 | The Purgatory of Saint Patrick |  |
149
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A WILD SEA-COAST WITH OVERHANGING CLIFFS.Enter KING EGERIO, clad in skins, raging violently, LAOGHAIRE, POLONIA, LESBIA, and the CAPTAIN endeavouring to restrain him.
KING.
Let me cast my life away!
LAOGHAIRE.
My lord, detain thee!
CAPTAIN.
Listen!
LESBIA.
Look!
POLONIA.
O stay!
150
Let me from this point that shines afar,
Upraised in Heaven, which with one brightest star
Its rugged brow is crowning,
Down, where the rocks above the waves are frowning,
There 'mid the wild salt billows let me lie,
And as I raging live, so raging die.
LESBIA.
To the sea—what madness press'd thee?
POLONIA.
In thy sleep, my lord, what fear possess'd thee?
KING.
Every torment that doth dwell
For ever, with the thirsty fiends of hell,
Children of that monstrous mother,
Which, from out seven scaly necks, doth smother
The fourth sphere of death,
Clouding it o'er with pestilential breath;
All its horror, all its wild unrest,
Were locked within my breast—
So that against myself I wage unnatural strife,
For terror is the master of my life,
And such the torment of its dread alarms,
I lie a living corse in slumber's arms,
And all the dreams that round me wait,
Are but the pallid messengers of fate.
POLONIA.
What so much provoked thee in thy dream?
KING.
Ah! my daughters, listen: there did seem
From out the lips of a most lovely youth
(And though a miserable slave in sooth,
My hand against his life I durst not raise,
Being then compelled to spare, as now to praise,)
151
A gentle flame,
Which with a mild and lambent lustre blew,
And when it touched ye two,
Within the living fire I saw ye burned,
But, though I was between ye, me it spurned;
And when to stay its rage I sought,
The fire would touch or wound me not,
So that from that dream's abysm,
From that paroxysm,
From that lethargy of death I broke,
And in blind despair awoke.
And my terror still is such
That flying, at each step I seemed to touch
Once more that dreadful fire,
But now I also burn, as ye expire!
LESBIA.
These are phantoms light and vain,
Mere chimeras of the brain,
152
When the body lieth numb—
[A trumpet sounds.
But what trumpet's this?
CAPTAIN.
It seems
Vessels to our port have come.
POLONIA.
Let me go, my lord, since thou
Knowest how my heart doth leap and bound
When I hear a trumpet's sound,
And a flush comes deepening o'er my brow,
And my whole frame doth rejoice,
As at a siren's voice;
Since inclined to arms and warlike deeds,
Music's martial clangour stirs my soul,
So that I cannot control
My emotion; may the fame
Soon be mine, that ever valour breeds
When my wafted name shall run
To the ever-glorious sun,
Sailing on a thousand waves of flame;
Or, on swift wings o'er the azure air,
Rivalling the goddess Pallas there!—
'Twas but to know, I this excuse contrived,
[Aside.
If this is Philip's ship that has arrived.
[Exit.
LAOGHAIRE.
Come, my lord, descend with me
To the white fringe of the rolling sea,
Which doth humbly bow its curled head
To this mountain, lone and dread;
Which, because it proudly braves
The sea and storm must ever dwell
In a lone and sandy cell,
Guarded round by crystal waves.
153
Come, and all your cares forget,
At this snowy monster's sight—
Like a sapphire mirror set
In a rich frame, silver white.
KING.
Nothing now can bring relief,
Nothing now can wean me from my grief,
Or expel that ever-torturing guest,
From out the burning Etna of my breast.
LESBIA.
Is there any earthly sight more fair—
Can the world this miracle surpass—
Than to see a vessel softly gliding,
Like a plough the azure field dividing,
Or go breaking through the crystal glass,
With the light breeze for its willing slave,
Like a bird upon the rippling wave,
Or a fish within the yielding air?
Favourite of sea and sky,
It through the winds doth swim, and o'er the waves doth fly,
But that sight were dreadful now,
Full of terror and affright,
For the sea is altered quite;
And the mountain billows roar,
And the ocean's lordly brow,
Is all deeply wrinkled o'er!—
Neptune from his rest awaking,
And his dreadful trident shaking,
And his angry visage baring,
Trieth now the sailors' daring.
Now the storm begins to rise,
Howling round the starry dome;
All is altered in a trice,
Pyramids of shining ice,
154
All are dashed against the skies.
POLONIA, entering.
POLONIA.
Alas! alas!
KING.
Polonia, speak.
POLONIA.
This fickle Babylon that tries
In its thirsty rage to seek
Even the dark and distant skies,
Hides in its remorseless womb
Myriads who for ever rest,
Each within his coral tomb,
Deep below the troubled wave,
In a shining silver cave:
Now the God by rage possess'd,
Has loosed the winds and let them fly,
Raging over sea and sky;
Rushing o'er the waters dark,
They have struck the wretched bark—
She whose trumpet late did sound
Like a swan's funereal note—
I, who then a pathway found
Up that steep stupendous cliff,
Which upon the shore remote,
First receives the orient ray,
There I saw a mighty ship
Tossing like a summer skiff
On the waters cast away,
As the masts did rise and dip,
Saw I Philip's banners wave
O'er the sinking vessel's grave;
Then I added more and more,
To the waves and tempest's roar,
155
Bursting from my lips and eyes!—
KING.
Immortal rulers of the sky
Why so much my patience try
With such threatened ills as these?
Do you wish that I should seize
On the sceptre and the crown
Of thy conquered kingdom? Lo!
Thither shall I surely rise,
And with vengeful hand tear down
The azure palace of the skies!
Being a second Nimrod. So
That the world by me, perchance,
May escape its threatened doom.
Vainly may the billows roll,
Vainly may the thunders boom,
Vainly may the lightning's glance,
They shall never shake my soul!
PATRICK,
within.
Ah! me.
LAOGHAIRE.
Some mournful voice;
KING.
Who can it be?
CAPTAIN.
Struggling through the cruel sea,
One strong swimmer seeks to save
His life from out the stormy wave.
LESBIA.
And his arms I see him stretch
To another sinking wretch,
Even in the jaws of death.
156
Stranger, whoso'er thou art,
Whom the furious tempest's breath,
Or a cruel fate, hath sent
To this lone and distant part,
Hither let thy course be bent,
If thou canst my accents hear,
May they o'er the waters be
A vocal polar-star for thee!
Enter PATRICK and LUDOVICO, dripping with wet, and clinging to one another; as they enter, they fall exhausted on the stage.
PATRICK.
Aid me, O God!
LUDOVICO.
The Devil rather
Aid me!
LESBIA.
I'm moved to pity, father.
KING.
That am not I—I know not what it is.
PATRICK.
If misfortunes are a test
Wherewith to try the coldest, flintiest breast;
Say, can there here be found a heart like his,
Who would not down his pitying eyes incline
To such misery as mine?
A wretched, shivering, shipwrecked castaway,
Pity, for God's sake, at thy feet I pray.
LUDOVICO.
I ask it not, for never more can I
Seek it from man, or hope it from on high.
157
Say who you are, we then shall know
If we can pay the debt we owe—
The common debt of food and care—
But first my name I shall declare,
Lest ignorance of it might lead
Your lips some idle deed to do,
And words perchance be spoken, freed
From the respect that is my due—
I am the King Egerio; lord
Of this small kingdom's island throne—
'Tis small because 'tis mine: until
The throne of all the world I fill
I must mistrust my valorous sword!
In savage skins you see me drest,
Not in a monarch's regal vest,
Because without, I wish to wear,
In this wild wolfish robe of hair,
Some emblem of the heart I bear!
The name of God is here unknown,
In prayer we neither kneel nor sigh,
Our only creed is this alone
That we are born, and we must die.
Now that you know my greatness and my name,
Say who you are and why you hither came.
PATRICK.
Attend, O Monarch! Patrick is my name,
My country Ireland, and my native village
A place so poor as to be scarcely known;
Between the north and west remote it lies
Upon a mountain, which the watchful sea
Girdles around as with a prison wall:
'Tis in this isle, which will be called, O King!
To its eternal praise, the Isle of Saints,
So many here will piously give up
158
That truest test of pure and faithful souls—
My father was an Irish cavalier,
My mother, his chaste spouse, a child of Gaul,
To them I owe, even in my youngest days,
(More than my life) the nobler gift of faith,
And early entrance to the Church of Christ.
The holy rite baptismal gave me these,
That gate of Heaven, and the first sacred boon
The Church doth give her children: by my birth,
My pious parents having all fulfilled
The duties that they owed the married state,
They each to separate convents then retired,
Where in the purest chastity they spent
Their lives, until the fatal hour arrived
Which calls the blessed spirit to the skies,
And gives the body to its kindred earth:
I then became an orphan, and was placed
Beneath a holy matron's watchful care,
But scarce had I my first brief lustrum filled—
Scarce had the sun five times in splendour sailed
In golden circles through the heavens, illuming
Twelve starry signs and one terrestrial zone—
When God was pleased to show in me a sign
Of his omnipotence; for he doth choose
Most feeble instruments, that men may give
The glory and the praise to Him alone;
Upon a day (and Heaven doth know, I tell
These wonders unto you through no weak pride,
But that God's name be praised), upon a day,
The blind man Gormas came unto my doors:
God sent me here, he cried, and He commands
That you do give me sight. Immediately
Moved at the man's obedience, I did make
The sign of the cross upon his sightless balls,
And with the touch, the blessed vision came
And chased the darkness from his wondering eyes.
Another time, when thick clouds hid the skies
159
So many on a neighbouring hill had fallen
That when they felt the rigour of the sun,
And melted, such a flood throughout
Our village ran, that all the houses seemed
Like ships of brick or stone above the waves,
(Who before this saw ships on rugged hills,
Or sail amid the grassy inland woods?)
Upon the waves I made the holy sign,
And with suspended tongue, in God's great name
Bade them retire, and lo! the land was dry!
O mighty Lord! who will not speak thy praise!
Who will not own and worship thee, O God!
Much greater wonders I could tell thee: but
Modesty comes and bindeth fast my tongue,
And chains my voice, and sealeth up my lips.
I grew in fine, inclining every day
More to the love of science than of arms;
And, above all, gave myself up entire
To pious reading—to the lives of those
Called to be saints by God—a school wherein
Religion, Charity, and Faith are taught:
Engaged in this pursuit, one day I went,
With some companions to the lone sea-shore;
Thither a ship came, from whose dusky womb
Leap'd armed men, pirates they were, who prowl'd
In search of prey about those seas; they made
All of us prisoners, and to keep the prize,
Hoisted their sails and stood to the open sea.
Philip de Roqui was this vessel's chief,
A man who nourished in his heart the pride
That afterwards would work him direful woe.
Some days he spent in prowling thus around
The land and sea of all the Irish coast,
And blood and treasure followed in his wake:
Me alone he kept, desiring, as he said,
To offer me a tribute unto thee,
Here in thy very presence, as thy slave:
160
That are not based upon God's blessed will!)
This very day upon the smiling sea,
In sight of land, did Philip speak his wish,
The air was mild, and gentle was the wave,
And yet in one brief moment did he see
His proud presumption shattered: For the wind
Roared in the hollow bosoms of the waves,
A cry of pain burst from the angry sea,
Billows, like mountains upon mountains piled,
Pass'd thundering by, whose white and foaming tops
Moisten'd the sun, and quenched his dazzling light!
The lantern on our mast, joined to the skies,
Seemed like a comet or an exhalation,
Or like the strange course of a shooting star;
Another time, amid the deeps profound
It touched the sands, when the divided waves
Showed alabaster monuments around,
'Mid coral banks and caves of shining pearl:
I on whom Heaven bestowed (I know not why,
Being so useless) more of strength and breath
Than mine own safety needed, was empowered
To aid this valorous youth, to whom my heart
Was drawn by some most potent influence,
Which he with interest will yet repay!
At length, through favour of kind Heaven, we reached
The shore, and whether fortune good or ill
Awaits us, we confess ourselves your slaves:
May our grief move you, may our bitter tears
Soften your hearts, and may our whole affliction
Gently compel you to relieve our woe.
KING.
Cease, miserable Christian, for my soul
Charm'd by thy voice, knows not what subtle power
Compels it both to venerate and love you,
Imagining that you the slave must be,
Whom lately in my fearful dream I saw,
161
In whose alluring light, like summer flies,
I saw my hapless daughters both expire!
PATRICK.
The flame that issued from my mouth is that
True doctrine of the Gospel—is the Word
Which I must preach to you and to your people,
By means of which your daughters will become
Children of Christ.
KING.
Be silent! close thy lips,
Thou miserable Christian, for thy words
Affront and wound me.
LESBIA.
Oh! be calm, my lord!
POLONIA.
Wilt thou, in pity, speak in his defence?—
LESBIA.
Yes.
POLONIA.
Nay, rather let him die.
LESBIA.
It is not just
That by a monarch's hands he perish. Ah!
[Aside.
If truth were told, not that alone doth move
My heart to pity these poor shipwrecked Christians!
POLONIA.
If this second Joseph to the king,
Like him of old, interprets dreams, do not,
My lord, have any fear of their effects;
For if that fancied and unreal flame
162
It is a sheer impossibility, as great
As if being dead, I should return again
And live and breathe a mortal as before—
But to distract your thoughts from fears like these,
Now let us hear the other traveller's tale.
LUDOVICO.
Listen, most beautiful divinity,
For thus begins the story of my life.
Great Egerio, king of Ireland, I
Am Ludovico Enio—a Christian also—
In this do Patrick and myself agree
And differ, we being Christians both,
And yet as opposite as good from evil.
But for the faith which I sincerely hold,
(So greatly do I estimate its worth)
I would lay down a hundred thousand lives—
Bear witness, thou all-seeing Lord and God!
No simple tale of piety is mine,
Nor wonders worked by Heaven's permission through
My favoured hands—far different—all crimes,
Theft, murder, treason, sacrilege, betrayal
Of dearest friends, all these I must relate,
For these are all my glory and my pride!
In one of Ireland's many islands I
Was born, and much do I suspect that all
The planets seven, in wild confusion strange,
Assisted at my most unhappy birth.
The fickle moon gave me inconstancy,
Mercury gave me genius ill employed,
(Far better not to have received the gift!),
Lascivious Venus gave me siren passions,
And ruddy Mars a hard and cruel mind.
(What will not Mars and Venus jointly give?)
The Sun conferr'd upon me rank and state—
Which to support I scrupled not the means,
163
And Saturn blended in my complex nature
Rage, anger, valour, and a ready mind—
And fitting fruits have grown from out these seeds.
My father, being for certain secret reasons
Banish'd from Ireland, came with me to live
At Perpignan in Spain—I was a boy
Of ten years old, and when six more had passed
He died—may heaven for ever be his home!
An orphan I remained—a willing prey
To all my fancies—all my wild desires—
And thus without a rein or curbing check,
Ran headlong o'er the wide alluring plain—
The two poles of my life were love and play,
On which the rest were balanced, what they were
As a foundation you can now behold.
In long detail my tongue would not suffice
For all my actions—this is but a sketch:
To force a tender damsel to my wish
I slew a noble venerable man,
Her father—nay an honoured cavalier
I stabb'd (through frenzied passion for his wife)
As he lay sleeping calmly by her side—
Bathing his dearest honour in his blood—
Making his bed a fatal theatre,
And mingling there adultery and death—
Husband and father both gave up their lives
Martyrs to honour—for it has its martyrs
Even as Religion—may the atoning Heaven
For ever guard their souls in endless rest!—
Flying from punishment I entered France,
Where long my name and actions shall be known;
For flinging myself at once into the war,
Which between France and England then was waged,
I found occasion to display my valour,
And soon obtained even from the king's own hands
164
I soon repaid I shall not now relate—
Thus honoured, I returned to Perpignan,—
And gaming in a guard-house for some trifle,
I struck a serjeant, killed a captain,
And in my fury wounded several more—
Attracted by the noise, the guard approached
To make me prisoner, when in self-defence,
I slew a bailiff—much too small amends
For all the other evils I had done—
May God receive his soul in lasting bliss!
At length I fled into the fields, and found
Asylum in a sacred convent's walls,
Which in that desert far away was built,
There I lay retired, with kindest care
Attended even by one of the religious,
A lady of my kindred, who for this
Discharged that duty. Like a basilisk,
My bosom turned the honey into poison
And wildly rushed from liking to desire!
Desire! that monster which doth ever feed
On the impossible—that living fire
That groweth by resistance—that strange flame
Which the wind kindles—that dissembling foe
Which killeth its own master. In a word,
Desire, unawed by God or sacred things,
Imagines all that's horrible or vile
But to be it: in fine, my lord, I dared:......
Moved by the recollection here my voice
Grows mute—the frightened accent fails,
My shattered heart in throbbing seems to leap
From out my breast, as when in dusky shades
The beard and hair, in terror, stand on end:—
Confused, and doubtful, sad and full of thought,
I scarcely have the courage now to tell
The deed I had the courage then to do,
So horrible and hateful is my crime,
So sacrilegious and profane, that I—
165
In fine, I dared, one night when starry silence
Doth build for men brief sepulchres of sleep,
When heaven doth wear the mournful veil of grief,
Wherewith the wind doth hang the widow'd skies,
For the sun's death, whose obsequies are sung
By nightly birds—when trembling stars fling back
Their clear reflection to the parent skies
From sapphire waves. At such a time as this
I entered by the garden-wall, assisted
By two companions (comrades never fail
In such adventures), and 'twixt fear and horror,
I reached the cell of her I must not name;
She, horrified at such wicked boldness,
Fainted upon the ground, from which she passed
Into my arms, and ere her sense returned,
She was far off beyond the convent wall,
Where if Heaven could have given her timely aid,
It did not. Women if they're once convinced
That man's excesses are the fruit of love
Easily pardon them: and thus, delight
Replacing sorrow, she for a little while
Escaped the misery of her wretched state—
Although were centred in her hapless person
The scaling of a cloister's sacred walls,
Violence, incest, ravishment, adultery,
Towards God himself, since she was vowed his spouse,
And to crown all, unheard-of sacrilege;
From out the desert where we first had gone,
On rapid steeds, the children of the wind,
Towards Valentia then we took our way—
Where, feigning that she was my wife, we lived
Some time with little happiness or peace.
My money being exhausted, without friends
Or hope of succour, I was base enough
To think of turning to a vile account
The beauty and the honour of my wife.
166
This act alone would make me—for it is
The lowest depth even of the vilest breast
To make a public traffic of one's honour,
And put a price upon our dearest joy).
As soon as I with shameless face proposed
This foulest project, she appeared content,
But hid her true resolve within her breast,
But scarcely had I turned my back upon her,
When, flying from me as from one infected,
Once more she sought asylum and repose
Within a convent; where, advised by one,
A holy priest, again she closed the gate
Of torment and the world—and then she died,
Leaving to all a wonderful example
Both of her penitence and crime.—May God
Receive her, also, to eternal rest!
I seeing that the hard, censorious world
Took notice of my crimes—that every spot
Whereon to rest would slip beneath my feet,
Resolved to go into my native country
As an asylum from my enemies.
Upon the journey I set out, and soon
Reached Ireland, which received me as a son,
But soon a very stepmother became;
For scarcely had I reached a sheltered bay,
Than I was made a prisoner by some pirates
Who lay therein concealed. Their general
Was Philip—who, to show his admiration
Of the most brave resistance that I made,
Gave me my life. What still remains you know.
You know how late the angry wind rose up
And flew with threatening fury round our ship;
And made such ruin 'mid the seas and mountains,
That all their usual wildness seemed but tame
Compared to it. With catapults of crystal
It struck the firm foundations of the land,
And neighbouring cities fell within the wave.
167
Of tinted pearls, which the swift breath of morn
Engenders from the dew, whose drops are tears
Of fire and ice.—But not to lose more time
In vain descriptions, all our crew went down
To sup with Satan; I, who was also asked,
Must have gone too, had not good Patrick here
(Whose face, I know not why, I always view
With love and terror mingled with respect),
Had he not drawn me from the poisonous wave
Where I was drinking death in every draught.
This is my history; and now, nor life,
Nor pity I require—I do not wish
These latter griefs should even move your hearts;
If thou wilt give me aught, then let it be
Death only, for a man so bad as I
Can never hope to reach to any good.
KING.
Ludovico, though you are a Christian,
Which I abhor with every other truth,
I so admire your valour, that in you
And Patrick I will now display,
Even at the self-same moment, all my power;
As I can elevate, so can I humble,
As I can punish, so can I reward;
And thus while unto you I stretch my arms
In token of protection—unto you
I lift them but to fling you to the earth
Beneath my feet (not balanced are the scales).
[He flings PATRICK on the ground and places his foot upon him.]
But that you, Patrick, may perceive how much
I value all your threats, your life I spare—
Go breathe in fire the Word of God, thou'lt find
I neither worship his divinity
Nor fear his wonders. Live, then, but in some
Obscure and menial state, and as thou art
168
Here in these valleys must thou spend thy days,
Tending my flocks and herds, that browse around.
We soon shall see if thou canst spread that fire
Of which thou speakest; or if, being my slave,
Thy God will free thee from captivity.
[Exit.
LESBIA.
The sight of Patrick moves my heart to pity.
[Exit.
POLONIA.
For me I know no pity. If I did,
I think 'tis Ludovico would awake it.
[Exit.
PATRICK.
When, Ludovico, on the ground I lay,
And saw you raised at once to Fortune's height,
'Twas grief, not envy, it awoke within me—
You are a Christian, oh! be one indeed.
LUDOVICO.
Patrick, allow me to enjoy the bliss
That Fortune offers.
PATRICK.
This one boon I ask—
LUDOVICO.
What is it?
PATRICK.
That, alive or dead, we meet
In this world once again.
LUDOVICO.
Dost thou demand
So strange and dread a promise from me?
169
Yes.
LUDOVICO.
I give it to thee, then:—
PATRICK.
And I accept it.
[Exeunt.
Egerio's Dream, as given by Calderon, agrees substantially with Jocelin's description, and differs only in one slight particular (the number of the flames) from that in Bouillon's Vie de St. Patrice. In the latter, the name of the Irish prince to whom Patrick was sold is not given; in Jocelin he is called Milcho: Calderon was either ignorant of this, and gave the king a name that was purely imaginary, or, considering it less musical than he would wish, gave him the more harmonious one of Egerio. The following is Jocelin's version:
“And Milcho beheld a vision in the night: and behold Patrick entered his palace as all on fire, and the flames, issuing from his mouth, and from his nose, and from his eyes, and from his ears, seemed to burn him; but Milcho repelled from himself the flaming hair of the boy, nor did it prevail to touch him any nearer; but the flame, being spread, turned aside to the right, and catching on his two little daughters, who were lying in one bed, burned them even to ashes: then the South-wind blowing strongly dispersed their ashes over many parts of Ireland.”—Pp. 17, 18. Jocelin's Life of St. Patrick, translated by Swift. (Dublin, 1804.)
SCENE II.
—THE COTTAGE OF JUAN PAUL, NEAR THE SEA-SHORE.Enter PHILIP and LUCY.
LUCY.
Forgive me if I have not known
To serve and tend you as I ought—
PHILIP.
A great deal more, I frankly own,
Must I forgive than you have thought—
For even thy face, on which I live,
Awakes not bliss without alloy,
So for the mingled grief and joy
I must be grateful and forgive—
And thus, in curious pleasing strife—
Two feelings in my breast have striven—
Your beauty, and your care have given
The pang of death—the throb of life.
LUCY.
Too rude and ignorant am I
For all the ingenious things you've said,
170
Which saves the trouble of reply—
Though silent they will speak to thee
Of all with which my heart is rife.
PAUL enters and sees them embracing.
PAUL.
O heavens! what sight is this I see!
[Aside.
A man embracing my own wife—
What shall I do? I burn! I burst!
I ought to kill them; yes, 'tis clear
That is my duty—but I fear
That she, perchance, might kill me first.
PHILIP.
Beautiful mountaineer, deny
Not thou to take the ring I wear—
Would it could be, for all thy care,
The fairest star of yonder sky!
LUCY.
Pray do not think me one of those
Who of their kindness profit make;
But I accept it for thy sake.
PAUL.
Being her husband, I suppose
[Aside.
My duty is to hold my tongue;
But had she not received the ring,
Of course it were another thing.
LUCY.
Again, these clasping arms among,
My very soul I give to thee—
I have no other gem or chain.
PHILIP.
And there I ever could remain,
171
As at the rising of the sun,
Night's shadows fly—so here I know
No more the memory of the woe
These cruel crystal waves have done.
PAUL.
Ah! he embraces her again!
[Aside.
Good sir, think what my soul endures,—
This woman is my wife, not yours!
PHILIP.
Your husband's here—I think 'tis plain
He sees us—it is best I go,
And presently return again.
Oh! sweet Polonia, couldst thou know
[Aside.
The abject state to which I'm cast,
Thou'dst feel some pity for my pain!—
And thou, O heaven-aspiring main!
Roused raging up by storm and blast,
Where hast thou hid? in what far tomb,
The myriad lives that fill thy womb?
[Exit.
PAUL.
This silence will do little good,
[Aside.
I'll speak aloud.—My Lucy dear!
My life! methinks it doth appear
I've caught you now!—this piece of wood—
A good stout window-bar it is—
Will do for vengeance.
LUCY.
Bless me! say
What new suspicion, spouse, is this?
PAUL.
Is it then mere suspicion, pray,
172
Embraced before my face?
LUCY.
Indeed
It is suspicion, nothing more—
It must be so—because, if you
The duties of a husband knew,
You'd only see where'er you went,
One half your wife might do.
PAUL.
Agreed!
To that condition I consent,
And as I saw you twice embrace
That rascal of a soldier, whom
The sea has flung from out its womb,
I shall not in the present case
Be too exact, but for the nonce,
Think you embraced him only once.
And as I meant to give to you
A hundred blows, 'tis only fair
That I divide the whole by two—
So fifty is your proper share.
And so by sacred Heaven I swear!
Since you yourself the sentence gave,
And since the reckoning is so clear,
Not more than fifty blows you'll have.
LUCY.
It is too much—no man should strive,
By any means to hear or view
More than a fourth his wife may do.
PAUL.
Well let it be a fourth; for it
The blows you know are twenty-five,
These I will pay.
173
It is not fit
Men know so much.
PAUL.
Ah! something new!—
How much then, pray?
LUCY.
Between us two,
Henceforth I think it just and right
You only see what I allow,
And trust my word and not your sight.
PAUL.
Dear daughter of the devil! thou
Convinceth me, and so 'tis plain
The stick no longer should remain
With me; so let us change our places,
Here is the stick, 'tis now for thee
To give the hundred blows to me—
And to the other the embraces.
Enter PHILIP.
PHILIP.
I hope the clown has gone away.
[Aside.
PAUL.
Ah! Señor Soldier! you have come
Just in the nick of time—although
The debt of gratitude I owe
To you is such a mighty sum
I never can the debt repay—
For all the honour you to-day
Intended for my wife and cot,
How poor were all that I could say?
Yet still a fancy now has got
174
You went upon your homeward way—
Go! in God's name, without delay—
Since you are strong with food and rest;
As I don't wish to raise my hand
Here in my house in strife 'gainst thee,
Or that (almost a fish at sea)
You should be left dead meat on land!
PHILIP.
This is suspicion, do not doubt it,
Which has no true foundation got—
PAUL.
Well then, with reason or without it,
Am I a husband, Sir, or not?
Enter LAOGHAIRE, an old countryman, and PATRICK as a slave.
LAOGHAIRE.
My orders are, that you should take
This slave, and make him tend the sheep
Out in the fields.
OLD MAN.
Leave all to me.
LAOGHAIRE.
But, bless me! am I quite awake,
Or is it but a dream of sleep,
That Philip here I seem to see?
Permit me, mighty lord, to press
Your feet.
PAUL.
Is't “Lord” he calls him?
175
Yes;
Now give the hundred blows, my Paul.
PHILIP.
Come to my arms, thou good Laoghaire.
LAOGHAIRE.
You do me too much honour there,
But how does it chance you live at all?
PHILIP.
Cast on this shore so wild and bare,
A wretched monument of chance,
I would full soon have surely died,
But for these peasants' friendly care—
I thought it best some time to abide
Their guest, amid these lonesome haunts,
Until I found my strength renewed,
And learned the temper of the king;
Here I had lived till time might bring
(My royal master's wrath subdued)
Some sorrow to his soften'd breast
For my supposed disastrous fate;
Then I might go with heart elate
And trust forgiveness for the rest.
LAOGHAIRE.
Consider that already gained,
And all his stormy wrath blown o'er,
Thy strange escape will glad him more
Than even thy fancied death had pained;
Come to the king, I'll lead the way;
You'll find how changed doth fortune blow.
PAUL.
May't please your lordship, ere you go,
Permit me just a word to say—
My name, my lord, is Juan Paul,
Pray let my vile suspicions pass,
176
To talk of such a thing at all;
My heart for pardon humbly craves,
But for the rest of my poor life,
Pray think my cot, myself, and wife
Your lordship's very humble slaves.
PHILIP.
For your great kindness and attention,
I hope some future time to pay.
PAUL.
A word of that pray do not mention,
But, if you wish it, there's a way
By which you can a boon confer
On Lucy and myself—'tis this,
Vouchsafe to take her with you, do;
She will be glad to be with you,
And I too happy without her.
[Exeunt PHILIP and LAOGHAIRE.
LUCY,
aside.
Well, was there ever such a miss?
My tender hopes are all o'erthrown—
Gone like the light of morning mist,
Even when born!
OLD MAN.
We are alone,
Friend Paul, and now I think you ought
Sometimes this tender youth assist;
He'll need it.
PATRICK.
Ah! good sir, do not
Think of my state or me too much.
God wills that I should be a slave;
As such I'll serve you—and I crave
That you will treat me even as such.
177
How modest!
PAUL.
How humble!
LUCY.
And how handsome too!
His face affects me greatly.
PAUL.
Say
(And let it be between us two),
Is there a solitary case,
In which a stranger pass'd this way
You did not take a fancy to?
LUCY.
Ah; it is plain you're jealous still,
You think that I'm inclined to fall
In love with the whole human race.
OLD MAN.
I have a weighty charge, friend Paul,
To trust you with.
PAUL.
You know my skill;
Say on.
OLD MAN.
This slave, that here you view,
I much suspect is not secure;
I wish to guard him well—be sure
You'll know the cause ere long. To you
I give him now in strictest charge;
Let him not stray, unwatched, at large,
Or, unattended, roam about.
[Exit.
178
A very pleasant task, no doubt—
It seems I'm placed to watch you here,
[To PATRICK.
The only thing in all my life,
I had to watch (except my wife)—
The duty's troublesome. I fear
I now can neither sleep nor eat;
But should you wish to use your feet,
And go away, the coast is clear.
In truth I'll rather thank you for it,
As care disturbs me night or day;
In fact no mortal doth abhor it
Like Juan Paul—so go away,
Go, in God's name.
PATRICK.
Nay, do not fear,
Though slave, no fugitive am I—
Oh! mighty Lord of earth and sky,
What boundless joy my heart shall taste
As, rapt in thought, I wander here,
Amid the solitary waste;
Enjoying, even on earth, a glance
Of thy most glorious countenance—
In solitude the sage and saint
The wonders of thy bright world view.—
PAUL.
Pray will you tell me, if it ain't
Offensive, who you're speaking to?
PATRICK.
Thou art of all created things,
179
The source and centre of all bliss;
What are those veils of woven light,
Where sun and moon and stars unite—
The purple morn, the spangled night—
But curtains which thy mercy draws
Between the heavenly world and this?
The terrors of the sea and land—
When all the elements conspire,
The earth and water, storm and fire—
Are but the shadows of thy hand;
Do they not all in countless ways—
The lightning's flash—the howling storm—
The dread volcano's awful blaze—
Proclaim thy glory and thy praise?
Beneath the sunny summer showers
Thy love assumes a milder form,
And writes its angel name in flowers;
The wind that flies with winged feet
Around the grassy gladdened earth,
Seems but commissioned to repeat
In echo's accents—silvery sweet—
That thou, O Lord, didst give it birth.
There is a tongue in every flame—
There is a tongue in every wave—
To these the bounteous Godhead gave
These organs but to praise his name!
O mighty Lord of boundless space,
Here canst thou be both sought and found—
For here in everything around,
Thy presence and thy power I trace.
180
I burn to serve in love and fear;
If as a slave, oh! leave me here;
If not, O Lord, remove me hence!
[An ANGEL descends, holding in one hand a shield, with a mirror in the centre, and in the other hand a letter.
ANGEL.
Patrick!
PATRICK.
Who calls?
PAUL.
There's no one by—
Nobody calls. The man's distraught
[Aside.
Methinks a poet he should be.
ANGEL.
Patrick.
PATRICK.
Who calls again?
ANGEL.
'Tis I.
PAUL.
He speaks, and yet I can see nought—
Well, let him speak: what's that to me?
I am not placed to guard his tongue.
[Exit.
PATRICK.
Ah! can I trust my wondering eyes,
That Heaven so great a favour sends?—
A glorious cloud from yonder skies
With mingled tints of pearl and rose,
And all its summer bravery hung,
Before my raptured sight descends—
181
The sun within more glorious still;
He comes in purple and in gold—
He comes, as comes the smiling dawn,
In his crimson chariot drawn
By the running rosy hours—
Scattering over vale and hill
Jessamine and all sweet flowers.
Never yet by day or night
Did I such a sight behold!
ANGEL.
Patrick!
PATRICK.
I'm dazzled with the light.
Who art thou, celestial Lord?
ANGEL.
Patrick, of my own accord
Here my course I have not bent,
I am Victor, hither sent
(Guardian Angel of thy soul),
From the happy realms of bliss,
Even by God, to give thee this.
[Gives him the letter.
PATRICK.
Oh! sweet messenger divine,
Happy harbinger of joy,
How can I my heart control?
Seeing thee, who, like the seven
That before God's footstool shine,
All thy eternal hours employ,
'Mid the sweet choirs singing, solely,
“Holy! holy! holy! holy!
Mighty Lord of Earth and Heaven.”
ANGEL.
Read the letter.
182
Can it be
That the scroll is sent to me?
Yes to me 'tis sent indeed.
[Reads the superscription, which is addressed: “TO PATRICK.”
ANGEL.
Open it.
PATRICK.
Within I read,
“Come, Patrick, come, we wait for thee
To free us from our slavery.”
So ends the writing; it is clear
This means more than doth appear—
Faithful guardian, let me know
Who are those who call me so.
ANGEL.
Look within this mirror then.
PATRICK.
Heavens!
ANGEL.
What do you behold?
PATRICK.
A mighty crowd of young and old,
Tender children, women, men,
Calling me.
ANGEL.
And those you see
Are the Irish people. They
183
Waiting for the blessed day,
When the darkness past and gone,
Thou wilt bring, like morning light,
Tidings of the Faith:—Begone!
Thou, I know, wilt not be loth
To obey thy God's command—
Leave thy slavery, and go
Legate and Apostle both
Of the favour'd Irish land.
First to France depart and take
There at blessed German's feet
The habit of a monk. To Rome,
Then, a rapid journey make—
Then with letters from the Pope,
Good Celestine, thou wilt come
Hither, full of heavenly hope;
Thou St. Martin, too, wilt see
Bishop of Tours. But now with me
Borne upon the mighty wind
Let us leave this land behind,
Now that I have let thee know
What thy glorious fate must be,
And the task reserved for thee,
Let us on our journey go.
[Exeunt.
The reader cannot fail to be struck with the resemblance between this very beautiful passage of Calderon and the exquisite “Sacred Song” of Moore:—
“Thou art, O God, the life and lightOf all this wondrous world we see.”
The poet of the Melodies probably never read a line of Calderon, and was himself too rich in fancy to borrow even from him, if he had done so. The coincidence must be attributed to a certain affinity between the minds of the two poets, very perceptible here as elsewhere in the writings of both.
| The Purgatory of Saint Patrick | |