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 threatened 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 honoured 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; Here, while her bosom aches and throbs With deep and agonizing sobs, That half are passion, half contrition, The luckless daughter of perdition Slowly confesses her secret shame! The time, the place, the lover's name! Here the grim murderer, with a groan, From his bruised conscience rolls the stone, Thinking that thus he can atone For ravages of sword and flame! Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, How a priest can sit here so sedately, Reading, the whole year out and in, Naught but the catalogue of sin, And still keep any faith whatever In human virtue! Never! never!
I cannot repeat a thousandth part
Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes That arise, when with palpitating throes The grave-yard in the human heart
Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest, As if he were an archangel, at least. It makes a peculiar atmosphere,
This odour of earthly passions and crimes, Such as I like to breathe, at times, And such as often brings me here In the hottest and most pestilential season. To-day, I come for another reason; To foster and ripen an evil thought
In a heart that is almost to madness wrought, And to make a murderer out of a prince, A sleight of hand I learned long since! He comes. In the twilight he will not see The difference between his priest and me! In the same net was the mother caught!
Prince Henry (entering and kneeling at the confessional). Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, I come to crave, O Father holy, Thy benediction on my head. Lucifer. The benediction shall be said After confession, not before!
'Tis a God-speed to the parting guest, Who stands already at the door, Sandalled with holiness, and dressed In garments pure from earthly stain. Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast? Does the same madness fill thy brain?
Or have thy passion and unrest Vanished for ever from thy mind?
Prince Henry. By the same madness still made blind, By the same passion still possessed,
I come again to the house of prayer, A man afflicted and distressed!
As in a cloudy atmosphere, Through unseen sluices of the air, A sudden and impetuous wind Strikes the great forest white with fear, And every branch, and bough, and spray, Points all its quivering leaves one way, And meadows of grass, and fields of grain, And the clouds above, and the slanting rain, And smoke from chimneys of the town, Yield themselves to it, and bow down, So does this dreadful purpose press Onward, with irresistible stress, And all my thoughts and faculties, Struck level by the strength of this, From their true inclination turn, And all stream forward to Salern! Lucifer. Alas! we are but eddies of dust, Uplifted by the blast, and whirled Along the highway of the world A moment only, then to fall Back to a common level all, At the subsiding of the gust!
Prince Henry. O holy Father! pardon in me The oscillation of a mind
Unsteadfast, and that cannot find Its centre of rest and harmony! For evermore before mine eyes This ghastly phantom flits and flies, And as a madman through a cloud, With frantic gestures and wild cries, It hurries onward, and aloud Repeats its awful prophecies!
Weakness is wretchedness! To be strong Is to be happy! I am weak,
And cannot find the good I seek, Because I feel and fear the wrong!
Lucifer. Be not alarmed! The Church is kind, And in her mercy and her meekness
She meets half-way her children's weakness, Writes their transgressions in the dust! Though in the Decalogue we find
The mandate written, "Thou shalt not kill!” Yet there are cases when we must.
In war, for instance, or from scathe
To guard and keep the one true Faith!
We must look at the Decalogue in the light Of an ancient statute, that was meant For a mild and general application, To be understood with the reservation, That, in certain instances, the Right Must yield to the Expedient!
Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die, What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie! What noble deeds, what fair renown, Into the grave with thee go down! What acts of valour and courtesy Remain undone, and die with thee! Thou art the last of all thy race! With thee a noble name expires, And vanishes from the earth's face The glorious memory of thy sires! She is a peasant! In her veins Flows common and plebeian blood; It is such as daily and hourly stains The dust and the turf of battle plains, By vassals shed in a crimson flood, Without reserve, and without reward, At the slightest summons of their lord! But thine is precious; the fore-appointed Blood of kings, of God's anointed! Moreover, what has the world in store, For one like her, but tears and toil? Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil,
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