The Saint's Tragedy. Charles Kingsley

      Wake again, Teutonic Father-ages,

         Speak again, beloved primæval creeds;

      Flash ancestral spirit from your pages,

         Wake the greedy age to noble deeds.

      Tell us, how of old our saintly mothers

         Schooled themselves by vigil, fast, and prayer,

      Learnt to love as Jesus loved before them,

         While they bore the cross which poor men bear.

      Tell us how our stout crusading fathers

         Fought and died for God, and not for gold;

      Let their love, their faith, their boyish daring,

         Distance-mellowed, gild the days of old.

      Tell us how the sexless workers, thronging,

         Angel-tended, round the convent doors,

      Wrought to Christian faith and holy order

         Savage hearts alike and barren moors.

      Ye who built the churches where we worship,

         Ye who framed the laws by which we move,

      Fathers, long belied, and long forsaken,

         Oh! forgive the children of your love!

      Speak! but ask us not to be as ye were!

         All but God is changing day by day.

      He who breathes on man the plastic spirit

         Bids us mould ourselves its robe of clay.

      Old anarchic floods of revolution,

         Drowning ill and good alike in night,

      Sink, and bare the wrecks of ancient labour,

         Fossil-teeming, to the searching light.

      There will we find laws, which shall interpret,

         Through the simpler past, existing life;

      Delving up from mines and fairy caverns

         Charmed blades, to cut the age’s strife.

      What though fogs may stream from draining waters?

         We will till the clays to mellow loam;

      Wake the graveyard of our fathers’ spirits;

         Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade and bloom.

      Old decays but foster new creations;

         Bones and ashes feed the golden corn;

      Fresh elixirs wander every moment,

         Down the veins through which the live past feeds its child, the live unborn.

      Eliz.  Baby Jesus, who dost lie

      Far above that stormy sky,

      In Thy mother’s pure caress,

      Stoop and save the motherless.

      Happy birds! whom Jesus leaves

      Underneath His sheltering eaves;

      There they go to play and sleep,

      May not I go in to weep?

      All without is mean and small,

      All within is vast and tall;

      All without is harsh and shrill,

      All within is hushed and still.

      Jesus, let me enter in,

      Wrap me safe from noise and sin.

      Let me list the angels’ songs,

      See the picture of Thy wrongs;

      Let me kiss Thy wounded feet,

      Drink Thine incense, faint and sweet,

      While the clear bells call Thee down

      From Thine everlasting throne.

      At thy door-step low I bend,

      Who have neither kin nor friend;

      Let me here a shelter find,

      Shield the shorn lamb from the wind.

      Jesu, Lord, my heart will break:

      Save me for Thy great love’s sake!

      Isen.  Aha!  I had missed my little bird from the nest,

      And judged that she was here.  What’s this? fie, tears?

      Eliz.  Go! you despise me like the rest.

      Isen.  Despise you?

      What’s here?  King Andrew’s child?  St. John’s sworn maid?

      Who dares despise you?  Out upon these Saxons!

      They sang another note when I was younger,

      When from the rich East came my queenly pearl,

      Lapt on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroes

      Rode by her side, and far behind us stretched

      The barbs and sumpter mules, a royal train,

      Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems,

      Wedges of gold, and furniture of silver,

      Fit for my princess.

      Eliz.  Hush now, I’ve heard all, nurse,

      A thousand times.

      Isen.  Oh, how their hungry mouths

      Did water at the booty!  Such a prize,

      Since the three Kings came wandering into Cöln,

      They ne’er saw, nor their fathers;—well they knew it!

      Oh, how they fawned on us!  ‘Great Isentrudis!’

      ‘Sweet babe!’  The Landgravine did thank her saints

      As if you, or your silks, had fallen from heaven;

      And now she wears your furs, and calls us gipsies.

      Come tell your nurse your griefs; we’ll weep together,

      Strangers in this strange land.

      Eliz.  I am most friendless.

      The Landgravine and Agnes—you may see them

      Begrudge the food I eat, and call me friend

      Of