Untitled - OUDL Home

SCENE I] THE MOURNING BRIDE 411
0 wouldst thou be less killing, soft or kind,
Grief could not double thus his darts against me.
Aim. Thou dost me wrong, and grief too robs my heart,
If there he shoot not every other shaft;
Thy second self should feel each other wound,
And woe should be in equal portions dealt.
I am thy wife—
Osm. O thou has searched too deep!
There, there I bleed! there pull the cruel cords,
That strain my cracking nerves; engines and wheels,
That piece-meal grind, are beds of down and balm
To that soul-racking thought.
Aim. Then I am cursed
Indeed, if that be so; if I'm thy torment,
Kill me, then kill me; dash me with thy chains,
Tread on me! What! am I the bosom-snake,
That sucks thy warm life-blood, and gnaws thy heart?
O that thy words had force to break those bonds,
As they have strength to tear this heart in sunder!
So shouldst thou be at large from all oppression.
Am I, am I of all thy woes the worst?
Osm. My all of bliss, my everlasting life,
Soul of my soul, and end of all my wishes,
Why dost thou thus unman me with thy words,
And melt me down to mingle with thy weepings?
Why dost thou ask? why dost thou talk thus piercingly?
Thy sorrows have disturbed thy peace of mind,
And thou dost speak of miseries impossible.
Aim. Didst thou not say that racks and wheels were balm,
And beds of case, to thinking me thy wife?
Osm. No, no; nor should the subtlest pains that hell,
Or hell-born malice can invent, extort
A wish or thought from me, to have thee other.
But thou wilt know what harrows up my heart:
Thou art my wife—nay, thou art yet my bride!
The sacred union of connubial love
Yet unaccomplished; his mysterious rites
Delayed; nor has our hymeneal torch
Yet lighted up his last most grateful sacrifice;
But dashed with rain from eyes, and swalcd with sighs,
Burns dim, and glimmers with expiring light.
Is this dark cell a temple for that god?
Or this vile earth an altar for such offerings?