Produced by Sue Asscher asschers@bigpond.com
CALDERON'S DRAMAS.
THE PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK.
NOW FIRST TRANSLATED FULLY FROM THE SPANISH IN THE METRE
OF THE ORIGINAL.
BY
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
LONDON: HENRY S. KING & CO.,
65 CORNHILL, AND 12, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1873.
INTRODUCTION.
Two of the dramas contained in this volume are the most celebrated of
all Calderon's writings. The first, "La Vida es Sueno", has been
translated into many languages and performed with success on almost
every stage in Europe but that of England. So late as the winter of
1866-7, in a Russian version, it drew crowded houses to the great
theatre of Moscow; while a few years earlier, as if to give a signal
proof of the reality of its title, and that Life was indeed a Dream,
the Queen of Sweden expired in the theatre of Stockholm during the
performance of "La Vida es Sueno". In England the play has been much
studied for its literary value and the exceeding beauty and lyrical
sweetness of some passages; but with the exception of a version by
John Oxenford published in "The Monthly Magazine" for 1842, which
being in blank verse does not represent the form of the original, no
complete translation into English has been attempted. Some scenes
translated with considerable elegance in the metre of the original
were published by Archbishop Trench in 1856; but these comprised only
a portion of the graver division of the drama. The present version
of the entire play has been made with the advantages which the
author's long experience in the study and interpretation of Calderon
has enabled him to apply to this master-piece of the great Spanish
poet. All the forms of verse have been preserved; while the
closeness of the translation may be inferred from the fact, that not
only the whole play but every speech and fragment of a speech are
represented in English in the exact number of lines of the original,
without the sacrifice, it is to be hoped, of one important idea.
A note by Hartzenbusch in the last edition of the drama published at
Madrid (1872), tells that "La Vida es Sueno", is founded on a story
which turns out to be substantially the same as that with which
English students are familiar as the foundation of the famous
Induction to the "Taming of the Shrew". Calderon found it however in
a different work from that in which Shakespeare met with it, or
rather his predecessor, the anonymous author of "The Taming of a
Shrew", whose work supplied to Shakespeare the materials of his own
comedy.
On this subject Malone thus writes. "The circumstance on which the
Induction to the anonymous play, as well as to the present Comedy
[Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew"], is founded, is related (as
Langbaine has observed) by Heuterus, "Rerum Burgund." lib. iv. The
earliest English original of this story in prose that I have met with
is the following, which is found in Goulart's "Admirable and
Memorable Histories", translated by E. Grimstone, quarto, 1607; but
this tale (which Goulart translated from Heuterus) had undoubtedly
appeared in English, in some other shape, before 1594:
"Philip called the good Duke of Burgundy, in the memory of our
ancestors, being at Bruxelles with his Court, and walking one night
after supper through the streets, accompanied by some of his
favourites, he found lying upon the stones a certaine artisan that
was very dronke, and that slept soundly. It pleased the prince in
this artisan to make trial of the vanity of our life, whereof he had
before discoursed with his familiar friends. He therefore caused
this sleeper to be taken up, and carried into his palace; he commands
him to be layed in one of the richest beds; a riche night cap to be
given him; his foule shirt to be taken off, and to have another put
on him of fine holland. When as this dronkard had digested his wine,
and began to awake, behold there comes about his bed Pages and
Groomes of the Duke's Chamber, who drawe the curteines, make many
courtesies, and being bare-headed, aske him if it please him to rise,
and what apparell it would please him to put on that day. They bring
him rich apparell. This new Monsieur amazed at such courtesie, and
doubting whether he dreamt or waked, suffered himselfe to be drest,
and led out of the chamber. There came noblemen which saluted him
with all honour, and conduct him to the Masse, where with great
ceremonie they give him the booke of the Gospell, and the Pixe to
kisse, as they did usually to the Duke. From the Masse they bring
him back unto the pallace; he washes his hands, and sittes down at
the table well furnished. After dinner, the Great Chamberlain
commands cards to be brought with a great summe of money. This Duke
in imagination playes with the chief of the Court. Then they carry
him to walke in the gardein, and to hunt the hare, and to hawke.
They bring him back into the pallace, where he sups in state.
Candles being light the musitions begin to play; and the tables taken
away, the gentlemen and gentlewomen fell to dancing. Then they
played a pleasant comedie, after which followed a Banket, whereat
they had presently store of Ipocras and pretious wine, with all sorts
of confitures, to this prince of the new impression; so as he was
dronke, and fell soundlie asleepe. Hereupon the Duke commanded that
he should be disrobed of all his riche attire. He was put into his
old ragges, and carried into the same place, where he had been found
the night before; where he spent that night. Being awake in the
morning, he began to remember what had happened before; he knewe not
whether it were true indeede, or a dream that had troubled his
braine. But in the end, after many discourses, he concludes that ALL
WAS BUT A DREAME that had happened unto him; and so entertained his
wife, his children, and his neighbours, without any other
apprehension."
It is curious to find that the same anecdote which formed the
Induction to the original "Taming of a Shrew", and which, from a
comic point of view, Shakespeare so wonderfully developed in his own
comedy, Calderon invested with such solemn and sublime dignity in "La
Vida es Sueno". He found it, as Senor Hartzenbusch points out in the
edition of 1872 already quoted, in the very amusing "Viage
Entretenido" of Augustin de Rojas, which was first published in 1603.
Hartzenbusch refers to the modern edition of Rojas, Madrid, 1793,
tomo I, pp. 261, 262, 263, but in a copy of the Lerida edition of
1615, in my own possession, I find the anecdote at folios 118, 119,
120. There are some slight differences between the version of Rojas
and that of Goulart, but the incidents and the persons are the same.
The conclusion to which the artizan arrived at, in the version of
Goulart, that all had been a dream, is expressed more strongly by the
Duke himself in the story as told by Rojas.
"Y dijo entonces el Duque: 'veis aqui, amigos, "Lo que es el Mundo:
Todo es un Sueno", pues esto verdaderamente ha pasado por este, como
habeis visto, y le parece que lo ha sonado.'" --
The story in all probability came originally from the East. Mr. Lane
in his translation of the Thousand and One Nights gives a very
interesting narrative which he believes to be founded on an
historical fact in which Haroun Al Raschid plays the part of the good
Duke of Burgundy, and Abu-l-Hasan the original of Christopher Sly.
The gravity of the treatment and certain incidents in this Oriental
story recall more strongly Calderon's drama than the Induction to the
"Taming of the Shrew". "La Vida es Sueno" was first published either
at the end of 1635 or beginning of 1636.
The "Aprobacion" for its publication along with eleven other dramas
(not nine as Archbishop Trench has stated), was signed on the 6th of
November in the former year by the official licenser, Juan Bautista
de Sossa. The volume was edited by the poet's brother, Don Joseph
Calderon. So scarce has this first authorised collection of any of
Calderon's dramas become, that a Spanish writer Don Vicente Garcia de
la Huerta, in his "Teatro Espanol" (Parte Segunda, tomo 3o), denies
the existence of this volume of 1635, and states that it did not
appear until 1640. As if to corroborate this view, Barrera in his
"Catalogo del Teatro antiguo Espanol" gives the date 1640 to the
"Primera parte de comedias de Calderon" edited by his brother Joseph.
There can be no doubt, however, that the volume appeared in 1635 or
1636 as stated. In 1637 Don Joseph Calderon published the "Second
Part" of his brother's dramas containing like the former volume
twelve plays.* In his dedication of this volume to D. Rodrigo de
Mendoza, Joseph Calderon expressly alludes to the First Part of his
brother's comedies which he had "printed." "En la primera Parte,
Excellentissimo Senor, de las comedias que imprimi de Don Pedro
Calderon de La Barca, mi hermano," etc. This of course settles the
fact of the prior publication of the first Part. It is singular,
however, to find that the most famous of all Calderon's dramas should
have been frequently ascribed to Lope de Vega. So late as 1857 it is
given in an Italian version by Giovanni La Cecilia, under the title
of "La Vita e un Sogno", as a drama of Lope de Vega, with the date
1628. This of course is a mistake, but Senor Hartzenbusch, who makes
no allusion to this circumstance, admits that two dramas of Lope de
Vega, which it is presumed preceded the composition of Calderon's
play turn on very nearly the same incidents as those of "La Vida es
Sueno". These are "Lo que ha de ser", and "Barlan y Josafa". He
gives a passage from each of these dramas which seem to be the germ
of the fine lament of Sigismund, which the reader will find
translated in the present volume.
[footnote] *In the library of the British Museum there is a fine copy
of this "Segunda Parte de Comedias de Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca"
Madrid, 1637. Mr. Ticknor mentions (1863) that he too had a copy of
this interesting volume.
Senor Hartzenbusch, in the edition of Calderon's "La Vida es Sueno",
already referred to (Madrid, 1872), prints the passages from Lope de
Vega's two dramas, but in neither of them, he justly remarks, can we
find anything that at all corresponds to this "grandioso caracter de
Segismundo."
The second drama in this volume, "The Wonderful Magician", is perhaps
better known to poetical students in England than even the first,
from the spirited fragment Shelley has left us in his "Scenes from
Calderon." The preoccupation of a subject by a great master throws
immense difficulties in the way of any one who ventures to follow in
the same path: but as Shelley allowed himself great licence in his
versification, and either from carelessness or an imperfect knowledge
of Spanish is occasionally unfaithful to the meaning of his author,
it may be hoped in my own version that strict fidelity both as to the
form as well as substance of the original may be some compensation
for the absence of those higher poetical harmonies to which many of
my readers will have been accustomed.
"El Magico Prodigioso" appeared for the first time in the same volume
as "La Vida es Sueno", prepared for publication in 1635 by Don Joseph
Calderon. The translation is comprised in the same number of lines
as the original, and all the preceding remarks on "Life is a Dream",
whether in reference to the period of the first publication of the
drama in Spain, or the principles I kept in view while attempting
this version may be applied to it. As in the Case of "Life is a
Dream", "The Wonderful Magician" has previously been translated
entire by an English writer, ("Justina", by J.H. 1848); but as
Archbishop Trench truly observes, "the writer did not possess that
command of the resources of the English language, which none more
than Calderon requires."
The Legend on which Calderon founded "El Magico Prodigioso" will be
found in Surius, "De probatis Sanctorum historiis", t. V. (Col. Agr.
1574), p. 351: "Vita et Martyrium SS. Cypriani et Justinae, autore
Simeone Metaphraste", and in Chapter cxlii, of the "Legenda Aurea" of
Jacobus de Voragine "De Sancta Justina virgine".
The martyrdom of the Saints took place in the year 290, and their
festival is celebrated by the Church on the 26th of September.
Mr. Ticknor in his History of Spanish Literature, 1863, volume ii. p.
369, says that the Wonder-working Magician is founded on "the same
legend on which Milman has founded his 'Martyr of Antioch.'" This is
a mistake of the learned writer. "The Martyr of Antioch" is founded
not on the history of St. Justina but of Saint Margaret, as Milman
himself expressly states. Chapter xciii., "De Sancta Margareta", in
the "Legenda Aurea" of Jacobus de Voragine contains her story.
The third translation in this volume is that of "The Purgatory of St.
Patrick". This, though perhaps not so famous as the two preceding
dramas, is intended to be given by Don P. De la Escosura, in a
selection of Calderon's finest "comedias", now being edited by him
for the Spanish Academy, as the representative piece of its class --
namely, the mystical drama founded on the lives of Saints. Mr.
Ticknor prefers it to the more celebrated "Devotion of the Cross,"
and says that it "is commonly ranked among the best religious plays
of the Spanish theatre in the seventeenth century."
In all that relates to the famous cave known through the middle ages
as the "Purgatory of Saint Patrick", as well as the Story of Luis
Enius -- the Owain Miles of Ancient English poetry -- Calderon was
entirely indebted to the little volume published at Madrid, in 1627,
by Juan Perez de Montalvan, entitled "Vida y Purgatorio de San
Patricio". This singular work met with immense success. It went
through innumerable editions, and continues to be reprinted in Spain
as a chap-book, down to the present day. I have the fifth impression
"improved and enlarged by the author himself," Madrid, 1628, the year
after its first appearance: also a later edition, Madrid, 1664. As
early as 1637 a French translation appeared at Brussels by "F. A. S.
Chartreux, a Bruxelles." In 1642 a second French translation was
published at Troyes, by "R. P. Francois Bouillon, de l'Ordre de S.
Francois, et Bachelier de Theologie." Mr. Thomas Wright in his
"Essay on St. Patrick's Purgatory," London, 1844, makes the singular
mistake of supposing that Bouillon's "Histoire de la Vie et
Purgatoire de S. Patrice" was founded on the drama of Calderon, it
being simply a translation of Montalvan's "Vida y Purgatorio," from
which, like itself, Calderon's play was derived. Among other
translations of Montalvan's work may be mentioned one in Dutch
(Brussels, 1668) and one in Portuguese (Lisbon, 1738). It was also
translated into German and Italian, but I find no mention of an
English version. For this reason I have thought that a few extracts
might be interesting, as showing how closely Calderon adhered even to
the language of his predecessor.
In all that relates to the Purgatory, Montalvan's work is itself
chiefly compiled from the "Florilegium Insulae Sanctorum, seu vitae
et Actae sanctorum Hiberniae," Paris, 1624, fol. This work, which
has now become scarce, was written by Thomas Messingham an Irish
priest, the Superior of the Irish Seminary in Paris. No complete
English version appears to have been made of it, but a small tract in
English containing everything in the original work that referred to
St. Patrick's Purgatory was published at Paris in 1718. As this
tract is perhaps more scarce than even the Florilegium itself, the
account of the Purgatory as given by Messingham from the MS. of Henry
of Saltrey is reprinted in the notes to this drama in the quaint
language of the anonymous translator. Of this tract, "printed at
Paris in 1718" without the name of author, publisher or printer, I
have not been able to trace another copy. In other points of
interest connected with Calderon's drama, particularly to the
clearing up of the difficulty hitherto felt as to the confused list
of authorities at the end, the reader is also referred to the notes.
The present version of "The Purgatory of Saint Patrick" is, with the
exception of a few unimportant lines, an entirely new translation.
It is made with the utmost care, imitating all the measures and
contained, like the two preceding dramas, in the exact number of
lines of the original. One passage of the translation which I
published in 1853 is retained in the notes, as a tribute of respect
to the memory of the late John Rutter Chorley, it having been
mentioned with praise by that eminent Spanish scholar in an elaborate
review of my earlier translations from Calderon, which appeared in
the "Athenaeum", Nov. 19 and Nov. 26, 1853.
It only remains to add that the text I have followed is that of
Hartzenbusch in his edition of Calderon's Comedias, Madrid, 1856
("Biblioteca de Autores Espanoles"). His arrangement of the scenes
has been followed throughout, thus enabling the reader in a moment to
verify for himself the exactness of the translation by a reference to
the original, a crucial test which I rather invite than decline.
CLAPHAM PARK, Easter, 1873.
* * * * *
THE
PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK.
TO
AUBREY DE VERE,
WHOSE
"LEGENDS OF ST. PATRICK"
ARE AMONG THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF ENGLISH POEMS,
THIS VERSION
OF THE CELEBRATED LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY,
AS TOLD BY CALDERON,
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY
THE AUTHOR.
PERSONS.
* * * * *
EGERIUS, King of Ireland.
PATRICK.
LUIS ENIUS.
A GOOD ANGEL.
A BAD ANGEL.
PHILIP.
LEOGAIRE.
A CAPTAIN.
POLONIA, Daughter of the King.
LESBIA, her Sister.
PAUL, a Peasant.
LUCY, his Wife.
Two Canons Regular.
Two Peasants.
An Old Countryman.
A Muffled Figure.
Attendants, Friars, and others.
* * * * *
The Scene passes in Ireland, in the Court of King Egerius, and other parts.
THE PURGATORY OF SAINT PATRICK.
* * * * *
ACT THE FIRST.
THE SEA-SHORE, WITH PRECIPITOUS CLIFFS.
SCENE I.
The King EGERIUS, clad in skins, LEOGAIRE, POLONIA, LESBIA, and a Captain.
KING [furious]. Here let me die. Away!
LEOGAIRE. Oh, stop, my lord!
CAPTAIN. Consider . . .
LESBIA. Listen . . .
POLONIA. Stay . . .
KING. Yes, from this rocky height,
Nigh to the sun, that with one starry light
Its rugged brow doth crown,
Headlong among the salt waves leaping down
Let him descend who so much pain perceives;
There let him raging die who raging lives.
LESBIA. Why wildly seekest thou the sea?
POLONIA. Thou wert asleep, my lord; what could it be?
KING. Every torment that doth dwell
For ever with the thirsty fiends of hell --
Dark brood of that dread mother,
The seven-necked snake, whose poisoned breath doth smother
The fourth celestial sphere;
In fine, its horror and its misery drear
Within me reach so far,
That I myself upon myself make war,
When in the arms of sleep
A living corse am I, for it doth keep
Such mastery o'er my life, that, as I dream,
A pale foreshadowing threat of coming death I seem.
POLONIA. How could a dream, my lord, provoke you so?
KING. Alas! my daughters, listen, you shall know.
From out the lips of a most lovely youth
(And though a miserable slave, in sooth
I dare not hurt him, and I speak his praise),
Well, from the mouth of a poor slave, a blaze
Of lambent lustre came,
Which mildly burned in rays of gentlest flame;
Till reaching you,
The living fire at once consumed ye two.
I stood betwixt ye both, and though I sought
To stay its fury, the strange fire would not
Molest or wound me, passing like the wind,
So that despairing, blind,
I woke from out a deep abysm
Of dream, a lethargy, a paroxysm;
But find my pains the same,
For still it seems to me I see that flame,
And flying, at every turn
See you consumed; but now I also burn.*
[footnote] *The Dream of Egerius, as given by Calderon, agrees
substantially with Jocelin's description, and differs only in one
slight particular (the number of the flames) from that in Montalvan's
"Vida y Purgatorio de San Patricio". In the latter, the name of the
Irish prince to whom Patrick was sold is not given; in Jocelin he is
called "Milcho." Calderon was either ignorant of this, and gave the
king a name that was purely imaginary, or, considering it less
musical than he would wish, gave him the more harmonious one of
Egerio. The following is Jocelin's version: "And Milcho beheld a
vision in the night: and behold Patrick entered his palace as all on
fire, and the flames, issuing from his mouth, and from his nose, and
from his eyes, and from his ears, seemed to burn him; but Milcho
repelled from himself the flaming hair of the boy, nor did it prevail
to touch him any nearer; but the flame, being spread, turned aside to
the right and catching on his two little daughters, who were lying in
one bed, burned them even to ashes: then the south wind blowing
strongly dispersed their ashes over many parts of Ireland." --
"Jocelin's Life of St. Patrick, translated by Swift" (Dublin, 1804),
pp. 17, 18.
LESBIA. Light phantoms these,
Chimeras which an entrance find with ease
Into the dreamer's brain.
[A trumpet sounds.
But wherefore sounds this trumpet?
CAPTAIN. It is plain
Ships are approaching to our port below.
POLONIA. Grant me thy leave, great lord, since thou dost know
A trumpet in my ear
Sounds like a siren's voice, serene and clear;
Ever to war inclined,
In martial music my chief joy I find;
Its clangour and its din
Lead my rapt senses on: for I may win
Through it my highest fame,
When soaring to the sun on waves of flame,
Or wings as swift, my proud name shall ascend,
There it may be with Pallas to contend.
[Aside.
A stronger motive urges me to go:
If it is Philip's ship I wish to know.
[Exit.
LEOGAIRE. Descend, my lord, with me
Down where the foam-curled head of the blue sea
Bows at the base of this majestic hill,
Whose sands, like chains of gold, restrain its wilder will.
CAPTAIN. Let it divert thy care,
This snow-white monster fair,
Whose waves of dazzling hue
Shape silver frames round mirrors sapphire blue.
KING. Nothing can give relief;
Nothing can now divert me from my grief;
That mystic fire will give my life no rest,--
My heart an Etna seems within my breast.
LESBIA. Is any sight more fair? can aught surpass
That of a vessel breaking through the glass
Of crystal seas, and seeming there to be,
As with light share it cuts the azure mass,
A fish of the wind, a swift bird of the sea,
And being for two elements designed,
Flies in the wave and swims upon the wind?
But now no witchery
Were it to any eyes that sight to see;
For lo! the roused-up ocean,
Heaving with all its mountain waves in motion,
Wrinkles its haughty brow,
And suddenly awaking,
Neptune, his trident shaking,
Ruffles the beauteous face so sweet and calm but now.
Well may the sailor in his floating home
Expect a storm, for, lo! in heaven's high vault
Rise pyramids of ice, mountains of salt,
Turrets of snow, and palaces of foam.
POLONIA returns.
POLONIA. O dire misfortune!
KING. What so suddenly
Has chanced, Polonia?
POLONIA. This inconstant sea,
This Babel of wild waves that seeks heaven's gate,
So great its fury, and its rage so great,
Driven by a drought accursed,
(Who would have thought that waves themselves could thirst?)
Has swallowed in the depths of its dread womb,
But now, a numerous company, to whom
It consecrates below
Red sepulchres of coral, tombs of snow,
In silver-shining caves;
For from their prison out o'er all the waves
Has Aeolus the winds let loose, and they,
Without a law to guide them on their way,
Fell on that bark from which the trumpet rang,
A swan whose own sad obsequies it sang.
I from that cliff's stupendous height,
Which dares to intercept the great sun's light,
Looked full of hope along that vessel's track,
To see if it was Philip who came back;
Philip whose flag had borne upon the breeze
Thy royal arms triumphant through the seas;
When his sad wreck swept by,
And every sound was buried in a sigh,
His ruin seemed not wrought by seas or skies,
But by my lips and eyes,
Because my cries, the tears that made me blind,
Increased still more the water and the wind.
KING. How! ye immortal deities,
Would you still try by threatenings such as these
What I can bear?
Is it your wish that I should mount and tear
This azure palace down, as if the shape
Of a new Nimrod* I assumed, to show
How on my shoulders might the world escape,
Nor as I gazed below
Feel any fear, though all the abysses under
Were rent with fire and flame, with lightning and with thunder.
[footnote] *Nimrod is here used for Atlas. "Nimrod aber ist hier,
was den Profandichtern und auch dem Calderon oft Atlas ist." --
Schmidt, 'Die Schauspiele Calderon's' etc.,' p. 426.
* * * * *
SCENE II.
PATRICK, and then LUIS ENIUS.
PATRICK [within]. Ah me!
LEOGAIRE. Some mournful voice.
KING. What's this?
CAPTAIN. The form,
As of a man who has escaped the storm,
Swims yonder to the land.
LESBIA. And strives to give a life-sustaining hand
Unto another wretch, when he
Appeared about to sink in death's last agony.
POLONIA. Poor traveller from afar,
Whom evil fate and thy malignant star
On this far shore have cast,
Let my voice guide thee, if amid the blast
My accents thou canst hear; since it is only
To rouse thy courage that I speak to thee.
Come!
[Enter PATRICK and LUIS ENIUS, clasping each other.
PATRICK. Oh, God save me!
LUIS. Oh, the devil save ME!
LESBIA. They move my pity, these unhappy two.
KING. Not mine, for what it is I never knew.
PATRICK. Oh, sirs, if wretchedness
Can move most hearts to pity man's distress,
I will not think that here
A heart can be so cruel and severe
As to repel a wretch from out the wave.
Pity, for God's sake, at your feet I crave.
LUIS. I don't, for I disdain it.
From God or man I never hope to gain it.
KING. Say who you are; we then shall know
What hospitable care your needs we owe.
But first I will inform you of my name,
Lest ignorance of that perchance might claim
Exemption from respect, and words be said
Unworthy of the deference and the dread
That here my subjects show me,
Or wanting the due homage that you owe me.
I am the King Egerius,
The worthy lord of this small realm, for thus
I call it being mine;
Till 'tis the world, my sword shall not resign
Its valorous hope. The dress,
Not of a king, but of wild savageness
I wear: to testify,
Thus seeming a wild beast, how wild am I.
No god my worship claims;
I do not even know the deities' names:
Here they no service nor respect receive;
To die and to be born is all that we believe.
Now that you know how much you should revere
My royal state, say who you are.
PATRICK. Then hear:
Patrick is my name, my country
Ireland, and an humble hamlet,*
Scarcely known to men, called Empthor,**
Is my place of birth: It standeth
Midway 'twixt the north and west,
On a mountain which is guarded
As a prison by the sea,--
In the island which hereafter
Will be called the Isle of Saints,
To its glory everlasting;
Such a crowd, great lord, therein
Will give up their lives as martyrs
In religious attestation
Of the faith, faith's highest marvel.
Of an Irish cavalier,
And of his chaste spouse and partner,
A French lady, I was born,
Unto whom I owe (oh, happy
That 'twas so!), beyond my birthright
Of nobility, the vantage
Of the Christian faith, the light
Of Christ's true religion granted
In the sacred rite of baptism,
Which a mark indelibly stampeth
On the soul, heaven's gate, as it
Is the sacrament first granted
By the Church. My pious parents,
Having thus the debt exacted
From all married people paid
By my birth, retired thereafter
To two separate convents, where
In the purity and calmness
Of their chaste abodes they lived,
Till the fatal line of darkness,
Ending life, was reached, and they,
Fortified by every practice
Of the Catholic faith, in peace
Yielded up their souls in gladness,
Unto heaven their spirits giving,
Giving unto earth their ashes.
I, an orphan, then remained
Carefully and kindly guarded
By a very holy matron,
Underneath whose rule I hardly
Had completed one brief lustrum --
Five short years had scarce departed --
Five bright circles of the sun
Wheeling round on golden axles,
Twelve high zodiac signs illuming
And one earthly sphere, when happened
Through me an event that showed
God's omnipotence and marvels;
Since of weakest instruments
God makes use of, to enhance his
Majesty the more, to show
That for what men think the grandest
And most strange effects, to Him
Should alone the praise be granted.--
It so happened, and Heaven knoweth
That it is not pride, but rather
Pure religious zeal, that men
Should know how the Lord hath acted,
Makes me tell it, that one day
To my doors a blind man rambled,
Gormas was his name, who said,
"God who sends me here commands thee
In His name to give me sight;"
I, obedient to the mandate,
Made at once the sign of the cross
On his sightless eyes, that started
Into life and light once more
From their state of utter darkness.
At another time when heaven,
Muffled in the thickest, blackest
Clouds, made war upon the world,
Hurling at it lightning lances
Of white snow, which fell so thickly
On a mountain, that soon after
They being melted by the sun,
So filled up our streets and alleys,
So inundated our houses,
That amid the wild waves stranded
They were ships of bricks and stones,
Barks of cement and of plaster.
Who before saw waves on mountains?
Who 'mid woods saw ships at anchor?
I the sign of the cross then made
On the waters, and in accents,
In a tone of grave emotion,
In God's name the waves commanded
To retire: they turned that moment
And left dry the lands they ravaged.
Oh, great God! who will not praise Thee?
Who will not confess Thee Master?--
Other wonders I could tell you,
But my modesty throws shackles
On my tongue, makes mute my voice,
And my lips seals up and fastens.
I grew up, in fine, inclined
Less to arms than to the marvels
Knowledge can reveal: I gave me
Almost wholly up to master
Sacred Science, to the reading
Of the Lives of Saints, a practice
Which doth teach us faith, hope, zeal,
Charity and Christian manners.
In these studies thus immersed,
I one day approached the margin
Of the sea with some young friends,
Fellow-students and companions,
When a bark drew nigh, from which
Suddenly out-leaping landed
Armed men, fierce pirates they,
Who these seas, these islands, ravaged;
We at once were captives made,
And in order not to hazard
Losing us their prey, they sailed
Out to sea with swelling canvas.
Of this daring pirate boat
Philip de Roqui was the captain,
In whose breast, for his destruction,
Pride, the poisonous weed, was planted.
He the Irish seas and coast
Having thus for some days ravaged,
Taking property and life,
Pillaging our homes and hamlets;
But myself alone reserved
To be offered as a vassal,
As a slave to thee, O king!
In thy presence as he fancied.
Oh! how ignorant is man,
When of God's wise laws regardless,
When, without consulting Him,
He his future projects planneth!
Philip well, at sea might say so;
Since to-day, in sight of land here,
Heaven the while being all serene,
Mild the air, the water tranquil,
In an instant, in a moment,
He beheld his proud hopes blasted.
In the hollow-breasted waves
Roared the wind, the sea grew maddened,
Billows upon billows rolled
Mountain high, and wildly dashed them
Wet against the sun, as if
They its light would quench and darken.
The poop-lantern of our ship
Seemed a comet most erratic --
Seemed a moving exhalation,
Or a star from space outstarted;
At another time it touched
The profoundest deep sea-caverns,
Or the treacherous sands whereon
Ran the stately ship and parted.
Then the fatal waves became
Monuments of alabaster,
Tombs of coral and of pearl.
I (and why this boon was granted
Unto me by Heaven I know not,
Being so useless), with expanded
Arms, struck out, but not alone
My own life to save, nay rather
In the attempt to save this brave
Young man here, that life to barter;
For I know not by what secret
Instinct towards him I'm attracted;
And I think he yet will pay me
Back this debt with interest added.
Finally, through Heaven's great pity
We at length have happily landed,
Where my misery may expect it,
Or my better fate may grant it;
Since we are your slaves and servants,
That being moved by our disasters,
That being softened by our weeping,
Our sore plight may melt your hardness,
Our affliction force your kindness,
And our very pains command you.***
[footnote] * The asonante in a -- e, or their vocal equivalents,
commences here, and is continued to the commencement of the speech of
Enius, when it changes to the asonante in e -- e, which is kept up
through the remainder of the Scene, and to the end of Scene III.
[footnote] ** "Empthor" -- see note on this name.
[footnote] *** See note for some extracts from Montalvan's "Vida y
Purgaterio de San Patricio".
KING. Silence, miserable Christian,
For my very soul seems fastened
On thy words, compelling me,
How I know not, to regard thee
With strange reverence and fear,
Thinking thou must be that vassal --
That poor slave whom in my dream
I beheld outbreathing flashes,
Saw outflashing living fire,
In whose flame, so lithe and lambent,
My Polonia and my Lesbia
Like poor moths were burned to ashes.
PATRICK. Know, the flame that from my mouth
Issued, is the true Evangel,
Is the doctrine of the Gospel:--
'Tis the word which I'm commanded
Unto thee to preach, O King!
To thy subjects and thy vassals,
To thy daughters, who shall be
Christians through its means.
KING. Cease, fasten
Thy presumptuous lips, vile Christian,
For thy words insult and stab me.
LESBIA. Stay!
POLONIA. And wilt thou in thy pity
Try to save him from his anger?
LESBIA. Yes.
POLONIA. Forbear, and let him die.
LESBIA. Thus to die by a king's hands here
Were unjust. [Aside.] (It is my pity
For these Christians prompts my answer.)
POLONIA. If this second Joseph then,
Like the first one, would unravel,
Would interpret the king's dreams,
Do not dread the result, my father;
For if my being seen to burn
Indicates in any manner
I should ever be a Christian,
As impossible a marvel
Such would be, as if, being dead,
I could rise and live thereafter.
But in order that your mind
May be turned from such just anger,
Let us hear now who this other
Stranger is.
LUIS. Then be attentive,
Beautiful divinity,
For my history thus commences:--
Great Egerius, King of Ireland,
I by name am Luis Enius,
And a Christian also, this
Being the sole point of resemblance
Betwixt Patrick and myself,
Yet a difference presenting:
For although we two are Christians,
So distinct and so dissevered
Are we, that not good from evil
Is more opposite in its essence.
Yet for all that, in defence
Of the faith I believe and reverence,
I would lose a thousand lives
(Such the esteem for it I cherish).
Yes, by God! The oath alone
Shows how firmly I confess Him.
I no pious tales or wonders,
Worked in my behalf by Heaven,
Have to speak of: no; dark crimes,
Robberies, murders, sacrileges,
Treasons, treacheries, betrayals,
Must I tell instead, however
Vain it be in me to glory
In my having such effected.
I in one of Ireland's many
Isles was born; the planets seven,
I suspect, in wild abnormal
Interchange of influences,
Must have at my hapless birth-time
All their various gifts presented.
Fickleness the Moon implanted
In my nature; subtle Hermes
With and genius ill-employed;
(Better ne'er to have possessed them);
Wanton Venus gave me passions --
All the flatteries of the senses,
And stern Mars a cruel mind
(Mars and Venus both together
What will they not give?); the Sun
Gave to me an easy temper,
Prone to spend, and when means failed me
Theft and robbery were my helpers;
Jupiter presumptuous pride,
Thoughts fantastic and unfettered,
Gave me; Saturn, rage and anger,
Valour and a will determined
On its ends; and from such causes
Followed the due consequences.
Here from Ireland being banished,
By a cause I do not mention
Through respect to him, my father
Came to Perpignan, and settled
In that Spanish town, when I
Scarce my first ten years had ended,
And when sixteen came, he died.
May God rest his soul in heaven!--
Orphaned, I remained the prey
Of my passions and my pleasures,
O'er whose tempting plain I ran
Without rein or curb to check me.
The two poles of my existence,
On which all the rest depended
For support, were play and women.
What a base on which to rest me!
Here my tongue would not be able
To acquaint you 'in extenso'
With my actions: a brief abstract
May, however, be attempted.
I, to outrage a young maiden,
Stabbed to death a noble elder,
Her own father: for the sake
Of his wife, a most respected
Cavalier I slew, as he
Lay beside her in the helpless
State of sleep, his honour bathing
In his blood, the bed presenting
A sad theatre of crimes,
Murder and adultery blended.
Thus the father and the husband
Life for honour's sake surrendered;
For even honour has its martyrs.
May God rest their souls in heaven!--
Dreading punishment for this,
I fled hastily, and entered
France, where my exploits, methinks,
Time will cease not to remember;
For, assisting in the wars
Which at that time were contended
Bravely betwixt France and England,
I took military service
Under Stephen, the French king,
And a fight which chance presented
Showed my courage to be such,
That the king himself, as guerdon
Of my valour, gave to me
The commission of an ensign.
How that debt I soon repaid,
I prefer not now to tell thee.
Back to Perpignan, thus honoured,
I returned, and having entered
Once a guard-house there to play,
For some trifle I lost temper,
Struck a serjeant, killed a captain,
And maimed others there assembled.
At the cries from every quarter
Speedily the watch collected,
And in flying to a church,
As they hurried to prevent me,
I a catch-pole killed. ('Twas something
One good work to have effected
'Mid so many that were bad.)
May God rest his soul in heaven!--
Far I fled into the country,
And asylum found and shelter
In a convent of religious,
Which was founded in that desert,
Where I lived retired and hidden,
Well taken care of and attended.
For a lady there, a nun,
Was my cousin, which connection
Gave to her the special burden
Of this care. My heart already
Being a basilisk which turned
All the honey into venom,
Passing swiftly from mere liking
To desire -- that monster ever
Feeding on the impossible --
Living fire that with intensest
Fury burns when most opposed --
Flame the wind revives and strengthens,
False, deceitful, treacherous foe
Which doth murder its possessor --
In a word, desire in him,
Who nor God nor law respecteth,
Of the horrible, of the shocking,
Thinks but only to attempt it.--
Yes, I dared . . . . But here disturbed,
When, my lord, I this remember,
Mute the voice in horror fails,
Sad the accent faints and trembles,
And as 'mid the night's dark shadows,
The hair stands on end through terror;
Thus confused, so full of doubt,
Sad remembrance so o'erwhelms me,
That the thing I dared to do
I scarce dare in words to tell thee.
For, in fine, my crime is such,
So to be abhorred, detested,
So profane, so sacrilegious
(Strange upon thee so to press it),
That for having such committed
I at times feel some repentance.
Well, in fine, I dared one night,
When deep silence had erected
Sepulchres of fleeting sleep
For men's overwearied senses,
When a dark and cloudy veil
Heaven had o'er its face extended --
Mourning which the wind assumed
For the sun whose life had ended --
In whose obsequies the night-birds
Swan-notes sang instead of verses,
And when back from waves of sapphire,
Where their beauty was reflected,
The clear stars a second time
Trembling lights to heaven presented:--
Well, on such a night, by climbing
O'er the garden wall, I entered
With the assistance of two friends
(For when such things are attempted
An associate never fails),
And in horror and in terror,
Seeking in the dark my death,
Reached at length the cell (I tremble
To remember it) in which
Was my cousin, whom respectful
Silence bids me not to name,
Though all self-respect has left me.
Frightened at such nameless horror,
On the hard floor she fell senseless,
When she passed into my arms,
And ere she regained her senses,
She already was outside
Her asylum, in a desert,
When if heaven possessed the power,
It had not the will to help her.
Women, when they are persuaded
That the wildest of excesses
Are the effects of love, forgive them
Easily; and, therefore, pleasure
Following tears, some consolation
In her miseries was effected;
Though, in fact, they were so great,
That united in one person
She saw violence, violation,
Incest, nay, adultery even,
Against God who was her spouse,
And a sacrilege most dreadful.
Finally we left that place,
Being carried to Valencia
By two steeds that well might claim
From the winds to be descended:
Feigning that she was my wife,
But with little peace we dwelt there;
For I quickly having squandered
Whatsoever little treasure
I brought with me, without friends,
p 260
Without any hope of help there,
In my dire distress appealed
To the beauty still so perfect
Of my poor pretended wife:
If for aught I did I ever
Could feel shame, this act alone
Would most surely overwhelm me;
Since it is the lowest baseness
That the vilest breast descends to,
To put up to sale one's honour,
And to trade in love's caresses.
Scarce with shameless front had I
This base plan to her suggested,
When concealing her design
She gave seeming acquiescence;
But I scarce had turned my back,
Hardly had I left her presence,
When she, flying from me, found
Grace a convent's walls to enter.
There, a holy monk advising,
She a saving port and shelter
Found against the world's wild storms,
And there died, her sin, her penance,
Giving all a great example;
May God rest her soul in heaven!--
Seeing that the narrow world
Now took note of my offences,
And that soon the very land
Might reject me, I determined
To re-seek my native country;
For at least I there expected
To be safer from my foes,
In a place so long my centre
And my home. The way I took
And to Ireland came, which welcomed
Me at first as would a mother,
But a step-mother resembled
Before long, for seeking a passage
Where a harbour lay protected
By a mole, I found that corsairs
Lay concealed within the shelter
Of a little creek which his
Out of view their well-armed vessel.
And of these, their captain, Philip,
Took me prisoner, after efforts
Made in my defence so brave,
That in deference to the mettle
I displayed, my life he spared.
What ensured you know already,
How the wind in sudden anger
Rising into raging tempest,
Now chastised us in its pride,
Now our lives more cruelly threatened,
Making in the seas and mountains
Such wild ruin and resemblance,
That to mock the mountain's pride
Waves still mightier forms presented,
Which with catapults of crystal
Made the cliffs' foundations tremble,
So that neighbouring cities fell,
And the sea, in scornful temper,
Gathering up from its abysses
The munition it collecteth,
Fired upon the land its pearls
In their shells, wherein engendered
By the swift breath of the morning
In its dew, they shine resplendent
Tears of ice and fire; in fine,
Not in pictures so imperfect
All our time to waste, the crew
Went to sup in the infernal
Halls themselves; I, too, a guest
Would have equally attended
With them, if this Patrick, here,
Whom I know not why I reverence,
Looking with respect and fear
On his beauteous countenance ever,
Had not drawn me from the sea,
Where, exhausted, sinking, helpless,
I drank death in every draught,
Agony in each salt wave's venom.
This my history is, and now
I wish neither life nor mercy,
Neither that my pains should move thee,
Nor my asking should compel thee,
Save in this, to give me death,
That thus may the life be ended
Of a man who is so bad,
That he scarcely can be better.*
[footnote] *See note as to Montalvan's invention of this story.
KING. Luis, though thou art a Christian,
Which by me is most detested,
Yet I so admire thy courage
That I wish, before all present,
Between thee and him to show
How my power can be exerted,
How it punishes as rewards,
How it elevates and depresses.
And so thus my arms I give thee,
That within them thus extended
Thou may'st reach my heart; to thee
Thus beneath my feet to tread thee;
[He throws PATRICK on the ground and places his foot upon him.
The two actions signifying
How the heavier scale descendeth.
And that, Patrick, thou may'st see
How I value or give credit
To thy threats, thy life I spare.
Vomit forth the flame incessant
Of the so-called word of God,
That by this thou may'st be certain
I do not adore his Godship,
Nor his miracles have dread of.
Live then; but in such a state
Of poor, mean, and abject service,
As befits a useless hind
In the fields; and so as shepherd
I would have thee guard my flocks,
Which are in these vales collected.
Let us see, if for the purpose
Of this mystic fire outspreading,
Being my slave, thy God will free thee
From captivity and thy fetters.
[Exit.
LESBIA. Patrick moves my heart to pity.
[Exit.
POLONIA. Not so mine, for none I cherish.
Had I any, none would move me
Sooner than this Luis Enius.*
[Exit.
[footnote] *It is difficult to account for Calderon giving the name
of "Egerio" to the King of Ireland, when he bestows the proper one --
"Leogaire" -- on an inferior character. The name of the King of
Montalvan. "Era Rey de aquella, y de otras islas comarcanas
Leogardo, hijo de Neil." -- Cap. I., p. 19, ed. 1628. Calderon had
to invent names for the king's daughters, as he did not find them in
Montalvan. In the Book of Armagh they are called "Ethne the fair"
and "Fedelm the ruddy." -- Todd, p. 451. Miss Cusack gives the names
"Ethna" and "Fethlema." -- "Life of St. Patrick", p. 291. Of their
baptism, the distinguished poet to whom this drama is dedicated, has
thus sung:--
"They knelt: on their heads the wave he poured
Thrice, in the name of the Triune Lord:
And their foreheads he signed with the Sign adored.
On Fedelm the 'Red Rose,' on Ethna 'The Fair,'
God's dew shone bright in that morning air."
- AUBREY DE VERE'S "Legends of St. Patrick".
* * * * *
SCENE III.
PATRICK and LUIS.
PATRICK. Luis, though a low position
Mine is here, and I observe thee
Raised to fortune's highest summit,
Yet I feel more grief than envy
At thy rise. Thou art a Christian;
Show thyself one now in earnest.
LUIS. Patrick, let me now enjoy
The first favours fate has sent me
After so much sad misfortune.
PATRICK. One word, then (if thou wilt let me
So presume), I ask of thee.
LUIS. What is that?
PATRICK. Upon this earth here,
Once again, alive or dead,
That we two shall meet together.
LUIS. Such a word dost ask me?
PATRICK. Yes.
LUIS. Then I give it.
PATRICK. I accept it.
[Exeunt.
* * * * *
SCENE IV.
A HAMLET NEAR THE COURT OF EGERIUS.
PHILIP and LUCY.
LUCY. Pardon, if I have not known
How to serve you as I ought.
PHILIP. For much more than you have thought
Must you my forgiveness own.
For when I your kind face view,
Pain and pleasure being at war,
I have much to thank you for,
And have much to pardon too.
Thanks, with which my heart is rife,
Are for life restored and breath;
Pardon, for you give me death,
As before you gave me life.
LUCY. For such flattering declarations
Rude and ignorant am I,
So my arms will give reply;
Which gets rid of explanations.
Let their silent interfacing
Figure what my words should be.
* * * * *
SCENE V.
PAUL. -- THE SAME.
PAUL [aside]. Eh, sirs! what is this I see?
Some one here my wife's embracing.
What's to do? I burn, I burst.
Kill her? Yes. 'Twas fortune sent me.
One thing only doth prevent me,
Which is, she might kill me first.
PHILIP. For your hospitable care,
Beauteous mountaineer, I would
That this ring's bright diamond could
Far outshine a star of air.
LUCY. Think me not a woman who
Lives intent her gain to make;
But I take it for your sake.
PAUL. [aside'. What I wonder should I do?
But if I'm her husband, then,
As I saw him give the ring,
Silence is the proper thing.
LUCY. In these arms I once again
Give to you my soul, for I
Have no other ring or chain.
PHILIP. Where I ever could remain:--
For such sweet captivity
Lures me from the miseries
Of remembering my sad fate,
Caused, as you have seen, so late,
By these crystalline blue seas.
PAUL [aside[. What! a new embrace! Halloo!
Don't you see, sir, Od's my life,
That this woman is my wife?
PHILIP. Here's your husband full in view;
He has seen us. I must straight
Leave you and return -- [Aside.} Ah, me!
Couldst thou this, Polonia, see,
Thou mightst mourn, perhaps, the state
Unto which I see me doomed.
And. O heaven-aspiring sea,
Say in what vast depths can be
All the lives thou hast entombed?
[Exit.
* * * * *
SCENE VI.
PAUL and LUCY; afterwards PHILIP.
PAUL [aside]. As he's gone, I'll louder speak.--
This time, Lucy mine, I've caught you,
So a present I have brought you:
See this window-bar, 'twill wreak
My revenge.
LUCY. Oh, how malicious!
Bless me, grumbler, what grimaces!
PAUL. Then to witness two embraces
Does not look at all suspicious?--
Was it malice, then, in me,
Not plain seeing?
LUCY. Malice merely:
For a husband, how so nearly
He may pry, should never see
More than half his wife doth do.
PAUL. Well, with that I'm quite content,
To that condition I assent,
And since twice embraced by you
Has that rascal soldier been,
Whom the sea spewed out in spite,
I will juggle with my sight,
And pretend but once to have seen;
And as I for two embraces
Meant to give a hundred blows,
I but fifty now propose
For one half of my disgraces.
I have totted up the score;
You yourself the sentence gave;
Yes, by God I swear, you'll have
Fifty strokes and not one more.
LUCY. I've admitted far too much.
For a husband it would be
Quite preposterous; he should see
But the quarter.
PAUL. Even as such
I acknowledge the appeal.
Patience, and your back prepare,
For the now admitted share,
Five-and-twenty blows you'll feel.
LUCY. No, not so; you're still astray.
PAUL. Then say what?
LUCY. Between us two,
You're to trust not what you view,
But what I am pleased to say.
PAUL. Better far, I think, 'twould be,
Daughter of the devil, that you
Held the stick and used it too,
With it well belabouring me;
Is't agreed what I propose?
Yes; then let us both change places.
Give to him the two embraces,
And to me the hundred blows.
[PHILIP returns.
PHILIP [aside]. Has the peasant gone, I wonder?
PAUL. At the nick of time you're here,
So, Sir Soldier, lend an ear.
Obligation I am under
For the favours you have meant
To bestow so liberally
On my cot, my wife, and me;
And although I'm well content
With you, yet as you're progressing
Day by day and getting stronger,
It is best you stay no longer.
Take the road, then, with God's blessing,
Leave my house, for it would be
Sad in it to raise my hand,
Leaving you dead flesh on land
Who wert living fish at sea.
PHILIP. The suspicion that you show
Is quite groundless, do not doubt it.
PAUL. Zounds! with reason or without it,
Am I married, sir, or no?
* * * * *
SCENE VII.
LEOGAIRE, an Old Peasant, and PATRICK.
LEOGAIRE. So 'tis ordered, and that he
Serving here from day to day,
In the open field should stay.
OLD MAN. Yes; I say it so shall be.
LEOGAIRE. But who's this? O happiness!
Since 'tis Philip's form I greet.
Mighty lord, I kiss thy feet.
PAUL. Mighty lord does he call him?
LUCY. Yes.
Now lay on the blows you owe.
Now, friend Paul, the moment charms.
PHILIP. Give me, good Leogaire, your arms.
LEOGAIRE. Honour in them you bestow.
Is it possible, once more
That alive I see thee?
PHILIP. Here,
Trophy of a fate severe,
The sea flung me on this shore,
Where, their willing aid secured,
I have lived these peasants' guest,
Till I could repair with rest
All the sufferings I endured.
And, besides, I thought with dread
On the angry disposition
Of the king: for his ambition
When has it or bowed the head,
Or with patience heard related
The sad tragedies of fate?
Hopeless and disconsolate
In this solitude I've waited,
Till some happy chance might rise
When no longer I should grieve,
And the king would give me leave
To appear before his eyes.
LEOGAIRE. That already has been given thee;
For so sad was he, believing
Thou wert dead, so deep his grieving,
All the past will be forgiven thee
Since thou livest. Come with me,
Fortune will once more embrace thee,--
In his favour to replace thee
Let my happy privilege be.
PAUL. For that late unseemly brawl
See me humbly bending low;
You, my lord Prince Philip, know
That I am one Juan Paul.
My suspicion and abuse
Pray forgive, your majesty,
Think that what I said to thee
Was but cackled by a goose.
At your service, night and day,
Are whatever goods I've got --
Lucy here, myself and cot;
And God bless us all, I pray.
PHILIP. For your hospitality
I am grateful, and I trust
To repay it.
PAUL. If you must,
Let the first instalment be
Just to take my wife away.
Thurs you will reward us two;
She'll be glad to go with you,
I, without her, glad to stay.
[Exeunt PHILIP and LEOGAIRE.
LUCY [aside]. Was there ever love so vain
As is mine, a brief caress
Cradled in forgetfulness?
OLD MAN. Juan Paul, as we remain
Here alone, 'twere well to greet
As a friend this labourer,
Newly sent us.
PATRICK. Nay, good sir,
I'm a slave, and I entreat
That as such you understand me;
I, the lowest of the low,
Hither come to serve, and so
I implore that you command me
As a slave, since I am one.
OLD MAN. Oh, what modesty!
PAUL. What humility!
LUCY. What good looks, too, and gentility!
I, in truth, can't help being drawn
By his face.
PAUL. Came ever here
(This is quite between us two)
Any wandering stranger who
Did not draw you so, my dear?
Eh, my Lucy?
LUCY. Boorish, base,
Is your vile insinuation
'Gains my innocent inclination
For the whole of the human race!
[Exit.
OLD MAN. To your sharpness and good will,
Paul, I trust a thing that may
Cost my life.
PAUL. Then don't delay.
Tell it, since you know my skill.
OLD MAN. This new slave that here you see,
I suspect is not secure,
And I hasten to procure
Means by which he more may be.
For the present I confide him
To your care, by day or night
Let him not escape your sight,
Ever watchful keep beside him.
[Exit.
* * * * *
SCENE VIII.
PATRICK and PAUL.
PAUL [aside]. I'm to keep what you discarded!
Good in faith!-- [To PATRICK] Behold in me
Your strict guard; in you I see
The sole thing I ever guarded
In my life; with such a care
I can neither sleep nor eat.
If you wish to use your feet
You can go, your road lies there.
Nay, in flying quickly hence
You to me a good will do,
Since my care will fly with you.
Go in peace.
PATRICK. With confidence
You may trust me, for I'm not,
Though a slave, a fugitive.
Lord! how gladly do I live
In this solitary spot,
Where my soul in raptured prayer
May adore Thee, or in trance
See the living countenance
Of Thy prodigies so rare!
Human wisdom, earlthly lore,
Solitude reveals and reaches;
What diviner wisdom teaches
In it, too, I would explore.
PAUL. Tell me, talking thus apart,
Who it is on whom you call?
PATRICK. Great primeval cause of all,
Thou, O Lord, in all things art!
These blue heavens, these crystal skies
Formed of dazzling depths of light,
In which sun, moon, stars unite,
Are they not but draperies
Hung before Thy heavenly land?--
The discordant elements,
Water, fire, earth, air immense,
Prove they not Thy master hand?
Or in dark or brightsome hours,
Praise they not Thy power and might?
O'er the earth dost Thou not write
In the characters of flowers
Thy great goodness? And the air,
In reverberating thunder,
Does it not in fear and wonder
Say, O Lord, that Thou art there?
Are not, too, Thy praises sung
By the fire and water -- each
Dowered for this divinest speech,
With tongue the wave, the flame with tongue?
Here, then, in this lonely place
I, O Lord, may better be,
Since in all things I find Thee.
Thou hast given to me the grace
Of Obedience, Faith, and Fear;
As a slave, then, let me stay,
Or remove me where I may
Serve Thee truly, if not here.*
[An Angel descends, holding in one hand a shield in which is a
mirror, and in the other hand a letter.
[footnote] *For the earlier version of this prayer, see Note.
* * * * *
SCENE IX.
An Angel. -- THE SAME.
ANGEL. Patrick!
PATRICK. Ah! who calls me?
PAUL. Why,
No one calls. [Aside.] The man is daft,
Poetry should be his craft.
ANGEL. Patrick!
PATRICK. Ah! who calls me?
ANGEL. I.
PAUL [aside]. Who he speaks to, I can't see.
Well, to stop his speech were hard,
I'm not here his mouth to guard.
[Exit.
* * * * *
SCENE X.
The Angel and PATRICK.
PATRICK. Ah! it cannot be to me
Comes such glory! For, behold!
Pearl and rosy dawn in one,
Shines a cloud, from which its sun
Breaks in crimson and in gold!
Living stars its robe adorning,
Rose and jasmine sweetly blended,
Dazzling comes that vision splendid,
Scattering purple pomps of morning.
ANGEL. PATRICK!
PATRICK. Sunlight strikes me blind!
Heavenly Lord, who canst thou be?
ANGEL. I am Victor, whom to thee
God thy angel-guard assigned:
With this scroll, to give it thee
[Gives him the letter.
I am sent.
PATRICK. Sweet messenger,
Paranymph of all things fair,
Who amidst the hierarchy
Of the highest hosts of heaven
Singest in melodious tone --
"Glory unto Thee alone,
Holy, Holy Lord, be given!"
ANGEL. Read the letter.
PATRICK. With amaze,
I see here "To Patrick" Oh,
Can a slave be honoured so?
ANGEL. Open it.
PATRICK. It also says --
"Patrick! Patrick! hither come,
Free us from our slavery!"--
More it means than I can see,
Since I do not know by whom
I am called. Oh, faithful guide,
Speedily dispel my error!
ANGEL. Look into this shining mirror.
PATRICK. Heavens!
ANGEL. What seest thou inside?
PATRICK. Numerous people there seem thronging,
Old men, children, women, who
Seem to call me.
ANGEL. Nor do you
Stay, but satisfy their longing.
You behold the Irish nation,
Who expect to hear God's truth
From your lips. Oh, chosen youth,
Leave your slavery. The vocation
God has given thee is to sow
Faith o'er all the Irish soil.
There as Legate thou shalt toil,
Ireland's great Apostle. Go
First to France, to German's home,
The good bishop: there thou'lt make
Thy profession: there thou'lt take
The monk's habit, and to Rome
Pass, where letters thou'lt procure
For that mighty work of thine,
In the bulls of Celestine:
Thou wilt visit, then, in Tours
Martin, the great bishop there.
Now upborne upon the wind
Come with me, for thou wilt find
God has given with prescient care
His commands to all, that so
Fitly thy great work be done;
But 'tis time we should be gone:
Let us on our journey go.
[They disappear.
* * * * *
ACT THE SECOND.
HALL OF A TOWER IN THE PALACE OF EGERIUS.
SCENE I.
LUIS and POLONIA
LUIS. Yes, Polonia, yes, for he
Who betrays inconstancy
Has no reason for complaining
That another love is gaining
On his own; that fault will be
Ever punished so. For who
Proudly soars that doth not fall?
Therefore 'tis that I forestall
Philip's love howe'er so true.
He is nobler to the view,
As one nobly born may be;
But in that nobility,
Which one's self can win and wear,
I with justice may declare
I am nobler far than he;
I more honour have obtained
Than on Philip's cradle rained:
Let the fact excuse the boast,
For this land from coast to coast
Rings with victories I have gained.
Three years is it since I came
To these isles (it seems a day);
Three swift years have rolled away
Since I made it my chief aim
Thee to serve -- my highest fame.
Trophies numerous as the sand,
Mars might envy, has my hand
Won for thy great sire and thee --
Being the wonder of the sea,
And th' amazement of the land.
POLONIA. Luis, yes, thy gallant bearing,
Or inherited or acquired,
Has within my breast inspired
A strange fear, a certain daring,--
Ah, I know not if, declaring
This, 'tis love, for blushes rise
At perceiving with surprise
That at last hath come the hour,
When my heart must own the power
Of a deity I despise.
This alone I'll say, that here
Long thy hope had been fruition,
But that I the disposition
Of the king, my father, fear,
But still hope and persevere.
* * * * *