DONJON.[27]

     [In a niche a devotional image of the Mater Dolorosa,
      before it pots of flowers.]

MARGERY [puts fresh flowers into the pots]. 
    Ah, hear me,
    Draw kindly near me,
    Mother of sorrows, heal my woe!

    Sword-pierced, and stricken
    With pangs that sicken,
    Thou seest thy son’s last life-blood flow!

    Thy look—­thy sighing—–­
    To God are crying,
    Charged with a son’s and mother’s woe!

    Sad mother! 
    What other
    Knows the pangs that eat me to the bone? 
    What within my poor heart burneth,
    How it trembleth, how it yearneth,
    Thou canst feel and thou alone!

    Go where I will, I never
    Find peace or hope—­forever
    Woe, woe and misery!

    Alone, when all are sleeping,
    I’m weeping, weeping, weeping,
    My heart is crushed in me.

    The pots before my window,
    In the early morning-hours,
    Alas, my tears bedewed them,
    As I plucked for thee these flowers,

    When the bright sun good morrow
    In at my window said,
    Already, in my anguish,
    I sate there in my bed.

    From shame and death redeem me, oh! 
    Draw near me,
    And, pitying, hear me,
    Mother of sorrows, heal my woe!

    NIGHT.

   Street before MARGERY’S Door.

   VALENTINE [soldier, MARGERY’S brother].

When at the mess I used to sit,
Where many a one will show his wit,
And heard my comrades one and all
The flower of the sex extol,
Drowning their praise with bumpers high,
Leaning upon my elbows, I
Would hear the braggadocios through,
And then, when it came my turn, too,
Would stroke my beard and, smiling, say,
A brimming bumper in my hand: 
All very decent in their way! 
But is there one, in all the land,
With my sweet Margy to compare,
A candle to hold to my sister fair? 
Bravo!  Kling!  Klang! it echoed round! 
One party cried:  ’tis truth he speaks,
She is the jewel of the sex! 
And the braggarts all in silence were bound. 
And now!—­one could pull out his hair with vexation,
And run up the walls for mortification!—­
Every two-legged creature that goes in breeches
Can mock me with sneers and stinging speeches! 
And I like a guilty debtor sitting,
For fear of each casual word am sweating! 
And though I could smash them in my ire,
I dare not call a soul of them liar.

What’s that comes yonder, sneaking along? 
There are two of them there, if I see not wrong. 
Is’t he, I’ll give him a dose that’ll cure him,
He’ll not leave the spot alive, I assure him!

     FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES.

Faust.  How from yon window of the sacristy
The ever-burning lamp sends up its glimmer,
And round the edge grows ever dimmer,
Till in the gloom its flickerings die! 
So in my bosom all is nightlike.