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THE PUNISHMENT.
- Full seven years have passed and flown—
- But years o’er Thekla lightly pass,
- As rose leaves, falling one by one,
- From roses on the summer grass.
- “It is our bridal day,” she said;
- “We’re bidden to a christ’ning feast
- I’ll wear the robe I had when wed,
- The robe I love of all the best.
- “I’ll wear my crown of jewels rare:
- On brow and bosom let them shine;
- Yet diamonds in my golden hair
- Were dull beside these eyes of mine!”
- She laughed aloud before the glass.
- “Some women’s hair would turn to grey
- With cares, ere half the years did pass
- I’ve numbered since my wedding day.
- “But they were mothers—fools, I trow.
- Life’s current all too quickly runs;
- I would not give my beauty now
- For all their goodly race of sons.”
- She sprang upon her palfrey white,
- While Erick held the broidered broiderd rein,
- And showered down her veil of light
- Upon the flowing, silky mane.
- The guests rose up in wonderment—
- Such beauty never had been seen—
- And bowed before her as she went,
- As if she were a crownéd queen.
- The knights pressed round with words of praise,
- And murmured homage in her ear,
- And swore to serve her all their days,
- E’en die for her—would she but hear.
- But vainly, all in vain they sought
- One answering smile of love to win.
- Upon her soul there lieth nought
- Save that one only, deadly sin.
- “I pray you now I fain would have
- So fair an angel hold my child,”
- The mother said; and smiling smilling , gave
- To Thekla’s arms her infant mild.
- Advancing slow, with stately air,
- Beside the font she took her place,
- The infant, like a rosebud fair,
- Nestling amid her bosom’s lace.
- She lays it on the bishop’s arm,
- The while he makes the blessed sign,
- And sains it safe from ghostly harm
- By Father, Spirit, Son Divine.
- Then reaches out her hands again
- To take it—but with moaning sound,
- Like one distraught with sudden pain,
- Falls pale and fainting to the ground.
- “She has no children,” Erick said,
- As pleading for the strange mischance;
- “This only grief since we were wed
- Has saddened sore her life, perchance.”
- “She has no children!” murmured low
- The happy mothers, gathered near;
- “No child to love her—bitter woe;
- No child to kiss her on her bier!”
- But graver matrons shook the head:
- “That witchlike beauty bodes no good;
- Witch hands can never hold, ’tis said,
- A child just blessed by holy rood.”
- They raised her up; she spake no word,
- But slowly drooped her tearful eyes;
- The rushing wave was all she heard,
- The whirling wheels, the infants’ cries.
- And Erick said, with bitter smile:
- “You play the mother all too ill;
- Madonnas do not suit your style.”
- Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.
- They set her on her palfrey white;
- She heeds not all their taunting sneers,
- But showers down her veil of light,
- To hide the conscious, guilty tears.
- They rode through all his vast estate,
- But rode in silence—he behind,
- Sore pondering on his childless fate,
- With ruffled brow and moody mind.
- They rode through shadowy forest glades,
- By meadows filled with lowing kine,
- By streams that ran like silver threads
- Down from the dark‐fringed hills of pine.
- “Alas!” he thought, “no child of mine
- When I am dead shall take my place;
- Must all the wealth of all my line
- Pass to a hated kinsman’s race?
- “Now, by my sword, I’d give up all,
- Wealth, fame, and glory, all I’ve won,
- So that within my father’s hall
- Beside me stood a noble son!”
- He saw her white veil floating back
- Along the twilight gray and still,
- Like ghostly shadows on her track—
- Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.
- And now they neared the ancient church,
- The ancient church where they were wed!
- The moonlight full upon the porch
- Shone bright, and Erick raised his head.
- O Heaven! There upon the lawn
- The palfrey’s shadow stands out clear,
- But Thekla’s shadow—it is gone!
- Nor form nor floating veil is there.
- He spurred his steed with bitter cry:
- “Could she have fallen in deathly swoon?”
- But no, there, slowly riding by,
- He sees her by the bright full moon.
- With gesture fierce he seized her rein:
- “ Woman or fiend! Look, if you dare,
- The palfrey casts a shadow plain,
- But yours—O horror!—is not there!”
- She gathered close her silken veil,
- And wrung her hands, and prayed for grace,
- While down from Heaven the calm moon pale
- Looked like God’s own accusing face.
- He flung aside the broidered rein:
- “O woe the day that we were wed!
- A witch bride to my arms I’ve ta’en,
- Branded by God’s own finger dread.”
- She followed, weeping, step by step,
- Led by the unseen hand of Fate,
- Still keeping in the shadows deep,
- Until they reached the castle gate.
- He strode across the corridor,
- And rolling back upon its ring
- The curtain curtan of her chamber door,
- He motioned her to enter in.
- She laid aside her silken veil,
- The golden circlet from her head,
- And waited, motionless and pale,
- Like one uprisen from the dead.
- Could she deny, e’en if she would?
- The moonlight wrapped her like a sheet.
- And in the accusing light she stood,
- As if before God’s judgment‐seat.
- Brief were his questions, stern his wrath;
- A doom seemed laid on her to tell,
- How, with the ring of plighted troth,
- Her hand had wrought the murd’rous spell.
- How she had marred his ancient line,
- And broke the life‐chord that should bless,
- And sent the seven fair souls to pine
- Back to the shades of nothingness—
- That so her beauty might not wane,
- Her glorious beauty—fatal good;
- Yet one she would not lose to gain
- The rights of sacred motherhood.
- And still she told the tale as cold—
- The witch‐fire burning in her eyes—
- As if it were some legend old,
- Drawn from a poet’s memories.
- He cursed her in his bitter wrath,
- He cursed her by her children dead,
- He cursed the ring of plighted troth,
- He cursed the day when they were wed.
- Fierce and more fierce his accents rose:
- “Away!” he cried, “false hag of sin:
- I see through all this painted gloze
- The black and hideous soul within.
- “Oh! false and foul, thou art to me
- A devil—not a woman fair!
- Like coiling snakes I seem to see
- Each twisted tress of golden hair.
- “I hate thee, as I hate God’s foe.
- Forth from my castle halls this night:
- I could not breathe the air, if so
- Thy poison breath were here to blight.”
- She cowered, shivered, spake no word,
- But fell before him at his feet,
- As if an angel of the Lord
- Had smote her at the judgment‐seat.
- And on her heart there came at last
- The dread, deep consciousness of sin,
- That ghastly spectre which had cast
- Upon her life this suffering.
- And from her hand the gold ring fell—
- Her wedding ring—and broke in twain;
- The fatal ring that wrought the spell,
- The accursed ring of love and pain.
- The spell seemed broken then: the word
- Came, softly breath’d: “Oh, pardon! grace!”
- And pleadingly to her dread lord
- She lifted up her angel face—
- With golden tresses all unbound,
- Still lovely through her shame and loss,
- Around his feet her arms she wound,
- As sinner might around the cross.
- He dashed her twining hands aside,
- He spurned her from him as she knelt.
- “O hateful beauty!” Erick cried,
- “The source of all thy hellish guilt.
- “Pray for a cloud that can eclipse
- That long, white streak of moonlight pale.
- No word of grace from mortal lips
- Can bring a ruined soul from Hell.
- “Away! I would not pardon, not
- (I swear it by the holy rood)
- Unless upon that hated spot
- An angel with a lily stood!”
- She shuddered in the moonlight pale,
- That doomed and banned her from his sight,
- Then rose up with a bitter wail,
- And fled away into the night!
