26 THE MOTHER'S TRAGEDY
This tragedy is terrible to me.
Even I, its spirit, shudder as I see;
I, passionless, the moulder of men’s hope,
The slayer of them, cast no horoscope
Divining what befell, And I am moved:
Both love, and both are worthy to be loved.
Ah Fate! if thou hadst cast the dies
Whence no appeal, in any other wise!
I am the soul of the grim face of things;
Mine are the Sphinx’s wings;
Mine own life lives with this event!
Yet even I, its very self, lament
The execrable tyranny,
The rayless misery
Of this wild whirlpool sea of circumstance.
Mine old eyes look askance:
It is my punishment to dwell
In mine own self-created hell. [CORA vushes in.
MADELINE.
What curse of God hath smitten you? I see
Exceeding horror in abiding shape,
Blasting the countenance of peace and love
With some distortion. O your mouth’s awry!
CORA, 2% a hoarse, horrible voice,
You cannot tell! I cannot tell myself.
Some vital mist of blood is shrouding sight
From all but my corruption’s self. Come here
And look within mine eyes, if you can see