Complete Works of William Morris, page 520
Spite of herself, and so was led away
And ended all her life upon that day
Being burnt with fire according to the law.
Now in likewise I without spot or flaw
Have will to be presented to our King,
Who sits above and governs everything
But if I sin my sin shall not be this,
To come before Him, praying for his bliss
With my right hand, and my left hand to hold
Heaped up with earthly pleasures smeared with gold.
Take now these words in answer to thy Lord,
Nor will I listen more to any word,
And those thou saidst are not remembered
For now indeed I count myself as dead.
So from that chamber forth she passed; & he
Unto the prefects place went thoughtfully
And told him straight how little was his speed
Since neither gifts or threats the girl would heed.
Then raved that Lord and swore by Juno’s head
That in a week she should be his, or dead,
And on that night would neither eat nor drink,
Nor slept so much upon her did he think;
But when the next day came to him the slave,
To ask him what thing he should do, he drave
The man with curses from before his face,
And all the day went wandering through the place
Distraught and moody; and thus day by day
Speaking few words he passed the time away
And ever gloomier to all he grew
But could not find it in his heart to do
The thing he thought of, till a month was gone.
Then on a day bright glistering helmets shone
Outside the house where Dorothea dwelt,
And the poor maid a sickening terror felt
Because they drew up close beside her door.
Then came the man that she had seen before
Into her chamber, where, the time being cold,
A fire burned; which same man did hold
A certain parchment sealed with some great seal.
And when she looked thereon her brain did reel
For fear and woe, for certs she read there
An order to this man forthwith to bear
Her body to the justice-hall, that she
Might answer there or her impiety
Unto the Gods: so no word spoke the man
Till she had lifted up her countenance wan
And all the writing had been fully read,
Then with a smile he laid it down, and said.
O mistress here this paper will I burn
If to my lord you yet have heart to turn
Then in no sadness ever shall you pine,
And all that erst I spoke of shall be thine.
Or else indeed by this you well may guess
What shall befal you for your stubbornness,
The bonds the hangman’s hands, the open shame
The torturing lash, the gibbet and the flame;
The dark void waste instead of this bright world,
And the dishonoured body rudely hurled
To dogs and birds outside the city gates.
Think well of all this torment that awaits
A foolish word, and take from out my hand
This jewel worth the tribute of the land;
And for an answer set within your glove
A little writing with three words of love,
And there remains to you full many a year
Of happy life all free from pain and fear.”
She answered weeping, holding forth her hands,
“Delay no more to do your Lords commands;
For mid the jewels that you brought to me
A while ago these torments could I see.
And I am glad that this last day is come
Who for this past month have dwelt here at home
A wretched life, shaken by hopes and fears,
Now weeping for the ending of my years;
Now praying God to let me live awhile
That I might see once more the summer smile
Upon the land, now praying that I might
Be smitten dead in sleep some dark ning night,
Nor life to die with unnamed miseries
Before mens pitiless and prying eyes.
And now although I meet the worst at last.
Yet in a little while will all be past
Then surely little shall I count that pain.
Behold my hands all ready for your chain.”
Nought answered he for pity and for shame
But called aloud, and unto him there came
The sergeaunts with their bonds, and so the may
Unto the judgement-hall was led away
And as she passed between them down the street
Noted she was of those that they did meet,
And few there were that saw her but were fain
Her body to have rescued from that pain
Yea so the hearts of some within them burned
That round about to follow her thy turned
To see the end of it: withal was she
Within that cruel place brought speedily.
There in the midst upon a gilded throne
Was set her shameless lover all alone,
And on each side of him but lower down
The lawyers sat in solemn hood & gown.
Behind, the sergeaunts with their javelins stood;
And, quite apart, strange things of brass and wood,
And cords and pulleys, and a stout ship’s mast.
About which things three rugged fellows past
With hooks and scourges in their hands.
And straight before the throne two men with wands
Of gold and ivory, stood, all clad in gold.
Whereof a golden basket one did hold,
One a gold censer with a silver chain;
And betwixt these, that helpless thing and vain
They called a God, wrought all of silver stood,
Whose marble altar, with some poor beasts blood
Yet reeked, before the eyes that heeded nought.
Giddy and fainting there the maid was brought,
But when the prefect saw her in that place
A red flush first spread over his swart face,
And then he grew as pale as very death
And through clenched teeth awhile he drew his breath.
Then struggling with himself he spoke, and said.
“We hear by true report unhappy maid,
Thou art of those who give no gifts or praise
Unto the Gods that give us happy days,
And therefore dost thou merit will to die;
Yet will the Emperor grant thee full mercy,
And quite forget forgetfulness oer past
If in this flame some incense thou wilt cast,
And with a thankful and glad heart go hence
And give to all the Cods due reverence.”
“My Lord,” she said, “false words they spoke to thee
Saying I feared not God, and certainly,
This treason never shalt thou see me do
That I may live upon the earth some few
And doubtful years in fear of death each day
Then said he, “Maiden turn thine eyes that way
And tell me what things thou dost there behold.”
Then through her heart there shot a tremor cold
And paler grew her pale and troubled face;
Because his finger pointed to the place
Where stood those rough men waiting for their prey.
But trembling still she found the words to say.
“I see, my Lord, thou wilt not spare, me shame
I see strange things I have no skill to name,
Although my shrinking flesh deems what they be.
Alas, my Lord, well may it seem to thee
These are too terrible for one poor maid
To strive against, and yet when all is weighed
Against the power of my King and Lord
They are but as my needle to thy sword
Red with the Persian blood. Ah well I know
For all my words thou wilt not let me go
Nor spare me any little of my pain;
Yet hearken, it may chance to thee in vain
To pitiless folk with helpless hands to pray
Then mayst thou think if me upon that day
And ere that time comes on thee, mayst thou not,
Upon thy bed laid feverish and hot
In dead of night, and utterly alone,
Although of all the Gods thou fearest none,
And though thou mockest both at heaven and hell,
Remember somewhat that the poets tell
Of right and justice and avenging fate.
And as thou strugglest with the heavy weight
Of thy wrong-doing thou mayst wish indeed
Thou hadst not sown this bitter grain of seed
Amongst the others: Ah my God, my God
This weary way before me thou hast trod,
Must I a tender-nurtured maiden bear
These things he threatens me withal whose fear
Has made strong men and wise falloff from thee
An I, I scarcely know what pain can be.”
“Maiden,” the prefect said, “Thy words are vain;
And yet since I am merciful, and fain
To save thee for long years of joyous life,
It is my will to lengthen out this strife;
Yea and moreover, nowise willingly
Thy tender body tortured would I see
Though thou shouldst scape from dreadful death thereby.
Therefore in prison somewhile shalt thou lie,
And if thereafter thou still thinkest good
To die, then am I guiltless of thy blood;
Nor shouldst thou blame me if thy stubbornness
Bring down upon thee shame and sharp distress
Before thou diest; because verily
By torments will I strive to conquer thee,
Which if thou livest will mayst thou forget
And live to praise me many sweet years yet.”
Yea, I shall live” she said, “and not alone
Until no trace is left of all this stone
And moths have long consumed these braveries
And midmost here some yellow lion lies
Unchid of any, and the Roman tongue
With pain and toil from old records is wrung;
Yea, Yea, not only till the world is done
And no more use is found for moon or sun;
Happy and tireless I shall love for aye
Feeling no lapse of time or change of day.”
“A dream,” he said, “for which the warm delight
Of being alive, thou barterest, and the sight
Of lovely things; for which thou givest up
The sweet and glorious, if too swift-drained cup
The Gods hold to our lips: think well of it
I pray you while the next few hours flit.”
Then from the maiden did he turn away
And though upon the throne on that same day
He sat to hear out causes, nonetheless
No thought it was of them that did oppress
His acheing head, and made him so distraught.
So to the prison Dorothea was brought,
Who through the sleepless night prayed earnestly
That short at least her suffering might be:
But in the morning did the prefect send
Some women folk her stubborness to bend,
Who at the first sung but the selfsame song
The slave had done: she should live loved & long;
And lack no thing a woman could desire:
But when they found no promises could tire
Her faithful heart, then they began to tell
From point to point, what agonies befell
Such as were rebels to their might Lord;
Still Dorothea weeping, said no word
But sat and gazed upon them patiently,
As their wrath kindled and their words grew high
And with their bitter tongues they strove to wound
The gentle maid: then one upon the ground
Cast dreadful things, and bade her mark them well,
And therewith gan the use of them to tell:
But though she shrunk with horror and afright,
And sat with fixed eyes and her lips grew white,
And though the tears stopped, and her golden head
She could not turn away, no word she said.
Then they, who had no power to harm her more
Departed for the day now onward wore
And from his height the sun began to fall:
So Dorothea leaned against the wall
Passed many a weary hour of day and night
And slept no whit till dawn was making bright
The eastern sky, and then she slept, and dreamed
A simple dream: for unto her it seemed
She was a child again, and on her head
Her father set a crown of roses red,
And in kind arms and strong he took her up
And gave her wine from out a golden cup.
But when she woke up to her misery
And nought about her but grim walls could see
And so remembered all things in a while,
She could not choose but weep to miss the smile
And tender handling of that father dead.
But yet she raised her fair hand to her head
As if she thought to find the garland there,
That nothing met except her golden hair.
Therewith she smiled again, and sighed, & then
Forgot awhile the cruel deeds of men
And fell to thinking of the happy place
Where now so soon she should behold Gods face,
And all her troubles should have happy end.
Now in meantime Fabricius did send
To fetch her sisters, who being come, the twain
He sent to try if they his end could gain;
Who trembling and all ill at ease soon came
Unto the prison, and downcast for shame
Nor unforgetful of the former days.
So they being led by many wretched ways
The turnkey brought at last unto her cell:
They entered weeping, for they loved her well
In such way as they might: then straightway she
Beholding them arose up suddenly
And round about they clung sorrowing
And she spoke to them many a tender thing
Then they half shamed began to her to pray
She would not cast her happy life away,
But yield this once; ‘then quoth they we will go
To some far land where no one will us know
There dwell in peace, doing no harm at all;
Till late and quiet death upon us fall.’
“Sisters,” she said, “would you abide with me?
Surely I know you would, then verily
One way I know, none other: for today
I think indeed to journey a long way;
Where whoso to that land of lands cometh
Knoweth no turmoil and can fear no death;
And will ye all forgetful of that land,
Still be content outside the gate to stand
While I within that lovely place and green
Must quite forget that ye have ever been?
O Sisters in God’s name I promise this
That ye today may be with me in bliss;
Is it a light thing that all stains, and sin
Shall be forgotten, and that ye may win
An equal place to spotless ones and pure,
And, by one hour of torment, may make sure
Of that, once Godly ones have lost at last.
And for that you do pray me not to cast
My life from me, in turn to you I pray
This life unending not to cast away.
From this day forth from you I shall be gone,
And perchance sisters you, being left alone,
May fall from bad to worse, nor ever turn
From your ill lives until in hell ye burn.
Alas I needs must say this word to you,
For I am dying now, and false and true
I see far clearer that before this day.
O sisters, sisters, what thing will ye say?”
Then spoke Eriste sobbing, Ye full well
I know that I shall die and go to hell
If I turn not; but yet I thought that day
When some few years in joy have passed away,
I will return – also then did I see
Such things as they this day will do to thee
Alas, alas! that folk who so soon to die
Should work their fellows such great misery.”
But rose Calliste with dry eyes and bright
And pale firm lips, and said, “thou sayest right
Let us return again while yet we may;
O sister Dorothea, on this day
Thou shalt not die alone for I will go
And give my body up to earthly woe.”
Then when Eriste heard her sister speak
Into a bitter wailing did she break
And sank adown and nothing did she reck
That Dorothea round Callistes’ neck
With joyful sobs and soft caresses hung,
For unto life right earnestly she clung
Fearing alike the pain she knew full well
And all the unknown threatenings of hell.
But in a while she lifted up her head,
And half arose, and to her sister said,
“Now let one go with thee, and I will try
To end my fear of death and misery:
Yet am I weak as water, and today
My weakness will be tried in many a way:
Come quickly now before I change again
And fall to thinking of the deadly pain.”
Then Dorothea cried, “yea sister go
And may God grant the time pass not too slow
Before we meet again at eventide
Upon that unknown rivers blissful side.”
So strange farewells unto her there they made,
And left her full of joy yet half afraid,
Because she knew indeed their way of life,
Yet trusted God would fit them for that strife
And that she need not count them now as lost
But they should win Heaven at whatso cost.
So these being come unto the prefect’s place
Calliste told him with a steady face
How they had sped; and when he laughed aloud
In their despite, and round about did crowd
