The peace that filled thy heart before, And pardon thine iniquity!

The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, and walks slowly up and down the church.

O blessed Lord! how much I need
Thy light to guide me on my way!
So many hands, that, without heed,
Still touch thy wounds, and make
them bleed!

So many feet, that, day by day,
Still wander from thy fold astray!
Unless thou fill me with thy light,
I cannot lead thy flock aright;
Nor, without thy support, can bear
The burden of so great a care,
But am myself a castaway!

A pause.

510

The day is drawing to its close;
And what good deeds, since first it

rose,

520

Have I presented, Lord, to thee,
As offerings of my ministry?
What wrong repressed, what right
maintained,

What struggle passed, what victory gained,

What good attempted and attained?
Feeble, at best, is my endeavor!

I see, but cannot reach, the height
That lies forever in the light,
And yet forever and forever,
When seeming just within my grasp,
I feel my feeble hands unclasp,
And sink discouraged into night!
For thine own purpose, thou hast sent
The strife and the discouragement !

530

A pause. Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck?

Why keep me pacing to and fro
Amid these aisles of sacred gloom,
Counting my footsteps as I go,

And marking with each step a tomb ?

And its step well worn by the bended

knees

Of one or two pious centuries,
Stands the village confessional!
Within it, as an honored guest,
I will sit down awhile and rest!

Seats himself in the confessional. Here sits the priest; and faint and low, 619

Like the sighing of an evening breeze, Comes through these painted lattices The ceaseless sound of human woe; Here, while her bosom aches and throbs

With deep and agonizing sobs, That half are passion, half contrition,

The luckless daughter of perdition Slowly confesses her secret shame! The time, the place, the lover's name! Here the grim murderer, with a groan, From his bruised conscience rolls the stone, 630

Thinking that thus he can atone
For ravages of sword and flame!

She is a peasant. In her veins
Flows common and plebeian blood;
It is such as daily and hourly stains
The dust and the turf of battle plains,
By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, 740
Without reserve, and without reward,
At the slightest summons of their lord!
But thine is precious; the fore-ap-
pointed

Blood of kings, of God's anointed!
Moreover, what has the world in store
For one like her, but tears and toil?
Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil,
A peasant's child and a peasant's wife,
And her soul within her sick and sore
With the roughness and barrenness of

I marvel not at the heart's recoil
From a fate like this, in one so tender,
Nor at its eagerness to surrender
All the wretchedness, want, and woe
That await it in this world below,
Nor the unutterable splendor
Of the world of rest beyond the skies.
So the Church sanctions the sacrifice:
Therefore inhale this healing balm,
And breathe this fresh life into thine;
Accept the comfort and the calm
She offers, as a gift divine;
Let her fall down and anoint thy feet
With the ointment costly and most

sweet

761

Of her young blood, and thou shalt live.

PRINCE HENRY.

And will the righteous Heaven forgive?

No action, whether foul or fair,
Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere
A record, written by fingers ghostly,
As a blessing or a curse, and mostly 770
In the greater weakness or greater
strength

Of the acts which follow it, till at

length

The wrongs of ages are redressed,
And the justice of God made manifest!

LUCIFER.

In ancient records it is stated
That, whenever an evil deed is done.
Another devil is created

To scourge and torment the offending one!

But evil is only good perverted,