Classic Poem

Friar . My son!
B ERTRAM . Art thou mine executioner?
Friar . Thy saviour rather —
If I might execute upon thy pride,
Thy sinful thoughts and passions, and thy fears,
By bringing thee, in pemtence and sorrow,
To the white feet of Him who came to save,
And perish'd, for thy safety, on the cross!
O son! the moments leave thee. A few hours
Is all the remnant of the time allow'd thee.
I would prepare thee for the terrible change
The morrow brings thee — would entreat thy prayers —
The meek repentance of thy evil passions,
And not less evil thoughts — and such confession
Of each foul secret festering in thy soul,
With the due sorrows which should follow it,
As may commend thee to the Saviour's grace,
And make thee fit for the Eternal Presence!
B ERTRAM . Behold me then most guilty. Pride was mine,
And sinful thoughts, and dark imaginings,
And reckless passions, and ungracious fancies,
And all the thousand tendencies to evil
Which ever urge the impatient soul of man
To heedless forfeiture of Heaven's sweet mercy.
What need the dark detail — the nice relation —
The name and character of each offence,
Too numerous quite for name, for recollection —
Too foul for the now blushing consciousness
To summon into sight, or give to speech!
Enough, that I have sinn'd — that, in my sorrow,
I could weep tears of blood; and that I perish
Forgiving all mine enemies — imploring
Of all forgiveness — and of God, o'er all! —
Most doubtful of his mercy, as well knowing
How great mine undesert.
Friar . Alas! my son,
This will not answer thee. Thou must disburden
Thy heart of each dark secret. 'Tis thy pride,
And not the shame and grief of thy contrition,
That locks thy secret up!
B ERTRAM . I have no secrets
From God, to whom for judgment I must go;
No hope from man, of whom I have no fear,
And no confession for his ears, whose judgment
Can do me hurt or service now no more.
Friar . Beware, my son! This stubbornness! This woman —
Francesca — who hath perish'd in her guilt —
She was to thee no wife? Her full confession —
B ERTRAM . Ah! now I know thee! Get thee to Leom:
I have no secrets for thy keeping, father,
Or thy revealing. Yet a prayer I make thee;
Leave me to God — in quiet.
Friar . If I leave thee —
Thy conscience unrelieved — the truth unspoken —
I leave thee to the enemy of man,
Who lurks in waiting for thy soul —
B ERTRAM . Away!
Friar . The curse —
B ERTRAM . Oh! fit for curses only — hence!
Thou hast usurp'd the white wings of the dove,
To do the serpent's office! Who is there?