LITMIR.BIZ

      We have brought news.

      What are you?

      We are merchants, and we know the book of the world

      Because we have walked upon its leaves; and there

      Have read of late matters that much concern you;

      And noticing the castle door stand open,

      Came in to find an ear.

      The door stands open,

      That no one who is famished or afraid,

      Despair of help or of a welcome with it.

      But you have news, you say.

      We saw a man,

      Heavy with sickness in the bog of Allen,

      Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head

      We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed

      In the dark night; and not less still than they,

      Burned all their mirrored lanthorns in the sea.

      My thanks to God, to Mary and the angels,

      That I have money in my treasury,

      And can buy grain from those who have stored it up

      To prosper on the hunger of the poor.

      But you've been far and know the signs of things,

      When will this famine end?

      Day copies day,

      And there's no sign of change, nor can it change,

      With the wheat withered and the cattle dead.

      And heard you of the demons who buy souls?

      There are some men who hold they have wolves' heads,

      And say their limbs – dried by the infinite flame —

      Have all the speed of storms; others, again,

      Say they are gross and little; while a few

      Will have it they seem much as mortals are,

      But tall and brown and travelled – like us, lady —

      Yet all agree a power is in their looks

      That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net

      About their souls, and that all men would go

      And barter those poor vapours, were it not

      You bribe them with the safety of your gold.

      Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels

      That I am wealthy! Wherefore do they sell?

      As we came in at the great door we saw

      Your porter sleeping in his niche – a soul

      Too little to be worth a hundred pence,

      And yet they buy it for a hundred crowns.

      But for a soul like yours, I heard them say,

      They would give five hundred thousand crowns and more.

      How can a heap of crowns pay for a soul?

      Is the green grave so terrible a thing?

      Some sell because the money gleams, and some

      Because they are in terror of the grave,

      And some because their neighbours sold before,

      And some because there is a kind of joy

      In casting hope away, in losing joy,

      In ceasing all resistance, in at last

      Opening one's arms to the eternal flames,

      In casting all sails out upon the wind;

      To this – full of the gaiety of the lost —

      Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone.

      There is a something, Merchant, in your voice

      That makes me fear. When you were telling how

      A man may lose his soul and lose his God

      Your eyes were lighted up, and when you told

      How my poor money serves the people, both —

      Merchants forgive me – seemed to smile.

      I laugh

      To think that all these people should be swung

      As on a lady's shoe-string, – under them

      The glowing leagues of never-ending flame.

      There is a something in you that I fear;

      A something not of us; were you not born

      In some most distant corner of the world?

      Away now – they are in the passage – hurry,

      For they will know us, and freeze up our hearts

      With Ave Marys, and burn all our skin

      With holy water.

      Farewell; for we must ride

      Many a mile before the morning come;

      Our horses beat the ground impatiently.

      Forgive us, lady, but we heard a noise.

      We sat by the fireside telling vanities.

      We heard a noise, but though we have searched the house

      We have found nobody.

      You are too timid,

      For now you are safe from all the evil times,

      There is no evil that can find you here.

      Ochone! Ochone! The treasure room is broken in.

      The door stands open, and the gold is gone.

      Be silent. (The cry ceases.) Have you seen nobody?

      Ochone!

      That my good mistress should lose all this money.

      Let those among you – not too old to ride —

      Get horses and search all the country round,

      I'll give a farm to him who finds the thieves.