The Purgatory of St. PatrickCalderón de la Barca, Pedro
Religion
The Purgatory of St. Patrick
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro
Patrick, Saint, 373?-463? -- Drama
LUIS [aside]. That he may not betray
Whither I go, to those who track my way,
Him from some cliff I'll throw
Headlong amid the icy waves below.--
[To LUCY.
You with this consolation here remain
Your husband will be with you soon again.
[Exeunt the two at one side, and she at the other.
* * * * *
SCENE XII.
The King EGERIUS, LESBIA, LEOGAIRE, The Captain;
afterwards PHILIP.
LESBIA. Not a trace of them is found;
All the mountain, hill and valley,
Leaf by leaf has been explored,
Bough by bough has been examined,
Rock by rock has been searched through,
Still no clue wherewith to track them
Can we light on.
KING. Without doubt,
To preserve them from my anger,
Has the earth engulphed the two;
For not heaven itself could guard them
From my wrath if still they lived.
LESBIA. See the sun his disentangled
Golden tresses far extends
Over mountains, groves and gardens,
Showing that the day hath come.
[Enter PHILIP.
PHILIP. Deign, your majesty, to hearken
To a tragedy more dreadful,
To a crime more unexampled
Than has time or fortune ever
Yet recorded in earth's annals.
Seeking traces of Polonia
Through these savage woods distracted
Roamed I restless all the night-time,
Till at length and amid the darkness
Half awakened rose the dawn;
Not in veils of gold and amber
Was she dressed, a robe of mourning
Formed of clouds composed her mantle,
And with discontented light
Hidden were the stars and planets,
Though for this one time alone
They were happy in their absence.
Searching there in every part,
We approached where blood was spattered
On the tender dewy flower,
And upon the ground some fragments of a woman's dress were strewn.
By these signs at once attracted,
We went on, 'till at the foot
Of a great rock overhanging,
In a fragrant tomb of roses
Lay Polonia, dead and stabbed there.
* * * * *
SCENE XIII.
POLONIA dead; and afterwards PATRICK. -- THE SAME.
PHILIP. Turn your eyes, and here you see
The young tree of beauty blasted,
Pale and sad the opening flower,
The bright flame abruptly darkened;
See here loveliness laid prostrate,
See warm life here turned to marble,
See, alas! Polonia dead.
KING. Philip, cease! proceed no farther!
For I have not resignation
To bear up with any calmness
'Gainst so many forms of wrong,
'Gainst so many shapes of sadness,
'Gainst such manifold misfortunes.
Ah, my daughter! Ah, thou hapless
Treasure fatally found for me!
LESBIA. Grief my feeling so o'ermasters
That I have not breath to mourn.
Ah! of all thy woes the partner
Let thy wretched sister be!
KING. What rude hand in ruffian anger
Raised its bloody steel against
Beauty so divinely fashioned?
Sorrow, sorrow ends my life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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