Chương Chương 20 · CATHEDRAL

et her beware!

The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor,

And we’ll scatter chaff before her door!

[_Exit_.

MARGARET (_returning home_)

How scornfully I once reviled,

When some poor maiden was beguiled!

More speech than any tongue suffices

I craved, to censure others’ vices.

Black as it seemed, I blackened still,

And blacker yet was in my will;

And blessed myself, and boasted high,—

And now—a living sin am I!

Yet—all that drove my heart thereto,

God! was so good, so dear, so true!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

XVIII

DONJON

(_In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater

Dolorosa. Pots of flowers before it_.)

MARGARET

(_putting fresh flowers in the pots_)

Incline, O Maiden,

Thou sorrow-laden,

Thy gracious countenance upon my pain!

The sword Thy heart in,

With anguish smarting,

Thou lookest up to where Thy Son is slain!

Thou seest the Father;

Thy sad sighs gather,

And bear aloft Thy sorrow and His pain!

Ah, past guessing,

Beyond expressing,

The pangs that wring my flesh and bone!

Why this anxious heart so burneth,

Why it trembleth, why it yearneth,

Knowest Thou, and Thou alone!

Where’er I go, what sorrow,

What woe, what woe and sorrow

Within my bosom aches!

Alone, and ah! unsleeping,

I’m weeping, weeping, weeping,

The heart within me breaks.

The pots before my window,

Alas! my tears did wet,

As in the early morning

For thee these flowers I set.

Within my lonely chamber

The morning sun shone red:

I sat, in utter sorrow,

Already on my bed.

Help! rescue me from death and stain!

O Maiden!

Thou sorrow-laden,

Incline Thy countenance upon my pain!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

XIX

NIGHT

STREET BEFORE MARGARET’S DOOR

VALENTINE (_a soldier_, MARGARET’S _brother_)

When I have sat at some carouse.

Where each to each his brag allows,

And many a comrade praised to me

His pink of girls right lustily,

With brimming glass that spilled the toast,

And elbows planted as in boast:

I sat in unconcerned repose,

And heard the swagger as it rose.

And stroking then my beard, I’d say,

Smiling, the bumper in my hand:

“Each well enough in her own way.

But is there one in all the land

Like sister Margaret, good as gold,—

One that to her can a candle hold?”

Cling! clang! “Here’s to her!” went around

The board: “He speaks the truth!” cried some;

“In her the flower o’ the sex is found!”

And all the swaggerers were dumb.

And now!—I could tear my hair with vexation.

And dash out my brains in desperation!

With turned-up nose each scamp may face me,

With sneers and stinging taunts disgrace me,

And, like a bankrupt debtor sitting,

A chance-dropped word may set me sweating!

Yet, though I thresh them all together,

I cannot call them liars, either.

But what comes sneaking, there, to view?

If I mistake not, there are two.

If _he’s_ one, let me at him drive!

He shall not leave the spot alive.

FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

How from the window of the sacristy

Upward th’eternal lamp sends forth a glimmer,

That, lessening side-wards, fainter grows and dimmer,

Till darkness closes from the sky!

The shadows thus within my bosom gather.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I’m like a sentimental tom-cat, rather,

That round the tall fire-ladders sweeps,

And stealthy, then, along the coping creeps:

Quite virtuous, withal, I come,

A little thievish and a little frolicsome.

I feel in every limb the presage

Forerunning the grand