Or that the Devil, to whom they liken me, 40
Would aid his likeness!
Would aid his likeness!
Byron
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out!
[_Exit_ BERTHA.
_Arn. _ (_solus_). Oh, mother! --She is gone, and I must do
Her bidding;--wearily but willingly
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 30
A kind word in return. What shall I do?
[_ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this
he wounds one of his hands_.
My labour for the day is over now.
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast;
For double curses will be my meed now
At home--What home? I have no home, no kin,
No kind--not made like other creatures, or
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed, too,
Like them? Oh, that each drop which falls to earth
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me!
Or that the Devil, to whom they liken me, 40
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake[206]
His form, why not his power? Is it because
I have not his will too? For one kind word
From her who bore me would still reconcile me
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash
The wound.
[ARNOLD _goes to a spring, and stoops to wash
his hand: he starts back_.
They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me,
What she hath made me. I will not look on it
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch
That I am! The very waters mock me with 50
My horrid shadow--like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein. [_He pauses_.
And shall I live on,
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood,
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me
Try if thou wilt not, in a fuller stream,
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself
On earth, to which I will restore, at once,
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 60
Resolve back to her elements, and take
The shape of any reptile save myself,
And make a world for myriads of new worms!
This knife! now let me prove if it will sever
This withered slip of Nature's nightshade--my
Vile form--from the creation, as it hath
The green bough from the forest.
[ARNOLD _places the knife in the ground, with
the point upwards_.