The Saints Tragedy | Page 7

by vigil,
fast, and prayer, Learnt to love as Jesus loved before them, While they
bore the cross which poor men bear.
III
Tell us how our stout crusading fathers Fought and died for God, and
not for gold; Let their love, their faith, their boyish daring,
Distance-mellowed, gild the days of old.
IV
Tell us how the sexless workers, thronging, Angel-tended, round the
convent doors, Wrought to Christian faith and holy order Savage hearts
alike and barren moors.
V
Ye who built the churches where we worship, Ye who framed the laws
by which we move, Fathers, long belied, and long forsaken, Oh!
forgive the children of your love!
(PROMETHEUS)

I
Speak! but ask us not to be as ye were! All but God is changing day by
day. He who breathes on man the plastic spirit Bids us mould ourselves
its robe of clay.
II
Old anarchic floods of revolution, Drowning ill and good alike in night,
Sink, and bare the wrecks of ancient labour, Fossil-teeming, to the
searching light.
III
There will we find laws, which shall interpret, Through the simpler past,
existing life; Delving up from mines and fairy caverns Charmed blades,
to cut the age's strife.
IV
What though fogs may stream from draining waters? We will till the
clays to mellow loam; Wake the graveyard of our fathers' spirits;
Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade and bloom.
V.
Old decays but foster new creations; Bones and ashes feed the golden
corn; Fresh elixirs wander every moment, Down the veins through
which the live past feeds its child, the live unborn.

ACT I

SCENE I. A.D. 1220
The Doorway of a closed Chapel in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting on
the Steps.

Eliz. Baby Jesus, who dost lie Far above that stormy sky, In Thy
mother's pure caress, Stoop and save the motherless.
Happy birds! whom Jesus leaves Underneath His sheltering eaves;
There they go to play and sleep, May not I go in to weep?
All without is mean and small, All within is vast and tall; All without is
harsh and shrill, All within is hushed and still.
Jesus, let me enter in, Wrap me safe from noise and sin. Let me list the
angels' songs, See the picture of Thy wrongs;
Let me kiss Thy wounded feet, Drink Thine incense, faint and sweet,
While the clear bells call Thee down From Thine everlasting throne.
At thy door-step low I bend, Who have neither kin nor friend; Let me
here a shelter find, Shield the shorn lamb from the wind.
Jesu, Lord, my heart will break: Save me for Thy great love's sake!
[Enter Isentrudis.]
Isen. Aha! I had missed my little bird from the nest, And judged that
she was here. What's this? fie, tears?
Eliz. Go! you despise me like the rest.
Isen. Despise you? What's here? King Andrew's child? St. John's sworn
maid? Who dares despise you? Out upon these Saxons! They sang
another note when I was younger, When from the rich East came my
queenly pearl, Lapt on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroes Rode
by her side, and far behind us stretched The barbs and sumpter mules, a
royal train, Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems, Wedges of
gold, and furniture of silver, Fit for my princess.
Eliz. Hush now, I've heard all, nurse, A thousand times.
Isen. Oh, how their hungry mouths Did water at the booty! Such a prize,
Since the three Kings came wandering into Coln, They ne'er saw, nor

their fathers;--well they knew it! Oh, how they fawned on us! 'Great
Isentrudis!' 'Sweet babe!' The Landgravine did thank her saints As if
you, or your silks, had fallen from heaven; And now she wears your
furs, and calls us gipsies. Come tell your nurse your griefs; we'll weep
together, Strangers in this strange land.
Eliz. I am most friendless. The Landgravine and Agnes--you may see
them Begrudge the food I eat, and call me friend Of knaves and
serving-maids; the burly knights Freeze me with cold blue eyes: no
saucy page But points and whispers, 'There goes our pet nun; Would
but her saintship leave her gold behind, We'd give herself her furlough.'
Save me! save me! All here are ghastly dreams; dead masks of stone,
And you and I, and Guta, only live: Your eyes alone have souls. I shall
go mad! Oh that they would but leave me all alone To teach poor girls,
and work within my chamber, With mine own thoughts, and all the
gentle angels Which glance about my dreams at morning-tide! Then I
should be as happy as the birds Which sing at my bower window. Once
I longed To be beloved,--now would they but forget me! Most vile I
must be, or they could not hate