Reads

"Whether angels in moving from place to placePass through the intermediate space.Whether God himself is the author of evil,Or whether that is the work of the Devil.When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell,And whether he now is chained in hell."I think I can answer that question well!So long as the boastful human mindConsents in such mills as this to grind,I sit very firmly upon my throne!Of a truth it almost makes me laugh,To see men leaving the golden grainTo gather in piles the pitiful chaffThat old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain,To have it caught up and tossed againOn the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne!

But my guests approach! there is in the airA fragrance, like that of the Beautiful GardenOf Paradise, in the days that were!An odor of innocence and of prayer,And of love, and faith that never fails,Such as the fresh young heart exhalesBefore it begins to wither and harden!I cannot breathe such an atmosphere!My soul is filled with a nameless fear,That after all my trouble and pain,After all my restless endeavor,The youngest, fairest soul of the twain,The most ethereal, most divine,Will escape from my hands for ever and ever.But the other is already mine!Let him live to corrupt his race,Breathing among them, with every breath,Weakness, selfishness, and the baseAnd pusillanimous fear of death.I know his nature, and I knowThat of all who in my ministryWander the great earth to and fro,And on my errands come and go,The safest and subtlest are such as he.

Can you direct us to Friar Angelo?

He stands before you.

Then you know our purpose.I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and thisThe maiden that I spake of in my letters.

It is a very grave and solemn business!We must nor be precipitate. Does sheWithout compulsion, of her own free will,Consent to this?

Against all opposition,Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations,She will not be persuaded.

That is strange!Have you thought well of it?

I come not hereTo argue, but to die. Your business is notTo question, but to kill me. I am ready,I am impatient to be gone from hereEre any thoughts of earth disturb againThe spirit of tranquillity within me.

Would I had not come here! Would I were dead,And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest,And hadst not known me! Why have I done this?Let me go back and die.

It cannot be;Not if these cold, flat stones on which we treadWere coulters heated white, and yonder gatewayFlamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat.I must fulfil my purpose.

I forbid it!Not one step further. For I only meantTo put thus far thy courage to the proof.It is enough. I, too, have strength to die,For thou hast taught me!

O my Prince! rememberYour promises. Let me fulfil my errand.You do not look on life and death as I do.There are two angels, that attend unseenEach one of us, and in great books recordOur good and evil deeds. He who writes downThe good ones, after every action closesHis volume, and ascends with it to God.The other keeps his dreadful day-book openTill sunset, that we may repent; which doing,The record of the action fades away,And leaves a line of white across the page.Now if my act be good, as I believe,It cannot be recalled. It is alreadySealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished.The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready.

To her attendants.Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me.I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone,And you will have another friend in heaven.Then start not at the creaking of the doorThrough which I pass. I see what lies beyond it.

To PRINCE HENRY.And you, O Prince! bear back my benisonUnto my father's house, and all within it.This morning in the church I prayed for them,After confession, after absolution,When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them.God will take care of them, they need me not.And in your life let my remembrance linger,As something not to trouble and disturb it,But to complete it, adding life to life.And if at times beside the evening fire,You see my face among the other faces,Let it not be regarded as a ghostThat haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you.Nay, even as one of your own family,Without whose presence there were something wanting.I have no more to say. Let us go in.

Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life,Believe not what she says, for she is mad,And comes here not to die, but to be healed.