The Purgatory of St. Patrick | Page 9

the voice in horror fails,?Sad the accent faints and trembles,?And as 'mid the night's dark shadows,?The hair stands on end through terror;?Thus confused, so full of doubt,?Sad remembrance so o'erwhelms me,?That the thing I dared to do?I scarce dare in words to tell thee.?For, in fine, my crime is such,?So to be abhorred, detested,?So profane, so sacrilegious?(Strange upon thee so to press it),?That for having such committed?I at times feel some repentance.?Well, in fine, I dared one night,?When deep silence had erected?Sepulchres of fleeting sleep?For men's overwearied senses,?When a dark and cloudy veil?Heaven had o'er its face extended --?Mourning which the wind assumed?For the sun whose life had ended --?In whose obsequies the night-birds?Swan-notes sang instead of verses,?And when back from waves of sapphire,?Where their beauty was reflected,?The clear stars a second time?Trembling lights to heaven presented:--?Well, on such a night, by climbing?O'er the garden wall, I entered?With the assistance of two friends?(For when such things are attempted?An associate never fails),?And in horror and in terror,?Seeking in the dark my death,?Reached at length the cell (I tremble?To remember it) in which?Was my cousin, whom respectful?Silence bids me not to name,?Though all self-respect has left me.?Frightened at such nameless horror,?On the hard floor she fell senseless,?When she passed into my arms,?And ere she regained her senses,?She already was outside?Her asylum, in a desert,?When if heaven possessed the power,?It had not the will to help her.?Women, when they are persuaded?That the wildest of excesses?Are the effects of love, forgive them?Easily; and, therefore, pleasure?Following tears, some consolation?In her miseries was effected;?Though, in fact, they were so great,?That united in one person?She saw violence, violation,?Incest, nay, adultery even,?Against God who was her spouse,?And a sacrilege most dreadful.?Finally we left that place,?Being carried to Valencia?By two steeds that well might claim?From the winds to be descended:?Feigning that she was my wife,?But with little peace we dwelt there;?For I quickly having squandered?Whatsoever little treasure?I brought with me, without friends,?p 260?Without any hope of help there,?In my dire distress appealed?To the beauty still so perfect?Of my poor pretended wife:?If for aught I did I ever?Could feel shame, this act alone?Would most surely overwhelm me;?Since it is the lowest baseness?That the vilest breast descends to,?To put up to sale one's honour,?And to trade in love's caresses.?Scarce with shameless front had I?This base plan to her suggested,?When concealing her design?She gave seeming acquiescence;?But I scarce had turned my back,?Hardly had I left her presence,?When she, flying from me, found?Grace a convent's walls to enter.?There, a holy monk advising,?She a saving port and shelter?Found against the world's wild storms,?And there died, her sin, her penance,?Giving all a great example;?May God rest her soul in heaven!--?Seeing that the narrow world?Now took note of my offences,?And that soon the very land?Might reject me, I determined?To re-seek my native country;?For at least I there expected?To be safer from my foes,?In a place so long my centre?And my home. The way I took?And to Ireland came, which welcomed?Me at first as would a mother,?But a step-mother resembled?Before long, for seeking a passage?Where a harbour lay protected?By a mole, I found that corsairs?Lay concealed within the shelter?Of a little creek which his?Out of view their well-armed vessel.?And of these, their captain, Philip,?Took me prisoner, after efforts?Made in my defence so brave,?That in deference to the mettle?I displayed, my life he spared.?What ensured you know already,?How the wind in sudden anger?Rising into raging tempest,?Now chastised us in its pride,?Now our lives more cruelly threatened,?Making in the seas and mountains?Such wild ruin and resemblance,?That to mock the mountain's pride?Waves still mightier forms presented,?Which with catapults of crystal?Made the cliffs' foundations tremble,?So that neighbouring cities fell,?And the sea, in scornful temper,?Gathering up from its abysses?The munition it collecteth,?Fired upon the land its pearls?In their shells, wherein engendered?By the swift breath of the morning?In its dew, they shine resplendent?Tears of ice and fire; in fine,?Not in pictures so imperfect?All our time to waste, the crew?Went to sup in the infernal?Halls themselves; I, too, a guest?Would have equally attended?With them, if this Patrick, here,?Whom I know not why I reverence,?Looking with respect and fear?On his beauteous countenance ever,?Had not drawn me from the sea,?Where, exhausted, sinking, helpless,?I drank death in every draught,?Agony in each salt wave's venom.?This my history is, and now?I wish neither life nor mercy,?Neither that my pains should move thee,?Nor my asking should compel thee,?Save in this, to give me death,?That thus may the life be ended?Of a man who is so bad,?That he scarcely can be better.*
[footnote] *See note as to Montalvan's invention of this story.
KING. Luis, though thou art a Christian,?Which by me is most detested,?Yet I so admire thy courage?That I wish, before all present,?Between thee and him to show?How my power can be exerted,?How it punishes as rewards,?How it elevates and depresses.?And so