And every branch, and bough, and spray
Points all its quivering leaves one way,
And meadows of grass, and fields of grain,
And the clouds above, and the slanting rain,
And smoke from chimneys of the town,
Yield themselves to it, and bow down,
So does this dreadful purpose press
Onward, with irresistible stress,
And all my thoughts and faculties,
Struck level by the strength of this,
From their true inclination turn,
And all stream forward to Salem!

Lucifer.  Alas! we are but eddies of dust,
Uplifted by the blast, and whirled
Along the highway of the world
A moment only, then to fall
Back to a common level all,
At the subsiding of the gust!

Prince Henry.  O holy Father! pardon in me
The oscillation of a mind
Unsteadfast, and that cannot find
Its centre of rest and harmony! 
For evermore before mine eyes
This ghastly phantom flits and flies,
And as a madman through a crowd,
With frantic gestures and wild cries,
It hurries onward, and aloud
Repeats its awful prophecies! 
Weakness is wretchedness!  To be strong
Is to be happy!  I am weak,
And cannot find the good I seek,
Because I feel and fear the wrong!

Lucifer.  Be not alarmed!  The Church is kind—­
And in her mercy and her meekness
She meets half-way her children’s weakness,
Writes their transgressions in the dust! 
Though in the Decalogue we find
The mandate written, “Thou shalt not kill!”
Yet there are cases when we must. 
In war, for instance, or from scathe
To guard and keep the one true Faith! 
We must look at the Decalogue in the light
Of an ancient statute, that was meant
For a mild and general application,
To be understood with the reservation,
That, in certain instances, the Right
Must yield to the Expedient! 
Thou art a Prince.  If thou shouldst die,
What hearts and hopes would prostrate he! 
What noble deeds, what fair renown,
Into the grave with thee go down! 
What acts of valor and courtesy
Remain undone, and die with thee! 
Thou art the last of all thy race! 
With thee a noble name expires,
And vanishes from the earth’s face
The glorious memory of thy sires! 
She is a peasant.  In her veins
Flows common and plebeian blood;
It is such as daily and hourly stains
The dust and the turf of battle plains,
By vassals shed, in a crimson flood,
Without reserve, and without reward,
At the slightest summons of their lord! 
But thine is precious, the fore-appointed
Blood of kings, of God’s anointed! 
Moreover, what has the world in store
For one like her, but tears and toil? 
Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil,
A peasant’s child and a peasant’s wife,
And her soul within her sick and sore
With the roughness and barrenness of life! 
I marvel not at the heart’s recoil