there you speak again like my own uncle. I'll go—to rest [aside] and die. I only wait To see the bones of my beloved laid In some fit resting-place. A messenger Proclaims them near. O God!

Bishop. We'll go, my child, And meeting them with all due honour, show In our own worship, honourable minds.

[Exit Elizabeth.]

A messenger! How far off are they, then?

Serv. Some two days' journey, sir.

Bishop. Two days' journey, and nought prepared? Here, chaplain—Brother Hippodamas! Chaplain, I say! [Hippodamas enters.] Call the apparitor—ride off with him, right and left— Don't wait even to take your hawk—Tell my knights to be with me, with all their men-at-arms, at noon on the second day. Let all be of the best, say—the brightest of arms and the newest of garments. Mass! we must show our smartest before these crusaders—they'll be full of new fashions, I warrant 'em—the monkeys that have seen the world. And here, boy [to a page], set me a stoup of wine in the oriel-room, and another for this good monk.

Con. Pardon me, blessedness—but holy rule—

Bishop. Oh! I forgot.—A pail of water and a peck of beans for the holy man!—Order up my equerry, and bid my armourer—vestryman, I mean—look out my newest robes.—Plague on this gout.

[Exeunt, following the Bishop.]

SCENE IV

The Nave of Bamberg Cathedral. A procession entering the West Door, headed by Elizabeth and the Bishop, Nobles, etc. Religious bearing the coffin which encloses Lewis's bones.

1st Lady. See! the procession comes—the mob streams in At every door. Hark! how the steeples thunder Their solemn bass above the wailing choir.

2d Lady. They will stop at the screen.

Knight. And there, as I hear, open the coffin. Push forward, ladies, to that pillar: thence you will see all.

1st Peas. Oh dear! oh dear! If any man had told me that I should ride forty miles on this errand, to see him that went out flesh come home grass, like the flower of the field!

2d Peas. We have changed him, but not mended him, say I, friend.

1st Peas. Never we. He knew where a yeoman's heart lay! One that would clap a man on the back when his cow died, and behave like a gentleman to him—that never met you after a hailstorm without lightening himself of a few pocket-burners.

2d Peas. Ay, that's your poor-man's plaster: that's your right grease for this world's creaking wheels.

1st Peas. Nay, that's your rich man's plaster too, and covers the multitude of sins. That's your big pike's swimming-bladder, that keeps him atop and feeding: that's his calling and election, his oil of anointing, his salvum fac regem, his yeoman of the wardrobe, who keeps the velvet-piled side of this world uppermost, lest his delicate eyes should see the warp that holds it.

2d Peas. Who's the warp, then?

1st Peas. We, man, the friezes and fustians, that rub on till we get frayed through with overwork, and then all's abroad, and the nakedness of Babylon is discovered, and catch who catch can.

Old Woman. Pity they only brought his bones home! He would have made a lovely corpse, surely. He was a proper man!

1st Lady. Oh the mincing step he had with him! and the delicate hand on a horse, fingering the reins as St. Cicely does the organ- keys!

2d Lady. And for hunting, another Siegfried.

Knight. If he was Siegfried the gay, she was Chriemhild the grim; and as likely to prove a firebrand as the girl in the ballad.

1st Lady. Gay, indeed! His smiles were like plumcake, the sweeter the deeper iced. I never saw him speak civil word to woman, but to her.

2d Lady. O ye Saints! There was honey spilt on the ground! If I had such a knight, I'd never freeze alone on the chamber-floor, like some that never knew when they were well off. I'd never elbow him off to crusades with my pruderies.

'Pluck your apples while they're ripe, And pull your flowers in May, O!'

Eh! Mother?

Old Woman. 'Till when she grew wizened, and he grew cold, The balance lay even 'twixt young and old.'

Monk. Thus Satan bears witness perforce against the vanities of Venus! But what's this babbling? Carolationes in the holy place? Tace, vetula! taceas, taceto also, and that forthwith.

Old Woman. Tace in your teeth, and taceas also, begging-box! Who put the halter round his waist to keep it off his neck,—who? Get behind your screen, sirrah! Am I not a burgher's wife? Am I not in the nave? Am I not on my own ground? Have I brought up eleven children, without nurse wet or dry, to be taced nowadays by friars in the nave? Help! good folks! Where be these rooks a going?

Knight. The monk has vanished.

1st Peas. It's ill letting out waters, he finds. Who is that old gentleman, sir, holds the Princess so tight by the hand?

Knight. Her uncle, knave, the Bishop.

1st Peas. Very right, he: for she's almost a born natural, poor soul. It was a temptation to deal with her.

2d Peas. Thou didst cheat her shockingly, Frank, time o' the famine, on those nine sacks of maslin meal.

Knight. Go tell her of it, rascal, and she'll thank you for it, and give you a shilling for helping her to a 'cross.'

Old Woman. Taceing free women in the nave! This comes of your princesses, that turn the world upside down, and demean themselves to hob and nob with these black baldicoots!

Eliz. [in a low voice]. I saw all Israel scattered on the hills As sheep that have no shepherd! O my people! Who crowd with greedy eyes round this my jewel, Poor ivory, token of his outward beauty— Oh! had ye known his spirit!—Let his wisdom Inform your light hearts with that Saviour's likeness For whom he died! So had you kept him with you; And from the coming evils gentle Heaven Had not withdrawn the righteous: 'tis too late!

1st Lady. There, now, she smiles; do you think she ever loved him?

Knight. Never creature, but mealy-mouthed inquisitors, and shaven singing birds. She looks now as glad to be rid of him as any colt broke loose.

1st Lady. What will she do now, when this farce is over?

2d Lady. Found an abbey, that's the fashion, and elect herself abbess—tyrannise over hysterical girls, who are forced to thank her for making them miserable, and so die a saint.

Knight. Will you pray to her, my fair queen?

2d Lady. Not I, sir; the old Saints send me lovers enough, and to spare—yourself for one.

1st Lady. There is the giant-killer slain. But see—they have stopped: who is that raising the coffin lid?

2d Lady. Her familiar spirit, Conrad the heretic-catcher.

Knight. I do defy him! Thou art my only goddess; My saint, my idol, my—ahem!

1st Lady. That well's run dry. Look, how she trembles—Now she sinks, all shivering, Upon the pavement—Why, you'll see nought there Flirting behind the pillar—Now she rises— And choking down that proud heart, turns to the altar— Her hand upon the coffin.

Eliz. I thank thee, gracious Lord, who hast fulfilled Thine handmaid's mighty longings with the sight Of my beloved's bones, and dost vouchsafe This consolation to the desolate. I grudge not, Lord, the victim which we gave Thee, Both he and I, of his most precious life, To aid Thine holy city: though Thou knowest His sweetest presence was to this world's joy As sunlight to the taper—Oh! hadst Thou spared— Had Thy great mercy let us, hand in hand, Have toiled through houseless shame, on beggar's dole, I had been blest: Thou hast him, Lord, Thou hast him— Do with us what Thou wilt! If at the price Of this one silly hair, in spite of Thee, I could reclothe these wan bones with his manhood, And clasp to my shrunk heart my hero's self— I would not give it! I will weep no more— Lead on, most holy; on the sepulchre Which stands beside the choir, lay down your burden.

[To the people.]

Now, gentle hosts, within the close hard by, Will we our court, as queen of sorrows, hold— The green graves underneath us, and above The all-seeing vault, which is the eye of God, Judge of the widow and the fatherless. There will I plead my children's wrongs, and there, If, as I think, there boil within your veins The deep sure currents of your race's manhood, Ye'll nail the orphans' badge upon your shields, And own their cause for God's. We name our champions— Rudolf, the Cupbearer, Leutolf of Erlstetten, Hartwig of Erba, and our loved Count Walter, Our knights and vassals, sojourners among you. Follow us.

[Exit Elizabeth, etc.; the crowd following.]



ACT IV



SCENE I

Night. The church of a convent. Elizabeth, Conrad, Gerard, Monks, an Abbess, Nuns, etc., in the distance.

Conrad. What's this new weakness? At your own request We come to hear your self-imposed vows— And now you shrink: where are the high-flown fancies Which but last week, beside your husband's bier, You vapoured forth? Will you become a jest? You might have counted this tower's cost, before You blazoned thus your plans abroad.

Eliz. Oh! spare me!

Con. Spare? Spare yourself; and spare big easy words, Which prove your knowledge greater than your grace.

Eliz. Is there no middle path? No way to keep My love for them, and God, at once unstained?

Con. If this were God's world, Madam, and not the devil's, It might be done.

Eliz. God's world, man! Why, God made it— The faith asserts it God's.

Con. Potentially— As every christened rogue's a child of God, Or those old hags, Christ's brides—Think of your horn-book— The world, the flesh, and the devil—a goodly leash! And yet God made all three. I know the fiend; And you should know the world: be sure, be sure. The flesh is not a stork among the cranes. Our nature, even in Eden gross and vile, And by miraculous grace alone upheld, Is now itself, and foul, and damned, must die Ere we can live; let halting worldlings, madam, Maunder against earth's ties, yet clutch them still.

Eliz. And yet God gave them to me—

Con. In the world; Your babes are yours according to the flesh; How can you hate the flesh, and love its fruit?

Eliz. The Scripture bids me love them.

Con. Truly so, While you are forced to keep them; when God's mercy Doth from the flesh and world deliverance offer, Letting you bestow them elsewhere, then your love May cease with its own usefulness, and the spirit Range in free battle lists; I'll not waste reasons— We'll leave you, Madam, to the Spirit's voice.

[Conrad and Gerard withdraw.]

Eliz. [alone]. Give up his children! Why, I'd not give up A lock of hair, a glove his hand had hallowed: And they are his gift; his pledge; his flesh and blood Tossed off for my ambition! Ah! my husband! His ghost's sad eyes upbraid me! Spare me, spare me! I'd love thee still, if I dared; but I fear God. And shall I never more see loving eyes Look into mine, until my dying day? That's this world's bondage: Christ would have me free, And 'twere a pious deed to cut myself The last, last strand, and fly: but whither? whither? What if I cast away the bird i' the hand And found none in the bush? 'Tis possible— What right have I to arrogate Christ's bride-bed? Crushed, widowed, sold to traitors? I, o'er whom His billows and His storms are sweeping? God's not angry: No, not so much as we with buzzing fly; Or in the moment of His wrath's awakening We should be—nothing. No—there's worse than that— What if He but sat still, and let be be? And these deep sorrows, which my vain conceit Calls chastenings—meant for me—my ailments' cure— Were lessons for some angels far away, And I the corpus vile for the experiment? The grinding of the sharp and pitiless wheels Of some high Providence, which had its mainspring Ages ago, and ages hence its end? That were too horrible!— To have torn up all the roses from my garden, And planted thorns instead; to have forged my griefs, And hugged the griefs I dared not forge; made earth A hell, for hope of heaven; and after all, These homeless moors of life toiled through, to wake, And find blank nothing! Is that angel-world A gaudy window, which we paint ourselves To hide the dead void night beyond? The present? Why here's the present—like this arched gloom, It hems our blind souls in, and roofs them over With adamantine vault, whose only voice Is our own wild prayers' echo: and our future?— It rambles out in endless aisles of mist, The farther still the darker—O my Saviour! My God! where art Thou? That's but a tale about Thee, That crucifix above—it does but show Thee As Thou wast once, but not as Thou art now— Thy grief, but not Thy glory: where's that gone? I see it not without me, and within me Hell reigns, not Thou!

[Dashes herself down on the altar steps.]

[Monks in the distance chanting.]

'Kings' daughters were among thine honourable women'—

Eliz. Kings' daughters! I am one!

Monks. 'Hearken, O daughter, and consider; incline thine ear: Forget also thine own people, and thy father's house, So shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty: For He is thy Lord God, and worship thou Him.'

Eliz. [springing up]. I will forget them! They stand between my soul and its allegiance. Thou art my God: what matter if Thou love me? I am Thy bond-slave, purchased with Thy life-blood; I will remember nothing, save that debt. Do with me what Thou wilt. Alas, my babies! He loves them—they'll not need me.

[Conrad advancing.]

Con. How now, Madam! Have these your prayers unto a nobler will Won back that wandering heart?

Eliz. God's will is spoken! The flesh is weak; the spirit's fixed, and dares,— Stay! confess, sir, Did not yourself set on your brothers here To sing me to your purpose?

Con. As I live I meant it not; yet had I bribed them to it, Those words were no less God's.

Eliz. I know it, I know it; And I'll obey them: come, the victim's ready.

[Lays her hand on the altar. Gerard, Abbess, and Monks descend and advance.]

All worldly goods and wealth, which once I loved, I do now count but dross: and my beloved, The children of my womb, I now regard As if they were another's. God is witness My pride is to despise myself; my joy All insults, sneers, and slanders of mankind; No creature now I love, but God alone. Oh, to be clear, clear, clear, of all but Him! Lo, here I strip me of all earthly helps—

[Tearing off her clothes.]

Naked and barefoot through the world to follow My naked Lord—And for my filthy pelf—

Con. Stop, Madam—

Eliz. Why so, sir?

Con. Upon thine oath! Thy wealth is God's, not thine—How darest renounce The trust He lays on thee? I do command thee, Being, as Aaron, in God's stead, to keep it Inviolate, for the Church and thine own needs.

Eliz. Be it so—I have no part nor lot in't— There—I have spoken.

Abbess. O noble soul! which neither gold, nor love, Nor scorn can bend!

Gerard. And think what pure devotions, What holy prayers must they have been, whose guerdon Is such a flood of grace!

Nuns. What love again! What flame of charity, which thus prevails In virtue's guest!

Eliz. Is self-contempt learnt thus? I'll home.

Abbess. And yet how blest, in these cool shades To rest with us, as in a land-locked pool, Touched last and lightest by the ruffling breeze.

Eliz. No! no! no! no! I will not die in the dark: I'll breathe the free fresh air until the last, Were it but a month—I have such things to do— Great schemes—brave schemes—and such a little time! Though now I am harnessed light as any foot-page. Come, come, my ladies. [Exeunt Elizabeth, etc.]

Ger. Alas, poor lady!

Con. Why alas, my son? She longs to die a saint, and here's the way to it.

Ger. Yet why so harsh? why with remorseless knife Home to the stem prune back each bough and bud? I thought the task of education was To strengthen, not to crush; to train and feed Each subject toward fulfilment of its nature, According to the mind of God, revealed In laws, congenital with every kind And character of man.

Con. A heathen dream! Young souls but see the gay and warm outside, And work but in the shallow upper soil. Mine deeper, and the sour and barren rock Will stop you soon enough. Who trains God's Saints, He must transform, not pet—Nature's corrupt throughout— A gaudy snake, which must be crushed, not tamed, A cage of unclean birds, deceitful ever; Born in the likeness of the fiend, which Adam Did at the Fall, the Scripture saith, put on. Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook, To make him sport for thy maidens? Scripture saith Who is the prince of this world—so forget not.

Ger. Forgive, if my more weak and carnal judgment Be startled by your doctrines, and doubt trembling The path whereon you force yourself and her.

Con. Startled? Belike—belike—let doctrines be; Thou shalt be judged by thy works; so see to them, And let divines split hairs: dare all thou canst; Be all thou darest;—that will keep thy brains full. Have thy tools ready, God will find thee work— Then up, and play the man. Fix well thy purpose— Let one idea, like an orbed sun, Rise radiant in thine heaven; and then round it All doctrines, forms, and disciplines will range As dim parhelia, or as needful clouds, Needful, but mist-begotten, to be dashed Aside, when fresh shall serve thy purpose better.

Ger. How? dashed aside?

Con. Yea, dashed aside—why not? The truths, my son, are safe in God's abysses— While we patch up the doctrines to look like them. The best are tarnished mirrors—clumsy bridges, Whereon, as on firm soil, the mob may walk Across the gulf of doubt, and know no danger. We, who see heaven, may see the hell which girds it. Blind trust for them. When I came here from Rome, Among the Alps, all through one frost-bound dawn, Waiting with sealed lips the noisy day, I walked upon a marble mead of snow— An angel's spotless plume, laid there for me: Then from the hillside, in the melting noon, Looked down the gorge, and lo! no bridge, no snow— But seas of writhing glacier, gashed and scored With splintered gulfs, and fathomless crevasses, Blue lips of hell, which sucked down roaring rivers The fiends who fled the sun. The path of Saints Is such; so shall she look from heaven, and see The road which led her thither. Now we'll go, And find some lonely cottage for her lodging; Her shelter now is but a crumbling ruin Roofed in with pine boughs—discipline more healthy For soul, than body: She's not ripe for death.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II

Open space in a suburb of Marpurg, near Elizabeth's Hut. Count Walter and Count Pama of Hungary entering.

C. Pama. I have prepared my nerves for a shock.

C. Wal. You are wise, for the world's upside down here. The last gateway brought us out of Christendom into the New Jerusalem, the fifth Monarchy, where the Saints possess the earth. Not a beggar here but has his pockets full of fair ladies' tokens: not a barefooted friar but rules a princess.

C. Pama. Creeping, I opine, into widows' houses, and for a pretence making long prayers.

C. Wal. Don't quote Scripture here, sir, especially in that gross literal way! The new lights here have taught us that Scripture's saying one thing, is a certain proof that it means another. Except, by the bye, in one text.

C. Pama. What's that?

C. Wal. 'Ask, and it shall be given you.'

C. Pama. Ah! So we are to take nothing literally, that they may take literally everything themselves?

C. Wal. Humph! As for your text, see if they do not saddle it on us before the day is out, as glibly as ever you laid it on them. Here comes the lady's tyrant, of whom I told you.

[Conrad advances from the Hut.]

Con. And what may Count Walter's valour want here?

[Count Walter turns his back.]

C. Pama. I come, Sir Priest, from Andreas, king renowned Of Hungary, ambassador unworthy Unto the Landgravine, his saintly daughter; And fain would be directed to her presence.

Con. That is as I shall choose. But I'll not stop you. I do not build with straw. I'll trust my pupils To worldlings' honeyed tongues, who make long prayers, And enter widows' houses for pretence. There dwells the lady, who has chosen too long The better part, to have it taken from her. Besides that with strange dreams and revelations She has of late been edified.

C. Wal. Bah! but they will serve your turn—and hers.

Con. What do you mean?

C. Wal. When you have cut her off from child and friend, and even Isentrudis and Guta, as I hear, are thrust out by you to starve, and she sits there, shut up like a bear in a hole, to feed on her own substance; if she has not some of these visions to look at, how is she, or any other of your poor self-gorged prisoners, to help fancying herself the only creature on earth?

Con. How now? Who more than she, in faith and practice, a living member of the Communion of Saints? Did she not lately publicly dispense in charity in a single day five hundred marks and more? Is it not my continual labour to keep her from utter penury through her extravagance in almsgiving? For whom does she take thought but for the poor, on whom, day and night, she spends her strength? Does she not tend them from the cradle, nurse them, kiss their sores, feed them, bathe them, with her own hands, clothe them, living and dead, with garments, the produce of her own labour? Did she not of late take into her own house a paralytic boy, whose loathsomeness had driven away every one else? And now that we have removed that charge, has she not with her a leprous boy, to whose necessities she ministers hourly, by day and night? What valley but blesses her for some school, some chapel, some convent, built by her munificence? Are not the hospices, which she has founded in divers towns, the wonder of Germany?—wherein she daily feeds and houses a multitude of the infirm poor of Christ? Is she not followed at every step by the blessings of the poor? Are not her hourly intercessions for the souls and bodies of all around incessant, world-famous, mighty to save? While she lives only for the Church of Christ, will you accuse her of selfish isolation?