The Monk. Мэтью Грегори Льюис

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СКАЧАТЬ you have fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive! Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon!'

      As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and She sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her. She was immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions followed her.

      Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A secret pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this Unfortunate with too great severity. He therefore detained the Prioress and ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the Delinquent.

      'The violence of her despair,' said He, 'proves, that at least Vice is not become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with somewhat less rigour than is generally practised, and mitigating in some degree the accustomed penance....'

      'Mitigate it, Father?' interrupted the Lady Prioress; 'Not I, believe me. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into disuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their revival. I go to signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shall be the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed to the very letter. Father, Farewell.'

      Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.

      'I have done my duty,' said Ambrosio to himself.

      Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him, upon quitting the Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden.

      In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better regulated. It was laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged, seemed only planted by the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing from basons of white Marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the Walls were entirely covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, ranging through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: A gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along the Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps.

      In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed in imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turf were placed on either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rock above. Buried in himself the Monk approached the spot. The universal calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread languor through his soul.

      He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when He stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.

      His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in mediation. The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He watched him in silence, and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall.

      'Yes!' said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; 'I feel all the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I, could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust upon Mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world holds Beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What a blessing would Misanthropy be to me!'

      'That is a singular thought, Rosario,' said the Abbot, entering the Grotto.

      'You here, reverend Father?' cried the Novice.

      At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew his Cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the Bank, and obliged the Youth to place himself by him.

      'You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,' said He; 'What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, Misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?'

      'The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped my observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my reading them; and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!'

      As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the opposite Wall: On it were engraved the following lines.

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE

      Who-e'er Thou art these lines now reading,

      Think not, though from the world receding

      I joy my lonely days to lead in

             This Desart drear,

      That with remorse a conscience bleeding

             Hath led me here.

      No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs:

      Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;

      For well I saw in Halls and Towers

             That Lust and Pride,

      The Arch-Fiend's dearest darkest Powers,

             In state preside.

      I saw Mankind with vice incrusted;

      I saw that Honour's sword was rusted;

      That few for aught but folly lusted;

      That He was still deceiv'd, who trusted

             In Love or Friend;

      And hither came with Men disgusted

             My life to end.

      In this lone Cave, in garments lowly,

      Alike a Foe to noisy folly,

      And brow-bent gloomy melancholy

             I wear away

      My life, and in my office holy

             Consume the day.

      Content and comfort bless me more in

      This Grot, than e'er I felt before in

      A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring

             To God on high,

      Each night and morn with voice imploring

             This wish I sigh.

      'Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,

      Unknown each guilty worldly fire,

      Remorseful throb, or loose desire;

             And when I die,

      Let me in this belief expire,

             "To God I fly"!'

      Stranger, if full of youth and riot

      As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,

      Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at

             The Hermit's prayer:

      But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at

             Thy fault, or care;

      If Thou hast known false Love's vexation,

      Or hast been exil'd from thy Nation,

      Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,

             And makes thee pine,

      Oh! how must Thou lament thy station,

             And envy mine!

      'Were СКАЧАТЬ