The Mother’s Tragedy

THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY 15 The downcast eyes and delicate white throat, The lily, when I saw the rose before me ? Your full delicious beauty was as God! You are a bunch of admirable grapes Fit to intoxicate my being! Yes! I would not give that sunny fruit of yours For twenty such frail flowers as Madeline. I am a man—you mate me with a girl ? CORA. Stop! not a word! My blasphemy to hear, Yours to speak out—when you are told the truth! ULRIC. What truth? This word hath first an ugly sound. The truth! God curse it to His blackest hell If but it stand between us and our love! CORA. O Ulric, Ulric! bear with me awhile! Speak no more words—each syllable strikes here, [Hand to heart. A cloud of wingéd scorpions, that rage In mine own deepest self; for there I know Tame harpies that had ceased to torture me; And this more ghastly brood renews their sting, Adding a triple poison! O my soul Is torn with pangs more horrible than hell, Scorching the very marrow of my bones, Corrupting me—corrupting me, I say—