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RSFIELDJ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


BEQUEST 

OF 

ANITA  D.  S.  BLAKE 


^/5-  F 

j.^^ 


THE    POETICAL     WORKS 


OF 


ROBERT    BROWNING, 

M.  A., 

HONORARY   FELLOW  OF   BALLIOL  COLLEGE,    OXFORD. 


VOL.    I. 


PA  ULINE  —  PARA  CELSUS  —  STRAFFORD. 


SMITH,     ELDER     AND     CO.,     LONDON. 
1868. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PAULINE  I 

PARACELSUS    43 

STRAFFORD 207 


The  poems  that  follow  are  printed  in  the  order  of 
their  publication.  The  first  piece  in  the  series, 
I  acknowledge  and  retain  with  extreme  repug- 
nance, indeed  purely  of  necessity  ;  for  not  long  ago 
I  inspected  one,  and  am  certified  of  the  existence 
of  other  transcripts,  intended  sooner  or  later  to  be 
published  abroad  :  by  forestalling  these,  I  can  at 
least  correct  some  misprints  (no  syllable  is  changed) 
and  introduce  a  boyish  work  by  an  exculpatory 
word.  The  thing  was  my  earliest  attempt  at 
"  poetry  always  dramatic  in  principle,  and  so 
many  utterances  of  so  many  imaginary  persons, 
not  mine,"  which  I  have  since  written  according  to  a 
scheme  less  extravagant  and  scale  less  impracticable 
than  were  ventured  upon  in  this  crude  preliminary 
sketch — a  sketch  that,  on  reviewal,  appears  not 
altogether  wide  of  some  hint  of  the  characteristic 
features  of  thsit  psLvticuldir  dra7natis  Jfersona  it  would 
fain  have  reproduced  :  good  draughtsmanship,  how- 
ever, and  right  handling  were  far  beyond  the  artist 
at  that  time. 

R.  B. 

London,  December  2$,  1867. 


PAULINE; 

A    FRAGMENT    OF   A    CONFESSION. 


Plus  ne  siiis  ce  que  j'ai  ete, 

Et  ne  le  s9aurois  jamais  etre. — Marot. 


VOL.  I. 


NoN  dubito,  quill  titulus  libri  nostri  raritate  sua  quamplurimos  alli- 
ciat .  ad  legendum  :  inter  quos  nonnulli  obliquse  opinionis,  mente 
languidi,  multi  etiam  maligni,  et  in  ingenium  nostrum  ingrati  acce- 
dent,  qui  temeraria  sua  ignorantia,  vix  conspecto  titulo  clamabunt : 
Nos  vetita  docere,  haeresium  semina  jacere  :  piis  auribus  offendiculo, 
praeclaris  ingeniis  scandalo  esse  :  .  .  .  .  adeo  conscientise  suae  consu- 
lentes,  ut  nee  Apollo,  nee  Musae  omnes,  neque  Angelus  de  cceIo  me 
ab  illorum  execratione  vindicare  queant :  quibus  et  ego  nunc  consulo, 
ne  scrip ta  nostra  legant,  nee  intelligant,  nee  meminerint :  nam  noxia 
sunt,  venenosa  sunt :  Acherontis  ostium  est  in  hoc  libro,  lapides 
loquitur,  caveant,  ne  cerebrum  illis  excutiat.  Vos  autem,  qui  aequa 
mente  ad  legendum  venitis,  si  tantam  prudentiae  discretionem  adhi- 
bueritis,  quantam  in  melle  legendo  apes,  jam  securi  legite.  Puto 
namque  vos  et  utilitatis  baud  parum  et  voluptatis  plurimum  acceptu- 
ros.  Quod  si  qua  repereritis,  quae  vobis  non  placeant,  mittite  ilia, 
nee  utimini.     Nam  et  ego  vobis  illa  non  Probo,  sed  Narro. 

Csetera  tamen  propterea  non  respuite Ideo,  si  quid  liberius 

dictum  sit,  ignoscite  adolescentiae  nostrae,  qui  minor  quam  adolescens 
hoc  opus  composui. — Hen.  Corn.  Agrippa,  De  Ocadt.  Philosoph.  in 
Frefat. 

London^  January^  1 833. 
V.  A.  XX. 


PAULI  NE. 


Pauline,  mine  own,  bend  o'er  me — thy  soft  breast 
Shall  pant  to  mine — bend  o'er  me — thy  sweet  eyes, 
And  loosened  hair  and  breathing  lips,  and  arms 
Drawing  me  to  thee — these  build  up  a  screen 
To  shut  me  in  with  thee,  and  from  all  fear ; 
So  that  I  might  unlock  the  sleepless  brood 
Of  fancies  from  my  soul,  their  lurking  place. 
Nor  doubt  that  each  would  pass,  ne'er  to  return 
To  one  so  watched,  so  loved  and  so  secured. 
But  what  can  guard  thee  but  thy  naked  love  ? 
Ah  dearest,  whoso  sucks  a  poisoned  wound 
Envenoms  his  own  veins  !     Thou  art  so  good, 
So  calm — if  thou  should'st  wear  a  brow  less  light 
For  some  wild  thought  which,  but  for  me,  were  kept 
From  out  thy  soul  as  from  a  sacred  star ! 
Yet  till  I  have  unlocked  them  it  were  vain 
To  hope  to  sing  ;  some  woe  would  light  on  me ; 
Nature  would  point  at  one  whose  quivering  lip 


4  PAULINE. 

Was  bathed  in  her  enchantments,  whose  brow  burned 
Beneath  the  crown  to  which  her  secrets  knelt, 
Who  learned  the  spell  which  can  call  up  the  dead, 
And  then  departed  smiling  like  a  fiend 
Who  has  deceived  God, — if  such  one  should  seek 
Again  her  altars  and  stand  robed  and  crowned 
Amid  the  faithfiil :  sad  confession  first, 
Remorse  and  pardon  and  old  claims  renewed, 
Ere  I  can  be — as  I  shall  be  no  more. 

I  had  been  spared  this  shame  if  I  had  sat 
By  thee  for  ever  from  the  first,  in  place 
Of  my  wild  dreams  of  beauty  and  of  good, 
Or  with  them,  as  an  earnest  of  their  truth  : 
No  thought  nor  hope  having  been  shut  from  thee, 
No  vague  wish  unexplained,  no  wandering  aim 
Sent  back  to  bind  on  fancy's  wings  and  seek 
Some  strange  fair  world  where  it  might  be  a  law ; 
But  doubting  nothing,  had  been  led  by  thee. 
Thro'  youth,  and  saved,  as  one  at  length  awaked 
Who  has  slept  through  a  peril.     Ah  vain,  vain  ! 

Thou  lovest  me ;  the  past  is  in  its  grave 

Tho'.  its  ghost  haunts  us  ;  still  this  much  is  ours, 

To  cast  away  restraint,  lest  a  worse  thing 

Wait  for  us  in  the  darkness.     Thou  lovest  me  ; 

And  thou  art  to  receive  not  love  but  faith. 

For  which  thou  wilt  be  mine,  and  smile  and  take 

All  shapes  and  shames,  and  veil  v/ithout  a  fear 


PAULINE.  5 

That  form  which  music  follows  like  a  slave  : 
And  I  look  to  thee  and  I  trust  in  thee, 
As  in  a  Northern  night  one  looks  alway 
Unto  the  East  for  morn  and  spring  and  joy. 
Thou  seest  then  my  aimless,  hopeless  state. 
And,  resting  on  some  few  old  feelings  won 
Back  by  thy  beauty,  wouldst  that  I  essay 
The  task  which  was  to  me  what  now  thou  art : 
And  why  should  I  conceal  one  weakness  more  ? 

Thou  wilt  remember  one  warm  morn  when  winter 

Crept  aged  from  the  earth,  and  spring's  first  breath 

Blew  soft  from  the  moist  hills  j  the  black-thorn  boughs, 

So  dark  in  the  bare  wood,  when  glistening 

In  the  sunshine  were  white  with  coming  buds. 

Like  the  bright  side  of  a  sorrow,  and  the  banks 

Had  violets  opening  from  sleep  like  eyes. 

I  walked  with  thee  who  knew  not  a  deep  shame 

Lurked  beneath  smiles  and  careless  words  which  sought 

To  hide  it  till  they  wandered  and  were  mute. 

As  we  stood  listening  on  a  sunny  mound 

To  the  wind  murmuring  in  the  damp  copse, 

Like  heavy  breathings  of  some  hidden  thing 

Betrayed  by  sleep  ;  until  the  feeling  rushed 

That  I  was  low  indeed,  yet  not  so  low 

As  to  endure  the  calmness  of  thine  eyes ; 

And  so  I  told  thee  all,  while  the  cool  breast 

I  leaned  on  altered  not  its  quiet  beating, 

And  long  ere  words  like  a  hurt  bird's  complaint 


6  PAULINE. 

Bade  me  look  up  and  be  what  I  had  been, 

I  felt  despair  could  never  live  by  thee  : 

Thou  wilt  remember.     Thou  art  not  more  dear 

Than  song  was  once  to  me  ;  and  I  ne'er  sung 

But  as  one  entering  bright  halls  where  all 

Will  rise  and  shout  for  him  :  sure  I  must  own 

That  I  am  fallen,  having  chosen  gifts 

Distinct  from  theirs — that  I  am  sad  and  fain 

Would  give  up  all  to  be  but  where  I  was, 

Not  high  as  I  had  been  if  faithful  found. 

But  low  and  weak  yet  full  of  hope,  and  sure 

Of  goodness  as  of  life — that  I  would  lose 

All  this  gay  mastery  of  mind,  to  sit 

Once  more  with  them,  trusting  in  truth  and  love, 

And  with  an  aim — not  being  what  I  am. 

Oh  Pauline,  I  am  ruined  who  believed 

That  though  my  soul  had  floated  from  its  sphere 

Of  wild  dominion  into  the  dim  orb 

Of  self — that  it  was  strong  and  free  as  ever  ! 

It  has  conformed  itself  to  that  dim  orb. 

Reflecting  all  its  shades  and  shapes,  and  now 

Must  stay  where  it  alone  can  be  adored. 

I  have  felt  this  in  dreams — in  dreams  in  which 

I  seemed  the  fate  from  which  I  fled ;  I  felt 

A  strange  delight  in  causing  my  decay ; 

I  was  a  fiend  in  darkness  chained  for  ever 

Within  some  ocean-cave  ;  and  ages  rolled. 

Till  through  the  cleft  rock,  like  a  moonbeam,  came 

A  white  swan  to  remain  with  me  j  and  ages 


Rolled,  yet  I  tired  not  of  my  first  joy 

In  gazing  on  the  peace  of  its  pure  wings  : 

And  then  I  said  ''  It  is  most  fair  to  me, 

"  Yet  its  soft  wings  must  sure  have  suffered  change 

^'  From  the  thick  darkness,  sure  its  eyes  are  dim, 

"  Its  silver  pinions  must  be  cramped  and  numbed 

''  With  sleeping  ages  here ;  it  cannot  leave  me, 

"  For  it  would  seem,  in  light  beside  its  kind, 

"  Withered,  tho'  here  to  me  most  beautiful." 

And  then  I  was  a  young  witch  whose  blue  eyes. 

As  she  stood  naked  by  the  river  springs. 

Drew  down  a  god ;  I  watched  his  radiant  form 

Growing  less  radiant  and  it  gladdened  me  ; 

Till  one  morn,  as  he  sat  in  the  sunshine 

Upon  my  knees,  singing  to  me  of  heaven, 

He  turned  to  look  at  me,  ere  I  could  lose 

The  grin  with  which  I  viewed  his  perishing  : 

And  he  shrieked  and  departed  and  sat  long 

By  his  deserted  throne,  but  sunk  at  last 

Murmuring,  as  I  kissed  his  lips  and  curled 

Around  him,  '^  I  am  still  a  god — to  thee." 

Still  I  can  lay  my  soul  bare  in  its  fall. 

For  all  the  w^andering  and  all  the  weakness 

Will  be  a  saddest  comment  on  the  song  : 

And  if,  that  done,  I  can  be  young  again, 

I  will  give  up  all  gained,  as  willingly 

As  one  gives  up  a  charm  which  shuts  him  out 

From  hope  or  part  or  care  in  human  kind. 

As  life  wanes,  all  its  cares  and  strife  and  toil 


8  PAULINE. 

Seem  strangely  valueless,  while  the  old  trees 
Which  grew  by  our  youth's  home,  the  waving  mass 
Of  climbing  plants  heavy  with  bloom  and  dew, 
The  morning  swallows  with  their  songs  like  words, 
All  these  seem  clear  and  only  worth  our  thoughts  : 
So,  aught  connected  with  my  early  life, 
My  rude  songs  or  my  wild  imaginings, 
How  I  look  on  them — most  distinct  amid 
The  fever  and  the  stir  of  after  years  ! 

I  ne'er  had  ventured  e'er  to  hope  for  this  ; 
Had  not  the  glow  I  felt  at  His  award. 
Assured  me  all  was  not  extinct  within  : 
His  whom  all  honor,  whose  renown  springs  up 
Like  sunlight  which  will  visit  all  the  world. 
So  that  e'en  they  who  sneered  at  him  at  first. 
Come  out  to  it,  as  some  dark  spider  crawls 
From  his  foul  nets  which  some  lit  torch  invades, 
Yet  spinning  still  new  films  for  his  retreat. 
Thou  didst  smile,  poet,  but  can  we  forgive  ? 
Sun-treader,  life  and  light  be  thine  for  ever  ! 
Thou  art  gone  from  us  ;  years  go  by  and  spring 
Gladdens  and  the  young  earth  is  beautiful 
Yet  thy  songs  come  not,  other  bards  arise. 
But  none  like  thee  :  they  stand,  thy  majesties. 
Like  mighty  works  which  tell  some  spirit  there 
Hath  sat  regardless  of  neglect  and  scorn, 
Till,  its  long  task  completed,  it  hath  risen 
And  left  us,  never  to  return,  and  all 


PAULINE.  ' 

Rush  in  to  peer  and  praise  when  all  in  vain. 

The  air  seems  bright  with  thy  past  presence  yet, 

But  thou  art  still  for  me  as  thou  hast  been 

When  I  have  stood  with  thee  as  on  a  throne 

With  all  thy  dim  creations  gathered  round 

Like  mountains,  and  I  felt  of  mould  like  them, 

And  creatures  of  my  own  were  mixed  with  them, 

Like  things  half-lived,  catching  and  giving  life. 

But  thou  art  still  for  me,  who  have  adored 

Tho'  single,  panting  but  to  hear  thy  name 

Which  I  believed  a  spell  to  me  alone. 

Scarce  deeming  thou  wast  as  a  star  to  men  ! 

As  one  should  worship  long  a  sacred  spring 

Scarce  worth  a  moth's  flitting,  which  long  grasses  cross. 

And  one  small  tree  embowers  droopingly, 

Joying  to  see  some  wandering  insect  won 

To  live  in  its  few  rushes,  or  some  locust 

To  pasture  on  its  boughs,  or  some  wild  bird 

Stoop  for  its  freshness  from  the  trackless  air : 

And  then  should  find  it  but  the  fountain-head, 

Long  lost,  of  some  great  river  washing  towns 

And  towers,  and  seeing  old  woods  which  will  live 

But  by  its  banks  untrod  of  human  foot. 

Which,  when  the  great  sun  sinks,  lie  quivering 

In  light  as  some  thing  lieth  half  of  life 

Before  God's  foot,  waiting  a  wondrous  change ; 

Then  girt  with  rocks  which  seek  to  turn  or  stay 

Its  course  in  vain,  for  it  does  ever  spread 

Like  a  sea's  arm  as  it  goes  rolling  on, 


lO  PAULINE. 

Being  the  pulse  of  some  great  country — so 

Wast  thou  to  me,  and  art  thou  to  the  world  ! 

And  I,  perchance,  half  feel  a  strange  regret, 

That  I  am  not  what  I  have  been  to  thee : 

Like  a  girl  one  has  loved  long  silently 

In  her  first  loveliness  in  some  retreat, 

When,  first  emerged,  all  gaze  and  glow  to  view 

Her  fresh  eyes  and  soft  hair  and  lips  which  bleed 

Like  a  mountain  berry :  doubtless  it  is  sweet 

To  see  her  thus  adored,  but  there  have  been 

Moments  when  all  the  world  was  in  his  praise, 

Sweeter  than  all  the  pride  of  after  hours.  ' 

Yet,  sun-treader,  all  hail !     From  my  heart's  heart 

I  bid  thee  hail !     E'en  in  my  wildest  dreams, 

I  am  proud  to  feel  I  would  have  thrown  up  all 

The  wreaths  of  fame  which  seemed  o'erhanging  me, 

To  have  seen  thee  for  a  moment  as  thou  art. 

And  if  thou  livest,  if  thou  lovest,  spirit ! 

Remember  me  who  set  this  final  seal 

To  wandering  thought — that  one  so  pure  as  thou 

Could  never  die.     Remember  me  who  flung 

All  honor  from  my  soul  yet  paused  and  said, 

"  There  is  one  spark  of  love  remaining  yet, 

"  For  I  have  nought  in  common  with  him,  shapes 

''  Whi(ph  followed  him  avoid  me,  and  foul  forms 

^'  Seek  me,  which  ne'er  could  fasten  on  his  mind ; 

"  And  though  I  feel  how  low  I  am  to  him, 

"  Yet  I  aim  not  even  to  catch  a  tone 

"  Of  all  the  harmonies  which  he  called  up  ; 


^'  So,  one  gleam  still  remains,  although  the  last." 
Remember  me  who  praise  thee  e'en  with  tears, 
For  never  more  shall  I  walk  calm  with  thee ; 
Thy  sweet  imaginings  are  as  an  air, 
A  melody  some  wondrous  singer  sings. 
Which,  though  it  haunt  men  oft  in  the  still  eve, 
They  dream  not  to  essay ;  yet  it  no  less 
But  more  is  honored.     I  was  thine  in  shame, 
And  now  when  all  thy  proud  renown  is  out, 
I  am  a  watcher  whose  eyes  have  grown  dim 
With  looking  for  some  star  which  breaks  on  him 
Altered  and  worn  and  weak  and  full  of  tears. 

Autumn  has  come  like  spring  returned  to  us. 

Won  from  her  girlishness  ;  like  one  returned 

A  friend  that  was  a  lover  nor  forgets 

The  first  warm  love,  but  full  of  sober  thoughts 

Of  fading  years  ;  whose  soft  mouth  quivers  yet  * 

With  the  old  smile  but  yet  so  changed  and  still ! 

And  here  am  I  the  scoffer,  who  have  probed 

Life's  vanity,  won  by  a  word  again 

Into  my  own  life — for  one  little  word 

Of  this  sweet  friend  who  lives  in  loving  me, 

Lives  strangely  on  my  thoughts  and  looks  and  words, 

As  fathoms  down  some  nameless  ocean  thing 

Its  silent  course  of  quietness  and  joy. 

O  dearest,  if  indeed  I  tell  the  past, 

Mayst  thou  forget  it  as  a  sad  sick  dream  ! 

Or  if  it  linger — ^my  lost  soul  too  soon 


1 2  PAULINE. 

Sinks  to  itself  and  whispers,  we  shall  be 
But  closer  linked,  two  creatures  whom  the  earth 
Bears  singly,  with  strange  feelings  unrevealed 
But  to  each  other ;  or  two  lonely  things 
Created  by  some  power  whose  reign  is  done, 
Having  no  part  in  God  or  his  bright  world. 
I  am  to  sing  whilst  ebbing  day  dies  soft. 
As  a  lean  scholar  dies  worn  o'er  his  book. 
And  in  the  heaven  stars  steal  out  one  by  one 
As  hunted  men  steal  to  their  mountain  watch. 
I  must  not  think,  lest  this  new  impulse  die 
In  which  I  trust ;  I  have  no  confidence  : 
So,  I  will  sing  on  fast  as  fancies  come  ; 
Rudely,  the  verse  being  as  the  mood  it  paints. 

I  strip  my  mind  bare,  whose  first  elements 
I  shall  unveil — not  as  they  struggled  forth 
In  infancy,  nor  as  they  now  exist. 
That  I  am  grown  above  them  and  can  rule — 
But  in  that  middle  stage  when  they  were  full 
Yet  ere  I  had  disposed  them  to  my  will ; 
And  then  I  shall  show  how  these  elements 
Produced  my  present  state,  and  what  it  is. 

I  am  made  up  of  an  intensest  life, 

Of  a  most  clear  idea  of  consciousness 

Of  self,  distinct  from  all  its  qualities, 

From  all  affections,  passions,  feelings,  powers ; 

And  thus  far  it  exists,  if  tracked  in  all : 


13 


But  linked,  in  me,  to  self-supremacy, 

Existing  as  a  centre  to  all  things, 

Most  potent  to  create  and  rule  and  call 

Upon  all  things  to  minister  to  it ; 

And  to  a  principle  of  restlessness 

Which  would  be  all,  have,  see,  know,  taste,  feel,  all- 

This  is  myself;  and  I  should  thus  have  been 

Though  gifted  lower  than  the  meanest  soul. 

And  of  my  powers,  one  springs  up  to  save 
From  utter  death  a  soul  with  such  desire 
Confined  to  clay — which  is  the  only  one 
Which  marks  me — an  imagination  which 
Has  been  an  angel  to  me,  coming  not 
In  fitful  visions  but  beside  me  ever 
And  never  failing  me  ;  so,  though  my  mind 
Forgets  not,  not  a  shred  of  life  forgets, 
Yet  I  can  take  a  secret  pride  in  calling 
The  dark  past  up  to  quell  it  regally. 

A  mind  like  this  must  dissipate  itself, 

But  I  have  always  had  one  lode-star ;  now, 

As  I  look  back,  I  see  that  I  have  wasted 

Or  progressed  as  I  looked  towards  that  star — 

A  need,  a  trusty  a  yearning  after  God  : 

A  feeling  I  have  analysed  but  late, 

But  it  existed,  and  was  reconciled 

With  a  neglect  of  all  I  deemed  his  law^. 

Which  yet,  when  seen  in  others,  I  abhorred. 


14  PAULINE. 

I  felt  as  one  beloved,  and  so  shut  in 

From  fear  :  and  thence  I  date  my  trust  in  signs 

And  omens,  for  I  saw  God  everywhere ; 

And  I  can  only  lay  it  to  the  fruit 

Of  a  sad  after-time  that  I  could  doubt 

Even  his  being — having  always  felt 

His  presence,  never  acting  from  myself, 

Still  trusting  in  a  hand  that  leads  me  through 

All  danger ;  and  this  feeling  still  has  fought 

Against  my  weakest  reason  and  resolve. 

And  I  can  love  nothing — and  this  dull  truth 
Has  come  the  last :  but  sense  supplies  a  love 
Encircling  me  and  mingling  with  my  life. 

These  make  myself:  for  I  have  sought  in  vain 
To  trace  how  they  were  formed  by  circumstance. 
For  I  still  find  them  turning  my  wild  youth 
Where  they  alone  displayed  themselves,  converting 
All  objects  to  their  use  :  now  see  their  course. 

They  came  to  me  in  my  first  dawn  of  life 
Which  passed  alone  with  wisest  ancient  books 
All  halo-girt  with  fancies  of  my  own ; 
And  I  myself  went  with  the  tale — a  god 
Wandering  after  beauty,  or  a  giant 
Standing  vast  in  the  sunset — an  old  hunter 
Talking  with  gods,  or  a  high-crested  chief. 
Sailing  with  troops  of  friends  to  Tenedos. 


PAULINE.  15 

I  tell  you,  nought  has  ever  been  so  clear 

As  the  place,  the  time,  the  fashion  of  those  lives  : 

I  had  not  seen  a  work  of  lofty  art, 

Nor  woman's  beauty  nor  sweet  nature's  face, 

Yet,  I  say,  never  morn  broke  clear  as  those 

On  the  dim  clustered  isles  in  the  blue  sea. 

The  deep  groves  and  white  temples  and  wet  caves  : 

And  nothing  ever  will  surprise  me  now — 

Who  stood  beside  the  naked  Swift-footed, 

Who  bound  my  forehead  with  Proserpine's  hair. 

x\nd  strange  it  is  that  I  who  could  so  dream 

Should  e'er  have  stooped  to  aim  at  aught  beneath — 

Aught  low,  or  painful ;  but  I  never  doubted, 

So,  as  I  grew,  I  rudely  shaped  my  life 

To  my  immediate  wants ;  yet  strong  beneath 

Was  a  vague  sense  of  powers  folded  up — 

A  sense  that  though  those  shadowy  times  were  past 

Their  spirit  dwelt  in  me,  and  I  should  rule. 

Then  came  a  pause,  and  long  restraint  chained  down 

My  soul  till  it  was  changed.     I  lost  myself. 

And  were  it  not  that  I  so  loathe  that  time, 

I  could  recall  how  first  I  learned  to  turn 

My  mind  against  itself ;  and  the  effects 

In  deeds  for  which  remorse  were  vain  as  for 

The  wanderings  of  delirious  dream ;  yet  thence 

Came  cunning,  envy,  falsehood,  which  so  long 

Have  spotted  me  :  at  length  I  was  restored. 


1 6  PAULINE. 

Yet  long  the  influence  remained;  and  nought 
But  the  still  life  I  led,  apart  from  all, 
Which  left  my  soul  to  seek  its  old  delights, 
Could  e'er  have  brought  me  thus  far  back  to  peace. 
As  peace  returned,  I  sought  out  some  pursuit ; 
And  song  rose,  no  new  impulse  but  the  one 
"With  which  all  others  best  could  be  combined. 
My  life  has  not  been  that  of  those  whose  heaven 
Was  lampless  save  where  poesy  shone  out ; 
But  as  a  clime  where  glittering  mountain-tops 
And  glancing  sea  and  forests  steeped  in  light 
Give  back  reflected  the  far-flashing  sun ; 
For  music  (which  is  earnest  of  a  heaven, 
Seeing  we  know  emotions  strange  by  it, 
Not  else  to  be  revealed,)  is  as  a  voice, 
A  low  voice  calling  fancy,  as  a  friend. 
To  the  green  woods  in  the  gay  summer  time  : 
And  she  fills  all  the  way  with  dancing  shapes 
Which  have  made  painters  pale,  and  they  go  on 
While  stars  look  at  them  and  winds  call  to  them 
As  they  leave  life's  path  for  the  twilight  world 
Where  the  dead  gather.     This  was  not  at  first, 
For  I  scarce  knew  what  I  would  do.     I  had 
No  wish  to  paint,  no  yearning;  but  I  sang. 

And  first  I  sang  as  I  in  dream  have  seen 

Music  wait  on  a  lyrist  for  some  thought, 

Yet  singing  to  herself  until  it  came. 

I  turned  to  those  old  times  and  scenes  where  all 


PAULINE.  17 

That's  beautiful  had  birth  for  me,  and  made 
Rude  verses  on  them  all  j  and  then  I  paused — 
I  had  done  nothing,  so  I  sought  to  know 
What  mind  had  yet  achieved.     No  fear  was  mine 
As  I  gazed  on  the  works  of  mighty  bards. 
In  the  first  joy  at  finding  my  own  thoughts 
Recorded  and  my  powers  exemplified. 
And  feeling  their  aspirings  were  my  own. 
And  then  I  first  explored  passion  and  mind ; 
And  I  began  afresh ;  I  rather  sought 
To  rival  what  I  wondered  at,  than  form 
Creations  of  my  own ;  so,  much  was  light 
Lent  back  by  others,  yet  much  was  my  own. 

I  paused  again,  a  change  was  coming  on, 

I  was  no  more  a  boy,  the  past  was  breaking 

Before  the  coming  and  like  fever  worked. 

I  first  thought  on  myself,  and  here  my  powers 

Burst  out :  I  dreamed  not  of  restraint  but  gazed 

On  all  things  :  schemes  and  systems  went  and  came, 

And  I  was  proud  (being  vainest  of  the  weak) 

In  wandering  o'er  them  to  seek  out  some  one 

To  be  my  own,  as  one  should  wander  o'er 

The  white  way  for  a  star. 

And  my  choice  fell 
Not  so  much  on  a  system  as  a  man — 
On  one,  whom  praise  of  mine  would  not  offend. 
Who  was  as  calm  as  beauty,  being  such 

VOL.    I.  2 


1 8  PAULINE. 

Unto  mankind  as  thou  to  me,  Pauline, — 

Believing  in  them  and  devoting  all 

His  soul's  strength  to  their  winning  back  to  peace ; 

Who  sent  forth  hopes  and  longings  for  their  sake. 

Clothed  in  all  passion's  melodies,  which  first 

Caught  me  and  set  me,  as  to  a  sweet  task, 

To  gather  every  breathing  of  his  songs  : 

And  woven  with  them  there  were  words  which  seemed 

A  key  to  a  new  world,  the  muttering 

Of  angels  of  some  thing  unguessed  by  man. 

How  my  heart  beat  as  I  went  on  and  found 

Much  there,  I  felt  my  own  mind  had  conceived. 

But  there  living  and  burning  !     Soon  the  whole 

Of  his  conceptions  dawned  on  me;  their  praise 

Is  in  the  tongues  of  men,  men's  brows  are  high 

When  his  name  means  a  triumph  and  a  pride. 

So,  my  weak  hands  may  well  forbear  to  dim 

What  then  seemed  my  bright  fate  :  I  threw  myself 

To  meet  it,  I  was  vowed  to  liberty, 

Men  were  to  be  as  gods  and  earth  as  heaven, 

And  I — ah,  what  a  life  was  mine  to  be  ! 

My  whole  soul  rose  to  meet  it.     Now,  Pauline, 

I  shall  go  mad,  if  I  recall  that  time ! 

Oh  let  me  look  back  e'er  I  leave  for  ever 
The  time  which  was  an  hour  that  one  waits 
For  a  fair  girl  that  comes  a  withered  hag ! 
And  I  was  lonely,  far  from  woods  and  fields, 
And  amid  dullest  sights,  who  should  be  loose 


19 


As  a  stag ;  yet  I  was  full  of  joy,  who  lived 
With  Plato  and  who  had  the  key  to  life ; 
And  I  had  dimly  shaped  my  first  attempt, 
And  many  a  thought  did  I  build  up  on  thought, 
As  the  wild  bee  hangs  cell  to  cell ;  in  vain. 
For  I  must  still  go  on,  my  mind  rests  not. 

'Twas  in  my  plan  to  look  on  real  life 

Which  was  all  new  to  me  ;  my  theories 

Were  firm,  so  I  left  them,  to  look  upon 

Men  and  their  cares  and  hopes  and  fears  and  joys ; 

And  as  I  pondered  on  them  all  I  sought 

How  best  life's  end  might  be  attained — an  end 

Comprising  every  joy.     I  deeply  mused. 

And  suddenly  without  heart-wreck  I  awoke 

As  from  a  dream  :  I  said  "  'Twas  beautiful 

"  Yet  but  a  dream,  and  so  adieu  to  it !" 

As  some  world-wanderer  sees  in  a  far  meadow 

Strange  towers  and  walled  gardens  thick  with  trees^ 

Where  singing  goes  on  and  delicious  mirth. 

And  laughing  fairy  creatures  peeping  over. 

And  on  the  morrow  when  he  comes  to  live 

For  ever  by  those  springs  and  trees  fruit-flushed 

And  fairy  bowers,  all  his  search  is  vain. 

First  went  my  hopes  of  perfecting  mankind, 

And  faith  in  them,  then  freedom  in  itself 

And  virtue  in  itseh,  and  then  my  motives,  ends 

And  powers  and  loves,  and  human  love  went  last. 


20  PAULINE. 

I  felt  this  no  decay,  because  new  powers 

Rose  as  old  feelings  left — wit,  mockery 

And  happiness  ;  for  I  had  oft  been  sad, 

Mistrusting  my  resolves,  but  now  I  cast 

Hope  joyously  away :  I  laughed  and  said 

"  No  more  of  this  !"     I  must  not  think  :  at  length 

I  looked  again  to  see  how  all  went  on. 

My  powers  were  greater  :  as  some  temple  seemed 

My  soul,  where  nought  is  changed  and  incense  rolls 

Around  the  altar,  only  God  is  gone 

And  some  dark  spirit  sitteth  in  his  seat. 

So,  I  passed  through  the  temple  and  to  me 

Knelt    troops    of    shadows,    and     they    cried    ^'Hail, 

king  ! 
^'  We  serve  thee  now  and  thou  shalt  serve  no  more  ! 
"  Call  on  us,  prove  us,  let  us  worship  thee  !"  ' 

And  I  said  "  Are  ye  strong  ?     Let  fancy  bear  me 
"  Far  from  the  past !"     And  I  was  borne  away, 
As  Arab  birds  float  sleeping  in  the  wind. 
O'er  deserts,  towers  and  forests,  I  being  calm ; 
And  I  said  "  I  have  nursed  up  energies, 
"  They  will  prey  on  me."     And  a  band  knelt  low 
And  cried  "  Lord,  we  are  here  and  we  will  make 
"  A  way  for  thee  in  thine  appointed  life  ! 
"  O  look  on  us  !"     And  I  said  "Ye  will  worship 
"  Me ;  but  my  heart  must  worship  too."     They  shouted . 
"Thyself,  thou  art  our  king  !"     So,  I  stood  there 
Smiling     ..... 


And  buoyant  and  rejoicing  was  the  spirit 

With  which  I  looked  out  how  to  end  my  days  ; 

I  felt  once  more  myself,  my  powers  were  mine ; 

I  found  that  youth  or  health  so  lifted  me 

That,  spite  of  all  life's  vanity,  no  grief 

Came  nigh  me,  I  must  ever  be  light-hearted  ; 

And  that  this  feeling  was  the  only  veil 

Betwixt  me  and  despair  :  so,  if  age  came, 

I  should  be  as  a  wreck  linked  to  a  soul 

Yet  fluttering,  or  mind-broken  and  aware 

Of  my  decay.     So  a  long  summer  morn 

Found  me  ;  and  e'er  noon  came,  I  had  resolved 

No  age  should  come  on  me  ere  youth's  hope  went, 

For  I  would  wear  myself  out,  like  that  morn 

Which  wasted  not  a  sunbeam ;  every  joy 

I  would  make  mine,  and  die.     And  thus  I  sought 

To  chain  my  spirit  down  which  I  had  fed 

With  thoughts  of  fame  :  I  said  "  The  troubled  life 

"  Of  genius,  seen  so  bright  when  working  forth 

"  Some  trusted  end,  seems  sad  when  all  in  vain — 

"  Most  sad  when  men  have  parted  with  all  joy 

"  For  their  wild  fancy's  sake,  which  waited  first 

"  As  an  obedient  spirit  when  delight 

"  Came  not  with  her  alone ;  but  alters  soon, 

"  Comes  darkened,  seldom,  hastening  to  depart, 

*'  Leaving  a  heavy  darkness  and  warm  tears. 

"  But  I  shall  never  lose  her ;  she  will  live 

"  Brighter  for  such  seclusion.     I  but  catch 

"  A  hue,  a  glance  of  what  I  sing,  so,  pain 


^'  Is  linked  with  pleasure,  for  I  ne'er  may  tell 

''  The  radiant  sights  which  dazzle  me ;  but  now 

"  They  shall  be  all  my  own ;  and  let  them  fade 

"  Untold — others  shall  rise  as  fair,  as  fast  ! 

"  And  when  all's  done,  the  few  dim  gleams  transferred," — 

(For  a  new  thought  sprung  up  that  it  were  well 

To  leave  all  shadowy  hope,  and  weave  such  lays 

As  would  encircle  me  with  praise  and  love. 

So,  I  should  not  die  utterly,  I  should  bring 

One  branch  from  the  gold  forest,  like  the  knight 

Of  old  tales,  witnessing  I  had  been  there) — 

"And  when  all's  done,  how  vain  seems  e'en  success 

"  And  all  the  influence  poets  have  o'er  men  ! 

'^  'Tis  a  fine  thing  that  one  weak  as  myself 

"Should  sit  in  his  lone  room,  knowing  the  words 

"He  utters  in  his  solitude  shall  move 

"  Men  like  a  swift  wind — that  tho'  he  be  forgotten, 

"  Fair  eyes  shall  glisten  when  his  beauteous  dreams 

"  Of  love  come  true  in  happier  frames  than  his. 

"  Ay,  the  still  night  brought  thoughts  like  these,  but  morn 

"  Came  and  the  mockery  again  laughed  out 

"  At  hollow  praises,  and  smiles  almost  sneers  ; 

"  And  my  soul's  idol  seemed  to  whisper  me 

^'  To  dwell  with  him  and  his  unhonoured  name : 

"And  I  well  knew  my  spirit,  that  would  be 

"  First  in  the  struggle,  and  again  would  make 

"  All  bow  to  it,  and  I  should  sink  again. 

"  And  then  know  that  this  curse  will  come  on  us. 


PAULINE.  23 

''  To  see  our  idols  perish ;  we  may  wither, 

"  Nor  marvel,  we  are  clay,  but  our  low  fate 

"  Should  not  extend  to  them,  whom  trustingly 

*'  We  sent  before  into  time's  yawning  gulf 

''  To  face  whate'er  might  lurk  in  darkness  there. 

''  To  see  the  painters'  glory  pass,  and  feel 

^'  Sweet  music  move  us  not  as  once,  or,  worst, 

''  To  see  decaying  wits  ere  the  frail  body 

"  Decays  !     Nought  makes  me  trust  in  love  so  really, 

"  As  the  delight  of  the  contented  lowness 

"  With  which  I  gaze  on  souls  I'd  keep  for  ever 

"  In  beauty;  I'd  be  sad  to  equal  them ; 

"  I'd  feed  their  fame  e'en  from  my  heart's  best  blood, 

"  Withering  unseen  that  they  might  flourish  still." 

Pauline,  my  sweet  friend,  thou  dost  not  forget 

How  this  mood  swayed  me  when  thou  first  wast  mine, 

When  I  had  set  myself  to  live  this  life. 

Defying  all  opinion.     Ere  thou  camest 

I  was  most  happy,  sweet,  for  old  delights 

Had  come  like  birds  again ;  music,  my  life, 

I  nourished  more  than  ever,  and  old  lore 

Loved  for  itself  and  all  it  shows — the  king 

Treading  the  purple  calmly  to  his  death, 

While  round  him,  like  the  clouds  of  eve,  all  dusk, 

The  giant  shades  of  fate,  silently  flitting, 

Pile  the  dim  outline  of  the  coming  doom ; 

And  him  sitting  alone  in  blood  while  friends 

Are  hunting  far  in  the  sunshine  ;  and  the  boy 


24  PAULINE. 

With  his  white  breast  and  brow  and  clustering  curls 

Streaked  with  his  mother's  blood,  and  striving  hard 

To  tell  his  story  ere  his  reason  goes. 

And  when  I  loved  thee  as  I've  loved  so  oft, 

Thou  lovedst  me,  and  I  wondered  and  looked  in 

My  heart  to  find  some  feeling  like  such  love, 

Believing  I  was  still  what  I  had  been ; 

And  soon  I  found  all  faith  had  gone  from  me, 

And  the  late  glow  of  life,  changing  like  clouds, 

'Twas  not  the  morn-blush  widening  into  day. 

But  evening  coloured  by  the  dying  sun 

While  darkness  is  quick  hastening.     I  will  tell 

My  state  as  though  'twere  none  of  mine — despair 

Cannot  come  near  me — thus  it  is  with  me. 

Souls  alter  not,  and  mine  must  progress  still ; 

And  this  I  knew  not  when  I  flung  away 

My  youth's  chief  aims.     I  ne'er  supposed  the  loss 

Of  what  few  I  retained,  for  no  resource 

Awaits  me  :  now  behold  the  change  of  all. 

I  cannot  chain  my  soul,  it  will  not  rest 

In  its  clay  prison,  this  most  narrow  sphere : 

It  has  strange  powers  and  feelings  and  desires, 

Which  I  cannot  account  for  nor  explain. 

But  which  I  stifle  not,  being  bound  to  trust 

All  feelings  equally,  to  hear  all  sides : 

Yet  I  cannot  indulge  them,  and  they  live, 

Referring  to  some  state  or  life  unknown. 

My  selfishness  is  satiated  not. 


25 


It  wears  me  like  a  flame  j  my  hunger  for 

All  pleasure,  howsoe'er  minute,  is  pain ; 

I  envy — how  I  envy  him  whose  mind 

Turns  with  its  energies  to  some  one  end, 

To  elevate  a  sect  or  a  pursuit 

However  mean  !     So,  my  still  baflled  hopes 

Seek  out  abstractions  j  I  would  have  but  one 

Delight  on  earth,  so  it  were  wholly  mine. 

One  rapture  all  my  soul  could  fill :  and  this 

Wild  feeling  places  me  in  dream  afar 

In  some  wild  country  where  the  eye  can  see 

No  end  to  the  far  hills  and  dales  bestrewn 

With  shining  towers  and  dwellings  :  I  grow  mad 

Well-nigh,  to  know  not  one  abode  but  holds 

Some  pleasure,  for  my  soul  could  grasp  them  all 

But  must  remain  with  this  vile  form.     I  look 

With  hope  to  age  at  last,  which  quenching  much, 

May  let  me  concentrate  the  sparks  it  spares. 

This  restlessness  of  passion  meets  in  me 
A  craving  after  knowledge  :  the  sole  proof 
Of  a  commanding  will  is  in  that  power 
Repressed ;  for  I  beheld  it  in  its  dawn, 
That  sleepless  harpy  with  its  budding  wings, 
And  I  considered  whether  I  should  yield 
All  hopes  and  fears,  to  live  alone  with  it, 
Finding  a  recompence  in  its  wild  eyes ; 
And  when  I  found  that  I  should  perish  so, 
I  bade  its  wild  eyes  close  from  me  for  ever, 


26  PAULINE. 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  my  delights ; 
So,  it  lies  in  me  a  chained  thing,  still  ready 
To  serve  me  if  I  loose  its  slightest  bond  : 
I  cannot  but  be  proud  of  my  bright  slave. 

And  thus  I  know  this  earth  is  not  my  sphere, 

For  I  cannot  so  narrow  me  but  that 

I  still  exceed  it :  in  their  elements 

My  love  would  pass  my  reason  ;  but  since  here 

Love  must  receive  its  objects  from  this  earth 

While  reason  will  be  chainless^  the  few  truths 

Caught  from  its  wanderings  have  sufficed  to  quell 

All  love  below ;  then  what  must  be  that  love 

Which,  with  the  object  it  demands,  would  quell 

Reason  tho'  it  soared  with  the  seraphim  ? 

No,  what  I  feel  may  pass  all  human  love 

Yet  fall  far  short  of  what  my  love  should  be. 

And  yet  I  seem  more  warped  in  this  than  aught, 

For  here  myself  stands  out  more  hideously : 

I  can  forget  myself  in  friendship,  fame. 

Or  liberty,  or  love  of  mighty  souls  ; 

But  I  begin  to  know  what  thing  hate  is — 

To  sicken  and  to  quiver  and  grow  white — 

And  I  myself  have  furnished  its  first  prey. 

All  my  sad  weaknesses,  this  wavering  will, 

This  selfishness,  this  still  decaying  frame     .     .     . 

But  I  must  never  grieve  while  I  can  pass 

Far  from  such  thoughts — as  now,  Andromeda  ! 

And  she  is  with  me :  years  roll,  I  shall  change, 


27 


But  change  can  touch  her  not — so  beautiful 

With  her  dark  eyes,  earnest  and  still,  and  hair 

Lifted  and  spread  by  the  salt-sweeping  breeze, 

And  one  red  beam,  all  the  storm  leaves  in  heaven. 

Resting  upon  her  eyes  and  face  and  hair 

As  she  awaits  the  snake  on  the  wet  beach 

By  the  dark  rock  and  the  white  wave  just  breaking 

At  her  feet ;  quite  naked  and  alone ;  a  thing 

You  doubt  not,  nor  fear  for,  secure  that  God 

Will  come  in  thunder  from  the  stars  to  save  her. 

Let  it  pass  !     I  will  call  another  change. 

I  will  be  gifted  with  a  wondrous  soul, 

Yet  sunk  by  error  to  men's  sympathy, 

And  in  the  wane  of  life,  yet  only  so 

As  to  call  up  their  fears ;  and  there  shall  come 

A  time  requiring  youth's  best  energies ; 

And  straight  I  fling  age,  sorrow,  sickness  off. 

And  I  rise  triumphing  over  my  decay. 

And  thus  it  is  that  I  supply  the  chasm 
'Twixt  what  I  am  and  all  that  I  would  be : 
But  then  to  know  nothing,  to  hope  for  nothing. 
To  seize  on  life's  dull  joys  from  a  strange  fear 
Lest,  losing  them,  all's  lost  and  nought  remains  ! 

There's  some  vile  juggle  with  my  reason  here ; 
I  feel  I  but  explain  to  my  own  loss 
These  impulses  ;  they  live  no  less  the  same. 
Liberty  !  what  though  I  despair  ?  my  blood 


28  PAULINE. 

Rose  not  at  a  slave's  name  proudlier  than  now, 

And  sympathy,  obscured  by  sophistries  ! 

Why  have  not  I  sought  refuge  in  myself, 

But  for  the  woes  I  saw  and  could  not  stay  ? 

And  love  !  do  I  not  love  thee,  my  Pauline  ? 

I  cherish  prejudice,  lest  I  be  left 

Utterly  loveless — witness  this  belief 

In  poets,  though  sad  change  has  come  there  too ; 

No  more  I  leave  myself  to  follow  them — 

Unconsciously  I  measure  me  by  them — 

Let  me  forget  it :  and  I  cherish  most 

My  love  of  England — how  her  name,  a  word 

Of  her's  in  a  strange  tongue  makes  my  heart  beat ! 

Pauline,  I  could  do  any  thing — not  now — ■ 

All's  fever — but  when  calm  shall  come  again, 

I  am  prepared :  I  have  made  life  my  own. 

I  would  not  be  content  with  all  the  change 

One  frame  should  feel,  but  I  have  gone  in  thought 

Thro'  all  conjuncture,  I  have  lived  all  life 

When  it  is  most  alive,  where  strangest  fate 

New  shapes  it  past  surmise — the  tales  of  men 

Bit  by  some  curse  or  in  the  grasps  of  doom 

Half-visible  and  still  increasing  round, 

Or  crowning  their  wide  being's  general  aim. 

These  are  wild  fancies,  but  I  feel,  sweet  friend, 
As  one  breathing  his  weakness  to  the  ear 
Of  pitying  angel — dear  as  a  winter  flower, 


29 


A  slight  flower  growing  alone,  and  offering 

Its  frail  cup  of  three  leaves  to  the  cold  sun, 

Yet  joyous  and  confiding  like  the  triumph  * 

Of  a  child  :  and  why  am  I  not  worthy  thee  ? 

I  can  live  all  the  life  of  plants,  and  gaze 

Drowsily  on  the  bees  that  flit  and  play, 

Or  bare  my  breast  for  sunbeams  which  will  kill, 

Or  open  in  the  night  of  sounds,  to  look 

For  the  dim  stars  ]  I  can  mount  with  the  bird 

Leaping  airily  his  pyramid  of  leaves 

And  twisted  boughs  of  some  tall  mountain  tree, 

Or  rise  cheerfully  springing  to  the  heavens ; 

Or  like  a  fish  breathe-in  the  morning  air 

In  the  misty  sun-warm  v/ater ;  or  with  flowers 

And  trees  can  smile  in  light  at  the  sinking  sun 

Just  as  the  storm  comes,  as  a  girl  would  look 

On  a  departing  lover — most  serene. 

Pauline,  come  with  me,  see  how  I  could  build 
A  home  for  us,  out  of  the  world,  in  thought ! 
I  am  inspired  :  come  with  me,  Pauline  ! 

Night,  and  one  single  ridge  of  narrow  path 
Between  the  sullen  river  and  the  woods 
Waving  and  muttering,  for  the  moonless  night 
Has  shaped  them  into  images  of  life, 
Like  the  upraising  of  the  giant-ghosts. 
Looking  on  earth  to  know  how  their  sons  fare  : 
Thou  art  so  close  by  me,  the  roughest  swell 


30  PAULINE. 

Of  wind  in  the  tree-tops  hides  not  the  panting 
Of  thy  soft  breasts.     No,  we  will  pass  to  morning — 
Morning,  the  rocks  and  valleys  and  old  woods. 
How  the  sun  brightens  in  the  mist,  and  here, 
Half  in  the  air,  like  creatures  of  the  place. 
Trusting  the  element,  living  on  high  boughs 
That  swing  in  the  wind — look  at  the  golden  spray 
Flung  from  the  foam-sheet  of  the  cataract 
Amid  the  broken  rocks  !     Shall  we  stay  here 
With  the  wild  hawks  ?     No,  ere  the  hot  noon  come,. 
Dive  we  down — safe  !     See  this  our  new  retreat 
Walled  in  with  a  sloped  mound  of  matted  shrubs, 
Dark,  tangled,  old  and  green,  still  sloping  down 
To  a  small  pool  whose  waters  lie  asleep 
Amid  the  trailing  boughs  turned  water-plants : 
And  tall  trees  over-arch  to  keep  us  in. 
Breaking  the  sunbeams  into  emerald  shafts, 
And  in  the  dreamy  water  one  small  group 
Of  two  or  three  strange  trees  are  got  together 
Wondering  at  all  around,  as  strange  beasts  herd 
Together  far  from  their  own  land  :  all  wildness, 
No  turf  nor  moss,  for  boughs  and  plants  pave  all, 
And  tongues  of  bank  go  shelving  in  the  waters. 
Where  the  pale-throated  snake  reclines  his  head, 
And  old  grey  stones  lie  making  eddies  there. 
The  wild  mice  cross  them  dry-shod  :  deeper  in  ! 
Shut  thy  soft  eyes — now  look — still  deeper  in  ! 
This  is  the  very  heart  of  the  woods  all  round 
Mountain-hke  heaped  above  us ;  yet  even  here 


PAULINE.  31 

One  pond  of  water  gleams  ;  far  off  the  river 

Sweeps  like  a  sea,  barred  out  from  land  ;  but  one — 

One  thin  clear  sheet  has  over-leaped  and  wound 

Into  this  silent  depth,  which  gained,  it  lies 

Still,  as  but  let  by  sufferance  j  the  trees  bend 

O'er  it  as  wild  men  watch  a  sleeping  girl. 

And  through  their  roots  long  creeping  plants  stretch  out 

Their  twined  hair,  steeped  and  sparkling ;  farther  on, 

Tall  rushes  and  thick  flag-knots  have  combined 

To  narrow  it ;  so,  at  length,  a  silver  thread, 

It  winds,  all  noiselessly  through  the  deep  wood 

Till  thro'  a  cleft  way,  thro'  the  moss  and  stone, 

It  joins  its  parent-river  with  a  shout. 

Up  for  the  glowing  day,  leave  the  old  woods  ! 

See,  they  part,  like  a  ruined  arch  :  the  sky  ! 

Nothing  but  sky  appears,  so  close  the  roots 

And  grass  of  the  hill-top  level  with  the  air — 

Blue  sunny  air,  where  a  great  cloud  floats  laden 

With  light,  like  a  dead  whale  that  white  birds  pick, 

Floating  away  in  the  sun  in  some  north  sea. 

Air,  air,  fresh  life-blood,  thin  and  searching  air, 

The  clear,  dear  breath  of  God  that  loveth  us. 

Where  small  birds  reel  and  winds  take  their  delight ! 

Water  is  beautiful,  but  not  like  air : 

See,  where  the  solid  azure  waters  lie 

Made  as  of  thickened  air,  and  down  below, 

The  fern-ranks  like  a  forest  spread  themselves 

As  though  each  pore  could  feel  the  element ; 

Where  the  quick  glancing  serpent  winds  his  way. 


32  PAULINE. 

Float  with  me  there,  PauHne  ! — but  not  like  air. 
Down  the  hill !     Stop — a  clump  of  trees,  see,  set 
On  a  heap  of  rocks,  which  look  o'er  the  far  plains, 
And  envious  climbing  shrubs  would  mount  to  rest 
And  peer  from  their  spread  boughs ;  there  they  wave, 

looking 
At  the  muleteers  who  whistle  as  they  go 
To  the  merry  chime  of  their  morning  bells,  and  all 
The  little  smoking  cots  and  fields  and  banks 
And  copses  bright  in  the  sun.     My  spirit  wanders  : 
Hedge-rows  for  me — still,  living  hedge-rows  where 
The  bushes  close  and  clasp  above  and  keep 
Thought  in — I  am  concentrated — I  feel ; 
But  my  soul  saddens  when  it  looks  beyond  : 
I  cannot  be  immortal  nor  taste  all. 
O  God,  where  does  this  tend — these  struggling  aims?* 

*  Je  crains  bien  que  mon  pauvre  ami  ne  soit  pas  toujours 
parfaitement  compris  dans  ce  qui  reste  a  lire  de  cet  etrange  frag- 
ment, mais  il  est  moins  propre  que  tout  autre  a  eclaircir  ce  qui  de  sa 
nature  ne  peut  jamais  etre  que  songe  et  confusion.  D'ailleurs  je  ne 
sais  trop  si  en  cher chant  a  mieux  co-ordonner  certaines  parties 
Ton  ne  courrait  pas  le  risque  de  nuire  au  seul  merite  auquel  una 
production  si  singuliere  peut  pretendre,  celui  de  donner  une  idee 
assez  precise  du  genre  qu'elle  n'a  fait  qu'ebauclier.  Ce  debut  sans 
pretention,  ce  remuement  des  passions  qui  va  d'abord  en  accroissant 
et  puis  s'appaise  par  degres,  ces  elans  de  I'ame,  ce  retour  soudain  sur 
soi-meme,  et  par-dessus  tout,  la  tournure  d'esprit  tout  particuliere 
de  mon  ami,  rendent  les  changemens  presque  impossibles.  Les 
raisons  qu'il  fait  valoir  ailleurs,  et  d'autres  encore  plus  puissantes, 
ont  fait  trouver  grace  a  mes  yeux  pour  cet  ecrit  qu'  autrement  je  lui 
eusse  conseille  de  jeter  au  feu.  Je  n'en  crois  pas  moins  au  grand 
principe  de  toute  composition — a  ce  principe  de  Shakespeare,  de 
Rafaelle,  de  Beethoven,     'oil  il  suit  que  la  concentration  des  idees 


PAULINE.  33 

What   would   I   have?      What   is   this    ''sleep"    which 

seems 
To  bound  all?  can  there  be  a  "waking"  point 
Of  crowning  life  ?     The  soul  would  never  rule  ; 
It  would  be  first  in  all  things,  it  would  have 
Its  utmost  pleasure  filled,  but,  that  complete, 
Commanding,  for  commanding,  sickens  it. 
The  last  point  I  can  trace  is,  rest,  beneath 
Some  better  essence  than  itself,  in  weakness ; 
This  is  "  myself,"  not  what  I  think  should  be  : 
And  what  is  that  I  hunger  for  but  God  ? 
My  God,  my  God,  let  me  for  once  look  on  thee 
As  though  nought  else  existed,  we  alone  ! 
And  as  creation  crumbles,  my  soul's  spark 
Expands  till  I  can  say, — Even  from  myself 
I  need  thee  and  I  feel  thee  and  I  love  thee : 
I  do  not  plead  my  rapture  in  thy  works 
For  love  of  thee,  nor  that  I  feel  as  one 

est  due  bien  plus  a  leur  conception  qu'a  leur  mise  en  execution  :  j'ai 
tout  lieu  de  craindre  que  la  premiere  de  ces  qualites  ne  soit  encore 
etrangere  a  mon  ami,  et  je  doute  fort  qu'un  redoublement  de  travail 
lui  fasse  acquerir  la  seconde.  Le  mieux  serait  de  bruler  ceci ;  mais 
que  faire  ? 

Je  crois  que  dans  ce  qui  suit  il  fait  allusion  a  un  certain  examen 
qu'il  fit  autrefois  de  I'ame  ou  plutot  de  son  ame,  pour  decouvrir  la 
suite  des  objets  auxquels  il  lui  serait  possible  d'attendre,  et  dont 
chacun  une  fois  obtenu  devait  former  une  espece  de  plateau  d'ou  I'on 
pouvait  aper9evoir  d'autres  buts,  d'autres  projets,  d'autres  jouissances 
qui,  a  leur  tour,  devaient  etre  surmontes.  II  en  resultait  que  I'oubli 
et  le  sommeil  devaient  tout  terminer.  Cette  idee,  que  je  ne  saisis 
pas  parfaitement,  lui  est  peutetre  aussi  inintelligible  qu'a  moi. 

PAULINE. 

VOL.    I.  3 


34  PAULINE. 

Who  cannot  die  :  but  there  is  that  in  me 

Which  turns  to  thee,  which  loves  or  which  should  love. 

Why  have  I  girt  myself  with  this  hell-dress  ? 

Why  have  I  laboured  to  put  out  my  life  ? 

Is  it  not  in  my  nature  to  adore, 

And  e'en  for  all  my  reason  do  I  not 

Feel  him,  and  thank  him,  and  pray  to  him — now  ? 

Can  I  forego  the  trust  that  he  loves  me  ? 

Do  I  not  feel  a  love  which  only  one 

0  thou  pale  form,  so  dimly  seen,  deep-eyed  ! 

1  have  denied  thee  calmly — do  I  not 

Pant  when  I  read  of  thy  consummate  deeds. 

And  burn  to  see  thy  calm  pure  truths  out-flash  ' 

The  brightest  gleams  of  earth's  philosophy  ? 

Do  I  not  shake  to  hear  aught  question  thee  ? 

If  I  am  erring  save  me,  madden  me. 

Take  from  me  powers  and  pleasures,  let  me  die 

Ages,  so  I  see  thee  !     I  am  knit  round 

As  with  a  charm  by  sin  and  lust  and  pride. 

Yet  though  my  wandering  dreams  have  seen  all  shapes 

Of  strange  delight,  oft  have  I  stood  by  thee — 

Have  I  been  keeping  lonely  watch  with  thee 

In  the  damp  night  by  weeping  Olivet, 

Or  leaning  on  thy  bosom,  proudly  less. 

Or  dying  with  thee  on  the  lonely  cross, 

Or  witnessing  thy  bursting  from  the  tomb  ! 

A  mortal,  sin's  familiar  friend,  doth  here 
Avow  that  he  will  give  all  earth's  reward, 


PAULINE.  35 

But  to  believe  and  humbly  teach  the  faith, 
In  suffering  and  poverty  and  shame, 
Only  beheving  he  is  not  unloved. 

And  now,  my  Pauline,  I  am  thine  for  ever ! 

I  feel  the  spirit  which  has  buoyed  me  up 

Deserting  me,  and  old  shades  gathering  on ; 

Yet  while  its  last  light  waits,  I  would  say  much, 

And  chiefly,  I  am  glad  that  I  have  said 

That  love  which  I  have  ever  felt  for  thee 

But  seldom  told ;  our  hearts  so  beat  together 

That  speech  is  mockery ;  but  when  dark  hours  come, 

And  I  feel  sad,  and  thou,  sweet,  deem'st  it  strange 

A  sorrow  moves  me,  thou  canst  not  remove, 

Look  on  this  lay  I  dedicate  to  thee. 

Which  through  thee  I  began,  and  which  I  end. 

Collecting  the  last  gleams  to  strive  to  tell 

That  I  am  thine,  and  more  than  ever  now 

That  I  am  sinking  fast :  yet  though  I  sink. 

No  less  I  feel  that  thou  hast  brought  me  bliss 

And  that  I  still  may  hope  to  win  it  back. 

Thou  knowest,  dear  friend,  I  could  not  think  all  calm, 

For  wild  dreams  followed  me  and  bore  me  off, 

And  all  was  indistinct ;  ere  one  was  caught 

Another  glanced ;  so,  dazzled  by  my  wealth. 

Knowing  not  which  to  leave  nor  which  to  choose, 

For  all  my  thoughts  so  floated,  nought  was  fixed. 

And  then  thou  said'st  a  perfect  bard  was  one 

Who  shadowed  out  the  stages  of  all  Hfe, 


36  PAULINE. 

And  so  thou  bad'st  me  tell  this  my  first  stage. 
'Tis  done,  and  even  now  I  feel  all  dim  the  shift 
Of  thought ;  these  are  my  last  thoughts ;  I  discern 
Faintly  immortal  life  and  truth  and  good. 
And  why  thou  must  be  mine  is,  that  e'en  now 
In  the  dim  hush  of  night,  that  I  have  done, 
With  fears  and  sad  forebodings,  I  look  through 
And  say, — E'en  at  the  last  I  have  her  still. 
With  her  delicious  eyes  as  clear  as  heaven 
When  rain  in  a  quick  shower  has  beat  down  mist, 
And  clouds  float  white  in  the  sun  like  broods  of  swans. 
How  the  blood  lies  upon  her  cheek,  all  spread 
As  thinned  by  kisses  !  only  in  her  lips 
It  wells  and  pulses  like  a  living  thing, 
,  And  her  neck  looks  like  marble  misted  o'er 
With  love-breath, — a  dear  thing  to  kiss  and  love, 
Standing  beneath  me,  looking  out  to  me, 
As  I  might  kill  her  and  be  loved  for  it. 

Love  me — love  me,  Pauline,  love  nought  but  me. 
Leave  me  not  !     All  these  words  are  wild  and  weak, 
Believe  them  not,  Pauline  !     I  stooped  so  low 
But  to  behold  thee  purer  by  my  side. 
To  show  thou  art  my  breath,  my  life,  a  last 
Resource,  an  extreme  want :  never  believe 
Aught  better  could  so  look  to  thee ;  nor  seek 
Again  the  world  of  good  thoughts  left  for  me  ! 
There  were  bright  troops  of  undiscovered  suns, 
Each  equal  in  their  radiant  course;  there  were 


37 


Clusters  of  far  fair  isles  which  ocean  kept 
For  his  own  joy,  and  his  waves  broke  on  them 
Without  a  choice ;  and  there  was  a  dim  crowd 
Of  visions,  each  a  part  of  the  dim  whole  : 
And  one  star  left  his  peers  and  came  with  peace 
Upon  a  storm,  and  all  eyes  pined  for  him ; 
And  one  isle  harboured  a  sea-beaten  ship, 
And  the  crew  wandered  in  its  bowers  and  plucked 
Its  fruits  and  gave  up  alt  their  hopes  for  home ; 
And  one  dream  came  to  a  pale  poet's  sleep, 
And  he  said,  ^'  I  am  singled  out  by  God, 
"  No  sin  must  touch  me."     I  am  very  weak 
But  what  I  would  express  is, — Leave  me  not, 
Still  sit  by  me  with  beating  breast  and  hair 
Loosened,  be  watching  earnest  by  my  side, 
Turning  my  books  or  kissing  me  when  I 
Look  up — like  summer  wind  !     Be  still  to  me 
A  key  to  music's  mystery  when  mind  fails, 
A  reason,  a  solution  aud  a  clue  ! 
You  see  I  have  thrown  off  my  prescribed  rules  : 
I  hope  in  myself — and  hope  and  pant  and  love. 
You'll  find  me  better,  know  me  more  than  when 
You  loved  me  as  I  was.     Smile  not !     I  have 
Much  yet  to  gladden  you,  to  dawn  on  you. 
No  more  of  the  past !     I'll  look  within  no  more. 
I  have  too  trusted  to  my  own  wild  wants, 
Too  trusted  to  myself,  to  intuition — 
Draining  the  wine  alone  in  the  still  night, 
And  seeing  how,  as  gathering  films  arose, 


38  PAULINE. 

As  by  an  inspiration  life  seemed  bare 

And  grinning  in  its  vanity,  and  ends 

Hard  to  be  dreamed  of,  stared  at  me  as  fixed, 

And  others  suddenly  became  all  foul 

As  a  fair  witch  turned  an  old  hag  at  night. 

No  more  of  this  !     We  will  go  hand  in  hand, 

I  will  go  with  thee,  even  as  a  child, 

Looking  no  farther  than  thy  sweet  commands, 

And  thou  hast  chosen  where  this  life  shall  be  : 

The  land  which  gave  me  thee  shall  be  our  home. 

Where  nature  lies  all  wild  amid  her  lakes 

And  snow-swathed  mountains  and  vast  pines  all  girt 

With  ropes  of  snow — where  nature  lies  all  bare, 

Suffering  none  to  view  her  but  a,  race 

Most  stinted  and  deformed,  like  the  mute  dwarfs 

Which  wait  upon  a  naked  Indian  queen. 

And  there  (the  time  being  when  the  heavens  are  thick 

With  storms)  I'll  sit  with  thee  while  thou  dost  sing 

Thy  native  songs,  gay  as  a  desert  bird 

Who  crieth  as  he  flies  for  perfect  joy, 

Or  telling  me  old  stories  of  dead  knights ; 

Or  I  will  read  old  lays  to  thee — ^how  she. 

The  fair  pale  sister,  went  to  her  chill  grave 

With  power  to  love  and  to  be  loved  and  live : 

Or  we  will  go  together,  like  twin  gods 

Of  the  infernal  world,  with  scented  lamp 

Over  the  dead,  to  call  and  to  awake, 

Over  the  unshaped  images  which  lie 

Within  my  mind's  cave  :  only  leaving  all, 


PAULINE.  39 

That  tells  of  the  past  doubts.     So,  when  spring  comes, 

And  sunshine  comes  again  like  an  old  smile, 

And  the  fresh  waters  and  awakened  birds 

And  budding  woods  await  us,  I  shall  be 

Prepared,  and  we  will  go  and  think  again, 

And  all  old  loves  shall  come  to  us,  but  changed 

As  some  sweet  thought  which  harsh  words  veiled  before  ; 

Feeling  God  loves  us,  and  that  all  that  errs 

Is  a  strange  dream  which  death  will  dissipate. 

And  then  when  I  am  firm,  we'll  seek  again 

My  own  land,  and  again  I  will  approach 

My  old  designs,  and  calmly  look  on  all 

The  works  of  my  past  weakness,  as  one  views 

Some  scene  where  danger  met  him  long  before. 

Ah  that  such  pleasant  life  should  be  but  dreamed  ! 

But  whatever  come  of  it,  and  though  it  fade, 

And  though  ere  the  cold  morning  all  be  gone, 

As  it  will  be ; — tho'  music  wait  for  me. 

And  fair  eyes  and  bright  wine  laughing  like  sin 

Which  steals  back  softly  on  a  soul  half  saved, 

And  I  be  first  to  deny  all,  and  despise 

This  verse,  and  these  intents  which  seem  so  fair, — 

Still  this  is  all  my  own,  this  moment's  pride, 

No  less  I  make  an  end  in  perfect  joy. 

E'en  in  my  brightest  time,  a  lurking  fear 

Possessed  me  :  I  well  knew  my  weak  resolves, 

I  felt  the  witchery  that  makes  mind  sleep 

Over  its  treasure,  as  one  half  afraid 


40  PAULINE. 

To  make  his  riches  definite :  but  now 

These  feeHngs  shall  not  utterly  be  lost, 

I  shall  not  know  again  that  nameless  care 

Lest,  leaving  all  undone  in  youth,  some  new 

And  undreamed  end  reveal  itself  too  late  : 

For  this  song  shall  remain  to  tell  for  ever 

That  when  I  lost  all  hope  of  such  a  change, 

Suddenly  beauty  rose  on  me  again. 

No  less  I  make  an  end  in  perfect  joy, 

For  I,  having  thus  again  been  visited, 

Shall  doubt  not  many  another  bliss  awaits, 

And,  though  this  weak  soul  sink  and  darkness  come, 

Some  little  word  shall  light  it  up  again. 

And  I  shall  see  all  clearer  and  love  better, 

I  shall  again  go  o'er  the  tracts  of  thought 

As  one  who  has  a  right,  and  I  shall  live 

With  poets,  calmer,  purer  still  each  time, 

And  beauteous  shapes  will  come  to  me  again, 

And  unknown  secrets  will  be  trusted  me 

Which  were  not  mine  when  wavering ;  but  now 

I  shall  be  priest  and  lover  as  of  old. 

Sun-treader,  I  believe  in  God  and  truth 
And  love ;  and  as  one  just  escaped  from  death 
Would  bind  himself  in  bands  of  friends  to  feel 
He  lives  indeed,  so,  I  would  lean  on  thee  ! 
Thou  must  be  ever  with  me,  most  in  gloom 
When  such  shall  come,  but  chiefly  when  I  die, 
For  I  seem,  dying,  as  one  going  in  the  dark 


41 


To  fight  a  giant :  and  live  thou  for  ever, 
And  be  to  all  what  thou  hast  been  to  me  ! 
All  in  whom  this  wakes  pleasant  thoughts  of  me, 
Know  my  last  state  is  happy,  free  from  doubt 
Or  touch  of  fear.     Love  me  and  wish  me  well ! 

Richmond, 
October  22,  1832. 


PARACELSUS. 


INSCRIBED  TO 

AMEDEE     DE     RI  P  E  RT-M  ON  C  L  AR 

BY  HIS  AFFECTIONATE   FRIEND 

R.    B. 

London,  March  15,  1835. 


Persons. 
AuREOLUS  Paracelsus,  a  student. 
Kestus  and  Michal,  his  friends. 
Aprile,  an  Italian  poet. 


PARACELSUS. 


L— PARACELSUS    ASPIRES. 

Scene,    Wurzbiirg ;  a  garden  in  the  environs.      15 12, 
Festus,  Paracelsus,  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  befits  their  home. 
Nor  shall  my  memory  want  a  home  in  yours — 
Alas,  that  it  requires  too  well  such  free 
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  ! 


46  PARACELSUS. 

— 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  our  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  which  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 
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 


PARACELSUS.  47 

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. 
Par,  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  :  that  plant 
Shall  never  wave  its  tangles  lightly  and  softly, 
As  a  queen's  languid  and  imperial  arm 
Which  scatters  crowns  among  her  lovers,  but  you 
Shall  be  reminded  to  predict  to  me 
Some  great  success  !     Ah  see,  the  sun  sinks  broad 
Behind  Saint  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,  I  thought  that  none 
Could  willing  leave  what  he  so  seemed  to  love  : 
But  that  last  look  destroys  my  dream — that  look 
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 


4^  PARACELSUS. 

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, — 

Needs  never  hesitate,  nor  apprehend 

Encroaching  trouble  may  have  reached  them  too. 

Nor  have  recourse  to  fancy's  busy  aid 

And  fashion  even  a  wish  in  their  behalf 

Beyond  what  they  possess  already  herq ; 

But,  unobstructed,  may  at  once  forget 

Itself  in  them,  assured  how  well  they  fare. 

Beside,  this  Festus  knows  he  holds  me  one 

Whom  quiet  and  its  charms  arrest  in  vain. 

One  scarce  aware  of  all  the  joys  I  quit, 

Too  filled  with  airy  hopes  to  make  account 

Of  soft  delights  his  own  heart  garners  up  : 

Whereas  behold  how  much  our  sense  of  all 

That's  beauteous  proves  alike !      When  Festus  learns 

That  every  common  pleasure  of  the  world 

Afifects  me  as  himself;  that  I  have  just 

As  varied  appetite  for  joy  derived 

From  common  things ;  a  stake  in  life,  in  short. 

Like  his  ;  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. 


PARACELSUS.  49 

Fest.  True  :  and  the  eve  is  deepening,  and  we  sit 
As  little  anxious  to  begin  our  talk 
As  though  to-morrow  I  could  hint  of  it 
As  we  paced  arm-in-arm  the  cheerful  town 
At  sun-dawn ;  or  could  whisper  it  by  fits 
(Trithemius  busied  with  his  class  the  while) 
In  that  dim  chamber  where  the  noon-streaks  peer 
Half-frightened  by  the  awful  tomes  around ; 
Or  in  some  grassy  lane  unbosom  all 
From  even-blush  to  midnight :  but,  to-morrow  ! 
Have  I  full  leave  to  tell  my  inmost  mind  ? 
We  have  been  brothers,  and  henceforth  the  world 
Will  rise  between  us  : — all  my  freest  mind  ? 
'T  is  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  ; 
And  still  increasing  to  this  night  which  ends 
My  further  stay  at  Wiirzburg.     Oh,  one  day 
You  shall  be  very  proud  !     Say  on,  dear  friends  ! 

Fest.    In  truth  ?     'T  is  for  my  proper  peace,  indeed, 
Rather  than  yours  ;  for  vain  all  projects  seem 
To  stay  your  course  :  I  said  my  latest  hope 

VOL.    L  4 


50  PARACELSUS. 

Is  fading  even  now.     A  story  tells 

Of  some  far  embassy  dispatched  to  win 

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  foretold. 

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 
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; 


PARACELSUS.  5 1 

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.  Wfien  you  deign 

To  hear  my  purpose  .  .  . 

Par,  Hear  it  ?     I  can  say 

Beforehand  all  this  evening's  conference  ! 
'T  is  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 
My  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 
An  oversight  to  be  repaired  :  in  fine 
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. 


5  2  PARACELSUS. 

When,  lo !  I  learn  that,  spite  of  all,  there  lurks 
Some  innate  and  inexplicable  germ 
Of  failure  in  my  scheme ;  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  no  God  there  were ; 
A  life  which,  prompted  by  the  sad  and  blind 
Folly  of  man,  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 ; 
Never  to  sorrow  that  uncertain  words 
Erringly  apprehended,  a  new  creed 
111  understood,  begot  rash  trust  in  you, 
Had  share  in  your  undoing. 

Par.  Choose  your  side. 

Hold  or  renounce  :  but  meanwhile  blame  me  not 


PARACELSUS.  53 

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 
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 — 't  was  mine  to  have  you  in  my  view 
As  you  had  your  own  soul  and  those  intents 


54  PARACELSUS. 

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,  Trithemius  condescends  to  teach 
A  portion  of  his  lore :  and  not  one  youth 
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. 
Now,  this  new  ardour  which  supplants  the  old, 
I  watched,  too ;  't  was  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 
What  it  professed  to  praise — though  not  so  well 
Maintained  but  that  rare  outbreaks,  fierce  and  brief, 
Revealed  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 


PARACELSUS.  55 

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  fate. 

— 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, — that  in  itself  alone 

Shall  its  reward  be,  not  an  alien  end 

Blending  therewith ;  no  hope  nor  fear  nor  joy 

Nor  woe,  to  elsewhere  move  you,  but  this  pure 

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 
My  ready  answer  to  the  will  of  God 


56  PARACELSUS. 

Who  summons  me  to  be  his  organ.     All 

Whose  innate  strength  supports  them  shall  succeed 

No  better  than  the  sages. 

Fest.  Such  the  aim,  then, 

God  sets  before  you ;  and  't  is  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  hold  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, 
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 


PARACELSUS.  57 

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 
Echpse  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 
Then  this  fierce  energy  ? — this  instinct  striving 
Because  its  nature  is  to  strive  ? — enticed 
By  the  security  of  no  broad  course, 
Without  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 
Do,  kept  among  you  all ;  your  loves,  your  cares. 
Your  life — ^^11  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 


58  PARACELSUS. 

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  there  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    all    Wisdom 

sprung; 
The  bright  South,  where  she  dwelt ;  the  hopeful  North, 
All  are  passed  o'er — it  lights  on  me  !     'T  is  time 
New  hopes  should  animate  the  world,  new  light 
Should  dawn  from  new  revealings  to  a  race 
Weighed  down  so  long,  forgotten  so  long ;  thus  shall 
The  heaven  reserved  for  us  at  last  receive 
Creatures  whom  no  unwonted  splendours  blind, 
But  ardent  to  confront  the  unclouded  blaze 


PARACELSUS.  59 

Whose  beams  not  seldom  blessed  their  pilgrimage, 
Not  seldom  glorified  their  life  below. 

Fest.  My  words  have  their  old  fate  and  make  faint  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, 
UnravelHng  the  knots  their  bafiied  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  new-hearted  force, 
As  at  old  games  the  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 
Where  yours  will  fall  the  first  of  human  feet  ? 
Has  wisdom  sat  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  ? 


6o  PARACELSUS. 

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  who  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  Stagirite 

Your  rivals  throng,  the  sages  :  here  stand  you  ! 

Whatever  you  may  protest,  knowledge  is  not 

Paramount  in  your  love  ;  or  for  her  sake 

You  would  collect  all  help  from  every  source — 

Rival,  assistant,  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 
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 


PARACELSUS.  6 1 

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  light 

Among  my  hair.     Youth  is  confused  j  yet  never 

So  dull  was  I  but,  when  that  spirit  passed, 

I  turned  to  him,  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  everlasting  concourse  of  mankind  ! 

Believe  that  ere  I  joined  them,  ere  I  knew 

The  purpose  of  the  pageant,  or  the  place 

Consigned  me  in  its  ranks — while,  just  awake, 

Wonder  was  freshest  and  delight  most  pure — 

'T  was  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 

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 


62  PARACELSUS. 

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, 
AVould  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  ! 

Msf.  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 
The  first  mad  impulse :  't  was  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 


PARACELSUS.  6^ 

"  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  counts 

A  marvel,  but  was  all-sufficient,  strong. 

Or  staggered  only  at  his  own  vast  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  sat  revolving  it  and  more, 

A  still  voice  from  without  said — "  Seest  thou  not, 

"  Desponding  child,  whence  spring  defeat  and  loss  ? 

"  Even  from  thy  strength.     Consider  :  hast  thou  gazed 

"  Presumptuously  on  wisdom's  countenance, 

"  No  veil  between ;  and  can  thy  faltering  hands, 

"  Unguided  by  the  brain  the  sight  absorbs, 

"  Pursue  their  task  as  earnest  blinkers  do 

"  Whom  radiance  ne'er  distracted  ?   Live  their  life 

"  If  thou  wouldst  share  their  fortune,  choose  their  eyes 


64  PARACELSUS. 

"  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  fellows'  studies,  whose  true  worth  I  saw. 
But  smiled  not,  well  aware  who  stood  by  me. 
And  softer  came  the  voice — ''  There  is  a  way  : 
"  'T  is  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 — 
"  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 


PARACELSUS.  65 

Thenceforward  ? — pregnant  with  vast  consequence, 

Teeming  with  grand  result,  loaded  with  fate  ? 

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  God  send  his  hail 

Or  Winding  fireballs,  sleet  or  stifling  snow, 

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

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

Mich,  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  marcher  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. 

Par.     Their  light !  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,  what  of  all  their  lore  abates? 
No  \  I  reject  and  spurn  them  utterly 

VOL.   L  5 


66  PARACELSUS. 

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  ? 

jFesf.  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. 

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

jPar.  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 
Ages  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, 
Dim  memories,  as  now,  when  once  more  seems 
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  belief,  explained  to  you  or  no. 

Fes^,  And  who  am  I,  to  challenge  and  dispute 


PARACELSUS.  67 

That  clear  belief?     I  will  divest  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 
'T  is  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  !     'T  is  true,  you  utter 
This  scorn  while  by  our  side  and  loving  us ; 
'T  is  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, 
None  share  your  triumph :  still  you  must  retain 
Some  one  to  cast  your  glory  on,  to  share 
Your  rapture  with.     Were  I  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 


6S  PARACELSUS. 

By  gentle  friends  who  made  my  cause  their  own. 

They  should  ward  off  fate's  envy — 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  ! 

Mic/i.  O  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  ?     Say  that  you  feel  this  ! 

Far.  I  feel 't  is  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  sages  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. 

/c^i"/.  But  do  not  cut  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,  unbound  to  them 
By  any  tie ;  nor  do  so,  Aureole  !     No — 


PARACELSUS.  69 

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 't  is  no  will  of  mine 
You  should  abjure  the  lofty  claims  you  make ; 
And  this  the  cause — I  can  no  longer  seek 
To  overlook  the  truth,  that  there  would  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  't  were  a  dispensation 
To  summon  meaner  spirits  to  do  their  will 
And  gather  round  them  at  their  need ;  inspiring 
Such  with  a  love  themselves  can  never  feel. 
Passionless  'mid  their  passionate  votaries. 
I  know  not  if  you  joy  in  this  or  no, 
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. 


yo  PARACELSUS. 

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  ! 
'T  is  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  ! 
— Warns  me  to  have  in  dread  no  quick  repulse. 
No  slow  defeat,  but  a  complete  success  : 
You  will  find  all  you  seek,  and  perish  so  ! 

Par.  [after  a  pause.']  Are  these  the  barren  firstfruits  of 
my  quest  ? 
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  justify  your  love  ;  and  will,  dear  friends. 
In  swerving  nothing  from  my  first  resolves. 
See,  the  great  moon  !  and  ere  the  mottled  owls 
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  choose  ;  and  then. 
If  that  career,  making  but  small  account 


PARACELSUS.  7 1 

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  lightly  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, 

Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 

Whence  the  imprisoned  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. 

As  little  knows  he  what  unlocks  their  fount. 

And  men  have  oft  grown  old  among  their  books 

To  die  case-hardened  in  their  ignorance. 

Whose  careless  youth  had  promised  what  long  years 

Of  unremitted  labour  ne'er  performed  : 


72  PARACELSUS. 

While,  contrary,  it  has  chanced  some  idle  day, 
To  autumn  loiterers  just  as  fancy-free 
As  the  midges  in  the  sun,  gives  birth  at  last 
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  a  soul 
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  enthrals  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 — oftenest  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 
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 
Accloys  the  spirit !    We  may  not  be  doomed 


PARACELSUS.  73 

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  thine  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, 

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  its  narrow  sphere. 

But  chose  to  figure  forth  another  world 

And  other  frames  meet  for  their  vast  desires, — 

And  all  a  dream  !     Thus  was  life  scorned  ;  but  life 

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

And  all  for  yielding  with  a  lively  spirit 

A  poor  existence,  parting  with  a  youth 

Like  those  who  squander  evejry  energy 

Convertible  to  good,  on  painted  toys. 

Breath-bubbles,  gilded  dust !     And  though  I  spurn 


74  PARACELSUS. 

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

Fest,  We  wait  you  when  you  rise  ! 


PARACELSUS.  75 

II.—PARACELSUS    ATTAINS. 
Scene,   Constantinople;  the  House  of  a  Greek  conjurer.     1 521. 

Paracelsus. 

Over  the  waters  in  the  vaporous  West 

The  sun  goes  down  as  in  a  sphere  of  gold 

Behind  the  arm  of  the  city,  which  between, 

With  all  that  length  of  domes  and  minarets, 

Athwart  the  splendour,  black  and  crooked  runs 

Like  a  Turk  verse  along  a  scimitar. 

There  lie,  sullen  memorial,  and  no  more 

Possess  my  aching  sight !     'T  is  done  at  last. 

Strange — and  the  juggles  of  a  sallow  cheat 

Have  won  me  to  this  act !     'T  is  as  yon  cloud 

Should  voyage  unwrecked  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  reached,  without  regard 

To  the  extent  above ;  fairly  compute 

All  I  have  clearly  gained ;  for  once  excluding 

A  brilliant  future  to  supply  and  perfect 

All  half-gains  and  conjectures  and  crude  hopes : 

And  all  because  a  fortune-teller  wills 

His  credulous  seekers  should  inscribe  thus  much. 

Their  previous  life's  attainment,  in  his  roll. 

Before  his  promised  secret,  as  he  vaunts, 

Make  up  the  sum :  and  here,  amid  the  scrawled 


76  PARACELSUS. 

Uncouth  recordings  of  the  dupes  of  this 
Old  arch-genethhac,  lie  my  life's  results ! 

A  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 ;  he  was 
Intent  on  gain  to  come  too  much  to  stay 
And  scrutinize  the  little  gained  :  the  whole 
Slipt  in  the  blank  space  'twixt  an  idiot's  gibber 
And  a  mad  lover's  ditty — there  it  lies. 

And  yet  those  blottings  chronicle  a  life — 

A  whole  life,  and  my  life  !     Nothing  to  do, 

No  problem  for  the  fancy,  but  a  life 

Spent  and  decided,  wasted  past  retrieve 

Or  worthy  beyond  peer.     Stay,  what  does  this 

Remembrancer  set  down  concerning  ''life?" 

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

"  It  is  the  echo  of  time ;  and  he  whose  heart 

"  Beat  first  beneath  a  human  heart,  whose  speech 

"  Was  copied  from  a  human  tongue,  can  never 

"  Recall  when  he  was  living  yet  knew  not  this. 

"  Nevertheless  long  seasons  pass  o'er  him 

"  Till  some  one  hour's  experience  shows  what  nothing, 

"  It  seemed,  could  clearer  show;  and  ever  after. 


PARACELSUS.  7  7 

*' An  altered  brow  and  eye  and  gait  and  speech 

^'  Attest  that  now  he  knows  the  adage  true 

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

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

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

'T  is  done.     I  must  desist  and  take  my  chance. 

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

For  let  but  some  assurance  beam,  some  close 

To  my  toil  grow  visible,  and  I  proceed 

At  any  price,  though  closing  it,  I  die. 

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  sang  it  o'er  the  sea  ? 

An  end,  a  rest !  strange  how  the  notion,  once 
Encountered,  gathers  strength  by  moments  !     Rest ! 
Where  has  it  kept  so  long  ?  this  throbbing  brow 
To  cease,  this  beating  heart  to  cease,  all  cruel 
And  gnawing  thoughts  to  cease  !     To  dare  let  down 
My  strung,  so  high-strung  brain,  to  dare  unnerve 
My  harassed  o'ertasked  frame,  to  know  my  place, 
My  portion,  my  reward,  even  my  failure, 
Assigned,  made  sure  for  ever  !     To  lose  myself 
Among  the  common  creatures  of  the  world, 
To  draw  some  gain  from  having  been  a  man, 


78  PARACELSUS. 

Neither  to  hope  nor  fear,  to  Hve  at  length  ! 

Even  in  failure,  rest !     But  rest  in  truth 

And  power  and  recompense  ...  I  hoped  that  once  ! 

What,  sunk  insensibly  so  deep  ?     Has  all 

Been  undergone  for  this  ?     This  the  request 

My  labour  qualified  me  to  present 

With  no  fear  of  refusal  ?     Had  I  gone 

Slightingly  through  my  task,  and  so  judged  fit 

To  moderate  my  hopes ;  nay,  were  it  now 

My  sole  concern  to  exculpate  myself. 

End  things  or  mend  them, — ^why,  I  could  not  choose 

A  humbler  mood  to  wait  for  the  event ! 

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-court  so  far 

That  he  descries  at  length  the  shrine  of  shrines. 

Must  let  no  sneering  of  the  demons'  eyes. 

Whom  he  could  pass  unquailing,  fasten  now 

Upon  him,  fairly  past  their  power ;  no,  no — 

He  must  not  stagger,  faint,  fall  down  at  last. 

Having  a  charm  to  bafile  them ;  behold. 

He  bares  his  front :  a  mortal  ventures  thus 

Serene  amid  the  echoes,  beams  and  glooms  ! 

If  he  be  priest  henceforth,  if  he  wake  up 

The  god  of  the  place  to  ban  and  blast  him  there, 


PARACELSUS.  79 

Both  well !     What 's  failure  or  success  to  me  ? 
I  have  subdued  my  life  to  the  one  purpose 
Whereto  I  ordained  it ;  there  alone  I  spy, 
No  doubt,  that  way  I  may  be  satisfied. 
Yes,  well  have  I  subdued  my  life  !  beyond 
The  obligation  of  my  strictest  vow. 
The  contemplation  of  my  wildest  bond, 
Which  gave  my  nature  freely  up,  in  truth. 
But  in  its  actual  state,  consenting  fully 
All  passionate  impulses  its  soil  was  formed 
To  rear,  should  wither ;  but  foreseeing  not 
The  tract,  doomed  to  perpetual  barrenness. 
Would  seem  one  day,  remembered  as  it  was, 
Beside  the  parched  sand-waste  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,  't  is  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 
Einsiedeln,  now,  and  W^iirzburg  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 
With  the  sweet  maiden,  long  ago  his  bride  ? 
I  surely  loved  them — that  last  night,  at  least, 


8o  PARACELSUS. 

When  we  .  .  .  gone  !  gone  !  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  my  future  plans. 

Since  I  had  just  determined  to  become 

The  greatest  and  most  glorious  man  on  earth. 

And  since  that  morn  all  life  has  been  forgotten ; 

All  is  one  day,  one  only  step  between 

The  outset  and  the  end  :  one  tyrant  all- 

Absorbing  aim  fills  up  the  interspace. 

One  vast  unbroken  chain  of  thought,  kept  up 

Through  a  career  apparently  adverse 

To  its  existence  :  life,  death,  light  and  shadow, 

The  shows  of  the  world,  were  bare  receptacles 

Or  indices  of  truth  to  be  wrung  thence, 

Not  ministers  of  sorrow  or  delight  : 

A  wondrous  natural  robe  in  which  she  went. 

For  some  one  truth  would  dimly  beacon  me 


PARACELSUS.  8 1 

From  mountains  rough  with  pines,  and  flit  and  wink 

O'er  dazzHng  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 ; 

I  see  the  robe  now — then  I  saw  the  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  gulf  streaked  with  light 

From  its  own  putrefying  depths  alone. 

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

Now,  any  miserable  juggle  can  bid 

My  .pride  depart.     All  is  alike  at  length  : 

God  may  take  pleasure  in  confounding  pride 

By  hiding  secrets  with  the  scorned  and  base — 

I  am  here,  in  short :  so  little  have  I  paused 

Throughout !     I  never  glanced  behind  to  know 

If  I  had  kept  my  primal  light  from  wane, 

And  thus  insensibly  am — 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 

VOL.    I.  6 


82  PARACELSUS. 

To  light  beside  its  darkness.     Let  me  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  supreme  and  pure  as  ever  ! 
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  ! 

'T  was  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  't  is  all  or  nothing.     Mighty  profit 

Your  gains  will  bring  if  they  stop  short  of  such 

Full  consummation  !     As  a  man,  you  had 

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 't  is  much,  surely  't  is  very  much, 


PARACELSUS.  S^ 

Thus  to  have  emptied  youth  of  all  its  gifts, 
To  feed  a  fire  meant  to  hold  out  till  morn 
Arrived  with  inexhaustible  light ;  and  lo, 
I  have  heaped  up  my  last,  and  day  dawns  not ! 
And  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  oif  for  death's  sake  ? 

God  !     Thou  art  mind  !     Unto  the  master-mind 

Mind  should  be  precious.     Spare  my  mind  alone  1 

All  else  I  will  endure ;  if,  as  I  stand 

Here,  with  my  gains,  thy  thunder  smite  me  down, 

I  bow  me ;  't  is  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 

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  1 

Hold  me  before  the  frequence  of  thy  seraphs 

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


84  PARACELSUS. 

"  My    law.       Men    must    not    know    their    strength : 

behold, 
^'  Weak  and  alone,  how  he  had  raised  himself !  " 

But  if  delusions  trouble  me,  and  thou. 

Not  seldom  felt  with  rapture  in  thy  help 

Throughout  my  toils  and  wanderings,  dost  intend 

To  work  man's  welfare  through  my  weak  endeavour, 

To  crown  my  mortal  forehead  with  a  beam 

From  thine  own  blinding  crown,  to  smile,  and  guide 

This  puny  hand  and  let  the  work  so  wrought 

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  ! 

Give  but  one  hour  of  my  first  energy. 

Of  that  invincible  faith,  but  only  one  ! 

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  ?    I  '11  not  believe 

But  some  undoubted  warning  long  ere  this 

Had  reached  me  :  a  fire-labarum  was  not  deemed 

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, 


PARACELSUS.  85 

A  pausing  and  reflecting  joy,  't  is  plain, 

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 ! 

No  man  could  ever  offend  as  I  have  done  .  .  . 

[A  voice  from  within.'] 

I  hear  a  voice,  perchance  I  heard 

Long  ago,  but  all  too  low. 

So  that  scarce  a  care  it  stirred 

If  the  voice  were  real  or  no : 

I  heard  it  in  my  youth  when  first 

The  waters  of  my  life  outburst  : 

But,  now  their  stream  ebbs  faint,  I  hear 

That  voice,  still  low  but  fatal-clear — 

As  if  all  poets,  God  ever  meant 

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. 

So,  mourn  cast  ofl"  by  him  for  ever, — 

As  if  these  leaned  in  airy  ring 

To  take  me ;  this  the  song  they  sing. 


S6  PARACELSUS. 

"  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  sank  we  in  those  old  years. 
We  who  bid  thee,  come  !  thou  last 
Who,  living  yet,  hast  life  o'erpast. 
And  altogether  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. 
Yet  we  trusted  thou  shouldst  speak 
The  message  which  our  lips,  too  weak, 
Refused  to  utter, — shouldst  redeem 
Our  fault :  such  trust,  and  all  a  dream  I 
Yet  we  chose  thee  a  birthplace 
Where  the  richness  ran  to  flowers ; 
Couldst  not  sing  one  song  for  grace? 
Not  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  1 


PARACELSUS.  87 

How  couldst  understand,  alas, 

What  our  pale  ghosts  strove  to  say, 

As  their  shades  did  glance  and  pass 

Before  thee,  night  and  day  ? 

Thou  wast  blind  as  we  were  dumb : 

Once  more,  therefore,  come,  O  come ! 

How  shall  we  clothe,  how  arm  the  spirit 

Shall  next  thy  post  of  life  inherit — 

How  guard  him  from  thy  speedy  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  !  " 

Aprile  enters. 

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 ! 
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  robes  him  in  my  robe  and  grasps  my  crown 
For  just  a  fault,  a  weakness,  a  neglect  ? 


88  PARACELSUS. 

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. 
Truly,  thou  hast  laboured,  hast  withstood  her  lips. 
The  siren's  !     Yes,  't  is  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.  Ah  fiend,  I  know  thee,  I  am  not  thy  dupe  ! 
Thou  art  ordained  to  follow  in  my  track, 
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  hadst  searched  or  striven  ! 
Ay,  tell  the  world  !     Degrade  me,  after  all. 
To  an  aspirant  after  fame,  not  truth — 
To  all  but  envy  of  thy  fate,  be  sure  ! 

Apr.  Nay,  sing  them  to  me ;  I  shall  envy  not : 
Thou  shalt  be  king  !     Sing  thou,  and  I  will  sit 
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-strings,  as  some  crystal-shaft 
Reveals  by  some  chance  blaze  its  parent  fount 


PARACELSUS.  69 

After  long  time  :  so  thou  reveal'st  my  soul. 
All  will  flash  forth  at  last,  with  thee  to  hear  ! 

Par.  (His  secret !     I  shall  get  his  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,  but  neglected  all  the  means 
Of  realizing  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. 
I  would  love  infinitely  .  .  .  Ah,  lost !  lost ! 
O  ye  who  armed  me  at  such  cost. 
How  shall  I  look  on  all  of  ye 
With  your  gifts  even  yet  on  me  ? 

Par.  (Ah,  't  is  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 


90  PARACELSUS. 

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  saddbst  blue 

Nearly  set  free,  so  far  they  rise  above 

The  painful  fruitless  striving  of  the  brow 

And  enforced  knowledge  of  the  lips,  firm-set 

In  slow  despondency's  eternal  sigh  ! 

Has  he,  too,  missed  life's  end,  and  learned  the  cause  ?) 

I  charge  thee,  by  thy  fealty,  be  calm ! 

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  lifted 
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  for  his  white  locks ;  no  youth  who  stands 
Silent  and  very  calm  amid  the  throng, 
His  right  hand  ever  hid  beneath  his  robe 
Until  the  tyrant  pass  ;  no  lawgiver. 
No  swan-soft  woman  rubbed  with  lucid  oils 
Given  by  a  god  for  love  of  her — too  hard  ! 
Every  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. 
Oh,  if  you  marvelled  at  some  mighty  spirit 


PARACELSUS.  9 1 

With  a  fit  frame  to  execute  its  will — 

Even  unconsciously  to  work  its  will — 

You  should  be  moved  no  less  beside  some  strong, 

Rare  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,  "  His  sprites  created, 

^'  God  grants  to  each  a  sphere  to  be  its  world, 

"  Appointed  with  the  various  objects  needed 

^'  To  satisfy  its  own  peculiar  want ; 

"  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  labyrinth,  palace,  pyramid  and  crypt. 

Baths,  galleries,  courts,  temples  and  terraces. 

Marts,  theatres  and  wharfs — all  filled  with  men. 

Men  ever^^here  !     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 ;  all  passions. 


92  PARACELSUS. 

All  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  wayside  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  motions  of  the  soul,  no  way 

To  be  defined  save  in  strange  melodies. 

Last,  having  thus  revealed  all  I  could  love, 

Having  received  all  love  bestowed  on  it, 

I  would  die  :  preserving  so  throughout  my  course 

God  full  on  me,  as  I  was  full  on  men : 

He  would  approve  my  prayer,  ^'  I  have  gone  through 

"  The  loveliness  of  life  ;  create  for  me 

"  If  not  for  men,  or  take  me  to  thyself, 

"  Eternal,  infinite  love  !  " 

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. 

I^ar.  Ah  me  ! 

Aj}r.  But  thou  art  here  ! 

Thou  didst  not  gaze  like  me  upon  that  end 
Till  thine  own  powers  for  compassing  the  bliss 


PARACELSUS.  93 

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,  't  is  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. 

We  will  be  wise  in  time :  what  though  our  work 

Be  fashioned  in  despite  of  their  ill-service, 

Be  crippled  every  way  ?     'T  were  little  praise 

Did  full  resources  wait  on  our  goodwill 

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 

Answering  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 ; 

Who  heeds  them  ?  I  can  pass  them.     Serpents'  scales, 

And  painted  birds'  down,  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 


94  PARACELSUS. 

"  The  purple  carpets,  as  these  mats  are  laid, 

"  Woven  of  fern  and  rush  and  blossoming  flag." 

Or  if,  by  fortune,  some  completer  grace 

Be  spared  to  me,  some  fragment,  some  slight  sample 

Of  the  prouder  workmanship  my  own  home  boasts. 

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  I  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  to  them,  worthless  or  true — 

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

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

"  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  ! 


PARACELSUS.  95 

"  And  guess,  from  what  they  are,  the  springs  that  fed 

them, 
"  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  'vyays,  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,  't  would  be  but  the  selfsame  spirit,  clothed 
In  humbler  guise,  but  still  the  selfsame  spirit : 
As  one  spring  wind  unbinds  the  mountain  snow 
And  comforts  violets  in  their  hermitage. 
But,  master,  poet,  who  hast  done  all  this. 
How  didst  thou  'scape  the  ruin  whelming  me  ? 
Didst  thou,  when  nerving  thee  to  this  attempt. 
Ne'er  range  thy  mind's  extent,  as  some  wide  hall, 
Dazzled  by  shapes  that  filled  its  length  with  light, 
Shapes  clustered  there  to  rule  thee,  not  obey. 
That  will  not  wait  thy  summons,  will  not  rise 


96  PARACELSUS. 

Singly,  nor  when  thy  practised  eye  and  hand 

Can  well  transfer  their  loveliness,  but  crowd 

By  thee  for  ever,  bright  to  thy  despair  ? 

Didst  thou  ne'er  gaze  on  each  by  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,  wast  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  ever 

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. 

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  eyes,  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 ; 


PARACELSUS.         ,  97 

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  ankles  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 
Thine  eyes  are  hid.     'T  is  as  I  knew :  I  speak. 
And  now  I  die.     But  I  have  seen  thy  face  ! 
O  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. 

VOL.   I.  7 


98  .         PARACELSUS. 

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  !    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  his  person  acts  his  own  creations. 
Had  you  but  told  me  this  at  first !     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  !  't  is  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,  one  little  word,  Aprile  ! 


PARACELSUS.  99 

Apr.  No,  no.     Crown  me  ?     I  am  not  one  of  you  ! 
'T  is  he,  the  king,  you  seek.     I  am  not  one. 

Par,  Thy  spirit,  at  least,  Aprile  !     Let  me  love  ! 

I  have  attained,  and  now  I  may  depart. 


IIL^PARACELSUS. 

Scene,  Basil ;  a  chamber  in  the  house  of  Paracelsus.     1526. 
Paracelsus,  Festus. 

Par.  Heap  logs  and  let  the  blaze  laugh  out ! 

Fest.  True,  true  ! 

'T  is  very  fit  all,  time  and  chance  and  change 
Have  wrought  since  last  we  sat  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, 
Forgotten  in  this  glad  unhoped  renewal 
Of  our  affections. 

Par.  Oh,  omit  not  aught 

Which  witnesses  your  own  and  Michal's  own 
Affection  :  spare  not  that  !     Only  forget 
The  honours  and  the  glories  and  what  not, 
It  pleases  you  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, 


lOO  PARACELSUS. 

Still  Aureole  and  my  friend  as  when  we  parted 
Some  twenty  years  ago,  and  I  restrained 
As  best  I  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, 
Sat  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 

Unsettled  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. 


PARACELSUS. 

And  Michal  may  become  her  motherhood ; 
But  't  is  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  sat,  long  winter-nights. 
Scheming  and  wondering,  shaping  your  presumed 
Adventure,  or  devising  its  reward ; 
Shutting  out  fear  with  all  the  strength  of  hope. 
For  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 — 
How  you  would  laugh  should  I  recount  them  now  ! 
I  still  predicted  your  return  at  last 
With  gifts  beyond  the  greatest  of  them  all, 
All  Tritheim's  wondrous  troop ;  did  one  of  which 
Attain  renown  by  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  ! 


102  PARACELSUS. 

Fest.  Oh,  no  :  the  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  gravely 
As  an  acknowledged  elder,  calmer,  wiser, 
More  gifted  mortal.     O  you  must  remember, 
For  all  your  glorious  .  .  . 

Par,  Glorious  ?  ay,  this  hair. 

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

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  !    'T  were  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  ; 
You  will  best  gain  your  point,  by  talking,  not 
Of  me,  but  of  yourself. 

Fest  Have  I  not  said 


PARACELSUS.  I03 

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 !  't  is  too  much  to  ask 
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  .  .  . 

Far.  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 
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  before, 
Having  lain  long  with  blank  and  soulless  eyes. 
He  sat  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,  harebells  grew  in  June ; 
And  all  that  kings  could  ever  give  or  take 
Would  not  be  precious  as  those  blooms  to  him. 


I04  PARACELSUS. 

Just  SO,  allowing  I  am  passing  sage, 

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  instance,  willing  other  men 

Should  be  at  pains,  demonstrate  to  itself 

The  realness  of  the  very  joy  it  tastes. 

What  should  delight  me  like  the  news  of  friends 

Whose  memories  were  a  solace  to  me  oft. 

As  mountain-baths  to  wild  fowls  in  their  flight? 

Ofter  than  you  had  wasted  thought  on  me 

Had  you  been  wise,  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  ejiough.     I  saw  you  not. 
Surely  you  know  I  am  engaged  to  fill 
The  chair  here  ? — that 't  is  part  of  my  proud  fate 
To  lecture  to  as  many  thick-skulled  youths 
As  please,  each  day,  to  throng  the  theatre, 
To  my  great  reputation,  and  no  small 

*  Citrinula    (flammula)     herba    Paracelso    multum    familiaris. 

DORN. 


PARACELSUS.  I05 

Danger  of  Basil's  benches  long  unused 
To  crack  beneath  such  honour? 

Fest.  I  was  there ; 

I  mingled  with  the  throng :  shall  I  avow 
Small  care  was  mine  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 ;  yet  they  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  labour 
— At  least  in  substance  ?     Nought  so  worth  the  gaining 
As  an  apt  scholar !     Thus  then,  with  all  due 
Precision  and  emphasis — you,  beside,  are  clearly 
Guiltless  of  understanding  more,  a  whit. 
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  strangely 
To  thinking  men  \  a  smile  were  better  far  \ 


1 06  PARACELSUS. 

So,  make  me  smile  !     If  the  exulting  look 
You  wore  but  now  be  smiling,  't  is  so  long 
Since  I  have  smiled !     Alas,  such  smiles  are  born 
Alone  of  hearts  like  yours,  or  herdsmen's  souls 
Of  ancient  time,  whose  eyes,  calm  as  their  flocks. 
Saw  in  the  stars  mere  garnishry  of  heaven, 
And  in  the  earth  a  stage  for  altars  only. 
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  Michal,  yes,  her  soft  lips  whispered  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, 
Dazzled  by  your  resplendent  course,  might  find 
Henceforth  less  sweetness  in  his  own,  could  move 
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  gulled  ! 
They  will  not  look  nor  think  ;  't  is  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. 


PARACELSUS.  I07 

Would  look  at  me,  once  close,  with  piercing  eye 

Untroubled  by  the  false  glare  that  confounds 

A  weaker  vision  j  would  remain  serene, 

Though  singular  amid  a  gaping  throng. 

I  feared  you,  or  I  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  !     'T  is  vain  to  fret  at  it. 

I  have  vowed  long  ago  my  worshippers 

Shall  owe  to  their  own  deep  sagacity 

All  further  information,  good  or  bad. 

Sm.all  risk  indeed  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 

.  Remained  unchanged  in  semblance  ;  nay,  his  brow 

Was  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  sulHes  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 't  is  past  their  power  to  comprehend  ? 
I  should  not  strive  now  :  only,  having  nursed 
The  faint  surmise  that  one  yet  walked  the  earth, 


I08  PARACELSUS. 

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  mad 

And  ruinous  course,  the  converse  of  his  own, 

His  gentle  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  it  by  right  should  have  increased  despair  : 

— Having  believed,  I  say,  that  this  one  man 

Could  never  lose  the  light  thus  from  the  first 

His  portion — how  should  I  refuse  to  grieve 

At  even  my  gain  if  it  disturb  our  old 

Relation,  if  it  make  me  out  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  miserable  ;  't  is  said  at  last ;  nor  you 

Give  credit,  lest  you  force  me  to  concede 

That  common  sense  yet  lives  upon  the  world  ! 

Fest.  You  surely  do  not  mean  to  banter  me? 

Par,  You  know,  or-  -if  you  have  been  wise  enough 


PARACELSUS.  lOQ 

To  cleanse  your  memory  of  such  matters — knew, 

As  far  as  words  of  mine  could  make  it  clear, 

That 't  was  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  then  only  when  mischance  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  have  right 

To  vex  your  frank  good  spirit  late  so  glad 

In  my  supposed  prosperity,  I  know, 

And,  were  I  lucky  in  a  glut  of  friends, 

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  godsend, 

My  solitary  luxury,  my  one  friend  : 

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  niy  friend ! 

Not  that  he  needs  retain  his  aspect  grave ; 

That  answers  not  my  purpose ;  for  't  is  like. 

Some  sunny  morning — Basil  being  drained 


no  PARACELSUS. 

Of  its  wise  population,  every  corner 
Of  the  amphitheatre  crammed  with  learned  clerks, 
Here  (Ecolampadius,  looking  worlds  of  wit, 
Here  Castellanus,  as  profound  as  he, 
Munsterus  here,  Frobenius  there,  all  squeezed 
And  staring, — that  the  zany  of  the  show. 
Even  Paracelsus,  shall  put  off  before  them 
His  trappings  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  ! 
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. 
'T  is  not  thus  you  would  trust  a  trouble  to  me, 
To  Michal's  friend. 

Par.  I  have  said  it,  dearest  Festus  ! 

For  the  manner,  't  is  ungracious  probably ; 
You  may  have  it  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  j  it  must  oft  fall  out 


PARACELSUS.  1 1 

That  one  whose  labour  perfects  any  work, 
Shall  rise  from  it  with  eye  so  worn  that  he 
Of  all  men  least  can  measure  the  extent 
Of  what  he  has  accomphshed.     He  alone 
Who,  nothing  tasked,  is  nothing  weary  too, 
May  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 !     'T  is  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. 
They  look  for  every  inch  of  ground  to  vanish 
Beneath  his  tread,  so  sure  they  spy  success ! 

Fest.  Few  doubtful  steps  ?  when  death  retires  before 
Your  presence — when  the  noblest  of  mankind, 
Broken  in  body  or  subdued  in  soul. 
May  through  your  skill  renew  their  vigour,  raise 
The  shattered  frame  to  pristine  stateliness  ? 
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  .  .  . 


112  PARACELSUS. 

Par.       When  and  where,  the  devil,  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 
Precise  enough  in  the  main  ;  and  hereupon 
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  realized  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  matter 
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  't  were  best  to  change  a  theme 


PARACELSUS.  II3 

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  peace. 

To  judge  by  any  good  their  prayers  effect : 

I  knew  you  would  have  helped  me — why  not  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,  they  miss 

Your  lone  sad  sunny  idleness  of  heaven. 

Our  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, 

VOL.    L  8 


114  PARACELSUS. 

Your  will  unfaltering,  and  in  spite  of  this, 

You  have  experienced  a  defeat,  why  then 

I  say  not  you  would  cheerfully  withdraw 

From  contest — mortal  hearts  are  not  so  fashioned- 

But  surely  you  would  ne'ertheless  withdraw. 

You  sought  not  fame  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 ! 
I  spoke  not  of  my  little  labours  here 
But  of  the  break-down  of  my  general  aims  : 
For  you,  aware  of  their  extent  and  scope. 
To  look  on  these  sage  lecturings,  approved 
By  beardless  boys,  and  bearded  dotards  worse, 
As  a  fit  consummation  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, — 
Be  it  far  from  me  to  deny  my  power 
To  fill  the  petty  circle  lotted  out 
Of  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 


PARACELSUS.  1 1 5 

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  another  piebald  knave 

Of  the  same  brotherhood  (he  loved  them  ever) 

Was  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 


Il6  PARACELSUS. 

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  :  last  of  all  were  joined 

Ample  directions  to  all  loyal  folk 

To  swell  the  complement  by  seizing  me 

Who — doubtless  some  rank  sorcerer — 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,  licences,  diplomas,  titles 

From  Germany,  France,  Spain  and  Italy; 

They  authorize  some  honour ;  neertheless, 

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 


^PARACELSUS.  1 1  7 

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  't  is  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. 

Fest.  You  do  not  think  I  comprehend  a  word. 
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  idle,  and  further  effort 
To  mend  and  patch  what's  marred  beyond  repairing, 
As  useless :  and  all  this  was  taught  your  friend 
By  the  convincing  good  old-fashioned  method 
Of  force — by  sheer  compulsion.     Is  that  plain  ? 

Fest.  Dear  Aureole,  can  it  be  my  fears  were  just? 
God  wills  not .  .  . 

Par.  Now,  't  is  this  I  most  admire — 

The  constant  talk  men  of  your  stamp  keep  up 
Of  God's  will,  as  they  style  it ;  one  would  swear 


Il8  PARACELSUS. 

Man  had  but  merely  to  uplift  his  eye, 

And  see  the  will  in  question  charactered 

On  the  heaven's  vault.     'T  is  hardly  wise  to  moot 

Such  topics  :  doubts  are  many  and  faith  is  weak. 

I  know  as  much  of  any  will  of  God 

As  knows  some  dumb  and  tortured  brute  what  Man, 

His  stern  lord,  wills  from  the  perplexing  blows 

That  plague  him  every  way ;  but  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 

Why  I  deserve  to  fail,  as  why  I  hoped 

Better  things  in  my  youth.     I  simply  know 

I  am  no  master  here,  but  trained  and  beaten 

Into  the  path  I  tread ;  and  here  I  stay, 

Until  some  further  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  afiect; 

Nay,  some  which  please  me  too,  for  all  my  pride — 

Pleasures  that  once  were  pains  :  the  iron  ring 

Festering  about  a  slave's  neck  grows  at  length 

Into  the  flesh  it  eats.     I  hate  no  longer 

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 


PARACELSUS.  1 1 9 

Springs  up  a  fungous  brood  sickly  and  pale, 
Chill  mushrooms  coloured  like  a  corpse's  cheek. 

Fest.  If  I  interpret  well  your  words,  I  own 
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 
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  't  were  rosy  strewn. 
'T  is  well :  and  your  reward,  or  soon  or  late, 
Will  come  from  him  whom  no  man  serves  in  vain. 

Par.  Ah,  very  fine  !     For  my  part,  I  conceive 
The  very  pausing  from  all  further  toil. 
Which  you  find  heinous,  would  become  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  lavished, 
As  if  their  preservation  had  been  first 
And  foremost  in  my  thoughts ;  and  this  strange  fact 
Humbled  me  wondrously,  and  had  due  force 


120  PARACELSUS. 

In  rendering  me  the  less  averse  to  follow 
A  certain  counsel,  a  mysterious  warning — 
You  will  not  understand — ^but  't  was  a  man 
With  aims  not  mine  and  yet  pursued  like  mine, 
With  the  same  fervour  and  no  more  success, 
Perishing  in  my  sight ;  who  summoned  me 
As  I  would  shun  the  ghastly  fate  I  saw, 
To  serve  my  race  at  once ;  to  wait  no  longer 
That  God  should  interfere  in  my  behalf. 
But  to  distrust  myself,  put  pride  away. 
And  give  my  gains,  imperfect  as  they  were, 
To  men.     I  have  not  leisure  to  explain 
How,  since,  a  singular  series  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 
'T  is  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  fairly  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  apprise  us 


PARACELSUS. 

We  sin ;  God's  intimations  rather  fail 
In  clearness  than  in  energy  :  't  were  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.  Be  you  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 : 
They  praise  you  here  as  one  whose  lore,  already 
Divulged,  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, 
Remove  the  full  half  sheer  amazement  draws. 
Mere  novelty,  nought  else  j  and  next,  the  tribe 
Whose  innate  blockish  dulness  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  set 
Who'  bitterly  hate  established  schools,  and  help 
The  teacher  that  oppugns  them,  till  he  once 
Have  planted  his  own  doctrine,  when  the  teacher 


122  PARACELSUS. 

May  reckon  on  their  rancour  in  his  turn  ; 
Take,  too,  the  sprinkHng  of  sagacious  knaves 
Whose  cunning  runs  not  counter  to  the  vogue 
But  seeks,  by  flattery  and  crafty  nursing, 
To  force  my  system  to  a  premature 
Short-hved  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. 
Worthy  to  look  for  sympathy  and  service, 
And  likely  to  draw  profit  from  my  pains. 

Fest.  'T  is  no  encouraging  picture  :  still  these  few 
Redeem  their  fellows.     Once  the  germ  implanted, 
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  ! 
These  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 


PARACELSUS.  1 23 

Another.  With  renown  first  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  of  so  Httle  use. 
Why  not  throw  up  the  irksome  charge  at  once  ? 

Par.  A  task,  a  task  !  , 

But  wherefore  hide  the  whole 
Extent  of  degradation,  once  engaged 
In  the  confessing  vein  ?     Despite  of  all 
My  fine  talk  of  obedience  and  repugnance, 
Docility  and  what  not,  't  is  yet  to  learn 
If  when  the  task  shall  really  be  performed. 
My  inclination  free  to  choose  once  more, 
I  shall  do  aught  but  slightly  modify 
The  nature  of  the  hated  task  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 ; 


124  '  PARACELSUS. 

This  intricate  machine  whose  most  minute 

And  meanest  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 

Its  proper  cravings — not  to  ail  nor  pine 

So  he  but  prosper — whither  drag  this  poor 

Tried  patient  body  ?     God  !  how  I  essayed 

To  live  like  that  mad  poet,  for  a  while. 

To  love  alone ;  and  how  I  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  began  ! 

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  imprint ; 

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  word 

To  further  my  own  aim  !     For  other  men, 

Beauty  is  prodigally  strewn  around, 

And  I  were  happy  could  I  quench  as  they 


PARACELSUS.  1 25 

This  mad  and  thriveless  longing,  and  content  me 

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  arrive, 

I  shall  o'ertake  the  company  and  ride 

Glittering  as  they  J 

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  friend,  my  friend, 

I  tell,  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  brow,  look  upon  the  languid  eye. 
And  thence  divine  the  rest.     Must  I  lay  bare 
My  heart,  hideous  and  beating,  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  :  't  will  be  worth  the  while. 


126  PARACELSUS. 

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

Par.  Oh,  doubtless  !     A  sick  wretch  describes  the  ape 
That  mocks  him  from  the  bed-foot,  and  all  gravely 
You  thither  turn  at  once  :  or  he  recounts 
The  perilous  journey  he  has  late  performed. 
And  you  are  puzzled  much  how  that  could  be  ! 
You  find  me  here,  half  stupid  and  half  mad ; 
It  makes  no  part  of  my  delight  to  search 
Into  these  matters,  much  less  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  and  no  shame  ? 
Will  you  guess  nothing  ?  will  you  spare  me  nothing  ? 
Must  I  go  deeper  ?    Ay  or  no  ? 

Fest.  Dear  friend  .  .  . 

Par.  True  :  I  am  brutal — 't  is  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 
'T  is  like  to  ply  men  in  the  sickliest  part. 
You  are  to  understand  that  we  who  make 


PARACELSUS.  I  2  7 

Sport  for  the  gods,  are  hunted  to  the  end  : 

There  is  not  one  sharp  volley  shot  at  us, 

Which  'scaped  with  life,  though  hurt,  we  slacken  pace 

And  gather  by  the  wayside  herbs  and  roots 

To  staunch  our  wounds,  secure  from  further  harm  : 

We  are  assailed  to  life's  extremest  verge. 

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,  Festus,  you  say  well :  I  am 
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. 
If  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,  surpass 
Base  natures  in  the  practices  which  woke 
Its  most  indignant  loathing  once  .  .  .  No,  no  ! 


128  PARACELSUS. 

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  certain  't  is 
There 's  little  cheer  in  all  this  dismal  work. 
But  was  it  my  desire  to  set  abroach 
Such  memories  and  forebodings  ?    I  foresaw 
Where  they  would  drive.     'T  were  better  we  discuss 
News  from  Lucerne  or  Zurich  ;  ask  and  tell 
Of  Egypt's  flaring  sky  or  Spain's  cork-groves. 

J^est    I  have  thought:    trust  me,  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 
Is  to  be  plied  with  trials  manifold. 
Look  round  !     The  obstacles  which  kept  the  rest 
From  your  ambition,  have  been  spurned  by  you ; 
Their  fears,  their  doubts,  the  chains  that  bind  them  all. 
Were  flax  before  your  resolute  soul,  which  nought 
Avails  to  awe  save  these  delusions  bred 
From  its  own  strength,  its  selfsame  strength  disguised, 
Mocking  itself     Be  brave,  dear  Aureole  !     Since 
The  rabbit  has  his  shade  to  frighten  him. 
The  fawn  a  rustling  bough,  mortals  their  cares. 
And  higher  natures  yet  would  slight  and  laugh 
At  these  entangling  fantasies,  as  you 


PARACELSUS.  1 29 

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  I 

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

Fest.  You  hold 

That  admiration  blinds  ?. 

Par,  Ay  and  alas  1 

Fest.  Nought  blinds  you  less  than  admiration,  friend  ! 
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,  since  all  love  assimilates  the  soul 

VOL.    L  9 


130  PARACELSUS. 

To  what  it  loves,  it  should  at  length  become 

Almost  a  rival  of  its  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,  't  will  be  from  such  as  love, 

Their  zeal  will  gather  most  to  serve  their  cause ; 

And  least  from  those  who  hate,  who  most  essay 

By  contumely  and  scorn  to  blot  the  light 

Which  forces  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  reveal  endears  you  more. 

Like  the  far  traces  of  decay  in  suns. 

I  bid  you  have  good  cheer  ! 

Par,  PrcEclare!  Optune  ! 

Think  of  a  quiet  mountain-cloistered  priest 
Instructing  Paracelsus  !  yet 't  is  so. 
Come,  I  will  show  you  where  my  merit  lies. 
'T  is  in  the  advance  of  individual  minds 
That  the  slow  crowd  should  ground  their  expectation 
Eventually  to  follow  ;  as  the  sea 


PARACELSUS.  I31 

Waits  ages  in  its  bed  'till  some  one  wave 

Out  of  the  multitudinous  mass,  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. 

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  his  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  fall 

Sooner  before  the  old  awkward  batterings 

Than  my  more  subtle  warfare,  not  half  learned. 

Fest.     I  would  supply  that  art,  then,  or  withhold 
New  arms  until  you  teach  their  mystery. 

Par,  Content  you,  't  is  my  wish  \  I  have  recourse 


132  PARACELSUS. 

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'  bow,  Achilles'  shield — 
Flash  on  us,  all  in  armour,  thou  Achilles  ! 
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-time ; 
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  j  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,  caught 
While  bent  on  nobler  prize, — perhaps  a  few 
Prime  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 


PARACELSUS.  1 33 

Revert  to  the  wild  courses  just  abjured : 

I  must  go  find  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. 

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,  Rhasis, 

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  CEcolampadius.     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.     'T  was  he 
Apprised  me  that  the  famous  teacher  here 
Was  my  old  friend. 


134  PARACELSUS. 

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  .  .  . 

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  rest  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.  'T  is  a  wondrous  soul ! 

Par.  True  :  the  so-heavy  chain  which  galled  mankind 
Is  shattered,  and  the  noblest  of  us  all 


PARACELSUS.  1 35 

Must  bow  to  the  deliverer — nay,  the  worker 
Of  our  own  project — ^we  who  long  before 
Had  burst  our  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  mischance. 
What  benefits  mankind  must  glad  me  too : 
And  men  seem  made,  though  not  as  I  believed, 
P'or  something  better  than  the  times  produce. 
Witness  these  gangs  of  peasants  your  new  lights 
From  Suabia  have  possessed,  whom  Miinzer  leads. 
And  whom  the  duke,  the  landgrave  and  the  elector 
Will  calm  in  blood  !     Well,  well ;  't  is  not  my  world  ! 

Fesf.  Hark! 

Par.  'T  is  the  melancholy  wind  astir 

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

jFesf.  Best  ope  the  casement :  see. 

The  night,  late  strewn  with  clouds  and  flying  stars, 
Is  blank  and  motionless  :  how  peaceful  sleep 
The  tree-tops  altogether !     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. 

Fesf.  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 


136  PARACELSUS. 

And  bartered  sleep  for  them  ? 

Fest.  It  is  our  trust 

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

Par.  Another  world  ! 

And  why  this  world,  this  common  world,  to  be 
A  make-shift,  a  mere  foil,  how  fair  soever. 
To  some  fine  life  to  come  ?     Man  must  be  fed 
AVith  angels'  food,  forsooth ;  and  some  few  traces 
Of  a  diviner  nature  which  look  out 
Through  his  corporeal  baseness,  warrant  him 
In  a  supreme  contempt  of  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,  one  diamond. 
But  were  it  so — were  man  all  mind — he  gains 
A  station  little  enviable.     From  God 
t)own  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,  mom  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 


PARACELSUS.  137 

His  hold ;  and  from  the  East,  fuller  and  fuller 
Day,  like  a  mighty  river,  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. 
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. 

Fest.  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  trust  again,  and  strive  again, 
You  will  remember — not  our  love  alone — 
But  that  my  faith  in  God's  desire  that  man 
Should  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  Aureole  ? 


138  PARACELSUS. 

IV.— PARACELSUS   ASPIRES. 

Scene,   Colmar,  in  Alsatia  ;  an  Inn.     1528. 

Paracelsus,  Festus. 
Far,  [To  Johannes  Oporinus,  Ais  secretary.']  Sic  itiir 
ad  astra  !    Dear  Von  Visenburg 
Is  scandalized,  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 
So  true  a  value  on  his  sorry  carcass, 
And  learned  Piitter  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 
A  dehcate  blush,  no  fainter  tinge  is  born 
I'  the  shut  heart  of  a  bud.     Pledge  me,  good  John — 
"  Basil ;  a  hot  plague  ravage  it,  and  Putter 
"  Oppose  the  plague  ! "     Even  so  ?     Do  you  too  share 
Their  panic,  the  reptiles  ?     Ha,  ha ;  faint  through  these, 
Desist  for  these  !     They  manage  matters  so 
At  Basil,  't  is  like :  but  others  may  find  means 
To  bring  the  stoutest  braggart  of  the  tribe 
Once  more  to  crouch  in  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 


PARACELSUS.  139 

So  deeply,  surely,  ineffaceably, 

That  henceforth  flattery  shall  not  pucker  it 

Out  of  the  furrow ;  there  that  stamp  shall  stay 

To  show  the  next  they  fawn  on,  what  they  are, 

This  Basil  with  its  magnates, — fill  my  cup, — 

Whom  1  curse  soul  and  limb.     And  now  dispatch, 

Dispatch,  my  trusty  John ;  and  what  remains 

To  do,  whatever  arrangements  for  our  trip 

Are  yet  to  be  completed,  see  you  hasten 

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

For  Nuremburg !     Now  leave  us ;  this  grave  clerk 

Has  divers  weighty  matters  for  my  ear : 

[Oporinus  goes  out. 

And  spare  my  lungs.     At  last,  my  gallant  Festus, 
I  am  rid  of  this  arch-knave  that  dogs  my  heels 
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  ?     Right !  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  recall  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 


140  PARACELSUS. 

Has  mingled  his  own  fancies  with  the  words 
Purporting  to  be  yours. 

Par,  He  said  no  more, 

'T  is  probable,  than  the  precious  folks  I  leave 
Said  fiftyfold  more  roughly.     Well-a-day, 
'T  is  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  ! 

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  fable, 


PARACELSUS.  I4I 

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  antics  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  ! 

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  tarried  so  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, 


142  PARACELSUS. 

Spied  error  where  his  neighbours  marvelled  most ; 

That  fiery  doctor  who  had  hailed  me  friend, 

Did  it  because  my  by-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  colic  and  what  not.     Quid  multa  ?    The  end 

Was  a  clear  class-room,  and  a  quiet  leer 

From  grave  folk,  and  a  sour  reproachful  glance 

From  those  in  chief  who,  cap  in  hand,  installed 

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, 

Only  a  quiet  dismissal  from  my  post, 

And  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. 

FesL  You  smile : 


PARACELSUS.  1 43 

Despise  them  as  they  merit ! 

Par.  If  I  smile, 

'T  is  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  gangrene-blotches,  eating  poison-blains, 
The  ulcerous  barky  scurf  of  leprosy 
Which  finds — a  man,  and  leaves — a  hideous  thing 
That  cannot  but  be  mended  by  hell  fire, 
— I  would  lay  bare  to  you  the  human  heart 
Which  God  cursed  long  ago,  and  devils  make  since 
Their  pet  nest  and  their  never-tiring  home. 
O,  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  us  formed  to  hate  ?     To  hate  ? 
If  that  be  our  true  object  which  evokes 
Our  powers  in  fullest  strength,  be  sure  't  is  hate  ! 
Yet  men  have  doubted  if  the  best  and  bravest 
Of  spirits  can  nourish  Kim  with  hate  alone. 
I  had  not  the  monopoly  of  fools, 
It  seems,  at  Basil. 

Fest,  But  your  plans,  your  plans  ! 

I  have  yet  to  learn  your  purpose,  Aureole  ! 

Par.  Whether  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 


144  PARACELSUS. 

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 
Within,  and  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,  ages  :  or  one  may  mope 
Into  a  shade  through  thinking,  or  else  drowse 
Into  a  dreamless  sleep  and  so  die  off. 
But  I, — now  Festus  shall  divine  ! — but  I 
Am  merely  setting  out  once  more,  embracing 
My  earliest  aims  again  !     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  they  made  me 
A  laughing-stock  ;  I  was  a  fool  j  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  ?     Still,  dreams 


PARACELSUS.  145 

They  were,  so  let  them  vanish,  yet  in  beauty, 
If  that  may  be.     Stay  :  thus  they  pass  in  song  ! 

{^He  sings. 
IHeap  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  tree-tops  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 ; 

Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 

From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed. 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung. 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  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  j 
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, 

VOL.    L  lO 


146  PARACELSUS. 

Talk  not  thus  wildly  and  madly.     I  am  here — 

Did  you  know  all !     I  have  travelled  far,  indeed, 

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 — 
'T  is  the  very  augury  of  success  I  want ! 
Why  should  I  not  be  joyous  now  as  then  ? 

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

Par.  Ay, 

Pursued  as  I  pursued  them — the  arch-fool ! 
Listen  :  my  plan  will  please  you  not,  't  is  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  know  and  to  enjoy  at  once. 
Not  one  without  the  other  as  before. 


PARACELSUS.  147 

Suppose  my  labour  should  seem  God's  own  cause 

Once  more,  as  first  I  dreamed, — it  shall  not  baulk  me 

Of  the  meanest  earthliest  sensualest  delight 

That  may  be  snatched ;  for  every  joy  is  gain, 

And  gain  is  gain,  however  small.     My  soul 

Can  die  then,  nor  be  taunted — "  what  was  gained  ?  " 

Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  should  pleasure  follow 

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, 
To  those  derived  alone  from  seasons  dark 
As  the  thoughts  they  bred  ?    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 ;  you  may  conceive 
My  transport.     Soon  the  vapours  closed  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  spent 


148  PARACELSUS. 

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,  't  is  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  scheme. 
I  feared  your  sudden  journey  had  in  view 
To  wreak  immediate  vengeance  on  your  foes ; 
'T  is  not  so  :  I  am  glad. 

Par.  And  if  I  please 

To  spit  on  them,  to  trample  them,  what  then  ? 
'T  is  sorry  warfare  truly,  but  the  fools 
Provoke  it.     I  would  spare  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,  there's  no 
Hiding  the  fact :  what  idle  scruples,  then. 
Were  those  that  ever  bade  me  soften  it. 


PARACELSUS.  1 49 

Communicate  it  gently  to  the  world, 

Instead  of  proving  my  supremacy, 

Taking  my  natural  station  o'er  their  head. 

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  ! 

And  therefore,  though  the  wreck  of  my  past  self, 

I  fear,  dear  Piitter,  that  }^ur  lecture-room 

Must  wait  awhile  for  its  best  ornament, 

The  penitent  empiric,  who  set  up 

For  somebody,  but  soon  was  taught  his  place  j 

Now,  but  too  happy  to  be  let  confess 

His  error,  snuff  the  candles,  and  illustrate 

(Fiat  experientia  corpore  vili) 

Your  medicine's  soundness  in  his  person.     Wait, 

Good  Piitter ! 

Fest.  He  who  sneers  thus,  is  a  god  ! 

Far.  Ay,  ay,  laugh  at  me  !     I  am  very  glad 
You  are  not  gulled  by  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  being  mortal  still — 
Do  goad  me,  drive  me  on,  and  fast  supplant 
My  youth's  desires.     You  are  no  stupid  dupe  : 


150  PARACELSUS. 

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 
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  vales — 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  superseders  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  demand,  nor  will  abate  a  jot 
Of  toil's  strict  value  ;  but  time  passes  o'er, 


PARACELSUS.  151 

And  humbler  spirits  accept  what  we  refuse  : 

In  short,  when  some  such  comfort  is  doled  out 

As  these  delights,  we  cannot  long  retain 

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, 

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  some  way,  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 ; 

I  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, 


1 5  2  PARACELSUS. 

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. 

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  chaces  sorrow  ! 

I  lapse  back  into  youth,  and  take  again 

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 — Wiirzburg  through  the  orchard-bough  !) 

Motions  as  though  such  ardent  words  should  find 


PARACELSUS.  153 

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. 

Fest.       And  you  have  never  mused  and  said, 
*'  1  had  a  noble  purpose,  and  the  strength 
*'  To  compass  it ;  but  I  have  stopped  half-way, 
''And  wrongly  given  the  firstfruits  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, 
^'  In  vain  endeavours  to  derive  a  beauty 
''  From  ugliness  ?  why  seek  to  make  the  most 
''Of  what^no  power  can  change,  nor  strive  instead 
"  With  mighty  effort  to  redeem  the  past 
"And,  gathering  up  the  treasures  thus  cast  down, 
"  To  hold  a  steadfast  course  till  I  arrive 
"  At  their  fit  destination  and  my  own  ?  " 
You  have  never  pondered  thus  ? 

Par.  Have  I,  you  ask  ? 


154  PARACELSUS. 

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  ? 

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, 

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  playful  billows'  game : 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 
But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 


PARACELSUS.  1 55 

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  noontide  nor  starshine 
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. 
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  voyagers  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. 

Now,  one  mom,  land  appeared — a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky : 
"Avoid  it,"  cried  our  pilot,  "check 
"  The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye  ! " 


156  PARACELSUS. 

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  paean  glorious. 

A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone  ! 

All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each, 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one, 
Nor  paused  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sat  together  on  the  beach 
To  sing  because  our  task  was  done. 
When  lo  !  what  shouts  and  merry  songs  ! 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs  ! 
A  loaded  raft  with  happy  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders  ! 
"  Our  isles  are  just  at  hand,"  they  cried, 

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

"  Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keeping 
"  For  these  majestic  forms  " — they  cried. 
Oh,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream,  and  knew,  too  late. 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate. 
Which  had  received  our  precious  freight : 


PARACELSUS.  157 

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

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

Fest  In  truth? 

Par.  Nay,  wait :  all  this  in  tracings  faint 

On  rugged  stones  strewn  here  and  there,  but  piled 
In  order  once  :  then  follows — mark  what  follows  ! 
"  The  sad  rhyme  of  the  men  who  proudly  clung 
''  To  their  first  fault,  and  withered  in  their  pride." 

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 — 
'T  is  well  for  him  j  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 


158  PARACELSUS. 

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 ;  't  is  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,  urge  them  to  forego  their  treat ! 
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  ! 
Do  not  confide  all  secrets  :  I  was  born 
To  hope,  and  you  .  .  . 

Far.  To  trust :  you  know  the  fruits  ! 

Fest.  Listen  :  I  do  believe,  what  you  call  trust 
Was  self-delusion  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  licence,  make  you  God,  in  fact, 


'       PARACELSUS.  1 59 

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

Par.  'T  is  like  enough. 

The  serviceable  spirits  are  those,  no  doubt, 
The  East  produces  :  lo,  the  master  nods, 
And  they  raise  terraces  and  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,  't  is  vain  to  talk  of  forwarding 


l6o  PARACELSUS. 

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  ? 

jFesf.  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. 
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, 
Anything  but  the  naked  truth — you  choose 
This  so-despised  career,  and  cheaply  hold 
My  happiness,  or  rather  other  men's. 
Once  more,  return  ! 

I^ar  And  quickly.     Oporinus 

Has  pilfered  half  my  secrets  by  this  time  : 
And  we  depart  by  daybreak.     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. 


PARACELSUS.  i6t 

Do  you  not  scorn  me  from  your  heart  of  hearts, 

Me  and  my  cant,  each  petty  subterfuge. 

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 ! 

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 ! 

Fest.  No,  dear  Aureole  ! 

No,  no  ;  I  came  to  counsel  faithfully. 
There  are  old  rules,  made  long  ere  we  w^ere  born. 
By  which  I  judge  you.     I,  so  fallible. 
So  infinitely  low  beside  your  mighty 
Majestic  spirit ! — 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  bid. 
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 

VOL.    L  II 


1 62  PARACELSUS. 

And  satisfaction  yet — too  hastily 
I  have  reHed  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  ? — 't  is  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. 

Par.  Michal  is  dead  I  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.  'T  is  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. 


PARACELSUS.  1 63 

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. 
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,  Salzburg;  a  cell  in  the  Hospital  of  St.  Sebastian.      1541- 

Festus,  Paracelsus. 
Fest.  No  change  !    The  weary  night  is  well-nigh  spent, 
The  lamp  bums  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  stronghold  where  life  intrenched  itself ; 


164  PARACELSUS. 

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  wast ! 

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. 

Another  night,  and  yet  no  change  !     'T  is  much 

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

And  chafe  his  hands  ;  't  is  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 

Resolved  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  recognized  the  tomb-hke  place, 

And  then  he  lay  as  here  he  lies. 

Ay,  here  1 
Here  is  earth's  noblest,  nobly  garlanded — 


PARACELSUS.  1 65 

Her  bravest  champion  with  his  well-won  prize — 

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 

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  us  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  half  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, — 


1 66  PARACELSUS. 

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 ; 
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  wakens  !     Aureole,  I  am  here  !  't  is  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. 
Oh,  he  will  know  me  yet !     Could  I  divert 
This  current,  lead  it  somehow  gently  back 


PARACELSUS.  1 67 

Into  the  channels  of  the  past ! — His  eye 
Brighter  than  ever  !     It  must  recognize  me  ! 

I  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. 

We  are  your  students,  noble  master :  leave 

This  wretched  cell,  what  business  have  you  here  ? 

Our  class  awaits  you ;  come  to  us  once  more  ! 

(O  agony  1  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  1    Where  's 

Aprile,  then  ?     Has  he  not  chanted  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 


1 68  PARACELSUS. 

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  ! 
'T  is  an  old  tale  :  Jove  strikes  the  Titans  down 
Not  when  they  set  about  their  mountain-piling 
But  when  another  rock  would  crown  the  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 
Could  tread  a  single  pleasure  underfoot. 
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 ! 
Your  cunning  has  o'ershot  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  't  was  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, 


PARACELSUS.  1 69 

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 
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  j  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 ;  Latin,  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  browbeating  me  !     Grey  crew, 


lyo  PARACELSUS. 

Yet  steeped  in  fresh  malevolence  from  hell, 
Is  there  a  reason  for  your  hate  ?     My  truths 
Have  shaken  a  little  the  palm  about  each  prince  ? 
Just  think,  Aprile,  all  these  leering  dotards 
Were  bent  on  nothing  less  than  to  be  crowned 
As  we  !     That  yellow  blear-eyed  wretch  in  chief 
To  whom  the  rest  cringe  low  with  feigned  respect, 
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  vestibule  : 
Look  to  my  brow  !     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  but  well  to  hide 
The  juggles  1  had  else  detected.     Fire 
May  well  run  harmless  o'er  a  breast  like  yours  ! 
The  cave  was  not  so  darkened  by  the  smoke 
But  that  your  white  limbs  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, 


PARACELSUS.  1 7  I 

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  light 

Will  struggle  through  these  thronging  words  at  last, 
As  in  the  angry  and  tumultuous  West 
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  Michal  here  ! 

Par.  Cruel !  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  ! 
'T  is  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. 
'T  is  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 


172  PARACELSUS. 

To  catch  us.     Have  the  spider-fingers  got  you, 
Poet  ?     Hold  on  me  for  your  life  !  If  once 
They  pull  you  !— Hold  ! 

'T  is  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, 
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  un espied  j  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. — 'T  were  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  ! 


PARACELSUS.  1 73 

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, 

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  !     Rather  give 

The  supernatural  consciousness  of  strength 

Which  fed  my  youth  !     Only  one  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  't  is  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 


174  PARACELSUS. 

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  't  is,  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 
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 


PARACELSUS.  I  7  5 

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 

Will  be  before  me  sleeping,  waking,  praying. 

They  will  not  let  me  even  die.     Spare,  spare  me, 

Sinning  or  no,  forget  that,  only  spare  me 

The  horrible  scorn  !     You  thought  I  could  support  it. 

But  now  you  see  what  silly  fragile  creature 

Cowers  thus.     I  am  not  good  nor  bad  enough, 

Not  Christ  nor  Cain,  yet  even  Cain  was  saved 

From  hate  like  this.     Let  me  but  totter  back  ! 

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 :  't  is  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  me  now, 
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,  't  is  an  awful  enterprise ; 


176  PARACELSUS. 

But  you  believe  I  shall  go  through  with  it : 

'T  is  Hke  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. 

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  j  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, 


PARACELSUS.  177 

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, 
Fathers,  sons,  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 :  't  was  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  1  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  ?     Their  theft  shall  be  their  bale  : 
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  • 

VOL.    L  '  12 


I 


178  PARACELSUS. 

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  recognize  thee  first ; 
I  saw  thee  rise,  I  watched  thee  early  and  late, 
And  though  no  glance  reveal  thou  dost  accept 
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. 

I  am  upon  his  side,  come  weal  or  woe. 
ilis  portion  shall  be  mine.     He  has  done  well. 
I  would  have  sinned,  had  I  been  Strang  enough, 
As  he  has  sinned.     Reward  him  or  I  waive 
Reward  1     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,  anything — only  your  voice. 
I  shall  dream  else.     Speak  on  !  ay,  leaning  so  !. 

Fest.  Thus  the  Mayne  glideth 
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. 


PARACELSUS.  1 79 

Though  the  niggard  pasturage 

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  faint  to  catch 

A  weary  bee. 
Par.  More,  more ;  say  on  1 
Fest.  And  scarce  it  pushes 

Its  gentle  way  through  strangling  rushes, 

Where  the  glossy  kingfisher 

Flutters  when  noon-heats  are  near, 

Glad  the  shelving  banks  to  shun. 

Red  and  steaming  in  the  sun. 

Where  the  shrew-mouse  with  pale  throat 

Burrows,  and  the  speckled  stoat  \ 

Where  the  quick  sandpipers  flit 

In  and  out  the  marl  and  grit 

That  seems  to  breed  them,  brown  as  they : 

Nought  disturbs  its  quiet  way. 

Save  some  lazy  stork  that  springs, 

Trailing  it  with  legs  and  wings, 

Whom  the  shy  fox  from  the  hill 

Rouses,  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. 


l8o  PARACELSUS. 

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  ? 

Fest.  But  wherefore  am  I  here  ? 

Par.  Ah,  well  remembered  ! 

Why,  for  a  purpose — for  a  purpose,  Festus  ! 
'T  is  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 : 

Well.     'T  is  a  strange  thing :  I  am  dying,  Festus, 
And  now  that  fast  the  storm  of  life  subsides, 


PARACELSUS.  l8l 

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? 
The  gulf  rolls  like  a  meadow-swell,  o'erstrewn 
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  uptorn  canes. 
Light  strippings  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  j  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,  't  is  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 


152  PARACELSUS. 

Be  born  in  me  before  I  plunge  therein ; 

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

Minute  by  minute  he  is  filHng  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. 

Fest.  'T  is  of  that  past  life  that  I  bum  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 
Music,  and  where  I  tend  bliss  evermore. 
Yet  how  can  I  refrain  ?     'T  is  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  upturned  eye. 
As  though  one  stooped  above  his  head  to  whom 


PARACELSUS.  1 83 

He  looked  for  confirmation  and  approval, 
Where  was  it  gone  so  long,  so  well  preserved  ? 
Then,  the  fore-finger  pointing  as  he  speaks, 
Like  one  who  traces  in  an  open  book 
The  matter  he  declares  ;  't  is  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  ? 
That  man  is  made  for  weakness,  and  should  wait 
In  patient  ignorance  till  God  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. 

Fest.  Nay,  Aureole,  are  you  wild  ? 

You  cannot  leave  your  couch. 

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 ;  ah,  trusty  Azoth,  leapest 
Beneath  thy  master's  grasp  for  the  last  time  ? 


184  PARACELSUS. 

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  doubtlsss  feel 
That  I  am  happy,  Festus ;  very  happy. 

Fest,  'T  is  no  delusioa  which  uplifts  him  thus  ! 
Then  you  are  pardoned.  Aureole,  all  your  sin  ? 

Par.  Ay,  pardoned  :  yet  why  pardoned  ? 

Fest.  'T  is  God's  praise 

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

Par.  Have  lived ! 

We  have  to  live  alone  to  set  forth  well 
God's  praise.     'T  is  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.  But  all  comes 

To  the  same  thing.     'T  is  fruitless  for  mankind 
To  fret  themselves  with  what  concerns  them  not ; 
They  are  no  use  that  way  :  they  should  He  down 
Content  as  God  has  made  them,  nor  go  mad 


PARACELSUS.  1 85 

In  thriveless  cares  to  better  what  is  ill. 

Par.  No,  no  ;  mistake  me  not ;  let  me  not  work 
More  harm  than  I  have  worked  !     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 
The  mortal  persevering  to  the  end. 
Beside  I  am  not  all  so  valueless  : 
I  have  been  something,  though  too  soon  I  left 
Following  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  but  the  time  I  vowed  myself  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  thus  frame 


1 86  PARACELSUS. 

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, 

His  naked  spirit  so  majestical ! 

But  this  was  born  in  me  j  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. 


PARACELSUS.  1 87 

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, 

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 


1 88  PARACELSUS. 

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 

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  : 


PARACELSUS.  I J 

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, 

And  blind,  oft-failing,  yet  believing  love, 

A  half-enlightened,  often-chequered  trust : — 

Hints  and  previsions  of  which  faculties, 

Are  strewn  confusedly  everywhere  about 

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  back  step  in  the  circle.     Not  alone 

For  their  possessor  dawn  those  quaHties, 

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,  wailing  or  a  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, 


190  PARACELSUS. 

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  sunset  hour. 

Voluptuous  transport  ripens  with  the  corn 

Beneath  a  warm  moon  like  a  happy  face  : 

— 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  is  not  Man  as  yet. 

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 

O'erlooks  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 


PARACELSUS.  IQI 

Of  restless  members  of  a  dormant  whole, 
Impatient  nerves  which  quiver  while  the  body- 
Slumbers  as  in  a  grave  ?     Oh  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. 
Then  shall  his  long  triumphant  march  begin. 
Thence  shall  his  being  date, — 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  life  pursues. 
For  men  begin  to  pass  their  nature's  bound. 
And  find  new  hopes  and  cares  which  fast  supplant 
Their  proper  joys  and  griefs  ;  they  grow  too  great 
For  narrow  creeds  of  right  and  wrong,  which  fade 


192  PARACELSUS. 

Before  the  unmeasured  thirst  for  good  :  while  peace 

Rises  within  them  ever  more  and  more. 

Such  men  are  even  now  upon  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. 

I,  from  the  first,  was  never  cheated  thus ; 

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  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. 

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 — 


.  PARACELSUS.  1 93 

The  sign  and  note  and  character  of  man. 
I  saw  no  use  in  the  past :  only  a  scene 
Of  degradation,  ugliness  and  tears, 
The  record  of  disgraces  best  forgotten, 
A  sullen  page  in  human  chronicles 
Fit  to  erase.     I  saw  no  cause  why  man 
Should  not  stand  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  would  have  had  one  day,  one  moment's  space. 
Change  man's  condition,  push  each  slumbering  claim 
Of  mastery  o'er  the  elemental  world 
At  once  to  full  maturity,  then  roll 
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  when,  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, 
VOL.   L  13 


194  PARACELSUS. 

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  ! 

And  as  the  poor  melodious  wretch  disburthened 

His  heart,  and  moaned  his  weakness  in  my  ear, 

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  his  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, 


PARACELSUS.  1 95 

To  overbalance  all  the  wear  and  waste 

Of  faculties,  displayed  in  vain,  but  born 

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 ; 

All  with  a  touch  of  nobleness,  despite 

Their  error,  upward  tending  all  though  weak, 

Like  plants  in  mines  which  never  saw  the  sun, 

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  loved  too  rashly ;  and  shape  forth  a  third 

And  better-tempered  spirit,  warned  by  both  : 

As  from  the  over-radiant  star  too  mad 

To  drink  the  life-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 ; 

'T  is  for  their  good,  and  therefore  fit  awhile 

That  they  reject  the  weak,  and  scorn  the  false, 


196  PARACELSUS. 

Rather  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  splelidour,  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  I 
Aprile  !     Hand  in  hand  with  you,  Aprile  ! 

Fest.  And  this  was  Paracelsus  I 


(     197 


NOTE. 


The  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  'Biographic 
Universelle,  Paris,  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  (Philippus  Aureolus  Theophrastus  Bombastus  ab 
Hohenheim)  was  born  in  1493  at  Einsiedeln,  (^)  a  little  town  in  the 
canton  of  Schwitz,  some  leagues  distant  from  Zurich.  His  father, 
who  exercised  the  profession  of  medicine  at  Villach  in  Carinthia,  was 
nearly  related  to  George  Bombast  de  Hohenheim,  who  became  after- 
ward Grand  Prior  of  the  Order  of  Malta  :  consequently  Paracelsus 
could  not  spring  from  the  dregs  of  the  people,  as  Thomas  Erastus, 
his  sworn  enemy,  pretends.  *     It  appears  that  his  elementary  educa- 

*  I  shall  disguise  M.  Renauldin's  next  sentence  a  little.  "  Hie  (Erastus  sc.) 
Paracelsum  trimum  a  milite  quodam,  alii  a  sue  exectum  ferunt :  constat  im- 
berbem  ilium,  mulierumque  osorem  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 
such  rubbish  as  Melander's  '  Jocoseria,'  etc.  In  the  prints  from  his  portrait  by 
Tintoretto,  painted  a  year  before  his  death,  Paracelsus  is  barbatuhis,  at  all 
events.  But  Erastus  was  never  without  a  good  reason  for  his  faith — e.g. 
"  Helvetium  fuisse  (Paracelsum)  vix  credo,  vix  enim  ea  regio  tale  monstrum 
ediderit."     (De  Medicina  Nova.) 


IQo  NOTE. 

tion  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,  (^)  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  institu- 
tions, 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  loadstone.  (^)  He 
professes  also  to  have  visited  Spain,  Portugal,  Prussia,  Poland,  and 
Transylvania ;  everywhere  communicating  freely,  not  merely  with 
the  physicians,  but  the  old  women,  charlatans  and  conjurers  of 
these  several  lands.  It  is  even  believed  that  hfe  extended  his  journey- 
ings  as  far  as  Egypt  and  Tartary,  and  that  he  accompanied  the  son 
of  the  Khan  of  the  Tartars  to  Constantinople,  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  cele- 
brity, that  he  was  called  in  1526,  on  the  recommendation  of 
GEcolampadius,  C)  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 
auditors  that  the  latchets  of  his  shoes  were  more  instructed  than  those 


NOTE.  199 

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 
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. '  + 

' '  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  peasants, 
and  in  the  morning  knew  no  longer  what  he  was  about  ;  and, 
nevertheless,  up  to  the  age  of  twenty-five  his  only  drink  had  been 
water.  (^) 

"  At  length,  fearful  of  being  punished  for  a  serious  outrage  on  a 
magistrate,  (^)  he  fled  from  Basil  towards  the  end  of  the  year  1527, 

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

t  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  universos  principes  Avicen- 
nam,  Galenum,  Aristotelem,  etc.  me  satis  superque  munitum  esse  novi.  Et 
vertex  iste  meus  calvus  ac  depilis  multo  plura  et  sublimiora  novit  quam  vester  vel 
Avicenna  vel  universse  academise.  Prodite,  et  signum  date,  qui  viri  sitis,  quid 
roboris  habeatis  ?  quid  autem  sitis  ?  Doctores  et  magistri,  pediculos  pectentes  et 
fricantes  podicem. "     (Frag.  Med.) 


200  NOTE. 

and  took  refuge  in  Alsatia,  whither  he  caused  Oporinus  to  follow 
with  his  chemical  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.) 

(i)  Paracelsus  would  seem  to  be  a  fantastic  version  of  Von  Hohen- 
heim :  Einsiedeln  is  the  Latinized  Eremus,  whence  Paracelsus  is 
sometimes  called,  as  in  the  correspondence  of  Erasmus,  Eremita : 
Bombast,  his  proper  name,  probably  acquired,  from  the  character- 
istic phraseology  of  his  lectures,  that  unlucky  signification  which  it 
.has  ever  since  retained. 

(2)  Then  Bishop  of  Spanheim,  and  residing  at  Wiirzburg  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  '  Epistolae  Familiares,'  Hag.  1536  :  among 
others,  by  his  staunch  friend  Cornelius  Agrippa,  to  whom  he 
dates  thence,  in  15 10,  a  letter  in  answer  to  the  dedicatory  epistle 
prefixed  to  the  treatise  De  Occult.  Philosoph.,  which  last  contains 
the  following  ominous  allusion  to  Agrippa's  sojourn  :  "  Quum 
nuper  tecum,   R.  P.   in  coenobio  tuo  apud  Herbipolim  aliquamdiu 

*  "  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." 


NOTE.  201 

conversatus,  multa  de  chymicis,  multa  de  magicis,  multa  de  cabalis- 
ticis,  caeterisque  quae  adhuc  in  occulto  delitescunt,  arcanis  scientiis 
atque  artibus  una  contulissemus, "  etc. 

(3)  "  Inexplebilis  ilia  aviditas  naturae  perscrutandi  secreta  et 
reconditarum  supellectile  scientiarum  animum  locupletandi,  uno 
eodemque  loco  diu  persistere  non  patiebatur,  sed  Mercurii  instar, 
omnes  terras,  nationes  et  urbes  perlustrandi  igniculos  supponebat, 
ut  cum  viris  naturae  scrutatoribus,  chymicis  praesertim,  ore  tenus 
conferret,  et  quae  diuturnis  laboribus  nocturnisque  vigiliis  inve- 
nerant  una  vel  altera  communicatione  obtineret."  (Bitiskius  in 
Preefat. )  ' '  Patris  auxilio  primum,  deinde  propria  industria  doc- 
tissimos  viros  in  Germania,  Italia,  Gallia,  Hispania,  aliisque  Europse 
regionibus,  nactus  est  praeceptores ;  quorum  liberal!  doctrina,  et  potis- 
simum  propria  inquisitione  ut  qui  esset  ingenio  acutissimo  ac  fere 
divino,  tantum  profecit,  ut  multi  testati  sint,  in  universa  philosophia, 
tarn  ardua,  tarn  arcana  et  abdita  eruisse  mortalium  neminem. "  (Melch. 
Adam,  in  Vit.  Germ.  Medic.)  "Paracelsus  qui  in  intima  naturae 
viscera  sic  penitus  introierit,  metallorum  stirpiumque  vires  et  facultates 
tarn  incredibili  ingenii  acumine  exploraverit  ac  perviderit,  ad  morbos 
omnes  vel  desperatos  et  opinione  hominum  insanabiles  percurandum  ; 
ut  cum  Theophrasto  nata  primum  medicina  perfectaque  videtur." 
{Petri  Rami  Orat.  de  Basilea.)  His  passion  for  wandering  is  best 
described  in  his  own  words:  "  Ecce  amatorem  adolescentem  diffi- 
cillimi  itineris  haud  piget,  ut  venustam  saltem  puellam  vel  foeminam 
aspiciat:  quanto  minus  nobilissimarum  artium  amore  laboris  ac  cujus- 
libet  taedii  pigebit  ?  "  etc.  { '  Defensiones  Septem  adversus  aemulos 
suos.'  1573.  Def.  4ta.    '  De  peregrinationibus  et  exilio.') 

(4)  The  reader  may  remember  that  it  was  in  conjunction  with 
CEcolampadius,  then  Divinity  Professor  at  Basil,  that  Zuinglius 
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.  D.  Johannis  QEcolampadii  et  Huldrichi  Zuinglii 
Epistolarum  lib.  quatuor.'  Bas.  1536.  It  must  be  also  observed 
that  Zuinglius  began  to  preach  in  15 16,  and  at  Zurich  in  15 19,  and 


202  NOTE. 

that  in  1525  the  Mass  was  abolished  in  the  cantons.  The  tenets  of 
CEcolampadius  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: — "  About  this 
time  arose  out  of  Luther's  school  one  CEcolampadius,  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,  this  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."  (Life  of  Bishop  Fisher. 
1655.)  Now,  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  Protestantism  of  Paracelsus, 
Erasmus,  Agrippa,  etc.,  but  the  nonconformity  of  Paracelsus  was 
always  scandalous.  L.  Crasso  ('  Elogj  d'Huomini  Letterati.'  Ven. 
1 666)  informs  us  that  his  books  were  excommunicated  by  the 
Church.  Quensledt  (de  Patr.  Doct. )  affirms  "  nee  tantum  nova? 
medicinse,  verum  etiam  novae  theologiae  autor  est."  Delrio,  in  his 
Disquisit.  Magicar.,  classes  him  among  those  "partim  atheos, 
partim  hsereticos"  (lib.  i.  cap.  3).  "  Omnino  tamen  multa  theolo- 
gica  in  ejusdem  scriptis  plane  atheismum  olent,  ac  duriuscule  sonant 
in  auribus  vere  Christiani. "  (D.  Gabrielis  Clauderi  Schediasma  de 
Tinct.  Univ.  Norimb.  1 736. )  I  shall  only  add  one  more  authority  : — 
"  Oporinus  dicit  se  (Paracelsum)  aliquando  Lutherum  et  Papam,  non 
minus  quam  nunc  Galenum  et  Hippocratem  redacturum  in  ordinem 
minabatur,  neque  enim  eorum  qui  hactenus  in  scripturam  sacram 
scripsissent,  sive  veteres,  sive  recentiores,  quenquam  scripturse 
nucleum  recte  eruisse,  sed  circa  corticem  et  quasi  membranam 
tantum  haerere."  (Th.  Erastus,  Disputat.  de  Med.  Nova.)  These 
and  similar  notions  had  their  due  effect  on  Oporinus,  who,  says 
Zuingerus,  in  his  '  Theatrum,'  "longum  vale  dixit  ei  (Paracelso)  ne 
ob  prseceptoris,  alioqui  amicissimi,  horrendas  blasphemias  ipse 
quoque  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  Taciti  seculo 


ad  nostrum  usque  non  interrupto  filo  devolutum,  sinceritati  forte 
Germanse  coaevum,  et  nescio  an  aliquo  consanguinitatis  vinculo 
junctum."  (Bitiskius.)  The  other  charges  were  chiefly  trumped  up 
by  Oporinus  :  '*  Domi,  quod  Oporinus  amanuensis  ejus  ssepe 
narravit,  nunquam  nisi  potus  ad  explicanda  sua  accessit,  atque  in 
medio  conclavi  ad  columnam  rervcpojijiEvoQ  adsistens,  apprehenso 
manibus  capulo  ensis,  cujus  icoiXiOfia  hospitium  prsebuit  ut  aiunt 
spiritui  famihari,  imaginationes  aut  concepta  sua  protulit : — ahi  illud 
quod  in  capulo  habuit,  ab  ipso  Azoth  appellatum  medicinam  fuisse 
prsestantissimam  aut  lapidem.  Philosophicum  putant."  (Melch. 
Adam.)  This  famous  sword  was  no  laughing-matter  in  those  days, 
and  it  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,'  Act  ii.  Scene  2. 

Bumbastus  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  "  laudanum  suumy  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,  a 
successful  projection  at  which  he  was  present,  and  the  results 
of  which,  good  golden  ingots,  were  confided  to  his  keeping.  For 
the  other  quality,  let  the  following  notice  vouch  among  many 
others  : — "  Degebat  Theophrastus  Norimbergse  procitus  a  meden- 
tibus  illius  urbis,  et  vaniloquus  deceptorque  proclamatus,  qui,  ut 
laboranti  famse  subveniat,  viros  quosdam  authoritatis  summse  in 
Republica  ilia  adit,  et  infamise  amoliendee,  artique  suae  asserendse, 
specimen  ejus  pollicetur  editurum,  nullo  stipendio  vel  accepto 
pretio,  horum  faciles  prsebentium  aures  jussu  elephantiacos  aliquot, 
a   communione  hominum   caeterorum   segregates,    et    in    valetudi- 


204  NOTE.  ^ 

J 

narium  detrusos,  alieno  arbitrio  eliguntur,  quos  virtute  singular! 
remediorum  suorum  Theophrastus  a  foeda  Grsecorum  lepra  mundat, 
pristinoeque  sanitati  restituit  ;  conservat  illustre  harum  curationum 
urbs  in  archivis  suis  testimonium."  (Bitiskius.)*  It  is  to  be 
remarked  that  Oporinus  afterwards  repented  of  his  treachery  :  "  Sed 
resipuit  tandem,  et  quem  vivum  convitiis  insectatus  fuerat  defunctum 
veneratione  prosequutus,  infames  famse  praeceptoris  morsus  in 
remorsus  conscientise  conversi  poenitentia,  lieu  nimis  tarda,  vulnera 
clausere  exanimi  quae  spiranti  inflixerant."  For  these  "bites"  of 
Oporinus,  see  Disputat.  Erasti,  and  Andreae  Jocisci  '  Oratio  de  vit. 
ob.  Opor* ;'  for  the  ''remorse,"  Mic.  Toxita  in  pref  Testamenti, 
and  Conringius  (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  considere'd  the  father  of  modern 
chemistry,  is  indisputable.  Gerardus  Vossius,  '  De  Philos^  et 
Philos""!  sectis,'  thus  prefaces  the  ninth  section  of  cap.  9,  '  De 
Chymia' — "  Nobilem  hanc  medicinse  partem,  diu  sepultam  avorum 
astate  quasi  ab  orco  revocavit  Th.  Paracelsus."  I  suppose  many 
hints  lie  scattered  in  his  neglected  books,  which  clever  appro- 
priators  have  since  developed  with  applause.  Thus,  it  appears 
from  his  treatise  '  De  Phlebotomia,'  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  per- 
fectly Andrea  Cesalpino  of  Arezzo,  as  Bayle  and  Bartoli  observe. 
Even  Lavater  quotes  a  passage  from  his  work  '  De  Natura  Rerum, ' 
on    practical   Physiognomy,    in  which    the  definitions   and  axioms 

*  The  premature  death  of  Paracelsus  casts  no  manner  of  doubt  on  the  fact  of 
his  having  possessed  the  Elixir  Vitae  :  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  longaevus,  nonnulli  quoque  solvunt  per  rationes  physicas  :  vitse  nimirum 
abbreviationem  fortasse  talibus  accidere  posse,  ob  Tincturam  frequentiore  ac 
largiore  dosi  sumtam,  dum  a  summe  efficaci  et  penetrabili  hujus  virtute  calor 
innatus  quasi  suffocatur."     (Gabrielis  Clauderi  Schediasma.) 

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


NOTE.  205 

are  precise  enough  :  he  adds,  **  though  an  astrological  enthusiast,  a 
man  of  prodigious  genius."  See  Holcroft's  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  (in  Praefat.  in  Paramyr.)  declares 
*'  quod  ad  librorum  Paracelsi  copiam  attinet,  audio,  a  Germanis 
prope  trecentos  recenseri."  "  O  foecunditas  ingenii  !"  adds  he, 
appositely.  Many  of  these  were,  however,  spurious  ;  and  Fred. 
Bitiskius  gives  his  good  edition  {3  vols.  fol.  Gen.  1658)  "  rejectis 
suppositis  solo  ipsius  nomine  superbientibus  quorum  ingens  circum- 
fertur  numerus."  The  rest  were  "  charissimum  et  pretiosissimum 
authoris  pignus,  extorsum  potius  ab  illo  quam  obtentum."  *'Jam 
minime  eo  volente  atque  jubente  hsec  ipsius  scripta  in  lucem  prodisse 
videntur  ;  quippe  quae  muro  inclusa  ipso  absente  servi  cujusdam 
indicio,  furto  surrepta  atque  sublata  sunt,"  says  Valentius.  These 
have  been  the  study  of  a  host  of  commentators,  among  whose  labours 
are  most  notable,  Petri  Severini,  '  Idea  Medicinae  Philosophise.  Bas. 
1571  ;'  Mic.  Toxetis,  '  Onomastica.  Arg.  1574;'  Dornei,  'Diet. 
Parac.  Franc.  1584  ;'  and  '  Pi  Philos*  Compendium  cum  scholiis 
auctore  Leone  Suavio.  Paris.'     (This  last,  a  good  book.) 

(6)  A  disgraceful  affair.  One  Liechtenfels,  a  canon,  having  been 
rescued  z>2  extremis  by  the  "  laudanujn^''  of  Paracelsus,  refused  the 
stipulated  fee,  and  was  supported  in  his  meanness  by  the  authorities, 
whose  interference  Paracelsus  would  not  brook.  His  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,  "  Quis  quaeso  deinceps  honorem 
deferat  professione  tali,  quae  a  tam  facinorosis  nebulonibus  bbitur  et 
administratur  ?  ") — is  recorded  in  his  epitaph,  which  affirms — *'  Bona 
sua  in  pauperes  distribuenda  collocandaque  erogavit,"  honoravit,  or 
ordinavit — for  accounts  differ. 


STRAFFORD. 

A    TRAGEDY. 


DEDICATED,    IN   ALL  AFFECTIONATE  ADMIRATION, 


WILLIAM    C.    MACREADY. 


London^  April  2^,  1837. 


Persons. 

Charles  I. 

Earl  of  Holland. 

Lord  Savile. 

Sir  Henry  Vane. 

Wentworth,  Viscount  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Strafford. 

John  Pym. 

John  Hampden. 

The  younger  Vane. 

Denzil  Hollis. 

Benjamin  Rudyard. 

Nathaniel  Fiennes. 

Earl  of  Loudon. 

Maxwell,  Usher  of  the  Black  Rod. 

Balfour,  Constable  of  the  Tower. 

A  Puritan. 

Queen  Henrietta. 

Lucy  Percy,  Countess  of  Carlisle. 

Presbyterians,  Scots  Commissioners,  Adherents  of  Strafford,  Secre- 
taries, Officers  of  the  Court,  &c.     Two  of  Strafford's  children. 


STRAFFORD. 


ACT   I. 


Scene  I.  A  House  near  Whitehall. — Hampden,  Hollis,  the 
younger  Vane,  Rudyard,  Fiennes  afid  many  of  the  Presby- 
terian Party  :  Loudon  and  other  Scots  Commissio7iers. 

Vane.  I  say,  if  he  be  here — 

Rud.  (And  he  is  here  !) — 

Hoi.  For  England's  sake  let  every  man  be  still 
Nor  speak  of  him,  so  much  as  say  his  name, 
Till  Pym  rejoin  us  !     Rudyard  !     Henry  Vane  ! 
One  rash  conclusion  may  decide  our  course 
And  with  it  England's  fate — think — England's  fate  ! 
Hampden,  for  England's  sake  they  should  be  still ! 

Vane.  You  say  so,  Hollis  ?     Well,  I  must  be  still. 
It  is  indeed  too  bitter  that  one  man. 
Any  one  man's  mere  presence  should  suspend 
England's  combined  endeavour :  little  need 
To  name  him  ! 

Rud.  For  you  are  his  brother,  HolHs  ! 

VOL.   I.  14 


210  STRAFFORD. 

Hainp.  Shame  on  you,  Rudyard  !  time  to  tell  him  that, 
When  he  forgets  the  Mother  of  us  all. 

Riid.  Do  I  forget  her  ? 

Hamp.  You  talk  idle  hate 

Against  her  foe  ;  is  that  so  strange  a  thing  ? 
Is  hating  Wentworth  all  the  help  she  needs  ? 

A  Puritan.  The  Philistine  strode,  cursing  as  he  went : 
But  David — five  smooth  pebbles  from  the  brook 
Within  his  scrip  .  .  . 

jRiid.  Be  you  as  still  as  David  ! 

Fien.  Here  's  Rudyard  not  ashamed  to  wag  a  tongue 
Stiff  with  ten  years'  disuse  of  Parliaments  • 
Why,  when  the  last  sat,  Wentworth  sat  with  us  ! 

Rud.  Let 's  hope  for  news  of  them  now  he  returns — 
He  that  was  safe  in  Ireland,  as  we  thought ! 
— But  I'll  abide  Pym's  coming. 

Vane.  Now,  by  Heaven 

They  may  be  cool  who  can,  silent  who  will — 
Some  have  a  gift  that  way  !     Wentworth  is  here, 
Here,  and  the  King  's  safe  closeted  with  him 
Ere  this.     And  when  I  think  on  all  that 's  past 
Since  that  man  left  us,  how. his  single  arm 
-  Rolled  the  advancing  good  of  England  back 
And  set  the  woeful  past  up  in  its  place. 
Exalting  Dagon  where  the  Ark  should  be, — 
How  that  man  has  made  firm  the  fickle  King 
(Hampden,  I  will  speak  out !) — in  aught  he  feared 
To  venture  on  before ;  taught  tyranny 
Her  dismal  trade,  the  use  of  all  her  tools, 


STRAFFORD.  211 

To  ply  the  scourge  yet  screw  the  gag  so  close 
That  strangled  agony  bleeds  mute  to  death — 
How  he  turns  Ireland  to  a  private  stage 
For  training  infant  villanies,  new  ways 
Of  wringing  treasure  out  of  tears  and  blood, 
Unheard  oppressions  nourished  in  the  dark 
To  try  how  much  man's  nature  can  endure 
— If  he  dies  under  it,  what  harm  ?  if  not, 
Why,  one  more  trick  is  added  to  the  rest 
Worth  a  king's  knowing,  and  what  Ireland  bears 
England  may  learn  to  bear : — how  all  this  while 
That  man  has  set  himself  to  one  dear  task. 
The  bringing  Charles  to  relish  more  and  more 
Power,  power  without  law,  power  and  blood  too, 
— Can  I  be  still  ? 

Hafnp.      .  For  that  you  should  be  still. 

Vane.  Oh  Hampden,  then  and  now !     The  year  he 
left  us. 
The  People  in  full  Parliament  could  wrest 
The  Bill  of  Rights  from  the  reluctant  King ; 
And  now,  he  '11  find  in  an  obscure  small  room 
A  stealthy  gathering  of  great-hearted  men 
That  take  up  England's  cause  :  England  is  here  ! 

Hamp.  And  who  despairs  of  England  ? 

J^ud.  That  do  I, 

If  Wentworth  comes  to  rule  her.     I  am  sick 
To  think  her  wretched  masters,  Hamilton, 
The  muckworm  Cottington,  the  maniac  Laud, 
May  yet  be  longed-for  back  again.     I  say. 


2  1 2  STRAFFORD. 

I  do  despair. 

Vane.  And,  Rudyard,  I  '11  say  this — 

Which  all  true  men  say  after  me,  not  loud 
But  solemnly  and  as  you  'd  say  a  prayer ! 
This  King,  who  treads  our  England  underfoot, 
Has  just  so  much  ...  it  may  be  fear  or  craft, 
As  bids  him  pause  at  each  fresh  outrage ;  friends, 
He  needs  some  sterner  hand  to  grasp  his  own. 
Some  voice  to  ask,  "Why  shrink?     Am  I  not  by?" 
Now,  one  whom  England  loved  for  serving  her. 
Found  in  his  heart  to  say,  "  I  know  where  best 
"  The  iron  heel  shall  bruise  her,  for  she  leans 
"  Upon  me  when  you  trample."     Witness,  you  ! 
So  Wentworth  heartened  Charles,  so  England  fell. 
But  inasmuch  as  life  is  hard  to  take 
From  England  .  .  . 

Many  Voices.     Go  on.  Vane  !     'T  is  well  said.  Vane  ! 

Vane. — Who  has  not  so  forgotten  Runnymead  ! — 

Voices.  'T  is  well  and  bravely  spoken.  Vane  !     Go  on  ! 

Vane. — There  are  some  little  signs  of  late  she  knows 
The  ground  no  place  for  her.     She  glances  round, 
Wentworth  has  dropped  the  hand,  is  gone  his  way 
On  other  service  :  what  if  she  arise  ? 
No  !  the  King  beckons,  and  beside  him  stands 
The  same  bad  man  once  more,  with  the  same  smile 
And  the  same  gesture.     Now  shall  England  crouch. 
Or  catch  at  us  and  rise  ? 

Voices.  The  Renegade ! 

Haman !  Ahithophel ! 


STRAFFORD.  213 

Hamp.  Gentlemen  of  the  North, 
It  was  not  thus  the  night  your  claims  were  urged, 
And  we  pronounced  the  League  and  Covenant, 
The  cause  of  Scotland,  England's  cause  as  well : 
Vane  there,  sat  motionless  the  whole  night  through. 

Vane.  Hampden ! 

Fien.  Stay,  Vane ! 

Lou.  Be  just  and  patient.  Vane  ! 

Vane.  Mind  how  you  counsel  patience,  Loudon  !  you 
Have  still  a  Parliament,  and  this  your  League 
To  back  it ;  you  are  free  in  Scotland  still : 
While  we  are  brothers,  hope  's  for  England  yet. 
But  know  you  wherefore  Wentworth  comes  ?  to  quench 
This  last  of  hopes  ?  that  he  brings  war  with  him  ? 
Know  you  the  man's  self?  what  he  dares? 

Lou.  We  know, 

All  know — 't  is  nothing  new. 

Vane.  And  what 's  new,  then, 

In  calling  for  his  life  ?     Why,  Pym  himself — 
You   must   have   heard — ere   Wentworth    dropped   our 

cause 
He  would  see  Pym  first ;  there  were  many  more 
Strong  on  the  people's  side  and  friends  of  his, 
Eliot  that 's  dead,  Rudyard  and  Hampden  here. 
But  for  these  Wentworth  cared  not ;  only,  Pym 
He  would  see — Pym  and  he  were  sworn,  't  is  said, 
To  live  and  die  together ;  so,  they  met 
At  Greenwich.     Wentworth,  you  are  sure,  was  long, 
Specious  enough,  the  devil's  argument 


214  STRAFFORD. 

Lost  nothing  on  his  Hps ;  he  'd  have  Pym  own 

A  patriot  could  not  play  a  purer  part 

Than  follow  in  his  track ;  they  two  combined 

Might  put  down  England.     Well,  Pym  heard  him  out ; 

One  glance — you  know  Pym's  eye — one  word  was  all : 

"  You  leave  us,  Wentworth  !  while  your  head  is  on, 

"  I'll  not  leave  you." 

Hamp.  Has  he  left  Wentworth,  then  ? 

Has  England  lost  him  ?     Will  you  let  him  speak, 
Or  put  your  crude  surmises  in  his  mouth  ? 
Away  with  this  !     Will  you  have  Pym  or  Vane  ? 

Voices.  Wait  Pym's  arrival !     Pym  shall  speak. 

Hamp.  Meanwhile 

Let  Loudon  read  the  Parliament's  report 
From  Edinburgh  :  our  last  hope,  as  Vane  says, 
Is  in  the  stand  it  makes.     Loudon  ! 

Vane.  No,  no  ! 

Silent  I  can  be  :  not  indifferent ! 

Hamp.  Then  each  keep  silence,  praying  God  to  spare 
His  anger,  cast  not  England  quite  away 
In  this  her  visitation  ! 

A  Puritan.  Seven  years  long 

The  Midianite  drove  Israel  into  dens 
And  caves.     Till  God  sent  forth  a  mighty  man, 

Pym  eitters. 
Even  Gideon  ! 

Py7n.  Wentworth 's  come  :  nor  sickness,  care, 

The  ravaged  body  nor  the  ruined  soul. 
More  than  the  winds  and  waves  that  beat  his  ship, 


STRAFFORD.  215 

Could  keep  him  from  the  King.     He  has  not  reached 
Whitehall :  they  Ve  hurried  up  a  Council  there 
To  lose  no  time  and  find  him  work  enough. 
Where's  Loudon  ?  your  Scots'  Parliament  .  .  . 

Lou.  Holds  firm  : 

We  were  about  to  read  reports. 

Pytn.  The  King 

Has  just  dissolved  your  Parliament. 

Lou.  and  other  Scots.  Great  God  ! 

An  oath-breaker  !     Stand  by  us,  England,  then  ! 

Pym.  The  King 's  too  sanguine ;  doubtless  Wentworth  's 
here  ; 
But  still  some  little  form  might  be  kept  up. 

Hainp.  Now  speak.  Vane  !     Rudyard,  you  had  much 
to  say ! 

HoL  The  rumour  's  false,  then  .  .  . 

PyiJi.  Ay,  the  Court  gives  out 

His  own  concerns  have  brought  him  back  :  I  know 
'T  is  the  King  calls  him  :     Wentworth  supersedes 
The  tribe  of  Cottingtons  and  Hamiltons 
Whose  part  is  played  ;  there's  talk  enough,  by  this, — 
Merciful  talk,  the  King  thinks  :  time  is  now 
To  turn  the  record's  last  and  bloody  leaf 
That,  chronicling  a  nation's  great  despair. 
Tells  they  were  long  rebellious,  and  their  lord 
Indulgent,  till,  all  kind  expedients  tried, 
He  drew  the  sword  on  them  and  reigned  in  peace. 
Laud's  laying  his  religion  on  the  Scots 
Was  the  last  gentle  entry  :  the  new  page 


2l6  STRAFFORD. 

Shall  run,  the  King  thinks,  "  Wentworth  thrust  it  down 
"  At  the  sword's  point." 

A  Puritan.  I'll  do  your  bidding,  Pym, 

England's  and  God's — one  blow  ! 

Pym.  A  goodly  thing — 

We  all  say,  friends,  it  is  a  goodly  thing 
To  right  that  England.     Heaven  grows  dark  above  : 
Let 's  snatch  one  moment  ere  the  thunder  fall. 
To  say  how  well  the  English  spirit  comes  out 
Beneath  it !     All  have  done  their  best,  indeed, 
From  lion  Eliot,  that  grand  Englishman, 
To  the  least  here  :  and  who,  the  least  one  here. 
When  she  is  saved  (for  her  redemption  dawns 
Dimly,  most  dinily,  but  it  dawns — it  dawns) 
Who  'd  give  at  any  price  his  hope  away 
Of  being  named  along  with  the  Great  Men  ? 
We  would  not — no,  we  would  not  give  that  up  ! 

Hamp.  And  one  name  shall  be  dearer  than  all  names. 
When  children,  yet  unborn,  are  taught  that  name 
After  their  fathers', — taught  what  matchless  man  .  .  . 

Pym.  .  .  .  Saved  England  ?  What  if  Went  worth's  should 
be  still 
That  name  ? 

Rud.  and  others.  We  have  just  said  it,  Pym  !    His  death 
Saves  her  !     We  said  it — there  's  no  way  beside  ! 
I  '11  do  God's  bidding,  Pym  !     They  struck  down  Joab 
And  purged  the  land. 

Vane.  No  villanous  striking-down  ! 

Rud.  No,  a  calm  vengeance  :  let  the  whole  land  rise 


STRAFFORD.  2 1 7 

And  shout  for  it.     No  Feltons  ! 

Pym.  Rudyard,  no  ! 

England  rejects  all  Feltons  j  most  of  all 
Since  Wentworth  .  .  .  Hampden,  say  the  trust  again 
Of  England  in  her  servants — but  I  '11  think 
You  know  me,  all  of  you.     Then,  I  believe. 
Spite  of  the  past,  Wentworth  rejoins  you,  friends  ! 

Vane  and  others.    Wentworth  ?      Apostate  !      Judas  ! 
Double-dyed 
A  traitor  !     Is  it  Pym,  indeed  .  . 

Pyrn.  .  .  .  Who  says 

Vane  never  knew  that  Wentworth,  loved  that  man, 
Was  used  to  stroll  with  him,  arm  locked  in  arm. 
Along  the  streets  to  see  the  people  pass 
And  read  in  every  island-countenance 
Fresh  argument  for  God  against  the  King, — 
Never  sat  down,  say,  in  the  very  house 
Where  Eliot's  brow  grew  broad  with  noble  thoughts, 
(You  Ve  joined  us,  Hampden — Hollis,  you  as  well,) 
And  then  left  talking  over  Gracchus'  death  .  .  . 

Vane.  To  frame,  we  know  it  well,  the  choicest  clause 
In  the  Petition  of  Rights :  he  framed  such  clause 
One  month  before  he  took  at  the  King's  hand 
His  Northern  Presidency,  which  that  Bill 
Denounced. 

Pym.  Too  true  !     Never  more,  never  more 

Walked  we  together !     Most  alone  I  went. 
I  have  had  friends — all  here  are  fast  my  friends — 
But  I  shall  never  quite  forget  that  friend. 


2  T  8  STRAFFORD. 

And  yet  it  could  not  but  be  real  in  him  ! 
You,  Vane, — you  Rudyard,  have  no  right  to  trust 
To  Wentworth :  but  can  no  one  hope  with  me  ? 
Hampden,  will  Wentworth  dare  shed  English  blood 
Like  water  ? 

Hanip,         Ireland  is  Aceldama. 

Pym.  Will  he  turn  Scotland  to  a  hunting-ground 
To  please  the  King,  now  that  he  knows  the  King  ? 
The  People  or  the  King  ?  and  that  King,  Charles  ! 

Hamp.  Pym,  all  here  know  you :  you  '11  not  set  your 
heart 
On  any  baseless  dream.     But  say  one  deed 
Of  Wentworth's,  since  he  left  us  .  .  .  \Shouting  without. 

Vafie.  There  !  he  comes, 

And  they  shout  for  him  !     Wentworth  's  at  Whitehall, 
The  King  embracing  him,  now,  as  we  speak, 
And  he,  to  be  his  match  in  courtesies, 
Taking  the  whole  war's  risk  upon  himself. 
Now,  while  you  tell  us  here  how  changed  he  is  ! 
Hear  you  ? 

Pym.  And  yet  if 't  is  a  dream,  no  more, 

That  Wentworth  chose  their  side,  and  brought  the  King 
To  love  it  as  though  Laud  had  loved  it  first. 
And  the  Queen  after ; — that  he  led  their  cause 
Calm  to  success,  and  kept  it  spotless  through, 
So  that  our  very  eyes  could  look  upon 
The  travail  of  our  souls  and  close  content 
That  violence,  which  something  mars  even  rights 
Which  sanction  it,  had  taken  off  no  grace 


STRAFFORD.  2  1 9 

From  its  serene  regard.     Only  a  dream  ! 

Hamp.  We  meet  here  to  accomplish  certain  good 
By  obvious  means,  and  keep  tradition  up 
Of  free  assemblages,  else  obsolete. 
In  this  poor  chamber :  nor  without  effect 
Has  friend  met  friend  to  counsel  and  confirm, 
As,  listening  to  the  beats  of  England's  heart, 
We  spoke  its  wants  to  Scotland's  prompt  reply 
By  these  her  delegates.     Remains  alone 
That  word  grow  deed,  as  with  God's  help  it  shall — 
But  with  the  devil's  hindrance,  who  doubts  too  ? 
Looked  we  or  no  that  tyranny  should  turn 
Her  engines  of  oppression  to  their  use  ? 
Whereof,  suppose  the  worst  be  Wentworth  here — 
Shall  we  break  off  the  tactics  which  succeed 
In  drawing  out  our  formidablest  foe. 
Let  bickering  and  disunion  take  their  place  ? 
Or  count  his  presence  as  our  conquest's  proof. 
And  keep  the  old  arms  at  their  steady  play  ? 
Proceed  to  England's  work !     Fiennes,  read  the  list ! 

Fiemies.  Ship-money  is  refused  or  fiercely  paid 
In  every  county,  save  the  northern  parts 
Where  Wentworth's  influence  .  .  .     \Shoutmg. 

Vane,  I,  in  England's  name, 

Declare  her  work,  this  way,  at  end  !     Till  now. 
Up  to  this  moment,  peaceful  strife  was  best. 
We  English  had  free  leave  to  think ;  till  now. 
We  had  a  shadow  of  a  Parliament 
In  Scotland.     But  all  's  changed  :  they  change  the  first. 


2  20  STRAFFORD. 

They  try  brute-force  for  law,  they,  first  of  all  .  .  . 

Voices.    Good !     Talk  enough !     The  old  true  hearts 

with  Vane ! 
Varie.    Till  we  crush  Wentworth  for  her,  there's  no 
act 
Serves  England  ! 

Voices.  Vane  for  England  ! 

Fym.  Pym  should  be 

Something  to  England.     I  seek  Wentworth,  friends. 


Scene  II.— Whitehall. 
Lady  Carlisle  a7td  Wentworth. 

Went.     And  the  King  ? 

Lady  Car.  Wentworth,  lean  on  me  !    Sit 

then! 
I  '11  tell  you  all ;  this  horrible  fatigue 
Will  kill  you. 

Went.  No  ',  or — Lucy,  just  your  arm ; 

I  '11  not  sit  till  I  've  cleared  this  up  with  him : 
After  that,  rest.     The  King  ? 

Lady  Car.  Confides  in  you. 

Went.  Why  ?  or,  why  now  ? — They  have  kind  throats, 
the  knaves  ! 
Shout  for  me — they ! 

Lady  Car.  You  come  so  strangely  soon  : 

Yet  we  took  measures  to  keep  off  the  crowd — 
Did  they  shout  for  you  ? 


STRAFFORD.  22  1 

Went.  Wherefore  should  they  not  ? 

Does  the  King  take  such  measures  for  himself? 
Beside,  there  's  such  a  dearth  of  malcontents, 
You  say ! 

Lady  Car.         I  said  but  few  dared  carp  at  you. 

Went.  At  me  ?  at  us,  I  hope  !     The  King  and  I  ! 
He  's  surely  not  disposed  to  let  me  bear 
The  fame  away  from  him  of  these  late  deeds 
In  Ireland  ?     I  am  yet  his  instrument 
Be  it  for  well  or  ill  ?     He  trusts  me,  too  ! 

Lady  Car.  The  King,  dear  Wentworth,  purposes,   I 
said, 
To  grant  you,  in  the  face  of  all  the  Court  .  .  . 

Went.  All  the  Court !     Evermore  the  Court  about  us  ! 
Savile  and  Holland,  Hamilton  and  Vane 
About  us, — then  the  King  will  grant  me — what  ? 
That  he  for  once  put  these  aside  and  say — 
"  Tell  me  your  whole  mind,  Wentworth  ! " 

Lady  Car.  You  professed 

You  would  be  calm. 

We7tt.  Lucy,  and  I  am  calm  ! 

How  else  shall  I  do  all  I  come  to  do, 
Broken,  as  you  may  see,  body  and  mind, 
How  shall  I  serve  the  King  ?     Time  wastes  meanwhile, 
You  have  not  told  me  half.     His  footstep  !     No. 
Quick,  then,  before  I  meet  him, — I  am  calm — 
Why  does  the  King  distrust  me  ? 

Lady  Car.  He  does  not 

Distrust  you. 


2  22  STRAFFORD. 

Went  Lucy,  you  can  help  me ;  you 

Have  even  seemed  to  care  for  me  :  one  word  ! 
Is  it  the  Queen  ? 

Lady  Car.  No,  not  the  Queen  :  the  party 
That  poisons  the  Queen's  ear,  Savile  and  Holland. 

Went.  I  know,  I  know :  old  Vane,  too,  he  's  one  too  ? 
Go  on — and  he  's  made  Secretary.     Well  ? 
Or  leave  them  out  and  go  straight  to  the  charge ; 
The  charge ! 

Lady  Car.  Oh,  there  's  no  charge,  no  precise  charge  ; 
Only  they  sneer,  make  light  of — one  may  say. 
Nibble  at  what  you  do. 

Went  I  know  !  but  Lucy, 

I  reckoried  on  you  from  the  first ! — Go  on  ! 
— Was  sure  could  I  once  see  this  gentle  friend 
When  I  arrived,  she  'd  throw  an  hour  away      , 
To  help  her  .  .  .  what  am  1  ? 

Lady  Car.  You  thought  of  me, 

Dear  Went  worth  ? 

Went.  But  go  on  !     The  party  here  ! 

Lady  Car.  They  do  not  think  your  Irish  Government 
Of  that  surpassing  value  .  .  . 

Went.  The  one  thing 

Of  value  !     The  one  service  that  the  crown 
May  count  on  !     All  that  keeps  these  very  Vanes 
In  power,  to  vex  me — not  that  they  do  vex, 
Only  it  might  vex  some  to  hear  that  service 
Decried,  the  sole  support  that  's  left  the  King  ! 

Lady  Car.  So  the  Archbishop  says. 


STRAFFORD.  223 

We7tf.  Ah  ?  well,  perhaps 

The  only  hand  held  up  in  my  defence 
May  be    old   Laud's  !      These   Hollands    then,    these 

Saviles 
Nibble  ?     They  nibble  ? — that  's  the  very  word  ! 

Lady  Car.  Your  profit  in  the  Customs,  Bristol  says, 
Exceeds  the  due  proportion :  while  the  tax  .  .  . 

Went.  Enough  !  't  is  too  unworthy, — I  am  not 
So  patient  as  I  thought !     What 's  Pym  about  ? 

Lady  Car.  Pym? 

Went.  Pym  and  the  People. 

Lady  Car.  Oh,  the  Faction  ! 

Extinct — of  no  account :  there  '11  never  be 
Another  Parliament. 

Went.  Tell  Savile  that ! 

You  may  know — (ay,  you  do — the  creatures  here 
Never  forget !)  that  in  my  earliest  life 
I  was  not .  .  .  much  that  I  am  now  !     The  King 
May  take  my  word  on  points  concerning  Pym 
Before  Lord  Savile's,  Lucy,  or  if  not, 
I  bid  them  ruin  their  wise  selves,  not  me. 
These  Vanes  and  Hollands  !     I  '11  not  be  their  tool 
Who  might  be  Pym's  friend  yet. 

But  there  's  the  King  ! 
Where  is  he  ? 

Lady  Car.  Just  apprised  that  you  arrive. 

Went.  And  why  not  here  to  meet  me  ?     I  was  told 
He  sent  for  me,  nay,  longed  for  me. 

Lady  Car.  Because, — 


2  24  STRAFFORD. 

He  is  now  ...  I  think  a  Council  's  sitting  now 
About  this  Scots  affair. 

Went.  A  Council  sits  ? 

They  have  not  taken  a  decided  course 
Without  me  in  the  matter  ? 

Lady  Car.  I  should  say  .  .  . 

Went.  The  war  ?    They  cannot  have  agreed  to  that  ? 
Not  the  Scots'  war  ? — without  consulting  me — 
Me,  that  am  here  to  show  how  rash  it  is, 
How  easy  to  dispense  with  ? — Ah,  you  too 
Against  me  !  well, — the  King  may  take  his  time. 
— Forget  it,  Lucy  !     Cares  make  peevish  :  mine 
Weigh  me  (but 't  is  a  secret)  to  my  grave. 

Lady  Car.  For  life   or  death  I  am   your   own,  dear 
friend  1  [  Goes  out. 

Went.  Heartless  !  but  all  are  heartless  here.    Go  now, 
Forsake  the  People  ! — I  did  not  forsake 
The  People  :  they  shall  know  it — when  the  King 
Will  trust  me  ! — who  trusts  all  beside  at  once, 
While  I  have  not  spoke  Vane  and  Savile  fair. 
And  am  not  trusted  :  have  but  saved  the  throne  : 
Have  not  picked  up  the  Queen's  glove  prettily, 
And  am  not  trusted.     But  he  '11  see  me  now. 
Weston  is  dead  :  the  Queen  's  half  English  now — 
More  English  :  one  decisive  word  will  brush 
These  insects  from  .  .  .  the  step  I  know  so  well ! 
The  King  !     But  now,  to  tell  him  .  .  no — to  ask 
What 's  in  me  he  distrusts  : — or,  best  begin 
By  proving  that  this  frightful  Scots  affair 


STRAFFORD.  225 

Is  just  what  I  foretold.     So  much  to  say, 
And  the  flesh  fails,  now,  and  the  tune  is  comej 
And  one  false  step  no  way  to  be  repaired  ! 
You  were  avenged,  Pym,  could  you  look  on  me. 

Pym  enters. 

Went.  I  little  thought  of  you  just  then. 

Fym.  No }     I 

Think  always  of  you,  Wentworth. 

Went.  The  old  voice  ! 

I  wait  the  King,  sir. 

Fym.  True — you  look  so  pale  ! 

A  Council  sits  within  ;  when  that  breaks  up 
He  '11  see  you. 

Went.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Fy7n.  Oh,  thank  Laud  ! 

You  know  when  Laud  once  gets  on  Church  affairs 
The  case  is  desperate  :  he  '11  not  be  long 
To-day  :  he  only  means  to  prove,  to-day, 
We  English  all  are  mad  to  have  a  hand 
In  butchering  the  Scots  for  serving  God 
After  their  fathers'  fashion  :  only  that ! 

Went.  Sir,  keep  your  jests  for  those  who  relish  them  ! 
(Does  he  enjoy  their  confidence  ?)     'T  is  kind 
To  tell  me  what  the  Council  does. 

Fy77h  You  grudge 

That  I  should  know  it  had  resolved  on  war 
Before  you  came  ?  no  need  :  you  shall  have  all 
The  credit,  trust  me  ! 

VOL.  I.  15 


2  26  STRAFFORD. 

Went.  Have  the  Council  dared — 

They  have  not  dared  .  .  .  that  is — I  know  you  not. 
Farewell,  sir  :  times  are  changed. 

Fym.  — Since  we  two  met 

At  Greenwich  ?     Yes  :  poor  patriots  though  we  be, 
You  cut  a  figure,  makes  some  slight  return 
For  your  exploits  in  Ireland  !     Changed  indeed, 
Could  our  fi:iend  Eliot  look  from  out  his  grave  ! 
Ah  Wentworth,  one  thing  for  acquaintance'  sake, 
Just  to  decide  a  question ;  have  you,  now. 
Felt  your  old  self  since  you  forsook  us  ? 

Went.  Sir ! 

Fy7n.  Spare  me  the  gesture  !  you  misapprehend  ! 
Think  not  I  mean  the  advantage  is  with  me. 
I  was  about  to  say  that,  for  my  part, 
I  never  quite  held  up  my  head  since  then — 
Was  quite  myself  since  then  :  for  first,  you  see, 
I  lost  all  credit  after  that  event 
With  those  who  recollect  how  sure  I  was 
Wentworth  would  outdo  Eliot  on  our  side. 
Forgive  me :  Savile,  old  Vane,  Holland  here. 
Eschew  plain-speaking  :  't  is  a  trick  I  keep. 

Went.  How,  when,  where,  Savile,  Vane  and  Holland 
speak. 
Plainly  or  otherwise,  would  have  my  scorn. 
All  of  my  scorn,  sir  .  .  . 

Fym.  .  .  Did  not  my  poor  thoughts 

Claim  somewhat  ? 

Went.  Keep  your  thoughts  !  believe  the  King 


STRAFFORD.  227 

Mistrusts  me  for  their  prattle,  all  these  Vanes 
And  Saviles  !  make  your  mind  up,  o'  God's  love, 
That  I  am  discontented  with  the  King ! 

Pym.  Why,  you  may  be  :  I  should  be,  that  I  know. 
Were  I  like  you. 

Went.  Like  me  ? 

Pym.  I  care  not  much 

For  titles  :  our  friend  Eliot  died  no  lord, 
Hampden  's  no  lord,  and  Savile  is  a  lord  ; 
But  you  care,  since  you  sold  your  soul  for  one. 
I  can't  think,  therefore,  your  soul's  purchaser 
Did  well  to  laugh  you  to  such  utter  scorn 
When  you  twice  prayed  so  humbly  for  its  price, 
The  thirty  silver  pieces  .  .  I  should  say, 
The  Earldom  you  expected,  still  expect, 
And  may.     Your  letters  were  the  movingest ! 
Console  yourself:  I  've  borne  him  prayers  just  now 
From  Scotland  not  to  be  oppressed  by  Laud, 
Words  moving  in  their  way :  he  '11  pay,  be  sure, 
As  much  attention  as  to  those  you  sent. 

Went.  False,  sir !  Who  showed  them  you  ?  Suppose  it  so, 
The  King  did  very  well  .  .  nay,  I  was  glad 
When  it  was  shown  me  -.  I  refused,  the  first ! 
John  Pym,  you  were  my  friend — forbear  me  once  ! 

Pym.  Oh  Wentworth,  ancient  brother  of  my  soul, 
That  all  should  come  to  this  ! 

Went.  Leave  me  ! 

Pym.  My  friend, 

Why  should  I  leave  you  ? 


2  28  STRAFFORD. 

IVenl.  To  tell  Rudyard  this, 

And  Hampden  this  ! 

jPym.  Whose  faces  once  were  bright    . 

At  my  approach,  now  sad  with  doubt  and  fear, 
Because  I  hope  in  you — yes,  Wentworth,  you 
Who  never  mean  to  ruin  England — you 
Who  shake  off,  with  God's  help,  an  obscene  dream 
In  this  Ezekiel  chamber,  where  it  crept 
Upon  you  first,  and  wake,  yourself,  your  true 
And  proper  self,  our  Leader,  England's  Chief, 
And  Hampden's  friend  ! 

This  is  the  proudest  day  ! 
Come,  Wentworth  !     Do  not  even  see  the  King  ! 
The  rough  old  room  will  seem  itself  again  ! 
We  '11  both  go  in  together  :  you  've  not  seen 
Hampden  so  long  :  come :  and  there's  Fiennes :  you  '11 

have 
To  know  young  Vane.     This  is  the  proudest  day  ! 

[77z^  King  enters.     Wentworth  lets  fall  Pym's  hand. 

Cha.  Arrived,  my  lord  ? — This  gentleman,  we  know, 
Was  your  old  friend. 

The  Scots  shall  be  informed 
What  we  determine  for  their  happiness. 

[Pym  goes  ont. 
You  have  made  haste,  my  lord. 

Went.  Sir,  I  am  come  .  .  . 

Cha.  To  see  an  old  familiar — nay,  't  is  well ; 
Aid  us  with  his  experience  :  this  Scots'  League 
And  Covenant  spreads  too  far,  and  we  have  proofs 


STRAFFORD.  229 

That  they  intrigue  with  France  :  the  Faction  too, 
Whereof  your  friend  there  is  the  head  and  front, 
Abets  them, — as  he  boasted,  very  Hke. 

Went.  Sir,  trust  me  !  but  for  this  once,  trust  me,  sir ! 

Cha.  What  can  you  mean  ? 

Went.  That  you  should  trust  me,  sir  ! 

Oh — not  for  my  sake  !  but 't  is  sad,  so  sad 
That  for  distrusting  me,  you  suffer — you 
W^hom  1  would  die  to  serve  :  sir,  do  you  think 
That  I  would  die  to  serve  you  ? 

Cha.  But  rise,  Wentworth  ! 

Went.  What  shall  convince  you  ?     What  does  Savile 
do 
To  prove  him  .  .  .  Ah,  one  can't  tear  out  one's  heart 
And  show  it,  how  sincere  a  thing  it  is  ! 

Cha.  Have  I  not  trusted  you  ? 

Went.  Say  aught  but  that ! 

There  is  my  comfort,  mark  you  :  all  will  be 
So  different  when  you  trust  me — as  you  shall ! 
It  has  not  been  your  fault, — I  was  away. 
Mistook,  maligned,  how  was  the  King  to  know  ? 
I  am  here,  now — he  means  to  trust  me,  now — 
All  will  go  on  so  well  ! 

Cha.  Be  sure  I  do — 

I've  heard  that  I  should  trust  you  :  as  you  came, 
Your  friend,  the  Countess,  told  me  .  .  . 

Went.  No, — hear  nothing — 

Be  told  nothing  about  me  !• — you're  not  told 
Your  right-hand  serves  you,  or  your  children  love  you  ! 


230  STRAFFORD. 

Cha.  You  love  me,  Wentworth  :  rise  ! 

Went.  I  can  speak  now. 

I  have  no  right  to  hide  the  truth.     'T  is  I 
Can  save  you  :  only  I.     Sir,  what  must  be  ? 

Cha.  Since  Laud  's  assured  (the  minutes  are  within) 
—Loath  as  I  am  to  spill  my  subjects'  blood  .  .  . 

Went.  That  is,  he  '11  have  a  war :  what 's  done  is  done  ! 

Cha.  They  have  intrigued  with  France;    that  's  clear 
to  Laud. 

Wefit.  Has  Laud  suggested  any  way  to  meet 
The  war's  expense  ? 

Cha.  He  'd  not  decide  so  far 

Until  you  joined  us. 

We7it.  Most  considerate ! 

He  's  certain  they  intrigue  with  France,  these  Scots  ? 
The  People  would  be  with  us. 

Cha.  Pym  should  know. 

Went.  The  People  for  us — were  the  People  for  us  ! 
Sir,  a  great  thought  comes  to  reward  your  trust : 
Summon  a  Parliament !  in  Ireland  first, 
Then,  here. 

Cha.  In  truth  ? 

Went.  That  saves  us  !  that  puts  off 

The  war,  gives  time  to  right  their  grievances — 
To  talk  with  Pym.     I  know  the  Faction,  as 
Laud  styles  it,  tutors  Scotland  :  all  their  plans 
Suppose  no  Parliament :  in  calling  one 
You  take  them  by  surprise.     Produce  the  proofs 
Of  Scotland's  treason ;  then  bid  England  help  : 


STRAFFORD.  23 1 

Even  Pym  will  not  refuse. 

Cha,  You  would  begin 

With  Ireland? 

Went.  Take  no  care  for  that :  that  's  sure 

To  prosper. 

Cha.  You  shall  rule  me.     You  were  best 

Return  at  once  :  but  take  this  ere  you  go  ! 
Now,  do  I  trust  you  ?     You  're  an  Earl :  my  Friend 
Of  Friends  :  yes,  while  .  .  .  You  hear  me  not ! 

We7it.  Say  it  all  o'er  again — but  once  again  : 
The  first  was  for  the  music — once  again  ! 

Cha.  Strafford,  my  friend,  there  may  have  been  reports, 
Vain  rumours.     Henceforth  touching  Strafford  is 
To  touch  the  apple  of  my  sight :  why  gaze 
So  earnestly  ? 

Weiit.  I  am  grown  young  again, 

And  foolish.     What  was  it  we  spoke  of? 

Cha.  Ireland, 

The  Parliament, — 

We7it.  I  may  go  when  I  will  ? 

— Now? 

Cha.  Are  you  tired  so  soon  of  us  ? 

We7it.  My  King  ? 

But  you  will  not  so  utterly  abhor 
A  parliament  ?     I  'd  serve  you  any  way. 

Cha.  You  said  just  now  this  was  the  only  way. 

Went.  Sir,  I  will  serve  you  ! 

Cha.  Strafford,  spare  yourself — 

You  are  so  sick,  they  tell  me. 


232  STRAFFORD. 

Went.  'T  is  my  soul 

That  's  well  and  prospers  now. 

This  Parliament — 
We  '11  summon  it,  the  English  one — I  '11  care 
For  everything.     You  shall  not  need  them  much. 

Cha,  If  they  prove  restive  .  .  . 

Went.  I  shall  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Ere  they  assemble  ? 

We?2t.  I  will  come,  or  else 

Deposit  this  infirm  humanity 

I'  the  dust.     My  whole  heart  stays  with  you,  my  King  ! 
[As  Wentworth  goes  out,  the  Queen  enters. 

Cha.  That  man  must  love  me. 

Queen.  Is  it  over  then  ? 

Why,  he  looks  yellower  than  ever !  Well, 
At  least  we  shall  not  hear  eternally 
Of  service — services  :  he  's  paid  at  least. 

Cha.  Not  done  with  :  he  engages  to  surpass 
All  yet  performed  in  Ireland. 

Queen.  I  had  thought 

Nothing  beyond  was  ever  to  be  done. 
The  war,  Charles — will  he  raise  supplies  enough  ? 

Cha.  We  've  hit  on  an  expedient ;  he  .  .  .  that  is, 
I  have  advised  ...  we  have  decided  on 
The  calling — in  Ireland — of  a  Parliament. 

Queen.  O  truly  !     You  agree  to  that  ?     Is  that 
The  first  fruit  of  his  counsel  ?     But  I  guessed 
As  much. 

Cha.         This  is  too  idle,  Henriette  ! 


STRAFFORD.  233 

I  should  know  best.     He  will  strain  every  nerve, 
And  once  a  precedent  established  .  .  . 

Queen,  Notice 

How  sure  he  is  of  a  long  term  of  favour  ! 
He  '11  see  the  next,  and  the  next  after  that ; 
No  end  to  Parliaments  ! 

Cha.  Well,  it  is  done. 

He  talks  it  smoothly,  doubtless.     If,  indeed, 
The  Commons  here  .  .  . 

Qiieen.  Here  !  you  will  summon  them 

Here  ?     Would  I  were  in  France  again  to  see 
A  King ! 

Cha.       But,  Henriette  .  .  . 

Queen.  Oh^  the  Scots  see  clear  ! 

Why  should  they  bear  your  rule  ? 

Cha.  But  listen,  sweet ! 

Queen.  Let  Wentworth  listen — you  confide  in  him  ! 

Cha.  I  do  not,  love, — I  do  not  so  confide  ! 
The  Parliament  shall  never  trouble  us 
.  .  Nay,  hear  me  !    I  have  schemes,  such  schemes :  we  '11 

buy 
The  leaders  off:  without  that,  Wentworth's  counsel 
Had  ne'er  prevailed  on  me.     Perhaps  I  call  it     . 
To  have  excuse  for  breaking  it  for  ever, 
And  whose  will  then  the  blame  be  ?     See  you  not  ? 
Come,  dearest ! — look,  the  little  fairy,  now, 
That  cannot  reach  my  shoulder  !     Dearest,  come  ! 


234  STRAFFORD. 

ACT    11. 

Scene  I. — (As  in  Act  I.  Scene  I.) 
The  smne  Party  enters. 

Rud.  Twelve  subsidies ! 

Vane,  O  Rudyard,  do  not  laugh 

At  least ! 

Rud.       True  :  Strafford  called  the  Parliament — 
'T  is  he  should  laugh  ! 

A  Puritan.  Out  of  the  serpent's  root 

Comes  forth  a  cockatrice. 

Fien.  — A  stinging  one, 

If  that's  the  Parliament :  twelve  subsidies  ! 
A  stinging  one  !  but,  brother,  where's  your  word 
For  Strafford's  other  nest-egg,  the  Scots'  war  ? 

The  Puritan.  His  fruit  shall  be  a  fiery  flying  serpent. 

Fien.  Shall  be  ?      It    chips    the   shell,    man ;    peeps 
abroad. 
Twelve  subsidies  ! — Why,  how  now.  Vane  ? 

Rud,  Peace,  Fiennes ! 

Fien,  Ah  ? — But  he  was  not  more  a  dupe  than  I, 
Or  you,  or  any  here,  the  day  that  Pym 
Returned  with  the  good  news.     Look  up,  friend  Vane  ! 
We  all  believed  that  Strafford  meant  us  well 
In  summoning  the  Parliament. 

Hampden  enters. 

Vane.  Now,  Hampden, 


STRAFFORD.  235 

Clear  me  !     I  would  have  leave  to  sleep  again  : 
I'd  look  the  People  in  the  face  again : 
Clear  me  from  having,  from  the  first,  hoped,  dreamed 
Better  of  Strafford  ! 

Hamp.  You  may  grow  one  day 

A  steadfast  light  to  England,  Henry  Vane  ! 

Rud.  Meantime,  by  flashes  I  make  shift  to  see 
Strafford  revived  our  Parliaments  ;  before, 
War  was  but  talked  of;  there's  an  army,  now  : 
Still,  we've  a  Parliament !     Poor  Ireland  bears 
Another  wrench  (she  dies  the  hardest  death !) — 
Why,  speak  of  it  in  Parliament !  and  lo, 
'T  is  spoken,  so  console  yourselves  ! 

Fien.  The  jest ! 

We  clamoured,  I  suppose,  thus  long,  to  win 
The  privilege  of  laying  on  our  backs 
A  sorer  burden  than  the  King  dares  lay  ! 

Rud.  Mark  now  :  we  meet  at  length,  complaints  pour 
in 
From  every  county,  all  the  land  cries  out 
On  loans  and  levies,  curses  ship-money. 
Calls  vengeance  on  the  Star-chamber  j  we  lend 
An  ear.    "  Ay,  lend  them  all  the  ears  you  have  !  " 
Puts  in  the  King  ;  "  my  subjects,  as  you  find, 
"  Are  fretful,  and  conceive  great  things  of  you. 
"  Just  listen  to  them,  friends  ;  you  '11  sanction  me 
"  The  measures  they  most  wince  at,  make  them  yours, 
"  Instead  of  mine,  I  know  :  and,  to  begin, 
"  They  say  my  levies  pinch  them, — raise  me  straight 


236  STRAFFORD. 

''  Twelve  subsidies  ! " 

Fien.  All  England  cannot  furnish 

Twelve  subsidies  ! 

Hoi.  But  Strafford,  just  returned 

From  Ireland — what  has  he  to  do  with  that  ? 
How  could  he  speak  his  mind  ?     He  left  before 
The  Parliament  assembled.     Pym,  who  knows 
Strafford  .  .  . 

Rud.  Would  I  were  sure  we  know  ourselves  ! 

What  is  for  good,  what,  bad — who  friend,  who  foe  ! 

Hoi.  Do  you  count  Parliaments  no  gain  ? 

Rud.  A  gain  ? 

While  the  King's  creatures  overbalance  us  ? 
— There's  going  on,  beside,  among  ourselves 
A  quiet,  slow,  but  most  effectual  course 
Of  buying  over,  sapping,  leavening 
The  lump  till  all  is  leaven.     Glanville's  gone. 
I  '11  put  a  case  ;  had  not  the  Court  declared 
That  no  sum  short  of  just  twelve  subsidies 
Will  be  accepted  by  the  King — our  House, 
I  say,  would  have  consented  to  that  offer 
To  let  us  buy  off  ship-money  ! 

Hoi.  Most  Hke, 

If,  say,  six  subsidies  will  buy  it  off, 
The  House  .  .  . 

Rud.  Will  grant  them  !     Hampden,  do  you  hear  ? 
Congratulate  with  me  !  the  King's  the  king, 
And  gains  his  point  at  last — our  own  assent 
To  that  detested  tax  !     All 's  over,  then  ! 


STRAFFORD.  237 

There  's  no  more  taking  refuge  in  this  room, 
Protesting,  "  Let  the  King  do  what  he  will, 
"  We,  England,  are  no  party  to  our  shame  : 
"  Our  day  will  come  ! "    Congratulate  with  me  ! 

Pym  enters. 

Vane.  Pym,  Strafford  called  this  Parliament,  you  say, 
But  we'll  not  have  our  Parliaments  like  those 
In  Ireland,  Pym ! 

Rud.  Let  him  stand  forth,  your  friend  ! 

One  doubtful  act  hides  far  too  many  sins ; 
It  can  be  stretched  no  more,  and,  to  my  mind, 
Begins  to  drop  from  those  it  covered. 

Other  Voices.  Good  ! 

Let  him  avow  himself !     No  fitter  time  ! 
We  wait  thus  long  for  you. 

Rud.  Perhaps,  too  long  ! 

Since  nothing  but  the  madness  of  the  Court, 
In  thus  unmasking  its  designs  at  once, 
Has  saved  us  from  betraying  England.     Stay — 
This  Parliament  is  Strafford's  :  let  us  vote 
Our  list  of  grievances  too  black  by  far 
To  suffer  talk  of  subsidies  :  or  best, 
That  ship-money 's  disposed  of  long  ago 
By  England  :  any  vote  that 's  broad  enough  : 
And  then  let  Strafford,  for  the  love  of  it, 
Support  his  Parliament ! 

Vane.  And  vote  as  well 

No  war  to  be  with  Scotland  !     Hear  you,  Pym  ? 


238  STRAFFORD. 

We  '11  vote,  no  war  !     No  part  nor  lot  in  it 
For  England  ! 

Many  Voices.  Vote,  no  war  !     Stop  the  new  levies  I 
No  Bishops'  war  !     At  once  !     When  next  we  meet ! 

Fym.  Much  more  when  next  we  meet !    Friends,  which 
of  you 
Since  first  the  course  of  Strafford  was  in  doubt, 
Has  fallen  the  most  away  in  soul  from  me  ? 

Vane.  I  sat  apart,  even  now,  under  God's  eye, 
Pondering  the  words  that  should  denounce  you,  Pym, 
In  presence  of  us  all,  as  one  at  league 
With  England's  enemy. 

Fym.  You  are  a  good 

And  gallant  spirit,  Henry.     Take  my  hand 
And  say  you  pardon  me  for  all  the  pain 
Till  now  !     Strafford  is  wholly  ours.  . 

Many  Voices.  Sure  ?  sure  ? 

Fym.  Most  sure  :  for  Charles  dissolves  the  Parliament 
While  I  speak  here. 

— And  I  must  speak,  friends,  now  1 
Strafford  is  ours.     The  King  detects  the  change, 
Casts  Strafford  off  for  ever,  and  resumes 
His  ancient  path  :  no  Parliament  for  us, 
No  Strafford  for  the  King  ! 

Come,  all  of  you. 
To  bid  the  King  farewell,  predict  success 
To  his  Scots'  expedition,  and  receive 
Strafford,  our  comrade  now.     The  next  will  be 
Indeed  a  Parliament ! 


STRAFFORD.  239 

Vane.  Forgive  me,  Pym  ! 

Voices.  This  looks  like  truth  :  Strafford  can  have,  indeed, 
No  choice. 

Fym.  Friends,  follow  me  !     He  's  with  the  King. 

Come,  Hampden,  and  come,  Rudyard,  and  come,  Vane  1 
This  is  no  sullen  day  for  England,  sirs  ! 
Strafford  shall  tell  you  ! 

Voices.  To  Whitehall  then  !     Come  ! 


Scene  II. — Whitehall. 
Charles  and  Strafford. 

Cha.  Strafford! 

Straf.  Is  it  a  dream  ?  my  papers,  here — 

Thus,  as  I  left  them,  all  the  plans  you  found 
So  happy — (look  !  the  track  you  pressed  my  hand 
For  pointing  out) — and  in  this  very  room. 
Over  these  very  plans,  you  tell  me,  sir, 
With  the  same  face,  too — tell  me  just  one  thing 
That  ruins  them  !     How 's  this  ?     What  may  this  mean  ? 
Sir,  who  has  done  this  ? 

Cha.  Strafford,  who  but  I  ? 

You  bade  me  put  the  rest  away :  indeed 
You  are  alone. 

Straf.  Alone,  and  like  to  be  ! 

No  fear,  when  some  unworthy  scheme  grows  ripe, 
Of  those,  who  hatched  it,  leaving  me  to  loose 
The  mischief  on  the  world  !     Laud  hatches  war, 


240  STRAFFORD. 

Falls  to  his  prayers,  and  leaves  the  rest  to  me, 
And  I  'm  alone. 

Cha,  At  least,  you  knew  as  much 

When  first  you  undertook  the  war. 

Straf.  My  liege, 

Was  this  the  way  ?     I  said,  since  Laud  would  lap 
A  little  blood,  't  were  best  to  hurry  over 
The  loathsome  business,  not  to  be  whole  months 
At  slaughter — one  blow,  only  one,  then,  peace, 
Save  for  the  dreams.     I  said,  to  please  you  both 
I  'd  lead  an  Irish  army  to  the  West, 
Wliile  in  the  South  an  English  .  .  .  but  you  look 
As  though  you  had  not  told  me  fifty  times 
'T  was  a  brave  plan  !     My  army  is  all  raised, 
I  am  prepared  to  join  it .  .  . 

Cha.  Hear  me,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  .  .  .  When,    for    some   little   thing,    my   wt 
design 
Is  set  aside — (where  is  the  wretched  paper?) 
I  am  to  lead — (ay,  here  it  is) — to  lead 
The  English  army  :  why  ?     Northumberland 
That  I  appointed,  chooses  to  be  sick — 
Is  frightened  :  and,  meanwhile,  who  answers  for 
The  Irish  Parliament  ?  or  army,  either  ? 
Is  this  my  plan  ? 

Cha.  So  disrespectful,  sir  ? 

Straf.  My  liege,  do  not  believe  it !     I  am  yours, 
Yours  ever :  't  is  too  late  to  think  about : 
To  the  death,  yours.     Elsewhere,  this  untoward  step 


STRAFFORD.  24 1 

Shall  pass  for  mine  j  the  world  shall  think  it  mine. 
But,  here  !     But,  here  !     I  am  so  seldom  here, 
Seldom  with  you,  my  King  !     I,  soon  to  rush 
Alone  upon  a  giant  in  the  dark  ! 

Cha.  My  Strafford! 

Straf.  {examines papers  awhile.']     "  Seize  the  passes  of 
the  Tyne  "  ! 
But,  sir,  you  see — see  all  I  say  is  true  ? 
My  plan  was  sure  to  prosper,  so,  no  cause 
To  ask  the  Parliament  for  help ;  whereas 
AVe  need  them  frightfully. 

Cha.  Need  the  Parliament  ? 

Straf.  Now,  for  God's  sake,  sir,  not  one  error  more  ! 
We  can  afford  no  error ;  we  draw,  now. 
Upon  our  last  resource  :  the  Parliament 
Must  help  us ! 

Cha.  I  've  undone  you,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  Nay — 

Nay — why  despond,  sir,  't  is  not  come  to  that ! 
I  have  not  hurt  you  ?     Sir,  what  have  I  said 
To  hurt  you  ?     I  unsay  it !     Don't  despond  1 
Sir,  do  you  turn  from  m.e  ? 

Cha.  My  friend  of  friends  1 

Straf  We'll  make  a  shift.      Leave  me  the  Parliament ! 
Help  they  us  ne'er  so  little  and  I  '11  make 
Sufficient  out  of  it.     We  '11  speak  them  fair. 
They  're  sitting,  that 's  one  great  thing  ;  that  half  gives 
Their  sanction  to  us ;  that 's  much  :  don't  despond  ! 
Why,  let  them  keep  their  money,  at  the  worst ! 

VOL.    I.  1 6 


242  STRAFFORD. 

The  reputation  of  the  People's  help 
Is  all  we  want :  we  '11  make  shift  yet ! 

Cha.  Good  Strafford ! 

Straf.  But  meantime,  let  the  sum  be  ne'er  so  small 
They  offer,  we  '11  accept  it :  any  sum — 
For  the  look  of  it :  the  least  grant  tells  the  Scots 
The  Parliament  is  ours — their  staunch  ally 
Turned  ours  :  that  told,  there 's  half  the  blow  to  strike  ! 
What  will  the  grant  be  ?     What  does  Glanville  think  ? 

Cha.  Alas  ! 

Straf.  My  liege  ? 

Cha.  Strafford ! 

Straf.  But  answer  me  ! 

Have  they  .  .  .  O  surely  not  refused  us  half? 
Half  the  twelve  subsidies  ?     We  never  looked 
For  all  of  them.     How  many  do  they  give  ? 

Cha.  You  have  not  heard  .  .  . 

Straf.  (What  has  he  done  ?) — Heard  what  ? 

But  speak  at  once,  sir,  this  grows  terrible  ! 

\The  King  continuing  silent. 
You  have  dissolved  them  ! — I  '11  not  leave  this  man. 

Cha.  'T  was  old  Vane's  ill-judged  vehemence. 

Straf  Old  Vane  ? 

Cha.  He  told  them,  just  about  to  vote  the  half, 
That  nothing  short  of  all  twelve  subsidies 
Would  serve  our  turn,  or  be  accepted. 

Straf.  Vane ! 

Vane  !     Who,  sir,  promised  me  that  very  Vane  ... 
O  God,  to  have  it  gone,  quite  gone  from  me, 


STRAFFORD.  243 

The  one  last  hope — I  that  despair,  my  hope — 

That  I  should  reach  his  heart  one  day,  and  cure 

All  bitterness  one  day,  be  proud  again 

And  young  again,  care  for  the  sunshine  too. 

And  never  think  of  Eliot  any  more, — 

God,  and  to  toil  for  this,  go  far  for  this, 

Get  nearer,  and  still  nearer,  reach  this  heart 

And  find  Vane  there  ! 

\Suddenly  taking  up  a  paper,  and  cotttinuing  with 
a  forced  calmness. 

Northumberland  is  sick  : 
Well,  then,  I  take  the  army :  Wilmot  leads 
The  horse,  and  he,  with  Conway,  must  secure 
The  passes  of  the  Tyne :  Ormond  supplies 
My  place  in  Ireland.     Here,  we  '11  try  the  City  : 
If  they  refuse  a  loan — debase  the  coin 
And  seize  the  bullion  !  we  've  no  other  choice. 
Herbert .  .  . 

And  this  while  I  am  here  !  with  you  ! 
And  there  are  hosts  such,  hosts  like  Vane  !     I  go. 
And,  I  once  gone,  they  '11  close  around  you,  sir. 
When  the  least  pique,  pettiest  mistrust,  is  sure 
To  ruin  me — and  you  along  with  me  ! 
Do  you  see  that  ?     And  you  along  with  me  !    ■ 
— Sir,  you  '11  not  ever  listen  to  these  men, 
And  I  away,  fighting  your  batde  ?     Sir, 
If  they — if  She — charge  me,  no  matter  how — 
Say  you,  "  At  any  time  when  he  returns 
"  His  head  is  mine  !  "    Don't  stop  me  there  !    You  know 


244  STRAFFORD. 

My  head  is  yours,  but  never  stop  me  there  ! 

Cha,  Too  shameful,  Strafford  !     You  advised  the  war, 
And  .  .  . 

Straf,  I !  I !  that  was  never  spoken  with 
Till  it  was  entered  on  !     That  loathe  the  war  ! 
That  say  it  is  the  maddest,  wickedest .  .  . 
Do  you  know,  sir,  I  think,  within  my  heart. 
That  you  would  say  I  did  advise  the  war ; 
And  if,  through  your  own  weakness,  or  what 's  worse, 
These    Scots,    with    God    to    help    them,    drive    me 

back, 
You  will  not  step  between  the  raging  People 
And  me,  to  say  .  .  . 

I  knew  it !  from  the  first 
I  knew  it !    Never  was  so  cold  a  heart ! 
Remember  that  I  said  it — that  I  never 
Believed  you  for  a  moment ! 

— And,  you  loved  me  ? 
You  thought  your  perfidy  profoundly  hid 
Because  I  could  not  share  the  whisperings 
With  Vane,  with  Savile  ?    What,  the  face  was  masked  ? 
I  had  the  heart  to  see,  sir  !     Face  of  flesh. 
But  heart  of  stone — of  smooth  cold  frightful  stone  ! 
Ay,  call  them  !     Shall  I  call  for  you  ?    The  Scots 
Goaded  to  madness  ?     Or  the  English — Pym — 
Shall  I  call  Pym,  your  subject  ?     Oh,  you  think 
I  '11  leave  them  in  the  dark  about  it  all  ? 
They  shall    not   know  you?      Hampden,    Pym   shall 
not? 


STRAFFORD.  245 

Pym,  Hampden,  Vane,  etc.  enter. 
[Dropping  on  his  knee.]    Thus  favoured  with  your  gracious 

countenance 
What  shall  a  rebel  League  avail  against 
Your  servant,  utterly  and  ever  yours  ? 
So,  gentlemen,  the  King  's  not  even  left 
The  privilege  of  bidding  me  farewell 
Who  haste  to  save  the  People — that  you  style 
Your  People — from  the  mercies  of  the  Scots 
And  France  their  friend  ? 

[To  Charles.]  Pym's  grave  grey  eyes  are  fixed 

Upon  you,  sir ! 

Your  pleasure,  gentlemen  ? 
Ifamp.  The  King  dissolved  us — 't  is  the  King  we 
seek 
And  not  Lord  Strafford. 

Sfrqf.  — Strafford,  guilty  too 

Of  counselling  the  measure.    [To  Charles.]    (Hush  .  .  . 

you  know — 
You  have  forgotten — sir,  I  counselled  it) 
A  heinous  matter,  truly !     But  the  King 
Will  yet  see  cause  to  thank  me  for  a  course 
Which    now,    perchance  .  .  .  (Sir,   tell    them    so  !) — he 

blames. 
Well,  choose  some  fitter  time  to  make  your  charge  : 
I  shall  be  with  the  Scots,  you  understand  ? 
Then  yelp  at  me  ! 

Meanwhile,  your  Majesty 
Binds  me,  by  this  fresh  token  of  your  trust .  .  . 


246  STRAFFORD. 

[Under  the  pretence  of  an  earnest  fareivell^  Strafford  conducts 
Charles  to  the  door,   in   such  a   7nan7ter   as   to  hide  his 
agitatiojt  from  the  rest :  as  the  King  disappears,  they  turn 
as  by  one  impulse  to  Pym,  who  has  not  changed  his  original 
posture  of  surprise. 
Hamp.  Leave  we  this  arrogant  strong  wicked  man  ! 
Vane  and  others.    Hence,  Pym  !     Come   out  of  this 
unworthy  place 
To  our  old  room  again  !     He  's  gone. 

[Strafford,  just  about  to  follow  the  King,  looks  back. 
Pym.  Not  gone  ! 

\To  Strafford.]    Keep  tryst !   the  old  appointment  's 

made  anew  : 
Forget  not  we  shall  meet  again  ! 

Straf.  So  be  it ! 

And  if  an  army  follows  me  ? 

Vane.  His  friends 

Will  entertain  your  army  ! 

Pym.  I  '11  not  say 

You  have  misreckoned,  Straiford :  time  shows. 

Perish 
Body  and  spirit !     Fool  to  feign  a  doubt, 
Pretend  the  scrupulous  and  nice  reserve 
Of  one  whose  prowess  shall  achieve  the  feat  I 
What  share  have  I  in  it  ?     Do  I  affect 
To  see  no  dismal  sign  above  your  head 
When  God  suspends  his  ruinous  thunder  there  ? 
Strafford  is  doomed.     Touch  him  no  one  of  you  ! 

[Pym,  Hampden,  etc.  go  out. 
Straf.  Pym,  we  shall  meet  again  ! 


STRAFFORD.  247 

Lady  Carlisle  enters. 

You  here,  child  ? 

Lady  Car.  Hush — 

I  know  it  all :  hush,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  Ah  ?  you  know  ? 

Well.     I  shall  make  a  sorry  soldier,  Lucy  ! 
All  knights  begin  their  enterprise,  we  read. 
Under  the  best  of  auspices  ;  't  is  morn, 
The  Lady  girds  his  sword  upon  the  Youth 
(He  's  always  very  young) — the  trumpets  sound. 
Cups  pledge  him,  and,  why,  the  King  blesses  him — 
You  need  not  turn  a  page  of  the  romance 
To  learn  the  Dreadful  Giant's  fate.     Indeed. 
We  Ve  the  fair  Lady  here ;  but  she  apart, — 
A  poor  man,  rarely  having  handled  lance, 
And  rather  old,  weary,  and  far  from  sure 
His  Squires  are  not  the  Giant's  friends.     All  's  one  : 
Let  us  go  forth  ! 

Lady  Car.  Go  forth  ? 

Straf.  What  matters  it  ? 

We  shall  die  gloriously — as  the  book  says. 

Lady  Car.  To  Scotland  ?  not  to  Scotland  ? 

Straf.  Am  I  sick 

Like  your  good  brother,  brave  Northumberland  ? 
Beside,  these  walls  seem  falling  on  me. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford, 

The  wind  that  saps  these  walls  can  undermine 
Your  camp  in  Scotland,  too.     Whence  creeps  the  wind  ? 
Have  you  no  eyes  except  for  Pym  ?     Look  here  ! 


248  STRAFFORD. 

A  breed  of  silken  creatures  lurk  and  thrive 

In  your  contempt.     You  '11  vanquish  Pym  ?     Old  Vane 

Can  vanquish  you.     And  Vane  you  think  to  fly  ? 

Rush  on  the  Scots  !     Do  nobly !     Vane's  slight  sneer 

Shall  test  success,  adjust  the  praise,  suggest 

The  faint  result :     Vane's  sneer  shall  reach  you  there. 

— You  do  not  listen  ! 

Straf,  Oh, — I  give  that  up  ! 

There  's  fate  in  it :     I  give  all  here  quite  up. 
Care  not  what  old  Vane  does  or  Holland  does 
Against  me  !     'T  is  so  idle  to  withstand  ! 
In  no  case  tell  me  what  they  do ! 

Lady  Car.  But,  Strafford  .  .  . 

Straf.  I  want  a  little  strife,  beside ;  real  strife ; 
This  petty,  palace-warfare  does  me  harm : 
I  shall  feel  better,  fairly  out  of  it. 

Lady  Car.  Why  do  you  smile  ? 

Straf.  I  got  to  fear  them,  child  ! 

I  could  have  torn  his  throat  at  first,  old  Vane's, 
As  he  leered  at  me  on  his  stealthy  way 
To  the  Queen's  closet.     Lord,  one  loses  heart ! 
I  often  found  it  in  my  heart  to  say 
*'  Do  not  traduce  me  to  her  ! " 

Lady  Car,  But  the  King  .  .  . 

Straf  The  King  stood  there,  *t  is  not  so  long  ago, 
— There ;  and  the-  whisper,  Lucy,  "  Be  my  friend 
*'  Of  friends  ! " — My  King  !     I  would  have  .  .  . 

Lady  Car,  .  .  .  Died  for  him  ? 

Straf  Sworn  him  true,  Lucy :  I  can  die  for  him. 


STRAFFORD.  249 

Lady  Car.    But  go   not,   Strafford!      But  you   must 
renounce 
This  project  on  the  Scots  !     Die,  wherefore  die  ? 
Charles  never  loved  you. 

Straf.  And  he  never  will. 

He  's  not  of  those  who  care  the  more  for  men 
That  they  're  unfortunate. 

Lady  Car.  Then  wherefore  die 

For  such  a  master  ? 

Straf.  You  that  told  me  first 

How  good  he  was — when  I  must  leave  true  friends 
To  find  a  truer  friend  ! — that  drew  me  here 
From  Ireland, — "  I  had  but  to  show  myself 
"  And  Charles  would  spurn  Vane,  Savile  and  the  rest " — 
You,  child,  to  ask  me  this  ? 

Lady  Car.  (If  he  have  set 

His  heart  abidingly  on  Charles  !) 

Then,  friend, 
I  shall  not  see  you  any  more. 

Straf.  Yes,  I^ucy. 

There  's  one  man  here  I  have  to  meet. 

Lady  Car.  (The  King  ! 

What  way  to  save  him  from  the  King  ? 

My  soul — 
That  lent  from  its  own  store  the  charmed  disguise 
That  clothes  the  King — he  shall  behold  my  soul ! ) 
Strafford, — I  shall  speak  best  if  you  '11  not  gaze 
Upon  me :  I  had  never  thought,  indeed, 
To  speak,  but  you  would  perish  too,  so  sure  ! 


250  STRAFFORD. 

Could  you  but  know  what 't  is  to  bear,  my  friend, 

One  image  stamped  within  you,  turning  blank 

The  else  imperial  brilliance  of  your  mind, — 

A  weakness,  but  most  precious, — like  a  flaw 

I'  the  diamond,  which  should  shape  forth  some  sweet  face 

Yet  to  create,  and  meanwhile  treasured  there 

Lest  nature  lose  her  gracious  thought  for  ever ! 

Straf,  When  could  it  be  ?  no  !     Yet  .  .  was  it  the  day 
We  waited  in  the  anteroom,  till  Holland 
Should  leave  the  presence-chamber  ? 

Lady  Car.  What? 

Straf.  —That  I 

Described  to  you  my  love  for  Charles  ? 

Lady  Car.  (Ah,  no — 

One  must  not  lure  him  from  a  love  like  that ! 
Oh,  let  him  love  the  King  and  die  !     'T  is  past. 
I  shall  not  serve  him  worse  for  that  one  brief 
And  passionate  hope,  silent  for  ever  now  !) 
And  you  are  really  bound  for  Scotland  then  ? 
I  wish  you  well :  you  must  be  very  sure 
Of  the  King's  faith,  for  Pym  and  all  his  crew 
Will  not  be  idle — setting  Vane  aside  ! 

Straf.  If  Pym  is  busy, — ^you  may  write  of  Pym. 

Lady  Car.  What  need,  since  there  's  your  King  to  take 
your  part  ? 
He  may  endure  Vane's  counsel ;  but  for  Pym — 
Think  you  he  '11  suffer  Pym  to  .  .  . 

St7'af.  Child,  your  hair 

Is  glossier  than  the  Queen's  ! 


STRAFFORD.  25 1 

Lady  Car.  Is  that  to  ask 

A  curl  of  me  ? 

Straf.  Scotland the  weary  way  ! 

Lady  Car,  Stay,  let  me  fasten  it. 

— A  rival's,  Strafford  ? 

Straf.  \_showing  the  George.]  He  hung  it  there :  twine 
yours  around  it,  child  ! 

Lady  Car.  No — no — another  time — I  trifle  so  ! 
And  there  's  a  masque  on  foot.     Farewell.     The  Court 
Is  dull ;  do  something  to  enliven  us 
In  Scotland :  we  expect  it  at  your  hands. 

Straf.  I  shall  not  fail  in  Scotland. 

Lady  Car.  Prosper — if 

You  '11  think  of  me  sometimes  ! 

Straf  How  think  of  him 

And  not  of  you  ?  of  you,  the  lingering  streak 
(A  golden  one)  in  my  good  fortune's  eve. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  .  .  .  Well,  when  the  eve  has  its 
last  streak 
The  night  has  its  first  star.  [She  goes  out,^ 

Straf  That  voice  of  hers — 

You  'd  think  she  had  a  heart  sometimes  !     His  voice 
Is  soft  too. 

Only  God  can  save  him  now. 
Be  Thou  about  his  bed,  about  his  path ! 
His  path  !     Where  's  England's  path  ?     Diverging  wide, 
And  not  to  join  again  the  track  my  foot 
Must  follow — whither  ?    All  that  forlorn  way 
Among  the  tombs  !     Far — far — till  .  .  .  What,  they  do 


252  STRAFFORD. 

Then  join  again,  these  paths?     For,  huge  in  the  dusk. 
There  's — Pym  to  face  ! 

Why  then,  I  have  a  foe 
To  close  with,  and  a  fight  to  fight  at  last 
Worthy  my  soul !   '  What,  do  they  beard  the  King, 
And  shall  the  King  want  Strafford  at  his  need  ? 
Am  I  not  here  ? 

Not  in  the  market-place. 
Pressed  on  by  the  rough  artisans,  so  proud 
To  catch  a  glance  from  Wentworth  !     They  lie  down 
Hungry  yet  smile  "  Why,  it  must  end  some  day : 
"  Is  he  not  watching  for  our  sake  ?"     Not  there  ! 
But  in  Whitehall,  the  whited  sepulchre. 
The  .  .  . 

Curse  nothing  to-night !     Only  one  name 
They  '11  curse  in  all  those  streets  to-night.     Whose  fault  ? 
Did  I  make  kings  ?  set  up,  the  first,  a  man 
To  represent  the  multitude,  receive 
All  love  in  right  of  them — supplant  them  so, 
Until  you  love  the  man  and  not  the  king-^ — 
The  man  with  the  mild  voice  and  mournful  eyes 
Which  send  me  forth. 

— To  breast  the  bloody  sea 
That  sweeps  before  me :  with  one  star  for  guide. 
Night  has  its  first,  supreme,  forsaken  star. 


STRAFFORD.  253 


ACT    III. 


Scene  I. — Opposite  Westminster  Hall. 

Sir  Henry  Vane,  Lord  Savile,  Lord  Holland  and  others  of 
the  Court. 

Sir  H.  Vane.  The  Commons  thrust  you  out  ? 

Savile.  And  what  kept  you 

From  sharing  their  civiUty  ? 

Sir  H.  Vane.  Kept  me  ? 

Fresh  news  from  Scotland,  sir  !  worse  than  the  last, 
If  that  may  be.     All 's  up  with  Strafford  there  : 
Nothing  to  bar  the  mad  Scots  marching  hither 
Next  Lord's-day  morning.     That  detained  me,  sir  ! 
Well  now,  before  they  thrust  you  out, — ^go  on, — 
Their  Speaker — did  the  fellow  Lenthal  say 
All  we  set  down  for  him  ? 

Hoi.  Not  a  word  missed. 

Ere  he  began,  we  entered,  Savile,  I 
And  Bristol  and  some  more,  with  hope  to  breed 
A  wholesome  awe  in  the  new  Parliament. 
But  such  a  gang  of  graceless  ruffians,  Vane, 
As  glared  at  us  ! 

Vafie.  So  many  ? 

Savile.  Not  a  bench 

Without  its  complement  of  burly  knaves ; 
Your  hopeful  son  among  them :  Hampden  leant 
Upon  his  shoulder — think  of  that ! 


2  54  STRAFFORD. 

Vane.  I'd  think 

On  Lenthal's  speech,  if  I  could  get  at  it. 
Urged  he,  I  ask,  how  grateful  they  should  prove 
For  this  unlooked-for  summons  from  the  King  ? 

JIol.  Just  as  we  drilled  him. 
Vane.  That  the  Scots  will  march 

On  London  ? 

Hoi.  All,  and  made  so  much  of  it, 

A  dozen  subsidies  at  least  seemed  sure 
To  follow,  when  .  .  . 

Vane.  Well  ? 

Hoi.  'T  is  a  strange  thing  now  ! 

I  've  a  vague  memory  of  a  sort  of  sound, 
A  voice,  a  kind  of  vast  unnatural  voice — 
Pym,  sir,  was  speaking  !     Savile,  help  me  out : 
What  was  it  all } 

Sav.  Something  about  "  a  matter  " — 

No, — ^'  work  for  England." 

Hoi.  "  England's  great  revenge  " 

He  talked  of. 

Sav.  How  should  I  get  used  to  Pym 

More  than  yourselves  ? 

Hoi.  However  that  be, 

'T  was  something  with  which  we  had  nought  to  do, 
For    we     were    "  strangers "    and    't  was     "  England's 

work  " — 
(All  this  while  looking  us  straight  in  the  face) 
In  other  words,  our  presence  might  be  spared. 
So,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  before 


STRAFFORD.  255 

I  settled  to  my  mind  what  ugly  brute 

Was  likest  Pym  just  then,  they  yelled  us  out, 

Locked  the  doors  after  us,  and  here  are  we. 

Vane.  EHot's  old  method  .  .  . 

Sav.  Prithee,  Vane,  a  truce 

To  Eliot  and  his  times,  and  the  great  Duke, 
And  how  to  manage  Parliaments  !     'T  was  you 
Advised  the  Queen  to  summon  this :  why,  Strafford 
(To  do  him  justice)  would  not  hear  of  it. 

Vane.  Say  rather,  you  have  done  the  best  of  turns 
To  Strafford  :  he  's  at  York,  we  all  know  why. 
I  would  you  had  not  set  the  Scots  on  Strafford 
Till  Strafford  put  down  Pym  for  us,  my  lord  ! 

Sav.  Was  it  I  altered  Strafford's  plans  ?  did  I  .  .  , 
A  Messenger  enters. 

Mes.  The  Queen,  my  lords — she  sends  me :    follow 
me 
At  once ;  't  is  very  urgent !  she  requires 
Your  counsel :  something  perilous  and  strange 
Occasions  her  command. 

Sav.  We  follow,  friend  ! 

Now,  Vane ; — your  Parliament  will  plague  us  all ! 

Va7ie.  No  Strafford  here  beside  ! 

Sav.  If  you  dare  hint 

I  had  a  hand  in  his  betrayal,  sir  .  .  . 

Hoi.  Nay,  find  a  fitter  time  for  quarrels — Pym 
Will  overmatch  the  best  of  you ;  and,  think. 
The  Queen  ! 

Va7ie.  Come  on,  then  :  understand,  I  loathe 


256  STRAFFORD. 

Strafford  as  much  as  any — but  his  use  ! 
To  keep  off  Pym,  to  screen  a  friend  or  two, 
I  would  we  had  reserved  him  yet  awhile. 


Scene  II.— Whitehall. 
The  Queen  and  Lady  Carlisle. 

Queen.  It  cannot  be. 

Lady  Car.  It  is  so. 

Quee7i.  Why,  the  House 

Have  hardly  met. 

Lady  Car.  They  met  for  that. 

Queen.  No,  no ! 

Meet  to  impeach  Lord  Strafford  ?    'T  is  a  jest. 

Lady  Car.  A  bitter  one. 

Queen.  Consider !    'T  is  the  House 

We  summoned  so  reluctantly,  which  nothing 
But  the  disastrous  issue  of  the  war 
Persuaded  us  to  summon.     They  '11  wreak  all 
Their  spite  on  us,  no  doubt ;  but  the  old  way 
Is  to  begin  by  talk  of  grievances  : 
They  have  their  grievances  to  busy  them. 

Lady  Car.  Pym  has  begun  his  speech. 

Queen.  Where 's  Vane  ? — That  is, 

Pym  will  impeach  Lord  Strafford  if  he  leaves 
His  Presidency ;  he  's  at  York,  we  know, 
Since  the  Scots  beat  him  :  why  should  he  leave  York  ? 

Lady  Car.    Because  the  King  sent  for  him. 


STRAFFORD.  257 

Queen,  Ah — but  if 

The  King  did  send  for  him,  he  let  him  know 
We  had  been  forced  to  call  a  Parliament — 
A  step  which  Strafford,  now  I  come  to  think, 
Was  vehement  against. 

Lady  Car.  The  policy 

Escaped  him,  of  first  striking  Parliaments 
To  earth,  then  setting  them  upon  their  feet 
And  giving  them  a  sword  :  but  this  is  idle. 
Did  the  King  send  for  Strafford  ?     He  will  come. 

Queen.  And  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

Lady  Car.  What  do  ?     Fail,  madam  ! 

Be  ruined  for  his  sake  !  what  matters  how, 
So  it  but  stand  on  record  that  you  made 
An  effort,  only  one  ? 

Queen.  The  King  away 

At  Theobald 's  ! 

Lady  Car.     Send  for  him  at  once  :  he  must 
Dissolve  the  House. 

Queen.  Wait  till  Vane  finds  the  truth 

Of  the  report :  then  .  . 

Lady  Car.  — It  will  matter  little 

What  the  King  does.     Strafford  that  lends  his  arm 
And  breaks  his  heart  for  you  ! 

Sir  H.  Vane  enters. 

Vane.  The  Commons,  madam. 

Are  sitting  with  closed  doors.  A  huge  debate, 
No  lack  of  noise  ;  but  nothing,  I  should  guess, 
Concerning  Strafford  :  Pym  has  certainly 

VOL.   I.  17 


258  STRAFFORD. 

Not  spoken  yet. 

Queen  [To  Lady  Carlisle.]  You  hear? 

Zady  Car.  I  do  not  hear 

That  the  King 's  sent  for  ! 

Sir  H.   Vane.  Savile  will  be  able 

To  tell  you  more. 

Holland  enters. 

Queen.  The  last  news,  Holland  ? 

mi.  Pym 

Is  raging  like  a  fire.     The  whole  House  means 
To  follow  him  together  to  Whitehall 
And  force  the  King  to  give  up  Strafford. 

Queen.  Strafford  ? 

Hoi.  If  they  content  themselves  with  Strafford  !  Laud 
Is  talked  of,  Cottington  and  Windebank  too, 
Pym  has  not  left  out  one  of  them — I  would 
You  heard  Pym  raging  ! 

Queen.  Vane,  go  find  the  King  ! 

Tell  the  King,  Vane,  the  People  follow  Pym 
To  brave  us  at  Whitehall ! 

Savile  enters. 

Savile.  Not  to  Whitehall— 

'T  is  to  the  Lords  they  go  :  they  seek  redress 
On  Strafford  from  his  peers — the  legal  way. 
They  call  it. 

Queen.  (Wait,  Vane  1) 

Sav.  But  the  adage  gives 

Long  life  to  threatened  men.     Strafford  can  save 


STRAFFORD.  259 

Himself  so  readily  :  at  York,  remember, 
In  his  own  county,  what  has  he  to  fear  ? 
The  Commons  only  mean  to  frighten  him 
From  leaving  York.     Surely,  he  will  not  come. 

Queen,  Lucy,  he  will  not  come  ! 

Lady  Car.  Once  more,  the  King 

Hast  sent  for  Strafford.     He  will  come. 

Vane.  Oh  doubtless  ! 

And  bring  destruction  with  him ;  that 's  his  way. 
What  but  his  coming  spoilt  all  Conway's  plan  ? 
The  King  must  take  -his  counsel,  choose  his  friends. 
Be  wholly  ruled  by  him  !     What 's  the  result  ? 
The  North  that  was  to  rise,  Ireland  to  help, — 
What  came  of  it  ?     In  my  poor  mind,  a  fright 
Is  no  prodigious  punishment. 

Lady  Car.  A  fright  ? 

Pym  will  fail  worse  than  Strafford  if  he  thinks 
To  frighten  him.    \To  the  Queen.]    You  will  not  save 
him  then  ? 

Sav.  When  something  like  a  charge  is  made,  the  King 
Will  best  know  how  to  save  him  :  and  't  is  clear, 
While  Strafford  suffers  nothing  by  the  matter. 
The  King  may  reap  advantage  :  this  in  question, 
No  dinning  you  with  ship-money  complaints  ! 

Queen.  [To  Lady  Carlisle.]  If  we  dissolve  them,  who 
will  pay  the  army  ? 
Protect  us  from  the  insolent  Scots  ? 

Lady  Car.  In  truth, 

I  know  not,  madam.     Strafford's  fate  concerns 


26o  STRAFFORD. 

Me  little  :  you  desired  to  learn  what  course 
Would  save  him  :  I  obey  you. 

Vane.  Notice,  too, 

There  can't  be  fairer  ground  for  taking  full 
Revenge — (Strafford  's  revengeful) — than  he  '11  have 
Against  his  old  friend  Pym. 

Queen.  Why,  he  shall  claim 

Vengeance  on  Pym  ! 

Vane.  And  Strafford,  who  is  he 

To  'scape  unscathed  amid  the  accidents 
That  harass  all  beside  ?     I,  for  my  part. 
Should  look  for  something  of  discomfiture 
Had  the  King  trusted  me  so  thoroughly 
And  been  so  paid  for  it. 

ffol.  He  '11  keep  at  York  : 

All  will  blow  over :  he  '11  return  no  worse, 
Humbled  a  little,  thankful  for  a  place 
Under  as  good  a  man.     Oh,  we  '11  dispense 
With  seeing  Strafford  for  a  month  or  two  ! 
Strafford  enters. 

Queen.  You  here ! 

Straf.  The  King  sends  for  me,  madam. 

Queen.  Sir, 

The  King  .  .  . 

Straf.  An  urgent  matter  that  imports  the  King. 

\To  Lady  Carlisle.]  Why,  Lucy,  what  's  in  agitation 

now. 
That  all  this  muttering  and  shrugging,  see, 
Begins  at  me  ?    They  do  not  speak  ! 


STRAFFORD.  26 1 

Lady  Car.  'T  is  welcome  ! 

For  we  are  proud  of  you — happy  and  proud 
To  have  you  with  us,  Strafford  !     You  were  staunch 
At  Durham  :  you  did  well  there  !     Had  you  not 
Been  stayed,  you  might  have  ....  we  said,  even  now, 
Our  hope  's  in  you  ! 

Sir  H.  Vane.  [To  Lady  Carlisle.]  The  Queen  would 
speak  with  you. 

Sfra/.  Will  one  of  you,  his  servants  here,  vouchsafe 
To  signify  my  presence  to  the  King  ? 

Sav.  An  urgent  matter  ? 

Sfraf.  None  that  touches  you, 

Lord  Savile  !     Say,  it  were  some  treacherous 
Sly  pitiful  intriguing  with  the  Scots — 
You  would  go  free,  at  least !     (They  half  divine 
My  purpose  !)     Madam,  shall  I  see  the  King  ? 
The  service  I  would  render,  much  concerns 
His  welfare. 

Queen.  But  his  Majesty,  my  lord, 

May  not  be  here,  may  .  .  . 

Straf.  Its  importance,  then, 

Must  plead  excuse  for  this  withdrawal,  madam. 
And  for  the  grief  it  gives  Lord  Savile  here. 

Queen.    [Who  has    been    conversing   with   Vane   and 
Holland.]  The  King  will  see  you,  sir  ! 
\To  Lady  Carlisle.]  Mark  me  :  Pym's  worst 

Is  done  by  now :  he  has  impeached  the  Earl, 
Or  found  the  Earl  too  strong  for  him,  by  now. 
Let  us  not  seem  instructed  !     We  should  work 


262  STRAFFORD. 

No  good  to  Strafford,  but  deform  ourselves 

With  shame  in  the  world's  eye.     [To  Strafford.]    His 

Majesty 
Has  much  to  say  with  you. 

S^raf.  Time  fleeting,  too  ! 

[To  Lady  Carlisle.]  No  means  of  getting  them  away? 

And  She— 
What  does  she  whisper  ?     Does  she  know  my  purpose  ? 
What  does  she  think  of  it  ?     Get  them  away  ! 

Queen.  [To  Lady  Carlisle.]  He  comes  to  baffle  Pym 
— he  thinks  the  danger 
Far  off :  tell  him  no  word  of  it !  a  time 
For  help  will  come  ;  we  '11  not  be  wanting  then. 
Keep  him  in  play,  Lucy — you,  self-possessed 
And  calm !  [To  Strafford.]    To  spare  your  lordship 

some  delay 
I  will  myself  acquaint  the  King.     [To  Lady  Carlisle.] 
Beware  ! 

iT^e  Queen,  Vane,  Holland  and  Savile  ^o  out. 
Siraf.  She  knows  it  ? 
Lady  Car.  Tell  me,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  Afterward  ! 

This  moment 's  the  great  moment  of  all  time. 
She  knows  my  purpose  ? 

Lady  Car.  Thoroughly :  just  now 

She  bade  me  hide  it  from  you. 

Straf.  Quick,  dear  child. 

The  whole  o'  the  scheme  ? 

Lady  Car.  (Ah,  he  would  learn  if  they 


STRAFFORD.  263 

Connive  at  Pym's  procedure  !     Could  they  but 
Have  once  apprised  the  King  !     But  there  's  no  time 
For  falsehood,  now.)     Strafford,  the  whole  is  known. 

Straf.  Known  and  approved  ? 

Lady  Car,  Hardly  discountenanced. 

Straf.  And  the  King — say,  the  King  consents  as  well  ? 

Lady  Car,  The  King  's  not  yet  informed,  but  will  not 
dare 
To  interpose. 

Straf.  What  need  to  wait  him,  then  ? 

He  '11  sanction  it !     I  stayed,  child,  tell  him,  long  ! 
It  vexed  me  to  the  soul — this  waiting  here. 
You  know  him,  there  's  no  counting  on  the  King. 
Tell  him  I  waited  long  ! 

Lady  Car.  (What  can  he  mean  ? 

Rejoice  at  the  King's  hollowness?) 

Straf.  I  knew 

They  would  be  glad  of  it, — all  over  once, 
I  knew  they  would  be  glad  :  but  he  'd  contrive, 
The  Queen  and  he,  to  mar,  by  helping  it. 
An  angel's  making. 

Lady  Car.  (Is  he  mad  ?)     Dear  Strafford, 
You  were  not  wont  to  look  so  happy. 

Straf.  Sweet,    • 

I  tried  obedience  thoroughly.     I  took 
The  King's  wild  plan  :  of  course,  ere  I  could  reach 
My  army,  Conway  ruined  it.     I  drew 
The  wrecks  together,  raised  all  heaven  and  earth. 
And  would  have  fought  the  Scots  :  the  King  at  once 


264  STRAFFORD. 

Made  truce  with  them,     Then,  Lucy,  then,  dear  child, 

God  put  it  in  my  mind  to  love,  serve,  die 

For  Charles,  but  never  to  obey  him  more  ! 

While  he  endured  their  insolence  at  Ripon 

I  fell  on  them  at  Durham.     But  you  '11  tell 

The  King  I  waited  ?     All  the  anteroom 

Is  filled  with  my  adherents. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford — Strafford, 

What  daring  act  is  this  you  hint  ? 

Straf.  No,  no  ! 

'T  is  here,  not  daring  if  you  knew  !  all  here  ! 

\_Drawing  papers  from  his  breast. 

Full  proof,  see,  ample  proof — does  the  Queen  know 
I  have  such  damning  proof?     Bedford  and  Essex, 
Broke,  Warwick,  Savile  (did  you  notice  Savile  ? 
The  simper  that  I  spoilt  ?)  Saye,  Mandeville — 
Sold  to  the  Scots,  body  and  soul,  by  Pym  ! 

Lady  Car.  Great  heaver* ! 

Straf.  From  Savile  and  his  lords,  to  Pym 

And  his  losels,  crushed  ! — Pym  shall  not  ward  the  blow 
Nor  Savile  creep  aside  from  it !     The  Crew 
And  the  Cabal — I  crush  them  ! 

Lady  Car.  And  you  go — 

Strafford, — and  now  you  go? — 

Straf.  — About  no  work 

In  the  background,  I  promise  you  !     I  go 
Straight  to  the  House  of  Lords  to  claim  these  knaves. 
Mainwaring  ! 

Lady  Car.  Stay — stay,  Strafford  ! 


STRAFFORD.  265 

Straf,  She  '11  return, 

The  Queen — some  little  project  of  her  own  ! 
No  time  to  lose  :  the  King  takes  fright  perhaps. 

Lady  Car,  Pym  's  strong,  remember  ! 

Straf.  Very  strong,  as  fits 

The  Faction's  head — with  no  offence  to  Hampden, 
Vane,  Rudyard  and  my  loving  Hollis  :  one 
And  all  they  lodge  within  the  Tower  to-night 
In  just  equality.     Bry^n  1     Main  waring  ! 

\_Many  of  his  Adherents  enter. 

The  Peers  debate  just  now  (a  lucky  chance) 

On  the  Scots'  war ;  my  visit 's  opportune. 

When  all  is  over,  Bryan,  you  proceed 

To  Ireland  :  these  dispatches,  mark  me,  Bryan, 

Are  for  the  Deputy,  and  these  for  Ormond : 

We  want  the  army  here — my  army,  raised 

At  such  a  cost,  that  should  have  done  such  good, 

And  was  inactive  all  the  time  !  no  matter. 

We  '11  find  a  use  for  it.     Willis  ...  or,  no — you  ! 

You,  friend,  make  haste  to  York :  bear  this,  at  once  .  .  . 

Or, — better  stay  for  form's  sake,  see  yourself 

The  news  you  carry.     You  remain  with  me 

To  execute  the  Parliament's  command, 

Mainwaring  !    Help  to  seize  the  lesser  knaves, 

Take  care  there  's  no  escaping  at  backdoors  : 

I'  11  not  have  one  escape,  mind  me — not  one  ! 

I  seem  revengeful,  Lucy  ?     Did  you  know 

What  these  men  dare  ! 

Lady  Car.  It  is  so  much  they  dare  ! 


266  STRAFFORD. 

Straf.  I  proved  that  long  ago ;  my  turn  is  now 
Keep  sharp  watch,  Goring,  on  the  citizens  ! 
Observe  who  harbours  any  of  the  brood 
That  scramble  off :  be  sure  they  smart  for  it ! 
Our  coffers  are  but  lean. 

And  you,  child,  too, 
Shall  have  your  task ;  deliver  this  to  Laud. 
Laud  will  not  be  the  slowest  in  my  praise  : 
"  Thorough  "  he  '11  cry  ! — FooHsh,  to  be  so  glad  ! 
This  life  is  gay  and  glowing,  after  all : 
'T  is  worth  while,  Lucy,  having  foes  like  mine 
Just  for  the  bliss  of  crushing  them.     To-day 
Is  worth  the  living  for. 

Lady  Car.  That  reddening  brow  I 

You  seem  .  .  . 

Straf.  Well — do  I  not  ?     I  would  be  well — 

I  could  not  but  be  well  on  such  a  day  ! 
And,  this  day  ended,  't  is  of  slight  import 
How  long  the  ravaged  frame  subjects  the  soul 
In  Strafford. 

Lady  Car.  Noble  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  No  farewell ! 

I  '11  see  you  anon,  to-morrow — the  first  thing. 
— If  She  should  come  to  stay  me  ! 

Lady  Car.  Go — 't  is  nothing- 

Only  my  heart  that  swells  :  it  has  been  thus 
Ere  now  :  go,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  To-night,  then,  let  it  be. 

I  must  see  Him  :  you,  the  next  after  Him. 


STRAFFORD.  267 

I  '11  tell  you  how  Pym  looked.     Follow  me,  friends  ! 
You,  gentlemen,  shall  see  a  sight  this  hour 
To  talk  of  all  your  lives.     Close  after  me  ! 
"  My  friend  of  friends  ! " 

[Strafford  and  the  rest  go  out. 
Lady  Car.  The  King — ever  the  King  ! 

No  thought  of  one  beside,  whose  little  word 
Unveils  the  King  to  him — one  word  from  me, 
Which  yet  I  do  not  breathe  ! 

Ah,  have  I  spared 
Strafford  a  pang,  and  shall  I  seek  reward 
Beyond  that  memory  ?     Surely  too,  some  way 
He  is  the  better  for  my  love.     No,  no — 
He  would  not  look  so  joyous — I'll  beHeve 
His  very  eye  would  never  sparkle  thus, 
Had  I  not  prayed  for  him  this  long,  long  while. 


Scene  \\\.—The  Antechamber  of  the  House  of  Lords. 
Many  of  the  Presbyterian  Party.     The  Adherents  of  Strkyyokd,  etc. 

A   Group  of  Presbyterians. — i.    I  tell  you  he  struck 
Maxwell :  Maxwell  sought 
To  stay  the  Earl :  he  struck  him  and  passed  on. 

2.  Fear  as  you  may,  keep  a  good  countenance 
Before  these  rufflers. 

3-  Strafford  here  the  first, 

With  the  great  army  at  his  back  ! 


268  STRAFFORD. 

4.  No  doubt 

I  would  Pym  had  made  haste :  that's  Bryan,  hush — 
The  gallant  pointing. 

Straff  or cTs  Folloivers. — i.  Mark  these  worthies,  now  ! 

2.  A  goodly  gathering  !     "  Where  the  carcass  is 
"  There  shall  the  eagles  " — what's  the  rest  ? 

3.  For  eagles 
Say  crows. 

A  Presbyterian.  Stand  back,  sirs  ! 

One  of  Strafford'' s  Followers.  Are  we  in  Geneva  ? 

A  Presbyterian.  No,  nor  in  Ireland ;  we  have  leave  to 

breathe. 
One  of  Straffora's   Followers.    Truly?     Behold  how 
privileged  we  be 
That  serve  "  King  Pym  "  !     There 's  Some-one  at  White- 
hall 
Who  skulks  obscure ;  but  Pym  struts  .  .  . 

The  Presbyterian.  Nearer. 

A  Follower  of  Strafford.  Higher, 

We  look  to  see  him.  [_To  his  Companions.]  I  'm  to  have 

St.  John 
In  charge ;  was  he  among  the  knaves  just  now 
That  followed  Pym  within  there  ? 

Another.  The  gaunt  man 

Talking  with  Rudyard.     Did  the  Earl  expect 
Pym  at  his  heels  so  fast  ?     I  like  it  not. 
Maxwell  enters. 
Another.  Why,  man,  they  rush  into  the  net !     Here  's 
Maxwell — 


STRAFFORD.  269 

Ha,  Maxwell  ?     How  the  brethren  flock  around 
The  fellow  !     Do  you  feel  the  Earl's  hand  yet 
Upon  your  shoulder,  Maxwell  ? 

Max.  Gentlemen, 

Stand  back  !  a  great  thing  passes  here. 

A  Follower  of  Strafford.  [To  anot/ier.]  The  Earl 
Is   at  his  work !      [7^   M.]  Say,    Maxwell,  what   great 

thing  ! 
Speak  out !     [To  a  Presbyterian.]  Friend,   I  Ve  a  kind- 
ness for  you  !     Friend, 
I  Ve  seen  you  with  St.  John  :  O  stockishness  ! 
Wear  such  a  ruff,  and  never  call  to  mind 
St.  John's  head  in  a  charger  ?     How,  the  plague. 
Not  laugh  ? 

Another.  Say,  Maxwell,  what  great  thing  ! 

Another.  Nay,  wait : 

The  jest  will  be  to  wait. 

First.  And  who  's  to  bear 

These  demure  hypocrites  ?     You  'd  swear  they  came  .  .  . 
Came  .  .  .  just  as  we  come  ! 

[^  Puritan  enters  hastily  and  without  obsei-ving 
Strafford's  Followers. 

The  Puritan.  How  goes  on  the  work  ? 

Has  Pym  .  .  . 

A  Follower  of  Strafford.  The  secret's  out  at  last.    Aha, 
The  carrion  's  scented  !     Welcome,  crow  the  first ! 
Gorge  merrily,  you  with  the  blinking  eye  ! 
"  King  Pym  has  fallen  ! " 

The  Puritan.  Pym  ? 


270  STRAFFORD. 

A  Strafford,  Pym  ! 

A  Presbyterian.  Only  Pym  ? 

Many  of  Strafford's  Followers,  No,  brother,  not  Pym 
only ;  Vane  as  well, 
Rudyard  as  well,  Hampden,  St.  John  as  well ! 

A  Presbyterian,  My  mind  misgives  :  can  it  be  true  ? 

Another.  Lost !  Lost ! 

A  Strafford.  S^y  we  true,  Maxwell  ? 

The  Puritan.  Pride  before  destruction, 

A  haughty  spirit  goeth  before  a  fall. 

Many  of  Strafford^s  Followers,  Ah  now  !      The  very 
thing  !     A  word  in  season  ! 
A  golden  apple  in  a  silver  picture, 
To  greet  Pym  as  he  passes  ! 

[^The  dooi'-s  at  the  back  begin  to  opejt^  noise  and  light  issuing. 
Max.  Stand  back,  all ! 

Many  of  the  Presbyterians.  I  hold  with  Pym  !     And  I  ! 
Strafford^ s  Follo7vers.  Now  for  the  text ! 
He  comes  !     Quick  ! 

The  Puritan.  How  hath  the  oppressor  ceased  ! 

The  Lord  hath  broken  the  staff  of  the  wicked  ! 
The  sceptre  of  the  rulers,  he  who  smote 
The  people  in  wrath  with  a  continual  stroke, 
That  ruled  the  nations  in  his  anger — he 
Is  persecuted  and  none  hindereth  ! 

\The  doors  open,    and  Strafford  issues    in   the  greatest 
disorder,  and  amid  cries  from  within  of*''  Void  the  House. " 

Straf  Impeach  me  !  Pym  1  I  never  struck,  I  think, 
The  felon  on  that  calm  insulting  mouth 


STRAFFORD.  27 1 

When  it  proclaimed — Pym's  mouth  proclaimed  me  .  .  . 

God! 
Was  it  a  word,  only  a  word  that  held 
The  outrageous  blood  back  on  my  heart — which  beats  ! 
Which  beats !      Some   one    word — "  Traitor,"    did   he 

say, 
Bending  that  eye,  brimful  of  bitter  fire, 
Upon  me  ? 

Max.  In  the  Commons'  name,  their  servant 

Demands  Lord  Strafford's  sword. 

Straf.  What  did  you  say  ? 

Max.  The   Commons    bid   me    ask    your   lordship's 

sword. 
Straf.  Let  us  go  forth  :  follow  me,  gentlemen  1 
Draw  your  swords  too  :  cut  any  down  that  bar  us. 
On  the  King's  service  !     Maxwell,  clear  the  way  ! 

[The  Presbyterians /r^<3:r^  to  dispute  his  passage. 
Straf.  I  stay  :  the  King  himself  shall  see  me  here. 
Your  tablets,  fellow ! 

\^To  Mainwaring.]  Give  that  to  the  King ! 
Yes,  Maxwell,  for  the  next  half-hour,  let  be  ! 
Nay,  you  shall  take  my  sword  ! 

[Maxwell  advances  to  take  it. 
Or,  no — not  that ! 
Their  blood,  perhaps,  may  wipe  out  all  thus  far. 
All  up  to  that — not  that !     Why,  friend,  you  see, 
When  the  King  lays  your  head  beneath  my  foot 
It  will  not  pay  for  that.     Go,  all  of  you  ! 

Max.  I  dare,  my  lord,  to  disobey :  none  stir  ! 


272  STRAFFORD. 

Straf.    This    gentle   Maxwell ! — Do   not   touch   him, 
Bryan ! 
\To  the  Presbyterians^     Whichever  cur  of  you  will  carry 

this 
Escapes  his  fellows'  fate.     None  saves  his  life  ? 
None? 

\^Cries from  within  of  "  Strafford." 
Slingsby,  I  've  loved  you  at  least :  make  haste  ! 
Stab  me  !  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  why. 
You  then,  my  Bryan  !     Mainwaring,  you  then  ! 
Is  it  because  I  spoke  so  hastily 
At  Allerton  ?     The  King  had  vexed  me. 
\To  the  Presbyterians?^  You  ! 

— Not  even  you  ?     If  I  live  over  this. 
The  King  is  sure  to  have  your  heads,  you  know  ! 
But  what  if  I  can't  live  this  minute  through  ? 
Pym,  who  is  there  with  his  pursuing  smile  ! 

[Louder  cries  of  "Strafford." 
The  King  !     I  troubled  him,  stood  in  the  way 
Of  his  negotiations,  was  the  one 
Great  obstacle  to  peace,  the  Enemy 
Of  Scotland  :  and  he  sent  for  me,  from  York, 
My  safety  guaranteed — having  prepared 
A  Parliament — I  see  !     And  at  Whitehall 
The  Queen  was  whispering  with  Vane — I  see 
The  trap  !  \Tearing  off  the  George. 

I  tread  a  gewgaw  underfoot. 
And  cast  a  memory  from  me.     One  stroke,  now  ! 
\His  own  Adherents  disarm  him.     Renewed  cries  of ' '  S'IRAFFORD. " 


STRAFFORD.  273 

England  !     I  see  thy  arm  in  this  and  yield. 
Pray  you  now — Pym  awaits  me — pray  you  now  ! 

[Strafford  reaches  the  doors :  they  open  wide.     Hampden 

and  a  a'owd  discovered^  a?td,  at  the  bar^  Pym  standing  apart. 

As  Strafford  kneels,  the  scene  shuts. 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  I.  —  Whitehall. 


The  King,  the  Queen,   Hollis,  Lady  Carlisle.     {Vane, 
Holland,  Savile,  in  the  background.) 

Lady  Car.  Answer  them,  Hollis,  for  his  sake  !     One 

word ! 
Cha.    [To  Hollis.]    You  stand,  silent  and  cold,  as 
though  I  were 
Deceiving  you — my  friend,  my  playfellow 
Of  other  times.     What  wonder  after  all  ? 
Just  so,  I  dreamed  my  People  loved  me. 

Ho/.  Sir, 

It  is  yourself  that  you  deceive,  not  me. 
You  '11  quit  me  comforted,  your  mind  made  up 
That,  since  you  've  talked  thus  much  and  grieved  thus 

much. 
All  you  can  do  for  Strafford  has  been  done. 

Queen.    If  you  kill   Strafford — (come,  we  grant  you 
leave, 
Suppose) — 

VOL.   L  18 


2  74  STRAFFORD. 

HoL  I  may  withdraw,  sir  ? 

Lady  Car.  Hear  them  out ! 

'T  is  the  last  chance  for  Strafford  !     Hear  them  out ! 

HoL  "  If  we  kill  Strafford  " — on  the  eighteenth  day 
Of  Strafford's  trial—"  We  !  " 

Cha.  Pynij  iny  good  Hollis — 

Pym,  I  should  say ! 

HoL  Ah,  true — sir,  pardon  me  ! 

You  witness  our  proceedings  every  day ; 
But  the  screened  gallery,  I  might  have  guessed. 
Admits  of  such  a  partial  glimpse  at  us, 
Pym  takes  up  all  the  room,  shuts  out  the  view. 
Still,  on  my  honour,  sir,  the  rest  of  the  place 
Is  not  unoccupied.     The  Commons  sit 
— That  's  England ;  Ireland  sends,  and  Scotland  too, 
Their  representatives ;  the  Peers  that  judge 
Are  easily  distinguished ;  one  remarks 
The  People  here  and  there  :  but  the  close  curtain 
Must  hide  so  much  ! 

Queen.  Acquaint  your  insolent  crew, 

This  day  the  curtain  shall  be  dashed  aside  1 
It  served  a  purpose. 

HoL  Think  !     This  very  day  ? 

Ere  Strafford  rises  to  defend  himself? 

Cha.  I  will  defend  him,  sir  ! — sanction  the  past 
This  day :  it  ever  was  my  purpose.     Rage 
At  me,  not  Strafford  ! 

Lady  Car.  Nobly  ! — will  he  not 

Do  nobly? 


STRAFFORD.  275 

Hol.  Sir,  you  will  do  honestly ; 

And,  for  that  deed,  I  too  would  be  a  king. 

Cha,  Only,  to  do  this  now  ! — "deaf"  (in  your  style) 
"  To  subjects'  prayers," — I  must  oppose  them  now. 
It  seems  their  will  the  trial  should  proceed, — 
So  palpably  their  will ! 

Hol.  You  peril  much. 

But  it  were  no  bright  moment  save  for  that. 
Strafford,  your  prime  support,  the  sole  roof-tree 
That  props  this  quaking  House  of  Privilege, 
(Floods  come,  winds  beat,  and  see — the  treacherous  sand !) 
Doubtless,  if  the  mere  putting  forth  an  arm 
Could  save  him,  you  'd  save  Strafford. 

Cha.  And  they  mean 

Consummate  calmly  this  great  wrong  !     No  hope  ? 
This  ineffaceable  wrong  !     No  pity  then  ? 

Hol.  No  plague  in  store  for  perfidy  ? — Farewell  1 
You  called  me,  sir — \To  Lady  Carlisle,]  you,  lady,  bade 

me  come 
To  save  the  Earl :  I  came,  thank  God  for  it, 
To  learn  how  far  such  perfidy  can  go ! 
You,  sir,  concert  with  me  on  saving  him 
Who  have  just  ruined  Strafford  ! 

Cha.  I  ? — and  how  ? 

Hol.  Eighteen  days  long  he  throws,  one  after  one, 
Pym's  charges  back  :  a  blind  moth-eaten  law  ! 
— He  '11  break  from  it  at  last :  and  whom  to  thank  ? 
The  mouse  that  gnawed  the  lion's  net  for  him 
Got  a  good  friend, — but  he,  the  other  mouse. 


276  STRAFFORD. 

That  looked  on  while  the  lion  freed  himself 

Fared  he  so  well,  does  any  fable  say? 

Cha.  What  can  you  mean  ? 

Hoi.  Pym  never  could  have  proved 

Strafford's  design  of  bringing  up  the  troops 
To  force  this  kingdom  to  obedience  :  Vane — 
Your  servant,  not  our  friend,  has  proved  it. 

Cha,  Vane  ? 

Hoi.  This  day.     Did  Vane  deliver  up  or  no 
Those  notes  which,  furnished  by  his  son  to  Pym, 
Seal  Strafford's  fate  ? 

Cha.  Sir,  as  I  live,  I  know 

Nothing  that  Vane  has  done  !     What  treason  next  ? 
I  wash  my  hands  of  it.     Vane,  speak  the  truth  ! 
Ask  Vane  himself ! 

Hoi.  I  will  not  speak  to  Vane, 

Who  speak  to  Pym  and  Hampden  every  day. 

Quee7t.  Speak  to  Vane's  master  then  !     What  gain  to 
him 
Were  Strafford's  death  ? 

Hoi,  Ha  ?    Strafford  cannot  turn 

As  you,  sir,  sit  there — bid  you  forth,  demand 
If  every  hateful  act  were  not  set  down 
In  his  commission  ? — whether  you  contrived 
Or  no,  that  all  the  violence  should  seem 
His  work,  the  gentle  ways — your  own, — his  part, 
To  counteract  the  King's  kind  impulses — 
While  .  .  .  but  you  know  what  he  could  say  !     And  then 
He  might  produce, — mark,  sir  ! — a  certain  charge 


STRAFFORD.  277 

To  set  the  King's  express  command  aside, 

If  need  were,  and  be  blameless.     He  might  add  .  .  . 

Cha.  Enough  ! 

HoL  — Who  bade  him  break  the  Parliament, 

Find  some  pretext  for  setting  up  sword-law  ! 

Queen.  Retire ! 

Cha.  Once  more,  whatever  Vane  dared  do, 

I  know  not :  he  is  rash,  a  fool — I  know 
Nothing  of  Vane  ! 

Hoi.  Well — I  believe  you.     Sir, 

Believe  me,  in  return,  that  .  .  . 
\Turning  to  Lady  Carlisle.]     Gentle  lady. 
The  few  words  I  would  say,  the  stones  might  hear 
Sooner  than  these, — I  rather  speak  to  you, 
You,  with  the  heart !     The  question,  trust  me,  takes 
Another  shape,  to-day  :  not,  if  the  King 
Or  England  shall  succumb, — but,  w^ho  shall  pay 
The  forfeit,  Strafford  or  his  master.     Sir, 
You  loved  me  once  :  think  on  my  warning  now  ! 

\Goes  out. 

Cha.  On  you  and  on  your  warning  both  ! — Carlisle  ! 
That  paper  ! 

Queen.  But  consider  ! 

Cha.  Give  it  me  ! 

There,  signed — will  that  content  you  ?     Do  not  speak  ! 
You  have  betrayed  me,  Vane  !     See  !  any  day. 
According  to  the  tenor  of  that  paper. 
He  bids  your  brother  bring  the  army  up, 
Strafford  shall  head  it  and  take  full  revenge. 


278  STRAFFORD. 

Seek  Strafford  !     Let  him  have  the  same,  before 
He  rises  to  defend  himself ! 

Queen.  In  truth  ? 

That  your  shrewd  HolHs  should  have  worked  a  change 
Like  this  !     You,  late  reluctant .  .  . 

Cha.  Say,  Carlisle, 

Your  brother  Percy  brings  the  army  up, 

Falls  on  the  Parhament (I  '11  think  of  you, 

My  Hollis  !)  say,  we  plotted  long — 't  is  mine, 
The  scheme  is  mine,  remember  !     Say,  I  cursed 
Vane's  folly  in  your  hearing  !     If  the  Earl 
Does  rise  to  do  us  shame,  the  fault  shall  lie 
With  you,  Carlisle  ! 

Lady  Car.  Nay,  fear  not  me  !  but  still 

That  's  a  bright  moment,  sir,  you  throw  away. 
Tear  down  the  veil  and  save  him  ! 

Queen.  Go,  Carlisle  ! 

Lady  Car.  (I  shall  see  Strafford — speak  to  him  :  my 
heart 
Must  never  beat  so,  then  !    And  if  I  tell 
The  truth  ?     What 's  gained  by  falsehood  ?     There  they 

stand 
Whose  trade  it  is,  whose  life  it  is  !     How  vain 
To  gild  such  rottenness  !     Strafford  shall  know. 
Thoroughly  know  them !) 

Queen.  Trust  to  me  !  \To  Carlisle.]  Carlisle, 

You  seem  inclined,  alone  of  all  the  Court, 
To  serve  poor  Strafford  :  this  bold  plan  of  yours 
Merits  much  praise,  and  yet .  .  . 


STRAFFORD.  279 

Lady  Car.  Time  presses,  madam. 

Qicee7t.  Yet— may  it  not  be  something  premature  ? 
Strafford  defends  himself  to-day — reserves 
Some  wondrous  effort,  one  may  well  suppose  ! 

Lady  Caj\  Ay,  Hollis  hints  as  much. 

C/ia.  Why  linger  then  ? 

Haste  with  the  scheme — my  scheme  :  I  shall  be  there 
To  watch  his  look.     Tell  him  I  watch  his  look  ! 

Queen.  Stay,  we  '11  precede  you  ! 

Lady  Car.  At  your  pleasure. 

Cha.  Say — 

Say,  Vane  is  hardly  ever  at  Whitehall ! 
I  shall  be  there,  remember  ! 

Lady  Car.  Doubt  me  not. 

Cha.  On  our  return,  Carlisle,  we  wait  you  here  ! 

Lady  Car.  I  '11  bring  his  answer.     Sir,  I  follow  you. 
(Prove  the  King  faithless,  and  I  take  away 

All  Strafford  cares  to  live  for  :  let  it  be 

'T  is  the  King's  scheme  I 

My  Strafford,  I  can  save, 
Nay,  I  have  saved  you,  yet  am  scarce  content. 
Because  my  poor  name  will  not  cross  your  mind. 
Strafford,  how  much  I  am  unworthy  you  !) 


28o  STRAFFORD. 


Scene  II. — A  passage  adjoining  Westminster  HalL 
Many  groups  ^Spectators  of  the  Trial.     Officers  of  the  Court,  etc. 

\st  Spec.  More  crowd  than  ever  !    Not  know  Hampden, 
man? 
That 's  he,  by  Pym,  Pym  that  is  speaking  now. 
No,  truly,  if  you  look  so  high  you  '11  see 
Little  enough  of  either  ! 

2nd  Spec.  Stay  :  Pym's  arm 

Points  like  a  prophet's  rod. 

'^rd  Spec.  Ay,  ay,  we  've  heard 

Some  pretty  speaking  :  yet  the  Earl  escapes. 

\th  Spec.  I  fear  it :  just  a  foolish  word  or  two 
About  his  children — and  we  see,  forsooth, 
Not  England's  foe  in  Strafford,  but  the  man 
Who,  sick,  half-blind  .  .  . 

2nd  Spec.  What 's  that  Pym 's  saying  now 

Which  makes  the  curtains  flutter  ?  look  !     A  hand 
Clutches  them.     Ah  !     The  King's  hand  ! 

^ih  Spec.  I  had  thought 

Pym  was  not  near  so  tall.     What  said  he,  friend  ? 

27id  Spec.  "  Nor  is  this  way  a  novel  way  of  blood," 
And  the  Earl  turns  as  if  to  .  .  .  look  !  look  ! 

Majty  Spectators.  There  ! 

What  ails  him  ?  no — he  rallies,  see— goes  on 
And  Strafford  smiles.     Strange  ! 

An  Officer.  Haselrig  ! 

Many  Spectators.  Friend  ?  Friend  ? 


STRAFFORD.  251 

The  Officer.    Lost,  utterly  lost :  just  when  we  looked 
for  Pym 
To  make  a  stand  against  the  ill  effects 
Of  the  Earl's  speech  !     Is  Haselrig  without  ? 
Pym's  message  is  to  him. 

3r^  Spec.  Now,  said  I  true  ? 

Will  the  Earl  leave  them  yet  at  fault  or  no  ? 

\st  Spec.  Never  believe  it,  man  !    These  notes  of  Vane's 
Ruin  the  Earl. 

^th  Spec.         A  brave  end  :  not  a  whit 
Less  firm,  less  Pym  all  over.     Then,  the  trial 
Is  closed.     No — Strafford  means  to  speak  again  ? 

An  Officer.  Stand  back,  there  ! 

^th  Spec.  Why,  the  Earl  is  coming  hither  ! 

Before  the  court  breaks  up  !     His  brother,  look, — 
You  'd  say  he  'd  deprecated  some  fierce  act 
In  Strafford's  mind  just  now. 

An  Officer.  Stand  back,  I  say  ! 

2nd  Spec.   Who  's  the  veiled  woman    that  he   talks 
with  ? 

Many  Spectators.  Hush — 
The  Earl !  the  Earl  ! 

{^Enter  Strafford,  Slingsby,  and  other  Secretaries,  Hollis, 
Lady  Carlisle,  Maxwell,  Balfour,  etc.  Strafford 
converses  with  Lady  Carlisle. 

Hoi.  So  near  the  end  !   Be  patient — 

Return  ! 

Straf.    [77? /^2>  Secretaries.]    Here — anywhere — or, 'tis 
freshest  here  ! 


252  STRAFFORD. 

To  spend  one's  April  here,  the  blossom-month : 
Set  it  down  here  ! 

\They  arrange  a  table,  papers,  etc. 
So,  Pym  can  quail,  can  cower 
Because  I  glance  at  him,  yet  more's  to  do  ? 
What 's  to  be  answered,  Slingsby  ?     Let  us  end  ! 
\To  Lady  Carlisle.]  Child,  I  refuse  his  offer ;  whatsoe'er 
It^  be  !     Too  late  !     Tell  me  no  word  of  him  1 
'T  is  something,  Hollis,  I  assure  you  that — 
To  stand,  sick  as  you  are,  some  eighteen  days 
Fighting  for  life  and  fame  against  a  pack 
Of  very  curs,  that  lie  through  thick  and  thin. 
Eat  flesh  and  bread  by  wholesale,  and  can't  say 
"  Strafford  "  if  it  would  take  my  life  ! 

Lady  Car.  Be  moved  ! 

Glance  at  the  paper  ! 

Straf.  Already  at  my  heels  ! 

Pym's  faulting  bloodhounds  scent  the  track  again. 

Peace,  child  !     Now,  Slingsby  ! 

{^Messengers  from  Lane  and  other  of  Strafford's  Counsel 
within  the  Hall  are  coming  and  going  during  the  Scene. 

Straf.  [setting  himself  to  write  and  dictate.']  I  shall  beat 

you,  Hollis ! 
Do  you  know  that  ?     In  spite  of  St.  John's  tricks. 
In  spite  of  Pym — your  Pym  who  shrank  from  me  ! 
Eliot  would  have  contrived  it  otherwise. 
[To  a  Messenger.]  In  truth?  This  slip,  tell  Lane,  contains 

as  much 
As  I  can  call  to  mind  about  the  matter. 


STRAFFORD.  283 

Eliot  would  have  disdained  .  .  . 

[Calling  after  the  Messenger.]     And  Radcliffe,  say, 

The  only  person  who  could  answer  Pym, 

Is  safe  in  prison,  just  for  that. 

Well,  well ! 
It  had  not  been  recorded  in  that  case, 
I  baffled  you. 

\To  Lady  Carlisle.]  Nay,  child,  why  look  so  grieved  ? 
All 's  gained  without  the  King  1     You  saw  Pym  quail  ? 
What  shall  I  do  when  they  acquit  me,  think  you, 
But  tranquilly  resume  my  task  as  though 
Nothing  had  intervened  since  I  proposed 
To  call  that  traitor  to  account !     Such  tricks, 
Trust  me,  shall  not  be  played  a  second  time, 
Not  even  against  Laud,  with  his  grey  hair — 
Your  good  work.  Mollis  !     Peace  !    To  make  amends, 
You,  Lucy,  shall  be  here  when  I  impeach 
Pym  and  his  fellows. 

Hoi.  Wherefore  not  protest 

Against  our  whole  proceeding,  long  ago  ? 
Why  feel  indignant  now  ?     Why  stand  this  while 
Enduring  patiently  ? 

Straf.  Child,  I '11  tell  you—      . 

You,  and  not  Pym — ^you,  the  slight  graceful  girl 
Tall  for  a  flowering  lily,  and  not  Hollis — 
Why  I  stood  patient !     I  was  fool  enough 
To  see  the  will  of  England  in  Pym's  will ; 
To  fear,  myself  had  wronged  her,  and  to  wait 
Her  judgment :  when,  behold,  in  place  of  it  .  .  . 


284  STRAFFORD. 

[To  a  Messenger  w/io  whispers.']  Tell  Lane  to  answer  no 

such  question  !     Law, — 
I  grapple  with  their  law  !     I  'm  here  to  try 
My  actions  by  their  standard,  not  my  own  ! 
Their  law  allowed  that  levy  :  what 's  the  rest 
To  Pym,  or  Lane,  any  but  God  and  me  ? 

Lady  Car,  The  King  's  so  weak  !   Secure  this  chance  ! 
'Twas  Vane, 
Never  forget,  who  furnished  Pym  the  notes  .  .  . 

Straf,  Fit, — very  fit,  those  precious  notes  of  Vane, 
To  close  the  Trial  worthily  !     I  feared 
Some  spice  of  nobleness  might  linger  yet 
And  spoil  the  character  of  all  the  past. 
Vane  eased  me  .  .  and  I  will  go  back  and  say 
As  much — to  Pym,  to  England  !     Follow  me  ! 
I  have  a  word  to  say !     There,  my  defence 
Is  done ! 

Stay  !  why  be  proud  ?     Why  care  to  own 
My  gladness,  my  surprise  ? — Nay,  not  surprise  ! 
Wherefore  insist  upon  the  little  pride 
Of  doing  all  myself,  and  sparing  him 
The  pain  ?     Child,  say  the  triumph  is  my  King's  ! 
When  Pym  grew  pale,  and  trembled,  and  sank  down. 
One  image  was  before  me  :  could  I  fail  ? 
Child,  care  not  for  the  past,  so  indistinct. 
Obscure — there  's  nothing  to  forgive  in  it 
'T  is  so  forgotten  !     From  this  day  begins 
A  new  life,  founded  on  a  new  belief 
In  Charles. 


STRAFFORD.  285 

Hol.  In  Charles  ?     Rather,  beUeve  in  Pym  ! 
And  here  he  comes  in  proof !     Appeal  to  Pym  ! 
Say  how  unfair  .  .  . 

St7'af.  To  Pym  ?     I  would  say  nothing  ! 

I  would  not  look  upon  Pym's  face  again. 

Lady  Car.  Stay,  let  me  have  to  think  I  pressed  your 
hand ! 

[Strafford  and  his  friends  go  out. 
Enter  Hampden  and  Vane. 

Vane.  O  Hampden,  save  the  great  misguided  man  ! 
Plead  Strafford's  cause  with  Pym  !     I  have  remarked 
He  moved  no  muscle  when  we  all  declaimed 
Against  him  :  you  had  but  to  breathe — he  turned 
Those  kind  calm  eyes  upon  you. 

\_Enter  Pym,  the  Solicitor- General  St.  John,  the  Managers 
of  the  Trials  FiENNES,  RuDYARD,  etc. 

Rud.  Horrible ! 

Till  now  all  hearts  were  with  you  :  I  withdraw 
For  one.     Too  horrible  !     But  we  mistake 
Your  purpose,  Pym  :  you  cannot  snatch  away 
The  last  spar  from  the  drowning  man. 

Fien.  He  talks 

With  St.  John  of  it — see,  how  quietly  ! 

\To  other  Presbyterians.]  You  '11  join  us?    Strafford 
may  deserve  the  worst : 
But  this  new  course  is  monstrous.     Vane,  take  heart ! 
This  Bill  of  his  Attainder  shall  not  have 
One  true  man's  hand  to  it. 

Vane,  Consider,  Pym ! 


286  STRAFFORD. 

Confront  your  Bill,  your  own  Bill :  what  is  it  ? 
You  cannot  catch  the  Earl  on  any  charge,— 
No  man  will  say  the  law  has  hold  of  him 
On  any  charge ;  and  therefore  you  resolve 
To  take  the  general  sense  on  his  desert, 
As  though  no  law  existed,  and  we  met 
To  found  one.     You  refer  to  Parliament 
To  speak  its  thought  upon  the  abortive  mass 
Of  half-borne  out  assertions,  dubious  hints 
Hereafter  to  be  cleared,  distortions — ay. 
And  wild  inventions.     Every  man  is  saved 
The  task  of  fixing  any  single  charge 
On  Strafford  :  he  has  but  to  see  in  him 
The  enemy  of  England. 

Pym,  A  right  scruple  ! 

I  have  heard  some  called  England's  enemy 
With  less  consideration. 

Vane.  Pity  me  ! 

Indeed  you  make  me  think  I  was  your  friend ! 
I  who  have  murdered  Strafford,  how  remove 
That  memory  from  me  ? 

Pym.  I  absolve  you,  Vane. 

Take  you  no  care  for  aught  that  you  have  done  ! 

Vane.  John  Hampden,  not  this  Bill !   Reject  this  Bill ! 
He  staggers  through  the  ordeal :  let  him  go, 
Strew  no  fresh  fire  before  him  !     Plead  for  us  ! 
When  Strafford  spoke,  your  eyes  were  thick  with  tears  ! 

Hamp.  England  speaks  louder :  who  are  we,  to  play 
The  generous  pardoner  at  her  expense, 


STRAFFORD.  287 

Magnanimously  waive  advantages, 

And,  if  he  conquer  us,  applaud  his  skill  ? 

Vane.  He  was  your  friend. 

Fy77t.  I  have  heard  that  before. 

Fien,  And  England  trusts  you. 

Hanip.  Shame  be  his,  who  turns 

The  opportunity  of  serving  her 
She  trusts  him  with,  to  his  own  mean  account — 
Who  would  look  nobly  frank  at  her  expense  ! 

Fien.  I  never  thought  it  could  have  come  to  this. 

Pym.  But  I  have  made  myself  familiar,  Fiennes, 
With  this  one  thought — have  walked,  and  sat,  and  slept, 
This  thought  before  me.     I  have  done  such  things, 
Being  the  chosen  man  that  should  destroy 
The  traitor.     You  have  taken  up  this  thought 
To  play  with,  for  a  gentle  stimulant, 
To  give  a  dignity  to  idler  Hfe 
By  the  dim  prospect  of  emprise  to  come, 
But  ever  with  the  softening,  sure  belief. 
That  all  would  end  some  strange  way  right  at  last. 

Fien.  Had  w^e  made  out  some  weightier  charge  ! 

Pym.  You  say 

That  these  are  petty  charges  :  can  we  come 
To  the  real  charge  at  all  ?     There  he  is  safe 
In  tyranny's  stronghold.     Apostasy 
Is  not  a  crime,  treachery  not  a  crime : 
The  cheek  burns,  the  blood  tingles,  when  you  speak 
The  words,  but  where 's  the  power  to  take  revenge 
Upon  them  ?    We  must  make  occasion  serve, — 


255  STRAFFORD. 

The  oversight  shall  pay  for  the  main  sin 
That  mocks  us. 

Rud.  But  this  unexampled  course, 

This  Bill  ! 

Py7n.         By  this,  we  roll  the  clouds  away 
Of  precedent  and  custom,  and  at  once 
Bid  the  great  beacon-light  God  sets  in  all, 
The  conscience  of  each  bosom,  shine  upon 
The  guilt  of  Strafford  :  each  man  lay  his  hand 
Upon  his  breast,  and  judge  ! 

Vane.  I  only  see 

Strafford,  nor  pass  his  corpse  for  all  beyond  ! 

Rud.  and  others.  Forgive  him  !     He  would  join  us,  now 
he  finds 
What  the  King  counts  reward  !     The  pardon,  too, 
Should  be  your  own.     Yourself  should  bear  to  Strafford 
The  pardon  of  the  Commons. 

Pym.  Meet  him  ?    Strafford  ? 

Have  we  to  meet  once  more,  then  ?     Be  it  so  ! 
And  yet — the  prophecy  seemed  half  fulfilled 
When,  at  the  Trial,  as  he  gazed,  my  youth, 
Our  friendship,  divers  thoughts  came  back  at  once 
And  left  me,  for  a  time  ...  'T  is  very  sad  ! 
To-morrow  we  discuss  the  points  of  law 
With  Lane — to-morrow  ? 

Va7ie.  Not  before  to-morrow — 

So,  time  enough  !     I  knew  you  would  relent ! 

Pym.  The  next  day,  Haselrig,  you  introduce 
The  Bill  of  his  Attainder.     Pray  for  me  ! 


STRAFFORD.  289 


Scene  III.— Whitehall. 
The  King. 

Cha.  My  loyal  servant !     To  defend  himself 
Thus  irresistibly, — withholding  aught 
That  seemed  to  implicate  us  ! 

We  have  done 
Less  gallantly  by  Strafford.     Well,  the  future 
Must  recompense  the  past. 

She  tarries  long. 
I  understand  you,  Strafford,  now  ! 

The  scheme — 
Carlisle's  mad  scheme — he  '11  sanction  it,  I  fear. 
For  love  of  me.     'T  was  too  precipitate  : 
Before  the  army 's  fairly  on  its  march. 
He  '11  be  at  large  :  no  matter. 

Well,  Carlisle  ? 
Enter  Pym. 

Fym.  Fear  me  not,  sir : — my  mission  is  to  save. 
This  time. 

Cha.         To  break  thus  on  me  !     Unannounced  ! 

Fym.  It  is  of  Strafford  I  would  speak. 

Cha.  No  more 

Of  Strafford  !     I  have  heard  too  much  from  you. 

Fym.  I  spoke,  sir,  for  the  People ;  will  you  hear 
A  word  upon  my  own  account  ? 

Cha.  Of  Strafford? 

(So  turns  the  tide  already  ?     Have  we  tamed 

VOL.    I.  19 


290  STRAFFORD. 

The  insolent  brawler? — Strafford's  eloquence 
Is  swift  in  its  effect.)     Lord  Strafford,  sir, 
Has  spoken  for  himself. 

Pyifi.  Sufficiently. 

I  would  apprise  you  of  the  novel  course 
The  People  take  :  the  Trial  fails. 

Cha.  Yes,  yes : 

We  are  aware,  sir :  for  your  part  in  it 
Means  shall  be  found  to  thank  you. 

Fyni.  Pray  you,  read 

This  schedule  !     I  would  learn  from  your  own  mouth 
— (It  is  a  matter  much  concerning  me) — 
Whether,  if  two  Estates  of  us  concede 
The  death  of  Strafford,  on  the  grounds  set  forth 
Within  that  parchment,  you,  sir,  can  resolve 
To  grant  your  own  consent  to  it.     That  Bill 
Is  framed  by  me.     If  you  determine,  sir. 
That  England's  manifested  will  should  guide 
Your  judgment,  ere  another  week  such  will 
Shall  manifest  itself.     If  not, — I  cast 
Aside  the  measure. 

Cha.  You  can  hinder,  then, 

The  introduction  of  this  Bill  ? 

Pym.  I  can. 

Cha,  He   is   my   friend,  sir :'  I   have  wronged   him  : 
mark  you, 
Had  I  not  wronged  him,  this  might  be.     You  think 
Because  you  hate  the  Earl  .  .  .  (turn  not  away, 
We  know  you  hate  him) — no  one  else  could  love 


STRAFFORD.  29 1 

Strafford :  but  he  has  saved  me,  some  affirm. 
Think  of  his  pride  !     And,  do  you  know  one  strange, 
One  frightful  thing  ?     We  all  have  used  the  man 
As  though  a  drudge  of  ours,  with  not  a  source 
Of  happy  thoughts  except  in  us ;  and  yet 
Strafford  has  wife  and  children,  household  cares. 
Just  as  if  we  had  never  been.     Ah  sir. 
You  are  moved,  even  you,  a  solitary  man 
Wed  to  your  cause — to  England  if  you  will ! 

Pym.  Yes — think,  my  soul — to  England  !     Draw  not 
back  ! 

Cha.  Prevent  that  Bill,  sir !  All  your  course  seems  fair 
Till  now.     Why,  in  the  end,  't  is  I  should  sign 
The  warrant  for  his  death  !     You  have  said  much 
I  ponder  on ;  I  never  meant,  indeed, 
Strafford  should  serve  me  any  more.     I  take 
The  Commons'  counsel ;  but  this  Bill  is  yours — 
Nor  worthy  of  its  leader  :  care  not,  sir. 
For  that,  however  !     I  will  quite  forget 
You  named  it  to  me.     You  are  satisfied  ? 

Pym.  Listen  to  me,  sir  !     Eliot  laid  his  hand. 
Wasted  and  white  upon  my  forehead  once ; 
Wentworth — he  's    gone    now  ! — has   talked   on,   whole 

nights, 
And  I  beside  him ;  Hampden  loves  me  :  sir. 
How  can  I  breathe  and  not  wish  England  well, 
And  her  King  well  ? 

Cha,  I  thank  you,  sir,  who  leave 

That  King  his  servant.     Thanks,  sir  ! 


292  STRAFFORD. 

Pyni.  Let  me  speak  ! 

— Who  may  not  speak  again ;  whose,  spirit  yearns 
For  a  cool  night  after  this  weary  day : 
— Who  would  not  have  my  soul  turn  sicker  yet 
In  a  new  task,  more  fatal,  more  august. 
More  full  of  England's  utter  weal  or  woe. 
I  thought,  sir,  could  I  find  myself  with  you, 
After  this  trial,  alone,  as  man  to  man — 
I  might  say  something,  warn  you,  pray  you,  save — 

Mark  me.  King  Charles,  save you  ! 

But  God  must  do  it.     Yet  I  warn  you,  sir — 
(With  Strafford's  faded  eyes  yet  full  on  me) 
As  you  would  have  no  deeper  question  moved 
— "  How  long  the  Many  must  endure  the  One," 
Assure  me,  sir,  if  England  give  assent 
To  Strafford's  death,  you  will  not  interfere  ! 
Or ■ 

Cha,     God  forsakes  me.     I  am  in  a  net 
And  cannot  move.     Let  all  be  as  you  say  ! 
Enter  Lady  Carlisle. 

Lady  Car,  He  loves  you — looking  beautiful  with  joy 
Because  you  sent  me  !  he  would  spare  you  all 
The  pain  !  he  never  dreamed  you  would  forsake 
Your  servant  in  the  evil  day — nay,  see 
Your  scheme  returned  !     That  generous  heart  of  his  ! 
He  needs  it  not — or,  needing  it,  disdains 
A  course  that  might  endanger  you — you,  sir. 
Whom  Strafford  from  his  inmost  soul .  .  , 

{Seeing  Yxyi?^  Well  met ! 


STRAFFORD.  293 

No  fear  for  Strafford  !     All  that 's  true  and  brave 
On  your  own  side  shall  help  us :  we  are  now 
Stronger  than  ever. 

Ha — what,  sir,  is  this  ? 
All  is  not  well !     What  parchment  have  you  there  ? 

Pym.  Sir,  much  is  saved  us  both. 

Lady  Car.  This  Bill !    Your  lip 

Whitens — you  could  not  read  one  line  to  me 
Your  voice  would  falter  so  ! 

Pym.  No  recreant  yet ! 

The  great  word  went  from  England  to  my  soul, 
And  I  arose.     The  end  is  very  near. 

Lady    Car.    I  am   to   save   him !      All  have   shrunk 
beside ; 
'T  is  only  I  am  left.     Heaven  will  make  strong 
The  hand  now  as  the  heart.     Then  let  both  die  ! 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  —  Whitehall. 
HoLLis,  Lady  Carlisle. 

Hol.  Tell  the  King  then  !     Come  in  with  me  ! 

Lady  Car.  Not  so  ! 

He  must  not  hear  till  it  succeeds. 

Hol.  Succeed  ? 

No  dream  was  half  so  vain — you'd  rescue  Strafford 


294  STRAFFORD. 

And  outwit  Pym  !    I  cannot  tell  you  .  .  .  lady, 
The  block  pursues  me,  and  the  hideous  show. 
To-day  ...  is  it  to-day  ?     And  all  the  while 
He  's  sure  of  the  King's  pardon.     Think,  I  have 
To  tell  this  man  he  is  to  die.     The  King 
May  rend  his  hair,  for  me  !     I  '11  not  see  Strafford  ! 

Lady  Car.  Only,  if  I  succeed,  remember Charles 

Has  saved  him  !     He  would  hardly  value  life 
Unless  his  gift.     My  staunch  friends  wait.     Go  in — 
You  must  go  in  to  Charles  ! 

Hoi.  And  all  beside 

Left  Strafford  long  ago.     The  King  has  signed 
The  warrant  for  his  death  :  the  Queen  was  sick 
Of  the  eternal  subject.     For  the  Court, — 
The  Trial  was  amusing  in  its  way, 
Only  too  much  of  it :  the  Earl  withdrew 
In  time.     But  you,  fragile,  alone,  so  young, 
Amid  rude  mercenaries — you  devise 
A  plan  to  save  him  !     Even  though  it  fails, 
What  shall  reward  you  ? 

Lady  Car.  I  may  go,  you  think, 

To  France  with  him  ?     And  you  reward  me,  friend, 
Who  lived  with  Strafford  even  from  his  youth 
Before  he  set  his  heart  on  state-affairs 
And  they  bent  down  that  noble  brow  of  his. 
I  have  learned  somewhat  of  his  latter  life, 
And  all  the  future  I  shall  know  :  but,  Hollis, 
I  ought  to  make  his  youth  my  own  as  well. 
Tell  me, when  he  is  saved  ! 


STRAFFORD.  295 

HoL  My  gentle  friend, 

He  should  know  all  and  love  you,  but 't  is  vain  ! 

Lady  Car.  Love  ?   no-^too  late  now  !     Let  him  love 
the  King  ! 
'T  is  the  King's  scheme  !    I  have  your  word,  remember  ! 
We  '11  keep  the  old  delusion  up.     But,  quick  ! 
Quick  !     Each  of  us  has  work  to  do,  beside  ! 
Go  to  the  King  !    I  hope — Hollis — I  hope  ! 
Say  nothing  of  my  scheme  !     Hush,  while  we  speak 
Think  where  he  is  !    Now  for  my  gallant  friends  ! 

HoL  Where  he  is  ?     Calling  wildly  upon  Charles, 
Guessing  his  fate,  pacing  the  prison-floor. 
Let  the  King  tell  him  !    I  '11  not  look  on  Strafford. 


Scene  \\.— The  Tower. 

Strafford  sitting  with  his  Children.     They  sing. 

O  belV  andare 
Per  barca  in  mai'e, 
Verso  la  sera 
Di  Primavera  ! 

William.    The  boat 's  in  the  broad  moonlight  all  this 

while — 

Verso  la  sera 
Di  Primavera  ! 

And  the  boat  shoots  from  underneath  the  moon 
Into  the  shadowy  distance  ;  only  still 
You  hear  the  dipping  oar — 

Vei'so  la  sera. 


296  STRAFFORD. 

And  faint,  and  fainter,  and  then  all's  quite  gone, 
Music  and  light  and  all,  like  a  lost  star. 

Amie.  But  you  should  sleep,  father  :  you  were  to  sleep. 

Siraf,  I  do  sleep,  Anne ;  or  if  not — you  must  know 
There's  such  a  thing  as  .  .  . 

Wil.  You  're  too  tired  to  sleep  ? 

Straf.  It  will  come  by-and-by  and  all  day  long. 
In  that  old  quiet  house  I  told  you  of : 
We  sleep  safe  there. 

An7ie,  Why  not  in  Ireland  ? 

Straf.  No ! 

Too  many  dreams  ! — That  song 's  for  Venice,  William  : 
You  know  how  Venice  looks  upon  the  map — 
Isles  that  the  mainland  hardly  can  let  go  ? 

Wil.  You  've  been  to  Venice,  father  ? 

Straf.  I  was  young,  then. 

Wil.  A  city  with  no  King  \  that 's  why  I  like 
Even  a  song  that  comes  from  Venice. 

Straf  William ! 

Wil.  Oh,  I  know  why  !    Anne,  do  you  love  the  King  ? 
But  I  '11  see  Venice  for  myself  one  day. 

Straf.  See  many  lands,  boy — England  last  of  all, — 
That  way  you  '11  love  her  best. 

Wil.  Why  do  men  say 

You  sought  to  ruin  her,  then  ? 

Straf  Ah, — they  say  that. 

Wil.  Why? 

Straf  I  suppose  they  must  have  words  to  say, 

As  you  to  sing. 


STRAFFORD.  297 

Anne.  But  they  make  songs  beside  : 

Last  night  I  heard  one,  in  the  street  beneath, 
That  called  you  .  .  .  Oh,  the  names  ! 

Wil.  Don't  mind  her,  father  ! 

They  soon  left  off  when  I  cried  out  to  them. 

Straf.  We  shall  so  soon  be  out  of  it,  my  boy  ! 
'T  is  not  worth  while  :  who  heeds  a  foolish  song  ? 

Wil.  Why,  not  the  King. 

Straf.  Well :  it  has  been  the  fate 

Of  better ;  and  yet, — wherefore  not  feel  sure 
That  time,  who  in  the  twilight  comes  to  mend 
All  the  fantastic  day's  caprice,  consign 
To  the  low  ground  once  more  the  ignoble  Term, 
And  raise  the  Genius  on  his  orb  again, — 
That  time  will  do  me  right  ? 

Anne.  (Shall  we  sing,  William  ? 

He  does  not  look  thus  when  we  sing.) 

Str€{f.  For  Ireland, 

Something  is  done  :  too  little,  but  enough 
To  show  what  might  have  been. 

Wil.  (I  have  no  heart 

To  sing  now  !     Anne,  how  very  sad  he  looks  ! 
Oh,  I  so  hate  the  King  for  all  he  says  !) 

Straf.    Forsook  them  !     What,  the  common  songs  will 
run 
That  I  forsook  the  People  ?     Nothing  more  ? 
Ay,  fame,  the  busy  scribe,  will  pause,  no  doubt. 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  her  thousand  slaves 
Noisy  to  be  enrolled, — will  register 


290  STRAFFORD. 

The  curious  glosses,  subtle  notices, 
Ingenious  clearings-up  one  fain  would  see 
Beside  that  plain  inscription  of  The  Name — 
The  Patriot  Pym,  or  the  Apostate  Strafford  ! 

[The  Children  resume  their  song  timidly,  but  break  off.- 
Enter  Hollis  and  an  Attendant. 

Straf.  No, — Hollis  ?  in  good  time  ! — Who  is  he  ? 

HoL  One 

That  must  be  present. 

Straf.  Ah — I  understand. 

They  will  not  let  me  see  poor  Laud  alone. 
How  politic  !     They  'd  use  me  by  degrees 
To  solitude  :  and  just  as  you  came  in 
I  was  solicitous  what  life  to  lead 
When  Strafford  's  "  not  so  much  as  Constable 
"  In  the  King's  service."     Is  there  any  means 
To  keep  one's  self  awake  ?     What  would  you  do 
After  this  bustle,  Hollis,  in  my  place  ? 

HoL  Strafford! 

Straf.  Observe,  not  but  that  Pym  and  you 

Will  find  me  news  enough — news  I  shall  hear 
Under  a  quince-tree  by  a  fish-pond  side 
At  Wentworth.     Garrard  must  be  re-engaged 
My  newsman.     Or,  a  better  project  now — 
What  if  when  all  's  consummated,  and  the  Saints 
Reign,  and  the  Senate's  work  goes  swimmingly, — 
What  if  I  venture  up,  some  day,  unseen. 
To  saunter  through  the  Town,  notice  how  Pym, 
Your  Tribune,  likes  Whitehall,  drop  quietly 


STRAFFORD.  299 

Into  a  tavern,  hear  a  point  discussed, 
As,  whether  Strafford's  name  were  John  or  James — 
And  be  myself  appealed  to — I,  who  shall 
Myself  have  near  forgotten  ! 

Hoi.  I  would  speak  .  .  . 

Straf.  Then  you  shall  speak, — not  now.     I  want  just 
now, 
To  hear  the  sound  of  my  own  tongue.     This  place 
Is  full  of  ghosts. 

Hoi.  Nay,  you  must  hear  me,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  Oh,  readily  !     Only  one  rare  thing  more, — 
The  minister !     Who  will  advise  the  King, 
Turn  his  Sej anus,  Richelieu  and  what  not. 
And  yet  have  health — children,  for  aught  I  know — 
My  patient  pair  of  traitors  !     Ah, — but,  William — 
Does  not  his  cheek  grow  thin  ? 

Wil.  'T  is  you  look  thin, 

Father  ! 

Straf.  A  scamper  o'er  the  breezy  wolds 
Sets  all  to-rights. 

Hoi.  You  cannot  sure  forget 

A  prison-roof  is  o'er  you,  Strafford  ? 

Straf  No, 

Why,  no.     I  would  not  touch  on  that,  the  first. 
I  left  you  that.     Well,  Hollis  ?     Say  at  once. 
The  JCing  can  find  no  time  to  set  me  free  ! 
A  mask  at  Theobald's  ? 

Hoi.  Hold  :  no  such  affair 

Detains  him. 


300  STRAFFORD. 

Straf.  True  :  what  needs  so  great  a  matter  ? 

The  Queen's  lip  may  be  sore.    Well :  when  he  pleases, — 
Only,  I  want  the  air  :  it  vexes  flesh 
To  be  pent  up  so  long.^ 

Hoi.  The  King— I  bear 

His  message,  Strafford :  pray  you,  let  me  speak  1 

Straf.  Go,  William  !  Anne,  try  o'er  your  song  again  ! 

\The  Children  retire. 
They  shall  be  loyal,  friend,  at  all  events. 
I  know  your  message  :  you  have  nothing  new 
To  tell  me  :  from  the  first  I  guessed  as  much. 
I  know,  instead  of  coming  here  himself. 
Leading  me  forth  in  public  by  the  hand, 
The  King  prefers  to  leave  the  door  ajar 
As  though  I  were  escaping — bids  me  trudge 
While  the  mob  gapes  upon  some  show  prepared 
On  the  other  side  of  the  river  !     Give  at  once 
His  order  of  release  !    I  've  heard,  as  well 
Of  certain  poor  manoeuvres  to  avoid 
The  granting  pardon  at  his  proper  risk  ; 
First,  he  must  prattle  somewhat  to  the  Lords, 
Must  talk  a  trifle  with  the  Commons  first, 
Be  grieved  I  should  abuse  his  confidence, 
And  far  from  blaming  them,  and  .  .  .Where  's  the  order  ? 

Hoi.  Spare  me ! 

Straf.  Why,  he  'd  not  have  me  steal  a^ay  ? 

With  an  old  doublet  and  a  steeple  hat 
Like  Prynne's  ?     Be  smuggled  into  France,  perhaps  ? 
Hollis,  't  is  for  my  children  !     'Twas  for  them 


STRAFFORD.  30I 

I  first  consented  to  stand  day  by  day 

And  give  your  Puritans  the  best  of  words, 

Be  patient,  speak  when  called  upon,  observe 

Their  rules,  and  not  return  them  prompt  their  lie  ! 

Wliat  's  in  that  boy  of  mine  that  he  should  prove 

Son  to  a  prison-breaker  ?     I  shall  stay 

And  he  '11  stay  with  me.     Charles  should  know  as  much, 

He  too  has  children  ! 

[Turning  to  Hollis's  companion.']  Sir,  you  feel  for  me  ! 

No  need  to  hide  that  face  !     Though  it  have  looked 

Upon  me  from  the  judgment-seat ...  I  know 

Strangely,  that  somewhere  it  has  looked  on  me  .  .  . 

Your  coming  has  my  pardon,  nay,  my  thanks. 

For  there  is  one  who  comes  not. 

Hoi.  Whom  forgive. 

As  one  to  die  ! 

Straf.  True,  all  die,  and  all  need 

Forgiveness  :  I  forgive  him  from  my  soul. 

Hoi.  'T  is  a  world's  wonder  :  Strafford,  you  must  die  ! 

Siraf.  Sir,  if  your  errand  is  to  set  me  free 
This  heartless  jest  mars  much.     Ha  !     Tears  in  truth  ? 
We  '11  end  this  !     See  this  paper,  warm — feel — warm 
With  lying  next  my  heart !     Whose  hand  is  there  ? 
Whose  promise  ?     Read,  and  loud  for  God  to  hear  ! 
*' Strafford  shall  take  no  hurt " — read  it,  I  say  ! 
"  In  person,  honour,  nor  estate  " — 

Hoi.  The  King  .  .  . 

Straf.  I  could  unking  him  by  a  breath  !     You  sit 
Where  Loudon  sat,  who  came  to  prophesy 


302  STRAFFORD. 

The  certain  end,  and  offer  me  Pym's  grace 
If  I  'd  renounce  the  King :  and  I  stood  firm 
On  the  King's  faith.     The  King  who  Hves  .  .  . 

HoL  To  sign 

The  warrant  for  your  death. 

Straf.  \  "  Put  not  your  trust 

"  In  princes,  neither  in  the  sons  of  men, 
"  In  whom  is  no  salvation  ! " 

Hoi.  Trust  in  God  ! 

The  scaffold  is  prepared  :  they  wait  for  you  : 
He  has  consented.     Cast  the  earth  behind  ! 

Cha.  You  would  not  see  me,  Strafford,  at  your  foot ! 
It  was  wrung  from  me  !     Only  curse  me  not ! 

HoL    [To  Strafford.]  As  you  hope  grace  and  pardon 
in  your  need, 
Be  merciful  to  this  most  wretched  man  ! 

\_Voices from  within. 
Verso  la  sera 
Di  Frimavera. 
Straf.  You '11  be  good  to  those  children,  sir?     I  know 
You  '11  not  believe  her,  even  should  the  Queen 
Think  they  take  after  one  they  rarely  saw. 
I  had  intended  that  my  son  should  live 
A  stranger  to  these  matters  :  but  you  are 
So  utterly  deprived  of  friends  !     He  too 
Must  serve  you — will  you  not  be  good  to  him  ? 
Or,  stay,  sir,  do  not  promise — do  not  swear  ! 
You,  Hollis — do  the  best  you  can  for  me  ! 
I  've  not  a  soul  to  trust  to  ;  Wandesford's  dead, 


STRAFFORD.  303 

And  you  Ve  got  Radcliffe  safe,  Laud's  turn  comes  next : 

I  Ve  found  small  time  of  late  for  my  affairs, 

But  I  trust  any  of  you,  Pym  himself — 

No  one  could  hurt  them  :  there  's  an  infant,  too — 

These  tedious  cares  !     Your  Majesty  could  spare  them  ! 

Nay — pardon  me,  my  King  !     I  had  forgotten 

Your  education,  trials,  much  temptation. 

Some  weakness  :  there  escaped  a  peevish  word — 

'T  is  gone  :  I  bless  you  at  the  last.     You  know 

All 's  between  you  and  me  :  what  has  the  world 

To  do  with  it  ?     Farewell ! 

Cha.  \_at  the  door.']  Balfour !     Balfour ! 

Enter  Balfour. 
The  Parliament ! — go  to  them  :  I  grant  all 
Demands.     Their  sittings  shall  be  permanent : 
Tell  them  to  keep  their  money  if  they  will : 
I  '11  come  to  them  for  every  coat  I  wear 
And  every  crust  I  eat :  only  I  choose 
To  pardon  Strafford.     As  the  Queen  shall  choose  ! 
— You  never  heard  the  People  howl  for  blood, 
Beside ! 

Bal.     Your  Majesty  may  hear  them  now  : 
The  walls  can  hardly  keep  their  murmurs  out : 
Please  you  retire  ! 

Cha.  Take  all  the  troops,  Balfour  ! 

Bal.  There  are  some  hundred  thousand  of  the  crowd. 

Cha.  Come  with  me,  Strafford  !     You  '11  not  fear,  at 
least ! 

Sfraf.  Balfour,  say  nothing  to  the  world  of  this  ! 


304  STRAFFORD. 

I  charge  you,  as  a  dying  man,  forget 

You  gazed  upon  this  agony  of  one  ...  « 

Of  one  .  .  or  if .  .  why  you  may  say,  Balfour, 

The  King  was  sorry :  't  is  no  shame  in  him  : 

Yes,  you  may  say  he  even  wept,  Balfour, 

And  that  I  walked  the  lighter  to  the  block 

Because  of  it.     I  shall  walk  lightly,  sir  ! 

Earth  fades,  heaven  breaks  on  me :  I  shall  stand  next 

Before  God's  throne  :  the  moment 's  close  at  hand 

When  man  the  first,  last  time,  has  leave  to  lay 

His  whole  heart  bare  before  its  maker,  leave 

To  clear  up  the  long  error  of  a  life 

And  choose  one  happiness  for  evermore. 

With  all  mortality  about  me,  Charles, 

The  sudden  wreck,  the  dregs  of  violent  death — 

What  if,  despite  the  opening  angel-song, 

There  penetrate  one  prayer  for  you  ?     Be  saved 

Through  me  !     Bear  witness,  no  one  could  prevent 

My  death  !     Lead  on  !  ere  he  awake — best,  now  ! 

All  must  be  ready :  did  you  say,  Balfour, 

The  crowd  began  to  murmur  ?     They  '11  be  kept 

Too  late  for  sermon  at  St.  Antholin's  ! 

Now  !  but  tread  softly — children  are  at  play 

In  the  next  room.     Precede  !     I  follow — 

Enter'  Lady  Carlisle,  with  ma7ty  Attendants. 
Lady  Car,  Me  ! 

Follow  me,  Strafford,  and  be  saved  !     The  King  ? 
\To  the  King.]  Well — as  you  ordered,  they  are  ranged 
without, 


STRAFFORD.  305 

The  convoy  .  .  [seeing  the  King's  state?[ 
[To  Strafford.]  You  know  all,  then  I     Why,  I  thought 
It  looked  best  that  the  King  should  save  you,  Charles 
Alone ;  't  is  a  shame  that  you  should  owe  me  aught. 
Or  no,  not  shame  !     Strafford  you  '11  not  feel  shame 
At  being  saved  by  me  ? 

Ho/.  All  true  !     Oh  Strafford, 

She  saves  you  !  all  her  deed  !  this  lady's  deed  I 
And  is  the  boat  in  readiness  ?     You,  friend. 
Are  Billingsley,  no  doubt !     Speak  to  her,  Strafford  ! 
See  how  she  trembles,  waiting  for  your  voice  ! 
The  world  's  to  learn  its  bravest  story  yet  1 

Zady  Car.  Talk  afterward !      Long  nights  in  France 
enough. 
To  sit  beneath  the  vines  and  talk  of  home. 

Straf.  You  love  me,  child?      Ah,    Strafford  can   be 
loved 
As  well  as  Vane  !     I  could  escape,  then  ? 

Lady  Car.  Haste  ! 

Advance  the  torches,  Bryan  ! 

Straf.  I  will  die. 

They  call  me  proud  :  but  England  had  no  right. 
When  she  encountered  me — her  strength  to  mine — 
To  find  the  chosen  foe  a  craven.     Girl, 
I  fought  her  to  the  utterance,  I  fell, 
I  am  her's  now,  and  I  will  die.     Beside, 
The  lookers  on  !     Eliot  is  all  about 
This  place,  with  his  most  uncomplaining  brow. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  ! 

VOL.   I.  20 


306  STRAFFORD. 

Straf.  I  think  if  you  could  know  how  much 

I  love  you,  you  would  be  repaid,  my  friend  ! 

Lady  Car.  Then,  for  my  sake  ! 

SU^af,  Even  for  your  sweet  sake, 

I  stay. 

Hoi.  For  their  sake  ! 

Straf.  To  bequeath  a  stain  ? 

Leave  me  !     Girl,  humour  me  and  let  me  die  ? 

Lady  Car.    Bid  him  escape — wake,  King !    Bid  him 
escape ! 

Straf.  True,  I  will  go  !     Die,  and  forsake  the  King  ? 
I  '11  not  draw  back  from  the  last  service. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford ! 

Straf.  And,  after  all,  what  is  disgrace  to  me  ? 

Let  us  come,  child  !     That  ft  should  end  this  way 
Lead  then  !  but  I  feel  strangely  :  it  was  not 
To  end  this  way. 

Lady  Car.  Lean — lean  on  me  ! 

Straf  My  King  ! 

Oh,  had  he  trusted  me — his  friend  of  friends  ! 

Lady  Car.  I  can  support  him,  Hollis  ! 

Straf  Not  this  way  ! 

This  gate — I  dreamed  of  it,  this  very  gate. 

Lady  Car.  It  opens  on  the  river :  our  good  boat 
Is  moored  below,  our  friends  are  there. 

Straf  The  same : 

Only  with  something  ominous  and  dark, 
Fatal,  inevitable. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  !     Strafford  ! 


STRAFFORD.  307 

Straf.  Not  by  this  gate  !    I  feel  what  will  be  there  ! 

I  dreamed  of  it,  I  tell  you  :  touch  it  not ! 

Lady  Car.   To  save  the  King, — Strafford,  to  save  the 

King  ! 

\^As  Strafford  opens  the  door^  Pym  is  discovered  with 
Hampden,  Vane,  etc.  Strafford  falls  back:  Pym 
follozvs  slowly  and  confronts  him. 

Pym.  Have  I  done  well  ?    Speak,  England  !    Whose 
sole  sake 
I  still  have  laboured  for,  with  disregard 
To  my  own  heart, — for  whom  my  youth  was  made 
Barren,  my  manhood  waste,  to  offer  up 
Her  sacrifiee — this  friend,  this  Wentworth  here — 
Who  walked  in  youth  with  me,  loved  me,  it  may  be, 
And  whom,  for  his  forsaking  England's  cause, 
I  hunted  by  all  means  (trusting  that  she 
Would  sanctify  all  means)  even  to  the  block 
Which  waits  for  him.     And  saying  this,  I  feel 
No  bitterer  pang  than  first  I  felt,  the  hour 
I  swore  that  Wentworth  might  leave  us,  but  I 
Would  never  leave  him  :  I  do  leave  him  now. 
I  render  up  my  charge  (be  witness,  God  !) 
To  England  who  imposed  it.     I  have  done 
Her  bidding — poorly,  wrongly, — it  may  be. 
With  ill  effects — for  I  am  weak,  a  man : 
Still,  I  have  done  my  best,  my  human  best. 
Not  faltering  for  a  moment.     It  is  done. 
And  this  said,  if  I  say  .  .  .  yes,  I  will  say 
I  never  loved  but  one  man — David  not 


3o8  STRAFFORD. 

More  Jonathan  !     Even  thus,  I  love  him  now : 

And  look  for  my  chief  portion  in  that  world 

Where  great  hearts  led  astray  are  turned  again, 

(Soon  it  may  be,  and,  certes,  will  be  soon  : 

My  mission  over,  I  shall  not  live  long,) — 

Ay,  here  I  know  I  talk — I  dare  and  must, 

Of  England,  and  her  great  reward,  as  all 

I  look  for  there  ;  but  in  my  inmost  heart, 

Believe,  I  think  of  stealing  quite  away 

To  walk  once  more  with  Wentworth — my  youth's  friend 

Purged  from  all  error,  gloriously  renewed, 

And  Eliot  shall  not  blame  us.     Then  indeed  .  .  . 

This  is  no  meeting,  Wentworth  !     Tears  increase 

Too  hot.     A  thin  mist — is  it  blood  ? — enwraps 

The  face  I  loved  once.     Then,  the  meeting  be  ! 

Straf.  I  have  loved  England  too;  we'll  meet  then,  Pym; 
As  well  die  now  !     Youth  is  the  only  time 
To  think  and  to  decide  on  a  great  course : 
Manhood  with  action  follows  ;  but 't  is  dreary, 
To  have  to  alter  our  whole  life  in  age — 
The  time  past,  the  strength  gone  !    As  well  die  now. 
When  we  meet,  Pym,  I  'd  be  set  right — not  now  ! 
Best  die.     Then  if  there's  any  fault,  it  too 
Dies,  smothered  up.     Poor  grey  old  little  Laud 
May  dream  his  dream  out,  of  a  perfect  Church, 
In  some  blind  corner.     And  there  's  no  one  left. 
I  trust  the  King  now  wholly  to  you,  Pym  !     ^ . 
And  yet,  I  know  not :  I  shall  not  be  there  : 
Friends  fail — if  he  have  any.     And  he 's  weak, 


STRAFFORD.  309 

And  loves  the  Queen,  and  .  ,  Oh,  my  fate  is  nothing — 
Nothing  !     But  not  that  awful  head — not  that ! 

Pym.  If  England  shall  declare  such  will  to  me  .  .  . 

Straf.  Pym,  you  help  England  !     I,  that  am  to  die, 
What  I  must  see  !     't  is  here — all  here  !     My  God, 
Let  me  but  gasp  out,  in  one  word  of  fire, 
How  thou  wilt  plague  him,  satiating  hell ! 
What  ?     England  that  you  help,  become  through  you 
A  green  and  putrefying  charnel,  left  • 

Our  children  .  .  .  some  of  us  have  children,  Pym — 
Some  who,  without  that,  still  must  ever  wear 
A  darkened  brow,  an  over-serious  look. 
And  never  properly  be  young  !     No  word  ? 
What  if  I  curse  you  ?     Send  a  strong  curse  forth 
Clothed  from  my  heart,  lapped  round  with  horror  till 
She  's  fit  with  her  white  face  to  walk  the  world 
Scaring  kind  natures  from  your  cause  and  you — 
Then  to  sit  down  with  you  at  the  board-head, 
The  gathering  for  prayer  .  .  O  speak,  but  speak  ! 
.  .  Creep  up  and  quietly  follow  each  one  home. 
You,  you,  you,  be  a  nestling  care  for  each 
To  sleep  with, — hardly  moaning  in  his  dreams, 
She  gnaws  so  quietly, — till,  lo  he  starts. 
Gets  off  with  half  a  heart  eaten  away  ! 
Oh  shall  you  'scape  with  less  if  she's  my  child  ? 
You  will  not  say  a  word — to  me — to  Him  ? 

Pym.  If  England  shall  declare  such  will  to  me  .  .  . 

Straf.  No,  not    for  England   now,   not   for   Heaven 
now,— 


3IO  STRAFFORD. 

See,  Pym,  for  my  sake,  mine  who  kneel  to  you  ! 
There,  I  will  thank  you  for  the  death,  my  friend  ! 
This  is  the  meeting :  let  me  love  you  well ! 

Pym.  England, — I  am  thine  own  !     Dost  thou  exact 
That  service  ?     I  obey  thee  to  the  end. 

Straf.  O  God,  I  shall  die  first— I  shall  die  first ! 


END   OF  VOL.     I. 


London :  Printed  by  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  Old  Bailey,  E.G. 


NEW    AND    UNIFORM    EDITION 
OF 

THE    POETICAL    WORKS 

N.    OF 

MR.   ROBERT   BROWNING, 

In  Six  Monthly  Volumes,  fcap.  8vo.     Price  5s.  each. 


Ready  this  day.     Volume  I. 
PAUEINE — PARACELSUS—  STRAFFORD. 


April  1st.     Volume  II. 
BORDELLO  —  PIPPA    PASSES. 


May  1st.     Volume  III. 

KING   VICTOR  AND    KING    CHARLES — DRAMATIC 

LYRICS — THE   RETURN   OF   THE   DRUSES. 


June  1st.     Volume  IV. 

A    BLOT    IN     THE    'SCUTCHEON  ^^COLOMBE'S 

BIRTHDAY — DRAMATIC   ROMANCES. 

July  1st.     Volume  V. 

A    soul's    tragedy  —  LURIA  —  CHRISTMAS-EVE 

AND  EASTER-DAY — MEN   AND   WOMEN. 

August  1st.     Volume  VI. 
IN  A  BALCONY — DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


SMITH,      ELDER     AND      CO.,      65,     CORNHILL. 


0,1 


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