The merest word that ever fool'd the ear From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem Re-enter HERMAN. Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your presence. Abbot. Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE. Peace be with Count Manfred! Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those Who dwell within them. Abbot. Would it were so, Count! But I would fain confer with thee alone. Man. Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest? Abbot. Thus, without prelude:-Age and zeal, my office, And good intent, must plead my privilege; Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, And of unholy nature, are abroad, And busy with thy name; a noble name Man. Proceed,-I listen. Abbot. "Tis said thou holdest converse with the things Which are forbidden to the search of man; That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, The many evil and unheavenly spirits Which walk the valley of the shade of death, Thou communest. I know that with mankind, Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. Man. And what are they who do avouch these things? Abbot. My pious brethren—the scared peasantry— Even thy own vassals-who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy I would not pry into thy secret soul; But if these things be sooth, there still is time For penitence and pity: reconcile thee With the true church, and through the church to heaven. Man. I hear thee. This is my reply; whate'er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself.—I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd Against your ordinances? prove and punish! Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment, Have given me power to smooth the path from sin So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men, Would make a hell of heaven-can exorcise Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd All this is well; Abbot. And all our church can teach thee shall be taught; The victim of a self-inflicted wound, To shun the torments of a public death From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, The gushing throat with his officious robe; Abbot. And what of this? Man. "It is too late!" Abbot. I answer with the Roman It never can be so, To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope? To make my own the mind of other men, Abbot. And wherefore so? Man. I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway-and soothe-and sue And watch all time-and pry into all place- A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such Abbot. And why not live and act with other men? The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, Alas! I'gin to fear that thou art past all aid Man. Look on me! there is an order And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts; More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, |