Collected Works (Vol. I)

158 THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY Some notable disaster to the house Wherein such piety and love abide ; I saw some hateful spouse Carry away the bride. That feeble prescience of events to come, That stultified imagining, hath lied ; And I can see, though all the signs be dumb . And auguries unfruitful—lI can see, Now, some intolerable tragedy Fit for a god to picture, not a man! I see the breaking of the rosary, And Fate’s cold fingers snap the span Of three most innocent and pleasant lives. So terrible a happening dives Swift from God’s hand to the abyss of hell, And in its torment thrives, Gathering curses from the darkest cave, Calling corruption from the grave To form one shape of aspect multiple Divided in its single spell ; One spectre smooth and suave, More horrible than any fear or active doom, Beckoning with its lewd malignant finger, Beckoning, beckoning, to no pious tomb Where pitiable memory might linger. A creeping, living horror hems me in, A masterpiece of sin! Even my soul, inured to contemplate The dreadful, the perverse design of Fate, In many stories never meant to win Applause of mortals or of gods, but made To choke man’s spirit in its shade, And make him, in his pride and happiness, In virtue’s mantle and love’s seemly dress, Immeasurably afraid. The hour is on them—let its weight express All blood, all life, from the disastrous grape! In God, in mercy, there is no escape, No anchor for distress. The hour strikes mournfully upon the bell Of the most awful precipice ‘That.merges hell in hell. There is deep silence in that dread abyss ; There is deep silence in the sphered sun ; There is deep silence where the planets run, Majestic fires! Before the throne of God Deep silence waits the lifting of the rod, The moving nod. Silence, reflected thence, stil] and intense, into the firmament ; Such silence as befits the event. Re-enter CORA. CORA. This is the hour, O child whom Ihave lovea With love more tender than a mother’s love Being thy friend ; this moment have I sough Awaiting always the propitious time, To speak some purpose grown more definite Than is our wont. We spend the honey days In gentle intercourse: high souls have stood Watching us drink from their crystalline stream Meandering through language : mighty kings Have listened as we read of their dead pomp ; Fair women blushed as their imagined shapes Flitted before us in the tender page. We too have followed every curve and line In fairy fancies on our canvas drawn Of stately people, and the changing rhyme Of virgins dancing before Artemis ; In all the pleasures that delight the mind Invigorate the soul, lend favour to The body of the youth—for I am old— ULRIC. My Cora! old! Came of some purpose. To hear it—and yourself! Doggtd against the will to speak. friend, Let us sit close and whisper. But urgently a word I am half afraid Reluctance sits Dear CORA. Listen, then! You are man: young men seek happiness. Is there one joy your soul hath never felt? One pure sweet passion? grown