The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume II Part 22

PRIOR.

Yea, our liege is but his servant.

Did not He purge with fiery hail those twain Blotches of festering sin, Gomorrah, Sodom?

The Jews are never innocent,--when Christ Agonized on the Cross, they cried--"His blood Be on our children's heads and ours!" I mark A dangerous growing evil of these days, Pity, misnamed--say, criminal indulgence Of reprobates brow-branded by the Lord.

Shall we excel the Christ in charity?

Because his law is love, we tutor him In mercy and reward his murderers?

Justice is blind and virtue is austere.

If the true pa.s.sion brimmed our yearning hearts The vision of the agony would loom Fixed vividly between the day and us:-- Nailed on the gaunt black Cross the divine form, Wax-white and dripping blood from ankles, wrists, The sacred ichor that redeems the world, And crowded in strange shadow of eclipse, Reviling Jews, wagging their heads accursed, Sputtering blasphemy--who then would shrink From holy vengeance? who would offer less Heroic wrath and filial zeal to G.o.d Than to a murdered father?

PRINCESS.

But my son Will die with her he loves.

PRIOR.

Better to perish In time than in eternity. No question Pends here of individual life; our sight Must broaden to embrace the scope sublime Of this trans-earthly theme. The Jew survives Sword, plague, fire, cataclysm--and must, since Christ Cursed him to live till doomsday, still to be A scarecrow to the nations. None the less Are we beholden in Christ's name at whiles, When maggot-wise Jews breed, infest, infect Communities of Christians, to wash clean The Church's vesture, shaking off the filth That gathers round her skirts. A perilous germ!

Know you not, all the wells, the very air The Jews have poisoned?--Through their arts alone The Black Death scourges Christendom.

PRINCESS.

I know All heinousness imputed by their foes.

Father, mistake me not: I urge no plea To shield this h.e.l.l-sp.a.w.n, loathed by all who love The lamb and kiss the Cross. I had not guessed Such obscure creatures crawled upon my path, Had not my son--I know not how misled-- Deigned to enn.o.ble with his great regard, A sparkle midst the dust motes.

SHE is sacred.

What is her tribe to me? Her kith and kin May rot or roast--the Jews of Nordhausen May hang, drown, perish like the Jews of France, But she shall live--Liebhaid von Orb, the Jewess, The Prince, my son, elects to love.

PRIOR.

Amen!

Washed in baptismal waters she shall be Led like the clean-fleeced yeanling to the fold.

Trust me, my daughter--for through me the Church Which is the truth, which is the life, doth speak.

Yet first 't were best essay to cure the Prince Of this moon-fostered madness, bred, no doubt, By baneful potions which these cunning knaves Are skilled to mix.

PRINCESS.

Go visit him, dear father, Where in the high tower mewed, a wing-clipped eagle, His spirit breaks in cage. You are his master, He is wont from childhood to hear wisdom fall From your instructed lips. Tell him his mother Rises not from her knees, till he is freed.

PRIOR.

Madam, I go. Our holy Church has healed Far deadlier heart-wounds than a love-sick boy's.

Be of good cheer, the Prince shall live to bless The father's rigor who kept pure of blot A 'scutcheon more unsullied than the sun.

PRINCESS.

Thanks and farewell.

PRIOR.

Farewell. G.o.d send thee peace!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.

A mean apartment in one of the Towers of the Landgrave's Palace.

PRINCE WILLIAM discovered seated at the window.

PRINCE WILLIAM.

The slow sun sets; with lingering, large embrace He folds the enchanted hill; then like a G.o.d Strides into heaven behind the purple peak.

Oh beautiful! In the clear, rayless air, I see the chequered vale mapped far below, The sky-paved streams, the velvet pasture-slopes, The grim, gray cloister whose deep vesper bell Blends at this height with tinkling, homebound herds!

I see--but oh, how far!--the blessed town Where Liebhaid dwells. Oh that I were yon star That p.r.i.c.ks the West's unbroken foil of gold, Bright as an eye, only to gaze on her!

How keen it sparkles o'er the Venusburg!

When brown night falls and mists begin to live, Then will the phantom hunting-train emerge, Hounds straining, black fire-eyeballed, breathless steeds, Spurred by wild huntsmen, and unhallowed nymphs, And at their head the foam-begotten witch, Of soul-destroying beauty. Saints of heaven!

Preserve mine eyes from such unholy sight!

How all unlike the base desire which leads Misguided men to that infernal cave, Is the pure pa.s.sion that exalts my soul Like a religion! Yet Christ pardon me If this be sin to thee!

[He takes his lute, and begins to sing. Enter with a lamp Steward of the Castle, followed by PRIOR PEPPERCORN. Steward lays down the lamp and exit.]

Good even, father!

PRIOR.

Benedicite!

Our bird makes merry his dull bars with song, Yet would not penitential psalms accord More fitly with your sin than minstrels' lays?

PRINCE WILLIAM.

I know no blot upon my life's fair record.

PRIOR.

What is it to wanton with a Christ-cursed Jewess, Defy thy father and pollute thy name, And fling to the ordures thine immortal soul?

PRINCE WILLIAM.

Forbear! thy cowl's a helmet, thy serge frock Invulnerable as bra.s.s--yet I am human, Thou, priest, art still a man.

PRIOR.

Pity him, Heaven!

To what a pa.s.s their draughts have brought the mildest, n.o.blest of princes! Softly, my son; be ruled By me, thy spiritual friend and father.

Thou hast been drugged with sense-deranging potions, Thy blood set boiling and thy brain askew; When these thick fumes subside, thou shalt awake To bless the friend who gave thy madness bounds.

PRINCE WILLIAM.

Madness! Yea, as the sane world goes, I am mad.

What else to help the helpless, to uplift The low, to adore the good, the beautiful, To live, battle, suffer, die for truth, for love!

But that is wide of the question. Let me hear What you are charged to impart--my father's will.