* SCENE VI.

* SCENE VI.

LUIS.

LUIS. If for this I die, to me Thou the happiest death allottest, Since he for his God will die, He who dies to do Him honour. And a man whose life is here But a round of cares and crosses, Should be grateful unto death As the end of all his sorrows; Since it comes the tangled thread Of a wretched life to shorten, Which to-day the evil Phoenix Of its works that now prove mortal Would revive amid the ashes Of my wrong and my dishonour. Then my life, my breath were poison, Venom would my breast but foster, Until I had shed in Ireland Blood in such a copious torrent, That though base it might wash out The remembrance of my wronger. Ah, my honour, low thou liest, By a ruthless foot down trodden!— I will die with thee, united We two will together conquer These barbarians. Then since little, But a span at best, belongeth To my life, a noble vengeance Let this dagger take upon me!— But, good God! what evil impulse With demoniac instinct prompteth Thus my hand? I am a Christian, I've a soul, and share the godly Light of faith: then were it right, 'Mid a crowd of Gentile mockers, Thus the Christian faith to tarnish By an action so improper? What example would I give them By a death so sad and shocking, Save that I thus gave the lie To the works that Patrick worketh. Since they'd say, who worship only Their own vices most immodest, Who deny unto the soul Its eternal joy or torment, "Of what use is Patrick's preaching That man's soul must be immortal, If the Christian, Luis Enius, Kills himself? He can't acknowledge Its eternal life who'd lose it."— Thus with actions so discordant, He the light and I the shadow, We would neutralize each other. 'Tis enough to be so wicked As even now to feel no sorrow, No repentance for past sins, Rather a desire for others. Yes, by God! for if escape Fortune now my life would offer, Europe, Africa, and Asia I would fill with fear and horror; First exacting here the debt Of a vengeance so enormous, That these islands of Egerius Would not hold a single mortal Who should not appease the thirst, The insatiable longing That I have for blood. The lightning, When it bursts its prison portals, Warns us in a voice of thunder, And then 'twixt dark smoke and forked Fires that take the shape of serpents, Fills the trembling air with horror. I, too, gave that thunder voice, So that all men heard the promise, But the lightning bolt was wanting. Yes, ah me! it proved abortive, And before it touched the earth Was by dallying winds made sport of. No, it is not death that grieves me, Even a death of such dishonour, 'Tis because at last are ended, In my youth's fresh opening blossom, My offences. Life I wish for To begin from this day forward Greater and more dread excesses. Heavens! 'tis for no other object.

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