d Heav'n may do so too:
Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot
Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates:
Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine:
But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell
Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head.

_Isid._ Oh! horrible, Anselmo--horrible!

_Ans._ Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin
That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance?

_Isid._ The violated vow----

_Ans._ Was made long ere I
Knew its power or meaning, and was forced
By those who thrust it on me in deceit;
For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright.
'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not
God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample
To unloose, than monks to bind--thou'rt answer'd.

_Isid._ Answer'd, but not content--if false to vows
More sacred far;--yet surely not more sacred,--
For what should be more sacred than the vows
Which link the happiness of two in one
Till death dissolves the union?--If false
To Heav'n, Anselmo----

_Ans._ Who made me false, then?

_Isid._ Touch not that chord--treat me not as woman,
Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms:
You know me not, Anselmo; but till late
I scarcely knew myself.
Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent:
Can man absolve from compact made with God?

_Ans._ Isidora, it is now my duty
T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee
How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty,
May haply slide. A maiden in her pride,
But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute
The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head
Of our religion; and what, for ages,
Holy men have reverenced and believed,
Hath been by her denounced as not her creed.

_Isid._ 'Tis true--'tis true. The sin of unbelief,
'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself,
Swayed by my foolish pride. (_Turns to Anselmo._) But still, as yet
Thou'rt bound, Anselmo--e'en this discourse,
Methinks, is sacrilege.

_Ans._ Nay, Isidora,
Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway
I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss?
And is the tender sanction of that saint,
Our more than mother, nothing? As monk,--
And now I scarce am one,--it would seem
I am an object of your utter hate.

_Isid._ Not hate, Anselmo--'tis a bitter word;
Say rather fear--of what belongs to Heav'n.
Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st,
Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart?
What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show
Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft?