I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins. Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form-- A thing of more unholy loathsomeness! Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood, Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked, Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam! A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales, And through its heaving bosom you may mark The constant preying of a quenchless flame That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair, Perpetually issues from its lips;-- And with unequal but unceasing steps, It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom, A mocking phantom,--fair as it is foul! With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks, And big black eyes that dart the humid flame Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips, And checks as spotless as the falling flake Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form Wherein is knit each grace of womanhood In its perfection! and with wanton looks That speak the burning language of desire, It seems to woo its loathsome follower,-- Yet ever from his foul embraces flies. And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!" Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight, And sears my brain with its dark hideousness!
Spirit.
'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears. Werner.
A frame which may be that of Hercules, It hath such giant members! and its port Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving. Its sandals are of brass, its massive brow Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes, It vainly beats the unresisting air, As if in battle with some phantom foe; And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast, Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone, It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,-- "I fought for fame and won unending wo." His agonies seem like himself, immortal.
Spirit.
Justice is blameless of his sufferings: For many years his busy, plotting brain, Made discord out of union, strife from peace, And set the nations warring till the earth Was crimson with the blood poured out for him! He bears what he inflicted,--let him pass And mark what follows him.
Werner.
A goodly shape, More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars! A broken harp, suspended at his side, A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, Tell what he was, and still employ his care. With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, And to their primal melody attune them;-- In vain,--for to his efforts still replies A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound. And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,-- "For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,-- 'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus." Is not the justice which confines him here Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness.
Spirit.
Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man, Is but a moral seed, which, in due season, Must bring forth fruit according to its kind. The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,--Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,-- The fruits are garnered in Eternity, To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food! If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,-- What marvel if we feed on bitterness?-- What shadow next appears?
Werner.
An aged man, Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath The weight of years, or worldly cares that press Still heavier than the iron hand of time. His tottering form is fearful to behold! If the fierce scourge whichmen on earth call famine, Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould choose Just such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt, And wo-begone of aspect. Groping round He gathers from the burning floor of hell Some shining pebbles, which his fond conceit Transmutes to gold, and these with constant care He watches, counting and recounting them, Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by, Bears with it all his fancied hoards away, Leaving him to renew his bootless task, Which ever he renews with this complaint,-- "Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing." And on his front his name is written, "Avarice."Spirit.
There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades, One form which I would have thee look upon. Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well.
Werner.
Never before in all my wanderings Through earth, or other regions, where abide Things now no more of earth, have I beheld Aught so profoundly mournful or so lone! So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow, That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloom Prevails along hell's blasting atmosphere! Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves, Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turn Woo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer. Love stretches out his dimpled band, wherein He holds his emblematic rose, and Hope, Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulse Of life within the frozen veins of Death! Beckons him to the future,--and calm Faith Kindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze; Yet, with such anguish as hell only holds, He turns him from all these, and will not take Love's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blushing leaves Should lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit.
Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,-- And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lights To guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life, To him is but a cheat, a mockery, An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead. And yet he seems as one who in his life Had nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,-- Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles, Or to the sway of empires had aspired, Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts! Why gazest thou on me and not on him?
Spirit.
