University of Virginia Library

MARTHA'S GARDEN.
MARGARET—FAUSTUS.
Margaret.
Promise me, Henry.

Faustus.
Be assured, my love.

Margaret.
Tell me but this:—what think you of religion?
You are a good and honest-minded man;
But, I believe, and fear, think little of it.

Faustus.
Forbear, my child—thou feelest that I love thee;
For them I love would give my life away—
I would not rob another of his hopes
In Heaven, or of his faith in creeds and churches.

Margaret.
'Tis well—but more than this—you must believe.

Faustus.
Must I?

Margaret.
Oh, had I any influence!
—Thou honourest not the holy sacraments?

Faustus.
I honour them.

Margaret.
But thou dost not receive.—
At mass or shrift 'tis long since thou hast been.
—Dost thou believe in God?

Faustus.
Forbear, my love;
Who can say truly, “I believe in God?”
—Ask it of priest or of philosopher,
And the reply seems but a mockery
Of him who asks.

Margaret.
Then thou dost not believe!

Faustus.
Misunderstand me not, thou best-beloved:
Who can name Him, and, knowing what he says,
Say, “I believe in Him?” And who can feel,
And, with self-violence, to conscious wrong
Hardening his heart, say, “I believe him not!”
The All-embracing, All-sustaining One,
Say, doth he not embrace, sustain, include
Thee?—Me?—Himself?—Bends not the sky above?
And earth, on which we are, is it not firm?
And over us with constant kindly smile,
The sleepless stars keep everlasting watch!
Am I not here gazing into thine eyes?
And does not All, that is,
—Seen and unseen, mysterious all—
Around thee, and within,
Untiring agency,
Press on thy heart and mind?
—Fill thy whole heart with it—and when thou art
Lost in the consciousness of happiness—
Then call it what thou wilt,
Happiness!—heart!—love!—God!
I have no name for it—Feeling is all.
Nature is but an echo of the voice
That rings through all—a vapour hiding Heaven!

Margaret.
This is all good and right;
The priest says pretty much the same,
But in words somewhat different.

Faustus.
Every where,
All hearts beneath the universal Heaven,
In its own language each doth utter it—
Then why not I in mine?

Margaret.
Made easy thus
'Tis plausible—yet must it be unsafe:
Thou art no Christian.

Faustus.
Hush, my child.

Margaret.
I grieve to see the company thou keepest.

Faustus.
What do you mean?

Margaret.
The man whom thou hast ever at thy side,
I hate him from the bottom of my soul.
In my whole life, has nothing given my heart
So deep a wound, as that man's alien visage.

Faustus.
Beloved, fear him not.

Margaret.
The very sight of him makes my blood thrill!
To most men I feel kindliness—but him
Do I detest; and with a feeling strong,
Strong as my love for you—strong as my wishes
To have you with me—does a secret shudder
Creep over me when I behold this man.
He is—I cannot be deceived—he is
A villain;—God forgive me, if I wrong him!

Faustus.
He's a queer fellow—do not mind his oddities.

Margaret.
I would not—could not, live together with him.
If for a moment he comes to the door,
He will look in with such an air of mockery,
And a half scowl, and a face dark with anger
Kept down—you see he has no interest
In any thing—'tis written on his brow
He feels no love for any living soul—
And when I am so happy in thy arms,
In the sweet confidence of love forgetting—
Forgetting every thing but thee, then—then
He's sure to come, and my heart shrinks and withers!

Faustus.
Foreboding angel, these are weak misgivings!

Margaret.
The feeling overmasters me so wholly,
That if he does but join us, straightway seems it
As if I ceased to love thee—where he is
I could not pray. This eats into my heart.
Henry, it cannot be but that you feel
In this as I do.

Faustus.
This is antipathy.

Margaret.
I must away.

Faustus.
Alas! and may I never
Meet thee, where none can come to trouble us?
One little hour—and must it never be?—
Heart prest to happy heart, and soul to soul!

Margaret.
Ah, that I slept alone! This very night
How gladly would I leave the door unbolted!
But then my mother's sleep is far from sound;
Did she awake and find you there, I should,
Methinks, drop dead upon the spot.

Faustus.
Dear angel, throw aside such fears; this phial
Take with you. Three drops of it only, poured
Into her drink, wrap nature up in sleep,
Deep tranquil sleep.

Margaret.
I must do as you bid.
Could I refuse you?—'Twill not injure her?

Faustus.
It will not: otherwise would I advise it?

Margaret.
Dearly beloved, if I but look on you
I must obey—I cannot hesitate:
There is a something not to be resisted,
Which overpowers me—makes your will my guide
In every thing; and having gone so far
Already, is choice left me? Having given
So much, what is there for me to refuse?

Mephistopheles
(enters).
The monkey! is it gone?

Faustus.
Again—
Spying?—

Mephistopheles.
Yes, and I heard quite plain
The doctor schooled,—the catechumen
Getting a lesson in his creed,
And catechism, from a young woman,
Just now;—I hope that it agreed
With you! The girls' anxiety
For sentimental piety
Is soon explained. The man, think they,
Who worships in the good old way,
When his priest bids him kneels and bows,
Is likely to obey his spouse:
This of itself ensures his wife
A quiet, fair and easy life.
The women fancy, and the fact is
Confirmed, or often so, in practice,
That their admirers are most found
Where your religious men abound—
Love is almost the same emotion:
The devotee—such is their notion—
Thus for the sex feels true devotion,
Courts amorous thoughts and mystic dreaming,
Is led by priests, and follows women.

Faustus.
Oh! what a monster must thou be.
To see not, or with scoffing see,
How this poor girl's affections lead
The pious creature thus to plead;
The faith, in which she moves and lives—
That which alone salvation gives—
So she believes—may make her fear
Danger to one whom she holds dear;
Fear for the issue of a strife
Where more, she feels, is risked than life!

Mephistopheles.
Most sentimental sensualist,
—Philosopher at once and beast,—
Led by the nose by a young flirt!

Faustus.
Abortion—spawn of fire and dirt!

Mephistopheles
(scornfully).
—On Physiognomy she also lectures
Profoundly—feels, when I am present,
Sensations strange and most unpleasant:
—Suppressed malignity my smile betrays;
I wear a mask, forsooth, I will not raise,
And what it hides she sapiently conjectures,
Something mysteriously allied to evil,
A genius—or, perhaps, the very devil.
To-night then.

Faustus.
What 's to-night to thee?

Mephistopheles.
I've my amusements too—we'll see.