In some vile den of want and woe,
With beggars and cripples thou shalt bed;
And, if from Heaven forgiveness flow,
Earth shall rain curses on thy head!
Martha.
Speak softly, and prepare thy soul for death,
Nor mingle slander with thy parting breath!
Valentin.
Could I but reach thy withered skin,
Thou hag, thou bawd, so vile and shameless!
For such fair deed I might pass blameless,
To score the black mark from my blackest sin.
Margaret.
Brother, thou mak’st me feel a hell of pain!
Valentin.
I tell thee, all thy tears are vain!
When with thy honor thou didst part,
Thou dealt the blow that pierced my heart.
I go through death, with fearless mood,
To meet my God, as a soldier should. [Dies.
Scene IX.
A Cathedral.
Mass, Organ, and Song. Margaret amid a crowd of people, Evil Spirit behind her.
Evil Spirit.
How different, Margaret, was thy case,
When, in thine innocence, thou didst kneel
Before the altar,
And from the well-worn book
Didst lisp thy prayers,
Half childish play,
Half God in thy heart!
Margaret!
Where is thy head?
Within thy heart
What dire misdeed?
Prayest thou for thy mother’s soul, whom thou
Didst make to sleep a long, long sleep of sorrow?
Whose blood is on thy threshold?
—And, underneath thy heart,
Moves not the swelling germ of life already,
And, with its boding presence
Thee tortures, and itself?
Margaret.
Woe, woe!
That I might shake away the thoughts,
That hither flit and thither,
Against me!
Quire.
Dies iræ, dies illa,
Solvet saeclum in favilla.
