Poems

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POEMS

ROBERT BROWNING.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL I.

A NEW EDITION.

LONDON :
CHAPMAN & HALL, 186, STRAND.

1849.

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Many of these pieces were out of print, the rest
had been withdrawn from circulation, when the
corrected edition, now submitted to the reader, was
prepared. The various Poems and Dramas have
received the author's most careful revision.

December, 1848.

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CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

PAGE

PARACELSUS 1

PIPPA PASSES. A DRAMA 163

KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. A TRAGEDY . . 231
colombe's BIRTHDAY. A PLAY . . . .303

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PARACELSUS.

PEB80NS.

Aureolus Paracelsus.

Festus & ]

Michal,

Aprile, an Italian Poet

r -\

" \ his friends.

I.— PARACELSUS ASPIRES.
Scene. — Wunburg — a garden in the environs. 1512.

Festus, Pabacelsus, Michal.
Par. Come close to me, dear friends ; still closer ; thus !
Close to the heart which, though long time roll by
Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours,
As now it beats — perchance a long, long time—
At least henceforth your memories shall make
Quiet and fragrant as bents their home.
Nor shall my memory want a home in yours —
Alas, that it requires too well such free

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2 PARACELSUS.

Forgiving love as shall embalm it there !
For if you would remember me aright —
As I was born to be — you must forget
All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness
Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell
Only on moments such as these, dear friends !
— My heart no truer, but my words and ways
More true to it : as Michal, some months hence,
Will say, " this autumn was a pleasant time,"
For some few sunny days ; and overlook
Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves.
Autumn would fain be sunny — I would look
Liker my nature's truth ; and both are frail,
And both beloved for all their frailty !

Mich. Aureole !

Par. Drop by drop ! — she is weeping like a child !
Not so ! I am content — more than content —
Nay, Autumn wins you best by this its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay !
Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less
Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down,
Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit,
That apple-tree with a rare after-birth
Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among !
Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved
Shall vex that ash that overlooks you both,
So proud it wears its berries ? Ah ! at length,
The old smile meet for her, the lady of this
Sequestered nest ! This kingdom, limited

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PARACELSUS. 3

Alone by one old populous green wall,
Tenanted by the ever-busy flies,
Grey crickets, and shy lizards, and quick spiders,
Each family of the silver-threaded moss —
Which, look through, near, this way, and it appears
A stubble-field, or a cane-brake — a marsh
Of bulrush whitening in the sun : laugh now !
Fancy the crickets, each one in his house,
Looking out, wondering at the world — or best,
Yon painted snail, with his gay shell of dew,
Travelling to see the glossy balls high up
Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps !

Mich. In truth we have lived carelessly and well !

Far. And shall, my perfect pair — each, trust me, born
For the other ; nay, your very hair, when mixed,
Is of one hue. For where save in this nook
Shall you two walk, when I am far away,
And wish me prosperous fortune ? Stay ! Whene'er
That plant shall wave its tangles lightly and softly,
As a queen's languid and imperial arm
Which scatters crowns among her lovers, you
Shall be reminded to predict to me
Some great success ! Ah, see ! the sun sinks broad
Behind St. Saviour's : wholly gone, at last !

Fest. Now, Aureole, stay those wandering eyes awhile !
You are ours to-night at least ; and while you spoke
Of Michal and her tears, the thought came back
That none could leave what he so seemed to love :
But that last look destroys my dream — that look !

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4 PARACELSUS.

As if, where'er you gazed, there stood a star !
How far was Wiirzburg, with its church and spire,
And garden-walls, and all things they contain,
From that look's far alighting?

Par, I but spoke

And looked alike from simple joy, to see
The beings I love best, shut in so well
From all rude chances like to be my lot,
That, when afar, my weary spirit, — disposed
To lose awhile its care in soothing thoughts
Of them, their pleasant features, looks, and words, —
Need never hesitate, nor apprehend
Encroaching trouble may have reached them too,
Nor have recourse to Fancy's busy aid
To fashion even a wish in their behalf
Beyond what they possess already here ;
But, unobstructed, may at once forget
Itself in them, assured how well they are.
Beside, this Festus knows, he thinks me one
Whom quiet and its charms attract in vain,
One scarce aware of all the joys I quit,
Too fill'd with airy hopes to make account
Of soft delights which free hearts garner up :
Whereas, behold how much our sense of all
That 's beauteous proves alike ! When Festus learns
That every common pleasure of the world
Affects me as himself ; that I have just
As varied appetites for joy derived
From common things; a stake in life, in short,

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PARACELSUS. 5

Like bis ; a stake which rash pursuit of aims

That life affords not, would as soon destroy ; —

He may convince himself, that, this in view,

I shall act well advised : and last, because,

Though heaven and earth, and all things, were at stake.

Sweet Michal must not weep, our parting eve !

Fest. True : and the eve is deepening, and we sit
As little anxious to begin our talk
As though to-morrow I could open it
As we paced arm in arm the cheerful town
At sun-dawn ; and continue it by fits
(Old Tritheim busied with his class the while)
In that dim chamber where the noon-streaks peer
Half frightened by the awful tomes around ;
And here at home unbosom all the rest
From even-blush to midnight : but, to-morrow ! . . .
Have I full leave to tell my inmost mind ?
We two were brothers, and henceforth the world
Will rise between us : — all my freest mind ?
Tis the last night, dear Aureole !

Par. Oh, say on !

Devise some test of love— some arduous feat
To be performed for you — say on ! If night
Be spent the while, the better ! Recall how oft
My wondrous plans, and dreams, and hopes, and fears;
Have — never wearied you ... oh, no ! ... as I
Recall, and never vividly as now,
Your true affection, born when Einsiedeln
And its green hills were all the world to us,

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PARACELSUS.

And still increasing to this night, which ends
My further stay atWurzburg . . . Oh, one day
You shall be very proud ! Say on, dear friends !

Fest. In truth? Tis for my proper peace, indeed,
Rather than yours ; for vain all projects seem
To stay your course : I said my latest hope
Is fading even now. A story tells
Of some far embassy despatched to buy
The favour of an eastern king, and how
The gifts they offered proved but dazzling dust
Shed from the ore-beds native to his clime :
Just so, the value of repose and love,
I meant should tempt you, better far than I
You seem to comprehend — and yet desist
No whit from projects where repose nor love
Have part.

Par. Once more ? Alas ! as I forbode !

Fest. A solitary briar the bank puts forth
To save our swan's nest floating out to sea.

Par. Dear Festus, hear me. What is it you wish ?
That I should lay aside my heart's pursuit,
Abandon the sole ends for which I live,
Reject God's great commission — and so die !
You bid me listen for your true love's sake :
Yet how has grown that love ? Even in a long
And patient cherishing of the selfsame spirit
It now would quell ; as though a mother hoped
To stay the lusty manhood of the child
Once weak upon her knees. I was not. born

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PABACEL8US.

Informed and fearless from the first, but shrank
From aught which marked me out apart from men :
I would have lived their life, and died their death,
Lost in their ranks, eluding destiny :
But you first guided me through doubt and fear,
Taught me to know mankind and know myself ;
And now that I am strong and full of hope,
That, from my soul, I can reject all aims
Save those your earnest words made plain to me ;
Now, that I touch the brink of my design,
When I would have a triumph in their eyes,
A glad cheer in their voices — Michal weeps,
And Festus ponders gravely !

Fest. When you deign

To hear my purpose . . .

Par. Hear it ? I can say

Beforehand all this evening's conference !
Tis this way, Michal, that he uses : first,
Or he declares, or I, the leading points
Of our best scheme of life, what is man's end,
And what God's will — no two faiths e'er agreed
As his with mine : next, each of us allows
Faith should be acted on as best we may :
Accordingly, I venture to submit
A plan, in lack of better, for pursuing
The path which God's will seems to authorize :
Well — he discerns much good in it, avows
This motive worthy, that hope plausible,
A danger here, to be avoided — there,

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8 PARACELSUS.

An oversight to be repaired : at last

Our two minds go together — all the good

Approved by him, I gladly recognize ;

All he counts bad, I thankfully discard ;

And nought forbids my looking up at last

For some stray comfort in his cautious brow —

When, lo ! I learn that, spite of all, there lurks

Some innate and inexplicable germ

Of failure in my schemes ; so that at last

It all amounts to this — the sovereign proof

That we devote ourselves to God, is seen

In living just as though there were no God :

A life which, prompted by the sad and blind *

Lusts of the world, Festus abhors the most —

But which these tenets sanctify at once ;

Though to less subtle wits it seems the same,

Consider it how they may.

Mich. Is it so, Festus ?

He speaks so calmly and kindly — is it so ?

Par. Reject those glorious visions of God's love
And man's design ; laugh loud that God should send
Vast longings to direct us ; say how soon
Power satiates these, or lust, or gold ; I know
The world's cry well, and how to answer it !
But this ambiguous warfare . . .

Fest. . . . Wearies so

That you will grant no last leave to your friend
To urge it ? — for his sake, not yours ? I wish
To send my soul in good hopes after you ;

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PARACEL8U8.

Never to sorrow that uncertain words,
Erringly apprehended — a new creed,
111 understood — begot rash trust in you,
And shared in your undoing.

Par. Choose your side :

Hold or renounce : but meanwhile blame me not
Because I dare to act on your own views,
Nor shrink when they point onward, nor espy
A peril where they most ensure success.

Fest. Prove that to me — but that ! Prove you abide
Within their warrant, nor presumptuous boast
God's labour laid on you ; prove, all you covet
A mortal may expect ; and, most of all,
Prove the strange course you now affect, will lead
To its attainment — and I bid you speed,
Nay, count the minutes till you venture forth !
You smile ; but I had gathered from slow thought —
Much musing on the fortunes of my friend —
Matter I deemed could not be urged in vain :
But it all leaves me at my need : in shreds
And fragments I must venture what remains.

Mich. Ask at once, Festus, wherefore he should
scorn . . .

Fest. Stay, Michal : Aureole, I speak guardedly
And gravely, knowing well, whate'er your error,
This is no ill-considered choice of yours —
No sudden fancy of an ardent boy.
Not from your own confiding words alone
Am I aware your passionate heart long since

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10 PARACELSUS.

Gave birth to, nourished, and at length matures
This scheme. I will not speak of Einsiedeln,
Where I was born your elder by some years
Only to watch you fully from the first :
In all beside, our mutual tasks were fixed
Even then — 'twas mine to have you in my view
As you had your own soul and those intents
Which filled it when, to crown your dearest wish,
With a tumultuous heart, you left with me
Our childhood's home to join the favoured few
Whom, here at Wurzburg, Tritheim deigns to teach
A portion of his lore : and not the best
Of those so favoured, whom you now despise,
Came earnest as you came ; resolved, like you,
To grasp all, and retain all, and deserve
By patient toil a wide renown like his.
And this new ardour which supplants the old,
I watched, too ; 'twas significant and strange,
In one matched to his soul's content at length
With rivals in the search for Wisdom's prize,
To see* the sudden pause, the total change ;
From contest, the transition to repose —
From pressing onward as his fellows pressed,
To a blank idleness ; yet most unlike
The dull stagnation of a soul, content,
Once foiled, to leave betimes a thriveless quest.
That careless bearing, free from all pretence
Even of contempt for what it ceased to seek —
Smiling humility, praising much, yet waiving

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PARACELSUS. 1 1

What it professed to praise — though not so well
Maintained but that rare outbreaks, fierce as brief,
Kevealed the hidden scorn, as quickly curbed —
That ostentatious show of past defeat,
That ready acquiescence in contempt,
I deemed no other than the letting go
His shivered sword, of one about to spring
Upon his foe's throat ; but it was not thus :
Not that way looked your brooding purpose then.
For after-signs disclosed, what you confirmed,
That you prepared to task to the uttermost
Your strength, in furtherance of a certain aim,
Which — while it bore the name your rivals gave
Their own most puny efforts — was so vast
In scope that it included their best flights,
Combined them, and desired to gain one prize
In place of many, — the secret of the world,
Of man, and man's true purpose, path, and fete :
— That you, not nursing as a mere vague dream
This purpose, with the sages of the Past,
Have struck upon a way to this, if all
You trust be true, which following, heart and soul,
You, if a man may, dare aspire to know :
And that this aim shall differ from a host
Of aims alike in character and kind,
Mostly in this, — to seek its own reward
In itself only, not an alien end
To blend therewith ; no hope, nor fear, nor joy,
Nor woe, to elsewhere move you, but this pure

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12 PAHACEL8US.

Devotion to sustain you or betray :
Thus you aspire.

Par. You shall not state it thus :

I should not differ from the dreamy crew
You speak of. I profess no other share
In the selection of my lot, than this,
A ready answer to the will of God
Who summons me to be his organ : all
Whose innate strength supports tnem shall succeed
No better than your sages.

Fest. Such the aim, then,

God sets before you ; and 'tis doubtless need
That he appoint no less the way of praise
Than the desire to praise ; for, though I hold
With you, the setting forth such praise to be
The natural end and service of a man,
And think such praise is best attained when man
Attains the general welfare of his kind —
Yet, this, the end, is not the instrument.
Presume not to serve God apart from such
Appointed channel as He wills shall gather
Imperfect tributes — for that sole obedience
Valued, perchance. He seeks not that his altars
Blaze — careless how, so that they do but blaze.
Suppose this, then ; that God selected you
To know (heed well your answers, for my faith
Shall meet implicitly what they affirm)
I cannot think you dare annex to such
Selection aught beyond a steadfast will,

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PARACELSUS. 13

An intense hope, nor let your gifts create

Scorn or neglect of ordinary means

Conducive to success — make destiny

Dispense with man's endeavour. Now, dare you search

Your inmost heart, and candidly avow

Whether you have not rather wild desire

For this distinction, than security

Of its existence ; whether you discern

The path to the fulfilment of your purpose

Clear as that purpose— and again, that purpose

Clear as your yearning to be singled out

For its pursuer. Dare you answer this ?

Par. {After a pause) No, I have nought to fear ! Who
will may know
The secret'st workings of my soul. What though
It be so ? — if indeed the strong desire
Eclipse the aim in me ? — if splendour break
Upon the outset of my path alone,
And duskest shade succeed ? What fairer seal
Shall I require to my authentic mission
Than this fierce energy ? — this instinct striving
Because its nature is to strive ? — enticed
By the security of no broad course,
With no success forever in its eyes !
How know I else such glorious fate my own,
But in the restless irresistible force
That works within me ? Is it for human will
To institute such impulses ? — still less,
To disregard their promptings ? What should I

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14 PARACELSUS.

Do, kept among you all ; your loves, your cares,

Your life — all to be mine ? Be sure that God

Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart !

Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once

Into the vast and unexplored abyss,

What full-grown power informs her from the first,

Why she not marvels, strenuously beating

The silent boundless regions of the sky !

Be sure they sleep not whom God needs ! Nor fear

Their holding light his charge, when every hour

That finds that charge delayed, is a new death.

This for the faith in which I trust ; and hence

I can abjure so well the idle arts

These pedants strive to learn and teach ; Black Arts,

Great Works, the Secret and Sublime, forsooth —

Let others prize : too intimate a tie

Connects me with our God ! A sullen fiend

To do my bidding, fallen and hateful sprites

To help me — what are these, at best, beside

God helping, God directing everywhere,

So that the earth shall yield her secrets up,

And every object shall be charged to strike,

Teach, gratify, her master God appoints ?

And I am young, my Festus, happy and free !

I can devote myself ; I have a life

To give ; I, singled out for this, the One !

Think, think ; the wide east, where old Wisdom sprung ;

The bright south, where she dwelt ; the hopeful north,

All are passed o'er — it lights on me ! ' Tis time

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PARACELSUS. 15

New hopes should animate the world, new light
Should dawn from new revealings to a race
Weighed down so long, forgotten so long ; so shall
The heaven reserved for us, at last receive
Creatures whom no unwonted splendours blind,
But ardent to confront the unclouded blaze
Whose beams not seldom blessed their pilgrimage,
Not seldom glorified their life below.

Fest, My words have their old fate and make feint stand
Against your glowing periods. Call this, truth —
Why not pursue it in a fast retreat,
Some one of Learning's many palaces,
After approved example ; seeking there
Calm converse with the great dead, soul to soul,
Who laid up treasure with the like intent ?
— So lift yourself into their airy place,
And fill out full their unfulfilled careers,
Unravelling the knots their baffled skill
' Pronounced inextricable, true ! — but left
Far less confused? A fresh eye, a fresh hand,
Might do much at their vigour's waning-point ;
Succeeding with new-breathed and earnest force,
As at old games a runner snatched the torch
From runner still : this way success might be.
But you have coupled with your enterprise,
An arbitrary self-repugnant scheme
Of seeking it in strange and untried paths.
What books are in the desert ? writes the sea

The secret of her yearning in vast caves

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16 PARACELSUS.

Where yours will fall the first of human feet ?
Has Wisdom sate there and recorded aught
You press to read ? Why turn aside from her
To visit, where her vesture never glanced,
Now — solitudes consigned to barrenness
By God's decree, which who shall dare impugn ?
Now — ruins where she paused but would not stay.
Old ravaged cities that, renouncing her,
She called an endless curse on, so it came —
Or, worst of all, now — men you visit, men,
Ignoblest troops that never heard her voice, <

Or hate it, men without one gift from Rome
Or Athens, — these shall Aureole's teachers be !
Rejecting past example, practice, precept,
Aidless 'mid these he thinks to stand alone :
Thick like a glory round the Stagyrite
Your rivals throng, the sages : here stand you !
Whate'er you may protest, knowledge is not
Paramount in your love ; or for her sake
You would collect all help from every source —
Rival or helper, friend, foe, all would merge
In the broad class of those who showed her haunts,
And those who showed them not.

Par. What shall I say?

Festus, from childhood I have been possessed
By a fire — by a true fire, or faint or fierce,
As from without some master, so it seemed,
Repressed or urged its current : this but ill
Expresses what I would convey — but rather

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PARACELSUS. 1 7

I will believe an angel ruled me thus,

Than that my soul's own workings, own high nature,

So became manifest I knew not then

What whispered in the evening, and spoke out

At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon,

Were laid away in some great trance — the ages

Coming and going all the while — till dawned

His true time's advent, and could then record

The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed, —

Then I might tell more of the breath so light

Upon my eyelids, and the fingers warm

Among my hair. Youth k confused ; yet never

So dull was I but, when that spirit passed,

I turned to bim, scarce consciously, as turns

A water-snake when fairies cross his sleep.

And having this within me and about me

While Einsiedeln, its mountains, lakes, and woods

Confined me — what oppressive joy was mine

When life grew plain, and I first viewed the thronged,

The ever-moving concourse of mankind !

Believe that ere I joined them — ere I knew

The purpose of the pageant, or the place

Consigned to me within its ranks — while yet

Wonder was freshest and delight most pure —

'Twas then that least supportable appeared

A station with the brightest of the crowd,

A portion with the proudest of them all !

And from the tumult in my breast, this only

Could I collect^— that I must thenceforth die,

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18 PARACELSUS,

Or elevate myself far, far above
The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long
At once to trample on, yet save mankind —
To make some unexampled sacrifice
In their behalf — to wring some wondrous good
From heaven or earth for them — to perish, winning
Eternal weal in the act : as who should dare
Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud,
That, all its gathered flame. discharged on him,
No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep :
Yet never to be mixed with men so much
As to have part even in my own work — share
In my own largess. Once the feat achieved,
I would withdraw from their officious praise,
Would gently put aside their profuse thanks :
Like some knight traversing a wilderness,
Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe
Of desert-people from their dragon-foe ; , -
When all the swarthy race press round to kiss
His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield
Their poor tents, pitched among the sand-hills, for
His realm ; and he points, smiling, to his scarf,
Heavy with riveled gold, his burgonet,
Gay set with twinkling stones — and to the east,
Where these must be displayed !

Fest. Good : let us hear

No more about your nature, ** which first shrank
" From all that marked you out apart from men ! "

Par. I touch on that ; these words but analyse

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PARACELSUS. 19

That first mad impulse — 'twas as brief as fond ;
For as I gazed again upon the show,
I soon distinguished here and there a shape
Palm-wreathed and radiant, forehead and full eye.
Well pleased was I their state should thus at once
Interpret my own thoughts :— " Behold the clue
" To all," I rashly said, " and what I pine
" To do, these have accomplished : we are peers !
" They know, and therefore rule : I, too, will know ! "
You were beside me, Festus, as you say ;
You saw me plunge in their pursuits whom Fame
Is lavish to attest the lords of mind ;
Not pausing to make sure the prize in view
Would satiate my cravings when obtained—
But since they strove I strove. Then came a slow
And strangling failure. We aspired alike,
Yet not the meanest plodder Tritheim schools
But faced me, all-sufficient, all : content,
Or staggered only at his own strong wits ;
While I was restless, nothing satisfied.
Distrustful, most perplexed. I would slur over
That struggle ; suffice it, that I loathed myself
As weak compared with them, yet felt somehow
A mighty power was brooding, taking shape
Within me : and this lasted till one night
When, as I sate revolving it and more,
A still voice from without said — " See'st thou not,
" Desponding child, whence came defeat and loss?
" Even from thy strength. Consider : hast thou gazed
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20 PARACELSUS.

" Presumptuously on Wisdom's countenance,

" No veil between ; and can thy hands which falter

" Unguided by thy brain the mighty sight

" Continues to absorb, pursue their task

" On earth like these around thee — what their sense

" Which radiance ne'er distracted, clear descries ?

" If thou wouldst share their fortune, choose their life,

" Unfed by splendour. Let each task present

" Its petty good to thee. Waste not thy gifts

" In profitless waiting for the gods' descent,

" But have some idol of thine own to dress

" With their array. Know, not for knowing s sake,

" But to become a star to men for ever.

" Know, for the gain it gets, the praise it brings,

" The wonder it inspires, the love it breeds,

" Look one step onward, and secure that step."

And I smiled as one never smiles but once ;

Then first discovering my own aim's extent,

Which sought to comprehend the works of God,

And God himself, and all God's intercourse

With the human mind ; I understood, no less,

My fellow's studies, whose true worth I saw,

But smiled not, well aware who stood by me.

And softer came the voice — " There is a way —

" 'Tis hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued

" With frailty — hopeless, if indulgence first

" Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength :

" Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's,

" Apart from all reward ? " And last it breathed —

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PASACELSUS. 21

" Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee,

" Be sure, even to the end ! " — I answered not,

Knowing Him. As He spoke, I was endued

With comprehension and a steadfast will ;

And when He ceased, my brow was sealed His own.

If there took place no special change in me,

How comes it all things wore a different hue

Thenceforward ?— pregnant with vast consequence —

Teeming with grand results — loaded with fete ;

So that when quailing at the mighty range

Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste

To contemplate undazzled some one truth,

Its bearings and effects alone — at once

What was a speck expands into a star,

Asking a life to pass exploring thus,

Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul !

I see my way as birds their trackless way —

I shall arrive ! what time, what circuit first,

I ask not : but unless Qod send his hail

Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow,

In some time — his good time — I shall arrive :

He guides me and the bird. In his good time !

Mick, Vex him no further, Festus ; it is so !

Fest. Just thus you help me ever. This would hold
Were it the trackless air, and not a path
Inviting you, distinct with footprints yet
Of many a mighty spirit gone that way.
You may have purer views than theirs, perhaps,
But they were famous in their day^-the proofs
Remain. At least accept the light they lend.

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22 PARACELSUS.

Par. Their light 1 the sum of all is briefly this ;
They laboured, and grew famous ; and the fruits
Are best seen in a dark and groaning earth,
Given over to a blind and endless strife
With evils, which of all your Gods abates?
No ; I reject and spurn them utterly,
And all they, teach. Shall I still sit beside
Their dry. wells, with a white lip and filmed eye,
While in the distance heaven is blue above
Mountains where sleep the unsunned tarns ?

Fest. •:■'••■.' .'."•• And yet

As strong delusions have prevailed ere now :
Men have set out as gallantly to seek
Their ruin ; I have heard of such — yourself
Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen.

Mich. Nay, Festus, when but as the pilgrims faint
Through the drear way, do you expect to see
Their city dawn afar amid the clouds ?'•/'•

Par. Ay, sounds it not like some old well-known tale ?
For me, I estimate their works and them
So rightly, that at times I almost dream
I too have spent a life the' sages' way,
And tread once more familiar, paths. Perchance
I perished in an arrogant self-reliance -
An age ago ; and in that act, a prayer
For one more chance went up so earnest, so
Instinct with better light let in by Death,
That life was blotted out — not so completely
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain,

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PARACELSUS, £3

Dim memories ; as now, when seems once more
The goal in sight again : all which, indeed,
Is foolish, and only means — the flesh I wear,
The earth I tread, are not more clear to me
Than my helief, explained to you or no.

Fest. And who am I to challenge and dispute
That clear belief ? I put away all fear.

Mich. Then Aureole is God's commissary ! he shall
Be great and grand— and all for us !

Par. No, sweet!

Not great and grand If I can serve mankind
Tis well— but there our intercourse must end :
I never will be served by those I serve.

Fest. Look well to this ; here is a plague-spot, here,
Disguise it how you may ! Tis true, you utter
This scorn while by our side and loving us ;
Tis but a spot as yet ; but it will break
Into a hideous blotch if overlooked.
How can that course be safe which from the first
Produces carelessness to human love ?
It seems you have abjured the helps which men
Who overpass their kind, as you would do,
Have humbly sought— I dare not thoroughly probe
This matter, lest I learn too much : let be,
That popular praise would little instigate
Your efforts, nor particular approval
Reward you ; put reward aside ; alone
You shall go forth upon your arduous task,
None shall assist you, none partake your toil,

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24 PARACELSUS.

None share your triumph— -still you must retain

Some one to cast your glory on, to share

Your rapture with. . Were 1 1 elect like you,

I would encircle me with love, and raise

A rampart of my fellows ; it should seem

Impossible for me to fail, so watched

By gentle friends who made my cause their own ;

They should ward off Fate's carry — the great gift,

Extravagant when claimed by me alone,

Being so a gift to them as well as me.

If danger daunted me or ease seduced*

How calmly their sad eyes should gaze reproach !

Mich. Aureole, can I sing when all alone,
Without first calling, in my fancy, both
To listen by my side-~even I ! And you ?
Do you not feel this ?-HBay that you feel this !

Par. I feel 'tis pleasant that my aims, at length
Allowed their weight, should be supposed to need
A further strengthening in these goodly helps !
My course allures for its own sake^-its sole
Intrinsic worth ; and ne'er shall boat of mine
Adventure forth for gold and apes at once.
Your edges say, " if human, therefore weak : "
If weak, more, need to give myself entire
To my pursuit ; and by its side, all else . . .
No matter ! I deny myself but little
In waiving all assistance save its own — ■
Would there were some real sacrifice to make !
Your friends the sages threw their joys away,
While I must be content with keeping mine.

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PARACELSUS. 25

Fest. But do not eut yourself from human weal ?
You cannot thrive — a man that dares affect
To spend his life in service to his kind,
For no reward of theirs, nor bound to them
By any tie ; nor do so, Aureole ! No —
There are strange punishments for such. Give up
(Although no visible good flow thence) some part
Of the glory to another ; hiding thus,
Even from yourself, that all is for yourself.
Say, say almost to God — " I have done all
" For her — not for myself ! "

Par. And who, but lately,

Was to rejoice in my success like you ?
Whom should I love but both of you ?

Fest. I know not :

But know this, you, that 'tis no wish of mine
You should abjure the lofty claims you make ;
Although I can no longer seek, indeed,
To overlook the truth, that there will be
A monstrous spectacle upon the earth,
Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees :
— A being knowing not what love is. Hear me !
You are endowed with faculties which bear
Annexed to them as 'twere a dispensation
To summon mearfer spirits to do their will,
And gather round them at their need ; inspiring
Such with a lovd themselves can never feel-
Passionless 'mid their passionate votaries.
I know not if you joy in this or no,

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26 PABACELSTJg.

Or ever dream that common men can live

On objects you prize lightly, but which make

Their heart's sole treasure : the affections seem

Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste

Or die : and this strange quality accords,

I know not how, with you ; sits well upon

That luminous brow, though in another it scowls

An eating brand — a shame. I dare not judge you :

The rules of right and wrong thus set aside,

There's no alternative — I own you one

Of higher order, under other laws

Than bind us ; therefore, curb not one bold glance !

Tis best aspire. Once mingled with us all ... .

Mich. Stay with us, Aureole ! cast those hopes away,
And stay with us ! An angel warns me, too,
Man should be humble ; you are very proud :
And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such !
He warns me not to dread a quick repulse,
Nor slow defeat, but a complete success !
You will find all you seek, and perish so !

Par. (After a pause.) Are these the barren first fruits
of my life ?
Is love like this the natural lot of all ?
How many years of pain might one such hour
O'erbalance ? Dearest Michal, dearest Festus,
What shall I say, if not that I desire
To merit this your love ; and will, dear friends,
In swerving nothing from my first resolves.
See, the great moon ! and 'ere the mottled owls

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PARACELSUS. 27

Were wide awake, I was to go* It seems

You acquiesce at last in all save this —

If I am like to compass what I seek

By the untried career I chuse ; and then,

If that career, making hut small account

Of much of life's delight, will yet retain

Sufficient to sustain my soul— for thus

I understand these fond fears just expressed*

And first ; the lore you praise and I neglect,

The labours and the precepts of old time,

I have not slightly disesteemed. But, friends,

Truth is within ourselves ; it takes no rise

From outward things, whate'er you may believe :

There is an inmost centre in us all,

Where truth abides in fulness ; and around

Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in,

This perfect, clear perception— which is truth;

A baffling and perverting carnal mesh

Blinds it, and makes all error : and, " to know "

Bather consists in opening out a way

Whence the inprisoned splendour may escape,

Than in effecting entry for a light

Supposed to be without. Watch narrowly

The demonstration of a truth, its birth,

And you trace back the effluence to its spring

And source within us, where broods radiance vast,

To be elicited ray by ray, as chance

Shall favour : chance — for hitherto, your sage

Even as he knows not how those beams are born, '

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28 FAHACELSUS.

As little knows he what unlocks their fount ; J

And men have oft grown old among their books 1

To die, case-hardened in their ignorance, /

Whose careless youth had promised what long years /

Of unremitted labour ne'er performed : /

While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day,

That autumn loiterers just as fancy-free

As the midges in the sun, have oft given vent

To truth — produced mysteriously as cape

Of cloud grown out of the invisible air.

Hence, may not truth be. lodged alike in all,

The lowest as the highest ? some slight film

The interposing bar which binds it up,

And makes the idiot, just as makes the sage

Some film removed, the happy outlet whence

Truth issues proudly ? See this soul of ours !

How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed

In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled

By age and waste, set free at last by death :

Why is it, flesh enthralls it or enthrones?

What is this flesh we have to penetrate ?

Oh, not alone when life flows still do truth

And power emerge, but also when strange chance

Ruffles its current ; in unused conjuncture,

When sickness breaks the body — hunger, watching,

Excess, or languor— roftenest death's approach —

Peril, deep joy, or woe. One man shall crawl

Through life, surrounded with all stirring things,

Unmoved — and he goes mad ; and from the wreck

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PARACELSUS. 29

Of what he was, by his wild talk alone,

You first collect how great a spirit he hid.

Therefore, set free the soul alike in all,

Discovering the true laws by which the flesh

Bars in the spirit ! We may not be doomed

To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest

Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God !

But elevate the race at once ! We ask

To put forth just our strength, our human strength,

All starting fairly, all equipped alike,

Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted —

See if we cannot beat thy angels yet !

Such is my task. I go to gather this

The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed

About the world, long lost or never found.

And why should I be sad, or lorn of hope ?

Why ever make man's good distinct from God's ? f

Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust ? '

Who shall succeed if not one pledged like me ?

Mine is no mad attempt to build a world

Apart from His, like those who set themselves

To find the nature of the spirit they bore,

And, taught betimes that all their gorgeous dreams

Were only born to vanish in this life,

Refused to fit them to this narrow sphere,

But chose to figure forth another world

And other frames meet for their vast desires, —

Still, all a dream ! Thus was life scorned ; but life

Shall yet be crowned : twine amaranth ! I am priest !

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30 PABACELSUS.

And all for yielding with a lively spirit

A poor existence — parting with a youth

Like theirs who squander every energy

Convertible to good, on painted toys,

Breath-bubbles, gilded dust ! And though I spurn

All adventitious aims, from empty praise

To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps

Important, and concerns himself for me,

May know even these will follow with the rest —

As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep

Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore.

My own affections, laid to rest awhile,

Will waken purified, subdued alone

By all I have achieved ; ; till then— till then . . .

Ah ! the time-wiling loitering of a page

Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring

The stately lady's presence whom he loves —

The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat

Enwraps the queenly pearl — these are faint types !

See how they look on me — I triumph now *

But one thing, Festus, Michal ! — I have told

All I shall e'er disclose to mortal : say —

Do you believe I shall accomplish this ?

Fest. I do believe !

Mich. I ever did believe !

Par. Those words shall never fade from out my brain !
This earnest of the end shall never fade !
Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal,
Two points in the adventure of the diver :

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PARACEIJ3US. 31

One — when, a beggar, lie prepares to plunge ?
One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl ?
Festus, I plunge !

Fest. I wait you when you rise !

II.— PARACELSUS ATTAINS.

Scene.— Constantinople. — "The House of the Greek-conjuror.''
1521.

Paraceijsus.
Over the waters in the vapourous west
The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold,
Behind the outstretched city, which between,
With all that length of domes and minarets,
Athwart the splendour, black and crooked runs
Like a Turk verse along a scimetar.
There lie, thou saddest writing, and awhile
Relieve my aching sight. Tis done at last !
Strange — and the juggles of a sallow cheat
Could win me to this act ! 'Tis as yon cloud
Should voyage unwreck'd o'er many a mountain-top
And break upon a molehill. I have dared
Come to a pause with knowledge ; scan for once
The heights already reach'd, without regard
To the extent above ; fairly compute
What I have clearly gained ; for once excluding
My future which should finish and fulfil

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32 PARACELSUS.

All half-gains, and conjectures, and mere hop
And this, because a fortune-teller bids
His credulous enquirers write thus much,
Their previous life's attainment, in his book,
Before his promised secret, as he vaunts,
Make that life perfect : here, accordingly,
'Mid the uncouth recordings of such dupes,
— Scrawled in like fashion, lie my life's results !

These few blurred characters suffice to note
A stranger wandered long through many lands,
And reaped the fruit he coveted in a few
Discoveries, as appended here and there,
The fragmentary produce of much toil,
In a dim heap, fact and surmise together
Confusedly massed, as when acquired ; himself
Too bent on gaining more to calmly stay
And scrutinize the little which he gained :
Shpt in the blank space 'twixt an idiot's gibber
And a mad lover's ditty — lies the whole !

And yet those blottings chronicle a life —

A whole life, — mine ! No thought to turn to act,

No problem for the fancy, but a life

Spent and decided, wasted past recall,

Or worthy beyond peer. Stay, turn the page

And take its chance,— thus : what, concerning " life "

Does this remembrancer set down ? — " We say

" ' Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.'

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PARACELSUS. 33

*• Tis the mere echo of time ; and he whose heart

" Beat first beneath a human heart, whose speech

" Was copied from a human tongue, can never

" Eecall when he was living yet knew not this.

" Nevertheless long seasons come and go,

" Till some one hour's experience shows what nought,

" He deemed, could clearer show; and ever after

" An altered brow, and eye, and gait, and speech

" Attest that now he knows the adage true

** ' Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.' "

Ay, my brave chronicler, and this same time
As well as any : let my hour speak now !

Now ! I can go no farther ; well or ill —

Tis done. I must desist and take my chance ;

I cannot keep on the stretch ; 'tis no back-shrinking —

For let the least assurance dawn, some end

To my toil seem possible, and I proceed

At any price, by any sacrifice :

Else, here I pause : the old Greek's prophecy

Is like to turn out true — " I shall not quit

" His chamber till I know what I desire ! "

Was it the light wind sung it, o'er the sea ?

An end, a rest i strange how the notion, once
Admitted, gains strength every moment ! Best !
Where kept that thought so long ? this throbbing brow
To cease — this beating heart to cease — its crowd

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84 PAEACELSUS.

Of gnawing thoughts to cease ! — To dare let down
My strong, so high-strong brain — to dare unnerve
My harassed o'ertasked frame — to know my place,
— My portion, my reward, my failure even,
Assigned, made sure for ever ! — To lose myself
Among the common creatures of the world —
To draw some gain from having been a man —
Neither to hope nor fear — to live at length !
Oh, were it but in failure, to have rest !
What, sunk insensibly so deep ? Has all
Been undergone for this ? Was this the prayer
My labour qualified me to present
With no fear of refusal ? Had I gone
Carelessly through my task, and so judged fit
To moderate my hopes ; nay, were it now
My sole concern to exculpate myself,
And lessen punishment, — I could not chose
An humbler mood to wait for the decree !
No, no, there needs not this ; no, after all,
At worst I have performed my share of the task :
The rest is God's concern — mine, merely this,
To know that I have obstinately held
By my own work. The mortal whose brave foot
Has trod, unscathed, the temple-courts so far
That he descries at length the shrine of shrines,
Must let no sneering of the demons* eyes,
Whose wrath he met unquailing, follow sly
And fasten on him, fairly past their power,
If where he stands he dares but stay ; no, no —

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PARACELSUS. 35

He must not stagger, faint and fall at last,
— Knowing a charm to baffle them ; behold,
He bares his front — a mortal ventures thus
Serene amid the echoes, beams, and glooms !
If he be priest henceforth, or if he wake
The god of the place to ban and blast him there, —
Both well ! What 's failure or success to me ?
I have subdued my life to the one end
Ordained life ; there alone I cannot doubt,

)e satisfied.

$d my life ! beyond

rictest vows,

ty wildest bond,

ay nature freely up,

tore than what it was —

er passions slept,
Whatever impulses lay unmatured,
Should wither in the germ, — but scarce foreseeing
That the soil, doomed thus to perpetual waste,
Would seem one day, remembered in its youth
Beside the parched sand-tract which now it is,
Already strewn with faint blooms, viewless then.
I ne'er engaged to root up loves so frail
I felt them not ; yet now, 'tis very plain
Some soft spots had their birth in me at first —
If not love, say, like love : there was a time
When yet this wolfish hunger after knowledge
Set not remorselessly love's claims aside ;
This heart was human once, or why recall |

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36 PARACELSUS.

Einsiedeln, now, and Wiirzburg, which the Mayne
Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm ?

And FestuS' — my poor Festus, with his praise,

And counsel, and grave fears — where is he now?

Or the sweet maiden, long ago his bride?

I surely loved them — that last night, at least,

When we . . . gone ! gone 1 the better : I am saved

The sad review of an ambitious youth,

Choked by vile lusts, unnoticed in their birth,

But let grow up and wind around a will

Till action was destroyed. No, I have gone

Purging my path successively of aught

Wearing the distant likeness of such lusts.

I have made life consist of one idea ;

Ere that was master — up till that was born —

I bear a memory of a pleasant life

Whose small events I treasure ; till one morn

I ran o'er the seven little grassy fields,

Startling the flocks of nameless birds, to tell

Poor Festus, leaping all the while for joy,

To leave all trouble for futurity, *

Since I had just determined to become ) \

The greatest and most glorious man on earth. < •

And since that morn all life has been forgot ;

All is one day — one only step between

The outset and the end : one tyrant aim,

Absorbing all, fills up the interval —

One vast unbroken chain of thought, kept up

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PARACELSUS. 37

Through a career or friendly or opposed

To its existence : life, death, light and shade

The shows of the world, were bare receptacles

Or indices of truth to be wrung thence,

Not instruments of sorrow or delight :

For some one truth would dimly beacon me

From mountains rough with pines, and flit and wink

O'er dazzling wastes of frozen snow, and tremble

Into assured light in some branching mine,

Where ripens, swathed in fire, the liquid gold —

And all the beauty, all the wonder fell

On either side the truth, as its mere robe ;

Men saw the robe — I saw the august form.

So far, then, I have voyaged with success,

So much is good, then, in this working sea

Which parts me from that happy strip of land —

But o'er that happy strip a sun shone, too ! )

And fainter gleams it as the waves grow rough,

And still more faint as the sea widens; last

I sicken on a dead gulph, streaked with light '

From its own putrifying depths alone !

Then — God was pledged to take me by the hand ;

Now — any miserable juggler bends

My pride to him. All seems alike at length :

Who knows which are the wise and which the fools ?

God may take pleasure in confounding pride

By hiding secrets with the scorned and base —

He who stoops lowest may find most — in short,

I am here ; and all seems natural ; I start not :

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38 PAHACELSUS.

And never having glanced behind to know
If I had kept my primal light from wane,
Am thus insensibly grown — what I am !

Oh, bitter ; very bitter !

And more bitter,
To fear a deeper curse, an inner ruin —
Plague beneath plague — the last turning the first
To light beside its darkness. Better weep
My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone,
In tears which burn ! Would I were sure to win
Some startling secret in their stead ! — a tincture
Of force to flush old age with youth, or breed
Gold, or imprison moonbeams till they change
To opal shafts ! — only that, hurling it
Indignant back, I might convince myself \

My aims remained as ever supreme and pure ! >
Even now, why not desire, for mankind's sake,
That if I fail, some fault may be the cause, —
That, though I sink, another may succeed ?
O God, the despicable heart of us !
Shut out this hideous mockery from my heart !

Twas politic in you, Aureole, to reject
Single rewards, and ask them in the lump ;
At all events, once launched, to hold straight on :
For now 'tis all or nothing. Mighty profit
Your gains will bring if they stop short of such
Full consummation ! As a man, you had

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PARACELSU8. 39

A certain share of strength, and that is gone

Already in the getting these you boast.

Do not they seem to laugh, as who should say —

" Great master, we are here indeed ; dragged forth

" To light : this hast thou done ; be glad ! now, seek

" The strength to use which thou hast spent in getting! "

And yet 'tis surely much, 'tis very much,
Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts,
To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn
Arrive with inexhaustible light ; and lo, I

I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not !
While I am left with grey hair, faded hands,
And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all,
Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast ?
Knowledge it seemed, and Power, and Recompense !
Was she who glided through my room of nights, —
Who laid my head on her soft knees, and smoothed
The damp locks, — whose sly soothings just began
When my sick spirit craved repose awhile —
God ! was I fighting Sleep off for Death's sake ?
God ! Thou art Mind ! Unto the Master-Mind
Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone !
All else I will endure : if , as I stand
Here, with my gains, thy thunder smite me down,
I bow me ; 'tis thy will, thy righteous will ;
I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die :
And if no trace of my career remain,
Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind

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40 PARACELSUS.

In these bright chambers, level with the air,

See thou to it ! But if my spirit fail,

My once proud spirit forsake me at the last,

Hast thou done well by me ? So do not thou !

Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed !

Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs,

And say — " I crushed him, lest he should disturb

" My law. Men must not know their strength : behold,

" Weak and alone, how near he raised himself! "

But if delusions trouble me— and Thou,

Not seldom felt with rapture in thy help

Throughout my toil and wanderings, dost intend

To work man s welfare through my weak endeavour —

To crown my mortal forehead with a beam

Fxom thine own blinding crown — to smile, and guide

This puny hand, and let the work so framed

Be styled my work, — hear me ! I covet not

An influx of new power, an angel's soul :

It were no marvel then — but I have reached

Thus far, a man ; let me conclude, a man ! l

Give but one hour of my first energy,

Of that invincible faith — one only hour !

That I may cover with an eagle-glance

The truths I have, and spy some certain way

To mould them, and completing them, possess !

Yet God is good : I started sure of that,
And why dispute it now ? Ill not believe

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PARACELSUS. 41

But some undoubted warning long ere this

Had reached me : stars would write his will in heaven,

As once when a labarum was not deemed j

Too much for the old founder of these walls.

Then, if my life has not been natural,

It has been monstrous : yet, till late, my course

So ardently engrossed me, that delight,

A pausing and reflecting joy, 'tis plain,

Though such were meant to follow as its fruit,

Could find no place in it. True, I am worn ;

But who clothes summer, who is Life itself?

God, that created all things, can renew !

And then, though after-life to please me now

Must have no likeness to the past, what hinders

Reward from springing out of toil, as changed

As bursts the flower from earth, and root, and stalk ?

What use were punishment, unless some sin

Be first detected ? let me know that first !

(Aprile, from within)

I hear a voice, perchance I heard

Long ago, but all too low,

So that scarce a thought was stirred

If really spoke the voice or no :

I heard it in my youth, when first

The waters of my life outburst :

But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear

The voice, still low, but fatal-clear —

As if all Poets, that God meant

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42 PARACELSUS.

Should save the world, and therefore lent

Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused \

To do his work, or lightly used

Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavour,

And mourn, cast off by him forever, —

As if these leaned in airy ring

To call me ; this the song they sing.

" Lost, lost ! yet come,
With our wan troop make thy home :
Come, come ! for we
Will not breathe, so much as breathe
Reproach to thee !

Knowing what thou sink'st beneath :
So we sank in those old years,
We who bid thee, come ! thou last
Who, a living man, hast life o'erpast,
And all together we, thy peers,
Will pardon ask for thee, the last
Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast
With those who watch, but work no more—
Who gaze on life, but live no more :
And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak
God's message which our lips, too weak,
Refused to utter, — shouldst redeem
Our fault : such trust, and all, a dream !
So we chose thee a bright birth-place
Where the richness ran to flowers —
Oouldst not sing one song for grace ?

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PARACELSUS. 43

* Nor make one blossom man's and ours ?
Must one more recreant to his race
Die with unexerted powers,
And join us, leaving as he found
The world, he was to loosen, bound ?
Anguish ! ever and for ever ;
Still beginning, ending never !
Yet, lost and last one, come !
How couldst understand, alas,
What our pale ghosts strove to say,
As their shades did glance and pass
Before thee, night and day ?
[ Thou wert blind, as we were dumb :
Once more, therefore, come, come !
How shall we better arm the spirit
Who next shall thy post of life inherit —
How guard him from thy ruin ?
Tell us of thy sad undoing
Here, where we sit, ever pursuing
Our weary task, ever renewing
Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave
Our powers, and man they could not save ! "

Aprils enter*.
A spirit better armed, succeeding me?
Ha, ha ! our king that wouldst be, here at last ?
Art thou the Poet who shall save the world ?
Thy hand to mine. Stay, fix thine eyes on mine.
Thou wouldst be king? Still fix thine eyes on mine !

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44 PARACELSUS.

Par. Ha, ha ! why crouchest not ? Am I not king?
So torture is not wholly unavailing !
Have my fierce spasms compelled thee from thy lair ?
Art thou the Sage I only seemed to be,
Myself of after-time, my very self
With sight a little clearer, strength more firm,
Who robs me of my prize and takes my place
For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect?
I scarcely trusted God with the surmise
That such might come, and thou didst hear the while !

Apr. Thine eyes are lustreless to mine ; my hair
Is soft, nay silken soft : to talk with thee
Flushes my cheek, and thou art ashy-pale,
True, thou hast laboured, hast withstood her lips,
The siren's ! Yes, 'tis like thou hast attained !
Tell me, dear master, wherefore now thou comest ?
I thought thy solemn songs would have their meed
In after-time ; that I should hear the earth
Exult in thee, and echo with thy praise,
While I was laid forgotten in my grave.

Par. Not so ! I know thee, I am not thy dupe !
Thou art ordained to follow in my track,
Even as thou sayest, succeeding to my place,
Reaping my sowing^as I scorned to reap
The harvest sown by sages passed away.
Thou art the sober searcher, cautious striver,
As if, except through me, thou had'st searched or striven !
Ay, tell the world ! Degrade me, after all,
To an aspirant after fame, not truth —
To all but envy of thy fete, be sure !

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PARACELSUS, 45

Apr. Nay, sing them to me ; I shall envy not :
Thou shalt be king ! Sing thou, and I will stand
Beside, and call deep silence for thy songs,
And worship thee, as I had ne'er been meant
To fill thy throne — but none shall ever know !
Sing to me : for already thy wild eyes
Unlock my heart-springs, as some crystal-shaft
Beveals by some chance blaze its parent fount
After long time — so thou reveal'st my soul !
All will flash forth at last, with thee to hear !

Par. (Bis secret ! my successor's secret — fool !)
I am he that aspired to know — and thou?

Apr. I would love infinitely, and be loved !

Par. Poor slave ! I am thy king indeed.

Apr. Thou deem'st

That — born a spirit, dowered even as thou,
Born for thy fate — because I could not curb
My yearnings to possess at once the full
Enjoyment; yet neglected all the means
Of realising even the frailest joy ;
Gathering no fragments to appease my want,
Yet nursing up that want till thus I die —
Thou deem'st I cannot trace thy safe, sure march,
O'er perils that o'erwhelm me, triumphing,
Neglecting nought below for aught above,
Despising nothing and ensuring all —
Nor that I could (my time to come again)
Lead thus my spirit securely as thine own :
Listen, and thou shalt see I know thee well.

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46 PARACELSUS.

I would love infinitely . . . Ah, lost ! lost !

O ye who armed me at such cost,

Your faces shall I bear to see

With your gifts even yet on me ? —
Par. (Ah, 'tis some moonstruck creature after all !
Such fond fools as are like to haunt this den :
They spread contagion, doubtless : yet he seemed
To echo one foreboding of my heart
So truly, that ... no matter ! How he stands
With eve's last sunbeam staying on his hair
Which turns to it, as if they were akin :
And those clear smiling eyes of saddest blue
Nearly set free, so far they rise above
The painful fruitless striving of that brow
And enforced knowledge of those lips, firm-set
In slow despondency's eternal sigh !
Has he, too, missed life's end, and learned the cause ?)
Be calm,- 1 charge thee, by thy fealty !
Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am.

Apr. I would love infinitely, and be loved.
First : I would carve in stone, or cast in brass,
The forms of earth. No ancient hunter, raised
Up to the gods by his renown ; no nymph
Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree,
Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star,
Should be too hard for me ; no shepherd-king,
Regal with his white locks ; no youth who stands
Silent and very calm amid the throng,
His right hand ever hid beneath his robe

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PARACELSUS. 47

Until the tyrant pass ; no law-giver ;
No swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oils,
Given by a god for love of her — too hard !
Each passion sprung from man, conceived by man,
Would I express and clothe it in its right form,
Or blend with others struggling in one form,
Or show repressed by an ungainly form.
For, if you marvelled at some mighty spirit
With a fit frame to execute his will —
Ay, even unconsciously to work his will —
You should be moved no less beside some strong,
Bare spirit, fettered to a stubborn body,
Endeavouring to subdue it, and inform it
With its own splendour ! All this I would do,
And I would say, this done, " God's sprites being made,
" He grants to each a sphere to be its world,
" Appointed with the various objects needed
" To satisfy its spiritual desires ;
" So, I create a world for these my shapes
" Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength ! "
And, at the word, I would contrive and paint
Woods, valleys, rocks, and plains, dells, sands, and wastes,
Lakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering bed,
Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun ;
And ocean-isles so small, the dog-fish tracking
A dead whale, who should find them, would swim thrice
Around them, and fare onward — all to hold
The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone-
Bronze labyrinths, palace, pyramid, and crypt,

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48 PARACELSUS.

Baths, galleries, courts, temples, and terraces,
Marts, theatres, and wharfs — all filled with men !
Men everywhere ! And this performed, in turn,
When those who looked on, pined to hear the hopes,
And fears, and hates, and loves which moved the crowd, —
I would throw down the pencil as the chisel,
And I would speak : no thought which ever stirred
A human breast should be untold ; no passions,
No soft emotions, from the turbulent stir
Within a heart fed with desires like mine-
To the last comfort, shutting the tired lids
Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away
Beneath the tent-tree by the way-side well :
And this in language as the need should be,
Now poured at once forth in a burning flow,
Now piled up in a grand array of words.
This done, to perfect and consummate all,
Even as a luminous haze links star to star,
I would supply all chasms with music, breathing
Mysterious notions of the soul, no way
To be defined save in strange melodies.
Last, having thus revealed all I could love,
And having received all love bestowed on it,
I would die : so preserving through my course
God full on me, as I was full on men :
And He would grant my prayer — " I have gone through
" All loveliness of life ; make more for me,
" If not for men — or take me to thyself,
" Eternal, infinite Love ! "

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PARACELSUS. 49

If thou hast ne'er
Conceived this mighty aim, this full desire,
Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art
No king of mine.

Par. Ah me !

Apr. But thou art here !

Thou didst not gaze like me upon that end
Till thine own powers for compassing the bliss
Were blind with glory ; nor grow mad to grasp
At once the prize long patient toil should claim ;
Nor spurn all granted short of that. And I
Would do as thou, a second time : nay, listen —
Knowing ourselves, our world, our task so great,
Our time so brief, — 'tis clear if we refuse
The means so limited, the tools so rude
To execute our purpose, life will fleet,
And we shall fade, and leave our task undone.
Bather, grow wise in time : what though our work
Be fashioned in despite of their ill-service,
Be crippled every way ? Twere little praise
Did full resources wait on our good will
At every turn. Let all be as it is.
Some say the earth is even so contrived
That tree, and flower, a vesture gay, conceal
A bare and skeleton framework : had we means
That answered to our mind ! But now I seem
Wrecked on a savage isle : how rear thereon
My palace ? Branching palms the props shall be,
Fruit glossy mingling ; gems are for the east ;

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50 PABACELSUS.

Who heeds them ? I can waive them. Serpent's scales,

Birds' feathers, downy furs, and fishes' skins

Must help me ; and a little here and there

Is all I can aspire to : still my art

Shall show its birth was in a gentler clime.

" Had I green jars of malachite, this way

" I 'd range them : where those sea-shells glisten above,

" Cressets should hang, by right : this way we set

" The purple carpets, as these mats are laid,

*' Woven of mere fern and rush and blossoming flag."

Or if, by fortune, some completer grace

Be spared to me, some fragment, some slight sample

Of my own land's completer workmanship,

Some trifle little heeded there, but here

The place's one perfection — with what joy

Would I enshrine the relic — cheerfully

Foregoing all the marvels out of reach !

Could J retain one strain of all the psalm

Of the angels — one word of the fiat of God —

To let my followers know what such things are !

I would adventure nobly for their sakes :

When nights were still, and still, the moaning sea,

And far away I could descry the land

Whence I departed, whither I return,

I would dispart the waves, and stand once more

At home, and load my bark, and hasten back,

And fling my gains before them, rich or poor —

" Friends," I would say, " I went far, far for them,

" Past the high rocks the haunt of doves, the mounds

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PARACELSUS. 51

" Of red earth from whose sides strange trees grow out,
" Past tracts of milk-white minute blinding sand,
" Till, by a mighty moon, I tremblingly
" Gathered these magic herbs, berry and bud,
" In haste — not pausing to reject the weeds,
" But happy plucking them at any price.
" To me, who have seen them bloom in their own soil,
" They are scarce lovely : plait and wear them, you !
" And guess, from what they are, the springs that fed —
" The stars that sparkled o'er them, night by night,
" The snakes that travelled far to sip their dew ! "
Thus for my higher loves ; and thus even weakness
Would win me honour. But not these alone
Should claim my care ; for common life, its wants
And ways, would I set forth in beauteous hues :
The lowest hind should not possess a hope,
A fear, but I 'd be by him, saying better
Than he his own heart's language. I would live
For ever in the thoughts I thus explored,
As a discoverer's memory is attached
To all he finds : they should be mine henceforth,
Imbued with me, though free to all before ;
For clay, once cast into my soul's rich mine
Should come up crusted o'er with gems : nor this
Would need a meaner spirit, than the first :
Nay, 'twould be but the selfsame spirit, clothed
In humbler guise, but still the selfsame spirit —
As one spring wind unbinds the mountain snow,
fc And comforts violets in their hermitage.

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52 PARACELSUS.

But, master, poet, who hast done all this,

How didst thou 'scape the ruin I have met ?

Didst thou, when nerving thee to this attempt,

Ne'er range thy mind's extent, as some wide

Dazzled hy shapes that filled its length with

Shapes clustered there to rule thee, not ohey —

That will not wait thy summons, will not rise

Singly, nor when thy practised eye and hand

Can well transfer their loveliness, hut crowd

By thee for ever, hright to thy despair ?

Didst thou ne'er gaze on each hy turns, and ne'er

Resolve to single out one, though the rest

Should vanish, and to give that one, entire

In beauty, to the world ; forgetting, so,

Its peers, whose number baffles mortal power ?

And, this determined, wert thou ne'er seduced

By memories, and regrets, and passionate love,

To glance once more farewell ? and did their eyes

Fasten thee, brighter and more bright, until

Thou couldst but stagger back unto their feet,

And laugh that man's applause or welfare once

Could tempt thee to forsake them ? Or when years

Had passed, and still their love possessed thee wholly ;

When from without some murmur startled thee

Of darkling mortals, famished for one ray

Of thy so-hoarded luxury of light,

Didst thou ne'er strive even yet to break those spells,

And prove thou couldst recover and fulfil

Thy early mission, long ago renounced,

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PARACELSUS. 53

And, to that end, select some shape once more ?
And did not mist-like influences, thick films,
Faint memories of the rest, that charmed so long
Thine eyas, float fast, confuse thee, bear thee off,
As whirling snow-drifts blind a man who treads
A mountain ridge, with guiding spear, through storm ?
Say, though I fell, I had excuse to fall ;
Say, I was tempted sorely : say but this,
Dear lord, Aprile's lord !

Par. Clasp me not thus,

Aprile ! . . . That the truth should reach me thus !
We are weak dust. Nay, clasp not, or I faint !

Apr. My king! and envious thoughts could outrage thee!
Lo, I forget my ruin, and rejoice
In thy success, as thou ! Let our God's praise
Go bravely through the world at last ! What care
Through me or thee ? I feel thy breath . . . why, tears ?
Tears in the darkness — and from thee to me ?

Par. Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn
To love ; and, merciful God, forgive us both !
We wake at length from weary dreams ; but both
Have slept in fairy-land : though dark and drear
Appears the world before us, we no less
Wake with our wrists and ancles jewelled still.
I, too, have sought to know as thou to love —
Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge.
Still thou hast beauty and I, power. We wake :
What penance canst devise for both of us ?

Apr. I hear thee faintly ... the thick darkness ! Even

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54 PABACELSUS.

Thine eyes are hid. 'Tis as I knew : I speak,
And now I die. But I have seen thy face !
0, poet, think of me, and sing of me !
But to have seen thee, and to die so soon !

Par. Die not, Aprile : we must never part.
Are we not halves of one dissevered world,
Whom this strange chance unites once more? Part?

never !
Till thou, the lover, know ; and I, the knower,
Love — until both are saved. Aprile, hear !
We will accept our gains, and use them — now !
God, he will die upon my breast ! Aprile !

Apr. To speak but once, and die 1 yet by his side.
Hush! hush!

Ha ! go you ever girt about
With phantoms, powers ? I have created such,
But these seem real as I !

Par. Whom can you see

Through the accursed darkness ?

Apr. Stay ; I know,

I know them : who should know them well as I ? —
White brows, lit up with glory ; poets all !

Par. Let him but live, and I have my reward !

Apr. Yes ; I see now — God is the perfect Poet,
Who in creation acts his own conceptions.
Shall man refuse to be aught less than God ?
Man's weakness is his glory — for the strength j
Which raises him to heaven and near God's self, *
Came spite of it : God's strength his glory is,

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PARACELSUS, 55

For thence came with our weakness sympathy
Which brought God down to earth, a man like us.
Had you but told me this at first I . . . Hush ! hush !

Par. Live ! for my sake, because of my great sin,
To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words
And their deep import. Live ! 'tis not too late :
I have a quiet home for us, and friends.
Michal shall smile on you . . . Hear you ? Lean thus,
And breathe my breath : I shall not lose one word
Of all your speech — no little word, Aprile !

Apr. No, no . * . Crown me ? I am not one of you !
Tis he, the king, you seek. I am not one ...

Par. Give me thy spirit, at least ! Let me love, too !

I have attained, and now I may depart.

III.— PARACELSUS.

Scenb — A chamber in the house of Paracelsus at Basil. 1526,
Paracelsus, Festus.

Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out !

Fest. True, true !

Tis very fit that all, time, chance, and change
Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to face,
And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears,
Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred
By your long absence, should be cast away,

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56 PABACELSTJS.

Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal
Of our affections.

Par. Oh, omit not aught

Which witnesses your own and Michal's love !
I bade you not spare that ! Forget alone
The honours and the glories, and the rest,
You seemed disposed to tell profusely out.

Fest. Nay, even your honours, in a sense, I waive :
The wondrous Paracelsus — Life's dispenser,
Fate's commissary, idol of the schools,
And Courts, shall be no more than Aureole still —
Still Aureole and my friend, as when we parted
Some twenty years ago, and I restrained
As I best could the promptings of my spirit,
Which secretly advanced you, from the first,
To the pre-eminent rank which, since, your own
Adventurous ardour, nobly triumphing,
Has won for you.

Par. Yes, yes ; and Michal's face

Still wears that quiet and peculiar light,
Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl ?

Fest. Just so.

Par. And yet her calm sweet countenance,

Though saintly, was not sad ; for she would sing
Alone . . . Does she still sing alone, bird-like,
Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt
In flakes through that old leafy bower built under
The sunny wall at Wiirzburg, from her lattice
Among the trees above, while I, unseen,

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PARACELSUS. 57

Sate conning some rare scroll from Tritheim's shelves,
• Much wondering notes so simple could divert
My mind from study. Those were happy days !
Respect all such as sing when all alone. |

Fest. Scarcely alone — her children, you may guess,
Are wild beside her . . .

Par. Ah, those children quite

Unsettle the pure picture in my mind : . .
A girl — she was so perfect, so distinct . . .
No change, no change ! Not but this added grace
May blend and harmonize with its compeers,
And Michal may become her motherhood ;
But 'tis a change — and I detest all change,
And most a change in aught I loved long since !
So, Michal . . . you have said she thinks of me ?

Fest. O very proud will Michal be of you !
Imagine how we sate, long winter-nights,
Scheming and wondering — shaping your presumed
Adventures, or devising their reward ;
Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope. I
.Though it was strange how, even when most secure
In our domestic peace, a certain dim
And flitting shade could sadden all ; it seemed
A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning,
A sense of something wanting, incomplete —
Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided
By mute consent — but, said^or unsaid, felt
To point to one so loved and so long lost.
And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears —

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58 PAKACELSUS.

How you would laugh should I recount them now !
I still predicted your return at last,
With gifts heyond the greatest vaunt of all,
All Tritheim's wondrous troop ; did one of which
Attain renown hy any chance, I smiled —
As well aware of who would prove his peer.
Michal was sure some woman, long ere this,
As beautiful as you were sage, had loved . . .

Par. Far-seeing, truly, to discern so much
In the fantastic projects and day-dreams
Of a raw, restless boy !

Fest. Say, one whose sunrise

Well warranted our faith in this full noon !
Can I forget the anxious voice which said,
" Festus, have thoughts like these e'er shaped themselves
" In other brains than mine — have their possessors
" Existed in like circumstance — were they weak
" As I — or ever constant from the first,
" Despising youth's allurements, and rejecting
" As spider-films the shackles I endure?
" Is there hope for me ? " — and I answered grave
As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser,
More gifted mortal. you must remember,
For all your glorious . . .

Par. Glorious ? ay, this hair,

These hands — nay, touch them, they are mine ! Recall
With all ttfe said recallings, times when thus
To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale,
As now. Most glorious, are they not ?

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PARACELSUS. 59

Fest. Why . . . why . . .

Something must be subtracted from success
So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly,
Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole,
You are changed — very changed ! Twere losing nothing
To look well to it : you must not be stolen
From the enjoyment of your well-won meed.

Par. My friend ! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt:
By talking, not of me, but of yourself,
You will best gain your point.

Fest. Have I not said

All touching Michal and my children ? Sure
You know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks
Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair ;
And Aureole's glee when some stray gannet builds
Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope
Have I that he will honour, the wild imp,
His namesake ! Sigh not ! 'tis too much to ask i
That all we love should reach the same proud' fate. )
But you are very kind to humour me
By showing interest in my quiet life ;
You, who of old could never tame yourself
To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . .

Par. Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death,
Who blabs so oft the follies of this world :
And I am Death's familiar, as you know.
I helped a man to die, some few weeks since,'
Warped even from his go-cart to one end —
The living on princes' smiles, reflected from

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60 PARACELSUS.

A mighty herd of favourites. No mean trick

He left untried ; and truly well nigh wormed

All traces of God's finger out of him.

Then died, grown old ; and just an hour hefore —

Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes —

He sate up suddenly, and with natural voice

Said, that in spite of thick air and closed doors

God told him it was June ; and he knew well,

Without such telling, hare-bells grew in June ;

And all that kings could ever give or take

Would not be precious as those blooms to him.

Just so, allowing I am passing wise,

It seems to me much worthier argument

Why pansies,* eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize

From violets, eyes that dream — (your Michal's choice)—

Than all fools find to wonder at in me,

Or in my fortunes : and be very sure

I say this from no prurient restlessness —

No self-complacency — itching to turn,

Vary, and view its pleasure from all points,

And, in this matter, willing other men

Should argue and demonstrate to itself

The realness of the very joy it tastes.

What joy is better than the news of friends ,

Whose memories were a solace to me oft, \

As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight ? »

Yes, ofter than you wasted thought on me

* Citrinula (flammula) herba Paracelso multum familiaris. Dorn.

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PARACELSUS. 61

If you were sage, and rightly valued bliss !

But there 's no taming nor repressing hearts :

God knows I need such ! — So you heard me speak ?

Fest. Speak? when?

Par. When but this morning at my class ?

There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not.
Surely you know I am engaged to fill
The chair here ? — that 'tis part of my proud fate
To lecture to as many thick-sculled youths
As please, each day, to throng the theatre,
To my great reputation, and no small
Danger of Basil's benches, long unused
To crack beneath such honour ?

Fest. I was there ;

I mingled with the throng : shall I avow
I had small care to listen ? — too intent
On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd
A full corroboration of my hopes !
What can I learn about your powers ? but they
Know, care for nought beyond your actual state —
Your actual value ; and yet worship you !
Those various natures whom you sway as one !
But ere I go, be sure I shall attend . . .

Par. Stop, o' God's name : the thing 's by no means yet
Past remedy ! Shall I read this morning's work
— At least in substance ? Nought so worth the gaining
As an apt scholar ! Thus then, with all due
Precision and emphasis — (you, besides, are clearly
Guiltless of understanding a whit more

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62 PARACELSUS.

The subject than your stool — allowed to be
A notable advantage) . . .

Fest. Surely, Aureole,

You laugh at me !

Par. I laugh ? Ha, ha ! thank heaven,

I charge you, if 't be so ! for I forget
Much — and "what laughter should be like ! No less,
However, I forego that luxury,
Since it alarms the friend who brings it back.
True, laughter like my own must echo strange
To thinking men ; a smile were better far —
So make me smile ! If the exulting look
You wore but now be smiling, 'tis so long
Since I have smiled ! Alas, such smiles are born /
Alone of hearts like yours, or shepherds old I

Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks,
Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven,
In earth a stage for altars, nothing more.
Never change, Festus : I say, never change !
Fest. My God, if he be wretched after all !
Par. When last we parted, Festus, you declared,
— Or did your Michals soft lips whisper words
I have preserved ? She told me she believed
I should succeed (meaning, that in the search
I then engaged in, I should meet success),
And yet be wretched : now, she augured false.

Fest. Thank heaven ! but you spoke strangely ! could
I venture
To think bare apprehension lest your friend,

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PABACELSUS. 63

Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find
Henceforth less sweetness in his own, awakes
Such earnest mood in you ? Fear not, dear friend,
That I shall leave you, inwardly repining
Your lot was not my own !

Par. And this, for ever !

For ever ! gull who may, they will be blind !
They will not look nor think — 'tis nothing new
In them ; but surely he is not of them !
My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you —
Though all beside were sand-blind — you, my friend,
Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye,
Untroubled by the false glare that confounds
A weaker vision ; would remain serene,
Though singular, amid a gaping throng.
I feared you, or had come, sure, long ere this,
To Einsiedeln. Well, error has no end,
And Rhasis is a sage, and Basil boasts
A tribe of wits, and I am wise and blest
Past all dispute ! 'Tis vain to fret at it.
I have vowed long since that my worshippers
Shall owe to their own deep sagacity
All further information, good or bad :
And little risk my reputation runs,
Unless perchance the glance now searching me
Be fixed much longer — for it seems to spell,
Dimly, the characters a simpler man
Might read distinct enough. Old eastern books
Say, the fallen prince of morning some short space

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64 PARACELSUS.

Kemained unchanged in feature — nay, his hrow
Seemed hued with triumph : every spirit then
Praising ; his heart on flame the while : — a tale !
Well, Festus, what discover you, I pray ?

Fest. Some foul deed sullies then a life which else
Were raised supreme ?

Par. Good : I do well — most well !

Why strive to make men hear, feel, fret themselves
With what 'tis past their power to comprehend ?
I would not strive now : only, having nursed
The faint surmise that one yet walked the earth,
One, at least, not the utter fool of show,
Not absolutely formed to be the dupe
Of shallow plausibilities alone ;
One who, in youth found wise enough to choose
The happiness his riper years approve,
Was yet so anxious for another's sake,
That, ere his friend could rush upon a course
Mad, ruinous, the converse of his own,
His gentler spirit essayed, prejudged for him
The perilous path, foresaw its destiny,
And warned the weak one in such tender words,
Such accents — his whole heart in every tone —
That oft their memory comforted that friend
When rather it should have increased despair :
— Having believed, I say, that this one man
Gould never lose the wisdom from the first
His portion — how should I refuse to grieve
At even my gain if it attest his loss,

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PARACELSUS. 65

At triumph which so signally disturbs

Our old relation, proving me more wise ?

Therefore, once more reminding him how well

He prophesied, I note the single flaw

That spoils his prophet's title : in plain words

You were deceived, and thus were you deceived —

I have not been successful, and yet am

Most wretched ; there — 'tis said at last ; but give

No credit, lest you force me to concede

That common sense yet lives upon the earth.

Fest. You surely do not mean to banter me ?

Par. You know, or (if you have been wise enough
To cleanse your memory of such matters) knew,
As far as words of mine could make it clear,
That 'twas my purpose to find joy or grief
Solely in the fulfilment of my plan,
Or plot, or whatsoe'er it was ; rejoicing
Alone as it proceeded prosperously,
Sorrowing alone when any chance retarded
Its progress. That was in those Wiirzburg days !
Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate,
I have pursued this plan with all my strength ;
And having failed therein most signally,
Cannot object to ruin, utter and drear
As all-excelling would have been the prize
Had fortune favoured me. I scarce do right
To vex your frank good spirit, late rejoiced
By my supposed prosperity, I know,
And, were I lucky in a glut of friends,

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66 PARACELSUS.

Would well agree to let your error live,

Nay, strengthen it with fables of success:

But mine is no condition to refuse

The transient solace of so rare a chance,

My solitary luxury, my Festus —

Accordingly I venture to put off

The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me,

Secure when he is by. I lay me bare,

Prone at his mercy — but he is my friend !

Not that he needs retain his aspect grave ;

That answers not my purpose ; for 'tis like,

Some sunny morning — Basil being drained

Of its wise population, every corner

Of the amphitheatre crammed with learned clerks,

Here CEcolampadius, looking worlds of wit,

Here Castellanus, as profound as he,

Munsterus here, Frobenius there, — all squeezed,

And staring, and expectant, — then, I say,

Tis like that the poor zany of the show,

Your friend, will choose to put his trappings off

Before them, bid adieu to cap and bells

And motley with a grace but seldom judged

Expedient in such cases : — the grim smile

That will go round ! Is it not therefore best

To venture a rehearsal like the present

In a small way? Where are the signs I seek,

The first-fruits and fair sample of the scorn

Due to all quacks ? Why, this will never do !

Fest. These are foul vapours, Aureole; nought beside!

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PARACELSU8. 67

The effect of watching, study, weariness.
Were there a spark of truth in the confusion
Of these wild words, you would not outrage thus
Your youth's companion. I shall ne'er regard
These wanderings, bred of faintness and much study.
You would not trust a trouble thus to me,
To MichaTs Mend.

Par. I have said it, dearest Festus !

The manner is ungracious, probably ;
More may be told in broken sobs, one day,
And scalding tears, ere long : but I thought best
To keep that off as long as possible.
Do you wonder still ?

Fest, No ; it must oft fall out

That one whose labour perfects any work,
Shall rise from it with eye so worn, that he I
Of all men least can measure the extent )
Of what he has accomplished. He alone,
Who, nothing tasked, is nothing weary too,
Can clearly scan the little he effects :
But we, the bystanders, untouched by toil,
Estimate each aright.

Par. This worthy Festus

Is one of them, at last ! 'Tis so with all !
First, they set down all progress as a dream,
And next, when he, whose quick discomfiture
Was counted on, accomplishes some few
And doubtful steps in his career,— behold,
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68 PARACELSUS.

They look for every inch of ground to vanish
Beneath his tread, so sure they judge success !

Fest. Few doubtful steps ? when death retires before
Your presence— when the noblest of mankind,
Broken in body, or subdued in mind,
May through your skill renew their vigour, raise
The shattered frame to pristine stateHness ?
When men in racking pain may purchase dreams
Of what delights them most — swooning at once
Into a sea of bliss, or rapt along
As in a flying sphere of turbulent light?
When we may look to you as one ordained
To free the flesh from fell disease; as frees
Our Luther's burning tongue the fettered soul ?
When . . .

Par. Rather, when and where, friend, did you get
This notable news ?

Fest. Even from the common voice ;

From those whose envy, daring not dispute
The wonders it decries, attributes them
To magic and such folly.

Par, Folly ? Why not

To magic, pray? You find a comfort doubtless
In holding, God ne'er troubles him about
Us or our doings : once we were judged worth
The devil's tempting ... I offend : forgive me,
And rest content. Your prophecy on the whole
Was fair enough as prophesyings go ;
At fault a little in detail, but quite

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PARACELSUS. 69

Precise enough in the main; accordingly
I pay due homage : you guessed long ago
(The prophet !) I should fail — and I have failed.

Fest. You mean to tell me, then, the hopes which fed
Your youth have not been realised as yet ?
Some obstacle has barred them hitherto?
Or that their innate . . .

Par. As I said but now,

You have a very decent prophet's fame,
So you but shun details here. Little matters
Whether those hopes were mad, — the aims they sought,
Safe and secure from all ambitious fools ;
Or whether my weak wits are overcome
By what a better spirit would scorn : I fail.
And now methinks 'twere best to change a theme,
I am a sad fool to have stumbled on.
I say confusedly what comes uppermost ;
But there are times when patience proves at fault,
As now : this morning's strange encounter — you
Beside me once again ! you, whom I guessed
Alive, since hitherto (with Luther's leave)
No friend have I among the saints at rest,
To judge by any good their prayers effect —
I knew you would have helped me ! — So would He,
My strange competitor in enterprise,
Bound for the same end by another path,
Arrived, or ill or well, before the time,
At our disastrous journey's doubtful close —
How goes it with Aprile ? Ah, your heaven

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70 PARACEL8US.

Receives not into its beatitudes

Mere martyrs for the world's sake ; heaven shuts fast :

The poor mad poet is howling by this time !

Since you are my sole friend then, here or there,

I could not quite repress the varied feelings

This meeting wakens ; they have had their vent,

And now forget them. Do the rear-mice still

Hang like a fret-work on the gate (or what

In my time was a gate) fronting the road

From Einsiedeln to Lachen ?

Fest. Trifle not!

Answer me — for my sake alone. You smiled
Just now, when I supposed some deed, unworthy
Yourself might blot the else so bright result ;
Yet if your motives have continued pure,
Your earnest will unfaltering, if you still
Remain unchanged, and if, in spite of this,
You have experienced a defeat that proves
Your aims for ever unattainable —
I say not, you would cheerfully resign
The contest — mortal hearts are not so fashioned —
But sure you would resign it, nevertheless.
You sought not feme, nor gain, nor even love ;
No end distinct from knowledge, — I repeat
Your very words : once satisfied that knowledge
Is a mere dream, you would announce as much,
Yourself the first. But how is the event ?
You are defeated — and I find you here !

Par. As though " here " did not signify defeat !

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PARACELSUS. 71

I spoke not of my little labours here —

But of the break-down of my general aims :

That you, aware of their extent and scope,

Should look on these sage lecturings, approved

By beardless boys, and bearded dotards, — these

As a fit co nsumma tion of such aims,

Is worthy notice ! A professorship

At Basil ! Since you see so much in it,

And think my life was reasonably drained

Of life's delights to render me a match

For duties arduous as such post demands, —

Far be it from me to deny my power

To fill the petty circle lotted out

From infinite space, or justify the host

Of honours thence accruing : so, take notice,

This jewel dangling from my neck preserves

The features of a prince, my skill restored

To plague his people some few years to come :

And all through a pure whim. He had eased the earth

For me, but that the droll despair which seized

The vermin of his household, tickled me.

I came to see : here, drivelled the physician,

Whose most infallible nostrum was at fault ;

There quaked the astrologer, whose horoscope

Had promised him interminable years ;

Here a monk fumbled at the sick man's mouth

With some undoubted relic — a sudary

Of the Virgin ; while some other dozen knaves

Of the same brotherhood (he loved them ever)

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72 PARACELSUS.

Were actively preparing 'neath his nose

Such a suffumigation as, once fired,

Had stunk the patient dead ere he could groan.

I cursed the doctor, and upset the brother ;

Brushed past the conjurer ; vowed that the first gust

Of stench from the ingredients just alight

Would raise a cross-grained devil in my sword,

Not easily laid ; and ere an hour, the prince

Slept as he never slept since prince he was.

A day — and I was posting for my life,

Placarded through the town as one whose spite

Had near availed to stop the blessed effects

Of the doctor's nostrum, which, well seconded

By the sudary, and most by the costly smoke —

Not leaving out the strenuous prayers sent up

Hard by, in the abbey — raised the prince to life ;

To the great reputation of the seer,

Who, confident, expected all along

The glad event — the doctor's recompense —

Much largess from his highness to the monks —

And the vast solace of his loving people,

Whose general satisfaction to increase,

The prince was pleased no longer to defer

The burning of some dozen heretics,

Remanded 'till God's mercy should be shown

Touching his sickness, as a prudent pledge

To make it surer : last of all were joined

Ample directions to all loyal folk

To swell the complement, by seizing me

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PARACEL8U8. 73

Who— doubtless some rank sorcerer — had endeavoured
To thwart these pious offices, obstruct
The prince's cure, and frustrate Heaven, by help
Of certain devils dwelling in his sword.
By luck, the prince in his first fit of thanks
Had forced this bauble on me as an earnest
Of further favours. This one case may serve
To give sufficient taste of many such,
So let them pass : those shelves support a pile
Of patents, licenses, diplomas, titles,
From Germany, France, Spain, and Italy :
They authorise some honour : nevertheless,
I set more store by this Erasmus sent ;
He trusts me ; our Frobenius is his friend,
And him " I raised " (nay, read it) " from the dead "...
I weary you, I see ; I merely sought
To show, there 's no great wonder after all
That while I fill the class-room, and attract
A crowd to Basil, I get leave to stay ;
And therefore need not scruple to accept
The utmost they can offer — if I please :
For 'tis but right the world should be prepared
To treat with favour e'en fantastic wants
Of one like me, used up in serving her.
Just as the mortal, whom the Gods in part
Devoured, received in place of his lost limb
Some virtue or other— cured disease, I think ;
You mind the fables we have read together.
FesU You do not think I comprehend a word :

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74 PAKACEL8US.

The time was, Aureole, you were apt enough
To clothe the airiest thoughts in specious breath ;
But surely you must feel how vague and strange
These speeches sound*

Par. Well, then : you know my hopes ;

I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain ;
That truth is just as far from me as ever ;
That I have thrown my life away ; that sorrow
On that account is vain, and further effort
To mend and patch what 's marred beyond repairing,
As useless : and all this was taught to me
By the convincing, good old-fashioned method
Of force — by sheer compulsion. Is that plain ?

Feat. Dear Aureole ! you confess my fears were just ?
God wills not . . ,

Par. Now, 'tis this I most admire —

The constant talk men of your stamp keep up
Of God's will, as they style it ; one would swear
Man had but merely to uplift his eye,
To see the will in question charactered
On the heaven's vault, 'Tis hardly wise to moot
Such topics : doubts are many and faith is weak.
I know as much of any will of God's,
As knows some dumb and tortured brute what Man,
His stern lord, wills from the perplexing blows
That plague him every way, and there, of course,
Where least he suffers, longest he remains —
My case ; and for such reasons I plod on,
Subdued, but not convinced. I know as little

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PARACELSUS. 75

Why I deserve to fail, as why I hoped
Better things in my youth. I simply know
I am no master here, hut trained and beaten
Into the path I tread ; and here I stay,
Until some farther intimation reach me,
Like an obedient drudge : though I prefer
To view the whole thing as a task imposed,
Which, whether dull or pleasant, must be done—
Yet, I deny not, there is made provision
Of joys which tastes less jaded might affect ;
Nay, some which please me too, for all my pride —
Pleasures that once were pains : the iron ring
Festering $bout a slave's neck grows at length
Part of the flesh it eats. I hate no more
A host of petty, vile delights, undreamed of
Or spurned, before ; such now supply the place
Of my dead aims : as in the autumn woods
Where tall trees used to flourish, from their roots
Springs up a fungous brood, sickly and pale,
Chill mushrooms, coloured like a corpse's cheek.
Fest. If I interpret well what words I seize,
It troubles me but little that your aims,
Vast in their dawning, and most likely grown
Extravagantly since, have baffled you*
Perchance I am glad ; you merit greater praise ;
Because they are too glorious to be gained,
You do not blindly cling to them and die ;
You fell, but have not sullenly refused
To rise, because an angel worsted you

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76 PARACELSUS.

In wrestling, though the world holds not your peer

And though too harsh and sudden is the change

To yield content as yet — still, you pursue

The ungracious path as though 'twere rosy-strewn.

Tis well : and your reward, or soon or late,

Will come from Him whom no man serves in vain.

Par. Ah, very fine I For my part, I conceive
The very pausing from all further toil,
Which you find heinous, would be as a seal
To the sincerity of all my deeds.
To be consistent I should die at once ;
I calculated on no after-life ;
Yet (how crept in, how fostered, I know not)
Here am I with as passionate regret
For youth, and health, and love so vainly lost,
As if their preservation had been first
And foremost in my thoughts ; and this strange feet
Humbled me wondrously, and had due force
In rendering me the more disposed to follow
A certain counsel, a mysterious warning —
You will not understand — but 'twas a man
With aims not mine, but yet pursued like mine,
With the same fervor and no more success,
Who perished in my sight ; but summoned me
As I would shun the ghastly fate I saw,
To serve my race at once ; to wait no longer
Till God should interfere in my behalf,
And let the next world's knowledge dawn on this ;
But to distrust myself, put pride away,

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PARACELSUS. 77

And give my gains, imperfect as they were,
To men. I have not leisure to explain
How since, a strange succession of events
Has raised me to the station you behold,
Wherein I seem to turn to most account
The mere wreck of the past, — perhaps receive
Some feeble glimmering token that God views
And may approve my penance : therefore here
You find me — doing most good or least harm :
And if folks wonder much and profit little
Tis not my fault ; only, I shall rejoice
When my part in the farce is shuffled through,
And the curtain falls ; I must hold out 'till then.

Fest. Till when, dear Aureole ?

Par. Till I 'm feirly thrust

From my proud eminence. Fortune is fickle
And even professors fall : should that arrive,
I see no sin in ceding to my bent
You little fancy what rude shocks apprize us
We sin : God's intimations rather fail
In clearness than in energy : 'twere well
Did they but indicate the course to take
Like that to be forsaken. I would fain
Be spared a further sample ! Here I stand,
And here I stay, be sure, till forced to flit

Fest. Remain but firm on that head ; long ere then
All I expect will come to pass, I trust :
The cloud that wraps you will have disappeared.
Meantime, I see small chance of such event :

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78 PARACELSUS.

They praise you here as one whose lore, divulged

Already, eclipses all the past can show,

But whose achievements, marvellous as they be,

Are faint anticipations of a glory

About to be revealed. When Basil's crowds

Dismiss their teacher, I shall be content

That he depart.

Par. This favour at their hands

I look for earlier than your view of things
Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day
Bemove the full half sheer amazement draws,
The novelty, nought else ; and next, the tribe
Whose innate blockish dullness just perceives
That unless miracles (as seem my works)
Be wrought in their behalf, their chance is slight
To puzzle the devil ; next, the numerous Bet
Who bitterly hate established schools, so help
The teacher that oppugns them, and o'erthrows,
Till having planted his own doctrine, he
May reckon on their rancour in his turn ;
Take, too, the sprinkling of sagacious knaves
Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue,
But seeks, by flattery and nursing craft,
To force my system to a premature
Short-lived development . . . Why swell the list ?
Each has his end to serve, and his best way
Of serving it : remove all these, remains
A scantling — a poor dozen at the best —
That really come to learn for learning's sake ;

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Paracelsus. 79

Worthy to look for sympathy and' service,
And likely to draw profit from my pains.

Fest. Tis no encouraging picture : still these few |
Eedeem their fellows. Once implant the germ,
Its growth, if slow, is sure.

Par. God grant it so !

I would make some amends : but if I fail.
The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge,
That much is in my method and my manner,
My uncouth habits, my impatient spirit,
Which hinders of reception and result
My doctrine : much to say, small skill to speak !
Those old aims suffered not a looking-off,
Though for an instant ; therefore, only when
I thus renounced them and resolved to reap
Some present fruit — to teach mankind some truth
So dearly purchased— only then I found
Such teaching was an art requiring cares
And qualities peculiar to itself ;
That to possess was one thing — to display,
Another. Had renown been in my thoughts,
Or popular praise, I had soon discovered it !
One grows but little apt to learn these things.

Fest. If it be so, which nowise I believe,
There needs no waiting fuller dispensation
To leave a labour to so little use :
Why not throw up the irksome charge at once ?

Par. A task, a task ! . . .

But wherefore hide from you

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80 PARACELSUS.

The whole extent of degradation, once

Engaged in the confession ? Spite of all

My fine talk of obedience, and repugnance,

Docility, and what not, 'tis yet to learn

If when the old task really is performed,

And my will free once more, to choose a new,

I shall do aught but slightly modify

The nature of the hated one I quit.

In plain words, I am spoiled : my life still tends

As first it tended. I am broken and trained

To my old habits ; they are part of me.

I know, and none so well, my darling ends

Are proved impossible : no less, no less,

Even now what humours me, fond fool, as when

Their faint ghosts sit with me, and flatter me,

And send me back content to my dull round? .

How can I change this soul ?— this apparatus

Constructed solely for their purposes

So well adapted to their every want,

To search out and discover, prove and perfect J

This intricate machine, whose most minute,

Least obvious motions have their charm to me

Though to none else — an aptitude I seize,

An object I perceive, a use, a meaning,

A property, a fitness, I explain,

And I alone : — how can I change my soul ?

And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked

Under that soul's dominion — used to care

For its bright master's cares, and quite subdue

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PARACELSUS. 81

Its proper cravings— not to ail, nor pine,

So the soul prosper — whither drag this poor*

Tried, patient body ? God ! how I essayed,

To live like that mad poet, for a while,

To catch Aprile's spirit, as I hoped,

And love alone ! and how J felt too warped

And twisted and deformed ! What should I do,

Even tho' released from drudgery, but return

Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore,

To my old life — and die as I begun !

I cannot feed on beauty, for the sake

Of beauty only ; nor can drink in balm

From lovely objects for their loveliness ;

My nature cannot lose her first intent;

I still must hoard, and heap, and class all truths

With one ulterior purpose : I must know !

Would God translate me to his throne, believe

That I should only listen to his words

To further my own aims ! For other men,

Beauty is prodigally strewn around,

And I were happy could I quench as they

This mad and thrivelesa longing, be content

With beauty for itself alone ; alas !

I have addressed a frock of heavy mail,

Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights ;

And now the forest-creatures fly from me,

The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more !

Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrives

Q

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82 PARACELSUS.

I shall overtake the company, and ride
Glittering as they !

Fest. I think I apprehend

What you would say : if you, in truth, design
To enter once more on the life thus left,
Seek not to hide that all this consciousness
Of failure is assumed.

Par. My Mend, my friend,

I speak, you listen ; I explain, perhaps
You understand : there our communion ends.
Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse ?
When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state
We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft
The hot hrow, look upon the languid eye,
And thence divine the rest. Must I lay hare
My heart, hideous and heating, or tear up
My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem
Enough made known ? You ! who are you, forsooth ?
That is the crowning operation claimed
By the arch-demonstrator— heaven the hall,
And earth the audience. Let Aprile and you
Secure good places— 'twill he worth your while.

Fest. Are you mad, Aureole ? What can I have said
To call for this ? I judged from your own words.

Par. Oh, true ! A fevered wretch describes the ape
That mocks him from the bed-foot, and you turn
All gravely thither at once : or he recounts
The perilous journey he has late performed,
And you are puzzled much how that could be !

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PAJRACELSU8. 83

You find me here, half stupid and half mad :
It makes no part of my delight to search
Into these things, much less to undergo
Another's scrutiny ; but so it chances
That I am led to trust my state to you :
And the event is, you combine, contrast,
And ponder on my foolish words, as though
They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here —
Here, loathsome with despair, and hate, and rage !
Is there no fear, no shrinking, or no shame ?
Will you guess nothing ? will you spare me nothing?
Must I go deeper? Aye or no ?

Fest. Dear friend . . .

Par. True : I am brutal — 'tis a part of it;
The plague's sign — you are not a lazar-haunter,
How should you know ? Well then, you think it strange
I should profess to have failed utterly,
And yet propose an ultimate return
To courses void of hope : and this, because
You know not what temptation is, nor how
Tis like to ply men in the sickliest part.
You are to understand, that we who make
Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end :
There is not one sharp volley shot at us,
Which if we manage to escape with life,
Though touched and hurt, we straight may slacken pace
And gather by the way-side herbs and roots
To staunch our wounds, secure from further harm —
No ; we are chased to life's extremest verge,
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£4 PARACELSUS.

It will be well indeed if I return,
A harmless busy fool, to my old ways !
I would forget hints of another fate,
Significant enough, which silent hours
Have lately scared me with.

Fest. Another ! and what ?

Par. After all, Festos, you say well : I stand
A man yet — I need never humble me.
I would have been — something, I know not what ;
But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl :
There are worse portions than this one of mine ;
You say well !

Fest. Ah!...

Par. And deeper degradation !

If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise,
And vanity, should become the chosen food
Of a sunk mind ; should stifle even the wish
To find its early aspirations true ;
Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath-
An atmosphere of craft, and trick, and lies ;
Should make it proud to emulate or surpass
Base natures in the practices which woke
Its most indignant loathing once . . . No, no !
Utter damnation is reserved for Hell !
I had immortal feelings — such shall never
Be wholly quenched — no, no !

My friend, you wear
A melancholy face, and truth to speak,
There 's little cheer in all this dismal work ;

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PARACELSUS* 85

But 'twas not my desire to set abroach
Such memories and forebodings. I foresaw
Where they would drive ; 'twere better you detailed
News of Lucerne or Zurich ; or I described
Great Egypt's flaring sky, or Spain's cork-groves.

FesL I have thought now : yes, this mood will pass
away.
I know you, and the lofty spirit you bear,
And easily ravel out a clue to all.
These are the trials meet for such as you,
Nor must you hope exemption : to be mortal j
Is to be plied with trials manifold* [

Look round ! The obstacles which kept the rest
Of men from your ambition, you have spurned ;
Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind them best,
Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought
Avails to awe, save these delusions, bred
From its own strength, its selfeame strength, disguised —
Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole ! Since
The rabbit has his shade to frighten him,
The fawn his rustling bough, mortals their cares,
And higher natures yet their power to laugh
At these entangling fantasies, as you
At trammels of a weaker intellect.
Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts !
I know you.

Par. And I know you, dearest Festus !

And how you love unworthily ; and how
All admiration renders blind.

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86 PARACELSUS.

Fest. You hold

That admiration blinds ?

Par. Aye, and alas !

Fest. Nought blinds you less than admiration will.
Whether it be that all love renders wise
In its degree ; from love which blends with love —
Heart answering heart — to love which spends itself
In silent mad idolatry of some
Pre-eminent mortal, some great soul of souls,
Which ne'er will know how well it is adored : —
I say, such love is never blind ; but rather
Alive to every the minutest spot
Which mars its object, and which hate (supposed
So vigilant and searching) dreams not of:
Love broods on such : what then ? When first perceived
Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change,
To overflush those blemishes with all
The glow of general goodness they disturb ?
— To make those very defects an endless source
Of new affection grown from hopes and fears ?
And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand
Made even for much proved weak ? no shrinking-back
Lest, rising even as its idol sinks,
It nearly reach the sacred place, and stand
Almost a rival of that idol ? Trust me,
If there be fiends who seek to work our hurt,
To ruin and drag down earth's mightiest spirits,
Even at God's foot, 'twill be from such as love,
Their zeal will gather most to serve their cause ;

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PABACELSU8. 87

And least from those who hate, who most essay

By contumely and scorn to blot the light

Which will have entrance even to their hearts ;

For thence will our Defender tear the veil

And show within each heart, as in a shrine,

The giant image of Perfection* grown

In hate's despite, whose calumnies were spawned

In the untroubled presence of its eyes !

True admiration blinds not; nor am I

So blind ; I call your sin exceptional ;

It springs from one whose life has passed the bounds

Prescribed to life. Compound that fault with God !

I speak of men ; to common men like me

The weakness you confess endears you more —

Like the far traces of decay in suns :

I bid you have good cheer !

Par. Praclare! Optime!

Think of a quiet mountain-cloister'd priest
Instructing Paracelsus ! yet, 'tis so.
Come, I will show you where my merit lies.
Tis in the advance of individual minds
That the slow crowd should ground their expectation
Eventually to follow — as the sea
Waits ages in its bed, 'till some one wave
Out of the multitude aspires, extends
The empire of the whole, some feet perhaps,
Over the strip of sand which could confine
Its fellows so long time : thenceforth the rest,
Even to the meanest, hurry in at once,

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8B PARACELSUS.

And so much is clear gained. I shall be glad
If all my labours, failing of aught else,
Suffice to make such inroad, and procure
A wider range for thought : nay, they do this ;
For, whatsoe'er my notions of true knowledge
And a legitimate success, may be,
I am not blind to my undoubted rank
When classed with others : I precede my age :
And whoso wills, is very free to mount
These labours as a platform, whence their own
May have a prosperous outset : but, alas !
My followers — they are noisy as you heard,
But for intelligence — the best of them
So clumsily wield the weapons I supply
And they extol, that I begin to doubt
Whether their own rude clubs and pebble-stones
Would not do better service than my arms
Thus vilely swayed — if error will not fell
Sooner before the old awkward batterings
Than my more subtle warfare, not half learned.

Fest. I would supply that art, then, and withhold
Its arms until you have taught their mystery.

Par, Content you, 'tis my wish ; I have recourse
To the simplest training. Day by day I seek
To wake the mood, the spirit which alone
Can make those arms of any use to men.
Of course, they are for swaggering forth at once
Graced with Ulysses' club, Achilles' shield —
Flash on us, all in armour, thou Achilles !

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PARACELSUS. 89

Make our hearts dance to thy resounding step !
A proper sight to scare the crows away !

Fest. Pity you choose not, then, some other method
Of coming at your point. The marvellous art
At length established in the world bids fair
To remedy all hindrances like these :
Trust to Frobenius' press the precious lore
Obscured by uncouth manner, or unfit
For raw beginners ; let his types secure
A deathless monument to after-times ;
Meanwhile wait confidently and enjoy
The ultimate effect : sooner or later,
You shall be all-revealed.

Par. The old dull question

In a new form ; no more. Thus : I possess
Two sorts of knowledge ; one, — vast, shadowy,
Hints of the unbounded aim I once pursued :
The other consists of many secrets, learned
While bent on nobler prize, — perhaps a few
First principles which may conduct to much :
These last I offer to my followers here.
Now bid me chronicle the first of these,
My ancient study, and in effect you bid me
Revert to the wild courses just abjured :
I must go iind them scattered through the world.
Then, for the principles, they are so simple
(Being chiefly of the overturning sort),
That one time is as proper to propound them
As any other — to-morrow at my class,

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90 PARACELSUS.

Or half a century hence embalmed in print :
For if mankind intend to learn at all,
They must begin by giving faith to them,
And acting on them ; and I do not see
But that my lectures serve indifferent well :
No doubt these dogmas fall not to the earth,
For all their novelty and rugged setting.
I think my class will not forget the day
I let them know the gods of Israel,
Aetius, Oribasius, Galen, Ehasis,
Serapion, Avicenna, Averroes, —
Were blocks !

Fest. And that reminds me, I heard something

About your waywardness : you burned their books,
It seems, instead of answering those sages.

Par. And who said that?

Fest. Some I met yesternight

With (Ecolampadius. As you know, the purpose
Of this short stay at Basil was to learn
His pleasure touching certain missives sent
For our Zuinglius and himself. Twas he
Apprized me that the famous teacher here
Was my old friend.

Par. Ah, I forgot : you went . . ,

Fest. From Zurich with advices for the ear
Of Luther, now at Wittemburg — (you know,
I make no doubt, the differences of late
With Carolostadius) — and returning sought
Basil and ...

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PARACELSUS. 91

Par. I remember. Here 's a case, now,

Will teach you why I answer not, but burn
The books you mention : pray, does Luther dream
His arguments convince by their own force
The crowds that own his doctrine ? No, indeed :
His plain denial of established points
Ages had sanctified and men supposed
Could never be oppugned while earth was under
And heaven above them — points which chance, or time
Affected not— did more than the array
Of argument which followed. Boldly deny !
There is much breath-stopping, hair-stiffening
Awhile ; then, amazed glances, mute awaiting
The thunderbolt which does not come ; and next,
Reproachful wonder and inquiry : those
Who else had never stirred, are able now
To find the rest out for themselves — perhaps
To outstrip him who set the whole at work,
— As never will my wise class its instructor.
And you saw Luther?

Fest. Tis a wondrous soul !

Par. True : the so-heavy chain which galled mankind
Is shattered, and the noblest of us all
Must bow to the deliverer — nay, the worker
Of our own projects — we who long before
Had burst its trammels, but forgot the crowd,
We should have taught, still groaned beneath the load :
This he has done and nobly. Speed that may !
Whatever be my chance or my despair,

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9$ PARACELSUS,

What benefits mankind must glad me too :
And men seem made, though not as I believed.
For something better than the times produce :
Witness these gangs of peasants your new lights
From Suabia have possessed, whom Munzer leads,*
And whom the duke, the landgrave, and the elector
Will calm in blood ! Well, well — 'tis not my world !

Fest. Hark!

Far, "lis the melancholy wind astir

Within the trees ; the embers too are grey,
Morn must be near.

Fest. Best ope the casement : see, ^

The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars, j
Is blank and motionless ; how peaceful sleep /

The tree-tops all together ! Like an asp,
The wind slips whispering from bough to bough.

Far. Ay ; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree
By the hour, nor count time lost*

Fest. So you shall gaze :

Those happy times will come again . . .

Far. Gone! gone!

Those pleasant times ! Does not the moaning wind
Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains
And bartered sleep for them ?

Fest. It is our trust

That there is yet another world to mend
All error and mischance.

Far. Anothef world !

And why this world, this common world, to be

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PARACELSUS. 93

A make-shift, a mere foil, how fair soever,

To some fine life to come ? Han must be fed

With angel's food, forsooth ; and some few traces

Of a diviner nature which look out

Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him

In a supreme contempt for all provision

For his inferior tastes — some straggling marks

Which constitute his essence, just as truly

As here and there a gem would constitute

The rock, their barren bed, a diamond.

But were it so — were man all mind — he gains

A station little enviable. From God

Down to the lowest spirit ministrant,

Intelligence exists which casts our mind

Into immeasurable shade. No, no :

Love, hope, fear, faith — these make humanity ;

These are its sign, and note, and character ;

And these I have lost ! — gone, shut from me for ever,

Like a dead friend, safe from unkindness more !

See morn at length. The heavy darkness seems

Diluted ; grey and clear without the stars ;

The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves, as if

Some snake, that weighed them down all night, let go

His hold ; and from the east, fuller and fuller

Day, like a mighty river, is flowing in ;

But clouded, wintry, desolate, and cold :

Yet see how that broad, prickly, star-shaped plant,

Half down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves*

All thick and glistering with diamond dew*

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94 PARACELSUS.

And you depart for Einsiedeln this day :
And we have spent all night in talk like this !
If you would have me better for your love,
Revert no more to these sad themes.

Feat. One favour,

And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved ;
Unwilling to have fared so well, the while
My friend has changed so sorely : if this mood
Shall pass away — if light once more arise
Where all is darkness now — if you see fit
To hope, and trugt again, and strive again ;
You will remember — not our love alone —
But that my faith in God's desire for man
To trust on his support, (as I must think
You trusted,) is obscured and dim through you ;
For you are thus, and this is no reward.
Will you not call me to your side, dear friend ?

IV.-PARACELSUS ASPIRES
Scene. — A House at Colmar, in AUatia. 1528.

Paracelsus, Festus.
Par. (To John Oporinus, his secretary.) Sic itur ad
astra ! Dear Von Visenburg
Is scandalised, and poor Torinus paralysed,
And every honest soul that Basil holds
Aghast ; and yet we live, as one may say,
Just as though Liechtenfels had never set

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PARACELSUS. 95

So true a value on his sorry carcass,

And learned Putter had not frowned us dumb.

We live ; and shall as surely start to-morrow

For Nuremburg, as we drink speedy scathe

To Basil in this mantling wine, suffused

With a delicate blush — no fainter tinge is born

I' th' shut heart of a bud : pledge me, good John —

" Basil; a hot plague ravage it, with Putter

" To stop the plague ! " Even so ? Do you too share

Their panic — the reptiles? Ha, ha; faint through them,

Desist for them ! — while means enough exist

To bow the stoutest braggart of the tribe

Once more in crouching silence — means to breed

A stupid wonder in each fool again,

Now big with admiration at the skill

Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes ;

And, that done, means to brand each slavish brow

So deeply, surely, ineflaceably,

That thenceforth flattery shall not pucker it

Out of the furrow of that hideous stamp

Which shows the next they fawn on, what they are,

This Basil with its magnates one and all,

Whom I curse soul and limb. And now dispatch,

Dispatch, my trusty John ; and what remains

To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip

Are yet to be completed, see you hasten

This night ; we 11 weather the storm at least : to-morrow

For Nuremburg ! Now leave us ; this grave clerk

Has divers weighty matters for my ear, (Oporinm goes out)

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96 PARACELSUS.

And spare my lungs, At last, my gallant Festus,
I am rid of this arch-knave that follows me
As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep ; at last
May give a loose to my delight. How kind,
How very kind, my first, best, only friend !
Why this looks like fidelity. Embrace me :
Not a hair silvered yet ! Eight : you shall live
Till I am worth your love ; you shall be proud,
And I — but let time show. Did you not wonder ?
I sent to you because our compact weighed
Upon my conscience — (you recal the night
At Basil, which the gods confound) — because
Once more I aspire ! I call you to my side ;
You come. You thought my message strange ?

Fest. So strange

That I must hope, indeed, your messenger
Has mingled his own fancies with the words
Purporting to be yours.

Par. He said no more,

Tis probable, than the precious folks I leave
Said fifty-fold more roughly. Well-a-day,
Tis true ; poor Paracelsus is exposed
At last; a most egregious quack he proves,
And those he overreached must spit their hate
On one who, utterly beneath contempt,
Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard
Bare truth ; and at my bidding you come here
To speed me on my enterprise, as once
Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend ?

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PARACEL8US. 97

Fest. What is your purpose, Aureole ?

Par. Oh, for purpose,

There is no lack of precedents in a case
Like mine ; at least, if not precisely mine,
The case of men cast off by those they sought
To benefit . . .

Fest. They really cast you off?

I only heard a vague tale of some priest,
Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim,
Knowing his life's worth best ; and how the judge
The matter was referred to, saw no cause
To interfere, nor you to hide your full
Contempt of him ; nor he, again, to smother
His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame
That Basil soon was made no place for you.

Par. The affair of Liechtenfels ? the shallowest cause,
The last and silliest outrage — mere pretence !
I knew it, I foretold it from the first,
How soon the stupid wonder you mistook
For genuine loyalty — a cheering promise
Of better things to come — would pall and pass ;
And every word comes true. Saul is among
The prophets ! Just so long as I was pleased
To play off the mere marvels of my art —
Fantastic gambols leading to no end —
I got huge praise ; but one can ne'er keep down
Our foolish nature's weakness : there they flocked,
Poor devils, jostling, swearing, and perspiring,
Till the walls rang again ; and all for me !

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98 PARACELSUS.

I had a kindness for them, which was right ;

But then I stopped not till I tacked to that

A trust in them and a respect — a sort

Of sympathy for them : I must needs begin

To teach them, not amaze them ; " to impart

" The spirit which should instigate the search

" Of truth : " just what you bade me ! I spoke out.

Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust,

Filed off— " the sifted chaff of the sack," I said,

Redoubling my endeavours to secure

The rest ; when lo ! one man had stayed thus long

Only to ascertain if I supported

This tenet of his, or that ; another loved

To hear impartially before he judged,

And having heard, now judged ; this bland disciple

Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems,

Spied error where his neighbours marvelled most :

That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend,

Did it because my bye-paths, once proved wrong

And beaconed properly, would commend again

The good old ways our sires jogged safely o'er,

Though not their squeamish sons ; the other worthy

Discovered divers verses of St. John,

Which, read successively, refreshed the soul,

But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone,

The cholic, and what not : — quid mutia? The end

Was a clear class-room, with a quiet leer

From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance

From those in chief, who, cap in hand, installed

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PARACELSUS. V\

The new professor scarce a year before ;

And a vast flourish about patient merit

Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure

Sooner or later to emerge in splendour —

Of which the example was some luckless wight

Whom my arrival had discomfited,

But now, it seems, the general voice recalled

To fill my chair, and so efface the stain

Basil had long incurred. I sought no better —

Nought but a quiet dismissal from my post ;

While from my heart I wished them better suited,

And better served. Good night to Basil, then !

But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe

Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them

The pleasure of a parting kick.

Fest. You smile :

Despise them as they merit !

Par. If I smile,

Tis with as very contempt as ever turned
Flesh into stone : this courteous recompense !
This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit
To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache
At gangrened blotches, eating poisonous blains,
The ulcered barky scurf of leprosy
Which finds — a man, and leaves — a hideous thing
That cannot but be mended by hell fire,
— I say that, could you see as I could show,
I would lay bare to you these human hearts
Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since

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100 PARACEL8US.

Their pet nest and their never-tiring home.

0, sages have discovered we are born

For various ends — to love, to know : has ever

One stumbled, in his search, on any signs

Of a nature in him formed to hate ? To hate ?

If that be our true object which evokes t

Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 'tis hate !

Fest. But I have yet to learn your purpose, Aureole !

Par. What purpose were the fittest now for me ?
Decide ! To sink beneath such ponderous shame —
To shrink up like a crushed snail — undergo
In silence and desist from further toil,
And so subside into a monument
Of one their censure blasted ; or to bow
Cheerfully as submissively — to lower
My old pretensions even as Basil dictates —
To drop into the rank her wits assign me,
And live as they prescribe, and make that use
Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow —
Proud to be patted now and then, and careful
To practise the true posture for receiving
The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance,
When they shall condescend to tutor me.
Then one may feel resentment like a flame,
Prompting to deck false systems in Truth's garb,
And tangle and entwine mankind with error,
And give them darkness for a dower, and falsehood
For a possession : or one may mope away
Into a shade through thinking ; or else drowse

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PARACELSUS. 101

Into a dreamless sleep, and so die off :
But I, but I — now Festus shall divine !
— Am merely setting out in life once more,
Embracing my old aims ! What thinks he now ?

Fest. Your aims ? the aims ? — to know ? and where
is found
The early trust ...

Par. Nay, not so fast ; I say,

The aims — not the old means. You know what made me
A laughing-stock ; I was a fool ; you know
The when and the how : hardly those means again !
Not but they had their beauty — who should know
Their passing beauty, if not I ? But still
They were dreams, so let them vanish : yet in beauty,
If that may be. Stay — thus they pass in song !

(He rings.)

Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls

Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair : (such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,

From summits where tired winds are fain,

Spent with the vast and howling main,

To treasure half their island-gain.)

And strew faint sweetness from some old

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud,
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled ;

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102 PARACELSUS.

And shred dim perfume, like a cloud
From chamber long to quiet vowed,
With mothed and dropping arras hung,
Mouldering the lute and books among
Of queen, long dead, who lived there young.

Mine, every word ! — and on such pile shall die
My lovely fancies, with fair perished things,
Themselves fair and forgotten ; yes, forgotten,
Or why abjure them ? So I made this rhyme
That fitting dignity might be preserved :
No little proud was I ; though the list of drugs
Smacks of my old vocation, and the verse
Halts like the best of Luther's psalms !

Fest. But, Aureole,

Talk not thus wildly and madly. I am here —
Did you know all, indeed ! I have travelled far
To learn your wishes. Be yourself again !
For in this mood I recognize you less
Than in the horrible despondency
I witnessed last. You may account this, joy ;
But rather let me gaze on that despair
Than hear these incoherent words, and see
This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye !

Par. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime,
I am light-hearted now ; what would you have ?
Aprile was a poet, I make songs —
Tis the very augury of success I want !
Why should I not be joyous now as then ?

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FARACELStJS. 103

Fest. Joyous ! and how ? and what remains for joy ?
You have declared the ends (which I am sick
Of naming) are impracticable.

Par. Aye,

Pursued as I pursued them — the arch-fool !
Listen : my plan will please you not, 'tis like ;
But you are little versed in the world's ways.
This is my plan — (first drinking its good luck) —
I will accept all helps ; all I despised
So rashly at the outset, equally
With early impulses, late years have quenched :
I have tried each way singly — now for both !
All helps — no one sort shall exclude the rest.
I seek to enow and to enjoy at once,
Not one without the other as before.
Suppose my labour should seem God's own cause
Once more, as first I dreamed, it shall not balk me
Of the meanest, earthliest, sensualest delight
That may be snatched ; for every joy is gain,
And why spurn gain, however small ? My soul
Can die then, nor be taunted " what was gained ? "
Nor, on the other hand, if pleasure meets me
As though I had not spurned her hitherto,
Shall she o'ercloud my spirit's rapt communion
With the tumultuous past, the teeming future,
Glorious with visions of a full success !

Fest. Success!

Par. And wherefore not ? Why not prefer

Results obtained in my best state of being,

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104 PARACELSUS.

To those derived alone from seasons dark

As the thoughts they hred ? When I was best — my youth

Unwasted — seemed success not surest too ?

It is the nature of darkness to obscure.

I am a wanderer : I remember well

One journey, how I feared the track was missed,

So long the city I desired to reach

Lay hid ; when suddenly its spires afar

Flashed through the circling clouds ; conceive my joy !

Too soon the vapours closed o'er it again,

But I had seen the city, and one such glance

No darkness could obscure : nor shall the present

A few dull hours, a passing shame or two,

Destroy the vivid memories of the past.

I will fight the battle out ! — a little tired,

Perhaps— but still an able combatant.

You look at my grey hair and furrowed brow ?

But I can turn even weakness to account :

Of many tricks I know, 'tis not the least

To push the ruins of my frame, whereon

The fire of vigour trembles scarce alive,

Into a heap, and send the flame aloft !

What should I do with age ? so sickness lends

An aid ; it being, I fear, the source of all

We boast of : mind is nothing but disease,

And natural health is ignorance.

Fest. I see

But one good symptom in this notable plan :
I feared your sudden journey had in view

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PARACELSUS. 105

To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes ;
Tis not so : I am glad.

Par. And if I pleased

To spit on them, to trample them, what then ?
Tis sorry warfare truly, but the fools
Provoke it : I had spared their self-conceit,
But if they must provoke me — cannot suffer
Forbearance on my part — if I may keep
No quality in the shade, must needs put forth
Power to match power, my strength against their strength,
And teach them their own game with their own arms —
Why be it so, and let them take their chance !
I am above them like a God — in vain
To hide the fact — what idle scruples, then,
Were those that ever bade me soften it,
Communicate it gently to the world,
Instead of proving my supremacy,
Taking my natural station o'er their heads,
Then owning all the glory was a man's,
And in my elevation man's would be !
But live and learn, though life's short ; learning, hard !
Still, one thing I have learned — not to despair :
And therefore, though the wreck of my past self,
I fear, dear Putter, that your lecture-room
Must wait awhile for its best ornament,
The penitent empiric, who set up
For somebody, but soon was taught his place-
Now, but too happy to be let confess
His error, snuff the candles, and illustrate

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106 PARACELSUS.

(Fiat experientia corpore vili)

Your medicine's soundness in his person. Wait,

Good Putter !

Fest. He who sneers thus, is a God !

Par, Ay, ay, laugh at me ! I am very glad
You are not gulled hy all this swaggering ; you
Can see the root of the matter ! — how I strive
To put a good face on the overthrow
I have experienced, and to bury and hide
My degradation in its length and breadth ;
How the mean motives I would make you think
Just mingle as is due with nobler aims,
The appetites I modestly allow
May influence me — as I am mortal still —
Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant
My youth's desires : you are no stupid dupe ;
You find me out ! Yes, I had sent for you
To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus !
Laugh — you shall laugh at me !

Fest. The past, then. Aureole,

Proves nothing ? Is our interchange of love
Yet to begin ? Have I to swear I mean
No flattery in this speech or that ? For you,
Whate'er you say, there is no degradation,
These low thoughts are no inmates of your mind ;
Or wherefore this disorder ? You are vexed
As much by the intrusion of base views,
Familiar to your adversaries, as they
Were troubled should your qualities alight

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PARACELSUS. 107

Amid their murky souls : not otherwise,

A stray wolf which the winter forces down

From our bleak hills, suffices to affright

A village in the Tales — while foresters

Sleep calm though all night long the famished troops

Snuff round and scratch against their crazy huts :

These evil thoughts are monsters, and will flee.

Par. May you be happy, Festus, my own friend !

Fest. Nay, further ; the delights you fain would think
The supersedere of your nobler aims,
Though ordinary and harmless stimulants,
Will ne'er content you . . .

Par. Hush ! I once despised them,

But that soon passes : we are high at first
In our demands, nor will abate a jot
Of toil's strict value ; but time passes o'er,
And humbler spirits accept what we refuse ;
In short, when some such comfort is doled out
As these delights, we cannot long retain
The bitter contempt which urges us at first
To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast
And thankfully retire. This life of mine
Must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned :
I am just fit for that and nought beside.
I told you once, I cannot now Enjoy,
Unless I deem my knowledge gains through joy ;
Nor can I Know, but straight warm tears reveal
My need of linking also joy to knowledge :
So on I drive — enjoying all I can,

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108 PARACELSUS.

And knowing all I can. I speak, of course,

Confusedly ; this will better explain — feel here !

Quick beating, is it not? — a fire of the heart

To work off someway, this as well as any !

So, Festus sees me fairly launched ; his calm

Compassionate look might have disturbed me once,

But now, far from rejecting, I invite

What bids me press the closer, lay myself

Open before him, and be soothed with pity ;

And hope, if he command hope ; and believe

As he directs me — satiating myself

With his enduring love : and Festus quits me

To give place to some credulous disciple

Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus

Has his peculiar merits. I suck in

That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration,

And then dismiss the fool ; for night is come,

And I betake myself to study again,

Till patient searchings after hidden lore

Half wring some bright truth from its prison ; my frame

Trembles, my forehead's veins swell out, my hair

Tingles for triumph ! Slow and sure the morn

Shall break on my pent room, and dwindling lamp,

And furnace dead, and scattered earths and ores,

When, with a failing heart and throbbing brow,

I must review my captured truth, sum up

Its value, trace what ends to what begins,

Its present power with its eventual bearings,

Latent affinities, the views it opens,

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PARACEL8US. 109

And its full length in perfecting my scheme ;

I view it sternly circumscribed, cast down

From the high place my fond hopes yielded it,

Proved worthless — which, in getting, yet had cost

Another wrench to this fast-falling frame ;

Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow !

I lapse back into youth, and take again

Mere hopes of bliss for proofs that bliss will be,

— My fluttering pulse, for evidence that God

Means good to me, will make my cause his own ;

See ! I have cast off this remorseless care

Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free,

And my dim chamber has become a tent,

Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . .

Why do you start? I say, she listening here,

(For yonder 's Wurzburg through the orchard-boughs)

Motions as though such ardent words should find

No echo in a maiden's quiet soul,

But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast

With tears, her sweet lips tremble all the while !

Ha, ha!

Fest. It seems, then, you expect to reap
No unreal joy from this your present course,
But rather . . .

Par. Death ! To die ! I owe that much

To what, at least, I was. I should be sad
To live contented after such a fall —
To thrive and fatten after such reverse !
The whole plan is a makeshift, but will last
My time.

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110 PARACELSUS.

Fest. And you have never mused and said,
" I bad a noble purpose, and full strength
" To compass it ; but I have stopped half-way,
" And wrongly give the first fruits of my toil
" To objects little worthy of the gift :
" Why linger round them still ? why clench my fault ?
" Why seek for consolation in defeat —
44 In vain endeavours to derive a beauty
" From ugliness ? why seek to make the most
44 Of what no power can change, nor strive instead
44 With mighty effort to redeem the past,
44 And, gathering up the treasures thus cast down,
44 To hold a steadfast course 'till I arrive
44 At their fit destination, and my own ? "
You have never pondered thus ?

Par. Have I, you ask ?

Often at midnight, when most fancies come,
Would some such airy project visit me :
But ever at the end ... or will you hear
The same thing in a tale, a parable ?
It cannot prove more tedious ; listen then !
You and I, wandering over the world wide,
Chance to set foot upon a desert coast :
Just as we cry, " No human voice before
Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks ! "
— Their querulous echo startles us ; we turn :
What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea ?
Some characters remain, too! While we read,
The sharp, salt wind, impatient for the last
Of even this record, wistfully comes and goes,

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PARACELSUS. Ill

Or sings what we recover, mocking it.

This is the record ; and my voice, the wind's.

(He sings.)

Over the sea our galleys went,
With cleaving prows in order brave,
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave —

A gallant armament :
Each bark built out of a forest-tree,

Left leafy and rough as first it grew,
And nailed all over the gaping sides,
Within and without, with black-bull hides,
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,
To bear the playftd billows' game J
So each good ship was rude to see,
Rude and bare to the outward view,

But each upbore a stately tent ;
Where cedar-pales in scented row
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine :
And an awning drooped the mast below,
In fold on fold of the purple fine,
That neither noon-tide, nor star-shine,
Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad,

Might pierce the regal tenement.
When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad
* We set the sail and plied the oar ;
But when the night-wind blew like breath,
For joy of one day's voyage more,
We sang together on the wide sea,

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112 PARACELSUS.

Like men at peace on a peaceful shore ;
Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,
Each helm made sure by the twilight star,
And in a sleep as calm as death,
We, the strangers from afar,

Lay stretched along, each weary crew
In a circle round its wondrous tent,
Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent,

And with light and perfume, music too :
So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past,
And at morn we started beside the mast,
And still each ship was sailing fast !

One morn, the land appeared ! — a speck
Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky —
Avoid it, cried our pilot, check

The shout, restrain the longing eye !
But the heaving sea was black behind
For many a night and many a day,
And land, though but a rock, drew nigh ;
So we broke the cedar pales away,
Let the purple awning flap in the wind,

And a statue bright was on every deck !
We shouted, every man of us,
And steered right into the harbour thus,
With pomp and poean glorious.

An hundred shapes of lucid stone !
All day we built a shrine for each—

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PARACELSUS. 113

A shrine of rock for every one —

Nor paused we till in the westering sun

We sate together on the heach
To sing, because our task was done ;
When lo ! what shouts and merry songs !
What laughter all the distance stirs !
What raft comes loaded with its throngs
Of gen Je islanders ?
" The isles are just at hand," they cried ;

" Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping,
" Our temple-gates are opened wide,

" Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping
" For the lucid shapes you bring " — they cried.
Oh, then we awoke with sudden start
From our deep dream ; we knew, too late,
How bare the rock, how desolate,
To which we had flung our precious freight:

Yet we called out — " Depart !
" Our gifts, once given, must here abide:

" Our work is done ; we have no heart
" To mar our work, though vain" — we cried.

Fest. In truth?

Par. Nay, wait : all this in tracings faint

May still be read on that deserted rock,
On rugged stones, strewn here and there, but piled
In order once ; then follows — mark what follows —
M The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung
" To their first fault, and withered in their pride ! "

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114 PARACELSUS.

Fest. Come back, then, Aureole ; as you fear God, come !
This is foul sin ; come back : renounce the past,
Forswear the future ; look for joy no more,
But wait death's summons amid holy sights,
And trust me for the event — peace, if not joy !
Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole.

Par. No way, no way : it would not turn to good.
A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss —
Tis well for him ; but when a sinful man,
Envying such slumber, may desire to put
His guilt away, shall he return at once
To rest by lying there ? Our sires knew well
(Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons)
The fitting course for such ; dark cells, dim lamps,
A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm ;
No mossy pillow, blue with violets !

Fest. I see no symptom of these absolute
And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now.
This verse-making can purge you well enough,
Without the terrible penance you describe.
You love me still : the lusts you fear, will never
Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more !
Say but the word !

Par. No, no ; those lusts forbid :

They crouch, I know, cowering with half-shut eye
Beside you ; 'tis their nature. Thrust yourself
Between them and their prey ; let some fool style me
Or king or quack, it matters not, and try
Your wisdom then, at urging their retreat !

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PARACELSUS. 115

No, no ; learn better and look deeper, Festus !
If you knew how a devil sneers within me
While you are talking now of this, now that,
As though we differed scarcely save in trifles !

Fest. Do we so differ? True, change must proceed,
Whether for good or ill ; keep from me, which !
God made you and knows what you may become—
Do not confide all secrets : I was born
To hope, and you . . .

Pwr. To trust : you know the fruits !

Fest. Listen : I do believe, what you call trust
Was self-reliance at the best : for, see !
So long as God would kindly pioneer
A path for you, and screen you from the world,
Procure you full exemption from man's lot,
Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext
Of your engagement in his service — yield you
A limitless license, make you God, in fact,
And turn your slave — you were content to say
Most courtly praises ! What is it, at last,
But selfishness without example ? None
Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours
Remained implied in it ; but now you fail,
And we, who prate about that will, are fools !
In short, God's service is established here
As He determines fit, and not your way,
And this you cannot brook ! Such discontent
Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once !
Affirm an absolute right to have and use

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116 PARACELSUS.

Your energies ; as though the rivers should say —
" We rush to the ocean ; what have we to do
" With feeding streamlets, lingering in the marshes,
" Sleeping in lazy pools ? " Set up that plea,
That will be bold at least !

Par. Perhaps, perhaps !

Your only serviceable spirits are those
The east produces :— lo, the master nods,
And they raise terraces, spread garden-grounds
In one night's space ; and, this done, straight begin
Another century's sleep, to the great praise
Of him that framed them wise and beautiful,
Till a lamp's rubbing, or some chance akin,
Wake them again. I am of different mould.
I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him,
And done him service past my narrow bond,
And thus I get rewarded for my pains !
Beside, 'tis vain to talk of forwarding
God's glory otherwise ; this is alone
The sphere of its increase, as far as men
Increase it ; why, then, look beyond this sphere ?
We are His glory ; and if we be glorious,
Is not the thing achieved ?

Fest. Shall one like me

Judge hearts like yours ? Though years have changed

you much,
And you have left your first love, and retain
Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways,
Yet I still hold that you have honoured God;

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PARACELSUS. 117

And who shall call your course without reward ?
For, wherefore this repining at defeat,
Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes ?
I urge you to forsake the life you curse,
And what success attends me ? — simply talk
Of passion, weakness, and remorse ; in short,
Any thing hut the naked truth : you choose
This so-despised career, and rather praise
Than take my happiness, or other men's.
Once more, return !

Par. And soon. Oporinus

Has pilfered half my secrets by this time :
And we depart by day-break. I am weary,
I know not how ; not even the wine-cup soothes
My brain to-night . . .
Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus ?
No flattery ! One like you, needs not be told
We live and breathe deceiving and deceived.
Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts ?
Me and my cant — my petty subterfuges —
My rhymes, and all this frothy shower of words —
My glozing self-deceit — my outward crust
Of lies, which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfair
Wrap the sound flesh ? — so, see you flatter not !
Why, even God flatters ! but my friend, at least,
Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth
Against all further insult, hate, and wrong
From puny foes : my one friend's scorn shall brand me —
No fear of sinking deeper !

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118 PAJUCELSUS.

Fest. No, dear Aureole !

No, no ; I came to counsel faithfully :
There are old rules, made long ere we were born,
By which I judge you. I, so fallible,
So infinitely low beside your spirit
Mighty, majestic ! — even I can see
You own some higher law than ours which call
Sin, what is no sin — weakness, what is strength ;
But I have only these, such as they are,
To guide me ; and I blame you where they blame,
Only so long as blaming promises
To win peace for your soul ; the more, that sorrow
Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me
So that I faint not under my distress.
But wherefore should I scruple to avow
In spite of all, as brother judging brother,
Your fate to me is most inexplicable :
And should you perish without recompense
And satisfaction yet — too hastily
I have relied on love : you may have sinned,
But you have loved. As a mere human matter —
As I would have God deal with fragile men
In the end — I say that you will triumph yet !

Par. Have you felt sorrow, Festus ? — 'tis because
You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours !
Well thought on ; never let her know this last
Dull winding-up of all : these miscreants dared
Insult me — me she loved ; so grieve her not.

Fest. Your ill success can little grieve her now.

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PARACELSUS. 119

Par. Michal is dead ! pray Christ we do not craze !
Fest. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus !
Fool, fool ! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof —
I cannot bear those eyes.
Par. Nay, really dead ?

Fest. Tis scarce a month . . .
Par. Stone dead ! — then you have laid her
Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know,
I can reveal a secret which shall comfort
Even you. I have no julep, as men think,
To cheat the grave ; but a far better secret.
Know then, you did not ill to trust your love
To the cold earth : I have thought much of it :
For I believe we do not wholly die.
Fest. Aureole . . .

Par. Nay, do not laugh ; there is a reason

For what I say : I think the soul can never
Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see,
Very unfit to put so strange a thought
In an intelligible dress of words ;
But take it as my trust, she is not dead.

Fest. But not on this account alone ? you surely,
— Aureole, you have believed this all along ?

Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews,
While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes
For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing,
As though it mattered how the farce plays out,
So it be quickly played. Away, away !
Have your will, rabble ! while we fight the prize,

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120 PARACELSUS.

Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats,
And leave a clear arena for the brave
About to perish for your sport ! — Behold !

V— PARACELSUS ATTAINS.

Scene. — A cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian, at Sdtebwg. 1 541.

Festus, Paracelsus.

Fest. No change ! The weary night is well nigh spent,
The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars
Grey morning glimmers feebly — yet no change !
Another night, and still no sigh has stirred
That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit
Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body,
Like torch-flame choked in dust : while all beside
Was breaking, to the last they held out bright,
As a strong-hold where life intrenched itself;
But they are dead now— very blind and dead.
He will drowse into death without a groan !

My Aureole — my forgotten, ruined Aureole !

The days are gone, are gone ! How grand thou wert :

And now not one of those who struck thee down —

Poor, glorious spirit — concerns him even to stay

And satisfy himself his little hand

Could turn God's image to a livid thing.

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PARACELSUS. 121

Another night, and yet no change ! Tis much

That 1 should sit by him, and bathe his brow,

And chafe his hands — 'tis much ; but he will sure

Know me, and look on me, and speak to me

Once more — but only once ! His hollow cheek

Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh

At his own state were just about to break

From the dying man : my brain swam, my throat swelled,

And yet I could not turn away. In truth,

They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed

Kesolved to live — to lose no faculty ;

Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength,

Until they bore him to this stifling cell :

When straight his features fell — an hour made white

The flushed face and relaxed the quivering limb ;

Only the eye remained intense awhile,

As though it recognised the tomb-like place ;

And then he lay as here he lies.

Ay, here !
Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded —
Her bravest champion, with his well-won meed —
Her best achievement, her sublime amends
For countless generations, fleeting fast
And followed by no trace ; — the creature-god
She instances when angels would dispute
The title of her brood to rank with them —
Angels, this is our angel ! — those bright forms
We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones,
Are human, but not his : those are but men

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122 PAKACELSUS.

Whom other men press round and kneel before —
Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind ;
Higher provision is for him you seek
Amid our pomps and glories : see it here !
Behold earth's paragon ! Now, raise thee, clay !

God ! Thou art Love ! I build my faith on that !

Even as I watch beside thy tortured child,

Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him,

So doth thy right hand guide ua through the world

Wherein we stumble. God ! what shall we say ?

How has he sinned ? How else should he have done ?

Surely he sought thy praise — thy praise, for all

He might be busied by the task so much

As to forget awhile its proper end.

Dost thou well, Lord ? Thou canst not but prefer

That I should range myself upon his side —

How could he stop at every step to set

Thy glory forth ? Hadst Thou but granted him

Success, thy honour would have crowned success,

A halo round a star. Or, say he erred, —

Save him, dear God ; it will be like thee : bathe him

In light and life ! Thou art not made like us ;

We should be wroth in such a case ; but Thou

Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts,

Which come unsought, and will not pass away !

I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made

Light for me in the darkness — tempering sorrow,

So that it reached me like a solemn joy ;

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PARACELSUS. 128

It were too strange that I should doubt thy love :
But what am I ? Thou madest him, and knowest
How he was fashioned. I could never err
That way : the quiet place beside thy feet,
Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts ;
But he — Thou shouldst have favoured him as well !

Ah ! he wakes ! Aureole, I am here — 'tis Festus !
I cast away all wishes save one wish —
Let him but know me — only speak to me !
He mutters — louder and louder ; any other
Than I, with brain less laden, could collect
What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look !
Is it talking or singing this he utters fast ?
Misery, that he should fix me with his eye —
Quick talking to some other all the while !
If he would husband this wild vehemence,
Which frustrates its intent ! — I heard, I know
I heard my name amid those rapid words :

he will know me yet ! Could I divert
This current — lead it somehow gently back
Into the channels of the past ! — His eye,
Brighter than ever ! It must recognise !

Let me speak to him in another's name.

1 am Erasmus : I am here to pray
That Paracelsus use his skill for me.
The schools of Paris and of Padua send
These questions for your learning to resolve.

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124 PARACELSUS.

We are your students, noble master : leave

This wretched cell ; what business have you here ?

Our class awaits you ; come to us once more.

(0 agony ! the utmost I can do

Touches him not ; how else arrest his ear ?)

I am commissioned ... I shall craze like him —

Better be mute, and see what God shall send.

Par. Stay, stay with me !

Fest. I will ; I am come here

To stay with you — Festus, you loved of old ;
Festus, you know, you must know !

Par. Festus ! Where 's

Aprile, then ? Has he not chaunted softly
The melodies I heard all night ? I could not
Get to him for a cold hand on my breast,
But I made out his music well enough,
O, well enough ! If they have filled him full
With magical music, as they freight a star
With light, and have remitted all his sin,
They will forgive me too, I too shall know !

Fest. Festus, your Festus !

Par. Ask him if Aprile

Knows as he Loves — if I shall Love and Know ?
I try ; but that cold hand, like lead — so cold !

Fest. My hand, see!

Par. Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile !

We get so near — so very, very near !
'Tis an old tale : Jove strikes the Titans down
Not when they set about their mountain-piling,

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PARACELSUS. 125

But when another rock would crown their work !
And Phaeton — doubtless his first radiant plunge
Astonished mortals ; though the gods were calm,
And Jove prepared his thunder : all old tales !

Fest. And what are these to you ?

Par. Ay, fiends must laugh

So cruelly, so well ; most like I never
Gould tread a single pleasure under foot,
But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling
To see me toil, and drop away by flakes !
Hell-spawn ! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail !
You that hate men and all who wish their good —
Your cunning has oershot its aim. One year,
One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn !
You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now,
Who will believe 'twas you that held me back ?
Listen : there 's shame, and hissing, and contempt,
And none but laughs who names me — none but spits
Measureless scorn upon me— me alone,
The quack, the cheat, the liar, — all on me !
And thus your famous plan to sink mankind
In silence and despair, by teaching them
One of their race had probed the inmost truth,
Had done all man could do, yet failed no less —
Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair ?
Ha, ha ! why they are hooting the empiric,
The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed
Madly upon a work beyond his wits ;
Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves

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126 PARACELSUS.

Could bring the matter to triumphant issue !
So pick and choose among them all, Accursed !
Try now, persuade some other to slave for you,
To ruin body and soul to work your ends :
No, no ; I am the first and last, I think !

Fest. Dear friend; who are accursed? who has done. . .

Par. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you,
Brave men ? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed
By the others ! What had you to do, sage peers ?
Here stand my rivals, truly — Arab, Jew,
Greek, join dead hands against me : all I ask
Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs,
And even this poor privilege, it seems,
They range themselves, prepared to disallow !
Only observe : why fiends may learn from them !
How they talk calmly of my throes — my fierce
Aspirings, terrible watchings — each one claiming
Its price of blood and brain ; how they dissect
And sneeringly disparage the few truths
Got at a life's cost ; they too hanging the while
About my neck, their lies misleading me,
And their dead names brow-beating me ! Grey crew,
Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell,
Is there a reason for your hate ? My truths
Have shaken a little the palm about each head ?
Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards
Were bent on nothing less than being crowned
As we ! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief,
To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect —

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PARACELSUS. 127

Galen, of Pergamos and hell ; nay speak

The tale, old man ! We met there face to face :

I said the crown should fall from thee : once more

We meet as in that ghastly vestihule :

Look to my brow 1 Have I redeemed my pledge ?

Fest. Peace, peace ; ah, see !

Par. Oh, emptiness of fame !

Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars !
— Who said these old renowns, dead long ago,
Could make me overlook the living world
To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed,
But stand no longer ? What a warm light life
After the shade ! In truth, my delicate witch,
My serpent-queen, you did hut well to hide
The juggles I had else detected. Fire
May well run harmless o'er a hreast like yours !
The cave was not so darkened hy the smoke
But that your white Hmhs dazzled me : Oh, white,
And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing !
I cared not for your passionate gestures then,
But now I have forgotten the charm of charms,
The foolish knowledge which I came to seek,
While I remember that quaint dance ; and thus
I am come back, not for those mummeries,
But to love you, and to kiss your little feet,
Soft as an ermine's winter coat !

Fest. A sense

Will struggle through these thronging words at last,
As in the angry and tumultuous west

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128 PARACELSUS.

A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds.
These are the strivings of a spirit which hates
So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up
The past to stand between it and its fate :
Were he at Einsiedeln — or Mkhal here !

Par. Oruel ! I seek her now — I kneel — I shriek —
I clasp her vesture — but she fades, still fades ;
And she is gone ; sweet human love is gone !
Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels
Reveal themselves to you ; they sit all day
Beside you, and lie down at night by you,
Who care not for their presence — muse or sleep —
And all at once they leave you and you know them !
We are so fooled, so cheated ! Why, even now
I am not too secure against foul play :
The shadows deepen, and the walls contract —
No doubt some treachery is going on !
Tis very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile ?
Have they left us in the lurch ? This murky, loathsome
Death-trap — this slaughter-house — is not the hall
In the golden city ! Keep by me, Aprile !
There is a hand groping amid the blackness
To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you,
Poet ? Hold on me for your life ; if once
They pull you!— Hold!

Tis but a dream — no more.
I have you still — the sun comes out again ;
Let us be happy — all will yet go well !
Let us confer : is it not like, Aprile,

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PARACELSUS. 129

That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed,

The value of my labours ascertained,

Just as some stream foams long among the rocks

But after glideth glassy to the sea,

So, full content shall henceforth be my lot?

What think you, poet ? Louder ! Your clear voice

Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask

How could I still remain on earth, should God

Grant me the great approval which I seek?

I, you, and God can comprehend each other,

But men would murmur, and with cause enough ;

For when they saw me, stainless of all sin,

Preserved and sanctified by inward light,

They would complain that comfort, shut from them,

I drank thus unespied ; that they live on,

Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy,

For ache, and care, and doubt, and weariness,

While I am calm ; help being vouchsafed to me,

And hid from them ! — Twere best consider that !

You reason well, Aprile ; but at least

Let me know this, and die ! Is this too much ?

I will learn this, if God so please, and die !

If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please !

We are so weak, we know our motives least

In their confused beginning : if at first

I sought . . . But wherefore bare my heart to thee ?

I know thy mercy ; and already thoughts

Flock fast about my soul to comfort it,

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130 PARACELSUS*

And intimate I cannot wholly fail,
For love and praise would clasp me willingly
Could I resolve to seek them : Thou art good,
And I should be content ; yet — yet first show
I have done wrong in daring! Bather give
The supernatural consciousness of strength
That fed my youth — one only hour of that
With thee to help — O what should bar me then !

Lost, lost ! Thus things are ordered here ! God's creatures,
And yet he takes no pride in us ! — none, none !
Truly there needs another life to come !
If this be all — (I must tell Festus that)
And other life await us not — for one,
I say 'tis a poor cheat, a stupid bungle,
A wretched failure. I, for one, protest
Against it — and I hurl it back with scorn !

Well, onward though alone : small time remains,

And much to do : I must have fruit, must reap

Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body

Will hardly serve me through: while I have laboured

It has decayed ; and now that I demand

Its best assistance, it will crumble fast :

A sad thought — a sad fate ! How very full

Of wormwood 'tis, that just at altar-service,

The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke,

When glory dawns, and all is at the best —

The sacred fire may flicker, and grow faint,

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PARACELSUS, 131

And die, for want of a wood-piler's help !
Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul
Is pulled down in the overthrow : well, well — ■
Let men catch every word — let them lose nought
Of what I say ; something may yet be done.

They are ruins ! Trust me who am one of you !
All ruins — glorious once, but lonely now.
It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch
Beside your desolate fane ; the arches dim,
The crumbling columns grand against the moon :
Could I but rear them up once more — but that
May never be, so leave them ! Trust me, friends,
Why should you linger here when I have built
A far resplendent temple, all your own ?
Trust me, they are but ruins ! See, Aprile,
Men will not heed ! Yet were I not prepared
With better refuge for them, tongue of mine
Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is ;
I would sit down in silence with the rest

Ha, what ? you spit at me, you grin and shriek
Contempt into my ear — my ear which drank
God's accents once ? you curse me ? Why men, men,
I am not formed for it ! Those hideous eyes
Follow me sleeping, waking, praying God,
And will not let me even die : spare, spare me,
Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me
That horrible scorn ; you thought I could support it,
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132 PARACELSUS.

But now you see what silly fragile creature
Cowers thus. I am not good nor had enough,
Not Christ, nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved
From hate like this : let me hut totter hack,
Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep
Into my very brain, and shut these scorched
Eyelids, and keep those mocking faces out.

Listen, Aprile ! I am very calm :

Be not deceived, there is no passion here,

Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing.

I am calm : I will exterminate the race !

Enough of that : 'tis said and it shall be.

And now be merry — safe and sound am I,

Who broke through their best ranks to get at you ;

And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile !

Fest. Have you no thought, no memory for me,
Aureole ? I am so wretched — my pure Michal
Is gone, and you alone are left to me,
And even you forget me : take my hand —
Lean on me, thus. Do you not know me, Aureole ?

Par. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last ?
As you say, 'tis an awful enterprise —
But you believe I shall go through with it :
Tis like you, and I thank you ; thank him for me,
Dear Michal ! See how bright St. Saviour's spire
Flames in the sunset ; all its figures quaint
Gay in the glancing light : you might conceive them
A troop of yellow-vested, white-haired Jews,
Bound for their own land where redemption dawns !

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PARACELSUS. 133

Fest. Not that blest time — not our youth's time, dear
God!

Par. Ha — stay ! true, I forget — all is done since !
And he is come to judge me : how he speaks,
How calm, how well ! yes, it is true, all true ;
All quackery ; all deceit ! myself can laugh
The first at it, if you desire : but still
You know the obstacles which taught me tricks
So foreign to my nature — envy, and hate —
Blind opposition — brutal prejudice —
Bald ignorance — what wonder if I sunk
To humour men the way they most approved ?
My cheats were never palmed on such as you,
Dear Festus ! I will kneel if you require me,
Impart the meagre knowledge I possess,
Explain its bounded nature, and avow
My insufficiency — whate'er you will :
I give the fight up ! let there be an end,
A privacy, an obscure nook for me.
I want to be forgotten even by God !
But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me,
When I shall die, within some narrow grave,
Not by itself — for that would be too proud —
But where such graves are thickest ; let it look
Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round,
So that the peasant at his brother's bed
May tread upon my own and know it not ;
And we shall all be equal at the last,
Or classed according to life's natural ranks,

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134 PARACELSUS.

Fathers, soils, brothers, friends — not rich, nor wise,
Nor gifted : lay me thus, then say " He lived
" Too much advanced before his brother men :
" They kept him still in front; 'twas for their good,
" But yet a dangerous station. It were strange
" That he should tell God he had never ranked
" With men : so, here at least he is a man ! "

Fest. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear Spirit,
Unto his breast, be sure ! and here on earth
Shall splendour sit upon thy name for ever !
Sun ! all the heaven is glad for thee : what care
If lower mountains light their snowy phares
At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not
The source of day ? Men look up to the sun ;
For after-ages shall retrack thy beams,
And put aside the crowd of busy ones,
And worship thee alone — the master-mind,
The thinker, the explorer, the creator !
Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes
With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well
The winding sheet of subterraneous fire
Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last
Huge islands up amid the simmering sea !
Behold thy might in me ! thou hast infused
Thy soul in mine ; and I am grand as thou,
Seeing I comprehend thee — I so simple,
Thou so august ! I recognise thee first ;
I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late,
And though no glance reveal thou dost accept

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PARACELStJS. 136

My homage — thus no less I proffer it,
And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest !
Par. Festus!

Fest. I am for noble Aureole, God !

I am upon his side, come weal or woe !
His portion shall be mine ! He has done well !
I would have sinned, had I been strong enough,
As he has sinned ! Reward him or I waive
Reward ! If thou canst find no place for him,
He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be
His slave for ever ! There are two of us !
Par. Dear Festus !

Fest. Here, dear Aureole ! ever by you !

Par. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on !
Some story, any thing — only your voice.
I shall dream else. Speak on ! ay, leaning so !
Fest. Softly the Mayne river glideth
Close by where my love abideth ;
Sleep *s no softer : it proceeds
On through lawns, on through meads,
On and on, whate'er befall,
Meandering and musical,
Though the niggard pasture's edge
Bears not on its shaven ledge
Aught but weeds and waving grasses
To view the river as it passes,
Save here and there a scanty patch
Of primroses, too feint to catch
A weary bee . . •

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136 PABACELSUS.

Par. More, more ; say on !

Fest The river pushes

Its gentle way through strangling rushes,

Where the glossy king-fisher

Flutters when noon-heats are near,

Glad the shelving banks to shun,

Bed and steaming in the sun,

Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat

Burrows, and the speckled stoat,

Where the quick sand-pipers flit

In and out the marl and grit

That seems to breed them, brown as they.

Nought disturbs the river's way,

Save some lazy stork that springs,

Trailing it with legs and wings,

Whom the shy fox from the hill

Bouses, creep he ne'er so still.
Par. My heart ! they loose my heart, those simple words ;
Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch ;
Like some dark snake that force may not expel,
Which glideth out to music sweet and low.
What were you doing when your voice broke through
A chaos of ugly images ? You, indeed !
Are you alone here ?

Fest. All alone : you know me ?

This cell?

Par. An unexceptionable vault —
Good brick and stone — the bats kept out, the rats
Kept in — a snug nook : how should I mistake it?

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PARACELSUS. 137

Fest. But wherefore am I here ?

Par. Ah ! well remembered :

Why, for a purpose — for a purpose, Festus !
Tis like me : here I trifle while time fleets,
And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return !
You are here to be instructed. I will tell
God's message ; but I have so much to say,
I fear to leave half out : all is confused
No doubt ; but doubtless you will learn in time.
He would not else have brought you here : no doubt
I shall see clearer soon.

Fest. Tell me but this —

You are not in despair ?

Par. I? and for what?

Fest. Alas, alas ! he knows not, as I feared !

Par. What is it you would ask me with that earnest,
Dear, searching face ?

Fest. How feel you, Aureole ?

Par. Well I

Well : 'tis a strange thing. I am dying, Festus,
And now that fast the storm of life subsides,
I first perceive how great the whirl has been :
I was calm then, who am so dizzy now —
Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less
A partner of its motion, and mixed up
With its career. The hurricane is spent,
And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather ;
But is it earth or sea that heaves below ?
For the gulf rolls like a meadow, overstrewn

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138 PARACELSUS.

With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore ;

And now some islet, loosened from the land,

Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean ;

And now the air is full of up-torn canes,

Light strappings from the fan-trees, tamarisks

Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them,

All high in the wind, Even so my varied life

Drifts by me. I am young, old, happy, sad,

Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest,

And all at once : that is, those past conditions

Float back at once on me. If I select

Some special epoch from the crowd, 'tis but

To will, and straight the rest dissolve away,

And only that particular state is present,

With all its long-forgotten circumstance,

Distinct and vivid as at first — myself

A careless looker-on, and nothing more !

Indifferent and amused, but nothing more !

And this is death : I understand it all.

New being waits me ; new perceptions must

Be born in me before I plunge therein ;

Which last is Death's affair ; and while I speak,

Minute by minute he is filling me

With power ; and while my foot is on the threshold

Of boundless life — the doors unopened yet,

All preparations not complete within —

I turn new knowledge upon old events,

And the effect is . . . But I must not tell ;

It is not lawful. Your own turn will come

One day. Wait, Festus ! You will die like me !

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PAKACELSU8. 139

Fest. Tis of that past life that I burn to hear !

Par. You wonder it engages me just now ?
In truth, I wonder too. What 's life to me ?
Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen
Musk, and where I tend bliss evermore.
Yet how can I refrain ? Tis a refined
Delight to view those chances,— one last view.
I am so near the perils I escape,
That I must play with them and turn them over,
To feel how fully they are past and gone.
Still it is like some further cause exists
For this peculiar mood — some hidden purpose ;
Did I not tell you something of it, Festus?
I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt
Away from me ; it will return anon.

Fest. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice
Complete with its old tones : that little laugh
Concluding every phrase, with up-turned eye,
As though one stooped above his head, to whom
He looked for confirmation and applause, —
Where was it gone so long, being kept so well ?
Then, the fore-finger pointing as he speaks,
Like one who traces in an open book
The matter he declares ; 'tis many a year
Since I remarked it last : and this in him,
But now a ghastly wreck !)

And can it be,
Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last
That worldly things are utter vanity ?

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140 PARACELSUS.

That man is made for weakness, and should wait
In patient ignorance till G-od appoint . . .

Par. Ha, the purpose ; the true purpose : that is it !
How could I fail to apprehend ! You here,
I thus ! But no more trifling ; I see all,
I know all : my last mission shall be done
If strength suffice. No trifling ! Stay ; this posture
Hardly befits one thus about to speak :
I will arise.

Fe8t. Nay, Aureole, are you wild ?

You cannot leave your eouch.

Par. No help ; no help ;

Not even your hand. So ! there, I stand once more !
Speak from a couch ? I never lectured thus.
My gown — the scarlet, lined with fur ; now put
The chain about my neck ; my signet-ring
Is still upon my hand, I think — even so ;
Last, my good sword ; ha, trusty Azoth, leapest
Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time ?
This couch shall be my throne : I bid these walls
Be consecrate ; this wretched cell become
A shrine ; for here God speaks to men through me !
Now, Festus, I am ready to begin.

Fest. I am dumb with wonder.

Par. Listen, therefore, Festus !

There will be time enough, but none to spare.
I must content myself with telling only
The most important points. You doubtless feel
That I am happy, Festus ; very happy.

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PARACELSUS. 141

Fest. Tis no delusion which uplifts him thus !
Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin ?

Par. Ay, pardoned ! yet why pardoned ?

Fest. Tis God's praise

That man is hound to seek, and you . . .

Par. Have lived !

We have to live alone to set forth well
God's praise. Tis true, I sinned much, as I thought,
And in effect need mercy, for I strove
To do that very thing ; but, do your best
Or worst, praise rises, and will rise for ever.
Pardon from Him, because of praise denied —
Who calls me to Himself to exalt Himself?
He might laugh as I laugh !

Fest. Then all comes

To the same thing. Tis fruitless for mankind
To fret themselves with what concerns them not ;
They are no use that way : they should lie down
Content as God has made them, nor go mad
In thriveless cares to better what is ill.

Par. No, no ; mistake me not ; let me not work
More harm than I have done ! This is my case :
If I go joyous back to God, yet bring
No offering, if I render up my soul
Without the fruits it was ordained to bear,
If I appear the better to love God
For sin, as one who has no claim on him, —
Be not deceived : it may be surely thus
With me, while higher prizes still await

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# 142 PABACELStJS.

The mortal persevering to the end.

For I too have been something, though too soon

I left the instincts of that happy time !

Fest What happy time? For God's sake, for man's sake,
What time was happy ? All I hope to know
That answer will decide. What happy time ?

Par. When, hut the time I vowed my help to man ?

Fest. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable !

Par. Yes, it was in me ; I was born for it —
I, Paracelsus : it was mine by right.
Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul
Might learn from its own motions that some task
Like this awaited it about the world ;
Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours
For fit delights to stay its longings vast ;
And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her
To fill the creature full she dared to frame
Hungry for joy ; and, bravely tyrannous,
Grow in demand, still craving more and more,
And make each joy conceded prove a pledge
Of other joy to follow — bating nought
Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence
To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung
As an extreme, last boon, from Destiny,
Into occasion for new covetings,
New strifes, new triumphs : — doubtless a strong soul
Alone, unaided might attain to this,
So glorious is our nature, so august
Man's inborn uninstructed impulses,

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PARACELSUS, 143

His naked spirit so majestical !
But this was born in me ; I was made so ;
Thus much time saved : the feverish appetites,
The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed
Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind,
Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears
Were saved me ; thus I entered on my course !
You may be sure I was not all exempt
From human trouble ; just so much of doubt
As bade me plant a surer foot upon
The sun-road — kept my eye unruined mid
The fierce and flashing splendour — set my heart
Trembling so much as warned me I stood there
On sufferance — not to idly gaze, but cast
Light on a darkling race ; save for that doubt,
I stood at first where all aspire at last
To stand ; the secret of the world was mine.
I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed,
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought,
But somehow felt and known in every shift
And change in the spirit, — nay, in every pore
Of the body, even,) — what God is, what we are,
What life is — how God tastes an infinite joy
In infinite ways — one everlasting bliss,
From whom all being emanates, all power
Proceeds ; in whom is life for evermore,
Yet whom existence in its lowest form
Includes ; where dwells enjoyment there is He !
With still a flying point of bliss remote,

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144 PARACELSUS.

A happiness in store afar, a sphere

Of distant glory in full view ; thus climbs

Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever !

The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,

And the earth changes like a human face ;

The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,

Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright

In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask —

God joys therein ! The wroth sea's waves are edged

With foam, white as the bitten lip of Hate,

When, in the solitary waste, strange groups

Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,

Staring together with their eyes on flame ; —

God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride !

Then all is still : earth is a wintry clod ;

But spring- wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes

Over its breast to waken it ; rare verdure

Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between

The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,

Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face ;

The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms,

Like chrysalids impatient for the air ;

The shining dorrs are busy ; beetles run

Along the furrows, ants make their ado ;

Above, birds fly in merry flocks — the lark

Soars up and up, shivering for very joy ;

Afar the ocean sleeps ; white fishing-gulls

Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe

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PARACELSUS. 145

Of nested limpets ; savage creatures seek

Their loves in -wood and plain ; and God renews

His ancient rapture ! Thus He dwells in all,

From life's minute beginnings, up at last

To man — the consummation of this scheme

Of being, the completion of this sphere

Of life : whose attributes had here and there

Been scattered o'er the visible world before,

Asking to be combined — dim fragments meant

To be united in some wondrous whole —

Imperfect qualities throughout creation,

Suggesting some one creature yet to make —

Some point where all those scattered rays should meet

Convergent in the faculties of man.

Power ; neither put forth blindly, nor controlled

Calmly by perfect knowledge ; to be used

At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear :

Knowledge ; not intuition, but the slow

Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil,

Strengthened by love : love ; not serenely pure,

But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant

Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds,

And softer stains, unknown in happier climes ;

Love which endures, and doubts, and is oppressed,

And cherished, suffering much, and much sustained,

A blind, oft-failing, yet believing love,

A half-enlightened, often-chequered trust : —

Hints and previsions of which faculties,

Are strewn confusedly everywhere about

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146 PA&ACE&SU&

The inferior natures ; and all lead up higher,

All shape out dimly the superior race,

The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false,

And Man appears at last : so far the seal

Is put on life ; one stage of being complete,

One scheme wound up ; and from the grand result

A supplementary reflux of light,

Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains

Each hack step in the circle. Not alone

For their possessor dawn those qualities,

But the new glory mixes with the heaven

And earth : Man, Once descried, imprints for ever

His presence on all lifeless things ; the winds

Are henceforth voices, in a wail or shout,

A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh —

Never a senseless gust now man is born !

The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts,

A secret they assemble to discuss,

When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare

Like grates of hell : the peerless cup afloat

Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph

Swims bearing high above her head : no bird

Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above

That let light in upon the gloomy woods,

A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top,

Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye :

The morn has enterprise, — deep quiet droops

With evening ; triumph takes the sun-set hour,

Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn

Beneath a warm moon like a happy face :

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PABACELSUS. 147

— And this to fill us with regard for man,
With apprehension of his passing worth,
Desire to work his proper nature out,
And ascertain his rank and final place ;
For these things tend still upward — progress is
The law of life — man's self is not yet Man !
Nor shall I deem his object served, his end
Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth,
While only here and there a star dispels
The darkness, here and there a towering mind
Overlooks its prostrate fellows : when the host
Is out at once to the despair of night,
When all mankind alike is perfected,
Equal in full-blown powers — then, not till then,
I say, begins man's general infancy !
For wherefore make account of feverish starts
Of restless members of a dormant whole-
Impatient nerves which quiver while the body
Slumbers as in a grave ? O, long ago
The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir,
The peaceful mouth disturbed ; half-uttered speech
Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set,
The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched

stronger,
As it would pluck a lion by the jaw ;
The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep !
But when full roused, each giant-limb awake,
Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast,

He shall start up, and stand on his own earth,
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148 PARACELSUS.

And so begin his long triumphant march,

And date his being thence, — thus wholly roused,

What he achieves shall be set down to him !

When all the race is perfected alike

As Man, that is : all tended to mankind,

And, man produced, all has its end thus far ;

But in completed man begins anew

A tendency to God. Prognostics told

Man's near approach ; so in man's self arise

August anticipations, symbols, types

Of a dim splendour ever on before,

In that eternal circle run by life :

For men begin to pass their nature's bound,

And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant

Their proper joys and griefs ; and outgrow all

The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade

Before the unmeasured thirst for good ; while peace

Rises within them ever more and more.

Such men are even now uppn the earth,

Serene amid the half-formed creatures round,

Who should be saved by them and joined with them.

Such was my task, and I was born to it —

Free, as I said but now, from much that chains

Spirits, high-dowered, but limited and vexed

By a divided and delusive aim,

A shadow mocking a reality

Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse

The flitting mimic called up by itself,

And so remains perplexed and nigh put out

By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam.

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PAlUCELSTJSf. 149

I, from the first, was never cheated so ;
I never fashioned out a fancied good
Distinct from man's ; a service to be done,
A glory to be ministered unto,
With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn
From labouring in his behalf ; a strength
Denied that might avail him i I cared not
Lest his success ran counter to success
Elsewhere : for God is glorified in man,
And to man's glory, vowed I soul and limb.
Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed,
I failed : I gazed on power till I grew blind —
On power ; I could not take my eyes from that —
That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased
At any risk, displayed, struck out at once —
The sign, and note, and character of man.
I saw no use in the past : only a scene
Of degradation, imbecility —
The record of disgraces best forgotten,
A sullen page in human chronicles
Fit to erase : I saw no cause why man
Should not be all-sufficient even now ;
Or why his annals should be forced to tell
That once the tide of light, about to break
Upon the world, was sealed within its spring ;
i ! I would have had one day, one moment's space,
Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim
To mastery o'er the elemental world
At once to full maturity, then roll

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150 PAEACELSUS.

Oblivion o'er the tools, and hide from man

What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child

Of after-days, wilt thou reject the Past,

Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure

By which thou hast the earth : the Present for thee

Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen

Beside that Past's own shade, whence, in relief,

Its brightness shall stand out : nor on thee yet

Shall burst the Future, as successive zones

Of several wonder open on some spirit

Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven ;

But thou shalt painfully attain to joy,

While hope, and fear, and love, shall keep thee man !

All this was hid from me : as one by one

My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed,

As actual good within my reach decreased,

While obstacles sprung up this way and that,

To keep me from effecting half the sum,

Small as it proved ; as objects, mean within

The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least,

Itself a match for my concentred strength—

What wonder if I saw no way to shun

Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's!

In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die,

A strange adventure made me know, One Sin

Had spotted my career from its uprise ;

I saw Aprile— my Aprile there I

And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened

His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear,

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PARAOELStTS. 151

I learned my own deep error ; love's undoing

Taught me the worth of love in man's estate,

And what proportion love should hold with power

In his right constitution ; love preceding

Power, and with much power, always much more love ;

Love still too straitened in its present means,

And earnest for new power to set it free.

I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned :

And thus, when men received with stupid wonder

My first revealings, would have worshipped me,

And I despised and loathed their proffered praise —

When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge

For past credulity in casting shame

On my real knowledge, and I hated them —

It was not strange I saw no good in man,

To overbalance all the wear and waste

Of faculties, displayed in vain, hut horn

To prosper in some better sphere : and why ?

In my own heart love had not been made wise

To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind,

To know even hate is but a mask of love's,

To see a good in evil, and a hope

In ill-success ; to sympathize, be proud

Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim

Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies,

Their prejudice, and fears, and cares, and doubts ;

Which all touch upon nobleness, despite

Their error, all tend upwardly though weak,

Like plants in mines which never saw the sun,

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152 PARACELSUS.

But dream of him, and guess where he may be, ;

And do their best to climb and get to him. '

All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men

Regard me, and the poet dead long ago

Who once loved rashly ; and shape forth a third,

And better tempered spirit, warned by both :

As from the over-radiant star too mad

To drink the light-springs, beamless thence itself —

And the dark orb which borders the abyss,

Ingulfed in icy night, — might have its course

A temperate and equidistant world.

Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well.

As yet men cannot do without contempt —

Tis for their good, and therefore fit awhile

That they reject the weak, and scorn the false,

Eather than praise the strong and true, in me.

But after, they will know me ! If I stoop

Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,

It is but for a time ; I press God's lamp

Close to my breast — its splendour, soon or late,

Will pierce the gloom : I shall emerge one day !

You understand me ? I have said enough ?

Fest. Now die, dear Aureole!

Par. Festus, let my hand —

This hand, lie in your own — my own true friend !
Aprile ! Hand in hand with you, Aprile !

Fest. And this was Paracelsus !

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NOTE.

Thb liberties I have taken with my subject are very trifling ;
and the reader may slip the foregoing scenes between the leaves of
any memoir of Paracelsus he pleases, by way of commentary. To
prove this, I subjoin a popular account, translated from the " Bio-
graphie UniverseUe, Pwris, 1822," which I select, not as the best,
certainly, but as being at hand, and sufficiently concise for my
purpose. I also append a few notes, in order to correct those parts
which do not bear out my own view of the character of Paracelsus;
and have incorporated with them a notice or two, illustrative of
the poem itself.

"Paracelsus (Philippic Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus
ab Hohenheim) was born in 1493 at Einsiedeln, ( J ) a little town
in the canton of Schwitz, some leagues distant from Zurich. His
father, who exercised the profession of medicine at Yillach, in
Carinthia, was nearly related to George Bombast de Hohenheim,
who became afterward Grand Prior of the Order of Malta ; conse-
quently Paracelsus could not spring from the dregs of the people,
as Thomas Erastus, his sworn enemy, pretends.* It appears that

* I shall disguise M. Renauldin's next sentence a little. «« Hio
(Erastus so.) Paraoelsum trimum a milite quodam, alii a sue exectum
ferunt : constat imberbem ilium fuisse." A standing High-Dutch joke
in those days at the expense of a number of learned men, as may be
seen by referring to suoh rubbish as Icelander's Jocoteria, &c, &o. In
the prints from his portrait by Tintoretto, painted a year before his
death, Paracelsus is barbatulus, at all events. But Erastus was never
without a good reason for his faith— e. g. " Helvetium fuisse (Paraoelsum)
vix credo, vix enim ea regio tale monstrum ediderit."— De Med. Novd.

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1 54 NOTE.

his elementary education -was much neglected, and that he spent
part of his youth in pursuing the life common to the travelling
literati of the age ; that is to say, in wandering from country to
country, predicting the future by astrology and cheiromancy,
evoking apparitions, and practising the different operations of magic
and alchemy, in which he had been initiated whether by his
father or by various ecclesiastics, among the number of whom he
particularizes the Abbot Tritheim,( 2 ) and many German bishops.

" As Paracelsus displays everywhere an ignorance of the rudi-
ments of the most ordinary knowledge, it is not probable that he
ever studied seriously in the schools : he contented himself with
visiting the Universities of Germany, France, and Italy ; and in
spite of his boasting himself to have been the ornament of those
institutions, there is no proof of his having legally acquired the
title of Doctor, which he assumes. It is only known that he
applied himself long, under the direction of the wealthy Sigismond
Fugger, of Schwatz, to the discovery of the Magnum Opus.

" Paracelsus travelled among the mountains of Bohemia, in the
East, and in Sweden, in order to inspect the labours of the miners,
to be initiated in the mysteries of the oriental adepts, and to
observe the secrets of nature and the famous mountain of load-
stone^ 3 ) He professes also to have visited Spain, Portugal,
Prussia, Poland, and Transsylvania ; everywhere communicating
freely, not merely with the physicians, but the old women, char-
latans, and conjurers, of these several lands. It is even believed
that he extended his journeyings as far as Egypt and Tartary, and
that he accompanied the son of the Khan of the Tartars to Con-
stantinople, for the purpose of obtaining the secret of the tincture
of Trismegistus, from a Greek who inhabited that capital.

" The period of his return to Germany is unknown : it is only
certain that, at about the age of thirty-three, many astonishing
cures which he wrought on eminent personages procured him such
a celebrity, that he was called in 1526, on the recommendation of
(Ecolampadius,( 4 ) to fill a chair of physic and surgery at the
University of Basil. There Paracelsus began by burning publicly
in the amphitheatre the works of Avicenna and Galen, assuring his

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NOTE. 155

auditors that the latchets of his shoes were more instructed than
those two physicians; that all Universities, all writers put
together, were less gifted than the hairs of his beard and of the
crown of his head ; and that, in a word, he was to be regarded as
the legitimate monarch of medicine. ' You shall follow me,* cried
he, 'you, Avicenna, Galen, Rhasis, Montagnana, Mesues, you,
Gentlemen of Paris, Montpellier, Germany, Cologne, Vienna,*
and whomsoever the Rhine and the Danube nourish; you who
inhabit the isles of the sea; you, likewise, Dalmatians, Athenians;
thou, Arab ; thou, Greek ; thou, Jew; all shall follow me, and the
monarchy shall be mine.'t

u But at Basil it was speedily perceived that the new Professor
was no better than an egregious quack. Scarcely a year elapsed
before his lectures had fairly driven away an audience incapable of
comprehending their emphatic jargon. That which above all
contributed to sully his reputation was the debauched life he led.
According to the testimony of Oporinus, who lived two years in
his intimacy, Paracelsus scarcely ever ascended the lecture-desk
unless half drunk, and only dictated to his secretaries when in a
state of intoxication : if summoned to attend the sick, he rarely
proceeded thither without previously drenching himself with wine.
He was accustomed to retire to bed without changing his clothes;
sometimes he spent the night in pot-houses with the peasants, and
in the morning knew no longer what he was about ; and, neverthe-
less, up to the age of twenty-five his only drink had been water.( 5 )

* Erastus, who relates this, here oddly remarks, " mirum quod non
et Garamantos, Indos et Anglos adjnnxit." Not so wonderful neither, if
we believe what another adversary " bad heard somewhere/'— that all
Paracelsus' system came of his pillaging " Anglnm quendam, Rogerium
Baechonem."

f See his works passim, I must give one specimen :— Somebody had
been styling him " Luther alter ; " " and why not ? * (he asks, as he
well might) " Luther is abundantly learned, therefore you hate him and
me ; but we are at least a match for you.— Nam et contra vos et vestros
universes principes Avioannam, Galenum, Aristotelem, &c me satis
superque munitum esse novi. Et vertex iste meus calvus ao depilis
multd plura et sublimiora novit quam vester vel Avicenna vel universe
aeademte. Prodite, et signum date, qui virl sitis, quid roboris habeatis ?
quid autem sitis ? Doctores et magistri, pedioulos peotentes et fricantes
. podioem.**— Frag. Med,

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156 NOTE.

" At length, fearful of being punished for a serious outrage on a
magistrate^ 6 ) he fled from Basil towards the end of the year '27,
and took refuge in Alsatia, whither he caused Oporinus to follow
with his chymical apparatus.

" He then entered once more upon the career of ambulatory
theosophist.* Accordingly we find him at Colmar in 1528; at
Nuremburg in 1529 ; at St. Gall in 1531 ; at Pfeffers in 1535 ;
and at Augsburg in 1536 : he next made some stay in Moravia,
where he still further compromised his reputation by the loss of
many distinguished patients, which compelled him to betake himself
to Vienna ; from thence he passed into Hungary ; and in 1538
was at Villach, where he dedicated his ' Chronicle * to the States of
Carinthia, in gratitude for the many kindnesses with which they
had honoured his father. Finally, from Mindelheim, which he
visited in 1540, Paracelsus proceeded to Salzburg, where he died
in the Hospital of St Stephen (Sebastian, is meant), Sept. 24,
1541." — (Here follows a criticism on his writings^ which I omit.)

(1) ParaceUus would seem to be a fantastic version of Van
Eohenheim; Einsiedeln is the Latin Eremus, whence Paracelsus
is sometimes called, as in the correspondence of Erasmus, Eremita :
Bombast, his proper name, originally acquired from the charac-
teristic phraseology of his lectures, that unlucky signification which
it has ever since retained.

(2) Then Bishop of Spanheim, and residing at Wurzburg in
Franconia ; a town situated in a grassy fertile country, whence its
name, Herbipolis. He was much visited there by learned men, as
may be seen by his Epistolxx Familiares. Hag. 1536. Among
others, by his staunch friend Cornelius Agrippa, to whom he dates

* " So migratory a life could afford Paracelsus but little leisure for
application to books, and accordingly he informs us that for the space
of ten years he never opened a single volume, and that his whole medical
library was not composed of six sheets : in effect, the inventory drawn
up after his death states that the only books which he left were the
Bible, the New Testament, the Commentaries of St Jerome on the
Gospels, a printed volume on Medicine, and seven manuscripts."

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NOTE. 157

thence, in 1510, a letter in answer to the dedicatory epistle prefixed
to the treatise de Occult. PhUowph., -which last contains the foU
lowing ominous allusion to Agrippa's sojourn: "Quum nuper
tecum, R. P. in coenobio tuo apud Herhipolim aliquamdiu convert
satus, multa de chymicis, multa de magicis, multa de cabalisticis,
cieterisque quae adhuc in occulto delitescunt, arcanis scientiis
atque artibus una contulissemus," &c. &c.

(3) " Inezplebilis ilia aviditas naturae perscrutandi sccreta et
reconditarum supellectile scientiarum animum locupletandi, uno
eodemque loco, diu persistere non patiebatur, sed mercurii instar,
omnes terras, nationes et urbes perlustrandi igniculos supponebat
et cum viris naturae scrutatoribus, chymicis praesertim, ore tenus
conferret, et quae diuturnis laboribus nocturnisque vigiliis inve-
nerant una vel altera communicatione obtineret." — Bitiskius in
Prcefat. "Patris auxilio primum, deinde propria! industria doc-
tissimos viros in Germania, Italia, Gallia, Hispania, aliisque Europae
regionibus, nactus est praeceptores ; quorum liberal! doctrinal, et
potissimum propria inquisitione ut qui esset ingenio acutissimo ac
fere divino, tantum profecit, ut multi testati sint, in universal
philosophic, tarn ardua, tarn arcana et abdita eruisse mortalium
neminem." — Melch. Adam, m Vit. Qerm. Medic. " Paracelsus
qui in intima naturae viscera sic penitus introierit, metallorum
stirpiumque vires et facilitates tarn incredibili ingenii acumine
exploraverit ac perviderit; ad morbos omnes vel desperates et
opinione hominum insanabiles percurandum ; ut cum Theophrasto
nata primum medicina perfectaque videtur." — Petri Rami Orat.
de Basiled. His passion for wandering is best described in his
own words: "Ecce amatorem adolescentem difficillimi itineris
haud piget, ut venustam saltern puellam vel fcemmam aspiciat:
quanto minus nobilissimarum artium amore laboris ac cujuslibet
taedii pigebit ? " &c. — Defensiones Septem adversus JSmulos silos.
1573. Def. ita. " De peregrinationitms et exilio"

(4) The reader may remember that it was in conjunction with
(Ecolampadius, then Divinity-Professor at Basil, that Zuinglius

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158 NOTE.

published, in 1528, an answer to Luther's Confession of Faith ; and
that both proceeded in company to the subsequent conference with
Luther and Melancthon at Marpurg. Their letters fill a large
volume. — D.J). Johannis CEcolampadii et Hvldrichi Zumglu
Epistolanm Kb. quatuor. Bos. 1536. It must be also observed,
that Zuinglius began to preach in 1516, and at Zurich in 1519,
and that in 1525 the mass was abolished in the cantons. The
tenets of (Ecolampadius were supposed to be more evangelical
than those up to that period maintained by the glorious German,
and our brave Bishop Fisher attacked them as the fouler heresy : —
M About this time arose out of Luther's school one (Ecolampadius,
like a mighty and fierce giant ; who, as his master had gone
beyond the Church, went beyond his master (or else it had been
impossible he could have been reputed the better scholar) who
denied the real presence : him, thiB worthy champion (the Bishop)
sets upon, and with five books (like so many smooth stones taken
out of the river that doth always run with living water) slays the
Philistine ; which five books were written in the year of our Lord
1526, at which time he had governed the See of Rochester 20
years."— IAfe of JBp. Fisher. 1655. Now, there is no doubt of
the Protestantism of Paracelsus, Erasmus, Agrippa, &c. but the
nonconformity of Paracelsus was always scandalous. L. Crasso
{Elogj d'Humim Letterati. Yen. 1666) informs us that his
books were excommunicated by the Church. Quensledt (de Pair.
DocL) affirms "nee tantum novas medicuue, verum etiam nova
theologize autor est." Delrio, in his Disquisit. Magicar, classes
him among those " partim atheos, partim haereticos " (lib. 1. cap.
3.) " Omnino tamen multa theologica in ejusdem scriptis plane
atheismum olent,ac duriuscule sonant in auribus vere Christiani." —
Z). Oabridis Clcmderi Schediawna de Tinct. Univ. Norimb. 1 736.
I shall only add one more authority — " Oporinus dicit se (Para-
eelsum) aliauando Lutherum et Papain, non minus quam nunc
Gralenum et Hippocratem redacturum in ordinem minabatur,
neque enim eorum qui hactenus in scripturam sacram scripsissent,
sive veteres, sive recentiores, quenquam scriptural nucleum recte
eruisse, sed circa corticem et quasi membranam tantum herere.'*

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NOTE. 159

— Th. Eraxtm. Dieputat, de Med. Nw&. These and similar
notions bad their due effect on Oporinns, who, says Zuingerus, in
his Tkeatrwrn, "longum vale dixit ei (Paracelso) ne ob prs>
ceptoris, alioqui amicissimi, borrendas blaspbemias ipse quoquo
aliquando poenas Deo. Opt. Max. lueret."

(5) His defenders allow the drunkenness. Take a sample of
their excuses : " Gentis hoc, non viri vitiolum est, a Tacitd seculo
ad nostrum usque non interrupto filo devolutum, sinceritati forto
German© coasvum, et nescio an aliquo consangninitatis vinculo
junctum." — Bitishius. The other charges were chiefly trumped
up by Oporinus: "Domi, quod Oporinus amanuensis ejus sspc
narravit, nunquam nisi potus ad explicanda sua accessit, atque in
medio conclavi ad columnam rerwpvfieyos adsistens, apprehenso
manibus capulo ensis, cujus icolkwfxa hospitium pnebuit ut aiunt
spiritui familiar!, imaginations aut concepta sua protulit :— alii
illud quod in capulo habuit, ab ipso Azoth appellatum Medicinam
fuiase pnestantissimam aut lapidem Pbilosophicum putanC —
Melch. Adam. This famous sword was no laughing matter in
those days, and is now a material feature in the popular idea of
Paracelsus. I recollect a couple of allusions to it in our own
literature, at the moment.

Ne had been known the Danish Gonswart,
Or Paracelsus with his long sword.

Volpone. ActiL so. 2.
Bumhastus kept a Devil's bird
Shut in the pummel of his sword,
That taught him all the cunning pranks,
Of past and future mountebanks.

Hudibras. Part ii. Cant 3.

This Azoth was simply " lemdarmm simm." But in his time he
was commonly believed to possess the double tincture— the power
of curing diseases, and transmuting metals. Oporinus often wit-
nessed, as he declares, both these effects, as did also Franciscus,
the servant of Paracelsus, who describes, in a letter to Neander,
s successful projection at which he was present, and the results of
which, good golden ingots, were confided to his keeping. For the

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160 NOTE.

other quality, let the following notice vouch among many others : —
"Degehat Theophrastus Norimbergae prociscus a Medentibus illius
urbis, et vaniloquus deceptorque proclamatus, qui, ut laboranti
famsB subveniat, viros quosdam authoritatis summae in Reipublicft
ilia adit, et infamiae amoliendae, artique suae asserendae, specimen
ejus pollicetur editurum, nullo stipendio vel accepto pretio, horum
faciles praebentium aures jussu elephantiacos aliquot, k com-
munione hominum caeterorum segregates, et in valetudinarium
detrusos, alieno arbitrio eb'guntur, quos virtute singulari remedi-
orum suorum Theophrastus a foeda Graecorum lepra mundat,
pristinaeque sanitati restituit ; conservat illustre harum curationum
urbs in archivis suis testimonium." — Bitiskius* It is to be re-
marked that Oporinus afterward repented of his treachery : " Sed
resipuit tandem, et quern vivum convitiis insectatus fuerat de-
functum veneratione prosequutus, infames famae praeceptoris morsus
in remorsus conscientiae conversi pcenitentia, heu nimis tardA vulnera
ciaus&re exanimi quae spiranti inflixerant." For these "bites" of
Oporinus, see " Disputed, ErasU? and Andreas Jociscus " Oratio de
vit. et 6b. Opor*- ;" for the " remorse," Mic. Toxita in prof. Tes-
tamenti, and Gonringius (otherwise an enemy of Paracelsus), who
says it was contained in a letter from Oporinus to Doctor Vegerus.+
Whatever the moderns may think of these marvellous attributes,
the title of Paracelsus to be considered the father of modern
chemistry, is indisputable. Gerardus Vossius " De Philos*' et
Philo***- sectis" thus prefaces the ninth section of Cap. 9, " De
Ohymia " — " Nobilem hanc medicinae partem, diu sepultam avorum

» * The premature death of Paracelsus casts no manner of doubt on the
fact of his having possessed the Elixir Tits : the alchemists have
abundant reasons to adduce, from which I select the following, as
explanatory of a property of the Tincture not calculated on by its
votaries : " Objectionem illam, quod Paracelsus non fuerit longsevus,
nonnulli quoque solvunt per rationes physics* : vit* nimirum abbre-
viationem fortasse talibus accidere posse, ob Tincturam frequentiore ac
largiore dosi sumtam, dum a summe efficaci et penetrabili hujus virtute
calor innatus quasi suffocatur."— Qabrielis Clauderi Schediasma.

t For a good defence of Paracelsus I refer the reader to Olaus
Borrichius' treatise—" Hermetis Ac. sapientia vindicata. 1674." Or, if
he is no more learned than myself in such matters, I had better mention
simply that Paracelsus introduced the use of Mercury and Laudanum.

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NOTE. 161

state quasi ab orco revocavit Th. Paracelsus." I suppose many
hints lie scattered in his neglected books, which clever appropriators
have since developed with applause. Thus, it appears from his
treatise " JDe PMebotomid" and elsewhere, that he had discovered
the circulation of the blood and the sanguification of the heart ; as
did after him Realdo Colombo, and still more perfectly Andrea
Cesalpino of Areizo, as Bayle and Bartoli observe. Even Lavater
quotes a passage from his work, " De natwr& Rervm" on practical
Physiognomy, in which the definitions and axioms are precise
enough: he adds, "though an astrological enthusiast, a man of
prodigious genius." See HolcrotVs Translation, vol. iii. p. 179 —
*' The Eyes." While on the subject of the writings of Paracelsus,
I may explain a passage in the third part of the Poem. He was,
as I have said, unwilling to publish his works, but in effect did
publish a vast number. Valentius (m Prafat. m Paramyr.)
declares " quod ad librorum Paracelsi copiam attinet, audio a
Germanis prope trecentos recenseri." " O fecunditas ingenii ! "
adds he, appositely. Many of these were, however, spurious ; and
Fred. Bitiskius gives his good edition (3 vols. foL Gen. 1658)
"rejectis suppositas solo ipsius nomine superbientibus quorum
ingens circumfertur numerus." The rest were " charissimum et
pretiosissimum authoris pignus, extorsum potius ab illo quam
obtentum." " Jam minime eo volente atque jubente hac ipsius
scripta in lucem prodiise videntur ; quippe qua; muro inclusa ipso
absente servi cujusdem indicio, furto surrepta atque sublata sunt/'
says Valentius. These have been the study of a host of commen-
tators, among whose labours are most notable, Petri Severini, Idea
MedicincB Philosophies. Bos. 1571; Mic. Toxetis, Onomastica. *
Arg. 1574 ; Dornei, Did. Parac. Franc. 1584 ; and J* Philos* .
Compendium cum scholiis auctore Leone Suavio. Paris. (This
last, a good book.)

(6) A disgraceful affair. One Liechtenfels, a canon, having
been rescued va extremis by the " laudanum " of Paracelsus, re-
fused the stipulated fee, and was supported in his meanness by the
authorities, whose interference Paracelsus would not brook. His

M

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162 NOTE.

own liberality was allowed by his bitterest foes, who found a ready
solution of his indifference to profit, in the aforesaid sword-handle
and its guest. His freedom from the besetting sin of a profession
he abhorred — (as he curiously says somewhere, "Quia quaso
deinceps honorem deferat professione tali, quae a tarn facinorosis
nebulonibus obitur et administrate ? ") — is recorded in his epitaph,
which affirms — " Bona sua in pauperes distribuenda collocandaque
erogavit," honoravit, or ordinavit— for accounts differ.

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PIPPA PASSES,
fl Drama.

itized by G00gk

I DEDICATE

MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM, MOST ADMIRINGLY TO THE
AUTHOR OP "ION," —

MOST AFFECTIONATELY TO

MB. SEBJEANT TALFOURD.

R. B.

itized by G00gk

PIPPA PASSES.

New Year's Day at Asolo in the Trevisan. — A large, mean,
airy chamber. A girl, Pippa, from the silk-mills, springing
otU of bed.

Day!

Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last ;
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim
Where spurting and supprest it lay —
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the
world.

Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,
A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure,
The least of thy gazes or glances,

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166 PIPPA PASSES.

(Be they grants thou art bound to, or gifts above measure)

One of thy choices, or one of thy chances,

(Be they tasks God imposed thee, or freaks at thy

pleasure)
— My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure,
Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me !

Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,

Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good —

Thy fitful sunshine minutes, coming, going,

In which, earth turns from work in gamesome mood —

All shall be mine ! But thou must treat me not

As the prosperous are treated, those who live

At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,

In readiness to take what thou wilt give,

And free to let alone what thou refusest ;

For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest

Me, who am only Pippa — old-year's sorrow,

Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow —

Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow

Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.

All other men and women that this earth

Belongs to, who all days alike possess,

Make general plenty cure particular dearth,

Get more joy, one way, if another, less :

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven

What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven ;

Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's !

Try, now 1 Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones —

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PIPPA PASSES. 167

And let thy morning rain on that superb

Great haughty Ottima ; can rain disturb

Her Sebald's homage ? All the while thy rain

Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane,

He will but press the closer, breathe more warm

Against her cheek ; how should she mind the storm ?

And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom

O'er Jules and Phene, — what care bride and groom

Save for their dear selves ? Tis their marriage-day ;

And while they leave church, and go home their way

Hand clasping hand, — within each breast would be

Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee !

Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve

With mist, — will Luigi and his mother grieve —

The Lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,

She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,

For true content ? The cheerful town, warm, close,

And safe, the sooner that thou art morose

Receives them ! And yet once again, outbreak

In storm at night on Monsignor, they make

Such stir about, — whom they expect from Rome

To visit Asolo, his brothers' home,

And say here masses proper to release

A soul from pain, — what storm dares hurt his peace ?

Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward

Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard !

But Pippa — -just one such mischance would spoil

Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil

At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil !

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168 PIPPA PASSES.

And here I let time slip for nought !

Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam— caught

With a single splash from my ewer !

You that would mock the best pursuer,

Was my basin over-deep ?

One splash of water ruins you asleep,

And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits

Wheeling and counterwheeling,

Reeling, broken beyond healing —

Now grow together on the ceiling !

That will task your wits !

Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see

Morsel after morsel flee

As merrily, as giddily . . .

Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,

Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple ?

Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon ?

New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,

Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll !

Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple

Of ocean, bud there, — fairies watch unroll

Such turban-flowers ; I say, such lamps disperse

Thick red flame through that dusk green universe !

I am queen of thee, floweret;

And each fleshy blossom

Preserve I not — (safer

Than leaves that embower it,

Or shells that embosom)

— From weevil and chafer ?

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PIPPA PASSES. 169

Laugh through my pane, then ; solicit the bee ;
Gibe him, be sure ; and, in midst of thy glee,
Love thy queen, worship me !

— Worship whom else ? For am I not, this day,
Whate'er I please ? What shall I please to-day ?
My morning, noon, eve, night — how spend my day ?
To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,
The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk :
But, this one day, I have leave to go,
And play out my fancy's fullest games ;
I may fancy all day — and it shall be so—
That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names
Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo !

See ! Up the Hill-side yonder, through the morning,

Some one shall love me, as the world calls love :

I am no less than Ottima, take warning !

The gardens, and the great stone house above,

And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,

Are mine ; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,

To court me, while old Luca yet reposes ;

And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses,

I . . . what, now ? — give abundant cause for prate

About me — Ottima, I mean — of late,

Too bold, too confident she 11 still face down

The spitefullest of talkers in our town —

How we talk in the little town below !

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170 PIPPA PASSES.

But love, love, love — there 's better love, I know !

This foolish love was only day's first offer ;

I choose my next love to defy the scoffer :

For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally

Out of Possagno church at noon ?

Their house looks over Orcana valley —

Why should I not be the bride as soon

As Ottima? For I saw, beside,

Arrive last night that little bride —

Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash

Of the pale, snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,

Blacker than all except the black eyelash ;

I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses !

— So strict was she, the veil

Should cover close her pale

Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch,

Scarce touch, remember, Jules !— for are not such

Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,

As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature ?

A soft and easy life these ladies lead !

Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed —

Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,

Keep that foot its lady primness,

Let those ancles never swerve

From their exquisite reserve,

Yet have to trip along the streets like me,

All but naked to the knee I

How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss

So startling as her real first infant kiss ?

Oh, no— not envy, this !

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PIPPA PASSES. 171

— Not envy, sure ! — for if you gave me

Leave to take or to refuse,

In earnest, do you think I 'd choose

That sort of new love to enslave me ?

Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;

As little fear of losing it as winning !

Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,

And only parents' love can last our lives :

At eve the son and mother, gentle pair,

Commune inside our Turret ; what prevents

My being Luigi ? while that mossy lair

Of lizards through the winter-time, is stirred

With each to each imparting sweet intents

For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird —

(For I observe of late, the evening walk

Of Luigi and his mother, always ends

Inside our ruined turret, where they talk,

Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)

Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,

And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm ;

Let me be Luigi ! ... If I only knew

What was my mother's face — my father, too !

Nay, if you come to that, best love of all
Is God's ; then why not have God's love befall
Myself as, in the Palace by the Dome,
Monsignor ? — who to-night will bless the home
Of his dead brother ; and God will bless in turn
That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn

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172 PIPPA PASSES.

With love for all men : I, to-night at least,
Would he that holy and beloved priest !

Now wait ! — even I already seem to share

In God's love : what does New-year's hymn declare ?

What other meaning do these verses bear ?

All service ranks the same with God :

If now, as formerly He trod

Paradise, His presence fills

Our earth, each only as God wills

Can work — God's puppets, best and worst,

Are we; there is no hist nor first.

Say not " a small event ! " Why " small t "
Costs it more pain than this, ye call
A " great event," should come to pass,
Than that ? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in, or exceed !

And more of it, and more of it ! — oh, yes —
I will pass by, and see their happiness,
And envy none— -being just as great, no doubt,
Useful to men, and dear to God, as they !
A pretty thing to care about
So mightily, this single holiday !

But let the sun shine ! Wherefore repine ?

— With thee to lead me, Day of mine,

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PIPPA PASSES. 178

Down the grass-path grey with dew,

Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,

Where the swallow never flew

As yet, nor cicale dared carouse —

Dared carouse ! [She enters the street.

I. — Mornimg. Up the Bill-side, inside the Shrub-house. Luca's
Wife, Ottima, and her Paramour, the German Sebald.

Seb. (sings.) Let the watching lids wink !

Day's a-blaze with eyes, think —
Deep into the night, drink !

Otti. Night ? Such may be your Rhine-land nights,
perhaps ;
But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink,
— We call such light, the morning's : let us see !
Mind how you grope your way, though ! How these tall
Naked geraniums straggle ! Push the lattice —
Behind that frame ! — Nay, do I bid you ? — Sebald,
It shakes the dust down on me ! Why, of course
The slide-bolt catches. — Well, are you content,
Or must I find you something else to spoil ?
Kiss and be friends, my Sebald ! Is it full morning ?
Oh, don't speak then !

Seb. Ay, thus it used to be !

Ever your house was, I remember, shut
Till mid-day — I observed that, as I strolled
On mornings thro' the vale here : country girls
Were noisy, washing garments in the brook —
Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills —

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174 PIPPA PASSES.

But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye —

And wisely — you were plotting one thing there,

Nature, another outside : I looked up —

Bough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,

Silent as death, blind in a flood of light ;

Oh, I remember ! — and the peasants laughed

And said, " The old man sleeps with the young wife ! "

This house was his, this chair, this window — his !

Otti. Ah, the clear morning ! I can see St. Mark's :
That black streak is the belfry. Stop : Vicenza
Should lie . . . There 's Padua, plain enough, that blue !
Look o'er my shoulder — follow my finger —

Seb. Morning ?

It seems to me a night with a sun added :
Where 's dew ? where 's freshness ? That bruised plant,

I bruised
In getting thro' the lattice yestereve,
Droops as it did. See, here *s my elbow's mark
In the dust on the sill.

Otti. Oh shut the lattice, pray !

Seb. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,
Foul as the morn may be —

There, shut the world out !
How do you feel now, Ottima? There — curse
The world, and all outside ! Let us throw off
This mask : how do you bear yourself? Let 's out
With all of it!

Otti. Best never speak of it.

Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it,

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PIPPA PASSES. 175

Till words cease to be more than words. " His blood,"
For instance — let those two words mean " His blood "
And nothing more. Notice — 1 11 stty them now,
" His blood."

Otti. Assuredly if I repented

The deed—

Seb. Repent ? who should repent, or why ?

What puts that in your head ? Did I once say
That I repented?

Otti. No — I said the deed —

Seb. "The deed," and "the event"— just now it was
" Our passion's fruit " — the devil take such cant !
Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,
I am his cut-throat, you are —

Otti. Here is the wine —

I brought it when we left the house above—
And glasses too — wine of both sorts. Black? white, then ?

Seb. But am not I his cut-throat ? What are you ?

Otti. There, trudges on his business from the Duomo
Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood
And bare feet — always in one place at church,
Close under the stone wall by the south entry ;
I used to take him for a brown cold piece
Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose
To let me pass — at first, I say, I used —
Now — so has that dumb figure fastened on me —
I rather should account the plastered wall
A piece 6f him, so chilly does it strike.
This, Sebald?

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176 PIPPA PASSES.

Seb. No — the white wine — the white wine !

Well, Ottima, I promised no new year
Should rise on us th* ancient shameful way,
Nor does it rise : pour on ! To your black eyes !
Do you remember last damned New Year's day?

Otti. You brought those foreign prints. We looked
at them
Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme
To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying
His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up
To hunt them out.

Seb. 'Faith, he is not alive

To fondle you before my face !

OttL Do you

Fondle me, then ! who means to take your life
For that, my Sebald?

Seb. Hark you, Ottima,

One thing 's to guard against. We 11 not make much
One of the other — that is, not make more
Parade of warmth, childish officious coil,
Than yesterday — as if, sweet, I supposed
Proof upon proof was needed now, now first,
To show I love you — yes, still love you — love you
In spite of Luca and what 's come to him
— Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,
White sneering old reproachful face and all !
We 11 even quarrel, love, at times, as if
We still could lose each other — were not tied
By this — conceive you ?

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PIPPA PASSES. 177

Otti. Love —

Seb. Not tied so sure —

Because tho' I was wrought upon — have struck
His insolence back into him — am I
So surely yours ? — therefore, forever yours ?

Otti. Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another)
Should we have — months ago — when first we loved,
For instance that May morning we two stole
Under the green ascent of sycamores —
If we had come upon a thing like that
Suddenly —

Seb. " A thing " . . there again — " a thing ! "

Otti. Then, Venus' body, had we come upon
My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse
Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close —
Would you have pored upon it ? Why persist
In poring now upon it ? For 'tis here —
As much as there in the deserted house —
You cannot rid your eyes of it : for me,
Now he is dead I hate him worse — I hate —
Dare you stay here ? I would go back and hold
His two dead hands, and say, I hate you worse
Luca, than —

Seb. Off, off; take your hands off mine !

'Tis the hot evening — off! oh, morning, is it?

Otti. There's one thing must be done — you know
what thing.
Come in and help to carry. We may sleep
Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night.

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178 PIPPA PASSES.

Seb. What would come, think you, if we let him lie
Just as he is ? Let him lie there until
The angels take him : he is turned by this
Off from his face, beside, as you will see.

Otti. This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.
Three, four — four grey hairs ! Is it so you said
A plait of hair should wave across my neck ?
No — this way !

Seb. Ottima, I would give your neck,

Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,
That this were undone ! Killing? — Kill the world
So Luca lives again ! — Ay, lives to sputter
His fulsome dotage on you — yes, and feign
Surprise that I returned at eve to sup,
When all the morning I was loitering here —
Bid me dispatch my business and begone.
I would —

Otti. See !

Seb. No, 1 11 finish ! Do you think

I fear to speak the bare truth once for all ?
All we have talked of is, at bottom, fine
To suffer — there 's a recompense in guilt ;
One must be venturous and fortunate —
What is one young for, else ? In age we 11 sigh
O'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over ;
Still we have lived ! The vice was in its place.
But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn
His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse —
Do lovers in romances sin that way ?

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PIPPA PASSES. 179

Why, I was starving when I used to call

And teach you music — starving while you plucked me

These flowers to smell !

Otti. My poor lost friend !

Seb. He gave me

Life — nothing less : what if he did reproach
My perfidy, and threaten, and do more —
Had he no right ? What was to wonder at ?
He sate by us at table quietly —
Why must you lean across till our cheeks touch'd ?
Could he do less than make pretence to strike me ?
,r Fis not for the crime's sake — I 'd commit ten crimes
Greater, to have this crime wiped out — undone !
And you — 0, how feel you ? feel you for me ?

Otti. Well, then — I love you better now than ever —
And best (look at me while I speak to you) —
Best for the crime — nor do I grieve, in truth,
This mask, this simulated ignorance,
This affectation of simplicity,
Falls off our crime ; this naked crime of ours
May not, now, be looked over — look it down, then !
Great ? let it be great — but the joys it brought,
Pay they or no its price ? Come — they or it !
Speak not ! The. past, would you give up the past
Such as it is, pleasure and crime together ?
Give up that noon I owned my love for you —
The garden's silence — even the single bee
Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopt
And where he hid you only could surmise
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180 PIPPA PASSE8.

By some campanula's chalice set a-swing
As he clung there — " Yes, I love you ! "

Seb. And I drew

Back ; put far back your face with both my hands
Lest you should grow too full of me — your face
So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body !

Otti. And when I ventured to receive you here,
Made you steal hither in the mornings —

Seb. When

I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,
Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread
To a yellow haze ?

Otti. Ah — my sign was, the sun

Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree
Nipt by the first frost.

Seb. You would always laugh

At my wet boots — I had to stride thro' grass
Over my ancles.

Otti. Then our crowning night —

Seb. The July night?

Otti. The day of it too, Sebald !
When the heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,
Its black-blue canopy seemed let descend
Close on us both, to weigh down each to each,
And smother up all life except our life.
So lay we till the storm came.

Seb. How it came!

Otti. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect ;
Swift ran the searching tempest overhead ;

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PIPPA PASSES. 181

And erer and anon some bright white shaft
Burnt thro' the pine-tree roof — here burnt and there,
As if God's messenger thro* the close wood screen
Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,
Feeling for guilty thee and me : then broke
The thunder like a whole sea overhead —

Seb. Yes!

Otti. — While I stretched myself upon you, hands
To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook
All my locks loose, and covered you with them —
You, Sebald, the same you —

Seb. Slower, Ottima —

Otti. And as we lay —

Seb. Less vehemently ! Love me—
Forgive me — take not words — mere words — to heart —
Your breath is worse than wine ! Breathe slow, speak

slow — 4
Do not lean on me —

Otti. Sebald, as we lay,
Rising and falling only with our pants,
Who said, " Let death come now — 'tis right to die !
Right to be punished — nought completes such bliss
But woe ! " Who said that ?

Seb. How did we ever rise ?
Wast that we slept ? Why did it end ?

Otti. I felt you,

Fresh tapering to a point the ruffled ends
Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips —
(My hair is fallen now — knot it again !)

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182 PIPPA PASSES.

Seb. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now, and now !
This way ? Will you forgive me — be once more
My great queen ?

Otti. Bind it thrice about my brow ;

Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,
Magnificent in sin. Say that !

Seb. I crown you

My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,
Magnificent —

(From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing —

The year 's at the spring.
And day '* at the morn ;
Morning y s at seven ;
The hill-side '« dew-pearled :
The lark's on the wing ;
The snail '« on the thorn ;
God '* in his heaven —
All 's right with the world !

(Pippa passes.)

Seb. God 's in his heaven ! Do you hear that ? Who
spoke?
You, you spoke !

Otti. Oh — that little ragged girl !

She must have rested on the step — we give them
But this one holiday the whole year round.
Did you ever see our silk-mills — their inside ?
There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.

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PIPPA PASSES. 188

She stoops to pick my double heartsease . . . Sh !
She does not hear — you call out louder !

Seb. Leave me !

Go, get your clothes on — dress those shoulders !

Otti. Sebald?

Seb. Wipe off that paint. I hate you !

Otti. Miserable !

Seb. My God ! and she is emptied of it now !
Outright now ! — how miraculously gone
All of the grace — had she not strange grace once ?
Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,
No purpose holds the features up together,
Only the cloven brow and puckered chin
Stay in their places — and the very hair,
That seemed to have a sort of life in it,
Drops, a dead web !

Otti. Speak to me — speak not of me !

Seb. — That round great full-orbed face, where not
an angle
Broke the delicious indolence — all broken !

Otti. To me — not of me ! — ungrateful, perjured cheat —
A coward, too — but ingrate 's worse than all !
Beggar — my slave — a fawning, cringing lie !
Leave me ! — betray me ! — I can see your drift —
A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks I

Seb. My God !

Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades —
I should have known there was no blood beneath !

Otti. You hate me, then ? You hate me then ?

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184 PIPPA PASSES.

Seb. To think

She would succeed in her absurd attempt,
And fascinate by sinning ; and show herself
Superior — Guilt from its excess, superior
To Innocence. That little peasant's voice
Has righted all again. Though I be lost,
I know which is the better, never fear,
Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,
Nature, or trick — I see what I have done,
Entirely now ! Oh, I am proud to feel
Such torments — let the world take credit thence —
I, having done my deed, pay too its price !
I hate, hate — curse you ! God 's in his heaven !

Otti. —Me !

Me ! no, no, Sebald — not yourself— kill me !
•Mine is the whole crime — do but kill me — then
Yourself — then — presently — first hear me speak —
I always meant to kill myself — wait, you !
Lean on my breast — not as a breast ; don't love me
The more because you lean on me, my own
Heart's Sebald ! There — there — both deaths presently !

Seb. My brain is drowned now — quite drowned : all I
feel
Is ... is at swift-recurring intervals,
A hurrying-down within me, as of waters
Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit —
There they go — whirls from a black, fiery sea !

Otti. Not to me, God — to him be merciful !

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PIPPA PASSES. 185

Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from the Hillside to
Orcana. Foreign Students of Painting and Sculpture, from
Venice, assembled opposite the House of Jules, a young
French Statuary.

1st Student. Attention ! my own post is beneath this
window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide
three or four of you with a little squeezing, and
Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four,
five — who 's a defaulter? We want everybody, for Jules
must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest 's
found out.

2d Stud. All here ! Only our poet 's away — never
having much meant to be present, moonstrike him 1
The airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino ! He was in
violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of
thriving in his suit, so unmolested was it, — when
suddenly a woman falls in love with him, too ; and out
of pure jealousy he takes himself off to Trieste, immortal
poem and all — whereto is this prophetical epitaph
appended already, as Bluphocks assures me — " Here a
mammoth-poem lies, — Fouled to death by butterflies."
His own fault, the simpleton! Instead of cramp
couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should
write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly.
— Msculapius, an Epic. Catalogue of the drugs : Hebe's
plaister — One strip Cools your lip. Phcebus* emulsion —

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186 PIPPA PASSES.

One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus — One
box Cures . . .

3d Stud. Subside, my fine fellow ! If the marriage
was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a
minute with his bride.

%d Stud. Good ! — Only, so should the poet's muse
have been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks, et
canibus nostris . . . and Delia not better known to our
literary dogs than the boy — Giovacchino !

1st Stud. To the point, now. Where *s Gottlieb, the
new-comer ? Oh, — listen, Gottlieb, to what has called
down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which
we now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are
all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst
out on us in a fury by and bye : I am spokesman — the
verses that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of
Lutwyche — but each professes himself alike insulted by
this strutting stone-squarer, who came singly from Paris
to Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and
Possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again
— oh, alone, indubitably ! — to Rome and Florence. He,
forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute,
brutalised, heartless bunglers ! — So he was heard to call
us all : now, is Schramm brutalised, I should like to
know ? Am I heartless ?

Gott. Why, somewhat heartless ; for, suppose Jules a
coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere cox-
combry, you will have brushed off — what do folks style
it? — the bloom of his life. Is it too late to alter?

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PIPPA PASSJES. 187

These love-letters, now, you call his ... I can't laugh at
them.

4th Stud. Because you never read the sham letters of
our inditing which drew forth these.

Gott. His discovery of the truth will be frightful.

4th Stud. That 's the joke. But you should have
joined us at the beginning : there 's no doubt he loves
the girl — loves a model he might hire by the hour !

Gott. See here! "He has been accustomed," he
writes, " to have Canova's women about him, in stone,
and the world's women beside him, in flesh ; these being
as much below, as those, above— his soul's aspiration :
but now he is to have the real." . . . There you laugh
again ! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth.

1st Stud. Schramm ! (Take the pipe out of his mouth,
somebody) — will Jules lose the bloom of his youth ?

Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this
world: look at a blossom — it drops presently, having
done its service and lasted its time ; but fruits succeed,
and where would be the blossom's place could it con-
tinue ? As well affirm that your eye is no longer in
your body, because its earliest favourite, whatever it
may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with —
as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first
object, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is super-
seded in due course. Keep but ever looking, whether
with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find
something to look on ! Has a man done wondering at
women ? — There follow men, dead and alive, to wonder

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188 PIPPA PASSES.

at. Has he done wondering at men ? — There 's God to
wonder at : and the faculty of wonder may be, at the
same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first
object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as
concerns its novel one. Thus . . .

1st Stud. Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again !
There, you see ! Well, this — Jules ... a wretched
fribble — oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the
other day! Canova's gallery — you know: there he
marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen
without vouchsafing an eye : all at once he stops full at
the Psiche-fanciuUa — cannot pass that old acquaintance
without a nod of encouragement — " In your new place,
beauty? Then behave yourself as well here as at
Munich — I see you ! " Next he posts himself delibe-
rately before the unfinished Pietd for half an hour
without moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts
his very nose into — I say, into — the group ; by which
gesture you are informed that precisely the sole point
he had not fully mastered in Canova's practice was a
certain method of using the drill in the articulation of
the knee-joint — and that, likewise, has he mastered at
length ! Good bye, therefore, to poor Canova — whose
gallery no longer need detain his successor Jules, the
predestinated novel thinker in marble !

6th Stud. Tell him about the women — go on to the
women !

1st Stud. Why, on that matter he could never be
supercilious enough. How should we be other (he said)

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PIPPA PASSES. 189

than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits
we cherish? He was not to wallow in that niire, at
least : he would wait, and love only at the proper time,
and meanwhile put up with the Psiche-fanciuUa. Now
I happened to hear of a young Greek — real Greek — girl
at Malamocco ; a true Islander, do you see, with Alci-
phrons " hair like sea-moss " — Schramm knows ! — white
and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at
farthest, — a daughter of Natalia, so she swears — that
hag Natalia, who helps us to models at three lire an
hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest.
So, first, Jules received a scented letter — somebody had
seen his Tydeus at the academy, and my picture was
nothing to it — a profound admirer bade him persevere
— would make herself known to him ere long — (Paolina,
my little friend of the Fenice, transcribes divinely).
And in due time, the mysterious correspondent
gave certain hints of her peculiar charms — the pale
cheeks, the black hair — whatever, in short, had struck
us in our Malamocco model: we retained her name,
too— Phene, which is by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now,
think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the
herd of us by such a creature ! In his very first answer
he proposed marrying his monitress : and fancy us over
these letters, two, three times a day, to receive and
dispatch ! I concocted the main of it : relations were in
the way — secrecy must be observed — in fine, would he
wed her on trust, and only speak to her when they were
indissolubly united ? St — st — Here they come !

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190 PIPPA PASSES.

6th Stud. Both of them! Heaven's love, speak
softly ! speak within yourselves !

6th Stud. Look at the bridegroom ! Half his hair in
storm, and half in calm, — patted down over the left
temple, — like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it ! and
the same old blouse that he murders the marble in !

%d Stud. Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal
Scratchy! — rich, that your face may the better set it
off!

6th Stud. And the bride ! Yes, sure enough, our
Phene ! Should you have known her in her clothes ?
How magnificently pale !

Gott. She does not also take it for earnest, I hope ?

1st Stud. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is ! We settle
with Natalia.

6th Stud. She does not speak — has evidently let out
no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember
the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those
verses which are to break the secret to Jules ?

Gott. How he gazes on her ! Pity — pity !

Is* Stud. They go in — now, silence ! You three, —
not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate —
just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed
us singing, is. seated!

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PIPPA PASSES. 191

II. — Noon. Over Orcana. The Howe of Jules, who crosses its
threshold with Phene — she is silent, on which Jules begins —

Do not die, Phene — I am yours now — you
Are mine now — let fate reach me how she likes,
If you 11 not die — so, never die ! Sit here —
My work-room's single seat : I over-lean
This length of hair and lustrous front — they turn
Like an entire flower upward — eyes — lips — last
Your chin — no, last your throat turns — 'tis their scent
Pulls down my face upon you ! Nay, look ever
This one way till I change, grow you — I could
Change into you, beloved !

You by me,
And I by you — this is your hand in mine —
And side by side we sit : all 's true. Thank God !
I have spoken — speak, you !

— O, my life to come !
My Tydeus must be carved, that 's there in clay ;
Yet how be carved, with you about the chamber ?
Where must I place you ? When I think that once
This room-full of rough block- work seemed my heaven
Without you ! Shall I ever work again —
Get fairly into my old ways again —
Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,
My hand transfers its lineaments .to stone ?

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192 PIPPA PA8SE8.

Will my mere fancies live near you, my truth —
The live truth — passing and repassing me —
Sitting beside me ?

Now speak !

Only, first,
See, all your letters ! Was 't not well contrived ?
Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe ; she keeps
Your letters next her skin : which drops out foremost ?
Ah, — this that swam down like a first moonbeam
Into my world !

Again those eyes complete
Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow,
Of all my room holds ; to return and rest
On me, with pity, yet some wonder too —
As if God bade some spirit plague a world,
And this were the one moment of surprise
And sorrow while she took her station, pausing
O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy !
What gaze you at? Those ? Books, I told you of;
Let your first word to me rejoice them, too :
This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red
Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe —
Read this line . . no, shame — Homer's be the Greek
First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl !
My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type
With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,
To mark great places with due gratitude ;
" He said, and on Antinous directed
" A bitter shaft "... a flower blots out the rest !

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PIPPA PASSES. 193

Again upon your search ? My statues, then !

— Ah, do not mind that — better that will look

When cast in bronze — an Almaign Kaiser, that,

Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.

This, rather, turn to ! What, unrecognised ?

I thought you would have seen that here you sit

As I imagined you, — Hippolyta,

Naked upon her bright Numidian horse !

Recall you this, then ? " Carve in bold relief" —

So you commanded — " carve, against I come,

" A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,

" Feasting, bay-filletted and thunder-free,

" Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch :

" ' Praise those who slew Hipparchus, 1 cry the guests,

" ' While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves

" ' As erst above our champions' : stand up, aU. r "

See, I have laboured to express your thought !

Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms,

(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,

Only consenting at the branches' end

They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face —

The Preiser's — in the centre — who with eyes

Sightless, so bend they back to light inside

His brain where visionary forms throng up,

Sings, minding not that palpitating arch

Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine

From the drenched leaves overhead, nor crowns cast off,

Violet and parsley crowns to trample on —

Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,

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194 PIPPA PASSES.

Devoutly their unconquerable hymn !

But you must say a " well " to that — say, " well ! "

Because you gaze — am I fantastic, sweet ?

Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble — marbly

Even to the silence ! why before I found

The real flesh Phene, I inured myself

To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff

For better nature's birth by means of art :

With me, each substance tended to one form

Of beauty — to the human Archetype —

On every side occurred suggestive germs

Of that — the tree, the flower — or take the fruit, —

Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,

Curved beewise o'er its bough ; as rosy limbs,

Depending, nestled in the leaves — and just

From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang !

But of the stuffs one can be master of,

How I divined their capabilities !

From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk

That yields your outline to the air's embrace,

Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom ;

Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure

To cut its one confided thought clean out

Of all the world : but marble ! — 'neath my tools

More pliable than jelly — as it were

Some clear primordial creature dug from depths

In the Earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,

And whence all baser substance may be worked ;

Refine it off to air, you may — condense it

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PIPPA PASSES. 195

Down to the diamond ; — is not metal there,
When o'er the sudden specks my chisel trips ?
— Not flesh — as flake off flake I scale, approach,
Lay bare those blueish veins of blood asleep ?
Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised
By the swift implement sent home at once,
Flushes and glowings radiate and hover
About its track ? —

Phene ? what — why is this ?
That whitening cheek, those still-dilating eyes !
Ah, you will die — I knew that you would die !

Phene begins, on his having long remained silent.

Now the end 's coming — to be sure, it must
Have ended sometime ! Tush — why need I speak
Their foolish speech ? I cannot bring to mind
One half of it, besides ; and do not care
For old Natalia now, nor any of them.
Oh, you — what are you ? — if I do not try
To say the words Natalia made me learn,
To please your friends, — it is to keep myself
Where your voice lifted me, by letting it
Proceed — but can it ? Even you, perhaps,
Cannot take up, now you have once let fell,
The music's life, and me along with that —
No, or you would ! We 11 stay, then, as we are
— Above the world.

You creature with the eyes !
If I could look for ever up to them,
As now you let me, — I believe, all sin,
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196 PIPPA PA8SES.

All memory of wrong done or suffering borne,
Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth
Whence all that 's low comes, and there touch and stay
— Never to overtake the rest of me,
All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,
Drawn by those eyes ! What rises is myself,
Not so the shame and suffering ; but they sink,
Are left, I rise above them — Keep me so
Above the world !

But you sink, for your eyes
Are altering — altered! Stay — " I love you, love you " . . .
I could prevent it if I understood
More of your words to me— was 't in the tone
Or the words, your power?

Or stay — I will repeat
Their speech, if that contents you ! Only, change
No more, and I shall find it presently
— Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up.
Natalia threatened me that harm would follow
Unless I spoke their lesson to the end,
But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.
Your friends, — Natalia said they were your friends
And meant you well, — because, I doubted it,
Observing (what was very strange to see)
On every face, so different in all else,
The same smile girls like us are used to bear,
But never men, men cannot stoop so low ;
Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,
That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit

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PIPPA PASSES. 197

Which seems to take possession of this world

And make of God their tame confederate,

Purveyor to their appetites . . you know !

But no — Natalia said they were your friends,

And they assented while they smiled the more,

And all came round me, — that thin Englishman

With light, lank hair seemed leader of the rest ;

He held a paper — " What we want," said he,

Ending some explanation to his friends —

" Is something slow, involved and mystical,

" To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste

" And lure him on, so that, at innermost

" Where he seeks sweetness* soul, he may find — this !

" — As in the apple's core, the noisome fly :

" For insects on the rind are seen at once,

" And brushed aside as soon, but this is found

" Only when on the lips or loathing tongue."

And so he read what I have got by heart —

1 11 speak it, — " Do not die, love ! I am yours "...

Stop — is not that, or like that, part of words

Yourself began by speaking ? Strange to lose

What cost much pains to learn ! Is this more right ?

I am a painter who cannot paint ;

In my life, a devil rather than saint.

In my brain, as poor a creature too —

No end to all I cannot do !

Yet do one thing at least I can —

Love a man, or hate a man

Supremely : thus my love began.

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198 PIPPA PASSES.

Through the Valley of Love I went,

In its lovingest spot to abide,

And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,

I found Hate dwelling beside.

(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,

Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride !)

And further, I traversed Hate's grove,

In its hatefuUest nook to dwell ;

But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love

Where the deepest shadow fell.

(The meaning — those black bride's-eyes above,

Not the painter's lip should tell !)

" And here," said he, " Jules probably will ask,
" You have black eyes, love, — you are, sure enough,
" My peerless bride, — so do you tell, indeed,
" What needs some explanation — what means this ? "
— And I am to go on, without a word —
So I grew wiser in Love and Hate,
From simple, that I was of late.
For once, when I loved, I would enlace
Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face
Of her I loved, in one embrace —
As if by mere love I could love immensely !
And when I hated, I would plunge
My sword, and wipe with the first lunge
My foe's whole life out, like a sponge —
As if by mere hate I could hate intensely !
But now I am wiser, know better the fashion

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PIPPA PASSES. 199

How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion,

And if I see cause to love more, or hate more

That ever man loved, ever hated, before —

And seek in the Valley of Love,

The spot, or the spot in Hate's Grove,

Where my soul may the sureliest reach

The essence, nought less, of each,

The Hate of all Hates, or the Love

Of all Loves, in its Valley or Grove, —

I find them the very warders

Each of the other's borders.

I love most, when Love is disguised

In Hate ; and when Hate is surprized

In Love, then I hate most : ask

How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,

Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask, —

And how, having hated thee,

I sought long and painfully

To wound thee, and not prick

The skin, but pierce to the quick —

Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight

By thy bride — how the painter Lutwyche can hate !

Jules interposes.

Lutwyche — who else ? But all of them, no doubt,
Hated me : they at Venice — presently
Their turn, however ! You I shall not meet :
If I dreamed, saying this would wake me !

Keep

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200 PIPPA PASSES.

What 's here, this gold — we cannot meet again,

Consider — and the money was hut meant

For two years' travel, which is over now,

All chance, or hope, or care, or need of it !

This — and what comes from selling these, my casts

And hooks, and medals, except ... let them go

Together, so the produce keeps you safe,

Out of Natalia's clutches ! — If hy chance

(For all 's chance here) I should survive the gang

At Venice, root out all fifteen of them,

We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide—

(From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing —

Give her but a least excuse to love me !

When — where —

How — can this arm establish her above me,

If fortune fixed her as my lady there,

There already, to eternally reprove me ?

(" Hist " — said Kate the queen ;

But " Oh — " cried the maiden, binding her tresses,

" T« only a page that carols unseen

" Crumbling your hounds their messes l")

Is she wronged ? — To the rescue of her honour,

My heart !

Is she poor ? — What costs it to be styled a donour ?

Merely an earth '« to cleave, a sea y s to part !

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her I

(" Nay, list," — bade Kate the queen;

And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,

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PIPPA PASSES. 201

" 'Tis only a page that carols unseen
" Fitting your hawks their jesses !")

(Pivva. passes.)

Jules resumes.
What name was that the little girl sang forth ?
Kate ? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced
The crown of Cyprus to be lady here
At Asolo, where still the peasants keep
Her memory ; and songs tell how many a page
Pined for the grace of one so far above
His power of doing good to, as a queen —
" She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,
"For him to help her!"

Yes, a bitter thing
To see our lady above all need of us ;
Yet so we look ere we will love ; not I,
But the world looks so. If whoever loves
Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper,
The blessing or the blest one, queen or page,
Why should we always choose the page's part ?
Here is a woman with utter need of me, —
I find myself queen here, it seems !

How strange !
Look at the woman here with the new soul,
Like my own Psyche's, — fresh upon her lips
Alit, the visionary butterfly,
Waiting my word to enter and make bright,
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.
This body had no soul before, but slept

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202 PIPPA PASSES.

Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free
From taint or foul with stain, as outward things
Fastened their image on its passiveness :
Now, it will wake, feel, live — or die again !
Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff
Be art — and, further, to evoke a soul
From form, be nothing ? This new soul is mine !

Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do ? — save
A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death
Without me, from their laughter ! — Oh, to hear
God's voice plain as I heard it first, before
They broke in with that laughter ! I heard them
Henceforth, not God !

To Ancona — Greece — some isle !
I wanted silence only — there is clay
Every where. One may do whate'er one likes
In Art — the only thing is, to make sure
That one does like it — which takes pains to know.

Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad dream !
Who — what is Lutwyche — what Natalia's friends,
What the whole world except our love — my own,
Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not,
Ere night we travel for your land — some isle
With the sea's silence on it? Stand aside —
I do but break these paltry models up
To begin art afresh. Shall I meet Lutwyche,
And save him from my statue's meeting him ?
Some unsuspected isle in the far seas !

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PIPPA PASSES. 203

Like a god going thro* his world there stands
One mountain for a moment in the dusk,
Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow —
And you are ever by me while I gaze
— Are in my arms as now — as now — as now !
Some unsuspected isle in the far seas !
Some unsuspected isle in far off seas !

Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from Orca/na to the Turret.
Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering with Bluphocks,
an English vagabond, just in view of the Turret.

Bluphocks.* So, that is your Pippa, the little girl
who passed us singing ? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's
money shall be honestly earned: — now, don't make
me that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name
into the business — we know he can have nothing to do
with such horrors — we know that he is a saint and
all that a Bishop should be, who is a great man
besides. Oh! were but every worm a maggot, Every
fly a grig, Every bough a Christmas faggot, Every
tune a jig! In fact, I have abjured all religions; but
the last I inclined to, was the Armenian — for I have
travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia
Improper (so styled because there 's a sort of bleak
hungry sun there,) you might remark over a venerable
house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription ; and brief as

* " He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and
sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."

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204 PIPPA PASSES.

it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the
mood of every bearded passenger. In they turned, one
and all ; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent
pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity, —
'twas the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short. Struck with
curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriac — (these are
vowels, you dogs, — follow my stick's end in the mud —
Celarent, Darii, Ferio!) and one morning presented
myself spelling-book in hand, a, b, c, — I picked it out
letter by letter, and what was the purport of this mira-
culous posy ? Some cherished legend of the past you 11
say — " How Moses hocus-pocust Egypt's land with fly
and locust" — or, " How to Jonah sounded harshish, Get
thee up and go to Tarshish," — or, " How the angel meet-
ing Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam ; " — in no
wise ! " Shackabrach — Boach — somebody or other —
Isaach, Re-ceirver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex~chan-ger of —
Stolen goods ! " So talk to me of the religion of a
bishop! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop
Beveridge — mean to live so — and die — As some Greek
dog-sage, dead and merry, HeUward bound in Charon's
wherry — With food for both worlds, under and upper,
Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, and never an obolus . . .
(Though thanks to you, or this Intendant thro' you, or
this Bishop thro' his Intendant — I possess a burning
pocket-full of zwanzigers) . . To pay the Stygian ferry !

1st Pol. There is the girl, then ; go and deserve them
the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi
and his mother. (To the rest) I have been noticing a

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PIPPA PASSES. 205

house yonder, this long while — not a shutter unclosed
since morning !

2d Pol. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills
here : he dozes by the hour — wakes up, sighs deeply,
says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then
dozes again, after haying bidden young Sebald, the
foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts : never molest
such a household, they mean well.

Blup. Only, cannot you tell me something of this
little Pippa, I must have to do with ? — one could make
something of that name. Pippa — that is, short for
Felippa — rhyming to — Panurge consults Hertrippa —
Believ'st thou, King Agrippa? Something might be
done with that name.

2d. Pol. Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe
musk-melon would not be dear at half a zwanziger!
Leave this fooling, and look out — the afternoon 's over
or nearly so.

3d Pol. Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does
our principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly?
There ? what 's there beside a simple signature ? (That
English fool 's busy watching.)

2d Pol. Flourish all round — " put all possible obsta-
cles in his way ; " oblong dot at the end — " Detain him till
further advices reach you ; " scratch at bottom — " send
him back on pretence of some informality in the above ; "
ink-spirt on right-hand side, (which is the case here) —
" Arrest him at once," why and wherefore, I don't con-
cern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if

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206 PIPPA PASSES.

Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for Vienna, well and
good — the passport deposed with us for our visa is really
for his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and
he means well ; but let him stay over to-night — there
has been the pretence we suspect — the accounts of his
corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbo-
nari are correct — we arrest him at once — to-morrow
comes Venice — and presently, Spielberg. Bluphocks
makes the signal sure enough! That is he, entering
the turret with his mother, no doubt.

III. — Evening. Inside tlve Twtret, Luigi and his Mother
entering.

Mother. If there blew wind, you 'd hear a long sigh,
easing
The utmost heaviness of music's heart.

Luigi. Here in the archway ?

Mother. Oh no, no— in farther,

Where the echo is made — on the ridge.

Lvigi. Here surely, then.

How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up !
Hark — " Lucius Junius ! " The very ghost of a voice,
Whose body is caught and kept by . . . what are those ?
Mere withered wall-flowers, waving overhead ?
They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair
Who lean out of their topmost fortress — looking
And listening, mountain men, to what we say,
Hands under chin of each grave earthy face :

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PIPPA PASSES. 207

Up and show faces all of you ! — " All of you ! "

That 's the king's dwarf with the scarlet comb ; now

hark —
Come down and meet your fate ! Hark — " Meet your
fate!"

Mother. Let him not meet it, my Luigi — do not
Go to his City ! putting crime aside,
Half of these ills of Italy are feigned —
Your Pellicos and writers for effect,
Write for effect.

Luigi. Hush ! say A. writes, and B.

Mother. These A's and B's write for effect, I say.
Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good
Is silent — you hear each petty injury —
None of his daily virtues ; he is old,
Quiet, and kind, and densely stupid — why
Do A. and B. not kill him themselves ?

Luigi. They teach

Others to kill him — me — and, if I fail,
Others to succeed ; now, if A. tried and failed
I could not teach that : mine 's the lesser task.
Mother, they visit night by night . . .

Mother. — You, Luigi ?

Ah, will you let me tell you what you are ?

Luigi. Why not ? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,
You may assure yourself I say and say
Ever to myself ; at times — nay, even as now
We sit, I think my mind is touched — suspect
All is not sound : but is not knowing that,

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208 PIPPA PASSES.

What constitutes one sane or otherwise ?

I know I am thus — so all is right again !

I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,

And see men merry as if no Italy

Were suffering ; then I ponder — " I am rich,

" Young, healthy ; why should this fact trouble me,

" More than it troubles these ? " But it does trouble me !

No — trouble 's a bad word — for as I walk

There 's springing and melody and giddiness,

And old quaint turns and passages of my youth —

Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves —

Keturn to me — whatever may amuse me,

And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven

Accords with me, all things suspend their strife,

The very cicalas laugh " There goes he, and there !

" Feast him, the time is short — he is on his way

" For the world's sake — feast him this once, our friend ! "

And in return for all this, I can trip

Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps : I go

This evening, mother !

Mother. But mistrust yourself —

Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him.

Luigi. Oh, there I feel — am sure that I am right !

Mother. Mistrust your judgment, then, of the mere
means
Of this wild enterprise : say you are right, —
How should one in your state e'er bring to pass
What would require a cool head, a cold heart,
And a calm hand ? You never will escape.

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PIPPA PASSES. 209

Lnrigi. Escape — to even wish that, would spoil all !
The dying is best part of it. Too much
Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine,
To leave myself excuse for longer life —
Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy,
That I might finish with it ere my fellows
Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay ?
I was put at the board-head, helped to all
At first ; I rise up happy and content.
God must be glad one loves his world so much —
I can give news of earth to all the dead
Who ask me : — last year's sunsets, and great stars
That had a right to come first and see ebb
The crimson wave that drifts the sun away —
Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims
That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,
Impatient of the azure — and that day
In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm —
May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights —
Gone are they, but I have them in my soul !

Mother. (He will not go !)

Luigi. You smile at me ! Tis true. —

Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,
Environ my devotedness as quaintly
As round about some antique altar wreathe
The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.

Mother, See now: you reach the city — you must cross
His threshold — how ?

Luigi* Oh, that 's if we conspired !

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210 PIPPA PASSES.

Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess —

But guess not how the qualities required

For such an office — qualities I have —

Would little stead me otherwise employed,

Yet prove of rarest merit here — here only.

Every one knows for what his excellence

Will serve, hut no one ever will consider

For what his worst defect might serve ; and yet y

Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder \

In search of a distorted ash ? — it happens

The wry spoilt branch 's a natural perfect bow !

Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man

Arriving at the palace on my errand !

No, no — I have a handsome dress packed up —

White satin here, to set off my black hair —

In I shall march — for you may watch your life out

Behind thick walls — make friends there to betray you ;

More than one man spoils everything. March straight —

Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for —

Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on

Thro' guards and guards -I have rehearsed it all

Inside the Turret here a hundred times —
Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe.
But where they cluster thickliest is the door
Of doors ; they 11 let you pass — they 11 never blab
Each to the other, he knows not the favourite,
Whence he is bound and what 's his business now —
Walk in — straight up to him — you have no knife —
Be prompt, how should he scream ? Then, out with you !

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PIPPA PASSES. 211

Italy, Italy, my Italy !

You 're free, you 're free ! Oh mother, I could dream

They got about me — Andrea from his exile,

Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave !

Mother. Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism
The easiest virtue for a selfish man
To acquire ! He loves himself — and next, the world —
If he must love beyond, — but nought between :
As a short-sighted man sees nought midway
His body and the sun above. But you
Are my adored Luigi — ever obedient
To my least wish, and running o'er with love —
I could not call you cruel or unkind !
Once more, your ground for killing him ! — then go !

Luigi. Now do you ask me, or make sport of me ?
How first the Austrians got these provinces —
(If that is all, 1 11 satisfy you soon)
. . . Never by conquest but by cunning, for
That treaty whereby . . .

Mother. Well ?

Luigi. (Sure he 's arrived,

The tell-tale cuckoo— spring 's his confidant,
And he lets out her April purposes !)
Or . , better go at once to modern times —
He has . . they have . . in fact, I understand
But can 't re-state the matter ; that 's my boast ;
Others could reason it out to you, and prove
Things they have made me feel.

Mother. Why go to-night ?

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212 PIPPA PAS8ES.

Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now

A morning star. I cannot hear you, Luigi !

Luigi. " I am the hright and morning-star," God saith —
And, " to such an one I give the morning-star ! "
The gift of the morning-star — have I God's gift
Of the morning-star ?

Mother, Chiara will love to see

That Jupiter an evening-star next June.

Luigi. Traej mother. Well for those who live through
June!
Great noontides, thunder storms, all glaring pomps
Which triumph at the heels of sovereign June
Leading his glorious revel thro' our world.
Yes, Chiara will he here —

Mother. In June — rememher,

Yourself appointed that month for her coming —

Luigi. Was that low noise the echo ?

Mother. The night-wind.

She must he grown — with her hlue eyes upturned
As if life were one long and sweet surprise :
In June she comes.

Luigi. We were to see together

The Titian at Treviso— there, again !

(From without is hewrd the voice of Pippa, singing —
A king lived long ago,
In the morning of the world,
When earth was nigher heaven than now :
And the king's locks curled
Disparting o'er a forehead full

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PIPPA PASSES. 213

As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn

Of some sacrificial bull —

Only calm as a babe new-born :

For he was got to a sleepy mood,

So safe from all decrepitude,

From age with its bane, so sure gone by,

(The Gods so loved him while he dreamed,)

That, having lived thus long, there seemed

No need the king should ever die.

Luigi. No need that sort of king should ever die !
[From without.] Among the rocks his city was :
Before his palace, in the sun,
He sate to see his people pass,
And judge them every one
From its threshold of smooth stone.
They haled him many a valley thief
Caught in the sheep-pens — robber-chief,
Swarthy and shameless — beggar-cheat —
Spy-prowler — or rough pirate found
On the sea-sand left aground ;
And sometimes clung about his feet,
With bleeding lip and burning cheek,
A woman, bitterest wrong to speak
Of one with sullen thickset brows :
And sometimes from the prison-house
The angry priests a pale wretch brought,
Who through some chink had pushed and pressed,
On knees and elbows, belly and breast,
Worm-like into the temple, — caught

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214 PIPPA PASSES.

At last there by the very God,

Who ever in the darkness strode

Backward and forward, keeping watch

O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch !

And these, all and every one,

The king judged, sitting in the sun.

Luigi. That king should still judge sitting in the sun !

[From without.] His councillors, on left and right,

Looked anxious up, — but no surprise

Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes,

Where the very blue had turned to white.

y Tis said, a Python scared one day

The breathless city, till he came,

Withforky tongue and eyes on flame,

Where the old king sate to judge alway ;

But when he saw the sweepy hair,

Girt with a crown of berries rare

Which the God will hardly give to wear

To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare

In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,

At his wondrous forest rites, —

Beholding this, he did not dare,

Approach that threshold in the sun,

Assault the old king smiling there.

Such grace had kings when the world begun !

(Pippa passes.)

Luigi. And such grace have they, now that the world ends !
The Python in the city, on the throne,

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PIPPA PASSES. 215

And brave men, God would crown for skying him,
Lurk in bye-corners lest they fall his prey.
Are crowns yet to be won, in this late trial,
Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach ?
Tis God's voice calls, how could I stay ? Farewell !

Talk by the way, while Pippaw passing from the Turret to the Bishop's
brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. Poor Girls
sitting on the steps.

1st Girl. There goes a swallow to Venice — the stout
sea-farer !
Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings.
Let us all wish ; you, wish first !

2d Girl. I ? This sunset

To finish.

3d Girl. That old . . . somebody I know,
Greyer and older than my grandfather,
To give me the same treat he gave last week —
Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,
Lampreys, and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling
The while some folly about how well I fare,
To be let eat my supper quietly —
Since had he not himself been late this morning
Detained at — never mind where, — had he not . .
" Eh, baggage, had I not ! " —

2d Girl. How she can lie !

3d Girh Look there — by the nails —

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216 PIPPA PASSES.

2d Girl. What makes your fingers red ?

3d Girl Dippingtheminto wine to write bad wordswith,
On the bright table — how he laughed !

1st Girl. My turn :

Spring 's come and summer 's coming : I would wear
A long loose gown — down to the feet and hands —
With plaits here, close about the throat, all day :
And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed —
And have new milk to drink — apples to eat,
Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . ah, I should say,
This is away in the fields — miles !

3d Girl. Say at once

You 'd be at home — she 'd always be at home !
Now comes the story of the farm among
The cherry orchards, and how April snowed
White blossoms on her as she ran : why, fool,
They Ve rubbed out the chalk-mark of how tall you were,
Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage,
Made a dunghill of your garden —

1st Girl. They, destroy

My garden since I left them ? well — perhaps !
I would have done so — so I hope they have !
A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall—
They called it mine, I have forgotten why,
It must have been there long ere I was born ;
Cric — eric — I think I hear the wasps o'erhead
Pricking the papers strung to flutter there
And keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse long papers,
And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through .

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PIPPA PASSES. 217

3d Girl. How her mouth twitches ! Where was I ? —
before
She broke in with her wishes and long gowns
And wasps — would I be such a fool ! — Oh, here !
This is my way — I answer every one
Who asks me why I make so much of him —
(If you say, you love him — straight " he 11 not be gulled ")
44 He that seduced me when I was a girl
Thus high — had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,
Brown, red, white," — as the case may be — that pleases !
(See how that beetle burnishes in the path —
There sparkles he along the dust ! and, there —
Your journey to that maize-tuft 's spoilt at least !)

1st Girl. When I was young, they said if you killed one
Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend
Up there, would shine no more that day nor next.

%d Girl. When you were young ? Nor are you young,
that 's true !
How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away !
Why, I can span them ! Cecco beats you still ?
No matter, so you keep your curious hair.
I wish they *d find a way to dye our hair
Your colour — any lighter tint, indeed,
Than black — the men say they are sick of black,
Black eyes, black hair !

Uh Girl. Sick of yours, like enough !

Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreys
And ortolans ? Giovita, of the palace,
Engaged (but there 's no trusting him) to slice me

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218 PIPPA PASSES.

Polenta with a knife that has cut up
An ortolan.

2d Girl. Why, there ! is not that, Pippa
We are to talk to, under the window, — quick, —
Where the lights are ?

1st Girl. No — or she would sing ;

— For the Intendant said . .

3d Girl. Oh, you sing first —

Then, if she listens and comes close . . 1 11 tell you,
Sing that song the young English noble made,
Who took you for the purest of the pure,
And meant to leave the world for you — what fun !

24 Girl. [Sings.]

You *U love me yet I — and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing :
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartfull now — some seed
At least is sure to strike
And yield— what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like !

You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet :
Your look ? — that pays a thousand pains.
What's death ?— You'll love me yet !

3d Girl. [To Peppa who approaches.] Oh, you may
come closer — we shall not eat you ! Why, you seem the
very person that the great rich handsome Englishman has
fallen so violently in love with ! 1 11 tell you all about it.

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PIPPA PASSES. 219

IV. — Night. The Palace by (he Duomo. Monsionob,
dismissing his Attendants.

Mon. Thanks, friends, many thanks. I chiefly desire
life now, that I may recompense every one of you.
Most I know something of already. What, a repast
prepared ? Benedicto benedicatur . . ugh . . ugh ! Where
was I ? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is
mild, very unlike winter-weather, — but I am a Sicilian,
you know, and shiver in your Julys here : To be sure,
when 'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used
to cross in procession the great square on Assumption
Day> you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist
suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down
on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends,
but go ! [To the Intendant] Not you, Ugo ! [The others
leave the apartment] I have long wanted to converse
with you, Ugo !

Inten. Uguccio —

Mon. . . 'guccio Stefani, man ! of Ascoli, Fermo, and
Fossombruno ; — what I do need instructing about, are
these accounts of your administration of my poor bro-
ther's affairs. Ugh ! I shall never get through a third
part of your accounts : take some of these dainties before
we attempt it, however : are you bashful to that degree ?
For me, a crust and water suffice.

Inten. Do you choose this especial night to question
me?

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220 PIPPA PASSK8.

Mon. This night, Ugo. You have managed my late
brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother —
fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the
3rd of December, I find him . . .

Inten. If you have so intimate an acquaintance with
your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning bo
far back — they will hardly bear looking into, so far back.

Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but disappoint-
ments here below! I remark a considerable payment
made to yourself on this 3rd of December. Talk of
disappointments 1 There was a young fellow here, Jules,
a foreign sculptor, I did ray utmost to advance, that the
church might be a gainer by us both : he was going on
hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me
some marvellous change that has happened in his notions
of art ; here 's his letter, — " He never had a clearly
conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since
his hand could manage a chisel, he has practised expres-
sing other men's Ideals — and, in the very perfection he
has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure — his
unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of
old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the
ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably
to his spirit : there is but one method of escape — con-
fiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn
painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its
characteristics," — strike out, I dare say, a school like
Correggio : how think you, Ugo ?

Inten. Is Correggio a painter ?

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PIPPA PASSES. 221

Mori. Foolish Jules ! and yet, after all, why foolish ?
He may — probably will, fail egregiously ; but if there
should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such
way by a poet, now, or a musician, (spirits who have
conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other
channel) transferring it to this, and escaping our con-
ventional roads by pure ignorance of them ; eh, Ugo ?
If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo !

Inten. Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of
yours : first, you select the group of which I formed
one, — next you thin it gradually, — always retaining me
with your smile, — and so do you proceed till you have
fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls :
and now then ? Let this farce, this chatter end now —
what is it you want with me ?

Mon. Ugo . . .

Inten. From the instant you arrived, I felt your smile
on me as you questioned me about this and the other
article in those papers — why your brother should have
given me this villa, that podere, — and your nod at the
end meant, — what ?

Mon. Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here :
if once you set me coughing, Ugo ! —

Inten. I have your brother's hand and seal to all I
possess : now ask me what for ! what service I did him
— ask me !

Mon. I had better not — I should rip up old disgraces
— let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way r
Maflfeo of Forli, (which, I forgot to observe, is your true

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222 PEPPA PASSES.

name) was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing
that church at Cesena ?

Inten. No, nor needs be — for when I murdered your
brother's friend, Pasquale, for him . . .

Mon, Ah, he employed you in that business, did he ?
Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and
that podere, for fear the world should find out my rela-
tions were of so indifferent a stamp ! Maffeo, my family
is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have
my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every
wickedness under Heaven : my own father . . > rest his
soul ! — I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may
rest : my dear two dead brothers were, — what you know
tolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivalled
them in vice, if not in wealth, but from my boyhood I
came out from among them, and so am not partaker of
their plagues. My glory springs from another source ;
or if from this, by contrast only, — for I, the bishop, am
the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair
some of their wrong, however ; so far as my brother's
ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the conse-
quences of his crime; and not one soldo shall escape
me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you
shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with ; what
opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize.
Because, to pleasure myself, apart from other consi-
derations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress
sackcloth, and my couch straw, — am I therefore to let
you, the off-scouring of the earth, seduce the poor and

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PIPPA PASSES. 223

ignorant, by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to
think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and
exclusively associated with it ? Must I let villas and
poderes go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may
beget by means of them other murderers and thieves ?
No ... if my cough would but allow me to speak !

Inten. What am I to expect ? you are going to punish
me?

M on. — Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford
to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to
redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in !
How should I dare to say . . .

Inten. " Forgive us our trespasses " —

Mon. My friend, it is because I avow myself a very
worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of
conduct you would applaud, perhaps : shall I proceed,
as it were, a-pardoning ? — I ? — who have no symptom of
reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest
efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less,
keep others out. No— I do trespass, but will not double
that by allowing you to trespass.

Inten. And suppose the villas are not your brother's
to give, nor yours to take ? Oh, you are hasty enough
just now !

Mon. 1, 2 — N°. 8 ! — ay, can you read the substance
of a letter, N°. 3, I have received from Rome ? It is
precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion
I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who
would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in

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224 PIPPA PASSES.

infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late
brother — that the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the
bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the
taking all pains, as guardian of that infant's heritage for
the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever,
whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now
gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing
up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice
brings my people from the next room to dispose of your-
self. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me
raising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old
story ? The heir between the succeeding heir, and that
heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect,
and the life of fear and bribes, and ominous smiling
silence ? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant ?
Come, now !

Inten. So old a story, and tell it no better ? When
did such an instrument ever produce such an effect?
Either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely, he
is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's
power so thoroughly — the child is always ready to
produce — as you say — howsoever, wheresoever, and
whensoever.

Mon. Liar!

Inten. Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise !
I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the
gallows await me to-morrow ; for what a life did I lead !
Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every
time I pay his annuity (which happens commonly thrice

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PIPPA PASSES. 225

a year). If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the
good bishop — you !

Mon. I see thro' the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke
truth for once ; all shall be sifted, however — seven times
sifted.

Inten. And how my absurd riches encumbered me !
I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions.
Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and
die!

Sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like your
brother I frightened to death — let us understand one
another. Sir, I will make away with her for you — the
girl — here close at hand ; not the stupid obvious kind of
killing ; do not speak — know nothing of her or me ! I
see her every day — saw her this morning: of course
there is to be no killing ; but at Rome the courtesans
perish off every three years, and I can entice her thither
— have, indeed, begun operations already. There's a
certain lusty, blue-eyed, florid-complexioned, English
knave I and the Police employ occasionally. — You
assent, I perceive — no, that 's not it — assent I do not
say — but you will let me convert my present havings
and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the
Alps? Tis but a little black-eyed, pretty singing
Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of
harm's way up to this present ; for I always intended to
make your life a plague to you with her ! 'Tis as well
settled once and for ever : some women I have procured
will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for

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226 PIPPA PASSES.

somebody ; and once Pippa entangled ! — you conceive ?
Through her singing ? Is it a bargain ?

(From without it heard the voice of Pippa, ringing —
Over-head the tree-tops meet —
Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet —
There was nought above me, and nought below,
My childhood had not learned to know !
For, what are the voices of birds
— Ay, and of beasts, — but words — our words,
Only so much more sweet ?
The knowledge of that with my life begun t
But I had so near made out the sun,
And counted your stars, the Seven and One,
Like the fingers of my hand :
Nay, I could all but understand
Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges ;
And just when out of her soft fifty changes
No unfamiliar face might overlook me —
Suddenly God took me ! (Pippa pastes.)

Mon. [Springing up.] My people— one and all —
all — within there ! Gag this villain — tie him hand and
foot! He dares — I know not half he dares — but
remove him — quick ! Miserere mei, Domine ! quick,
I say!

Pippa's Chamber again. She enters it
The bee with his comb,
The mouse at her dray,

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PIPPA PASSE8 227

The grub in its tomb,

Wile winter away ;

But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray,

How fare they ?

Ha, ha, best thanks for your counsel, my Zanze —

" Feast upon lampreys, quaff the Breganze " —

The summer of life 's so easy to spend,

And care for to-morrow so soon put away !

But winter hastens at summer's end,

And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray,

How fare they ?

No bidding me then to . . what did she say ?

" Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes

" More like . . (what said she ?) — and less like canoes — "

How pert that girl was ! — would I be those pert

Impudent staring women ! it had done me,

However, surely no such mighty hurt

To learn his name who passed that jest upon me :

No foreigner, that I can recollect,

Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect

Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and thick rings

Of English-coloured hair, at all events.

Well — if old Luca keeps his good intents,

We shall do better : see what next year brings !

I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear

More destitute than you, perhaps, next year !

Bluph. . . something ! I had caught the uncouth name

But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter

Above us — bound to spoil such idle chatter

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228 PIPPA PASSES.

As ours ; it were, indeed, a serious matter

If silly talk like ours should put to shame

The pious man, the man devoid of blame,

The ... ah, but — ah, but, all the same,

No mere mortal has a right

To carry that exalted air ;

Best people are not angels quite —

While — not the worst of people's doings scare

The devils ; so there 's that proud look to spare !

Which is mere counsel to myself, mind ! for

I have just been the holy Monsignor !

And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother,

And you too, Luigi ! — how that Luigi started

Out of the Turret — doubtlessly departed

On some good errand or another,

For he past just now in a traveller's trim,

And the sullen company that prowled

About his path, I noticed, scowled

As if they had lost a prey in him.

And I was Jules the sculptor's bride,

And I was Ottima beside,

And now what am I ? — tired of fooling !

Day for folly, night for schooling !

New year's day is over and spent,

111 or well, I must be content !

Even my lily's asleep, I vow :

Wake up— here 's a friend I 've pluckt you !

See— call this flower a heart's-ease now !

And something rare, let me instruct you,

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PIPPA PASSES. 229

Is this — with petals triply swollen,
Three times spotted, thrice the pollen,
While the leaves and parts that witness
The old proportions and their fitness
Here remain, unchanged unmoved now —
So call this pampered thing improved now !
Suppose there 's a king of the flowers
And a girl-show held in his bowers —
" Look ye, buds, this growth of ours,"
Says he, " Zanze from the Brenta,
I have made her gorge polenta
Till both cheeks are near as bouncing
As her . . . name there 's no pronouncing !
See this heightened colour too —
For she swilled Breganze wine
Till her nose turned deep carmine —
Twas but white when wild she grew !
And only by this Zanze's eyes
Of which we could not change the size,
The magnitude of what 's achieved
Otherwise, may be perceived ! "

Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day !
How could that red sun drop in that black cloud !
Ah, Pippa, morning's rule is moved away,
Dispensed with, never more to be allowed,
Day's turn is over — now arrives the night's —
Oh, Lark, be day's apostle
To mavis, merle and throstle,

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230 PIPPA PAS8E8.

Bid them their betters jostle

From day and its delights !

But at night, brother Howlet, far over the woods,

Toll the world to thy chantry —

Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods

Full complines with galantry — -

Then, owls and bats, cowls and twats,

Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods,

Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry !

[After she has begum to undress herself.
Now, one thing I should like really to know :
How near I ever might approach all these
I only fancied being, this long day —
— Approach, I mean, so as to touch them — so
As to .. in some way . . move them — if you please,
Do good or evil to them some slight way.
For instance, if I wind

Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind

[Sitting on the bedside.
And broider Ottima's cloak's hem —

Ah, me and my important part with them,
This morning's hymn half promised when I rose !
True in some sense or other, I suppose,
Though I passed by them all, and felt no sign.

[As she lies down.
God bless me ! I can pray no more to-night.
No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right.
All service is the same with God —
With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we : there is no last nor first. — [She sleeps.

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.
$ fltagetrg.

itized by G00gk

So far as I know, this Tragedy is the first artistical consequence of
what Voltaire termed " a terrible event without consequences ;" and
although it professes to he historical, I have taken more pains to
arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particu-
larising : since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief
circumstances of Victor's remarkable European career — nor quite
ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to reproduce
(tolerable accounts of which are to be found, for instance, in Abbe*
Roman's lUcit, or even the fifth of Lord Orrery's Letters from Italy)
— I cannot expect them to be versed, nor desirous of becoming so,
in all the details of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of
the time. From these only may be obtained a knowledge of the
fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dis-
simulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor — the extreme
and painful sensibility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest good
purpose and vacillating will, of Charles — the noble and right woman's-
manliness of his wife — and the ill-considered rascality and subsequent
better-advised rectitude of D'Ormea. When I say, therefore, that
I cannot but believe my statement (combining as it does what appears
correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more true to person
and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to meet with, no
doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared as readily.

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

PERSONS.
Victor Amadeus, First King of Sardinia.
Charles Emmanuel, his Son, Prince of Piedmont.
Polyxina, Wife of Charles.
D'Ormea, Minister.

Scene — The Council Chamber of Rivoli Palace, near Turin, com-
municating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to the left and
another to the right of the stage.

Time, 1730-1.

FIRST YEAR 1730.— KING VICTOR.
Part I.

Charles, Poltxena.

Cha. You think so ? Well, I do not.

Pol My beloved,

All must clear up — we shall be happy yet :
This cannot last for ever . . oh, may change
To-day, or any day !

Cha. — May change ? Ah yes —

May change !

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234 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Pol. Endure it, then.

Cha. No doubt, a life

Like this drags on, now better and now worse ;
My father may . . . may take to loving me ;
And he may take, too, D'Ormea closer yet
To counsel him ; — may even cast off her
— That bad Sebastian ; but he also may
. . Or, no, Polyxena, my only friend,
He may not force you from me ?

Pol. Now, force me

From you ! — me, close by you as if there gloomed
No D'Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path —
At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand,
Arch-counsellor, prime confidant . . . force me !

Cha. Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure
We clasp hands now, of being happy once.
Young was I, quite neglected, nor concerned
By the world's business that engrossed so much
My father and my brother : if I peered
From out my privacy, — amid the crash
And blaze of nations, domineered those two ;
Twas war, peace — France our foe, now — England,

friend —
In love with Spain — at feud with Austria ! — Well —
I wondered — laughed a moment's laugh for pride
In the chivalrous couple — then let drop
My curtain — " I am out of it," I said —
When . . .

Pol. You have told me, Charles.

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 335

Cha. Polyxena —

When suddenly, — a warm March day, just that !
Just so much sunshine as the cottager's child
Basks in delighted, while the cottager
Takes off his bonnet, as he ceases work,
To catch the more of it — and it must fall
Heavily on my brother . . . had you seen
Philip— the lion-featured ! — not like me !

Pol. I know —

Cha. And Philip's mouth yet fast to mine,

His dead cheek on my cheek, his arm still round
My neck, — they bade me rise, " for I was heir
To the Duke," they said, " the right hand of the Duke ;"
Till then he was my father, not the Duke !
So . . let me finish . . the whole intricate
World's-business their dead boy was born to, I
Must conquer, — ay, the brilliant thing he was,
I, of a sudden, must be : my faults, my follies,
— All bitter truths were told me, all at once
To end the sooner. What I simply styled
Their overlooking me, had been contempt :
How should the Duke employ himself, forsooth,
With such an one while lordly Philip rode
By him their Turin through ? But he was punished,
And must put up with — me ! 'Twas sad enough
To learn my future portion and submit —
And then the wear and worry, blame on blame !
— For, spring-sounds in my ears, spring-smells about,
How could I but grow dizzy in their pent

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236 KING VICTOR AND SING CHARLES.

Dim palace-rooms at first ? My mother's look

As they discussed my insignificance —

(She and my father, and I sitting by,) —

I bore : — I knew how brave a son they missed :

Philip had gaily passed state-papers o'er,

While Charles was spelling at them painfully !

But Victor was my father spite of that.

" Duke Victor's entire life has been," I said,

" Innumerable efforts to one end ;

" And, on the point now of that end's success,

" Our Ducal turning to a Kingly crown,

" Where 's time to be reminded 'tis his child

" He spurns ?" And so I suffered . . yet scarce suffered,

Since I had you at length !

Pol. — To serve in place

Of monarch, minister and mistress, Charles.

Cha. But, once that crown obtained, then was't not like
Our lot would alter? — " When he rests, takes breath,
" Glances around, and sees who 's left to love —
" Now that my mother 's dead, sees I am left —
" Is it not like he 11 love me at the last ?"
Well : Savoy turns Sardinia — the Duke 's King !
Could I — precisely then — could you expect
His harshness to redouble ? These few months
Have been . . . have been . . Polyxena, do you
And God conduct me, or I lose myself !
What would he have ? What is 't they want with me ?
Him with this mistress and this minister,
— You see me and you hear him ; judge us both !
Pronounce what I should do, Polyxena !

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KING VICTOE AND KING CHARLES* 237

Pol. Endure, endure, beloved ! Say you not
That he 's your Father ? All 's so incident
To novel sway ! Beside, our life must change :
Or you 11 acquire his kingcraft, or he 11 find
Harshness a sorry way of teaching it.
I bear this — not that there 's so much to bear —

Cha. You bear it ? don't I know that you, tho' bound
To silence for my sake, are perishing
Piecemeal beside me ? and how otherwise ?
— When every creephole from the hideous Court
Is stopt ; the Minister to dog me, here —
The Mistress posted to entrap you, there !
And thus shall we grow old in such a life —
Not careless, — never estranged, — but old : to alter
Our life, there is so much to alter !

Pol. Come —

Is it agreed that we forego complaints
Even at Turin, yet complain we here
At Rivoli ? Twere wiser you announced
Our presence to the King, What 's now a-foot,
I wonder ? — Not that any more 's to dread
Than every day's embarrassment — but guess,
For me, why train so fast succeeded train
On the high-road, each gayer still than each ;
I noticed your Archbishop's pursuivant,
The sable cloak and silver cross ; such pomp
Bodes . . what now, Charles ? Can you conceive ?

Cha. Not I.

Pol. A matter of some moment —

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238 SENG VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Cha. There 's our life !

Which of the group of loiterers that stared
From the lime-avenue, divines that I —
About to figure presently, he thinks,
In face of all assembled — am the one
Who knows precisely least about it ?

Pol Tush!

D'Ormea's contrivance !

Cha. Ay — how otherwise

Should the young Prince serve for the old King's foil ?
— So that the simplest courtier may remark,
'Twere idle raising parties for a Prince
Content to linger D'Ormea's laughing-stock !
Something, 'tis like, about that weary business

[Pointing to papers he ha* laid down, and which Polyxena
examines.]

— Not that I comprehend three words, of course,
After all last night's study.

Pol The faint heart!

Why, as we rode and you rehearsed just now
Its substance . . (that 's the folded speech I mean,
Concerning the Reduction of the Fiefe . .)
— What would you have ? — I fancied while you spoke,
Some tones were just your father's.

Cha. Flattery !

Pol I fancied so : — and here lurks, sure enough,
My note upon the Spanish Claims ! You 've mastered
The fief-speech thoroughly — this other, mind,
Is an opinion you deliver, — stay,
Best read it slowly over once to me ;

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 239

Read — there 's bare time ; you read it firmly — loud .
— Rather loud — looking in his face, — don't sink
Your eye once — ay, thus ! "If Spain claims . . ." begin
— Just as you look at me !

Cha. At you ! Oh, truly,

You have I seen, say, marshalling your troops —
Dismissing councils — or, through doors ajar,
Head sunk on hand, devoured by slow chagrins
— Then radiant, for a crown had all at once
Seemed possible again ! I can behold
Him, whose least whisper ties my spirit fast,
In this sweet brow, nought could divert me from,
Save objects like Sebastian's shameless lip,
Or, worse, the clipt grey hair and dead white face,
And dwindling eye as if it ached with guile,
Which D'Ormea wears . . .

[As he hisses her, enter from the Kino's apartment D'Ormea.]

, . I said he would divert
My kisses from your brow !

DO. [Aside.] Here ! So King Victor
Spoke truth for once ; and who 's ordained, but I,
To make that memorable ? Both in call,
As he declared f Were 't better gnash the teeth,
Or laugh outright now ?

Cha. [to Pol] What 's his visit for ?

P'O. [Aside.] I question if they '11 even speak to me.

Pol. [to Cha.] Face D'Ormea, he '11 suppose you fear
him, else;
[Aloud.] The Marquis bears the King's command, no doubt.

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240 KING VICTOB AND KING CHAELES.

D'O. [Aside.] Precisely! — If I threatened him,
perhaps?
Well, this at least is punishment enough !
Men used to promise punishment would come.

Cha. Deliver the King's message, Marquis !

DV [Aside.] Ah—

So anxious for his fete ? [Aloud.] A word, my Prince,
Before you see your father — -just one word
Of counsel !

Cha. Oh, your counsel certainly —

Polyxena, the Marquis counsels us !
Well, sir ? Be brief, however !

DV. What? you know

As much as I ? — preceded me, most like,
In knowledge ? So ! (Tis in his eye, beside —
His voice — he knows it and his heart 's on flame
Already !) You surmise why you, myself,
Del Borgo, Spava, fifty nobles more,
Are summoned thus ?

Cha. Is the Prince used to know,

At any time, the pleasure of the King,
Before his minister ? — Polyxena,
Stay here till I conclude my task — I feel
Your presence — (smile not) — thro' the walls, and take
Fresh heart. The King 's within that chamber ?

D'O. [Passing the table whereon a paper lies, exclaim, a* he
glances at it,] <« Spain ! "

Pol. [Aside to Cha.] Tarry awhile: what ails the
minister?

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KINO YIOTOB AND KING CHABLES. 241

D'O. Madam, I do not often trouble you.
The Prince loathes, and you loathe me — let that pass ;
But since it touches him and you, not me,
Bid the Prince listen !

Pol. [to Cha.] Surely you will listen !

— Deceit? — Those fingers crumpling up his vest?

Cha. Deceitful to the very fingers' ends !

jyO. [who hat approached them, overlooks the other paper
Charles continues to hold]
My project for the Fiefe ! As I supposed !
Sir, I must give you light upon those measures
— For this is mine, and that I spied of Spain,
Mine too !

Cha. Release me ! Do you gloze on me
Who bear in the world's face (that is, the world
YouVe made for me at Turin) your contempt?
— Your measures P — When was any hateful task
Not D'Ormea's imposition ? Leave my robe !
What post can I bestow, what grant concede ?
Or do you take me for the King ?

DV. Not I !

Not yet for King, — not for, as yet, thank God,
One, who in . . shall I say a year — a month ?
Ay ! — shall be wretcheder than e'er was slave
In his Sardinia, — Europe's spectacle,
And the world's bye-word ! What? The Prince aggrieved
That I've excluded him our counsels ? Here

[Touching the paper in Charles's hand.
Accept a method of extorting gold

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242 KING YIOTOK AND KING CHARLES.

From Savoy's nobles, who must wring its worth

In silver first from tillers of the soil,

Whose hinds again have to contribute brass

To make up the amount — there 's counsel, sir !

My counsel, one year old ; and the fruit, this —

Savoy's become a mass of misery

And wrath, which one man has to meet— the King :

You're not the King ! Another counsel, sir !

Spain entertains a project (here it lies)

Which, guessed, makes Austria offer that same King

Thus much to baffle Spain ; he promises ;

Then comes Spain, breathless lest she be forestalled.

Her offer follows ; and he promises . . .

Cha. — Promises, sir, when he before agreed
To Austria's offer?

D'O. That 's a counsel, Prince !

But past our foresight, Spain and Austria (choosing
To make their quarrel up between themselves
Without the intervention of a friend)
Produce both treaties, and both promises . . .

Cha. How?

IfO. Prince, a counsel ! — And the fruit of that ?

Both parties covenant afresh, to fall
Together on their friend, blot out his name,
Abolish him from Europe. So take note,
Here 's Austria and here 's Spain to fight against,
And what sustains the King but Savoy here,
A miserable people mad with wrongs ?
You 're not the King !

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 243

Cha. Polyxena, you said

All would clear up — all does clear up to me !

D'O. Clears up ? Tis no such thing to envy, then ?
You see the King's state in its length and breadth ?
You blame me, now, for keeping you aloof
From counsels and the fruit of counsels ? — Wait
Till I Ve explained this morning's business !

Cha. [Aside,] No —

Stoop to my father, yes, — to D'Ormea, no ;
— The King's son, not to the King's counsellor !
I will do something, — but at least retain
The credit of my deed ! [Aloud.] Then, D'Ormea, this
You now expressly come to tell me ?

DV. This

To tell ! You apprehend me ?

Cha. Perfectly.

And further, D'Ormea, you have shown yourself,
For the first time these many. weeks and months,
Disposed to do my bidding ?

DV. From the heart !

Cha. Acquaint my father, first, I wait his pleasure :
Next ... or, 1 11 tell you at a fitter time.
Acquaint the King !

DV. [Aside.] If I 'jscape Victor yet !
First, to prevent this stroke at me — if not, —
Then, to avenge it ! [To Cha.] Gracious sir, I go. [Goes.

Cha. God, I forbore! Which more offends — that man
Or that man's master? Is it come to this ?
Have they supposed (the sharpest insult yet)
b2

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244 XING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES,

I needed e'en bis intervention ? No !
No — dull am I, conceded, — but so dull,
Scarcely ! Their step decides me.

Pol. How decides?

Cha. You would be free from D'Ormea's eye and hers ?
— Could fly the court with me and live content?
So — this it is for which the knights assemble !
The whispers and the closeting of late,
The savageness and insolence of old,
— For this !

Pol. What mean you ?

Cha. How ? you fail to catch

Their clever plot ? I missed it — but could you ?
These last two months of care to inculcate
How dull I am, — with D'Ormea's present visit
To prove that, being dull, T might be worse
Were I a king — as wretched as now dull —
You recognise in it no winding up
Of a long plot?

Pol. Why should there be a plot?

Cha. The crown 's secure now ; I should shame the
crown—
An old complaint ; the point is, how to gain
My place for one more fit in Victor's eyes,
His mistress', the Sebastian's child.

Pol. In truth?

Cha. They dare not quite dethrone Sardinia's Prince :
But they may descant on my dulness till
They sting me into even praying them

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ZING VICTOR AND KING CHABLES. $45

For leave to hide my head, resign my state,
And end the coil. Not see now ? In a word,
They'd have me tender them myself my rights
As one incapable : — some cause for that,
Since I delayed thus long to see their drift t
I shall apprise the King he may resume
My rights this moment.

Pol. Pause— I dare not think

So ill of Victor.

Cha. Think no ill of him !

Pol. — Nor think him, then, so shallow as to suffer
His purpose be divined thus easily.
And yet — you are the last of a great line ;
There's a great heritage at stake ; new days
Seemed to await this newest of the realms
Of Europe : — Charles, you must withstand this !

Cha. Ah—

You dare not then renounce the splendid court
For one whom all the world despises ? Speak !

Pol. My gentle husband, speak I will, and truth.
Were this as you believe, and I once sure
Your duty lay in so renouncing rule,
I could . . could ? Oh, what happiness it were —
To live, my Charles, and die alone with you !

Cha. I grieve I asked you. To the Presence, then !
D'Ormea acquaints the King by this, no doubt,
He fears I am too simple for mere hints,
And that no less will serve than Victor's mouth
Teaching me in full council what I am.
— I have not breathed, I think, these many years !

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246 KINO VICT0B AND KING CHABLES.

Pol. Why — it may be ! — if he desires to wed
That woman and legitimate her child —

Cha. You see as much ? Oh, let his will have way !
You 11 not repent confiding in me, love ?
There 's many a brighter spot in Piedmont, far,
Than Eivoli. Ill seek him — or, suppose
You hear first how I mean to speak my mind ?
— Loudly and firmly both, this time, be sure !
I yet may see your Rhine-land — who can tell ?
Once away, ever then away ! I breathe.

Pol. And I too breathe !

Cha. Come, my Polyxena !

KING VICTOR : Part II.

Enter Kino Victor, bearing the regalia on a cushion from, hi*
apartment. He calls loudly.

D'Ormea ! — for patience fails me, treading thus
Among the trains that I have laid, — my knights,
Safe in the hall here — in that anteroom,
My son, — and D'Ormea, where ? Of this, one touch —

[Laying down ike crown.

This fireball to these mute, black, cold trains — then !

Outbreak enough !

[Contemplating it.] To lose all, after all !

This — glancing o'er my house for ages — shaped,

Brave meteor, like the Crown of Cyprus now —

Jerusalem, Spain, England — every change

The braver, — and when I have clutched a prize

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 247

My ancestry died wan with watching for,

To lose it ! — by a slip — a fault — a trick

Learnt to advantage once, and not unlearnt

When past the use, — "just this once more" (I thought)

" Use it with Spain and Austria happily,

And then away with trick !" — An oversight

I 'd have repaired thrice over, any time

These fifty years, must happen now ! There 's peace

At length ; and I, to make the most of peace,

Ventured my project on our people here,

As needing not their help — which Europe knows,

And means, cold-blooded, to dispose herself

(Apart from plausibilities of war)

To crush the new-made King — who ne'er till now

Feared her. As Duke, I lost each foot of earth

And laughed at her : my name was left, my sword

Left, all was left ! But she can take, she knows,

This crown, herself conceded . . .

That's to try,
Kind Europe ! My career 's not closed as yet !
This boy was ever subject to my will —
Timid and tame — the fitter ! D'Ormea, too—
What if the sovereign's also rid of thee
His prime of parasites ? — Yet I delay !
D'Ormea ! [As D'Ormea enters, the King seats himself.
My son, the Prince — attends he ?
DV. Sire,

He does attend. The crown prepared ! — it seems
That you persist in your resolve.

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248 XING VICTOR AND SING CHARLES.

Vic. Who 's come ?

The chancellor and the chamberlain ? My knights ?

D y O. The whole Annunziata. — If, my liege,
Your fortunes had not tottered worse than now . . .

Vic. Del Borgo has drawn up the schedules? mine—
My son's too ? Excellent ! Only, beware
Of the least blunder, or we look but fools.
First, you read the Annulment of the Oaths ;
Del Borgo follows . . no, the Prince shall sign ;
Then let Del Borgo read the Instrument —
On which, I enter. —

D % 0. Sire, this may be truth ;

You, sire, may do as you affect — may break
Your engine, me, to pieces : try at least
If not a spring remains worth saving ! Take
My counsel as I Ve counselled many times !
What if the Spaniard and the Austrian threat?
There's England, Holland, Venice — which ally
Select you?

Vic. Aha ! Come, my D'Ormea, — " truth"

Was on your lip a minute since. Allies ?
I Ve broken faith with Venice, Holland, England.
— As who knows if not you ?

D'O. But why with me

Break faith — with one ally, your best, break faith?

Vic. When first I stumbled on you, Marquis — ('twas
At Mondovi — a little lawyer's clerk . . . )

D'O. . . . Therefore your soul's ally ! — who brought
you through

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 249

Your quarrel with the Pope, at pains enough —
Who Ve simply echoed you in these affairs —
On whom you cannot, therefore, visit these
Affairs' ill fortune — whom you 11 trust to guide
You safe (yes, on my soul) in these affairs !

Vic. I was about to notice, had you not
Prevented me, that since that great town kept
With its chicane my D'Ormea's satchel stuffed,
And D'Ormea's self sufficiently recluse,
He missed a sight, — my naval armament
When I burnt Toulon. How the skiff exults
Upon the galliot's wave ! — rises its height,
O'ertops it even ; but the great wave bursts —
And hell-deep in the horrible profound
Buries itself the galliot : — shall the skiff
Think to escape the sea's black trough in turn?
Apply this : you have been my minister
— Next me — above me, possibly ; — sad post,
Huge care, abundant lack of peace of mind ;
Who would desiderate the eminence ?
You gave your soul to get it — you'd yet give
Your soul to keep it, as I mean you shall,
My D'Ormea ! What if the wave ebbed with me ?
Whereas it cants you to another's crest —
I toss you to my son ; ride out your ride !

D'O. Ah, you so much despise me then ?

Vic. You, D'Ormea?

Nowise : and 1 11 inform you why. A king
Must in his time have many ministers,

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260 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

And I Ve been rash enough to part with mine
When I thought proper. Of the tribe, not one
( . . Or wait, did Pianezze ? . . ah, just the same !)
Not one of them, ere his remonstrance reached
The length of yours, but has assured me (commonly,
Standing much as you stand,— or nearer, say,
The door to make his exit on his speech)
— I should repent of what I did : now, D'Ormea,
(Be candid — you approached it when I bade you
Prepare the schedules ! But you stopped in time)
— You have not so assured me : how should I
Despise you, then ?

Enter Charles.
Vic. [changing his tone.] Are you instructed ? Do
My order, point by point ! About it, sir !
D'O. You so despise me? [Aside.] One last stay
remains —
The boy's discretion there, [to Charles.]

For your sake, Prince,
I pleaded — wholly in your interest —
To save you from this fate !

Cha. [Aside.] Must I be told

The Prince was supplicated for — by him ?

Vic. [to D'O.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and the rest,
Our son attends them ; then return.
D'O. One word.

Cha. [Aside.] A moment's pause and they would
drive me hence,
I do believe !

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHAELES. 251

D'O. [Aside.] Let but the boy be firm !

Vic. You disobey?

Cha. [to D'O.] You do not disobey
Me, D'Ormea ? Did you promise that or no ?

D y O. Sir, I am yours — what would you? Yours
am I!

Cha. When I have said what I shall say, 'tis like
Your face will ne'er again disgust me. Go !
Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see.
And for your conduct, from my youth till now,
Take my contempt ! You might have spared me much,
Secured me somewhat, nor so harmed yourself —
That 's over now. Go — ne'er to come again !

D'O. As son, the father — father as, the son !
My wits ! My wits ! [Goes.

Vic. [Seated.'] And you, what meant you, pray,
By speaking thus to D'Ormea ?

Cha. Let us not

Weary ourselves with D'Ormea ! Those few words
Have half unsettled what I came to say.
His presence vexes to my very soul.

Vic. One called to manage kingdoms, Charles, needs
heart
To bear up under worse annoyances
Than D'Ormea seems — to me, at least.

Cha. [Aside.] Ah, good!

He keeps me to the point ! Then be it so.
[Aloud.] Last night, Sire, brought me certain papers —
these —

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252 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

To be reported on, — your way of late.
Is it last night's result that you demand?

Vic. For God's sake, what has night brought forth ?
Pronounce
The . . what 's your word ? — result !

Cha. Sire, that had proved

Quite worthy of your sneers, no doubt : — a few
Lame thoughts, regard for you alone could wring,
Lame as they are, from brains, like mine, believe 1
As 'tis, sire, I am spared both toil and sneer.
There are the papers.

Vic. Well, sir ? I suppose

You hardly burned them. Now for your result !

Cha. I never should have done great things of course,
But . . oh, my father, had you loved me more . . •

Vic. Loved you? [Aside.] Has D'Ormea played me
ialse, I wonder ?
[Aloud.] Why, Charles, a king's love is diffused — yourself
May overlook, perchance, your part in it.
Our monarchy is absolutest now
In Europe, or my trouble 's thrown away :
I love, my mode, that subjects each and all
May have the power of loving, all and each,
Their mode : I doubt not, many have their sons
To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long —
I have that crown, this chair, and D'Ormea, Charles !

Cha. 'Tis well I am a subject then, not you.

Vic. [Aside.] D'Ormea has told him everything.

[Aloud.] Aha!

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLE8. 253

I apprehend you : when all 's said, you take
Your private station to be prized beyond
My own, for instance ?

Cha. — Do and ever did

So take it : 'tis the method you pursue
That grieves . . „

Vic. These words ! Let me express, my friend,

Your thought. You penetrate what I supposed
A secret. D'Ormea plies his trade betimes !
I purpose to resign my crown to you.

Cha. Tome?

Vic. Now — in that chamber*

Cha. You resign

The crown to me ?

Vic. And time enough, Charles, sure ?

Confess with me, at four-and-sixty years
A crown 's a load. I covet quiet once
Before I die, and summoned you for that.

Cha. Tis I will speak : you ever hated me,
I bore it, — have insulted me, borne too—
Now you insult yourself, and I remember
What I believed you, what you really are,
And cannot bear it. What ! My life has passed
Under your eye, tormented as you know, —
Your whole sagacities, one after one,
At leisure brought to play on me — to prove me
A fool, I thought, and I submitted ; now
You 'd prove . . . what would you prove me ?

Vic. This to me ?

I hardly know you 1

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254 XING VICTOR AND KING CHABLES.

Cha. Know me ? Oh, indeed

You do not ! Wait till I complain next time
Of my simplicity ! — for here 's a sage —
Knows the tybrld well — is not to be deceived —
And his experience, and his Macchiavels,
His D'Ormeas, teach him — what? — that I, this while,
Have envied him his crown ! He has not smiled,
I warrant, — has not eaten, drunk, nor slept,
For I was plotting with my Princess yonder !
Who knows what we might do, or might not do ?
Go, now — be politic — astound the world !—
That sentry in the antechamber . . nay,
The varlet who disposed this precious trap

[Pointing to the crown.

That was to take me — ask them if they think
Their own sons envy them their posts ! — Know me !

Vic. But you know me, it seems ; so learn in brief
My pleasure. This assembly is convened . . .

Cha. Tell me, that woman put it in your head —
You were not sole contriver of the scheme,
My father I

Vic. Now observe me, sir ! I jest

Seldom^— on these points, never. Here, I say,
The Knights assemble to see me concede,
And you accept, Sardinia's crown.

Cha. Farewell !

Twere vain to hope to change this — I can end it.
Not that I cease from being yours, when sunk
Into obscurity. 1 11 die for you,

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 255

But not annoy you with my presence — Sire,
Farewell! Farewell!

Enter D'Ormsa.

D'O. [aside.] Ha, sure he 's changed again —
Means not to fall into the cunning trap —
Then, Victor, I shall yet escape you, Victor !

Vic. [suddenly placing the crown upon the head of
Charles.]
D'Ormea, your King !

[To Charles.] My son, obey me ! Charles,
Your father, clearer-sighted than yourself,
Decides it must be so. 'Faith, this looks real !
My reasons after — reason upon reason
After — but now, obey me ! Trust in me !
By this, you save Sardinia, you save me !
Why the boy swoons ! [To D'O.] Come this side !

D'O. [as Charles turns from him to Victor.]

You persist ?

Vic. Yes — I conceive the gesture's meaning. 'Faith,
He almost seems to hate you — how is that ?
Be re-assured, my Charles ! Is 't over now ?
Then, Marquis, tell the new King what remains
To do ! A moment's work. . Del Borgo reads
The Act of Abdication out, you sign it,
Then I sign ; after that, come back to me.

D'O. Sire, for the last time, pause !

Vic. Five minutes longer

I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesitate —

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256 KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES.

And 1 11 so turn those minutes to account
That . . . Ay, you recollect me !

[Aside.] Could I bring
My foolish mind to undergo the reading
That Act of Abdication 1

[As Chakles motions D'Ormba to precede him.
Thanks, dear Charles !

[Charles and D'Ormea retire.
Vic. A novel feature in the boy, — indeed
Just what I feared he wanted most. Quite right,
This earnest tone — your truth, now, for effect !
It answers every purpose : with that look,
That voice, — I hear him : " I began no treaty,"
(He speaks to Spain,) " nor ever dreamed of this
" You show me ; this I from my soul regret ;
" But if my father signed it, bid not me
" Dishonour him — who gave me all, beside."
And, " truth," says Spain, " 'twere harsh to visit that
" Upon the Prince." Then come the nobles trooping :
" I grieve at these exactions — I had cut
" This hand off ere impose them ; but shall I
" Undo my father's deed ? " — And they confer :
" Doubtless he was no party, after all ;
" Give the Prince time ! " —

Ay, give us time — but time !
Only, he must not, when the dark day comes,
Refer our friends to me and frustrate all.
We 11 have no child's play, no desponding-fits,
No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor
To take his crown again. Guard against that !

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHABLES. 257

Eater D'O&mea.

Long live King Charles ! —

No — Charles's counsellor !
Well, is it over, Marquis ? Did I jest ?

D'O. " King Charles ! " What then may you be ?

Vic. Anything !

A country gentleman that 's cured of bustle,
And beats a quick retreat toward Chambery
To hunt and hawk, and leave you noisy folk
To drive your trade without him. I 'm Count Remont —
Count Tende — any little place's Count !

D'O. Then, Victor, Captain against Catinat,
At Staffarde, where the^ French beat you ; and Duke
At Turin, where you beat the French ; King, late,
Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sardinia,
— Now, " any little place's Count " —

Vic. Proceed !

DO. Breaker of vows to God, who crowned you first;
Breaker of vows to Man, who kept you since ;
Most profligate to me, who outraged God
And Man to serve you, and am made pay crimes
I was but privy to, by passing thus
To your imbecile son — who, well you know,
Must, (when the people here, and nations there,
Clamour for you, the main delinquent, slipt
From King to — Count of any little place)
— Surrender me, all left within his reach, —
I, sir, forgive you : for I see the end —
s

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258 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

See you on your return (you will return)
To him you trust in for the moment . . .

Vic. How?

Trust in him ? (merely a prime-minister
This D'Ormea !) How trust in him ?

DV. In his fear—

His love, — but pray discover for yourself
What you are weakest, trusting in !

Vic. Aha,

My D'Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this
In your repertory ? You know old Victor —
Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash — (I Ve heard
Talkers who little thought the King so close)
Felicitous, now, were 't not, to provoke him
To clean forget, one minute afterward,
His solemn act — to call the nobles back
And pray them give again the very power
He has abjured ! — for the dear sake of — what ?
Vengeance on you ! No, D'Ormea : such am I,
Count Tende or Count anything you please,
— Only, the same that did the things you say,
And, among other things you say not, used
Your finest fibre, meanest muscle, — you
I used, and now, since you will have it so,
Leave to your fate — mere lumber in the midst,
You and your works — Why, what on earth beside
Are you made for, you sort of ministers ?

D'O. — Not left, though, to my fate ! Your witless
son

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 259

Has more wit than to load himself with lumber :
He foils you that way, and I follow you.

Vic. Stay with my son — protect the weaker side !
jyO. Ay, be tossed to the people like a rag,.
And flung by them to Spain and Austria — so
Abolishing the record of your part
In all this perfidy !

Vic. Prevent, beside,

My own return !

Z>'0. That 's half prevented now !

'Twill go hard but you 11 find a wondrous charm
In exile, to discredit me. The Alps —
Silk-mills to watch — vines asking vigilance —
Hounds open for the stag — your hawk's a- wing —
Brave days that wait the Louis of the South,
Italy's Janus !

Vic. So, the lawyer's clerk

Won 't tell me that I shall repent !

D'O. You give me

Full leave to ask if you repent ?

Vic. Whene 'er,

Sufficient time 's elapsed for that, you judge !

[Shouts inside, " King Charles."

D'O. Do you repent?

Vic. [after a slight pause.] . . . I 've kept them wait-
ing? Yes!
Come in — complete the Abdication, sir ! [They go out.

Enter Polyxena.

Pol. A shout ? The sycophants are free of Charles !

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260 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES*

Oh, is not this like Italy ? No fruit

Of his or my distempered fancy, this —

But just an ordinary fact ! Beside,

Here they 've set forms for such proceedings — Victor

Imprisoned his own mother — he should know,

If any, how a son's to be deprived

Of a son's right. Our duty 's palpable.

Ne 'er was my husband for the wily king

And the unworthy subjects — be it so !

Come you safe out of them, my Charles ! Our life

Grows not the broad and dazzling life, I dreamed

Might prove your lot — for strength was shut in you

None guessed but I — strength which, un trammeled once,

Had little shamed your vaunted ancestry —

Patience and self-devotion, fortitude,

Simplicity and utter truthfulness

— All which, they shout to lose !

So, now my work
Begins — to save him from regret. Save Charles
Regret ? — the noble nature ! He 's not made
Like the Italians : 'tis a German soul.

Charles enters crowned.
Oh, where's the King's heir? Gone: — the Crown-
prince? Gone — .
Where's Savoy? Gone: — Sardinia? Gone! — But Charles
Is left ! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive,
If he looked almost handsome yester-twilight
As his grey eyes seemed widening into black

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 261

Because I praised bim, then how will be look ?

Farewell, you stripped and whited mulberry-trees

Bound each to each by lazy ropes of vine !

Now 1 11 teach you my language — I 'm not forced

To speak Italian now, Charles ?

[She sees the crown,] What is this ?

Answer me — who has done this ? Answer !

Cha. He !

I am King now.

Pol. Oh worst, worst, worst of all !

Tell me — what, Victor ? He has made you King ?
What 's he then? What 's to follow this ? You, King ?

Cha. Have I done wrong ? Yes — for you were not by !

Pol. Tell me from first to last.

Cha. Hush — a new world

Brightens before me ; he is moved away
— The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides
Into a shape supporting me like you,
And I, alone, tend upward, more and more
Tend upward : I am grown Sardinia's King.

Pol. Now stop : was not this Victor, Duke of Savoy
At ten years old ?

Cha. He was.

Pol. And the Duke spent

Since then, just four-and-fifty years in toil
To be— what?

Cha. King.

Pol. Then why unking himself?

Cha. Those years are cause enough.

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262 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES*

Pol. The only cause ?

Cha. Some new perplexities.

Pol. Which you can solve,

Although he cannot ?

Cha. He assures me so.

Pol. And this he means shall last — how long?

Cha. How long ?

Think you I fear the perils I confront ?
He 's praising me before the people's face —
My people !

Pol. Then he 's changed — grown kind, the King ?
(Where can the trap be ?)

Cha. Heart and soul I pledge !

My father, could I guard the Crown you gained,
Transmit as I received it, — all good else
Would I surrender !

Pol. Ah, it opens then

Before you — all you dreaded formerly ?
You are rejoiced to be a king, my Charles ?

Cha. So much to dare ? The better ; — much to dread ?
The better. I *11 adventure tho' alone.
Triumph or die, there 's Victor still to witness
Who dies or triumphs — either way, alone !

Pol. Once I had found my share in triumph, Charles,
Or death.

Cha. But you are I ! But you I call
To take, Heaven's proxy, vows I tendered Heaven
A moment since. I will deserve the crown !

Pol. You will. [Aside.] No doubt it were a glorious
thing

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 263

For any people, if a heart like his
Ruled over it. I would I saw the trap !

Enter Victor.
Tis he must show me.

Vic. So the mask falls off

An old man's foolish love at last ! Spare thanks —
I know you, and Polyxena I know.
Here 's Charles — I am his guest now — does he hid me
Be seated ? And my light-haired, hlue-eyed child
Must not forget the old man far away
At Chamhery, who dozes while she reigns.

Pol. Most grateful shall we now he, talking least
Of gratitude — indeed of anything
That hinders what yourself must have to say
To Charles.

Cha. Pray speak, Sire !

Vic. 'Faith, not much to say —

Only what shows itself, once in the point
Of sight. You are now the King : you 11 comprehend
Much you may oft have wondered at — the shifts,
Dissimulation, wiliness I showed.
For what 's our post ? Here 's Savoy and here 's Pied-
mont,
Here 's Montferrat — a hreadth here, a space there —
To o'er-sweep all these, what 's one weapon worth ?
I often think of how they fought in Greece
(Or Rome, which was it ? You 're the scholar, Charles !)
You made a front-thrust? But if your shield, too,

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264 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Were not adroitly planted — some shrewd knave

Reached you behind ; and, him foiled, straight if thong

And handle of that shield were not cast loose,

And you enabled to outstrip the wind,

Fresh foes assailed you, either side ; 'scape these,

And reach your place of refuge — e'en then, odds

If the gate opened unless breath enough

Was left in you to make its lord a speech.

Oh, you will see !

Cha. No : straight on shall I go,

Truth helping ; win with it or die with it.

Vic. 'Faith, Charles, you're not made Europe's
fighting-man !
Its barrier-guarder, if you please. You hold,
Not take — consolidate, with envious French
This side, with Austrians that, these territories
I held — ay, and will hold . . . which you shall hold
Despite the couple ! But I 've surely earned
Exemption from these weary politics,
— The privilege to prattle with my son
And daughter here, tho' Europe waits the while.

Pol. Nay, Sire, — at Chambery, away for ever,
As soon you 11 be, 'tis a farewell we bid you !
Turn these few fleeting moments to account !
Tis just as though it were a death.

Vic. Indeed !

Pol. [Aside.] Is the trap there ?

Cha. Ay, call this parting — death !

The sacreder your memory becomes.

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 265

If I misrule Sardinia, how bring back

My father ? No — that thought shall ever urge me.

Vic. I do not mean . . .

Pol. [who watches Victor narrowly this while.]

Your father does not mean
That you are ruling for your father's sake :
It is your people must concern you wholly
Instead of him. You meant this, Sire ? (He drops
My hand !)

Cha. That People is now part of me.

Vic. About the People ! I took certain measures
Some short time since . . Oh, I 'm aware you know
But little of my measures — these affect
The nobles — we Ve resumed some grants, imposed
A tax or two ; prepare yourself, in short,
For clamours on that score : mark me : you yield
No jot of what 's entrusted you !

Pol. No jot

You yield !

Cha. My father, when I took the oath,
Although my eye might stray in search of yours,
I heard it, understood it, promised God
What you require. Till from this eminence
He moves me, here I keep, nor shall concede
The meanest of my rights.

Vic. [Aside.] The boy 's a fool !

— Or rather, I'ma fool : for, what 's wrong here ?
To-day the sweets of reigning — let to-morrow
Be ready with its bitters.

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266 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES*

Enter DOrmea.

There 's beside
Somewhat to press upon your notice first.

Cha. Then why delay it for an instant, Sire ?
That Spanish claim, perchance ? And, nqw you speak,
— This morning, my opinion was mature — *
Which, boy-like, I was bashful in producing
To one, I ne'er am like to fear, in future !
My thought is formed upon that Spanish claim.

Vic. (Betimes, indeed.) Not now, Charles. You
require
A host of papers on it —

jyO. [coming forward.] Here they are.
[To Cha.] I was the minister and much beside —
Of the late monarch : to say little, him
I served; on you I have, to say e'en less,
No claim. This case contains those papers : with them
I tender you my office.

Vic. [hastily.] Keep him, Charles !

There 's reason for it — many reasons : you
Distrust him, nor are so far wrong there, — but
He 's mixed up in this matter — he 11 desire
To quit you, for occasions known to me :
Do not accept those reasons — have him stay !

Pol. [Aside.] His minister thrust on us !

Cha. [to D'Ormea.] Sir, believe,

In justice to myself, you do not need
E'en this commending : whatsoe'er might be

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES* 267

My feelings toward you as a private man,
They quit me in the vast and untried field
Of action. Though I shall, myself, (as late
In your own hearing I engaged to do)
Preside o 'er my Sardinia, yet your help
Is necessary. Think the past forgotten,
And serve me now !

D'O. I did not offer you

My services — would I could serve you, Sire !
As for the Spanish matter . . .

Vic. But despatch

At least the dead, in my good daughter's phrase,
Before the living ! Help to house me safe
Ere you and D'Ormea set the world a-gape !
Here is a paper — will you overlook
What I propose reserving for my needs ?
I get as far from you as possible.
There 's what I reckon my expenditure.

Cha. [reading.] A miserable fifty thousand crowns !

Vic. Oh, quite enough for country gentlemen !
Beside the exchequer happens . . . but find out
All that, yourself !

Cha. [still reading.'] "Count Tende" — what means
this?

Vic. Me ; you were but an infant when I burst
Through the defile of Tende upon France.
Had only my allies kept true to me !
No matter. Tende 's, then, a name I take
Just as . . .

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268 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

B % 0. — The Marchioness Sebastian takes

The name of Spigno.

Cha. How, sir ?

Vic. [to D'Ormea.] Fool ! All that

Was for my own detailing. [To Charles.] That anon !

Cha. [to D'Ormea.] Explain what you have said, sir !

D'O. I supposed

The marriage of the King to her I named,
Profoundly kept a secret these few weeks,
Was not to be one, now he 's Count.

Pol [Aside.] With us

The minister — with him the mistress !

Cha. [to Victor.] No —

Tell me you have not taken her — that woman
To live with, past recall !

Vic. And where 's the crime . . .

Pol. [to Charles.] True, sir, this is a matter past
recall,
And past your cognizance. A day before,
And you had been compelled to note this — now
Why note it ? The King saved his House from shame :
What the Count does, is no concern of yours.

Cha. [after a pause.] The Spanish business, D'Ormea!

Vic. Why, my son,

I took some ill-advised . . . one's age, in fact,
Spoils everything : though I was over-reached,
A younger brain, we 11 trust, may extricate
Sardinia readily. To morrow, D'Ormea,
Inform the King !

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 269

D'O. [without regarding Victor, and leisurely.] Thus
stands the case with Spain :
When first the Infant Carlos claimed his proper
Succession to the throne of Tuscany . . .

Vic. I tell you, that stands over ! Let that rest !
There is the policy !

Cha. [to D'Ormea.] Thus much I know,
And more — too much : the remedy ?

DV. Of course !

No glimpse of one —

Vic. No remedy at all !

It makes the remedy itself — time makes it.

DO. [to Charles.] But if . . .

Vic. [stillmore hastily.] In fine, I shall take care of that —
And, with another project that I have . . .

jyO. [turning on him.] Oh, since Count Tende means
to take again

King Victor's crown ! —

Pol. [throwing herself at Victor's feet.] E'en now
retake it, Sire !
Oh, speak ! We are your subjects both, once more !
Say it — a word effects it ! You meant not,
Nor do mean now, to take it — but you must !
'Tis in you — in your nature — and the shame 's
Not half the shame 'twould grow to afterward !

Cha. Polyxena!

Pol. A word recalls the Knights —

Say it ! — What 's promising and what 's the past ?
Say you are still King Victor !

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270 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

DV. Better say

The Count repents, in brief! [Victor rises.

Cha. With such a crime
I have not charged you, Sire !

Pol. Charles turns from me !

SECOND YEAR 1731.— KING CHARLES.
Pabt L

Enter Queen Polyxbna and D'Ormea — A pause.

Pol. And now, sir, what have you to say ?

DV. Count Tende . .

Pol. Affirm not I betrayed you ; you resolve
On uttering this strange intelligence
— Nay, post yourself to find me ere I reach
The capital, because you know King Charles
Tarries a day or two at Evian baths
Behind me : — but take warning, — here and thus

[Seating hendf in the royal seat.

I listen, if I listen — not your friend.
Explicitly the statement, if you still
Persist to urge it on me, must proceed :
I am not made for aught else.

DV. Good r Count Tende . . .

Pol. I, who mistrust you, shall acquaint King Charles,
Who even more mistrusts you.

DO. Does he so ?

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 271

Pol. Why should he not ?

DO. Ay, why not ? Motives, seek

You virtuous people, motives ! Say, I serve
God at the devil's bidding — will that do ?
I 'm proud : our People have been pacified
(Really I know not how) —

Pol. By truthfulness.

D'O. Exactly ; that shows I had nought to do
With pacifying them : our foreign perils
Also exceed my means to stay : but here
Tis otherwise, and my pride 's piqued. Count Tende
Completes a full year's absence : would you, madam,
Have the old monarch back, his mistress back,
His measures back ? I pray you, act upon
My counsel, or they will be.

Pol. When?

D'0. Let 's think.

Home-matters settled — Victor 's coming now ;
Let foreign matters settle — Victor 's here :
Unless I stop him ; as I will, this way.

Pol. [reading the papers he presents.] If this should
prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor ?
You seek annoyances to give him pretext
For what you say you fear !

DV. Oh, possibly !

I go for nothing. Only show King Charles
That thus Count Tende purposes return,
And style me his inviter, if you please.

Pol. Half of your tale is true ; most like, the Count

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272 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Seeks to return : but why stay you with us ?
To aid in such emergencies.

D'O. Keep safe

Those papers : or, to serve me, leave no proof
I thus have counselled : when the Count returns,
And the King abdicates, 'twill stead me little
To have thus counselled.

Pol. The King abdicate !

D'O. He 's good, we knew long since — wise, we dis-
cover —
Firm, let us hope : — but I 'd have gone to work
With him away. Well !

[Charles without.] In the Council Chamber ?

DV. All 's lost !

Pol. Oh, surely not King Charles ! He 's

changed —
That 's not this year's care-burthened voice and step :
Tis last year's step— the Prince's voice ! ^

DV. I know !

Enter Charles — D'Ormea retiring a little.
Cha. Now wish me joy, Polyxena ! Wish it me
The old way ! [She embraces him.

There was too much cause for that !
But I have found myself again ! What 's news
At Turin ? Oh, if you but felt the load
I 'm free of— free ! I said this year would end
Or it, or me — but I am free, thank God !
Pol How, Charles ?

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHABLES. 273

Cha. You do not guess ? The day I found

Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad,
And how my father was involved in it, —
Of course, I vowed to rest or smile no more
Until I freed his name from obloquy.
We did the people right — 'twas much to gain
That point, redress our nobles' grievance, too —
But that took place here, was no crying shame :
All must be done abroad, — if I abroad
Appeased the justly-angered Powers, destroyed
The scandal, took down Victor's name at last
From a bad eminence, I then might breathe
And rest ! No moment was to lose. Behold
The proud result — a Treaty, Austria, Spain
Agree to —

D'O. [Aside.] I shall merely stipulate
For an experienced headsman.

Cha. Not a soul

Is compromised : the blotted Past 's a blank :
Even D'Ormea will escape unquestioned. See !
It reached me from Vienna ; I remained
At Evian to despatch the Count his news ;
Tis gone to Chambery a week ago —
And here am I : do I deserve to feel
Your warm white arms around me ?

D'O. [coming forward.] He knows that ?

Cha. What, in Heaven's name, means this ?

D y O. He knows that matters

Are settled at Vienna ? Not too late !

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274 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLE8.

Plainly, unless you post this very hour
Some man you trust (say, me) to Chambery,
And take precautions 1 11 acquaint you with,
Your father will return here.

Cha. Is he crazed,

This D'Ormea ? Here ? For what ? As well return
To take his crown !

-D'O. He will return for that.

Cha. [to Polyxena.] You have not listened to this
man?

Pol. He spoke

About your safety — and I listened.

[He disengages himself from her arms.

Cha. [to D'Ormea.] What

Apprised you of the Count's intentions ?

DV. Me?

His heart, Sire ; you may not be used to read
Such evidence, however ; therefore read

{Pointing to Polyxena's papers.
My evidence.

Cha. [to Polyxena.] Oh, worthy this of you !
And of your speech I never have forgotten,
Tho' I professed forgetfulness ; which haunts me
As if I did not know how false it was ;
Which made me toil unconsciously thus long
That there might be no least occasion left
For aught of its prediction coming true 1
And now, when there is left no least occasion
To instigate my father to such crime ;

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHABLES. £75

When I might venture to forget (I hoped)

That speech and recognise Polyxena —

Oh, worthy, to revive, and tenfold worse,

That plague now I D'Ormea at your ear, his slanders

Still in your hand ! Silent ?

Pol, As the wronged are.

Cha. And, D'Ormea, pray, since when have you
presumed
To spy upon my father ? (I conceive
What that wise paper shows, and easily.)
Since when ?

D'O. The when, and where, and how, belong

To me. 'Tis sad work, but I deal in such.
You ofttimes serve yourself — I 'd serve you here :
Use makes me not so squeamish. In a word,
Since the first hour he went to Chambery,
Of his seven servants, five have I suborned.

Cha. You hate my father ?

D'O. Oh, just as you will !

[Looking at Polyxena.
A minute since, I loved him — hate him, now !
What matters ? — If you 11 ponder just one thing :
Has he that Treaty ? — He is setting forward
Already. Are your guards here ?

Cha. Well for you

They are not ! [To Pol.] Him I knew of old, but you —
To hear that pickthank, further his designs ! [To D'O.
Guards ? — were they here, I 'd bid them, for your trouble,
Arrest you.

D'O. Guards you shall not want. I lived

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276 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

The servant of your choice, not of your need.

You never greatly needed me till now

That you discard me. This is my arrest.

Again I tender you my charge — its duty

Would hid me press you read those documents.

Here, Sire ! [Offering his badge of office.

Cha. [taking it] The papers also t Do you think
I dare not read them ?

Pol. Read them, sir !

Cha. They prove,

My father, still a month within the year
Since he so solemnly consigned it me,
Means to resume his crown ? They shall prove that,
Or my hest dungeon . . .

DV. Even say, Chambery !

Tis vacant, I surmise, by this.

Cha. You prove

Your words or pay their forfeit, sir. Go there !
Polyxena, one chance to rend the veil
Thickening and blackening 'twixt us two ! Do say,
You 11 see the falsehood of the charges proved !
Do say, at least, you wish to see them proved
False charges — my heart's love of other times !

Pol Ah, Charles !

Cha. [to D'Obmea.] Precede me, sir !

D'O. And I 'm at length

A martyr for the truth ! No end, they say,
Of miracles. My conscious innocence !

{As Hiey go out, enter — by the middle door — at which he
pauses — Yictob..

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KINO VICTOK AND KINO CHARLES. 277

Vic. Sure I heard voices ? No ! Well, I do best
To make at once for this, the heart o' the place.
The old room ! Nothing changed ! — So near my seat,
D'Ormea? [Pushing away the stool which is by the

Ring's chair.
I want that meeting over first,
I know not why. Tush, D'Ormea won't be slow
To hearten me, the supple knave ! That burst
Of spite so eased him ! He 11 inform me . . .

What?
Why come I hither ? All 's in rough — let all
Remain rough ; there 's full time to draw back — nay,
There 's nought to draw back from, as yet ; whereas,
If reason should be, to arrest a course
Of error — reason good, to interpose
And save, as I have saved so many times,
Our House, admonish my son's giddy youth,
Relieve him of a weight ftiat proves too much —
Now is the time,— or now, or never. 'Faith,
This kind of step is pitiful — not due
To Charles, this stealing back — hither, because
He 's from his Capital I Oh, Victor ! Victor !
But thus it is : the age of crafty men
Is loathsome ; youth contrives to carry off
Dissimulation ; we may intersperse
Extenuating passages of strength,
Ardour, vivacity, and w&— may torn
E'en guile into a voluntary grace,—
But one's old age, when graces drop away

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278 KING VICTOR AND KING CHABLES.

And leave guile the pure staple of our lives —
Ah, loathsome !

Not so— or why pause I ? Turin
Is mine to have, were I so minded, for
The asking ; all the Army 's mine — I 've witnessed
Each private fight beneath me ; all the Court's
Mine too ; and, best of all, my D'Ormea 's still
His D'Ormea ; no ! There 's some grace clinging yet.
Had I decided on this step, ere midnight
I 'd take the crown.

No ! Just this step to rise
Exhausts me ! Here am I arrived : the rest
Must be done for me. Would I could sit here
And let things right themselves, the masque unmasque
— Of the King, crownless, grey hairs and hot blood, —
The young King, crowned, but calm before his time,
They say, — the eager woman with her taunts, —
And the sad earnest wife who motions me
Away — ay, there she knelt to me ! E'en yet
I can return and sleep at Chambery
A dream out. Rather shake it off at Turin,
King Victor ! Is 't to Turin — yes, or no ?
'Tis this relentless noonday-lighted chamber,
Lighted like life, but silent as the grave,
That disconcerts me ! There must be the change —
No silence last year : some one flung doors wide
(Those two great doors which scrutinise me now)
And out I went 'mid crowds of men — men talking,
Men watching if my lip fell or brow changed ;

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES, 279

Men saw me safe forth — put me on my road :

That makes the misery of this return I

Oh, had a battle done it ! Had I dropped

— Haling some battle, three entire days old,

Hither and thither by the forehead— dropped

In Spain, in Austria, best of all, in France —

Spurned on its horns or underneath its hooves,

When the spent monster goes upon its knees

To pad and pash the prostrate wretch — I, Victor,

Sole to have stood up against France — beat down

By inches, brayed to pieces finally

By some vast unimaginable charge,

A flying hell of horse and foot and guns

Over me, and all 's lost, for ever lost,

There 's no more Victor when the world wakes up !

Then silence, as of a raw battle-field,

Throughout the world. Then after (as whole days

After, you catch at intervals faint noise

Thro' the stiff crust of frozen blood) — there creeps

A rumour forth, so faint, no noise at all,

That a strange old man, with face outworn for wounds,

Is stumbling on from frontier town to town,

Begging a pittance that may help him find

His Turin out ; what scorn and laughter follow

The coin you fling into his cap : and last,

Some bright morn, how men crowd about the midst

Of the market-place, where takes the old king breath

Ere with his crutch he strike the palace-gate

Wide ope !

To Turin, yes or no-*-or no ?

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280 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Re-enter Charles with papers.

Cha. Just as I thought ! A miserable falsehood

Of hirelings discontented with their pay

And longing for enfranchisement ! A few

Testy expressions of old age that thinks

To keep alive its dignity o'er slaves

By means that suit their natures !

[Tearing them.] Thus they shake

My faith in Victor !

[Turning, he discovert Victor.

Vic. [after a pause.] Not at Evian, Charles ?
What's this? Why do you run to close the doors?
No welcome for your father?

Cha. [Aside.] Not his voice !

What would I give for one imperious tone
Of the old sort ! That's gone for ever.

Vic. Must

I ask once more . . .

Cha. No — I concede it, sir !

You are returned for . . . true, your health declines —
True, Chambery 's a bleak unkindly spot ;
You'd choose one fitter for your final lodge —
Veneria — or Moncaglier — ay, that's close,
And I concede it.

Vic. I received advices

Of the conclusion of the Spanish matter
Dated from Evian baths . . .

Cha. And you forbore

To visit me at Evian, satisfied
The work I had to do would fully task

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 281

The little wit I have, and that your presence
Would only disconcert me —

Vic. Charles?

Cha. — Me — set

For ever in a foreign course to yours,
And.. .

Sir, this way of wile were good to catch,
But I have not the sleight of it. The truth !
Though I sink under it ! What brings you here ?

Vic. Not hope of this reception, certainly,
From one who'd scarce assume a stranger mode
Of speech, did I return to bring about
Some awfulest calamity ! '

Cha. — You mean,

Did you require your crown again ! Oh yes,
I should speak otherwise ! But turn not that
To jesting ! Sir, the truth ! Your health declines ?
Is aught deficient in your equipage ?
Wisely you seek myself to make complaint,
And foil the malice of the world which laughs
At petty discontents ; but I shall care
That not a soul knows of this visit. Speak !

Vic. [Aside.] Here is the grateful, much-professing son
Who was to worship me, and for whose sake
I think to waive my plans of public good !
[Aloud.] Nay, Charles, if I did seek to take once more
My crown, were so disposed to plague myself —
What would be warrant for this bitterness ?
I gave it — grant, I would resume it— well?

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282 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Cha. I should say simply — leaving out the why
And how — you made me swear to keep that crown :
And as you then intended . . .

Vic. Fool ! What way

Could I intend or not intend ? As man,
With a man's life, when I say " I intend,"
I can intend up to a certain point,
No further. I intended to preserve
The Crown of Savoy and Sardinia whole :
And if events arise demonstrating
The way I took to keep it, rather 's like
To lose it . . .

Cha. Keep within your sphere and mine !

It is God's province we usurp on, else.
Here, blindfold thro' the maze of things we walk
By a slight thread of false, true, right and wrong ;
All else is rambling and presumption. I
Have sworn to keep this kingdom : there 's my truth.

Vic. Truth, boy, is here — within my breast ; and in
Your recognition of it, truth is, too ;
And in the effect of all this tortuous dealing
With falsehood, used to carry out the truth,
— In its success, this falsehood turns, again,
Truth for the world ! But you are right : these themes
Are over-subtle. I should rather say
In such a case, frankly, — it fails, my scheme :
I hoped to see you bring about, yourself,
What I must bring about : I interpose
On your behalf — with my son's good in sight —

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 283

To hold what he is nearly letting go —
Confirm his title — add a grace, perhaps —
There's Sicily, for instance, — granted me
And taken back, some years since — till I give
That island with the rest, my work's half done.
For his sake, therefore, as of those he rules . . .

Cha. Our sakes are one — and that, you could not say,
Because my answer would present itself
Forthwith ; — a year has wrought an age's change :
This people 's not the people now, you once
Could benefit ; nor is my policy
Your policy.

Vic. [with an outburst.'] I know it ! You undo
All I have done — my life of toil and care !
I left you this the absolutest rule
In Europe — do you think I will sit still
And see you throw all power off to the people —
See my Sardinia, that has stood apart,
Join in the mad and democratic whirl,
Whereto I see all Europe haste full-tide?
England casts off her kings — France mimics England —
This realm I hoped was safe ! Yet here I talk,
When I can save it, not by force alone,
But bidding plagues, which follow sons like you,
Fasten upon my disobedient . . .

[Recollecting himself.] Surely
I could say this — if minded so — my son ?

Cha. You could not ! Bitterer curses than your curse
Have I long since denounced upon myself

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284 KING VICTOR AND KING GHABLES.

If I misused my power. In fear of these
I entered on those measures — will ahide
By them : so, I should say, Count Tende . . .

Vic. No !

But no ! But if, my Charles, your — more than old —
Half-foolish father urged these arguments,
And then confessed them futile, hut said plainly
That he forgot his promise, found his strength
Fail him, had thought at savage Chamhery
Too much of brilliant Turin, Bivoli here,
And Susa, and Veneria, and Superga —
Fined for the pleasant places he had built
When he was fortunate and young —

Cha. My father !

Vic. Stay yet — and if he said he could not die
Deprived of baubles he had put aside,
He deemed, for ever — of the Crown that binds
Your brain up, whole, sound, and impregnable,
Creating kingliness — the Sceptre, too,
Whose mere wind, should you wave it, back would beat
Invaders — and the golden Ball which throbs
As if you grasped the palpitating heart
Indeed o' the realm, to mould as you may choose !
— If I must totter up and down the streets
My sires built, where myself have introduced
And fostered laws and letters, sciences,
The civil and the military arts —
Stay, Charles — I see you letting me pretend
To live my former self once more — King Victor,

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 285

The venturous yet politic — they style me
Again, the Father of the Prince — friends wink
Good-humouredly at the delusion you
So sedulously guard from all rough truths
That else would break upon the dotage ! — You —
Whom now I see preventing my old shame —
I tell not, point by cruel point, my tale —
For is 't not in your breast my brow is hid ?
Is not your hand extended ? Say you not . . .

Enter D'Ormea, leading in Poltxena.

Pol. [advancing and withdrawing Charles — to
Victor.]
In this conjuncture, even, he would say —
(Tho' with a moistened eye and quivering lip)
The suppliant is my father— I must save
A great man from himself, nor see him fling
His well-earned fame away : there must not follow
Ruin so utter, a breakdown of worth
So absolute : no enemy shall learn,
He thrust his child 'twixt danger and himself,
And, when that child somehow stood danger out,
Stole back with serpent wiles to ruin Charles
— Body, that 's much, — and soul, that ^s more — and

realm,
That 's most of all ! No enemy shall say . . .

DO. Do you repent, sir ?

Vic. [resuming himself.] D'Ormea? This is well !
Worthily done, King Charles, craftily done !

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286 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

Judiciously you post these, to o'erhear

The little your importunate father thrusts

Himself on you. to say ! Ay, they 11 correct

The amiable blind facility

You showed in answering his peevish suit :

What can he need to sue for ? Bravely, D'Ormea,

Have you fulfilled your office : but for you,

The old Count might have drawn some few more livres

To swell his income ! Had you, Lady, missed

The moment, a permission had been granted

To build afresh my ruinous old pile —

But you remembered properly the list

Of wise precautions I took when I gave

Nearly as much away — to reap the fruits

I should have looked for !

Cha. Thanks, sir : degrade me,

So you remain yourself. Adieu !

Vic. 1 11 not

Forget it for the future, nor presume
Next time to slight such potent mediators !
Had I first moved them both to intercede,
I might have had a chamber in Moncaglier
— Who knows ?

Cha. Adieu !

Vic. You bid me this adieu

With the old spirit?

Cha. Adieu !

Vic. Charles — Charles —

Cha. Adieu \

[Victor goes.

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. "287

Cha. You were mistaken, Marquis, as you hear !
Twas for another purpose the Count came.
The Count desires Moncaglier. Give the order !

IfO. [leisurely.] Your minister has lost your confidence,
Asserting late, for his own purposes,
Count Tende would . . .

Cha. [flinging his badge back.] Be still our minister !
And give a loose to your insulting joy —
It irks me more thus stifled than expressed.
Loose it !

D'O. There 's none to loose, alas ! — I see
I never am to die a martyr !

Pol. Charles!

Cha. No praise, at least, Polyxena — no praise !

KING CHARLES : Part II.

Night. — D'Ormea seated, folding papers lie has been examining.

This at the last effects it : now, King Charles

Or else King Victor — that's a balance : now

For D'Ormea the arch-culprit, either turn

0' the scale, — that's sure enough. A point to solve,

My masters — moralists — whate'er's your style !

When you discover why I push myself

Into a pitfall you'd pass safely by,

Impart to me among the rest ! No matter.

Prompt are the righteous ever with their rede

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288 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

To us the wicked — lesson them this once !
For safe among the wicked are you set,
Old D'Ormea. We lament life's brevity,
Yet quarter e'en the threescore years and ten,
Nor stick to call the quarter roundly " life."
D'Ormea was wicked, say, some twenty years ;
A tree so long was stunted ; afterward,
What if it grew, continued growing, till
No fellow of the forest equalled it?
Twas a shrub then — a shrub it still must be :
While forward saplings, at the outset checked,
In virtue of that first sprout keep their style
Amid the forest's green fraternity.
Thus I shoot up— to surely get lopped down,
And bound up for the burning. Now for it !

Enter Charles and Poltxena with Attendants.

DO. [rises.] Sire, in the due discharge of this my
office —
This enforced summons of yourself from Turin,
And the disclosure I am bound to make
To night, — there must already be, I feel,
So much that wounds . . .

Cha. Well, sir?

DO. — That I, perchance,

May utter, also, what, another time,
Would irk much, — it may prove less irksome now.

Cha. What would you utter ?

D'O. That I from my soul

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 289

Grieve at to-night's event : for you I grieve —
E'en grieve for . . .

Cha. Tush, another time for talk !

My kingdom is in imminent danger ?

DV. Let

The Count communicate with France — its King,
His grandson, will have Fleury's aid for this,
Though for no other war.

Cha. First for the levies :

What forces can I muster presently ?

[D'Ormea delivers papers which Charles inspects.

Cha. Good — very good. Montorio . . how is this ?
— Equips me double the old complement
Of soldiers?

DV. Since his land has been relieved

From double impost, this he manages :
But under the late monarch . .

Cha. Peace. I know.

Count Spava has omitted mentioning
What proxy is to head these troops of his.

DV. Count Spava means to head his troops himself.
Something's to fight for now ; " whereas," says he,
" Under the Sovereign's father" . . .

Cha. It would seem

That all my people love me.

D'O. Yes.

{To Poltxena while Charles con&wnu to inspect the papers.

A temper
Like Victor's may avail to keep a state ;

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290 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES.

He terrifies men and they fall not off;

Good to restrain ; best, if restraint were all :

But, with the silent circle round him, ends

Such sway. Our King's begins precisely there.

For to suggest, impel, and set at work,

Is quite another function. Men may slight,

In time of peace, the King who brought them peace :

In war, — his voice, his eyes, help more than fear.

They love you, Sire !

Cha. [to Attendants.] Bring the Regalia forth.
Quit the room. And now, Marquis, answer me —
Why should the King of France invade my realm ?

I/O. Why ? Did I not acquaint your Majesty
An hour ago ?

Cha. I choose to hear again

What then I heard.

D'O. Because, Sire, as I said,

Your father is resolved to have the crown
At any risk ; and, as I judge, calls in
These foreigners to aid him.

Cha. And your reason

For saying this ?

JXO. [Aside.] Ay, just his father's way !
[To Ch.] The Count wrote yesterday to your Forces' Chief,
Rhebinder, — made demand of help —

Cha. To try

Rhebinder — he 's of alien blood : aught else ?

D'O. Receiving a refusal, — some hours after,
The Count called on Del Borgo to deliver

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KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 291

The Act of Abdication : he refusing,
Or hesitating, rather —

Cha. What ensued ?

D'O. At midnight, only two hours since, at Turin,
He rode in person to the citadel
With one attendant, to the Soccorso gate,
And bade the governor, San Remi, open —
Admit him,

Cha. For a purpose I divine,

These three were faithful, then ?

D'O. They told it me :

Andl—

Cha. Most faithful —

DV. Tell it you— with this,

Moreover, of my own : if, an hour hence,
You have not interposed, the Count will be
Upon his road to France for succour.

Cha. Good !

You do your duty, now, to me your monarch
Fully, I warrant? — have, that is, your project
For saving both of us disgrace, past doubt ?

jyO. I have my counsel, — and the only one.
A month since, I besought you to employ
Restraints which had prevented many a pang :
But now the harsher course must be pursued.
These papers, made for the emergency,
Will pain you to subscribe : this is a list
Of those suspected merely — men to watch ;
This — of the few of the Count's very household,
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298 KINO V1CT0B AND KING CHARLES.

You most, however reluctantly, arrest ;
While here 's a method of remonstrance (sure
Not stronger than the case demands) to take
With the Count's self.

Cha. Deliver those three papers.

Pol. [while Charles inspects them — to D'Ormea.]
Your measures are not over-harsh, sir : France
Will hardly he deterred from coming hither
By these.

DO. What good of my proposing measures
Without a chance of their success ? E'en these,
Hear what he 11 say at my presenting.

Cha. [who has signed them.] There !

About the warrants ! You Ve my signature.*
What turns you pale ? I do my duty by you
In acting boldly thus on your advice.

D'O. [reading them separately.] Arrest the people I
suspected merely ?

Cha. Did you suspect them ?

D'O. Doubtless: but — but — Sire,

This Forquieri 's governor of Turin ;
And Rivarol and he have influence over
Half of the capital. — Rabella, too ?
Why, Sire—

Cha. Oh, leave the fear to me.

D'O. [still reading.] You bid me

Incarcerate the people on this list ?
Sire—

Cha. Why, you never bade arrest those men,

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KING V1CT0B AND KING CHARLES. 993

So close related to my father too,
On trifling grounds ?

D'O. Oh, as for that, St George,

President of Chambery's senators,
Is hatching treason — but —

[Still more troubled.] Sire, Count Cumiane
Is brother to your father's wife ! What 's here ?
Arrest the wife herself?

Cha. You seem to think it

A venial crime to plot against me. Well ?

D'O. [who has read the last paper.] Wherefore am I
thus ruined ? Why not take
My life at once ? This poor formality
Is, let me say, unworthy you ! Prevent it,
You, madam ! I have served you, am prepared
For all disgraces— only, let disgrace
Be plain, be proper — proper for the world
To pass its judgment on 'twixt you and me !
Take back your warrant — I will none of it.

Cha. Here is a man to talk of fickleness !
He stakes his life upon my father's falsehood ;
I bid him —

jyO. Not you ! Were he trebly false,

You do not bid me —

Cha. Is 't not written there ?

I thought so : give — 1 11 set it right.

D'O. Is it there?

Oh, yes — and plain — arrest him — now — drag here
Your father ! And were all six times as plain,
Do you suppose I 'd trust it ?

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294 KINO VICTOR AND KING CHABLES.

Cha. Just one word I

You bring him, taken in the act of flight,
Or else your life is forfeit.

D'O. Ay, to Turin

I bring him ? And to morrow ?

Cha. Here and now !

The whole thing is a lie — a hateful lie-
As I believed and as my father said.
I knew it from the first, but was compelled
To circumvent you ; and the crafty D'Ormea,
That baffled Alberoni and tricked Coscia,
The miserable sower of such discord
Twixt sire and son, is in the toils at last !
Oh, I see ! you arrive — this plan of yours,
Weak as it is, torments sufficiently
A sick, old, peevish man — wrings hasty speech
And ill-considered threats from him ; that 's noted ;
Then out you ferret papers, his amusement
In lonely hours of lassitude — examine
The day-by-day report of your paid creatures —
And back you come — all was not ripe, you find,
And, as you hope, may keep from ripening yet —
But you were in bare time ! Only, 'twere best
I never saw my father — these old men
Are potent in excuses — and, meantime,
D'Ormea 's the man I cannot do without.

Pol Charles—

Cha. Ah, no question 1 You 're for D'Ormea too !
You 'd have me eat and drink, and sleep, live, die
With this he coil'd about me, choking me !

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KING VICTOB AND KTNG CHARLES. 295

No, no — he 'a caught ! [to D'Ormea.] You venture life,

you 8ay,
Upon my father's perfidy ; and I
Have, on the whole, no right to disregard
The chains of testimony you thus wind
About me ; though I do — do from my soul
Discredit them : still I must authorise
These measures — and I will. Perugia !

[Many Officers enter,] Count —

You and Solar, with all the force you have,
Are at the Marquis' orders : what he bids,
Implicitly perform ! You are to bring
A traitor here ; the man that 'a likest one
At present, fronts me ; you are at his beck
For a full hour ; he undertakes to show you
A fouler than himself, — but, failing that,
Return with him, and, as my father lives,
He dies this night ! The clemency you Ve blamed
So oft, shall be revoked — rights exercised
That I Ve abjured.

[To D'Obmea.] Now, Sir, about the work !
To save your king and country ! Take the warrant t

D'O. [boldly to Perugia.] You hear the Sovereign's
mandate, Count Perugia ?
Obey me ! As your diligence, expect
Reward ! All follow to Montcaglier !

Cha. [in great anguish.] D'Ormea ! [D'Ormea goes.
He goes, lit up with that appalling smile !

[To Poltxbna after a pause.

At least you understand all this ?

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296 UNO VICTOR AND KINO CHARLES.

Pol. These means

Of our defence — these measures of precaution ?

Cha. It must be the best way. I should have else
Withered beneath his scorn.

Pol. What would you say ?

Cha. Why, you don't think I mean to keep the crown,
Polyxena ?

Pol. You then believe the story

In spite of all — That Victor 's coming ?

Cha. Believe it?

I know that he is coming — feel the strength
That has upheld me leave me at his coming !
'Twas mine, and now he takes his own again.
Some kinds of strength are well enough to have ;
But who 's to haye that strength ? Let my crown go !
I meant to keep it — but I cannot — cannot !
Only, he shall not taunt me — he, the first —
See if he would not be the first to taunt me
With having left his kingdom at a word —
With letting it be conquered without stroke—
With . . no— no — 'tis no worse than when he left it,
I Ve just to bid him take it, and, that over,
We 11 fly away — fly — for I loathe this Turin,
This Bivoli, all titles loathe, and state.
We 'd best go to your country — unless God
Send I die now !

Pol. Charles, hear me !

Cha. — And again

Shall you be my Polyxena — you 11 take me

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KING VICTOB AND KINO CHARLES. 297

Out of this woe ! Yes, do speak — and keep speaking !

I would not let you speak just now, for fear

You 'd counsel me against him : but talk, now,

As we two used to talk in blessed times :

Bid me endure all his caprices ; take me

From this mad post above him !

Pol. I believe

We are undone, but from a different cause.
All your resources, down to the least guard,
Are now at D'Ormea s beck. What if, this while,
He acts in concert with your father? We
Indeed were lost. This lonely Eivoli —
Where find a better place for them ?

Cha. [pacing the room.] And why

Does Victor come ? To undo all that 's done !
Restore the past — prevent the future ! Seat
His mistress in your seat, and place in mine
. . . Oh, my own people, whom will you find there,
To ask of, to consult with, to care for,
To hold up with your hands? Whom? One that's false —
False — from the head 's crown to the foot's sole, false !
The best is, that I knew it in my heart
From the beginning, and expected this,
And hated you, Polyxena, because
You saw thro' him, though I too saw thro' him,
Saw that he meant this while he crowned me, while
He prayed for me, — nay, while he kissed my brow,
I saw —

Pol. But if your measures take effect,
And D'Ormea 's true to you ?

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298 KING VICTOR AND KING CHASLS&

Cha. Then worst of all !

I shall have loosed that callous wretch on him !
Well may the woman taunt him with his child —
I, eating here his bread, clothed in his clothes,
Seated upon his seat, give D'Ormea leave
To outrage him ! We talk — perchance they tear
My father from his bed — the old hands feel
For one who is not, but who should be there —
And he finds D'Ormea ! D'Ormea, too, finds him !
— The crowded chamber when the lights go out —
Closed doors — the horrid scuffle in the dark —
The accursed promptings of the minute ! My guards !
To horse — and after, with me — and prevent !

Pol. [seizing his hand.] King Charles ! Pause here
upon this strip of time
Allotted you out of eternity I
Crowns are from God — in his name you hold yours.
Your life 's no least thing, were it fit your life
Should be abjured along with rule ; but now,
Keep both ! Your duty is to live and rule —
You, who would vulgarly look fine enough
In the world's eye, deserting your soul's charge, —
Ay, you would have men's praise — this Eivoli
Would be illumined : while, as 'tis, no doubt,
Something of stain will ever rest on you ;
No one will rightly know why you refused
To abdicate ; they 11 talk of deeds you could
Have done, no doubt, — nor do I much expect
Future achievements will blot out the past,

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KING VICTOB AND KING CHARLES. 290

Envelop it in haze — nor shall we two

Be happy any more ; 'twill be, I feel,

Only in moments that the duty 's seen

As palpably as now — the months, the years

Of painful indistinctness are to come,

While daily must we tread these palace rooms

Pregnant with memories of the past : your eye

May turn to mine and find no comfort there,

Through fancies that beset me, as yourself,

Of other courses, with far other issues,

We might have taken this great night — such bear,

As I will bear 1 What matters happiness ?

Duty ! There 's man's one moment — this is yours !

[Putting the crown on his heady and the sceptre in his hand,
she places him on his seat : a long pause and silence*

Enter D'Ormea and Victob.

Vic. At last I speak ; but once — that once, to you !
'Tis you I ask, not these your varletry,
Who's King of us?

Cha. [from his seat] Count Tende . .

Vic. What your spies

Assert I ponder in my soul, I say —
Here to your face, amid your guards ! I choose
To take again the crown whose shadow I gave —
For still its potency surrounds the weak
White locks their felon hands have discomposed.
Or, 1 11 not ask who 's King, but simply, who
Withholds the crown I claim ? Deliver it !

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300 KING VICTOB AND KINO CHARLES.

I have no friend in the wide world : nor France
Nor England cares for me : you see the sum
Of what I can avail. Deliver it !

Cha. Take it, my father !

And now say in turn,
Was it done well, my father — sure not well,
To try me thus ! I might have seen much cause
For keeping it — too easily seen cause !
But, from that moment, e'en more woefully
My life had pined away, than pine it will.
Already you have much to answer for.
My life to pine is nothing, — her sunk eyes
Were happy once ! No doubt, my people think
That I 'm their King still . . . but I cannot strive !
Take it !

Vic. [one hand on the crown Charles offers, the
other on his neck.] So few years give it quietly,
My son ! It will drop from me. See you not ?
A crown 's unlike a sword to give away —
That, let a strong hand to a weak hand give !
But crowns should slip from palsied brows to heads
Young as this head — yet mine is weak enough,
E'en weaker than I knew. I seek for phrases
To vindicate my right. 'Tis of a piece !
All is alike gone by with me — who beat
Once D 'Orleans in his lines — his very lines !
To have been Eugene's comrade, Louis' rival,
And now . . .

Cha. [putting the crown on him, to the rest.] The
King speaks, yet none kneels, I think !

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KING YICTOB AND KINO CHABLES. 301

Vic. I am then King ! As I became a King
Despite the nations — kept myself a King —
So I die King, with Kingship dying too
Around me ! I have lasted Europe's time !
What wants my story of completion ? Where
Must needs the damning break show ! Who mistrusts
My children here — tell they of any break
Twixt my day's sunrise and its fiery fall ?
And who were by me when I died but they ?
Who ?— D'Ormea there !

Cha. What means he ?

Vic. Ever there !

Charles — how to save your story ? Mine must go !
Say — say that you refused the crown to me —
Charles, yours shall be my story ! You immured
Me, say, at Rivoli. A single year
I spend without a sight of you, then die —
That will serve every purpose — tell that tale
The world !

Cha. Mistrust me ? Help ! j

Vic. Past help, past reach !

Tis in the heart — you cannot reach the heart :
This broke mine, that I did believe, you, Charles,
Would have denied and so disgraced me.

Pol. Charles

Has never ceased to be your subject, Sire !
He reigned at first through setting up yourself
As pattern : if he e'er seemed harsh to you,
Twas from a too intense appreciation

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302 KINO VICTOR AND KING CHABLES.

Of your own character : he acted you —
Ne'er for an instant did I think it real,
Or look for any other than this end,
I hold him worlds the worse on that account ;
But so it was.

Cha. [to Poltx.] I love you, now, indeed !
[To Victor.] You never knew me !

Vic, Hardly till this moment,

When I seem learning many other things,
Because the time for using them is past.
If 'twere to do again ! That 's idly wished.
Truthfulness might prove policy as good
As guile. Is this my daughter's forehead ? Yes —
I 've made it fitter now to he a Queen's
Than formerly — I 've ploughed the deep lines there
Which keep too well a crown from slipping off!
No matter. Guile has made me King again.
Louis — 'twas in King Victor's time — long since,
When Louis reigrid — and, also, Victor reigrCd —
How the world talks already of us two !
God of eclipse and each discolour d star,
Why do I linger then ?

Ha ! Where lurks he ?
D'Ormea ! Come nearer to your King ! Now stand !

[Collecting his strength as D'Ormea approaches.

But you lied, D'Ormea ! I do not repent.

{Dies.

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COLOMBE'S BIETHDAY.
a flag.

" Ivy and violet, what do ye here,

" With blossom and shoot in the warm spring-weather,

" Hiding the arms of Monehenci and Vere ? "

Hanmke.

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Befcicatisft.

NO ONE LOVES AND HONOURS BABBT CORNWALL MORE THAN
ROBERT BROWNING DOES;

WHO, HAVING NOTHING BETTER THAN THIS PLAT TO
GTVS HDf IN PROOF OF IT,

MUST SAT SO.

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COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY.

PEBSONS.
Colombe of Ravestein, Duchess of Juliers and Cleves.

h Her Attendants.

Sabyne "I j

Adolf J

Guibert "^

Gaucelmf I

- _ f Courtiers.

Maufroy

Clugnet J

Valence, Advocate of Cleves.

Prince Berthold, Claimant of the Duchy.

Melchior, his Confidant.

Place, The Palace at Juliers.
Time, 16—.

ACT I.

Morning. Scene. — A corridor hading to the Audience-chamber.

Gaucelme, Clugnet, Maufroy, and other Courtiers, round
Guibert, who is silently reading a paper : at he drops it at the
end-—

Qui. That this should be her birthday ; and the day
We all invested her, twelve months ago,
As the late Duke's true heiress and our liege ;
And that this also must become the day . . .
Oh, miserable lady !

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306 colombe's birthday.

1st. Court. Ay, indeed ?

2nd. Court. Well, Guibert?

3rd. Court. But your news, my friend, your news !
The sooner, friend, one learns Prince Berthold's pleasure,
The better for us all : how writes the Prince ?
Give me — 1 11 read it for the common good —

Gui. In time, sir — but, till time comes, pardon me !
Our old Duke just disclosed his child's retreat,
Declared her true succession to his rule,
And died : this birthday was the day, last year,
We convoyed her from Castle Ravestein —
That sleeps out trustfully its extreme age
On the Meuse' quiet bank, where she lived queen
Over the water-buds, — to Juliers' Court
With joy and bustle : here again we stand ;
Sir Gaucelme's buckle's constant to his cap-
To-day's much such another sunny day !

Gau. Come, Guibert — this outgrows a jest, I think ! *
You 're hardly such a novice as to need
The lesson, you pretend.

Gui. What lesson, sir ?

That everybody, if he 'd thrive at court,
Should, first and last of all, look to himself?
Why, no : and therefore, with your good example,
(—Ho, Master Adolf !)— to myself 1 11 look.

Mater Adolf.

Gui. The Prince 's letter ; why, of all men else,
Comes it to me ?

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colombe's bikthday. 307

Adolf. By virtue of your place,

Sir Guibert ! Twas the Prince's express charge,
His envoy told us, that the missive there
Should only reach our lady by the hand
Of whosoever held your place.

Qui. Enough ! [Adolf retires.

Then, gentles, who 11 accept a certain poor
Indifferently honourable place,

My friends, I make no doubt, have gnashed their teeth
At leisure minutes these half-dozen years,
To find me never in the mood to quit ?
— Who asks may have it, with my blessing, and —
This to present our lady. Who 11 accept ?
You, — you, — you? There it lies, and may, for me !

Mau. [a youth, picking up the paper, reads aloud.]
" Prince Berthold, proved by titles following
" Undoubted Lord of Juliers, comes this day
-" To claim his own, with licence from the Pope,
" The Emperor, the Kings of Spain and France ". .

Oau. Sufficient " titles following," I judge !
Don't read another ! Well, — " to claim his own ? "

Mau. " And take possession of the Duchy held
" Since twelve months, to the true heir's prejudice,
" By " . . . Colombo, Juliers' Mistress, so she thinks,
And Ravestein's mere lady, as we find !
Who wants the place and paper ? Guibert 's right !
I hope to climb a little in the world, —
I 'd push my fortunes, — but, no more than he,
Could tell her on this happy day of days,
x 2

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308 colombe's bibthdjly.

That, save the nosegay in her hand, perhaps,
There 's nothing left to call her own ! Sir Clugnet,
You famish for promotion ; what say you ?

Clug. [an old man.] To give this letter were a sort, I
take it,
Of service : services ask recompence :
What kind of corner may be Eavestein ?

Gui. The castle? — Oh, you'd share her fortunes?
Good!
Three walls stand upright, full as good as four,
With no such bad remainder of a roof.

Clug. Oh,— but the Town?

Gui. Five houses, fifteen huts ;

A church whereto was once a spire, 'tis judged ;
And half a dyke, except in time of thaw.

Clug. Still, there 's some revenue ?

Gui. Else Heaven forefend !

You hang a beacon out, should fogs increase ;
So when the Autumn floats of pine-wood steer
Safe 'mid the white confusion, thanks to you,
Their grateful raftsman flings a guilder in ;
— That 's if he means to pass your way next time.

Clug. If not?

Gui. Hang guilders, then — he blesses you !

Clug, What man do you suppose me ? Keep your paper !
And let me say it shows no handsome spirit
To dally with misfortune : keep your place !

Gau. Some one must tell her.

Gui. Some one may : you may !

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colombe's bibthday. 809

Gau, Sir Guibert, 'tis no trifle turns me sick
Of court-hypocrisy at years like mine,
But this goes near it. Where 's there news at all ?
Who 'U have the face, for instance, to affirm
He never heard, e'en while we crowned the girl,
That Juliers' tenure was by Salic law ;
That one, confessed her father's cousin's child,
And, she away, indisputable heir,
Against our choice protesting and the Duke's,
Claimed Juliers ? — nor, as he preferred his claim,
That first this, then another potentate,
Inclined to its allowance ? — I, or you,
Or any one except the lady's self ?
Oh, it had been the direst cruelty
To break the business to her ! Things might change —
At all events, we 'd see next masque at end,
Next mummery over first : and so the edge
Was taken off sharp tidings as they came,
Till here 's the Prince upon us, and there 's she
— Wreathing her hair, a song between her lips,
With just the faintest notion possible
That some such claimant earns a livelihood
About the world, by feigning grievances
Few pay the story of, but grudge its price,
And fewer listen to, a second time.
Your method proves a failure ; now try mine —
And, since this must be carried . . .

Qui. [snatching the paper from him.] By your leave
Your zeal transports you ! 'Twill not serve the Prince

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310 colombe's birthday.

So much as you expect, this course you 'd take ;
If she leaves quietly her palace, — well :
But if she died upon its threshold, — no :
He 'd have the trouble of removing her !
Come, gentles, we Ye all — what the devil knows !
You, Gaucelme, won't lose character, beside —
You broke your father's heart superiorly
To gather his succession — never blush !
You 're from my province, and, be comforted,
They tell of it with wonder to this day —
You can afford to let your talent sleep !
We '11 take the very worst supposed, as true-
There, the old Duke knew, when he hid his child
Among the river-flowers at Eavestein,
With whom the right lay ! Call the Prince our Duke !
There, she 's no Duchess, she 's no anything
More than a young maid with the bluest eyes —
And now, sirs, we 11 not break this young maid's heart
Coolly as Gaucelme could and would ! No haste !
His talent 's full-blown, ours but in the bud —
We 11 not advance to his perfection yet —
Will we, Sir Maufroy? See, I Ve ruined Maufroy
For ever as a courtier !

Gau. Here 's a coil —

And, count us, will you ? Count its residue,
This boasted convoy, this day last year's crowd !
A birthday, too — a gratulation-day !
I 'm dumb : bid that keep silence !

Man. and others. Eh, Sir Guibert ?

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colombe's bibthdat. $11

He 's right ! that does say something : that *s bare truth.
Ten — twelve, I make t a perilous dropping-off !

Qui. Pooh — is it audience-hour ? The vestibule
Swarms too, I wager, with the common sort
That want our privilege of entry here.

Gau. Adolf ! [Be-enter Adolf.] Who 's outside ?

GuL Oh, your looks suffice !

Nobody waiting ?

Mau. {looking through the door-folds.] Scarce our
number I

Qui. 'Sdeath !

Nothing to beg for, to complain about ?
It can 't be ! Ill news spreads, but not so fast
As thus to frighten all the world !

Gau. The world

Lives out of doors, sir — not with you and me
By presence-chamber porches, state-room stairs,
Wherever warmth 's perpetual : outside 's free
To every wind from every compass-point,
And who may get nipped needs be weather-wise.
The Prince comes and the lady's People go ;
The snow-goose settles down, the swallows flee — >
Why should they wait for winter-time ? 'Tis instinct ;
Don't you feel somewhat chilly ?

Gui. That 's their craft ?

And last year's crowders-round and criers-forth,
That strewed the garlands, overarched the roads,
Lit up the bonfires, sang the loyal songs !
Well, 'tis my comfort, you could never call me

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312 oolombe's bibthday.

The People's Friend ! The People keep their word —

I keep my place : don't doubt 1 11 entertain

The People when the Prince comes, and the People

Are talked of! — Then, their speeches — no one tongue

Found respite, not a pen had holiday

— For they wrote, too, as well as spoke, these knaves !

Now see : we tax and tithe them, pill and poll,

They wince and fret enough, but pay they must

— We manage that, — so pay with a good grace

They might as well, it costs so little more.

But when we Ve done with taxes, meet folk next

Outside the toll-booth and the rating-place,

In public — there they have us if they will,

We 're at their mercy after that, you see —

For one tax not ten devils could extort;

Over and above necessity, a grace ;

This prompt disbosoming of love, to wit —

Their vine-leaf- wrappage of our tribute-penny,

And crowning attestation, all works well —

Yet this precisely do they thrust on us !

These cappings quick, and crook-and-cringings low,

Hand to the heart, and forehead to the knee,

With grin that shuts the eyes and opes the mouth —

So tender they their love ; and tender made,

Go home to curse you, the first doit you ask ;

As if their souls were any longer theirs !

As if they had not given ample warrant

To who should clap a collar on their neck,

Rings in their nose, a goad to either flank,

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colombe's biethdat. 313

And take them for the brute they boast themselves !
— Stay — there 's a bustle at the outer door —
And somebody entreating . . . that 's my name !
Adolf, — I heard my name !

Adolf. Twas probably

The Suitor.

Qui. Oh, there is one ?

Adolf. With a suit

He 'd fain enforce in person.

Gui. The good heart

—And the great fool ! Just ope the mid-door's fold —
Is that a lappet of his cloak; I see ?

Adolf. If it bear plenteous signs of travel ... ay,
The very cloak my comrades tore I

Qui. Why tore?

Adolf. He seeks the Duchess' presence in that trim :
Since daybreak, was he posted hereabouts
Lest he should miss the moment.

Qui. Where 's he now ?

Adolf. Gone for a minute possibly, not more.
They have ado enough to thrust him back.

Qui. Ay — but my name, I caught ?

Adolf Oh, sir — he said

— What was it? — You had known him formerly,
And, he believed, would help him did you guess
He waited now — you promised him as much —
The old plea ! — 'Faith, he 's back, — renews the charge !
[Speaking at the door.] So long as the man parleys, peace

outside !
Nor be too ready with your halberts, there !

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314 colombe's birthday.

Gau. My horse bespattered, as he blocked the path,
A thin sour man not unlike somebody.

Adolf. He holds a paper in his breast, whereon
He glances when his cheeks flush and his brow
At each repulse —

Gau. I noticed he 'd a brow.

Adolf. So glancing, he grows calmer, leans awhile
Over the balustrade, adjusts his dress,
And presently turns round, quiet again,
With some new pretext for admittance. — Back !
(To Guibert.) — Sir, he has seen you ! Now cross hal-

berts ! Ha —
Pascal is prostrate — there lies Fabian too —
No passage ! Whither would the madman press ?
Close the doors quick on me !

Gui. Too late — he's here.

Enter, hastily and with discomposed dress. Valence.

Val. Sir Guibert, will you help me ? — Me, that come
Charged by your townsmen, all who starve at Cleves,
To represent their heights and depths of woe
Before our Duchess and obtain relief I
Such errands barricade such doors, it seems :
But not a common hindrance drives me back
On all the sad yet hopeful faces, lit
With hope for the first time, which sent me forth !
Cleves, speak for me ! Cleves' men and women, speak —
Who followed me — your strongest^ many a mile
That I might go the fresher from their ranks,
— Who sit — your weakest — by the city-gates,

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colombe's birthday. 816

To take me fuller of what news I bring

As I return — for I must needs return !

— Can I ? Twere hard, no listener for their wrongs,

To turn them back upon the old despair —

Harder, Sir Guibert, than imploring thus —

So I do — any way you please — implore !

If you . . . but how should you remember Cleves ?

Yet they of Cleves remember you so well !

— Ay, comment on each trait of you they keep,

Your words and deeds caught up at second hand, —

Proud, I believe, at bottom of their hearts,

Of the very levity and recklessness

Which only prove that you forget their wrongs*

Cleves, the grand town, whose men and women starve,

Is Cleves forgotten ? — Then remember me !

You promised me that you would help me once

For other purpose : will you keep your word ?

Gui. And who may you be, friend ?

Val. Valence of Cleves.

Qui. Valence of . * . not the Advocate of Cleves
I owed my whole estate to, three years back?
Ay, well may you keep silence ! Why, my lords,
You Ve heard, I 'm sure, how, Pentecost three years,
I was so nearly ousted of my land
By some knaves' pretext, — (eh ? when you refused me
Your ugly daughter, Clugnet,) — and you Ve heard
How I recovered it by miracle
— (When I refused her) ! Here *s the very friend,
— Valence of Cleves, all parties have to thank !

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316 colombe's bikthday.

Nay, Valence, this procedure 's vile in you —

I 'm no more grateful than a courtier should,

But politic am I — I bear a brain,

Can cast about a little, might require

Your services a second time ! I tried

To tempt you with advancement here to court

— " No !" — well, for curiosity at least

To view our life here — " No !"— - our Duchess, then, —

— A pretty woman 's worth some pains to see,

Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown

Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure. . .

Vol. Our city trusted me its miseries,
And I am come.

Gvi. So much for taste ! But " come," —

So may you be, for anything I know,
To beg the Pope's cross, or Sir Clugnet's daughter,
And with an equal chance you get all three !
If it was ever worth your while to come,
Was not the proper way worth finding too ?

Vol. Straight to the palace-portal, sir, I came —

Qui, — And said? —

Vol. — That I had brought the miseries

Of a whole city to relieve.

Chii. — Which saying

Won your admittance ? You saw me, indeed,
And here, no doubt, you stand: as certainly,
My intervention, I shall not dispute,
Procures you audience ; which, if I procure,
That paper's closely written — by Saint Paul,

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COLOMBE'S B1BTHDAY, 817

Here flock the Wrongs, follow the Kemedies,
Chapter and verse, One, Two, A, B, and C —
Perhaps you 'd enter, make a reverence,
And launch these " miseries " from first to last ?

Vol. How should they let me pause or turn aside ?

Gau. [to Valence.] My worthy sir, one question :
you Ve come straight
From Cleves, you tell us : heard you any talk
At Cleves about our lady ?

Val. Much.

Gau. And what ?

Vol. Her wish was to redress all wrongs she knew.

Gau. That, you believed ?

Val. You see me, sir !

Gau. — Nor stopped

Upon the road from Cleves to Juliers here,
For any — rumours you might find afloat ?

Vol. I had my townsmen's wrongs to busy me.

Gau. This is the Lady's birthday, do you know ?
— Her day of pleasure ?

Vol. — I know that the Great,

For Pleasure born, should still be on the watch
To exclude Pleasure when a Duty offers :
Even as, the Lowly too, for Duty born,
May ever snatch a Pleasure if in reach :
Both will have plenty of their birthright, sir !

Gau. [Aside to Guibebt.] Sir Guibert, here 's your
man ! No scruples now —
You 11 never find his like ! Time presses hard.

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I Ve seen your drift and Adolf s too, this while.
But you can't keep the hour of audience back
Much longer, and at noon the Prince arrives.
[Pointing to Valence.] Entrust him with it — fool na
chance away !
Qui. —Him?
Gau. — With the missive ! What 's the

man to her ?
Gui. No bad thought! — Yet, 'tis yours — who ever
played
The tempting serpent — else, 'twere no bad thought !
I should — and do — mistrust it for your sake,
Or else . . .

Enter an Official who communicates with, Adolf.

Adolf. The Duchess will receive the Court !

Gui. Give us a moment, Adolf! Valence, Mend,
1 11 help you : we of the service, you 're to mark,
Have special entry, while the herd , . . the folks
Outside, get access through our help alone
— Well, it is so, was so, and I suppose
So ever will be — your natural lot is, therefore,
To wait your turn and opportunity,
And probably miss both. Now, I engage
To set you, here and in a minute's space,
Before the lady with full leave to plead
Chapter and verse, and A, and B, and C,
To heart's content.

Vol. I grieve that I must ask,

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This being, yourself admit, the custom here,
To what the price of such a favour mounts ?

Qui. Just so! You 're not without a courtier's tact !
Little at court, as your quick instinct prompts,
Do such as we without a recompence.

Val. Yours is ? —

Qui. A trifle : here 's a document

Tis some one's duty to present her Grace—
I say, not mine — these say, not theirs — such points
Have weight at court. Will you relieve us all
And take it? — Just say, ** I am bidden lay
" This paper at the Duchess' feet."

Val. No more ?

I thank you, sir !

Adolf. Her Grace receives the Court !

Qui. [Aside.] Now, sursum corda, quoth the mass-
priest ! Do —
Whoever 's my kind saint, do let alone
These pushings to and fro, and pullings back ;
Peaceably let me hang o* the devil's arm
The downward path, if you can't pluck me off
Completely ! Let me live quite his, or yours !

[The Courtiers begm to range themselves, and move towards
the door.

After me, Valence ! So our famous Cleves

Lacks bread ? Yet don't we gallants buy their lace ?

And dear enough — it beggars me, I know,

To keep my very gloves fringed properly!

This, Valence, is our Great State Hall you cross :

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Yon grey urn 's veritable marcasite,
The Pope's gift ; and those salvers testify
The Emperor. Presently you 11 set your foot
. . . But you don't speak, friend Valence !

Vol. I shall speak.

Gau. [Aside to Guibert.] Guibert — it were no such
ungraceful thing
If you and I, at first, seemed horrorstruok
With the bad news. Look here, what you shall do !
Suppose you, first, clap hand to sword and cry
" Yield strangers our allegiance ? First 1 11 perish
" Beside your Grace " ! — and so give me the cue
To...

Qui. Clap your hand to note-book and jot down
That to regale the Prince with ? I conceive !
[To Valence] Do, Valence, speak, or I shall half suspect
You 're plotting to supplant us, me the first,
I 1 the Lady's favour : is 't the grand harangue
You mean to make, that thus engrosses you ?
— Which of her virtues you 11 apostrophise ?
Or is 't the fashion you aspire to start, ■
Of that close-curled, not unbecoming hair ?
— Or what else ponder you ?

Vol. My townsmen's wrongs !

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ACT II.

Noon. Scene. — The Presence-chamber.
Tlie Duchess and Sabyne.

The D. Announce that I am ready for the Court !

Sab. Tis scarcely audience-hour, I think — your Grace
May best consult your own relief, no doubt,
And shun the crowd ; but few can have arrived . . .

The D. Let those not yet arrived, then, keep away !
Twas me, this day, last year at Kavestein,
You hurried. It has been full time, beside,
This half-hour. Do you hesitate ?

Sab. Forgive me !

The D. Stay, Sabyne ; let me hasten to make sure
Of one true thanker : here with you begins
My audience, claim you first its privilege !
It is my birth's event they celebrate —
You need not wish me more such happy days,
But — ask some favour ! Have you none to ask ?
Has Adolf none, then ? this was far from least
Of much I waited for impatiently,
Assure yourself! It seemed so natural
Your gift, beside this bunch of river-bells,
Should be the power and leave of doing good
To you, and greater pleasure to myself:
You ask my leave to-day to marry Adolf?
The rest is my concern.

T

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Sab. Your Grace is ever

Our Lady of dear Bavestein, — but, for Adolf . . .

The D. "But " ? You have not, sure, changed in your
regard
And purpose towards him ?

Sab. We change !

The D. Well, then ? Well ?

Sab. How could we two be happy, and, most like,
Leave Juliers, when . . . when . . . but 'tis audience-time !

The D. " When, if you left me, I were left indeed " —
Would you subjoin that ? — Bid the Court approach !
— Why should we play thus with each other, Sabyne ?
Do I not know, if courtiers prove remiss,
If friends detain me, and get blame for it,
There is a cause ? Of last year's fervid throng
Scarce one half comes now !

Sab. [Aside.] One half? No, alas !

The D. So can the mere suspicion of a cloud
Over my fortunes strike each loyal heart.
They Ve heard of this Prince Berthold ; and, forsooth,
Each foolish arrogant pretence he makes,
May grow more foolish and more arrogant,
They please to apprehend ! I thank their love !
Admit them !
Sab. [Aside.] How much has she really learned ?
The D. Surely, whoever 's absent, Tristan waits ?
— Or at least Romuald, whom my father raised
From nothing— come, he 's faithful to me, come !
(Sabyne, I should but be the prouder — yes,

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And fitter to comport myself aright)

Not Komuald ? Xavier — what said he to that ?

For Xavier hates a parasite, I know !

[Sabyne goes out.

The D. Well, sunshine 's everywhere, and summer too ;
Next year 'tis the old place again, perhaps —
The water-hreeze again, the birds again
... It cannot be ! It is too late to be !
What part had I, or choice in all of it ?
Hither they brought me ; I had not to think
Nor care, concern myself with doing good
Or ill, my task was just — to live, — to live,
And, answering ends there was no need explain,
To render Juliers happy — so they said.
All could not have been falsehood ! Some was love,
And wonder and obedience — I did all
They looked for ! Why then cease to do it now ?
Yet this is to be calmly set aside,
And— ere next birthday's dawn, for aught I know,
Things change, a claimant may arrive, and I . . .
It cannot nor it shall not be ! His right ?
Well then, he has the right, and I have not,
— But who bade all of you surround my life
And close its growth up with your Ducal crown
Which, plucked off rudely, leaves me perishing ?
I could have been like one of you, — loved, hoped,
Feared, lived and died like one of you — but you
Would take that life away and give me this,
And I will keep this ! I will face you — Come !
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Enter the Courtiers and Valence.

The Courtiers. Many such happy mornings to your
Grace!

The D. [Aside, as they pay their devoir.] The same
•words — the same faces, — the same love !
I have heen over-fearful. These are few —
But these, at least, stand firmly — these are mine !
As many come as may, and if no more,
'Tis that these few suffice — they do suffice !
What succour may not next year hring me ! Plainly
I feared too soon ! [to the Court.] I thank you, sirs :
all thanks !

Vol. [Aside, as the Duchess passes from one group to
another, conversing.]
Tis she — the vision this day last year brought,
When for a golden moment at our Cleves
She tarried in her progress lnther. Cleves
Chose me to speak its welcome, and I spoke
— Not that she could have noted the recluse
— Ungainly, old before his time — who gazed —
. . . Well, Heaven's gifts are not wasted, and that gaze
Kept, and shall keep me to the end, her own !
She was above it — but so would not sink
My gaze to earth ! The People caught it, hers —
Thenceforward, mine ; but thus entirely mine,
Who shall affirm, had she not raised my soul
Ere she retired and left me — them ? — She turns —
There 's all her wondrous face at once ! The ground

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Keels and . . . [suddenly occupying himself with his
paper.] These wrongs of theirs I have to plead !

The D. [to the Court.] Nay, compliment enough ! And
kindness' self
Should pause before it wish me more such years.
Twas fortunate that thus, ere youth escaped,
I tasted life's pure pleasure— one such, pure,
Is worth a thousand, mixed — and youth 's for pleasure :
Mine is received ; let my age pay for it.

Qau. So, pay, and pleasure paid for, thinks your Grace,
Should never go together ?

Qui. How, Sir Gaucelme ?

Hurry one's feast down unenjoyingly
At the snatched breathing-intervals of work ?
As good you saved it till the dull day's-end
When, stiff and sleepy, appetite is gone !
Eat first, then work upon the strength of it !

The D. True : you enable me to risk my Future,
By giving me a Past beyond recall.
I lived, a girl, one happy leisure year :
Let me endeavour to be the Duchess now !
And so, — what news, Sir Guibert, spoke you of?

[At they advance a little, and Guibkbt tpeaks —

— That gentleman ?

Val. [Aside.] I feel her eyes on me !

Qui. [to Valence.] The Duchess, sir, inclines to hear
your suit !
Advance ! He is from Cleves.

Val. [coming forward.] [Aside.] Their wrongs — their
wrongs!

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The D. And yon, sir, are from Cleves ? How fresh in
mind,
The hour or two I passed at queenly Cleves !
She entertained me bravely, but the best
Of her good pageant seemed its standers-by,
With insuppressive joy on every face !
What says my ancient, famous, happy Cleves ?

Vol. Take the truth, lady — you are made for truth !
So think my friends : nor do they less deserve
The having you to take it, you shall think,
When you know all — nay, when you only know
How, on that day you recollect at Cleves,
When the poor acquiescing multitude
Who thrust themselves with all their woes apart
Into unnoticed corners, that the few
Their means sufficed to muster trappings for,
Might fill the foreground, occupy your sight
With joyous faces fit to bear away
And boast of as a sample of all Cleves
— How, when to daylight these crept out once more,
Clutching, unconscious, each his empty rags
Whence the scant coin, which had not half bought bread,
That morn he shook forth, counted piece by piece,
And, well-advisedly, on perfumes spent them
To burn, or flowers to strew, before your path
— How, when the golden flood of music and bliss
Ebbed, as their moon retreated, and again
Left the sharp black-point rocks of misery bare
— Then I, their friend, had only to suggest

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" Saw she the horror as she saw the pomp ! " —
And as one man they cried " He speaks the truth —
" Show her the horror ! Take from our own mouths
" Our wrongs and show them, she will see them too ! "
— This they cried, lady ! I have brought the wrongs.

The D. Wrongs ? Cleves has wrongs — apparent now
and thus?
I thank you — in that paper ? — Give it me !

Vol. (There, Cleves !) In this ! (What did I promise,
• Cleves?)
Our weavers, clothiers, spinners are reduced
Since . . . Oh, I crave your pardon — I forget
I buy the privilege of this approach,
And promptly would discharge my debt. I lay
This paper humbly at the Duchess' feet !

[Presenting G\jibkblt?8 paper.

Qui. Stay — for the present . . .

The D. Stay, sir ? I take aught

That teaches me their wrongs with greater pride
Than this your Ducal circlet. Thank you, sir !

[The Duchess reads hastily; then, turning to the Courtiers —

What have I done to you ? Your deed or mine

Was it, this crowning me ? I gave myself

No more a title to your homage, no,

Than church-flowers, born this season, wrote the words

In the saint's-book that sanctified them first.

For such a flower, you plucked me — well, you erred —

Well, 'twas a weed — remove the eye-sore quick !

But should you not remember it has lain

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Steeped in the candles' glory, palely shrined,

Nearer God's Mother than most earthly things ?

— That if 't be faded 'tis with prayer's sole breath —

That the one day it boasted was God's day ?

Still, I do thank you — had you used respect

Here might I dwindle to my last white leaf,

Here lose life's latest freshness, which even yet

May yield some wandering insect rest and food :

So, fling me forth, and — all is best for all !

[After a pause.] Prince Berthold, who art Juliers' Duke,

it seems —
The King's choice, and the Emperor's, and the Pope's —
Be mine, too ! Take this people ! Tell not me
Of rescripts, precedents, authorities,
— But take them, from a heart that yearns to give !
Find out their love, — I could not ; find their fear, —
I would not ; find their like, — I never shall,
Among the flowers ! [Taking off her coronet.

Colombo of Rave8tein
Thanks God she is no longer Duchess here !

Val. [advancing to Guibert.] Sir Guibert, — knight,
they call you — this of mine
Is the first step I ever set at court.
You dared make me your instrument, I find ;
For that, so sure as you and I are men,
We reckon to the utmost presently :
But as you are a courtier and I none,
Your knowledge may instruct me. I, already,
Have too far outraged, by my ignorance

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Of courtier- ways, this lady, to proceed

A second step and risk addressing her

— I am degraded — you, let me address !

Out of her presence, all is plain enough

What I shall do — but in her presence, too,

Surely there 's something proper to be done !

[To the others.] You, gentles, tell me if I guess aright —

May I not strike this man to earth ?

The Courtiers, [as Guibert springs forward, with-
holding him.] Let go !

— The Clothiers' spokesman, Guibert ? Grace a churl ?
The D. [to Valence.] Oh, be acquainted with your
party, sir !

He 's of the oldest lineage Juliers boasts ;

A lion crests him for a cognisance ;

" Scorning to waver " — that 's his 'scutcheon's word ;

His office with the new Duke — probably

The same in honour as with me ; or more,

By so much as this gallant turn deserves ;

He 's now, I dare say, of a thousand times

The rank and influence that remain with her

Whose part you take ! So, lest for taking it

You suffer . . .

Vol. I may strike him then to earth ?

Qui. [falling on his knee.] Great and dear lady,
pardon me 1 Hear once !

Believe me and be merciful — be just !

I could not bring myself to give that paper

Without a keener pang than I dared meet

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— And so felt Clugnet here, and Maufroy here

— No one dared meet it. Protestation 's cheap, —

But, if to die for you did any good,

[To Gaucelme.] Would not I die, sir ? Say your worst

of me !
But it does no good, that 's the mournful truth.
And since the hint of a resistance, even,
Would just precipitate, on you the first,
A speedier ruin — I shall not deny,
Saving myself indubitable pain,
I thought to give you pleasure (who might say ?)
By showing that your only subject found
To carry the sad notice, was the man
Precisely ignorant of its contents ;
A nameless, mere provincial advocate ;
One whom 'twas like you never saw before,
Never would see again. All has gone wrong ;
But I meant right, God knows, and you, I trust !

The D. A nameless advocate, this gentleman ? —
— (I pardon you, Sir Guibert !)

Qui. [rising, to Valence.] — Sir, and you ? —

Vol. — Kejoice that you are lightened of a load.
Now, you have only me to reckon with !

The D. One I have never seen, much less obliged ? —

Vol. Dare I speak, lady ?

The D. Dare you ! Heard you not

I rule no longer ?

Val. Lady, if your rule

Were based alone on such a ground as these

{Pointing to the Courtiers.

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Could furnish you, — abjure it ! They have hidden
A source of true dominion from your sight.

The D. You hear them — no such source is left . . .

Val. Hear Cleves !

Whose haggard craftsmen rose to starve this day,
Starve now, and will lie down at night to starve,
Sure of a like to-morrow — but as sure
Of a most unlike morrow-after-that,
Since end things must, end howsoe'er things may.
What curbs the brute-force instinct in its hour ?
What makes, instead of rising, all as one,
And teaching fingers, so expert to wield
Their tool, the broadsword's play or carbine's trick,
— What makes that there 's an easier help, they think,
For you, whose name so few of them can spell,
Whose face scarce one in every hundred saw,
You simply have to understand their wrongs,
And wrongs will vanish — so, still trades are plied,
And swords lie rusting, and myself stand here ?
There is a vision in the heart of each
Of justice, mercy, wisdom; tenderness
To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure —
And these, embodied in a woman's form
That best transmits them, pure as first received,
From God above her, to mankind below.
Will you derive your rule from such a ground,
Or rather hold it by the suffrage, say,
Of this man — tins — and this ?

The D. [after a pause,'] You come from Cleves —
How many are at Cleves of such a mind ?

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Vol. [from his paper.] " We, all the manufacturers of

Cleves " —
The D. Or stay, sir — lest I seem too covetous —
Are you my subject ? such as you describe
Am I to you — though to no other man ?

Vol. [from his paper.] — " Valence, ordained your Ad-
vocate at Cleves " —
TheD. [replacing the coronet.] Then I remain Cleves'
Duchess ! Take you note,
While Cleves but yields one subject of this stamp,
I stand her lady till she waves me off!
For her sake, all the Prince claims I withhold ;
Laugh at each menace ; and, his power defying,
Return his missive with its due contempt !

[Casting it away.

Qui. [picking it up.] — Which to the Prince I will
deliver, Lady,
[Note it down, Gaucelme] — with your message too !

The D. I think the office is a subject's, sir !
— Either . . . how style you him ? — my special guarder
The Marshal's — for who knows but violence
May follow the delivery ! — Or, perhaps,
My Chancellor's — for law may be to urge
On its receipt ! — Or, even my Chamberlain's —
For I may violate established form !
[To Valence.] Sir, — for the half hour till this service

ends,
Will you become all these to me ?

Vol. [falling on his knee.] My Liege !

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TheD. Give me!

[The Courtiers present their badges of office.

[Putting them by.] — Whatever was their virtue once,
They need new consecration ! [raising Valence.] Are

you mine ?
— I will be Duchess yet ! [She retires.

The Courtiers. Our Duchess yet !

A glorious lady ! Worthy love and dread !
1 11 stand by her, — and I, whate'er betide !

Qui. [to Valence.] Well done, well done, sir ! I care
not who knows,
You have done nobly, and I envy you —
Tho' I am but unfairly used, I think :
For when one gets a place like this I hold,
One gets too the remark that its mere wages,
The pay and the preferment, make our prize —
Talk about zeal and faith apart from these,
We 're laughed at — much would zeal and faith subsist
Without these also ! Yet, let these be stopped,
Our wages discontinue, — then, indeed,
Our zeal and faith, we hear on every side,
Are not released — having been pledged away
I wonder with what zeal and faith in turn ?
Hard money purchased me my place ! No, no—
I 'm right, sir — but your wrong is better still,
If I had time and skill to argue it.
Therefore, I say, 1 11 serve you, how you please —
If you like, — fight you, as you seem to wish —
(The kinder of me that, in sober truth,
I never dreamed I did you any harm) —

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Gau. — Or, kinder still, you 11 introduce, no doubt,
His merits to the Prince who 's just at hand,
And let no hint drop he 's made Chancellor,
And Chamberlain, and Heaven knows what beside !

Clug. [to Valence.] You stare, young sir, and threaten !
Let me say,
That at your age, when first I came to court,
I was not much above a gentleman ;
While now . . .

Vol. — You are Head-Lackey ? With your office
I have not yet been graced, sir !

Other Courtiers to Clug. Let him talk !

Fidelity — disinterestedness —
Excuse so much ! Men claimed my worship ever
Who, stanch and steadfastly . . .

Enter Adolf.

Adolf. The Prince arrives !

Courtiers. Ha? How?

Adolf. He leaves his guard a stage behind

At Aix, and enters almost by himself.

1st Court. The Prince ! This foolish business puts
all out!

2nd Court. Let Gaucelme speak first !

3rd Court. Better I began

About the state of Juliers — should one say
All 's prosperous and inviting him ?

Uh Court. — Or rather

All 's prostrate and imploring him !

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5th Court. That 's best !

Where 's the Cleves' paper, by the way ?

Uh Court, [to Valence.] Sir — sir —

If you '11 but give that paper — trust it me,
1 11 warrant . . .

5th Court. Softly, sir — the Marshal's duty !

Clug. Has not the Chamberlain a hearing first
By virtue of his patent ?

Gau. Patents ?— Duties ?

All that, my masters, must begin again !
One word composes the whole controversy —
We 're simply now — the Prince's !

The Others. Ay — the Prince's !

Enter Sabyne.

Sab. Adolf ! Bid . . . Oh, no time for ceremony !
Where 's whom our lady calls her only subject ?
She needs him ! Who is here the Duchess's ?

Vol. [starting from his reverie.] Most gratefully I follow
to her feet !

ACT III.

Afternoon. Scene. — The Vestibule.
Enter Prince Berthold and Melchiob.
Berth. A thriving little burgh this Juliers looks.
[Half -apart.] Keep Juliers, and as good you kept Cologne :
Better try Aix, though ! —

Mel. Please 't your Highness speak ?

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Berth, [as before.] Aix, Cologne, Frankfort, —
Milan ; — Borne ! —

Mel —The Grave.

— More weary seems your Highness, I remark,
Than sundry conquerors whose path I Ye watched
Through fire and blood to any prize they gain.
I could well wish you, for your proper sake,
Had met some shade of opposition here
— Found a blunt seneschal refuse unlock,
Or a scared usher lead your steps astray.
Tou must not look for next achievement's palm
So easy : this will hurt your conquering !

Berth. My next? Ay — as you say, my next and next !
Well, I am tired, that 's truth, and moody too,
This quiet entrance-morning ; listen why !
Our little burgh, now, Juliers — 'tis indeed
One link, however insignificant,
Of the great chain by which I reach my hope —
— A link I must secure ; but otherwise,
You 'd wonder I esteem'd it worth my grasp.
Just see what life is, with its shifts and turns !
It happens now — this very nook — to be
A place that once . . . but a short while since, neither —
When I lived an ambiguous hanger-on
Of foreign courts, and bore my claims about,
Discarded by one kinsman, and the other
A poor priest merely, — then, I say, this place
Shone my ambition's object ; to be Duke —
Seemed then what to be Emperor seems now.

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My rights were far from being judged as plain
In those days as of late, I promise you —
And 'twas my day-dream, Lady Colombe here
Might e'en compound the matter, pity me,
Be struck, say, with my chivalry and grace
(I was a boy !) — bestow her hand at length,
And make me Duke, in her right if not mine.
Here am I, Duke confessed, at Juliers now !
Hearken : if ever I be Emperor,
Remind me what I felt and said to-day !

Mel. All this consoles a bookish man like me !
— And so will weariness cling to you ! Wrong —
Wrong ! Had you sought the Lady's court yourself, —
Faced the redoubtables composing it,
Flattered this, threatened that man, bribed the other, —
Pleaded, by writ and word and deed, your cause, —
Conquered a footing inch by painful inch, —
And, after long years' struggle, pounced at last
On her for prize, — the right life had been lived,
And justice done to divers faculties
Shut in that brow : yourself were visible
As you stood victor, then ! whom now — (your pardon !)
I am forced narrowly to search and see —
So are you hid by helps — this Pope, your uncle —
Your cousin, the other King ! You are a Mind, —
They, Body : too much of mere legs-and-arms
Obstructs the mind so ! Match these with their like —
Match mind with mind !

Berth. And where 's your mind to match ?

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They show me legs-and-arras to cope withal !
I 'd subjugate this city — where 's its mind ?

[The Courtiers enter slowly.

Mel. Got out of sight when you came troops and all !
And in its stead, here greets you flesh-and-blood —
A smug oeconomy of both, this first !

[As Clugnet bows obsequiously.

Well done, gout, all considered ! — I may go ?

Berth. Help me receive them !

Mel. Oh, they just will say

What yesterday at Aix their fellows said, —
At Treves, the day before ! — Sir Prince, my friend,
Why do you let your life slip thus ? — Mean time,
I have my little Juliers to achieve —
The understanding this tough Platonist,
Your holy uncle disinters, Amelius —
Lend me a company of horse and foot,
To help me through his tractate — gain my Duchy !

Berth. And Empire, after that is gained, will be — ?

Mel. To help me through your uncle's comment,
Prince 1 [Goes.

Berth. Ah? Well! he o'er-refines — the scholar's fault!
How do I let my life slip ? Say, this life,
I lead now, differs from the common life
Of other men in mere degree, not kind,
Of joys and griefs, — still there is such degree —
Mere largeness in a life is something, sure, —
Enough to care about and struggle for,
In this world : for this world, the Size of things ;

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The Sort of things, for that to come, no doubt !
A great is better than a little aim —
And when I wooed Priscilla's rosy mouth
And failed so, under that grey convent-wall,
Was I more happy than I should be now

[By this time, the Courtiers are ranged before him.

If failing of my Empire ? Not a whit !

— Here comes the Mind, it once had tasked me sore

To baffle, but for my advantages !

All 's best as 'tis — these scholars talk and talk !

[Seats himself.

The Courtiers. Welcome our Prince to Juliers ! — to
his heritage !
Our dutifullest service proffer we !

Clug. I, please your Highness, having exercised
The function of Grand Chamberlain at Court,
With much acceptance, as men testify , . .

Berth. I cannot greatly thank you, gentlemen !
The Pope declares my claim to the Duchy founded
On strictest justice ; if you concede it, therefore,
I do not wonder — and the kings my friends
Protesting they will see such claim enforced,
You easily may offer to assist us,
But there 's a slight discretionary power
To serve me in the matter, you Ve had long,
Though late you use it. This is well to say —
But could you not have said it months ago ?
I 'm not denied my own Duke's truncheon, true —
'Tis flung me — I stoop down, and from the ground
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Pick it, with all you placid standers-by —
And now I have it, gems and mire at once,
Grace go with it to my soiled hands, you say !

Qui. (By Paul, the Advocate our doughty friend
Cuts the best figure !)

Gau. If our ignorance

May have offended, sure our loyally ...

Berth. Loyalty? Yours? — Oh — of yourselves you
speak!
— I mean the Duchess all this time, I hope !
And since I have been forced repeat my claims
As if they never had been made before,
As I began, so must I end, it seems.
The formal answer to the grave demand —
What says the lady ?

Courtiers, [one to another.] 1st Court. Marshal !
%nd Court. Orator!

Qui. A variation of our mistress' way !
Wipe off his boots* dust, Clugnet? — that, he waits !

1st Court. Your place !

2nd Court. Just now it was your own !

Qui. The devils !

Berth, [to Guibert.] Come forward, friend — you with
the paper, there !
Is Juliers the first city I Ve obtained ?
By this time, I may boast proficiency
In each decorum of the circumstance !
Give it me as she gave it — the petition
(Demand, you style it)— what's required, in brief?

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What title's reservation, appanage's
Allowance ? — I heard all at Treves, last week !

Gau. [to Guibebt.] "Give it him as she gave it!"

Qui, And why not ?

[To Bebthold.] The lady crushed your summons thus

together,
And bade me, with the very greatest scorn
So fair a frame could hold, inform you . . .

Courtiers, Stop-

Idiot!—

Qui. — Inform you she denied your claim,
Defied yourself! (I tread upon his heel,
The blustering Advocate !)

Berth, By heaven and earth !

Dare you jest, sir?

Qui. Did they at Treves, last week ?

Berth, [starting up,] Why then, I look much bolder
than I knew,
And you prove better actors than I thought—
Since, as I live, I took you as you entered
For just so many dearest friends of mine,
Fled from the sinking to the rising power
— The sneaking'st crew, in short, I e'er despised !
Whereas, I am alone here for the moment —
With every soldier left behind at Aix !
Silence ? That means the worst — I thought as much !
What follows next then?

Courtiers, Gracious Prince — he raves !

Qui, He asked the truth and why not get the truth ?

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Berth. Am I a prisoner? Speak, will somebody?
— But why stand paltering with imbeciles ?
Let me see her, or . . *

Qui. Her, without her leave,

Shall no one see — she's Duchess yet !

Courtiers. [Footsteps without, as they are disputing.]
Good chance !
She's here — the Lady Colombo's self!

Berth. Tis well !

[Aside.] Array a handful thus against my world ?
Not ill done, truly ! Were not this a mind
To match one's mind with ? Colombe ! — Let us wait !
I foiled so, under that grey convent-wall !
She comes !

Qui. The Duchess ! Strangers, range yourselves !

[As the Duchess enters in conversation with Valence,
Berthold and the Courtiers faU bach a little.

The D. Presagefully it beats, presagefully,
My heart — the right is Berthold's and not mine !

Val. Grant that he has the right, dare I mistrust
Your power to acquiesce so patiently
As you believe, in such a dream-like change
Of fortune — change abrupt, profound, complete ?

The D. Ah, the first bitterness is over now !
Bitter I may have felt it to confront
The truth, and ascertain those natures' value
I had so counted on — that was a pang —
But I did bear it, and the worst is over :
Let the Prince take them !

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Vol. — And take Juliers too ?

— Your People without crosses, wands, and chains—
Only with hearts ?

The D. There I feel guilty, sir !

I cannot give up what I never had :
For these I ruled, not them — these stood between.
Shall I confess, sir ? I have heard by stealth
Of Berthold from the first : more news and more ;
Closer arid closer swam the thunder-cloud,
But I was safely housed with these, I knew !
At times, when to the casement I would turn,
At a bird's passage or a flower-trail's play,
I caught the storm's red glimpses on its edge —
Yet I was sure some one of all these friends
Would interpose — I followed the bird's flight,
Or plucked the flower — some one would interpose !

Vol. Not one thought on the People — and Cleves there !

The D. So, sadly conscious my real sway was missed,
Its shadow goes without so much regret :
Else could I not again thus calmly bid you,
Answer Prince Berthold 1

Val. Then you acquiesce ?

The D. Remember over whom it was I ruled !

Gvi. [stepping forward.] Prince Berthold, yonder,
craves an audience, Lady !

The D. [to Valence.] I only have to turn, and I
shall face
Prince Berthold ! Oh, my very heart is sick !
It is the daughter of a line of Dukes,

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This scornful insolent adventurer

Will bid depart from my dead father's halls !

I shall not answer him — dispute with him —

But, as he bids, depart ! Prevent it, sir !

Sir — but a mere day's respite ! Urge for me

— What I shall call to mind I should have urged

When time 's gone by — 'twill all be mine, you urge !

A day — an hour — that I myself may lay

My rule down ! Tis too sudden — must not be !

The world 's to hear of it ! Once done — for ever I

How will it read, sir? How be sung about?

Prevent it !

Berth, [approaching.] Your frank indignation, Lady,
Cannot escape me ! Overbold I seem —
But somewhat should be pardoned my surprise,
At this reception, — this defiance, rather.
And if, for their and your sakes, I rejoice
Your virtues could inspire a trusty few
To make such gallant stand in your behalf,
I cannot but be sorry, for my own,
Your friends should force me to retrace my steps,
Since I no longer am permitted speak
After the pleasant peaceful course prescribed
No less by courtesy than relationship
Which, if you once forgot, I still remember :
But never must attack pass unrepelled.
Suffer, that through you, I demand of these,
Who controverts my claim to Juliers ?

The D. —Me,

You say, you do not speak to —

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Berth. Of your subjects

I ask, then : whom do you accredit ? Where
Stand those should answer ?

Val. [advancing.] The Lady is alone 1

Berth. Alone, and thus ? So weak and yet so bold ?

Val. I said she was alone —

Berth. — And weak, I said.

Val. When is man strong until he feels alone ?
It was some lonely strength at first, be sure,
Created organs, such as those you seek,
By which to give its varied purpose shape —
And, naming the selected ministrants,
Took sword, and shield, and sceptre, — each, a man !
That strength performed its work and passed its way :
You see our Lady : there, the old shapes stand !
— A Marshal, Chamberlain, and Chancellor —
" Be helped their way, into their death put life
" And find advantage ! " — so you counsel us :
But let strength feel alone, seek help itself, — j

And, as the inland-hatched sea-creature hunts
The sea's breast out, — as, littered 'mid the waves,
The desert-brute makes for the desert's joy,
So turns our lady to her true resource,
Passing o'er hollow fictions, worn-out types,
— So, I am first her instinct fastens on !
And prompt I say, so clear as heart can speak,
The People will not have you ; nor shall have !
It is not merely I shall go bring Cleves
And fight you to the last, — though that does much,

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And men and children, — ay, and women too,

Fighting for home, are rather to he feared

Than mercenaries fighting for their pay —

But, say you heat us, since such things have heen,

And, where this Juliers laughed, you set your foot

Upon a streaming hloody plash — what then ?

Stand you the more our Lord that there you stand ?

Lord it o'er troops whose force you concentrate,

A pillared flame whereto all ardours tend —

Lord it 'mid priests whose schemes you amplify,

A cloud of smoke 'neath which all shadows brood —

But never, in this gentle spot of earth,

Can you become our Colombe, our play-queen,

For whom, to furnish lilies for her hair,

We 'd pour our veins forth to enrich the soil !

— Our conqueror? Yes! — Our despot? Yes ! — Our

Duke?
Know yourself, know us !

Berth, [who has been in thought.] Know your lady, also t
[Very deferentially.] — To whom I needs must exculpate

myself
From having made a rash demand, at least.
Wherefore to you, sir, who appear to be
Her chief adviser, I submit my claims, [Giving papers.
But, this step taken, take no further step,
Until the Duchess shall pronounce their worth.
Here be our meeting-place ; at night, its time ;
Till when I humbly take the Lady s leave !

[He withdraws. As the Duchess turns to Valence, the
Courtiers interchange glances and come forward a little.

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Is* Court, So, this was their device !

2nd Court. No bad device !

3rd Court, You 'd say they love each other, Guibert's
friend
From Cleves, and she, the Duchess !

4th Court. — And moreover,

That all Prince Berthold comes for, is to help
Their loves !

6th Court. Pray, Guibert, what is next to do ?

Qui. [advancing.] I laid my office at the Duchess' foot —

Others. And I — and I — and I !

The D. I took them, sirs !

Qui. [Apart to Valence.] And now, sir, I am simple
knight again —
Guibert, of the great ancient house, as yet
That never bore affront : whate'er your birth, —
As things stand now, I recognise yourself
(If you 11 accept experience of some date)
As like to be the leading man o' the time,
Therefore as much above me now, as I
Seemed above you this morning Then, I offered
To fight you : will you be as generous
And now fight me ?

Vol. Ask when my life is mine !

Qui. (Tis hers now !)

Clug. [Apart to Valence, as Gwhert turns from him.]
You, sir, have insulted me
Grossly, — will grant me, too, the selfsame favour
You Ve granted him, just now, I make no question ?

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Val. I promise you, as him, sir !

Clug. Do you so ?

Handsomely said ! I hold you to it, sir !
You 11 get me reinstated in my office
As you will Guibert !

The D. I would be alone !

[They begin to retire slowly : as Valence U about to follow —

Alone, sir — only with my heart, — you stay !

Gau. You hear that ? Ah, light breaks upon me !
Cleves —
It was at Cleves some man harangued us all —
With great effect, — so those who listened said,
My thoughts being busy elsewhere : was this he ?
Guibert, — your strange, disinterested man !
Your uncorrupted, if uncourtly friend !
The modest worth you mean to patronise !
He cares about no Duchesses, not he—
His sole contest is with the wrongs of Cleves !
What, Guibert ? What, it breaks on you at last ?

Gui. Would this hall's floor were a mine's roof ! — I 'd
back
And in her very face . . .

Gau. Apply the match

That fired the train, — and where would you be, pray ?

Gui. With him!

Gau. Stand, rather, safe outside with me !

The mine 's charged — shall I furnish you the match
And place you properly ? — To the ante-chamber !

Gui. Can you ?

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Gau. Try me ! — Your friend's in fortune !

Gui. Quick —

To the ante-chamber ! — He is pale with bliss !
Gau, No wonder ! Mark her eyes !
Gui. To the ante-chamber !

[The Courtiers retire.

The D. Sir, could you know all you have done for me
You were content ! You spoke, and I am saved !

Vol. Be not too sanguine, Lady ! Ere you dream,
That transient flush of generosity
Fades off, perchance ! The man, beside, is gone, —
Whom we might bend ; but see the papers here —
Inalterably his requirement stays,
And cold hard words have we to deal with now.
In that large eye there seemed a latent pride,
To self-denial not incompetent,
But very like to hold itself dispensed
From such a grace — however, let us hope !
He is a noble spirit in noble form !
I wish he less had bent that brow to smile
As with the fancy how he could subject
Himself upon occasion to — himself !
From rudeness, violence, you rest secure ;
But do not think your Duchy rescued yet !

The D. You, — who have opened a new world to me,
Will never take the faded language up
Of that I leave ? My Duchy — keeping it,
Or losing it — is that my sole world now ?

Vol. Ill have I spoken if you thence despise

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Juliers ; although the lowest, on true grounds,
Be worth more than the highest rule, on false :
Aspire to rule, on the true grounds !

The D. Nay, hear —

False, I will never — rash, I would not be !
This is indeed my Birthday — soul and body,
Its hours have done on me the work of years.
You hold the Requisition : ponder it !
If I have right — my duty 's plain : if He—
Say so — nor ever change a tone of voice !
At night you meet the Prince— meet me at eve ;
Till when, farewell ! This discomposes you ?
Believe in your own nature, and its force
Of renovating mine. I take my stand
Only as under me the earth is firm —
So, prove the first step stable, all will be !
That first, I choose — [laying her hand on his.] — the next
to take, choose you ! [She withdraws.

Vol. [after a pause.] What drew down this on me !
On me — dead once —
She thus bids live, — since all I hitherto
Thought dead in me, youth's ardours and emprize,
Burst into life before her, as she bids
Who needs them ! — Whither will this reach, where end ?
Her hand's print burns on mine . . . Yet she *s above —
So very far above me ! All 's too plain —
I served her when the others sank away,
And she rewards me as such souls reward —
The changed voice, the suffusion of the cheek,

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The eye's acceptance, the expressive hand —
— Keward, that 's little, in her generous thought,
Though all to me . . .

I cannot so disclaim
Heaven's gift, nor call it other than it is !
She loves me !
[Looking at the Prince's papers.] — Which love, these,

perchance, forbid !
Can I decide against myself — pronounce
She is the Duchess and no mate for me ?
— Cleves, help me ! Teach me, — every haggard face, —
To sorrow and endure ! I will do right
Whatever be the issue — help me, Cleves !

ACT IV.

Evening, Scene. — An Ante-chatnber.

Enter the Courtiers.

Mau. Now then, that we may speak — how spring this
mine?

Gau. Is Guibert ready for its match ? He cools !
Not so friend Valence with the Duchess there !
" Stay, Valence — are not you my better self? "
And her cheek mantled —

Qui. Well, she loves him, sir —

And more, — since you will have it I grow cool, —
She 's right : he 's worth it.

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Gau. For his deeds to-day ?

Say so!

Chd. What should I say heside ?

Gau. Not this —

For friendship's sake leave this for me to say —
That we 're the dupes of an egregious cheat !
This plain, unpractised suitor, who found way
To the Duchess thro' the merest die's turn-up —
A year ago, had seen her and been seen,
Loved and been loved —

Gui. Impossible !

Gau. — Nor say,

How sly and exquisite a trick, moreover,
Was this which — taking not their stand on facts
Boldly, for that had been endurable,
But, worming in their way by craft, they choose
Besort to, rather, — and which you and we,
Sheep-like, assist them in the playing off !
The Duchess thus parades him as preferred,
Not on the honest ground of preference,
Seeing first, liking more, and there an end —
But as we all had started equally,
And at the close of a fair race he proved
The only valiant, sage, and loyal man.
And she, too, with the pretty fits and starts, —
The careless, winning, candid ignorance
Of what the Prince might challenge or forego —
She had a hero in reserve ! What risk
Ran she ? This deferential easy Prince

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Who brings his claims for her to ratify

— He 's just her puppet for the nonce ! You '11 see, —

Valence pronounces, as is equitable,

Against him : off goes the confederate :

As equitably, Valence takes her hand !

The Chancellor. You run too fast — her hand, no
subject takes !
Do not our Archives hold her father's Will ?
That will provides against such accident,
And gives next heir, Prince Berthold, the reversion
Of Juliers, which she forfeits, wedding so.

Gau. I know that, well as you, — but does the Prince ?
Knows Berthold, think you, that this plan, he helps,
For Valence's ennoblement, — would end,
If crowned with the success which seems its due,
In making him the very thing he plays,
The actual Duke of Juliers ? All agree
That Colombe's title waived or set aside,
He is next heir.

The Chan. Incontrovertibly !

Gau. Guibert, your match, now, to the train !

Gui. Enough !

I 'm with you — selfishness is best again !
I thought of turning honest — what a dream !
Let 's wake now !

Gau. Selfish, friend, you never were —

'Twas but a series of revenges taken
On your unselfishness for prospering ill.
But now that you 're grown wiser, what 's our course ?

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Out. — Wait, I suppose, till Valence weds our Lady,
And then, if we must needs revenge ourselves,
Apprise the Prince—

Oau. — The Prince, ere then dismissed
With thanks for playing his mock part so well ?
Tell the Prince now, sir ! Ay, this very night—
Ere he accepts his dole and goes his way,
Explain how such a marriage makes him Duke,
Then trust his gratitude for the surprise !

Qui. — Our Lady wedding Valence all the same
As if the penalty were undisclosed !
Good ! If she loves, she 11 not disown her love,
Throw Valence up — I wonder you see that !

Oau. The shame of it — the suddenness and shame !
Within her, the inclining heart — without,
A terrible array of witnesses —
With Valence by, to keep her to her word,
And Berthold's indignation or disgust —
We 11 try it ! — Not that we can venture much :
Her confidence we Ve lost for ever — Berthold's
Is all to gain !

Qui. To-night, then, venture we !

Yet — if lost confidence might be renewed ?

Oau. Never in noble natures ! With the base ones, —
Twist off the crab's claw, wait a smarting-while,
And something grows and grows and gets to be
A mimic of the lost joint, just so like
As keeps in mind it never, never will
Replace its predecessor ! Crabs do that :
But lop the Lion's foot — and

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Qui. To the Prince !

Gau. [Aside.] And come what will to the lion's foot,
I pay you
My cat's-paw, as I long have yearned to pay !
[Aloud.] Footsteps . . Himself! Tis Valence breaks

on us!
Exulting that their scheme succeeds ! — We 11 hence —
And perfect ours ! Consult the Archives, first —
Then, fortified with knowledge, seek the Hall !

Clug. [to Gaucelme as they retire.] You have not
smiled so since your father died !
As they retire, enter Valence with papers.

Vol. So must it be ! I have examined these
With scarce a palpitating heart — so calm,
Keeping her image almost wholly off,
Setting upon myself determined watch,
Repelling to the uttermost his claims,
And the result is ... all men would pronounce
And not I, only, the result to be —
Berthold is Heir ; she has no shade of right
To the distinction which divided us,
But, suffered to rule first I know not why,
Her rule connived at by those Kings and Popes,
To serve some devil's-purpose, — now 'tis gained,
Whate'er it was, the rule expires as well.
— Valence, this rapture . . selfish can it be ?
Eject it from your heart, her home ! — It stays !
Ah, the brave world that opens on us both !
... Do my poor townsmen so esteem it ? Cleves, —
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I need not your pale faces ! This, reward
For service done to you? Too horrible !
I never served you — 'twas myself I served !
Nay — served not — rather saved from punishment
Which, had I failed you then, would plague me now !
My life continues yours, and your life, mine-
But if, to take God's gift, I swerve no step —
Cleves ! — if I breathe no prayer for it — if she,

[Footsteps without.
Colombe, that comes now, freely gives herself —
Will Cleves require, that, turning thus to her,
I . . .

Enter Prince Bkbthold.
— Pardon, sir — I did not look for you
Till night, in the Hall ; nor have as yet declared
My judgment to the Lady !

Berth. So I hoped.

Val. And yet I scarcely know why that should check
The frank disclosure of it first to you —
What her right seems, and what, in consequence,
She will decide on —

Berth. That I need not ask.

Val. You need not : I have proved the Lady's mind —
And, justice being to do, dare act for her. v

Berth. Doubtless she has a very noble mind !

Val. Oh, never fear but she 11 in each conjuncture
Bear herself bravely ; she no whit depends
On circumstance ; as she adorns a throne,
She had adorned . .

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Berth. . . A cottage — in what book

Have I read that, of every queen that lived ?
A throne ? You have not been instructed, sure,
To forestall my request ?

Vol. Tis granted, sir —

My heart instructs me. I have scrutinized
Your claims . . .

Berth. Ah — claims, you mean, at first preferred !
I come, before the hour appointed me,
To pray you let those claims at present rest —
In favour of a new and stronger one.

Vol. You shall not need a stronger : on the part
Of the lady, all you offer I accept,
Since one clear right suffices : yours is clear.
Propose !

Berth. I offer her my hand.

Val. Your hand ?

Berth. A Duke's, yourself say ; and, at no far time,
Something here whispers me — the Emperor's.
The Lady's mind is noble ; which induced
This seizure of occasion ere my claims
Were — settled, let us amicably say !

Vol. Your hand 1

Berth. (He will fall down and kiss it next !)

Sir, this astonishment 's too flattering —
Nor must you hold your mistress' worth so cheap !
Enhance it, rather, — urge that blood is blood —
The daughter of the Burgraves, Landgraves, Markgraves,
Remains their daughter ; I shall scarce gainsay !

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Elsewhere or here, the Lady needs must rule :
Like the Imperial crown's great chrysoprase,
They talk of — somewhat out of keeping there,
And yet no jewel for a meaner cap !

Val. You wed the Duchess ?

Berth. Cry you mercy, friend !

Will the match influence many fortunes here ?
A natural solicitude enough !
Be certain, no bad chance it proves for you !
However high you take your present stand,
There 's prospect of a higher still remove —
For Juliers will not be my resting-place,
And, when I have to choose a substitute
To rule the little burgh, 1 11 think of you.
You need not give your mates a character !
And yet I doubt your fitness to supplant
The grey smooth Chamberlain — he 'd hesitate
A doubt his lady could demean herself
So low as to accept me. Courage, sir !
I like your method better — feeling's play
Is franker much, and flatters me beside.

Vol. I am to say, you love her ?

Berth. Say that too !

Love has no great concernment, thinks the world,
With a Duke's marriage — How go precedents
In Juliers' story — how use Juliers' Dukes ?
I see you have them here in goodly row ;
Yon must be Luitpold, — ay, a stalwart sire !)
— Say, I have been arrested suddenly

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In my ambition's course, its rocky course,

By this sweet flower — I fain would gather it

And then proceed — so say and speedily —

— (Nor stand there like Duke Luitpold's brazen self !)

Enough, sir : you possess my mind, I think.

This is my claim, the others being withdrawn,

And to this, be it that, in the Hall to-night,

Your Lady's answer comes ; till when, farewell !

[He retires.
Vol. [after a pause.] The heavens and earth stay as
they were — my heart
Beats as it beat — the truth remains the truth !
What falls away, then, if not faith in her ?
Was it my faith, that she could estimate
Love's value, — and, such faith still guiding me,
Dare I now test her ? — or grew faith so strong
Solely because no power of test was mine ?

Enter the Duchess.

The D. My fate, sir ! Ah, you turn away — all's over!
But you are sorry for me — be not so !
What I might have become, and never was,
Regret with me ; what I have merely been,
Rejoice I am no longer ; what I seem
Beginning now, in my new state, to be,
Hope that I am, — for, once my rights proved void,
This heavy roof seems easy to exchange
For the blue sky outside — my lot henceforth !

Vol. And what a lot is Berthold's !

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The D. How of him ?

Vol. He gathers earth's whole good into his arms,
Standing, as man, now, stately, strong and wise —
Marching to fortune, not surprised by her :
One great aim, like a guiding-star, above —
Which tasks strength, wisdom, stateliness, to lift
His manhood to the height that takes the prize ;
A prize not near — lest overlooking earth
He rashly spring to seize it — nor remote,
So that he rests upon his path content :
But day by day, while shimmering grows shine,
And the faint circlet prophesies the orb,
He sees so much as, just evolving these,
The stateliness, the wisdom and the strength,
To due completion, will suffice this life,
And lead him at his grandest to the grave.
After this star, out of a night he springs ;
A beggar's cradle for the throne of thrones
He quits, so, mounting, feels each step he mounts,
Nor, as from each to each exultingly
He passes, overleaps one grade of joy.
This, for his own good : — with the world, each gift
Of God and man, — Keality, Tradition,
Fancy and Fact — so well environ him,
That as a mystic panoply they serve —
Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind,
And work his purpose out with half the world,
While he, their master, dexterously slipt
From such encumbrance, is meantime employed

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With his own prowess on the other half.

Thus shall he prosper, every day's success

Adding, to what is He, a solid strength —

An aery might to what encircles him,

Till at the last, so life's routine lends help,

That as the Emperor only breathes and moves,

His shadow shall be watched, his step or stalk

Become a comfort or a portent ; how

He trails his ermine take significance, —

Till even his power shall cease to be most power,

And men shall dread his weakness more, nor dare

Peril their earth its bravest, first and best,

Its typified invincibility.

So shall he go on, greatening, till he ends

The man of men, the spirit of all flesh,

The fiery centre of an earthy world !

The D. Some such a fortune I had dreamed should rise
Out of my own — that is, above my power
Seemed other, greater potencies to stretch —

Val. For you?

The D. It was not I moved there, I think :

But one I could, — though constantly beside,
And aye approaching, — still keep distant from,
And so adore. 'Twas a man moved there !

Vol, Who ?

The D. I felt the spirit, never saw the face !

Vol. See it ! Tis Berthold's ! He enables you
To realise your vision !

The D. Berthold ?

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362 COLOMBES BIRTHDAY.

Vol. Duke —

Emperor to be : he proffers you his hand.

The D. Generous and princely !

Vol. He is all of this.

The D. Thanks, Berthold, for my father's sake — no
hand
Degrades me !

Vol. You accept the proffered hand ?

The D. That he should love me !

Vol. " Loved " I did not say !

Had that been — love might so incline the Prince
To the world's good, the world that 's at his foot, —
I do not know, this moment, I should dare
Desire that you refused the world — and Cleves —
The sacrifice he asks !

The D. Not love me, sir ?

Vol. He scarce affirmed it.

The D. May not deeds affirm ?

Vol. What does he ? . . . Yes — yes — very much he
does!
All the shame saved, he thinks, and sorrow saved —
Immitigable sorrow, so he thinks, —
Sorrow that 's deeper than we dream, perchance !

The D. Is not this love ?

Vol. So very much he does !

For look, you can descend now gracefully —
All doubts are banished, that the world might have,
Or worst, the doubts yourself, in after-time,
May call up of your heart's sincereness now :

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To such, reply, " I could have kept my rule —
" Increased it to the utmost of my dreams —
" Yet I abjured it ! " This, he does for you :
It is munificently much !

The D. Still " much ! "

But why is it not love, sir ? Answer me !

Vol. Because not one of Berthold's words and looks
Had gone with love's presentment of a flower
To the beloved : because bold confidence, .
Open superiority, free pride —
Love owns not, yet were all that Berthold owned :
Because where reason, even, finds no flaw,
Unerringly a lover's instinct may.

The D. You reason, then, and doubt ?

Vol. I love, and know.

The D. You love ? — How strange ! I never cast a
thought
On that ! Just see our selfishness — you seemed
So much my own ... I had no ground — and yet,
I never dreamed another might divide
My power with you, much less exceed it !

Vol. Lady,

I am yours wholly !

The D. Oh, no, no, not mine !

Tis not the same now, never more can be !
— Your first love, doubtless ! Well, what 's gone from me ?
What have I lost in you ?

Val. My heart replies —

No loss there ! ... So to Berthold back again !

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This offer of his hand, he bids me make —
Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh !

The D. She 's . . . yes, she must be very fair for you !

Vol. I am a simple Advocate of Cleves.

The D. You ! With the heart and brain that so helped
me,
I fancied them exclusively my own,
Yet find are subject to a stronger sway !
She must be . . . tell me, is she very fair ?

Vol. Most fair, beyond conception or belief !

The D. Black eyes ? — no matter ! Colombe, the world
leads
Its life without you, whom your friends professed
The only woman — see how true they spoke !
One lived this while, who never saw your face,
Nor heard your voice — unless ... Is she from Cleves ?

Vol. Cleves knows her well !

The D. Ah — just a fancy, now !

When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves, — I said,
— Thought, that is, afterward . . .

Vol. You thought of me ?

The D. Of what else ? Only such great cause, I
thought,
For such effect — see what true love can do !
Cleves is his love ! — I almost fear to ask
. . . Nor will not ! This is idling — to our work !
Admit before the Prince, without reserve,
My claims misgrounded ; then may follow better
. . . When you poured out Cleves* wrongs impetuously,
Was she in your mind ?

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Val. All done was done for her —

— To humble me !

The D. She will be proud at least !

Val. She?

The D. When you tell her !

Val. That will never be !

The D. How — are there sweeter things you hope to
tell?
No, sir ! You counselled me, — I counsel you
In the one point I — any woman — can !
Your worth, the first thing ; let her own come next —
Say what you did through her, and she through you —
The praises of her beauty afterward !
Will you?

Val. I dare not !

The D. Dare not ?

Val She I love

Suspects not such a love in me.

TheD. You jest!

Val. The lady is above me and away !
Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,
And the great heart, combine to press me low —
But all the world calls rank divides us.

The D. Rank ?

Now grant me patience ! Here 's a man declares
Oracularly in another's case —
Sees the true value and the false, for them —
Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see !
You called my court's love worthless — so it turned :

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I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,
And here you stickle for a piece or two !
First — has she seen you ?

Vol. Yes !

The D. She loves you, then.

Vol. One flash of hope burst — then succeeded night —
And all 's at darkest now. Impossible !

The D. We 11 try : you are — so to speak — my sub-
ject yet ?

Vol. As ever — to the death !

The D. Obey me, then !

Vol. I must !

The D. Approach her, and ... No ! First of all

Get more assurance ; " my instructress," say,
" Was great, descended from a line of kings,
" And even fair "—(wait why I say this folly) —
" She said, of all men, none for eloquence,
" Courage, and (what cast even these to shade)
" The heart they sprung from, — none deserved like him
" Who saved her at her need — if she said this,
*' What should not one I love, say ? "

Vol. Heaven — this hope —

Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire !

The D. Say this ! — nor think I bid you cast aside
One touch of all that awe and reverence !
Nay — make her proud for once to heart's content
That all this wealth of heart and soul 's her own !
Think you are all of this, — and, thinking it,
...(Obey!)

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Val. I cannot choose !

The D. Then, kneel to her !

[Valence sinks on his knee.
I dream!

Vol. Have mercy ! Yours, unto the death, —
I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die.

The D. Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus?
Even with you as with the world ? I know
This morning's service was no vulgar deed
Whose motive, once it dares avow itself,
Explains all done and infinitely more,
So takes the shelter of a nobler cause.
Your service named its true source, — loyalty !
The rest 's unsaid again. The Duchess bids you,
Else, sir ! The Prince's words were in debate.

Val. [rising.] Rise ! Truth, as ever, Lady, comes
from you !
I should rise — I that spoke for Cleves, can speak
For Man — yet tremble now, that stood firm then !
I laughed — for 'twas past tears — that Cleves should starve
With all hearts beating loud the infamy,
And no tongue daring trust as much to air !
Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute ?
Oh lady, for your own sake look on me !
On all I am, and have, and do — heart, brain,
Body and soul, — this Valence and his gifts !
I was proud once — I saw you — and they sank,
So that each magnified a thousand times
Were nothing to you — but such nothingness

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Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop,

A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance ?

What is my own desert ? But should your love

Have . . . there 's no language helps here . . singled me, —

Then — Oh, that wild word " then ! " — be just to love,

In generosity its attribute !

Love, since you pleased to love ! All 's cleared — a stage

For trial of the question kept so long

For you — Is Love or Vanity the best ?

You, solve it for the world's sake — you, speak first

What all will shout one day — you, vindicate

Our earth and be its angel ! All is said.

Lady, I offer nothing — I am yours,

But for the cause* sake, look on me and him

And speak !

The D. I have received the Prince's message :
Say, I prepare my answer !

Val. Take me, Cleves !

[He withdraws.

The D. Mournful — that nothing 's what it calls itself !
Devotion, zeal, faith, loyalty — mere love !
And, love in question, what may Berthold's be ?
I did ill to mistrust the world so soon —
Already was this Berthold at my side !
The valley-level has its hawks, no doubt :
May not the rock-top have its eagles, too ?
Yet Valence ... let me see his Rival then !

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ACT V.
Night. Scenb.— The Hall.

Enter Bebthold and Melchior.

Mel. And here you wait the matter's issue ?

Berth. Here.

Mel. I don't regret I shut Amelius, then !
But tell me, on this grand disclosure, — how
Behaved our spokesman with the forehead ?

Berth. Oh,

Turned out no better than the foreheadless —
Was dazzled not so very soon — that 'sail!
For my part, this is scarce the hasty, showy, ?
Chivalrous measure you give me credit of!
Perhaps I had the fancy, — but 'tis gone —
— Let her commence the unfriended innocent,
And carry wrongs about from court to court?
No, truly ! The least shake of Fortune's sand,
— My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing-fit,
King Philip takes a fancy to blue eyes, —
And wondrously her claims would brighten up !
Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law,
O'er-looked provisoes, past o'er premises,
Follow in plenty — No — 'tis the safer step.
The hour beneath the convent-wall is lost —
Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine.

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Mel. Which is to say, you, losing heart already,
Elude the adventure !

Berth. Not so — or, if so—

Why not confess at once, that I advise
None of our kingly craft and guild just now
To lay, one moment, down their privilege
With the notion they can any time at pleasure
Betake it — that may turn out hazardous !
We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end
0' the night, with our great masque : those favoured few
Who keep the chamber's top, and honour's chance
Of the early evening, may retain their place
And figure as they list till out of breath.
But it is growing late ; and I observe
A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway
Not only bar new-comers entering now,
But caution those who left, for any cause,
And would return, that morning draws too near ;
The ball must die off, shut itself up. We —
I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in,
And sleep off headache on our frippery —
But friend the other, who cunningly stole out,
And, after breathing the fresh air outside,
Means to re-enter with a new costume,
Will be advised go back to bed, I fear.
I stick to privilege, on second thoughts !

Mel. Yes — you evade the adventure ! — And, beside,
Give yourself out for colder than you are.
— King Philip, only, notes the lady's eyes ?

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Don't they come in for somewhat of the motive
With you too ?

Berth. Yes — no : I am past that now !

Gone 'tis — I cannot shut my eyes to fact.
Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance
Reason myself into a rapture. Gone !
And something better's come instead, no doubt.

Mel. So be it ! Yet, all the same, proceed my way,
Though to your end ; so shall you prosper best.
The lady, — to be won for selfish ends, —
Will be won easier my unselfish . . call it,
Romantic way.

Berth. Won easier?

Mel Will not she?

Berth. There I profess humility without bound !
Ill cannot speed — not I — the Emperor I
• Mel. And I should think the Emperor best waived,
From your description of her mood and way !
You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts ;
But are too indolent and fond of watching
Your own — you know that, for you study it !

Berth. Had you but seen the orator her friend,
So bold and voluble an hour before,
Abashed to earth at aspect of the change ! $
Make her an Empress ? Ah, that changed the case !
. . Oh, I read hearts ! And for my own behoof,
I court her with my true worth — see the event !
I learned my final lesson on that head
When years ago,— my first and last essay !
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373 colombe's birthday.

Before my uncle could obtain the ear
Of his superior, help me from the dirt —
Priscilla left me for a Brabant Duke
Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb.
I am past illusion on that score.

Mel. Here comes

The lady—

Berth. — And there you go ! But do not ! Give me
Another chance to please you. Hear me plead !

Mel. You'll keep, then, to the lover, to the man?

Enter the Duchess— followed by Adolf and Sabtnb, and, after an
interval, by the Courtiers.

Berth. Good auspice to our meeting !

The D. May it prove !

— And you, sir, will be Emperor one day?

Berth. (Ay — that's the point !) I may be Emperor.

The D. Tis not for my sake only, I am proud
Of this you offer : I am prouder far
That from the highest state should duly spring
The highest, since most generous, of deeds.

Berth. (Generous — still that !) You underrate your-
self.
You are, what I, to be complete, must have —
Find now, and may not find, another time.
While I career on all the world for stage,
There needs at home my representative —

The D. — Such, rather, would some warrior-woman
be —

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One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends —
One like yourself!

Berth. Lady, I am myself,

And have all these : I want what's not myself,
Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords ?
Here 's one already : be a friend's next gift
A silk glove, if you will — I have a sword !

The D. You love me, then ?

Berth. Your lineage I revere —

Honour your virtue, in your truth believe,
Do homage to your intellect, and bow
Before your peerless beauty.

The D. But, for love—

Berth. A further love I do not understand.
Our best course is to say these hideoqs truths,
And see them, once said, grow endurable.
Like waters shuddering from their central bed,
Black with the midnight bowels of the earth,
That, once up-spouted by an earthquake's throe,
A portent and a terror — soon subside,
Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues
In sunshine, sleep in shadow, — and, at last,
Grow common to the earth as hills or trees —
Accepted by all things they came to scare.

The D. You cannot love, then ?

Berth. — Charlemagne, perhaps !

Are you not over-curious in love-lore ?

The D. I have become so, very recently.
It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem,

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374 colombe's birthday.

Respect, and all your candour promises,
By putting on a calculating mood —
Asking the terms of my becoming yours ?

Berth. Let me not do myself injustice, neither !
Because I will not condescend to fictions
That promise what my soul can ne'er acquit.
It does not follow that my guarded phrase
May not include far more of what you seek,
Than wide professions of less scrupulous men.
You will be Empress, once for all — with me
The Pope disputes supremacy — you stand
And none gainsays, the Earth's first woman !

The D. That —

Or simple Lady of Bavestein again ?

Berth. The master 's not in my arbitrement !
Now I have made my claims — which I regret —
Cede one, cede all !

The D. This claim then, you enforce ?

Berth. The world looks on.

The D. And when must I decide ?

Berth. " When," Lady? Have I said thus much so
promptly
For nothing? Poured out, with such pains, at once
What I might else have suffered to ooze forth
Droplet by droplet in a life-time long,
For aught less than as prompt an answer, too ?
All 's fairly told now — who can teach you more ?

The D. I do not see him !

Berth. I shall ne'er deceive !

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This offer had been made befittingly

Would time allow the better setting forth

The good of it, with what is not so good,

Advantage, and disparagement as well —

But as it is, the sum of both must serve.

I am already weary of this place —

My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide !

The Empire— or, — not even Juliers now !

Hail to the Empress — farewell to the Duchess !

[The Courtiers, who home been drawing nearer and nearer,
interpose.

Courtiers. . . , " Farewell," Prince ? when we break
in at our risk —

Clug. (Almost upon Court-licence trespassing) —

Courtiers. — To point out how your claims are valid
yet!
You know not, by the Duke her Father's will,
The lady, if she weds beneath her rank,
Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir's favour —
So 'tis expressly stipulate. And if
It can be shown 'tis her intent to wed
A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right
Succeed to Juliers.

Berth. What insanity ? ...

Qui. Sir, there 's one Valence — the pale fiery man
You saw and heard, this morning — thought, no doubt,
Was of considerable standing here—
I put it to your penetration, Prince,
If aught save love, the truest love for her,

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Had made him serve the lady as he did !

He's simply a poor advocate of Oleves

— Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place

With danger, gets in by a miracle,

And for the first time meets the Lady's face —

So runs the story — is that credible ?

For, first — no sooner in, than he's apprised

Fortunes have changed ; you are all-powerful here,

The Lady as powerless : he stands fast by her !

The D. [Aside.] (And do such deeds spring up from
love alone ?)

Qui. But here occurs the question, does the Lady
Love him again ? I say, How else can she ?
Can she forget how he stood singly forth
In her defence, dared outrage all of us,
Insult yourself — for what save love's reward ?

The D. (And is love then the sole reward of love ?)

Om. But, love him as she may and must — you ask,
Means she to wed him ? " Yes," both natures answer !
Both, in their pride, point out the sole result —
Nought less would he accept nor she propose I
For each conjuncture was she great enough —
—Will be, for this !

Clug. Though, now that this is known,

Policy, doubtless, urges she deny . . .

The D. — What, sir, and wherefore ? — since I am not
sure
That all is any other than you say ?
You take this Valence, hold him close to me,

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Him with his actions : can I choose but look ?
I am not sure, love trulier shows itself
Than in this man, you hate and would degrade,
Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus :
Nor am I — (thus made look within myself,
Ere I had dared,) — now that the look is dared —
Sure that I do not love him !

Qui. Hear you, Prince ?

Berth. And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle
mean?
— Unless to prove with what alacrity
You give your Lady's secrets to the world —
— How much indebted, for discovering
That quality, you make me, wiH be found
When next a keeper for my own's to seek !

Courtiers. "Our Lady?"

Berth. — She assuredly remains !

The D. Ah, Prince — and you too can be generous ?
You could renounce your power, if this were so,
And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love
Yet keep my Duchy ? You perhaps exceed
Him, even, in disinterestedness !
• Berth. How, Lady, should all this affect my purpose ?
Your will and choice are still as ever, free !
Say, you have known a worthier than myself
In mind and heart, of happier form and face ;
Others must have their birthright ! I have gifts,
To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight !
Against a hundred other qualities,

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I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing —
Wed you the Empire ?

Tht D. And my heart away ?

Berth. When have I made pretension to your "
heart?
I give none. I shall keep your honour safe —
With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts
Yon marble woman with the marble rose,
Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,
In graceful, slight, silent security.
You will be proud of my world-wide career,
And I content in you the fair and good.
What were the use of planting a few seeds,
The thankless climate never would mature —
Affections all repelled by circumstance ?
Enough : to these no credit I attach, —
To what you own, find nothing to object.
Write simply on my Requisition's face
What shall content my friends — that you admit,
As Colombe of Kavestein, the claims therein,
Or never need admit them, as my wife —
And either way, all 's ended.

The D. Let all end !

Berth. The Requisition !

Courtiers. — Valence holds, of course !

Berth. Desire his presence ! [Adolf goes out.

Courtiers, [to each other.] Out it all comes yet !
He '11 have his word against the bargain still !
He 's not the man to tamely acquiesce !

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One passionate appeal — upbraiding even,
Might turn the tide again ! Despair not yet !

[They retire a little.
Berth. [toMELomoit.] The Empire has its old success,

my friend !
Mel. YouVe had your way: before the spokesman
comes,
Let me, but this once, work a problem out,
And ever more be dumb ! The Empire wins ?
To better purpose I have read my books !

Enter Valence.

Mel. [to the Courtiers.] Apart, my masters !

[To Valence.] Sir, one word with you !
I am a poor dependent of the Prince's —
Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence :
You are no higher, I find — in other words,
We two, as probably the wisest here,
Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools :
Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact
Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them —
Do you reply so, and what trouble 's saved !
The Prince, then — an embroiled strange heap of news
This moment reaches him — if true or false,
All dignity forbids he should enquire
In person, or by worthier deputy ;
Yet somehow must enquire, lest slander come :
And so 'tis I am pitched on. You have heard
His offer to your Lady ?

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Vol. Yes.

Mel. — Conceive

Her joy thereat? —

Vol. I cannot.

Mel. No one can :

All draws to a conclusion, therefore.

Vol. [Aside.] So!

No after-judgment — no first thought revised —
Her first and last decision ! — me, she leaves —
Takes him — a simple heart is flung aside,
The ermine o'er a heartless breast embraced !
Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft !
Once, to surprise the angels — twice, that fiends
Recording, might be proud they chose not so —
Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world
All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men
Could have such chance yet fail so signally,
— But ever — ever — this farewell to heaven,
Welcome to earth — this taking death for life—
This spurning love and kneeling to )the world —
Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old !

Mel. Well, on this point — what but an absurd rumour
Arises — these, its source — its subject, you !
Your faith and loyalty misconstruing,
They say, your service claims the lady's hand !
Of course, nor Prince nor Lady can respond —
Yet something must be said — for, were it true
You made such claim, the Prince would . . .

Vol. Well, sir, would?

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MeL — Not only probably withdraw his suit,
But, very like, the lady might be forced
Accept your own. — Oh, there are reasons why !
But you 11 excuse at present all save this, —
I think so. What we want is, your own witness,
For, or against — her good, or yours : decide !

Vol. [Aside.] Be it her good if she accounts it so !
[After a contest.] For what am I but hers, to choose as

she?
Who knows how far, beside, the light from her
May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon ?

Mel. [to the Prince.] Now to him, you !

Berth, [to Valence.] My friend acquaints you, sir,
The noise runs . . .

Vol. . . Prince, how fortunate are you,

Wedding her as you will, in spite of it,
To show belief in love ! Let her but love you,
All else you disregard ! What else can be ?
You know how love is incompatible
With falsehood — purines, assimilates
All other passions to itself.

Mel. Ay, sir :

But softly ! Where in the object we select,
Such love is, perchance, wanting ?

Vol. Then, indeed,

What is it you can take ?

Mel. Nay — ask the world !

Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name,
An influence o'er mankind !

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Vol. When man perceives . . .

— Ah, I can only speak as for myself!

TheD. Speak for yourself!

Vol. May I ? — no, I have spoken,

And time 's gone by ! — Had I seen such an one —
As I loved her — weighing thoroughly that word —
So should my task be to evolve her love —
If for myself ! — if for another — well !

Berth. Heroic truly ! And your sole reward, —
The secret pride in yielding up your own ?

Vol. Who thought upon reward ? And yet how much
Comes after — Oh what amplest recompence !
Is the knowledge of her, nought? the memory, nought?

Lady, should such an one have looked on you,

Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world,

And say, love can go unrequited here !

You will have blessed him to his whole life's end —

Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back,

All goodness cherished where you dwelt — and dwell.

What would he have? He holds you — you, both

form,
And mind, in his,— where self-love makes such room
For love of you, he would not serve you now
The vulgar way, — repulse your enemies,
Win you new realms, or best, in saving you
Die blissfully — that 's past so long ago !
He wishes you no need, thought, care of him —
Your good, by any means, himself unseen,
Away, forgotten ! — He gives that life's task up,

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colombe's birthday. 383

As it were . . . but this charge which I return —

[Offers the Requisition, which she takes.

Wishing your good !

The D. [having subscribed it.] And opportunely, sir —
Since at a birthday's close, like this of mine,
Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate.
Most on a wedding day, as mine is too,
Should gifts be thought of : yours comes first by right.
Ask of me !

Berth. He shall have whatever he asks,

For your sake and his own !

Vol. [Aside.'] If I should ask —

The withered bunch of flowers she wears — perhaps,

One last touch of her hand, I never more

Shall see !

[After a pause, presenting his paper to the Prince.

Cleves' Prince, redress the wrongs of Cleves !

Berth. I will, sir !

The D. [as Valence prepares to retire.] — Nay, do

out your duty, first !

You bore this paper : I have registered

My answer to it : read it and have done !

[Valence reads it.

— I take him — give up Juliers and the world !

This is my Birth-day.

Mel. Berthold, my one hero

Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books,

Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch, —

Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings !

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884 colombe's birthday

Berth, [after a pause.'] Lady, well rewarded ! Sir, as
well deserved !
I could not imitate — I hardly envy —
I do admire you ! All is for the best !
Too costly a flower were you, I see it now,
To pluck and set upon my barren helm
To wither — any garish plume will do !
1 11 not insult you and refuse your Duchy —
You can so well afford to yield it me,
And I were left, without it, sadly off!
As it is — for me — if that will flatter you,
A somewhat wearier life seems to remain
Than I thought possible where . . . 'faith, their life
Begins already — they 're too occupied
To listen — and few words content me best !
[Abruptly to the Courtiers.] I am your Duke, though !
Who obey me here ?

The D. Adolf and Sabyne follow us —

Qui. [starting from the Courtiers.] And I?

Do I not follow them, if I mayn't you ?

Shall not I get some little duties up

At Ravestein and emulate the rest ?

God save you, Gaucelme ! 'Tis my Birth-day, too !

Berth. You happy handful that remain with me
. . . That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite
I shall leave over you — will earn your wages,
Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade !
Meantime, — go copy me the precedents
Of every installation, proper styles,

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colombe's birthday. 385

And pedigrees of all your Juliers' Dukes —
While I prepare to go on my old way,
And somewhat wearily, I must confess !

The D. [with a light joyous laugh as she turns from
them.] Come, Valence, to our friends — God's
earth - - -
Vol. [as she falls into his arms.] — And thee !

END OF VOL. I.

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