Why hither bring her corpse?  Why hide her clay
In jewelled ark beneath God’s mercy-seat—­
A speck of dust among these boundless aisles,
Uprushing pillars, star-bespangled roofs,
Whose colours mimic Heaven’s unmeasured blue,
Save to remind you, how she is not here,
But risen with Him that rose, and by His blaze
Absorbed, lives in the God for whom she died? 
Know her no more according to the flesh;
Or only so, to brand upon your thoughts
How she was once a woman—­flesh and blood,
Like you—­yet how unlike!  Hark while I tell ye.’

2d Monk.  How liked the mob all this?  They hate him sore.

Ger.  Half awed, half sullen, till his golden lips
Entranced all ears with tales so sad and strange,
They seemed one life-long miracle:  bliss and woe,
Honour and shame—­her daring—­Heaven’s stern guidance,
Did each the other so outblaze.

1st Monk.  Great signs Did wait on her from youth.

2d Monk.  There went a tale
Of one, a Zingar wizard, who, on her birthnight,
He here in Eisenach, she in Presburg lying,
Declared her natal moment, and the glory
Which should befall her by the grace of God.

Ger.  He spoke of that, and many a wonder more,
Melting all hearts to worship—­how a robe
Which from her shoulders, at a royal feast,
To some importunate as alms she sent,
By miracle within her bower was hung again: 
And how on her own couch the Incarnate Son
In likeness of a leprous serf, she laid: 
And many a wondrous tale till now unheard;
Which, from her handmaid’s oath and attestation,
Siegfried of Maintz to far Perugia sent,
And sainted Umbria’s labyrinthine hills,
Even to the holy Council, where the Patriarchs
Of Antioch and Jerusalem, and with them
A host of prelates, magnates, knights, and nobles,
Decreed and canonised her sainthood’s palm.

1st Monk.  Mass, they could do no less.

Ger.  So thought my master—­
For ‘Thus,’ quoth he, ’the primates of the Faith
Have, in the bull which late was read to you,
Most wisely ratified the will of God
Revealed in her life’s splendour; for the next count—­
These miracles wherewith since death she shines—­
Since ye must have your signs, ere ye believe,
And since without such tests the Roman Father
Allows no saints to take their seats in heaven,
Why, there ye have them; not a friar, I find,
Or old wife in the streets, but counts some dozens
Of blind, deaf, halt, dumb, palsied, and hysterical,
Made whole at this her tomb.  A corpse or two
Was raised, they say, last week:  Will that content you? 
Will that content her?  Earthworms!  Would ye please the dead,
Bring sinful souls, not limping carcases
To test her power on; which of you hath done that? 
Has any glutton learnt from her to fast? 
Or oily burgher dealt away his pelf? 
Has any painted Jezebel in sackcloth
Repented of her vanities?  Your patron? 
Think ye, that spell and flame of intercession,
Melting God’s iron will, which for your sakes
She purchased by long agonies, was but meant
To save your doctors’ bills?  If any soul
Hath been by her made holier, let it speak!’