Part 1 / Book 12 / Act 3 — FROM THE FIRST PART OF "WALLENSTEIN," ACT III. SC. 4.
Reading edition
Wallenstein (in soliloquy). Is it possible? Is't so? I can no longer what I would! No longer draw back at my liking! I Must do the deed, because I thought of it, And fed this heart here with a dream! Because I did not scowl temptation from my presence, Dallied with thought of possible fulfilment, Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain, And only kept the road, the access open! By the great God of Heaven! It was not My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve. I but amused myself with thinking of it. The free-will tempted me, the power to do Or not to do it.—Was it criminal To make the fancy minister to hope, To fill the air with pretty toys of air, And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me? Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not The road of duty clear beside me—but One little step and once more I was in it! Where am I? Whither have I been transported? No road, no track behind one, but a wall, Impenetrable, insurmountable, Rises obedient to the spells I muttered And meant not—my own doings tower behind me.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
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EASY TO DRIFT.
Easy to drift to the open sea, The tides are eager and swift and strong, And whistling and free are the rushing winds,— But O, to get back is hard and long.
Easy as told in Arabian tale, To free from his jar the evil sprite Till he rises like smoke to stupendous size,— But O, nevermore can we prison him tight.
Easy as told in an English tale, To fashion a Frankenstein, body and soul, And breathe in his bosom a breath of life,— But O, we create what we cannot control.
Easy to drift to the sea of doubt, Easy to hurt what we cannot heal, Easy to rouse what we cannot soothe, Easy to speak what we do not feel, Easy to show what we ought to conceal, Easy to think that fancy is fate,— And O, the wisdom that comes too late!
OLIVER HUCKEL.
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FRANKFORD'S SOLILOQUY.
FROM "A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS"
O God! O God! that it were possible To undo things done; to call back yesterday! That time could turn up his swift sandy glass, To untell the days, and to redeem these hours! Or that the sun Could, rising from the West, draw his coach backward,— Take from the account of time so many minutes. Till he had all these seasons called again, These minutes and these actions done in them.
THOMAS HEYWOOD.
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CONSCIENCE.
FROM SATIRE XIII.
The Spartan rogue who, boldly bent on fraud, Dared ask the god to sanction and applaud, And sought for counsel at the Pythian shrine, Received for answer from the lips divine,— "That he who doubted to restore his trust, And reasoned much, reluctant to be just, Should for those doubts and that reluctance prove The deepest vengeance of the powers above." The tale declares that not pronounced in vain Came forth the warning from the sacred fane: Ere long no branch of that devoted race Could mortal man on soil of Sparta trace! Thus but intended mischief, stayed in time, Had all the mortal guilt of finished crime. If such his fate who yet but darkly dares, Whose guilty purpose yet no act declares, What were it, done! Ah! now farewell to peace! Ne'er on this earth his soul's alarms shall cease! Held in the mouth that languid fever burns, His tasteless food he indolently turns; On Alba's oldest stock his soul shall pine! Forth from his lips he spits the joyless wine! Nor all the nectar of the hills shall now Or glad the heart, or smooth the wrinkled brow! While o'er the couch his aching limbs are cast, If care permit the brief repose at last, Lo! there the altar and the fane abused! Or darkly shadowed forth in dream confused, While the damp brow betrays the inward storm, Before him flits thy aggravated form! Then as new fears o'er all his senses press, Unwilling words the guilty truth confess! These, these be they whom secret terrors try. When muttered thunders shake the lurid sky; Whose deadly paleness now the gloom conceals And now the vivid flash anew reveals. No storm as Nature's casualty they hold. They deem without an aim no thunders rolled; Where'er the lightning strikes, the flash is thought Judicial fire, with Heaven's high vengeance fraught. Passes this by, with yet more anxious ear And greater dread, each future storm they fear; In burning vigil, deadliest foe to sleep, In their distempered frame if fever keep, Or the pained side their wonted rest prevent, Behold some incensed god his bow has bent! All pains, all aches, are stones and arrows hurled At bold offenders in this nether world! From them no crested cock acceptance meets! Their lamb before the altar vainly bleats! Can pardoning Heaven on guilty sickness smile? Or is there victim than itself more vile? Where steadfast virtue dwells not in the breast, Man is a wavering creature at the best!
From the Latin of JUVENAL.
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THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.
The Queen looked up, and said, "O maiden, if indeed you list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart, that I may weep." Whereat full willingly sang the little maid:
"Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.
"No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.
"No light; so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.
"Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? O, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! Ye cannot enter now."
So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, wept the sad Queen.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
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UP HILL.
Does the road wind up hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labor you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
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PER PACEM AD LUCEM.
I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load;
I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet.
For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, Lead me aright— Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed— Through Peace to Light.
I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed Full radiance here; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear.
I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see; Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand And follow Thee.
Joy is like restless day; but peace divine Like quiet night: Lead me, O Lord,—till perfect Day shall shine, Through Peace to Light.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
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ON HIS BLINDNESS.
When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."
MILTON.
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THE MARTYRS' HYMN.
Flung to the heedless winds, Or on the waters cast, The martyrs' ashes, watched, Shall gathered be at last; And from that scattered dust, Around us and abroad, Shall spring a plenteous seed Of witnesses for God.
The Father hath received Their latest living breath; And vain is Satan's boast Of victory in their death; Still, still, though dead, they speak, And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim To many a wakening land The one availing name.
From the German of MARTIN LUTHER.
Translation of W.J. FOX.
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THE PILGRIMAGE.
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gauge; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!
Blood must be my body's balmer, No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of Heaven, Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy, blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me. I'll take them first To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the blest paths we'll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,— Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser, bought or sold, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney; Who pleads for all without degrees, And he hath angels, but no fees; And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder! Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,— Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea', That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread. Set on my soul an everlasting head: Then am I, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, Who oft doth think, must needs die well.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
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THE MASTER'S TOUCH.
In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: To make the music and the beauty, needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand; Let not the music that is in us die! Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let, Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!
Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose, that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord!
HORATIUS BONAR.
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