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Kingsley, Charles, 1819-1875

"The Saint's Tragedy"


Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands
Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years,
Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses
Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud.
Come, open all your lore.
[Sophia and Agnes enter.]
My mother-in-law!
[Aside] Shame on thee, heart! why sink, whene'er we meet?
Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of metal
Beyond us worldlings: shrink not, if the time
Be come which needs its use--
Eliz. What means this preface? Ah! your looks are big
With sudden woes--speak out.
Soph. Be calm, and hear
The will of God toward my son, thy husband.
Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then--what of that?
There are friends will rescue him--there's gold for ransom--
We'll sell our castles--live in bowers of rushes--
O God! that I were with him in the dungeon!
Soph. He is not taken.
Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death!
There's treachery! What paynim dog dare face
His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage,
And eyed the cowering monster to his den?
Speak! Has he fled? or worse?
Soph. Child, he is dead.
Eliz [clasping her hands on her knees.


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