And saw him standing at the door

Of his Father's mansion, vast and splendid, And beckoning to me from afar.

I cannot stay!

GOTTLIEB.

She speaks almost

As if it were the Holy Ghost

Spake through her lips, and in her stead! What if this were of God?

URSULA.

Ah, then

Gainsay it dare we not.

GOTTLIEB.
Amen!

Elsie! the words that thou hast said
Are strange and new for us to hear,
And fill our hearts with doubt and fear.
Whether it be a dark temptation
Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration,
We in our blindness cannot say.
We must think upon it, and pray;
For evil and good it both resembles.
If it be of God, his will be done!
May he guard us from the Evil One!
How hot thy hand is! how it trembles !
Go to thy bed, and try to sleep.

Kiss me.

URSULA.

Good night; and do not weep
ELSIE goes out.

Ah, what an awful thing is this!

I almost shuddered at her kiss,
As if a ghost had touched my cheek,
I am so childish and so weak!

As soon as I see the earliest gray
Of morning glimmer in the east,
I will go over to the priest,

And hear what the good man has to say!

A VILLAGE CHURCH.

A woman kneeling at the confessional.
THE PARISH PRIEST, from within.

Go, sin no more! Thy penance o'er,
A new and better life begin!
God maketh thee for ever free

From the dominion of thy sin!
Go, sin no more! He will restore

The peace that filled thy heart before,
And pardon thine iniquity!

The woman goes out.

The Priest comes forth, and walks slowly up and down the church.

O blessed Lord! how much I need

Thy light to guide me on my way!
So many hands, that, without heed,

Still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed!
So many feet, that, day by day,
Still wander from thy fold astray!
Unless thou fill me with thy light,
I cannot lead thy flock aright;
Nor, without thy support, can bear
The burden of so great a care,

But am myself a castaway!

A pause.

The day is drawing to its close;

And what good deeds, since first it rose,

Have I presented, Lord, to thee,

As offerings of my ministry?

What wrong repressed, what right maintained,

What struggle passed, what victory gained,

What good attempted and attained?

Feeble, at best, is my endeavor!

I see, but cannot reach, the height
That lies for ever in the light,

And yet for ever and for ever,
When seeming just within my grasp,
I feel my feeble hands unclasp,
And sink discouraged into night!
For thine own purpose, thou hast sent
The strife and the discouragement!

A pause.

Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck?

Why keep me pacing to and fro
Amid these aisles of sacred gloom,
Counting my footsteps as I go,

And marking with each step a tomb?
Why should the world for thee make room,
And wait thy leisure and thy beck?
Thou comest in the hope to hear
Some word of comfort and of cheer.
What can I say? I cannot give

The counsel to do this and live;
But rather, firmly to deny

The tempter, though his power is strong,

And, inaccessible to wrong,

Still like a martyr live and die!

A pause.

The evening air grows dusk and brown;
I must go forth into the town,

To visit beds of pain and death,

Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes That see, through tears, the sun go down, But never more shall see it rise.

The poor in body and estate,

The sick and the disconsolate,

Must not on man's convenience wait.

Goes out.

Enter LUCIFER, as a Priest.

LUCIFER, with a genuflexion, mocking.

This is the Black Pater-noster.

God was my foster,

He fostered me

Under the book of the Palm-tree!

St. Michael was my dame.
He was born at Bethlehem,
He was made of flesh and blood.
God send me my right food,

My right food, and shelter too,

That I may to yon

kirk

go,

To read upon yon sweet book

Which the mighty God of heaven shook.
Open, open, hell's gates!

Shut, shut, heaven's gates!

All the devils in the air

The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer!

Looking round the church.

What a darksome and dismal place!

I wonder that any man has the face

To call such a hole the House of the Lord,

And the Gate of Heaven, yet such is the word.
Ceiling, and walls, and windows old,

Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould;
Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs,

Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs!
The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons
Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans,
With about as much real edification

As if a great Bible, bound in lead,
Had fallen, and struck them on the head;
And I ought to remember that sensation!
Here stands the holy-water stoup!

Holy-water it may be to many,

But to me,

the veriest Liquor Gehennæ!

It smells like a filthy fast-day soup!
Near it stands the box for the poor;
With its iron padlock, safe and sure.
I and the priest of the parish know
Whither all these charities go;
Therefore, to keep up the institution,
I will add my little contribution!

He puts in money.

Underneath this mouldering tomb,

With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass, Slumbers a great lord of the village.

All his life was riot and pillage,

But at length, to escape the threadened doom
Of the everlasting, penal fire,

He died in the dress of a mendicant friar,
And bartered his wealth for a daily mass.
But all that afterwards came to pass,
And whether he finds it dull or pleasant,
Is kept a secret for the present,
At his own particular desire.

And here, in a corner of the wall,
Shadowy, silent, apart from all,
With its awful portal open wide,
And its latticed windows on either side,
And its step well worn by the bended knees
Of one or two pious centuries,
Stands the village confessional!
Within it, as an honored guest,
I will sit me down awhile and rest!

Seats himself in the confessional.
Here sits the priest; and faint and low,
Like the sighing of an evening breeze,
Comes through these painted lattices
The ceaseless sound of human woe;