Marfa monologue (Act 2) — Demetrius: A Play

It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he. Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastes Take arms upon his side; the haughty Pole, The palatine, doth stake his noble daughter On the pure gold of his most righteous cause, And I alone reject him--I, his mother? I, only I, shook not beneath the storm Of joy that lifts all hearts with dizzying whirl, And scatters turmoil widely o'er the earth. He is my son--I must, will trust in him, And grasp with living confidence the hand Which heaven hath sent for my deliverance. 'Tis he, he comes with his embattled hosts, To set me free, and to avenge my shame! Hark to his drums, his martial trumpets' clang! Ye nations come--come from the east and south. Forth from your steppes, your immemorial woods Of every tongue, of every raiment come! Bridle the steed, the reindeer, and the camel! Sweep hither, countless as the ocean waves, And throng around the banners of your king! Oh, wherefore am I mewed and fettered here, A prisoned soul with longings infinite! Thou deathless sun, that circlest earth's huge ball, Be thou the messenger of my desires! Thou all-pervading, chainless breeze that sweep'st With lightning speed to earth's remotest bound, Oh, bear to him the yearnings of my heart. My prayers are all I have to give; but these I pour all glowing from my inmost soul, And send them up to heaven on wings of flame, Like armed hosts, I send them forth to hail him.