The Mysterious Mother/Act 1 Scene 4
SCENE IV.
COUNTESS, Two Maidens.
COUNTESS.
Haste thee, Maria, to the western tower,
And learn if th' aged pilgrim dozes yet.
You, Elinor, attend my little orphans,
And when their task is done, prepare their breakfast.
But scant th' allowance of the red-hair'd urchin,
That maim'd the poor man's cur—Ah! happy me!
[The damsels go in.
If sentiment, untutor'd by affliction,
Had taught my temperate blood to feel for others,
E'er pity, perching on my mangled bosom,
Like flies on wounded flesh, had made me shrink
More with compunction than with sympathy!
Alas! must guilt then ground our very virtues!
Grow they on sin alone, and not on grace?
While Narbonne liv'd, my fully-fated soul
Thought none unhappy—for it did not think!
In pleasures roll'd whole summer-suns away;
And if a pensive visage cross'd my path,
I deem'd the wearer envious or ill-natur'd.
What anguish had I blessedly redress'd,
But that I was too bless'd!—Well! peace is fled,
Ne'er to return! nor dare I snap the thread
Of life, while misery may want a friend.
Despair and hell must wait, while pity needs
My ministry—Eternity has scope
Enough to punish me, tho' I should borrow
A few short hours to sacrifice to charity.
Haste thee, Maria, to the western tower,
And learn if th' aged pilgrim dozes yet.
You, Elinor, attend my little orphans,
And when their task is done, prepare their breakfast.
But scant th' allowance of the red-hair'd urchin,
That maim'd the poor man's cur—Ah! happy me!
[The damsels go in.
If sentiment, untutor'd by affliction,
Had taught my temperate blood to feel for others,
E'er pity, perching on my mangled bosom,
Like flies on wounded flesh, had made me shrink
More with compunction than with sympathy!
Alas! must guilt then ground our very virtues!
Grow they on sin alone, and not on grace?
While Narbonne liv'd, my fully-fated soul
Thought none unhappy—for it did not think!
In pleasures roll'd whole summer-suns away;
And if a pensive visage cross'd my path,
I deem'd the wearer envious or ill-natur'd.
What anguish had I blessedly redress'd,
But that I was too bless'd!—Well! peace is fled,
Ne'er to return! nor dare I snap the thread
Of life, while misery may want a friend.
Despair and hell must wait, while pity needs
My ministry—Eternity has scope
Enough to punish me, tho' I should borrow
A few short hours to sacrifice to charity.