 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
I.
Henrietta.
Is this the way my dreary life shall end,
In sorrow heaped on sorrow, woe on woe?
How have I sinned that God should plague me thus?
I am perplexed and puzzled. If we sinned,
When we had prayed to God to show us how
We were awrong, why did no voice reply,
Why was no answer giv'n? Or, if 'twas right
Why do I doubt and struggle in my mind,
Attacking and defending, putting forth
All subtleties of word and argument
On this side and on that?
In sorrow heaped on sorrow, woe on woe?
How have I sinned that God should plague me thus?
I am perplexed and puzzled. If we sinned,
When we had prayed to God to show us how
We were awrong, why did no voice reply,
Why was no answer giv'n? Or, if 'twas right
Why do I doubt and struggle in my mind,
Attacking and defending, putting forth
All subtleties of word and argument
On this side and on that?
The very house
Preaches all day to mine unwilling ears.
I do not know—I cannot somehow think
That all these woes were sent on me for naught.
Those eighteen men, indeed, on whom the tower
Brought thunderous death, while God was still on earth—
Well—it was true enough for them perhaps;
But not for me: I see that clear enough.
Those very drops, that in the recent rains,
Fell, with a long splash from the leaky roof
And rankled by my bedside, in a pool
And, like an acid, ate the rotten floor—
Those very drops were accusations.
Preaches all day to mine unwilling ears.
2
That all these woes were sent on me for naught.
Those eighteen men, indeed, on whom the tower
Brought thunderous death, while God was still on earth—
Well—it was true enough for them perhaps;
But not for me: I see that clear enough.
Those very drops, that in the recent rains,
Fell, with a long splash from the leaky roof
And rankled by my bedside, in a pool
And, like an acid, ate the rotten floor—
Those very drops were accusations.
Still,
I do not understand it, cannot see
How all these things should come upon me so
For something God was asked to speak about.
I asked him purely, meant to take his will,
And, by whatever struggle, make it mine.
Is God so careless of the souls of men?
How easy had it been for him to speak?
I waited—waited—prayed and searched in vain.
That very morning, ere the dew was dry,
I stole across the coppice to the park;
And there I watched the streamlet's little pool:
A turn it takes—the little rivulet—
Splashing, in tiny thunder, on the stones,
And pouring summer cataracts of spray
Down pigmy, moss-grown, water-hollowed cliffs:
Then, on the pool below, 'mong rush and sedge
And fresh green forests of the meadow grass,
Float bubbles on its surface. There I stopped,
And searching there for omens in the brook
As in the wind blown leaves and all things else,
I fell to counting bubbles. One and two,
And so on up to sev'n and then to eight;
But niether nine to ten. Two bubbles! Aye,
If I am wrong, God let me drift to sin
For want of such a thing? Can this be true?
Were two mens-souls not worth two globes of air,
Sealed up in rain-bow domes of water? Still,
I cannot grow at ease about this thing.
Was I in earnest seeking for the sign?
Did I not see one and refuse to see?
Perhaps it was so. Only can this be?
Can one tell lies to cheat oneself withal?
I do not, cannot—there is something wrong—
I leave this to philosophers and priests.
All I can feel is Monmouth's deadly peril.
O God! if it was my fault, pardon him!
I bear the blame of it: I urged him on.
Thou wilt not slay him? Lord, he thought it right:
Thou hads't deceived him—I, I mean, had done't.
O this is impious to doubt the Lord.
It cannot be that we have sinned in this:
It is accusing God.
I do not understand it, cannot see
How all these things should come upon me so
For something God was asked to speak about.
I asked him purely, meant to take his will,
And, by whatever struggle, make it mine.
Is God so careless of the souls of men?
How easy had it been for him to speak?
I waited—waited—prayed and searched in vain.
That very morning, ere the dew was dry,
I stole across the coppice to the park;
And there I watched the streamlet's little pool:
3
Splashing, in tiny thunder, on the stones,
And pouring summer cataracts of spray
Down pigmy, moss-grown, water-hollowed cliffs:
Then, on the pool below, 'mong rush and sedge
And fresh green forests of the meadow grass,
Float bubbles on its surface. There I stopped,
And searching there for omens in the brook
As in the wind blown leaves and all things else,
I fell to counting bubbles. One and two,
And so on up to sev'n and then to eight;
But niether nine to ten. Two bubbles! Aye,
If I am wrong, God let me drift to sin
For want of such a thing? Can this be true?
Were two mens-souls not worth two globes of air,
Sealed up in rain-bow domes of water? Still,
I cannot grow at ease about this thing.
Was I in earnest seeking for the sign?
Did I not see one and refuse to see?
Perhaps it was so. Only can this be?
Can one tell lies to cheat oneself withal?
I do not, cannot—there is something wrong—
I leave this to philosophers and priests.
4
O God! if it was my fault, pardon him!
I bear the blame of it: I urged him on.
Thou wilt not slay him? Lord, he thought it right:
Thou hads't deceived him—I, I mean, had done't.
O this is impious to doubt the Lord.
It cannot be that we have sinned in this:
It is accusing God.
And yet, his wife—
I cannot pass by that: it is too hard.
O how she must have wept and pined alone.
She must have love'd him, could not choose but love;
And yet, methinks, if she had loved him much
He had not left her for the first fair face
And plunged into the sin I took him from.
Could that be evil which so bettered him?
And then we prayed to thee.
I cannot pass by that: it is too hard.
O how she must have wept and pined alone.
She must have love'd him, could not choose but love;
And yet, methinks, if she had loved him much
He had not left her for the first fair face
And plunged into the sin I took him from.
Could that be evil which so bettered him?
And then we prayed to thee.
But what do I,
Thus grieving selfishly on selfish griefs?
She suffers too and suffers worse than I—
She, robbed of him and left alone to pine.
I think I will go forth and visit her,
And pray her to forgive me all my wrong,
And we could weep together. Wherefore not?
Both love him and the axe is o'er his neck:
Is that a time for petty jealousies?
Tis well enough for me who dealt the blow
And reaped a life-time's pleasure from her grief
To act forgiveness; but for her?—I fear
That she would drive me forth with scorn and wrath:
I think I know what name she gives to me.
And has she not a right to hate me sore?
Ah! what a bitter life must hers have been!
And it was I who robbed and stripped that life
Of all the gilding love would paint it with,
And left her lonely, loveless, scorned by all,
To learn how weak was he—and I, how bad.
O it was sinful!
Thus grieving selfishly on selfish griefs?
She suffers too and suffers worse than I—
She, robbed of him and left alone to pine.
I think I will go forth and visit her,
And pray her to forgive me all my wrong,
5
Both love him and the axe is o'er his neck:
Is that a time for petty jealousies?
Tis well enough for me who dealt the blow
And reaped a life-time's pleasure from her grief
To act forgiveness; but for her?—I fear
That she would drive me forth with scorn and wrath:
I think I know what name she gives to me.
And has she not a right to hate me sore?
Ah! what a bitter life must hers have been!
And it was I who robbed and stripped that life
Of all the gilding love would paint it with,
And left her lonely, loveless, scorned by all,
To learn how weak was he—and I, how bad.
O it was sinful!
But the prayer, the prayer!
God would have answered us had it been wrong:
God must have answered us!
But here comes Jerome, lately Monmouth's groom.
What further news can he have brought me? Nay—
I will not think it is a pardon yet
Lest disappointment come to blast my joy.
God would have answered us had it been wrong:
God must have answered us!
But here comes Jerome, lately Monmouth's groom.
What further news can he have brought me? Nay—
I will not think it is a pardon yet
Lest disappointment come to blast my joy.
| Monmouth A Tragedy | |