The Saint's Tragedy

Heaven’s floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon where we lie.
Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding silent,
Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical!
They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the secret fountains
Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison clay.
Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek’st the lowest hollows?
Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest blue.
Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence—
Joining praises through the ages—Is it all a minstrel’s dream?
Alas! he wakes.  [Lewis rises.]

Lewis.  Ah! faithless beauty,
Is this your promise, that whene’er you prayed
I should be still the partner of your vigils,
And learn from you to pray?  Last night I lay dissembling
When she who woke you, took my feet for yours:
Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.
Alas! what’s this?  These shoulders’ cushioned ice,
And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all,
And weeping furrows traced!  Ah! precious life-blood!
Who has done this?

Eliz.  Forgive! ’twas I—my maidens—

Lewis.  O ruthless hags!

Eliz.  Not so, not so—They wept
When I did bid them, as I bid thee now
To think of nought but love.

Lewis.  Elizabeth!
Speak!  I will know the meaning of this madness!

Eliz.  Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls,
In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh
By such sharp lessons.  I must tread their paths,
If I would climb the mountains where they rest.
Grief is the gate of bliss—why wedlock—knighthood—
A mother’s joy—a hard-earned field of glory—
By tribulation come—so doth God’s kingdom.

Lewis.  But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures—
Are these the love of God?  Is He well pleased
With this stern holocaust of health and joy?

Eliz.  What!  Am I not as gay a lady-love
As ever clipt in arms a noble knight?
Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day?
It pleases me to bear what you call pain,
Therefore to me ’tis pleasure: joy and grief
Are the will’s creatures; martyrs kiss the stake—
The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze—
The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count
His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love,
Eve’s curse lays suffering, as their natural lot,
On womankind, till custom makes it light.
I know the use of pain: bar not the leech
Because his cure is bitter—’Tis such medicine
Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion,
For which you say you love me.—Ay, which brings
Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy
As its attendant angel—I’ll say no more—
Not even to thee—command, and I’ll obey thee.

Lewis.  Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder
Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom!  Canst thou
Beatify the ascetic’s savagery
To heavenly prudence?  Horror melts to pity,
And pity kindles to adoring shower
Of radiant tears!  Thou tender cruelty!
Gay smiling martyrdom!  Shall I forbid thee?
Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness?
Thy courage by my weakness?  Where thou darest,
I’ll shudder and submit.  I kneel here spell-bound
Before my bleeding Saviour’s living likeness
To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things,
Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood
Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore
’Twas beautiful, ’twas Christ-like—had I thought
That thou wert such:—

Eliz.  You would have loved me still?

Lewis.  I have gone mad, I think, at every parting
At mine own terrors for thee.  No; I’ll learn to glory
In that which makes thee glorious!  Noble stains!
I’ll call them rose leaves out of paradise
Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped
From martyrs’ diadems, prints of Jesus’ cross
Too truly borne, alas!

Eliz.  I think, mine own,
I am forgiven at last?

Lewis.  To-night, my sister—
Henceforth I’ll clasp thee to my heart so fast
Thou shalt not ’scape unnoticed.

Eliz [laughing]  We shall see—
Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss,