 | The Purgatory of Saint Patrick |  |
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SCENE III.
—ANOTHER OPEN IN THE FOREST.Enter the KING, LESBIA, LAOGHAIRE, and the Captain.
LESBIA.
Not a trace can be discovered
Whither they have fled. The mountain
Has been search'd from top to bottom,
And throughout the wood and valley,
Every rock and leafy arbour
Have been visited; but nothing
Gives the slightest indication
Whither they have gone.
KING.
'Tis likely
That the Earth the two has swallow'd,
To preserve them from my fury—
For the Heavens could scarcely guard them
From my anger and my vengeance.
LESBIA.
See the sun his golden tresses
In the orient disentangling,
Spreads them o'er the woods and mountains—
Timely comes his light to aid us.
Enter PHILIP.
If your Majesty will hearken,
You will learn a great affliction—
More prodigious and more novel,
Than e'er time or fortune fashion'd,
Or imagination fancied:
Seeking through these woods Polonia,
I the whole night having wander'd
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When the dawn began to glimmer,
Clothed in ashen robes of mourning,
And by thick black clouds surrounded—
When the pleasant stars were absent
Not to see a sight so dreadful—
Running hither—running thither—
Soon I came where tender blossoms
Were with crimson blood-spots sprinkled,
And upon the earth were scatter'd
Fragments of a woman's trinkets.
By these mournful signs directed,
Soon I came where I discover'd,
'Neath a grey rock, frowning over,
In a fragrant tomb of roses,
Dead and cold, Polonia lying!
[The scene opens and discovers POLONIA lying dead beside a rock.
Thither turn your eyes in anguish—
There the young tree lies extended—
There the flower lies pale and wither'd—
There the bright flame is extinguished—
There is Beauty's form laid prostrate,
And its sinuous outline rigid—
There the dead Polonia lieth!
KING.
Ah! my heart is overwhelmed!
I have not the power within me
To endure such dire afflictions—
Such innumerable sorrows,
And such varying forms of anguish.
Ah! my poor, unhappy daughter—
Ah! my darling wildly sought for!
Evil is the hour I've found thee!
LESBIA.
I have been so stunn'd and startled,
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O Polonia! let thy sister
Share thy fate and thy misfortunes.
KING.
What wild hand could e'er have lifted
Murderous steel against such beauty?
Oh! my life doth set in sorrow,
This disastrous day doth end it!
PATRICK, within.
PATRICK.
Woe to thee! forlorn Hibernia!
Woe to thee! unhappy people,
If with tears you do not water,
Day and night, the land in weeping:
Opening thus the gate of Heaven,
Which you closed by disobedience.
Woe to thee! unhappy people;
Woe to thee! forlorn Hibernia!
KING.
Heavens! what voice so sad and mournful
Falls upon my ear? it pierceth
Like an arrow through my bosom,
To my heart's core penetrating.
Learn who thus doth interrupt me
In the moment of my sorrow.
Who but I has need for wailing?
Who but I has cause for sorrow?
LAOGHAIRE.
This, my gracious lord, is Patrick,
Who since he has come to Ireland,
Back from Rome, and since the Pontiff
Unto him has given the title
And pre-eminence of Bishop,
Wanders thus about the island.
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Woe to thee! forlorn Hibernia!
Woe to thee! unhappy people!
Enter PATRICK.
KING.
Patrick, who my bitter anguish
Interruptest, and my suffering
Doublest, with your golden accents,
Their deceitful poison hiding,
Why thus persecute me? Wherefore
Wander thus about my kingdom,
Preaching novel modes of worship,
And by frauds our peace disturbing?
Here the scope of all our knowledge
Is that we are born and perish;
'Tis the doctrine we inherit
In the natural school our fathers
Have bequeathed us. But, O Patrick!
Who is this new God thou preachest,
Who doth give us life eternal,
When this mortal life is over?
When the soul forsakes the body,
How can it a new life enter,
Whether of reward or suffering?
PATRICK.
By its being fully loosened
From the body, which to nature
Giveth back the human portion,
Which is only dust and ashes—
And the spiritual essence,
To the upper sphere arising,
Finds the goal of all its labours—
If in grace it haply dieth,
Which is first conferred by baptism—
Ever after by repentance.
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See this form of matchless beauty,
In her own blood coldly lying,
Is she living at this moment?
PATRICK.
Yes.
KING.
If so, the truth establish
By some proof.
PATRICK.
O Lord of Heaven!
Turn thine ear unto thy servant—
Here 'tis needful to exhibit
Your almighty power and greatness.
KING.
You do not answer me.
PATRICK.
The Heavens
Wish themselves to give you answer:
In the name of God, I bid thee,
Prostrate corse, thy soul resuming,
Rise and live—in this way giving
Proof of all the words I've spoken;
Preaching thus the Christian doctrine.
[She arises.
POLONIA.
Alas! alas!—Oh! Heaven preserve me!
Oh! how many things are open'd
To the soul!—Oh! Lord Almighty,
Stay the red hand of thy justice,
Do not hurl against a woman
All the rigour of thy anger,
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Where, oh! where shall I conceal me
If thy countenance be wrathful?
Fall upon me, rocks and mountains!
Mine own enemy, this moment
I would think it joy to hide me
From thy sight in earth's dark centre.
But of what advantage were it,
If to every place I fly to,
I should bring with me the memory
Of my crime and my affliction?
See this mountain-range recedeth!
See this hill hangs threat'ning over!
See even Heaven itself doth tremble,
Shaken on its poles. The tempest
Throws its blackened shades around me.
Now my trembling footsteps falter—
Now the waves recede before me,
Everything but wild-beasts fly me,
Which approach as if to seize me.
Pity—mighty Lord! have pity!
Mercy! mercy! Lord Almighty—
Humbly do I ask for baptism.
And to die in grace and favour.
Mortals! mortals! listen! listen!
Christ is living! Christ is reigning!
Christ is the true God—the only.
Of your crimes repent! repent ye!
[Exit.
PHILIP.
What a prodigy!
CAPTAIN.
A wonder!
LESBIA.
What a miracle!
LAOGHAIRE.
How glorious!
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What enchantment! what bewitchment!
Which of you this sight believeth?
ALL.
Christ is the true God Almighty!
KING.
Can you not perceive, blind people,
How appearances deceive you?
But to make this matter certain,
I will own myself in error,
If a little while disputing,
Patrick doth convince my reason;
To the argument then listen—
If man's spirit were immortal,
It could never rest a moment
From some active operation.
PATRICK.
Yes, and this is proved in slumber;
For the shapes that dreams engender
Are the workings of the spirit,
Which doth never sleep; but even
When half-loosened from the senses,
Forms imperfect words and actions;
This is why man often dreameth
Things he waking never thought of.
KING.
This being so—Polonia lately
Was alive or dead: if only
In a swoon, you wrought no wonder;
But on this I do not rest me—
But if dead, her soul had enter'd
One or other of the places—
Heaven or Hell, as you have taught us:
If 'twere Heaven, it shocks God's mercy,
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Which had been allowed to enter
Heaven, and taste his grace and favour,
Should be sent back to the world:
This appears to me quite certain.—
If in hell, 'twould shock his justice,
For it were not just that any
Soul, which punishment did merit,
Should obtain so great a favour
As to have the chance of gaining
Grace a second time: it follows,
Either that your words were idle,
Or that, in God's nature, justice
Is another name for mercy:
Where then was Polonia's spirit?
PATRICK.
Hear, Egerio, how I answer:
I concede that Hell or Glory
Must be the great goal and centre
Of the soul baptized, whence no one
Can depart: for so 'tis written
In the laws of the Eternal—
Speaking of God's usual ways—
But if God so willed it, using
His omnipotence, the pit-fall
Of the deepest hell should yield up
Any soul that he demanded:
But this now is not the question.
When a soul is doomed to enter
One or other of the places,
Well it knows its fate the moment
That it leaves the mortal body,
Never to return thereafter:
But when it is doomed to visit,
Once again, the earth, it wanders
Like a traveller through creation,
And, in this way hangs suspended
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Of itself—without obtaining
Any local habitation:
For the Omnipotent—the Highest—
Knowing all things by his prescience,
Since the instant that his essence
Drew the world and all its wonders
Into light—a glorious copy
Of his own divine idea—
Seeing that this thing would happen,
That this soul would come back hither
Held it for a time suspended,
Without giving or denying
It a final place to dwell in.
So far, as a theologian,
Have I answered your objection;
But another truth remaineth
To be told: there are more places
In the other world, than those of
Everlasting pain and glory:
Learn, O King, that there's another,
Which is Purgatory; whither
Flies the soul that has departed
In a state of grace; but bearing
Still some stains of sins upon it:
For with these no soul can enter
God's pure kingdom—there it dwelleth
Till it purifies and burneth
All the dross from out its nature,
Then it flieth, pure and limpid,
Into God's divinest presence.
KING.
So you say, but I have nothing,
Save your own words, to convince me;
Give me of the soul's existence
Some strong proof—some indication—
Something tangible and certain—
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And since you appear so powerful
With your God, you can implore him,
That to finish my conversion,
He may show some real being,
Not a mere ideal essence,
Which all men can touch: remember,
But one single hour remaineth
For this task: this day you give us
Certain proofs of pain or glory,
Or you die: where we are standing
Let your God display his wonders—
And since we, perhaps, may merit
Neither punishment nor glory,
Let the other place be shown us,
Which you say is Purgatory;
That we all may know and worship
God's almighty power and greatness:
Now His honour rests upon thee—
You can tell him to defend it!
[They all go out but PATRICK.
PATRICK.
Here, mighty Lord, dart down thy searching glance,
Arm'd with the dreadful lightnings of thine ire,
Wing'd with thy vengeance as the bolt with fire,
And rout the squadrons of fell ignorance:
Come not in pity to the hostile band,
Treat not as friends thy enemies abhorr'd—
But since they ask for portents, mighty Lord,
Come with the blood-red lightnings in thy hand.
Of old, Elias ask'd with burning sighs
For chastisement, and Moses did display
Wonders and portents: in the selfsame way
Listen, O Lord, to my beseeching cries,
And though I be not great or good as they,
Still let my accents pierce the listening skies!
Portents and chastisement, both day and night,
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That Purgatory, Hell, and Heaven
May be revealed unto these mortals' sight.
A good ANGEL descends on one side and a bad ANGEL on the other.
BAD ANGEL.
Fearful that the favouring skies
May accede to Patrick's prayer,
And discover to him where
Earth's most wondrous treasure lies;
Like a minister of light
Hither have I dared to range,
That I may disturb and change
That same prayer with demon might.
GOOD ANGEL.
Back again, then, thou mayst soar,
Cruel monster; to defend
Patrick do I here attend:
But be silent, speak no more:—
Patrick, God has heard thy prayer,
He has listen'd to thy vows;
And as thou hast ask'd, allows
Earth's great secrets to lie bare.
Seek along this island ground
For a vast and darksome cave,
Which restrains the lake's dark wave,
And supports the mountains round;
He who dares to go therein,
Having first contritely told
All his faults, shall there behold
Where the soul is purged from sin:
He shall see with mortal eyes
Hell itself—where those who die
In their sins for ever lie,
In the fire that never dies.
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Where the happy spirits dwell.
But of this be sure as well—
He who without true contrition
Enters there to idly try
What the cave may be, doth go
To his death—he'll suffer woe
While the Lord doth reign on high—
Who this day shall set you free
From this poor world's weariness;
It is thus that God doth bless
Those who love his name like thee.
He shall grant to you, in pity,
Bliss undream'd by mortal men—
Making thee a denizen
Of his own celestial city.
He shall to the world proclaim.
His omnipotence and glory,
By the wondrous Purgatory,
Which shall bear thy sainted name.
Lest thou think the promise vain
Of this miracle divine,
I shall take this shape malign,
Which came hither to profane
Your devotion and within
This dark cavern's dread abyss
Fling it; there to howl and hiss
In the everlasting din.
[The Angels disappear.
PATRICK.
May the Heavens proclaim thy praise!
For thou lovest to impart,
Mighty Lord! how great thou art,
By thy wonder-working ways!
Come, Egerio!
[All enter.
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Well!
PATRICK.
With me
Come along this mountain's base,
Thou shalt see the destined place—
Thou and all who come with thee—
Where the severed souls remain;
Some in bliss and some in pain—
Of a never-ending sorrow,
Of a night that knows no morrow,
Thou a rapid glance shalt gain:
Thou shalt see where angels dwell
In a bright and happy sphere.
In the wonders buried here
Thou shalt see both Heaven and Hell!
[Exeunt.
| The Purgatory of Saint Patrick | |