The Saint's Tragedy

Entangled in the Magdalen’s tresses lie;
Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips
Dare to approach her feet, and thou shalt start
To find the canvas warm with life, and matter
A moment transubstantiate to heaven.
Wal.  Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take
An indigestion for a troop of angels.
Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens,
Where not a stringy head of kale is cut
But breeds a vision or a revelation.

Lewis.  Hush, hush, Count!  Speak, strange monk, strange words, and waken

Longings more strange than either.

Con.  Then, if proved,
As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love,
Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul
At length may soar: perchance—Oh, bliss too great
For thought—yet possible!
Receive some token—smile—or hallowing touch
Of that white hand, beneath whose soft caress
The raging world is smoothed, and runs its course
To shadow forth her glory.

Lewis.  Thou dost tempt me—
That were a knightly quest.

Con.  Ay, here’s true love.
Love’s heaven, without its hell; the golden fruit
Without the foul husk, which at Adam’s fall
Did crust it o’er with filth and selfishness.
I tempt thee heavenward—from yon azure walls
Unearthly beauties beckon—God’s own mother
Waits longing for thy choice—

Lewis.  Is this a dream?

Wal.  Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you!
Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies,
These male hysterics, by starvation bred
And huge conceit?  Cast off God’s gift of manhood,
And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone
With snapping at the sham one in the water?
What were you born a man for?

Lewis.  Ay, I know it:—
I cannot live on dreams.  Oh for one friend,
Myself, yet not myself; one not so high
But she could love me, not too pure to pardon
My sloth and meanness!  Oh for flesh and blood,
Before whose feet I could adore, yet love!
How easy then were duty!  From her lips
To learn my daily task;—in her pure eyes
To see the living type of those heaven-glories
I dare not look on;—let her work her will
Of love and wisdom on these straining hinds;—
To squire a saint around her labour field,
And she and it both mine:—That were possession!

Con.  The flesh, fair youth—

Wal.  Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt!
We are past your burrow now.  Come, come, Lord Landgrave,
Look round, and find your saint.

Lewis.  Alas! one such—
One such, I know, who upward from one cradle
Beside me like a sister—No, thank God! no sister!—
Has grown and grown, and with her mellow shade
Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own hue,
And even now is budding into blossom,
Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still
Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained,
And leave no living copies of its beauty
To after ages.  Ah! be less, sweet maid,
Less than thyself!  Yet no—my wife thou might’st be,
If less than thus—but not the saint thou art.
What! shall my selfish longings drag thee down
From maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship?
That were a caitiff deed!  Oh, misery!
Is wedlock treason to that purity,
Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock?
Elizabeth! my saint!  [Exit Conrad.]

Wal.  What, Sir? the Princess?
Ye saints in heaven, I thank you!

Lewis.  Oh, who else,
Who else the minutest lineament fulfils
Of this my cherished portrait?

Wal.  So—’tis well.

Hear me, my Lord.—You think this dainty princess

Too perfect for you, eh?  That’s well again;

For that whose price after fruition falls