Mary, my wife, forbear! I may not give Response to such petition. I have prayed That I may die. When first the love Divine Received me on its bosom, and in mine I felt the springing of another life, I begged the Lord to grant me two requests: The first that I might die, and in that world Where passion sleeps, and only influence From Him and those who cluster at His throne Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great life, Bursting within me, might be perfected. The second, that your life, my love, and mine Might be once more united on the earth In holy marriage, and that mine might be Breathed out at last within your loving arms. One prayer is granted, and the other waits But a brief space for its accomplishment. _Mary_. But why this prayer to die? Still loving me,-- With the great motive for desiring life And the deep secret of enjoyment won,-- Why pray for death? _Edward_. Do you not know me, Mary? I am afraid to live, for I am weak. I've found a treasure only life can steal; I've won a jewel only death will keep. In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl Would not be safe. That which I would not take When health was with me,--which I spurned away So long as I had power to sin, I fear Would be surrendered with that power's return And the temptation to its exercise. For soul like mine, diseased in every part, There is but one condition in which grace May give it service. For my malady The Great Physician draws the blood away That only flows to feed its baleful fires; For only thus the balsam and the balm May touch the springs of healing. So I pray To be delivered from myself,--to be Delivered from necessity of ill,-- To be secured from bringing harm to you. Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul! I greet it with a joy that passes speech. Were the whole world to come before me now,-- Wealth with its treasures; Pleasure with its cup; Power robed in purple; Beauty in its pride, And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded; Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown,-- To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away, And stretch my hands with utter eagerness Toward the pale angel waiting for me now, And give my hand to him, to be led out, Serenely singing, to the land of shade. _Mary_. Edward, I yield you. I would not retain One who has strayed so long from God and heaven, When his weak feet have found the only path Open for such as he. _Edward_. My strength recedes; But ere it fail, tell me how fares your life. You have seen sorrow; but it comforts me To hear the language of a chastened soul From one perverted by my guilty hand. You speak the dialect of the redeemed-- The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so, And you are happy. _Mary_.