HOW otherwise was it, Margaret,
When thou, still innocent,
Here to the altar cam'st,
And from the worn and fingered book
Thy prayers didst prattle,
Half sport of childhood,
Half God within thee!
Margaret!
Where tends thy thought?
Within thy bosom
What hidden crime?
Pray'st thou for mercy on thy mother's soul,
That fell asleep to long, long torment, and through thee?
Upon thy threshold whose the blood?
And stirreth not and quickens
Something beneath thy heart,
Thy life disquieting
With most foreboding presence?
Woe! woe!
Would I were free from the thoughts
That cross me, drawing hither and thither
Despite me!
Diesira, dies illa,
Solvet soeclum in favilla!
(Sound of the organ.)
Wrath takes thee!
The trumpet peals!
The graves tremble!
And thy heart
From ashy rest
To fiery torments
Now again requickened,
Throbs to life!
Would I were forth!
I feel as if the organ here
My breath takes from me,
My very heart
Dissolved by the anthem!
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latet, ad parebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.
I cannot breathe!
The massy pillars
Imprison me!
The vaulted arches
Crush me!—Air!
Hide thyself! Sin and shame
Stay never hidden.
Air? Light?
Woe to thee!
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,
Quem patronem rogaturus,
Cum vix Justus sit securus
They turn their faces,
The glorified, from thee:
The pure, their hands to offer,
Shuddering, refuse thee!
Woe!
Quid sum miser tune dicturus?
Neighbor! your cordial!
(She falls in a swoon.)