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 ROBERT BROWNING'S WORKS. 
 
 Poems and Dkamas. 2 volumes J3 
 
 SoRDELLO, Strafford, Christmas-Eve, and Easter-Day.... i 
 
 Dramatis Persons i 
 
 Men and Women 1 
 
 The Ring and the Book. 2 vokimes 3 
 
 Balaustion's Adventure i 
 
 FiFiNE AT the Fair, etc i 
 
 Red Cotton Night-Cap Country; or. Turf and Towers., i 
 Aristophanes' Apology. Beinc; the Last Adventure of Balaus- 
 
 tion I 
 
 The Ixn Album i 
 
 Pacchiarotto and Other Poems i 
 
 Agamemnon, La Saisiaz, Two Poets of Croisic, Pauline 
 
 AND Dramatic Idyls (first and second series) i 
 
 Jocoseria I 
 
 Feri.shtah's Fancies i 
 
 The foregoing 16 volumes 23, 
 
 Half calf, 1 5 volumes in 14 40 
 
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 Poetical Works. New and uniform edilion. 7 vols, crown 8vo. 12.00 
 
 Half calf 25.00 
 
 Jocoseria Uniform with new edition of Works. Crown 8vo i.oo 
 
 Ferishtah's Fancies. Uniform with new edition of Works i.oo 
 
 Favorite Poems. Illustrated. This, with Mrs. Browning's 
 " Ladv Gernldine"s Courtship" and Mr. Siedman's Essay on 
 Mrs. Browning, forms " Modern Classics " No. 12. 32mo 75 
 
 HOUGHTON, MH'TLIN & COMPANY, Publishers.
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Tiro VOLUMES IN ONE 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 iS86
 
 Cambridge 
 
 PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS-
 
 PR 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 There is delight in singing, though none hear 
 Beside the singer: and there is delight 
 In praising, though the pniiser sit alone 
 And see the praised far off him, far above. 
 Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's, 
 Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, 
 Browning 1 Since Cliaucer was alivn and hale, 
 No man hath walkt along our roads with step 
 So a^-iive, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 So varied in discouree. ISul warmer climes 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze 
 Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 
 
 Walter Savage LAin>o&
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 Paracelsus ' 
 
 PippA Passes. A Drama 163 
 
 King Victor and King Charles. A Tragedy . 231 
 
 Colombe's Birthday. A Play. . . . 303 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME IL 
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. A Tragedy . . i 
 
 The Return of the Druses. A Tragedy . 61 
 
 Luria. a Tr.\(:;i:dy '39 
 
 A Soul's Tragedy ^^^
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 VOL. I.
 
 PARACELSUS. 
 
 PERSOXS. 
 
 AuREOLCS Paracelsus. 
 
 Festus & ■) _ 
 
 >- his Friends. 
 
 MlClIAL, ) 
 
 Afrile, an Italian Poet. 
 
 1.— PARACELSUS ASPIRES. 
 Scene. — WUrzburg — a garden in the environs. \5iS. 
 
 Festus, Parace^^sus, Michal. 
 
 Par. Come close to me, dear friends ; still closer ; thus I 
 Close to the heart which, though long time roll by 
 Ere it again beat quicker, pressed tr yours, 
 As now it beats — perchance a long, fong 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 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Forgiving love as shall embalm it there ! 
 
 For if you would remember me aright — 
 As I was born to be — you must forget 
 All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness 
 Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell 
 Only on moments such as these, dear friends ! 
 — My heart no truer, but ray words and ways 
 More true to it; as IMichal, 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 fjxin be sunny — I would look 
 Liker my nature's truth ; and both are frail, 
 And both beloved for all their frailty ! 
 
 Mich. Aureole ! 
 
 Par. Drop by drop ! — she is weeping like a child I 
 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 dowf« 
 Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit, 
 That apple-tree witii a I'are after-birth 
 Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among ! 
 Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved 
 Shall vex that ash that overlooks you both. 
 So proud it wears its berries ? Ah ! at length, 
 The old smile meet for her, the lady of this 
 Sequestered nest ! This kingdom, limited
 
 PAKA0ELSU3. O 
 
 Alone by one old populous green wall, 
 
 Tenanted by the ever-busy flies, 
 
 Gray crickets, and shy lizards, and quick spiders, 
 
 YaxcU fiimily of the silver-threaded moss — 
 
 Whicli, look through, near, this way, and it appears 
 
 A stubble-field, or a canebrake — a marsh 
 
 Of bulrush whitening in the sun : laugh now 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Mick. 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 ! Whene'e 
 That plant shall wave its tangles lightly and softly. 
 As a queen's languid and imperial arm 
 Which scatters crowns among her lovers, you 
 Shall be reminded to predict to me 
 Some great success ! Ah, see ! the sun sinks broad 
 Behintf St. Saviour's : wholly gone, at last ! 
 
 Fest. Now, Aureole, stay those wandering eyes Ewhi 
 You are ours to-night at h'ast ; and while you spoke 
 Of Michal and her tears, tlic thought came back 
 Tiiat none could leave what he so seemed to love : 
 But that last look destroys my dream — that look '
 
 * PARACELSUS. 
 
 As if, where'er you gazed, there stood a star . 
 How far was Wurzburg, with its church and spire, 
 And garden-walls, and all things they contain, 
 From that look's far ali";htiu": ? 
 
 Par. I but spoke 
 
 And looked alike from simple joy, to see 
 The beings I love best, shut in so weU 
 From all rude chances like to be ray lot, 
 That, when afar, my weary spirit, — disposed 
 To lose awhile its care in soothing thoughts 
 Of them, their pleasant features, looks, and words,— 
 Need never hesitate, nor appi^hend 
 Encroaching trouble may have reached them too, 
 Nor have recourse to Fancy's busy aid 
 To fashion even a wish in their behalf 
 Beyond what they possess already here ; 
 But, unobstructed, may at once forget 
 Itself in them, assured how well they are. 
 Beside, this Festus knows, he thinks me one 
 Whom quiet and its charms attract in vain, 
 One scarce aware of all the joys I quit. 
 Too fill'd with airy Iiopes to make account 
 Of soft delights which free hearts garner up: 
 Whereas, behold how much our sense of all 
 That's beauteous proves alike ! When Festus learna 
 That every common pleasure of the world 
 Aflfpcts me as himself; that I have just 
 As varied appetites for joy derived 
 From common things ; a stake in life, in short.
 
 PAUACKLSCS. 
 
 .■i 
 
 Like his; a stake which rash pursuit of aims 
 
 riiat life affords not, would as soon destroy ; — 
 
 lie may convince himself, that, this in view, 
 
 I shall act well advised : and last, because. 
 
 Though heaven and earth, and all things, were at stake. 
 
 Sweet Michal must not weep, our parting eve ! 
 
 Fest. True : and the eve is deepening, and we sit 
 As little anxious to begin our talk 
 As though to-morrow I could open it 
 As we paced arm in arm the cheerful town 
 At sun-dawn ; and continue it by fits 
 (Old Tritheim busied with his class the while) 
 In that dim chamber where the noon-streaks peer 
 Half frightened by the awful tomes around ; 
 And here at home unbosom all the rest 
 From even-blush to midnight : but, to-morrow * . . 
 Have I full leave to tell ray inmost mind ? 
 We two were brothers, and henceforth the world 
 "Will rise between us : — all my freest mind ? 
 *Tis the last night, dear Aureole 1 
 
 Par. Oh, say on I 
 
 Devise some test of love — some arduous feat 
 To be performed for you — say on ! If night 
 Be spent the while, the better I Recall how oft 
 My wondrous plans, and dreams, and hopes, and feara 
 Have — never wearied you . . . oh, no ! . . . as I 
 Recall, and never vividly as now, 
 Your true affection, born when Einsiedeln 
 And its green hills vere all ths world to us,
 
 PARACELSL3. 
 
 And still inoreasing to this night, which ends 
 Mj further stay at Wiirzburg . . . Oh, one day 
 You shall be very proud ! Say on, dear friends ! 
 
 Fest. In truth ? 'Tis for my proper peace, indeed. 
 Rather than yours ; for Tain all projects seem 
 To stay your course : I said my latest hope 
 Is fading even now. A story tells 
 Of some far embassy despatched to buy 
 The favour of an eastern king, and how 
 The gifts they offered proved but dazzling dust 
 Shed from the ore-beds native to his clime : 
 Just so, the value of repose and love, 
 
 1 meant should tempt you, better far than I 
 You seem to comprehend — and yet desist 
 No whit from projects where repose nor love 
 Have part. 
 
 Par. Once more ? Alas ! as I forbode ! 
 
 Fest. A solitary briar the bank puts forth 
 To save our swan's nest floating out to sea. 
 
 Par. Dear Festus, hear me. What is it you wish f 
 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. T was not born
 
 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Informed and fearless from the first, but shrank 
 From aught which marked me out apart from men' 
 I would have lived their life, and died their death, 
 Lost in their ranks, eluding destiny : 
 But you first guided me through doubt and fear, 
 Taught me to know mankind and know myself; 
 And now that I am strong and full of hope, 
 That, from my soul, I can reject all aims 
 Save those your earnest words made plain to me ; 
 Now, tiiat I touch the brink of my design, 
 When I would have a triumph in their eyes, 
 A glad cheer in their voices — Michal weeps, 
 And Festus ponders gravely ! 
 
 Fest. "When you deign 
 
 To hear my purpose . . . 
 
 Par. Hear it ? I can say 
 
 Beforehand all this evening's conference ! 
 Tis this way, Michal, that he uses : first, 
 Or he declares, or I, the leading points 
 Of our best scheme of life, what is man's end, 
 And what God's will — no two faiths e'er agreed 
 As his with mine : next, each of us allows 
 Faitli should be acted on as best we may : 
 Accordingly, I venture to submit 
 A plan, in lack of better, for pursumg 
 The path which God's will seems to authorize : 
 Well — he discerns much good in it, avows 
 This motive wortliy, that hope plausible, 
 4. danger here, to be avoided — there, 
 
 )
 
 \ 
 
 8 PARACELSU8. 
 
 An oversight to be repaired : at last 
 Our two minds go together — all the good 
 Approved by hira, I gladly recognize ; 
 All he counts bad, I thankfully discard ; 
 And nought forbids my looking up at last 
 For some stray comfort in his cautious brow- 
 When, lo ! I learn that, spite of all, there lurka 
 Some innate and inexplicable germ 
 Of failure in my schemes ; so that at last 
 It all amounts to this — the sovereign proof 
 That we devote ourselves to God, is seen 
 In living just as though there were no God ; 
 A life which, prompted by the sad and blind 
 Lusts of the world, Festus abhors the most — 
 But which these tenets sanctify at once ; 
 Though to less subtle wits it seems the same, 
 Consider it how they may. 
 
 Mich. Is it so, Festus ? 
 
 He speaks so calmly and kindly — is it so ? 
 
 Par. Reject those glorious visions of God's love 
 And man's design ; laugh loud that God should send 
 Vast longings to direct us ; say how soon 
 Power satiates these, or lust, or gold ; I know 
 The world's cry well, and how to answer it ! 
 But this ambiguous warfare . . . 
 
 Fcst. , . . 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 ; 
 
 (
 
 PARACELSDS. 9 
 
 Never to sorrow that uncertain words, 
 Erringly apprehended — a new creed, 
 ni understood — begot rash trust in yju, 
 A.nil shared in your undoing. 
 
 Par. Choose your side: 
 
 Hold or renounce : but meanwhile blame me not 
 Because 1 dare to act on your own views, 
 Nor shrink when they point onward, nor espy 
 A peril where they most insure 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 aflect, 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 tIiouy;ht — 
 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 . . . 
 
 Fcst. Slay, 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
 
 10 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Gave birth to, nourished, and at length matures 
 
 This scheme. I will not speak of Einsiedeln, 
 
 Where I was born your elder by some years 
 
 Only to watch you fully from the first : 
 
 In all beside, our mutual tasks were fixed 
 
 Even then — 'twas mine to have you in my view 
 
 As you had your own soul and those intents 
 
 Which filled it when, to crown your dearest wish, 
 
 With a tumultuous heart, you left with me 
 
 Our childhood's home to join the favoured few 
 
 Whom, here at Wiirzburg, Tritheim deigns to teach 
 
 A portion of his lore : and not the best 
 
 Of those so favoured, whom you now despise, 
 
 Came earnest as you came ; resolved, like you. 
 
 To grasp all, and retain all, and deserve 
 
 By patient toil a wide renown like his. 
 
 And this new ardour which supplants the old, 
 
 I watched, too ; 'twas significant and strange, 
 
 In one matched to his soul's content at length 
 
 With rivals in the search for Wisdom's prize. 
 
 To see the sudden pause, the total change; 
 
 From contest, the transition to repose — 
 
 From pressing onward as his fellows pressed. 
 
 To a blank idleness ; yet most unlike 
 
 The dull stagnation of a soul, content. 
 
 Once foiled, to leave betimes a thrivelcss quest. 
 
 That careless bearing, free from all pretence 
 
 Even of contempt for what it ceased to seek— 
 
 Smiling humility, praising much, yet waiving
 
 PARACELSUS. ll 
 
 What it professed to praise — though not so well 
 Maintained but tiiat rare outbreaks, fierce as 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 sliivered sword, of one about to spring 
 Upon his foe's throat; but it was not thus: 
 Not that way looked your brooding purpose then. 
 For after-signs disclosed, what you confirmed, 
 That you prepared to task to the uttermost 
 Your strength, in furtherance of a certain aim, 
 Which — while it bore the name your rivals gavo 
 Tiieir own most puny efforts — was so vast 
 In scope that it included their best flights, 
 Combined them, and desired to gain one i)rize 
 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 
 fou trust be true, which following, heart and soul, 
 fou, if a man may, dare aspire to know: 
 And that tiiis aim shall differ from a host 
 Of aims alike in cliaracter and kind, 
 Mostly in this, — to seek its own reward 
 In itself only, not an alien end 
 To blend therewith ; no hope, nor fear, nor joy, 
 Nor woe, to elsewhere move you, but this pure
 
 12 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Devotion to sustain you or betray: 
 Tluis you aspire. 
 
 Par. You shall not state it thus ; 
 
 I should not differ from the dreamy crew 
 You speak of. I profess no other sliare 
 In the selection of my lot, than this, 
 A ready answer to the will of God 
 "Who summons me to be his organ : all 
 Whose innate strength supports them shall succeed 
 No better than your sages. 
 
 Fest. Such the aim, then, 
 
 God sets before you ; and 'tis doubtless need 
 That lie appoint no less the way of praise 
 Than the desire to praise ; for, though I hold 
 With you, the setting forth such praise to be 
 The natural end and service of a man, 
 And think such praise is best attained when man 
 Attains the general welfare of his kind — 
 Yet, this, the end, is not the instrument. 
 Presume not to serve God apart from such 
 Appointed channel as He wills !<hall gather 
 Imperfect tributes — for that sole obedience 
 Valued, perchance. He seeks not that his altars 
 Blaze — careless how, so that they do but blaze. 
 Su[)pose 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.
 
 ( . 
 
 PAliACELSUS. 13 
 
 An interise 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 ratiier wild desire 
 
 For this distinction, than security 
 
 Of its existence ; whether you discern 
 
 The path to the fullihnent 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 I Who 
 will may know 
 The secret'st workings of my soul. What though 
 It be so ? — if indeed the strong desire 
 Eclipse the aim in me ? — if splendour break 
 Upon the outset of my path alone. 
 And duskest shade succeed? What fairer seal 
 Shall I require to my authentic mission 
 Than this fierce energy ? — this instinct striving 
 Because its nature is to strive ? — enticed 
 By the security of no broad course. 
 With no success forever in its eyes ! 
 How know I else such glorious fate my own, 
 But in the restless irresistible force 
 That works within me ? Is it for human will 
 To institute such impulses ? — still less. 
 To disregard their promptings ? What should I
 
 14 PARACELSUS. 
 
 « 
 
 Do, kept among yoa all ; your loves, your cares. 
 Your life — all to be mine ? Be sure that God 
 Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart ! 
 Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
 Into the vast and unexplored abyss, 
 What full-grown power informs her from the first, 
 Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
 The silent boundless regions of the sky ! 
 Be sure they sleep not whom God needs ! Nor fear 
 Their holding light his charge, when every hour 
 That finds that charge delayed, is a new death. 
 This for the faith in which I trust ; and hence 
 I can abjure so well the idle arts 
 Tiiese pedants strive to learn and teach ; Black Arts, 
 Great Works, the Secret and Sublime, forsooth- 
 Let others prize: too intimate a tie 
 Connects me with our God ! A sullen fiend 
 To do my bidding, fallen and hateful sprites 
 To help me — what are these, at best, beside 
 God helping, God directing everywhere, 
 So that the earth shall yield her secrets up, 
 And every object shall be charged to strike, 
 Teach, gratify, her master God appoints? 
 And I am young, my Festus, happy and free 1 
 I can devote myself; I have a life 
 ^give ; I, singled out for this, the One ! 
 Think, think; the wide east, where old Wisdom sprung 
 The bright south, where she dwelt; the hopeful north, 
 Ail are past o'er — it lights on me ! 'Tis time
 
 f 
 
 PARACELSUS. i5 
 
 New hopes should animate the world, new light 
 Should dawn from new revealings to a race 
 Weighed down so long, forgotten so long ; so shall 
 The heaven reserved for us, at last receive 
 Creatures whom no unwonted splendours blind, 
 But ardent tu confront the unclouded blaze 
 
 j Whose beams not seldom blessed their pilgrimage, 
 
 \_^ot seldom glorified tiieir 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. 
 Unravelling the knots their baffled skill 
 Pronounced inextricable, true ! — but left 
 Far less confused ? A fresh eye, a fresh hand, 
 Might do much at their vigour's waning-point ; 
 Succeeding with new-breathed and earnest force, 
 As at old games a runner snatched the torch 
 Eljom runner still : this way success might be. 
 
 / ]5ut you have coupled with your enterprise, 
 An arbitrary self-repugnant scheme 
 Of seeking it in strange and untried paths. 
 
 I What books are in the desert ? writes the sea 
 riie secret of her yearning in vast caves
 
 16 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Where yours will fall the first of human feet 
 
 Has Wisdom sate there and recorded aught 
 
 You press to read ? Why turn aside from bei 
 
 To visit, vVhere her vesture never glanced, 
 
 Now — solitudes consiirned to barrenness 
 
 By God's decree, which who shall dare impugn 1 
 
 Now — ruins where she paused but would not stay, 
 
 Old ravaged cities that, renouncing her, 
 
 She called an endless curse on, so it came— 
 
 Or, worst of all, now — men you visit, men, 
 
 Ignoblest troops that never heard her voice, 
 
 Or hate it, men without one gift from Rome 
 
 Or Athens, — these shall Aureole's teachers be ! 
 
 Rejecting past example, practice, precept. 
 
 Aidless 'mid these he thinks to stand alone : 
 
 Thick like a glory round the Stagyrite 
 
 Your rivals throng, the sages : here stand you ! 
 
 Whate'er you may protest, knowledge is not 
 
 Paramount in your love ; or for her sake 
 
 You would collect all help from every source — 
 
 Rival or helper, friend, foe, all would merge 
 
 In the broad class of those who showed her haunta. 
 
 And those who showed them not. 
 
 Par. What shall 1 say? 
 
 Festus, from childhood I have been possessed 
 By a lire — by a true fire, or faint or fierce, 
 As from without some master, so it seemed, 
 Re[>ressed or urged its current : this but ill 
 Expresses what I would convey — but rather
 
 PARACELSUS. l7 
 
 I Will believe an angel ruled rae thus, 
 
 Tlifin that my soul's own workings, own high nature, 
 
 So became manifest. I knew not then 
 
 What whispered in the evening, and spoke out 
 
 At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon, 
 
 Were laid away in some great trance — the ages 
 
 Coming and going all the while — till dawned 
 
 His true time's advent, and could then record 
 
 The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed,-^ 
 
 Then I might teil more of the breath so light 
 
 Upon my eyelids, and the fingers warm 
 
 Among my hair. Youth is confused ; yet never 
 
 So dull was I but, when tliat 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 ever-moving concourse of mankind ! 
 
 Believe that ere I joined them — ere I knew 
 
 The purpose of the pageant, or the place 
 
 Consigned to me within its ranks — while yet 
 
 Wonder was freshest and deliglit most pure — 
 
 'Twas then that least supportable appeared 
 
 A station with the brightest of the crowd, 
 
 A portion with the proudest of them all ! 
 
 And from the tumult in my breast, this only 
 
 Could J collect — that 1 must thenceforth die, 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 PARAOELSDS. 
 
 Or elevate myself far, far above 
 
 The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long 
 
 At once to trample on, yet save mankind — 
 
 To make some unexampled sacrifice 
 
 In their behalf — to wring some wondrous good 
 
 From heaven or earth for them — to perish, winning 
 
 Eternal weal in the act : as who should dai'e 
 
 Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud, 
 
 That, all its gathered flame discharged on him, 
 
 No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep : 
 
 Yet never to be mixed with men so much 
 
 As to have part even in my own work — share 
 
 In my own largess. Once the feat achieved, 
 
 I would withdraw from their officious praise. 
 
 Would gently put aside their profuse thanks : 
 
 Like some knight traversing a wilderness, 
 
 Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe 
 
 Of desert-people from their dragon-foe ; 
 
 When all the swarthy race press round to kiss 
 
 His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield 
 
 Their poor tents, pitched among the sand-hills, for 
 
 His realm ; and he points, smiling, to his scarf. 
 
 Heavy with riveled gold, his burgonet, 
 
 Gay set with twinkling stones — and to the east, 
 
 Where these must be displayed ! 
 
 Fest. Good: let us hear 
 
 No more about your nature, " which first shrank 
 " From all that marked you out apart from men ! " 
 
 Par. I touch on that ; these words but analyze
 
 PARACELSU3. 19 
 
 That first mad impulse — 'twas as brief as fond ; 
 
 For as I gazed again upon the show, 
 
 I soon distinguished here and there a shape 
 
 Palm-wreatlied and radiant, forehead and full eye. 
 
 Well pleased was I their state should thus at once 
 
 Interpret my own thoughts : " Behold the clue 
 
 - To all," I rashly said, " and what I pine 
 
 " To do, these have accomplished : we are peei-s ! 
 
 " They know, and therefore rule : I, too, will know '** 
 
 You were beside me, Festus, as you say ; 
 
 You saw me plunge in their pursuits whom Fame 
 
 Is lavish to attest the lords of mind ; 
 
 Not pausing to make sure the prize in view 
 
 Would satiate my cravings when obtained — 
 
 But since they strove I strove. Then came a slow 
 
 And strangling failure. We aspired alike, 
 
 Yet not the meanest plodder Tritheim. schools 
 
 But faced me, all-sufficient, all-content. 
 
 Or staggered only at his own strong wits ; 
 
 While I was restless, nothing satisfied. 
 
 Distrustful, most perplexed. I would slur over 
 
 That struggle ; suffice it, that I loathed myself 
 
 A.S weak compared with them, yet felt somehow 
 
 A mighty power was brooding, taking shape 
 
 Within me ; and this lasted till one night 
 
 When, as I sate revolving it and more, 
 
 A still voice from without said — "See'st thou not, 
 
 " Desponding child, whence came defeat and loss? 
 
 " Even from thy strength. Consider : bast thou gazed
 
 20 PARACELSUS. 
 
 ' Presumptuously on Wisdom's countenance, 
 
 " No veil between ; and can thy hands which falter 
 
 " Unguided by thy brain the mighty sight 
 
 " Continues to absorb, pursue their task 
 
 " On earth like these arounu thee — what their sense 
 
 " AVhich radiance ne'er distracted, clear descries? 
 
 " If thou wouldst share their fortune, choose their life^ 
 
 '' Unfed by splendour. Let each task present 
 
 " Its petty good to thee. AVaste 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 forever. 
 
 " Know, for the gain it gets, the praise it brings, 
 
 " The wonder it inspires, the love it breeds. 
 
 " Look one step onvvard, and secure that step." 
 
 And I smiled as one never smiles but once ; 
 
 Then first discoverino; my own aim's extent, 
 
 Which sought to comprehend the works of God, 
 
 And God himself, and all God'«? intercourse 
 
 With the human mind ; I understo'^d, no less, 
 
 My fellow's studies, whose true worth I saw. 
 
 But smiled not, well aware who stood by me 
 
 A.nd softer came the voice — " There is a way — 
 
 ^ 'Tis hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued 
 
 " With frailty — hopeless, if indulgence first 
 
 * Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength : 
 
 '* Wilt thou adventure for ray sake and man's, 
 
 '* Apart from all reward ? " And last it breathed—
 
 PARACELSUS. 21 
 
 Be happy, ray good soldier; I am by thee, 
 ♦ Be sure, even to the end ! " — I answered not, 
 Knowing Him. As He spoke, I was endued 
 With comprehension and a steadfast will ; 
 And when He ceased, my brow was sealed His own. 
 If there took place no special change in me. 
 How comes it all things wore a different hue 
 Thenceforward? — pregnant with vast consequence- 
 Teeming with grand results — loaded with fate ; 
 So that when quailing at the mighty range 
 Of secret truths which yearn for birth, 1 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 ray way as birds their trackless way — 
 I shall arrive . what time, what circuit first, 
 I ask not : but unless God send his hail 
 Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow, 
 In some time — his good time — I shall arrive : 
 Tie 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 miglity spirit gone that way. 
 You may have purer views than theirs, perhaps, 
 ^ut they were famous in their day — the proofs 
 Remain. At least accept the light they lend.
 
 i2 PARACELSUS. 
 
 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, which of all your Gods abates ? 
 No ; I reject and spurn them utterly, 
 And all they teach. Shall I still sit beside 
 Tlieir dry wells, with a white lip and filmed eye, 
 While in the distance heaven is blue above 
 Moimtains where sleep the unsunned tarns ? 
 
 Fest. And yet 
 
 As strong delusions have prevailed ere now : 
 Men have set out as gallantly to seek 
 Their ruin ; I have heard of such — yourself 
 Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen. 
 
 Mich. Nay, Festus, when but as the pilgrims faint 
 Through the drear way, do you expect to see 
 Their city dawn afar amid the clouds ? 
 
 Par. Ay, sounds it not like some old well-known tale 
 For me, I estimate their works and them 
 So rightly, that at times I almost dream 
 I too liave spent a life the sages' way. 
 And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance 
 I perished in an arrogant self-reliance 
 An age ago ; and in that act, a prayer 
 For one more chance went up so earnest, so 
 fnstinct with better'light let in by Death, 
 That life was blotted out — not so completely 
 6ut ecattered wrecks enough of it remain,
 
 PARACELSUS. 28 
 
 Dim memories ; as now, when seems once moie 
 The goal in sight again : all which, indeed, 
 Is foolish, and only means — the flesh I Avear, 
 The earth I tread, are not more clear to me 
 Than my belief, explained to you or no. 
 
 Fest. And who am I to challenge and dispute 
 That clear belief? I put away all fear. 
 
 Mich. Then Aureole is God's commissary ! he shall 
 Be great and grand — and all for us ! 
 
 Par. No, sweet ! 
 
 Not great and grand. If I can serve mankind 
 'Tis well — but there our intercourse must end : 
 I never will be served by those I serve. 
 
 Fest. Look well to this ; here is a plague-spot, here, 
 Disguise it how you may ! 'Tis true, you utter 
 This scorn while by our side and loving us ; 
 'Tis but a spot as yet ; but it will break 
 Into a Hideous blotch if overlooked. 
 IIow can that course be safe whicli 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 thoi'oughly probe 
 This matter, lest I learn too much : let be. 
 That popular praise would little instigate 
 Your etlurts, nor particular approval 
 Reward you ; put reward aside ; alone 
 Vou shall go forth upon your arduous task, 
 None shall assist you, none partake your toil.
 
 24 PARACELSUS. 
 
 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 rae with love, and raise 
 
 A rampart of ray fellows ; it should seem 
 
 Impossible for me to fail, so watched 
 
 By gentle friends who made my cause their own 
 
 They should ward off Fate's envy — the great gift, 
 
 Exti'avagant when claimed by me alone, 
 
 Being so a gift to them as well as me. 
 
 If danger daunted me or ease seduced. 
 
 How calmly their sad eyes should gaze reproach ! 
 
 Mich. 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 ! 
 
 Par. I feel 'tis pleasant that my aims, at length 
 Allowed their weight, should be supposed to need 
 A further strengthening in these goodly helps ! 
 My course allures for its own sake — its sole 
 Intrinsic worth ; and ne'er shall boat of mine 
 Adventure forth for gold and apes at once. 
 Your 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 fi'iends the sages threw their joys away 
 While I must be content with keeping mine
 
 PARACELSUS. 25 
 
 Fest. But do not cut yourself from human weal? 
 STou cannot thrive — a man that dares affect 
 To spend his life in service to his kind, 
 For no reward of theirs, nor bound to them 
 By any tie ; nor do so. Aureole ! No — 
 There are strange punishments for such. Give up 
 (Although no visible good flow thence) some part 
 Of the glory to another ; hiding thus, 
 Even from yourself, that all is for yourself. 
 Say, say almost to God — " I have done all 
 " For her — not for myself! " 
 
 Par. And who, but lately 
 
 Was to rejoice in my success like you ? 
 Whom should I love but both of you ? 
 
 Fest. I know nnl 
 
 But know this, you, that 'tis no wish of mine 
 You should abjure the lofty claims you make ; 
 Although I can no longer seek, indeed. 
 To overlook the truth, that there will be 
 A monstrous spectacle upon the earth, 
 Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees: 
 — A being knowing not what love is. Hear me I 
 You are endowed with faculties which bear 
 Annexed to them as 'twere 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. 
 C know not if you joy in this or no,
 
 26 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Or ever dream that common men can live 
 On objects you prize lightly, but which make 
 Their heart's sole treasure : the aiFections seem 
 Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste 
 Or die : and this strange quality accord?, 
 I know not how, with you ; sits well upon 
 That luminous brow, though in another it scowls 
 An eating brand — a shame. I daz-e not judge you : 
 The rules of right and wrong thus set aside, 
 There's no alternative — I own you one 
 Of higher oi-der, under other laws 
 Than bind us, therefore, curb not one bold glance ! 
 *Tis best aspire. Once mingled with us all ... . 
 
 Mich. Stay with us, Aureole ! cast those hopes away, 
 A-nd stay with us ! An angel warns me, too, 
 Man should be humble ; you are very px'oud : 
 And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such ! 
 He warns me not to dread a quick repulse. 
 Nor slow defeat, but a complete success ! 
 You will find all you seek, and perish so ! 
 
 Par. {After a pause.) Are these the barren first fruiw 
 of my life ? 
 Is love like this the natural lot of^ll ? 
 How many years of pain might one such hour 
 O'erbaiance ? Dearest Michal, dearest Festus, 
 What shall I say, if not that I desire 
 To merit this your love ; and will, dear friends, 
 In swerving nothing from my first resolves. 
 See, the great moon ! and ere the mottled owls
 
 PARACELSUS. 27 
 
 Were wide awake, I was to go. It seems 
 
 You acquiesce at last in all save this — 
 
 If I am like to compass what I seek 
 
 By the untried career I choose : and then, 
 
 If that career, making but small account 
 
 Of much of life's delight, will yet retain 
 
 Sufficient to sustain my soul — for thus 
 
 I understand these fond fears just expressed. 
 
 And first ; the lore you praise and I neglect, 
 
 The labours and the precepts of old time, 
 
 I have not slightly disesteemed. But, friends, 
 
 Truth is within ourselves ; it takes no rise 
 
 From outward things, whate'er you may believe: 
 
 There is an inmost centre in us all, 
 
 Where truth abides in fulness ; and ai-ound 
 
 Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
 
 Tliis perfect, clear perception — which is truth ; 
 
 A baflling and perverting carnal mesh 
 
 Blinds it, and makes all error /and, " to ktiotc " 
 
 Eather consists in opening out a way 
 
 Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, 
 
 Tlinn in effecting entry for a light 
 
 Supposed to be without"N Watch narrowly 
 
 riie demonstration of a truth, its birth, 
 
 And you trace back the effluence to its s[)ring 
 
 4.nd source within us, where broods radiance vast, 
 
 To be elicited ray by ray, as chance 
 
 Sliall favour : ciiance — for hitherto, your sage 
 
 lliven as he knows not how those beams are born,
 
 28 PARACELSUS. 
 
 A^ 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 : 
 
 While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day, 
 
 That autumn loiterers just as fancy-free 
 
 As the midges in the sun, have oft given vent 
 
 To truth — produced mysteriously as cape 
 
 Of cloud grown out of the invisible air. 
 
 Hence, may not truth be lodged alike in all, 
 
 The lowest as the highest ? some slight film 
 
 The interposing bar which binds it up, 
 
 And makes the idiot, just as makes the sago 
 
 Some film removed, the happy outlet whence 
 
 Truth issues proudly ? See this soul of ours ! 
 
 How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed 
 
 In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled 
 
 By age and waste, set free at last by death : 
 
 Why is it, flesh enthralls it or enthrones ? 
 
 What is this flesh we have to penetrate ? 
 
 Oh, not alone when life flows still do truth 
 
 And power emerge, but also when strange chance 
 
 Rufiles its current ; in unused conjuncture, 
 
 When sickness breaks the body — iiunger, watching, 
 
 Excess, or languor — oflenest 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
 
 PAItACELSDS. 29 
 
 Of what he was, by his wild talk alote, 
 
 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 
 
 liars in the spirit ! "We may not be doomed 
 
 To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest 
 
 Sliall c.ope with us. Make no more giants, God ! 
 
 ]iut elevate the i-ace at once ! We ask 
 
 To put forth just our strength, our human strength. 
 
 All starting fixirly, all equipped alike, 
 
 Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted — 
 
 See if we cannot beat thy angels yet ! 
 
 Such is my task. I go to gather this 
 
 The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed 
 
 About the world, long lost or never found. 
 
 And why should I be sad, or lorn of liope ? 
 
 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 this narrow sphere, 
 
 But chose to figure forth another world 
 
 A.nd other frames meet for their vast desires, — 
 
 gtill, all a dream ! Thus was life scorned ; but life 
 
 Bhall yet be crowned : twine amaranth ! I am priest 1
 
 so PARACELSUS. 
 
 And all for yielding with a lively spirit 
 
 A poor existence — parting with a youth 
 
 Like theirs who squander every energy 
 
 Convertible to good, on painted toys, 
 
 Breath-bubbles, gilded dust ! And though 1 spurn 
 
 All adventitious aims, from empty praise 
 
 To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps 
 
 Important, and concerns himself for me, 
 
 May know even these will follow with the rest — 
 
 As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep 
 
 Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore. 
 
 My own affections, laid to rest awhile, 
 
 Will waken purified, subdued alone 
 
 By all I have achieved ; till then — till then . . . 
 
 Ah ! the time-wiling loitering of a page 
 
 Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring 
 
 The stately lady's presence whom he loves — 
 
 The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat 
 
 Enwraps the queenly pearl — these are faint types I 
 
 See how they look on me — I triumph now ! 
 
 But one thing, Festus, Michal ! — I have told 
 
 All I shall e'er disclose to mortal : say — 
 
 Do you believe I shall accomplish this ? 
 
 Fest. I do believe ! 
 
 Mich. I ever did believe ! 
 
 Par. Tiiose 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 :
 
 PARACELSUS. 31 
 
 One — when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge ? 
 One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl ? 
 Festus, I plunge! 
 Fest. I wait you when you rise ! 
 
 II.— PAEAGELSUS ATTAINS 
 
 Scene. — Constantinople. — " The Bouse of the Gieek-conjuror." 
 
 1521 • 
 
 Paracelsus. 
 
 Over the waters in the vaporous west 
 The sun goes down as in a sphei-e of gold, 
 Behind the outstretched city, which between, 
 With all that length of domes and minarets, 
 Athwart the splendour, black and crooked runs 
 Like a Turk verse along a sciraetar. 
 There lie, thou saddest writing, and awhile 
 Relieve my aching sight. 'Tis done at last I 
 Strange — and the juggles of a sallow cheat 
 Could win me to this act ! 'Tis as yon cloud 
 Should voyage unwreck'd o'er many a mountain 
 And break upon a molehill. I have dai-ed 
 Come to a pause with knowledge ; scan for once 
 The heights already reach'd, without regard 
 To the extent above ; fairly compute 
 What I have clearly gained ; for once excluding 
 My future which .should finish and fulfil
 
 82 PARACELSUS. 
 
 All half-gains, and conjectures, and mere hopes— 
 And this, because a fortune-teller bids 
 His credulous inquirers write thus much, 
 Their previous life's attainment, in his book, 
 Before his promised secret, as he vaunts, 
 Make that life perfect : here, accordingly, 
 'Mid the uncouth recordings of such dupes, 
 —Scrawled in like fashion, lie my life's results ! 
 
 These few blurred characters suffice to note 
 A stranger wandered long through many lands, 
 And reaped the fruit he coveted in a few 
 Discoveries, as appended here and there. 
 The fragmentary produce of much toil. 
 In a dim heap, fact and surmise together 
 Confusedly massed, as when acquired ; himself 
 Too bent on gaining more to calmly stay 
 And scrutinize the little which he gained : 
 Slipt in the blank space 'twixt an idiot's gibber 
 And a mad lover's ditty — lies the whole ! 
 
 And yet those blottings chronicle a life — 
 
 A whole life, — mine ! No thought to turn to act, 
 
 No problem for the fancy, but a life 
 
 Spent and decided, wasted past recall. 
 
 Or worthy beyond peer. Stay, turn the page 
 
 And take its change, — thus : what, concerning " liffe 
 
 Does this remembrancer set down ? — " We say 
 
 * * Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.'
 
 PARA.CELSD3. 33 
 
 ' 'Tis the mere echo of time ; and he whose heart 
 " Beats 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 come and go, 
 " Till some one hour's experience shows what nought, 
 " He deemed, could clearer show ; and ever after 
 " An altered brow, and eye, and gait, and speech 
 " Attest that now he knows the adage true 
 " ' Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.' " 
 
 Ay, my brave chronicler, and this same time 
 As well as any : let my hour speak now ! 
 
 Now ! I can go no further ; well or ill — 
 
 'Tis done. I must desist and take ray chance ; 
 
 I cannot keep on the stretch ; 'tis no back-shrinking — 
 
 For let the least assurance dawn, some end 
 
 To my toil seem possible, and I proceed 
 
 At any price, by any sacrifice : 
 
 Else, here I pause : the old Greek's prophecy 
 
 Is like to turn out true — " I shall not quit 
 
 " liis chamber till I know what I desire ! " 
 
 Was it the light wind sung it, o'er the sea? 
 
 An end, a rest ! strange how the notion, once 
 Admitted, gains strength every moment ! Rest 1 
 Where kept that thought so long ? this throbbing brow 
 To cease — this beating heart to cease — its crowd 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 84 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Of gnawing thoughts lo cease ! — To dare let down 
 My fitrung, so high-strung brain — to dare unnerve 
 My harassed o'ertasked f'racae — to know my place, 
 — My portion, my reward, my failure even, 
 Assigned, made sure forever ! — To lose myself 
 Among the common creatures of the world — 
 To draw some gain from having been a man- 
 Neither to hope nor fear — to live at length ! 
 Oh, were it but in failure, to have rest ! 
 What, sunk insensibly so deep ? Has all 
 Been undergone for this ? Was this the prayer 
 My labour qualified me to present 
 With no fear of refusal ? Had 1 gone 
 Carelessly through my task, and so judged fit 
 To moderate my hopes ; nay, were it now 
 My sole concern to exculpate myself, 
 And lessen punishment, — I could not choose 
 An humbler mood to wait for the decree ! 
 No, no, there needs not this ; no, afier all, 
 At worst I have performed my share of the task * 
 The rest is God's concern — mine, merely this, 
 To know that I have obstinately held 
 By my own work. The mortal whose brave foot 
 Has trod, unscathed, the temple-courts so far 
 That he descries at length the shrine of shrines. 
 Must let no sneering of the demons' eyes, 
 Whose wrath he met unquailing, follow sly 
 And fasten on him, fairly past their power, 
 If where he stands he dares but stay ; no, no—
 
 PARACELSUS. 
 
 He must not stagger, faint and fall at last, 
 
 i — Knowing a charm to baffle them ; behold, 
 
 He bares his front — a mortal ventures thus 
 
 Serene amid the echoes, beams, and glooms ! 
 
 If he be priest henceforth, or if he wake 
 
 The god of the place to ban and blast him there,- 
 
 Botli well ! What's failure or success to me ? 
 
 I have subdued my life to the one end 
 
 Ordained life ; there alone I cannot doubt, 
 
 That only way I may be satisfied. 
 
 Yes, well have I subdued my life ! beyond 
 
 The obligation of my strictest vows, 
 
 The contemplation of my wildest bond, 
 
 Wliicli gave, in truth, my nature freely up. 
 
 In what it should be, more than what it wjts — 
 
 Consenting that whatever passions slept. 
 
 Whatever impulses lay unmatured, 
 
 Sliould wither in the germ, — but scarce foreseeing 
 
 That the soil, doomed thus to perpetual waste, 
 
 Would seem one day, remembered in its youth 
 
 Beside the parched sand-tract which now it is. 
 
 Already strewn with faint blooms, viewless then. 
 
 I ne'er engaged to root up loves so frail 
 
 I felt them not ; yet now, 'tis very plain 
 
 Some soft spots had their birth in me at first — 
 
 If not love, say, like love : there was a time 
 
 Wlien yet this wolfish liunger after knowledge 
 
 Set not remorselessly love's claims aside ; 
 
 This heart was human once, or why recall 
 
 3d
 
 36 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Einsiedeln, now, and "Wiirzburg, which the Mayne 
 Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm ? 
 
 And Festus — my poor Festus, with his praise, 
 And counsel, and grave fears — where is he now ? 
 Or the sweet maiden, long ago his bride ? 
 I surely loved them — that last night, at least, 
 When we . . . gone ! gone ! 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 
 ^urt^ing my path successively of aught 
 .Vearing the distant likeness of such lusts. 
 I have made life consist of one idea : 
 Ere that was master — up till that was born — 
 I bear a memory of a pleasant life 
 Whose small events I treasure ; till one morn 
 I ran o'er the seven little grassy fields. 
 Startling the flocks of nameless birds, to tell 
 Poor Festus, leaping all the while for joy. 
 To leave all trouble for futurity, 
 Since I had just determined to become 
 The greatest and most glorious man on earth. 
 And since that morn all life has been forgot ; 
 All is one day — one only step between 
 The outset and the end : one tyrant aim. 
 Absorbing all, fills up the interval — 
 One vast unbroken chain of thought kept up
 
 PARACELSUS. 3^ 
 
 riirough a career or friendly or opposed 
 
 To its existence : life, death, light and shade 
 
 The .''hovvs of tlie world, were bare receptacles 
 
 Or indices of truth to be wrung thence. 
 
 Not instruments of sorrow or delight : 
 
 For some one truth would dimly beacon me 
 
 From mountains rough with pines, and ilit and wink 
 
 O'er dazzling wastes of frozen snow, and tremble 
 
 Into assured light in some branching mine, 
 
 Where ripens, swathed in lire, the liquid gold — 
 
 And all the beauty, all the wonder fell 
 
 On either side the truth, as its mere robe ; 
 
 Men saw the robe — I saw the august form. 
 
 So far, then, I have voyaged with success, 
 
 So much is good, then, in this working sea 
 
 Which parts me from that happy strip of land — 
 
 But o'er that happy strip a sun shone, too ! 
 
 And fainter gleams it as the waves grow rough, 
 
 And still more faint as the sea widens ; last 
 
 I sicken on a dead gulf, streaked with light 
 
 From its own putrefying depths alone ! 
 
 Then — God was pledged lo take me by the hand ; 
 
 Now — any miserable juggler bends 
 
 My pride to him. All seems alike at length : 
 
 Who knows which are the wise and which the tools 
 
 God may take pleasure in confounding pride 
 
 By hiding secrets with the scorned and base — 
 
 He who stoops lowest may find most — in short, 
 
 [ am here ; and all seems natural ; I start not *
 
 S8 * PARACELSUS. 
 
 And never having glanced behind to know 
 If I had kept my primal light from wane, 
 Am thus insensibly grown — what I am ! 
 
 Oh, bitter ; very bitter ! 
 
 And more bitter, 
 To fear a deeper curse, an inner ruin — 
 Plague beneath plague — the last turning the first 
 To light beside its darkness. Better weep 
 My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone. 
 In tears which burn ! Would I were sure to win 
 Some startling secret in their stead ! — a tincture 
 Of force to flush old age with youth, or breed 
 Gold, or imprison moonbeams till they change 
 To opal shafts ! — only that^ hurling it 
 Indignant back, I might convince myself 
 My aims remained as ever supreme and pure ! 
 Even now, why not desire, for mankind's sake, 
 That if I fail, some fault may be the cause, — 
 That, though I sink, another may succeed ? 
 O God, the despicable heart of us ! 
 Shut out this hideous mockery from my heart ! 
 
 'Twas politic in you, Aureole, to reject 
 Single rewards, and ask them in the lump ; 
 At all events, once launched, to hold straight on : 
 For now 'tis all or nothing. Mighty protit 
 Tour gains will bring if they stop short of such 
 Full consummation ! As a man, you had
 
 PARACELSUS. 39 
 
 A. certain share of strength, and that is gone 
 
 Ah'eady in tlie getting these you boast. 
 
 Do not they seem to laugh, as who shoukl say — 
 
 " Great master, we are here indeed ; dragged forth 
 
 " To hght : this hast thou done ; be glad ! now, seek 
 
 "The strength to use which thou has spent in getting I " 
 
 And yet 'tis surely much, 'tis very much, 
 Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts, 
 To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn 
 Arrive with inexhaustible light ; and lo, 
 I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not ! 
 While I am left with gray hair, faded liands. 
 And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all. 
 Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast ? 
 Knowledge it seemed, and Power, and Recompense I 
 # Was she who glided through my room of night.-^, — 
 Who laid my head on her soft knees, and smoothed 
 The damp locks, — whose sly soothings just began 
 When my sick spirit craved repose awhile — 
 God ! was I fighting Sleep off for Death's sake ? 
 God ! Thou art Mind ! Unto the Master-Mind 
 Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone 1 
 All else I will endure : if, as I stand 
 Here, with my gains, thy tliunder smite me dowa, 
 I bow me ; 'tis thy will, thy righteous will ; 
 I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die : 
 And if no trace of my career remain, 
 bave a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind
 
 to PARACKLSUS. 
 
 In these bright chambers, level with the air, 
 
 See thou to it ! But if my spirit fail, 
 
 My once proud spirit forsake me at the last. 
 
 Hast thou done well by me ? So do not thou ! 
 
 Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed ! 
 
 Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs, 
 
 And say- -" I crushed him, lest he should disturb 
 
 ** My law. Men must not know their strength : behold, 
 
 " Weak and alone, how near he raised himself ! " 
 
 But if delusions trouble me — and Thou, 
 Not seldom felt with rapture in thy help 
 Throughout my toil and wanderings, dost intend 
 To work man's welfare through my weak endeavour- 
 To crown my mortal forehead with a beam 
 From thine own blinding crown — to smile, and guide 
 This puny band, and let the work so framed 
 Be styled my work, — hear me ! I covet not 
 An influx of new power, an angel's soul : 
 It were no marvel then — ^but I have reached 
 Thus far, a man ; let me conclude, a man ! 
 Give but one hour of my first energy, 
 Of that invincible faith — one only hour ! 
 That I may cover with an eagle-glance 
 The truths I have, and spy some certain way 
 To mould them, and completing them, possess ! 
 
 Yet God is good : I started sure ot tnat, 
 A.nd why dispute it now ? I'll not believe
 
 PARACELSUS. * 
 
 But some undoubied warning long ere this 
 
 Had reached me : stars would write his will in heaven. 
 
 As once when a 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 aidently engrossed me, that delight, 
 
 A pausing and reflecting joy, 'tis plain, 
 
 Though such were meant to follow as its fruu. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ar.d then, though after-life to please me now 
 
 Mu^t have no likeness to tlie past, what hinders 
 
 Reward from springing out of toil, as clianged 
 
 As bursts the flower from earth, and root, and stalk ? 
 
 What use were punishment, uidess some sin 
 
 Be first detected ? let me know that first ' 
 
 (Aprile, from within) 
 
 I hear a voice, perchance I heard 
 
 Long ago, but all too low. 
 
 So that scarce a thought was stirred 
 
 If really spoke the voice or no : 
 
 I heard it in my youth, when first 
 
 The waters of my life outburst : 
 
 But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear 
 
 The voice, still low, but fatal-clear — 
 
 As if all Poets, that God meant
 
 12 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Should save the world, and therefore lent 
 
 Great gifts to, but who, pi'oud, refused 
 
 To do his work, or lightly used 
 
 Those gifts, or failed thi'ough weak endeavour. 
 
 And mourn, cast off bj him forever, — 
 
 As if these leaned in airy ring 
 
 To call me ; this the song they sing. 
 
 " Lost, lost ! yet come, 
 
 With our wan troop make thy home : 
 
 Come, come ! for we 
 
 Will not breathe, so much as breathe 
 
 Reproach to thee ! 
 
 Knowing what thou sink'st beneath : 
 
 So we sank in those old years. 
 
 We who bid thee, come ! thou last 
 
 Who, a living man, has life o'erpast. 
 
 And all together we, thy peers, 
 
 Will pai'don ask for thee, the last 
 
 Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast 
 
 With those who watch, but work no more— 
 
 Who gaze on life, but live no more : 
 
 And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak 
 
 God's message which our lips, too weak, 
 
 Refused to utter, — shouldst redeem 
 
 Our fault : such trust, and all, a dream 1 
 
 So we chose thee a bright birthplace 
 
 Where the richness ran to flowers — 
 
 Couldst not sing one song for grace?
 
 PAKACELSUS. 43 
 
 Not make one blossom man's and curs? 
 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 forever ; 
 Still beginning, ending never ! 
 Yet, lost and last one, come ! 
 How couldst understand, alas, 
 What our pale ghosts strove to say. 
 As their shades did glance and pass 
 Before thee, night and day ? 
 Thou wert blind, as we were dumb : 
 Once more, therefore, come, O come ! 
 How shall we better arm the spirit 
 Who next shall thy post of life inherit- 
 How guard him from thy ruin ? 
 Tell us of thy sad undoing 
 Here, wliere we sit, ever pursuing 
 Our weary task, ever renewing 
 Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave 
 Our powers, and man they could not save I " 
 
 Aprile enters. 
 
 A spirit better armed, succeeding me ? 
 Ha, ha ! our king that wouldst be, here at last ? 
 .4rt thou the Poet who shall save the world ' 
 Thy hand to mine. Stay, fix thine eyes on mine, 
 rtou wouldst be king ? Still fix thine eyes on mme
 
 14 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Par. Ha, ha! why crouchest not? Am I not king? 
 So torture is not wholly unavailing ! 
 Have my fierce spasms compelled thee from thy lair ? 
 Art thou the Sage I only seemed to be, 
 Myself of after-time, my very self 
 With sight a little clearer, strength more firm, 
 Who robs me of my prize and takes my place 
 For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect ? 
 I scarcely trusted God with the surmise 
 That such might come, and thou didst hear the while ^ 
 
 Apr. Thine eyes are lustreless to mine ; my hair 
 Is soft, nay silken soft : to talk with thee 
 Flushes my cheek, and thou art ashy-pale. 
 True, thou hast laboured, hast withstood her lips. 
 The siren's ! Yes, 'tis like thou hast attained ! 
 Tell me, dear master, wherefore now thou comest ? 
 I thought thy solemn songs would have their meed 
 In after-time ; that I should hear the earth 
 Exult in thee, and echo with thy praise, 
 While I was laid forgotten in my grave. 
 
 Par. Not so ! I know thee, I am not thy dupe ! 
 Thou art ordained to follow in my track. 
 Even as thou sayest, succeeding to my place, 
 Reaping my sowing — as I scorned to reap 
 The harvest sown by sages passed away. 
 Thou art the sober searcher, cautious striver, 
 As if, except through me, thou had'st searched or striven 
 Ay, tell the world ! Degrade me, after all, 
 To an aspirant after fame, not truth — 
 To all but envy of thy fate, be surd
 
 PAUACEI.SliS. 
 
 45 
 
 Apr. Nay, sing them to me ; I shall envy not : 
 riiou shalt be king! Sing thou, and I will stand 
 Beside, and call deep silence for thy songs, 
 And worship thee, as I had ne'er been meant 
 To fill thy throne — but none shall ever know ! 
 Sing to me : for already thy wild eyes 
 Unlock my heart-springs, as some crystal-shaft 
 Reveals by some chance blaze its parent fount 
 After long time — so thou reveal'st my soul ! 
 All will flash forth at kist, with thee to hear 
 
 Par. (His secret! ray successor's secret — fool!) 
 I am he that aspired to know — and thou ? 
 Apr. I would LOVE infinitely, and be loved ! 
 Par. Poor slave ! I am thy king indeed. 
 jipr. Thou deem'st 
 
 That — born a spirit, dowered even as thou. 
 
 Born for thy fate — because I could not curb 
 
 My yearnings to possess at once the full 
 
 Enjoyment ; yet neglected all the means 
 
 Of 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 insuring 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
 
 16 PARACELSUS. 
 
 I would love infinitely . . . Ah, lost ! lost ! 
 O ye who armed me at such cost, 
 Your faces shall I bear to see 
 With your gifts even yet on me ? — 
 JPar. (Ah, 'tis some moonstruck cieature after all I 
 Such fond fools as are like to haunt this den : 
 They spread contagion, doubtless : yet he seemed 
 To echo one foreboding of my heart 
 So truly, that ... no matter! How he stands 
 With eve's last sunbeam staying on his hair 
 Which turns to it, as if they were akin : 
 And those clear smiling eyes of saddest blue 
 Nearly set free, so far they rise above 
 The painful fruitless striving of that brow 
 And enforced knowledge of those lips, firm-set 
 In slow despondency's eternal sigh ! 
 Has he, too, missed life's end, and learned the cause ?) 
 Be calm, I charge thee, by thy fealty ! 
 Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am. 
 
 Apr. I would love infinitely, and be loved. 
 First: I would carve in stone, or cast in brass, 
 The forms of earth. No ancient hunter, raised 
 Up to the gods by his renown ; no nymph 
 Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree, 
 Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star, 
 Should be too hard for me ; no shepherd-king, 
 Eegal with his white locks ; no youth who standi 
 Silent and very calm amid the throng. 
 His right hand ever hid beneath his robe
 
 PARACELSUS. 47 
 
 tJntil the tyrant pass ; no lawgiver ; 
 
 No swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oifs, 
 
 Given by a god for love of her — too Iiard ! 
 
 Each passion sprung from man, conceived by xnitD, 
 
 Would I express and clothe it in its right form, 
 
 Or blend with others struggling in one form, 
 
 Or show repressed by an ungainly form. 
 
 For, if you marvelled at some mighty spirit 
 
 With a fit frame to execute his will — 
 
 Ay, even unconsciously to work his will — 
 
 You should be moved no less beside some strong, 
 
 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, " God's sprites being made, 
 
 " He grants to each a sphere to be its world, 
 
 " Appointed with the various objects needed 
 
 *• To satisfy its spiritual desires ; 
 
 " So, I create a world for these my shapes 
 
 ■' Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength ! " 
 
 And, at the word, I would contrive and paint 
 
 Woods, valleys, rocks, and plains, dells, sands, and wastes, 
 
 Liakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering bed, 
 
 Blaze like a wyvern flying rou"d the sun ; 
 
 And ocean-isles so small, the dogfish tracking 
 
 A dead whale, who should fii.d them, would swim thrice 
 
 Around them, and fare onward — all to hold 
 
 The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone — 
 
 Bronze labyrinths, palace, pyramid, and crypt,
 
 48 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Baths, galleries, courts, temples, and terraces. 
 
 Marts, theatres, and wharfs — all filled with men ! 
 
 Men everywhere ! And this performed, in turn. 
 
 When those wdio looked on, pined to hear the hopes, 
 
 And fears, and hates, and loves which moved the ci'owd,— 
 
 I would thcow down the pencil as the chisel. 
 
 And I would speak : no thought which ever stirred 
 
 A human breast should be untold ; no passions, 
 
 No soft emotions, from the turbulent stir 
 
 Within a heart fed with desires like mine^— 
 
 To the last comfort, shutting the tired lids 
 
 Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away 
 
 Beneath the tent-tree by the way-side well: 
 
 And this in language as the need should be. 
 
 Now poured at once forth in a burning flow, 
 
 Now piled up in a grand array of words. 
 
 This done, to perfect and consummate all, 
 
 Even as a luminous haze links star to star, 
 
 I would supply all chasms with music, breathing 
 
 Mysterious notions of the soul, no way 
 
 To be defined save in strange melodies. 
 
 Last, having thus revealed all I could love. 
 
 And having received all love bestowed on it, 
 
 I would die : so preserving through my course 
 
 God full on me, as I was full on men : 
 
 A.nd He would grant my prayer — " I have gone througl 
 
 " All loveliness of life ; make more for me, 
 
 '' If not for men — or take me to thyself, 
 
 * Eternal, infinite Love ! "
 
 PARACELSD3. 4f 
 
 If thou liast ne'er 
 L'onceived Ihis mighty aim, this full desire, 
 Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art 
 No king of mine. 
 
 Par. Ah me ! 
 
 Apr. But thou art hei'e ! 
 
 Thou didst not gaze like me upon that end 
 Till thine own powers for compassing the bliss 
 Were blind with glory ; nor grow mad to grasp 
 At once the prize long patient toil should claim ; 
 Nor spurn all granted short of that. And I 
 Would do as thou, a second time : nay, listen — 
 Knowing our;ielves, our world, our task so great, 
 Our time so brief, — 'tis clear if we refuse 
 The means so limited, the tools so rude 
 To execute our purpose, life will fleet, 
 And we shall fade, and leave our task undone. 
 Rather, grow wise in time : what though our work 
 Be fashioned in despite of their ill-service. 
 Be crippled every way? 'Twere little praise 
 Did full resources wait on our good will 
 At every turn. Let all be as it is. 
 Some sa}' the earth is even so contrived 
 That tree, a»id flower, a vesture gay, conceal 
 A bare and skeleton framework : had we means 
 That answered to our mind ! But now I seem 
 Wrecked on a savage isle : how rear thereon 
 My palace ? Branching palms the props shall be. 
 Fruii glossy mingling ; gemi are for the east ; 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Who heeds them ? I cau waive them. Serpect's scales, 
 
 Birds' feathers, downy furs, and fishes' skins 
 
 Must help me ; and a little here and there 
 
 Is all I can aspire to : still my art 
 
 Shall show its birth was in a gentler clime. 
 
 •' Had I green jars of malachite, this way 
 
 " I'd range them : where those sea-shells glisten above, 
 
 " Cressets should hang, by right : this way we set 
 
 " The purple carpets, as these mats are laid, 
 
 "Woven of mere fern and rush and blossoming flag." 
 
 Or if, by fortune, some completer grace 
 
 Be spared to me, some fragment, some shght sample 
 
 Of my own land's completer workmanship, 
 
 Some trifle little heeded there, but here 
 
 The place's one perfection — with what joy 
 
 Would I enshrine the relic — cheerfully 
 
 Foregoing all the marvels out of reach ! 
 
 Could 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, 
 
 A.nd far away I could descry the land 
 
 Whence I departed, whither I return, 
 
 I would dispart the waves, and stand once more 
 
 At home, and load my bark, and hasten back, 
 
 And fling my gains before them, rich or poor — 
 
 " Friends,"* I would say, " I went far, far for them, 
 
 ' Past the high rocks the haunt of doves, the mounds
 
 PARACELSUS. 51 
 
 •' Of red earth from whose sides strange trees grow cut, 
 "♦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 weed?, 
 " But happy plucking them at any price. 
 " To me, who have seen them bloom in their own soil, 
 " They are scarce lovely : plait and wear them, you ! 
 " And guess, from what they are, the springs that fed— 
 " The stars that sparkled o'er them, night by night, 
 " The snakes that travelled far to sip their dew! " 
 Thus for my higher loves ; and thus even weakuess 
 Would win me honour. But not these alone 
 Should claim my care ; for common life, its wants 
 And ways, would I set forth in beauteous hues* 
 The lowest hind should not possess a hope, 
 A fear, but I'd be by him, saying better 
 Than he his own heart's language. I would live 
 Forever in the thoughts I thus explored, 
 As a discoverer's memory is attn ^^^d 
 To all he finds : they should be n?me henceforth, 
 Imbued with me, though free to all before ; 
 ^ For clay, once cast into my soul's rich mine 
 Should come up crusted o'er with gems : nor this 
 Would need a meaner spirit, than the first : 
 Nay, 'twould be but the selfsame spirit, clothed 
 In humb'er guise, but still the selfsame spirit — 
 As one spring wind unbinds the mountain snow, 
 And comforts vi jlets in their hermitage.
 
 52 I'AUACi-.LSUS. 
 
 But, master, poet, who has done all this, 
 
 How didst thou 'scape the ruin I have met ? 
 
 Didst thou, when nerving thee to this attempt, 
 
 Ne'er range thy mind's extent, as some wide 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 
 
 Singly, nor when thy practised eye and hand 
 
 Can well transfer their loveliness, but crowd 
 
 By thee forever, 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, wert thou ne'er seduced 
 
 By memories, and regrets, and passionate love. 
 
 To glance once more farewell ? and did their eyes 
 
 Fasten thee, brighter and more bright, until 
 
 Thou couldst but stagger back unto their feet. 
 
 And laugh that man's applause or welfare once 
 
 Could tempt thee to forsake them ? Or when years 
 
 Had passed, and still their love possessed thee wholly ; 
 
 When from without some murmur startled thee 
 
 Of darkling mortals, famished for one ray 
 
 Of thy so-hoarded luxury of light. 
 
 Didst thou ne'er strive even yet to break those spells, 
 
 And prove thou couldst recover and fulfil 
 
 Thy early mission, long ago renounced,
 
 PARACELSU3. ^'i 
 
 A.nd, to that end, select some shape Diice more ? 
 
 And did not mist-like influences, thick fihnj, 
 
 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, thrcigh storm ? 
 
 Say, though I fell, I had excuse to fall ; 
 
 Say, I was tempted sorely : say but this, 
 
 Dear lord, Aprile's lord ! 
 
 Par. Clasp me not thus, 
 
 Aprile ! . . . That the truth should reach me thus ! 
 "We are weak dust. Nay, clasp not, or I iaint! 
 
 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 ! Wliat 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 botli ! 
 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 far both of us? 
 
 Ajyr. 1 iiear thee faintly . the thick darkness ! Even
 
 54 PAEACELSU3. 
 
 Thine eyes are hid. 'Tis 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. 
 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 ? — 
 iVhite brows, lit up with glory ; poets all ! 
 
 Tar. Let him but live, and I have my reward ! 
 
 Apr. Yes ; I see now — God is the perfect poet, 
 Who in creation acts his own conceptions. 
 Shall man refuse to be aught less than God ? 
 Man's weakness is his glory — for the strength 
 Which raises him to heaven and near God's self, 
 Came spite of it : God's strength his glory is,
 
 PARACELSUS. 55 
 
 For thence came with oui* weakness sympathy 
 Which brought God down to earth, a man like us. 
 Had you but told me this at first ! . . . Hush ! hush I 
 
 Par. Live ! for my sake, because of my great sin, 
 To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words 
 And their deep import. Live ! 'tis not too late : 
 I have a quiet home for us, and friends. 
 Michal shall smile on you . . . Hear you ? Lean thus, 
 And breathe my breath : I shall not lose one word 
 Of all your speech — no little word, Aprile ! 
 
 Apr. No, no . . Crown me ? I am not one of you I 
 *Tis he, the king, you seek. I am not one . . . 
 
 Par. Give me thy spirit, at least ! Let me love, too 
 
 1 have attained, and now I may depart. 
 
 in— PARACELSUS. 
 
 Scene — A chamber in the house of Paracelsus at Basil. 1526. 
 Paraceisds, Festds. 
 
 Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out ! 
 
 Fest. True, trael 
 
 Tis very fit that all, time, chance, and change 
 Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to fi.ce, 
 And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears, 
 Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred 
 By your long absence, should be cast away,
 
 56 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal 
 Of onr affections. 
 
 Par. Oh, omit not aught 
 
 Which witnesses your own and Michal's love 1 
 I bade you not spare that ! Forget alone 
 The honours and the glories, and tlie rest, 
 You seemed disposed to tell pi'ofusely out. 
 
 Fest. Nay, even your honours, in a sense, I wave. 
 The wondrous Paracelsus — Life's dispenser. 
 Fate's commissary, idol of the schools, 
 And Courts, shall be no more than Aureole still — 
 Still Aureole and my friend, as when we parted 
 Some twenty years ago, and I restrained 
 As I best could the promptings of my spirit, 
 Which secretly advanced you, from the first, 
 To the preeminent 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, whUe I, unseen,
 
 PARACELSUS. 67 
 
 Sate conning some rare scroll from Tritheira's shelves. 
 Much wondering notes so simple could divert 
 My mind from study. Those were -liappy days ! 
 Respect all such as sing when all alone. 
 
 Fest. Scarcely alone — her children, you may guess. 
 Are wild beside her . . . 
 
 Par. Ah, those children quite 
 
 Unsettle the pure picture in my mind : 
 A girl — she was so perfect, so distinct . . . 
 No change, no change ! Not but this added grace 
 May blend and harmonize with its compeers. 
 And Michal may become her motherhood ; 
 But 'tis a change — and I detest all change. 
 And most a change in ought I loved long since ! 
 So Michal . . . you have said she thinks of me ? 
 
 Fest. O very proud will Michal be of you ! 
 Imagine how we sate, long winter-nights, 
 Scheming and wondering — shaping your presumed 
 Adventures, or devising their reward ; 
 Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope. 
 Though it was strange how, even wiien 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, perhai)S a"oided 
 By mute consent — but, said or unsaid, felt 
 To point to one so loved and so long lost, 
 ^nd then the hopes rose and shut out the feai's—
 
 58 PARACELSUS. 
 
 How you would laugh should I recount them now \ 
 
 I still predicted your return at last, 
 
 With gifts beyond the greatest vaunt of 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 ! 
 
 Fest. Say, one whose sunrise 
 
 Well warranted our faith in this full noon ! 
 Can I forget the anxious voice which said, 
 " Festus, have thoughts like these e'er shaped themselves 
 " In other brains than mine — have their possessors 
 " Existed in like circumstance — were they weak 
 " As I — or ever constant from the first, 
 " Despising youth's allurements, and rejecting 
 " As spider-films the shackles I endure ? 
 " Is there hope for me ? " — and I answered grave 
 As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser. 
 More gifted mortal. O you must I'emember, 
 For all your glorious . . . 
 
 Par. Glorious ? ay, this hair, 
 
 These hands — nay, touch them, they are mine ! Recali 
 With all the said recallings, times when thus 
 To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pal e, 
 4s now. Most gloiious, are they not ?
 
 PARACELSUS. oO 
 
 .Vest. "Why . . . why . . 
 
 Something must be subtracted from success 
 So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, trulj', 
 Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still. Aureole, 
 You are changed — very changed ! 'Twere losing nothing 
 To look well to it : you must not be stolen 
 From the enjoyment of your well-won meed. 
 
 Par. My friend ! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt 
 By talking, not of me, but of yourself, 
 You will best gain your point. 
 
 Fest. Have T not said 
 
 All touching Michal and my children? Sure 
 You know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks 
 Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair ; 
 And Aureole's glee when some stray gannet builds 
 Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope 
 Have I that he will honour, the wild imp, 
 His namesake ! Sigh not ! 'tis too much to ask 
 That all we love should reach the same proud fate. 
 But you are very kind to humour me 
 By showing interest in my quiet life ; 
 You, who of old could never tame yourself 
 To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . . 
 
 Par. Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death, 
 Who blabs so oft the follies of this world : 
 And I am Death's familiar, as you know. 
 I helped a man to die, some few weeks since, 
 Warped even from his go-cart to one end — 
 riie living on princes' smiles, reflected from
 
 60 PARACliLSUS. 
 
 A mighty herd of favourites. No mean trick 
 He left untried ; and truly wellnigh 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 sate up suddenly, and with natural voice 
 Said, that iu spite of thick air and closed doors 
 God told him it was June ; and he knew well, 
 Without such telling, hai-ebells grew in June ; 
 And all that kings could ever give or take 
 Would not be precious as those blooms to him. 
 Just so, allowing I am passing wise, 
 It seems to me much worthier argument 
 Why pansies,* eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize 
 From violets, eyes that dream — (your Michal's choice'* — 
 Than all fools find to wonder at in me, 
 Or in my fortunes : and be very sure 
 I say this from no prurient restlessness — 
 No self-complacency — itching to turn, 
 Vary, and view its pleasure from all points, 
 And, in this matter, willing other men 
 Should argue and demonstrate to itself 
 The realness of the very joy it tastes. 
 What joy is better than the news of friends 
 Whose memories were a solace to me oft, 
 As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight ? 
 Yds, ofter than you wasted thought on me 
 
 • Citriaula (tlammula) herba Paracelso multiim familiaris. Dotui
 
 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Rl 
 
 If you were sage, and rightly valued bliss ! 
 
 But there's no taming nor repressing hearts : 
 
 God knows I need such ! — So you heard me speak ? 
 
 Fest. Speak? when? 
 
 Par. When but this morning at my class ? 
 
 There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not. 
 Surely you know I am engaged to fill 
 The chair here ? — that 'tis part of my proud fate 
 To lecture to as many thick-sculled youths 
 As please, each day, to throng the theatre, 
 To my great reputation, and no small 
 Danger of Basil's benches, long unused 
 To crack beneath such honour ? 
 
 Fest. I was there ; 
 
 I mingled with the throng : shall I avow 
 I had small care to listen ? — too intent 
 On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd 
 A full corroboration of my hopes ! 
 What can I learn about your powers ? but they 
 Know, care for nought beyond your actual state — 
 Your actual value ; and yet worship you ! 
 Those various natures whom you sway as one! 
 But ere I go, be sure I shall attend . . . 
 
 Par. Stop, o' God's name : the thing's by no means yel 
 Past remedy ! Shall I read this morning's work 
 — At least in substance ? Noiight so worth the galumg 
 As an apt scholar ! Thus then, with all due 
 Precision and emphasis — (you, besides, are clearly 
 Guiltless of uuderstaudiiig a whit iiior^j
 
 62 PARACELSUS. 
 
 The subject than your stool — allowed to be 
 A notable advantage) . , . 
 
 Fest. Surely, Aureole, 
 
 You laugh at me ! 
 
 Par. I laugh ? Ha, ha ! thank heaven, 
 
 I charge you, if 't be so ! for I forget 
 Much — and what laughter should be like ! No less. 
 However, I foi-ego that luxury, 
 Since it alarms the friend who brings it back. 
 True, laughter like my own must echo strange 
 To thinking men ; a smile were better far — 
 So make me smile ! If the exulting look 
 You wore but now be smiling, 'tis so long 
 Since I have smiled ! Alas, such smiles are bom 
 Alone of hearts like yours, or shepherds old 
 Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks, 
 Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven. 
 In earth a stage for altars, nothing more. 
 Never change, Festus : I say, never change ! 
 
 Fest. My God, if he be wretched after all ! 
 
 Par. When last we parted, Festus, you declared, 
 — Or did your Michal's soft lips whisper words 
 I have preserved ? She told me she believed 
 I should succeed (meaning, that in the search 
 I then engaged in, I should meet success). 
 And yet be wretched : now, she augured false. 
 
 Fest. Thank heaven ! but you spoke strangely ! couW 
 I venture 
 To think bare apprehension lest your friend,
 
 PARACELSrS. 63 
 
 Dazzled by your resplendent course, mig.it iind 
 Henceforth less sweetness in his own, awakes 
 Such earnest mood in you ? Fear not, dear friend. 
 That I shall leave you, inwardly repining 
 Your lot was not my own ! 
 
 Par. And this, fon ver ! 
 
 Forever ! gull who may, they will be blind ! 
 Tiiey will not look nor tliink — 'tis nothing new 
 In them ; but surely he is not of them ! 
 My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you — 
 Though all beside were sand-blind — you, my frienl 
 Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye. 
 Untroubled by the false glare that confounds 
 A weaker vision ; would remain serene, 
 Though singular, amid a gaping throng. 
 I feared you, or had come, sure, long ere this, 
 To Einsiedeln. "Well, error has no end, 
 And Khasis is a sage, and Basil boasts 
 A tribi; of wits, and I am wise and blest 
 Past all dis[)ute ! 'Tis vain to fret at it. 
 I have vowed long since that my worshippers 
 Shall owe to their own deep sagacity 
 All further information, good or bad : 
 And little risk my reputation runs. 
 Unless perchance the glance now seai'ching 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
 
 64 PARACliLSUS. 
 
 Remained unchanged in feature — nay, his brow 
 Seemed hued with triumph : every spirit then 
 Praisinfi;; Jiis heart on flame the while : — a tale ' 
 Well, Festus, what discover you, I jtray ? 
 
 Fest. Some foul deed sullies then a life which else 
 Were raised supreme ? 
 
 Par. Good : I do well — most well 
 
 Why strive to make men heai*, feel, fret themselves 
 With what 'tis past their power to comprehend? 
 I would not strive now : only, having nursed 
 The faint surmise that one yet walked tlie earth, 
 One, at least, not the utter fool of show, 
 Not absolutely formed to be the dupe 
 Of shallow plausibilities alone ; 
 One who, in youth found wise enough to choose 
 The happiness his riper years approve. 
 Was yet so anxious for another's sake, 
 That, ere his friend could rush upon a course 
 Mad, ruinous, the converse of his own. 
 His gentler spirit essayed, prejudged for him 
 The perilous path, foresaw its destiny, 
 And warned the weak one in such tender words, 
 Such accents — his whole heart in every tone — 
 That oft their memory comforted that friend 
 When rather it should have increased despair : 
 — Having believed, I say, that this one man 
 Could never lose the wisdom from the first 
 His portion — how should I refuse to grieve 
 A.t even my gain if it attest his loss,
 
 I'AUACELSCS. 66 
 
 At triumph which so signally disturbs 
 
 Our old relation, proving me more wise ? 
 
 Therefore, once more reminding him how well 
 
 He prophesied, I note the single flaw 
 
 That spoils his prophet's title: in plain words 
 
 You were deceived, and thus were you deceived— 
 
 I have not been successful, and yet am 
 
 Most wretched; there — 'tis said at last; but give 
 
 No credit, lest you force me to concede 
 
 That common sense yet lives upon the earth. 
 
 Fest. You surely do not mean to banter me ? 
 
 Par. Y^ou know, or (if you have been wise enough 
 To cleanse your memory of such matters) knew, 
 As far as words of mine could make it clear, 
 That 'twas my purpose to find joy or grief 
 Solely in the fulfilment of my plan, 
 Or plot, or whatsoe'er it was ; rejoicing 
 Alone as it proceeded prosperously. 
 Sorrowing alone when any chance retarded 
 Its progress. That was in those WUrzburg daya I 
 Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate, 
 I have pursued this plan with all my strength ; 
 And having failed therein most signally. 
 Cannot object to ruin, utter and drear 
 As all-excelling would have been the prize 
 Had fortune favoured me. I scarce do right 
 To vex your frank good spirit, late rejoiced 
 By my supposed prosperity, I know, 
 And, were I lucky in a glut of friends. 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Would well agree to let your error live. 
 
 Nay, strengthen it with fables of success : 
 
 But mine is no condition to refuse 
 
 The transient solace of so rare a chance, 
 
 My solitary luxury, my Festus — 
 
 Accordingly I venture to put off 
 
 The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me, 
 
 Secure when be is by. I lay me bare, 
 
 Prone at his mercy — but he is my friend ! 
 
 Not that he needs retain his aspect grave ; 
 
 That answers not my purpose ; for 'tis like. 
 
 Some sunny morning — Basil being drained 
 
 Of its wise population, every corner 
 
 Of the amphitheatre crammed with learned clerks. 
 
 Here CEcolampadius, looking worlds of wit. 
 
 Here Castellanus, as profound as he, 
 
 Munsterus here, Frobenius there, — all squeezed. 
 
 And staring, and expectant, — then, I say, 
 
 *Tis like that the poor zany of the show, 
 
 Your friend, will choose to put his trappings off 
 
 Before them, bid adieu to cap and bells 
 
 And motley with a grace but seldom judged 
 
 Expedient in such cases : — the grim smile 
 
 That will go round ! Is it not therefore best 
 
 To venture a rehearsal like the present 
 
 In a small way ? Where are the signs I seek, 
 
 The first-fruits and fair sample of the scorn 
 
 Due to all quacks? Why, this will never do ! 
 
 Fest. These are foul vapours. Aureole : nought besid*
 
 PARACELSUS. 
 
 riic effect of watching, study, wearinesii. 
 Were there a spark of truth iu tlie confusion 
 Of these wild words, you would not outrage thus 
 Your youth's companion. 1 shall ne'er regard 
 These wanderings, bred of faintness and much study. 
 You would not trust a trouble thus to me, 
 To Michal's friend. 
 
 Par. I have said it, dearest Festus I 
 
 The manner is ungracious, probably ; 
 More may be told in broken sobs, one day, 
 And scalding tears, ere long: but I thouglit best 
 To keep that off as long as possible. 
 Do you wonder still ? 
 
 Fest. No ; it must oft fall out 
 
 That one whose labour perfects any work. 
 Shall rise from it with eye so worn, that he 
 Of all men le;»st can measure the extent 
 Of what he has accomplished. I le alone. 
 Who, nothing tasked, is nothing weary too. 
 Can clearly scan the little he effects : 
 But we, the bystanders, untouched by toil. 
 Estimate each aright. 
 
 Par. This worthy Festus 
 
 Is one of them, at last ! 'Tis so with all ! 
 First, they set down all progress as a dream. 
 And next, when he, whose quick discomfiture 
 Was counted on, accomplishes some few 
 ^nd doubtful steps in his career, — behold,
 
 38 PARACELSUS. 
 
 riiey look for every inch of ground to vanish 
 Beneath his tread, so sure they judge success! 
 
 Fest. Few doubtful steps ? when death retires befcr« 
 Your presence — when the noblest of mankind, 
 Bx'oken in body, or subdued in mind, 
 May through your skill renew tlieir vigour, raisft 
 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 . . . 
 
 Par. Rather, when and where, friend, did you ge.1 
 
 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 ? Wliy 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 off"end : forgive me. 
 And rest Cv/nteut. Your propliecy on the whol* 
 Was fair enough as prophesyings go ; 
 A-t fault a little in detail, but quite
 
 PAUVCKLSUS. 69 
 
 Precise enough in the main ; accordingly 
 I pay due homage : you guessed long ago 
 (The prophet !) I should fail — and I have fsviled. 
 
 Fest. You mean to tell me, then, the hopes which fed 
 Your youth have not been realized as yet ? 
 Some obstacle has barred them hitlierto ? 
 Or that their innate . . . 
 
 Par. As 1 said but now, 
 
 You have a very decent prophet's fame, 
 So you but slum details here. Little matters 
 Whether those hopes were mad, — the aims they so'ight, 
 Safe and secure from all ambitious fools ; 
 Or whether my weak wits are overcome 
 By what a better spirit would scorn : I fail. 
 And now methinks 'twere best to change a theme, 
 I am a sad fool to have stumbled on.- 
 I say confusedly what comes uppermost ; 
 But there are times when patience proves at fault, 
 As now : tliis morning's strange encounter — ^you 
 Beside me once again ! you, whom I guessed 
 Alive, since hitherto (with Luther's leave) 
 No friend have I among the saints at rest, 
 To judge by any good their prayers effect — 
 I knew you would have helped me ! — So would lie, 
 My strange competitor in enterprise, 
 Bound for the same end by another path, 
 Arrived, or ill or well, before the time, 
 ,\t our disastrous journey's doubtful close — 
 How goes it with Aprile ? Ah, your heaven
 
 70 PARACELSUS. 
 
 'Receives not into its beatitudes 
 Mere martyrs for the world's sake ; heaven shuts fast 
 The poor mad poet is howling by this time ! 
 Since you are my sole friend then, here or there, 
 I could not quite repress the varied feelings 
 This meeting wakens ; they have had their vent, 
 And now forget them. Do the rear-mice still 
 Hang like a fret-work on the gate (or what 
 In my time was a gate) fronting the road 
 From Einsiedeln to Lachen ? 
 
 Fest. Trifle not ! 
 
 Answer me — for my sake alone. You smiled 
 Just now, when I supposed some deed, unworthy 
 Yourself might blot the else so bright result ; 
 Yet if your motives have continued pure, 
 Your earnest will unfaltering, if you still 
 Keraain unchanged, and if, in spite of this, 
 Y'ou have experienced a defeat that proves 
 Your aims forever unattainable — 
 I say not, you would cheerfully resign 
 The contest — mortal hearts are not so fashioned— 
 But sure you would resign it, ne'ertheless. 
 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, 
 Tourself the first. But how is the event ? 
 Tou are defeated — and I find you here ! 
 
 Par. As though " here " did not signify defeat J
 
 PxVRACELSUS. 71 
 
 [ spoke not of my little labours here — 
 
 But of the break-down of my general aims : 
 
 That yon, aware of their extent and scope, 
 
 Should look on these sage lecturings, approved 
 
 By beardless boys, and bearded dotards, — these 
 
 As a Gt 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, — 
 
 Far be it from uie to deny my power 
 
 To fill the petty circle lotted out 
 
 From infinite space, or justify the host 
 
 Of honours thence accruing : so, take notice, 
 
 This jewel dangling from my neck preserves 
 
 The features of a prince, my skill restored 
 
 To plague his people some few years to come : 
 
 And all through a pure whim, lie had eased the earth 
 
 For me, but that the droll despair which seized 
 
 The vermin of his household, tickled me. 
 
 I came to see : here, drivelled the physician. 
 
 Whose most infallible nostrum was at fault ; 
 
 There quaked the astrologer, whose horoscope 
 
 Had promised him interminable years ; 
 
 Here a monk fumbled at the sick man's mouth 
 
 With some undoubted relic — a sudary 
 
 Of the Virgin ; while some other dozen knaves 
 
 Of tiie hame brotherhood (he lov 3d them ever)
 
 iZ PARACELSUS. 
 
 Were actively preparing 'neath his nose 
 
 Such a suffumigation as, once fired, 
 
 Had stunk the patient dead ere he could groan. 
 
 I cursed the doctor, and upset the brother ; 
 
 Brushed past the conjurer ; vowed that the first gust 
 
 Of stench from the ingredients just alight 
 
 Would raise a cross-grained devil in my sword, 
 
 Not easily laid ; and ere an hour, the prince 
 
 Slept as he never slept since prince he was. 
 
 A day — and I was posting for my life, 
 
 Placarded through the town as one whose spite 
 
 Had near availed to stop the blessed effects 
 
 Of the doctor's nostrum, which, well seconded 
 
 By the sudary, and most by the costly smoke — 
 
 Not leaving out the strenuous prayers sent up 
 
 Hard by, in the abbey — raised the prince to life ; 
 
 To the great reputation of the seer, 
 
 Who, confident, expected all along 
 
 The glad event — the doctor's recompense — 
 
 Much largess from his highness to the monks— 
 
 And the vast solace of his loving people, 
 
 Wliose general satisfaction to increase, 
 
 The prince was pleased no longer to defer 
 
 The burning of some dozen heretics. 
 
 Remanded till God's mercy should be shown 
 
 Touching his sickness, as a prudent pledge 
 
 To make it surer : last of all were joined 
 
 Ample directions to all loyal folk 
 
 To swell the complement, by seizing me
 
 I'AUACELSUS. 73 
 
 Wiio — doubtless some rank sorcerer — had endeavoured 
 To thwart these pious offices, obstruct 
 The prince's cure, and frustrate Heaven, by help 
 Of certain devils dwelling in his sword. 
 By luck, the prince in his first fit of thanks 
 Had forced this bauble on me as an earnest 
 Of further favours. This one case may serve 
 To give sufficient taste of many such, 
 So let them pass : those siielves support a pile 
 Of patents, licenses, diplomas, titles, 
 From Germany, France, Spain, and Italy : 
 They authorize some honour : ne'ertheless, 
 1 set more store by this Erasmus sent ; 
 He trusts me; our Frobenius is his friend. 
 And him "I raised" (nay, read it,) "from the dead * . 
 I weary you, I see ; I merely sought 
 To show, there's no great wonder after all 
 That while I fill the class-room, and attract 
 A crowd to Basil, I get leave to stay ; 
 And therefore need not scru[)le to accept 
 The utmost they can offer — if I please : 
 For 'tis but right the world should be prepared 
 To treat with favour e'en fantastic wants 
 Of one like me, used up in serving her. 
 Just as the mortal, whom the Gods in part 
 Devoured, received in place of his lost limb 
 Some virtue or otiier — cured disease, I think ; 
 You mind the fables we liave read together. 
 Fest. You do net think I compreliend a word:
 
 74 PARACELSUS. 
 
 The time was, Aureole, you were apt enough 
 To clothe the airiest thoughts in specious breath ; 
 But sui'ely you must feel hnw vague and strange 
 These speeches sound. 
 
 Par. "Well, then : you know my hopes 
 
 I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain ; 
 That truth is just as far from me as ever ; 
 That I have thrown my life away ; that sorrow 
 On that account is vain, and further effort 
 To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing, 
 As useless : and all this was taught to me 
 By the convincing, good old-fashioned method 
 Offeree — by sheer compulsion. Is that plain? 
 
 Fest. Dear Aureole ! you confess my fears were just 
 God wills not . . . 
 
 Par. Now, 'tis this I most admire — 
 
 The constant talk men of your stamp keep up 
 Of God's will, as they style it ; one would swear 
 Man had but merely to uplift his eye, 
 To see the will in question charactered 
 On the heaven's vault. 'Tis hardly wise to moot 
 Such topics : doubts are many and faith is wetik. 
 I know as much of any will of God's, 
 As knows some dumb and tortured brute what Man, 
 His stern lord, wills from tlie perplexing blows 
 That plague him every way, and there, of coirse, 
 Where least he suffers, longest he remains — 
 My case ; and for such reasons I [jlod on, 
 Subdued, but not convinced. I know as little
 
 PARACKLSUS. 75 
 
 Wliy I deserve to fail, as why I ho[)e(l 
 Hetter things in my youth. I simply know 
 I am no master here, but trained and beaten 
 Into the path I tread ; and liere I stay, 
 Until some further intimation reach me. 
 Like an obedient drudges : 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 wliich tastes less jaded mi/rht affect ; 
 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 
 Part of the flesh it eats. I hate no more 
 A host of petty, vile delights, undreamed of 
 Or spurned, before ; such now supply the place 
 Of my dead aims : as in the autumn woods 
 Where tall trees used to flourish, from their roots 
 Springs up a fungous brood, sickly and pale, 
 Chill mushrooms, coloured like a corpse's cheek. 
 
 Fest. If I interpret well what words I seize, 
 It troubles me but little that your aims, 
 Vast in their dawning, and most likely grown 
 Extravagantly since, have baffled you. 
 Perchance I am glad ; you merit greater praise ; 
 Because they are too glorious to be gained, 
 iTou do not buidly cling to ihciu and die; 
 Yon fell, but have not sullenly refused 
 To rise, because au angel worsted you
 
 76 PARACELSUS. 
 
 In wrestling, though the world holds not your peer, 
 
 And though too harsh and sudden is the change 
 
 To yield content as yet — still, you pursue 
 
 The ungracious path as though 'twere rosy-strewn- 
 
 'Tis well : and your reward, or soon or late, 
 
 Will come from Him whom no man serves in vain. 
 
 Par. Ah, very fine ! For my part, I conceive 
 The very pausing from all further toil, 
 Which you find heinous, would be as a seal 
 To the sincerity of all my deeds. 
 To be consistent I should die at once : 
 I calculated on no after-life ; 
 Yet (how crept in, how fostered, I know not^ 
 Here am I with as passionate regret 
 For you til, and health, and love so vainly lost, 
 As if their preservation had been first 
 And foremost in my thoughts ; and this strange fact 
 Humbled me wondrously, and had due force 
 In rendering me the more disposed to follow 
 A certain counsel, a mysterious warning — 
 You will not understand — but 'twas a man 
 With aims not mine, but yet pursued like mine, 
 With the same fervor and no more success, 
 Who perished in my sight ; but summoned me, 
 As I would shun the ghastly fate I saw. 
 To. serve my race at once ; to wait no longer 
 Till God should interfere in my behalf, 
 And let the next world's knowledge dawn on this ; 
 But to distrust myself, put pride away,
 
 PARACELSUS. 7« 
 
 Ani give my gain:^, imperfect as they were, 
 To men. I have not leisure to explain 
 How since, a strange succession of events 
 Has raised me to the station you behold, 
 Wherein I seem to turn to most account 
 The mere wreck of the past, — perhaps receive 
 Some feeble glimmering token that God views 
 And may approve my penance ; therefore here 
 You find me — doing most good or least harm : 
 And if folks wonder much and profit little 
 'Tis not my fault ; only, I shall rejoice 
 When m}- part in the farce is shuffled through, 
 And the curtain tails ; I must hold out till then. 
 
 Fest. Till when, dear Aureole? 
 
 Par. Till I'm fairly thrasl 
 
 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 
 We sin : God's intimations ratiier fail 
 In clearness than in energy : 'twere well 
 Did they but indicate the course to take 
 Like that to be forsaken. I would fain 
 Be spared a further samj»le ! Here I stand. 
 And here I stay, be sure, till forced to fiit. 
 
 Fest. Remain but lirm 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 (hance of such event:
 
 / 
 
 78 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Tliey praise you here as one whose lore, divulged 
 
 Already, eclipses all the past can show, 
 
 But whose achievements, marvellous as they be, 
 
 Are faint anticipations of a glory 
 
 About to be revealed. When Basil's crowds 
 
 Dismiss their teacher, I shall be content 
 
 That he depart. 
 
 Par. This favour at their hands 
 
 1 look for earlier than your view of things 
 Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day 
 Remove the full half sheer amazement draws, 
 The novelty, nought else ; 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, so help 
 The teacher that oppugns them, and o'erthrows. 
 Till having planted his own doctrine, he 
 May reckon on their rancour in his turn ; 
 Take, too, the sprinkhng of sagacious knavea 
 Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue. 
 But seeks, by flattery and nursing craft, 
 To foi'ce my system to a premature 
 Short-lived development . . . Why swell the listj' 
 Each has his end to serve, and his best way 
 Of serving it: remove all these, remains 
 A scantling — a poor dozen at the best — 
 That really '^•oine to learn for learning's sake ;
 
 1>AUACEI.SU3- 
 
 79 
 
 VTorlhy to look for sympathy and service, 
 And likely to draw profit from my pains. 
 
 Fest. 'Tis no encouraging picture : still these few 
 Redeem their fellows. Once implant the germ, 
 Its growth, if slow, is sure. 
 
 Par. God grant it so! 
 
 I would make some amends : but if I fail, 
 The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge, 
 That much is in ray method and my manner, 
 My uncouth habits, my impatient s[)irit. 
 Which hinders of reception and result 
 My doctrine : much to say, small skill to speak! 
 Those old aims suffered not a looking-off, 
 Though for an instant ; therefore, only wiien 
 I thus renounced them and resolved to reap 
 Some present fruit — to teach mankind some truth 
 So dearly purchased — only then I found 
 Such teaching was an art requiring cares 
 And qualities peculiar to itself; 
 That to possess was one thing — to display, 
 Another. ILid renown been in my thoughts, 
 Or [lojtuiar praise, I had soon discovered it! 
 One grows but little apt to learn the.-e things 
 
 Fest. If it be so, which nowise I believe, 
 There needs no waiting fuller dispensatiou 
 To leave a labour to so little use . 
 Why not throw up the irksome charge at once •' 
 
 Par. A task, a task ! . . . 
 
 But waerefore hide from yoo
 
 80 PAKACELSUB. 
 
 The whole extent of desradation, once 
 
 Engaged in the confession ? Spite of all 
 
 My fine talk of obedience, and repugnance, 
 
 Docility, and what not, 'tis yet to learn 
 
 If when the old task really is performed, 
 
 And my will free once more, to choose a new, 
 
 I shall do aught but slightly modify 
 
 The nature of the hated one I quit. 
 
 In plain words, I am spoiled : ray life still tends 
 
 As first it tended. I am broken and trained 
 
 To my old habits ; they are part of rae. 
 
 I know, and none so well, my darling ends 
 
 Are proved impossible : no less, no less, 
 
 Even now what humoui's me, fond fool, as when 
 
 Their faint ghosts sit with me, and flatter me, 
 
 And send rae 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 ; 
 
 This intricate machine, whose most minute, 
 
 Least obvious motions have their charm to me 
 
 Though to none else — an aptitude I seize, 
 
 An object I perceive, a use, a meaning, 
 
 A property, a fitness, I explain, 
 
 And I alone : — how can I change my soul ? 
 
 And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked 
 
 Under that soul's dominion — used to care 
 
 For its bright master's cares, and quite subdue
 
 PARACIiLSUS. 81 
 
 Its proper cravings — not to ail, nor pine, 
 So the soul prosper — whitlier drag this poor, 
 Tried, patient body ? God ! how I essayed, 
 To live like that mad poet, for a while, 
 To catch Aprile's 6)»irit, as I hoped, 
 And love alone ! and how I felt too warped 
 And twisted and deformeil ! What should I do ? 
 Even tho' released from drudgery, but return 
 Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore, 
 To my old life — and die as I begun ! 
 I cannot feed on beauty, for the sake 
 Of beauty only ; nor can drink in bahn 
 From lovely objects for their loveliness ; 
 My nature cannot lose her first intent; 
 I still must hoard, and heap, and class all truths 
 With one ulterior purpose: I must know! 
 Would God translate me to his throne, believe 
 That I should only listen to his words 
 To further my own aims ! For other men, 
 Beauty is prodigally strewn around, 
 And I were happy could I quench as they 
 This mad and thriveless longing be content 
 With beauty for itself alone : alas ! 
 I have addressed a frock of heavy mail. 
 Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights; 
 And now the forest-creatures fly from me, 
 The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no morel 
 Best follow, drearain" that era nisfht arrives 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 62 PARACELSUS. 
 
 I shall o'ertake the company, and ride 
 Glittering as they ! 
 
 Fest. I think I apprehend 
 
 What you would say : if you, in truth, design 
 To enter once more on the life thus left. 
 Seek not to hide that all this consciousness 
 Of failure is assumed. 
 
 Par. My friend, my friend, 
 
 I speak, you listen ; I explain, perhaps 
 You understand : there our communion ends. 
 Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse ? 
 When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state 
 We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft 
 The hot 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 i 
 That is the crowning opei*ation claimed 
 By the arch-demonstrator — heaven the hall, 
 And earth the audience. Let Aprile and you 
 Secure good places — 'twill be worth your while. 
 
 Fe&t. Are you mad. Aureole ? What can I have said 
 To call for this ? I judged from your own words. 
 
 Par. Oh, true ! A fevered wretch describes the ape 
 That mocks him from the bed-foot, and you turn 
 A.11 gravely thither at once : or he recounts 
 The perilous journey he has late performed, 
 A.nd you are puzzled much how that could be I
 
 I'ARACFISUS. 88 
 
 roil find rae here, half stupid and half niad 
 
 It makes no part of ray delight to search 
 
 Into these things, much less to undergo 
 
 Another's scrutiny ; but so it chances 
 
 That I am led to trust my state to you : 
 
 And the event is, you combine, contrast, 
 
 And ponder on my foolish words, as though 
 
 They thorouglily conveyed all hidden here — 
 
 Here, loathsome with despair, and hate, and rage ! 
 
 Is there no fear, no shrinking, or no shame ? 
 
 Will you guess nothing ? will you spare rae nothing ? 
 
 Must I go deeper ? Ay or no ? 
 
 Fest. - Dear friend . . 
 
 Par. True : I am brutal — 'tis a part of it ; 
 The plague's sign — you are not a lazar-haunter, 
 How should you know ? Well then, you think it strange 
 I should profess to have failed utterly, 
 And yet propose an ultimate return 
 To courses void of hope ; and this, because 
 You know not what teraptation is, nor how 
 'Tis like to ply men in the sickliest part. 
 You are to understand, that we who make 
 Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end : 
 There is not one sharp volley shot at us, 
 Which if we manage to escape with life. 
 Though touclied and iuut, we straiglit may slacken paoo 
 And gather by the way-side herbs ai:d I'oots 
 To stanch our wounds, secure from further harm— 
 No; we are chased to life's extremest verge.
 
 ti4i PARACELSUS. 
 
 It will be well indeed if I return, 
 A harmless busy fool to my old ways ! 
 I would forget hints of another fate, 
 Significant enough, which silent hours 
 Have lately scared me with. 
 
 Fest. Another ! and what f 
 
 Par. After all, Festus, you say well : I stand 
 A man yet — I need never humble me. 
 I would have been — something, I know not what ; 
 But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl : 
 There are worse portions than this one of mine ; 
 You say well ! 
 
 Fest. Ah ! . . . 
 
 Par And deeper degradation ! 
 
 If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise. 
 And vanity, should become the chosen food 
 Of a sunk mind ; should stifle even the wish 
 To find its early aspirations true ; 
 Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath— 
 An atmosphere of craft, and trick, and lies ; 
 Should make it proud to emulate or surpass 
 Base natures in the practices which woke 
 Its most indignant loathing once . . . No, no! 
 Utter damnation is reserved for Hell ! 
 I had immortal feelings — such shall never 
 Be wholly quenched — no, no ! 
 
 My friend, yon wear 
 A melancholy face, and truth to speak. 
 There's little cheer in all this dismal work ;
 
 PARACELSUS. 8* 
 
 But 'twas not my desire to set abroach 
 Such raeraories and foreoodings. I foresaw 
 Where they would drive ; 'twere better you detailed 
 News of Lucerne or Zuricli ; or I described 
 Great Egypt's flaring sky, or Spain's cork-groves. 
 
 Fest. I have thought now : yes, this mood will pass 
 away. 
 I know you, and the lofty spirit you bear. 
 And easily ravel out a clue to alh 
 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 
 Of men from your ambition, you have spurned : 
 Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind them best. 
 Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought 
 Avails to awe, save these delusions, bred 
 From its own strength, its selfsame strength, disguised — 
 Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole ! Since 
 The rabbit has his shade to frighten hira, 
 The fawn his rustling bough, mortals their cares, 
 And higher natures yet their power to laugh 
 At these entangling fantasies, as you 
 At trammels of a weaker intellect. 
 Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts I 
 I know you. 
 
 Par. And I know you, dearest Festus I 
 
 A.nd how you love unwortJiily ; and how 
 All admiration renders blind.
 
 86 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Fest. You hold 
 
 That admiration blinds ? 
 
 Par. Ay, and alas ! 
 
 Fest. Nought blinds you less than admiration wilL 
 Whether it be that all love renders wise 
 In its degree ; from love which blends with love — 
 Heart answering heart — to love which spends itself 
 In silent mad idolatry of some 
 Preeminent 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 (suppos-ed 
 So vigilant and searching) dreams not of: 
 Love broods on such : what then ? When first perceived 
 Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change, 
 To overflush those blemishes with all 
 The glow of general goodness they disturb ? 
 ■ — To make those very defects an endless source 
 Of new affection grown from hopes and fears? 
 And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand 
 Made even for much proved weak ? no shrinking-back 
 Lest, rising even as its idol sinks. 
 It nearly reacli the sacred place, and stand 
 Almost a rival of that idol ? Trust me. 
 If there be fiends who seek to work our hurt, 
 To ruin and drag down eartli's miglitiest spirits, 
 Even at God's foot, 'twill be from such as love, 
 Their zeal will gather most tc serve their cause ;
 
 PARACELSD3. 81 
 
 And lejist from those wlio hate, who most essay 
 
 By contumely and scorn to blot the light 
 
 Which will have entrance even to their hearts ; 
 
 For thence will our Defender tear the veil 
 
 And show within each heart, as in a shrine, 
 
 The giant image of Perfection, grown 
 
 In hate's despite, whose calumnies were spawned 
 
 In the untroubled presence of its eyes ! 
 
 True admiration blinds nut ; nor am I 
 
 So blind : I call your sin exceptional ; 
 
 It springs from one whose life has passed the bounds 
 
 Prescribed to life. Comi)Ound that fault with God ! 
 
 I speak of men ; to common men like nie 
 
 The weakness you confess endears you more — 
 
 Like the far traces of decay in suns : 
 
 I bid you have good cheer ! 
 
 Par. PrcBclare ! Optime ' 
 
 Think of a quiet mountain-cloister'd priest 
 Instructing Paracelsus ! yet, 'tis so. 
 Come, I will show you where my merit lies. 
 'Tis in the advance of individual minds 
 That the slow crowd should ground their expectation 
 Eventually to follow — as the sea 
 Waits ages in its bed, 'till some one wave 
 Out of the multitude aspires, extends 
 The empire of the whole, some feet perhaps, 
 Over the strip of sand whict could confine 
 Its fellows so long time : thenceforth the rest, 
 Even to the meanest, hurry in at once.
 
 SH I'AUACELsiUs. 
 
 A.nd so niach is clear gained. I shall be glad 
 [fall my labours, failing of auglit 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 
 A.nd a legitimate success, may be, 
 I am not blind to ray undoubted rank 
 When classed with others : 1 precede my age : 
 And whoso wills, is very free to mount 
 These labours as a platform, whence their own 
 May have a prosperous outset : but, alas ! 
 My followers — they are noisy as you heard. 
 But for intelligence — the best of them 
 So clumsily wield the weapons I supply 
 And they extol, that I begin to doubt 
 Whether their own rude clubs and pebble-stoirea 
 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, and withhold 
 Its arms until you have taught their mystery. 
 
 Par. Content you, 'tis my wish ; I have recourse 
 To the simplest training. Day by day I seek 
 To wake the mood, the spirit which alone 
 Can make those arms of any use ,o men. 
 Of course, they are for swaggering forth at onco 
 Graced with Ulysses' club, Achilles' shield — 
 Hash on us, all in armour, thou Achilles 1
 
 TAKACELbUS. 89 
 
 Make our hearts dance to thy resounding step ! 
 A proper sight to scare the crows away ! 
 
 Fest. Pity you choose not, then, some other raelhod 
 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 deatliless monument to after-times ; 
 Meanwhile wait confidently and enjoy 
 The ultimate effect : sooner or later, 
 You shall be all-revealed. 
 
 Par. The old dull question 
 
 In a new form ; no more. Thus : I possess 
 Two sorts of knowledge ; one, — vast, shadowy, 
 Hints of the unbounded aim I once pursued: 
 The other consists of many secrets, learned 
 While bent on nobler prize, — periiaps a few 
 First principles which may conduct to much : 
 These laot I ofier to my followers here. 
 Now bid me chronicle the first of these, 
 My ancient study, and in effect you bid me 
 Revere to the wild courses just abjured : 
 [ must go find them scattered through the worlA 
 Then, for the principles, they are so simple 
 (Being chiefiy of the overturning sort,) 
 That one time is as proper to propound them 
 4.S any other — to-morrow at my class
 
 90 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Or half a centuiy 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 ray 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 foi'get 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 somettjing 
 
 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. 'Twas he 
 Apprised me tliat the famous teacher here 
 Was my old friend. 
 
 Par. Ah, I forgot : you went . . . 
 
 Fest. From Zurich with advices for the ear 
 Of Luther, now at Wittemburg — (you know, 
 I make no doubt, the differences of late 
 With Carolostadius) — and returning sought 
 Basil and . . .
 
 I'ARACELSUS. 91 
 
 Par. 1 /•einember. Here's a case, now, 
 
 iVill 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 tliat own his doctrine? No, indeed: 
 Ilis 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 fand the rest out for themselves — perhaps 
 To outstrip him who set the whole at work, 
 — As never will my wise class its instructor. 
 And you saw Luther ? 
 
 Fest. 'Tis a wondrous soul ! 
 
 Par. True : the so-heavy chain which galled mankin j 
 Is shattered, and the noblest of iis all 
 Must oow to the deliverer — nav, the worker 
 Of our own projects — we wlio long before 
 Had burst its trammels, but forgot the crowd, 
 We should have taught, still groaned beneath the load: 
 This he has done and nobly. Speed that may! 
 Whatever be ray chance or my despair,
 
 92 PARACELSUS. 
 
 What benefits mankind must glad rae too : 
 And men seem made, though not as I believed, 
 For something better than the times produce : 
 Witness these gangs of peasants your new lights 
 From Suabia have possessed, whom Munzer leads, 
 And whom the duke, the landgrave, and the elector 
 Will calm in blooc^ I Well, well — 'tis not my world 
 
 Fest. Hark! 
 
 Par. 'Tis the melancholy wind astir 
 
 Within the trees ; the embers too are gray, 
 Morn must be near. 
 
 Fest. Best ope the casement: see, 
 
 The night, late strewn with clouds and tiying stars. 
 Is blank and motionless : how peaceful sleep 
 The tree-tops all together ! Like an asp. 
 The wind slips whispering from bough to bough. 
 
 Par. Ay ; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree 
 lliy the hour, nor count time lost. 
 
 Fest. So you shall gaze : 
 
 Those happy times will come agair. . . . 
 
 Par. Gone ! gone 1 
 
 Those pleasant times ! Does not the moaning wind 
 Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains 
 And bartered sleep for them ? 
 
 Fest. It is our trust 
 
 That there is yet another world to mend 
 All error and mischance- 
 Par. Another world I 
 And why this world, this common world, to be
 
 PAIIACKT.SUS. 03 
 
 A. make-jihif't, a mere foil, how fair soever, 
 
 To some fine life to come ? IMan must be fed 
 
 With angel's food, forsooth ; and some few tracei* 
 
 Of a diviner nature which look out 
 
 Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him 
 
 In a supreme contempt for all provision 
 
 For his inferior tastes — some straggling marks 
 
 Which constitute his essence, just as truly 
 
 As here and there a gem would constitute 
 
 The rock, their barren bed, a diamond. 
 
 But were it so — were man all mind — he gains 
 
 A station little enviable. From God 
 
 Down to the lowest spirit ministrant, 
 
 Intelli'rence exists which casts our mind 
 
 Into immea>urable 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 forever, 
 
 Like a dead friend, safe from unkindness more! 
 
 See morn at length. The heavy darkness seems 
 
 Diluted ; gray and clear without the stars ; 
 
 The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves, as if 
 
 Some snake, that weighed them down all night, let go 
 
 His hold ; and from the east, fuller and fuller 
 
 Day, like a mighty river, is flowing in ; 
 
 But clouded, wintry, desolate and cold : 
 
 Yet see how that broad, prickly, star-shaped [)lant. 
 
 Half down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves, 
 
 /VU thick and glistering with diamond dew.
 
 94 PARACELSUS. 
 
 A-nd 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 mors to these sad themes. 
 
 Fest. One favour, 
 
 And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved ; 
 [Tnwilling 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 for man 
 To trust on his support, (as I must think 
 You trusted,) is obscured and dim through you : 
 For you are thus, and this is no reward. 
 Will you not call me to your side, dear friend ? 
 
 IV.— PARACELSUS ASPIRES. 
 
 Scene. — A House at Colmar, in Alsatia. 1 528. 
 
 Paracelsus, Festus. 
 
 Par, (To John Oporinus, Ins secretary.) Sic itur ad 
 astra! Dear Von Visenburg 
 [s scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed, 
 Ajid every honest soul that Basil holds 
 Aahast ; and yet we live, as one may say, 
 Tust as though Liechtenfels had never set
 
 PAHACELSUS. *J''' 
 
 So true a value oi. his sorry carcass, 
 
 And learned Putter bad not frowned us dumb. 
 
 We live ; and sbnll as surely start to-morrow 
 
 For Nuremburg, as we drink speedy scatbe 
 
 To Basil in this mantling wine, suflfused 
 
 With a delicate blush — no fainter tinge is born 
 
 r th' shut heart of a bud : pledge me, good John — 
 
 " Basil ; a hot plague ravage it, with rutter 
 
 " To stop the plague ! " Even so ? Do you too share 
 
 Tlieir panic — the reptiles? Ila, ha ; faint through them, 
 
 Desist for them I — while means enough exist 
 
 To bow the stoutest braggart of the tribe 
 
 Once more in crouening siience — means to breed 
 
 A stupid wonder in each fool again, 
 
 Now big with admiration at the skill 
 
 Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes ; 
 
 And, that done, means to brand each slavish brow 
 
 So deeply, surely, ineffaccably. 
 
 That thenceforth flattery shall not pucker it 
 
 Out of the furrow of that hideous stamp 
 
 Which shows the next they fawn on, what they are, 
 
 This Basil, with its magnates one and all, 
 
 Whom I curse soul and limb. And now dispatch, 
 
 Dispatch, my trusty John ; and what remains 
 
 To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip 
 
 Are yet to be completed, see you hasten 
 
 This night ; we'll weather the storm at least : to-morrow 
 
 fci'or Nuremburg! Now leave us ; this grave clerk 
 
 Has divers weighty matters for my t^-\\;{Oponnus yocs out.)
 
 9G PARACELSUS. 
 
 And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, 
 I am rid of this arch-knave that follows me 
 As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep ; at last 
 May give a loose to my delight. How kind, 
 How very kind, my first, best, only friend ! 
 Why this looks like fidelity. Embrace me : 
 Not a hair silvered yet ! Right : you shall live 
 Till 1 am wdrth 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 stranga 
 
 That I must hope, indeed, your messenger 
 Has mingled his own fimcies with the words 
 Purporting to be yours. 
 
 Par. He said no more, 
 
 'Tis probable, than the precious folks I leave 
 Said fifty-fold more roughly. Well-a-day, 
 'Tis true ; poor Paracelsus is exposed 
 At last ; a most egregious quack he proves, 
 And those he overreached must spit their hate 
 On one who, utterly beneath contempt. 
 Could yet deceive their tof)pling wits. You heard 
 Bare truth ; and at my bidding you come here 
 r. speed me on my enterprise, as once 
 Your lavished wishes sped me, my own friend ?
 
 PARACELSUS. 97 
 
 Fest. What ifl jour purpose, Aureole? 
 
 Par. Oil, for purpose, 
 
 There is no lack of pnicedents in a case 
 Like mine ; at least, if not precisely mine, 
 Tiie case of men cast off by those they sou^jht 
 To benefit ... 
 
 Fcst They really cast you off? 
 
 I only heard a vague tale of some priest, 
 Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim, 
 Knowing his life's worth best ; and how the judge 
 The matter was referred to, saw no cause 
 To interfere, nor you to hide your full 
 Contempt of him ; nor he, again, to smother 
 His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame * 
 That Basil soon was made no place for you. 
 
 Par. The affair of Liechtenfels ? the shallowest cause. 
 The last and silliest outrage — mere pretence ! 
 I knew it, I foretold it from the first, 
 How soon the stupid wonder you mistook 
 For genuine loyalty — a cheering promise 
 Of better things to come — would pall and pass ; 
 And every word comes true. Saul is among 
 The prophets ! Just so long as I was pleased 
 To play off the mere marvels of my art — 
 Fantastic gambols leadin"; to no end — 
 I got huge praise ; but one can ne'er keep down 
 Our foolish nature's weakness : there they flockerl, 
 Poor devils, jostling, swearing, and perspiring, 
 Till tlu- walls ran" airaiu ; and all for me I 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 PARACELSUS. 
 
 I had a kindness for them, which was right; 
 
 But then I stopped not till I tacked to that 
 
 A trust in them and a respect — a sort 
 
 Of sympathy for them : 1 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 outi 
 
 Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust, 
 
 Filed off — " the sifted chaff of the sack," I said, 
 
 Redoubling my endeavours to secure 
 
 The rest ; when lo ! one man had stayed thus long 
 
 Only to ascertain if I supported 
 
 This tenet of his, or that; anotlier loved 
 
 T(?hear impartially before he judged. 
 
 And having heard, now judged ; this bland disciple 
 
 Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems, 
 
 Spied error where his neighbours marvelled most* 
 
 That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend. 
 
 Did it because my by-patlis, 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 cohc, and what not : — quid multa? The end 
 
 Was a clear class-room, with a quiet leer 
 
 From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance 
 
 From those in chief, who, cap in hand, installed
 
 PARACELSUS. 99 
 
 riie 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, 
 
 Ijut now, it seems, the general voice recalled 
 
 To fill my chair, and so efface the stain 
 
 Basil had long incurred. I sought no better — 
 
 Nought but a quiet dismissal from my post ; 
 
 While from my heart I wished them better suited, 
 
 And better served. Good night to Basil, then ! 
 
 But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe 
 
 Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them 
 
 The pleasure of a parting kick. 
 
 Fest. You smile : 
 
 Despise them as they merit ! 
 
 Par. If I smile, 
 
 'Tis with as very contempt as ever turned 
 Flesh into stone : this courteous recompense ! 
 This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit 
 To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache 
 At gangrened blotches, eating poisonous blains, 
 The ulcered barky scurf of leprosy 
 Which finds — a man, and leaves — a hideous thing 
 That cannot but be mended by hell fire, 
 — I say that, could you see as I could show, 
 i would lay bare to you these human hearts 
 Wliicli God cursed long ago, and devils make sincft
 
 100 PARACELSUS. 
 
 riieir pet nest and their never-tiring bonae. 
 
 0, sages have discovered we are born 
 
 For various ends — to love, to know : has ever 
 
 One stumbled, in his search, on any signs 
 
 Of a nature in him formed to hate? To hate? 
 
 If that be our true object which evokes 
 
 Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 'tis liate ! 
 
 I'est. But I have yet to learn your purpose, Auieole 
 Par. What purpose were the fittest now for me ? 
 Decide ! To sink beneath such ponderous shame — 
 To slirink up like a crushed snail — undergo 
 In silence and desist from further toil, 
 And so subside into a monument 
 Of one their censure blasted ; or to bow 
 Cheerfully as submissively — to lower 
 My old pretensions even as Basil dictates — 
 To drop into the rank her wits assign me, 
 And live as they prescribe, and make that use 
 Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow — 
 Proud to be patted now and then, and careful 
 To practise the true posture for receiving 
 The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance, 
 When they shall condescend to tutor rae. 
 Then one may feel resentment like a flame, 
 Prompting to deck false systems in Truth's garb. 
 And tangle and entwine mankind with error, 
 And give them darkness for a dower, and falsehood 
 For a possession : or one may mope away 
 Into a shade through thinking ; or else di'owse
 
 PARACELSUS. 101 
 
 Into a dreamless sleep, and so die ofT: 
 But I, but I — now Festus shall divine! 
 — Am merely setting out in life once more, 
 Embracing my old aims ! — What thinks he now ? 
 
 Fast. Your aims ? the aims ? — to know ? and where la 
 found 
 The early trust . . . 
 
 Par. Nay, not so fast ; I say, 
 
 The aims — not the old means. You know what made me 
 A laughing-stock ; I was a fool ; you know 
 The when and the how: hardly those means again! 
 Not but they had their beauty — who should know 
 Their passing beauty, if not I ? But still 
 They were dreams, so let them vanish: yet in beauty, 
 If that may be. Stay — thus they pass in song ! 
 
 [H^ sings.) 
 
 Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripe? 
 Of labdanum, and aloe-balls 
 
 Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
 From out her hair : (such balsam falls 
 Down seaside mountain pedestals. 
 
 From summits where tired winds are fain, 
 
 Spent with the vast and howling main, 
 
 To treasure half tin ir island-gain.) 
 
 And strew faint sweetness from some old 
 
 Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud. 
 Which breaks to dust when once unrolled ^
 
 102 PARACELSUS. 
 
 And shred dim perfume, like a cloud 
 From chamber long to quiet vowed, 
 "With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
 Mouldering the lute and books among 
 Of queen, long dead, who lived there young. 
 
 Mine, every word ! — and on such pile shall die 
 My lovely fancies, with fair perished things, 
 Themselves fair and forgotten ; yes, forgotten, 
 Or why abjure them? So I made this rhyme 
 That fitting dignity might be preserved : 
 No little proud was I ; though the list of drugs 
 Smacks of my old vocation, and the verse 
 Halts like the best of Luther's psalms ! 
 
 Fest. But, Aureole, 
 
 Talk not thus wildly and madly. I am here — 
 Did you know all, indeed ! I have travelled far 
 To learn your wishes. Be yourself again ' 
 For in this mood I recognize you less 
 Than in the horrible despondency 
 I witnessed last. You may account this, joy; 
 But rather let me gaze on tliat despair 
 Than hear these incoherent words, and see 
 This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye ! 
 
 Par. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime, 
 I am light-hearted now ; what would you have ? 
 Aprile was a poet, I make songs — 
 'Tis the very augury of success I want ! 
 Why should I not be joyous now as then ?
 
 PARACELSUS. 103 
 
 Fest. Joyous! and bow? and what remains fcr joy? 
 Y'ou have declared tlie 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, 'tis like ; 
 But you are little versed in the world's ways. 
 This is my plan — (first drinking its good luck)— 
 1 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.KxOAV and to exjoy at once, 
 Not one without the other as before. 
 Suppose my labour should seem God's own cause 
 Once more, as first I dreamed, it shall not balk me 
 Of the meanest, earthliest, sensualest delight 
 That may be snatched ; for every joy is gain, 
 And why spurn gain, however small? My soul 
 Aan die then, nor be taunted " what was gained ?" 
 Nor, on the other hand, if pleasure meets me 
 As though 1 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! 
 
 Fc^t. Success ! 
 
 Par. And whereibre not? Why not prefei 
 
 llesults obtaiui^a m my best state i/f being,
 
 101 PARACELSUS. 
 
 To those derived alone from seasons dark 
 
 As the thoughts they bred? When I was best — my youtb 
 
 Unwasted — seemed success not surest too ? 
 
 It is the nature of darkness to obscure. 
 
 I am a wanderer : I remember well 
 
 One journey, how I feared the track was missed, 
 
 So long the city I desired to reach 
 
 Lay hid ; when suddenly its spires afar 
 
 Flashed through the circling clouds ; conceive ray joy j 
 
 Too soon the vapours closed o'er it again, 
 
 But I had seen the city, and one such glance 
 
 No darkness could obscure : nor shall the present 
 
 A few dull hours, a passing shame or two, 
 
 Destroy the vivid memories of the past. 
 
 I will figlit the battle out! — a little tired, 
 
 Perhaps — but still an able combatant. 
 
 You look at my gray hair and furrowed browV 
 
 But 1 can turn even weakness to account? 
 
 Of many tricks I know, 'tis not the least 
 
 To push the ruins of my frame, whereon 
 
 Tlie 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 aU 
 
 We boast of: mind is nothing but disease, 
 
 And natural health is ignorance. 
 
 Fest. I see 
 
 But one good symptom in this notable plan : 
 t feared your sudden journey had in view
 
 PARACELSUS. 105 
 
 To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes ; 
 'Tis not so : I am glad. 
 
 Par. And if I pleased 
 
 To spit on them, to trample tliem, what then ? 
 'Tis sorry warfare truly, but the fools 
 Provoke it: I had spared their self-conceit, 
 But if they must provoke me — cannot suffer 
 Forbearance on my part — if I may keep 
 No quality in the shade, must needs put forth 
 Power to match power, my strength against their strength, 
 And teach them their own game with tlieir own arras — 
 Why be it so, and let them take their chance I 
 I am above them like a God — in vain 
 To hide the fact — what idle scruples, then, 
 "Were those that ever bade me soften it, 
 Communicate it gently to the world. 
 Instead of proving ray supremacy, 
 Taking my natural station o'er their heads. 
 Then owning all the glory was a man's. 
 And in ray elevation man's would be ! 
 But live and learn, though life's sliort ; learning, hard I 
 Still, one tiling I liavc learned — not to despair: 
 And tlierefore, though the wreck of my past self, 
 I fear, dear Putter, that your lecture-room 
 Must wait awhile for its best ornament. 
 The penitent empiric, who set up 
 For somebody, but soon was taught liis place- 
 Now, but too happy to be let confess 
 \Iis error, snull" the candles, and illustrate
 
 106 PARACELSUS. 
 
 [Fiat expcrientia corpore vili) 
 
 Your medicine's soundness in liis person. Wait, 
 
 Good Putter! 
 
 Fest. He who sneers thus, is a God ! 
 
 Par. Ay, ay, laugh at me! I am very glad 
 You are not gulled by all this swaggering; ycu 
 Can see the root of the matter ! — how I strive 
 To put a good face on the overthrow 
 I have experienced, and to bury and hide 
 My degradation in its length and breadth ; 
 How the mean motives I would make you think 
 Just mingle as is due with nobler aims. 
 The appetites I modestly allow 
 May influence me — as I am mortal still — 
 Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant 
 My youth's desires: you are no stupid dupe; 
 You find me out ! Y"es, I had sent for you 
 To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus ! 
 Laugh — you shall laugh at me ! 
 
 Fest. The paijt, then, A areole 
 
 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 
 W"r'j troubled should your qualities alight
 
 PARACELSUS. 107 
 
 A.ruid 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 fjimished 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 demands, nor will abate a jot 
 Of toil's strict value ; but time passes o'er, 
 And humbler spirits accept what we refuse; 
 In short, when some such comfort is doled out 
 As these delights, we cannot long retain 
 The bitter contempt which urges us at first 
 To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast 
 And thankfully retire. This life of mine 
 Must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned : 
 I am just fit for that and nought beside. 
 I told you once, I cannot now Enjoy, 
 Unless I deem my knowletlge gains through joy ; 
 Nor can I Know, but straight warm tears reve.-il 
 My need of linking also joy to knowledge : 
 So on I drive — enjoying all I can,
 
 108 PARACELSUS. 
 
 And knowing all I can. I speak, of course, 
 
 Confusedly; this will better explain — feel here! 
 
 Quick beating, is it not? — a fire of the heart 
 
 To work off someway, this as well as any ! 
 
 So Festus sees rae fairly launched ; his calm 
 
 Compassionate look might have disturbed me once, 
 
 But now, far from rejecting, I invite 
 
 What bids rae press the closer, lay myself 
 
 Open before him, and be soothed with pity ; 
 
 And hope, if he command hope ; and believe 
 
 As he directs me — satiating myself 
 
 With his enduring love : and Festus quits me 
 
 To give place to some credulous disciple 
 
 Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus 
 
 Has his peculiar merits. I suck in 
 
 That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration, 
 
 And then dismiss the fool ; for night is come, 
 
 And I betake myself to study again, 
 
 Till patient searchings after hidden lore 
 
 Half wring some bright truth fx*om its prison ; mj 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, 
 
 [ must review my captured truth, sum up 
 
 Its value, trace what ends to what begins, 
 
 [ts present power with its eventual bearings. 
 
 Latent affinities, the views it opens,
 
 FAkACELSUS. 108 
 
 And its full length in perfecting my scheme; 
 
 [ view it sternly circumscribed, cast down 
 
 From the higli place my fond liopes yielded it, 
 
 Proved worthless — which, in getting, yet had cost 
 
 Another wrench to this fast-falling frame; 
 
 Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow ! 
 
 I lapse back into youth, and take again 
 
 Mere hopes of bliss for proofs that bliss will be, 
 
 — My fluttering pulse, for evidence that God 
 
 Means good to me, will make my cause his own ; 
 
 See ! I have cast off this remorseless care 
 
 Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free. 
 
 And my dim chamber has become a tent, 
 
 Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . . 
 
 Why do you start ? I say, she listening here, 
 
 (For yonder's Wiirzburg through the orchard-boaghs) 
 
 Motions as though such ardent words should find 
 
 No echo in a maiden's quiet soul, 
 
 But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast 
 
 With tears, her sweet lips tremble all the while I 
 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Fest. It seems, then, you expect to reap 
 No unreal joy from this your present course, 
 Bat rather . . . 
 
 Par. Death ! To die ! 1 own that much 
 
 To what, at least, I was. I should be sad 
 To five contented after such a fall — 
 To thrive and fatten after such reverse I 
 Tlie wliole plan is a mjdieshift, but will la^t 
 My time.
 
 ilO PARACELSUS. 
 
 Fest. And you have never mused and said, 
 
 " I had a noble purpose, and full strength 
 " To compass it ; but I have stopped half-way, 
 "And wrongly give the first fruits of my toil 
 " To objects little worthy of the gift : 
 " Wliy linger round them still ? why clench my fault? 
 " Why seek for consolation in defeat — 
 " In vain endeavours to derive a beauty 
 " Fi'om 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 ? 
 
 Often at midnight, when most fjxncies come, 
 Would some such airy project visit me : 
 But ever at the end ... or will you hear 
 The same thing in a tale, a parable ? 
 It cannot prove more tedious ; listen then ! 
 You and I, wandering over the world wide, 
 Chance to set foot upon a desert coast : 
 Just as we cry, "No human voice before 
 Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks ! " 
 ■ — Their querulous echo startles us ; we turn : 
 What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea? 
 Some characters remain, too ! While we read, 
 The sharp, salt wind, impatient for the last 
 "^i even this record, wistfully comes and goes,
 
 PARACELSUS. Ill 
 
 Or sings what we recover, mocking it. 
 
 This is the record ; and my voice, the wind's. 
 
 (He sings.) 
 
 Over the sea our galleys went, 
 With cleaving prows in order brave, 
 To a speeding wind and a bounding wave— 
 
 A gallant armament : 
 Each bark built out of a foi'est-tree. 
 
 Left leafv 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 ; 
 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 star-shine, 
 Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, 
 
 Might pierce the regal tenement. 
 When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
 We set the sail and plied the oar ; 
 But when the uiglit-wiiid blew like breath, 
 For joy of one day's voyage more. 
 We sang together on the wide sea,
 
 i L2 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Like men at peace on a peaceful shoie ; 
 Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, 
 Each helm made sure by the twilight stai. 
 And in a sleep as calm as death, 
 We, the strangers from afar, 
 
 Lay stretched along, each weary crew 
 In a circle round its wondrous tent, 
 Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, 
 i And with light and perfume, music too : 
 
 So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past 
 And at mom we started beside the mast. 
 And still each ship was sailing fast ! 
 
 One morn, the land appeared ! — a speck 
 Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky — 
 Avoid it, cried our pilot, check 
 
 The shout, restrain the longing eye ! 
 But the heaving sea was black behind 
 For many a night and many a day, 
 And land, though but a rock, drew nigh ; 
 So we broke the cedar pales away, 
 Let the purple awning flap in the wind. 
 
 And a statue bright was on every deck 
 We shouted, every man of us, 
 And steered right into the harbour thus, 
 With pomp and paean glorious. 
 
 An hundred shapes of lucid stone ! 
 All day we built a shrine for each—
 
 PARACKL3US. 113 
 
 A shrine of rock for every one — 
 
 Nor paused we till in the westering sun 
 
 We sate together on the beach 
 To sing, because our task was done ; 
 When lo ! what shouts and merry songs I 
 What hiuEfliter all the distance stirs) 
 What raft comes loaded with its throngs 
 Of gentle islanders ? 
 " The isles are just at hand," they cried ; 
 
 " Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping, 
 " Our temple-gates are opened wide, 
 
 '' Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 
 " For the lucid shapes you bring " — they cried. 
 Oh, then we awoke with sudden start 
 From our deep dream ; we knew, too late, 
 How bare the rock, how desolate. 
 To which we had flung our precious freight : 
 
 Yet we called out — " Depart ! 
 " Our gifts, once given, must here abide : ^ 
 
 " Our work is done ; we have no heart 
 " To mar our work, though vain " — we cried. 
 
 Fest. In truth ? 
 
 Par. Nay, wait : all this in tracings faint 
 
 >4lay still be read on that deserted rock, 
 On rugged stones, strewn here and there, but piled 
 In order once ; then follow^ — mark what follows— 
 "The sad riiyrae of the men who proudly clung 
 * To their first fault, and withered in their pride I " 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 PAEACELSCS. 
 
 Fest. Come back, then, Aureole ; as you fear God, come 
 This is foul sin ; come back : renounce the past. 
 Forswear the future ; look for joy no more, 
 But wait death's summons amid holy sights. 
 And trust me for the event — peace, if not joy ! 
 Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole. 
 
 Par. No way, no way : it would not turn to good. 
 A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss — 
 'Tis well for him ; but when a sinful man. 
 Envying such slumber, may desire to put 
 His guilt away, shall he return at once 
 To rest by lying there ? Our sires knew well 
 (Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons) 
 The fitting course for such ; dark cells, dim lamps, 
 A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm : 
 No mossy pillow, blue with violets ! 
 
 Fest. I see no symptom of these absolute 
 And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now. 
 This verse-making can purge you well enough, 
 Without the terrible penance you describe. 
 You love me still : the lusts you fear, will never 
 Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more ! 
 Say but the word ! 
 
 Par. No, no ; those lusts forbid : 
 
 They crouch, I know, Cowering with half-shut eye 
 Beside you ; 'tis their nature. Thrust yourself 
 Between them and their prey ; let some fool style me 
 Or king or quack, it matters not, and try 
 Your wisdom then, at urging their retreat I
 
 PARACKLSLS. 115 
 
 No, no ; learn better and look deeper, Festus 1 
 If you knew how a devil sneers within me 
 While you are talking now of this, now that, 
 As though we differed sciircely save in trifles I 
 
 Fest. Do we so ditfer ? True, change must proceed. 
 Whether for good or ill; keep from rae, which ! 
 God made you and knows what you may become — 
 Do not confide all secrets : I was born 
 To hope, and you . . . 
 
 Par. To trust : you know the fruits 
 
 Fest. Listen : I do believe, what you call trust 
 Was self-reliance at the best : for, see ! 
 So long as God. would kindly pioneer 
 A path for you, and screen you from the world, 
 Procure you full exemption from man's lot, 
 Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext 
 Of your engagement in his service — ^yield you 
 A limitless license, make you God, in fact, 
 And turn your slave — you were content to say 
 Most courtly praises ! What is it, at last, 
 But selfishness without example ? None 
 Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours 
 Remained implied in it; but now you fail, 
 And we, who prate about that will, are fools ! 
 In short, God's service is established here 
 As He determines fit, and not your way, 
 And this you cannot brook ! Such discontent 
 Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at onco 1 
 AtEi-m an absolute right to have and use
 
 116 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Your energies ; as though the rivers should say— 
 " We rush to the ocean ; what have we to do 
 " "With feeding streamlets, lingering in the marshes, 
 '* Sleeping in lazy pools ? " Set up that plea, 
 That will be bold at least ! 
 
 Par. Perhaps, perhaps ! 
 
 Ycur only serviceable spirits are those 
 The east produces : — lo, the master nods. 
 And they raise terraces, spread garden-grounds 
 In one night's space ; and, this done, straight begin 
 Another century's sleep, to the great praise 
 Of him that framed them wise and beautiful, 
 Till a lamp's rubbing, or some chance akin, 
 "Wake them again. I am of different mould. 
 I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him, 
 And done him service past my narrow bond, 
 And thus I get rewarded for my pains ! 
 Beside 'tis vain to talk of forwarding 
 God's glory otherwise ; this is alone 
 The sphere of its increase, as far as men 
 Increase it ; why, then, look beyond this sphere ? 
 We are His glory ; and if we be glorious, 
 Is not the thing achieved ? 
 
 Test. Shall one like rac 
 
 Judge hearts like yours? Though years havj -I'linged 
 
 you much, 
 And you have left your first love, and retain 
 Its emptj" shade to veil your crooked ways, 
 iTet I still hold that you have honoured God ;
 
 PARACELSUS. 117 
 
 dind who shall call your course without reward ? 
 For, wherefore this repining at defeat, 
 Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes ? 
 I urge you to forsake the life you curse, 
 And what success attends me ? — simply talk 
 Of passion, weakness, and remorse ; in short, 
 Any thing but the naked truth : you clioose 
 This so-despised career, and rather praise 
 Than take my happiness, or other men's. 
 Once more, return ! 
 
 Par. And soon. OporLnus 
 
 Has pilfered half my secrets by this time : 
 And we depart by daybreak. I am weaiy, 
 I know not how ; not even the wine-cup soothes 
 My brain to-night . . . 
 Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus ? 
 No flattery ! One like you, needs not be told 
 "We live and breathe deceiving and deceived. 
 Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts ? 
 Me and my cant — my petty subterfuges — 
 My rhymes, and all this frothy shower of words— 
 My glozing self-deceit — my outward crust 
 Of lies, which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfair 
 Wrap the sound flesh ? — so, see you flatter not ! 
 Why, even God flatters ! but my friend, at least, 
 Ts true. I would depart, secure henceforth 
 Against all further insult, hate, and wrong 
 Yroxn puny foes : my one friend's scorn shall brand me— 
 No fear of sinking deeper !
 
 '18 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Fcst. No, dear Aureole ! 
 
 No, no ; I came to counsel faithfully : 
 There are old rules, made long ere we were bom, 
 By which I judge you. I, so fallible, 
 So infinitely low beside your spirit 
 Mighty, majestic ! — even I can see 
 You own some higher law than ours which call 
 Sin, what is no sin — weakness, what is strength ; 
 But I have only these, such as they are. 
 To guide me ! and I blame you where they blame, 
 Only so long as blaming promises 
 To win peace for your soul ; the more, that sorrow 
 Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me 
 So that I faint not under my distress. 
 But wherefore should I scruple to avow 
 In spite of all, as brother judging brother, 
 Your fate to me is most inexplicable : 
 And should you perish without recoiiipense 
 And satisfaction yet — too hastily 
 I have relied on love : you may have sinned. 
 But you have loved. As a mere human matter — 
 As I would have God deal with fragile men 
 In the end — I say that you will triumj)li yet ! 
 
 Par. Have you felt sorrow, Festus ? — 'tis because 
 You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours 1 
 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.
 
 PARACELSUS. 119 
 
 Par. Michal is dead ! pray Christ we do not craze I 
 
 Fest. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! 
 Fool, fool ! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof— 
 I cannot bear those eyes. 
 
 Pur, Nay, really dead ? 
 
 Fest. 'Tis scarce a month . . . 
 
 Par. Stone dead ! — then you have laid her 
 Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, 
 I can reveal a secret which shall comfort 
 Even you. I have no julep, as men think, 
 To cheat the grave ; but a far better secret. 
 Know then, you did not ill to trust your love 
 To the cold earth : I have thouGfht much of it : 
 For I believe w e do not whol ly die. 
 
 Fest. Aureole . . . 
 
 Par. Nay, do not laugh ; there is a reason 
 
 For what I say : I think the soul can never 
 Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, 
 Very unfit to put so strange a thought 
 In an intelligible dress of words ; 
 But take it as my trust, she is not dead. 
 
 Fest. But not on this account alone ? you surely, 
 ■ — Aureole, you have believed tliis all along ? 
 
 Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, 
 While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes 
 For Nuremburg, 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,
 
 120 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Troop jou in safety to the snug back-seats. 
 And leave a clear arena for the brave 
 About to perish for your sport ! — Behold ! 
 
 v.— PAKACELSUS ATTAmS. 
 SCENB. — A cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian, at Saldiurg. ]-">4l 
 
 Festcs, PaKACELS0S. 
 
 Fest. No change ! The weary night is weUnigh spent 
 The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bai'S 
 Gray morning glimmers feebly — yet no change ! 
 Another night, and still no sigh has stirred 
 That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit 
 Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, 
 Like torch-flame choked in dust : while all beside 
 Was breaking, to the last they held out bright, 
 As a strong-hold where life intrenched itself ; 
 But they are dead now — very blind and dead. 
 He will drowse into death without a groan ! 
 
 My Aureole — my forgotten, ruined Aureole ! 
 
 The days are gone, are gone ! How grand thou wert ! 
 
 And now not one of those who struck thee down — 
 
 Poor, glorious spirit — concerns him even to stay ^ 
 
 And satisfy himself his little hand 
 
 Could turn God's image to a livid thing.
 
 lARACELSUS. 121 
 
 Another night, and yet no change ! *Tis much 
 
 That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow, 
 
 And chafe his hands — 'tis much ; but he will sure 
 
 Know me, and look on me, and speak to me 
 
 Once more — but only once! His hollow cheek 
 
 Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh 
 
 At his own state were just about to break 
 
 From the dying man : my brain swam, my throat swelled, 
 
 And yet I could not turn away. In truth, 
 
 They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed 
 
 Resolved to live — to lose no faculty ; 
 
 Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength, 
 
 Until they boi'e 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-like place ; 
 
 And then he lay as here he lies. 
 
 Ay, here ! 
 Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded — 
 Her bravest champion, with his well-won meed — 
 Her best achievement, her sublime amends 
 For countless generations, fleeting fast 
 And followed by no trace ; — the creature-god 
 (She instances when angels would dispute 
 The title of her brood to rank with them — 
 Angels, this is our angel ! — those bright forms 
 We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones, 
 Are human, but not his: those are but men
 
 122 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Whom other men press round and kneel beforis— 
 Those palaces are d'.velt in by mankind ; 
 Higher provision is for hira 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 to forget awhile its proper end. 
 
 Dost thou well, Lord ? Thou canst not but prefer 
 
 That I should range myself upon his side — 
 
 How could he stop at every step to set 
 
 Thy glory forth ? Hadst Thou but granted hira 
 
 Success, thy honour would have crowned success, 
 
 A halo round a star. Or, say he erred, — 
 
 Save him, dear God ; it will be like thee : bathe him 
 
 In light and life ! Thou art not made like us ; 
 
 We should be wroth in such a case ; but Thou 
 
 Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts. 
 
 Which come unsought, and will not pass away ! 
 
 I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made 
 
 Light for me in the darkness — tempering sorrow, 
 
 So that it reached me like a solemn joy ;
 
 PARACELSUS. 1 23 
 
 tt were too strange that I should tloubt thy love . 
 
 But what am I ? Thou madest him, and knowesi 
 
 How he was fashioned. I could never err 
 
 That way : the quiet place beside thy feet, 
 
 Reserved tor rae, was ever in iny thoughts ; 
 
 But he — Thou shouldst have favoured him as well! 
 
 Ah! he wakes! Aureole, I am here — 'tis Festus ! 
 I cast away all wishes save one wish — 
 Let him but know me — only speak to me ! 
 He mutters — louder and louder; any other 
 Than I, with brain less laden, could collect 
 What lie 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 r-apid words : 
 
 he will know rae yet ! Could I divert 
 This current — lead it somehow gently back 
 Into the channels of the past ! — His eye, 
 Brighter than ever ! It must recognize ! 
 
 Let me speak to him in another's name. 
 
 1 am Erasmus : I am here to pray 
 That Paracelsus use his skill for me. 
 The schools of Paris and of Padua send 
 These questions fo-" your leai-ning to resolve.
 
 124 PARACELSUS. 
 
 We are your students, noble master : leave 
 
 This wretched cell ; what business have you here ? 
 
 Our class awaits you ; come to us once mor** 
 
 (O agony ! the utmost I can do 
 
 Touches him not ; how else arrest his ear ?) 
 
 I am commissioned ... I shall craze like him — 
 
 Better be mute, and see what God shall send. 
 
 Par. Stay, stay with me ! 
 
 Fest. I will ; I am come heie 
 
 To stay with you — Festus, you loved of old ; 
 Festus, you Jinow, you must know ! 
 
 Par. Festus ! Where'* 
 
 Aprile, tlien ? Has he not chanted softly » 
 
 The melodies I heai'd 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 1 
 
 Fest. Festus, your Festus ! 
 
 Par. Ask him if Aprile 
 
 Knows as he loves — if I shall Love and Know ? 
 I try ; but that cold hand, like lead — so cold ! 
 
 Fest. My hand, see ! 
 
 Par. Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile 
 
 We gel so near — so very, very near ! 
 Tis an old tale : Jove strikes the Titans down 
 Not when they set about their mountain-piling,
 
 PARACEL303. 125 
 
 But when another rock would crown their work 1 
 And Phaeton — doubtless his first radiant plunge 
 Astonished mortals ; though the gods were calm, 
 And Jove prepared his thunder : all old tales ! 
 
 Fcst. And what are these to you ? 
 
 Par. Ay, fiends must laugl 
 
 So cruelly, so well ; most like I never 
 Could tread a single pleasure under foot. 
 But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling 
 To see me toil, and drop away by flakes ! 
 llell-spawn ! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail ! 
 You that hate men and all who wish their good — 
 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 'twas you that held me back ? 
 Listen : there's shame, and hissing, and contempt. 
 And none but laughs who names me — none but spi':8 
 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 immost truth. 
 Had done all man could do, yet failed no less — 
 Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair ? 
 Ha, ha ! why they are hooting the empiric, 
 The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed 
 Madly upon a work beyond his wits ; 
 Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves
 
 126 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Could bring the matter to triumphant issue ! 
 So pick and choo-e among them all, Accursed ! 
 Try now, persuade some other to slave for you, 
 To ruin body and soul to work your ends : 
 No, no ; I am the first and last, I think ! 
 
 Fest. Dear friend ; who are accursed ? who has done . . 
 
 Par. "What have I done ? Fiends dare ask that ? or you 
 Brave men ? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed 
 By the others ! What had you to do, sage peers ? 
 Here stand my rivals, truly — Arab, Jew, 
 Greek, join dead hands against me : all I ask 
 Is, that the Avorld enroll my name with theirs, 
 And even this poor privilege, it seems, 
 They range tliemselves, prepared to disallow ! 
 Only observe : why fiends may learn from them ! 
 How they talk calmly of my tliroes — my fierce 
 Aspirings, terrible watchings — -^ach 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 ! Gray crew, 
 Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell. 
 Is there a reason for your hate .'' My truths 
 Have shaken a little the palm about each head ? 
 Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards 
 Wore bent on nothing less than being crowned 
 As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief, 
 To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect-
 
 PARACELSUS. 127 
 
 Galen, of Pergaraos and hell ; nay speak 
 riie tale, old man ! We met there face to face : 
 [ said the crown should full 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 ! 
 — Wlio said these old renowns, dead loii": a^o. 
 Could make me overlook the living world 
 To gaze through gloom at where tliey 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 I 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. 
 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 ermuie's winter coat ! 
 
 Fest. A sense 
 
 Will struggle through these thronging words at last, 
 A.S in the angry and tumultuous west
 
 128 PARACELSUS. 
 
 A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. 
 These are the strivings of a spirit which hates 
 So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up 
 The past to stand between it and its fate : 
 Were he at Einsiedeln — or IMichal 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 ! 
 *Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels 
 Reveal themselves to you ; they sit all day 
 Beside you, and lie down at night by you, 
 Who care not for their presence — muse or sleep — 
 And all at once they leave you and you know them ! 
 We are so fooled, so cheated ! Why, even now 
 I am not too secure against foul play : 
 The shadows deepen, and the walls contract — 
 No doubt some treachery is going on ! 
 'Tis very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile ? 
 Have they left us in the lurch ? This murky, loathsome 
 Death-ti'ap — this slaughter-house — is not the hall 
 In the golden city ! Keep by me, Aprile ! 
 There is a hand groping amid the blackness 
 To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you, 
 Poet ? Hold on me for your life ; if once 
 They pull you !— Hold ! 
 
 'Tis but a dream — no more, 
 I have you still — the sun comes out again ; 
 Let us be happy — all will yet go well ! 
 Let us confer : is it not like, Aprile,
 
 PARACBw^iSUS. 12l 
 
 That spit^ of trouble, this ordeal passed, 
 
 The value of ray 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 gi-eat approval which I seek ? 
 
 I, you, and God can comprenend each othei, 
 
 But men would murmur, and with cause enough ; 
 
 For when they saw me, stainless of all sin, 
 
 Preserved and sanctified by inward light. 
 
 They would complain that comfort, shut from them, 
 
 I drank thus unespied ; that they live on, 
 
 Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy. 
 
 For ache, and care, and doubt, and weariness, 
 
 Wliile I am calm ; help being vouchsafed to me. 
 
 And liid from them ! — 'Twere best consider that ! 
 
 You reason well, Aprile ; but at least 
 
 let me know this, and die ! Is this too much ? 
 
 I will learn this, if God so please, and die ! 
 
 If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please ! 
 
 We are so weak, we know our motives least 
 
 It their confused beginning : if at first 
 
 1 sought . . . But wherefore bare my heart to thee ? 
 
 I inow thy mercy ; and already thoughts 
 
 Flock fast about my soul to comfort it, 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 PARACELSUS. 
 
 And intimate I cannot wholly fail, 
 For love and praise would clasp rae willingly 
 Could I I'esolve 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 
 That fed my youth — one only hour of that 
 With thee to help — what should bar me then 
 
 Lost, lost ! Thus things are ordered here ! God's creature^ 
 And yet he takes no pride in us ! — none, none 1 
 Truly there needs another life to come 1 
 If this be all — (I must tell Festus that) 
 And other life await us not — for one, 
 I say 'tis a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, 
 A wretched failure. I, for one, protest 
 Against it — and I hurl it back with scorn ! 
 
 Well, onward though alone : small time remains, 
 
 And much to do : I must have fruit, must reap 
 
 Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body 
 
 Will hardly serve me through: while I have laboured 
 
 It has decayed ; and now that I demand 
 
 Its best assistance, it will crumble fast : 
 
 A sad thought — a sad fate ! How very full 
 
 Of Avormwood 'tis, that just at altar-service, 
 
 The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, 
 
 When glory dawns, and all is at the best — 
 
 The sacred fire may flicker, and grow faint,
 
 PAllACELSUS. 13) 
 
 A.nd die, for want of :i 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 thera lose nought 
 Of what I say ; something may yet be done. 
 
 They are ruins ! Trust me who am one of you I 
 All ruins — glorious once, but lonely now. 
 [t 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 wiien I have built 
 A far resplendent temple, all your own ? 
 Trust me, they are but ruins ! See, Aprile, 
 Men will not heed ! Yet were I not prepared 
 With better refuge for them, tongue of mine 
 Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is ; 
 I would sit down in silence with the rest. 
 
 Ha, what ? you spit at me, you grin and shriek 
 
 Contempt into my ear — ray ear which drank 
 
 God's accents once ? you curse me ? Why men, mea 
 
 I am not formed for it ! Those hideous eyes 
 
 Follow me sleeping, waking, praying God, 
 
 And will not let me even die : spare, spare me. 
 
 Siiining or no, forget thfk, only spare me 
 
 That horrible scorn ; you tliought I could support it.
 
 l32 PARACELSUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 am calm : I will exterminate the race ! 
 
 Enough of that : 'tis said and it shall be. 
 
 And now be merry — safe and sound am I, 
 
 Who broke through their best ranks to get at you 
 
 And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile ! 
 
 ^est. Plave you no thought, no memory for me, 
 Aureole ? I am so wretched — my pure Michal 
 Is gone, and you alone are left to me. 
 And even you forget me : take my hand — 
 Lean on me, thus. Do you not know me, Aureole ? 
 
 Par. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? 
 As you say, 'tis an awful enterprise — 
 But you believe I shall go through with it : 
 'Tis like you, and 1 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-haii-ed Jews, 
 Bound for their own land where redemption dawns !
 
 PARACELSUS. lo5 
 
 Fest. Not thai blest time — not our youth's time, ties: 
 God! 
 
 Par. Ha — stay ! true, I forget — all is done since i 
 \nd he is come to judge me : how he speaks, 
 How calm, how well ! yes, it is true, all true ; 
 A.11 quackery ; all deceit ! myself can laugh 
 The first at it, if you desire : but still 
 You know the obstacles whicli 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 pi'ivacy, an obscure nook for me. 
 I want to be forgotten even by God ! 
 But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me, 
 When I shall die, within some narrow grave, 
 Not by itself — for that would be too proud — 
 But where such graves are thick<;st; let it look 
 Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round, 
 So that the peasant at his brother's bed 
 May tread upon my own and knew it not; 
 And we shall all be equal at the lasv, 
 Or classed according to life's natural ranks,
 
 134 PARACELSUS. 
 
 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 ; 'twas for their good, 
 " But yet a dangerous station. It were strange 
 " That he should tell God he had never ranked 
 '• With men : so, here at least he is a man ! " 
 
 Fest. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear Spirit 
 Unto his breast, be sure ! and here on earth 
 Shall splendour sit upon thy name forever! 
 Sun ! all the heaven is glad for thee :- what care 
 If lower mountains light their snowy phares 
 At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not 
 The source of day ? Men look up to the sun • 
 For after-ages shall retrack thy beams, 
 And put aside the crowd of busy ones, 
 And worship thee alone — ^the master-mind. 
 The thinker, the explorer, the creator ! 
 Then, who should sneer at- the convulsive throes 
 With which thy deeds were born, would scorn a.9 well 
 The winding sheet of subterraneous fire 
 Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last 
 Huge islands up amid the simmering sea! 
 Behold thy might in me ! thou hast infused 
 Thy soul in mine ; and I am grand as thou, 
 Seeing I comprehend thee — I so simple. 
 Thou so august ! I recognize thee first ; 
 I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late, 
 A nd though no glance reveal thou dost accept
 
 PARACELSUS. 13 
 
 My homage — thus no less I proffer it, 
 And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest ! 
 Par. Festus! 
 
 Fest. I am for noble Aureole, God ! 
 
 I am upon his side, come weal or woe ! 
 His portion sluiU be mine! He has done well! 
 I would have sinned, had I been stronjj enoujrh. 
 As he has sinned ! Reward him or I waive 
 Reward ! If thou canst find no place for him 
 He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be 
 His slave forever ! There are two of us ! 
 Par. Dear Festus I 
 
 Fest. Here, dear Aureole ! ever by yo'u 
 
 Par. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on I 
 Some story, any thing — only your voice. 
 [ shall dream else. Speak on ! ay7 leaning so I 
 Fest. Softly the Mayne river glideth 
 Close by where my love abideth ; 
 Sleep's no softer : it proceeds 
 On through lawns, on through meads, 
 On and on, what e'er befall. 
 Meandering and musical. 
 Though the niggard pasture's edge 
 Bears not on its shaven ledge 
 Augbt but weeds and waving grasses 
 To view the river as it passes. 
 Save here and there a scanty patch 
 Of primroses, too faial to catct 
 A weary bee . . 
 
 R
 
 156 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Par. ^lore, more ; say on ! 
 Fest. The river 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 spedkled stoat. 
 Where the quick sand-pipers flit 
 In and out the marl and grit 
 That seems to breed them, brown as they. 
 ' Nought disturbs the river's way. 
 Save some lazy stork that springs. 
 Trailing it with legs and wings, 
 Whom the shy f»x from the hill 
 Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 
 Par. My heart, they loose my heart, those simple woid» 
 Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch ; 
 Like some dark snake that force may not expel, 
 Which glideth out to music sweet and low. 
 What were you doing when your voice broke througV' 
 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?
 
 PARACELSUS. 137 
 
 Fast. But wherefore am I here ? 
 
 Par. Ah ! well remembered 
 
 Wliy, for a purpose — for a purpose, Festus ! 
 'Tis like me : here I trifle while time fleets, 
 And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return ! 
 You are here to be instructed. I will tell 
 God's message ; but I have so much to say, 
 I fear to leave half out: all is confused 
 No doubt ; but doubtless you will learn in time. 
 He would not else have brought you here : no doubt 
 I shall see clearer soon. 
 
 Fest. Tell me but this — 
 
 You are not in despair ? 
 
 Par. I ? and for what ,' 
 
 Fest. Alas, alas ! he knows not, as I feared I 
 
 Par. What is it you would ask me with that earnest, 
 Dear, searching face ? 
 
 Fest. How feel you. Aureole ? 
 
 Par. WeU I 
 
 Well : 'tis a strange thing. I am dying, Festus, 
 And now that fast the storm of life subsides, 
 I first perceive how great the whirl has been : 
 I was calm then, who am so dizzy now — 
 Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less 
 A partner of its motion, and mixed up 
 With its career. The hurricane is spent, 
 v4Lnd the good boat speeds through the briglitening weather; 
 But is it earth or sea that heaves below ? 
 For the gulf rolls like a meadow, overstrewn
 
 1 38 PARACELSUS. 
 
 With ravaged boucrhs and remnants of the shcre; 
 
 And now some islet, loosened from the land, 
 
 Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; 
 
 And now the air is full of up-torn canes. 
 
 Light sti'ippings from the fan-ti'ees, tamarisks 
 
 Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, 
 
 All high in the wind. Even so my varied life 
 
 Drifts by me. I am young, old, happy, sad, 
 
 Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest, 
 
 And all at once : that is, those past conditions 
 
 Float back at once on me. If I select 
 
 Some special epoch from the crowd, 'tis but 
 
 To will, and straight the rest dissolve away, 
 
 And only that particular state is present. 
 
 With all its long-forgotten circumstance. 
 
 Distinct and vivid as at first — myself 
 
 A careless looker-on, and nothing more ! 
 
 Indifferent and amused, but nothing more! 
 
 And this is death : I understand it all. 
 
 New being waits me; new perceptions must 
 
 Be born in me before I plunge therein ; 
 
 Which last is Death's affair ; and while I speak, 
 
 Minute by minute he is filling me 
 
 With power ; and while my foot is on the threshold 
 
 Of boundless life — the doors unopened yet, 
 
 All preparations not complete within — 
 
 I turn new knowledge upon old events. 
 
 And the effect is . . . But I must not tell ; 
 
 It is not lawful. Your own turn will come 
 
 One day. Wait, Festus ! You will die like me !
 
 PAnACELSUS. 139 
 
 Fcst. 'Tis of that past life that I burn to hear I 
 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 ri„fiain ? 'Tis a refined 
 
 Delight to view those chances, — one last view. 
 
 I am so near the perils I escape, 
 
 That I must play with them and turn them over, 
 
 To feel how fully they are past and gone. 
 
 Still it is like some further cause exists 
 
 For this peculiar mood — some hidden purpose ; 
 
 Did I not tell you something of it, Festus ? 
 
 I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt 
 
 Away from me ; it will return anon. 
 
 Fest. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voico 
 
 Complete with its old tones : that little laugh 
 
 Concluding every phrase, with up-turned eye, 
 
 A.S though one stooped above his head, to whom 
 
 He looked for confirmation and applause, — 
 
 Where was it gone so long, being kept so well ? 
 
 Then the fore-finger pointing as he speaks, 
 
 Like one who traces in an open book 
 
 The matter he declares ; 'tis many a year 
 
 Since I remarked it last : and this in him, 
 
 But now a ghastly wreck !) 
 
 And can it be, 
 
 Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last 
 
 That worldly things are utter vanity ?
 
 140 PARACELSUS. 
 
 That man is made for weakness, and should wait 
 En 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 morel 
 Speak from a couch ? I never lectured thus. 
 My gown — the scarlet, lined with fur; now put 
 The chain about my neck ; my signet-ring 
 Is still upon my hand, I think — even so ; 
 Last, my good sword; ha, trusty Azoth, leapest 
 Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time ? 
 This couch shall be my throne : I bid these walls 
 Be consecrate ; this wretched cell become 
 A shrine ; for here God speaks to men through me ! 
 Now, Festas, I am ready to begin. 
 
 Fest. I am dumb with wonder. 
 
 Par. Listen, therefore, Festus 
 
 There will be time enough, but none to spare. 
 r must content myself with telling only 
 The most important points. You doubtless feel 
 That T am happy, Festus ; very happy.
 
 PARACELSUS. 141 
 
 Fest. 'Tis no delusion which uplifts him thus I 
 Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin ? 
 
 Par. Ay, pardoned ! yet why pardoned ? 
 
 Feft. 'Tis God's praisa 
 
 That man is bound to seek, and you . . 
 
 Pur. Have lived ! 
 
 We have to live alone to set forth well 
 God's praise. 'Tis true, I sinned much, as I thought, 
 And in eflfect need mercy, for I strove 
 To do that very thing ; but, do your best 
 Or worst, praise rises, and will rise forever. 
 Pardon from Him, because of praise denied — 
 Who calls me to Himself to exalt Himself? 
 He might laugh as i laugh ! 
 
 Fest. Then all comes 
 
 To the same thing. 'Tis fruitless for mankind 
 To fret tliemselves with what concerns them not ; 
 They are no use that way : they should lie down 
 Content as God has made them, nor go mad 
 In thriveless cares to better what is ill. 
 
 Par. No, no ; mistake me not ; let me not work 
 More harm than I have done ! This is my case : 
 If I go joyous back to God, yet bring 
 No ofFciring, if I render up ray 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
 
 142 PARACELSUS. 
 
 The mortal persevering to the end. 
 
 For I too have been something, though too soon 
 
 I left the instincts of that happy time ! 
 
 Fest What happy time ? For God's sake, for man's sakk 
 What time was happy ? AH I hope to know 
 That answer will decide. What happy time ? 
 
 Par. When, but the time I vowed my help to man ? 
 
 Fest. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable ! 
 
 Par. Yes, it was in me ; I was born for it — 
 I, Paracelsus : It was mine by right. 
 Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul 
 Might learn from its own motions that some task 
 Like this awaited it about the world ; 
 Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours 
 For fit delights to stay its longings vast ; 
 And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her 
 To fill the creature full she dared to frame 
 Hungry for joy ; and, bravely tyrannous, 
 Grow in demand, still craving more and more. 
 And make each joy conceded prove a pledge 
 Of other joy to follow — bating nought 
 Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence 
 To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung 
 /Vs an extreme, last boon, from Destiny, 
 futo 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,
 
 PARACELSUS. 143 
 
 His naked spirit so majestical ! 
 But this was born in me ; I was made so ; 
 Thus much time saved : the feverish appetites, 
 The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed 
 Uncertain yearning.^, aspirations blind, 
 Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears 
 Were saved me ; thus I entered on ray course I 
 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 whei'e all aspire at last 
 To stand : the secret of the world was mine. 
 I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, 
 Uncomprehended by our narrow thought. 
 But somehow felt and known in every shift 
 And change in the spirit, — nay, in every pore 
 Of the body, even,) — what God is, what we are. 
 What life is — how God tastes an infinite joy 
 In infinite ways — one everlasting bliss. 
 From whom all being emanates, all power 
 Proceeds ; in whom is life for evermore, 
 Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
 Includes ; where dwells enjoyment there is He 
 VVith still a flying point of bliss remote,
 
 144 PARACELSUS 
 
 A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
 
 Of distant glory in full view ; thus climbs 
 
 Pleasure its heights forever and forever ! 
 
 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 volcanoes come up, cyclops-like, 
 
 Staring together with their eyes on fiame ; — 
 
 God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride ! 
 
 Then all is still : earth is a wintry clod ; 
 
 But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 
 
 Over its breast to waken it ; rare verdure 
 
 Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 
 
 The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, 
 
 Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face ; 
 
 The grass gi'ows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooma 
 
 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
 
 PARACELSUS. 115 
 
 3f nested limpets ; savage creatures seek 
 riieir 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 moet 
 Convergent in the faculties of man. 
 Power ; neither put forth blindly, nor controlled 
 Calmly by perfect knowledge ; to be used 
 At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear • 
 Knowledge ; not intuition, but the slow 
 Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil, 
 Strengthened by love : love ; not serenely pure. 
 But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant 
 Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds, 
 And softer stains, unknown in happier climes ; 
 Love which endures, and doubts, and is oppressed. 
 And cherished, suffering much, and much sustained, 
 A blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, 
 A half-enlightened, often-checkered trust : — 
 Hints and previsions of which faculties, 
 A.re strewn confusedly everywhere about 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 PARACELSUS. 
 
 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 supplemeutary reflux of light, 
 
 Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains 
 
 Each back step in the circle. Not alone 
 
 For their possessor dawn those qualities, 
 
 But the new glory mixes with the heaven 
 
 And earth : Man, once descried, imprints forever 
 
 His presence on all lifeless things ; the winds 
 
 Are henceforth voices, in a wail or shout, 
 
 A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh — 
 
 Never a senseless gust now man is born ! 
 
 The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts 
 
 A secret they assemble to discuss. 
 
 When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare 
 
 Like grates of hell : the peerless cup afloat 
 
 Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph 
 
 Swims bearing high above her head : no bird 
 
 Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above 
 
 That let light in upon the gloomy woods, 
 
 A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, 
 
 Ai'ch 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 :
 
 PARACELSUS. 147 
 
 -And this to fill us with regard for man, 
 With apprehension of his passing worth, 
 Desire to work his proper nature out, 
 And ascertain his rank and final ])lace ; 
 For these things tend still upward — progress b 
 The law of life — man's self is not yet Man ! 
 Nor shall I deem his object served, his end 
 Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth, 
 While only here and there a star dispels 
 The darkness, here and there a towering mind 
 O'erlooks its prostrate fellows : when Uie host 
 Is out at once to the despair of night. 
 When all mankind alike is perfected, 
 Equal in full-blown powers — then, not till then, 
 I say, begins man's general infancy ! 
 For wherefore make account of feverish starts 
 Of restless members of a dormant whole — 
 Impatient nerves which quiver while the body 
 Slumbers as in a grave ? 0, 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 1 
 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 eartli.
 
 148 PARACELSUS. 
 
 And so begin his long triumphant march, 
 
 And date his Demg thence, — thus wholly roused, 
 
 What he achieves snail be set down to him ! 
 
 When all the race is perfected alike 
 
 As Man, thai 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, type? 
 
 Of a dim splendour ever on before, 
 
 fn that eten::al circle run by life : 
 
 For men oegin to pass their nature's bound, 
 
 And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant 
 
 Their proper joys and griefs ; and outgrow all 
 
 The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade 
 
 Before the unmeasured thirst for good ; while peace 
 
 Hises 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 their 
 
 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 wlioUy to disperse 
 
 The flitting mimic called up by itself, 
 
 And so remains perplexed and nigh put out 
 
 By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam.
 
 PARACELSUS. 14S 
 
 I, from the first, was never cheated so; 
 
 I never fashioned out a fancied good 
 
 Distinct from man's ; a service to be done, 
 
 A glory to be ministered unto, 
 
 With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn 
 
 From kibouring 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, 
 
 T failed : I gazed on power till I grew blind — 
 
 On power ; I could not take ray eyes from that — 
 
 That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased 
 
 At any risk, displayed, struck out at once — 
 
 The sign, and note, and character of man. 
 
 I saw no use in the pa?t : only a scene 
 
 Of degradation, imbecility — 
 
 The record of disgraces best forgotten, 
 
 A sullen page in human chronicles 
 
 Fit to erase : I saw no cause why man 
 
 Should not be all-sutlicient 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; 
 
 [ would have had one day, one moment's space. 
 
 Change man's condition, push each slnmbering claim 
 
 To mastery o'er the ilemsnital world 
 
 At once to full maturity, then roll
 
 150 PARACELSUS. 
 
 Oblivion o'er the tools, and hide from man 
 
 What night had ushered mom. Not so, dear child 
 
 Of after-days, wilt thou reject the Past, 
 
 Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure 
 
 By which thou hast the earth : the Present for thee 
 
 Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen 
 
 Beside that Past's own shade, whence, in relief, 
 
 Its brightness shall stand out : nor on thee yet 
 
 Shall bui'st the Future, as successive zones 
 
 Of several wonder open on some spirit 
 
 Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven ; 
 
 But thou shalt painfully attain to joy, 
 
 While hope, and fear, and love, shall keep thee man ! 
 
 All this was hid from me : as one by one 
 
 My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed. 
 
 As actual good within my reach decreased. 
 
 While obstacles sprung up this way and that, 
 
 To keep me from effecting half the sum. 
 
 Small as it pi'oved ; as objects, mean within 
 
 The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least. 
 
 Itself a match for my concentred strengtli — 
 
 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 ray career from its uprise ; 
 
 I saw Aprile — my Aprile there ! 
 
 And as the poor melodious wretch disburdened 
 
 His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear.
 
 PARACELSUS. . 1 53 
 
 [ learned my own deep error ; love's undoing 
 
 Tuught me th:; worth of love in man's estate, 
 
 And wliat proportion love should hold with power 
 
 In iiis right constitution ; love preceding 
 
 Power, and with much power, always much more love 
 
 Love still too straitened in its present means, 
 
 And earnest for new power to set it free. 
 
 I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: 
 
 And thus, when men received with stupid wonder 
 
 My tirst revealings, would have worshipped me. 
 
 And I despised and loathed their proffered praise — 
 
 When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge 
 
 For past credulity in casting shame 
 
 On my real knowledge, and I hated them — 
 
 It was not strange I saw no good in man. 
 
 To overbalance all the wear and waste 
 
 Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born 
 
 To prosper in some better sphei'e : and why? 
 
 In my own heart love had not been made wise 
 
 To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, 
 
 To know even hate is but a mask of love's, 
 
 To see a good in evil, and a hope 
 
 In ill-success , to sympathize, be proud 
 
 Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim 
 
 Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies. 
 
 Their prejudice, and fears, and cares, and doubts 
 
 Which all tojch upon nobleness, despite 
 
 Their error, all tend upwardly though weak, 
 
 Like plants in mines which never saw the sun,
 
 152 PARACELSUS. 
 
 But dream of Iiim, 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 
 
 Wlio once loved rashly ; and shape forth a third, 
 
 And better tempered spirit, warned by both : 
 
 As from the over-radiant star too mad 
 
 To (kink the light-springs, beamless thence itself— 
 
 And the dark orb which borders the abyss, 
 
 Ingulfed in icy night, — might have its course 
 
 A temperate and equidistant world. 
 
 Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. 
 
 As yet men cannot do without contempt — 
 
 'Tis for their good, and therefore fit awhile 
 
 That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, 
 
 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 splendour, soon or late. 
 
 Will pierce the gloom : I shall emerge one day I 
 
 You understand me? I have said enough? 
 
 Fest. Now die, dear Aureole ! 
 
 Par. Festus, let my hand- 
 
 This hand, lie in your own — my own true friend ! 
 Aprile I Hand in hand with you, Aprile ! 
 
 Fest. And this was Paracelsus
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The liberties I have taken with ray subject are very ffifling,- and 
 Ihe reader may slip the foregoing scenes between the leaves of any 
 memoir of Paracelsus he pleases, by way of commentary. To p,:ove 
 this, I subjoin a popular account, translated from the " Biographie 
 Vhiverselle, 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 incor- 
 porated with them a notice or two, illustrative of the poem itself. 
 
 " Varxceisus (PhiUpjnis Aureolas Theopkrasius Bombastiis ab Ebhen 
 heim) WHS born in 1493 at Einsiedein, (l) a little town in the canton 
 of Scliwitz, some leagues distant from Zurich. His father, who ex- 
 ercised the profession of medicine at Villach, in Carinthia, was nearly 
 related to George Bombast de Ilohenheim, who became afterwards 
 Grand Prior of the Order of Malta; consequently Paracelsus could 
 Lot spring from the dregs of the people, as Thomas Erastus, his sworn 
 enemy, pretends.* It appears that his elementary education was 
 muc-h neglected, and that he spent part of his youth iu pursuing the 
 
 • I shall dispuise M. Renauldin's next sentence n. little. '• Ilic (Krastus sc.) 
 Paraoi'lsum trimum a niilite quoilam, alii a sue cxeetiiui forunt : constat im- 
 berbeni ilium luisse." A stJinJing High-Dutch joke in those (Jays nt the expense 
 of a nuuiber of learned men, as m.ij be spcn by reffrring to such rubbish as 
 Melander's /ofosfriVi, &c. &c. Iu the prints from hi.s portniit by Tintoretto, 
 painted a year before his death, Paracelsus is bnrhatiilus, at all events. Kut 
 Erastus was never without a good reason for .lis Ciith — e. g. " Ilelvetium fuis9« 
 Pancelsuni) vix credo, vix culm ea retjio tale moustrum ediderit.' — De Med 
 Vovn
 
 154 NOTE. 
 
 life common to the travelling literati of the age; that is to say, in 
 wandering from country to countiy, predicting the future by astrology 
 and cheiromancy, evoking apparitions, and practising tlie diflferent 
 operations of magic and alchemj'-, in which he had been initiated 
 whether by his father or by various ecclesiastics, among the number 
 of whom he particularizes the Abbot Tritheim, (2) and many German 
 bishops. 
 
 " As Paracelsus displays everywhere an ignorance of the rudiments 
 of the most ordinary knowledge, it is not probable that he ever studied 
 seriously in the schools; he contented, himself with visiting the Uni- 
 versities of Germany, France, and Italy ; and in spite of his boasting 
 himself to have been the ornament of those institutions, there is no 
 proof of his having legally acquired the title of Doctor, which he 
 assumes. It is only known that he applied himself long, under the 
 direction of the wealthy Sigismond Fugger, of Schwatz, to the dis- 
 covery of the Magnum Opus. 
 
 *' Paracelsus ti-avelled 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.(3) He pro- 
 fesses 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 he extended his journeyings 
 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 'he tincture of Trismegistus, from a Greek who inhabited 
 that capital. 
 
 " The period of his return to Genmany is unknown : it is only cer- 
 tain that, at about the age of thirty-three, many astonishing cures 
 which he wrought on eminent personages procured him such a celeb- 
 rity, that he was called in 152G, on the recommendation of ((Ecolam- 
 padius,(^) to fill a chair of physic and surgery at the Univei'sity of 
 Basil. There Paracelsus began by burning publicly in the amphitheatre 
 the works of Avicenna and Galen, assuring his auditors that the 
 tatchets of his shoes were more instructed than those tw^ physicians 
 that all Universities, all writers put together, were less gifted than thi
 
 NOTE. 155 
 
 hairs of his beard and of the crown of liis head; and that, in a word, 
 he was to be regarded as tlie legitimate monarch of medicine. ' You 
 Bhall follow mc,' cried he, ' you, Avicenna, Galen, Rhasis, Jlontagnana, 
 Mesues, you, Gentlemen of Paris, Montpellier, Germany, Cologne, 
 Vienna,' and whomsoever the Rhine and the Danube nourich; 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 bo mine.'t 
 
 " But at Rnsil it was speedily percei^d 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 compre- 
 hending their emphatic jargon. That which above all contributed to 
 BuUy his reputation was the debauched life he led. According to the 
 testimony of Oporinus, who lived two years in his intimacy, Para- 
 celsus 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, ho rarely proceeded thither without 
 previously drenching himself with wine. He was accustomed to 
 retire to bed without changing his clothes ; sometimes he spent the 
 night in pot-houses with the peasants, and in the morning knew no 
 longer what he was about; and, nevertheless, up to the age of twenty- 
 five his only drink had been water.(5) 
 
 " At length, fearful of being punished for a serious outrage on a 
 magistratc,(6) he fled from Basil towards the end of the year '27, and 
 took refuge in Alsatia, whither he caused Oporinus to follow with his 
 chemical apparatus. 
 
 " He then entered once more upon the career of ambulatory theos 
 
 • Erastus, who relates this, here oddly remarks, " inirum ([uod non et Gara- 
 mantos, Indos et Ampins adjunxit." Not so wonderful neither, if we believe 
 what another adversary " liad heard somewhere,"'— tliat all I'aracclsus" system 
 came of his pillajriag " Anglum quendam, Uogerium Bacchonem/' 
 
 t Sec his works ijasxim. I must give one spe<iincn: Soniehndy had been 
 Rtyling him " Luther alter; " " and why not ? "' (lie asks, as he well might.) Lu- 
 ther is abundantly learned, therefore you hate him and me; but we are at least 
 » match for you.— Nam et eonrni vos et vesfros universos prinripes Aviconnam, 
 Oalenum, Aristotclem, &c. me s;itis superque muiiitum esse novi. Kt vertex 
 lute meus calvus ac depilis multo plum e*. sublimior.i novit quam yoster vel 
 Avicenna vel uiiivcrs,<p academioe. I'rodite, et signum date, qui viri sitis, quid 
 toboris habeatis? quid autem sitis? Doctores et magistri, redicidos jiecleutea 
 rt fricjiite.i podicem." — Frag'. Me I
 
 156 NOTE. 
 
 ophist.* 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 com 
 promised his reputation b}' 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 tlie many 
 kindnesses with which they had honoured his father. Finally, froaj 
 Mindelheim, which he visited*! 1540, Paracelsus proceeded to Salz- 
 burg, where he died in the Hospital of St. Stephen {Sebastian, is 
 meant), Sept. 24, 1541." — (Here follows a criticism on his writings, 
 which I omit.) 
 
 (1) Paracelsus would seem to be a fantastic version of Von Hdhen 
 keim ; Einsiedeln is tlie Latin Eremus, whence Paracelsus is some- 
 times called, as in the correspondence of Erasmus, Eremita: Bombast, 
 his proper name, originally acquired from the characteristic phrase- 
 ology of his lectures, that unlucky signification which it has ever since 
 retained. 
 
 (2) Then Bishop of Spanheim, and residing at Wiirzbnrg in traii- 
 oonia; a town situated in a grassj' fertile country, whence its name, 
 Hei-bipolis. He was ranch visited there by learned men, as may be 
 seen by his Ejiisiolai Familiares. Hag. 1536. Among others, by Lis 
 stanch friend Cornelius Agrippa, to whom he dates thence, in 1510, 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 ccenobio tuo 
 apud Herbipolim aliquamdiu conversatus, multa de chymicis, multa de 
 magicis, multa de cabalisticis, cseterisque quae adhuc in occulto de- 
 litescunt, arcanis scientiis atque artibus una contulisscm\ s," Szc. &c. 
 
 * " So migratory a life could afford Paracelsus but little Ici.sure for applica- 
 tion to books, ami accordingly he informs us that for the spiice of ten years lie 
 never opened a single volume, and that his whole mcdirnl library was not com- 
 posed of six sheets; in effect, the inventory drawn n|) afti'v his death states that 
 the only books which he left were the Bible, the New Testament, the Comnieu 
 tones of St. Jerome en the Gospels, a printed volume on Medicine, and Beve» 
 manuscripts.''
 
 NOTE. 157 
 
 ^3) " Ir.explebilis ilia aviditas natura; peiscrutaiuli sccrcfa et recon- 
 ditaruiu supellectile scicntiarum auimum locupletandi, uno eodemque 
 loco, dlu persistere non patiebatur, sed mercui-ii instar, oiiincs terras, 
 nationes et urbcs pevlHstrandi igiiiculos supponcbat et cum viris 
 natui-JE scrutatoribus, cliymicis pra;sertiin, ore teiius conferret, et quae 
 diutui-nis laboribiis nocturnisque vigiliis inveneraiit uiiii vel altera 
 communicatione obtinerct." — Biliskius in Prwfat. " Patris auxilio 
 primum, deindo propria industriiidoctissimos vires in Germania, Italia, 
 Gallia, Hispania, aliisque EuropiB regiouibus, nactus est prxceptores; 
 quorum liberal! doctrina, et potissiraum propria inquisitione ut qui 
 asset ingeiiio acuti?simo ac fero divino, tantiim protecit, utmultitestati 
 sint, in universa philosopliia, tam ardua, tam arcana et abvlita eruisse 
 mortalium nerainem." — Mddi. Adam, in Vit. Germ. Medic. " Paracel- 
 sus qui in iutiiiia naturae viscera sic penitiis introierit, metallorum 
 gtirpiumque vires et facultates tam incredibili ingenii acumine explo- 
 raverit ac perviderit; ad morbos omnes vel desperatos et 0|)inione hom- 
 inum insanabiles percurandum; ut cum Tlieoplirasto nata primum 
 medicina perfectaquo videtur." — Petri Rami Oral, de Basilea. His 
 passion for wandering is best described in his own words: " Ecce 
 amatorem adolescentcm difficillimi itineris baud pigct, ut venustam 
 saltern puellam vel fceminara aspiciat: quanto minus nobilissimarum 
 artium amore laboris ac cujuslibet tsedii pigebit V" &c. — Defensiones 
 Seplem adversus .^mulos suos. 1573. Def. 4.Ui. " De peregrinadonibiu 
 et e^cilio." 
 
 (4) The reader may remember that it was in conjunction with 
 (Ecolampadius, then Divinitj'-Professor at Basil, that Zuinglius pub 
 ished, in 1528, an answer to Luther's Confession of Faith; and that 
 Doth proceeded in company to the subsequent conference with Luthet 
 and Melancthou at Marpurg. Tlieir letters fill a large volume. — 
 D. D. Johannis (Ecolampadii et IltUdrichi ZuinyUi Epistohrum lib. qua 
 \uor. Bets. 1536. It must be also observed, that Zuniglius began to 
 preach in 1516, and at Zurica in 1519, and that in 1525 the mass was 
 dbolished in the cantons. The tenets of fficolampadius were snppo'^ed 
 to be mors evangelical than those up to that period maintained by the 
 Hlorious German, and our brave Bishop Fisher attnidicd them as the 
 fbulor heresy: "About this time arose out of Luther's school oa«
 
 158 NOTE. 
 
 (Ecolampudius, like a miohty and fierce giant who, as his master had 
 gone beyond tlie Church, went beyond liis master (or else it had been 
 impossible he could liave been reputed the better scholar) who 
 denied the real presence: him, this worthy champion (the Bishop) set? 
 upon, and with five books (like so many smooth stones taken out of 
 the river that doth always run with living water) slaj's the Piiilistiuc; 
 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 Bp. 
 Fisher. 1G55. Now, there is no doubt of the Protestantism of Paracel 
 BUS, Erasmus, Agrippa, &c., but the non-conformity of Paracelsus wae 
 always scandalous. L. Crasso {Elogj d'Huomini Letterali. Ven. 1666) 
 informs us that his books were excommunicated by the Church. 
 Quensledt {de Pair. Docl.) affirms "nee tantum uovse medicinae, 
 verum etiam novae theologise autor est." Delrio in his Disquisit. 
 Magicar. classes him among those " partim atheos, partim haereticos," 
 (/t6. 1. cap. 3.) " Omnino tamen multa theologica in ejusdcm scriptin 
 plan6 atlieismum olent, ac duriuscul^ sonant in auribus vere Christi 
 ani." — D. Gabriells Clavderi Sckedtasma de Tinct. Univ. Norimb. 1736. 
 I shall only add one more authority — " Oporinus dicit se ( Pai-acelsum) 
 aliquando Lutlierum et Papam, non minus quam nunc Galenum et 
 Hippocratem redacturum in ordinem minabatur, neque enim eorum 
 qui hactenus iu scripturam sacram scripsissent, sive veteres, sive recen- 
 tiores, quenquam scripturse nucleum rect6 eruisse, sed circa corticem 
 et quasi membranam tantum hserere." — Tli. Erasius. Disputat. de Med. 
 Nova. These and similar notions had their due effect on Oporinus, 
 who, says Zuingerus, in his Theatrum, '' longum vale dixit ei (Para- 
 celso) ne ob prceceptoris, alioqui amicissimi, horrendas blasphemias 
 ipse quoque aliquando poenas Deo. Ojjt. Max. lueret." 
 
 (5) His defenders allow the drunkenness. Take a sample of their 
 excuses: " Gentis hoc, non viri vitiolum est, a Taciti seculo ad nos- 
 trum usque non iiiterrupto filo devolutum, sinceritati forte Germanaa 
 cosevum, et nescio an aliquo consanguinitatis vinculo junctum."— 
 Biliskius The other charges were chiefly trumped up b^- Oporinus: 
 ' Demi, quod Oporinus amanuensis ejus srep6 narravit, lumquam nisi 
 potus ad explicanda sua accessit, atque in medio couclavi ad columnam 
 TETv<^ufu.vog adsistens, apprehenso manibus capulo easts, cujus Ko'Ouuua
 
 NOTE. 
 
 159 
 
 Dvwpiti-.im prsebuit at aiunt ppiritui fMiiiliar, imatjinationes aut con 
 c»|>ta sua pmrulit:— alii illml iiiiud in capuio lial)uit, ad ijtMo Axoth 
 appellatinn Me<licinain fiiisse praestantis-^imain aut lapideiii IMiilo- 
 BOphiciim put:int."— .l/(-/c/i. Adiim. Tlii< fauums sword was no laii»h 
 inC matter in those days, and is now a niaterial feature in tlio ])opulaT 
 idea of I'aracel-us. I recollect a couj)le of aliusions to it in our own 
 literature, at the moment. 
 
 JJe had hijeii known the Danish flonswart, 
 
 Or I'iiracelsus with his long sword. Volpone. Act ii w 2 
 
 Bumbnstus kept a Devil's bird 
 Phut ill tlif imuiiiiel of his sword, 
 Tli.it tauu'iit liiiii all the cmining pranks, 
 Of pai<t auJ future mouutebauks. 
 
 Hudibras. Part ii. Cant 8 
 
 This Azoth was simply " laudanum suum."'' But in his ttme he was 
 oomiiioiily believed to possess tlie double tincture— tlie power of cu.ing 
 diseases, and transmuting metals. Oporinus often witnessed, as he 
 declares, both these effects, as did also Franciscus, the servant of Par- 
 ar'elsus, who describes in a letter to Xeander, a successful prqieccion 
 at which he was present, and tl:e results of which, pond golden ingots, 
 were confided to his keeping. For the other quality, let the followm^ 
 notice vouch amonj; many others: " I)ej;ebat Theophrastus Norim- 
 bergae jirociscus a Medentibus illius urbis, et vaniloquus deceptorque 
 proclamatus, qui, ut laboranti famae subveniat, viros quosdam author 
 itatis summae in Kejiublica ilia adit, et infainia; amoliend.a?, artique suae 
 asserendas, specimen ejus pollicetur editurum, nullo stipendio vel ac 
 cepto pretio, honim faciles prajbentium aures jussu elephantiaccs 
 aliquot, a communioiie hominum caeterorum segregates, et in valetu 
 dinariuni detrusos, alieno arbitrio eligiintur, qnos virtiite singular) 
 remedioruni suorum Theophrastus a fa'<la Clncc nuin lepra nuindat, 
 prisiina;que saidtati rcstituit; conservat iltustre liarnni curationum 
 urbs in archivis suis tcstimoniuin."' — Bldskius.^ It is to be remarked 
 
 • The premature de-ath of P:irarelsus casts no manner of doubt on the fact of 
 hi." haviii;; |>o.s.se-'("a tlie Kllxir Vitie: tiie alineniists have ubum'.ant nasoiis to 
 addiue. Iriiui wliirli 1 .select llie ti)llowii;g, as e.\plaiiiitory of a prriperty of the 
 Tiuetmi- not oalciiLited on by iL< votaries : " Objeitioiieui illani, (juod I'aracelsua 
 iioi fiierit lon}r!vvu.s, noaiuilli quocjue .solvutit per ratior.es pliv sicius : vitas 
 niiniruui abbreviitioiieui fort.is.se .ulibus aecidere posse, ob Tiiictunim fiwiueu- 
 tiore ae largioie dosi sunitaui, duni a siiniuie eflicaoi et penetnibili b'uus virtutt 
 lalor iuuatus i|uasi suUocutur." — UuiiritLu Clauiliri HfkeiitaiiHa .
 
 160 NOTE. 
 
 that Oporinus afterwards repented of his treachery : " Sed resipun 
 tandem, et quern viNiim convitiis insectatus fuerat defunctuni venera- 
 tione prosequiitus, iufaines fiimae praeceptoris raorsus in remorsus 
 oonscientise coiiversi poenitentia, lieu iiimis tarda vidnera clausere 
 exanimi quse spiranti inflixerant." For these "bites" of Oporinus, 
 see " Disputa/. Ercisti" and Andreas Jociscus " Orulio de vit. tt vb. 
 Ojjor^;''' for tlie "remorse" Mic. Toxita in prcef. TeslamtiUi, and 
 Conringius, (otlierwise an enemy of Paracelsus,) who saj^s it was con 
 tained in a letter from Oporinus to Doctor V'egerus.* 
 
 Whatever the moderns may think of these marvellous attributes, 
 the title of Paracelsus to be considered the father of moaern chemistry 
 is indisputable. Gerardus Vossius " De Philosii. et Ph'dos^™- stctis,''' 
 thus prefaces the ninth section of Cap. 9, " J)e Cliymia "— " Nobilem 
 hanc medicmse partem, diu sepultam avorum ajtate quasi ab orco re- 
 vocavit Th. Paracelsus." I suppose many hints lie scattered in his 
 neglected books, which clever appropriators have since developed with 
 applause. Thus, it appears from his treatise " Be Fldebolomid,^^ and 
 elsewhere, that he had discovered the circulation of the blood and the 
 sanguification of the heart; as did after him Realdo Colombo, and still 
 more perfectly Andrea Cesalpiuo of Arezzo, as Bayle and BartoL 
 observe. Even Lavater quotes a passage from his work, " Denatura 
 Rerum" on practical Physiognomj', in which the definitions and axioms 
 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 efiect did publish a 
 vast number. Valentius (in Prcefal. in Paramyr.) declares "quod ad 
 libronim Paracelsi copiam attinet, audio a Germanis prope trecentos 
 recenseri." '■ faecunditas ingenii ! " adds he, appositely. Many of 
 these were, however, spurious; and Fred. Bitiskius gives his good 
 edition (3 vols. fol. Gen. 1658) " rejectis suppositas solo ipsius nomine 
 »uperbientibus quorum ingens circumfertur numerus." The rest 
 
 • For a good defence of Paracelsus I refer the reader to Olaus Borrichius'a 
 treatise — " Uennetis &c., sapientia vindicata. 1674." Or, if he is no mor« 
 leampfl than myself in such matters, I had better mention aimplj that Paracel 
 >us intnxluoed the uBe of iVIerouiy ajr 1 Tii^Jid^"""T-
 
 NOTE. ICl 
 
 were " charissimura -f pretiosissitnum iiuthoris pigmis, extorsum potius 
 ab ill(J quam obtenturr." "Jam mininic eo volciite :itqn^ jiibeiite liaeo 
 ipsius scripta in lucem prodiisse videiitur: (iiii|i|ie i\HX miiro iiiclusa 
 ipso absciite servi cujusilcm indicio, fiirto siiiroptu :iti]ue sublata 
 sunt," says Valentius. Tliese have been the study of a host of com- 
 mentators, among wlior.e hibours are most notable, Telri Severini, Idea 
 Medicinat Philosophia. P'ts. 1571; Mic. Toxeti<, Onomaslica. Arr/. 1574; 
 Doniei, Diet. Parac. Fi-anc. 15S4; and P' PIiIIds^. Compendium cum 
 Kholiia auctore Leone Suavio Paris. (This liist, a good book.) 
 
 (6.) A disgraceful aflfair One Lieclitenfels, a canon, having been 
 rescued in extremis by the ^Haudanum'" 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 hii 
 indiflerence to profit, in the aforesaid sword handle and its guest 
 His freedom from the besetting sin of a r>roression he abhorred — (as ho 
 curiously says somewhere, " Quis qnteso aeinceps honorem deferat pro 
 fessione tali, quae ik tam facinorosis nebulonibus obitur et adrainistra- 
 tur?") — is recorded in his epitaph, which affirms — "Bona- sua in 
 pauperes distribuenda coUocaudaquo erogavit," honoravit, or ordmavit 
 —for accounts difler. 
 
 VOL. L 11
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 <3i Srama.
 
 I DEDICATE 
 
 mr BEST ISTK«riONS, IN THIS POEM, MOST ADMIRIXGLT TO TH« 
 
 AUTHOR OF " ION," — 
 
 KOST ArFECTIONATELT TO 
 
 MB. SERGEANT TALFOURD. 
 
 R. B
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 New Year's Day at Asolo in the Trevisan. — A large, mean, 
 airy chamber. A girl. Pippa. from the silk-mills, sprimjitiQ 
 out of bed. 
 
 Day! 
 
 Faster and more fast, 
 O'er night's brim, clay boils at last ; 
 Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 
 Where spurting and supprest it lay — 
 For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
 Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
 Of the eajtern cloud, an hour away ; 
 But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, 
 Till the w hole sunrise, not to be supprest, 
 Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
 Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the 
 world. 
 
 Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, 
 A. mite of my twelve hours' treasure, 
 The least of thy gazes or glances,
 
 166 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 (Be they grants thou art bound to, or gifts above measure; 
 
 One of tliy choices, or one of tliy chances, 
 
 (Be they tasks God imposed tliee, or freaks at thy 
 
 pleasure) 
 — My Day, if I squander sucli labour or leisure, 
 Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me ! 
 
 Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, 
 Whence earth, Ave feel, gets steady help and good — 
 Thy fitful sunshine minutes, coming, going, 
 In which, earth turns from work in gamesome mood- 
 All shall be mine ! But thou must treat me not 
 As the prosperous are treated, those who live 
 At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, 
 In readiness to take what thou wilt give, 
 And free to let alone wiiat thou refusest ; 
 For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest 
 Me, who am only Pippa — old-year's sorrow, 
 Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow — 
 Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow 
 Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. 
 All other men and women that this earth 
 Belongs to, who all days alike possess. 
 Make general plenty cure particular dearth, 
 Get more joy, one way, if another, less : 
 Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven 
 What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven ; 
 Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's 1 
 Try, now ! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones
 
 pirrA PASSES. 
 
 ir.7 
 
 And lei tliy morni.ig rain on that superb 
 
 Great haujility Ottiina; can rain (li>tiirb 
 
 Her Sebald's homage? All tlie while thy rain 
 
 Beats fiercest on her slii-ub-house wimlow-pane, 
 
 He will but press the closer, breathe more warm 
 
 Against her cheek ; how should she mind the storm ? 
 
 And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom 
 
 O'er Jules and Phene, — what care bride and groom 
 
 Save for their dear selves ? 'Tis their marriage-day; 
 
 And while they leave church, and go home their way 
 
 Hand clasping hand, — within each breast would be 
 
 Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee I 
 
 Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve 
 
 AVith mist, — will Luigi and his mother grieve — 
 
 The Lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, 
 
 She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, 
 
 For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close. 
 
 And safe, the sooner that thou art morose 
 
 Receives them ! And yet once again, outbreak 
 
 In storm at night on Monsignor, they make 
 
 Such stir about, — whom they expect from Rome 
 
 To visit Asolo, his brothers' home. 
 
 And say here masses proper to release 
 
 A soul from pain, — what storm dares hurt his peace? 
 
 Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward 
 
 riiy tluindt'i off, nor want the angels' guard 1 
 
 But Pippa — just one such mischance would spoil 
 
 Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil 
 
 A.t wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil !
 
 168 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 And here 1 let time slip for nought ! 
 
 Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam — caught 
 
 With a single splash from my ewer ! 
 
 You that would mock the best pursuer, 
 
 Was my basin overdeep ? 
 
 One splash of water ruins you asleep, 
 
 And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits 
 
 Wheeling and countervvlieeling, 
 
 Reeling, broken beyond healing — 
 
 Now grow together on the ceiling ! 
 
 That will task your wits ! 
 
 Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see 
 
 Morsel after morsel flee 
 
 As merrily, as giddily . . . 
 
 Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, 
 
 Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple ? 
 
 Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon ? 
 
 New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, 
 
 Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll 1 
 
 Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple 
 
 Of ocean, bud there, — faii-ies watch unroll 
 
 Such turban-flowers ; I say, such lamps disperse 
 
 Thick red flame through that dusk green universe ! 
 
 I am queen of thee, floweret; 
 
 And each fleshy blossom 
 
 Preserve I not — (safer 
 
 Than leaves that embower it, 
 
 Or shells that embosom) 
 
 — From weevil and chafer?
 
 pirrA I'AssEs. 169 
 
 Laugli through my pane, then; solicit the bee; 
 Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of" thy glee, 
 Love thy queen, worship me ! 
 
 ^"Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, 
 Wliate'er I i)lease ? What shall I please to-day ? 
 My morning, noon, eve, night — how spend my day ? 
 To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk. 
 The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk : 
 But, this one day, I liave leave to go, 
 And play out my fancy's fullest games ; 
 I may fancy all day — and it shall be so — 
 That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the namoi 
 Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo ! 
 
 See ! Up the Ilill-side yonder, through the morning, 
 
 Some one shall love me, as the world calls love : 
 
 I am no less than Ottima, take warning ! 
 
 The gardens, and the great stone house above, 
 
 And otljcr house for shrubs, all glass in front, 
 
 Are mine ; where Sebald steals, as he is wont. 
 
 To court me, while old Luca yet reposes ; 
 
 And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses, 
 
 I . . . what, now ? — give abundant cause for prate 
 
 About me — Ottima, I mean — of late. 
 
 Too bold, too confident she'll .•^till face down 
 
 The spite-fullest of talkers in our town — 
 
 How we talk in the little town below I 
 
 Bui love, love, love — there's better love, I know !
 
 170 pirPA PASSES. 
 
 This fooli^li love was only day's first offer ; 
 
 I choose my next love to defy the scoffer : 
 
 For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally 
 
 Out of Possagno church at noon ? 
 
 Their house looks over Orcana valley — 
 
 Why should I not be the bride as soon 
 
 As Otiima? For I saw, beside, 
 
 Arrive last night that little bride — 
 
 Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flnsh 
 
 Of the pale, snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, 
 
 Blacker than all except the black eyelash ; 
 
 I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses ! 
 
 — So strict was she, liie veil 
 
 Should cover close her pale 
 
 Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch, 
 
 Scarce touch, remember, Jules ! — for are not such 
 
 Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature. 
 
 As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature ? 
 
 A soft and easy life these ladies lead ! 
 
 Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed — 
 
 Oh, save that brow its viigin dimness, 
 
 Keep that foot its lady primness, 
 
 Let those ankles never swerve 
 
 From their exquisite reserve. 
 
 Yet have to trip along the streets like me, 
 
 All but naked to the knee ! 
 
 How will she ever grant her Jules a blisa 
 
 So startling as her real first infant kiss? 
 
 Oh, no — not envy, liiis !
 
 pirrA PASSES. 171 
 
 — Not envy, sure ! — for if you gave me 
 
 Leave to take or to refuse, 
 
 In earnest, do you tliink I'd choose 
 
 That sort of new love to enshive me? 
 
 Mine shouUl have hipjied ine round from the begiiming; 
 
 As little fear of losing it as winning! 
 
 Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, 
 
 And only parents' love can last our lives: 
 
 At eve the son and mother, gentle pair, 
 
 Commune inside our Turret; what prevents 
 
 My being Luigi? while that mossy lair 
 
 Of lizards through the winter-time, is stirred 
 
 With each to each imparting sweet intents 
 
 For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird— 
 
 (For I observe of late, the evening walk 
 
 Of Luigi and his mother, alvvays ends 
 
 Inside our ruined turret, where they talk. 
 
 Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends) 
 
 Let me be cared about, kept out of harm. 
 
 And schemed for, safe in love as witli a charm; 
 
 Let me be Luigi ! ... If I only knew 
 
 What was my mothei's face — my father, too! 
 
 Nay, if you come to that, best love of all 
 
 Is God's ; then why not have God's love befall 
 
 Myself as, in the Palace by the Dome, 
 
 Monsignor? — who to-night will bless the home 
 
 Of his dead brother; and God will bless in turn 
 
 That heiut which beats, those eyes which mildly burn
 
 / 
 
 172 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 With love for all men : I, to-night at least, 
 Would be that holy and beloved priest ! 
 
 Now wait ! — even I already seem to share 
 
 In God's love : what does New-year's hymn declare ? 
 
 What other meaning do these verses bear ? 
 
 All service ranhs the same with God . 
 
 If now, as formerly He trod 
 
 Paradise, His presence fills 
 
 Our earth, each only as God wills 
 
 Can work — God's puppets, best and worst, 
 
 Are we ; there is no last nor first. 
 
 Say not " a small event I " Why " small f " 
 Costs it more pain than this, ye call 
 A '^ great event," should come to pass. 
 Than that f Untwine me from the tnass 
 Of deeds which make up life, one deed 
 Power shall fall short in, or exceed I 
 
 And more of it and more of it ! — oh, yes — 
 I will pass by, and see their happiness, 
 And envy none — being just as great, no doubt, 
 Useful to men, and dear to God, as they 1 
 A pretty thing to care about 
 So mightily, this single holiday ! 
 
 But let the sun shine ! Wherefore repine t 
 — With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,
 
 PIPPA TASSKS. 173 
 
 Down the grass-path gray with dew, 
 
 Under the pine-wood, blind witli boughs. 
 
 Where the swallow never flew 
 
 As yet, nor cicale dared carouse — 
 
 Dared carouse ! [^She enters the street 
 
 [. — Morning. Up the Hill-sidfi, inside the Shrub-house. LuCA'a 
 Wife, Ottima, and her Paramour, the German Sepald 
 
 Seb. (sings.) Let the watching lids wink/ 
 
 Day's a-hlaze with eyes, think — 
 Deep into the night, drink! 
 
 Otti. Night? Such maybe your Rhine-land nights, 
 perhai>s ; 
 But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink 
 — We call such light, the morning's : let uo see ! 
 Mind how you grope your way, though ! How these t^xll 
 Naked geraniums straggle ! Push the lattice — 
 Behiiul that frame! — Nay, do I bid you? — Sebald, 
 It shakes the dust down on me ! Why, of course 
 The slide-bolt catches. — Well, are you content. 
 Or must I find you something else to spoil ? 
 Kiss and be friends, my Sebald ! Is it full morning? 
 Oh, don't speak then ! 
 
 Seh. Ay. thus it used to be 1 
 
 Ever your house was, I remember, shut 
 Till mid-day — I observed that, as. I strolled 
 On mornings thro' the vale here : country girls 
 Were noisy, washing garments in the brook — 
 Hinds drrve the slow white oxen up t)ie Lillys — •
 
 174 pirPA PASSES. 
 
 But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye— 
 And wisel}' — you were plotting one thing there, 
 Nature, another outside: I looked up — • , 
 
 Kough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars, 
 Silent as death, blind in a flood of light ; 
 Oh, I remember ! — and the peasants laughed 
 And said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife !" 
 This house was his, this chair, this window — iiis ! 
 
 Otti. Ai); the clear morning ! I can see St. Mark's: 
 That black streak is the belfry. Stop : Vicenza 
 Should lie . . . There's Padua, plain enough, that blue ! 
 Look o'er my shoulder — follow my finger — 
 
 Seb. Morning ? 
 
 It seems to rae a night with the sun added : 
 Where's dew ? where's freshness ? That bruised plant, 
 
 I bruised 
 in getting thro' the lattice yestereve, 
 Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark 
 In the dust on the sill. 
 
 Otti. Oh shut the lattice, pray ! 
 
 Seb. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here, 
 Foul as the morn may be — 
 
 There, shut the worhl out 
 How do you feel now, Ottima? There — curse 
 The world, and all outside ! Let us throw off 
 This mask: how do you bear youvself? Let's out 
 iVith all of it ! 
 
 Otti. Best never speak of it. 
 
 Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it,
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 175 
 
 Till words cease to be more than word-?. " Ills blood," 
 For instance — let those two words mean '• His blood" 
 And notliiiijT more. Notice — I'll say them now, 
 "His blood." 
 
 Oui. Assuredly if I repented 
 
 The deed — 
 
 Seb. Repent ? who should repent, or why ? 
 
 ^hat puts that in your head ? Did I once say 
 '<'hat I repented ? 
 
 Oui. No — I said the deed — 
 
 Seb. •' The deed," and " the event" — just now it waa 
 *Our passion's fruit" — the devil take sucli cant I 
 ^ay. once and always, Lnca was a wittol, 
 \ am his cut-ihroat, you are — 
 
 Oui. Here is the wine — 
 
 [ brought it whcri we left the house above — 
 Ajid glasses too — wine of both sorts. Black ? white, then ? 
 
 Seb. But am not I his cut-throat? What are you ? 
 
 Oui. There, trudges oa his business from the Duorao 
 Benet the Capuchin, wiiij his brown hood 
 And bare feet — always in one place at church, 
 Close under the stone wall by the south entry; 
 r used to take him for a brown cold piece 
 Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose 
 To let me pass — at first, I say, 1 used — 
 Now — so h:is that dumb figure fastened on me— 
 [ rather should account the plastered wall 
 A piece of him, so chilly does it sti-ike. 
 This, Sebald?
 
 176 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Seh. No — the white wine — the white wine ! 
 
 Well, Ottima, I promised no new year 
 Should rise on us the ancient shameful way, 
 Nor does it rise : pour on ! To your black eyes I 
 Do you remember last damned New Year's day ? 
 
 Old. You brought those foreign prints. We Icoked 
 at them 
 Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme 
 To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying 
 His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up 
 To hunt them out. 
 
 Seb. 'Faith, he is not alive 
 
 To fondle you before my face ! 
 
 0/ti. Do you 
 
 Fondle me, then ! who means to take your life 
 For that, my Sebald ? 
 
 Seb. Hark you, Ottima, 
 
 One thing's to guard against. We'll not make much 
 One of the other — that is, not make more 
 Parade of warmth, childish officious coil, 
 Than yesterday — as if, sweet, I supposed 
 Proof upon proof was needed now, now first, 
 To show I love you — yes, still love you — love you 
 In spite of Luca and what's come to him 
 ■ — Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts, 
 White sneering old reproachful face and all ! 
 We'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if 
 NVe still could lose each other — were not tied 
 By this — conceive you ?
 
 piprA PASSES. 177 
 
 Otti. Love — 
 
 Seb. Not tied so sure — 
 
 Because Iho' I was wrought upon — have struck 
 His insolence back into him — am I 
 So surely yours ? — therefore, forever yours ? 
 
 Otti. Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another) 
 Should .we have — months ago — when first we loved. 
 For instance that May morning we two stole 
 Under the green ascent of sycamores — 
 If we had come upon a thing like that 
 Suddenly — 
 
 Seb. " A thing " . . there again — " a thing I "' 
 
 Otti. Tlien, Venus' body, had we come upon 
 My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse 
 Witliin there, at bis couch-foot, covered close — 
 Would you have pored upon it? Why persist 
 In poring now upon it ? For 'tis here — 
 As much as there in the deserted house— 
 You cannot rid your eyes of it : for me, 
 Now he is dead I hate him worse — I hate — 
 Dare you stay here ? I would go back and hold 
 His two dead liands, and say, I hate you worse 
 Luca, than — 
 
 Seb. Off, off ; take your hands off mine ! 
 
 'Tis tlie hot evening — off! oh, morning, is it ? 
 
 Otti. Tiiere's one thing must be done — ^j'ou know 
 what thing. 
 Come in and help to carry. We may sleep 
 Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night. 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Seh. What would come, think you, if we let him lie 
 Just as he is ? Let him lie there until 
 The angels take hira : he is turned by this 
 Off from his face, beside, as you will see. 
 
 Otti This dusty pane might serve for looking-glasft 
 Three, four — four gray hairs ! Is it so you said 
 A plait of hair should wave across my neck ? 
 No — this way ! 
 
 Sebt Ottima, I would give your neck, 
 
 Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, 
 That this were undone! Killing? — Kill the world 
 So liuca lives again ! — Ay, lives to sputter 
 His fulsome dotage on you — yes, and feign 
 Surprise tliat I returned at eve to sup. 
 When all the morning I was loitering here- 
 Bid me dispatch my business and begone. 
 I would — 
 
 Otti. See ! 
 
 Seb. No, I'll finish ! Do you think 
 
 I fear to speak the bare truth once for all ? 
 All we have talked of is, at bottom, fine 
 To suffer — there's a recompense in guilt ; 
 One must be venturous and fortunate — 
 What is one young for, else ? In age we'll sigh 
 O'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over ; 
 Still we have lived ! The vice was in its place. 
 But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn 
 His clothes, have felt his money swell my purst 
 Do lovers in romances sin that way ?
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 171) 
 
 Wliy, I was starving wlien I used to cnll 
 
 And teach you music — starving while you plucked me 
 
 These flowers to smell ! 
 
 Old. ]My poor lost friend ! 
 
 Seh. He gave me 
 
 Life — nothing less . what if he did reproach 
 lily perfidy, and threaten, and do more — 
 Had he no right ? What was to wonder at? 
 He sate by us at table quietly — 
 Why must you lean across till our cheeks touch'd? 
 Could he do less than make pretence to strike me? 
 'Tis not for the crime's sake — I'd commit ten crimes 
 Greater, to have this crime wiped out — undone I 
 And you — O, how feel you ? feel you for me ? 
 
 Otli. Well, then — I love you better now llian ever— 
 And best (look at me while I speak to you) — 
 Best for the crime — nor do I grieve, in truth, 
 This mask, this simulated ignorance, 
 This affectation of simplicity. 
 Falls off our crime ; this naked crime of ours 
 May not, now, be looked over — look it down, then 1 
 Great ? let it be great — but the joys it brought, 
 Pay they or no its price ? Come — tliey or it ! 
 S|>eak not! The past, would you give up the past 
 Such as it is, pleasure and crime togetlier? 
 Give up that noon I owned my luve lor you — 
 The garden's silence — even liie single bee 
 Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopt 
 And where he hid you only could surmise
 
 180 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 By some campanula's chalice set a-swin<5 
 As lie clung there — " Yes, I love you ! " 
 
 Seb. And I drew 
 
 Back; put fi\r back your face with botli my hands 
 Lest you should grow too full of me — your face 
 So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body ! 
 
 Otti. And when I ventured to receive you here, 
 Made you i teal hither in the mornings — 
 
 Seb. When 
 
 1 used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here, 
 Till the red lire on its glazed windows spread 
 To a yellow haze ? 
 
 Otti. Ah — my sign was, the sun 
 
 Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree 
 Nipt by the first frost. 
 
 Seb. You would always laugh 
 
 At my wet boots — I had to stride thro' grass 
 Over my ankles. 
 
 Otti. Then our crowning night — 
 
 Seb. The July night ? 
 
 Otti. The day of it too, Sebald ! 
 When the heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heal. 
 Its black-blue canopy seemed let descend 
 Close on us both, to weigh down each to each, 
 And smother up all life except our life. 
 So lay we till the storm came. 
 
 Seb. How it came ! 
 
 Otti. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect ; 
 ^wift ran the searching tempest overhead ;
 
 I'lVPX PASSES. 181 
 
 And ever and anon some brijjht white shaft 
 Burnt thro' the pine-tree roof — here burnt and there, 
 As if God's messenger thro' tlie close wood screen 
 Plunged and replunged his weai)on at a venture, 
 Feeling for guilty thee and me : then broke 
 The thunder like a whole sea overhead — 
 
 Seb. Yes ! 
 
 Otti. — While I stretched myself upon you, hands 
 To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook 
 All my locks loose and covered you with them — 
 You, Sebald, the same you — 
 
 Seb. Slower, Ottima — 
 
 OuL And as we lay — 
 
 Seb. Less vehemently ! Love me — 
 Forgive me — take not words — mere words — to heart — 
 Your breath is worse than wine ! Breathe slow, speak 
 
 slow — 
 Do not lean on me — 
 
 Otti. Sebald, as we lay, 
 Rising and falling only with our pants, 
 Who s^aid, " Let death come now — 'tis right to die ! 
 Right to be punished — nought completes such bliss 
 But woe ! " Who said that ? 
 
 Seb. How did we ever rise ? 
 VVas't that we slept ? Why did it end ? 
 
 OuL I felt yc'j. 
 
 Fresh tapering to a point the ruffled ends 
 Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips — 
 (My hair is fallen now — knot it again !)
 
 182 rirPA passes. 
 
 Seb. I kiss you now, clear Ottima, now, and now I 
 This way? "Will you foigi\e me — be once more 
 Wy great queen ? 
 
 Otti. Bind it tluice about my brow ; 
 
 Crown me your queen, your spirit's aibitress, 
 Magnificent in sin. Say iLat ! 
 
 Seb. I crown you 
 
 My great white queen, my spirit's arbiiress, 
 Magnificent — 
 
 o 
 
 {From without is heard the voice o/Tipfa singing — ) 
 TTie year's at the springy 
 And days at the viorn ; 
 Morninfjs at seven ; 
 The hill-side's dew-pearled : 
 Tlie lark's on the winy ; 
 The snail's on the thorn ; 
 God's in his heaven — 
 All's riyht with the world ! 
 
 (ViTVA. paties.) 
 
 Seb. God's in his heaven ! Do you hoar that ? "Wh« 
 spoke ? 
 You, you spoke ! 
 
 OttJ, Oh — that little ragged girl ! 
 
 She must have rested on the step — we give them 
 But this one holiday the whole year round. 
 Did you ever see our silk-mills — their inside ? 
 There axe ten silk-mills now belong to you.
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 183 
 
 She stoops to pick my double heartsease . . . Sh ! 
 She does not hear — you call out louder ! 
 
 Seb. Leave me I 
 
 Go, get your clothes on — dress those shoulders ! 
 
 Oai. Sebald » 
 
 Seb. Wipe off that paint. I hate you ! 
 
 Otti. Miserable ! 
 
 Seb. My God ! and she is emptied of it now ! 
 Outriglit now ! — how miraculously gone 
 All of the grace — had she not strange grace once ? 
 Why, the blank chock hangs listless as it likes, 
 No purpose holds the features up together, 
 Only the cloven brow and puckered chin 
 Stay in their places — and the very hair, 
 That seemed to have a sort of life in it. 
 Drops, a dead web ! 
 
 Otti. Speak to me — speak not of me I 
 
 Seb. — That round great full-orbed face, where not an 
 angle 
 Broke the delicious indolence — all broken ! 
 
 Otti. To me — not of me ! — ungrateful, perjured cheat— 
 A coward, too — but ingrate's worse than all ! 
 Beggar — my slave — a fiiwning, cringing lie I 
 Leave me ! — betray me ! — I can see your drift — 
 A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks ! 
 
 Seb. INIy God 1 
 
 Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades — 
 [ should have known there was no blood beneath I 
 
 Otti. You hate oe, then ? You hate me, then ?
 
 184 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Seh. To think 
 
 She would succeed in her absurd attempt, 
 And fascinate by sinning ; and show herself 
 Superior — Guilt from its excess, superior 
 To Innocence. That little peasant's voice 
 Has righted all again. Tiiougli I be lost, 
 I know which is the better, never fear, ^ 
 
 Of vice or virtue, purity or lust. 
 Nature, or trick — I see what I have done, 
 Entirely now ! Oh, I am proud to feel 
 Such torments — let the world take credit thence— 
 I, having done my deed, pay too its price ! 
 I hate, hate — ciirse you ! God's in his heaven ! 
 
 Otti. — Me 
 
 Me ! no, no, Sebald — not yourself — kill me ! 
 Mine is the whole crime — do but kill me — then 
 Yourself — then — presently — first hear me speak — 
 I always meant to kill myself — wait, you ! 
 Lean on my breast — not as a breast ; don't love me 
 The more because you lean on me, my own 
 Heart's Sebald ! There — there — both deaths presently 
 
 Seh. My brain is drowned now — quite drowned : all I 
 feel 
 Is . . . is at swift-recurring intervals, 
 A. liurrying down within me, as of waters 
 Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit — 
 There they go — whirls from a black, fiery sea I 
 
 Otti. Not to me, God — to him be merciful i
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 185 
 
 Falk i'>y the way, while Pippa is passin;/ from the HiU-siJe t» 
 Orcana. Foreiyn Students of Paintii,(j and Scitljjture, from 
 Venice, assembled opposite the House of Jules, a young 
 French Statuary. 
 
 1st Student. Attention ! my own post is beneath this 
 window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide 
 tlivee or four of you with a little squeezing, and 
 Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, 
 five — who's a defaulter ? We want everybody, for Jules 
 must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest'a 
 found out. 
 
 2d Stud. All here ! Only our poet's away — never 
 having much meant to be present, moonstrike him ! 
 The airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino ! He was in 
 violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of 
 thriving in his suit, so unmolested was it, — when 
 suddenly a woman fulls in love with him, too; and out 
 of pure jealousy he takes himself off to Trieste, immortal 
 poem and all — wliereto is this prophetical epitaph 
 appended already, as Bluphocks assures me — " Here a 
 main moth-poem lies, — Fouled to death h] butterjlies" 
 His own foult, the simpleton ! Instead of cramp 
 couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should 
 write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly. 
 '—^scidapius, an Epic. Catalogue oj the drugs : Hebe^t 
 plaister — One strip Cools your lip. Pha^hus' emulsion— ^
 
 186 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus — (hiB 
 box Cures ... 
 
 Sd Stud. Subside, my fine fellow ! If the marriage 
 was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a 
 minute with his bride. 
 
 2d Stud. Good ! — Only, so should the poet's muse 
 have been universally acceptable, says Bhiphocks, et 
 canibus nostris . . . and Delia not better known to our 
 literary dogs than the boy — Giovaccliino ! 
 
 l5^ Stud. To the point, now. Where's Gottlieb, the 
 new-comer ? Oh, — listen, Gottlieb, to Avhat has called 
 down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which 
 we now assemble to witness the winding-up. "We are 
 all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst 
 out on us in a fury by and by: lam spokesman — the 
 verses that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of 
 Lutwyche — but each professes himself alike insulted by 
 this strutting stone-squarer, who came singly from Paris 
 to Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and 
 Possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again 
 — oh, alone, indubitably ! — to Rome and F'iorence. He, 
 forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute, 
 brutalized, heartless bunglers ! — So he was heard to call 
 us all : now,»is Schramm brutalized, I should like to 
 know ? Am I heartless ? 
 
 Gott. Why, somewhat heartless ; for, suppose Jules a 
 coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere cox- 
 combry, you will have brushed off — what do folks style 
 it? — the bloom of his life. Is it too lato to alter
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 187 
 
 These love-letter:?, now, you call his ... I can't laugh at 
 them. 
 
 Alh Stud. Because you never read the sham letters of 
 our inditing which drew forth tlieso. 
 
 Gott. His discovery of the trutli will he frightful. 
 
 Aih Siiid. That's the joke. But you should have 
 joined us at the heginning : there's no doubt he loves 
 the girl — loves a model he might hire by the hour ! 
 
 Gott. See here ! " He has been accustomed," he 
 writes, " to have Canova's women about him, in stone, 
 and the world's women beside him, in flesh ; these being 
 as much below, as those, above — his soul's aspiration : 
 but now he is to have the real." . . . There you laugh 
 again ! I say, you wipe off tlie very dew of his youth. 
 
 1st Slud. Schramm ! (Take the pipe out of his mouth, 
 somebody) — will Jules lose the bloom of his youth ? 
 
 Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this 
 world : look at a blossom — it drops presently, having 
 done its service and lasted its time ; but fruits succeed, 
 and where would be the blossom's place could it con- 
 tinue? As well affirm that your eye is no longer in 
 your body, because its earliest favourite, whatever it 
 may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with — 
 as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first 
 ('.bject, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is super- 
 eeded in duo course. Keep but ever looking, whether 
 with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find 
 Bomcthing to look on ! Has a man done wondering at 
 women ? — There follow men, dead and alive, to wondel
 
 l88 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Bt. Has he done wondering at men ? — There's God to 
 wonder at : and the facuhy of wonder may be, at the 
 same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first 
 object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so fiir as 
 concerns its novel one. Thus . . , 
 
 Isf Stud. Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again ! 
 There, you see ! "SVell, this — Jules ... a wretched 
 fribble — oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the 
 other day ! Canova's gallery — you know : there he 
 marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen 
 without vouchsafing an eye : all at once he stops full at 
 the Psiche-fanciulla — cannot pass that old acquaintance 
 without a nod of encouragement — " In your new place, 
 beauty ? Then behave yourself as v/ell here as at 
 Munich — I see you ! " Next he posts himself deliber- 
 ately before the unfinished Pietd for half an hour 
 without moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts 
 his very nose into — I say, into — the group ; by which 
 gesture you are informed that precisely the sole point 
 he had not fully mastered in Canova's practice was a 
 certain method of using the drill in the articulation of 
 the knee-joint — and that, likewise, has he mastered at 
 length! Good bye, therefore, to poor Canova — whose 
 gallery no longer need detain his successor Jules, the 
 oredestinated nov(il thinker in marble ! 
 
 blh Stud. Tell him about the women — go on to the 
 women ! 
 
 \st Stud. Why, on that matter he could never be 
 Bupercilious enough. How should we be other (he said.)
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 189 
 
 Jhan the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits 
 we cherish ? He was not to wallow in that mire, at 
 least: he would wait, and love only at the proper time, 
 and meanwhile put up with the Psichc-fanciulla. Now 
 I happened to hear of a young Greek — real Greek — girl 
 at Malaniocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alci- 
 phron's " hair like sea-moss " — Schramm knows ! — white 
 and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at 
 flirt liest, — a daughter of Natalia, so she swears — that 
 hag Natalia, who helps us to models at thi-ee lire an 
 hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. 
 So, first, Jules received a scented letter — somebody had 
 seen his Tydeus at the academy, and my picture was 
 nothing to it — a profound admirer bade him persevere 
 — would make herself known to him ere long — (Paolina 
 my little friend of the Fenice, transcribes divinely.) 
 And in due time, the mysterious correspondent gave 
 certain hints of her jjeculiar charms — the pale cheeks, 
 Jhe black hair — whatever, in short, had struck us in our 
 Malamocco model : we retained her name, too — Phene 
 which is by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of 
 Jules finding himself distinguished from the herd of us 
 by such a creature ! In his very first answer he proposed 
 marrying his monitress : and fancy us over these letters. 
 \ wo, three times a day, to receive and dispatch ! I con 
 cocted the main of it : rehuions were in the way — 
 ?ecrecy must be observed — in fine, would he wed her 
 on trust, and only speak to her when they were indissolu- 
 Vly united ? St — st — Here they come !
 
 190 PIPPA PASSES.. 
 
 (i(h Stud. Both of them ! Heaven's love, speaK 
 softly! speak within yourselves! 
 
 5th Stud. Look at the bridegroom ! Half his hair in 
 storm, and half in calm, — patted down over the left 
 temple, — like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it ! and 
 the same old blouse that be murders the marble in ! 
 
 2c? Stud. Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal 
 Scratchy! — rich, that your face may the better set it 
 off!" 
 
 Gth Stud. And the bride! Yes, sure enough, our 
 Phene ! Should you have known her in her clothes? 
 How magnificently pale ! 
 
 Gott. She does not also take it for earnest, I hcJ|)e ? 
 
 1st Stud. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is ! We settle 
 with Natalia. 
 
 Gth Stud.. She does not speak — has evidently let out 
 DO word. Tlie only thing is, will she equally remember 
 the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those 
 7erses which are to break the secret to Jules ? 
 
 Gott. How he gazes on her ! Pity — pity ! 
 
 1st Stud. They go in — now, silence ! You three,— 
 p.ot nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate- 
 just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed 
 as singing, is seated 1
 
 FIPPA PASSES. 191 
 
 U-^Noon. Occr Orcana. The ITouse of Jcles, who crosita ita 
 threshold wi(h Phene — ihe is silent, oji ivhicli JuiEB bcgins- 
 
 Do not (lie, Phene — I am yours now — you 
 Are mine now — let fate reach me how she likes, 
 If you'll not die — so, never die ! Sit here — 
 My work-room's single seat : I over-lean 
 This length of hair and lustrous front — they turn 
 Like an entire flower upward — eyes — lips — last 
 Your chin — no, last your throat turns — ^'tis their scent 
 Pulls down ray face upon you ! Nay, look ever 
 This one way till I change, grow you — I could 
 Change into you, beloved ! 
 
 You by rae, 
 And I by you — this is your hand in mine — 
 And side by side we sit : all's true. Thank God ! 
 I have spoken — speak, you ! 
 
 — O, my life to come I 
 My Tydeus must be carved, that's there in clay ; 
 Yet how be carved, with you about the chamber? 
 Where must I place you ? When I think that once 
 riiis room-full of rough block-work seemed ray heaven 
 Without you ! Shall I ever work again — 
 Get fairly into my old ways again — 
 Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait, 
 My hand transfers its lineaments to stone "^
 
 192 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Will my mere fancies live near you, my truth — 
 The live truth — passing and repassing me — • 
 Sitting beside me ? 
 
 Now speak ! 
 
 Only, first, 
 See, all your letters ! Was't not well contrived? 
 Their liiding-place is Psyche's robe ; she keeps 
 Your letters next her skin : which drops out foremost/ 
 Ah, — this that swam down like a first moonbeam 
 Into my world ! 
 
 Again those eyes complete 
 Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow, 
 Of all my room holds ; to return and rest 
 On me, with pity, yet some wonder too — 
 As if God bade some spirit plague a world, 
 And this were the one moment of surprise 
 And sorrow while she took her station, pausing 
 O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy ! 
 What gaze you at ? Those ? Books, I told you of ; 
 Let your first word to me rejoice them, too : 
 This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red 
 Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe — 
 Read this line . . no, shame — Homer's be the Greek 
 First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl ! 
 My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type 
 With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page. 
 To mark great places with due gratitude; 
 'lie said, and on Antinous directed 
 '*A bitter shaft" ... a flower blots out the rest I
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 193 
 
 Again upon your search ? IMy statues, then ! 
 —Ah, do not mind that — hotter that will look 
 When cast in bronze — an Almaign Kaiser, that, 
 Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip. 
 This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized ? 
 I thought you would have seen that here you sit 
 As I imagined you, — Ilippolyta, 
 Naked upon her bright Numidian horse! 
 Recall you this, then ? " Carve in bold relief "- 
 So you commanded — " carve, against 1 come, 
 "A Greek, in Athen>, as our fashion was, 
 •' Fcastinjr, bav-filleted and thunder-free, 
 " Who rises 'iieath the lifted myrtle-branch : 
 '" Praise those who slew Hipparchus,' cry the guests, 
 '• ' While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves 
 '* ' As erst above our champions' : stand up, all! 
 See, I have laboured to express your thought ! 
 Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms, 
 (Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides, 
 Only consenting at the branches' end 
 They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole fac«>— 
 The Praiser's — in the centre — who with eyes 
 Sightless, so bend they back to light inside 
 His brain where visionary forms throng up. 
 Sings, minding not that palpitating arch 
 Of hands and arms, nor tlie quick drip of wine 
 From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns ca-t jtT, 
 Violet and parsley crowns to trample on — 
 Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, 
 vol.. I. 13
 
 194 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Devoutly their unconquerable hymn ! 
 
 But you must say a " well " to that — say, " well ! " 
 
 Because you gaze — am I fantastic, sweet ? 
 
 Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble — marbly 
 
 Even to the silence ! why before I found 
 
 The real flesh Phene, I inured myself 
 
 To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff 
 
 For better nature's birth by means of art : 
 
 With me, each substance tended to one form 
 
 Of beauty — to the human Archetype — 
 
 On every side occurred suggestive germs 
 
 Of that — the tree, the flower — or take the fruit,— 
 
 Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, 
 
 Curved beewise o'er its bough ; as rosy limbs. 
 
 Depending, nestled in the leaves — and just 
 
 From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang 1 
 
 But of the stuffs one can be master of, 
 
 How I divined their capabilities ! 
 
 From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk 
 
 That yields your outline to the aii-'s embrace, 
 
 Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom ; 
 
 Down to the crisp impei'ious steel, so sure 
 
 To cut its one confided thought clean out 
 
 Of all the world : but marble ! — 'neath my tools 
 
 More pliable than jelly — as it were 
 
 Some clear primordial creature dug from depths 
 
 In the Eai'th's heart, where itself breeds itself, 
 
 And whence all baser substance may be workfid j 
 
 Refine it off to air, you may — condense it
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 19i 
 
 Oov\'n to the diamond ; — is not metal there, 
 When o'er the sudden specks my chisel trips ? 
 —Not flesh — as flake off flake I scale, approach, 
 Lay bare tliose bluish veins of blood asleep ? 
 Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised 
 By the swift imph'ment sent home at once, 
 Flushes and glowings radiate and liover 
 About its track? — 
 
 Phene ? wliat — why is this ? 
 Tiiat wliitening cheek those still-dilating eyes ! 
 Ah, you will die — I knew that you would die ! 
 PiiKXE begins, on his having long remained silent. 
 
 Now the end's coming — to be sure, it must 
 Have ended sometime ! Tush — wliy need I speak 
 Their foolish speech ? I cannot bring to mind 
 One half of it, besides; and do not care 
 For old Natalia now, nor any of them. 
 Oh, you — what are you ? — if I do not try 
 To say the words Natalia made me learn. 
 To please your friends, — it is to keep myself 
 Where your voice lifted me, by letting it 
 Proceed — but can it ? Even you, periiaps, 
 Cannot take up, now you have once let fall. 
 The music's life, and me along with that — 
 No, or you would ! We'll stay, then, as we are 
 ■ — Above the world. 
 
 You creature with the eyes 1 
 If I could look forever up to them, 
 As uow you let me, — I believe, all sin,
 
 196 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 All memory of wrong done or suffering borne. 
 Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth 
 Whence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay 
 ■ — Never to overtake the rest of me, 
 All that, unspotted, reaches up to you. 
 Drawn by tliose eyes ! What rises is myself. 
 Not so the shame and suffering ; but they sink, 
 Are left, I rise above them — Keep me so 
 Above the world ! 
 
 But you sink, for your eyes 
 Are altering — altered ! Stay — " I love you, love you " 
 I could prevent it if I understood 
 More of your words to me — was't in the tone 
 Or the words, your power ? 
 
 Or stay — I will repeat 
 Their speech, if that contents you ! Only, change 
 No more, and I shall find it presently 
 — Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up. 
 Natalia threatened me that harm would follow 
 Unless i spoke their lesson to the end. 
 But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you. 
 Your fiiends, — Nataha said they were your friends 
 And meact you well, — because, I doubted it, 
 Obsei'ving ^wliat was very strange to see) 
 On cverj- lace, so different in all else, 
 The same smde girls like us are used to bear, 
 But never men, men cannot stoop so low ; 
 Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile, 
 riiaf hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 197 
 
 Which seems to take possession of this world 
 And make of God their tame confederate, 
 Purveyor to tlieir appetites . . you know ! 
 But no — Nataha said they wore your friends, 
 And they assented while they smiled the more. 
 And all came round me, — that thin Englishman 
 With light, lank hair seemed leader of the rest; 
 He held a paper — " What we want," said he. 
 Ending some explanation to his friends — 
 " Is something slow, involved and mystical, 
 " To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste 
 " And lure him on, so that, at innermost 
 " Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find — this ! 
 ' — As in the apple's core, the noisome fly : 
 " For insects on the rind are seen at once, 
 " And brushed aside as soon, but this is found 
 " Only when on the lip.« or loathing tongue." 
 And so he read what I have got by heart — 
 ril speak it, — " Do not die, love I I am yours " . . 
 ^^top — is not that, or like that, part of words 
 Yourself began by speaking ? Strange to lose 
 What cost much i)ains to learn ! Is this more right ? 
 
 I am a painter who cannot paint ; 
 
 In my life, a devil rather than saint^ 
 
 In viij brain, as poor a creature too — 
 
 iV'o end to all I cannot do ! 
 
 Yet do one thing at least lean — 
 
 Love a man, or hate a man 
 
 Supremeli/ : thus my lore began.
 
 198 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Through the Valley of Love I went, 
 
 In its lovingest spot to abide, 
 
 And just on the verge where I intched my te7it, 
 
 I found Hate dwelling beside. 
 
 {Let the Bridegroom ask what the 'painter meant. 
 
 Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride !) 
 
 And further, I traversed Haters grove. 
 
 In its hatcfullcst nooh to dwell ; 
 
 But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Lwe 
 
 Where the deepest shadow fell. 
 
 {The meaning — those blach bride's-eyes above, 
 
 Not the painter's lip should tell!) 
 
 * And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask, 
 " You have blach eyes, love — you are, sure enough, 
 *■' My peerless bride, — so do you tell, indeed, 
 •' What needs some explanation — what means this ? " 
 »— And I am to go on, without a word — 
 So I grew wiser in Love and Hate, 
 From simple, that I was of late. 
 For once, when Iloved, I toould enlace 
 Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face 
 Of her Iloved, in one embrace — 
 As if by mere love [ coidd love immensely ! 
 And when I hated, 1 would plunge 
 My <iword, and loipe with the first lunge 
 My foe's whole life out, like a sponge — 
 As if by mere hate I coidd hate intensely ! 
 But r^w I am wiser, know better the fashion
 
 piprA PASSES 199 
 
 How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion, 
 
 And if I see cause to love more, or hate more 
 
 Than ever man loved, ever hated, before — 
 
 And seek in the Valley of Love, 
 
 The spot, or the spot in Hate's Grove, 
 
 Where my soid way the sureliest reach 
 
 The essence, nought less, of each, 
 
 The Hate of all Hates, or the Love 
 
 Of all Loves, in its Valley or Grove, — 
 
 I find them the very ivarders 
 
 Each of the other's borders. 
 
 Hove most, tvhen Love is disyuised 
 
 In Hate ; and when Hate is surprised 
 
 In Love, then I hate most: ash 
 
 How Love smiles throiiyh Hate's iron casque. 
 
 Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask, — 
 
 And hoiu, having hated thee, 
 
 I sought long and painfully 
 
 To wound thee, and not prick 
 
 The skin, but pierce to the quick — 
 
 Ask this, my Jules, and be ansivered straight 
 
 By thy bride — hoiv the painter Lutwyche can hate t 
 
 Jules iriterposcs. 
 Lutwjche — who else? But all of them, no doubt, 
 tiated me : they at Venice — presently 
 Their turn, however! You I shall not meet: 
 If I dreamed, saying this would tvuke me 1 
 
 Keep
 
 200 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 What's here, this gold — we cannot meet again, 
 
 Considei" — and the money was but meant 
 
 For two years' travel, which is over now, 
 
 All chance, or hope, or care, or need of it ! 
 
 This — and what comes from selling these, my casts 
 
 And books, and medals, except ... let them go 
 
 Together, so the produce keeps you safe. 
 
 Out of Natalia's clutches ! — If by chance 
 
 (For all's chance here) I should survive the gang 
 
 At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, 
 
 We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide — 
 
 {From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing — 
 
 Give her but a least excuse to love me ! 
 
 When — where — 
 
 Hoic — can this arm establish her above me. 
 
 If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 
 
 There already, to eternally reprove me ? 
 
 Q'llist " — said Kate the queen ; 
 
 But " Oh — " cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 
 
 " 'Tis only a page that carols unseen 
 
 " Crumbling your hounds their messes ! ") 
 
 Is she tv7-onged? — To the rescue of her honour, 
 
 My heart ! 
 
 Is she poor'i — ^Yhat costs it to be styled a donourl 
 
 Merely an eartlCs to cleave, a sea's to part ! 
 
 But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her ,' 
 
 (^'■Nay, list," — bade Kate the queen ; 
 
 And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 201 
 
 '«'2Ys onhj a page that carols unseen 
 " Fitting your haich their jesses ! ") 
 
 {PiprA/>as<e«.J 
 
 JcLES resumes. 
 
 What name was that the little girl sang furth ? 
 
 Kate ? The Coniaro, doubtless, who renounced 
 
 The crown of Cyprus to be lady here 
 
 At Asolo, where still the peasants keep 
 
 Her memory ; and songs tell how many a page 
 
 Pined for the grace of one so far above 
 
 His power of doing good to, as a queen — 
 
 «' She never could be wronged, be poor," he sigh«d 
 
 " For him to help her ! " 
 
 Yes, a bitter thing 
 To see our lady above all need of us ; 
 Yet so we look ere we will love ; not I, 
 But the world looks so. If v»-hoever loves 
 Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper, 
 The blessing or the blest one, queen or page, 
 Why should we always choose the page's part ? 
 Here is a woman with utter need of me, — 
 I find myself queen here, it seems ! 
 
 How strange! 
 Look at the woman here with the new soul. 
 Like my own Psyche's, — fresh upon her lips 
 Alit, the visionary butterfly, 
 Waiting my word to enter and make bright. 
 Or ilutter off and leave all blank as first. 
 This body had no soul before, but slept
 
 202 riTPA PASSES. 
 
 Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free 
 From taint or foul with stain, as oulward things 
 Fastened their image on its passiveness : 
 Now, it will wake, feel, live — 'or die again ! 
 Shall to produce form out of unshapod stuff 
 Be art — and, further, to evoke a soul 
 From form, be nothing ? This new soul is mine ! 
 
 Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do ? — save 
 A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death 
 Without me, from their laughter ! — Oli, to hear 
 God's voice plain as 1 heard it first, before 
 They broke in with that laughter ! I heard them 
 Henceforth, not God ! 
 
 To Ancona — Greece — some isl« 
 I wanted silence only — there is clay 
 Everywhere. One may do whate'er one likes 
 In Art — the only tiling is, to make sure 
 That one does like it — which takes pains to know. 
 
 Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad dream ! 
 Who — what is Lutwyche — what Natalia's friends. 
 What the whole world except our love — my own, 
 Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not, 
 Ere night we travel for your land — some isle 
 With the sea's silence on it ? Stand aside — 
 I do but break these paltry models up 
 To begin art afresh. Shall I meet Lutwyche, 
 Ajid save him from my statue's meeting him r 
 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas 1
 
 pirpA PASSES. 203 
 
 Like a goJ going thro' his world there stands 
 One mountain for a moment in the dusk, 
 Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow — 
 And you are ever by me while I gaze 
 •^Are in my arms as now — as now — as now I 
 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
 Some unsuspected isle in far off seas ! 
 
 Talk by the way, while Pippa is passinrj from Orcana to the Tunft 
 Two or three of the Austrian Police loiterimj with Bldpiiocks. 
 an English vagahond , j usl in view of the Turrit. 
 
 Bluphocks.* So, that is your Pippa, the little girl 
 who passed us . singing ? Well, your Bishop's Inteml- 
 ant's moiiey shall be honestly earned : — now, don't make 
 me that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name 
 into the business — we know he can have nothing to do 
 with such horrors — we know that he is a saint and 
 all that a Bishop should be, who is a great man 
 besides. Oh ! were but every icurm a maggot, Every 
 jiy a grig, Every bough a chrisfmas foggot, Every 
 tune a jig ! In lact, I have abjured all religions ; but 
 the last I inclined to, was the Aimenian — lor I have 
 travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia 
 Improper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak 
 hungry sun there,) you might remark over a venerable 
 house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription ; and brief 
 
 ♦ "He makcth his sun to ii#c on the evil and on the gf>oJ, and 
 lendetli rain on the just and on the unjust."
 
 204 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the 
 mood of every bearded passenger. In they turned, one 
 and all ; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent 
 pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity,— 
 'twas the Grand Eabbi's abode, in short. Struck with 
 curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriac — (these are 
 vowels, you dogs, — follow my stick's end in the mud— 
 Celarent, Darii, Ferio !) and one morning presented 
 myself spelling-book in hand, a, b, c, — I picked it out 
 letter by letter, and what was the purport of this mirac- 
 ulous posy ? Some cherished legend of the past you'll 
 say, — '' How Moses liocus-pocust Egypt's land with Jly 
 and locust,'^ — or '• Hoio to Jonah sounded harshish, Get 
 thee vp a7id go to Tarshish" — or, '■'■How the angel meet- 
 ing Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam ; " — in 
 no wise ! " ShacTcahrach — Beach — somehody or other — 
 Isaach, Be-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser, and Ex-chan-ger of- — 
 Stolen goods ! " So talk to me of the religion of a 
 bishop ! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop 
 Bevei'idge — mean to live so — and die — As some Greek 
 dog-sage, dead and ■merry, Hellward hound in CharovHh 
 wherry — With food for both roorlds, under and upper. 
 Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, and 7iever an obolus . . . 
 (Though, thanks to you, or this Intendant thro' you, or 
 this Bishop thro' his Intendant — I possess a burning 
 pocket-full of zwanzigers) . . To pay the Stygian ferry ! 
 \st Pol. There is the girl, then ; go and deserve them 
 the moment you have pointed out to us Signer Luigi 
 and his mother. {To the rest) I have been noticing*
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 2vJ5 
 
 nouse yonder, this long while — not a shuttei iinclosftd 
 since morning! 
 
 2d Pol. OU Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills 
 here: he dozes by the hour — wakes up, sighs deeply, 
 says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then 
 dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, tlie 
 foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts : never molest 
 such a houjseliold, they mean well. 
 
 Blup. Only, cannot you tell me something of this 
 little Pippa, I must have to do with? — one could make 
 something of that name. Pippa — that is, short for 
 Felippa — rhyming to — Panurge consults Hertrippa — 
 Believst thou, King Agrippa ? Something might be 
 done with that name. 
 
 2d Pol. Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe 
 musk-melon would not be dear at half a zwanziger ! 
 Leave this fooling, and look out — the aftei'noon's over 
 or nearly so. 
 
 3rf Pol. Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does 
 our principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly ? 
 There? what's there beside a simple signature? (That 
 English fool's busy watching.) 
 
 2d Pol. Flourish all round — '• jiut all possible obsta- 
 vjles in his way ;" oblong dot at the end — " Detain him till 
 *"Mrther advices reach you;" scratch at bottom — "send 
 hira back on pretence of some informality in the above ;" 
 ink-spirt on right-hand side, (which is the case here)— 
 "Arrest him at once," why and wlierefore, I don't con- 
 cern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if
 
 206 PIPPA PASSES 
 
 Signer Luigi leaves home to-niglit for Vienna, well and 
 good — the passport deposed with us for our visa .s really 
 for his own use, tliey have misinformed the Office, and 
 he means well ; but let liim stay over to-night — there 
 has beea the pretence we suspect — the accounts of his 
 corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbo- 
 nari are correct — we arrest him at once — to-morrow 
 comes Venice — and presently, Spielberg. Bluphocks 
 makes the signal sure enough! Tliat is he, entering 
 the turret with his mother, no doubt. 
 
 III. — Evening. Inside the Turret. Luigi and his Mother 
 
 entering. 
 
 Mother. If there blew wind, jou'd hear a long sigh, 
 
 easing 
 
 The utmost heaviness of music's heart. 
 
 Luiyi. Here in the archway ? 
 
 Mother. Oh no, no — in further, 
 
 Where the echo is made — on the ridge. 
 
 Luigi. Here surely, then 
 
 How plain the tap of ray heel as I leaped up ! 
 Hark — " Lucius Junius! " The very ghost of a voice. 
 Whose body is caught and kept by . . . what are those ? 
 Mere witiiered wall-flowers, waving overhead ? 
 They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair 
 Who lean out of their topmost fortress — looking 
 And listening, mountain men, to what we say. 
 Hands under chin of each grave earthy face •
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 207 
 
 Up and show faces all of you ! — ''All of you!" 
 That's the king's dwarf with the scarlet comb ; now 
 
 hark — 
 Come down and meet your fate ! Hark — ''Meet yovar 
 fate ! " 
 
 Mother. Let him not meet it, my Luigi — do not 
 Go to his City ! putting crime aside, 
 Half of these ills of Italy are feigned — 
 Your PcUicos and writers for effect, 
 "Write for effect. 
 
 Luigi. Hush ! say A. writes, and B. 
 
 Mother. These A's and B's write for effect, I say. 
 Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good 
 [s silent — you hear each petty injury — 
 None of his daily virtues ; he is old, 
 Quiet, and kind, and densely stupid — why 
 Do A. and B. not kill him themselves ? 
 
 Luigi. They teach 
 
 Others to kill him — me — and, if I fail, 
 Others to succeed ; now, if A. tried and failed 
 E could not teach that : mine's tlie lesser task. 
 Mother, tliey visit by night . . . 
 
 Mother. — You, Luigi ? 
 
 Ah, will you let me tell you wliat you are ? 
 
 Luigi. Why not? Oh, the one tiling you fear to hint, 
 You may assure yourself I say and say 
 Ever to myself; at times — nay, even as now 
 "We sit, I think ray mind is touched — suspect 
 All is not sound : but is not knowing that.
 
 20S PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Wliat constitutes one sane or otherwise ? 
 
 I know I am tlius — so all is riglit again ! 
 
 I laugh at myself as through the town I walk, 
 
 And see men merry as if no Italy 
 
 Were suffering; then I ponder — '' I am rich, 
 
 "Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me, 
 
 " More than it troubles these ? " But it does trouble me 
 
 No — trouble's a bad word — for as I walk 
 
 There's springing and melody and giddiness, 
 
 And old quaint turns and passages of my youth — 
 
 Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves — 
 
 Return to me — whatever may amuse me, 
 
 And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven 
 
 Accords with me, all things suspend their sti'ife. 
 
 The very cicalas laugh " There goes he, and there ! 
 
 " Feast him, the time is short — he is on his way 
 
 " For the woi'ld's sake — feast him tliis once our friend ! 
 
 And in return for all this, I can trip 
 
 Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps : I go 
 
 This evening, mother ! 
 
 Mother. But mistrust yourself — 
 
 Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him. 
 
 Luigi. Oh, there I feel — am sure that I am right ! 
 
 Mother. Mistrust your judgment, then, of the mere 
 means 
 Of this wild enterprise : say you are right, — 
 How should one in your state e'er bring to pass 
 Wliat would require a cool head, a cold heart. 
 And a calm hand ? You never will escape.
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 209 
 
 Luiyi. Escape — to even wish that, would spoil all! 
 The djing is best part of it. Too much 
 Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine, 
 To leave myself excuse for longer life — 
 Was not life pressed dowji, running o'er with joy, 
 That I might finish with it ere my fellows 
 Who, sparelier ieasted, make a longer stay ? 
 I was put at the board-head, helped to all 
 At first ; I rise up happy and content. 
 God must be glad one loves his world so much — 
 I can give news of earth to all the dead 
 Who ask me : — last year's sunsets, and great stars 
 That had a right to come first and see ebb 
 The crimson wave that drifts the sun away — 
 Those crescent moons with notched and burning rim.-» 
 That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood, 
 Impatient of the azure — and that day 
 In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm — 
 May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights — 
 Gone are they, but I have them in my soul ! 
 
 Mother. (He will not go !) 
 
 Lidgi. You smile at me ! 'Tis true,— 
 
 Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness. 
 Environ my devotedness as quaintly 
 As round about some antique altar wreathe 
 The rose festoons, goals' horns, and oxen's skulls. 
 
 Mother. See now : you reach the city — you must cross 
 His threshold — how ? 
 
 Luigi. Oh, that's if we conspired I 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess- 
 But guess not how the qualities required 
 For such an office — qualities I have — 
 "Would little stead rae otherwise employed, 
 Yet prove of rarest merit here — here only. 
 Every one knows for what his excellence 
 Will serve, but no one ever will consider 
 For what his worst defect might serve ; and yet 
 Hr.ve you not seen me range our coppice yonder 
 In search of a distorted ash ? — it happens 
 The wry spoilt branch's a natural perfect bow ! 
 Fancy the thx-ice-sage, thrice-precautioned man 
 Arriving at the palace on my errand ! 
 No, no — I have a handsome dress packed up — 
 White satin here, to set off my black hair — 
 In I shall march — for you may watch your Ufe out 
 Behind thick walls — make friends there to betray you ; 
 More than one man spoils every tiling. March straight- 
 Only no clumsy knife to fumble for — 
 Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on 
 
 Thro' guards and guards 1 have rehearsed it all 
 
 Inside the Turret here a hundred times — 
 Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe, 
 But where they cluster thickliest is the door 
 Of doors ; they'll let you pass — they'll never blab 
 Each to the other, he knows not the favourite. 
 Whence he is bound and what's his business now — 
 Walk in — straight up to him — you have no knife — 
 Be prompt, how should he scream ? Then, out with you
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 211 
 
 Italy, Italy, my Italy ! 
 
 You're free, you're free ! Oh mother, I could dream 
 
 They got about me — Andrea from his exile, 
 
 Pier from his dungeon, Guallier from his grave! 
 
 Muther. AVcll, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism 
 The easiest virtue for a selfish man 
 To acquire ! lie loves himself — and next, the world— 
 If he must love beyond, — but nought between : 
 As a short-sighted man sees nought midway 
 His body and the sun above. But you 
 Are my adored Luigi — ever obedient 
 To my least wish, and running o'er with love^ 
 I could not call you cruel or unkind ! 
 Once more, your ground for iiilling him ! — then go ! 
 
 Luigi. Now do you ask me, or make sport of me? 
 How first the Austrians got these provinces — 
 (If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon) 
 . . . Never by conquest but by cunning, for 
 That treaty whereby . . . 
 
 Mother. Well? 
 
 Luigi. (Sure he's arrived, 
 
 The tell-tale cuckoo — spring's his confidant, 
 And he lets out her April purposes !) 
 Or . . better go at once to modern times — 
 He has . . they have . . in fact, I understand 
 But can't restate the matter; that's my boast; 
 Others could reason it out to you, and prove 
 Things they have made m3 feel. 
 
 Mother. Why go to-night /
 
 212 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Morn's for adventure. Jupiter is now 
 
 A morning star. I cannot hear you, Luigi ! 
 
 Luigi. " I am the bright and morning-star," God saith— 
 And, " to such an one I give the morning-star ! " 
 The gift of the morning-star — have I. God's gift 
 Of the morning-star ? 
 
 Mother. Chiara will love to see 
 
 That Jupiter an evening-star next June. 
 
 Luigi. True, mother. Well for those who live through 
 June! 
 Great noontides, thunder storms, all glaring pomps 
 Which triumph at the heels of sovereign June 
 Leading his glorious revel thro' our world. • 
 
 Yes, Chiara will be here — 
 
 Mother. In June — remember, 
 
 Yourself appointed that month for her coming — 
 
 Luigi. Was that low noise the echo ? 
 
 Mother. The night-wind. 
 
 She must be grown — with her blue eyes upturned 
 As if life were one long and sweet surprise : 
 In June she comes. 
 
 Luigi. We were to see together 
 
 The Titian at Treviso — there, again ! 
 
 (From loilhout is heard the voice of Pippa singing— 
 A king lived long ago, 
 In the morning of the world, 
 When earth was nigher heaven than now : 
 And the king's locks curled 
 Disparting o'er a forehead full
 
 PTPPA PASSES. 213 
 
 As the milk-iolute space 'twixt horn and horn 
 
 Of some sacrijicial hull — 
 
 Only calm as a babe new-born : 
 
 For he was got to a sleepy mood, 
 
 So safe from all decrepitude, 
 
 From age with its bane, so sure gone by, 
 
 {The Gods so loved him while he dreamed,) 
 
 That, having lived thus long, there seemed 
 
 No need the king should ever die. 
 
 Luigi. No need that sort of king should ever die ! 
 
 \_From without.'] Among the rochs his city was. 
 
 Before his palace, in the sun, 
 
 He sate to see his people pass, 
 
 And Judge them every one 
 
 From its threshold of smooth stone. 
 
 77iey haled him many a valley-thief 
 
 Caught in the sheep-pens — rohber-chief. 
 Swarthy and shameless — beggar-cheat — 
 Spy-prowler — or rough pirate found 
 
 On the sea-sand left aground; 
 And sometimes clung about his feet, 
 
 With bleeding lip and burning cheek, 
 A woman, bitterest wrong to speak 
 
 Of one with sullen thickset brows : 
 And sometimes from the prison-house 
 
 The angry priests a pjle wretch brought. 
 
 Who through some chink had pushed and pressed, 
 
 On knees and elboios, belly and breast, 
 
 Worm-like into the temple, — catlyht
 
 214 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 At last there hj the very God, 
 
 Who ever in the darkness strode 
 
 Backward and forward, keeping watch 
 
 O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch I 
 
 And these, all and every one, 
 
 Tlie king judged, sitting in the sun. 
 
 Tjuigi. That king should still judge sitting in the sua 
 
 [_Froin without.'] His councillors, on left and right 
 Looked anxious up, — but no surprise 
 Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes, 
 Where the very blue had turned to tvhite. 
 'Tis said, a Python scared one day 
 The breathless city, till he came. 
 With forky tongue and eyes on flame, 
 Where the old king sate to judge alway ; 
 But when he saw the sweepy hair, 
 Girt with a crown of berries rare 
 Which the God will hardly give to wear 
 To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare 
 In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights, 
 At his wondrous forest rites, — 
 Beholding this, he did not dare, 
 Approach that threshold in the sun, 
 Assaidt the old king smiling there. 
 Such grace had kings when the world begun! 
 
 (PippA passes.) 
 
 Luigi. And such gi'ace have they, now that the worW 
 ends! 
 The Python in the city, on the throne,
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 215 
 
 And brave men, God would crown for slaying him, 
 Lurk in bye-corners lest they fall his prey. 
 Are crowns yet to be won, in this late trial. 
 Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach? 
 'Tis God's voice calls, how could 1 stay? Farewell! 
 
 Tali by the teat/, tcJiile Pippa is passitiy from the Turret <o *he 
 Bishop^s brother's Uouse, close to the Duoino S. Maria. Poor 
 Girls sitiiiiff on the steps. 
 
 1st Girl. There goes a swallow to Venice — the stou* 
 sea- fare r I 
 Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings. 
 Let us all wish ; you, wish first ! 
 
 2d Girl. I ? This sunset 
 
 To finish. 
 
 od Girl. That old . . . somebody 1 know, 
 Grayer and older than my grandfather, 
 To give me the same treat he gave last week — 
 Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers, 
 Lampreys, and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling 
 The while some folly about how well I fare, 
 To be let eat my supper quietly — 
 Since had he ncTt himself been late this morning 
 Detained at — never mind where, — had he not . . 
 " Eh, baggage, had I not ! " — 
 
 2d Girl. How she can lie 1 
 
 Sd Girl. Look there — by the nails — ■
 
 216 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 2d Girl. What makes your fingers r-^d? 
 
 3c? Girl. Dipping them into wine to write bad words with 
 On the bright table — how he laughed ! 
 
 1st Girl. My turn : 
 
 Spring's come and summer's coming : I would wear 
 A lonsr loose ffown — down to the feet and hands- • 
 With plaits here, close about the throat, all day : 
 And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed — 
 And have new milk to drink — ap[)les to eat, 
 Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . ah, I should say 
 This is away in the fields — miles ! 
 
 3c? Girl. Say at once 
 
 You'd be at home — she'd always be at home ! / 
 Now comes the story of the farm among 
 The cherry orchards, and how April snowed 
 White blossoms on her as she ran : why, fool. 
 They've rubbed out the chalk-mark of how tall you were, 
 Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage. 
 Made a dunghill of your garden — 
 
 \st Girl. They, destroy 
 
 My garden since I left them ? well — perhaps ! 
 I would have done so — so I hope they have! 
 A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall — 
 They called it mine, I have forgotten why, 
 It must have been there long ere I was fcorn ; 
 Cric — eric — I think I hear the wasps o'erhead 
 Pricking the papers strung to flutter there 
 Aiid keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse long papers, 
 A.nd the wasps eat them, prick them through and througt
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 217 
 
 3d Girl. How her mouth twitches! Where was I?— 
 before 
 She broke in with her wishes and long gowns 
 And wasps — would I be such a fool ! — Oli, hero. ! 
 This is my way — I answer every one 
 tVIio asks me why I make so much of him — 
 H you say, you love him — straight " he'll not be gulled ") 
 • He that seduc6d me when I was a cirl 
 Thus high— had eyes like yours, or hair like yours, 
 Brown, red, white," — as the case may be — that pleases ! 
 (See how that beetle burnishes in the path — 
 There sparkles he along the dust ! and, there — 
 Your journey to that maize-tuft's spoilt at least !) 
 
 1st Girl. When I was young, they said if you killed one 
 Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend 
 Up thfre, would shine no more that day nor next. 
 
 2d Girl. When you were young ? Nor are you young 
 that's true ! 
 How your plump arms, that were, iiave dropped away I 
 Why, I can span them ! Cecco beats you still? 
 No matter, so you keep your curious hair. 
 I wish they'd find a way to dye our hair 
 Your colour — any lighter tint, indeed. 
 Than black — the men say they are sick of black, 
 Black eyes, black hair 
 
 'ith Girl. Sick of yours, like enougU T 
 
 Do you pretend yon ever tasted lampreys 
 A.nd ortolans ? Giovita. of the palace, 
 Engaged (but there's no trusting him) to slice nao
 
 218 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Polenta with a knife that has cut up 
 An ortolan. 
 
 2d Girl. Why, there ! is not that Pippa, 
 We are to talk to, under the window, — quick,^ 
 Where the lights are ? 
 
 1st Gii'l. No — or she would sing , 
 
 — For the Intendant said . . 
 
 dd Girl. Oh, you sing first- 
 
 Then, if she listens and comes close . . I'll tell you, 
 Sing that song the young English noble made, 
 Who took you for the purest of the pure. 
 And meant to leave the world for you — what fun ! 
 
 2c? Girl. [Sings.^ 
 
 You'll love me yet! — and I can tarry 
 Your love's protracted growing: 
 June reared that bunch of flowers you carry 
 From seeds of April's sowing. 
 
 " I plant a heartful now — some seed 
 At least is sure to sti-jke 
 And yield — what you'll not pluck indeed, 
 Not love, but, may be, like ! 
 
 You'll look at least on love's remains, 
 A grave's one violet : 
 Your look ? — that pays a thousand pains. 
 What's death ? — you'll love me yet ! 
 
 3c? Girl. [To Pippa, t^Ao approaclies.] Oh, you may 
 come closer — we shall not eat you ! Why, you seem th- 
 very person that the great rich handsome Englishman h' 
 (alien so violently in love with ! I'll tell you all about ..
 
 PIPPA PAS3E3. 21S4 
 
 ,' V. — Nifjht. The Palace bij the Dunmo. Monsigxor, dismissinr, 
 
 his Attendants. 
 
 Jl/on. Tlianks, friends, many tlianks. I cliieily desire 
 life now, that I may recompense every one of you, 
 Most I know something of already. What, a repast 
 pre[)ared? Benedicto henedicatur . . iigh . . ugh! Where 
 was I ? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is 
 mild, very unlike winter-weather, — but I am a Sicilian, 
 you know, and shiver in your Julys here : To be sure, 
 when 'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used 
 to cross in procession the great square on Assumption 
 Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist 
 suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down 
 on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, 
 but go ! [To the Intendant] Not you, Ugo ! \_The others 
 leave the apan^meyit] I have long wanted to converse 
 with you, Ugo 1 
 
 Inten. Uguccio — 
 
 Mon. . . 'guccio Stefani, man ! of Ascoli, Fermo, and 
 Fossombruno ; — what I do need instructing about, are 
 these accounts of your administration of my poor broth- 
 er's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through a third 
 part of your accounts : take some of these dainties before 
 we attempt it, however: are you bashful to that degree? 
 For me, a crust and water suffice. 
 
 Inten. Do you choose this especial night to questior 
 ma?
 
 220 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 Mon. Tliia «i^glit, Ugo. You have inanag(;d my late 
 brother's affairs sinoe the death of our elder brother— 
 fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the 
 3d of December, I find him . . . 
 
 Irden. If you have so indmate an acquaintance with 
 your brother's afFaix-s, you will be tender of turning so 
 far back — they will hardly bear fooking into, so far back. 
 
 Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but disappoint- 
 nients here below ! I remark a considerable payment 
 made to yourself on this 3d of December. Talk of 
 disappointments ! There was a young fellow here, Jules, 
 a foreign sculptor, I did my utmost to advance, that the 
 church might be a gainer by us both : he was going on 
 hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me 
 some marvellous change that has happened in his notions 
 of art , here's his letter, — " He never had a clearly 
 conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since 
 his hand could manage a chisel, he has pmctised express- 
 ing other men's Ideals — and, in the very perfection he 
 has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure — his 
 unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of 
 old years, and will reproduce with a fatal exnertness th'j 
 ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably 
 to his spirit: there is but one method of escape — con 
 fiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turt 
 painter instead of sculptor, and paint, nut carve, its 
 characteristics," — strike out, I dare say a school like 
 Correggio : how think you, Ugo ? 
 
 Inten. Is Correggio a painter ?
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 221 
 
 Man Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, why foolish? 
 He may — probably will, fail egregiously ; but if there 
 Bhoukl arise a new'painter, will it not be in some such 
 way by a poet, now, or a musician, (.-pirils who have 
 conceived and perfected an Ideal through some othe" 
 channel) transferring it to this, and escaping our jon 
 ventional roads by pure ignorance of them ; eh, Ugo' 
 If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo ! 
 
 Jnfen. Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of 
 yours : first, you select the group of wliich I formed 
 one, — next you thin it gradually, — always retaining me 
 with your smile, — and so do you proceed till you have 
 fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls ; 
 and now then? Let this farce, this chatter end now — 
 what is it you want with me ? 
 
 Moji. Ugo . . . 
 
 Jntoi. From the instant you arrived, I felt your smile 
 on me as you questioned me about this and the other 
 article in those papers — why your brother should have 
 given me this villa, that podere, — and your nod at the 
 end meant, — what? 
 
 Mon. Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here : if 
 once you set me coughing, Ugo ! — 
 
 Inlen. I have your brother's hand and seal to all 1 
 possess: now ask me what for! what service I did liira 
 f— ask me ! 
 
 3Ioji. I had better not — I should rip up old disgraces 
 —let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way, 
 Maffeo of Forli, (which, I forgot to observe, is your true
 
 H22 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 name) was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing 
 that chtirch at Cesena? 
 
 Inteii. No, nor needs be — for when I murdered your 
 brother's friend, Pasquale, for him . . . 
 
 3fon. Ah, he employed you in that business, did lie ? 
 Yv''ell, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and 
 that podere, for fear the world should find out my rela- 
 tions were of so indifferent a stamp ! Maffeo, my family 
 is the oldest in Messina, and century after eentui-y have 
 my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every 
 wickedness under heaven : my own father . . . rest his 
 Boul ! — I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may 
 rest : my dear two dead brothers were, — what you know 
 tolerably well ; I, the youngest, miglit have rivalled 
 them in vice, if not in wealth, but from my boyhood 1 
 came out from among them, and so am not partaker of 
 their plagues. My glory springs from another source ; 
 or if from this, by contrast only, — for I, tlie bishop, am 
 the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair 
 some of their wrong, however ; so far as my brother's 
 ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the conse- 
 quences of his crime ; and not one soldo shall escape 
 me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you 
 shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with ; what 
 opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize. 
 Because, to pleasure myself, apart from other consid- 
 erations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress 
 eackcloth, and my couch straw, — am I therefore to lef 
 you, the off-scouring of the earth, seduce the poor and
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 223 
 
 .gnorant, by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to 
 think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and 
 exclusively associated with it? IMust I let villas and 
 poderes go to you, a murderei and thief, that you may 
 beget by means of them other murderers and thieves? 
 No ... if my cougli would but allow me to speak ! 
 
 Infcn. What am I to expect ? you are going to punish 
 me ? 
 
 Mon. Mu?t punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to 
 cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to 
 redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it iul 
 How should I dare to say . . . 
 
 Jnten. " Forgive us our trespasses " — 
 
 3fon. My friend, it is because I avow myself a very 
 worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of 
 conduct you would applaud, perhaps : shall I proceed, 
 as it were, a-pardoning ? — I ? — who have no symptom of 
 reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest 
 efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less, 
 keep others out. No — I do trespass, but will not double 
 that by allowing you to trespass. 
 
 Inten. And suppose the villas are not your brother's 
 to give, nor yours to take ? Oh, you are hasty enough 
 just now ! 
 
 iMun. 1, 2 — N°. 3 ! — ay, can you read the substance 
 Df a letter, N". 3, I have received from Rome ? It is 
 precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion 
 I have that a certain child of my lato elder brother, who 
 ft'ould liave succeeded to his estates, wa? m>rdered in
 
 224 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late 
 brotlier — that the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the 
 bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the 
 taking all pains, as guardian of that infant's heritage foi 
 the church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever 
 wliensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now 
 gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing 
 up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice 
 brings my people from the next room to dispose of your- 
 Eelf. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me 
 I'aising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old 
 etory? The heir between the succeeding heir, and that 
 heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's efiect, 
 and the life of fear and bribes, and ominous smiling 
 silence ? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant ? 
 Come, now ! 
 
 Inten. So old a story, and tell it no better ? When 
 did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? 
 Either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely, he 
 is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's 
 power so thoroughly — the child is always ready to 
 produce — as you say^howsoever, wheresoever, and 
 whensoever. 
 
 Mon. Liar ! 
 
 Inten. Strike me ? Ah, so might a father chastise ! 
 I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the 
 gallows await me to-morrow ; for what a life did I lead! 
 Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every 
 .imp 1 pay his annuity (which happens commonly thrice
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 225 
 
 a year.) If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the 
 good bishop — you ! 
 
 Mon. I see thro' the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke 
 truth for once ; all shall be sifted, however — seven times 
 sifted. 
 
 Inten. And how my absurd riches encumbered me! 
 I dared not lay claim to about half my possessions. 
 Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and 
 die! 
 
 Sir, you arc no brutal, dastardly idiot like your 
 brother I frightened to death — let us understand one 
 another. Sir, I will make away with her for you — the 
 girl — here close at hand ; not the stupid obvious kind of 
 killing ; do not speak — know nothing of her or me ! I 
 see her every day — saw her this morning: of course 
 there is to be no killing ; but at Rome the courtesans 
 perish off every three years, and I can entice her thither 
 — have, indeed, begun operations already. There's a 
 certain lusty, blue-eyed, florid-complexioned, English 
 knave I and the Pohce employ occasionally. — You 
 assent, I perceive — no, that's not it — assent I do uot 
 say — but you will let me convert my present havings 
 and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the 
 Alps? 'Tis but a little black-eyed, pretty singing 
 Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of 
 harm's way up to this present ; for I always intended to 
 make your life a plague to you with her ! 'Tis as well 
 settled once and forever : some women I have procured 
 vill pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off foi 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 somebody ; ana once Pippa entangled ! — you concciTe 
 Througli hex- singing ? Is it a bargain ? 
 
 {From willwut is heard the voice ofViVTX singing— 
 
 Over-head the tree-tops meet — 
 
 Flowers and grass spring ^neath one's feet — 
 
 There was nought above me, and nought below, 
 
 My childhood had not learned to know ! 
 
 For, what are the voices of birds 
 
 — Ay, and of beasts, — but words — our words. 
 
 Only so much more sweet ? 
 
 Che knowledge of that roilh my life begun ! 
 
 But I had so near made out the sun. 
 
 And counted your stars, the Seven and One, 
 
 Like the fingers of my hand: 
 
 t^ay, 1 could all but understand 
 
 Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges ; 
 
 And just when out of her soft ffty changes 
 
 No unfamiliar face might overlook me — 
 
 Suddenly God took me ! (Pippa passes, i 
 
 Mon. [^Springiyig j/p.'] My people — one and all—' 
 all — within there ! Gag this villain — tie him hand and 
 foot! He dares — I know not half he dares — but 
 remove him — quick! Aliserere 7nei, Dom^ne / quick, 
 I say ! 
 
 Pippa's Chamber. She enters it. 
 
 The bee with his comb, 
 The mou3e at her dray,
 
 PIPPA PASSES. 227 
 
 The grub in its tomb, 
 
 Wile winter away ; 
 
 Bat tlie fire-fly and hedge-shrew a:id lob-worm, I pray. 
 
 How fare they ? 
 
 Ha, ha, best thanks for your counsel, my Zanze — 
 
 " Feast upon lampreys, quaff the Breganze" — 
 
 The summer of life's so easy to spend, 
 
 And care for to-morrow so soon put away ! 
 
 But winter hastens at summer's end, 
 
 And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray, 
 
 How fare they ? 
 
 No bidding me then to . . what did she say ? 
 
 " Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes 
 
 " More like . . (wliat said she ?) — and less like canoes—" 
 
 How pert that girl was ! — would I be those pert 
 
 Impudent staring women ! it had done me, 
 
 However, surely no such mighty hurt 
 
 To learn his name who passed that jest upon me : 
 
 No foreigner, that I can recollect, 
 
 Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect 
 
 Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and thick rings 
 
 Of English-coloured hair, at all events. 
 
 Well — if old Luca keeps his good intents, 
 
 We shall do better : see what next year brings 1 
 
 I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear 
 
 More destitute than you, perhaps, next year ! 
 
 Bluph. . . something! I had caught the uncouth aame 
 
 But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter 
 
 A-bove us — bound to spoil such idle chatter
 
 228 PIPPA PASSES. 
 
 As ours ; it were, indeed, a serious matter 
 
 If silly talk like ours should put to shame 
 
 The pious man, the man devoid of blame, 
 
 The . . . ah, but — ah, but, all the same, 
 
 No mere mortal has a right 
 
 To carry that exalted air; 
 
 Best people are not angels quite — 
 
 While — not the worst of people's doings scare 
 
 The devils ; so there's that proud look to spare I 
 
 Which is mere counsel to myself, mind ! for 
 
 I have just been the holy Monsignor ! 
 
 And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mothei', 
 
 And you too, Luigi ! — how that Luigi started 
 
 Out of the Turret — doubtlessly departed 
 
 On some good errand or another. 
 
 For he past just now in a traveller's trim. 
 
 And the sullen company that prowled 
 
 About his path, I noticed, scowled 
 
 As if they had lost a prey in him. 
 
 And I was Jules the sculptor's bride, 
 
 And I was Ottima beside. 
 
 And now what am I ? — tired of fooling I 
 
 Day for folly, night for schooling ! 
 
 New year's day is over and spent, 
 
 111 or well, I must be content ! 
 
 Even ray lily's asleep, I vow : 
 
 Wake uj) — here's a friend I've plt.ckt you ' 
 
 See — call this flower a heart's-ease now ! 
 
 And something rare, let me instruct you,
 
 t>IPPA PASSES. 229 
 
 Is this — with petals triply swollen, 
 Three times spotted, thrice the pollen, 
 While the leaves and parts that witness 
 The old proportions and their fitness 
 Here remain, unchanged unmoved now — 
 So call this pampered thing improved now ? 
 Suppose there's a king of the flowers 
 And a girl-show held in his bowers — 
 " Look ye, buds, this growth of ours," 
 Says he, " Zanze from the Brenta, 
 I have made her gorge polenta 
 Till both cheeks are near as bouncing 
 As her . . . name there's no pronouncing; • 
 See this heightened colour too — 
 For she swilled Breganze wine 
 Till her nose turned deep carmine — 
 'Twas but white when wild she grew ! 
 And only by this Zanze's eyes 
 Of which we could not change the size, 
 The magnitude of what's achieved 
 Otherwise, may be perceived ! " 
 
 I 
 
 Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day 
 How could that red sun drop in that black cloui » 
 Ah, Pippa, mornmg's rule is moved away. 
 Dispensed with, never more to be allowed. 
 Day's turn is over — now arrives the night's — 
 Oh, Lark, be day's apostle 
 To mavis, merle and throstle.
 
 23U prppA PASSES. 
 
 Bid them their betters jostle 
 
 From day and its delights ! 
 
 But at night, brother Howlet, far over the woods, 
 
 Toll the world to thy chantry — 
 
 Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods 
 
 Full complines with gallantry — 
 
 Then, owls and bats, cowls and twats, 
 
 Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, 
 
 Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry ! 
 
 [After she has begun to undress herself 
 Now, one thing I should like really to know : 
 How near I ever might approach all these 
 I only fancied being, this long day — 
 — Approach, I mean, so as to touch them — so 
 As to . . in some way . . move them — if you please. 
 Do good or evil to them some slight way. 
 For instance, if I wind 
 Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind 
 
 [Sitting on the bedside. 
 Aod broider Ottiraa's cloak's hem — 
 Ah, me and my important part with them, 
 This morning's hymn half promised when I rose ! 
 True in some sense or other, I suppose, 
 Though 1 passed by them all, and felt no sign. 
 
 [As she lies down 
 God bless me ! I can pray no more to-night. 
 No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. 
 All service is the same with God — 
 With God, whose puppets, best and worst. 
 Are we : there is no last nor Jirst — [She sleepa
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CIIARLEkS.
 
 So far as 1 know, this Tragedy is the first artistical consequence of 
 what Voltaire termed "a terrible event without consequences; ' and 
 although it professes to be historical, I have taken more pains to 
 arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particu- 
 larizing: since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief 
 circumstances of Victor's remarkable European career — nor quite 
 ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to repioduce 
 (tolerable accounts of which are to be found, for instance, in Abb^ 
 Boman's Recit, or even the fifth of Lord Onery's Letters from Italy) 
 — 1 cannot expect them to be versed, nor desirous of becoming so, 
 in all the details of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of 
 the time. From these only may be oL/tained a knowledge of the 
 fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dis- 
 simulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor — the extreme 
 and painful sensibility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest 
 good purpose and vacillating will, of Charles — tiie noble and right 
 woman's-manliness of his wife — and the ill-considered rascality and 
 subsequent better-advised rectitude of D'Onuea. When I say, tliere- 
 fore, that I cannot but believe ray statement (combining as it does 
 what appears correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more 
 true to person and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to 
 meet with, no doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared 
 es readily.
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Victor Amadecs, First Iving of Sardinia. 
 CiiARLEB Emaxl'el, iiis Son, Prince of riedmont. 
 PoLYXEXA, Wife of Cliarlcs. 
 D'Ormea, Minister. 
 
 Scene — The Council Cliainhcr of Rivoli Palace, near Turin 
 communicating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to the lefi 
 »nd another to the right of the stage. 
 
 Time. 1730-i. 
 
 FIRST YEAR 1730.— laXG VICTOR. 
 Part I. 
 
 Charles, Poltxena. 
 
 Clta. You think so ? "Well, I do not. 
 
 PoL My belovetl, 
 
 All mu.<t clear up — we shall be happy yet : 
 Tliis cannot last forever . . oh, may change 
 To-day, or any day ! 
 
 Cha. — May change ? Ah yes- 
 
 May change !
 
 234 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Pol. Endure it, then. 
 
 Cha. No doubt, a life 
 
 Like this drags on, now better and now worse ; 
 My father may . . . may take to loving me ; 
 And he may take, too, D'Orraea closer yet 
 To counsel him ; — may even cast off her 
 —-That bad Sebastian ; but he also may 
 . . Or, no, Polyxena, my only friend. 
 He may not force you from me ? 
 
 Pol. Now, force me 
 
 From you ! — me, close by you as if there gloomed 
 No D'Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path — 
 At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand, 
 Arch-counsellor, prime confidant . . . force me I 
 
 Cha. Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure 
 We clasp hands now, of being happy once. 
 Young was I, quite neglected, nor concerned 
 By the world's business that engrossed so much 
 My father and my brother : if I peered 
 From out my privacy, — amid the crash 
 And blaze of nations, domineered those two ; 
 'Twas war, peace — France our foe, now — England 
 
 friend — 
 In love with Spain — at feud with Austria ! — Well — 
 I wondered — laughed a moment's laugh for pride 
 In the chivalrous couple — then let drop 
 My curtain — " I am out of it," I said — 
 When . . . 
 
 P(d. You have told me, Charles.
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 23.1 
 
 Clia. Polyxena — 
 
 Wlien siiildenly, — a warm IMarcli day, just that! 
 Just so much sunshine as the cottager's child 
 Basks in delighted, while the cottager 
 Takes off his bonnet, as he ceases work, 
 To catch the more of it — and it must fall 
 Heavily on my brother . . . had you seen 
 Philip — the lion-featured ! — not like me 1 
 
 Pol. I know — 
 
 Cha, And Philip's mouth yet fast to mine, 
 
 His dead cheek on my cheek, his arm still round 
 My neck, — they bade me rise, " for I was heir 
 To the Duke," they said, "the right hand of the Duke;' 
 Till then he was my father, not the Duke ! 
 So . . let me finish . . the whole intricate 
 World's business their dead boy was born to, I 
 Must conquer, — ay, the brilliant thing he was, 
 I, of a sudden, must be : my faults, my follies, 
 — All bitter truths were told me, all at once 
 To end the soonei*. What I simply styled 
 Their overlooking me, had been contempt : 
 How should the Duke employ himself, forsooth, 
 With such an one while lordly Philip rode 
 By him their Turin through ? But he was punished, 
 And must put up with — me ! 'Twas sad enough 
 To learn my future portion and submit — 
 And then the wear and worrv, bluine on blame . 
 ^-For, spring-sounds in my ears, spring-smells about, 
 How could 1 but grow dizzy in their pent
 
 236 KING VICTOR AND KING CHAKLES. 
 
 Dim palace-rooms at first ? My mother's look 
 
 As they discussed my insignificance — 
 
 (Slie and my fatiier, and I sitting by,) — 
 
 I bore : — I knew how brave a son they missed : 
 
 Philip had gayly passed state-i)apers o'er, 
 
 While Cliarles was spelling at them painfully ! 
 
 But Victor was my father spite of that. 
 
 " Duke Victor's entire life has been," I said, 
 
 " Innumerable efforts to one end ; 
 
 "And, on the point now of that end's success, 
 
 "Our Ducal turning to a Kingly crown, 
 
 " Where's time to be reminded 'tis his child 
 
 " lie spurns ?" And so I suffered . . yet scarce bufTered, 
 
 Since I hud you at length ! 
 
 Pol. To serve in place 
 
 Of monarch, minister and mistress, Cliailes. 
 
 Cha. But, once that crown obtained, tiien was't not like 
 Our lot would alter ? — " When he rests, takes breath, 
 " Glances around, and sees who's left to love — 
 " Now that my mother's dead, sees I am left — 
 " Is it not like he'll love me at the last ? " 
 Well : Savoy turns Sardinia — the Duke's King I 
 Could I — precisely then — could you expect 
 His harshness to redouble ? Tiiese few months 
 Have been . . . have been . . Polyxena, do you 
 And God conduct me, or I lose myself! 
 What would he have? What is't they want with me? 
 Him with this mistress and this minister, 
 — You see me and you hear me ; judge us both 1 
 Pronounce what I should do, Polyxena I
 
 KINO VICTOR AND KING CIIAULE3. 237 
 
 Pol. Endure, endui-e, beloved ! Say you not 
 That he's your Father ? All's so incident 
 To novel sway ! Beside, our life must change : 
 Oi you'll acquire his kingcraft, or he'll find 
 Harshness a sorry way of teaching it. 
 I bear this — not that there's so much to bear — 
 
 Cha. You bear it ? dou't I know that you, tho' bound 
 To silence for my sake, are perishing 
 Piecemeal beside me ? and how otherwise ? 
 — When every creephole from the hideous Court 
 Is stopt ; the Minister to dog me, here — 
 Tlie Mistress posted to entrap you, there 1 
 And thus shall we grow old in such a life — 
 Not careless, — never estranged, — but old : to alter 
 Our life, there is so much to alter ! 
 
 Vul. Come — 
 
 Is it agreed that we forego complaints 
 Even at Turin, yet complain we here 
 At Rivoli ? 'Twere wiser you announced 
 Our presence to the king. "What's now a-foot, 
 I wonder ? — Not that any raore's to dread 
 Than every day's embarrassment — but guess, 
 For me, why train so last succeeded train 
 On the high-road, each gayer still than each ; 
 I noticed your Archbishop's pursuivant. 
 The sable cloak and silver cross ; such pomp 
 \5odes . . what now, Charles ? Can you conceive ? 
 
 Cha. Not I 
 
 Pol. A matter of some moment —
 
 238 KING VICTOR AND KING CHAELES. 
 
 Ch:i. There's our life ! 
 
 Wliich of the group of loiterers that stared 
 From the lime-avenue, divines that I — 
 About to figure presently, he thinks, 
 In face of all assembled — am the one 
 Who knows precisely least about it ? 
 
 Pol Tush ! 
 
 D'Ormea's contrivance ! 
 
 Gha. Ay — how otherwise 
 
 Should the young Prince serve for the old King's foiP 
 —"^o that the simplest courtier may remark, 
 'Twere idle raising parties for a Prince 
 Content to linger D'Ormea's laugliing-stock ! 
 Something, 'tis like, about that weary business 
 
 [Pointinff to papers he has laid down, and which Poltxbk> 
 exuiinnes.\ 
 
 —Not that I comprehend three words, of course. 
 After all last night's study. 
 
 Pol The faint heart ! 
 
 Why, as we rode and you rehearsed just now 
 Its substance . . (that's the folded speech I mean. 
 Concerning the Reduction of the Fiefs . .) 
 ^What would you have ? — I fancied while you spoke. 
 Some tones were just your father's. 
 
 Cha. Flattery ! 
 
 Pol I fancied so : — and here lurks, sure enough, 
 My note uj^on the Spanish Claims! You've mastered 
 The fief-speech thoroughly — this other, mind, 
 Is an opinion you deliver, — stay, 
 Best read it sluwlj' over once to me ;
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING (;11AKLES. 239 
 
 Read — there's bare time; you read it firmly — loud 
 ^-Rather loud — looking in his face, — don't sink 
 Your eye once — :iy, thus! " If Spain claims . . ." begin 
 —Just as you look at me ! 
 
 Cha. At you ! Oli, truly, 
 
 You have I seen, say, marshalling your troops — 
 Dismissing councils — or, through doors ajar, 
 Head sunk on hand, devoured by slow chagrins 
 — Then radiant, for a crown had all at once 
 Seemed possible again 1 I can behold 
 Him, whose least whisper ties my spirit fast, 
 In this sweet brow, nought could divert me from, 
 Save objects like Sebastian's shameless lip. 
 Or, worse, the dipt gray hair and dead white face. 
 And dwindling eye as if it ached with guile, 
 Which D'Ormea wears . . . 
 
 {As he kisses her, enter from the King's apartment D'Ohmea.j 
 
 . . I said he would divert 
 My kisses from your brow ! 
 
 UO. \_Aside.'] Here! So King Victor 
 Spoke truth for once ; and who's ordained, but I, 
 To make that memorable ? Both in call. 
 As he declared ! Were't better gnash the teeth. 
 Or laugh outright now ? 
 
 Cha. [to Pol.] What's his visit for ? 
 
 D'O. [Aside.'] I question if they'll even speak to me. 
 Pol [_toC/ta.] Face D'Ormea, he'll suppose you fear 
 him, else. 
 'Aloud.] The Marquis bears the King's command, no 
 doubt.
 
 MO KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 D 0- [Aside.'] Precisely ! — If I threatened him, per* 
 haps? 
 Well, this at least is punishment enougli ! 
 Men used to promise punishment would come. 
 
 C/ia. Deliver the King's message. Marquis ! 
 
 D'O. [Aside.] Ah— 
 
 So anxious for his fate? [Aloud.] A word, my Prince, 
 Before you see your fixther — just one word 
 Jf counsel ! 
 
 Cha. Oh, your counsel certainly — 
 
 Polyxena, the Marquis counsels us ! 
 Well, sir ? Be brief, however ! 
 
 Z>' 0. What ? you know 
 
 As much as I ? — preceded me, most like, 
 In knowledge ? So ! ('Tis in his eye, beside — 
 His voice — he knows it and his heart's on flame 
 Already !) You surmise wliy you, myself, 
 Del Borgo, Spava, fifty nobles more. 
 Are summoned thus ? 
 
 Cha. Is the Prince used to know, 
 
 A.t any time, the pleasure of the King, 
 Before his minister? — Polyxen;i, 
 Stay here till I conclude my task — I feel 
 Tour presence — (smile not) — tliro' tiie walls, and take 
 «<"resh heart. The Kings within tiiat chamber? 
 
 D' 0. [Pussiinj tlip table ichereon a paper lies, exclaims, as he 
 glances at it,\ " Spain ! '' 
 
 Pol. [Aside to Cha.] Tarry awhile : what ails th< 
 minister ?
 
 KING VICTOU AND KING CIIAIU.KS. 241 
 
 If 0. Madam, I do not often trouble you. 
 The Prince loathes, and you loathe me — let that pass ; 
 But since it touches him and you, not me, 
 Bid the Prince listen ! 
 
 Pol. [to Cha,] Surely you will listen ! 
 
 — Deceit? — Those fingers crumpling up his vest? 
 
 Cfia. Deceitful to the very fingers' ends ! 
 
 ly 0. [who has approached them, overlooks the other papa 
 Charles continues to hold] 
 
 My project for the Fiefs ! As I supposed ! 
 Sir, I must give you light upon those measures 
 — For this is mine, and that I spied of Spain, 
 Mine too ! 
 
 C/(a. Release me ! Do you gloze on me 
 Who bear in the world's face (that is, the world 
 You've made for me at Turin) your contempt ? 
 — Your measures? — When was any hateful task 
 Not D'Ormea's imposition ? Leave my robe I 
 What post can I bestow, what grant concede ? 
 Or do you take me for the King ? 
 
 no. Not I! 
 
 Not yet for King, — not for, as yet, thank God, 
 One, who in . . shall I say a year — a month ? 
 Ay ! — shall be wretcheder than e'er was slave 
 In his Sardinia, — Europe's spectacle, 
 tVnd the world's byword! What? The Prince aggrieved 
 That I've excluded him our counsels? Here 
 
 [Touchiig the paver in CifAHLES's hand. 
 
 Accept a method of extorting gold 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 242 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 From Savoy's nobles, who must wring its worth 
 
 In silver first from tillers of the soil, 
 
 Whose hinds again have to contribute brass 
 
 To make up the amount — there's counsel, sir! 
 
 My counsel, one year old ; and the fruit, this — 
 
 Savoy's become a mass of misery 
 
 And wrath, which one man has to meet — the King: 
 
 You're not the King ! Another counsel, sir ! 
 
 Spain entertains a project (here it lies) 
 
 Which, guessed, makes Austria offer that same Kinp; 
 
 Thus much to baffle Spain ; he promises ; 
 
 Then comes Spain, breathless lest she be forestalled, 
 
 Her offer follows ; and he promises . . . 
 
 Cha. — Promises, sii", when he before agreed 
 To Austria's offer ? 
 
 U 0. That's a counsel, Prince ! 
 
 But past our foresight, Spain and Austria (choosing 
 To make their quarrel up between themselves 
 Without the intervention of a friend) 
 Produce both treaties, and both promises . . . 
 
 Cha. How? 
 
 D' 0. Prince, a counsel ! — And the fruit of that ' 
 
 Both parties covenant afresh, to fall 
 Together on their friend, blot out his name, 
 Abolish him from Europe. So take note. 
 Here's Austria and here's Spain to fight against, 
 And what sustains the King but Savoy here, 
 A miserable people mad with wrongs ? 
 You're not the King !
 
 RING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 243 
 
 Clia. Polyxena, vou -aid 
 
 h-A would clf-ar up-— all does clear up to nie ! 
 
 D' 0. Clears up? 'Tis no such thing to envy, tlu-n? 
 You see the King's state in its length and breadili ? 
 You blame me, now, for keeping you aloof 
 From counsels and the fruit of counsels ? — "Wait 
 Till I've explained this morning's business! 
 
 Cha. [Ji'iVe.] No — 
 
 Stoop to my father, yes, — to D'Ormea, no ; 
 — The King's son, not to the King's counsellor! 
 I will do something, — but at least retain 
 The credit of my deed ! [Aloud.l Then, D'Ormea, tL< 
 You now expressly come to tell me? 
 
 no. This 
 
 To tell I You apprehend me ? 
 
 Cha. Perfectly. 
 
 And further, D'Ormea, you have shown yourself, 
 For the first time these many weeks and months, 
 Disposed to do ray bidding? 
 
 D' 0. From the heart ! 
 
 Cha. Acquaint my father, first, I wait his pleasure : 
 N'ext ... or, I'll tell you at a fitter time. 
 \cquaint the King ! 
 
 D'O. [Aside.^ If r scape Victor yet ! 
 First, to prevent this stroke at me — if not, — 
 Then, to avenge it! [To Cha.] Gracious sir, I go. [Goti, 
 
 Cha. God, I forbore ! Which more ?ffends — that man 
 Or that man's master ? Is it come to this ? 
 Ha\e they supposed (the sharpest insult yet)
 
 244 KING \nCTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 I needed e'en his intervention ? No ! 
 No — dull am I, conceded, — but so dull, 
 Scarcely ! Their step decides me. 
 
 Pol. How decides ? 
 
 CJia. You would be iree from D'Ormea's eye and hers ? 
 —Could fly the court with me and live content? 
 so — this it is for which the knights assemble I 
 The whispers and the closeting of late, 
 The savageness and insolence of old, 
 — For this I 
 
 Pol. What mean you ? 
 
 Cha. How ? you fail to catch 
 
 Their clever plot? I missed it — but could you? 
 These last two months of care to inculcate 
 How dull I am, — with D'Ormea's present visit 
 To prove that, being dull, I might be worse 
 Were I a king — as wretched as now dull^ 
 You recognize in it no winding up 
 Of a long plot ? 
 
 Pol. Why should there be a plot? 
 
 Cha. The crown's secure now ; I should shame the 
 crown — 
 An old complaint; the point is, how to gain 
 My place for one more fit in Victor's eyes, 
 His mistress', the Sebastian's child. 
 
 Pol. In truth ? 
 
 Cha. They dare not quite dethrone Sardinia's Prince 
 But they may descant on my dulness till 
 They sting me into even praying them
 
 KING VICTOU AND ICIXG CnARLb-S. 245 
 
 For leave to hide my head, resign my state, 
 .-iiid end the coil. Not see now? In a word, 
 Tliey'd have me tender them myself my rights 
 As one incapable : — some cause tor that, 
 Since I delayed tlms long to see their diit't ! 
 1 shall apprise the King he may resume 
 My rights this moment. 
 
 Pul. Pause — I dare not think 
 
 So ill of Victor. 
 
 Clia. Think no ill of him ! 
 
 Pol. — Nor think hira, then, so shallow as to suffer 
 His purpose be divined thus easily. 
 And yet — you are the last of a great line ; 
 There's a great heritage at stake ; new daya 
 Seemed to await this newest of the realms 
 Of Europe : — Charles, you must withstand this I 
 
 Cha. Ah !- 
 
 You dare not then renounce the splendid court 
 For one whom all the world despises? Speak! 
 
 Poh My gentle husband, speak I will, and truth. 
 Were this as you believe, and I once sure 
 Your duty lay in so renouncing ride, 
 I could . . could ? Oh, what happiness it were — 
 To liv(^ my Charles, and die alone with you I 
 
 Cha. 1 grieve I asked you. To the Presence, thenl 
 DOruiea acquaints the King by this, no doubt. 
 He fears I am too simple ibr mere hints, 
 And that no less will serve than Victor's mouth 
 Teaching me in full coun';iJ what I am. 
 —1 have not breathed, I think, these many years 1
 
 246 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Pul. Why — it raay be ! — if he desires to wed 
 That woman and legitimate her cliild — 
 
 Clia. You see as mucli? Oli, let his Avill have wayl 
 You'll not repent confiding in me, love ? 
 There's many a brighter spot in Piedmont, far, 
 Than Rivoli. I'll seek him — or, suppose 
 Y"ou hear first how I mean to speak my mind? 
 — Loudly and firmly both, this time, be sure ! 
 I yet may see your Rhine-land — who can tell ? 
 Once away, ever then away ! I bi'eathe. 
 
 Pol. And I too breathe I 
 
 Cha. Come, my Polyxena ! 
 
 KING VICTOR : Part II. 
 
 Enter KiNO Victor, lairing the rer/alia on a cushion /imi hu 
 apartment. He calls loudly. 
 
 D'Orraea! — for p^ti^nce fails me, treading thus 
 Among the train? that I have laid, — my knights, 
 Safe in the hall here — in that anteroom, 
 My son, — and D'Ormea where? Of this, one touch— 
 
 [Laying down the croum. 
 This fire-ball to these mute, black, cold trains — then ! 
 Outbreak enough! 
 
 [ Contemplating it.l To lose all, after all ! 
 This — glancing o'er my house for ages — shaped, 
 Brave meteor, like the Crown of Cyprus now — 
 Jerusalem, Spain. England — every change 
 The braver, — an<' when I have clutched a prize
 
 KINQ VICTOR AND KING CHARLE3. 2 l< 
 
 Mj ancestry died wan with watching for, 
 
 To lose it ! — by a ^lip — a f;iiilt — a trick 
 
 Leaiiit to advantage once, and not unlearnt 
 
 When past the use, — "jus^ this once more" (I thought. 
 
 " Use it with Spain and Austria happily, 
 
 " And then away with trick ! " — An oversight 
 
 I'd have repaired thrice over, any time 
 
 These fifty years, must happen now ! There's peace 
 
 At length ; and I, to make the most of peace, 
 
 Ventured my project on our people here. 
 
 As needing not their help — wiiich Europe knows, 
 
 And means, cold-blooded, to dispose herself 
 
 (Apart from plausibilities of war) 
 
 To crush the new-made King — who ne'er till now 
 
 Feared her. As Duke, I lost each foot of earth 
 
 And laughed at her : my name was left, my sword 
 
 Left, all was left ! But she can take, she knows, 
 
 This crown, herself conceded . . . 
 
 That's to try, 
 Kind Europe! My career's not closed as yet! 
 This boy was ever subject to my will — 
 Timid and tame — the fitter ! D'Ormea, too — 
 What if the sovereign's also rid of thee 
 His prime of parasites? — Yet I delay ! 
 D'Ormea ! [_As U Ormea enters, the King seats himself.'^ 
 My son, the Prince — attends he? 
 BO. Sire, 
 
 He does attend. The crown prepared ! — it seems 
 That you persist in your resolve.
 
 218 KING VICTOII AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Vic. Who's come ? 
 
 The chancellor and the cliamberlain ? My knights? 
 
 JTO. The whole Annunciata. — If, my liege, 
 Your fortunes had not tottered worse than now . . . 
 
 Vic. Del Borgo has drawn up the schedules? mine— 
 My son's too ? Excellent ! Only, beware 
 Of the least blunder, or we look but fools. 
 First, you read the Annulment of the Oaths ; 
 Del Borgo follows . . no, the Prince shall sign ; 
 Then let Del Borgo read the Instrument — 
 On which, I enter. — 
 
 D'O. Sire, this may be truth; 
 
 You, sire, may do as you affect — may break 
 Y'our engine, me, to pieces: try at least 
 If not a spring remains wortli saving! Take 
 My counsel as I've counselled many times! 
 What if the Spaniard and the Austrian threat? 
 There's England, Holland, Venice — which ally 
 Select you ? 
 
 Vic. Aha! Come, my D'Ormea,—" truth" 
 
 Was on your lip a minute since. Allies? 
 I've broken faith with Venice, Holland, England. 
 • — As who knows if not you ? 
 
 J)"0. But why with me 
 
 Break fiiith — with one ally, your best, break faith? 
 
 Vic. When hrst I stumbled on you, Marquis — ('twas 
 A.t jMondovi — a little lawyer's clerk . . .) 
 
 D'O. . . . Therefore your soul's ally ! — who brrwghl 
 you through
 
 KING VICTOR AND KIXG CHARLES. 249 
 
 Your quarrel with the Pope, at jiains enough — 
 Who've simply eclioed yoii in these aH'airs — 
 Oi> wiioin you cannot, iherelbre, visit tlic'^e 
 AH'airs' ill fortune — whom you'll trust lu gu!ile 
 You safe (yes, on my soul) in these affairs! 
 
 V{c. I was about to notice, had you not 
 Prevented me, that since that great town kept 
 With its chicane my D'Oiinea's SJitchel stuifed, 
 And D'Ormea's self suificiently recluse, 
 lie missed a siglit, — my naval armament 
 When I burnt Toulon. How the skiff exults 
 Upon tiie galliot's wave I — rises its height, 
 O'ertops it even ; biil tin- gr('at wave luir.-ts — 
 And hell-ilee|) in the hoirible protbuiid 
 Buries itself the galliot : — siiall the .-kitf 
 Think to escape tiie sea's black trough in turn? 
 A|)ply this: you have been my minister 
 — ^S'ext me — above me, possibly ; — sad post, 
 Huge care, abundant lack of peace of mind ; 
 Who would desiderate the eminence? 
 You gave your soul to get it — you'd yet give 
 Your soul to keep it, as I mean you shall, 
 My D'Ormea! What if the wave ebbed with mtr* 
 Whereas it cants you to another's crest — 
 I toss you to my son ; ride out your ride ! 
 D'O. Ah, you so much despise me then? 
 
 Vic. You, D'Ormea ! 
 
 Nowise: and I'll inform you why. A king 
 Must in his time have many ministers,
 
 250 KING VICTOR AND KING CnARLE8. 
 
 And I've been rash enough to part with mine 
 When I thought proper. Of tlie tribe, not one 
 ( . • Or wait, did Pianezze ? . . ah, just the same :) 
 ,Not one of thera, ere his remonstrance reached 
 The lengtii of yours, but has assured me (commonlj, 
 Standing much as you stand, — or nearer, say. 
 The door to make his exit on his speech) 
 — I should repent of what I did : now, D'Ormea, 
 (Be candid — you approached it when I bade you 
 Prepare the schedules ! But you stopped in time) 
 ■ — You have not so assured me : how should I 
 Despise you, then ? 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 
 Vic. [changing liis tone.'] Are you instructed ? Do 
 My order, point by point ! About it, sir! 
 
 D' 0. You so despise me? [Aside.] One last stay 
 remains — 
 The boy's discretion there. ■ [to Charles.] 
 
 For your sake, Prince, 
 1 pleaded — wholly in your interest — 
 To save you from this fate ! 
 
 Cha. [Aside.'] Must I be told 
 
 The Prince was supplicated for — by liim ? 
 
 Vic. [to D'O.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and the rest. 
 Our son attends them ; then return. 
 
 D'O. One word. 
 
 Cha. [Aside.] A moments pause and they would 
 drive me hence, 
 I do believe!
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 251 
 
 UO [yls/(/e.J Let but the boy be firm 1 
 
 Vic. You (lisul)cy ? 
 
 Cha. \to D'O.] You do not disobey 
 
 Me, D'Ormea? Did you promise that or no? 
 
 DO. Sir, T am yours — what would you? Yours 
 am I! 
 
 Cha. Wlien I have said what I shall say, 'tis like 
 Your face will ne'er again disgust me. Go! 
 Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see. 
 And for your conduct, from my youth till now, 
 Take my contempt! Y'ou might have spared me much, 
 Secured me somewhat, nor so hax-raed yourself — 
 That's over now. Go — ne'er to come again ! 
 
 n 0. As son, the father — father as, the son ! 
 My wits ! My wits ! [ Ooet. 
 
 Vic. \^Seated.'\ And you, what meant you, pray, 
 By speaking thus to D'Ormea? 
 
 Cha. Let us not 
 
 Weary ourselves with D'Ormea! Those few words 
 Have half unsettled what I came to say. 
 His presence vexes to my very soul 
 
 Vic. One called to manage kingdoms, Charles, needfl 
 heart 
 To bear up under worse annoyances 
 Than D'Ormea seems — to me, at least. 
 
 Cha. [JsiWe.] Ah, good! 
 
 He keeps me to the point ! Then be it so. 
 ^Aloud.\ Last night, Sire, brought me certain papers— 
 these —
 
 252 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 To be reported on, — your way of late. 
 Is it last night's result that you demand ? 
 
 Vic. For God's sake, what has night brought forth? 
 Pronounce 
 The . . what's your word ? — result ! 
 
 Cha. Sire, that had proved, 
 
 Quite worthy of your sneers, no doubt : — a few 
 Lame thoughts, regard for you alone could wring, 
 Lame as they are, from brains, like mine, believe ! 
 As 'tis, sire, I am spared both toil and sneer. 
 There are the papers. 
 
 Vic. Well, sir? I suppose 
 
 You hardly burned them. Now for your result ! 
 
 Cha. I never should have done great things of course. 
 But . . oh, my father, had you loved me more . . 
 
 Vic. Loved you ? [Aside.'] Has D'Ormea played me 
 false, I wonder? 
 [Aloud.] Why, Charles, a king's love is diffused— yourself 
 May overlook, perchance, your part in it. 
 Our monarchy is absolutest now 
 In Europe, or my trouble's thrown away : 
 I love, my mode, tiiat subjects each and all 
 May have the power of loving, all and each. 
 Their mode: I doubt not, many bave their sons 
 To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long — 
 I have that crown, this chair, and D'Ormea, Charles 1 
 Cha. 'Tis well I am a subject then, not you. 
 Vic. [Aside.] D'Ormea has told him every thinft'. 
 
 [Abud.] Abft
 
 KINO VICTOIl AND KING CHARGES. 2.'<.'l 
 
 I apprehend you : when all's said, you take 
 Your private station to be prized beyond 
 My own, for instance? 
 
 CTia. — Do and ever did 
 
 So take it: 'tis the method you pursue 
 That grieves . . . 
 
 Vic. These words! Let me express, my I'riend, 
 
 Your thought. You penetrate what I supposed 
 A secret. D'Ormea plies his trade betimes ! 
 I purpose to resign my crown to you. 
 
 C/ia. To me ? 
 
 Vic. Now — in that chamber. 
 
 Vic. You resign 
 
 The crown to me ? 
 
 Vic. And time enough, Cliarles, sure ? 
 
 Confess with me, at four-and-sixty years 
 A crown's a load. I covet quiet once 
 Before I die, and summoned you for that. 
 
 Cha. 'Tis I will speak : you ever hated me, 
 I bore it, — have insulted me, borne too — 
 Now you insult yourself, and I remember 
 What I believed you, what you really are, 
 And cannot bear it. AVhat ! My life has passed 
 Under your eye, tormented as you know, — 
 Your whole sagacities, one after one. 
 At leisure brought to play on me — to prove me 
 A fool, I thought, and I submitted ; now 
 Y'ou'd prove . . . what would you prove me? 
 
 Vic. This to mef 
 
 I hardly know you 1
 
 Si54 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 
 
 Cha. Know me ? Oli, indeed 
 
 You do not! "Walt till I complain next time 
 Of my simplicity ! — for here's a sage — 
 Knows the world well — is not to be deceived — 
 And his experience, and his Macchiavels, 
 Ilis D'Oimeas, teach him — what? — that I, this while, 
 Have envied hira his crown ! He has not smiled, 
 [ warrant, — has not eaten, drunk, nor slept, 
 For I was plotting with my Princess yonder ! 
 Who knows what we might do, or might not do ? 
 Go, now — be politic — astound the world ! — 
 That sentry in the antechamber . . nay, 
 The varlet who disposed this precious trap 
 
 \Poiv.tmg to the crcwx 
 That was to take me — ask them if they think 
 Their own sons envy them their posts ! — Know me I 
 
 Vic. But you know me, it seems ; so learn in brief 
 My pleasure. This assembly is convened . . . 
 
 Cha. Tell me, tliat women put it in your head— 
 You were not sole contriver of the scheme, 
 My father ! 
 
 Vic. Now observe me, sir ! I jest 
 
 Seldom — on these points, never. Here, I say, 
 The Knights assemble to see me concede, 
 And you accept, Sardinia's crown. 
 
 Cha. Farewell ! 
 
 Twere vain to hope to change this — I can end it. 
 Not that I cease from being yours, when sunk 
 Into obscurity. I'll die for you,
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 255 
 
 But not annoy you witli my presence — Sire, 
 Farewell! Farewell! 
 
 Enter D'Orjika. 
 no. [(tside.'] I la, sure he's changed again — 
 Means not to fall into the cunning trap — 
 Then, Victor, I shall yet escape you, Victor ! 
 
 Vic. [suddenly placing the crown upon the head cj 
 
 ClIAULKS.] 
 
 D'Ormea, your King! 
 
 [7'u ClIAULKS.] My son, obey me ! Charles, 
 Your i'atlu'i-, eiearer-sighteil than yourself. 
 Decides it must be so. 'Faith, this looks real I 
 My reasons after — reason upon reason 
 After — l)iit now, obey me! Trust in me! 
 IJy this, you save Sardinia, you save me ! 
 Why the boy swoons ! [ To D'O.] Come this side 1 
 
 D'O. [as ClIAULKS turns from him to Victor.] 
 
 You persist ? 
 
 Vic. Yes — I conceive the gesture's meaning. 'Faith, 
 He almost seems to hate you — how is that r* 
 Be reassured, my Charles ! Is't over now ? 
 Then, Manpiis. tell the new King what remains 
 To do ! A moment's work. Dai Borgo reads 
 The Act of Abdication out, you sign it. 
 Then I sign ; after- tliat, come buck to me. 
 
 JJ' 0. Sire, for the last time, pause ! 
 Vic. F'ive minutes longei 
 
 I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesitate —
 
 256 KING VICTOU AND KiSG CHARLES. 
 
 And I'll SO turn th.ose minutes to account 
 That . . . Ay, you recollect ine ! 
 
 [_Aside.^ Could 1 bring 
 My foolish mind to undergo the reading 
 That Act of Abdication ! 
 
 [As Charles motions D'Ormea to precede him 
 Thanks, dear Charles ! 
 
 [Charles and D'Ormea retire 
 Vic. A novel feature in the boy, — indeed 
 Just what I feared he wanted most. Quite right. 
 This earnest tone — your truth, now, fur effect ! 
 It answers every purpose : with that look, 
 That voice, — I hear him : " I began no treaty," 
 (He speaks to Spain,) " Nor ever dreamed of this 
 " You show me ; tliis I from my soul regi'et ; 
 " But if my father signed it, bid not me 
 " Dishonour him — who gave me all, beside." 
 And, " truth," says Spain, *' 'twere harsh to visit that 
 ' Upon the Prince." Then come tlie nobles trooping. 
 "I grieve at these exactions — I had cut 
 " This hand off ere impose them ; but shall I 
 " Undo my father's deed?" — And they confer: 
 " Doubtless he was no party, after all ; 
 " Give the Prince time ! " — 
 
 Ay, give us time — but time 
 Only, he must not, when the dark day comes, 
 Refer our friends to me and frustrate all. 
 We'll have no child's play, no desponding-fits, 
 No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor 
 To take his crown asain. Guard against that !
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CllAULES. 2ol 
 
 Enter D'Ok.mea. 
 
 Lone live Kinpr Charles ! — 
 
 No — Charles's counsellor 1 
 Well, is it over, Marquis? Did I jest? 
 
 D'O. " King Charles 1 " "What then may you be ? 
 
 Vic. Any thinoj 1 
 
 A country gentleman that's cured of bustle, 
 And beats a quick retreat toward Chambery 
 To hunt and hawk, and leave you noisy folk 
 To drive your trade without him. I'm Count Remo^ 
 Count Tende — any little place's Count ! 
 
 D'O. Then, Victor, Captain against Catinat, 
 At Staifarde, where the French beat you ; and Duke 
 At Turin, where you beat tiie French ; King, late, 
 Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sardinia, 
 — Now, "any little place's Count" — 
 
 Vic. Proceed ! 
 
 D' 0. Breaker of vows to God, who crowned you first { 
 Breaker of vows to Man, who kept you since ; 
 Most profligate to me, who outraged God 
 And Man to serve you, and am made pay crimes 
 I was but privy to, by passing llius 
 To your imbecile son — who, well you know, 
 Must, (when the people here, and nations there. 
 Clamour for you, the main delipquent, slipt 
 From King to — Count u[' any little place) 
 —Surrender me, all left witliin his reach,— 
 I, sir, forgive you : for I see the end— 
 
 VOL. 1. 17
 
 258 KING VICTOR AND KING CUARLES. 
 
 See you on your return (you will return) 
 To him you trust in for the moment . . . 
 
 Vic. How ? 
 
 Trust in him ? (merely a prime-minister 
 This D'Onnea !) How trust in him ? 
 
 D'O. In his tear— 
 
 His love, — but pray discover for yourself 
 What you are weakest, trusting in ! 
 
 Vic. Aha, 
 
 My D'Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this 
 In your repertory ? You know old Victor — 
 Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash — (I've heard 
 Talkers who little thought the King so close) 
 Felicitous, now, were't not, to provoke hira 
 To clean forget, one minute afterward, 
 Hi^ solemn act — to call the nobles back 
 And pray them give again the very power 
 He has abjured! — for the dear sake of — what? 
 Vengeance on you ! No, U'Ormea : such am I, 
 Count Tende or Count any thing you please, 
 — Only, the same that did the things you say, 
 And, among other things you say not, used 
 Your finest fibre, meanest muscle, — you 
 I used, and now, since you will have it so, 
 Leave to your fate — mere lumber in the midst. 
 You and your works — Wiiy, what on earth beside 
 A.re you made for, you sort of ministers ? 
 
 D'O. — Not left, though, to my fate ! Y''our willesa 
 
 SOD
 
 KING VICTOIt AND KING CUAIiLES. 259 
 
 Mas more wit than to load himself witli lumber! 
 He foils )'0U that way, ami I follow you. 
 
 Vic. Slay with my son — piuiert the weaker side I 
 
 D'O. Ay, be tossed to the people like a rag, 
 And Hung by them to Spain and Austria — so 
 Abolishing the record of your part 
 In all this perfidy ! 
 
 Vic. Prevent, beside. 
 
 My own return ! 
 
 D' 0. That's half prevented now ! 
 'Twill <n) hard but you'll find a wondrous charm 
 III exile to discredit me. The Alps — 
 Silk-mills to watt-h — vines askini^ vigilance — 
 Hounds open for the stag — your hawk's a-wing— 
 Brave days that wait the Louis of the South, 
 Italy's Janus ! 
 
 Vic. So, the lawyer's clerk 
 
 Won't tell me that I shall repent ! 
 
 J)' 0. You give me 
 
 Full leave to ask if you repent ? 
 
 Vic. Whene'er, 
 
 Sufficient time's elapsed for that, you judge ! 
 
 [Shouts inside. " KixG Charles." 
 
 D' 0. Do you repent? 
 
 Vic. \_afler a slight pausz.'] ... I've kept them wait- 
 ing ? Yes ! 
 Come in — complete the Abdication, sir ! [ Tlteij go out. 
 Enter Poi-vxESA. 
 
 Pol. A shout ? The sycophants are free of Charles \
 
 260 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Oh, is not tliis like Italy ? No fruit 
 
 Of his or my distempered fancy, this — 
 
 But just an ordinary fact! Beside, 
 
 Here they've set forms for such proceedings— Victor 
 
 Imprisoned his own mother — he should know. 
 
 If any, how a son's to be deprived 
 
 Of a son's right. Our duty's palpable. 
 
 Ne'er v/as my husband for the wily king 
 
 And the unworthy subjects — be it so ! 
 
 Come you safe out of them, my Charles ! Our life 
 
 Grows not the broad and dazzling life, I dreamed 
 
 Might prove your lot — for strength was shut in you 
 
 None guessed but I — strength which, untrammelled once 
 
 Had little shamed your vaunted ancestry — 
 
 Patience and self-devotion, fortitude, 
 
 Simplicity and utter truthfulness 
 
 —All which, they shout to lose ! 
 
 So, now my work 
 Begins — to save him from regret. Save Charles 
 Regret ? — the noble nature ! He's not made 
 Like the Italians : 'tis a German soul. 
 
 Charlks enlas crowned. 
 Oh, Where's the King's heir ? Gone : — the Crown- 
 prince ? Gone — 
 Where's Savoy ? Gone : — Sardinia ? Gone ! — But Charlee 
 Is left ! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive, 
 If he looked almost handsome yester-twiligjit 
 hs his gray eyes seemed widening into black
 
 KING VICTOR AND KIVG CHARLES. 261 
 
 Because I praised him. llirii how will lie look ? 
 
 Farewell, you stripi^iil aiul wliiteJ mulberry-trees 
 
 Bound each to each by lazy ropes of vine ! 
 
 Now 111 teach you my language — I'm not forced 
 
 To speak Italian now, Charles ? 
 
 IS/ie sees the croim.'\ What is this ? 
 
 Answer me — who has done this ? Answer! 
 
 Cha. . He ! 
 
 I am King now. 
 
 Pol. Oh worst, worst, worst of all ! 
 
 Tell me — what, Victor ? He has made you King ? 
 What's he then ? Wliat's to follow this ? You, King ? 
 
 Cha. Have I done wrong ? Yes — for you were not by 
 
 Pol. Tell me from first to last. 
 
 Cha. Ilush — a new world 
 
 Brightens before me ; he is moved away 
 — The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides 
 into a shape supporting me like you. 
 And I, alone, tend upward, more and more 
 Tend upward : I am grown Sardinia's King. 
 
 Pol. 2sow stop : was not this Victor, Duke of ^vivoy 
 At ten years old ? 
 
 Clia. He was. 
 
 Pol. And the Duke spent 
 
 Since then, just four-and-fifty years in toil 
 To be — what ? 
 
 Cha. King. 
 
 Pol. Then why unking himself ? 
 
 ^la. Those years are cause enough.
 
 262 KING VICTOK AND KING (JII.VULKS. 
 
 Pol. The only cause ? 
 
 Cha. Some new perplexities. 
 
 Pol. Which you can solvej 
 
 A-lthough he cannot ? 
 
 Cha. He assures me so. 
 
 Pol. And this he means shall last — how lung ? 
 
 Cha. How long? 
 
 Think you I fear the perils I confront? 
 He's praising me before the people's face — 
 My people ! 
 
 Pol. Then he's changed — grown kind, the King ? 
 
 (Where can the trap be ?) 
 
 Cha. Heart and soul I pledge ! 
 
 My father, could I guard the Crown you gained, 
 Transmit as I received it, — all good else 
 Would I surrender ! , 
 
 Pol. Ah, it opens then 
 
 Before you — all you dreaded formerly ? 
 You are rejoiced to be a king, my Charles ? 
 
 Cha. So much to dare ? The better ; — much to dread ? 
 The better. I'll adventure tho' alone. 
 Triumph or die, there's Victor .still to witness 
 Who dies or triumphs — either way, alone ! 
 
 Pol. Once I had found my share in triumph, Charles, 
 Or deatli. 
 
 Cha. But you are I ! But you I call 
 To take, Heaven's proxy, vows I tendered Heaven 
 A. mi-ment since. I will deserve the crown ! 
 
 Pol. You will. '^^Aside.'\ No doubt it were a glorioufl 
 tning
 
 K1N.3 VICTOR AND KING CUARLE3. 2s.^ 
 
 For any people, if a heart like his 
 Ruled over it. I woiikl I saw the trap 1 
 
 Enter Victob. 
 
 'Tis he must show me. 
 
 Vic. So the mask falls off 
 
 An old man's foolish love at last ! Spare thanks — 
 I know you, and Polyxena I know. 
 Here's Charles — I am his guest now — does he bid me 
 Be seated ? And my light-haired, blue-eyed child 
 Must not forget the old man far away 
 At Chambery, who dozes while she reigns. 
 
 Pul. Most grateful shall we now be, talking least. 
 Of gratitude — indeed of any thing 
 That hinders what yourself must have to say 
 To Charles. 
 
 Cha. Pray speak, Sire ! 
 
 Vic. 'Faith, not much to say- 
 
 Only what shows itself, once in the point 
 Of sight. You are now the King: you'll comprehend 
 Much you may oft have wondered at — the shifts, 
 Dissimulation, willingness I showed. 
 For what's our post ? Here's Savoy and here's Pied- 
 mont, 
 Here's Montferrat — a breadth here, a space there — 
 To o'ersweep all these, what's one weapon worth ? 
 I often think of how they fought in Greece 
 (Or Rome, which was it ? You're the scholar, Charles !) 
 Vou made a front-thrust ? But if your shield, too.
 
 264 KING VICTOK AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Were not adroitly planted — some shrewd knave 
 
 Reached you behind ; and, him foiled, straight if (hong 
 
 And handle of that shield were not cast loose, 
 
 And you enabled to outstrip the wind, 
 
 Fresh foes assailed you, either side ; 'scape these. 
 
 And reach your place of refuge — e'en then, odds 
 
 If the gate opened unless breath enough 
 
 W^as left in you to make its lord a speech. 
 
 Oh, you will see ! 
 
 Clia. . No : straight on shall I go, 
 
 Truth helping ; win with it or die with it. 
 
 Vic. 'Faith, Charles, you're not made Europe's 
 fighting-man ! 
 Its barrier-guai'der, if you please. You hold, 
 Not take — consolidate, with envious French 
 This side, with Anstrians that, these territories 
 I held — ay, and wnll hold . . . which you shall hold 
 Despite the couple ! But I've surely earned 
 Exemption from these weary politics, 
 ' — The privilege to prattle with my son 
 And daughter here, tho' Europe waits the while. 
 Pol. Nay, vSire, — at Chambery, away forever, 
 As soon you'll be, 'tis a farewell we bid you I 
 Turn these few fleeting moments to account ! 
 Tis just as though it were a death. 
 
 Vic. Indeed ! 
 
 Pol. \_Asider\ Is the trap there ? 
 
 Clia. Ay, call this parting — death 
 
 The sacreder your memory becomes.
 
 KING VICTOl; AND KlXfJ CIIARLE8. 26.T 
 
 [f I misrule Sardinia, how bring back 
 
 My father? No — that thought shall ever urge me 
 
 Vic. I do not mtaii . . . 
 
 Pol. [whc ivatches Victor narrowly this while.'] 
 
 Your father does not mean 
 Tiiat you are ruling for your father's sake: 
 It is your people must concern you wholly 
 Instead of him. You meant this, Sire? (He drops 
 My hand !) 
 
 Cka. That People is now part of me. 
 
 Vic. About the People ! I took certain measures 
 Some short time since . . Oh, Pm aware you know 
 But little of my measures — these affect 
 The nobles — we've resumed some grants, imposed 
 A tax or two ; prepare yourself, in short. 
 For clamours on that score: mark me: you yield 
 No jot of what's intrusted you ! 
 
 Pol. No jot 
 
 )lo\x yield ! 
 
 Cha. My father, when I took the oath, 
 
 Although my eye might stray in search of yours, 
 I heard it, understood it, promised God 
 What you require. Till from this eminence 
 He moves me. here I keep, nor shall concede 
 The meanest of my rights. 
 
 Vic. [Aside.'] The boy's a fool! 
 
 >— Or rather, I'm a fool: for, what's wrong here? 
 To- day the sweets of reigning — let to-morrow 
 Be ready with its bitte^^.
 
 265 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Enter D'Orm-EA. 
 
 There's beside 
 Somewhat to press upon your notice first. 
 
 Cha. Then why delay it for an instant, Sire? 
 That Spanish claim, perchance? And, now you speak 
 — This morning, my opinion was mature — 
 Which, boy-like, I was bashful in producing 
 To one, I ne'er am like to fear, in future! 
 My thought is formed upon that Spanish claim. 
 
 Vic. (Betimes, indeed.) Not now, Charles. You 
 require 
 A host of papers on it — ■ 
 
 U 0. Incoming forwardJ] Here they are. 
 [7b CnA.] I was tlie minister and much beside — 
 Of the late monarch : to say little, him 
 I served ; on you I have, to say e'en less, 
 No claim. This case contains those papers: with them 
 I tender you my otiice. ^ 
 
 Vic. \hastily.'\ Keep him, Charles ! 
 
 There's reason for it — many reasons: you 
 Distrust him, nor are so far wrong there, — but 
 He's mixed up in this matter — he'll desire 
 To quit you, for occasions known to me : 
 Do not accept those reasons — have him stay! 
 
 Pol. \_Aside.'\ His minister thrust on us ! 
 Cha. [to D'OuMKA.] Sir, believe 
 
 Tn justice to myself, you do not need 
 E'en this commending : whatso'er might be
 
 KING VICTOR AND KIXO CIIARLKS. 2Ct', 
 
 My feelings toward you as a jiriviite man, 
 Tlicy (luit ine in tl.3 vast aiul untried iiidd 
 Of action. Though I shall, myself, (as lute 
 In your own hearing I engaged to do) 
 Preside o'er my Sardinia, yet your help 
 [s necessary. Think the past forgotten, 
 A.nd serve me now ! 
 
 B 0. I did not offer you 
 My services — would I could serve you, Sire ! 
 As for the Spanish matter . . . 
 
 Yic. l^ut despatch 
 
 At least the dead, in my good daughter's phrase, 
 Before the living ! Help to house me safe 
 Ere you and D'Ormea set the world a-gape ! 
 Here is a paper — will you overlook 
 What I propose reserving for my needs? 
 I get as far from you as possible. 
 There's what I reckon my expenditure. 
 
 C/ia. [readiiiff.l A miserable fifty thousand crowns 1 
 
 Vic. Oh, quite enougii for country gentlemen! 
 Beside the exchequer happens . . . but find out 
 All tliat, yourself! 
 
 Cha. [still reading.] " Count Tende "—what meaaj 
 this? 
 
 Vic. Me : you were but an infant when I burst 
 Through the defile of Tende upon France. 
 Had only my allies ke[)t true to me ! 
 No matter. Teude's then, a name I take 
 lust as . . .
 
 268 KING VICTOR AXD KING CHARLES. 
 
 D" 0, — The Marchioness Sebastian takes 
 
 The name of Spigno. 
 
 Cha. How, sir? 
 
 Yic. \to D'Ormea.] Fool ! All that 
 
 Was for my own detailing. \_To Charles.] That anon ! 
 
 Cha. \to D'Ormea.]] Explain what you have said, sir ! 
 
 U 0. I supposed 
 
 The marriajie of the Kin" to her I named, 
 Profoundly kept a secret these few weeks, 
 "Was not to be one, now he's Count. 
 
 Pol. {^Aside-I With us 
 
 The minister — with him the mistress! 
 
 Cha. \to Victor.] No — 
 
 Tell me you have not taken her — that woman 
 To live with, past recall ! 
 
 Yic. And where's the crime . . . 
 
 Pol. \to Charles.] True, sir, this is a matter past 
 recall. 
 And past your cognizance. A day before, 
 And you had been compelled to note this — now 
 Wiiy note it? The King saved his House from shame 
 What the Count does, is no concern of yours. 
 
 Cha. [after a pause. ~\ The Spanish business, D'Ormea 
 
 Vic. Why, my son, 
 
 1 took some ill-advised . . . one's age, ni fact. 
 Spoils every thing: though I was overreached, 
 A younger brain, we'll trust, may extricate 
 Sardinia readily. To-morrow, D'Ormea, 
 Inform the King !
 
 KINO VICTOR ANM) KINO CnART.F.S. 26!* 
 
 U 0. [loifhout regarding Yictdk, a.^d leisurchj.'] TLua 
 stands the case with Spain : 
 When first the Infant Carlos claiiiK'il his pioper 
 Succession to the throne of Tuscany . . . 
 
 Vic. I tell you, that stands over ! Let that rest ' 
 There is the policy ! 
 
 Cha. [to D'OuMEA.] Thus much I know, 
 And more — too much : the remedy ? 
 
 jy 0. Of course I 
 
 No glimpse of one — 
 
 Vic. No remedy at all ! 
 
 It makes the remedy itself — time makes it. 
 
 no. [ifO CHAKLES.] But If • . . 
 
 Vic. [still more hasfihj.'] In fine, I shall take care of that- - 
 And, with another pi-oject that I have . . . 
 
 /)' 0. [turning on him.'] Oh, since Count Tende meana 
 to take again 
 King Victor's crown ! — 
 
 Pul. [throwing herself at Yictor' a fed.'] E'en now 
 retake it, Sire ! 
 Oh, speak! "We are your subjects both, once more ! 
 Say it — a word effects it ! You meant not, 
 Nor do mean now, to lake it — but you must! 
 'Tis in you — in your nature — and the shame's 
 Not half the shame 'twould grow to afterward ! 
 
 Cha. Polyxena ! 
 
 Pol. A word recalls the Knights — 
 
 Say it! — "What's promising and what's the past? 
 Say you are still King Victor!
 
 270 kenCt vrcTon a.xd kixg charles. 
 
 D 0. Better say 
 
 The Count repents, in brief! [Victor risei 
 
 Cha. With such a crime 
 
 r have not charged you, Sire ! 
 
 Pol. Charles turns from me 
 
 SECOND YEAR 1731.— KING CHARLES. 
 
 TAttT I. 
 Enter Queex Poltxexa an^i D'Orjiea — A paust. 
 
 Pol. And now, sir, what liave you to say ? 
 D'O. Count Tende 
 
 Pol. Aifirm not I betrayed you ; you resolve 
 On uttering this strange intelligence 
 — Xay, post jourself to find rae ere I reach 
 The capital, because you know King Charles 
 Tarries a day or iwo at Evian baths 
 Behind me : — but take warning, — here and thus 
 
 \^Seating lierself in the royal jeat 
 
 I listen, if I listen — not your friend. 
 Explicitly the statement, if you still 
 Persist to urge it on me, must proceed : 
 I am not made for aught else. 
 
 D'O. Good I Count Tende . . 
 
 Pol. I, who mistrust you, shall acquaint King Charlea 
 yho even more mistrusts you. 
 
 [y 0. Does he so ?
 
 KING VICTOU AND KING CnA.KLKS. 27J 
 
 Pol. Why should he not ? 
 
 U 0. Ay, \vl:y not? Motives, seek 
 
 I'ou virtuous people, motives I S;iy, I serve 
 God lit tiie devil's bidding — will that do ? 
 I'm proud : our People have been pacified 
 (Roally I know not how) — 
 
 Pol. By truthfulness. 
 
 U 0. Exactly; that shows I had nought to do 
 With pacifying them : our foreign perils 
 A.lso exceed my means to stay : but here 
 'Tis otherwise, and my pride's piqued. Count Tende 
 Completes a full year's absence : would you. madam, 
 Have the old monarch back, his mistress back. 
 His measures back? I pray you, act upon 
 My counsel, or they will be. 
 
 Pol. When ? 
 
 no. Let's think. 
 
 Home-matters settled — Victor's coming now ; 
 Let foreign matters settle — Victor's here : 
 Unless I stop him ; as 1 will, this way. 
 
 Pol. \ reading the papers he presents.'\ If this should 
 prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor? 
 You seek aimoyances to give him pretext 
 For what you say you fear! 
 
 jy 0. Oh, possibly ! 
 
 I go for nothing. Only show King Charles 
 That tluis Count Tende purposes return, 
 A.ntl ^tyle me his inviter, if you please. 
 
 Pol. ILilf of your tale is true; most like, the Count
 
 272 KIXG VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Seeks to return : but wliy stay you with us ? 
 To aid in such emergencies. 
 
 D'O. Keep safe 
 
 Tliose papers : or, to serve me, leave no proof 
 I thus have counselled : when the Count returns, 
 And the King abdicates, 'twill stead me little 
 To have thus counselled. 
 
 Pol. The King abdicate ! 
 
 U 0. He's good, we knew long since — wise, we dis- 
 cover — 
 Firm, let us hope : — but I'd have gone to work 
 With him away. Well ! 
 
 [Charles without.'] In the Council Cliamber? 
 
 DO. All's lost! 
 
 Pol. Oh, surely, not King Charles ! He's 
 
 chaniied — 
 That's not this year's care-burdened voice and step : 
 'Tis last year's step — the Prince's voice ! 
 
 D 0. I know ! 
 
 Enter Charles — D'Oemea retiring a little. 
 
 Cha. Now wish me joy, Polyxena ! Wish it me 
 The old way ! [^She embraces him 
 
 There was too much cause for tha^ \ 
 But I have found myself again ! What's news 
 At Turin ? Oh, if you but felt the load 
 I'm free of — free ! I said this year would end 
 Or it, or me — but I am free, thank God I 
 
 Pol. How, Cliarles ?
 
 KING VICTOR AND KINIt CHARLES. 271 
 
 Cha You do not guess? Tlie day 1 found 
 
 Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad, 
 And how my father was involved in it, — 
 or course, 1 vowed to rest or smile no more 
 Until I freed his name from obloquy. 
 We did the people right — 'twas much to gain 
 That point, redress our nobles' grievance, too — 
 But that took place here, was no crying shame : 
 All must be done abroad, — if 1 abroad 
 Appeased the justly angered Powers, destroyed 
 The scandal, took down Victor's name at last 
 From a bad eminence, I then might breathe 
 And rest ! Xo moment was to lose. Behold 
 The proud result — a Treaty, Austria, Spain 
 Agree to — 
 
 D' 0. \_Aside.'] I shall merely stipulate 
 For an experienced headsman. 
 
 Cha. Not a soul 
 
 Is compromised : the blotted Past's a blank : 
 Even D'Ormea will escape unquestioned. Seel 
 It reached me from Vienna ; I remained 
 At Evian to desi)atch the Count his news; 
 'Tis gone to Chambery a week ago — 
 And here am I : do I deserve to feel 
 VoLir warm white arms around rae ? 
 
 D' 0. [coming forward. "] He knows that ? 
 
 Clia. AVhat, in Heaven's name, means this ? 
 
 no. He knows that matten 
 
 A.re settled at Vienna? Not too late 1 
 
 VOL. T. 18
 
 274 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Pliiiiily, unless you post this very hour 
 Some man you trust (say, me) to Chambcry, 
 And take precautions I'll acquaint you with, 
 Your father will return here. 
 
 Cha. Is he crazed, 
 
 This D'Ormea? Here? For what? As well return 
 To fake his crown ! 
 
 D' 0. He will return for that. 
 
 Cha. [to PoLTXENA.] You havc not listened to thia 
 man ? 
 
 Pol. He spoke 
 
 About your safety — and I listened, 
 
 [lie disengages himself from her arms. 
 
 Cha. [fo D'Ormea.] What 
 
 Apprised you of tiie Count's intentions ? 
 
 DO. Me? 
 
 His heart. Sire ; you may not be used to read 
 Such evidence, however ; therefore read 
 
 [Pointing to Poltxena's papen 
 My evidence. 
 
 Cha. [to POLYXENA.] Oh, worthy this of you ! 
 And of your speech I never have forgotten, 
 Tho' I professed forgetfulness ; which haunts me 
 As if I did iKjt know how false it was ; 
 Which made me toil unconsciously thus long 
 That there might be no least occasion left 
 For aught of its prediction coming true ! 
 And now, when there is left no least occasion 
 To instigate ray faiher to such crime ;
 
 KING VICTOU AND KING CHAt-LES. 275 
 
 When 1 miglit venture to foi-jjet (I hoped) 
 
 Thut ?|)t'ecli and recognize Polyxena — 
 
 Oh, worthy, to ie\ ivc, and tenfold worse, 
 
 That |)h\giie now ! D'Orniea at your ear, his slanders 
 
 Still in your hand ! Silent ? 
 
 Pol. As the wronged are. 
 
 Cha. And, D'Ormea, pray, since when have you 
 presumed 
 To spy upon my father ? (I conceive 
 What that wise paper shows, and easily.) 
 Since when ? 
 
 Z)'0. The when, and where, and how, belong 
 
 To me. 'Tis sad work, but I deal in such. 
 You ofttimes serve yourself — I'd serve you here : 
 Use makes me not so squeamish. In a word, 
 Since the first hour he went to Chainbery, 
 Of bis seven servants, five have 1 suborned. 
 
 C/ia. You hate my father ? 
 
 Z)' 0. Oh, just as you will ! 
 
 [Lookivij al ToLTXEWA. 
 A minute since, I loved him — hate him, now ! 
 What matters? — If you'll ponder just one thing: 
 Mas he that Treaty ? — He is setting forward 
 Already, Are your guards here? 
 
 Cha. Well for you 
 
 They are not! [To Poi..] Him I knew jf old, but you — 
 To hear that j)i»'kthaiik fiiitlier his designs! [ /'w D'O. 
 tluards ? — were they here, I'd bid them, ibr your trouble- 
 Arrest you. 
 
 WO. Guards you shall not want. I lived
 
 2V6 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 The servant of your choice, not of your need. 
 
 You never greatly needed me till now 
 
 That you discard me. This is my arrest. 
 
 Again 1 tender you my charge — its duty 
 
 Would bid me press you read those documents. 
 
 Here, Sire ! [^Offeriiiff his badge of office. 
 
 Cha. [taking it.'\ The papers also ! Do you think 
 I dare not read them ? 
 
 Pol. Read them, sir ! 
 
 Cha. They prove, 
 
 My father, still a month within the year 
 Since he so solemnly consigned it me, 
 Means to resume his crown ? Tliey shall prove that, 
 Or my best dungeon . . . 
 
 D^ 0. Even say, Chambery ! 
 
 'Tis va(;aut, 1 surmise, by this. 
 
 Cha. You prove 
 
 Your words or pay their forfeit, sir. Go there! 
 Polyxena, one chance to rend the veil 
 Thickening and blackening 'twixt us two ! Do say, 
 You'll see the falsehood of the charges proved ! 
 Do say, at least, you wish to see them proved 
 False charges — my heart's love of other limes ! 
 
 Pol. Ah, Charles ! 
 
 Cha. [to D'Ormea.] Precede me, sir ! 
 
 i>' 0. And I'm at length 
 
 A martyr for the truth 1 No end, they say, 
 
 Of miracles. My conscious innocence ! 
 
 [/Is they go out, enter — by the middle door -ai which k» 
 pauses — ViCTOB.
 
 KING VICTOE AND KING CHARLES. 277 
 
 y,» Sure I liranl voices? No ! "Well, I do best 
 lt< make at once for this, the heart o' the place. 
 The old room ! Nothing changed ! — So near my seat, 
 D'Onnea r [^Pushing away the stool which is hj thi 
 
 King's chair. 
 I want that meeting over first 
 I know not why. Tush, D'Ormea won't be slow 
 To hearten me, the sup[)le knave! That burst 
 Of spite so eased him ! He'll inform me . . . 
 
 What? 
 Why come I hithei ? All's in rough — let all 
 Remain rough ; there's full time to draw back — nay, 
 There's nought to draw back from, as yet ; whereas, 
 If reason should be, to arrest a course 
 Of error — reason good, to interpose 
 And save, as I have saved so many times, 
 Our House, admonish my son's giddy youth, 
 Relieve him of a weight that proves too much— 
 Now is the time, — or now, or never. 'Faith, 
 This kind of step is pitiful — not due 
 To Charles, this stealing back — hitiier, because 
 He's from his Capital ! Oh, Victor ! Victor ! 
 But thus it is : the age of crafty men 
 Is loathsome ; youth contrives to carry off 
 Dissimulation; we may intersperse 
 Extenuating passages of strength, 
 Ardour, vivacity, and wit — may turn 
 E'en guile into a voluntary grace, — 
 But one's old age, when graces drop away
 
 278 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 And leave guile the pure staple of our lives — 
 Ah, loathsome ! 
 
 Not so — or why pause I? Turin 
 Is mine to have, were I so minded, for 
 The asking ; all the Army's mine — I've witnessed 
 Each private fight beneath me; all the Court's 
 Mine too ; and, best of all, my D'Ormea's still 
 His D'Orraea; no ! There's some grace clinging yet. 
 Had I decided on this step, ere midnight 
 I'd take the crown. 
 
 No ! Just this step to rise 
 Exhausts me ! Here am I ari-ived : the rest 
 Must be done for me. Would I could sit here 
 And let things right themselves, the masque unmasque 
 — Of the King, crownless, gray hairs and hot blood, — 
 The young King, crowned, but calm before his time, 
 They say, — the eager woman with her taunts, — 
 And the sad earnest wife who motions me 
 Away — ay, tliere she knelt to me ! E'en yet 
 I can return and sleep at Chambery 
 A dream out. Rather shake it off at Turin, 
 King Victor ! Is't to Turin — yes, or no ? 
 'Tis this relentless noonday-lighted chamber, 
 Lighted like life, but silent as the grave. 
 That disconcerts me ! There must be tlie change — 
 No silence last year : some one flung doors wide 
 (Tlio.-e two great doors wliicli scrutinize me now) 
 And out I went 'mid crowds of men — men talking, 
 Men watching if my lip fell or brow ciianged •
 
 KING VICTOK AND KING CHARLE8. 27S 
 
 Men saw me safe forth — put rae on my road : 
 
 That makes the misery of this return ! 
 
 Oh, had a battle done it ! Had I dropped 
 
 ■ — Haling some battle, three entire days old, 
 
 Hither and thither by the forehead — dropped 
 
 In Spain, in Austria, best of all, in France — 
 
 Spurned on its horns or underneath its hooves, 
 
 When the spent monster goes upon its knees 
 
 To pad and pash the prostrate wretch — I, Victor, 
 
 Sole to have stood up against France — beat down 
 
 By inches, brayed to pieces finally 
 
 B}' some vast unimaginable charge, 
 
 A flying hell of horse and foot and guns 
 
 Over me, and all's lost, forever lost, 
 
 There's no more Victor when the world wakes up I 
 
 Then silence, as of a raw battle-field. 
 
 Throughout the world. Then after (as whole days 
 
 After, you catch at intervals faint noise 
 
 Thro' the stiff crust of frozen blood) — there creeps 
 
 A rumour forth, so faint, no noise at all, 
 
 That a strange old man, with face outworn for wound9. 
 
 Is stumbling on from frontier town to town, 
 
 Begging a pittance that may help him find 
 
 Plis Turin out ; what scorn and laughter follow 
 
 The coin you fling into his cap : and last, 
 
 Some bright morn, how men crowd about the midst 
 
 Of the market-place, where takes the old king breath 
 
 Ere with his crutch he strike the palace-gate 
 
 Wide ope ! 
 
 To Turin, yes or no— or no ?
 
 280 KINQ VICTOR AND Kma CHARLES. 
 
 Re-enter Chaeles zuit/i vapers. 
 
 Cha. Just as I thought ! A miserable falsehood 
 Of hirelings discontented with their pay 
 And longing for enfranchisement ! A few 
 Testy expressions of old age that thinks 
 To keep alive its dignity o'er slave? 
 By means that suit their natures ! 
 
 [^Tearing them.] Thus they shake 
 My faith in Victor ! 
 
 [Turning, he discovei's ViCTOft 
 
 Vic. [after a 'pause.'\ Not at Evian, Charles ? 
 "What's this ? Why do you run to close the doors ? 
 No welcome for your father ? 
 
 Gha. \_Aside.'\ Not his voice ! 
 
 What would I give for one imperious tone 
 Of the old sort ! That's gone forever. 
 
 Vic. Must 
 
 I ask once more . . . 
 
 Gha. No — I concede it, sir ! 
 
 You are returned for . . . true, your health declines-— 
 True, Chambery's a bleak unkindly spot ; 
 You'd choose one fitter for your final lodge — 
 Veneria — or Moncaglier — ay, that's close, 
 And I concede it. 
 
 Vic. I received advices 
 
 Of the conclusion of the Spanish matter 
 Dated from Evian baths . . . 
 
 Gha. And you forbore 
 
 To visit me at Evian, satisfied 
 The work I had to do would fully task
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CUARLE3. 281 
 
 riie little wit I have, and that your presence 
 Would only disconcert me — 
 
 Vic. Charles ? 
 
 Cha. —Me— set 
 
 Forever in a foreign course to yours, 
 And . . . 
 
 Sir, this way of wile were good to catch. 
 But I have not the sleight of it. The truth ! 
 Though I sink under it ! What brings you here ? 
 
 Vic. Not hope of this reception, certainly, 
 From one who'd scarce assume a stranger mode 
 Of speech, did I return to bring about 
 Some awfulest calamity ! 
 
 Cha. — You mean. 
 
 Did you require your crown again ! Oh yes, 
 I should speak otherwise ! But turn not that 
 To jesting ! Sir, the truth ! Your health declines ? 
 Is aught deficient in your equipage ? 
 Wisely you seek myself to make complaint. 
 And foil the malice of the world which laughs 
 At petty discontents ; but I shall care 
 That not a soul knows of this visit. Speak ! 
 
 Vic. [_Aside.'] Here is the grateful, much-professing son 
 Who was to worship me, and for whose sake 
 I think to waive my plans of public good ! 
 [Aloud.^ Nay, Charles, if I did seek to take once more 
 My crown, were so disposed to plague myself— 
 What would be warrant for this bitterness ? 
 [ gave it — grant, I would resume it — well ?
 
 282 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Cha. I should say simply — leaving out the why 
 And how — you made me ?wear to keep that crown : 
 And as you then intended . . . 
 
 Vic. Fool ! What way 
 
 Could I intend or not intend ? As man, 
 With a man's life, when I say " I intend," 
 I can intend up to a certain point, 
 No further. I intended to preserve 
 The Crown of Savoy and Sardinia whole . 
 And if events arise demonstrating 
 The way I took to keep it. rather's like 
 To lose it . . . 
 
 Gia. Keep within your sphere and mine I 
 
 It is God's province we usurp on, else. 
 Here, blindfold thro' the maze of things we walk 
 By a slight thread of false, true, right and wrong ; 
 All else is ramblmg and presumption. I 
 Have sworn to keep this kingdom : there's my truth. 
 
 Vic. Truth, boy, is here — within my breast ; and in 
 Your recognition of it, truth is, too ; 
 And in the effect of all this tortuous dealing 
 With falsehood, used to carry out the truth, 
 — In its success, this falsehood turns, again, 
 Truth for the world ! But you are right : these themei 
 Are over-subtle. I should rather say 
 In such a case, frankly, — it fails, my scheme : 
 I hoped to see you bring about, yourself, 
 What I must bring about : I interpose 
 On your behalf — with my son's good in sight —
 
 KING V^ ITOR AND KING CHARLES. 283 
 
 Co iiOlvl what he a nearly letting gc 
 Confirm his tit) j —add a grace, perhaps — 
 There's Sicily, for instance, — granted me 
 And taken baf'k, 'lome years since — till I give 
 riiat island with the rest, ray work's half done. 
 For his sake, therefore, as of those he rules . . . 
 
 Cha. Our pukes are one — and that, you could not say 
 Because my answer would present itself 
 Forthwith ; — a year has wrought an age's change : 
 This people's n-.-t the people now, you once 
 Could benefit ; nor is my policy 
 Your policy. 
 
 Vic. [with /m outburst.'] I know it 1 You undo 
 All I have dene — my life of toil and care ! 
 I left you this the absolutest rule 
 Tn Europe — do you think I will sit still 
 And see you throw all power off to the people- 
 See my Sardinia, that has stood apart, 
 Join in the mad and democratic whirl, 
 AVhereto I see all Europe haste full-tide ? 
 Eii"-land casts off her kings — France mimics England — 
 This realm I hoped was safe ! Yet here I talk, 
 When I can save it, not by force alone. 
 But bidding plagues, wliich follow sons like you, 
 Fasten upon my disobedient . . . 
 
 [^Recollecting himself.'] Surely 
 
 I could say this — if minded so— ^my son ? 
 
 Cha. Y'ou could not ! Bitterer curses than yr ur curse 
 
 f'-ive I long since denounced upon myself
 
 284 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 If I misused my power. In fear of these 
 
 I entered on those measures — will abide 
 
 By them : so, I should say, Count Tende . . . 
 
 Vic. No ! 
 
 But no ! But if, my Charles, your — more than old — 
 Half-foolish father urged these arguments, 
 And then confessed them futile, but said plainly 
 That he forgot his promise, found his strength 
 Fail him, had thought at savage Chambery 
 Too much of brilHant Turin, Rivoli here. 
 And Susa, and Veneria, and Superga — 
 Pined for the pleasant places he had built 
 "When he was fortunate and young — 
 
 C7ia. My father ! 
 
 Vic. Stay yet — and if he said he could not die 
 Deprived of baubles he had put aside. 
 He deemed, forever — of the Crown that binds 
 Your brain up, whole, sound, and impregnable. 
 Creating kingliness — the Sceptre, too. 
 Whose mere wind, should you wave it, back would bea> 
 Invaders — and the golden Bali which throbs 
 As if you grasped the palpitating heart 
 Indeed o' the realm, to mould as you may choose 1 
 —If I must totter up and down the streets 
 My sires built, where myself have introduced 
 And fostered laws and letters, sciences, 
 Tlie civil and the military arts — 
 Stay, Charles — I see you letting me pretend 
 To live my former self once more — King Victor,
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. "285 
 
 The venturous yet politic — they style me 
 Again, the Father of the Prince — friends wink 
 Good-humouredly at the delusion you 
 So sedulously guard from all rough truths 
 That else would break upon the dotage ! — You— 
 Whom now I see preventing my old shame — 
 I tell not, {)oint by cruel point, ray tale — 
 For is't not in your breast my brow is hid ? 
 Is not your hand extended ? Say you not . . . 
 
 Enter D'Orjiea, leading in Polyxena. 
 
 PoL [advancing and withdrawing Charles — to 
 Victor.] 
 In this conjuncture, even, he would say — 
 (Tho' with a moistened eye and quivering lip) 
 The suppliant is my father — I must save 
 4. great man from himself, nor see him fling 
 His well-earned fame away : there must not follow 
 Ruin so utter, a break-down of worth 
 So absolute : no enemy shall learn, 
 He thrust his child 'twixt danger and himself, 
 And, when that child somehow stood danger out, 
 Stole back with serpent wiles to ruin Charles 
 ■ — Body, that's much, — and soul, that's more — and 
 
 realm, 
 That's most of all ! No enemy shall say . . 
 
 Z)'0. Do you repent, sir? 
 
 Vic. [resuming himself.^ D'Ormea ? This is well 1 
 Worthily done, King Charles, craftilv done 1
 
 286 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES* 
 
 Judiciously you post these, to o'erhear 
 
 The little your importunate father thrusts 
 
 Himself on you to say ! Ay, they'll correct 
 
 The amiable blind facility 
 
 You showed in answering his peevish suit : 
 
 What can he need to sue for ? Bravely, D'Ormea, 
 
 Have you fulfilled your office : but for you. 
 
 The old Count might have drawn some few more livres 
 
 To swell his income ! Had you, Lady, missed 
 
 The moment, a permission had been granted 
 
 To build afresh my ruinous old pile — 
 
 But you remembered properly the list 
 
 Of wise precautions I took when I gave 
 
 Nearly as much away — to reap the fruits 
 
 I should have looked for ! 
 
 Glia. Thanks, sir : degrade me, 
 
 So you remain yourself. Adieu ! 
 
 Vic. I'll not 
 
 Forget it for the future, nor presume 
 Next time to slight such potent mediators ! 
 Had I first moved them both to intercede, 
 [ might have had a chamber in Moncaglier 
 ►—Who knows ? 
 
 Cha. Adieu ! 
 
 Vic. You bid me this adieu 
 
 With the old spirit? 
 
 Cha. Adieu I 
 
 Vic. Charles — Charles — 
 
 Cflicu Adieia , 
 
 [ViCTOK goei
 
 KINO VICTOR AND KING CHAKLES. 287 
 
 Cha. You were mislaken, Marquis, as you hear! 
 Twas for anotlier purpose the Count came. 
 The Count desires Moncaglier. Give the order ! 
 
 D'O. [leisurely.'] Your minister has lost your confidence, 
 Asserting kite, for his own purposes, 
 Count Tende would . . . 
 
 Clia. [Jlinginf/ his badge back.'] Be still our minister 
 And give a loose to your insulting joy — 
 It irks me more thus stifled than expressed. 
 Loose it 1 
 
 D' 0. Tiiere's none to loose, alas ! — I see 
 
 I never am to die a martyr ! 
 
 Pol Charles ! 
 
 Cha. No praise, at least, Polyxena — no praise I 
 
 KING CHARLES : Part II. 
 Night. — D'Okmea seated, folding papers he has been txamimnp 
 
 This at the last effects it : now, King Charles 
 
 Or else King Victor — that's a balance : now 
 
 For D'Ormea the arch-culprit, either turn 
 
 0' the scale, — that's sure enough. A point to solve, 
 
 My masters — moralists — whate'er's your style I 
 
 When you discover why I push myself 
 
 [nto a pitfiUl you'd pass safely by, 
 
 Impart to me among the rest ! No matter. 
 
 Prompt arc the righteous ever with their rede
 
 288 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 To US the wicked — lesson them this once ! 
 
 Foi' safe among the wicked are you set, 
 
 Old D'Ormea. We lament life's brevity, 
 
 Yet quarter e'en the threescore years and ten, 
 
 Nor stick to call the quarter roundly *' life." 
 
 D'Ormea was wicked, say, some twenty years ; 
 
 A tree so long was stunted ; afterward, 
 
 What if it grew, continued gi-owiug, till 
 
 No fellow of the forest equalled it ? 
 
 'Twas a shrub then — a shrub it still must be : 
 
 While forward saplings, at the outset checked, 
 
 In virtue of that first sprout keep their style 
 
 Amid the forest's green fraternity. 
 
 Thus I shoot up — to surely get lopped down. 
 
 And bound up for the burning. Now for it ! 
 
 Enter Charles and Poltxena with Attendants. 
 
 D'O. {rises.'] Sire, in the due discharge of this mj 
 office — 
 This enforced summons of yourself from Turin, 
 And the disclosure I am bound to make 
 To night, — there must already be, I feel, 
 So much that wounds . . . 
 
 Cha. Well, sir ? 
 
 D' 0. — That I, perchance 
 
 May utter, also, what, another time, 
 Would irk much, — it may prove less irksome now. 
 
 Cha. What would you utter ? 
 
 ly 0. That I from my sou!
 
 RING VICTOR AND KING CHAKLES. 289 
 
 Grieve at to-night's event : for you I grieve — 
 E'en grieve for . . . 
 
 Cha. Tush, another time for talk ! 
 
 My kingdom is in imminent danger? 
 
 D'O. Let 
 
 The Count communicate with France — its King, 
 His grandson, will have Fleury's aid for this, 
 Though for no other war. 
 
 Cha. First for the levies : 
 
 What forces can I muster presently ? 
 
 [D'Okmea delivers papers which Charles inspecn 
 
 Cha. Good — very good. Montorio . . how is this ? 
 — Equips me double the old complement 
 Of soldiers ? 
 
 D' 0. Since his land has been relieved 
 
 From double impost, this he manages: 
 But under the late monarch . . 
 
 Cha. Peace. I know. 
 
 Count Spava has omitted mentioning 
 iVhat proxy is to head these troops of his. 
 
 D' 0. Count Spava means to head his troops himself. 
 Something's to fight for now ; " whereas," says he, 
 " Under the Sovereign's father "... 
 
 Cha. It would seem 
 
 That all my people love me. 
 
 no. Yes. 
 
 [7b PoLTXENA while Chablgs continues to inspect the inzftert 
 
 A temper 
 Like Victor's may avail to keep a state ; 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 
 
 He terrifies men and they fall not off; 
 
 Good to restrain ; best, if restraint were all : 
 
 But, with the silent circle round him, ends 
 
 Such sway. Our King's begins precisely there. 
 
 For to suggest, impel, and set at work, 
 
 Is quite another function. Men may slight, 
 
 In time of peace, the King who brought them peac* 
 
 [n war, — his voice, his eyes, help more than fear. 
 
 They love you, Sire ! 
 
 Cha. [to Attendants.] Bring the Regalia forth. 
 Quit the room. And now, Marquis, answer me — 
 Why should the King of France invade my realm "^ 
 
 D' 0. Why ? Did I not acquaint your Majesty 
 An hour ago ? 
 
 Cha. I choose to hear again 
 
 What then I heard. 
 
 Z>' 0. Because, Sire, as I said, 
 
 Your father is resolved to have the crown 
 At any risk ; and, as I judge, calls in 
 These foreigners to aid him. 
 
 Cha. And your reason 
 
 For saying this ? 
 
 jyO. [Aside.'] Ay, just his father's way ! 
 [To Ch.] The Count wrote yesterday to your Foroei 
 
 Chief, 
 Rhebinder, — made demand of help — 
 
 Cha. To try 
 
 Rhebinder — he's of alien blood : aught else ? 
 
 D' 0. Receiving a refusal, — some hours after. 
 The Count called on Del Borgo to deliver
 
 KING VICTOR AND KENG CUAELE3. 291 
 
 riie Act uf Abdication : he refusing, 
 Or hesitating, rather — 
 
 Cha. What ensued ? 
 
 D'(9. At midnight, only two hours since, at Turin. 
 He rode in person to the citadel 
 With one attendant, to the Soccorso gate, 
 And bade the governor, San Remi, open — 
 Admit him, 
 
 Cha. For a purpose I divine. 
 
 These three were faithful, then ? 
 
 lyQ, They told it mes 
 
 And I— 
 
 Cha. Most faithful— 
 
 U 0. Tell it you— with this, 
 
 Moreover, of my own : if, an hour hence, 
 Tou have not interposed, the Count will be 
 Upon his road to France for succour. 
 
 Cha. Good ! 
 
 You do your duty, now, to me your monarch 
 Fully, I warrant? — have, that is, your project 
 For saving both of us disgrace, past doubt ? 
 
 i)' 0. I have my counsel, — and the only one. 
 A month since, I besought you to employ 
 Restraints which had prevented many a pang: 
 But now the harsher course must be pursued. 
 These papers, made for the emergency, 
 Will pain you to subscribe : this is a list 
 Of those suspected merely — men to watch ; 
 This — of the few of the Count's very household.
 
 292 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 You must, however reluctantly, arrest ; 
 Whi'a here's a method of remonstrance (sure 
 Hot Wronger than the case demands) to take 
 i^ith the Count's self. 
 C/ia. Deliver those three papers. 
 
 Pol. [while Charles inspects them — to D'Ormea.] 
 Youv measures are not over-harsh, sir : France 
 Will hardly be deterred from coming hither 
 By these. 
 
 D' 0. What good of my proposing measures 
 Without a chance of their success ? E'en these, 
 Hear what he'll say at my presenting. 
 
 Uha. [who has signed them.'] There ! 
 
 About the warrants ! You've ray signature. 
 What turns you pale ? I do my duty by you 
 In a(=ting boldly thus on your advice. 
 ly 0. [reading them separately.] Arrest the people .1 
 
 suspected merely ? 
 Cha. Did you suspect them ? 
 
 -O'a Doubtless: but — but— Sire 
 
 This Forquieri's governor of Turin ; 
 And Rivarol and he have influence over 
 Ha)'i of the capital. — Rabella, too ? 
 Wou, Sire — 
 
 CTia. Oh, leave the fear to me. 
 
 X>'0. [still reading. "] You bid me 
 
 [ncarcerate the people on this list ? 
 S)?e — 
 
 0\a. Why, you never bade arrest those men.
 
 KING VICTOK ANE KINO CUAULE3. 293 
 
 So c\ose related to my father too, 
 On trifling grounds? 
 
 lyO. Oh, as for that, St. George, 
 
 President of Chambery's senators, 
 Is hatching treason — but — 
 
 \_&tiU more troubled.'] Sire, Count Cumiane 
 Is brother to your father's wife! What's here? 
 Arrest the wife herself? 
 
 Cha. You seem to think it 
 
 A venial crime to plot against me. Well ? 
 
 D'O. [}o]io has read the last paper.'] Wherefore am I 
 thus ruined ? Why not take 
 My life at once ? This poor formality 
 Is, let me say, unworthy you ! Prevent it, 
 You, madam ! I have served you, am prepared 
 For all disgraces — only, let disgrace 
 Be plain, be proper — proper for the world 
 To pass its judgment on 'twixt you and me 1 
 Take back your warrant — I will none of it. 
 
 Cha. Here is a man to talk of fickleness ! 
 He stakes his life upon my fathers falsehood ; 
 I bid him — 
 
 D' 0. Not you ! Were he trebly false. 
 
 You do not bid me — 
 
 Clia. Is't not written there ? 
 
 I thought so ; give— I'll set it right. 
 
 ]y 0. Is it there ? 
 
 Oh, yes — and plain — arrest him — now — drag here 
 Your father ! And were all six times as plain, 
 Do you suppose I'd trust it?
 
 294 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLEa* 
 
 Cha. Just one word! 
 
 You bring him, taken in the act of flight, . 
 Or else your life is forfeit. 
 
 D 0. Ay, to Turin 
 
 I bring him ? And to-morrow ? 
 
 Cha. Here and now ' 
 
 The whole thfng is a lie — a hateful lie — 
 As I believed and as my father said. 
 I knew it from the first, but was compelled 
 To circumvent you ; and the crafty D'Ormea, 
 That baffled Alberoni and tricked Coscia, 
 The miserable sower of such discord 
 'Twixt sire and son, is in the toils at last ! 
 Oh, I see ! you arrive — this plan of your», 
 Weak as it is, torments sufficiently 
 A sick, old, peevish man — wrings hasty speech 
 And ill-considered threats from him ; that's noted ; 
 Then out you ferret papers, his amusement 
 In lonely hours of lassitude — examine 
 The day-by-day report of your paid creatures — 
 And back you come — all was not ripe, you find, 
 And, as you hope, may keep from ripening yet — 
 But you were in bare time ! Only, 'twere best 
 I never saw my father — these old men 
 A.re potent in excuses — and, meantime, 
 D'Ormea's the man I cannot do without. 
 
 Pol. Charles— 
 
 Cha. Ah, no question ! You're for D'Ormea toe 
 
 You'd have me eat and drink, and sleep, live, die 
 With this lie coil'd about me, choking me 1
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CDAKLES. 29 
 
 R 
 
 No, no — he's :auglit! \to D'Oumea.] You venture life, 
 
 you say, 
 Upon ray father's perfidy ; and I 
 Have, on the wliole, no right to disregard 
 The chains of testimony you thus wind 
 About me ; thougli I do — do from my soul 
 Disci'edit them : still, I must authorize 
 These measures — and I will. Perugia! 
 
 \^Mctny Officers enter.'] Count— 
 
 You and Solar, with all the force you have, 
 Are at the Marquis' orders: what he bids. 
 Implicitly perform ! You are to bring 
 A traitor here ; the man that's likest one 
 At present, fronts me ; you are at his beck 
 For a full hour ; he undei'takes to show you 
 A fouler than himself, — but, failing that. 
 Return with him, and, as my father lives, 
 He dies this night! The clemency you've blamed 
 So oft, shall be revoked — rights exercised 
 That I've abjured. 
 
 \_To D'Ormea.] Now, Sir, about the work! 
 To save your king and country! Take the warrant! 
 
 Z>' 0. [boldly to Perugia.] Y'ou hear the Sovereign's 
 mandate. Count Perugia ? 
 Obey me ! As your diligence, expect 
 Reward ! All follow to Montcaglier ! 
 
 Cha. [in great anguish.'] D'Ormea ! [D'Ormea goes. 
 He goes, lit up with that appallii;g smile ! 
 
 \To roLYSENA iijltr a paum 
 
 A.t least you understand all this ?
 
 296 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Pol. These means 
 
 Of our defence — tliese measures of precaution ? 
 
 Cha. It must be the best vvay. I should have else 
 Withered beneath his scorn. 
 
 Pol. What would } ou say ? 
 
 Cha. Why, you don't think I mean to keep the crown 
 Polyxena ? 
 
 Pol. You then believe the story 
 
 In spite of all — That Victor's coming ? 
 
 Cha. Believe it ? 
 
 I know that he is coming — feel the strength 
 That has upheld me leave me at his coming ! 
 'Twas mine, and now he takes his own again. 
 Some kinds of strength are well enough to have ; 
 But who's to have that strength ? Let my crown go 1 
 I meant to keep it — but I cannot — cannot ! 
 Only, he shall not taunt me — he, the first — 
 See if he would not be the first to taunt me 
 With having left his kingdom at a word — 
 With letting it be conquered without stroke — 
 With . . no — no — 'tis no worse than when he left it, 
 I've just to bid him take it, and, that over, 
 We'll fly away — fly — for I loathe this Turin, 
 This Rivoli, all titles loathe, and state. 
 We d best go to your country — unless God 
 Send I die now ! 
 
 Pol. Charles, hear me ! 
 
 Cha. ' —And again 
 
 Bhall you be my Polyxena — ^you'll take me
 
 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 297 
 
 Out of this woe ! Yes, do speak — and keep speaking ? 
 
 I would not let you speak just now, for fear 
 
 You'd counsel me against him : but talk, now, 
 
 As we two used to talk in blessed times : 
 
 Bid me endure all his caprices ; take me 
 
 From this mad post above him ! 
 
 Pol. I believe 
 
 We are undone, but from a different cause. 
 All your resources, down to the lea,st guard, 
 Are now at D'Ormea's beck. What if, this while. 
 He acts in concert with your father ? We 
 Indeed were lost. This lonely Rivoli — 
 Where find a better place for them ? 
 
 Clia. \j)acing the room.'] And why 
 
 Does Victor come ? To undo all that's done! 
 Restore the past — prevent the future 1 Seat 
 His mistress in your seat, and place in mine 
 ... Oh, my own people, whom will you find there. 
 To ask of, to consult with, to care for, 
 To hold up with your hands ? Whom ? One that's false- 
 False — from the head's crown to the foot's sole, false ! 
 The best is, that I knew it in my heart 
 From the beginning, and expected this, 
 And hated you, Folyxena, because 
 You saw thro' liim, though I too saw thro' him, 
 Saw that he meant this while he crowned me, while 
 He prayed for me^ — nay, while he kissed my brow, 
 I saw — 
 
 Pol. But if your measures take effect 
 ^id D'Ormea's true to you ?
 
 298 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 
 
 Cha. Then worst of all 
 
 I shall have loosed that callous wretch on hira ! 
 Well may the woman taunt him with his child — 
 I, eating here his bread, clothed in his clothes, 
 Seated upon his seat, give D'Ormea leave 
 To outrage him ! We talk — perchance they tear 
 My father from his bed — the old hands feel 
 For one who is not, but who should be there — 
 And he finds D'Ormea ! D'Ormea, too, finds him 
 — The crowded chamber when the lights go out — 
 Closed doors — the horrid scuffle in the dark — 
 The accursed promptings of the minute ! My guards • 
 To horse — and after, with me — and prevent ! 
 
 Pol. [seizing his hand.'] King Chai-les 1 Pause here 
 upon this strip of time 
 ASotted you out of eternity ! 
 
 Crowns are from God — in his name you hold yours. 
 Your life's no least thing, were it fit your life 
 Should be abjured along with rule ; but now. 
 Keep both I Your duty is to live and rule — 
 You, who would vulgarly look fine enough 
 In the world's eye, deserting your soul's charge. — 
 Ay, you would have men's praise — this Rivoli 
 Would be illumined : while, as 'tis, no doubt, 
 Something of stain will ever rest on you ; 
 No one will rightly know why you refused 
 To abdicate ; they'll talk of deeds you could 
 Have done, no doubt, — nor do I much expect 
 Future achievements will blot out the past,
 
 KING VICTOR AXD KIXG CnAULES. 299 
 
 Envelop it in haze — nor shall we two 
 
 Be liappy any more ; 'twill be, I feel, 
 
 Only in moments that the duty's seen 
 
 As palpably as now — the months, the yeais 
 
 Of painful indistinctness are to come, ^^^ 
 
 While daily must we tread these palace rooms 
 
 Pregnant with memories of the past : your eye 
 
 May turn to mine and find no comfort there, 
 
 Through fancies that beset me, as yourself, 
 
 Of other courses, with far other issues, 
 
 We might have taken this great night — such bear, 
 
 As I will bear ! What matters happiness? 
 
 Duty ! There's man's one moment — this is yours 1 
 
 [Putting the crown on his head, and the sceptre in his hand, 
 she places him on his sad : a long pause and silence. 
 
 Enter D'Orjiea and Victok. 
 
 Vic. At last I speak ; but once — that once, to you 1 
 'Tis you I ask, not these your varletry, 
 Who's King of us ? 
 
 Cha. [^from his seat.] Count Tende . . 
 
 Yic. What your spiel 
 
 Assert I ponder in my soul, I say — 
 Here to your face, amid your guards ! I choose 
 To take again the crown whose shadow I gave — 
 For still its potency surrounds the weak 
 White locks their felon hands have discomposed. 
 Or, I'll not ask who's King, but simply, who 
 Withholds the crown I claim ? Deliver it I
 
 300 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 I have no friend in the wide world : nor France 
 Nor England cares for me : you see the sum 
 Of what I can avail. Deliver it ! 
 
 Cha, Take it, my father ! 
 
 And now say in turn, 
 Was it done well, my father — sure not well, 
 To try me thus ! I might have seen much cause 
 For keeping it — too easily seen cause ! 
 But, from that moment, e'en more woefully 
 My life had pined away, than pine it will. 
 Already you have much to answer for. 
 My life to pine is nothing, — her sunk eyes 
 Were happy once ! No doubt my people think 
 That I'm their King still . . . but I cannot strive ! 
 Take it ! 
 
 Yic. \one hand on the crown Charles offers, lk< 
 other on Ms neck.'] So few years give it quietly, 
 My son : It will drop from me. See you not ? 
 A crown's unlike a sword to give away — 
 That, let a strong hand to a weak hand give ! 
 But crowns should slip from palsied brows to heads 
 Young as this head — ^yet mine is weak enough. 
 E'en weaker than I knew. I seek for phrases 
 To vindicate my right. 'Tis of a piece ! 
 All is alike gone by with me — who beat 
 Once D'Orleans in his lines — his very lines ! 
 To have been Eugene's comrade, Louis's rival, 
 A.nd now . . . 
 
 Cha. [putting the crown on him, to the rest.'] The 
 King speaks, yet none kneels, I think !
 
 KINO VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 301 
 
 Vic. I am then King! As I became a King 
 Despite I he nations — kept myself a King — 
 So I (lie King, with Kingship dying too 
 Around me ! I have lasted Europe's time ! 
 What wants my story of completion? Where 
 Must needs the damning break show ! Who mistruata 
 My children here — tell they of any break 
 'Twixt my day's sunrise and its fiery fall ? 
 And who were by me when I died but they? 
 Wlio ? — D'Ormea there ! 
 
 Cha. What means he ? 
 
 Vic. Ever there ! 
 
 Charles — how to save your story ? Mine must go 1 
 Say — say that you refused the crown to me — 
 Charles, yours shall be my story ! You immured 
 Me, say, at Rivoli. A single year 
 I spend without a sight of you, then die — 
 That will serve every purpose — tell that tale 
 The world ! 
 
 Cha. Mistrust me ? Help ! 
 
 Vic. Past help, past reach 
 
 'Tis in the heart — you cannot reach the heart : 
 This broke mine, that I did believe, you, Charles, 
 Would have denied and so disgraced me. 
 
 Pol. Charles 
 
 [las never ceased to be your subject, Sire i 
 fJe reigned at first through setting up yourself 
 As pattern: if he e'er seemed harsh to you, 
 Twas from a too intense appreciation
 
 302 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES. 
 
 Of your own character : he acted you—' 
 Ne'er for an instant did I think it real, 
 Or look for any other than this end. 
 I hold him worlds the worse on that account ; 
 But so it was. 
 
 CJha. \to PoLTX.] I love you, now, indeed ! 
 \_To Victor.] You never knew me ! 
 
 Vic. Hardly till this moment 
 
 When I seem learning many other things, 
 Because the time for using them is past. 
 If 'twere to do again ! That's idly wished. 
 Truthfulness might prove policy as good 
 As guile. Is this my daughter's forehead ? — Yes^ 
 I've made it fitter now to be a Queen's 
 Than formerly — I've ploughed the deep lines there 
 "Which keep too well a crown fi-om slipping off! 
 No matter. Guile has made me King again. 
 Louis — Hwas in King Victor's time — long since, 
 When Louis reigned — and, also, Victor reigned — 
 How the world talks already of us two ! 
 God of eclipse and each discolour'd star. 
 Why do I linger then ? 
 
 Ha ! Where lurks he ? 
 D'Ormea ! Come nearer to your King I Now stand ! 
 
 [Collecting his stren'jth as D'Ormea approaches 
 But you lied, D'Ormea ! I dc not repent. 
 
 [Diet
 
 COLOMBE'S BIllTHDAT. 
 
 21 13132. 
 
 "* try and violet, what do yo h«>ro. 
 
 **With liKfcom and shoot in the vrann spring-weather, 
 
 -^Biding the arms of Monchenci and Vere? " 
 
 Hwtnm.
 
 JOeUcaUotit 
 — » — 
 
 C70 OSB LOVES AND HONOURS BARRY CORNWALL MORE THAU 
 ROBERT BROWNING DOES; 
 
 WHO, HA\TNG NOTHING BETTER THAN THIS PLAY TO 
 GITK HIM IN PROOF OF ^ 
 
 rCCOT SAT BO.
 
 COLOxMBE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 CoLOMBE OF Ravestein, Duchcss of Juliere and Clevet 
 Sabtnb 
 
 } 
 
 Courtiers. 
 
 , Her Attendants 
 Adolf 
 
 GUIBERT 
 
 Gadcelme 
 
 Maufroy 
 
 Clugnet 
 
 Valexce, Advocate of Cloves. 
 
 Prikce Bertiiold, Claimant of the Duchy. 
 
 Melchiok, his Confidant. 
 
 Place, The Palace at Juliers. 
 
 Time, 16—. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Morning. Scexe. — A corridor leading to the Audience-Chamber. 
 
 Gaucelme, Clugnet, Maufroy, and other Courtiers round Gxn 
 BERT, tcho is silently reading a paper : as he drops it at the end — 
 
 Gui. That this should be her birthday ; and the day 
 We all invested her, twelve months ago, 
 As the late Duke's true heiress and our liege ; 
 And that this jjso must become the day . . . 
 Oh, miserable lady ! 
 
 VOL. r. 20
 
 306 ' colombe's birthday. 
 
 1st Court. Ay, indeed? 
 
 2d Court. Well, Guibert ? 
 
 3c? Court. But youi' news, my friend, your news! 
 The sooner, triend, one learns Prince Beriliold's pleasartt 
 The better for us all : how writes the Prince ? 
 Give me — I'll read it for the common good — 
 
 Gui. In time, sir — but, till time comes, pardon mel 
 Our old Duke just disclosed his child's retreat, 
 Declared her true succession to his rule, 
 And died: this birthday was the day, last yeai, 
 We convoyed her from Castle Ravestein — 
 That sleeps out trustfully its extreme age 
 On the Meuse's quiet bank, whei-e she lived queea 
 Over the water-buds, — to Juliers' Court 
 With joy and bustle : here again we stand ; 
 Sir Gaucelme's buckle's constant to his cap — 
 To-day's much such another sunny day ! 
 
 Gau. Come, Guibert — this outgrows a jest, I think 
 You're hardly such a novice as to need 
 The lesson, you pretend. 
 
 Gui. What lesson, sir ? 
 
 That everybody, if he'd thrive at court. 
 Should, first and last of all, look to himself ? 
 Why, no : and therefore, with your good example, 
 ( — Ho, Master Adolf!) — to myself I'll look. 
 
 Enter Adolf. 
 Gui. The Prince's letter ; why, of all men else, . 
 Comes it to me ?
 
 colombe's birthday. 307 
 
 Adolf. By virtue of your place, 
 
 Sir Guibert ! 'Twas the Prince's express charge, 
 His envoy told us, that the missive there 
 Should only reach our lady by the hand 
 Of whosoever held your place. 
 
 GuL Enough ! [Adolf retirek 
 
 Then, gentles, who'll accept a certain poor 
 Indifferently honourable place, 
 
 My friends, I make no doubt, have gnashed their teeth 
 At leisure minutes these half-dozen years. 
 To find me never in the mood to quit? 
 — Wlio asks may have it, with my blessing, and — 
 This to present our lady. Who'll accept? 
 You, — you,— you ? Tliere it lies, and may, for me ! 
 
 Mau. [a youth picking up %e paper, reads aloud.'] 
 *' Prince Berthold, proved by titles following 
 " Undoubted Lord of Juliers, comes this day 
 " To claim his^own, with license from the Pope, 
 "The Emperor, the kings of Spain and France" . . 
 
 Gau. Sufficient " titles following," I judge 1 
 .Don't read another ! Well, — " to claim his own ? " 
 
 Mau. " And take possession of the Duchy held 
 " Since twelve months, to the true heir's prejudice, 
 
 " By " . . . Colombc, Juliers' Mistress, so she thinks, 
 And Ravestein's mere lady, as we find ! 
 Who wants the place and paper? Guibert's right' 
 I hope to climb a little in the world, — 
 ['d push my fortunes, — but, no more tlian he, 
 Could tell her on this happy day of days,
 
 308 colojebe's birthday. 
 
 That, save the nosegay in her hand, perhaps, 
 There's nothing left to call her own ! Sir Clugnet, 
 You famish for promotion ; what say you ? 
 
 (Jlug. [an old man.'] To give this letter were a sort, I 
 take it. 
 Of ',ervice : services ask recompense : 
 What kind of corner may be Ravestein ? 
 
 Gui. The castle ? — Oh, you'd share her fortunes ? 
 Good! 
 Three walls stand upright, full as good as four. 
 With no such bad remainder of a roof. 
 
 Cbig. Oh, — but the Town ? 
 
 Gui. Five houses, fifteen huts ; 
 
 A church whereto was once a spire, 'tis judged : 
 And half a dyke, except ili time of thaw. 
 
 Cliirf. Still, there's some revenue ? 
 
 Gui. Else Heaven forefendl 
 
 You hang a beacon out, should fogs increase ; 
 So when the autumn floats of pine-wood steer 
 Safe 'mid the white confusion, thanks to you, 
 Their grateful raftsman flings a guilder in ; 
 1 — That's if he means to pass your way next time. 
 
 Clug. If not? 
 
 Gui. Hang, guilders, then — he blesses you ! 
 
 Cluff. What man do you suppose me ? Keep your paper 
 And let me say, it shows no handsome spirit 
 To dally with misfortune : keep your place ! 
 
 Gau. Some one must tell her. 
 
 Gui. Some one may : you may
 
 coloibe's birthday. 309 
 
 Gau. Sir Guibert, 'tis no trifle turns me sick 
 Of court-hypocrisy at years like mine, 
 But this goes near it. Where's there news at all ? 
 "Who'll have the flxce, for instance, to affirm 
 He never heard, e'en while we crown the girl, 
 That Juliers' tenure was by Salic law ; 
 That one, confessed her father's cousin's child, 
 And, she away, indisputable heir. 
 Against our choice protesting and the Duke's, 
 Claimed Juliers ? — nor, as he preferred his claim, 
 That first this, then another potentate, 
 Inclined to its allowance ? — I, or you, 
 Or any one except the lady's self ? 
 Oh, it had been the direst cruelty 
 
 To break the business to her ! Things might change— 
 At all events, we'd see next masque at end, 
 Next mummery over first : and so the edge 
 "Was taken off sharp tidings as they came. 
 Till here's the Prince upon us, and there's she 
 ■ — "Wreathing her hair, a song between her lips, 
 With just the faintest notion possible 
 That some such claimant earns a livelihood 
 About the Avorld, by feigning grievances 
 Few pay the story of, but grudge its price, 
 And fewer listen to, a second time. 
 Your method proves a failure ; now try mine — 
 And, since this must be carried . . . 
 
 Gui. [snatching the paper from him.'] By your leave 
 Vour zeal tnmsports you 1 'Twill not serve the Prince
 
 310 COLOiTBE's BIKTHDAT. 
 
 So much as you expect, this course you'd take ; 
 
 If she leaves quietly her palace, — well : 
 
 But if she died upon its threshold, — no : 
 
 He'd have the trouble of removing her ! 
 
 Come, gentles, we're all — what the devil knows ! 
 
 You, Gaucelme, won't lose character, beside — 
 
 You broke your father's heart superiorly 
 
 To gather his succession — never blush ! 
 
 You're from my province, and, be comforted. 
 
 They tell of it with wonder to this day — 
 
 You can afford to let your talent sleep ! 
 
 We'll take the very worst supposed, as true — 
 
 There, the old Duke knew, when he hid his child 
 
 Among the river flowers at Eavestein, 
 
 With whom the right lay ! Call the Pi'ince our Duke 
 
 There, she's no Duchess, she's no any thing 
 
 More than a young maid with the bluest eyes — 
 
 And now, sirs, we'll not break this young maid's heart 
 
 Coolly as Gaucelme could and would ! No haste ! 
 
 His talent's full-blown, ours but in the bud — 
 
 We'll not advance to his perfection yet — 
 
 Will we, Sir Maufroy ? See, I've ruined Maufroy 
 
 Forever as a courtier ! 
 
 Gau. Here's a coil — 
 
 And, count us, will you ? Count its residue, 
 This boasted convoy, tliis day last year's crowd ! 
 A birthday, too — a gratulation-day ! 
 Fm dumb : bid that keep silence 1 
 
 Mau. and others. Eh, Sir Guibert ?
 
 colombe's birthday J311 
 
 He'? riMit : tliut does say BOiuctliing : that's bare truth. 
 Xeii — twelve, I make : a perilous dropping-ofF ! 
 
 Gui. Pooh — is it audience-hour ? The vestibule 
 Swarms too, I wager, with the common sort 
 That want our privilege of entry here. 
 
 Gau. Adolf! \_lle-enter Kdol¥.'\ Who's outside ? 
 
 Gui. Oh, your looks suffice ! 
 
 Nobody waiting ? 
 
 Mau. \_Looking through the door-folds.^ Scarce ovii 
 number ! 
 
 Gui. 'Sdeath ! 
 
 Nothing to beg for, to complain about ? 
 It can't be ! Ill news spreads, but not so fast 
 As thus to frighten all the world ! 
 
 Gau. The world 
 
 Lives out of doors, sir — not with you and me 
 By presence-chamber porches, state-room stairs, 
 Wherever warmth's perpetual : outside's free 
 To every wind from every compass-point, 
 And who may get nipped needs be weather-wise. 
 The Prince comes and the lady's People go ; 
 The snow-goose settles dovvn, the swallows flee — 
 Why should they wait for winter-time ? 'Tis instinct ; 
 Don't you feel somewhat chilly ? 
 
 Gui. That's their craft ? 
 
 And last year's crowders-round and criers-forth, 
 That screwed the garlands, overarched the ruadi*. 
 Lit up the bonfires, sang the loyal songs ! 
 Well, 'tis my comfort, you could never caU me
 
 312 colojibe's birthday. 
 
 The People's Friend ! The People keep their word— 
 I keep my place : don't doubt I'll entertain 
 The People when the Prince comes, and the People 
 Are talked of ! — Then, their speeches — no one tongue 
 Found respite, not a pen had holiday 
 — For they wrote, too, as well as spoke, these knaves ! 
 Now see : v/e tax and tithe them, pill and poll, 
 They wince and fret enough, but pay they must 
 — "We manage that, — so pay with a good grace 
 They might as well, it costs so little more. 
 But when we've done with taxes, meet folk next 
 Outside the toll-booth and the rating-place, 
 In public — there they have us if they will. 
 We're at their mercy after that, you see — 
 For one tax not ten devils could extort ; 
 Over and above necessity, a grace ; 
 This prompt disbosoming of love, to wit — 
 Their vine-leaf-wrappage of our tribute-penny. 
 And crowning attestation, all works well — 
 Yet this precisely do they thrust on us ! 
 These cappings quick, and crook-and-cringings low, 
 Hand to the heart, and forehead to the knee. 
 With grin that shuts the eyes and opes the mouth- 
 So tender they their love ; and tender made, 
 Go home to curse you, the first doit you ask ; 
 As if their souls were any longer theirs ! 
 As if they had not given ample warrant 
 To who should clap a collar on their neck, 
 Rings in their nose, a goad to eitiier flank,
 
 colombe's biutiiuav. 313 
 
 And take them for the brute they boast thein-tlves! 
 —Stay — there's a bustle at the outer door — 
 And somebody entreating . . . that's my name I 
 Adolf, — I heard my name ! 
 
 Adolf. 'Twas probably 
 
 Tiie Suitor. 
 
 Gui. Oh, there is one ? 
 
 Adolf. With a suit 
 
 He'd fain enforce in person. 
 
 Gui. The good heart 
 
 — And the great fool . Just ope the raid-door's fold— 
 [s that a lappet of his cloak, I see ? 
 
 Adolf. If it bear plenteous signs of travel ... ay. 
 The very cloak ray comrades tore ! 
 
 Gui. Why tore ! 
 
 Adolf. He seeks the Duchess' presence in that trim: 
 Since daybreak, was he posted hereabouts 
 Lest he should miss the moment. 
 
 Gui. Where's he now ? 
 
 Adolf Gone for a minute possibly, not more. 
 Fhjy have ado enough to thrust him back. 
 
 Gui. Ay — but my name, I caught? 
 
 Adolf. Oil, sir — he said 
 
 —What was it? — You had known him formerly, 
 And, he believed, would help him did you guess 
 fie waited now — you promised him as much — 
 The old plea! — 'Faith, he's back, — renews the charge! 
 \Speahing at the door.'] So long as the man parleys, 
 
 peace outside ! 
 Nor be too ready with your halberts, there !
 
 S14r colombe's birthdast. 
 
 Gau. My horse bespattered, as he blocked the pa^.'" 
 A thin sour man not unlike somebody. 
 
 Adolf. He holds a paper in his breast, whereon 
 He glances when his cheeks flush and his brow 
 At each repulse — 
 
 Gau. I noticed he'd a brow. 
 
 Adolf. So glancing, he grows calmer, leans awhile 
 Over the balustrade, adjusts his dress, 
 And presently turns round, quiet again, 
 With some new pretext for admittance. — Back ! 
 \^To GuiBERT.] — Sir, he has seen you! Now cross 
 
 halberts ! Ha — 
 Pascal is prostrate — there lies Fabian too — 
 No passage! Whither would the madman press? 
 Close the doors quick on me ! 
 
 Gui. Too late — he's here. 
 
 Enter, hastily and with discomposed dress, Valence. 
 
 Val. Sir Guibert, will you help me ? — Me, that come 
 Charged by your townsmen, all who starve at Cleves, 
 To represent their heights and depths of woe 
 Before our Duchess and obtain relief I 
 Such errands barricade such doors, it seems : 
 But not a common hindrance drives me back 
 On all the sad yet hopeful faces, lit 
 With hope for tlie first time, which sent me forth ! 
 Cleves, speak for me ! Cleves' men and women, speak—* 
 Wiio followed me — your strongest — many a mile 
 That I might go the fresher from their ranks, 
 —Who sit — your weakest — by the city-gates,
 
 oolombe's birthday. 315 
 
 To take me fuller of what news I bring 
 As I return — for I must needs return! 
 —Can 1 ? 'Twere hard, no listener for their wrongs, 
 To turn them back upon the old despair — 
 Harder, Sir Guibert, than imploring thus — 
 So I do — any way you please — implore ! 
 If you ... but how should you remember Cleves ? 
 "i'at they of Cleves remember you so well ! 
 — Ay, comment on each trait of you they keep, 
 Your words and deeds caught up at second hand, — 
 Proud, I believe, at bottom of their hearts. 
 Of the very levity and recklessness 
 Which only prove that you forget their wrongs. 
 Cleves, the grand town, whose men and women starve. 
 Is Cleves forgotten ? — Then remember me ! 
 You promised me that you would help me once 
 For other purpose : will you keep your word ? 
 Gui. And who may you be, friend ? 
 Yal. Valence of Cleves 
 
 Gui. Valence of . . . not the Advocate of Cleves 
 I owed my whole estate to, three years back ? 
 Ay, well may you keep silence ! Why my lords, 
 You've heard, I'm sure, how, Pentecost three years, 
 I was so nearly ousted of my land 
 By some knaves' pretext, — (eh? when you refused rae 
 Your ugly daughter, Clugnet,) — and you've heard 
 How I recovered it by miracle 
 .— (Wlien I refused her) ! Here's the very friend, 
 —Valence of Cleves, all parties have to thank I
 
 Si 6 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Nay, Valence, this procedure's vile in you — 
 
 I'm no more grateful tlian a courtier should, 
 
 But politic am I — I bear a brain, 
 
 Can cast about a little, might require 
 
 Your services a second time ! I tried 
 
 To tempt you with advancement here to court 
 
 — " No ! " — well, for curiosity at least 
 
 To view our life here — "No!" — our Duchess, then,— 
 
 —A pretty woman's worth some pains to see. 
 
 Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown 
 
 Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure. . . 
 
 Val. Our city trusted me its miseries, 
 And I am come. 
 
 Gut. So much for taste ! But "come,' — 
 
 So may you be, for any thing I know, 
 To beg the Pope's cross, or Sir Clugnet's daughter, 
 And with an equal chance you get all three ! 
 If it was ever worth your while to come, 
 Was not the proper way worth finding too ? 
 
 T'al. Straight to the palace-portal, sir, I came— 
 
 Gui. — And said? — 
 
 Val. — That I had brought the »\)iseries 
 
 Of a whole city to relieve. 
 
 Gui, — "Which saying 
 
 Won } our admittance ? You saw me, indeed, 
 And here, no doubt, you stand : as certainly. 
 My intervention, I shall not dispute. 
 Procures you audience ; which, if I procure. 
 That paper's closely written — by Saint Paul,
 
 colombe's BiurnDAY. 317 
 
 Rose flock th i "Wrongs, follow the Remedies, 
 Chapter and verse, One, Two, A, B, and C— 
 Perhaps you'd enter, make a reverence, 
 And launch these " miseries" from first to hist? 
 
 Val. How sliould they let me pause or tiii-a aside ? 
 
 Gaii. [^0 Valence.] My worthy sir, one question; 
 you've come straight 
 From Cleves, you tell us : heard you any talk 
 At Cleves about our lady ? 
 
 VaL Much. 
 
 Gau. And what ? 
 
 Val. Her wish was to redress all wrongs she knew. 
 
 Gau. That, you believed ? 
 
 Val. You see me, sir ! 
 
 Gau. — Nor stopped 
 
 Upon the road from Cleves to Juliers here, 
 For any — rumours you might find afloat ? 
 
 Val. I liad ray townsmen's wrongs to busy me. 
 
 Gate. This is the Lady's birthday, do you know ? 
 — Her day of pleasure ? 
 
 Val. — I know that the Great, 
 
 For Pleasure born, should still be on the watch 
 To exclude Pleasure when a Duty ofiers : 
 Even as, the Lowly too, for Duty born, 
 May ever snatch a pleasure if in reach : 
 Both will have plenty of their birthright, sir ! 
 
 Gau. l^Aside to Guibert.] Sir Guibert, hen.-'s youi 
 man ! No scruples now — 
 tou'll never find his like ! Time presses bard.
 
 gl8 COLOilBE S BIKTHDAY. 
 
 I've seen your drift and Adolf's too, this while, 
 But you can't keep the hour of audience back 
 Much longer, and at noon the Prince arrives. 
 {Pointing to Valence,] Entrust him with it — fuol no 
 chance away ! 
 Qui. — Him ? 
 Gau. —With the missive! What's the 
 
 man to her ? 
 Gui. No bad thought ! — Yet, 'tis yours — who ever 
 played 
 The tempting serpent — else, 'twere no bad thought ' 
 I should — and do — mistrust it for your sake. 
 Or else . . . 
 
 Enter an Official who communicates with Adolp. 
 Adolf. The Duchess will receive the Court ! 
 Gui. Give us a moment, Adolf! Valence, friend, 
 I'll help you : we of the service, you're to mark, 
 Have special entry, while the herd . . . the folks 
 Outside, get access through our help alone 
 — Well, it is so, was so, and I suppose 
 So ever will be — your natural lot is, therefore, 
 To wait your turn and opportunity, 
 And probably miss both. Now, I engage 
 To set you, here and in a minute's space. 
 Before the lady with full leave to plead 
 Ciiapter and verse, and A, and B, and C, 
 Co heart's content. 
 
 Vol. I grieve that I must ask,
 
 colojibe's iiiRTnDA.r. 319 
 
 This b*. rifj;, yourself admit, the custom here, 
 To what the price of such a favour mounts ? 
 
 Gui. Just so ! You're not witliout a courtier's tact I 
 Little at court, as your quick instinct prompts, 
 Do such as we without a recompense. 
 
 Vol. Yours is ? — 
 
 Qui. A trifle : here's a document 
 
 Tis some one's duty to present her Grace — 
 I say, not mine — these say, not theirs— such points 
 Have wei2;ht at court. Will you relieve us all 
 And take it ? — Just say, " I am bidden lay 
 " This paper at the Duchess' feet." 
 
 Vol. No more ? 
 
 I thank you, sir ! 
 
 Adolf. Her Grace receives the Court ! 
 
 Gui. [^Aside-I Now, sursum corda, quoth the mass- 
 priest ! Do — 
 Whoever's my kind saint, do let alone 
 These pushings to and fro, and puUings back ; 
 Peaceably let me hang o'the devil's arm 
 The downward path, if you can't pluck me off 
 Completely ! Let me live quite his, or yours 1 
 
 [The Courtiers begin to range themselves, and move totoarcU 
 the door. 
 
 After me, Valence ! So our famous Cleves 
 
 Lacks bread ? Yet don't we gallants buy their lace ? 
 
 And dear enougli — it beggars me, I know, 
 
 To keep my very gloves fringed pioperly ! 
 
 This, Valence, is our Great State Hall you cross :
 
 320 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Ton gray urn's veritable marcasite, 
 The Pope's gift ; and those salvers testify 
 The Emperor. Presently you'll set your foot 
 . . . But you don't speak, friend Valence ! 
 
 Val. I shall speak. 
 
 Gate. [_Aside to Guibert.] Guibert — it were no such 
 ungraceful thing 
 If you and I, at first, seemed horrorstruck 
 "With the bad news. Look here, what you shall do ! 
 Suppose you, first, clap hand to sword and cry 
 " Yield strangers our allegiance ? First I'll perish 
 " Beside your Grace ! " — and so give me the cue 
 To . . . 
 
 Gill. Clap your hand to note-book and jot down 
 That to resale the Prince with ? I conceive ! 
 [To Valence.] Do, Valence, speak, or I shall half suspect 
 You're plotting to supplant us, me the first, 
 I' the Lady's favour : is't the grand harangue 
 You mean to make, that thus engrosses you ? 
 i^Which of her virtues you'll apostrophize ? 
 Or is't the fashion you aspire to start, 
 Of that close-curled, not unbecoming hair ? 
 —Or what else ponder you ? 
 
 Vol. My townsmen's wrongs !
 
 COLOMBE'3 BIRTHDAY. 321 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Noon. Scene. — The Presence-chamber. 
 The Duchess and Sabtnb. 
 
 riie D. Announce that I am ready for the Court I 
 
 Sab. 'Tis scarcely audience-hour, I think — your Grace 
 May best consult your own relief, no doubt, 
 And shun the crowd ; but few can have arrived . . 
 
 The D. Let those not yet arrived, then, keep away 
 'Twas me, this day, last year at Ravestein, 
 You hurried. It has been full time, beside. 
 This half-hour. Do you hesitate ? 
 
 Sab. Forgive me ! 
 
 27ie D. Stay, Sabyne ; let me hasten to make sure 
 Of one true thanker : here with you begins 
 My audience, claim you first its privilege ! 
 It is my birth's event they celebrate — 
 You need not wish me more such happy days, 
 But — ask some favour ! Have you none to ask ? 
 Has Adolf none, then ? this was far from least 
 Of much I waited for impatiently, 
 Assure yourself! It seemed so natural 
 Your gift, beside this bunch of river-bells, 
 Should be the power and leave of doing good 
 To you, and greater pleasure to myself: 
 You ask my leave to-day to irarry Adolf r 
 The \est is my concern. 
 
 VOL. I. 21
 
 322 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Sab. Your grace is ever 
 
 Our Lady of dear Ravestein, — but, for Adolf . . . 
 
 The D. "But"? You have not, sure, changed in 
 your regard 
 And purpose towards him? 
 
 Sab. We change ! 
 
 The D. Well, then ? Well r 
 
 Sab. How could we two be happy, and, most like. 
 Leave Juliers, when . . . when . . . But 'tis audience-time ' 
 
 TJie D. " When, if you left me, I were left indeed "— 
 Would you subjoin that ? — Bid the Court approach I 
 •^Why should we play thus with each other, Sabyne ? 
 Do I not know, if courtiers prove remiss. 
 If friends detain me, and get blame for it, 
 There is a cause ? Of last year's fervid throng 
 Scarce one half comes now ! 
 
 Sab. \_Aside.'\ One half? No, alas ! 
 
 TJie D. So can the mere suspicion of a cloud 
 Over ray fortunes strike each loyal heart. 
 They've heard of this Prince Berthold ; and, forsooth, 
 Each foolish arrogant pretence he makes. 
 May grow more foolish and more arrogant. 
 They please to apprehend ! I thank their love ! 
 Admit them ! 
 
 Sab. \_Aside^ How much has she really learned ? 
 
 The D. Surely, whoever's absent, Tristan waits ? 
 •—Or at least Romuald, whom my father raised 
 From nothing — come, he's faithful to me, come ! 
 (^Sabyne, I should but be the prouder — ^yes,
 
 COLOMBE'S BinTHDAY. 325 
 
 And fitter to comport myself aright) 
 
 Not RomiiaUl ? Xavier — what said he to that ? 
 
 For Xavier hates a parasite, I know ! 
 
 [Sabtxe goes otU 
 Tlie D. Well, sunshine's everywhere, and summer too ; 
 Next year 'tis the old place again, perhaps — 
 The water-breeze again, the birds again 
 ... It cannot be ! It is too late to be ! 
 What part had I, or choice in all of it ? 
 Hither they brought me ; I had not to think 
 Nor care, concern myself with donig good 
 Or ill, my task was just — to livt'f — to live, 
 And, answering ends there was no need explain. 
 To render Juliers happy — so they said. 
 All could not have been falsehood 1 Some was love. 
 And wonder and obedience — I did all 
 They looked for ! Why then cease to do it now ? 
 Yet this is to be calmly set aside, 
 And — ere next birthday's dawn, for aught I know, 
 Things change, a claimant may arrive, and 1 . . . 
 It cannot nor it shall not be ! His right ? 
 Well then, he has the right, and I have not, 
 ■ — But who bade all of you surround my life 
 And close its growth up with your Ducal crown 
 Which, plucked off rudely, leaves me perishing ? 
 I could have been like one of you, — loved, hoped. 
 Feared, lived and died like one of you — but you 
 Would take that life away and give me this, 
 And I will keep this 1 I will face you— Come J.
 
 824 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Enter the Courtiers and Valence. 
 
 Tlie Courtiers. Many such happy mornings to youi 
 Grace ! 
 
 Tlie D. \_Aside, as they pay their devoir.'] The same 
 words — the same faces, — the same love ! 
 I have been over-fearful. These are few — 
 But these, at least, stand firmly — these are mine ! 
 As many come as may, and if no more, 
 'Tis that these few suffice — they do suffice ! 
 What succour may not next year bring me ! Plainly 
 I feared too soon! [fo Wie Court.] I thank you, sirs, 
 all thanks! 
 
 Val. [^Aside, as the Duchess passes from one group tc 
 another, conversing.] 
 'Tis she — the vision this day last year brought, 
 When for a golden moment at our Cleves 
 She tarried in her progress hither. Cleves 
 Chose me to speak its welcome, and I spoke 
 — Not that she could have noted the recluse 
 — Ungainly, old before his time — who gazed — 
 . . . Well, Heaven's gifts are not wasted, and that gaze 
 Kept, and shall keep me to the end, her own 1 
 She was above it — but so would not sink 
 My gaze to earth ! The People caught it, hers — 
 Thenceforward, mine ; but thus entirely mine, 
 Who shall affirm, had she not raised ray soul 
 Ere she retired and left me — them ? — She turns — 
 There's all her wondrous face at once ! The ground
 
 colombe's birthday. 325 
 
 Ecfcls and . . . [^suddenly occupying himself with hit 
 paper.] These wrongs of theirs I have to plead ! 
 
 The D. [io the Court.] Nay, compliment enough ! And 
 kindness' self 
 Should pause before it wish me more such years. 
 *T\vas fortunate that thus, ere youth escaped, 
 I tasted life's pure pleasure — one such, pure. 
 Is worth a thousand, mixed — and youth's for pleasure : 
 Mine is received ; let my age pay for it. 
 
 Gait. So, pay, and pleasure paid for, thinks your Grace, 
 Should never go together ? 
 
 Gtii. How, Sir Gaucelme? 
 
 Hurry one's feast down unenjoyingly 
 At the snatched breathing-intervals of work ? 
 As good you saved it till the dull day's-end 
 When, stiff and sleepy, appetite is gone ! 
 Eat first, then work upon the strength of it ! 
 
 The D. True : you enable me to risk my Future, 
 By giving me a Past beyond recall. 
 I lived, a girl, one happy leisure year : 
 Let me endeavour to be the Duchess now ! 
 And so, — what news, Sir Guibert, spoke you of? 
 
 [.Is they advance a little, and Goibert speaks— 
 — That gentleman ? 
 
 Val [Aside.] I feel her eyes on me ! 
 
 Gui. [to Valence.] The Duchess, sir, inclines to hear 
 your suit ! 
 Advance ! He is from Cleves. 
 
 Val. [coming forward. [Aside.'^ Their wrongs — their 
 wrongs !
 
 326 colombe's birthday. 
 
 The D. And you, sir, are from Cleves ? How fresh in 
 mind. 
 The hour or two I passed at queenly Cleves ! 
 She entertained me bravely, but the best 
 Of her good pageant seemed its standers-by, 
 With insuppressive joy on every face ! 
 What says my ancient, famous, bappy Cleves? 
 
 Vol. Take the truth, lady — you are made for truth ! 
 So think my friends : nor do they less deserve 
 The having you to take it, you shall think, 
 When you know all — nay, when you only know 
 How, on that day you recollect at Cleves, 
 When the poor acquiescing multitude 
 
 • 
 
 Who thrust themselves with all their woes apart 
 
 Into unnoticed corners, that the few 
 
 Their means sufficed to muster trappings for, 
 
 Might fill the foreground, occupy your sight 
 
 With joyous faces fit to bear away 
 
 And boast of as a sample of all Cleves 
 
 — How, when to daylight these crept out once more, 
 
 Clutching, unconscious, each his empty rags 
 
 Whence the scant coin, which had not half bought bread, 
 
 That morn he shook forth, counted piece by piece. 
 
 And, well-advisedly, on perfumes spent them 
 
 To burn, or flowers to strejv, before your path 
 
 ■ — How, when the golden flood of music and bliss 
 
 Ebbed, as their moon retreated, and again 
 
 Left the sharp black -point rocks of misery bare 
 
 r— Then I, tbeir friend, had only to suggest
 
 COLOMBE S BIUTIIDAT. 327 
 
 " Saw she the horror as she saw the pomp ! " — 
 And as one miui tliey eric<l '• He spi-aks the truth — 
 " Show her the liunor ! Take fVoin our own mouths 
 " Our wrongs and show them, she will see tliem too!** 
 — Tliis they cried, hidy ! I have brought the; wrongs. 
 The D. Wrongs? Cleves has wrongs — apparent nuw 
 and tlius ? 
 I thank you — in that paper ? — Give it me ! 
 
 Val. (There, Cleves !) In this ! (What did I promise, 
 Cleves ?) 
 Our weavers, clothiers, spinners are reduced 
 Since . . . Oh, I crave your pardon — I forget 
 I buy the privilege of this approach, 
 And promptly would discharge my debt. I lay 
 T}d& i)aper humbly at the Ducliess' feet ! 
 
 \PTesentin<j Gdibert's yaptr 
 
 Gui. Stay — for the present . . 
 
 The D. Stay, sir ? I take aught 
 
 That teaches me their wrongs with greater pride 
 Than this your Ducal circlet. Thank you, sir! 
 
 [The DncuESS reads hastily ; then, turning to the Courtiera— 
 What have I done to you ? Your deed or mine 
 Was it, this crowning me ? I gave myself 
 No more a title to your homage, no, 
 Than church-flowers, born this season, wrote the words 
 In the saint's-book that sanctified them first. 
 For sucii a flower, you plucked me — well, you erred— 
 Well, 'twas a weed — remove the eyesore quick 1 
 But should you not remember it has lain
 
 S28 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Steeped in the candles' glory, palely shrined, 
 Nearer God's Mother than most earthly things ? 
 —That if 't be faded 'tis with prayer's sole breath— 
 That the one day it boasted was God's day ? 
 Still, I do thank you — had you used respect 
 Here might I dwindle to my last white leaf, 
 Here lose life's latest freshness, which even yet 
 May yield some wandering insect rest and food : 
 So, fling me forth, and — all is best for all ! 
 \_After a pause.'] Prince Berthold, who art Juliers' Duke. 
 
 it seems — 
 The King's choice, and the Emperor's, and the Pope's— 
 Be mine, too 1 Take this people ! Tell not me 
 Of rescripts, precedents, authorities, 
 — But take them, from a heart that yearns to give ! 
 Find out their love, — I could not; find their fear, — 
 I would not ; find their like, — 1 never shall. 
 Among the flowers I [ Taking off her coronet. 
 
 Colombe of Havestein 
 Thanks God she is no longer Duchess here ! 
 
 Val. [advancing to Guibekt.] Sir Guibert, — knight, 
 
 they call you — this of mine 
 Is the first step I ever set at court. 
 You dared make me your instrument, I find ; 
 For that, so sure as you and I are men, 
 We reckon to the utmost presently: 
 But as you are a courtier and I none. 
 Your knowledge may instruct me. I, already, 
 yiave too far outraged, by my ignorance
 
 oolo-mbe's birthday. 35frJ 
 
 Of courtier-vvays, this lady, to proceed 
 A second step and risk addressinij her 
 — I am degraded — }'ou, let me address ! 
 Out of lier presence, all is plain enough 
 Wliat I shall do — but in her presence, too. 
 Surely there's something proper to be done! 
 [To the others.'] You, geuties, tell me if I guess a.ight— 
 May I not strike this man to earth ? 
 The Courtiers, [as Gcibert springs forward, with- 
 holding him.'] Let go 1 
 —The Clothiers' spokesman, Guibert ? Grace a churl ? 
 
 The D. \to Valence.] Oli, be acquainted with youT 
 party, sir ! 
 He's of the oldest lineage Juliers boasts ; 
 A. lion crests him for a cognizance ; 
 " Scorning to waver " — that's his 'scutcheon's word ; 
 His office with the new Duke — probably 
 The same in honour as with me ; or more, 
 By so much as this gallant turn deserves ; 
 He's now, I dare say, of a thousand times 
 The rank and influence that remain with her 
 Whose part you take ! So, lest for taking it 
 You suffer . . . 
 
 Yal. I may strike him then to earth ? 
 
 Gui. [falling on his knee.] Great and dear lady, 
 pardon me ! Hear once ! 
 Believe me ami be merciful — be just ! 
 [ could not bring myself to give that paper 
 Without a keener pang than I dared meet
 
 330 colombl:'s birthday. 
 
 — And so felt Clugnet here, and Maufroy here 
 
 >— No one dared meet it. Protestation's cheap, — 
 
 But, if to die for you did any good, 
 
 ITo Gaucelme.] Would not I die, sir? Say your wor«1 
 
 of me ! 
 But it does no good, that's the mournful truth. 
 And since the hint of a resistance, even, 
 "Would just precipitate, on you the first, 
 A speedier ruin — I shall not deny, 
 Saving myself indubitable pain, 
 I thought to give you pleasure (who might say ?) 
 By showing that your only subject found 
 To carry the sad notice, was the man 
 Precisely ignorant of its contents ; 
 A nameless, mere provincial advocate ; 
 One whom 'twas like you never saw before. 
 Never would see again. All has gone wrong; 
 But I meant right, God knows, and you, I trust ! 
 
 7?ie D. A nameless advocate, this gentleman ? — 
 f— (I pardon you. Sir Guibert !) 
 
 Gid. [rising, to Valence.] — Sir, and you ? — 
 
 Val. — Rejoice that you are lightened of a load. 
 Now, you liave only me to reckon with ! 
 
 The D. One I have never seen, much less obliged ? — 
 
 Val. Dare I speak, lady ? 
 
 The D. Dare you ! Heard you not 
 
 \ rule no longer ? 
 
 Yal. Lady, if your rule 
 
 Were based alone on such a ground as these 
 
 [Poiiiting to the Courtiers.
 
 COLOMBE's B1RTHDA.T. 331 
 
 Ci)ul(l furnish you, — abjure it ! They have hidden 
 A source of true dominion from your sight. 
 
 The D. You hear thera — no such source is left . . . 
 
 Val. Hear Cleves I 
 
 Whose haggard craftsmen rose to starve tliis day, 
 Starve now, and will lie down at night to starve, 
 Sure of a like to-morrow — but as sure 
 Of a most unlike morrow-after-tliat. 
 Since end things must, end howsoe'er things may. 
 What curbs the brute-force instinct in its hour ? 
 What makes, instead of rising, all as one, 
 And teaching fingers, so expert to wield 
 Their tool, the broadsword's play or carbine's trick, 
 — What makes that there's an easier help, they think. 
 For you whose name so few of them can spell, 
 Whose face scarce one in every hundred saw. 
 You simply have to understand their wrongs. 
 And wrongs will vanish — so, still trades are plied. 
 And swords lie rusting, and myself stand here ? 
 There is a vision in the heart of each 
 Of justice, mercy, wisdom; tenderness 
 To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure— 
 And these, embodied in a woman's form 
 Tiiat best transmits them pure as first received. 
 From God above her, to mankind below. 
 Will you derive your rule from such a ground. 
 Or rather iiohl it by the suffrage, say. 
 Of tliis man — this — and this? 
 
 Hie D. [_after a pause.'] You come from Cleves— 
 Wow many are at Cleves of such a mind?
 
 532 coi-ombe's bfrthdat. 
 
 Val. l^from his paper.'] " We, all the manufacturers of 
 
 Cleves "— 
 77ie D. Or stay, sir — lest I seem (oo covetous — 
 A.re you my subject ? such as you describe 
 Am I to you — though to no other man ? 
 
 Val. \_from Ms paper.] — " Valence ordained your Ad- 
 vocate at Cleves " — 
 Tlie D. [replacing the coronet.] Then I remain Cleve? 
 Duchess ! Take you note, 
 While Cleves but yields one subject of this stamp, 
 I stand her lady till she waves me off ! 
 For her sake, all the Prince claims I withhold ; 
 Laugh at each menace; and, his power defying. 
 Return his missive with its due contempt! 
 
 ^Casting it away. 
 Gui. [picking it ■tip.] — Which to the Prince I will 
 deliver, Lady, 
 [Note it down, Gaucehne] — with your message too! 
 
 The D. I think the office is a subject's, sir! 
 . — Either . . . how style you him ? — my special guarder 
 The Marshal's — for who knows but violence 
 May follow the delivery ! — Or, perliaps, 
 My Chancellor's — for law may be to urge 
 On its receipt! — Or, even my Chamberlain's — 
 For I may violate established form ! 
 ^To Valenck.] Sir, — for the half-hour till this service 
 
 ends. 
 Will you become all these to me? 
 
 Val. [fulling on his knee.] My liege ?
 
 coi.ombk's RiiiinDAY. 83S 
 
 « 
 The D. Give me ! 
 
 [ The Courtiers present iheir badfjes of office 
 \_Putting them by.'] — WhatevtM' was their virtue once, 
 They need new consecration ! \i-aising Valp:nce.] Ai-e 
 
 you mine ? 
 — I will be Duchess yet! [^Slie retires 
 
 The Courtiers. Our Duchess yet ! 
 
 A glorious lady ! Worthy love and dread ! 
 I'll stand by her, — and I, whate'er betide ! 
 
 Gui. [to Valence.] Well done, well done, sir ! I caie 
 not who knows, 
 You have done nobly, and I envy you — 
 Tho' I am but unfairly used, I think : 
 For when one gets a place like this I hold, 
 One gets too the remark that its mere wages, 
 The pay and the preferment, make our prize — 
 Talk about zeal and faith apart from these, 
 We're laufrhed at — much would zeal and faith subsist 
 Without these also ! Yet, let these be stopped, 
 Our wages discontinue, — then, indeed, 
 Our zeal and faith, we liear on every side, 
 Are not released — having been i)ledged away 
 I wonder with what zeal and faith in turn ? 
 Hard money purchased me my place ! No, no — 
 I'm right, sir — but your wrong is better still, 
 If I had time and skill to argue it. 
 Therefore, I say. I'll serve you, how you please- — 
 If you like, — fight you, as you seem to wish — 
 ,'The kinder of me that, in sober truth, 
 \ never dreamed I did you any harm) —
 
 334 colombe's birthd \t. 
 
 Gau. Or, kinder still, you'll introduce, no doubt, 
 His merits to the prince -.vho's just at hand. 
 And let no hint drop he's made Chancellor, 
 And Chamberlain, and Heaven knows what beside ! 
 
 Clug. [to Valence."] You stare, young sir, and threaten! 
 Let me say, 
 That at your age, when first I came to court, 
 1 was not much above a gentleman ; 
 While now . . . 
 
 Vol. — You are Head-Lackey ? "With your office 
 I have not yet been graced, sir ! 
 
 Other Courtiers to Clug, Let him talk ! 
 
 Fidelity — disinterestedness — 
 Excuse so much ! Men claimed my worship evei 
 Who, stanch and steadfastly , . . 
 
 Enter Adolf. 
 
 Adolf. The Prince arrives 1 
 
 Courtiers. Ha ? How ? 
 
 Adolf. He leaves his guard a stage behind 
 
 At Aix, and entei-s almost by himself. 
 
 1st Court. The Prince ! This foolish business puta 
 all out ! 
 
 2c? Court. Let Gaucelme speak first ! 
 
 3c? Court. Better I began 
 
 About the state of Juliers — should one say 
 All's prosperous and inviting him ? 
 
 \th Court. — Or rather 
 
 All'ri prostrate and imploring him !
 
 colombe's birthdat. 335 
 
 5th Court. That's best 1 
 
 Where's the Cleves' paper, by the way ? 
 
 Atk Court, [to Valence.] Sir— sir — 
 
 [f you'll but give that paper — trust it me, 
 I'll warrant . . . 
 
 5fk Court. Softly, sir-r-tlie Marshal's duty ! 
 
 Clug. Has not the Chamberlain a hearing first 
 By virtue of his patent? 
 
 Gau. Patents ? — Duties ? 
 
 All that, my masters, must begin again ! 
 One word composes the whole controversy — 
 We're simply — now the Prince's 1 
 
 The Others. Ay— the Prince's i 
 
 Enter Sabtne. 
 Sab. Adolf! Bid . . . Oh, no time for ceremony! 
 Where's whom our lady calls her only subject ? 
 She needs him ! Who is here the Duchess's ? 
 
 Vol. [^starting from his reverie.'] Most gratefully I fol- 
 low to her feet 1 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 AJlernoon. Scene. — The Vestibule. 
 Enter Prixce Berthold and Melcuior. 
 Berth. A thriving little burgh this Juliers looks. 
 'i' Half-apart.'] Keep Juliers, and as good you kept Cologne: 
 Better trj Aix, though ! — 
 
 Mel. Please 't your Highness speak?
 
 ^36 colombe's bikthdat. 
 
 Berth, [as before.'] Aix, Cologne, Fraiikfoit,— 
 Milan ; — Rome ! — 
 
 Mel. —The Grave. 
 
 —More weary seems your Highness, I remark, 
 Than sundry conquerors whose path I've watched 
 Through fire and blood to any prize they gain. 
 I could well wish you, for your proper sake, 
 Had met some shade of opposition here 
 —Found a blunt seneschal refuse unlock, 
 Or a scared usher lead your steps astray. 
 You must not look for next achievement's palm 
 So easy : this will hurt your conquering ! 
 
 Berth. My next? Ay — as you say, my next and next 
 Well, I am tired, that's truth, and moody too, 
 This quiet entrance-morning ; listen why 1 
 Our little burgh, now, Juliers — 'tis indeed 
 One link, however insignificant. 
 Of the great chain by which I reach my hope — 
 — A link I must secure ; but otherwise. 
 You'd wonder I esteemed it worth my grasp. 
 Just see what life is, with its shifts and turns ! 
 It happens now — this very nook — to be 
 A place that once . . . but a short while since, neither — 
 When I lived an ambiguous hanger-on 
 Of foreign courts, and bore my claims about. 
 Discarded by one kinsman, and the other 
 A poor priest merely, — then, I say, this place 
 Shone my ambition's object ; to be Duke — 
 Seemed then what to be Emperor seems now.
 
 colomke's hirthdat. 337 
 
 My nglils were far from being judcied us plain 
 In those days as of late, I promise you — 
 And 'twas my day-dream, Lady Colombe here 
 ISIight e'en compound the matter, pity me, 
 Be struck, say, with my chivalry and grace 
 (I was a boy !) — bestow her hand at length, 
 And make me Duke, in her right if not mine. 
 Here am I, Duke confessed, at Juliers now ! 
 Hearken : if ever I be Emperor, 
 Kemind me what I felt and said to-day ! 
 
 Mel. All this consoles a bookish man like me ! 
 ■ — And so will weariness cling to you ! Wrong — 
 Wrong ! Had you sought the Lady's court yourself,— 
 Faced the redoubtables composing it, 
 Flattered this, threatened that man, bribed the other,— 
 Pleaded, by writ and word and deed, your cause, — 
 Conquered a footing inch by painful inch, — 
 And, after long years' struggle, pounced at last 
 On her for prize, — the right life had been lived, 
 And justice done to divers faculties 
 Shut in that brow : yourself were visible 
 As you stood victor, then ! whom now — (your pardon !) 
 I am forced narrowly to search and see — 
 So ai'e you hid by helps — this Pope, your uncle — 
 Your cousin, the other King ! You are a Mind, — 
 They, Body : too much of mere legs-and-arms 
 Obstructs the mind so ! Match these with their like- 
 Match mind with iniiul I 
 
 Berth. And where's your mind tt) match ' 
 
 VOL. I. 22
 
 8S8 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 They show me legs-and-arms to cope withal ! 
 
 I'd subjugate this city — where's its mind? 
 
 [The Courtiers enter slowly 
 
 Mel. Got out of sight when you came troops and all 
 And in its stead, hero greets you flesh-and-blood — 
 A smug (Economy of both, this first ! 
 
 [As Clugxet bows obsequic'J3ltf 
 
 Well done, gout, all considered ! — I may go ? 
 
 Berth. Help me receive them ! 
 
 Mel. Oh, they just will saj 
 
 What yesterday at Aix their fellows said, — 
 At Treves, the day before ! — Sir Prince, my friend, 
 Why do you let your life slip thus ? — Meantime, 
 I have my little Juliers to achieve — 
 The understanding this tough Platonist, 
 Your holy uncle disinters, Amelius — 
 Lend me a company of horse and foot, 
 To help me through his tractate — gain my Duchy ! 
 
 Berth. And Empire, after that is gained, will be — ? 
 
 Mel. To help me through your uncle's comment 
 Prince ! [ GoM 
 
 Berth. Ah? Well! he o'er-refines — the scholar's fault 
 How do I let my life slip ? Say, this life, 
 I lead now, differs from the common liie 
 Of other men in mere degree, not kind. 
 Of joys and griefs, — still there is such degree — 
 Mere largeness in a life is something, sure, — 
 Enough to care about and struggle for, 
 In this world: for this world, the Size of things;
 
 colombk's birthday. 339 
 
 ri.e Sort of things, for that to coine, no doubt 1 
 Al great is better than a little aim — 
 AnJ when I wooed Pri.^cilla's rosy mouth 
 A.nd failed so, under that gray convent-wall, 
 Was I more happy than I should be now 
 
 [ By this time the Courtiers ure ranyed bejart him 
 
 If failing of my Empire ? Not a whit ! 
 
 — Here comes the Mind, it once had tasked me sore 
 
 To baffle, but for my advantages I 
 
 All's best as 'tis — these scholars talk and talk ! 
 
 [5eafs himself. 
 
 The Courtiers. "Welcome our Prince to Juliers !— to 
 his Heritage ! 
 Our dutifullest service proffer we ! 
 
 Clug. I, please your Plighness, having exercised 
 The function of Grand Chamberlain at Court, 
 With much acceptance, as men testify . . . 
 
 Berth. I cannot greatly thank you, gentlemen ! 
 The Pope declares my claim to the Duchy tbunued 
 On strictest justice ; if you concede it, therefore. 
 I do not wonder — and the kings my friends 
 Protesting they will see such claim enforced. 
 You easily may offer to assist us. 
 But there's a slight discretionary power 
 To serve me in the matter, you've had long, 
 Though late you use it. This is well to say — 
 But could you not have said it months ago? 
 I'm not denied my own Duke's truncheon, true — 
 Tis flimg me — I stoop down, and from the ground
 
 840 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Pick it, with all you placid standers-by — 
 And now I liave it, gems and mire at once, 
 Grace go with it to my soiled hands, you say ! 
 
 Gui. (By Paul, the Advocate our doughty friend 
 Cuts the best figure !) 
 
 Gau. If our ignorance 
 
 May have offended, sure our loyalty . . . 
 
 Berth. Loyalty ? Yours ? — Oh — of yourselves you 
 speak ! 
 —/ mean the Duchess all this time, I hope! 
 And since I have been forced repeat my claims 
 As if they never had been made before, 
 As I began, so must I end, it seems. 
 The formal answer to the grave demand — 
 What says the lady ? 
 
 Courtiers, [one to another.'] \st Court. Marshal! 
 2c? Court. Orator ! 
 
 Gui. A variation of our mistress' way ! 
 Wipe off his boots' dust, Clugaet? — that, he waits I 
 
 \st Court. Your place ! 
 
 2c? Court. Just now it was your own ! 
 
 Gui. The devil's ! 
 
 Berth, [to GuiBERT.] Come forward, friend — you with 
 the paper, there ! 
 Is Juliers the first city I've obtained ? 
 By this time, I may boast proficiency 
 In each decorum of the circumstance ! 
 Give it me as she gave it — the petition 
 (Demand, you style it)— what's required, in brief?
 
 C0L05IBES RinTriDAY. 
 
 341 
 
 What title's reservation, appanage'? 
 Allowance ? — I heard all at Treves, last week ! 
 
 Gau. [to GuiBKRT.] '< Give it him as she gav(^ it ! " 
 Qui. And wliy nu{ ? 
 
 [To Berthold.] The i^dy crushed your summons thu? 
 
 together, 
 And bade me, with the very greatest scorn 
 So fair a frame could hold, inform you . . 
 
 Courtiers. Stop — 
 
 Idiot !— 
 
 Gui. — Inform you she denied your claim, 
 l)efied yourself! (I tread upon his heel, 
 The blustering Advocate !) 
 
 Berth. By heaven and earth ! 
 
 Dare you jest, sir ? 
 
 Gui. Did (hey at Treves, last week? 
 
 Berth, [starting »//).] Wliy then, I look much bolder 
 tlian I knew, 
 .And you prove better actors than I thought — 
 Since, as I live, I took you as you entered 
 For just so many dearest friends of mine, 
 Fled from the sinking to the rising power 
 ^The sneaking'st crew, in short, I e'er despised! 
 Whereas, I am alone here for the moment — 
 With every soldier left beliind at Aix ! 
 Silence ? That means the worst — I thought as mm l 
 What follows next tlicii ? 
 
 Courtiers. Gracious Prince — hcj raves ! 
 
 Gui. He a.-kcd the truth and w^jy not get hue ♦ruth?
 
 342 COLOilBE's BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Berth. Am I a prisoner ? Speak, will somebody ? 
 «— But why stand paltering with imbeciles ? 
 Let me see her, or . . . 
 
 Gui. Her, without her leave, 
 
 Shall no one see — she's Duchess yet! 
 
 Courtiers. [^Footsteps without, as they are dispuiing.^^ 
 Good chance ! 
 She's here — the Lady Colombe's self I 
 
 Berth. 'Tis well ! 
 
 '[^Aside.^ Array a handful thus against my world ? 
 Not ill done, truly ! "Were not this a mind 
 To match one's mind with ? Colombe ! — Let us wait I 
 I failed so, under that gray convent-wall ! 
 She comes ! 
 
 Gui. The Duchess ! Strangers, range yourselves 
 
 [As the DncHESS enters, in conversation with Valence 
 Berthold and the Courtiers fall back a littU. 
 
 The D. Presagefully it beats, presagefully, 
 My heart — the right is Berthold's and not mine ! 
 
 Vol. Grant that he has the right, dare I mistrust 
 Your power to acquiesce so patiently 
 As you believe, in such a dream-like change 
 Of fortune — change abrupt, profound, complete ? 
 
 The D. Ah, the first bitterness is over now ! 
 Bitter I may have felt it to confront 
 The truth, and ascertain those natures' value 
 I had so counted on — that was a pang- 
 But I did bear it, and the worst is over : 
 Let the Prince take them I
 
 COLOMBO'S BIKTIIDAY. 843 
 
 ycd, — And take Juliers too ? 
 
 ■ — Your People without crosses, wiiiulj!, and chains — 
 Only with hearts ? 
 
 The D. Tliere I feel guilty, sir ! 
 
 I cannot give up wliat I never had : 
 For these I ruled, not tlieni — these stood between. 
 Shall I confess, sir ? I liave heard by stealth 
 Of Berthold from the first : more news and more ; 
 Closer and closer swam the thunder-cloud, 
 But I was safely housed with these, I knew ! 
 At times, wlien to the casement I would turn. 
 At a bird's passage or a flower-trail's play, 
 I caught the storm's red glimpses on its edge — 
 Yet I was sure some one of all these friends 
 Would interpose — I followed the bird's flight. 
 Or plucked the flower — some one would interpose ! 
 
 Vol. Not one thought on the People — and Cleves there 
 
 The D. So, sadly conscious my real sway was missed, 
 Its shadow goes without so much regret : 
 Else could I not again thus calmly bid you, 
 Answer Prince Berthold ! 
 
 Vol. Then you acquiesce ? 
 
 The D. Remember over whom it was I ruled ! 
 
 Gui. [stepping forward.'] Prince Berthold, yonder, 
 craves an audience, Lady ! 
 
 The D. [to Valknci:.] I only have to turn, and I 
 shall face 
 Prince Berthold ! Oh, my very heart is sick ! 
 It is the daughter of a line of dukes,
 
 344 colombe's birthday. 
 
 This scornful insoltnit adventurer 
 
 Will bid depart from my dead father's halls 
 
 I shall not answer him — dispute with him — 
 
 But, as he bids, depart ! Prevent it, sir ! 
 
 Sir — but a mere day's respite ! Urge for me 
 
 — Wiiat I shall call to mind I should have urged 
 
 When time's gone by — 'twill all be mine, you urge ! 
 
 A day — an hour — that I myself may lay 
 
 My rule down ! 'Tis too sudden — must not be ! 
 
 The world's to hear of it! Once done — forever! 
 
 How will it read, sir? How be sung about? 
 
 Prevent it ! 
 
 Berth, ^approaching.'] Your frank indignation, Lad^ 
 Cannot escape me ! Overbold I seem — 
 But somewhat should be pardoned my surprise, 
 At this reception, — this defiance, rather. 
 And if, for their and your sakes, I rejoice 
 Your virtues could inspire a trusty few 
 To make such gallant stand in your behalf, 
 I cannot but be sorry, for my own, 
 Your friends should force me to retrace my steps, 
 Since I no longer am permitted speak 
 After the pleasant peaceful course prescribed 
 No less by courtesy than relationship. 
 Which, if you once forgot, I still remember : 
 But never must attack pass unrepelled. 
 
 Suffer, that through you, I demand of these, 
 
 Wlio controverts my r iaim to Juliers ? 
 
 7%e I). —Mo 
 
 f ou say, you d<^ not speak to —
 
 COLOMBE's BIRTIIDAI 34fl 
 
 Berth. 0/ /our subjects 
 
 t ask, then : whom do you accredit ? Where 
 Stand those should answer? 
 
 Val. [^tdcancing.l T he Lady is alone i 
 
 Berth. Alone, and thus ? So weak and yet so bold ? 
 
 Val. I said she was alone — 
 
 Berth. — And weak, I said. 
 
 Val. When is man strong until he feels alone ? 
 It was some lonely strength at first, be sure, 
 Created organs, such as those you seek, 
 By which to give its varied purpose shape — 
 And, naming the selected rainistrants, 
 Took sword, and sliitdd, and sceptre, — each, a man ! 
 That strength performed its work and passed its way; 
 You see our Lady : there, the old shapes stand ! 
 — A Marshal, Chamberlain, and Chancellor — 
 " Be helped their way, into their death put life 
 "And find advantage!" — so you counsel us: 
 But let strength feel alone, seek help itself, — 
 And, as the inland-hatched sea-creature hunts 
 The sea's breast out, — as, littered 'mid the waves, 
 The desert-brute makes for the desert's joy, 
 So turns our lady to her true resource, 
 Piissing o'er hollow fictions, worn-out types, 
 — So, 1 am first her instinct fastens on ! 
 And prompt I say, so clear as heart can speak, 
 The People will not have you ; nor shall have ! 
 It is not merely 1 shall go bring Cleves 
 ^nd fight you to the last, — though that does much.
 
 346 colombe's BiRTnDA.r. 
 
 And men and children, — aj, and women too, 
 Fifrhtin"; for home, are rather to be feared 
 Than mercenaries fighting for their pay — 
 But, say you beat us, since such things have been, 
 And, where this Juliers laughed, you set your foot 
 Upon a streaming bloody plash — what then ? 
 Stand you the more our Lord that there you stand ? 
 Lord it o'er troops whose force you concentrate, 
 A pillar(^d flame whereto all ardours tend — 
 Lord it 'mid priests whose schemes you amplify, 
 A cloud of smoke 'neath which all shadows brood- 
 But never, in this gentle spot of earth. 
 Can you become our Colorabe, our play-queen. 
 For whom, to furnish lilies for her hair, 
 We'd pour our veins forth to enrich the soil! 
 — Our conqueror? Yes! — Our despot? Yes! — Qui 
 
 Duke? 
 Know yourself, know us ! 
 
 Berth. \who has been in thought.'^ Know your lady, also ! 
 [ Very defer enliaUy.~\ — To whom I needs must exculpate 
 
 myself 
 From having made a rash demand, at least. 
 Wherefore to you, sir, who appear to be 
 Her chief adviser, I submit my claims, [ Giving papers. 
 But, this step taken, take no further step, 
 Until the Duchess shall pronounce their worth. 
 Here be our meeting-place ; at night, its time: 
 Till when I iiunibly take the Lady's leave ! 
 
 iffe withdraios. As the Ddchess lurns to Valencb, Uu 
 Courti(;rs interchange glances and come forv)ard a Utile.
 
 colombe's birtiidat. 847 
 
 Ist Court. So, this was their device I 
 2d Court. No bad device ! 
 
 M Court. You'd say they love eacli other, Guibert'a 
 friend 
 From Cleves, and she, the Ducliess ' 
 
 Ath Court. — And moreover, 
 
 That all Prince Berthold comes for, is to help 
 Their loves ! 
 
 bth Court. Pray, Gnibert, what is next to do? 
 Gui. [advancing.'] I laid my office at the Duchess' foot — 
 Others. And I — and I — and I ! 
 The D. I took thera, sirs ! 
 
 Gui. [Apart to Valence.] And now, sir, I am simple 
 knight again — 
 Guibert, of the great ancient house, as yet 
 That never bore affront: whate'er your birth, — 
 As things stand now, I recognize yourself 
 (If you'll accept experience of some date) 
 As like to be the leading man o' the time, 
 Therefore as much above me now, as I 
 Seemed above you this morning. Then, 1 offered 
 To fight you : will you be as generous 
 And now figtit me ? 
 
 Val. Ask when my life is mine ! 
 
 Gui. ('Tis hers now !) 
 
 Clug. [yl/)arr«o Valence, as Guibert turns from him.'] 
 You, sir, have insulted me 
 Grossly, — will grant me, too, the selfsame favour 
 You've granted him, just now, I make no question ?
 
 348 colombe's birthdat. 
 
 Vol. I promise you, as him, sir ! 
 
 Cliig. Do you so ? 
 
 Handsomely said ! I liold you to it, sir ! 
 You'll get me reinstated in my office 
 As you will Guibert! 
 
 T/ie D. I would be alone ! 
 
 yrhey begin to retire slowly : ax Valence is about to follow ^^ 
 
 Alone, sir — only with my heart, — you stay ! 
 
 Gau. You hear that ? Ah, light breaks upon me 
 Cleves — 
 It was at Cleves some man harangued us all — 
 With great effect, — so those who listened said, 
 My thoughts being busy elsewhere : was this he ? 
 Guibert, — your strange, disinterested man! 
 Your uncorrupted, if uncourtly friend ! 
 The modest worth you mean to patronize ! 
 He cares about no Duchesses, not he — 
 His sole contest is with the wrongs of Cleves ! 
 What, Guibert ? What, it breaks on you at last ? 
 
 GuL Would this hall's floor were a mine's roof! — I'd 
 back 
 And in her very face . . . 
 • Gau. Apply the match 
 
 That fired the train, — and where would you be, pray ? 
 
 Gin. With him ! 
 
 Gau. Stand, rather, safe outside with me 
 
 The mine's charged — shall I furnish you the match 
 And place you properly ? — To the ante-chamber I 
 
 Gui. Can you ?
 
 COLOMBli'S BIRTUDAY. 349 
 
 Gau. Try me ! — Your friend's in fortune . 
 
 Gui. Quick — 
 
 To the ai.te-cliamber ! — lie is pale with bliss ! 
 Gau. No wonder! Mark her eyes ! 
 Gui. To the atite-charaberl 
 
 [77(6 Courtiers retirt. 
 
 TJie D. Sir, could you know all you have done for mo 
 You were content ! You spoke, and I am saved ! 
 
 Yal. Be not too sanguine, Lady ! Ere you dream, 
 That transient flush of generosity 
 Fades off, perchance ! The man, beside, is gone, — 
 Whom we might bend ; but see the papers here — 
 [nalterably his requirement stays, 
 And cold hard words have we to deal with now. 
 In that large eye there seemed a latent pride, 
 To self-denial not incompetent, 
 But very like to hold itself dispensed 
 From such a grace — however, let us hope ! 
 He is a noble spirit in noble form ! 
 I wish he less had bent that brow to smile 
 As with the fancy how he could subject 
 Himself upon occasion to — himself! 
 From rudeness, violence, you rest secure ; 
 But do not think your Duchy rescued yet ! 
 
 The D. You, — who have opened a new world to nae, 
 Will never take the faded language up 
 Of that I leave ? My Duchy — keeping it, 
 Or losing it — is that my sole world now "^ 
 
 Yal 111 have I spoken if you thence despise
 
 S60 colombk's birthday. 
 
 Juliers ; althouj^h the lowest, on true grounds, 
 Be worth more than the higliest rule, on false: 
 Aspire to rule, on tlie true grounds ! 
 
 The D. Nay, hear- . 
 
 False, I will never — rash, I woukl not be ! 
 This is indeed my Birthday — soul and body, 
 Its hours have done on me the work of years. 
 You hold the Requisition ; ponder it ! 
 If I have right — my duty's plain : If lie — 
 Say so — nor ever change a tone of voice ! 
 At night you meet the Prince — meet me at eve , 
 Till when, farewell ! This discomposes you ? 
 Believe in your own nature, and its force 
 Of renovating mine. I take my stand 
 Only as under me the earth is firm — 
 So, prove the first step stable, all will be ! 
 That first, I choose — \laying her hand on his.'] — the next 
 to take, choose you ! \_She withdraws. 
 
 Vol. [after a pause.~\ What drew down this on me I 
 On me — dead once — 
 She thus bids live, — since all I hitherto 
 Thought dead in me, youth's ardours and emprize, 
 Burst into life before her, as she bids 
 Who needs them ! — Wliithcr will this reach, where end? 
 Hsr hand's print bums on mine . . . Yet she's above^ 
 So very far above me ! All's too plain — 
 I served her when the others sank away, 
 And she rewards me as such souls reward — 
 The changed voice, the suffusion of the cheek.
 
 COLOMBKS BIKTHDAV. 
 
 351 
 
 The eye's acceptance, the expressive hand — 
 — Reward, tliat's Htllc, in her generuus tliought, 
 Tiiough all to me . . . 
 
 1 cannot so disclMiiu 
 Heaven's gilt, nor call it other than it is! 
 She loves me 1 
 [^Looking at the Vv'mcti^ papers. 1 — Which love, these, 
 
 perchance, forbid ! 
 Can I decide against myself — pronounce 
 She is the Duchess and no mate for me ? 
 — Cleves, help me ! Teach me, — every haggard face, — 
 To sorrow and endure ! I will do right 
 Whatever be the issue — help me, Cleves 1 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Evening. Scene. — An Ante-Chamber 
 
 Enter the Courtiers. 
 
 Mau. Now tlu.'n, that we may speak — how spring thia 
 
 mine ? 
 Gau. Is Guibert ready for its match ? lie cools 1 
 Not so friend Valence with the Duchess there! 
 " Stay, Vali-ni'e — ai-e not you my belter self? " 
 And lu'r eliL't'k mantled — 
 
 Qui. Well, she lov(?fe him, sir— 
 
 And more, — since you will have it I grow cool. — 
 She's right : he's worth lU
 
 352 COLOMliE'S lURTUDAY. 
 
 Gau. For his deeds to-dav ? 
 
 Say so ! 
 
 Giii. What should I say beside ? 
 
 Gcni. Not this — 
 
 For friendship's sake k^ave this for rae to say — 
 That we're tlie dupes of an egregious eheat ! 
 This plain, unpractised suitor, who found way 
 To the Duchess thro' the merest die's turn up — 
 A year ago, had seen her and been seen, 
 Loved and been loved — 
 
 Gui. Impossible ! 
 
 Gau. — Nor say, 
 
 How sly and exquisite a trick, moreover, 
 Was this which — taking not their stand on facts 
 Boldly, for that had been endurable, 
 But, worming in their way by craft, tliey choose 
 Resort to, rather, — and which you and we, 
 Sheep-like, assist them in the playing off! 
 The Duchess thus parades him as preferred, 
 Not on the honest ground of preference, 
 Seeing first, liking more, and there an end- 
 But as we all had started equally. 
 And at the close of a fair race he proved 
 The only valiant, sage, and loyal man. 
 And she, too, with the pretty fits and starts,— 
 The careless, winning, candid ignorance 
 Of what the Prince mijflit challenore or foregi 
 She had a hero in reserve ! Wliat risk 
 Ran she? This deferential easy Prince
 
 C0LO.Mli!:'b BIKTIIUAV. 353 
 
 Who brings his claims lor her to ratify 
 
 —He's just her puppet for the uoiiee ! You'll c«e,~ 
 
 Valence pronounces, as is equitable, 
 
 Against him : off goes the confederate: 
 
 As equitably, Valence takes her hand ! 
 
 The Chancellor. You run too last — her hand, no 
 subject takes ! 
 Do not our Archives hold her father's Will ? 
 That will provides against such accident. 
 And gives next heir, Prince Berthold, the reversion 
 Of Juliers, which she forfeits, wedding so. 
 
 Gau. I know that, well as you, — but does the Prince? 
 Knows Berthold, think you, that this plan, he helps, 
 For Valence's ennoblement, — would end, 
 If crowned with the success which seems its due, 
 In making him the very thing he plays, 
 The actual Duke of Juliers? All agree 
 That Colombe's title Avaived or set aside, 
 He is next heir. 
 
 The Chan. Incontrovertibly I 
 
 Gau. Guibert, your match, now, to the train ! 
 
 Gui. Enough 
 
 I'm witli you — selfishness is best again ! 
 I thought of turning honest — what a dream ! 
 L^t's wake now ! 
 
 Gau. Selfish, friend, you never were — 
 
 'Twas but a series of revenges taken 
 On your unselfishness for prospering ill. 
 Rut now that yt)u're grown wiser, what's our course? 
 
 VOL. I. 23
 
 Ho'i colojibe's liinruDAY. 
 
 Gui. — Wait, I suppose, till Valence weds our Lady 
 And then, if \ve must needs revenge ourselves, 
 Apprise the Prince — 
 
 Gau. — The Prince, ere then dismissed 
 With thanks for playing his mock part so well ? 
 Tell the Prince now, sir ! Ay, this very night — 
 Ere he accepts his dole and goes his way, 
 Explain how such a marriage makes him Duke, 
 Then trust his gratitude for the surprise ! 
 
 Gui. — Oar Lady wedding Valence all the same 
 As if the penalty were undisclosed ! 
 Good ! If she loves, she'll not disown her love. 
 Throw Valence up — I wonder you see that ! 
 
 Gau. The shame of it — the suddenness and shame I 
 Within her, the inclining heart — without, 
 A terrible array of witnesses — 
 With Valence by, to keep her to her word. 
 And Berthold's indi";nation or disgust — 
 We'll try it ! — Not that we can venture much : 
 Her confidence we've lost forever — Berthold's 
 Ts all to gain ! 
 
 Gui. To night, then, venture we ! 
 
 Tet — if losi confidence might be renewed ? 
 
 Gau. Never in noble natures ! With the base ones,— 
 Twist otf the crab's claw, wait a smarting-while, 
 A.nd something grows and grows and gets to be 
 A mimic of the lost joint, just so like 
 As keeps in mind it never, never will 
 Replace its predecessor ! Crabs do that : 
 But lop the Lion's foot — and
 
 COLOMBE's BIRTIIDAT. 855 
 
 Qui. To the Prince ! 
 
 Gai(. \_Asidr.'\ And come what will to the lion's foot, 
 I pay you 
 My cat's-paw, as I long have yearned to pay ! 
 AloudJ] Footsteps . . IlimsL-if ! 'Tis Valence breaks 
 
 on us ! 
 Exulting that tlieir scheme succeeds ! — "We'll hence — 
 And perfect ours ! Consult the Archives, first — 
 Then, fortified with knowledge, seek the Hall ! 
 
 Clug. [to Gaucelme as they retxre.'\ You have not 
 smiled so since your father died ! 
 
 As they retire, enter Valence with papers. 
 Yah So must it be ! I have examined these 
 With scarce a palpitating heart — so calm. 
 Keeping her image alm-^st wholly off, 
 Setting upon myself determined watch, 
 Repelling to the uttermost his claims. 
 And the result is . . . all men would pronounce 
 And not T, only, the result to be — 
 Berthold is Heir ; sh« has no shade of right 
 To the distinction which divided us. 
 But, suffered to rule first I know not why. 
 Her rule connived at by those Kings and Popes, 
 To serve some devil's-purpose, — now 'tis gained, 
 Whate'er it was, the rule expires as welL 
 — Valence, this rapture . . selfish (tan it be '' 
 Kject it from your liearL licr home ! — It stays ! 
 Ah, the brave world that opens on us both ! 
 . . Do ray poor townsmen so esteem it ? Cleves,—
 
 356 colombe's birthdat. 
 
 I need not your pale faces ! This, reward 
 For service done to you ? Too horrible ! 
 I never served you — 'twas myself I served ! 
 Nay — served not — rather saved from punishment 
 "Which, had I failed you then, would plague me now ! 
 My life continues yours, and your life, mine — 
 But if, to take God's gift, I swerve no step — 
 Cleves ! — if I breathe no prayer for if — if she, 
 
 [Footsteps withouX 
 Colombe, that comes now, freely gives herself — 
 "Will Cleves require, that, turning thus to her, 
 I. . . 
 
 Enter Prince IBertuold. 
 —Pardon, sir — I did not look for you 
 Till night, in tlie Hall ; nor have as yet declared 
 My judgment to the Lady ! 
 
 Berth. So I hoped, 
 
 Val. And yet I scarcely know why that should check 
 The frank disclosure of it first to you — 
 "What her right seems, and what, in consequence, 
 She will decide on — 
 
 Berth. That I need not ask. 
 
 Val. You need not : I have proved the Lady's mind— 
 A-nd, justice being to do, dare act for her. 
 
 Berth. Doubtless she has a very noble mind ! 
 
 Val. Oh, never fear but she'll in each conjuncture 
 Bear herself bravely ; she no wliit depends 
 On circumstance ; as she adorns a throne, 
 She had adorned . .
 
 oolombk's hiutiiday. 357 
 
 Berth. . . A cottage — in what book 
 
 Have I read that, of every queen that lived ? 
 A throne .•' You have not been instructed, sure, 
 To forestall ray request? 
 
 Veil. • 'Tis granted, sir — 
 
 My heart instructs me. T have scrutinized 
 Your claims . . . 
 
 Berth. Ah — claims, you mean, at first preferred! 
 I come, before the hour appointed me, 
 To pray you let those claims at present rest — 
 In favour of a new and stronger one. 
 
 Val. You shall not need a stronger : on the part 
 Of the lady, all you offer I accept, 
 Since one clear right suffices: yours is clear. 
 Propose ! 
 
 Berth. I offer her my hand. 
 
 Val. Your hand ? 
 
 Berth. A Duke's, yourself say ; and, at no far time. 
 Something here whispers me — the Emperor's. 
 The Lady's mind is noble ; which induced 
 This seizure of occasion ere my claims 
 Were — settled, let us amicably say ! 
 
 Val. Your hand ! 
 
 Berth. (He will fall down and kiss it next!) 
 
 Sir, this astonishment's too flattering — 
 Nor must you hold your mistress' worth so cheap ! 
 Enhance it, rather, — urge that blood is blood — 
 The daughter of the Burgraves, Landgraves, Markgravea, 
 Remains their daughter ; I shall scarce gainsay !
 
 S58 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Elsewhere or here, the Lady needs must rule : 
 Like the Imperial crown's great chrvsoprase, 
 riiej talk of — somewhat out of keeping there, 
 And yet no jewel for a meaner cap ! 
 
 Val. You wed the Duchess ? 
 
 -Lierth. Cry you mercy, friend 
 
 Will the match influence many fortunes here ? 
 A natural solicitude enou^li ! 
 Be certain, no bad chance it proves for you ! 
 However high you take your present stand, 
 There's prospect of a higher still remove — 
 For Juliers will not be my resting-place, 
 And, when I have to choose a substitute 
 To rule the little burgh, I'll think of you. 
 You need not give your mates a cliaracter ! 
 And yet I doubt your fitness to supplant 
 The gray smooth Cliamberlain — he'd hesitate 
 A doubt his lady could demean herself 
 So low as to accept me. Courage, sir ! 
 I like your method better — feeling's play 
 Is franker much, and flatters me beside. 
 
 Val. I am to say, you love her ? 
 
 ^c'-^-^- Say that too ! 
 
 Love has no great concernment, thinks the world, 
 With a Duke's marriage — How go precedents 
 \n Juliers' story — how use Juliers' Dukes ? 
 (I see you have them here in goodly row ; 
 Yon must be Luitpold, — ay, a stalwart sire !) 
 —Say, I have been arrested suddenly
 
 COLOMBK S niinilDAY. 
 
 359 
 
 fr. my ambition's course, its rocUy course, 
 
 By this sweet flower — I fain wdiil.l L:;itli«'r it 
 
 A.nd then proceed — so say and s|)eedily — 
 
 —(Nor stand there like Dui^e Luitpold's brazen self!) 
 
 Enough, sir : you possess my mind, I ihink. 
 
 This is my claim, the others being witlulrawn, 
 
 A-nd to this, be it that, in the Hall to-night, 
 
 ^our Lady's answer comes ; till when, farewell ! 
 
 [lie retire* 
 
 Val. \_aflcr a pause.'] The heavens and earth stay as 
 they were — my heart 
 Beats as it beat — the truth remains the truth 1 
 What falls away, then, if not faith in her? 
 Was it my faith, that she could estimate 
 Love's value, — and, such faith still guiding me, 
 Dare I now test her ? — or grew faith so strong 
 Solely because no power of test was mine ? 
 
 Elder the DccuESS. 
 
 The D. My fate, sir ! Ah, you turn away — all's ovei 
 *^ut you are sorry for me — be not so I 
 NYhat I might liave become, and never was, 
 Regrel with me ; what I have merely been. 
 Rejoice 1 am no longer ; what I seem 
 Begnming now, in my new state, to be, 
 Hop(; that I am, — for, once my rights proved void. 
 This heavy roof seems easy to exchange 
 V^v th** blue sky outside — ray lot henct»^brth ' 
 
 rV i^nd Ah-vt a '«). 's P«irt'>ol<?'s !
 
 560 colombe's birthday. 
 
 TJie _0. How of hira? 
 
 Val. He gathers earth's whole good into his arms, 
 Standing, as man, now, stately, strong and wise — 
 Marching to fortune, not surprised by her : 
 One great aim, like a guiding-star, above — 
 "Which tasks strength, wisdom, stateliness, to lift 
 His manhood to the height that takes the prize ; 
 A prize not near — lest overlooking earth 
 He rashly spring to seize it — nor remote, 
 So that he rests upon his path content: 
 But day by day, while shimmering grows shine, 
 And the faint circlet prophesies the orb. 
 He sees so much as, just evolving these. 
 The stateliness, the wisdom and the strength, 
 To due completion, will suffice this life. 
 And lead him at his grandest to the grave. 
 After this star, out of a night he springs ; 
 A becsrar's cradle for the throne of thrones 
 He quits, so, mounting, feels each step he mounts. 
 Nor, as from each to each exultingly 
 He passes, overleaps one grade of joy. 
 This, for his own good : — with the world, each gift 
 Of God and man, — Reality, Tradition, 
 Fancy and Fact — so well environ him, 
 That as a mystic panoply they serve — 
 Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind. 
 And work his purpose out with half the world, 
 While he, their master, dexterously slipt 
 From such encumbrance, is meantime employed
 
 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY. 361 
 
 With his own prowess on the other half. 
 
 Thus sliall he prosper, every day's success 
 
 Adding, to what is He, a solid strength — 
 
 An aery might to what encircles him, 
 
 Pill at the last, so life's routine lends help. 
 
 That as the Emperor only breathes and moves, 
 
 Elis shadow shall be watched, his step or stalk 
 
 Become a comfort or a portent ; how 
 
 He trails his ermine take significance, — 
 
 Till even his power shall cease to be most power, 
 
 And men shall dread his weakness more, nor dare 
 
 Peril their eartli its bravest, first and best. 
 
 Its typified invincibility. 
 
 So shall he go on, greatening, till he ends 
 
 The man of men, the spirit of all flesh. 
 
 The fiery centre of an earthy world ! 
 
 The D. Some such a fortune I had dreamed should ris€ 
 Out of my own — that is, above my power 
 Seemed other, greater potencies to' stretch — 
 
 Val. For you ? 
 
 Tlie D. It was not I moved there, I think 
 
 But one I could, — though constantly beside. 
 And aye ap[)roacliing, — still keep distant from, 
 And so adore. 'Twas a man moved there ! 
 
 Val Wiio ? 
 
 Tlie D. I felt the spirit, never saw the face ! 
 
 Val. See it ! 'Tis Berthold's ! He enab'es you 
 To realize vour vision ! 
 
 The D. Berthold ?
 
 362 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Val Duke- 
 
 Emperor to be : he proffers you his liand. 
 
 The D. Generous and princely ! 
 
 Val. He is all of this. 
 
 The D. Thanks, Berthold, for my father's sake — nc 
 hand 
 Degrades me ! 
 
 VaL You accept the proffered hand ? 
 
 Tlie D. That he should love me ! 
 
 Val. " Loved " I did not say 
 
 Had that been — love might so incline the Prince 
 To the world's good, the world that's at his foot, — 
 I do not know, this moment, I should dare 
 Desire that you refu?"'! I lie world — and Cleves — 
 The sacrifice he asks ! 
 
 Tlie D. Not love me, sir ? 
 
 Val. He scarce affirmed it. 
 
 TJie D. ^iay not deeds affirm ? 
 
 Val. AVhat does Fie ? . . . Yes — yes — very much he 
 does ! 
 All the shame saved, he thinks, and sorrow saved— 
 Immitigable sorrow, so he thinks, — 
 Sorrow that's deeper than we dream, perchance ! 
 
 I'he D. Is not tliis love? 
 
 Val. So very much he does ! 
 
 For look, you can descend now gracefully — 
 All doubts are banished, that the world might have. 
 Or worst, the doubts yourself, in after-time, 
 May call up df your heart's sincereness now ;
 
 colombk's urnTiiDAT ?G3 
 
 To such, leply, " I could have kept my rule — 
 " Increased it to the utmost of my dreams — 
 " Yet I abjured it ! " This, he does for you : 
 It is munificently much ! 
 
 The D. Still "much!" 
 
 But why is it not love, sir? Answer me! 
 
 Val. Because not one of Berthold's words and locks 
 Had gone with love's presentment of a flower 
 To the beloved : because bold confidence, 
 Open superiority, free pride — 
 Love owns not, yet were all that Berthold owned : 
 Because where reason, even, finds no flaw, 
 Unerringly a lover's instinct may. 
 
 The D. You reason, then, and doubt? 
 
 Val. I love, and know 
 
 The D. You love ? — How strange ! I never cast a 
 thought 
 On that I Just see our selfishness — you seemed 
 So much my own ... I had no ground — and yet, 
 I never dreamed another might divide 
 My power with you, much less exceed it ! 
 
 Val. Lady, 
 
 I am yours wholly ! 
 
 The D. Oh, no, no, not mine ! 
 
 Tis not the same now, never more can be ! 
 —Your first love, doubtless I Well, what's gone from m') ? 
 What have I lost in you ? 
 
 Val. My heart replies — 
 
 Jso loss there ! . . . So to Berthold back again !
 
 864 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAT. 
 
 This offer of his hand, he bids me make — 
 Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh ! 
 
 The D. She's . . . yes, she must be veiy faii for you I 
 
 Vol. I am a simple Advocate of Cleves. 
 
 Tlie D. Yiiu ! With the.heart and brain that so helped 
 me, 
 I fancied them exclusively ray own, 
 Yet find are subject to a stronger sway ! 
 She must be . . . tell me, is she very fair ? 
 
 Val. Most fair, beyond conception or belief! 
 
 The D. Black eyes ? — no matter ! Colombe, the world 
 leads 
 Its life without you, whom your friends professed 
 The only woman — see how true they spoke ! 
 One lived this while, who never saw your face. 
 Nor heard your voice — unless ... Is she from Cleves ? 
 
 Val. Cleves knows her well ! 
 
 The D. Ah — just a fancy, now i 
 
 "When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves, — I said, 
 —Thought, that is, afterward . . . 
 
 Val. You thought of me 
 
 TTie D. Of what else ? Only such great cause, J 
 thought, 
 for such effect — see what true love can do! 
 Cleves is his love ! — I almost fear to ask 
 
 . . Nor will not ! This is idling — to our work ! 
 A-dmit before the Prince, without reserve, 
 My claims misgrounded ; then may follow better 
 . . When you poured out Cleves's wrongs impetnouslj 
 Was she in your mind?
 
 COLOMiSF.S UIKTIinAY. 'AC,^ 
 
 Val. AH done was doiu; for her — 
 
 ►—To humble me ! 
 
 Tlie D. She will be proud at ^•a^l ! 
 
 Val She? 
 
 The D. When you teU her ! 
 
 ^^<^il- That will never be 1 
 
 The D. How — are there sweeter things you hope to 
 tell? 
 No, sir I You counselled me, — I counsel you 
 In the one point I — any woman — can ! 
 Your worth, the first thing ; let her own come next — 
 Say what you did through her, and she through you — 
 The praises of her beauty afterward! 
 Will you ? 
 
 Val. I dare not ! 
 
 The D. Dare not ? 
 
 l^«^' She I love 
 
 Suspects not such a love in me. 
 
 The D. You jest 1 
 
 Val. The lady is above me and away ! 
 Not only the brave form, and the bright mind, 
 And the great heart, combine to press me low — 
 But all the world calls rank divides us. 
 
 TheD. Rank? 
 
 Now grant me patience ! Here's a man declares 
 Oracularly in another's ca^e — 
 Sees the true value and the false, for them — 
 N'ay, bids them see it, and they straight do see 1 
 Vou called my court's luve worthless — so it turned:
 
 366 colombe's birthday. 
 
 I threw away as dross my heap of weahh. 
 And here you stickle for a piece or two! 
 First — has she seen you ? 
 
 Val. Yes ! 
 
 T/te D. She loves }ou, then 
 
 Val. One flash of hope burst — then succeeded night — 
 And all's at darkest now. Impossible! 
 
 The D. We'll try: you are — so to speak — my sub- 
 ject yet ? 
 
 Val. As ever — to the death ! 
 
 The D. Obey me, then ! 
 
 Val. 1 must ! 
 
 The D. Approach her, and ... No ! First of all 
 
 Jet more assurance ; " my instructress," say 
 " "Was great, descended from a line of kings, 
 " And even fair" — (wait why I say this folly) — 
 " She said, of all men, none for eloquence, 
 •• Courage, and (what cast even these to shade) 
 " The heart they sprung from, — none deserved Hke him 
 " Who saved her at her need — if she said this, 
 " What should not one I love, say ? " 
 
 Val. Heaven — this hope— 
 
 Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire ! 
 
 The D. Say this ! — nor think I bid you cast aside 
 One touch of all tliat awe and reverence ! 
 I^ay — make her proud for once to heart's content 
 That all this wealth of heart and soul's her own I 
 Think you are all of this, — and, thinking it, 
 (Obey !)
 
 colombe's birthday. 367 
 
 Val. I cannot clioose ! 
 
 The D. TluMi, kneel to her i 
 
 [Valence sinks on his knea, 
 I drrain ! 
 
 Val. Have mercy! Yonrs, unto tlie death, — 
 
 I liave obeyed. Despise, and let me die. 
 
 The D. Alas, sir, i> it to be (!ver tlius? 
 Even with you as with tiie world? I know 
 This morning's service was no vulgar deed 
 Whose motive, once it dares avow itself, 
 Explains all done and iniinitely more, 
 So takes the shelter of a nobler cause. , 
 Your service named its true source, — loyalty ! 
 Tiie rest's unsaid again. The Duchess bids you, 
 Rise, sir ! The Prince's words were in debate. 
 
 Val. \_r!sin(j.^ liise ! Truth, as ever, Lady, cornea 
 I'rom you ! 
 I should rise — I that spoke for Cleves, can speak 
 For Man — yet tremble now, tnat stood firm then! 
 I laughed — for 'twas past tears — that Cleves should starv« 
 With all hearts beating loud the infamy, 
 And no tongue daring trust as much to air ! 
 Yet here, where all iiearts speak, shall I be mute ? 
 Oh lady, for your own sake look on me ! 
 On all I am, and have, and do — heai't, brain, 
 Body and souk — this Valence and his gifts ! 
 I was prouil once — I saw you — and tiiey sank, 
 Bo tluit each magnified a thousand times 
 Were nothing to you — but such nothingness
 
 868 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop, 
 
 A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance? 
 
 What is my own desert? But sliould your love 
 
 Have . . . there's no language helps here . . singled me, 
 
 Tiien — Oh, that wild word " then !" — be just to love, 
 
 In generosity its attribute ! 
 
 Love, since you pleased to love ! All's cltiared — a staga 
 
 For trial of the question kept so long 
 
 For you — is Love or Vanity the best ? 
 
 You, solve it for the world's sake — you, speak first 
 
 What all will shout one day — you, vindicate 
 
 Our earth and l*e its angel ! All is said. 
 
 Lady, I oiFer nothing — I am yours, 
 
 But for the cause' sake, look on me and him 
 
 And speak! 
 
 The D. I have received the Prince's message: 
 Say, I prepare my answer! 
 
 Val. Take me, Cleves ! 
 
 [£Ze withdrawt 
 
 The D. Mournful — that nothing's what it calls itself! 
 Devotion, zeal, faitli, loyalty — mere love ! 
 And, love in question, what may Berthold's be ? 
 I did ill to mistrust the world so soon — 
 Already was this Berthold at my side ! 
 The valley-level has its hawks, no doubt: 
 May not the rock-top have its eagles, too ? 
 Vet Valence ... let me see his Uival then I
 
 colombe's birthday. SC2 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Night. Scene.— r/ie Uall. 
 Enter Bertiiold and ]Melciiior. 
 
 Mel. And here you wait the matter's issue? 
 
 Berth. Hem 
 
 Mel. I don'i regret I shut Araelius, then ! 
 But tell me, on this grand disclo.-ure, — how 
 Behaved our spokesman with the forehead? 
 
 Berth. Oh, 
 
 Tunird out no Ixtler than the foreheadless — 
 Was dazzled not so very soon — that's all ! 
 For my part, this is scarce the hasty, showy, 
 Chivalrous measure you give me credit of ! 
 Perhaps I had the fancy, — hut 'tis gone — 
 — Let her commence the unfriended innocent. 
 And carry wrongs about from court to court? 
 No, truly ! The least shake of Fortune's sand, 
 — My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing-fit. 
 King Philip takes a fancy to blue eyes, — 
 And wondrously her claims would brighten up ! 
 Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law, 
 O'er-looked |)rovisoes, past o'er premises. 
 Follow in plenty — No — 'lis the safer ste[). 
 Tiie hour beneath the convent-wall is lost — 
 Juliers and she, oiire mine, are ever mine. 
 
 Mel. "Which is to say, you, losing heart already, 
 Elude the adventure ! 
 
 VOL. I. 24 
 
 '^l^
 
 370 coi-ombe's biuthdat. 
 
 Berth. Not so — or, if sc 
 
 Why not confess at once, that I advise 
 None of our kingly craft and guild just now 
 To lay, one moment, down their privilege 
 With the notion they can any time at pleasure 
 Retake it — that may turn out hazaidous ! 
 We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end 
 0' the night, with our great masque : those favoured few 
 Who keep the chamber's top, and honour's chance 
 Of the early evening, may retain their place 
 And figure as they list till out of breath. 
 But it is growing late ; and I observe 
 A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway 
 Not only bar new-comers entering now, 
 But caution those who left, for any cause. 
 And would return, that morning draws too near; 
 The ball must die off, shut itself up. We — 
 I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in. 
 And sleep off headache on our frippery — 
 But friend the other, who cunningly stole out, 
 And, after breathing the fresh air outside, 
 Means to re-enter with a new costume, 
 Will be advised go back to bed, I fear. 
 I stick to i)rivilege, on second thoughts ! 
 
 ■Mel. Yes — you evade the adventure ! — And, beside, 
 Give yourself out for colder than you are. 
 — Kin? Philip, only, notes the lady's eyes? 
 Don't they come in for somewhat of the motive 
 With vou too ? 
 
 Berth. Yes — no : I am past that now I
 
 COI.OMI>r/S BIRTHDAY. 371 
 
 GoiiO 'tis — I cannot slmt my e\Q^ to fact. 
 
 Ot course, I mi;ilit by fbrelhoiiglit and contrivance 
 
 Reason myself into a rapture. Gone ! 
 
 And something better's come instead, no doubt. 
 
 3fel. So be it ! Yet, all the same, proceed my way, 
 Though to your end ; so shall jou prosper best 
 The lady, — to be won for selfish ends, — 
 Will be won easier my unselfish . . call it, 
 Romantic way. 
 
 Berth. "Won easier? 
 
 Mel. "Will not she ? 
 
 Beith. There I profess humility without bound! 
 [11 cannot speed — not I — the Emperor ! 
 
 Jfel. And I should think the P^mperor best waived, 
 From your description of her mood and way ! 
 You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts; 
 But are too indolent and fond of watching 
 Your own — you know that, for you study it ! 
 
 Berth. Had you but seen the orator her friend, 
 So bold and voluble an hour before, 
 Abashed to earth at aspect of the change ! 
 Make hor an Kin[iress? Ah, that changed the case 
 . . Oh, I read hearts! And for my own behoof, 
 I court her witli my true worth — see the, event! 
 I learned my final lesson on tliat head 
 When years ago, — my first and last essay ! 
 Before ray uncle could obtain the ear 
 Of his superior, help me from the dirt— 
 Priscilla left me for a Brabant Duke
 
 872 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb. 
 I am past illusion on that score. 
 
 Mel. Here comes 
 
 The Iticly — • 
 
 Berth. — And there you go ! But do not ! Give me 
 Another chance to please you. Hear me plead ! 
 
 Mel. You'll keep, then, to the lover, to the man? 
 
 Enter the Dv chess— followed by Adolf and Sabtne, and after an 
 
 interval, by the Courtiers. 
 
 Berth. Good auspice to our meeting ! 
 
 The D. May it prove I 
 
 —And you, sir, will be Emperor one day ? 
 
 Berth. (Ay — that's the point!) I may be Emperor. 
 
 Tlie D. 'Tis not for my sake only, I am proud 
 Of this you offer : I am prouder far 
 That from the highest state should duly spring 
 The highest, since most generous, of deeds. 
 
 Berth. (Generous — still that!) You underrate yourself 
 You are, what I, to be complete, must have — 
 Find now, and may not find, another time. 
 While I career on all the world for stage, 
 There needs at home my representative — 
 
 The D. — Sucli, rather, would some warrior-woman 
 be— 
 One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends — 
 One like yourself! 
 
 Berth, LiiJy? I Sim myself, 
 
 And have all these : I want what's not myself,
 
 COLOMBIC'S BIRTHDAY. 373 
 
 Nor has all these. Why give one hand two sworda ? 
 Here's one already : be a friend's next gift 
 A silk glove, if you will — I have a sword ! 
 
 The D. Yon love me, then ? 
 
 Berth. Your lineage I revere— 
 
 Honour your virtue, in your truth believe, 
 Do homage to your intellect, and bow 
 Before your peerless beauty. 
 
 The D. But, for love— 
 
 Berih. A further love I do not understand. 
 Our best course is to say these hideous truths. 
 And see them, once said, grow endurable. 
 Like waters shuddering from their central bed, 
 Black with the midniglit bowels of the earth, 
 That, once up-spouted by an earthquake's throe, 
 A portent and a terror — soon subside, 
 Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues 
 [n sunshine, sleep in shadow, — and, at last, 
 Grow common to the earth as hills or trees — 
 Accepted by all things they came to scare. 
 
 The D. \q\x cannot love, then ? 
 
 Berth. — Charlemagr e, perhaps I 
 
 Are you not over-curious in love-lore ? 
 
 The D. I have become so, very recently. 
 It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem, 
 Respect, and all your candour promises. 
 By putting on a calculating mood — 
 Asking the terms of my becoming yours ? 
 
 Berth. Let me not do myself injustice, n«Uher I 
 Btcausf" I will not condescend to tiction.«'
 
 374 colombe's birthday. 
 
 That promise what my soul can ne'ei- acquit. 
 It does not follow that my guarded phrase 
 May not include far more of what you seek, 
 Than wide professions of less scrupulous men. 
 You will be Empress, once for all — with me 
 The Pope disputes supremacy — you stand 
 And none gainsays, the Earth's first woman ! 
 
 The D. That— 
 
 Or simple Lady of Ravestein again ? 
 
 Berth. The matter's not in my arbitrement ! 
 Now I have made my claims — which I regret — 
 Cede one, cede all ! 
 
 Tlie D. This claim then, you enforce ? 
 
 Berth. The world looks on. 
 
 Tlie D. And when must I decide 
 
 Berth. "When," Lady? Have I said thus much s« 
 promptly 
 For nothing? Poured out, with such pains, at once 
 What I might else have suffered to ooze forth 
 Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long. 
 For aught less than as ])roni[)t an answer, too ? 
 All's fairly told now — who can teach you more? 
 The D. I do not see him ! 
 
 Berth. I shall ne'er deceive I 
 
 Tliis offer had been made befittingly 
 Would time allow the better setting forth 
 The good of it with wluit is not so good, 
 Advantage, and disparagement as well — 
 But as it is, the sum of botli must serve. 
 1 am already weary of this place—
 
 colombe's birthday. 375 
 
 My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide I 
 The Empire— or, — not even Juliers now ! 
 Hail to the Empress — farewell to the Duchess ! 
 
 [The Courtiers, who have been drawing nearer and nearer, 
 inturpose 
 
 Courtiers. ..." Farewell," Prince ? when we break 
 in at our risk — 
 
 Clug. (Almost upon Court-license trespassing) — 
 
 Courtiers. — To point out how your claims are valid 
 yet! 
 You know not, by the Duke her Father's will, 
 The lady, if she weds beneath her rank, 
 Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir's favour — 
 So 'tis expressly stipulate. And if 
 It can be shown 'tis her intent to wed 
 A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right 
 Succeed to Juliers. 
 
 Berth. What insanity ? . . . 
 
 Gui. Sir, there's one Valence — the pale fiery man 
 You saw and heard, this morning — thought, no doubt. 
 Was of considerable standing here — 
 I put it to your penetration, Prince, 
 [f aught save love, the truest love for her. 
 Had made him serve the lady as he did I 
 He's simply a poor advocate of Cleves 
 ■ — Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place 
 With danger, gets in by a miracle. 
 And for the first time meets the Lady's face 
 So runs the story — is that credible ? 
 For, first — uo sooner in, than he's apf rised
 
 376 colombe's b:uthda.t. 
 
 Fortunes have changed ; you are all-powerful here, 
 The Lady as powerless : he stands fast by her ! 
 
 The D. [Aside.'] (And do such deeds spring up from 
 love alone ?) 
 
 Gui. But here occurs the question, does the Lady 
 Love him again ? I say, How else can she ? 
 Can she forget how he stood singly forth 
 In her defence, dared outrage all of us, 
 Insult yourself — for what save love's reward ? 
 
 The D. (And is love then the sole reward of love ?) 
 
 Gui. But, love him as she may and must — you ask, 
 Means she to wed him ? " Yes," both natures answer I 
 Both, in their pride, point out the sole result — 
 Nought less would he accept nor she propose ! 
 For each conjuncture was she great enough — 
 —Will be, for this ! 
 
 dug. Though, now that this is known. 
 
 Policy, doubtless, urges she deny . . . 
 
 The D. — What, sir, and wherefore ? — since I am nof 
 sure 
 That all is any other than you say ? 
 You take this Valence, hold him close to me, 
 Him with his actions : can I choose but look ? 
 I am not sure, love trulier shows itself 
 Than in this man, you hate and would degrade, 
 Yet with your worst abatement, show me thus : 
 Nor am I — (thus made look within myself, 
 Ere I had dared,) — now that the look is dared — 
 Sure that I do not love him ! 
 
 Gui. Hear you, Prince I
 
 colombe's birthdat. 377 
 
 Berth. And what, sirs, please you. may this prattle 
 
 mean ? 
 
 ►—Unless to prove with what alacrity 
 You give your Lady's secrets to the world — 
 — How much indebted, for discovei-ing 
 That quality, you make me, will be found 
 When next a keeper for my own's to seek ! 
 Courtiers. "Our Lady ? " 
 
 Berth. — She assuredly remains ! 
 
 The D. Ah, Prince — and you too can be generous ? 
 You could renounce your power, if this were so. 
 And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love 
 Yet keep my Duchy ? Y'ou perhaps exceed 
 Him, even, in disinterestedness ! 
 
 Berth. How, Lady, should all this affect my purpose i 
 Your will and choice are still as ever, free ! 
 Say, you have known a worthier than myself 
 In mind and heart, of happier form and face ; 
 Others mu5t have their birthright ! I have gifts, 
 To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight I 
 Against a hundred other qualities, 
 I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing — 
 Wed you the Empire? 
 
 The D. And my heart away ? 
 
 Berth. When have I made pretension to your 
 heart? 
 I give none. I shall keep your honour safe — 
 With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts 
 Yon marble woman with the marble rose. 
 Loose on her hand, she never wJU let fall.
 
 378 colombe's bhithdat. 
 
 In graceful, slight, silent security. 
 You will be proud of my world-wide career. 
 And I content in you the fair and good. 
 "What were the use of planting a few seeds, 
 The thankless climate never would mature^ 
 Affections all repelled by circumstance ? 
 Enough : to these no credit I attach, — 
 To what you own, find nothing to object. 
 Write simply on my Requisition's face 
 What shall content my friends — that you admit, 
 As Colombe of Ravestein, the claims therein. 
 Or never need admit them, as my wife — 
 And either way, all's ended. 
 
 The D. Let all end ! 
 
 Berth. The Requisition I 
 
 Courtiers. — Valence holds, of course 1 
 
 Berth. Desire his presence I [Adolf goes out. 
 
 Courtiers, [to each other.'] Out it all comes yet ! 
 He*Il have his word against the bargain still ! 
 He's not the man to tamely acquiesce ! 
 One passionate appeal — upbraiding even, 
 Might turn the tide again ! Despair not yet ! 
 
 [ They retire a little. 
 Berth, [to Melchior.] The Empire has its old success, 
 
 my friend ! 
 Mel. You've had your way : before the spokesman 
 comes, 
 Let me, but this once, work a problem out, 
 And ever more be dumb ! The Empire wins ? 
 To better purpose I have read my books 1
 
 COLOMBe's BIliTHDAT. 379 
 
 Enter Valence. 
 
 Mel. [to the Courtiers,] Apart, iny masters! 
 
 [To Valence.] Sir, one word with you 
 I am a poor depentlent of the Prince's — 
 Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence : 
 You are no higher, I find — in other words, 
 We two, as probably the wisest here, 
 Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools : 
 Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact 
 Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them — 
 Do you reply so, and what trouble's saved ! 
 The Prince, then — an embroiled strange heap of news 
 This moment reaches him — if true or false, 
 All dignity forbids he should inquire 
 In person, or by worthier deputy ; 
 Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come : 
 A.nd so 'tis I am pitched on. You have heard 
 His offer to your Lady ? 
 
 Val Yes. 
 
 Mel. — Conceive 
 
 Her joy thereat ? — 
 
 Val. I cannot. 
 
 Mel. No one can r 
 
 All draws to a conclusion, therefore. 
 
 Val. [Aside.'] So ! 
 
 No afier-judgment — no first thought revised — 
 Her first and last decision ! — me, she leaves — 
 Takes him — a simple heart is flung aside, 
 The ermine o'er a heartless breast embraced 1
 
 380 colombe's birthday. 
 
 Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft i 
 
 Once, to surprise the angels — twice, that fiends 
 
 Recording, might be proud they chose not so — 
 
 Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world 
 
 All men siiould pause, misdoubt their strength, since men 
 
 Could have such chance yet fail so signally, 
 
 —But ever — ever — this farewell to heaven, 
 
 Welcome to earth — this taking death for life — 
 
 This spurning love and kneeling to the world^ — 
 
 Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old ! 
 
 Mel. Well, on this point — what but an absurd rumour 
 Arises — these, its source — its subject, you ! 
 Your faith and loyalty misconstruing, 
 Tiiey say, your service claims the lady's hand ! 
 Of course, nor Prince nor Lady can respond — 
 Yet something must be said — for, were it true 
 You made such claim, the Prince would . . 
 
 Val. Well, sir, would? 
 
 Mel. — Not only probably withdraw his suit, 
 But, vei'y like, the lady might be forced 
 Accept your own. — Oh, there are reasons why ! 
 But you'll excuse at present all save this, — 
 I think so. What we want is, your own witness, 
 For, or against — her good, or yours : decide! 
 
 Fal. [_Aside.] IJe it her good if she accounts it so I 
 ^ After a contest.'] For what am I but hers, to choose fu 
 
 she ? 
 Who knows how far, beside, the light from her 
 May I'cach and dwell with, what she looks upon ? 
 
 Mel. [to the Prince.] Now to him, you 1
 
 colombe's birthday. 381 
 
 Berth, [to Valexck.] My friend acquaints you, sir 
 riie noise runs . . . 
 
 Veil. . . Piincc, how fortunate are you, 
 
 Wedding her as you will, in spite of it, 
 To show belief in love ! Let her but love you, 
 All else you disregard ! What else can be ? 
 You know how love is mcorapatible 
 With falsehood — purifies, assimilates 
 All other passions to itself. 
 
 Mel. Ay, sir : 
 
 But softly ! Where m the object we select, 
 Such love is, perchance, wanting ? 
 
 Val. Then, indeed, 
 
 What is it you can take ? 
 
 Mel. Nay — ask the world I 
 
 Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name, 
 An influence o'er mankind ! 
 
 Val. When man perceives . . . 
 
 —Ah, I can only speak as for myself ! 
 
 "The D. Speak for yourself ! 
 
 Val. May I ? — no, I have spoken, 
 
 And time's gone by ! — Had I seen such an one — 
 As I loved her — weigliing thoroughly that word — 
 So should my task be to evolve her love — 
 If for myself ! — if for another — well ! 
 
 Berth. Heroic truly ! And your sole reward, — 
 The secret pride in yielding up your own ? 
 
 Val. Who thought upon reward ? And yet how much 
 Comes after — Oh what amplest recompense ! 
 U the knowledge of her, nought ? the memory, nought?
 
 582 colombe's birthday. 
 
 -Lady, should such an one have looked on you, 
 
 Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quot'^. the world, 
 
 And say, love can go unrequited here ! 
 
 You will have blessed him to his whole life's end — 
 
 Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back, 
 
 All goodness cherished where you dwelt — and divell. 
 
 What would he have ? He holds you — you, both f-^rui. 
 
 And mind, in his, — where self-love makes such room 
 
 For love of you, hft would not serve you now 
 
 The vulgar way, — repulse your enemies, 
 
 Win you new realms, or best, in saving you 
 
 Die blissfully — that's past so long ago ! 
 
 He wishes you no ne-^d, thought, care of him — 
 
 Your good, by any means, himself unseen. 
 
 Away, forgotten ! — He gives that life's task up, 
 
 As it were . . . but this charge which I return — 
 
 {0(fers the Requisition, which she take* 
 
 Wishing your good ! 
 
 Tfie D. \Jiaving subscribed it."] And opportunely, sir- 
 Since at a birthday's close, like this of mine. 
 Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate. 
 Most on a wedding day, as mine is too. 
 Should gifts be thought of: yours comes first by right. 
 Ask of me ! 
 
 Berth. He shall have whate'er he asks, 
 For your sake and his own ! 
 
 Val. [_Aside.'] If I should ask — 
 
 The withered bunch of flowers she wears — perhaps, 
 One last touch of her hand, I never more 
 Shall see I
 
 colombe's birthday. 383 
 
 [A/ler a pause, preseutiug his paj^er to the Prince. 
 Cleves' Prince, redress the wrongs of Cleves ! 
 Berth. I will, sir ! 
 
 T/ie D. [tw Valence prepares to retire.'] — Nay, do 
 out your duty, first ! 
 You bore this paper : I have registered 
 My answer to it : read it and have done ! 
 
 [Valenck reeds it. 
 
 —I take him — give up Juliers and the world I 
 This is my birthday. 
 
 Mel. Berthold, my one hero 
 
 Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books, 
 Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch, — 
 Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings 1 
 
 Berth, [^after a pause.'] Lady, well rewarded 1 Sir, ai 
 well deserved ! 
 I could not imitate — I hardly envy — 
 I do admire you ! All is for the best ! 
 Too costly a flower wore you, I see it now, 
 To [)lu(;k acnd set upon my barren helm 
 To wither — any garish plume will do ! 
 I'll not insult you and refuse your Duchy — 
 You can so well afford to yield it me, 
 And I were left, without it, sadly off ! 
 A.S it is — for me — if that will flatter you, 
 A somewhat wearier life seems to remain 
 Than I thought possible where . . . 'faith, their life 
 Begins already — they're too occupied 
 To listen — and few words content me best I
 
 384 colombe's birthday. 
 
 \^Ahruptly to the Courtiers.] I am your Duke, though 1 
 Who obey me here ? 
 
 7%e D. Adolf and Sabyne follow us — 
 
 Gui. [starting from the Courtiers.] And I? 
 
 Do I not follow them, if I mayn't you ? 
 
 Shall not I get some little duties up 
 
 At Ravestein and emulate the rest ? 
 
 God save you, Gaucelme ! 'Tis my birthday, too ! 
 
 Berth. You happy handful that remain with me 
 . . . That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite 
 I shall leave over you — will earn your wages. 
 Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade ! 
 Meantime, — go copy me the precedents 
 Of every installation, proper styles, 
 And pedigrees of all your Juliers' Dukes — 
 While I prepare to go on my old way, 
 And somewhat wearily, I must confess ! 
 
 The D. [with a light joyous laugh as she turns from 
 them.'\ Come, Valence, to our friends — God'a 
 earth 
 
 Vol. [As she falls into his arms.'] — And thee I 
 
 END OF VOL. L
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 BT 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 VOL. II.
 
 A BLOT IN TB^E 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 3 StastO;?
 
 A BLOT m THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 PERSONS. 
 Mildred Tresham. 
 
 GUEXDOLEN TrESHAM. 
 
 TnoROLD, Lord Trcsham. 
 
 Austin Tkesiiam. 
 
 IIexrt, Earl Mertoun. 
 
 Gerard. 
 
 Other Retainers of Lord Trcsham. 
 
 Time, 17—. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 HCEKE I. — The interior of a Fjodge in Lord Tresham's Park. 
 Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command a 
 view of the entrance to his Mansion, Gerard, the Warrener, 
 sitting alone, his back to a table on which are flagons, ^c. 
 
 1st Bet. Ay — do — push, friends, and then you'll push 
 down me. 
 — "What for ? Does any hear a runner's foot, 
 Or a steed's trample, or a coach-wheers cry ? 
 Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant?
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 But there's no breeding in a man of you 
 Save Gerard yonder : here's a half-place yet, 
 Old Gerard! 
 
 Ger. Save your courtesies, my friend. 
 
 Here is my place. 
 
 2c? Ret. Now, Gerard, out with it ! 
 
 What makes you sullen, this of all the days 
 r the year ? To-day that, young, rich, bountiful, 
 Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match 
 With our Lord Tresham thro' the country-side, 
 Is coming here in utmost bravery 
 To ask our Master's Sister's hand ? 
 
 Ger. What then ? 
 
 2c? Ret. What then ? Why, you she speaks to, if 
 she meets 
 Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart 
 The boughs to let her thro' her forest walks, 
 You, always favourite for your no-deserts. 
 You've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun saeg 
 To lay his heart, and house, and broad lands too. 
 At Lady Mildred's feet — and while we squeeze 
 Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss 
 One congee of the least page in his train. 
 You sit o' one side — "there's the Earl," say I— 
 " What then," say you ! 
 
 Zd Ret. I'll wager he has let 
 
 Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred, swim 
 Over the falls and gain the river ! 
 
 Ger. Ralph,
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 5 
 
 Is not to-morrow iny inspecting day 
 For you and fiH' your liawks ? 
 
 Ath Ret. Let Gerard be ! 
 
 He's coarse-grained, like his carved bkick cross-bovj 
 
 stock. 
 Ha, look now, while we squabble with hira, look I 
 Well done, now — is not this beginning, now, 
 To purpose ? 
 
 1st Ret. Our retainers look as fine — 
 
 That's comfort ! Lord, how Richard holds himself 
 With his white staff! Will not a knave behind 
 Prick hiin upright? 
 
 4<A Ret. He's only bowing, fool ! 
 
 The Earl's man bent us lower by this much. 
 
 Ist Ret. That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade ! 
 
 3c? Ret. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop 
 Of silk and silver varlets there, should find 
 Their perfumed selves so indispensable 
 On high days, holy-days ! Would it so disgrace 
 Our Family, if I, for instance, stood — 
 In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks, 
 A leash of greyhounds in my left? — 
 
 Ger. — With Hugh 
 
 The logman for supporter — in his right 
 The bill-hook — in his left the brushwood-shears ! 
 
 od Ret. Out on you, crab ! What next, what next; 
 The Earl ! 
 
 1st Ret. Oh, Walter, groom, our horses, do thej 
 match
 
 B A BLOT IN THE SCUTCHEON. 
 
 The Earl's ? Alas, that first pair of the six — 
 They paw the ground — Ah, "Walter ! and that brute 
 Just on his haunches by the wheel ! 
 
 %th Ret. Ay— Ay ! 
 
 You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear. 
 At soups and sauces — what's a horse to you ? 
 D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst 
 So cunningly ? — then, Philip, mark this further ; 
 No leg has he to stand on ! 
 
 1st Ret. No ? That's comfort. 
 
 2d Ret. Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. — Well 
 Gerard, see 
 The Earl at least ! Come, there's a proper man, 
 I hope ! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede, 
 Has got a starrier eye — 
 
 3flf Ret. His eyes are blue — 
 
 But leave my hawks alone ! 
 
 4ifA Ret. So young, and yet 
 
 So tall and shapely ! 
 
 bth Ret. Here's Lord Tresham's self 1 
 
 There now — there's what a nobleman should be ! 
 He's older, graver, loftier, he's more like 
 A House's Head ! 
 
 2c? Ret. But you'd not have a boy 
 
 — And what's the Earl beside ? — possess too soon 
 That stateliness ? 
 
 Ist Ret. Our Master takes his hand- 
 
 Richard and his white staff are on the move — 
 Back fall our people — (tsh I^there's Timothy
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCLTCUEON. 7 
 
 Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties — 
 /^nd Peter's cursed rosette's a-coraing olT!) 
 r— At last I see our Lord's back and his friend's — 
 And the whole beautiful bright company 
 Close round them — in they go ! [Jumping down from 
 the loindow-henck, and making for the table and 
 its jugs, SfcJ] Good health, long life, 
 
 Great joy to our Lord Tresbam and his House ! 
 
 6//* Ret. My father drove his father first to court, 
 After his marriage-day — ay, did he ! 
 
 2c? Ret. God bless 
 
 Lord Tresbam, Lady Mildred, and the Earl ! 
 Here, Gerard, reach your beaker ! 
 
 Ger. Drink, my boys : 
 
 Don't mind me — all's not right about me — drink ! 
 
 2d Ret. \_Aside.'\ lie's vexed, now, that he let the 
 show escape ! 
 [7b Gek.] Remember that the Earl returns this way — 
 
 Ger. Tiiat way ? 
 
 ^d Ret. Just so. 
 
 Ger. Then my way's here. [ Goes 
 
 Id Ret. Old GerariJ 
 
 "Will die soon — mind, I said it ! He was used 
 To care about the pitifullest thing 
 That touched the House's honour, not an eye 
 But his could see wherein — and on a cause 
 Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard 
 Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away 
 In cares that this was right, nor that was wrong,
 
 6 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 Such a point decorous, and such by rule— 
 (He knew such niceties, no herald more) 
 And now — you see his humour: die he will! 
 
 2d Ret. God help him! Who's for the grei* ocr 
 vants'-hall 
 To hear what's going on inside ? I hey'd follow 
 Lord Tresham into the saloon. 
 
 Zd Ret. I !— 
 
 Ath Ret. I '.— 
 
 Leave Frank alone fo. catching, at the door, 
 Some hint of how the parley goes inside ! 
 Prosperity to the great House once more — 
 Here's the last drop ! 
 
 Is^ Ret. Have at you ! Boys, hurrah 1 
 
 Scene II. — A Saloon in the Mansion. 
 Enter Lord Teesham, Lord Mertocn; Austin and Gueh 
 
 DOLEX. 
 
 Tresh. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more, 
 To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name 
 — Noble among the noblest in itself, 
 Yet taking in your person, fame avers, 
 New price and lustre, — (as that gem you wear, 
 Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts, 
 Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord. 
 Seems to rekindle at the core) — your name 
 Would win you welcome ! — 
 
 Mer. Thanks I
 
 A BLOT IN TUE 'SCUTCnEON. 9 
 
 Tresh. — But add to thai 
 
 The worthiness and grace and dignity 
 Of your proposal for uniting both 
 Our Houses even closer than respect 
 Unites them now — add these, and you must grant 
 One favor more, nor that the least, — to think 
 The welcome I should give ; — 'tis given ! My lord, 
 My only brother, Austin — he's the King's. 
 Our cousin, Lady Guendolen — betrothed 
 To Austin : all are yours. 
 
 Mer. I thank you — less 
 
 For the expressed comraendings which your seal. 
 And only that, authenticates — forbids 
 My putting from me . . to my heart I take 
 Your praise . . but praise less claims my gratitude, 
 Than the indulgent insight it implies 
 Of what must needs be uppermost with one 
 Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask, 
 In weighed and measured uniinpassioned words, 
 A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied, 
 He must withdraw, content upon his cheek. 
 Despair within his soul : — that I dare ask 
 Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence 
 That gift, I have to thank you. — Yes, Lord Tresham, 
 I love your sister — as you'd iiave one love 
 That lady . . oh more, more I love her! Wealth, 
 Rank, all the world tiiinks me, they're yours, you know, 
 To hold or part with, at your choice — but grant 
 My true self, me without a rood of land.
 
 10 A BLOT ENT THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, 
 
 Grant me thnt lady, and you . . . Death or life? 
 
 Gum. \_apart to Aus.] Why, this is loving, Austin! 
 
 Aus. He's so young ! 
 
 Guen. Young ? Old enough, I think, to half surmise 
 He never had obtained an entrance here, 
 Were all this fear and trembling needed. 
 
 Aus. Hush I 
 
 He reddens. 
 
 Guen. Mark him, Austin ; that's true love 1 , 
 
 Ours must begin again. 
 
 Tresh. We'll sit, my lord. 
 
 Ever with best desert goes diffidence. 
 I may speak plainly nor be misconceived. 
 That I am wholly satisfied with you 
 On this occasion, when a falcon's eye 
 Were dull compared with mine to search out faults, 
 Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to give 
 Or to refuse. 
 
 J/er. But you, you grant my suit? 
 
 1 have your word if hers ? 
 
 Tresh. My best of words 
 
 If hers encourage you. I trust it will. 
 Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way? 
 
 Mer. I . . I . . our two demesnes, remember, touch— 
 I have been used to wander carelessly 
 After my stricken game — the heron roused 
 Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wmg 
 Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours, — or else
 
 A BLOT IN TU.-: SCUTCHEOK. H 
 
 Some eyass ill-recliiiinecl has taken flight 
 And hired mc after her from tree to tree, 
 I marked not whither . . I have come upon 
 The Lady's wondrous beauty unaware, 
 And — and then . I have seen her. 
 
 Chien. [aside to Aus.] Note that mode 
 
 Of faUering out that whtin a lady passed 
 He, having eyes, did see her ! You had said — 
 " On such a day I scanned her, head to foot ; 
 " Observed a red, where red should not have been, 
 " Outside her elbow ; but was pleased enough 
 •' Upon the whole." Let such irreverent talk 
 Be lessoned for the future 1 
 
 Tresh. "What's to say 
 
 May be said briefly. She has never known 
 A mother's care ; I stand for father too. 
 Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems— 
 You cannot know the good and tender heart, 
 Its girl's trust, and its woman's constancy, 
 How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, 
 How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free 
 As light where friends are — how erabued with lore 
 The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet 
 Thi! . . one might know I talked of Mildred — thu3 
 We brothers talk 1 
 
 3Ier. I thank you. 
 
 Tresh. In a word. 
 
 Control's not for this lady ; but her wish 
 To please me outstrips in its subtlety
 
 12 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 My power of being pleased — hei-self creates 
 The want she means to satisfy. My heart 
 Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own. 
 Can I say more ? 
 
 Jjifer. No more — thanks, thanks — no more 
 
 Tresh. This matter then discussed . . . 
 j/e;.. . . We'll waste no breath 
 
 On aught less precious — I'm beneath the roof 
 That holds her : while I thought of that, my speech 
 To you would wander — as it must not do, 
 Since as you favour me I stand or fall. 
 I pray you suffer that I take my leave ! 
 
 Tresh. "With less regret 'tis suffered, that again 
 We meet, I hope, so shortly. 
 
 Mer. We? again?— 
 
 Ah yes, forgive me — when shall . . you will crown 
 Your goodness by forthwith apprising me 
 When . . if . . the Lady will appoint a day 
 For me to wait on you — and her. 
 
 Tresh. So soon 
 
 As I am made acquainted with her thoughts 
 On your proposal — howsoe'er they lean — 
 A messenger shall bring you the result. 
 
 Mer. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. 
 Farewell till we renew . . I trust, renew 
 A converse ne'er to disunite again. 
 Tresh. So may it prove ! 
 3Ier. You, Lady, you, Sir, take 
 
 My humble salutation 1
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 13 
 
 Guen. <5" Aus. Thanks ! 
 
 Tresh. Within there ! 
 
 Servants enter. Tresham conducts Mektoun to tlie door. Mean 
 time AusTix remaiks, 
 
 Well, 
 [lere I have an advantage of the Earl, 
 Confess now ! I'd not think that all was safe 
 Because my lady's brotlier stood my friend. 
 Why, he makes sure of her — " do you say, yes — 
 ' She'll not say, no " — what comes it to beside ? 
 r should have prayed the brother, " speak this speech, 
 " For Heaven's sake urge this on her — put in this — 
 " Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing, — 
 •' Then set down what she says, and how she looks, 
 "And if she smiles," and (in an under breath) 
 " Only let her accept me, and do you 
 " And all the world refuse me, if you dare ! " 
 
 Guen. That way you'd take, friend Austin ? What 
 a shame 
 I was your cousin, tamely from the first 
 Your bride, and all this fervour's run to waste ! 
 Do you know you speak sensibly to-day ? 
 The Earl's a fool. 
 
 Aus. Here's Thorold. Tell him so ! 
 
 Tresh. (returning.) Now, voices, voices ! 'St ! The 
 lady's first ! 
 How seems he ? — seems he not . . come, faith give fraud 
 The mercy-stroke whenever they engage ! 
 Down with fraud — up with faith ! How seems the Earl?
 
 14 A BLOT IN THE &CUTCHEON. 
 
 A name ! a blazon ! if you knew their worth, 
 As you will never ! come — the Earl ? 
 
 Guen. He's young. 
 
 Tresh. "What's she ? an infant save in heart and brain. 
 Young ! Mildred is fourteen, remark ! And you . . 
 Austin, how old is she ? 
 
 Guen. There's tact for you 1 
 
 I meant that being young was good excuse 
 If one should tax hira . . 
 
 Tresh. Well ? 
 
 Guen. — With lacking wit. 
 
 Tresh. He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so 
 please you ? 
 
 Guen. In standing straiter than the steward's rod 
 And makijig you the tiresomest harangues. 
 Instead of slipping over to my side 
 And softly whispering in my ear, " Sweet lady, 
 " Your cousin there will do me detriment 
 *' He little dreams of — he's absorbed, I see, 
 " In my old name and fame — be sure he'll leave 
 " My Mildred, when his best account of me 
 " Is ended, in full confidence I wear 
 " My grandsire's periwig down either cheek. 
 '' I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes " . . 
 
 Tresh. . . " To give a best of best accounts, yourself, 
 " Of me and my demerits." You are right ! 
 He should have said what now I say for liim. 
 You golden creature, will you help us all ? 
 Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCIIEON. 15 
 
 —You are . . what Austin only knows ! Come up, 
 
 All three of us — she's in the Library 
 
 No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede ! 
 
 Guen. Austin, how we must — ! 
 
 Tresh. Must what ? Must speak truth, 
 
 Malignant tongue ! Detect one fault in him ! 
 I challenge you I 
 
 Guen. Witchcraft's a fault in him, 
 
 For you're bewitched. 
 
 Tresh. What's urgent we obtain 
 
 Is, that she soon receive him — say, to-morrow — 
 Next day at farthest. 
 
 Guen. Ne'er instruct me 1 
 
 Tresh. Come ! 
 
 — He's out of your good graces since, forsooth. 
 He stood not as he'd carry us by storm 
 With his perfections ! You're for the composed, 
 Manly, assured, becoming confidence ! 
 — Get her to say, " to-mori'ow," and I'll give you . . 
 I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled 
 With petting and snail-paces. Will you ? Come ! 
 
 Scene III. — Mildked's Chamber. A painted windou overlooks 
 Vie park. Mildred and Guendolen. 
 
 Guen, Now, Mildred, spare those pain?. I have not left 
 Our talkers in the Library, and climbed 
 The wearisome ascent to this your bower
 
 iQ A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Tn company with you, — I li.ive not dared . . 
 Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you 
 Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood, 
 Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell — 
 — Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most 
 Firm-rooted heresy — your suitor's eyes, 
 He would maintain, were gray instead of blue— 
 I think I brought him to contrition ! — Well, 
 I have not done such things, (all to deserve 
 A minute's quiet cousin's-talk with you,) 
 To be dismissed so coolly ! 
 
 3Iil. Guendolen, 
 
 What have I done . . what could suggest . . 
 
 Guen. There, there 
 
 Do I not comprehend you'd be alone 
 To throw those testimonies in a heap, 
 Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities, 
 With that poor, silly, heartless Guendolen s 
 Ill-timed, misplaced, attempted smartnesses — 
 And sift there sense out ? now, I come to spare you 
 Nearly a whole night's labour. Ask and have ! 
 Demand, be answered ! Lack I ears and eyes ? 
 Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table 
 The Conqueror dined on when he landed first, 
 Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take — 
 The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed ? 
 Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes ! 
 
 Mil. My brother- 
 
 Did he . . you said that he received him well ?
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 17 
 
 iJlucn. If I said only " well " 1 said not much — 
 Oh, stay — which brother ? 
 
 Mil. Thorold ! who — who else ? 
 
 Guen. Tliorold (a secret) is too proud by half, — 
 Nay, hear me out — with us he's even gentler 
 Than we are with our birds. Of this great House 
 The least retainer that e'er caught his glance 
 Would die for him, real dying — no mere talk : 
 And in the world, the court, if men would cite 
 The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold's name 
 Rises of its clear nature to their lips : 
 But he should take men's homage, trust in it, 
 And care no more about what drew it down. 
 He has desert, and that, acknowledgment ; 
 Is he content ? 
 
 3IiL You wrong him, Guendolen. 
 
 Gucn. He's proud, confess ; so proud with brooding o'ei 
 The light of his interminable line. 
 An ancestry with men all paladins. 
 And women all . . 
 
 Mil. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late I 
 
 When yonder purple pane the climbing moon 
 Pierces, I know 'lis midnight. 
 
 Guen. Well, that Thorold 
 
 Should rise up from such musings, and receive 
 One come audaciously to graft himself 
 Into this pesrless stock, yet find no flaw, 
 No slightest spot in such an one . . . 
 
 VOL. II. 2
 
 18 A BLOT LN THE 'SOUTCHEON. 
 
 Mil. Who finds 
 
 A. spot in Mertoun ? 
 
 Guen. Not your brother ; therefore, 
 
 Not the whole ^Yorld. 
 
 3ItL I'm weary, Guendolen, — 
 
 Bjar with me! 
 
 Guen. I am foolish. 
 
 Mil. Oh, no, kind — 
 
 But I would rest. 
 
 Guen. Good night and rest to you. 
 
 [ said how gracefully his mantle lay 
 Beneath the rings of his light hair ? 
 
 Mil. Brown hair ! 
 
 Guen. Brown ? why it is bi'own — how could you kno^ 
 that ? 
 
 Mil. How ? did not you — Oh Austin 'twas, declared 
 His hair was light, not brown — my head ! — and, look, 
 The moonbeam purpling the dark chamber ! Sweet, 
 Good night ! 
 
 Guen. Forgive me — sleep the soundlier for me ! 
 
 \^Goin(j, she turns suddenly 
 
 Mildred 
 Perdition ! all's discovered. — Thorold finds 
 —That the EVrl's greatest of all grandmothers 
 Was grander daughter still — to that fair dame 
 Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance. [ Goe^ 
 
 Mil. Is she — can she be really gone at last ? 
 My heart — I shall not reach the window ! Needs
 
 A BLOT IN TUE 'SCCTCUEON. IL 
 
 Must 1 have sinned much, so to suffer! 
 
 [She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the 
 Vtrgin's ima(je in the window, and places it by tht 
 purple pane.] There ! 
 
 [She returns to the seat in front. 
 
 Mildred and Mertoun ! Mildred, with consent 
 
 Of all the world and Thorold, — Mertoun's bride! 
 
 Too late ! 'Tis sweet to think of, sweeter still 
 
 To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up 
 
 The curse of the beginning; but I know 
 
 It comes too late — 'twill sweetest be of all 
 
 To dream my soul away and die upon ! [A noise without. 
 
 The voice ! Oh, wliy, why glided sin the snake 
 
 Into the Paradise Heaven meant us both ? 
 
 {The windouo opens sofllij. — .1 low voice singa. 
 
 There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest; 
 And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: 
 And her eyes are durk and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, 
 Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: 
 Then her voice's music . . call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble ! 
 [^•1 Jigure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window. 
 And this woman says, " Jly days were sunless and my nights were 
 
 moonless, 
 " Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak 
 
 tuneless, 
 i'lf you lovcl me not!" And I who— (ah, for words of flame!) adore 
 
 her! 
 Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— 
 
 [He enter's — approaches her seat, and bends over ner 
 may enter dt her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, 
 ind by nconcido a* by midnight make her mine, as hers she mates me! 
 [The Earl throws off his slouched hat and long cloak
 
 20 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Bkly very heart sings, so I sing, beloved ! 
 
 Mil. Sit, Henry — do not talvC my hand. 
 
 Mcr. 'Tis mine 
 
 The meeting thai appalled us both so much 
 Is ended. 
 
 Mil. "What begins now? 
 
 if'ir. Happiness 
 
 Such as the world contains not. 
 
 Mil. That is it. 
 
 Our happiness would, as you say, exceed 
 The whole world's best q£ blisses : we — do we 
 Deserve that ? Utter to your soul, what mine 
 Long since, beloved, has grown used to hear, 
 Like a deatli-knell, so much regarded once. 
 And so familiar now ; this will not be ! 
 
 3Ter. Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother's fac^ 
 Compelled mj^self — if not to speak untruth, 
 Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside 
 The truth, as what had e'er prevailed on me 
 Save you, to venture ? Have I gained at last 
 Your brother, the one scarer of your dreams, 
 And waking thoughts' sole apprehension too ? 
 Does a new life, like a young sunrise, break 
 On the strange unrest of our night, confused 
 With rain and stormy flaw — and will you see 
 No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops 
 On each live spray, no vapour steaming up, 
 And no expressless glory in the east ? 
 When I am by you, to be ever by you.
 
 A BLOT rN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 21 
 
 When I have won you and may worship you, 
 Oh, Mildred, can you say "this will not be?" 
 
 3IiI. Sin has surprised us ; so will punishment. 
 
 Mcr. No — me alone, who sinned alone ! 
 
 Mil The night 
 
 You likened our past life to — was it storm 
 Throughout to you then, Henry ? 
 
 jl/er. Of your life 
 
 I spoke — what am I, what my life, to waste 
 A thought about when you are by me? — ^you 
 It was, I said my folly called th* storm 
 And pulled the night upon. — 'Twas day with me— 
 Perpetual dawn with me. 
 
 Mil. Come what, come will, 
 
 You have been happy — take my hand ! 
 
 3Ier. [cifler a pause.'] How good 
 
 Your brother is! I figured him a cold — 
 Shall I say, haughty man? 
 
 3Iil. They told me all. 
 
 I know all. 
 
 Mer. It will soon be over. 
 
 Mil. Over ? 
 
 Oh, what is over? what must I live thro' 
 And say, "'tis over?" Is our meeting over? 
 Have I received in presence of them all 
 The partner of my guilty love, — with brow 
 Trying to seem a maiden's brow — with lips 
 Which make believe that when tbey strive to form 
 Replies to you and tremble as they strive,
 
 22 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUl IHEOX. 
 
 It is the nearest ever they approached 
 
 A stranger's . . Henry, yours that stranger's . . . lip— 
 
 With cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is . , . 
 
 Ah, God ! some prodigy of thine will stop 
 
 This planned piece of deliberate wickedness 
 
 In its birth even — some fierce leprous spot 
 
 Will mar the brow's dissimulating — I 
 
 Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, 
 
 But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story, 
 
 The love, the shame, and the despair — with them 
 
 Round me aghast as men round some cursed fount 
 
 That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not 
 
 . . . Henry, you do not wish that I should draw 
 
 This vengeance down ? I'll not affect a grace 
 
 That's gone from me — gone once, and gone forever! 
 
 Mer. Mildred, my honour is your own. I'll share 
 Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. 
 A word informs your brother I retract 
 This morning's offer ; time will yet bring forth 
 Some better way of saving both of us. 
 
 3Iil. I'll meet their faces, Mertoun ! 
 
 3Ier. When? to-morrow 
 
 Get done with it ! 
 
 3IiL Oh, Henry, not to-morrow ! 
 
 Next day ! I never shall prepare my words 
 A-nd looks and gestures sooner ! — How you must 
 Despise me ! 
 
 Mer, Mildred, break it if you choose, 
 
 k. heart the love of you uplifted — still
 
 A BLOT INT THE 'sCUTCHEON. 23 
 
 Uplifts, tliro' this protracted agony, 
 To Heaven ! but, ^lildrcd, answer me, — first pace 
 The chamber with me — once again — now, say 
 Cahnly the part, the . . what it is of me 
 You see contempt (for you did say contempt) 
 — Contempt for you in ! I would pluck it off 
 And cast it from me I — but no — no, you'll not 
 Repeat that? — will you, Mildred, repeat that? 
 
 3IiL Dear Henry — 
 
 Mer. I was scarce a boy — e'ei no^ 
 
 What am I more ? And you were infantine 
 When first I met you — why, your hair fell loose 
 On either side ! — my fool's cheek reddens now 
 Only in the it;calling how it burned 
 That morn to see the shape of many a dream 
 — You know we boys are prodigal of charms 
 To her we dream of — I had heard of one. 
 Had dreamed of her, and I was close to her, 
 Might speak to her, might live and die her own, 
 AV'ho knew? — I spoke — Oh, Mildred, feel you not 
 That now, while I remember every glance 
 Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test 
 And weigh them in the diamond scales of Pride, 
 Resolved the treasure of a first and last 
 Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth, 
 —That now I think upon your purity 
 And utter ignorance of guilt — your own 
 Or other's guilt — the girlish undisguised 
 Delight at a strange novel prize — (I talk
 
 24 A BLOT m THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 A silly language, but interpret, you !) 
 
 If I, with fancy at its full, and reason 
 
 Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, 
 
 If you had pity on my passion, pity 
 
 On my protested sickness of the soul 
 
 To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch 
 
 Your eyelids and the eyes beneath — if you 
 
 Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts — 
 
 If I grew mad at last with enterprise 
 
 And must behold my beauty in her bower 
 
 Or perish — (I was ignorant of even 
 
 My own desires — what then were you ?) if sorrow— - 
 
 Sin — if the end came — must I now renounce 
 
 My reason, blind myself to light, say truth* 
 
 Is false and lie to God and my own soul ? 
 
 Contempt were all of this ! 
 
 3Iil. Do you believe . . . 
 
 Or, Henry, I'll not wrong you — you believe 
 That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er 
 The past ! We'll love on — you will love me still ! 
 
 Mer. Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove, 
 Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast — 
 Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength ? 
 Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee? 
 Bloom o'er my crest my fight-mark and device ! 
 Mildred, I love you and you love me ! 
 
 Mil Go ! 
 
 Be that your last word. I shall sleep to-night. 
 
 Mer. This is not our last meeting ?
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCnEON. 25 
 
 JiTil, One night more. 
 
 Mer. And then — think, then! 
 
 Mil. Then, no sweet courtship days, 
 
 No dawning consciousness of love for us, 
 No strange and palpitating births of sense 
 From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes, 
 Reserves and confidences : morning's over ! 
 
 Mer. IIow else should love's perfected noontido 
 follow? 
 All the dawn promised shall the day perform. 
 
 MIL So may it be 1 but 
 
 You are cautious, love? 
 Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls? 
 
 Mer. Oh, trust me ! Then our final meeting's fixed ? 
 To-morrow night ? 
 
 Mil. Farewell! Stay, Henry . . wherefore? 
 
 His foot is on the yew-tree bough — the turf 
 Eeceives him — now the moonlight as he runs 
 Embraces him — but he must go — is gone— 
 Ah, once again he turns — thanks, thanks, my love ! 
 He's gone — Oh I'll believe him every word! 
 f was so young — I loved him so — I had 
 No mother — God forgot me — and I fell. 
 There may be pardon yet — all's doubt beyond. 
 Surely the bitterness of death is past I
 
 26 A. BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON> 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 SCEXE. — The Librarij. 
 
 Enter Lokd Tresham hastily. 
 
 This way — In, Gerard, quick ! 
 
 [As Gebaed erders, Tee sham secures the door. 
 Now speak ! or, wait— 
 I'll bid you speak directly. [Seats himself. 
 
 Now repeat 
 Firmly and circumstantially the tale 
 You've just now told me ; it eludes me ; either 
 I did not listen, or the half is gone 
 Away from me — How long have you lived here ? 
 Here in my house, your father kept our woods 
 Before you ? 
 
 Gcr. — As his father did, my lord. 
 
 I have been eating sixty years, almost. 
 Your bread. 
 
 Trcsh. Yes, yes — You ever were of all 
 
 The servants in my father's house, I know. 
 The trusted one. You'll speak the truth. 
 
 Ger. I'll speak 
 
 orod's truth : night after night . . . 
 
 Tresh. Since when ? 
 
 Ger. At least
 
 k BLOT IN Tnii 'scutcheon. 27 
 
 A month — each midnight has some man access 
 To Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 
 Tresh. Tush, " access ** — 
 
 No wide words like " access " to me ! 
 
 Ger. He runs 
 
 Along the woodside, crosses to the south, 
 Takes the left tree that ends the avenue . . . 
 
 Tresh. The last great yew-tree ? 
 
 Ger. You might stand upon 
 
 I'he main boughs like a platform . . Then he . . 
 
 Tresh. Quick ! 
 
 Ger. . . Climbs up, and, where they lessen at the top, 
 — I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, 
 1 think — for this I do not vouch — a line 
 That reaches to the Lady's casement — 
 
 Tresh. —Which 
 
 He enters not ! Gerard — some wretched fool 
 Dares pry into my sister's privacy ! 
 When such are young, it seems a precious thing 
 To have approached, — to merely have approached, 
 Got sight of, the abode of her they set 
 Their frantic thoughts upon ! He does not enter ? 
 GiAi'ard ? 
 
 Ger. There is a lamp that's full in the midst, 
 Under a red square in the painted glass 
 Of Lady Mildred's . 
 
 Tresh. Leave that name out ! Well ? 
 
 riiat lamp? 
 
 Ger. — Is moved at midnight higher up
 
 28 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 To one pane — a small dark-blue pane — he waits 
 For that among the boughs ; at sight of that, 
 I see him, plain as I see you, my lord, 
 Open the Lady's casement, enter there . . . 
 
 Tresh. — And stay ? 
 
 Ger. An hour, two hours. 
 
 Trcsh. And this you saw 
 
 Once ? — twice ? — quick ! 
 
 Ger. Twenty times. 
 
 Tresh. And what brings you 
 
 Under the yew-trees ? 
 
 Ger. The first night I left 
 
 My range so far, to track the stranger stag 
 That broke the pale, I saw the man. 
 
 Tresh. Yet sent 
 
 No cross-bow shaft thro' the marauder ? 
 
 Ger. But 
 
 He came, my lord, the first time he was seen, 
 In a great moonlight, light as any day. 
 From Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 
 Tresh. [after a pause.'] You have no cause — 
 '— Who could liave cause to do my sister wrong ? 
 
 Ger. Oh, my lord, only once — let me this once • 
 Speak what is on my mind ! Since first I noted 
 All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net 
 Plucked me this way and that — fire, if I turned 
 To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire. 
 If down I flung myself and strove to die. 
 The lady could not have been seven years old
 
 A BLOT m THE SCUTCHEON. 29 
 
 When I was trusted to conduct her safe 
 Thro' the deor-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn 
 I hrought to eat hread from her tiny hand 
 Within a month. She ever had a smile 
 To greet me with — she . . if it could undo 
 What's done to lop each limb from off this trunk . . 
 All that is foolish talk, not fit for you — 
 I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt 
 For Heaven's compelhng: but when I was fixed 
 To hold my peace, each morsel of your food 
 Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too, 
 Choked me. 1 wish I had grown mad in doubts 
 What it behooved me do. This morn it seemed 
 Either I must confess to you, or die : 
 Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm 
 That crawls, to have betrayed my Lady ! 
 
 Tresh. 'No— 
 
 No — Gerard ! 
 
 Ger. Let me go ! 
 
 Tresh. A man, you say— 
 
 What man ? Young? Not a vulgar hind? What dress? 
 
 Ger. A slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak 
 Wraps his whob form : even his face is hid ; 
 But I should judge him young; no hind, be sure ! 
 
 TresL AVliy? 
 
 Ger. He is ever armed : his sword projects 
 
 Beneath the cloak. 
 
 Tresh. Gerard, — I -^'ill not say 
 
 No word, no breath of this J
 
 30 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Ger. Thanks, thanks, my lord . [ Goes 
 
 Teesham paces the room. AJler a pause, 
 Oh, thoughts absurd ! — as with some monstrous fa^t 
 That, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give 
 Merciful God that made the sun and stars 
 The waters and the green delights of earth, 
 The lie ! I apprehend the monstrous fact — 
 yet know the Maker of all worlds is good, 
 And yield my reason up, inadequate 
 To reconcile what yet I do behold— 
 Blasting my sense ! There's cheerful day outsid^^ 
 This is my library — and this the chair 
 My father used to sit in carelessly, 
 After his soldier-fashion, while I stood 
 ^ Between his knees to question him — and here, 
 Gerard our gray retainer, — as he says, 
 Fed with our food from sire to son an age, — 
 Has told a story — I am to believe ! 
 That Mildred ... oh no, no ! both tales are true, 
 Her pure cheek's story and the forester's! 
 Would she, or could she, err — much less, confound 
 All guilts of treachery, of craft, of . . . Heaven 
 Keep me within its hand ! — I will sit here 
 Until thought settles and I see my course. 
 Avert, oh God, only tliis woe from me ! 
 
 [As he sinks his head between his arms on ike tabU 
 Gcendolen's voice is heard at the door. 
 Lord Tresham ! [^She knocks.^ Is Lord Treshain there 
 [Teeshaji, hastily turning, pulls down the Jirsl book abovt 
 him 2nd opens it.
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 31 
 
 'fresh. Come in ! \_S/ie erder$. 
 
 A.I1, GuenJolen — gooil morning. 
 
 Gucn. Nothinor more ? 
 
 Tresh. What should I say more ? 
 
 Gucn. Pleasant question ! more? 
 
 This more ! Diil I besiege poor Mildred's brain 
 Last night till close on morning with " the Earl " — 
 " The Earl " — whose worth did I asseverate 
 Till I am very fuin to hope that . . . Thorold, 
 What is all this ? You are not well ! 
 
 Tresh. Who, I ? 
 
 Yon lau^h at me. 
 
 Gucn. Has what I'm lain to hope 
 
 Arrived, then ? Does that huge tome show some blot 
 In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back 
 Than Arthur's time ? 
 
 2''resh. Wlien left you Mildred's chamber? 
 
 Guen. Oh late enough, I told you ! The main thing 
 To ask is, how I left her chamber, — sure, 
 Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon 
 Of Earls no such ungracious . . . 
 
 Tresh. Send her here ! 
 
 Guen. Thorold ? 
 
 Tresh. T mean — acquaint her, Guendolen.— 
 
 .—But mildly ! 
 
 Gvcn. Mildly ? 
 
 T'resh. Ah, you guess'd aright 
 
 [ am not well — there is no hiding it. 
 But tell her I would see her at her leisure —
 
 32 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 That is, at once ! here in the Library ! 
 
 The passage in that old Italian book 
 
 We hunted for so long is found, sav, — found — 
 
 And if I let it slip again . . you see, 
 
 That she must come — and instantly ! 
 
 Gicen, I'll die 
 
 Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed 
 Some blot i' the 'scutcheon ! 
 
 Tresh. Go ! or, Guendolen, 
 
 Be you at call, — with Austin, if you choose, — 
 In the adjoining gallery— There, go ! [Guendolen ,90;* 
 Another lesson to me ! you might bid 
 A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct 
 Some sly investigation point by point 
 With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch 
 The inquisitorial cleverness some praise ! 
 If you had told me yesterday, " There's one 
 " You needs must circumvent and practise with, 
 " Entrap by policies, if you would worm 
 " The truth out — and that one is — Mildred ! " There- 
 There — reasoning is thrown away on it ! 
 Prove she's unchaste . . why you may after prove 
 That she's a poisoner, traitress, what you will ! 
 Where I can comprehend nought, nought's to say, 
 Or do, or think ! Force on me but the first 
 Abomination, — then outpour all plagues, 
 And I shall ne'er make count of them ! 
 ErUer Mildeeo. 
 
 Ml What book
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 33 
 
 Is it I wanted, Tliorold ? Guendolen 
 
 Thought you were pale — you are not pale! That book? 
 
 That's Latin surely ! 
 
 Tresh. Mildred — here's a line — • 
 
 (Don't lean on me — I'll English it for you) 
 " Love conquers all things." What love conquers them ? 
 What love should you esteem — best love ? 
 
 Mil. Ti-ue love. 
 
 Tresh. I mean, and should have said, whoj^ love is 
 best 
 Of all that love or that profess to love ? 
 
 Mil. The list's so long — there's father's, mother's, 
 husband's . . . 
 
 Tresh. Mildred, I do believe a brother's love 
 For a sole sister must exceed them all ! 
 For see now, only see ! there's no alloy 
 Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold 
 Of other loves — no gratitude to claim ; 
 You never gave her life — not even aught 
 That keeps life — never tended her, instructed, 
 Enriched her — so your love can claim no right 
 O'er hers save pure love's claim — that's what I call 
 Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope 
 To be such friends, for instance, she and you. 
 As when you hunted cowslips in the woods, 
 Or played together in the meadow hay. 
 Oh yes — with age, respect comes, and your worth 
 Is felt, there's growing sympathy of tastes, 
 There's ripened friendship, there's confirmed esteem, 
 
 VOL. 11. 3
 
 84 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 —Much head these make against the new-comer 
 The startling apparition — the strange youtli — 
 Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say, 
 Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change 
 This Ovid ever sang about!) your soul 
 . . Her soul, that is, — the sister's soul ! "With her 
 Twas winter yesterday ; now, all is warmth, 
 The green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice, 
 " Arise and come away ! " Come whither ? — far 
 Enough from the esteem, respect, and all 
 The brother's somewhat insignificant 
 Array of rights ! all which he knows before — 
 Has calculated on so long ago ! 
 I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) 
 Contented with its little term of life, 
 Intending to retire betimes, aware 
 How soon the back-ground must be place for it, 
 I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds 
 All the world's loves in its unworldliness. 
 
 3Iil. What is this for ? 
 
 Trcsh. This, Mildred, is it for I 
 
 Oh, no, I cannot go to it so soon ! 
 That's one of many points my haste left out — 
 Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film 
 Between the being tied to you by birth, 
 And you, until those slender threads compose 
 A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes 
 A.nd fears and fancies, all her life, from yours— 
 So close you live and yet so far apart 1
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 35 
 
 Ami must I rend this web, tear up, break down 
 The sweet and palpitating mystery 
 That makes her sacred ? You — for you I mean, 
 Shall I speak — shall I not speak ? 
 
 iMil Speak ! 
 
 Tresh. I will. 
 
 Is there a story men could — any man 
 Could tell of you, you would conceal from me ? 
 I'll never think there's falsehood on that li|) ! 
 Say " There is no such story men could tell," 
 And I'll believe you, tho' I disbelieve 
 The world . . the world of better men than I, 
 And women such as I suppose you — Speak ! 
 \_After a pause,'\ Not speak? Explain then ! clear it up, 
 
 then I Move 
 Some of the miserable weight away 
 That presses lower than the grave ! Xot speak ? 
 Some of the dead weiglit, Mildred ! Ah, if I 
 Could bring myself to plamly make their cliarge 
 Against you ! Must I, Mildred? Silent still? 
 \_After a pause.'] Is tnere a gallant that has night by nigh 
 Admittance to your chamber? 
 
 \_After a pause.'] . Then, his name ! 
 
 Till now, I only had a thought for you — 
 But now, — his name ! 
 
 Mil. Thorold, do you devise 
 
 Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit 
 There be ! 'tis nought to say that I'll endure 
 And bless you, — tliat my spiril yearns to purge
 
 S6 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 * 
 
 Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire- 
 But do not plunge me into other guilt 1 
 Oh, guilt enough ! I cannot tell his name. 
 
 Tresh. Then judge yourself! How should I act 
 Pronounce ! 
 
 3IIL Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt me thus ! 
 To die here in this chamber by that sword 
 Would seem like punishment — so should I glide, 
 Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss ! 
 'Twere easily arranged for me ! but you — 
 What would become of you ? 
 
 Tresh. And what will now 
 
 Become of me ? I'll hide your shame and mine 
 From every eye ; the dead must heave their hearts 
 Under the marble of our chapel-floor ; 
 They cannot rise and blast you ! You may wed 
 Your paramour above our mother's tomb ; 
 Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. 
 We two will somehow wear this one day out: 
 But with to-morrow hastens here — the Earl ! 
 The youth without suspicion that faces come 
 From Heaven, and hearts from . . . whence proceed such 
 
 hearts ? 
 I have despatched last night at your command 
 A missive bidding him present himself 
 To-morrow here — thus much is said — the rest 
 Is undei'stood as if 'twere written down — 
 " His suit finds favor in your eyes," — now dictate 
 This morning's letter that shall countermand 
 Last night's — do dictate that I
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 37 
 
 Mil But, Thorold— if 
 
 I will receive bira as I said ? 
 
 Trvsh. The Earl ? 
 
 Mil. I will receive him ! 
 
 Tresh. \_Starling np.'] IIo there! Guendolen 1 
 
 GuENDOLEN and Austin enler. 
 
 A.nd, Austin, you are welcome too! Look there ! 
 The woman there ! 
 
 Aus. ^ Gueii. How ? Mildred ? 
 
 Tresh. Mildred once 1 
 
 Now the receiver night by niglit, when sleep 
 Blesses the inmates of her father's house, 
 — I say, the soft sly wanton that receives 
 Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds 
 i'ou, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held 
 A thousand Treshams — never one like her ! 
 No lighter of the signal lamp her quick 
 Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness 
 To mix with breath as foul! no loosener 
 Of the lattice, i)ractised in the stealthy tread, 
 The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go ! 
 Not one composer of the Bacchant's mien 
 [nto — what you thought Mildred's, in a word ! 
 Know her ! 
 
 Giicn. Oh, :Mildred look to me, at least ! 
 Thorold— she's dead, I'd say, but that she stands 
 Uigid as s'ono and whiter ! 
 
 Tresh. You have heard . .
 
 38 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHKON. 
 
 Gueii. Too much ! you must proceed no further ! 
 
 Mil. Yes- 
 
 Proceed — All's truth ! Go from me ! 
 
 Tresh. All is truth, 
 
 She tells you ! Well, you know, or ought to know, 
 All this I would forgive in her. I'd con 
 Each precept the harsh world enjoins, I'd take 
 Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, 
 I'd bind myself before them to exact 
 The prescribed vengeance — and one word of hers. 
 The sight of her, the bare least memory 
 Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride 
 Above all prides, my all in all so long, 
 Had scattered every trace of my resolve ! 
 What were it silently to waste away 
 And see her waste away from this day forth. 
 Two scathed things with leisure to repent. 
 And grow acquainted with the grave, and die. 
 Tired out if not at peace, and be forgotten ? 
 It were not so impossible to bear ! 
 But this — that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed 
 Of love with the successful gallant there, 
 She'll calmly bid me help her to entice, 
 Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth 
 Who thinks her all that's chaste, and good, and pure, 
 — Invite me to betray him . . who so fit 
 As honour's self to cover shame's arch-deed ? 
 — That she'll receive Lord Mertoun — (her own phrase) — 
 This, who could bear? Why, you have heard of 'hie'^es
 
 K HI. or IN THE 'SCLTCIIKON. 39 
 
 Slabbers, the earth's disgrace — who yet liavt- huigheJ, 
 
 "Talk not of tortures to ine — I'll betray 
 
 " No comrade I've pledged faith too ! " — you have heard 
 
 Of wretched women — all but Mildreds — tied 
 
 By wild illicit ties to losels vile 
 
 JTou'd tempt them to forsake ; and they'll reply 
 
 " Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I have 
 
 "In him, why should I leave him then for gold, 
 
 " Repute, or friends ?" — and you have felt your heart 
 
 Respond to sucli poor outcasts of the world 
 
 As to so many friends ; bad as you please, 
 
 You've felt they were God's men and women still, 
 
 So not to be disowned by you ! but she, 
 
 That stands there, calmly gives her lover up 
 
 As means to wed the Earl, that she may hide 
 
 Their intercourse the surelier 1 and, for this, 
 
 I curse her to her face before you all ! 
 
 Shame hunt her from the earth ! Then Heaven do right 
 
 To both ! It hears me now — shall judge her then ! 
 
 [As MiLDREoyainrs and falls, Tresiiam rushes out. 
 
 Aus. Stay, Tresham, we'll accompany you ! 
 
 Gaen. We ? 
 
 What, and leave Mildred ? We ? why, where's my place 
 But by her side, and where's yours but by mine ? 
 Mildred — one word — only look at me, then ! 
 
 Aus. 2so, Guendolon ! I echo Thorold's voice I 
 She is unwortliy tc behold . . 
 
 Guen. Us two ? 
 
 (f you =;poke on refle-ition, and if I
 
 / 
 
 40 A BLOT IN TilE 'sCUTCHEON 
 
 Approved your speech — if you (to put the thing 
 
 At lowest) you, the soldier, bound to make 
 
 The King's cause yours, and fight for it, and throw 
 
 Regard to others of its right or wrong, 
 
 — If with a death-white woman you can help, 
 
 Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, 
 
 You left her — or if I, her cousin, friend 
 
 This morning, playfellow but yesterday, 
 
 "Who've said, or thought at least a thousand times, 
 
 " I'd serve you if I could," should now face round 
 
 And say " Ah, that's to only signify 
 
 " I'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself— 
 
 " So long as fifty eyes await the turn 
 
 « Of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish, 
 
 « I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need— 
 
 «' When every tongue is praising you, I'll join 
 
 « The praisers' chorus — when you're hemmed abouJ 
 
 " With lives between you and detraction — lives 
 
 " To be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye, 
 
 '« Rou"-h hand should violate the sacred ring 
 
 " Their worship throws about you, — then indeed, 
 
 " Who'll stand up for you stout as I ? " If so 
 
 We said and so we did, — not Mildred there 
 
 Would be unworthy to behold us both, 
 
 But we should be unworthy, both of us. 
 
 To be beheld by— by — your meanest dog, 
 
 Which, if that sword were broken in your face 
 
 Before a crowd, that badge torn off your, breast, 
 
 And you cast out with hootings and contempt,
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCnEOX. 4« 
 
 —Would push his way tliro' all the hooters, gain 
 Your side, go off with you and all your shame 
 To the next ditch you chose to die in ! Austin, 
 Do you love rae ? Here's Austin, Mildred, — here's 
 Your brother says he does not believe half — 
 No, nor half that — of all he heard ! lie says, 
 Look up and take bis hand ! 
 
 Aus. Look up and take 
 
 My hand, dear Mildred ! 
 
 Mil. I— I was so young ! 
 
 Beside, I loved him, Thorold — and 1 had 
 No mother — God forgot me — so I fell ! 
 
 Guen. Mildred ! 
 
 Mil. Require no further! Did I dream 
 
 Th'it I could palliate what is done ? All's true 
 Now, punish me ! A woman takes my hand ! 
 Let go my hand ! Y'ou do not know, I see — 
 I thought that Tiiorold told you. 
 
 Guen. What is this ? 
 
 Where start you to ? 
 
 Mil. Oh Austin, loosen me ! 
 
 You heard the whole of it — your eyes were worse, 
 In their sur[)rise, than Thorold's ! Oh, unless 
 You stay to execute his sentence, loose 
 My hand ! Has Thorold gone, and are you here ? 
 
 Guen. Here, INlildred, wt- two friends of yc>'irs will wail 
 Your bidding; be you sik-nt, slerp or muse ! 
 Only, when you shall want your bidding done, 
 How can we do it if we are not by ?
 
 42 A BLOr IN TUE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Here's Austin waiting patiently your will ! 
 
 One spirit to command, and one to love 
 
 And to believe in it and do its best, 
 
 Poor as that is, to lielp it — wliy, the world 
 
 Has been won many a time, its length and breadth, 
 
 By just such a beginning ! 
 
 Mil. I believe 
 
 If once I threw my arms about your neck 
 And sunk my head upon your breast, that I 
 Should weep again ! 
 
 Guen. Let go her hand now, Austin. 
 
 Wait for me. — Pace the gallery and think 
 On the world's seemings and realities 
 Until I call you. [Austin goet 
 
 Mil. No — I cannot weep ! 
 
 No more tears from this brain — no sleep — no tears ! 
 O Guendolen, I love you ! 
 
 Gaen. Yes : and " love " 
 
 Is a sliort word that says so very much ! 
 It says that you confide in me. 
 
 Mil Confide ! 
 
 Guen. Your lover's name, then ! I've so much to learn, 
 Ere I can woi-k in your behalf! 
 
 Mil. My friend, 
 
 You know I cannot tell his name. 
 
 Guen. At least 
 
 He U your lover? and you love him too ? 
 
 Mil. Ah, do you ask me that? — but I am faUen 
 r*o low '
 
 A BLOT IN TIIK '.SCUTCIIKON. i-i 
 
 Guen. You love liiiu still, tbeii ? 
 
 Mil. ^^y solfc prop 
 
 A.o'ainst tlie guilt that cruslies me! 1 su}/, 
 Eacli night ere I lie down, " 1 was so young— 
 ^ 1 liail no niotiier — and 1 loved him so ! " 
 And then God seems indulgent, and I dare 
 Trust him my soul in ^leej). 
 
 Guen. How could you let us 
 
 E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun then? 
 
 Mil. There is a cloud around me. 
 
 Guen. But you said 
 
 You would receive his suit in spite of this? 
 
 Mil. I say there is a cloud . . 
 
 Gunn. ^^ cloud to me ! 
 
 Lord JNIertoun and your lover are the same ! 
 
 Mil. What maddest fancy . . . 
 'Guen. [calling aloud.] Austin! (Spare your pains— 
 When I have got a truth, that truth I keep) — 
 
 Mil. By all you love, sweet Guendolen, forbear! 
 Have I confided in you . . 
 
 Guen. Just for this I 
 
 Austin! — Oh, not to guess it at the first ! 
 But I did guess ii — that is. I divined — 
 Felt by an instinct how it was — why else 
 Should I pronounce you free from all that heap 
 Of sins which had been irredeemable? 
 I felt they were not yours — what other way 
 Than this, not yours? The secret's wholly mine ! 
 
 Mil. U you would see me die before his lace . .
 
 t4 A BLOT t\ THE 'SCUTCHEO?!. 
 
 Guen, I'd hold my peace! And if the Earl returns 
 To-night? 
 
 3Iil. Ah, Heaven, he's lost ! 
 
 Guen. I thought so ! Austin I 
 
 Enter Austin. 
 Oh where have you been hiding ? 
 
 Alts. Thorold's gone, 
 
 1 know not how, across the meadow-land. 
 1 watched him till I lost him in the skirts 
 Of the beech-wood. 
 
 Guen. Gone ? All thwarts us ! 
 
 Mil. Thorold too ? 
 
 Guen. I have thought. First lead this Mildred to her 
 room. 
 Go on the other side : and tlien we'll seek 
 Your brother; and I'll tell you, by the way. 
 The greatest comfort in the world. You said 
 There was a clew to aU. Remember, sweet, 
 He said there was a clew 1 I hold it. Come ! 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 BOEKE I. — The end of the Yew-tree Avenue under Mildred'! 
 window. A light seen through a central red pane. 
 
 Enter Tresiiam through the trees. 
 
 Again here! But I cannot lose myself. 
 
 The heath — the orchard — I have traversed glades 
 
 Ajid dells and bosky paths which used to lead
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCIIKON. 4n 
 
 Tnto green wildwood depths, bewildering 
 
 My boy's adventurous step ; and now they tend 
 
 Ilithei- or soon or late ; tlic blackest sliade 
 
 Breaks up, tlic tlironged trunks of the trees ope wide, 
 
 And the dim turret I have (led from fronts 
 
 Again my step ; the very river put 
 
 Its arm about me and conducted me 
 
 To this detested spot. Why tiien, I'll shun 
 
 Tiieir will no longer — do your will wiili me! 
 
 Oh, bitter ! To liave reared a towering scheme 
 
 Of happiness and to behold it razed, 
 
 Were nothing : all men hope, and see their hopes 
 
 Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew : 
 
 But I . . to hope that from a line like ours 
 
 No horrid prodigy like this would spring, 
 
 Were just as though I hoped that from these old 
 
 Confederates against the sovereign day, 
 
 Children of older and yet older sires 
 
 (Whose living coral berries dropped, as now 
 
 On me, on many a baron's surcoat once, 
 
 On many a beauty's wimple) would proceed 
 
 No poison-tree, to thrust, from Hell its root, 
 
 Hither and thithen its strange snaky arms. 
 
 Why came I here 'i What must I do ? — \a hell strikei.'\—> 
 
 A bell? 
 Midnight ! and 'tis at midnight . . . Ah, I catch 
 —Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now, 
 A.nd I obey you ! Hist ! This *ree will serve ! 
 
 ' He. retires behind o/ie of the trees. Ajler a ^uae, enia 
 jVkrtoon clonkcd as before.
 
 46 A. BLOT IX THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Mer. Not time ! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat 
 Of hope and fear, my heart ! 1 thought, the clock 
 In the chapel struck as I was pushing thro' 
 Tlie ferns. And so I shall no more see rise 
 My love-star ! Oh, no matter for the past ! 
 So much the more delicious task to see 
 Mildred revive : to pluck out, thorn by thorn, 
 AH traces of the rough forbidden path 
 My rash love lured her too ! Each day must see 
 Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed ! 
 Then there will be surprises, unforeseen 
 Delights in store. I'll not regret the past I 
 
 [ The li(jht IS placed above in the purple pam 
 
 And see, my signal rises ! Mildred's star ! 
 I never saw it lovelier than now 
 It rises for the last time ! If it sets, 
 'Tis that the reassuring sun may dawn ! 
 
 [As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue 
 Tresuam arrests his arm. 
 
 Unhand me — peasant, by your grasp ! Here's gold. 
 *Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck 
 X branch from the white-blossom'd shrub beneath 
 The casement there! Take this, and hold your peace. 
 
 Tresh. Into the moonlight yonder, come with mo I 
 —Out of the shadow ! 
 
 Mer. 1 am armed, fool ! 
 
 Trtsh. "i^es, 
 
 Or no? — You'll come into the light, or no? 
 My hand is on your throat — refuse ! —
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCUEON. 4? 
 
 J^er. That voice ! 
 
 Where have I heard . . no — that was mild and slow. 
 I'll come with you ! \_Tliey advajice, 
 
 Tresh. You're armed — that's well. 
 
 Your name — who are you ? 
 
 Mer. (Tresham ! — she is lost !) 
 
 Tresh. Oh, silent ? Do you know, you bear yourself 
 Exactly as, in curious dreams I've luul 
 How felons, this wild eanh is lull of, look 
 When they're detected, still your kind has looked' 
 The bnivo holds an assured countenance, 
 The thief is voluble and plausible. 
 But silently the slave of lust has crouched 
 When I have fancied it before a man ! 
 Your name ? 
 
 Mer. I do conjure Lord Treshara — ay, 
 
 Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail — 
 That he for his own sake forbear to ask 
 My name! As Heaven's above, his future weal 
 Dr woe depends upon my silence ! Vain ! 
 1 read your white inexorable i'ace ! 
 Know me. Lord Treshara! [//e throivs off his dUguutn. 
 
 Tresh. Mertoun ! 
 
 [^After a pause.'] Draw now . 
 
 Mer. Hear me 
 
 But speak first ! 
 
 Tresh. !Not one least word on your life ! 
 
 Be sure that I will strangle in your throat 
 The least word that informs me how yuu live
 
 18 A BLOT IV THE 'SCUTCEON. 
 
 And yet seem what you seem ! No doubt 'twas you 
 Taught Mildred still to keep that face and sin ! 
 We should join hands in frantic sympathy 
 If you once taught me the unteacliable, 
 Explained how you can live so, and so lie ! 
 With God's help I retain, despite my sense, 
 The old belief — a life like yours is still 
 Impossible ! Now draw ! 
 
 Mer. Not for my sake, 
 
 Do I entreat a hearing — for your sake, 
 And most, for her sake ! 
 
 Tresh. Ha, ha, what should I 
 
 Know of your ways ? A miscreant like yourself, 
 How must one rouse his ire ? — A blow ? — that's pride 
 No doubt, to him ! one spurns him, does one not ? 
 Or sets the foot upon his mouth — or spits 
 Into his face ! Come — which, or all of these? 
 
 J/er. 'Twixt him, and me, and Mildred, Heaven b« 
 judge ! 
 Can I avoid this ? Have your will, my Lord ! 
 
 [Z/e draws, and, after a few passes, JaUt 
 
 Tresh. You are not hui*!? 
 
 3fer. You'll hear me now ! 
 
 Tresh. But rise ! 
 
 Mer. Ah, Tresham, say I not " 3 ou'll hear me now ! " 
 And what procures a man the right to speak 
 In his defence before his fellow-man, 
 But — I suppose — the thought that presently 
 He may have leave to speak before his God 
 His whole defence?
 
 A. BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCnEON. 45 
 
 Tresh. Not hurt? It cannot be I 
 
 l!ou made no effort to resist rae. Where 
 Did my sword reacli you ? Wliy not have returned 
 My thrusts? Hurt where? 
 
 3Ier. My lord — 
 
 Tnsh. IIow young he \9 
 
 Mer. Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet 
 I have entangled other lives with mine. 
 Do let me speak — and do believe my speech, 
 That when I die before you presently, — 
 
 Tresh. Can you stay here till I return with help ? 
 
 Mer. Oh, stay by me ! When I was less than boy 
 I did you grievous wrong, and knew it not — 
 Upon ray honor, knew it not ! Once known, 
 I could not find what seemed a better way 
 To right you than I took: my life — you feel 
 How less than nothing had been giving you 
 The life you've taken ! But I thought ray way 
 The better — only for your sake and hers. 
 And as you have decided otherwise, 
 Would I had an infinity of lives 
 To offer you ! — now say — instruct me — think I 
 Can you from out the minutes I have left 
 Eke out my reparation ? Oh — think — think I 
 For I must wring a par.ial — dare I say. 
 Forgiveness from you, ere I die ! 
 
 Tresh. I do 
 
 Forgive you. 
 
 Mi'.r. Wait and ponder that great word 
 
 VOL II. 4
 
 50 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCIIEON. 
 
 Becau.-:e, if you forgive me, I shall hope 
 To speak to you of — Mildred ! 
 
 Tresh. Mertoun, — haste 
 
 And anger have undone us. 'Tis not you 
 Shc-ild tell me for a novelty you're young — 
 Thoughtless — unahle to recall the past 1 
 Be but your pardon ample as my own! 
 
 3Ier. Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a drop 
 Of blood or two, should bring all this about ! 
 Why, 'twas my very fear of you — my love 
 Of you — (what passion's like a boy's for one 
 Like you ?) — that ruined me ! I dreamed of you — 
 You, all accomplished, courted every where, 
 Tiie scholar and the gentleman. I burned 
 To knit myself to you — but I was young, 
 And your surpassing reputation kept me 
 So far aloof — oh, wherefore all that love ? 
 With less of love, my glorious yesterday 
 Of praise and gentle words and kindest looks, 
 Had taken place perchance six months ago ! 
 Even now — how happy we had been ! And yet 
 I know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham I 
 Let me look up into your face — I feel 
 'Tis changed above tne — yet my eyes are glazed. 
 
 Where? where ? 
 
 \As he endeavors to raise himself, his eye catches the lamj 
 
 Ah, Mildred ! What will Mildred do 
 
 Tresham, iier life is bound up in the life 
 
 That's bleeding fast away ! — I'll live — must live,
 
 A BLOT IX TiiK 'scirrciiKOM. 51 
 
 riicre ! if you'll only turn me I .>Iim1I live 
 And save her! Tre>li:un — «.ii, li.ul yoii Init licanl ! 
 Had you but heard! Wliat riiihl luwu you to sol 
 The thouj^htless foot upon her life and mine, 
 And then say, as we perish, " Had I thought, 
 " All had gone otherwise." We've sinned and die 
 Never you sin, Lord Tresham ! — for you II die, 
 And God will judge you. 
 
 Tresh. Yes, be satisfied — 
 
 That process is begun. 
 
 Mer. And she sits there 
 
 Waiting for me. Now, say you this to her — 
 You — not another — say, I saw him die 
 As lie breathed this — "I love her" — (you don't know 
 What those three small words mean) say, loving her 
 Lowers me down the bloody slope to death 
 With memories ... I speak to her — not you, 
 Who had no pity — will have no remorse, 
 Percliance intend her . . . Die along with me. 
 Dear iNIildred ! — 'tis so easy — and you'll 'scape 
 So much unkindness ! Can 1 lie at rest. 
 With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds 
 Done to you — heartless men to have my heart, 
 And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm, 
 Aware, perhaps, of every blow — Oh God ! — 
 Upon those lips — yet of no {)ower to tear 
 Tiie felon stripe by stripe ? Die, Mildred ! Leave 
 Their hono:irable world to them — for God 
 We're good enough, iIkj' the world casts us out I 
 
 \A whistle is heatrd
 
 52 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 Tresh. Ho, Gerard ! 
 
 Enter Gerard, Austin, and Guendolen, with lights. 
 
 No one speak ! you see wliaf s done 
 r cannot bear another voice ! 
 
 Mer. There's light — 
 
 Liffht all about me and I move to it. 
 Tresham, did I not tell you — did you not 
 Just promise to deliver words of mine 
 To Mildred ? 
 
 Tresh. I will bear those words to her. 
 
 Mer. Now ? 
 
 Tresh. Now ! Lift you the body, Gerard, and leave me 
 
 The head. 
 
 [J.S they have half raised Mertoun, he turns suddenly 
 
 Mer. I knew they turned rae — turn me not from her 
 There ! stay you ! there ! IDits. 
 
 Guen. \jifter a pause.l Austin, remain you here 
 With Tliorold until Gerard comes with help — 
 Then lead him to his chamber. I must go 
 To Mildred. 
 
 Tresh. Guendolen, I hear each word 
 
 Tou utter — did you hear him bid me give 
 His message ? Did you hear my promiie? I, 
 A.nd only I, see Mildred ! 
 
 Guen. She will die. 
 
 Tresh. Oh no, she will not die ! I dare n(>t hope 
 She'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die ^ 
 Why, Austin's with you !
 
 A BLOT IX THE 'SCUTCnEON. 58 
 
 Aus. Had we but arrived 
 
 Before you fought ! 
 
 Trcsh. There was no fight at all! 
 
 He let me slaughter him — tlie boy ! — I'll trust 
 The body tliere to you ami Gerard — llius ! 
 Now bear him on before me. 
 
 Alls. "Wliither bear him ? 
 
 Tresh. Oh, to my chamber. When we meet thei'* 
 
 next, 
 
 We shall be friends. 
 
 [Tliey hear out the body of Mektodw 
 
 Will she die, Guendolen ? 
 
 Guen. Where are you taking me ? 
 
 Tresh. He fell just hero J 
 
 Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life 
 — You who have nought to do with Mertoun's fate, 
 Now yoa have seen his breast U[)on the turf, 
 Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help.'' 
 When you and Austin wander arm in arm 
 Thro' our ancestral grounds, will not a shade 
 Be ever on the meadow and the waste — 
 Another kind of shade than when the night 
 Shuts the woodslde with all its whispers up ! 
 But will you ever so forget his breast 
 As willingly to cross this bloody turf 
 Under the black yew avenue ? That's well ! 
 iTou turn your head ! and I then ? — 
 
 Gucn, What is done 
 
 fs done ! My care is for the living. Tliorold,
 
 54 A BLOT IN TUE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Bear up against this burden — more remains 
 To set the neck to ! 
 
 Tresh. Dear and ancient trees 
 
 My fathers planted, and I loved so well ! 
 What have I done that, like some fabled crime 
 Of yore, lets loose a fury leading thus 
 Her miserable dance amidst you all? 
 Oh, never more for me shall winds intone 
 With all your tops a vast antiphony, 
 Demanding and responding in God's praise! 
 Hers ye are now — not mine ! Farewell — farewell ! 
 
 Scene II — Mildred's Chamber. Mildred alone. 
 He comes not ! I have heard of those who seemed 
 Resourceless in prosperity, — you thought 
 Sorrow might slay them when she listed — yet 
 Did they so gather up their diffused strength 
 At her first menace, that they bade her strike, 
 And stood and lauglied her subtlest skill to scorn. 
 Oh, 'tis not so with me ! the first woe fell, 
 And the rest fall upon it, not on me : 
 Else should I bear that Henry comes not ? — fails 
 Just this first night out of so many nights ? 
 Loving is done with ! Were he sitting now, 
 As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love 
 No more — contrive no thousand happy ways 
 To hide love from the loveiess, any more I 
 T think I might have urged some little point
 
 A BLOT I\ THE 'SCL'TCIIEON. 55 
 
 [n my defence, to Tliorold ; he was breathless 
 
 For the least hint of a defence ; but no ! 
 
 Tlie Hrst shame over, all that would might fall. 
 
 No Henry ! Yet I merely sit and think 
 
 Tlie morn's deed o'er and o'er. 1 nuisl iiave crept 
 
 Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost 
 
 Her lover — oh, I dare not look u[)oii 
 
 Such woe ! I crouch away from it ! 'Tis she, 
 
 Mildred, will break her heart, not I ! The world 
 
 Forsakes me — only Henry's left me — left ? 
 
 When I have lost him, for he does not come. 
 
 And I sit stu|)idly . . . Oil Heaven, break up 
 
 Tliis worse than angui>li, this mad apathy. 
 
 By any means or any messenger ! 
 
 IVesh. [without.'] Mildred ! 
 
 Mil. Come in ! Heaven hears me . 
 
 [TuESiiAM e?i/(?rs.] You? alone' 
 
 Oh, no more cursing! 
 
 7\esh. Mildred, I must sit, 
 
 There — you sit ! 
 
 Mil. Say it, Thorold — do not look 
 
 The curse — tleliver all you come to say ! 
 What must become of me ? Oh speak tliat thought 
 Which makes your brow and cheek so pale ! 
 
 Tresh. My thought ? 
 
 Mil. All of it ! 
 
 Tresh. How we waded — years ago — 
 
 After those water-lilies, till the pla-h, 
 I know not how, surprised us ; and ypu dared
 
 56 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEOX. 
 
 Neither advance nor turn back, so we stood 
 
 Laughing and crying until Gerard came — 
 
 Once safe upon the turf, the loudest, too, 
 
 For once more reaching the relinquished prize ! 
 
 How idle thoughts are — some men's — dying men's I 
 
 Mildred,— 
 
 Mil. You call me kindlier by my name 
 
 Than even yesterday — what is in that ? 
 
 Tresh. It weighs so much upon my mind that J 
 This morning took an office not my own ! 
 I might . . of course, I must be glad or grieved. 
 Content or not, at every little thing 
 That touches you — I may uitli a wrung heart 
 Even reprove you, JMildred ; I did more — 
 Will you forgive me ? 
 
 3111. Thorold ? do you mock ? 
 
 Or no . . and yet you bid me . . say that word ! 
 
 Tresh. Forgive me, Mildred ! — are you silenl sweet 
 
 Mil. [starting ?//>.] Why does not Henry Mertoun 
 
 come to niglit? 
 
 Are you, too, silent ? 
 
 [Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to liis scabbard 
 icliicli is empty. 
 
 Ah, this speaks for you I 
 
 You've murdered Henry Mertoun! now proceed! 
 
 What is it I must pardon ? This and all? 
 
 Well, I do jiardon you — I think I do. 
 
 riiorold, how very wretched you must bel 
 
 Tresh. He bade me tell you . .
 
 A BLOT IN TUE 'SCUTCIIKON. 57 
 
 ifil Wliat I do forbid 
 
 V'uur utterance of! so much that you may tell 
 And will not — liow you murdered liim . . but, no! 
 You'll tell me that he loved nie, never more 
 Than bleeding out his life there — must I say 
 "Indeed," to that? Enough ! I pardon you ! 
 
 Tresh. You cannot, Mildred ! for the harsh words, yes 
 Of this last deed Another's Judge — whose doom 
 I wait in doubt, despondency, and fear. 
 
 Mil. Oh true ! there's nought fur me to pardon ! True 
 You loosed my soul of all its cares at once^ 
 Death makes me sure of him forever ! Tou 
 Tell me his last words? lie shall tell me them, 
 And take my answer — not in words, but reading 
 Himself the heart I had to read him late, 
 Wliich death . . . 
 
 Tresh. Death ? you are dying too ? Well vm'', 
 
 Of Guendolen ! I dared not hope you'd die — 
 But she was sure of it. 
 
 Mil. Tell Guendolen 
 
 I loved her, and tell Austin . . . 
 
 Tresh. . . Ilim you loved— 
 
 And me ? 
 
 Mil. Ah, Thorold ! was't not rashly done 
 To quench tluit blood, on lire with youth and iiope 
 And love of me, whoii you loved tjo, and yet 
 Suffered to sit here waiting his ajjproach 
 While you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlessly 
 You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech
 
 58 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCUEON. 
 
 — Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath 
 And respite me ! — you let him try to jrive 
 The story of our loves, and ignorance, 
 And the brief madness, and the long despair— 
 You let hira plead all this, because your code 
 Of honour bids you hear before you strike : 
 But at the end, as he looked up for life 
 Fnto your eyes — you struck him down ! 
 
 Tresh. No! no I 
 
 Had I but heard him — had I let iiira speak 
 Half the truth — less — had I looked long on hino, 
 r had desisted I Why, as he lay there, 
 The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered all 
 The story ere he told it! I saw thro' 
 The troubled surface of his crime and yours 
 A depth of purity immovable! 
 Flad I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest 
 Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath ! 
 I would not glance — my punishment's at hand. 
 There, Mildred, is the truth ! and you — say on— 
 You curse me ? 
 
 Mil. As I dare approach that Heaven 
 
 Which has not bade a living thing despair, 
 Whicii needs no code to keep its grace from staiu, 
 But bids the vilest worm that turns on il 
 Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive not, 
 But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls! 
 
 \Falls on his nech 
 There ! do not think too much upon the past !
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCnEOX. 59 
 
 riie cloud tliat's hroke was all (he same a cloud 
 
 While it stood up Ixitwuen my iViL-ml and you I 
 
 You hurt him 'lu-ath its shadow — hut is that 
 
 So past retrieve? I have liis iieart, you know — 
 
 I may dispose of it — I give it you ! 
 
 It loves you as mine loves ! Contirm me, Ileniy ! 
 
 [Diu 
 
 Tresh. I wish thee joy, beloved I I ara glad 
 In thy full gladness ! 
 
 Guen. [without.^ Mildred ! Tresham ! 
 
 [Entering with Austin.] Thorold, 
 
 I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons ! 
 That's well— 
 
 Tresh. Oh ! better far than that ! 
 
 Guen. She's dead 
 
 Let me unlock her arms ! 
 
 Tresh. She threw them thus 
 
 About my neck, and blessed me, and then died. 
 — You'll let them stay now, Guendolen ! 
 
 Alls. Leave her 
 
 And look to him ! What ails you, Thorold ? 
 
 Guen. White 
 
 As she — and whiter ! Austin — quick — this side I 
 
 Aus. A froth is oozing thro' his clenched teeth — 
 Both lips, where they're not bitten thro*, are black ! 
 Speak, dearest Thorold ! 
 
 Tresh. Something does weigh down 
 
 My neck beside her weight : thanks : 1 should fall 
 But for you, Austin, I believe ! — thoe, thert< —
 
 so A BLOT IN THE 'sCUTCHEON. 
 
 Twill pass away soon ! — ah, — I had forgotten — 
 I am dying. 
 
 Guen. Thorold — Thorold — why was this ? 
 
 Tresh. I said, just as I drank the poison off, 
 The earth would be no longer earth to me, 
 The life out of all life was gone from rae ! 
 There are blind w^ays provided, the foredone 
 Heart-weary player in this pageant world 
 Drops out by, letting the main masque defile 
 By the conspicuous portal : — I am through — 
 Just through 1 — 
 
 Guen. Don't leave him, Austin ! death is close, 
 
 Tresh. Already Mildred's face is peacefuller I 
 I see you, Austin — feel you — here's my hand, 
 Put yours in it — You, Guendolen, yours tool 
 You're Lord and Lady now — Y'^our're Treshams — Name 
 And fame are yours — Y'ou hold our 'Scutcheon up. 
 Austin, no Blot on it 1 Y"ou see how blood 
 Must wash one blot away : tlie first blot came 
 And the first blood came. To the vain world's eye 
 All's gules again — no care to the vain world, 
 From whence the red Avas drawn 1 
 
 Alls. No blot shall come 
 
 Tresh. I said tliat — yet it did ccme. Should it come, 
 Vengeance is God's not man's. Remember me ! 
 
 [Diet 
 
 Guen. [Jetting fall the pulseless arm.'] Ah, Ti.orolJ, 
 we can but — remember you 1
 
 ran 
 
 RETURN OF THE DRUSEa
 
 THE 
 
 RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 The Grand-Master's Prefect. 
 The Tatriarc h's Nuncio. 
 The RepuMu-'s Ailniiral. 
 L0T8DE Dreux, Knight-Novice. 
 Initiated Druses — Djahal. 
 
 " " KlIALIL. 
 
 " " Anael. 
 
 Initiated Druses — Maani. 
 " " Karsiiook, 
 
 KAGiiin, Ayoob, and 
 otiiers. 
 Uninitiated Druses. 
 rrcfcct's Guard, Nuncio's A^ 
 tcndants, Admiral's Torco. 
 
 Time 14—. 
 
 Place, An Islet of the Southern Sporades, colonized hy Druses of 
 Lebanon, and garrisoned hy the Knights-IIospitallcrs of Rhodes. 
 Scene, A Hall in the Prefect's Palace. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Enter stealthily Karsiiook, Raghib, Atoob, and other initiated 
 Druses, eoch as he enters casting off a robe that conceals hii 
 distinctive black vest and white tuiban; then, as giving a loose to 
 exultation — 
 
 A'ar. Tlie moon is carried off in purple fire : 
 Day breaks at last ! Break glory, with the day, 
 On Djabal's dread incarnate niy.-tery
 
 64 THE RETURN OF TOE DRUSES. 
 
 Now ready to re:^ume its pristine shape 
 Of Hakeem, as the Khalib vanislied erst 
 In what seemed death to uninstructed eyes, 
 On red Mokattam's verge — our Founder's flesh, 
 As he resumes our Founder's function ! 
 
 Rayh. —Death 
 
 Sweep to the Christian Prefect that enslaved 
 So long us sad Druse exiles o'er the sea ! 
 
 Ay. — Most joy be thine, O Mother-mount ! Thy brood 
 Returns to thee, no outcasts as we left ; 
 But thus — but thus ! Behind, our Prefect's corse ; 
 Before, a presence like the morning — thine, 
 Absolute Djabal late, — God Hakeem now 
 That day breaks ! 
 
 Kar. Off then, with disguise at last ! 
 
 As from our forms this hateful garb we strip. 
 Lose every tongue its glozing accent too. 
 Discard each limb the ignoble gesture ! Cry, 
 'Tis the Druse Nation, warders on our mount 
 Of the world's secret, since the birth of time, 
 — No kindred slips, no offsets from thy stock, 
 No spawn of Christians are we. Prefect, we 
 Who rise . . . 
 
 Ay. "Wlio shout . . . 
 
 Ragh. Who seize, a first-fruits, ha— 
 
 Spoil of the spoiler ! Brave ! 
 
 {They begin to tear down, and io dispute for, the decorationt 
 of the HalL 
 
 Kar. Hold I
 
 THE RKTUnX OF THE DRUSES. 65 
 
 Ay. — Mine, I say ; 
 
 And mine shall it continue ! 
 
 Kar. Just this fringe ! 
 
 Take anything beside ! Lo, spire on spire, 
 Curl serpentwise wreathed eolumns to tiie top 
 Of the roof, and hide themselves mysteriously 
 Araons the twinkling lights and darks that haunt 
 Yon cornice I Wliere the huge veil, they suspend 
 Before the Prefect's Chamber of delight, 
 Floats wide, then falls again (as if its slave, 
 The scented air, took heart now, and anon 
 Lost heart, to buoy its breadths of gorgeousness 
 Above the gloom they droop in) — all the porch 
 Is jewelled o'er with frost-work cliaractery ; 
 And see yon eight-point cross of white flame, winking 
 Hoar-silvery like some fresh-broke marble-stone : 
 Raze out the Khodian's Cioss there, so thou leav'st me 
 This single fringe ! 
 
 Ay. Ila, wonklst thou, dog-fox ? Help 
 
 — Three handbreadths of gold fringe, my son was set 
 To twist, the night he died ! 
 
 Kar. Nay, hear the knave ! 
 
 And I could witness my one daughter borne, 
 A week since, to the Prefect's couch, yet fold 
 These arms, be mute, lest word of mine should mar 
 Our Master's work, delay the Prefect here 
 A day, prevent liis sailing hence for Rhodes — 
 IIow know I else? — Hear me denied my right 
 By sucii a knave ! 
 
 VOL. II. 5
 
 66 THE RETURN OF IQE DRUSES. 
 
 liagli. [interposing.'] Each ravage for himselfl 
 Booty enough ! On Druses ! Be there found 
 Blood and a heap hehind us; with us, Djabal 
 Turned Hakeem ; and before us, Lebanon ! 
 Yields the porch? Spare not! There his miniona 
 
 dragged 
 Thy daughter, Karshook, to the Prefect's couch ! 
 Ayoob ! Thy son, to soothe the Prefect's pride, 
 Bent o'er that task, the death-sweat on his brow, 
 Carving the spice-tree's lieart iu scroll-work there I 
 Onward iii Djubal's name ! 
 
 As the tumult is at height, enter Khalil. A pause and siUnce. 
 
 Kha. Was it for this, 
 
 Djabal hath summoned you ? Deserve you thus 
 A portion in to-day's event ? "Wh.at, here — 
 When most behooves your feet fall soft, your eyes 
 Sink low, your tongues lie still, — at Djabal's side. 
 Close in his very hearing, who, perchance. 
 Assumes e'en now God Hakeem's dreaded s}iape, — 
 Dispute you for these gauds ? 
 
 j« How say'st thou, Khalil? 
 
 Doubtless our Master prompts thee ! Take the fringe, 
 Old Karshook I I supposed it was a day . . . 
 
 Klia. For pillage ? 
 
 Kar. Hearken, Khalil I Never spoke 
 
 A boy so like a song-bird ; we avouch thee 
 Prettiest of all our Master's instruments 
 Except thy bright twin-sister — thou and Anael
 
 THE parruux of tiif druses. 67 
 
 Cliallenge his prime regard : but we m*ay crave 
 
 (Such nothings as we be) a portion too 
 
 Of Djabal's favor ; in liira we believed, 
 
 His bound ourselves, him moon by moon obeyed, 
 
 Kept silence till this daybreak — so may claim 
 
 Reward : who grudges me my claim ? 
 
 Ay. To-day 
 
 Is not as yesterday ! 
 
 Ra<jh. Stand off! 
 
 Kha. Kebel you ? 
 
 Must I, the delegate of Djabal, draw 
 His wrath on you, the day of our Rctni-n? 
 
 Other Druses. Wrench from their grasp the fringe 
 Hound ! must the earth 
 Vomit her plagues on us thru' thee ? — and thee? 
 Plague me not, Khalil, for their fault ! 
 
 Kha. Oh, shame 1 
 
 Thus breaks to-day on you, the mystic tribe 
 Who, flying the approach of Osman, bore 
 Our faith, a merest spark, from Syria's Ridge 
 Its birthplace, hitlier! Let the sea divide 
 These hunters from their prey, you said, and safe 
 In this dim islet's virgin solitude 
 Tend we our fjxith, the spark, till happier time 
 Fan it to fire ; till Hakeem rise again. 
 According to his word tiiat, in the llesh 
 Which faded on Mokattam ages since, 
 He, at our extreme need, wculd interpose, 
 Vud, reinstating all ir power and bliss.
 
 68 THE KETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Lead Ub himself lo Lebanon once more. 
 Was't not thus you departed years ago, 
 Ere I was born ? 
 
 Druses. 'Twas even thus, years ag:o. 
 
 Kha. And did you call — (according to old laws 
 Which bid us, lest the Sacred grow Profane, 
 Assimilate ourselves in outward rites 
 With strangers fortune makes our lords, and live 
 As Christian with the Christian, Jew with Jew, 
 Druse only with the Druses) — did you call 
 Or no, to stand 'twixt you and Osman's rage, 
 (Mad to pursue e'en hither thro' the sea 
 The remnant of your tribe) a race self-vowed 
 To endless warfare with his hordes and hira. 
 The White-cross Knights of the adjacent Isle ? 
 
 Kar. And wliy else rend we down, wrench up, raze out' 
 These Knights of Rhodes we thus solicited 
 For help, bestowed on us a fiercer pest 
 Than aught we fled — their Prefect; who began 
 His promised mere paternal governance. 
 By a prompt massacre of all our Sheikhs 
 Able to thwart the Order in its scheme 
 Of crushing, with our nationalities, 
 Each chance of our return, and taming us 
 3ond slaves to Rhodes forever — all, he thinks 
 To end by this day's treason. 
 
 KJia. Say I not ? 
 
 you, fitted to the Order's purposes, 
 Tour Sheikhs cut off, your very garb proscribed,
 
 THK UliTUKN OF THE DRUSES. 69 
 
 Alust yet receive one degi-adation more ; 
 
 The Knights at last throw off the mask — transfer, 
 
 As tributary now, and ajjpanage, 
 
 This islet they are but protectors of, 
 
 To tlieir own ever-craving lord, the Church, 
 
 Which licenses all crimes that pay it thus — 
 
 You, from their Prefect, were to be consigned 
 
 Pursuant to I know not what vile pact, 
 
 To the Knights' Patriarch, ardent to outvie 
 
 His predecessor in all wickedness ; 
 
 When suddenly rose Djabal in the midst, 
 
 Djabal, the man, in semblance, but our God 
 
 Confessed by signs and portents. Ye saw fire 
 
 Bicker round Djab;.l, heard strange music flit 
 
 Bird-like about his brow ? 
 
 Druses. We saw — we heard I 
 
 Djabal is Hakeem, the incarnate Dread, 
 The phantasm Klialif, King of Prodigies ! 
 
 Kha. And as he said haih not our Khaiif done. 
 And so disposed events (from land to land 
 Parsing invisibly) — that wlien, tliis morn, 
 The pact of villany complete, there comes 
 This Patriarch's Nuncio with this Master's Prefecl 
 Their treason to consummate, — each will face 
 For a crouching handful, an u[)lifted nation ; 
 For simulated Christians, confessed Druses ; 
 And, for slaves past hope of the Mother-mount, 
 Fniedmen returning there 'neath Venice' flag; 
 That Venice, whicli, the Hospitallers' foe.
 
 rO THE llETURN OF THE DKUSES. 
 
 Grants us from Candia escort home at price 
 
 Of our relinquished isle — Rhodes counts her own — ■ 
 
 Venice, whose promised argosies siiould stand 
 
 Toward the harbour : is it now that you, and you, 
 
 And you, selected from the rest to bear 
 
 The burden of the Khalif's secret, further 
 
 To-day's event, entitled by your wrongs, 
 
 And witness in the Prefect's hall his fate — 
 
 That you dare clutch these gauds ? Ay, drop thtjm ! 
 
 Kar. True, 
 
 Most true, all this; and yet, may one dare hint, 
 Thou art the youngest of us? — tho' employed 
 Abundantly as Djabal's confidant, 
 Transmitter of his mandates, even now : 
 Much less, whene'er beside him Anael gi'aces 
 The cedar throne, his Queen-bride, art thou like 
 To occupy its lowest step tliat day ! 
 Now, Khalil, wert thou checked as thou aspiresl. 
 Forbidden such or such an honour, — say, 
 Would silence serve so amply ? 
 
 Klia. Karshook thinks 
 
 I covet honours? Well, nor idly thinks ! 
 Honours ? I have demanded of them all 
 The greatest ! 
 
 Kar. I supposed so. 
 
 Kha. Judge yourselves I 
 
 Turn — thus : 'tis in the alcove at the back 
 Of yonder columned porch, whose entrance now 
 The veil hides, that our Prefect holds his state ;
 
 THE RKTURN OF Tni; I)"-Si:3. 71 
 
 Rc'C^rives the Nuncio, wlion the one, from Rliodes, 
 The otiier lands iVoin Syria; there they meet. 
 Now, I liave sued with earnest [)rayerd . . . 
 
 K(ir. For what 
 
 Shall tlie l)ride':j brother vainly sue? 
 
 Kha. That mine — 
 
 Avenging in one blow a myriad wrongs, 
 — Might be the hand to slay tiie Prefect there ! 
 Djabal reserves that olliee ibr himself. \_A silence 
 
 Thus far, as youngest of you all, I speak 
 — Scarce more enlightened lliau yourselves: since, near 
 As I approach him, nearer as 1 trust 
 Soon to approach our Master, he reveals 
 Only the God's power, not the glory yet : 
 Therefore I reasoned with you : now, as servant 
 To Djabal, bearing his authority. 
 Hear me appoint your several posts ! Till noon 
 None sees him save myself and Anael^-once 
 The deed achieved, our Klialif, casting off 
 The embodied Awe's tremendous mystery, 
 The weakness of the flesh disguise, resumes 
 His proper glory, ne'er to fade again. 
 
 Enler a Druse. 
 
 The Druse. Our Prefect lands from Rhodes ! — With 
 out a sign 
 Th;^ he suspects aught since he left our Isle ; 
 Nor in his train a single guard beyond 
 The few he sailed with hence : so have we learned 
 From Loys ...
 
 72 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Kar. Loys ? Is not Loys gone 
 
 For ever ? 
 
 Ayooh. Loys, the Frank Knight, returned ? 
 
 The Druse. Loys, the boy, stood on the leading prow 
 Conspicuous in his gay attire, — and leapt 
 Into the surf the foremost : since day-dawn 
 I kept watch to the Northward ; take but note 
 Of my poor vigilance to Djabal ! 
 
 Kha. Peace I 
 
 Thou, Karshook, with thy company, receive 
 The Prefect as appointed : see, all keep 
 The wonted show of servitude : announce 
 His entry here by the accustomed peal 
 Of trumpets, then await the further pleasure 
 Of Djabal ! (Loys back, whom Djabal sent 
 To Rhodes that we might spare the single Knight 
 Worth sparing !) 
 
 Enter a second Druse. 
 
 27ie Druse. I espied it first ! Say, I 
 
 First spied the Nuncio's galley from the South ! 
 Saidst thou a Crossed-keys' Flag would flap the mast ? 
 It nears apace ! One galley and no more — 
 If Djabal cliance to ask who spied the flag, 
 Forget not, I it was ! 
 
 K/ia. Thou, Ayoob, bring 
 
 The Nuncio and his followers hither! Break 
 One rule prescribed, ye wither in your blood, 
 Die at your fault!
 
 THE RKTURN OK TIIK DRCSE3. 73 
 
 Enler a third Druse. 
 
 The Druse. I shall see home, see liuiue I 
 
 —Shall banquet in the sombre groves again I 
 Hail to thee, Khalil ! Venice looms afar; 
 The aa-gosies of Venice, like a cloud, 
 Bear up from Candia iu the distance ! 
 
 Kha. Joy ! 
 
 Summon our people, Raghib 1 Bid all forth I 
 Tell them the long-kept secret, old and young 1 
 Set free the captives, let the trampled raise 
 Their faces from the dust, because at length 
 The cycle is complete, God Hakeem's reign 
 BegLns anew ! Say, Venice for our guard, 
 Ere night we steer for Syria ! Hear you. Druses? 
 Hear you this crowning witness to the claims 
 Of Djubal ? Oh, I spoke of hope and fear, ^ 
 
 Reward and punishment, because he bade 
 Who has the right ; for me, what should I say 
 But, mar not those imperial lineaments. 
 No majesty of all that rapt regard 
 Vex by the least omission ! Let him rise 
 Without a check from you 1 
 
 Druses. Let Djabal rise ! 
 
 Enter Loys. — The Druses are silent. 
 
 Loys. Who speaks of Djabal ? — fori seek him, friends 
 \^Aside.'\ Ta Dieul 'Tis as our Isle broke out in song 
 For joy, its Prefect-incubus drops off
 
 74 Tin; RETDRX OF THE DKU3K3. 
 
 To-daj, and 1 succeed him in his rule ! 
 But no — they cannot dream of their good fortune . 
 ^Aloud.^ Peace to you, Dru.>;es ! I have tidings for you, 
 But first for Djubal: \viiere's your tall bewitcher, 
 Witli that small Arab thin-lipped silver mouth? 
 
 I)Jia. l_Aside to Kar.] Loys, in truth ! Yet Djabai 
 cannot err ! 
 
 Kar. \_to KiiA.] And who takes charge of Loys) 
 That's forgotten, 
 Despite thy wariness ! Will Loys stand 
 And see his comrade slaughtered ? 
 
 Loi/s. \^ Aside. ^ ITow they shrink 
 
 And whisper,' with those rapid faces ! What ? 
 The sight of me in their oppressors' garb 
 Strikes terror to the simple tribe? God's shame 
 On those that bring our Order ill repute ! 
 But all's at end now ; better days begin 
 For these mild mountaineers from over-sea; 
 The timidest shall have in me no Prefect 
 To cower at thus ! [^Aloud.'] I asked for Djabai — 
 
 Kar. \_Aside.^ Better 
 
 One lured him, ere he can suspect, inside 
 The corridor; 'twere easy to despatch 
 A youngster, [to Loys.] Djabai passed some minutes 
 
 since 
 riiro' yonder porch, and . . . 
 
 Kha. [Aside.'] Hold ! What, him despatch ' 
 
 The only Christian of them all we charge 
 No tyranny upon ? Who, — noblest Knight
 
 Tin: RliTLRN OF TIIF, DRUSES. 75 
 
 Of all tliat learned from time to time their trade 
 
 Of lust and cruelty among us, — lieir 
 
 To Europe's pomps, a truest child of pride, — 
 
 Yet stood between the Prefect and ourselves 
 
 From the beginning ? Loys, Djabal makes 
 
 Account of, and precisely sent to Rhodes 
 
 For safety ? — 1 take charge of him ! 
 
 [7w Loys.] Sir Loys, — 
 
 Loys. There, cousins ! Dues Sir Loys strike you dead ? 
 
 Klia. [iidvancing.^ Djabal has intercourse with few or 
 none 
 Till noontide : but, your pleasure? 
 
 Loys. " Intercourse 
 
 " With few or none ? " — (Ah, Khalil, when you spoke 
 I saw not your smooth face ! All health ! — and health 
 To Anael ! How fares Anael ? ) — " Intercourse 
 "With few or none?" Forget you, I've been friendly 
 With Djabal long ere you or any Druse? 
 — Enough of him at llennes, I think, beneath 
 The Duke my father's roof! He'd tell by the hour, 
 With fixed white eyes beneath his swarthy brow, 
 Plausiblest stories . . . 
 
 Kha. Stories, say you ? — Ah, 
 
 The (Juaint attire ! 
 
 Loys. jNIy dress for the last time 1 
 
 How sad I cannot make you understand, 
 This ermine, o'er a shi'jld, betokens me 
 Uf Bretagne, ancientest of provinces , 
 And noblest ; and, what's best and oldest there,
 
 76 THE RKTURN OF THE DRUSES". 
 
 See, Dreux', our house's blazon, which the Nuncio 
 Tacks to an Hospitallers' vest to-day ! 
 
 Kha. The Nuncio we await ? What brings you back 
 from Rhodes, Sir Loys? 
 
 Loys. How you island tribe 
 
 forget, the world's awake while here you drowse! 
 {Vhat brings me back? What should not bring me, 
 
 rather ? 
 Our Patriarch's Nuncio visits you to-day — 
 Is not my year's probation out ? I come 
 To take the knightly vows. 
 
 J^}ia. What's that you wear i 
 
 Loys. This Rhodian cross? The cross your Prefeci 
 wore. 
 You should have seen, as I saw, the full Chapter 
 Rise, to a man, while they transferred this cross 
 From that unworthy Prefect's neck to . . . (fool — 
 M}' secret will escape me !) in a word, 
 My year's probation's passed, and Knight ere eve 
 Am I; Dound, like the rest, to yield my wealth 
 To the common stock, to live in cliastity, 
 (We Knights espouse alone our Order's fame) 
 —Change this gay weed for the black white-crossed gown 
 And fight to death against tlie Infidel 
 — Not, therefore, against you, you Christians with 
 Such partial dilierence only as befits 
 The peacefullest of tribes! But Khalil, prithee, 
 Is not the Isle brighter tlian wont to-day? 
 Kha. Ah, the new sword !
 
 TUli RliTUUN OJ Tin; UltUaKS. 77 
 
 Lays. See now ! You handle sword 
 
 As 'twere a camel-staff! Pull ! That's my motto. 
 Annealed, ^'^ Pro fide" on the blade in blue. 
 
 Kha. No curve in it ? Surely a lihule should curve 1 
 
 Loys. Straight from the wrist ! Luose — it should 
 poise itself! 
 
 Klia. [iciivinfj with irrepressible exultation the sirof J.'j 
 We are a nation, Loys, of old fame 
 Among the mountains! Rights have we to keep 
 With the sword too ! 
 
 [^Remembering himself.'] But I forget — you bid me 
 Seek Djabal ? 
 
 Loys. VVIiat ! A sword's sight scares you not? 
 
 (The people I will make of him and them! 
 Oh, let my Prefect-sway begin at once !) 
 Bring Djabal — say, indeed, that come he must ! 
 
 Kha. At noon seek Djabal in the Prefect's Chamber, 
 And find — [Aside.'] Nay, 'tis thy cursed race's token, 
 Frank pride, no special insolence of thine ! 
 [Aloud.] Tarry and I will do your bidding, Loys. 
 [To the rest aside.] Now, forth you ! I proceed to Djabal 
 
 straight. 
 Leave this poor boy, who knows not what he says. 
 Oh, will it not add joy to even thy joy, 
 Djabal, that I report all friends were true? 
 
 Kiixhii. goes, followed by the Druses. 
 
 Loys. Til Dieu! IIow h:ip[)y I sliall make these 
 Druses ! 
 Was't not surpassingly contrived of me
 
 78 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES- 
 
 To get the long list of their wrongs by heart, 
 Then take tlie first pretence for stealing off \ 
 From these poor islanders, present myself 
 Sudden at Rhodes before tlie noble Chapter, 
 And (as best proof of ardowr in its cause 
 Which ere to-night will have become, too, mine) 
 Acquaint it with this plague-sore in its body, 
 This Prefect and his villanous career ? 
 Tlie princely Synod ! All I dared request 
 Was his dismissal ; and they graciously 
 Consigned his very office to myself — 
 Myself may heal whate'er's diseased ! 
 
 And good 
 For them, they did so ! Since I never felt 
 How lone a lot, tho' brilliant, I embrace, 
 Till now that, past retrieval, it is mine — 
 To live thus, and thus die! Yet, as I leapt 
 On shore, so home a feeling greeted me 
 That I could half believe in Djabal's story, 
 He used to tempt my father with, at Rennes — 
 And me, too, since the story brought me here — 
 Of some Count Dreux and ancestor of ours. 
 Who, sick of wandering from Bouillon's war. 
 Left his old name in Lebanon. 
 
 Long days 
 At least to spend in the Isle ! and, my news known 
 An iiour hence, what if Anael turns on me 
 The great black eyes I must forget ? 
 
 Why, fool,
 
 TOE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 7** 
 
 Recall them, then ? My business is with Djahal, 
 Not Anael! Djabal tarries: if I seek him? — 
 The Isle i.s brighter than its wont to-day I 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Enter Djabal. 
 
 .Dja. That a strong man should think himself a God ! 
 J — Hakeem ? To have wandered thro' the world, 
 Sown falsehood, and thence reaped now scorn, now faith, 
 For my one chant witli many a change, my tale 
 Of outrage, and my prayer for vengeance — this 
 Required, for-ooth, no mere man's faculty, 
 Nor less than Hakeem's? The persuading Loys 
 To pass probation here; the getting access 
 By Loys to the Prefect; worst of all. 
 The gaining my tribe's confidence by fraud 
 That would disgrace the very Franks, — a few 
 Of Europe's secrets that subdue the flame, 
 The wave, — to ply a simple tribe with these. 
 Took Ilakeem ? 
 
 And I feel this first to-day I 
 Does the day break, is the hour imminent 
 When one deed, when my whole life's deed, my deed 
 Must be accomplished? Ilakeem? Why the God ? 
 Shout, rather, " Djabal, You^sof's child, thought slain 
 ^ With his whole race, the Druses' Sheikhs, this Prefecl 
 * Endeavoured to extirpate — saved, a child,
 
 80 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 " Returns from traversing the world, a man, 
 
 " Able to take revenge, lead back tbe march 
 
 "To Lebanon" — so shout, and who gainsays? 
 
 But now, because delusion mixed itself 
 
 Insensibly with this career, all's changed ! 
 
 Have I brought Venice to afford us convoy? 
 
 ' True — but my jugglings wrought that !" Put 1 heart 
 
 Into our people where no heart lurked? — "Ah, 
 
 " AVhat cannot an impostor do ! " 
 
 Not this ! 
 Not do this which I do ! Not bid, avaunt 
 Falsehood ! Thou shalt not keep thy hold on me ' 
 — Nor even get a hold on me ! 'Tis now — 
 This day — hour — minute — 'tis as here I stand 
 On the accursed threshold of the Prefect, 
 That I am found deceiving and deceived! 
 And now what do I ? — Hasten to the few 
 Deceived, ere they deceive the many — shout, 
 As I professed, I did believe myself! 
 Say, Druses, had you seen a butchery — 
 
 If Ayoob, Karshook saw Maani there 
 
 Must tell you how I saw my father sink ; 
 My mother's arms twine still about ray neck ; 
 I hear my brother's shriek, here's yet the scar 
 Of what was meant for my own death-blow — say. 
 If you had woke like me, grown year by year 
 Out of the tumult in a far-oif clime. 
 Would It be wondrous such delusion grew ? 
 \ walked the world, asked help at every hand;
 
 THE RETURN OF TUE DRCSE3. 81 
 
 Came help or no ? Not tliis and this ? Wliich helps 
 When I returned with, found the Prefect here, 
 The Druses here, all here but Hakeem's self, 
 The Klialif of a thousand pro])hecies, 
 Reserved for such a juncture, — could I call 
 My mission aught but Hakeem's ? Promised l[akeem 
 More than performs the Djabal — you absolve ? 
 — Me, you will never shame before the crowd 
 Yet happily ignorant ? — Me, both throngs surround 
 The few deceived, the many unabused, 
 — Who, thus surrounded, slay for you and them 
 The Prefect, lead to Lebanon ! No Kiialif, 
 But Sheikh once more ! Mere Djabal not . . . 
 Enter Khali L hastily. 
 
 JUia. — God Hakeem 1 
 
 'Tis told! The whole Druse nation knows thee. Hakeem, 
 As we ! and mothers lift on high their babes 
 Who seem aware, so glisten their great eyes, 
 Thou hast not failed us ; ancient brows are proud ! 
 Our Elders could not earlier die, it seems, 
 Than at thy coming ! The Druse heart is thine I 
 Take it ! my Lord and theirs, be thou adored ! 
 
 DJa. [_Aside.'] Adored! — but I renounce it utterly I 
 
 Kha. Already are they instituting choirs 
 And dances to the Khalif, as of old 
 'Tis chronicled thou bad'st them. 
 
 DJa. [_Aside.'] I abjure it 1 
 
 Tis not mine — not for me ! 
 
 Kha. "Why pour they wiue 
 
 VOL- II. 6
 
 82 THE UETURN OF THE DKUSES. 
 
 Flavoured like honey and bruised mountain herbs ? 
 Or wear those strings of sun-dried cedar-fruit ? 
 Oh — let me tell thee — Esaad, we supposed 
 Doling, is carried forth, eager to see 
 The last sun rise on the Isle — he can see now ! 
 The shamed Druse women never wept before : 
 They can look up when we reach home, they say. 
 Smell ! — Sweet cane, saved in Lilith's breast thus long- 
 Sweet ! — it grows wild in Lebanon. And I 
 Alone do nothing for thee I 'Tis my office 
 Just to announce what well thou know'st — but thus 
 Thou bidst me. At this selfsame moment tend 
 The Prefect, Nuncio, and the Admiral 
 Hither, by their three sea-paths — nor forget 
 Who were the trusty watchers ! — Thou forget ? 
 Like me, who do forget that Anael bade . . . 
 
 Dja. \_Aside.'] Ay, Anael, Anael — is that said at last? 
 Louder than all, that would be said, I knew ! 
 What does abjuring mean, confessing mean, 
 To the people ? Till that woman crossed my path, 
 On went I, solely for my people's sake : 
 I saw her, and I first saw too myself, 
 And slackened pace : " if I should prove indeed 
 Hakeem — with Anael by !" 
 
 Kha. \_Aside.'\ Ah, he is rapt I 
 
 Dare I at such a moment break on him 
 Even to do my sister's bidding ? Yes ! 
 The ejes are Djabal's, and not Hakeem's yetl 
 Though but till I have spoken this, perchance.
 
 THE RKTUUN OF TIIK DRUSES. 83 
 
 DJa. [ylsjrfe.] To yearn to tell her, and yet have no one 
 Great heart's-worl that will tell her ! I could gasp 
 Doubtless one such word out, and die ! 
 
 \_Aloud.'\ You said 
 
 That Anael . . . 
 
 Kha. . . . Fain would see thee, speak with thee, 
 
 Before thou change, discard this Djabal's shape 
 She knows, for Hakeem's shape she is to know: 
 Something's to say that will not from her mind : 
 I know not what — " Let him but come ! " she said. 
 
 DJa. \_HaIf-apart.~\ My nation — all my Druses — how 
 fare they ? 
 Those I must save, and sufier thus to save, 
 Hold they their posts ? Wait they their Klialif too ? 
 
 J\]ia. All at the signal [)ant to flock around 
 That banner of a brow ! 
 
 Dja. \_Aside.~\ And when they flock, 
 
 Confess them this — and after, for reward. 
 Be chased with bowlings to her feet perchance ? 
 — Have the poor outraged Druses, deaf and blind, 
 Precede me there — forestall my story, there — 
 Tell it in mocks and jeers — 
 
 I lose myself ! 
 Who needs a Hakeem to direct him now ? 
 [ need the veriest child — why not this child ? 
 
 Yruniing abruptly to Khami. 
 
 Tou are a Druse too, Khalil ; /'»u were nourished 
 Like Anael with our mvsteries : if she 
 Could vow, so nourished, to love only on«>
 
 B4 TOE RETURN OF TUE DRUSES. 
 
 Who should revenge the Druses, whence proceeds 
 
 Your silence ? Wherefore made you no essay, 
 
 Who thus implicitly can execute 
 
 My bidding ? What have I done, you could not ? 
 
 Who, knowing more than Anael the prostration 
 
 Of our once lofty tribe, the daily life 
 
 Of this detested . . . 
 
 Does he come, you say, 
 
 This Prefect ? All's in readiness ? 
 
 Kha. The sword, 
 
 The sacred robe, the Khalif's mystic tiar, 
 Laid up so long, are all disposed beside 
 The Prefect's chamber. 
 
 J)ja. — Why did you despair ? 
 
 Kha. I know our Nation's state ? Too surely know, 
 As thou, who speak'st to prove me 1 Wrongs like ours 
 Should wake revenge : but when I sought the wronged 
 And spoke, — " The Prefect stabbed your son — arise ! 
 " Your daughter, while you starve, eats shameless bread 
 « In his pavilion — then arise ! " — my speech 
 Fell idly — 'twas, " Be silent, or worse fare ! 
 "Endure, till time's slow cycle prove complete ! 
 " Who may'st thou be that takest on thee to thrust 
 " Into this peril — art thou Hakeem ? " No ! 
 Only a mission like thy mission renders 
 All these obedient at a breath, subdues 
 Their private passions, brings their wills to one ! 
 Dja. You think so ? 
 Kha, Even now — when they have witnessed
 
 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 65 
 
 riiy miracles — had I not tlircatened them 
 
 With Hakeem's vengtaiu-e, they would mar the whole, 
 
 And lie ere this, each witlr4iis special prize, 
 
 Safe in his dwelling, leaving our main hope 
 
 To perish ! No ! When these have kissed thy feet 
 
 At Lebanon, tlie Pu-t purged off, the Present 
 
 Clear, — for the Future, even Hakeem's mission 
 
 May tiul, and I perchance, or any youth, 
 
 Can rule them thus renewed. — I talk to thee ! 
 
 DJa. And wisely. (He is Anael's brother, pure 
 As Anael's self.) Go say, I come to her. 
 Haste! I will follow you. [Khalil goes 
 
 Oh, not confess 
 To these — the blinded multitude — confess, 
 Before at least the fortune of my deed 
 Half authorize its means ! Only to her 
 Let me confess my fault, who in my path 
 Curled up like incense from a mage-king's tomb 
 When he would have the v\'ayfarer descend 
 Thro' the earth's rift and uike hid treasure up. 
 "When should my first -hild's-carelessness have stopped 
 If not wlien I, whose lone youth hurried past 
 Letting each joy 'scape for the Druses' sake, 
 At l(M)gth recovered in one Druse all joys ? 
 Were her brow brighter, her eyes richer, still 
 Would I confess! On the gulf's verge I pause. 
 How could I >lay the Prefect, tlius and thus? 
 Anael, be mine to guard me, cot destroy ! [ Goes
 
 36 THE RETURN Ol'' TUE DRUSES. 
 
 Enter Anael, and INIaani, zc/io is assistinrj to array ner in tin 
 ancient dress of the Druses. 
 
 An. Those saffron-vestures of the tabret-girls ! 
 Comes Djabal, think you ? 
 
 3Iaa. Doubtless Djabal cornea. 
 
 An. Dost thou snow-swathe thee ki uglier, Lebanon, 
 Than in my dreams ? — Nay, all the tresses off 
 My forehead — look I lovely so ? He says 
 That I am lovely. 
 
 3faa. Lovely ! nay, that hangs 
 
 Awry. 
 
 An. You tell me how a khandjar hangs ? 
 The sharp side, thus, along the heart, see, marks 
 The maiden of our class. Are you content 
 For Djabal as for me ? 
 
 3Iaa. Content, my child. 
 
 An. Oh, mother, tell me more of him. He comes 
 Even now — tell more, fill up my soul with him ! 
 
 Maa. And did I not . . . ye^ surely . . . tell you all ? 
 
 An. What will be changed in Djabal when the Changi 
 Arrives ? Which feature ? Not his eyes ! 
 
 Maa. 'Tis writ, 
 
 Our Hakeem's eyes rolled fire and clove the dark 
 Superbly. 
 
 An. Not his eyes ! His voice perhaps ? 
 
 iTet that's no change ; for a grave current lived 
 — Grandly beneath the surface ever lived, 
 That, scattering, broke as in live silver spray
 
 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 8< 
 
 While . • . :ili, the bliss ... he would discourse to me 
 In that enforced, still fashion, word en word! 
 'Tis the old current which must swell thro' that, 
 For what least tone, INIaani, could I lose ? 
 'Tis surely not his voice will change ! 
 
 — If Hakeem 
 Only stood by ! If Djabal, somehow, passed 
 Out of the radiance as from out a robe ; 
 Possessed, but was not it 
 
 lie lived with you? 
 Well — and that morning Djabal saw me first 
 And heard my vow never to wed but one 
 Who saved my People — on that day . . . proceed I 
 
 Maa. Once more, then : from the time of his return 
 In secret, changed so since he left the Isle 
 That I, who screened our Emir's last of sons, 
 This Djabal, from the Prefect's massacre 
 ■ — Who bade him ne'er forget the child he was, 
 ■ — Who dreamed so long the youth he might become— 
 I knew not in the man that child; the man 
 Who spoke alone of hopes to save our tribe, 
 How he had gone from land to land to save 
 Our tribe — allies were sure, nor foes to dread; 
 And much he mused, days, nights, alone he mused, 
 But never till that day when, pale and worn 
 As by a persevering woe, he ^ried 
 •*Is there not one Druse left me.''" — And I showea 
 The way to Khalil's and your hiding-place 
 From the abhorred eye of the Prefect hera
 
 S8 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 So that he saw you, heard you speak — till then, 
 Never did he announce — (how the moon seemed 
 To ope and shut, the while, above us both !) 
 — His mission was the mission promised us — 
 The cycle had revolved — all things renewing, 
 He was lost Hakeem clothed in flesh to lead 
 His children home anon, now veiled to work 
 Great purposes — the Druses now would change. 
 
 An. And they have changed ! And obstacles did sin^ 
 And furtherances rose ! And round his form 
 Played fire, and music beat her angel wings ! 
 My people, let me more rejoice, oh, more 
 For you than for myself! Did I but watch 
 After the pageant, feel our Khalif pa^s, 
 One of the throng, how proud were I — tlio' ne'er 
 Singled by Djabal's glance ! But to be chosen 
 His own from all, the most his own of all, 
 To be exalted with him, side by side. 
 Lead the exulting Druses, meet . . . ah, how 
 Worthily meet the maidens who await 
 Ever beneath the cedars — how deserve 
 This honour, in their eyes ? So bright are they 
 That saffron-vestured sound the tabrets there — 
 The girls who throng there in my dreams ! One hour 
 And all is over : how shall I do au";ht 
 That may deserve next houx-'s exalting? — How ? — 
 
 [Suddenly to MjUlSI 
 
 Mother, I am not worthy of him ! I read it 
 Still in his eyes ! He stands as if to tell me
 
 THE RRIDUN OF THE DRUSES. 89 
 
 I am not, yet forbears ! Why else revert 
 To one theme ever? — how mere human frifts 
 Suffice him in myself — whose worship fades, 
 Whose awe goes ever off at his approach, 
 As now, that when he comes . . . 
 [As Djabal enters.l Oh, why is it 
 
 I cannot kneel to you ? 
 
 BJa. Rather, 'tis I 
 
 Should kneel to you, my Anael ! 
 
 An. Even so ! 
 
 For never seem you — shall T speak the truth ?^ 
 Never a God to me ! 'Tis Mie Man's hand, 
 Eye, voice ! Oh, do you veil tlicse to our people, 
 Or but to me? To th^m, I think, to them! 
 And brightness is their veil, shadow — my truth! 
 You mean that I should nevor kneel to you 
 .^So I will kneel ! 
 
 DJa. \_preventing her.'] No — no ! 
 
 [Feelin;/ the khandjar as he raises her 
 
 Ila, have you chosen . .. 
 An. The khandjar with our ancient garb. But, Djabal, 
 Change not, be not exalted yet ! give time 
 That I may plan more, perfect more. INIy blood 
 Beats — beats ! 
 
 [_Aside.] O must I then — since Loys leaves U3 
 
 Never to come again, renew in me 
 Those doubts so near eflfaced already — must 
 I needs confess them now to Djaljel ? — Own 
 That when I saw that stranger — heard his voice,
 
 90 THE RETURN OK THE DRDSES. 
 
 My faitli fell, and the woeful thought flashed first 
 
 That each effect of Djabal's presence, taken 
 
 For proof of more than human attributes 
 
 In him, by me whose heart at his approach 
 
 Beat fast, whose brain while he was by swam round, 
 
 Whose soul at his departure died away, 
 
 — That every such effect might have been wroughr 
 
 In others' frames, tho' not in mine, by Loys 
 
 Or any merely mortal presence ? Doubt 
 
 Is fading fast ; shall I reveal it now ? 
 
 How can I be rewarded presently, 
 
 With doubt unexpiated, undisclosed ? 
 
 Dja. [Aside.'] Avow the truth ? I cannot ! In whaTi 
 
 V words 
 Avow that all she loves in me is false ? 
 — Which yet has served that flower-like love of hers 
 To climb by, like the clinging gourd, and clasp 
 With its divinest wealth of leaf and bloom. 
 Could I take down the prop-work, in itself 
 So vile, yet interlaced and overlaid 
 With painted cups and fruitage — might these still 
 Bask in the sun, unconscious their own strength 
 Of matted stalk and tendril had replaced 
 The old support thus silently withdrawn ! 
 But no ; the beauteous fabric crushes too. 
 'Tis not for my sake but for Anael's sake 
 I leave her soul this Hakeem where it leans ! 
 Oh, could I vanish from them — quit tlie Isle I 
 And yet — a thought comes : here my work is done
 
 THK RET URN OF THE DRUSES. 97 
 
 A-t every point ; the Druses must return — 
 Have convoy to their birthphice back, whoe'er 
 The leader be, myself or any Druse — 
 Venice is pledged to that : 'tis for myself, 
 For my own vengeance in the Prefect's death, 
 I stay now, not for them — to slay or spare 
 The Prefect, whom imports it save myself? 
 He cannot bar their passage from the Isle ; 
 What would his death be but ray own reward ? 
 Then, mine I will forego. It is forgone ! 
 Let him escape with all my House's blood 1 
 Ere he can reach land, Djabal disai)pears, 
 And Hakeem, Anael loved, shall, fresh as first, 
 Live in her memory, keeping her sublime 
 Above the world. She cannot touch that world 
 By ever knowing what I truly am, 
 Since Loys, — of mankind tiie only one 
 Able to link my present with my past. 
 My life in Europe with my Island life. 
 Thence, able to unmask me, — I've disposed 
 Bafely at last at Rhodes, and . . . 
 
 Enter Khalil. 
 
 JOia. Loys greets thee ! 
 
 Dja. Loys ? To drag me back ? It cannot be ! 
 
 An. \_Aside.'\ Loys ! Ah, doubt may not be stifled sc 
 
 Kha. Can I have erred that thou so gazest ? Ye3, 
 I told thee not, in the glad press of tidings 
 Of higher import, Loys is returned
 
 92 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Before the Prefect, with, if possible, 
 
 Twice the light-heartedness of old. As though 
 
 On some inauguration he expects, 
 
 To-day, the world's fate hung ! 
 
 DJa. — And asks for me ? 
 
 K/ia. Thou knowest all things ! Thee in chief he 
 greets, 
 But every Druse of us is to be happy 
 At his arriv'al, he declares : were Loys 
 Thou, Master, he could have no wider soul 
 To take us in with. How I love that Loys ! 
 
 DJa. l_Aside.'\ Shame winds me with her tether round 
 and round ! 
 
 An. [^Aside.] Loys ? I take the trial ! it is meet, 
 The little I can do, be done ; that faith, 
 All I can offer, want no perfecting 
 Which my own act may compass. Ay, this way 
 All may go well, nor that ignoble doubt 
 Be chased by other aid than mine. Advance 
 Close to my fear, weigh Loys with my Lord, 
 The mortal's with the more than mortal's gifts ! 
 
 DJa. [_Aside.^ Before, there were so few deceived 
 and now 
 There's doubtless not one least Druse in the Isle 
 But (having learned my superhuman claims, 
 And calling me his Khalif-God) will clash 
 The whole truth out fiom Loys at first word I 
 While Loys, for his part, will hold me up, 
 With t Frank's unimaginable scorn
 
 THE UETURX OF THK DRUSES. 93 
 
 Of such irapo>ture, to my people's eyes ! 
 Could I but hold him lonjrer yet awhile 
 From them, amuse him here until I plan 
 How he and I at once may leave the Isle ? 
 Khalil I cannot part with from my side — 
 My only help in this emergency: 
 There's Anael ! 
 
 An. Please you ? 
 
 Uja. (Anael — none but she!) 
 
 [7b Anael.] I pass some minutes in the chamber there 
 Ere I see Loys : you shall speak wiih him 
 Until I join you. Khalil follows me. 
 
 An. [^Aside.'^ As I divined : he bids me save myself, 
 Offers me a probation — I accept ! 
 Let me see Loys ! 
 
 LoT/s. [^without.'] Djabal ! 
 
 An. [^Aside.'\ 'Tis his voice. 
 
 The smooth Frank trifler with our people's wrongs. 
 The self-complacent boy-enquirer, loud 
 Oil this and that inflicted tyranny, 
 — Aught serving to parade an ignorance 
 Of how wrong feels, inflicted! Let me close 
 With what I viewed at distance ; let myself 
 .Prv")be this delusion to the core ! 
 
 DJa. lie comes 1 
 
 Khalil, along with me ! while Anael waits 
 rill I return once m')re — and but once mor»i 1
 
 Q4 THE RETURN OF THE DUUSICS. 
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 Ajiael and Lots. 
 
 An. Here leave me ! Here I wait another. 'Twaa 
 For no mad protestation of a love 
 Like this you say possesses you, I came. 
 
 Lays. Love — how protest a love I dare not feel? 
 Mad words may doubtless have escaped me — ^you 
 Are here — I only feel you here ! 
 
 An. No more ! 
 
 Loijs. But once again, whom could you love ? I dare, 
 Alas, say nothing of myself, who am 
 A Knight now, for when Knighthood we embrace, 
 Love we abjure: so speak on safely — speak. 
 Lest I speak, and betray my faith so ! Sure 
 To say your breathing passes thro' me, changes 
 My blood to spirit, and my spirit to you, 
 As Heaven the sacrificer's wine to it — 
 This is not to protest my love ? You said 
 You could love one . . . 
 
 An. One only ! We are bent 
 
 To earth — who raises up ray tribe, I love ; 
 The Prefect bows us — vvho removes him ; we 
 Have ancient rights — who gives them back to us, 
 I love. — Forbear me! Let my'hand go ! 
 
 Leys. Him 
 
 You could love only ? Where is Djabal ? Stay 1
 
 Till". RKTURN OF THK DHDSES. 9i5 
 
 \ Aside.] Yet wherefore stay ? Wlio does this but myself? 
 
 Had I apprised her tluit I come to do 
 
 Just tiiis, what more could she acknowledge? No! 
 
 Slie sees into my heart's core : what is it 
 
 Feeds either cheek with red, as June some sose ? 
 
 Why turns she from me ? Ah fool, over fond 
 
 To dream I could call up . . . 
 
 . . "What never dream 
 Yet feigned ! 'Tis love ! Oh Anael, speak to me ! 
 Djabal ! 
 
 An. Seek Djabal by the Prefect's chamber 
 At noon ! \_S/ie paces the room 
 
 Lays. \_Aside.'] And am I not the Prefect now ' 
 Is it my fate to be the only one 
 Able to win her love, the only one 
 Unable to accept her love ? The Past 
 Breaks up beneath my footing; came I here 
 This morn as lo a slave, to set her free 
 And take her thanks, and then spend day by day 
 Content beside her in tlie Isle ? What works 
 This knowledge in me now ! Her eye has broken 
 The faint disguise away ; for Anael's sake 
 I left the Isle, for her espoused the cause 
 Of the Druses, all for her I thought, till now. 
 To live without ! 
 
 — As I must live ! To day 
 Ordains me Knight, forbids me — never shall 
 Forbid mo to profess myself, heart, arm, 
 Thv soldiiT !
 
 96 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 An. Djabal you demanded, comes ! 
 
 Loys. [_Aside.^ What wouldst thou, Loys ? See liim? 
 Nought beside 
 Is wanting : I have felt his voice a spell 
 From first to last. He brought me here, made known 
 The Druses to me, drove me hence to seek 
 Redress for them ; and shall I meet him now, 
 When nought is wanting but a word of his. 
 To — what? — induce me to spurn hope, faith, pride, 
 Honour away, — to cast my lot among 
 His tribe, become a proverb in men's mouths, 
 Breaking my high pact of companionship 
 With those who graciously bestowed on me 
 The very opportunities I turn 
 Against them. 
 
 Let me not see Djabal now ! 
 An. The Prefect also comes ! 
 Lo9/s. [^Aside.1 Him let me see, 
 
 Not Djabal ! Him, degraded at a word, 
 To please me, — to attest belief in me — 
 And, after, Djabal! Yes, ere I return 
 To her, the Nuncio's vow shall have destroyed 
 This heart's rebellion, and coerced this will 
 Forever. 
 
 Anael, not before the vows 
 [rrevocably fix me . . . 
 
 Let me fly 1 
 The Prefect, or I lose myself forever ! [ Goes 
 
 An. Yes I am calm now ; just one way remains —
 
 THE nETUKN OF THE DRUSES. 97 
 
 One, to attest my faitli in liim : for, see, 
 I were quite lo^t else : Loys, Djabal, stand 
 On either side — two men ! I balance looks 
 And words, give Djabal a man's preference. 
 No more. In Djabal, Hakeem is absorbed ! 
 And for a love like this, the God who saves 
 My race, selects me for his bride ! One way ! — 
 
 Enter Djabal. 
 nja. [to himself.'] No moment is to waste, then ; 'tL"" 
 resolved ! 
 If Klialil may be trusted to lead back 
 The Druses, and if Loys can be lured 
 Out of the Isle — if I procure his silence, 
 Or promise never to return at least, — 
 All's over ! Even now my bark awaits — 
 I reach the next wild islet and the next. 
 And lose myself beneath the sun forever ! 
 And now, to Anael I 
 
 An. Djabal, I am thine ! 
 
 DJa. Mine ? Djabal's ?— As if Hakeem had not been ? 
 An. Not Djabal's ? Say first, do you read my thought* ? 
 Why need I speak, if you can read my thoughts ? 
 DJa. I do not, I have said a thousand times. 
 An. (My secret's safe, I shall surprise him yet !) 
 Djabal, I knew your secret from the first — 
 Djabal, when first I saw you . . . (by our porch 
 You leant, and pressed the tinkling veil away. 
 And one fringe fell behind your neck — I see !) 
 VOL. II. 7
 
 98 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 ... I knew you were not human, for I said 
 *^ This dim secluded house where the sea beaig 
 Is Heaven to me — my people's huts are Hell 
 To them ; this august form will follow me, 
 Mix with the Avaves his voice will, — I have him ; 
 And they, the Prefect ; Oh, my happiness 
 Rounds to the full whether I choose or no ! 
 His eyes met mine, he was about to speak, 
 His hand grew damp — surely he meant to say 
 Re let me love him : in that moment's bliss 
 I shall forget my people pine for home — 
 They pass and they repass with pallid eyes !" 
 
 vowed at once a certain vow ; this vow — 
 Not to embrace you till my tribe was saved. 
 Embrace me ! 
 
 Bja. [AparLl And she loved me ! Nought remained 
 But that ! Nay, Anael, is the Prefect dead ? 
 
 An. Ah, you reproach me ! True, his death crowm 
 all, 
 I know — or should know — and I would do much, 
 Believe! but, death — Oh, you, who have known death. 
 Would never doom the Prefect, were death fearful 
 As we report ! 
 
 Death ! — a fire curls within us 
 From the foot's palm, and fills up to the brain. 
 Up- out, then shatters the whole bubble-shell 
 Of flesh, perchance ! 
 
 Death ! — witness, I would die, 
 Whate'er death be, would venture now to die
 
 THE RKTURX OF Till: DRUSES. '-*» 
 
 For Kliiilil — for Maani — what for thee ? 
 Nay but embrace me, Djabal, in assurance 
 My vow will not be broken, for 1 must 
 Do something to attest my faith in you, 
 Be worthy of you ! 
 
 Dja. [avoiding herJ] I come for that — to say 
 Such an occasion is at hand : 'tis like 
 I leave you — that we part, my Anael, — part 
 Forever ! 
 
 An. "We part ? Just so ! I have succumbed,— 
 I am, he thinks, unwortliy — and nought less 
 Will serve than such approval of my faith I 
 Then, we part not ! Remains there no way short 
 Of that ? Oh, not that ! 
 
 Death ! — ^Yet a hurt bird 
 Died in ray hands — its eyes filmed — " Nay it sleeps," 
 I said, " will wake to-morrow well " — twas dead ! 
 
 Dja. I stand here and time fleets. Anael — I come 
 I'o bid a last farewell to you : perhaps 
 We never meet again — but, ere the Prefect 
 A.rrive . . . 
 
 Eiitei- KuALiL breathlessly. 
 
 Kha. He's here ! The Prefect ! Twenty guards, 
 No more — no sign he dreams of danger — all 
 Awaits thee only — Ayoob, Karshook, keep 
 Their posts — wait but the deed's accomplishment 
 To join us with thy Druses to a man! 
 Still holds his course the Nuncio — near and near 
 The fleet from Candia's steering I
 
 100 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Dja. l^Aside.'] All is lostl 
 
 —Or won ? 
 
 Kha. And I have laid the sacred robes, 
 
 The sword, the head-tiar, at the porch — the place 
 Commanded — Thou wilt hear the Prefect's trumpet. 
 
 Dja. Then I keep Anael, — him then, past recall, 
 I slay — ^"tis forced on me ! As 1 began 
 I must conclude — so be it ! 
 
 Kha. For the rest 
 
 (Save Lojs, our foe's solitary sword) 
 All is so safe that ... I will ne'er entreat 
 Thy post again of thee — tho' danger's none, 
 There must be glory only meet for thee 
 In slaying the Prefect ! 
 
 An. \_Aside.'\ And 'tis now that Djabal 
 
 Would leave me ! — in the glory meet for him ! 
 
 Dja. As glory, I would yield the deed to you, 
 Or any one ; what peril thei'e may be, 
 I keep. \_Aside.'\ All things conspire to hound me on 
 Not now^ my soul, draw back, at least ! Not now 1 
 The course is plain, howe'er obscure all else - 
 Once otTer this tremendous sacrifice. 
 Prevent what else will be irreparable. 
 Secure thesi transcendental helps, regain 
 The Cedars — then let all dark clear itself ! 
 I slay him ! 
 
 Klia. Anael, and no part for us ! 
 
 '^To Dja.] Hast thou possessed Uer with . . . 
 
 Dja. [to An.] Whom speak you to ?
 
 THE RETCRN OF THE DUCSliS. 101 
 
 Wliiit is it you behold tlit-re? Nay, this smile 
 Tunis stranger — sluidder you? The man must die. 
 As tliousands of our race iiave died thro' hira. 
 One blow, and I discharge his weary soul 
 From the flesh that pollutes it — let him lill 
 Straight some new expiatory form, of earth 
 Or sea, the reptile, or some atiry thing — 
 "What is there in his death? 
 
 An, My brother said, 
 
 Is there no part in it for us ? 
 
 Dja. For Khalil, — 
 
 The trumpet will announce the Nuncio's entry ; 
 Here, I siuiU find the Prefect hastening 
 In the Pavilion to receive him — here, 
 I slay the Prefect ; meanwhile Ayoob leads 
 The Nuncio with his guards within — once these 
 Secured in the outer hall, bid Ayoob bar 
 Entry or egress till I give the sign 
 Which waits the landing of the argosies 
 You will announce to me ; this double sign 
 That justice is performed and help arrived, 
 When Ayoob shall receive, but not before, 
 Let him throw ope the palace doors, admit 
 The Druses to behold their tyrant, ere 
 We leave forever this detested gpot. 
 Go, Khalil, hurry all — no pause — no pause ! 
 IVHiirl on the dream, secure to wake anon ! 
 
 Kha. W'hat sign? and who the bearer? 
 
 Dja. Who AvaW show
 
 102 THE RETURN OF THIC DRUSES. 
 
 My ring, admit to Ayoob — How she stands ! 
 Have i not ... I must have some task for her. 
 Anaeli not that way! 'Tis the Prefect's chamber! 
 Anael, keep you the ring — give you the sign ! 
 (It holds her safe amid the stir) — You will 
 Be faithful ? 
 
 An. [takijij the ring.'\ I would fain be worthy of you 
 
 [Trumpet withota 
 
 Kha. He comes! 
 
 Bja. And I too come ! 
 
 An. One word, but one 
 
 Say, shall you be exalted at the deed "i 
 Then? On the in>tant? 
 
 Dja. I exalted ? What ? 
 
 He, there — we, thus — our wrongs re\enged — our tribe 
 Set free — Oh, then shall I, assure yourself, 
 Shall you, shall each of us, be in his death 
 Exalted ! 
 
 Kha. He is here ! 
 
 Dja. Away — away ! [ They go. 
 
 Enter the Prefect icith. Guards, and Lots. 
 
 The Prefect, [to Guards.] Back, I say, to tte gallej 
 every guard ! 
 That's my sole care now ; see each bench retains 
 Its complement of rowers; I embark 
 0' the instant, since this Knight will have it so, 
 Alas me! Could you have the heart, my Loys? 
 To a Guard who whispers.^ Oh, bring the holy Nuncic 
 here fortliwiih! [The Guards ^o
 
 THE RETURK OF THE DRUSES. 193 
 
 Lovf, a rueful sight, confess, to see 
 
 The gray discarded Prefect leave his post, 
 
 With tears i' the eye ! So you are Prefect now ? 
 
 You depose me — you succeed me ? ILi, ha ! 
 
 Loys. And (hu-e you laugh, whuui laughter lest 
 becomes 
 Than yesterday's forced meekness we beheld . . . 
 
 Pref. . . . "When you so eloquently pleaded, Leys, 
 For my dismissal from the post ? — Ah, meek 
 With cause enough, consult the Nuncio else ! 
 And wish him tiie like meekness — for so stanch 
 A servant of tlie churcli can scarce have bought 
 His share in the Isle, and paid for it, hard pieces ! 
 You've my successor to condole with, Nuncio! 
 I shall be safe by then i' the galley, Loys ! 
 
 Loys. You make as you would tell me you rejoice 
 To leave your scene of . . 
 
 Fref. Trade in the dear Druses f 
 
 Blood and sweat traffic ? Spare what yesterday 
 We had enough of! Drove I in the Isle 
 A profitable game? Learn wit, my son. 
 Which you'll need shortly ! Did it never breed 
 Suspicion in you, all was not pure profit, 
 When I, the insatiate . . . and so forth . . . was bent 
 Dn having a partaker in my rule? 
 Why did I yield this Nuncio half the gain, 
 }f not that I might also shift . . . what on him? 
 \Ialf of the peril, Loys ! 
 
 Loys, Peril? ^
 
 104 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Pref. Hark you ! 
 
 I'd love you if you'd let me — this for reason, 
 You save ray life at price of . . • well, say risk 
 At least, of yours. I came a long time since 
 To the Isle ; our Hospitallers bade me tame 
 These savage wizards, and reward myself — 
 
 Loys. The Knights who so repudiate your crime ? 
 
 Pref. Loys, the Knights ! we doubtless understood 
 Each other ; as for trusting to reward . 
 
 From any friend beside myself . . . No, no ! 
 I clutched mine on the spot, when it was sweet, 
 And T had taste for it. I felt these wizards 
 Alive — was sure they were not on me. only 
 When I was on them : but with age comes caution. 
 And stinging pleasures please less and sting more. 
 Year by year, fear by fear ! The girls were brighter. 
 Than ever ('faith, there's yet one Anael left, 
 I set my lieart upon — Oh, prithee, let 
 That brave new sword lie still!) — These joys looker 
 
 brighter, 
 But silenter the town, too, as I passed. 
 With this alcove's delicious memories 
 Began to mingle visions of gaunt fathers, 
 Quick-eyed sons, fugitives from the mine, the oar, 
 Stealing to catch me : brief, when I began 
 To quake with fear — (I think I hear the Chapter 
 Solicited to let me leave, now all 
 Worth staying for was gained and gone! )— -I say, 
 Juat when for the remainder of ray life
 
 THE IlKTLUX OF TIIK DRUSES. 105 
 
 A.1I methods of escape seemed lost — that then 
 
 Up should a young hot-headed Loys spring, 
 
 Talk very long and loud, in finej compel 
 
 The Knights to break tiieir whole arrangement, have me 
 
 Home for pure shame — from this safehold of mine 
 
 Where but ten thousand Druses seek ray life, 
 
 To ray wild jdace of banishment, San Gines 
 
 By Murcia, where ray three fat manors lying. 
 
 Purchased by gains here and the Nuncio's gold, 
 
 Are all I have to guard rae, — that such fortune 
 
 Should fall to me, I hardly could expect I 
 
 Therefore, I say, I'd love you ! 
 
 Loys. Can it be ? 
 
 I play into your hands then ? Oh, no, no 1 
 The Venerable Chapter, the Great Order 
 Sunk o' the sudden into fiends of the pit? 
 But I will back — will yet unveil you ! 
 
 Pref. Me ? 
 
 To whom? — perhaps Sir Galeas, who in Chapter 
 Shook his white head thrice — and some dozen times 
 My hand this morning sliook, for value paid 
 To that Italian Saint, Sir Co^imo ? — 
 Indignant at my wringing year by year 
 A thousand bezants from the coral-divers, 
 As you recounted; felt he not aggrieved? 
 Well might lit- — 1 allowed for his half-share 
 Merely one hundred 1 To Sir . . . 
 
 Loys. See ! you dar«> 
 
 Ijiculpate the whole Order ; yet should I, 
 
 *v
 
 106 THE RETURN OF THE DRCSE8. 
 
 A. youlli, a sole voice, have the power to change 
 Their evil way, had they been linn in it? 
 Answer me ! 
 
 Pref. Oh, the son of Bretagne's Duke, 
 
 And that son's wealth, the lather's influence, too, 
 And the young arm, we'll even say, my Loys, 
 — The fear of losing or diverting these 
 Into another channel, by gainsaying 
 A novice too abruptly, could not influence 
 The Order ! You miglit join, for aught they cared, 
 Their red-cross rivals of the Temple ! Well, 
 I thank you for ray part, at all events ! 
 Stay here till they withdraw you ! You'll inhabit 
 This palace — sleep, perchance, in this alcove, 
 Where now I go to meet our holy friend ! 
 Good ! and now disbelieve me if you can: 
 This is the first time for long years I enter 
 Thus [lifts the arras] without feeling just as if I lifted 
 The lid up of my tomb ! 
 
 Loys. They share his crime ! 
 
 God's punishment will overtake you yet ! 
 
 Pref. Thank you it does not ! Pardon this last flash 
 I bear a sober visage presently 
 With the disinterested Nuncio here — 
 His purchase-money safe at Murcia too ! 
 Let me repeat — for the first time, no draught 
 Coming as from a sepulchre salutes me. 
 When we next meet, this folly may have passed, 
 We'll hope — Ha, ha ! [ Goes thro' the airoM
 
 TUE RETCRX OK TUE DRUSES. 107 
 
 Loys. Assure me but . . . he's gone 
 
 He could not li«» ! Then wliiit have I escaped ! 
 I, who have so ni^lf given up happiness 
 Forever, to be linked with him and them ! 
 Oh, opportunist of discoveries ! I 
 Their Kninjilt? I utterly renounce tliem all ! 
 Hark ! What, he meets by this the Nuncio ? yes 
 The same hyncna groan-like laughter ! Quick — 
 To Djabal ! I am one of them at last, 
 Those simple-hearted Druses — Anael's tribe ! 
 Djabal 1 She's mine at last — Djabal, I say ! — [ Goes. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Enter Djabal. 
 
 Dja. Let rae but slay the Prefect — The end now 1 
 To-morrow will be time enough to pry 
 Into the means I took: suffice, they served, 
 Ignoble as they were, to iiurl revenge 
 True to its object. [^Seeing the robes, SfC. disposed 
 
 . . . Mine should never so 
 Have hurried to accomplishment ! Thee, Djabal, 
 Far other modes befitted! Calm the Robe 
 Should clothe this doom's awarder ! 
 
 [Taking the robe.^ Shall I dare 
 
 Assume ray nation's Robe ? I am at least 
 A Druse again, cliill Europe's policy 
 Drops from me — I dare take the Robe. Why not
 
 108 THE RETURN OF TUE DRUSES. 
 
 The Tiar ? I rule the Druses, and what more 
 Betokens it than rule ? — yet — yet — 
 
 \Lays down tht Tiai 
 
 [Footsteps in the alcove.'] He comes ! [ leaking the sword 
 If the sword serves, let the Tiar lie! So, feet 
 Clogged with the blood of twenty years can fall 
 Thus lightly ! Round rae, all ye ghosts ! He'll lift . . . 
 Which arm to push the arras wide ? — or both ? 
 Stab from the neck down to the heart — there stay ! 
 Near he comes — nearer — the next footstep ! Now ! 
 
 [As he dashes aside the arras, Anael is discovered. 
 
 Ha ! Anael ! Nay, my Anael, can it be ? 
 Heard you the trumpet ? I must slay him here. 
 And here you ruin all. Why speak you not ? 
 Anael, the Prefect comes ! [Anael screcans.^ So late 
 
 to feel 
 'Tis not a sight for you to look U[)on ? 
 A moment's work — but such work ! 'Till you go, 
 I must be idle — idle, I risk all ! 
 
 [Pointing to her hair 
 Those locks are well, and you are beauteous thus, 
 But with the dagger 'tis, I have to do I 
 
 An. With mine ! 
 
 DJa. Blood — Anael ? 
 
 An. Djabal — 'tis thy deed 
 
 It must be — I had hoped to claim it mine — 
 Be worthy fhee — but I must needs confess 
 Twas not I, but thyself . . not I have . . Djabal ! 
 Speak to me!
 
 THE RETURX OF THE DRUSES. 109 
 
 Dja. Oh my i)uni.slimeiit ! 
 
 An Speak to me ! 
 
 IVhile I can speak — touch me — despite the blood ! 
 When the command passed iVom thy soul to mine, 
 I went, fire leading me, muttering of thee, 
 And the approaching exaltation, — make 
 One sacrifice ! 1 said, — and he sate there, 
 Bade me approach ; and, as I did approach, 
 Thy fire with music burst into ray brain — 
 'Twas but a moment's work, thou saidst — perchance 
 It may have been so ! well, it is thy deed ! 
 
 Dja. It is my deed ! 
 
 An. His blood, all this ! — this ! And . 
 
 And more — sustain me, Djabal — wait not — now 
 Let flash thy glory ! Change thyself and me ! 
 It must be ! Ere the Druses flock to us ! 
 At least confirm me ! Djabal — blood gushed forth — 
 He was our tyrant — but I looked he'd fall 
 Prone as asleep — why else is Death called sleep ? 
 Sleep ? He bent o'er his breast — 'Tis sin, I know, 
 Punish me, Djabal, but wilt thou let hi:n ? 
 Be it thou that punishest, not he — who creeps 
 On his red breast — is here — 'tis the small groan 
 Of a child — no worse ! Bestow the new life, then ! 
 Too swift it cannot be, too strange, surpassing! 
 
 [["otluwhig him up and down 
 Now ! Change us both ! Change me and change thou 
 Dja. [sinks on his knees.'] Thus 
 
 Behold mv change! Y)u have done nobly! I ! —
 
 110 TOE RETUKN OF THE DRCSES. 
 
 An. Can Hakeem kneel ? 
 
 Dja. No Hakeem, but mere Djiibul ' 
 
 I have spoken falsely, and this woe is come. 
 No — hear me ere scorn blasts me ! Once and ever, 
 The deed is mine . . Oh think upon the Past ! 
 
 An. [to herself. '\ Did I strike once, or twice, or many 
 times ? 
 
 Dja. . . I came to lead my tribe where, bathed in 
 glooras 
 Doth Bahumid the Renovator sleep — 
 Anael, I saw my tribe — I said, " Without 
 A miracle this cannot be " — I said 
 •* Be there a miracle ! " — for I saw you ! 
 
 An. His head lies south the portal ! 
 
 Dja. — Weighed with this 
 
 The general good, how could I choose my own, 
 What matter was my purity of soul? 
 Little by little I engaged myself — 
 Heaven would accept me for its instrument, 
 I hoped — I said. Heaven had accepted me ! 
 
 An. Is it this blood breeds dreams in me ? — Who said 
 Yon were not Hakeem ? and your miracles — 
 The fire that plays innocuous round your form ? 
 
 [x\(j<iin citamjiiig her whole manner 
 
 A.I1, thou wouldst try me — thou art Hakeem still ! 
 
 Dja. W^oe — woe ! As if the Druses of the Mount 
 ^'Scarce Arabs even there — but here, in the Isle, 
 Beneath their former selves) should comprehend 
 The subtle lore of Europe ! A few secreta
 
 THE RETURN OK TIIF. DRUSES. HI 
 
 That woul<1 not easily aff<^ct the meanest 
 Of the crowd there, coiiM wholly siihjiigate 
 The best of our poor tribe! Again that eye f 
 
 An. \jifter a pause springs to Ids neck.'] Djahal, in 
 this there can be no deceit ! 
 Why, Djabal, were you human only, — think, 
 Maani is but human, Khali! human, 
 Loys is human even — did their words 
 Haunt me, their looks pursue me ? Shame on you 
 So to have tried me! Rather, shame on me 
 So to need trying ! Could I, w ith the Prefect 
 And the blood, there — could I see only you ? 
 •^Hang by your neck over this gulf of blood? 
 Speak, 1 am saved ! S|)eak, Djabal ! Ara I saved ? 
 
 \^As Djabal slowly unclusps her arms, and puts her silently 
 from him. 
 
 Hakeem would save me ! Thou art Djabal ! Crouch ! 
 Bow to the dust, thou basest of our kind ! 
 The pile of thee, I reared up to the cloud — 
 Full, midway, of our Fathers' trophied tombs, 
 Based on the living rock, devoured not by 
 The unstable desert's jaws of sand, — falls prone ! 
 Fire, music, quenched : and now thou liest there 
 A ruin, obscene creatures will moan thro'! 
 — Let us come, Djabal ! 
 Dja. Whither come ? 
 
 An. At once— 
 
 Lest so it jxrow intolerable. Come I 
 Will 1 not share it with thee ? Best at once I
 
 112 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 So feel hss pain ! Let them deride — thy tribe 
 Now trusting in thee, — Loys shall deride ! 
 Come to them, band in band, with me ! 
 
 Dja. Where come ? 
 
 An. Where ? — to the Druses thou hasl w ronged 
 Confess, 
 Now that the end is gained — (I love thee now) 
 That thou hast so deceived them — (perchance love tbec 
 Better than ever !) Come, receive their doom 
 Of infamy — (Oh, best of all I love thee! 
 Shame with the man, no triumph with the God, 
 Be mine !) Come ! 
 
 Dja. Never ! more shame yet ? and why 
 
 Why ? You have called this deed mine — it is mine I 
 And with it I accept its circumstance. 
 How can I longer strive with Fate ? The Past 
 Is past — my false life shall henceforth show true — 
 Hear me : the argosies touch land by this ; 
 They bear us to fresh scenes and happier skies ; 
 What if we reign together ? — if we keep 
 Our secret for the Druses' good? — by means 
 Of even their superstition, plant in them 
 New life? I learn from Euro[)e: all who seek 
 Man's good must awe man, by such means as these. 
 We too will be divine to them — we are ! 
 All great works in this world spring from the ruins 
 Of greater projects — ever, on our earth. 
 Men block out Babels, to build Babylons. 
 I wrest the weapon from your hand 1 1 claim
 
 THK RKTURX OF TIIK DRUSF,3. 113 
 
 The deed ! Retire ! You have my ring — you bar 
 A-ll access to the Nuncio till the forces 
 From Venice land ! 
 
 An. Thou wilt feign Hakeem then? 
 
 Dja. [jmtting the Tiar of IJnkcrn on his head.'] And 
 fVum this moment that I dare ope wide 
 Eyes that till now refused to see, begins 
 My true dominion ! for I know myself, 
 And what I am to personate. No word ? 
 
 'Tis come on rae at last ! His blood on her 
 
 What memories will follow that ! Her eye, 
 
 Her fierce distorted lip and ploughed black brow 
 
 Ah, fool ! Has Europe then so poorly tamed 
 The Syrian blood from out thee ? Tliou, presume 
 To work in this foul earth by means not foul ? 
 Scheme, as for Heaven, — but, on the earth, be glad 
 
 If a least ray like Heaven's be left thee ! 
 
 Thus 
 
 I shall be calm — in readiness — no way 
 
 Surprised. [^ noise without 
 
 This should be Khalil and my DrusesJ 
 
 Venice is come then ! Thus I grasp thee, sword ! 
 
 Druses, 'tis Hakeem saves you ! In ! Behold 
 
 Vour Prefect ! 
 
 Enter Lots. Djabal hides the khandjar in his robe. 
 
 Lays. Oh, well f )und, Djabal ! — but no tinii; for word* 
 Tou know who waits there ? \_Pointiiig to the alcove 
 
 Well ! — and that 'ti~ there 
 
 VOL. II. 8
 
 Hi THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 He meets the Nuncio ? "Well ! Now, a surprise- 
 He there — 
 
 J)Ja I know — 
 
 Loys. is now no mortal's lord 
 
 Is absolutely powerless — call him, dead — 
 
 He is no longer Prefect — you are Prefect ! 
 
 Oh, shrink not ! I do nothing in tlie dark, 
 
 Nothing unworthy Breton blood, believe ! 
 
 I undei'Stood at once your urgency 
 
 That I should leave this isle for Rhodes ; I felt 
 
 What you were loath to speak — your need of help 
 
 I have fulfilled the task, tiiat earnestness 
 
 Imposed on me ; have, face to lace, confronted 
 
 The Prefect in lull Chapter, charged on him 
 
 The enoi-mities of his long rule ; he f-tood 
 
 Mute, offered no defence, no crime denied ; 
 
 On which I s[)oke of you, and of your tribe, 
 
 Your faith so like our own, and all you've urged 
 
 So oft to me — I spoke, too, of your goodness, 
 
 Your patience — brief, I hold henceforth the Isle 
 
 In ciiarge, am nominally Prefect, — but you, 
 
 You are associated in ray rule — 
 
 Are tlie true Prefect! Ay, such faith had they 
 
 In my assurance of your loyalty 
 
 (For wlio insuUs an imbecile old man ?) 
 
 That we assume the Prefecture this hour ! 
 
 You gaze at me ! Hear greater wonders yet— 
 
 [ throve down all this fabric I have built ! 
 
 These Knights, I was prepared to worship . . but
 
 TiiK ui:ti;i£n ok tiii: dkuses. 113 
 
 Of that, another time ; whal's now to say, 
 
 [s_I shall never be a Knight ! Oh. Djabal, 
 
 Elere first I throw all prejudice aside, 
 
 And call you brother! I am Druse like you ! 
 
 My wealth, ray friends, my power, are wholly yours, 
 
 Your people's, which is now my peo|)le — for 
 
 Tliere is a maiden of your tribe, I love — 
 
 She loves me — Khalil's sister 
 
 Dja. Anael ? 
 
 Loijs. Start you ? 
 
 Seems what 1 say, unknightly ? Thus it chanced : 
 When first I came, a novice, to the Isle . . . 
 
 Enter one of the NcNCio's Guards /rom the alcove. 
 
 Guard. Oh, hori-ible I Sir Loys ! Here is Loys ! 
 And here — \_0(hers enter from the alcove. 
 
 IPointuigto Djau.vl ] Secure him, bind him — this is he. 
 
 [ They surround DjabaL. 
 
 Loys. Madmen— what is't you do ? Stand from my 
 friend, 
 And tell me ! 
 
 Guard. Thou canst have no part in this — 
 
 Surely no part — but slay him not ! The Nuncio 
 Commanded, Slay hira not! 
 
 Loys. Speak, or . . . 
 
 Guard. The Prefec^ 
 
 Lies murdered there by him thou dost embrace. 
 
 Loys. By Djabal ? miserable fools ! How Djabal ? 
 
 [.1 G'lanl llfls DjAiUL'a robe; DjXBkL Jiinijs iloa-n tht 
 
 Uuiiiiljiir.
 
 116 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Loys. [after a pause.'] Thou hast received some insull 
 worse than all — 
 Some outrage not to be endured — ■ 
 
 \_To the Guards.] Stand back ! 
 He is my friend — more than my friend ! Thou hast 
 Slain him upon that provocation! 
 
 Guard. No ! 
 
 No provocation ! 'TIs a long devised 
 Conspiracy : the whole tribe is involved : 
 He is their Khalif — 'tis on that pretence— 
 Their mighty Khalif who died long ago, 
 And now is come to life and lio;ht acrain— 
 All is just now i-evealed, I know not how, 
 ^y one of his confederates — who, struck 
 With horror at this murder, first apprised 
 The Nuncio. As 'twas said, we find this Djabal 
 Here where we take him. 
 
 Dja. [Aside.] Who broke faith with me ? 
 
 hoys. \to Djabal.] Ilear'st thou ? Speak ! Till thou 
 speak, I keep off these, 
 Or die with thee. Deny this story ! Thou 
 A Khalif, an impostor? Thou, my friend, 
 Whose tale was of an inoffensive race. 
 With . . .but thou know'st — on that tale's truth I pledgeo 
 My faith before the Chapter : what art thou ? 
 
 Dja. Loys, I am as thou hast heard. All's true 1 
 No more concealment ! As these tell thee, all 
 Was long since planned. Our Druses are enough 
 To crush this handful : the Venetians land
 
 TlUC UKTURN OF TITF, DKUSrS. 117 
 
 Even now in our behalf. Lojs, we part hero ! 
 riioii, serving much, wouUl'st fain have served me more 
 It mi'^ht not be. I thank thee. As thou hearest, 
 We are a separated trilie : farewell 1 
 
 Loys. Oh, where will truth be found now ? Canal 
 thou so 
 Belie the Druses ? Do they share thy crime? 
 Those tliou professedst of our Breton stock, 
 Are partners witli thee ? Why, I saw but now 
 Klialil, my friend — he spoke with me — no word 
 Of this ! and Anael — whom I love, and who 
 Loves me — she spoke no word of this! 
 
 Dja. Poor Boy I 
 
 Anael, who loves thee ? Khalil, fast thy friend ? 
 We, offsets from a wandering Count of Dreux ? 
 No — older than the oldest — princelier 
 Than Europe's princeliest tribe are we. — Enough 
 For thee, that on our simple faith we found 
 A monarchy to shame your monarchies 
 At their own trick and secret of success. 
 The child of this our tribe shall laugh upon 
 The palace-step of him whose life ere niglit 
 Is forfeit, as that child shall know, and yot 
 Shall laugli there ! What, we Druses wait forsooth 
 The kind interposition of a boy? 
 — Can only save ourselves when thou concedest? 
 —Khalil admire thee? He is my right hand, 
 My delegate ! — Anael accept thy love ? 
 5he is my Bride I
 
 il8 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Loys. Thy Bride ? 8he one of them ? 
 
 Dja. My Bride ! 
 
 Loys. And she retains licr glorious eyes 
 
 She, with tliose eyes, has shared this miscreant's guilt I 
 Ah — who but she directed me to find 
 Djabal v/ithin the Prefect's chamber ? Klialil 
 Bade me seek Djabal there, too ! All is true ! 
 What spoke the Prefect worse of them than this ? 
 Did the Church ill to institute long since 
 Perpetual warfare with such serpentry 
 As these ? Have I desired to shift my part, 
 Evade my share in her design ? 'Tis well ! 
 
 Dja. Loys, I have wronged thee — but unwittingly : 
 [ never thought there was in thee a virtue 
 Tiiat could attach itself to what thou deemest 
 A race below thine own. I wronged thee, Loys, 
 But that is over: all is over now, 
 Save the protection I ensure against 
 .My people's anger — by their Khalif's side. 
 Thou art secure and may'st depart : so, come ! 
 
 Loys. Thy side ? — I take protection at thy hand ? 
 
 Enter other Guards. 
 
 Guards. Fly with him ! fly. Sir Loys ! 'tis too true ! 
 And only by his side thou may'st escape ! 
 The whole tribe is in full revolt — they flock 
 A-bout the palace — will be hei*e — on thee — 
 And there are twenty of us, we, the Guards 
 Of the Nuncio, to withstand them! Even we
 
 rUK RETURN OF TnK DRUSES. 119 
 
 Had stayed to meet our death in ignoranco, 
 But tliat one Druse, a single f'uitliful Druse, 
 Made known the iiorror to the Nuncio ! Fly ! 
 The Nuncio stands aghast. At least let us 
 Escape their wrath, Ilakeera! We are nought 
 In thy tribe's persecution ! [_to Loys.'] Keep by him! 
 They hail hira Hakeem, their dead Prince, returned — 
 He is their God, tliey shout, and at his beck 
 Are life and death ! 
 
 Loys. [springing at the khandjar Djabal had thrown 
 down, seizes him by the throat.] 
 Thus by his side am I ! 
 Thus I resume my knighthood and its warfare ! 
 Thus end thee, miscreant, in thy pride of place ! 
 Thus art thou caught! Without, thy dupes may cluster, 
 Friends aid thee, foes avoid thee, — thou art Hakeem, 
 How say tliey ? — God art thou ! but also here 
 Is the least, meanest, youngest the Church calls 
 Her servant, and his single arm avails 
 To aid her as she lists. I rise, and thou 
 Art crushed ! Hordes of thy Druses flock without : 
 Here thou hast me, who represent the Cross, 
 Honour and Faith, 'gainst Hell, Mahound, and thee ! 
 Die! [_DjxiiXh re mai)is calm.] Implore my mercy, 
 
 Hakeem, that ray scorn 
 May help me ! Nay — I cannot ply thy trade — 
 I am no Druse — no stabber — and thine eye, 
 riiy form, are too mucli as they were — ray friend 
 Uad sucli ! Spi'uk ! Beg for mercy at my foot ! 
 
 \T>.J \nxL still silent
 
 I2f) THE RETURN OF THE DRL'SES. 
 
 Heaven could not ask so much of me — not, sure, 
 So much ! I cannot kill liira so ! 
 
 Thou art 
 Strong in thy cause, then ! Dost outbrave us, then' 
 Heard'st thou that one of thine accomplices, 
 Thy very people, has accused thee ? Meet 
 His charge I Thou hast not even slain the Prefect 
 As thy own vile creed warrants. Meet that Druse- 
 Come with me and disprove him — be thou tried 
 By him, nor seek appeal — promise me this — 
 Or I will do God's office ! What, shalt thou 
 Boast of assassins at thy beck, yet Truth 
 Want even an executioner ? Consent, 
 Or I will strike — look in my face — I will ! 
 
 DJa. Give me again my khandjar, if thou darest ! 
 
 [LoYB gives ii 
 
 Let but one Druse accuse me, and I plunge 
 This home. A Druse betray me ? Let its go ! 
 [^Aside.] Who has betrayed me ? [_Shouts without. 
 
 Hearest thou ? I heaJ 
 No plainer now than years ago I heard 
 That shout — but in no dream now ! They return ! 
 Wilt thou be leader with me, Loys ? Well I
 
 TiiK ui:tii;.n of the duuses. 121 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 77ie Uninitiateil Druses, coveriiuj the stage tumultuously, and 
 speahivg together. 
 
 Here flock we, obeying the summons. Lo, Hakeem 
 hath appeared, and the Prefect is dead, and we return 
 to Lebanon! My manufacture of goats' fleece must, I 
 doubt, soon fall away there — Come, old Nasif — link 
 thine arm in mine — we fight, if needs be — Come, what is 
 a great fight-word ? " Lebanon ?" (My daughter — my 
 daughter!) — But is Khalil to have tlie office of Hamza? 
 — Nay, rather, if he be wise, the monopoly of lienna and 
 jloves — Where is Hakeem? — Tlie only prophet I ever 
 saw, prophesied at Cairo once, in my youth — a little 
 black Copht, dressed all in black too, with a great stripe 
 of yellow cloth flapping down behind him like the back-fin 
 of a water-serpent — Is this he? Biamrallah ! Biamreh 1 
 
 Hakeem ! 
 
 Enter the NuNCiO with Guards. 
 
 Nuncio, [to his Attendants.] Hold both, the sorcerer 
 and this accomplice 
 Ye talk of, that accuseth him ! And tell 
 Sir Loys he is mine, the Church's hope : 
 Bid him approve himself our Knight indeed I 
 1 o, this black disemboguing of the Isle I 
 r<> the Druses.] Ah, children, what a sight for these 
 old eyes
 
 122 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 That kept themselves alive this voyage through 
 To smile their very last on you ! I came 
 To gather one and all you wandering sheep 
 Into my fold, as tlio' a father came ... 
 As tho', in coming, a father should . . . 
 
 [To his Guards.] (Ten, twelve, 
 •^Twelve guards of you, and not an outlet ? None ? 
 The wizards stop each avenue? Keep close!) 
 [To the Druses.] As if one came to a son's house, I say, 
 So did I come — no guard with me — to find . . 
 Alas — Alas ! 
 
 A Druse. Who is the old man ? 
 
 Another. Oh, ye are to shout i 
 
 Children, he styles you. 
 
 Druses. Ay, the Prefect's slain 1 
 
 Glory to the Khalif, our Father I 
 
 Nuncio. Even so ! 
 
 I find, (ye prompt aright) your Father slain ; 
 Wliile most he plotted for your good, that father 
 (Alas! how kind, ye never knew) — lies slain ! 
 [Aside.^ (And Hell's worm gnaw the glozing knave— 
 
 with me, 
 For being duped by his cajoleries ! 
 Are these the Christians ? These the docile crew 
 My bezants went to make me Bishop o'er?) 
 [_To his Attendants, who whisper.'] What say ye does this 
 
 wizard style hims'^lf ? 
 Hakeem ? Biamrallali ? The third Fatemite ? 
 Wliat is this jargon ? He — 'the insane Khalif,
 
 THE RETURN OK TIIK DRUSKS. 123 
 
 Doad near three hundred years ago, cciiie I)aek 
 In flesh and blood again ? 
 
 Druses. He mutters ! Hear ye ? 
 
 He is blaspheming Hakeem. The old man 
 Is our dead Prefect's friend ! Tear him ! 
 
 Nuncio. Ye dare not 
 
 I stand here with my five-and-seventy years, 
 The Patriarch's power behind, and God's above me I 
 Those years have witnessed sin enough ; er^i now 
 Misguided men arose against their lords. 
 And found excuse ; but ye, to be enslaved 
 By sorceries — cheats ; — alas ! the same tricks, tried 
 On my poor children in this nook of the earth, 
 Could trium])h, — that have been succes.vively 
 Exploded, laughed to scorn, all nationf\ thro' — 
 ^'- Romaioi, loudaioi te kai proselutoi, 
 " Cretes and Arabians " — you are duped the last ! 
 Said I, refrain from tearing me ? I pray ye 
 Tear me ! Shall I return to tell the Patriarch 
 That so much love was wasted — every gift 
 Rejected, from his benison 1 brought, 
 Down to the galley-full of bezants, sunk 
 An hour since at the harbour's mouth, by that . . . 
 That . . . never will I speak his hated name! 
 [[ Jb his Servants.] What was the name his fellow slip* 
 
 fetter 
 'jailed their arch-wizard by? [they whisper.] Ob, Djabal 
 was't? 
 
 Druses. But how a sorcerer? false wherein?
 
 124 THE RETUUN Of THE DUUSICS. 
 
 Nuncio. (Ay, Djabal!) 
 
 How false? Ye know not, Djabal lias confessed . . . 
 Nay, that by tokens lound on hiiu we learn . . . 
 What I sailed hither solely to divulge — 
 How by his spells the demons were allured 
 To seize you — not that these be aught save lies 
 And mere illusions. Is this clear ? I say, 
 By measures such as these, he would have led you 
 Into a monstrous ruin : follow ye ? 
 Say, shall ye perish for his sake, my sons ? 
 
 Druses. Hark ye ! 
 
 Nuncio. — Be of one privilege amerced ? 
 
 No ! Infinite the Patriarch's mercies be i 
 No ! With the Patriarch's license, still I bid ye 
 Tear him to pieces who misled you ! Haste ; 
 
 Druses. The old man's beard shak6s, and his eyes are 
 white fire ! After all, I know nothing of Djabal beyond 
 what Karshook says ; he knows but what Khalil says ; 
 who knows just what Djabal says himself — Now, the little 
 Copht Prophet, I saw at Cairo in my youth, began by 
 promising each bystander three full measures of wheat. . . 
 
 Enter Kiialil and the Initiated Druses. 
 Kha. Venice and her deliverance are at hand I 
 X'heir fleet stands thro' the harbour! Hath he slain 
 The Prefect yet? Is Djabal's change come yet? 
 Nuncio, [to Attendants.] What's this of Venice 
 Who's this boy ? 
 [Att-indants whisper.l^ One Khalil?
 
 THE RETURN OF THE DRDSES. 125 
 
 Djabal's accomplice, Loys called, but now, 
 
 Tlie only Druse, save Djabal's self, to fear ? 
 
 [ To the Druses.] 1 cainiot hear ye with these aged ears • 
 
 Is it so? Ye would have my troops assist? 
 
 Doth he abet hiin in his sorceries? 
 
 Down with the cheat, {Thirds, as my children bid ! 
 
 {They spring at Kiiai.il : as he beats them hack. 
 
 Stay — no more bloodshed — s])are deluded youth ! 
 Whom seek'st thou? (I will teach him) — AVIiom, my 
 
 child ? 
 Thou knowest not what these know, have just told me. 
 I am an old man, as thou seest — have done 
 With eartli, and what should move me but the truth? 
 Art thou the only fond one of thy tribe ? 
 'Tis I interpret for thy tribe ! — 
 
 Kha. Oh, this 
 
 Is the expected Nuncio I Druses, hear — 
 Endure ye this? Unworthy to partake 
 The glory Hakeem gains you ! While I speak, 
 The ships touch land: who makes for Lebanon? 
 They'll plant the winged lion in these halls ! 
 
 Nuncio. \_Aside.'\ If it be true! Venice? — Oh, nevei 
 true ! 
 Yet, Venice would so gladly thwart our Knights, 
 And fain get footing here, so close by Rhodes ! 
 Oil, to be duped this way ! 
 
 Kha. Ere he appears 
 
 To lead you gloriously, repent, I say 1 
 
 Nuncio. \_Aside.'] Oh, any way to st'^otch the arcb 
 wizard stark
 
 12;^ THE KETUR"V OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 Ere the Venetians come ! Were lie cut off, 
 
 The rest were easily tamed. \_to the Druses.] He 
 
 Bring him forth ! 
 Since so you needs will have it, I assent ! 
 Tou'd judge him, say you, on the spot ? Confound 
 The sorcerer in his very circle ? Where's 
 Our short black-bearded sallow friend who said 
 He'd earn the Patriarch's guerdon by one stab ? 
 Bring Djabal forth at once ! 
 
 Druses. Ay, bring him forth! 
 
 The Patriarch drives a trade in oil and silk — 
 And we're the Patriarch's children — true men, we I 
 Where is the glory ? Show us all the glory ! 
 
 K/ia. You dare not so insult him ! What, not see . . 
 (I tell thee, Nuncio, these are uninstructed, 
 Untrusted — they know nothing of our Khalif !) 
 — Not see that if he lets a doubt arise 
 *Tis but to give yourselves the chance of seeming 
 To have some influence in your own Return ! 
 That all may say they would have trusted him 
 Without the all-convincing gloiy — ay, 
 And did ! Embrace the occasion, friends ! For, think — 
 What merit when his change takes place ? But now, 
 For your sakes, he should not leveal himself! 
 Ko — could I ask and have, I would not ask 
 The change yet ! 
 
 Enter Djabal and Lots. 
 
 Spite of all, reveal thyself' 
 I had s:ii(1, pardon them from me — for Anael —
 
 TlIK UKTCnN OF THE DRUSES. 127 
 
 For our sakes pardon these besotted men — 
 Xy — lor tliiae own — they hurt not tliee ! Yet now 
 One thoiij^ht swells in me and keeps down all else ! 
 Thi-. Nuiieio couples shame witli thee, has called 
 Imposture thy whole course, all bitter things 
 Has said — he is but an old fretful man ! 
 Hakeem — nay, I must call thee Hakeem now — 
 Reveal thyself! See ! Where is Anael ? — See ! 
 
 Loys. \_to Dja.] Here are thy people ! Keep thy wonl 
 to me! 
 
 Dja. Who of my people hath accused me ? 
 
 Nuncio. So ! 
 
 So, this is Djabal, Hakeem, and what nut ? 
 A fit deed, Loys, for thy first Knight's day ! 
 May it be augury of thy after life ! 
 E\er be truncheon of the Church as now 
 That, Nuncio of the Patriarch, having charge 
 Of the Isle here, 1 claim thee [iurnincf to Dja.J as these 
 
 bid me. 
 Forfeit for murder on thy lawful prince, 
 Thou conjurer that peep'st and mutterest! 
 Why should I hold thee from their hands? (Spells 
 
 children ? 
 But hoar liow I dispose of all his spells !) 
 Thou art a Prophet? — would'st entice thy tribe 
 Away ? — thou workest miracles? (Attend ! 
 Let him but move me with his spells!) I, Nuncio . 
 
 Dja. . Which how thou cam'st to be, I say not new 
 Though I have also been at Stamhoul, Luke!
 
 128 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 —Ply thee with spells, forsooth ! What need of spells 
 
 If Venice, in her Admiral's person, stoop 
 
 To ratify thy compact with her foes, 
 
 The Hospitallers, for this Isle — withdraw 
 
 Her warrant of the deed which reinstates 
 
 My peo[)le in their freedom, tricked away 
 
 By him I slew, — refuse to convoy us 
 
 To Lebanon and keep the Isle we leave — 
 
 — Then will be time to try what spells can do! 
 
 Dost thou dispute the Republic's power? 
 
 Nuncio. Lo ye I 
 
 He tempts me, too, the wily exorcist ! 
 No ! The renowned Republic was and is 
 The Patriarch's friend : 'tis not for courting Venice 
 That I — that these implore thy blood of me ! 
 Lo ye, the subtle miscreant ! Ha, so subtle ! 
 Ye, Druses, hear him I Will ye be deceived ? 
 How he evades me ! Where's the miracle 
 He works ? I bid him to the proof — fish up 
 Your galley-full of bezants that he sunk 1 
 That were a miracle ! One miracle ! 
 Enough of trifling, for it chafes my age— 
 I am the Nuncio, Druses ! I stand forth 
 To save you from the good Republic's rage 
 When she shall find her fleet was summoned here 
 To aid the mummeries of this crafty knave ! 
 
 [As the Druses hesitate^ his Attendants whitpa 
 
 A.h, well suggested ! Why, we hold this while 
 !,>ne, who, his close confederate till now,
 
 TUi; RETURN OF THi: DaUSES. 129 
 
 Confesses Djtibul at tlie last a cheat, 
 And every miracle a cheat ! Who throws me 
 His head? I make three offers, once I offer, — 
 And twice . . . 
 
 Dja. Let who moves perish at my foot ! 
 
 Kha. Thanks, Hakeem, thanks ! Oh, Anael, Maani, 
 Why tarry they ? 
 
 Druses [to each other.~\ He can ! He can ! Live fire — 
 \^To the Nuncio.] (I say he can, old man! Thou know'st 
 
 him not — ) 
 Live fire like that thou seest now in his eyes, 
 Plays fawning round him — See ! The change begins J 
 All the brow lightens as he lifts his arm ! 
 Look not at me ! It was not I ! 
 
 Dja. What Druse 
 
 Accused me, as he saith ? I bid each bone 
 Crumble v/ithin that Druse I None, Loys, none 
 Of my own people, as thou saidst, have raised 
 A voice against me. 
 
 Nuncio. \_Aside.~\ Venice to come ! Death ! 
 
 Dja. [continuing.'] Confess and go unscathed, hcwpv'ir 
 false ! 
 Seest thou my Druses, Luke ? I would submit 
 To thy pure malice did one Druse confess I 
 How said I, Loys ? 
 
 Nuncio [to his Attendants, who whisper.] Ah, y* 
 counsel so ? 
 \Aloud.'\ Bring in the witness, then, who, first of all, 
 Disclosed the treason ! Now I have thee, wizard ! 
 VOL. II. 9
 
 i30 THE RETURN OF TUE DRUSES. 
 
 Fe hear that ? If one speaks, he bids you tear him 
 
 Joint after joint — well then, one does speak ! One, 
 
 Befooled by Djabal, even as yourselves, 
 
 But who hath voluntarily proposed 
 
 To expiate, by confessing thus, the fault 
 
 Of having trusted him. 
 
 [They bring in a veiled Druse 
 
 Loys. Now Djabal, now ! 
 
 Nuncio. Friend, Djabal fronts you ! (Make a ring, 
 sons !) — Speak ! 
 Expose this Djabal ; what he was, and how ; 
 The wiles he used, the aims he cherished ; all. 
 Explicitly as late you spoke to these 
 My servants — I absolve and pardon you. 
 
 Loi/s. Thou hast the dagger ready, Djabal ? 
 
 JDJa Speak, 
 
 Recreant ! 
 
 Druses. Stand back, fool ! further ! Suddenly 
 You shall see some huge serpent glide from under 
 The empty vest — or down will thunder crash ! 
 Back, Khalil ! 
 
 K/ia. I go back ? Tlius go I back ! 
 
 [To An.] Unveil ! Nay, thou shalt face the Khalif ! Thus I 
 [He tears avoay Anael's veil: Djxbai. folds his arms and 
 bows his head: the Druses fall back : LoYS springs fiom 
 the side of Djabal and the NcNCio. 
 
 Loys. Then she was true — she only of them all ! 
 True to her eyes — may keep those glorious eyes, 
 And now be mine, once again mine ! Oh, Anael 1 
 Danxl I think thee a partner in his crime — •
 
 TUE RETUUN OF THE DUCSE3. 1.^1 
 
 That blood could soil that hand ? nay, 'tis mine — Anael, 
 ■ — Not mine? — AVho otri.-r tPfe« beforu all these 
 IMy heart, my sword, my name — so thou wilt say 
 That Ujabal, who alFirms thou art his bride, 
 Lies — say but that he lies ! 
 
 Dja. Thou, Anael ? 
 
 LoijS. Nay, Djabal, nay, one chance for me — the last? 
 Thou hast had every other — thou hast spoken 
 Days, nights, what falsehood listed thee — let me 
 Speak. first, now; I will speak, now! — 
 
 Nuncio. Loys, pause ! 
 
 Thou art the Duke's son, Breton's choicest stock — 
 Loys of Dreux — God's sepulchre's first sword — 
 This wilt thou spit on, this degrade, this trample 
 To earth ? 
 
 Loys [to An.] Ah, who had foreseen, " One day, Leys 
 " Will stake these gifts against some other good 
 " In the whole world ? " — I give them thee ! I would 
 My strong will might bestow real shape on them, 
 That I might see, with my own eyes, thy foot 
 Tread on their very neck ! 'Tis not by gifts 
 
 I put aside this Djaliul — we will stand — 
 
 W( do stand — see — two men ! Djabal, stand forth 1 
 Who's worth her — I or thou ? I — who for Anael 
 Kept, purely, uprightly my way, the long 
 True way — left thee each by-path — boldly lived 
 Without the lies and blood. — or thou, or thou ? 
 
 I I Love me, Anael ! Leave the blood and him !
 
 132 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 
 
 [^To DJa.^ Now speak — now, quick on tliis that 1 bav6 
 
 said, — • 
 
 Thou with the blood, speak if thou art a man ! 
 
 Dja. [to An.] And was it thou betrayedst rac ? 'Tis 
 well ! 
 I have deserved this of thee, and submit : 
 Nor 'tis much evil thou inflictest : life 
 Ends here. The cedars shall not wave for us — 
 For there was crime, and must be punishment. 
 See fate ! By thee I was seduced — by thee 
 I perish — yet do I, can I repent ? 
 I, with my Arab instinct, thwarted ever 
 By ray Frank policy, — and, within turn, 
 My Frank brain, thwarted by my Arab heart — 
 "While these remained in equipoise, I lived 
 — Nothing ; had either been predominant. 
 As a Frank schemer or an Arab mystic, 
 I had been something ; — now, each has destroyed 
 The other — and behold, from out their crash, 
 A third and better nature rises up — 
 My mere Man's-nature ! And I yield to it — 
 I love thee — I — who did not love before ! 
 
 An. Djabal — 
 
 Dja. It seemed love, but true love it was not- 
 
 How could I love while thou adoredst me ? 
 Now thou despisest, art above me so 
 In)uie;i>iii'a]}Iy — tl:ou, no other, dooraest 
 My death now — this my steel shall execute 
 Thy judgment — I shall feel thy hand in ill
 
 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 133 
 
 Oh, luxury to worship, to submit, 
 Transcended, doomed to death by thee ! 
 
 An. My Djabal! 
 
 Dja. Dost liesitate ? I force thee then ! Approacli, 
 Druses ! for I am out of reach of fate ; 
 No further evil waits me — Speak the truth ! 
 Hear, Druses, and hear, Nuncio, and hear, Loys ! 
 
 An. Hakeem ! \^Shc falls dead. 
 
 yrhe Druses sa'eam, grovelling before him. 
 Ah, Hakeem ! — not on me thy wrath I 
 Biamrallah, pardon — never doubted I ! 
 Ah, dog, how sayest thou ? 
 
 f Thet/ swround and seize the NuNCio and his Guards. Lots 
 Jlings himself upon the body of Anael, on which Djabal 
 continues to gaze as stupefied. 
 Nuncio. Caitives ! Have ye eyes? 
 
 Whips, racks, should teach you ! What, his fools ? his 
 
 dupes ? 
 Leave me ! unhand me ! 
 
 Kha. \_approaching Djabal timidly.] Save her foi 
 mv sake ! 
 She was already thine — she would have shared 
 To-day thine exaltation — think ! this day 
 Her hair was plaited thus because of thee — 
 Yes, feel the soft bright hair — feel 1 
 
 Nuncio, [struggling with those who have seized him "_ 
 
 What, because 
 His leman dies for him ? You think it hard 
 To die ? Oh, would you were at Rhodes, and choice 
 Of deaths should suit you I
 
 134 THE RETURN OP THE DRUSES. 
 
 Kha. [bending over Anael's body.'] Just restore hen 
 life ! 
 So little does it — there — the eyelids tremble ! 
 'Twas not my breath that made them — aad the lips 
 Move of themselves — I could restore her life ! 
 Hakeem, we have forgotten — have presumed 
 On our free converse — we are better taught. 
 See, I kiss — how I kiss thy garment's hem 
 For her ! She kisses it — Oh, take her deed 
 In mine — Thou dost believe no\v,-Anael ? — See 
 She smiles ! Were her lips open o'er the teeth 
 So, when I spoke first ? She believes in thee ! 
 Go not without her to the Cedars, Lord ! 
 Or leave us both — I cannot go alone ! 
 I have obeyed thee, if I dare say so — 
 Hath Hakeem thus forgot all Djabal knew ? 
 Thou feelest then my tears fall hot and fast 
 Upon thy hand — and yet thou speakest not I 
 Ere the Venetian trumpet sound — ere thou 
 Exalt thyself, Hakeem ! save her — save her I 
 
 Nuncio. And the accursed Republic will arrive 
 And find me in their toils — dead, very like. 
 Under their feet ! 
 
 What way — not one way yet 
 To foil them ? None ? [ Observing Djabal's fac9. 
 
 What ails the Khalif ? Ah, 
 That ghastly face — a way to foil them yet ! 
 [To the Druses.] Look to your Khalif, Druses 1 Is that 
 face
 
 THE RETURN OF TQiS DRUSES. 135 
 
 God Iliikeera's? Where is triumph — where is . . . what 
 
 Said he of exaltation — hath he promised 
 
 So much to-day ? AVhy then, exalt tliysdf 1 
 
 Cast off that husk, thy form, set free tliy soul 
 
 In splendour ! Now, hear witness — here I stand— 
 
 I challenge him exalt himself, and I 
 
 Become, for that, a Druse like all of you ! 
 
 The Druses. Exalt thyself^ — exalt thyself — Hakeem 1 
 Dja. [advances.'] I can confess now all from first to 
 last. 
 There is no longer shame for me 1 I am . . . 
 
 {Here the Venetian trumpet sounds — the Drases shout: hia 
 eye catches the expression of those about him, and, as the 
 old dream comes back, he is again conjident and inspired. 
 
 . . . Am I not Hakeem ? And ye would have crawled 
 
 But yesterday within these impure courts 
 
 Where now ye stand erect ! — Not grand enough ? 
 
 — What more could be conceded to such beasts 
 
 As all of you, so sunk and base as you, 
 
 But a mere man ? — A man among such beasts 
 
 Was miracle enough — yet him you doubt. 
 
 Him you forsake, him fain would you destroy— 
 
 With the Venetians at your gate, the Nuncio 
 
 Thus — (see the baffled hypocrite !) and best 
 
 The Prefect there ! 
 
 I>7-uses. No, Hakeem, ever thine 1 
 
 Nuncio. He lies — and twice he lies — and thrice he lies 
 Exalt thyself, Mahound ! Exalt thyself! 
 Dja. Druses I we shall henceforth be far away t
 
 136 THE RETURN OF THK DRUSES 
 
 Out of mere mortal ken — above the Cedars — 
 
 But we shall see ye go, hear ye return, 
 
 Repeopling the old solitudes, — thro' thee, 
 
 My Khalil ! Thou art full of me— T fill 
 
 Thee full — ray hands thus fill thee ! Yester* eve. 
 
 — Nay, but this morn — I deemed thee ixrnorant 
 
 Of all to do, requiring words of mine 
 
 To teach it — now, thou hast all gifts in one, 
 
 With truth and purity go other gifts ! 
 
 All gifts come clustering to that — go, \e?i\ 
 
 My People home whate'er betide ! 
 
 [^Turning to the Druses.] Ye tske 
 This Khalil for my delegate ? To him 
 Bow as to me ? He leads to Lebanon — 
 Ye follow ? 
 
 Druses. "We follow ! Now exalt thyself! 
 
 DJa. [raises Lots.] Then to thee, Loys I How I 
 wronged thee, Loys ! 
 — ^Yet, wronged, no less thou shalt have full reveiij^e. 
 Fit for thy noble self, revenge — and thus : 
 Thou, loaded with these wrongs, the princely soul 
 The first sword of Christ's sepulchre — thou shalt 
 Guard Khalil and my Druses home again ! 
 Justice, no less — God's justice and no more, 
 For those I leave ! — to seeking this, devote 
 Some few days out of thy Knight's brilliant life, 
 And, this obtained them, leave their Lebanon, 
 My Druses' blessing in thine ears — (they shall 
 Bless thee with blessing sure to have it? way)
 
 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES. 137 
 
 — One cedar-blossora in thy Ducal cap, 
 One thought of Anael in thy heart — perchance, 
 One thought of him who thus, to bid thee speed, 
 His last word to the living speaks ! This done, 
 Resume thy course, and, first amid the first 
 In Europe, take my heart along with thee ! 
 Go boldly, go serenely, go augustly — 
 What can withstand thee then ? 
 
 \_He bends over Anael.] And last to thee 1 
 Ah, did 1 dream I was to have this day 
 Exalttid thee ? A vain dream — hast thou not 
 Won greater exaltation ? What remains 
 But press to thee, exalt myself to thee ? 
 Thus I exalt myself, set free my soul ! 
 
 {He stabs himself— as he falls, supported by Khalii. dnd 
 LoYS, the Venetians enter: the Admiral advances. 
 
 Admiral God and St. Mark for Venice ! Plant the 
 Lion ! 
 [At the clash of the planted standard, the Druses shout, and 
 move tumultuously forward. Lots drawing his sword. 
 
 Dja. [leading them a few steps between Khalil and 
 
 LOYS.] 
 
 On to the Mountain. At the Mountain, Druses 1 
 
 [Diet
 
 L U R 1 A 
 
 Ccacs^2h
 
 I DBmriikTB 
 
 THIS LAST ATTEMPT FOR THE PRESENT AT DRAMATIC FOETB1 
 
 Eo a CSjreat IDramntic i)o£t; 
 
 " WISHING WHAT I WRITE MAY BE READ BY HIS LIGHT : " 
 
 — ^IF A PHRASE ORIGINALLY ADDRESSED, BY NOT THE LEAST 
 WORTHY OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES, 
 
 TO SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 MAY BE APPLIED HERE, BY ONE WHOSE SOLB PRIVILEGE IS IS i 
 GRATEFUL ADMIRATION, 
 
 TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
 
 LURIA. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 LuRiA, a Moor, Commander of the Florentine Forces. 
 
 Hdsain, a Moor, his friend. 
 
 Pdccio, the old Florentine Commander, now Ltjbia's Chief Offlcei 
 
 Braccio, Commissary of tlie Republic of Florence. 
 
 Jacopo (Lapo), his Secretary. 
 
 TiBURZio, Commander of the Pisans. 
 
 DoMiziA, a noble Florentine Lady. 
 
 Time, 14—. 
 
 Scene. — ^Lusia's Camp between Florence and Pita. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 MORNTNft- 
 Braccio, as dictating to his Secretary; Pucoio standing by. 
 Brae, [to Puc] Then, you join battle in an hour? 
 Puc. Not I ; 
 
 Luria, the Captain. 
 
 Brae, [to the Sec.'] "In an hour, the battle." 
 [7b Puc] Sir, let your eye run o'er this loose digest, 
 And see if very much of your report 
 Have slipped away through ray civilian phrase.
 
 142 LURIA. 
 
 Does this instruct the Signory aright 
 How army stands with army ? 
 
 Puc. [taking the paper.'] All seems here : 
 — That Luria, seizing with our City's force 
 The several points of vantage, hill and plain, 
 Shuts Pisa safe from help on every side, 
 And baffling the Lucchese arrived too late, 
 Must, in the battle he delivers now, 
 Beat her best troops and first of chiefs. 
 
 Brae. So sure ? 
 
 Tiburzio's a consummate captain too ! 
 
 Puc. Luria holds Pisa's fortune in his hand. 
 
 Brae, [to the Sec] " The Signory hold Pisa in theil 
 hand!" 
 Your own proved soldiership's our warrant, sir : 
 So, while my secretary ends his task, 
 Have out two horsemen, by the open roads, 
 To post with it to Florence ! 
 
 Pue. [returning the paper.] All seems here; 
 Unless . . . Ser Braccio, 'tis my last report I 
 Since Pisa's outbreak, and my overthrow, 
 And Luria's hastening at the city's call 
 To save her, as he only could, no doubt ; 
 Till now that she is saved or sure to be, — 
 Wliatever you tell Florence, I tell you : 
 Each day's note you, her Commissary, make 
 Of Luria's movements, I myself supply. 
 No youngster am I longer, to my cost ; 
 Therefore while Florence gloried in her choice
 
 LURIA. 
 
 143 
 
 And vaunted Luria, whom but Luria, still, 
 
 As if zeal, courage, prudence, conduct, faith, 
 
 Had never met in any maiubefore, 
 
 I saw 110 pressing need to swell the cry. 
 
 But now, this last report and I have done — 
 
 So, ere to-night comes with its roar of praise, 
 
 'Twere not amiss if some one old i' the trade 
 
 Subscribed with, "True, for once rash counsel's best; 
 
 ♦' This Moor of the bad faith and doubtful race, 
 
 " This boy to whose untried sagacity, 
 
 " Raw valour, Florence trusts without reserve 
 
 " The charge to save her, justifies her choice ; 
 
 " In no point has this stranger failed his friends; 
 
 '• Now praise ! " I say this, and it is not here. 
 
 Brae, [to the Sec] Write, " Puccio, superseded in the 
 charge 
 " By Luria, bears full witness to his worth, 
 " And no reward our Signory can give 
 " Their champion but he'll back it cheerfully." 
 Aught more ? Five minutes hence, both messengers ! 
 
 [Pcccio goe» 
 
 Brae, [after a pause, and while he slowly tears thi 
 paper into shreds.^ 
 1 think . . . pray God, I hold in fit contempt 
 This warfare's noble art and ordering. 
 And, — once the brace of prizers fairly matched, 
 Poloaxe with polcaxe, knife with knife as good, — 
 Spit properly at what men term their skill . . . 
 Vet here I think our fighter has the odds ;
 
 144 LURIA. 
 
 With Pisa's strength diminished thus and thus,"" 
 Such points of vantage in our hands and such, 
 With Lucca off the stage, too, — all's assured : 
 Luria must win this battle. Write the Court, 
 That Luria's trial end and sentence pass! 
 
 Sec. Patron, — 
 
 Brae. Ay, Lapo ? 
 
 Sec. If you trip, I fall 
 
 'Tis in self-interest I speak — 
 
 Brae. Nay, nay, 
 
 You overshoot the mark, my Lapo ! Nay ! 
 When did I say pure love's impossible ? 
 I make you daily write those red cheeks thm, 
 Load your young brow with what concerns it least. 
 And, when we visit Florence, let you pace 
 The Piazza by my side as if we talked, 
 Where all your old acquaintances may see 
 You'd die for me, I should not be surprised ! 
 Now then ! 
 
 Sec. Sir, look about and love yourself 1 
 
 Step after step the Signory and you 
 Tread gay till this tremendous point's to pass ; 
 Which, pass not, pass not, ere you ask yourself. 
 Bears the brain steadily such draughts of fire, 
 Or too delicious may not prove the pride 
 Of this long secret Trial you dared plan. 
 Dare execute, you solitary here, 
 With the gray-headed toothless fools at home, 
 Who think themselves your lords, they are such slaves?
 
 LURIA- 
 
 lib 
 
 If they pronv»UL.^e this sentence as you bid, 
 Dedtirc the treason, claim its penalty, — 
 And sudden out of all the blaze of life, 
 On the best ininuie of his brightest day. 
 From that adoring army at his back, 
 Thro' Florence' joyous crowds before his face, 
 Into the dark you beckon Luria . . . 
 
 Brae. ' Then- 
 
 Why, Lapo, when the fighting-people vaunt, 
 "We of the other craft and mystery, 
 May we not smile demure, the danger past ? 
 
 Sec. Sir, no, no, no, — the danger, and your spirit 
 At watch and ward ? Where's danger on your part, 
 With that thin flitting instantaneous steel, 
 'Gainst the blind bull-front of a brute-force world ? 
 If Luria, that's to perish sure as fate. 
 Should have been really guilt/ess after all? 
 
 Brae. Ah, you have thought that ? 
 
 Sec. Here I sit, jro-ir scribe 
 
 And in and out goes Luria, days and nights ; 
 This Puccio comes ; the Moor his other friend, 
 Husain ; they talk — all that's feigned easily ; 
 He speaks (I would not listen if I could) 
 Reads, orders, counsels ; — ^but he rests sometimes, — 
 I see him stand and eat, sleep stretched an hour 
 On the lynx-skins, yonder ; hold his bared black arms 
 Into the sun from the tent-opening ; laugh 
 When his horse drops the foi'age from his teeth 
 A.nd neighs to hear him hum his Moorish songs, 
 VOL. n. 10
 
 146 LURIA. 
 
 That man believes in Florence, as the Saint 
 Tied to the wheel believes in God ! 
 
 Brae. How strange— 
 
 Yon too have thought that ! 
 
 Sec. Do but you think too, 
 
 And all is saved ! I only have to write, 
 The man seemed false awhile, proves true at last ; 
 Bury it ... so I write to the Signory . . . 
 Bury this Trial in your breasts forever, 
 Blot it from things or done or dreamed about, 
 So Luria shall receive his meed to-day 
 With no suspicion what reverse was near, — 
 As if no meteoric finger hushed 
 The doom-word just on the destroyer's lip. 
 Motioned him off, and let life's sun fall straight. 
 
 Brae, [looks to the wall of the tent.'] Did he draw that ? 
 
 Sec. With charcoal, when the watch 
 
 Made the rejjort at midnight ; Lady Domizia 
 Spoke of the unfinished Duomo, you remember, 
 That is his fancy how a Moorish front 
 Might join to, and complete, the body, — a sketch, — 
 And again where the cloak hangs, yonder in the shadow 
 
 Brae. He loves that woman. 
 
 Sec. She is sent the spy 
 
 Of Florence, — spies on you as you on him : 
 Florence, if only for Domizia's sake. 
 Is surely safe. What shall I write ? 
 
 Brae- I see— 
 
 A Moorish front, nor of such ill design !
 
 LURIA. 147 
 
 Lapo, there's jlg thing phiin and positive ; 
 
 Man seeks his own good at the whole world's cost. 
 
 What ? If to lead our troops, stand forth our chiefs, 
 
 And hold our fate, and see us at their beck, 
 
 Yet render up the charge when peace returned, 
 
 Have ever proved too much for Florentines, 
 
 Even for the best and bravest of ourselves — 
 
 If in the struggle when the soldier's sword 
 
 Should sink its point before the statist's pen. 
 
 And the calm head replace the violent hand. 
 
 Virtue on virtue still have fallen away 
 
 Before ambition with unvarying fate. 
 
 Till Florence' self at last in bitterness 
 
 Be forced to own such falls the natural end, 
 
 And, sparing further to expose her sons 
 
 To a vain strife and profitless disgrace, 
 
 Declare " The Foreigner, one not my child, 
 
 " Shall henceforth lead my troops, reach height by height 
 
 " The glory, then descend into the shame ; 
 
 *' So shall rebellion be less guilt in him, 
 
 " And punishment the easier task for me " 
 
 —If on the best of us this brand she set, 
 
 Can I suppose an utter alien here, 
 
 This Luria, our inevitable foe, 
 
 Confessed a mercenary and a Moor, 
 
 Born free from any ties that bind the rest 
 
 Of common faith in Heaven or hope on Earth. 
 
 No Past with us, no Future, — such a Spirit 
 
 *^hall hold the path from which our stanchest broke.
 
 148 LUKIA. 
 
 Stand firm where every famed precursor fell ^ 
 
 My Lapo, I will frankly say, these proofs 
 
 So duly noted of the man's intent, 
 
 Are for the doting fools at home, not me ; 
 
 The charges here, they may be true or false, 
 
 — What is set down ? Errors and oversights, 
 
 This dallying interchange of courtesies 
 
 With Pisa's General, — all that, hour by hour, 
 
 Puccio's pale discontent has furnished us, 
 
 Of petulant speeches, inconsiderate acts, 
 
 Now overhazard, overcaution now ; 
 
 Even that he loves this Lady who believes 
 
 She outwits Florence, and whom Florence posted 
 
 By my procurement here, to spy on me, 
 
 Lest I one minute lose her from my sight — 
 
 She who remembering her whole House's fall, 
 
 That nest of traitors strangled in the birth. 
 
 Now labours to make Luria . . . poor device 
 
 As plain ... the instrument of her revenge I 
 
 — That she is ever at his ear to prompt 
 
 Inordinate conception's of his worth. 
 
 Exorbitant belief in its reward, 
 
 And after, when sure disappointment follows, 
 
 Proportionable rage at such a wrong — 
 
 Why, all these reasons, while I urge them most. 
 
 Weigh with me less than least ; as nothing weigh 1 
 
 Upon that broad Man's heart of his, I go ! 
 
 On what I know must be, yet while I live 
 
 Will never be, because I live and know !
 
 LTTRIA. MS 
 
 Biute-force shall uot lule Florence! Intellect 
 
 May rule her, bad or good as chance supplies, — 
 
 But Intellect it shall be, pure if bad, 
 
 And Intellect's tradition so kept up 
 
 Till the good comes — 'twas Intellect that ruled, 
 
 Not Brute-force bringing from the battle-field 
 
 The attributes of wisdom, foresight's graces 
 
 We lent it there to lure its grossness on ; 
 
 All which it took for earnest and kept safe 
 
 To show against us in our market-place, 
 
 Just as the plumes and tags and swordsraan's-gear 
 
 (Fetched from the camp where at their foolish best 
 
 When all was done they frightened nobody) 
 
 Perk in our faces in the street, forsooth. 
 
 With our own warrant and allowance. No! 
 
 The whole procedure is overcharged, — its end 
 
 In too sti-ict keeping with the bad first step. 
 
 To conquer Pisa was sheer inspiration ? 
 
 Well then, to perish for a single fault. 
 
 Let that be simple justice ! — There, ray Lapo 1 
 
 A Moorish front ill suits our Duorao's body — 
 
 Blot it out — and bid Luria's sentence come ! 
 
 [LoKiA who, with DoMiziA, lias entered unobserved at Ou 
 close of the last phrase, now advancing. 
 
 And Luria, Luria, what of Luria now ? 
 
 Brae. Ah, you so close. Sir ? Lady Domizia too ? 
 I said it needs must be a busy moment 
 For one like you — that you were now i' the thick 
 Of your duties, doubtless, while we idlers sate . . .
 
 150 LTJEIA. 
 
 Lur. No — in that paper, — it was in that paper 
 What you were saying! 
 
 Brae. Oh — my day's dispatch! 
 
 I censure you to Florence : will you see ? 
 
 Lur. See your dispatch, your last, for the first time ' 
 Well, if I should, now ? For iu truth, Domizia, 
 He would be forced to set about another. 
 In his sly cool way, the true Florentine, 
 To mention that important circumstance ; 
 So while he wrote I should gain time, such time ! 
 Do not send this ! 
 
 Brae. And wherefore ? 
 
 Ijur. These Lucchese 
 
 Are not arrived — they never will arrive ! 
 And I must fight to-day, arrived or not ; 
 And I shall beat Tiburzio, that is sure: 
 And then will be arriving my Lucchese, 
 But slowly, oh so slowly, just in time 
 To look upon my battle from the hills. 
 Like a late moon, of use to nobody ! 
 And I must break my battle up, send forth, 
 Surround on this side, hold in check on that — 
 Then comes to-morrow, we negotiate, 
 fou make me send for fresh instructions home, 
 —Incompleteness, incompleteness ! 
 
 Brae. Ah, we scribes 
 
 Why, I had registered that very point, 
 The non-appearance of our foes' ally, 
 As a most happy fortune ; both at once 
 Were formidable — singly faced, each falls.
 
 LUEIA. 151 
 
 Lui . So no great battle for my Florentines 1 
 No crowning deed, decisive and complete, 
 For all of them, the simple as the wise. 
 Old, young, alike, that do not understand 
 Our wearisome pedantic art of war, 
 By wliich we prove retreat may be success, 
 Delay — best speed, — half loss, at times, — whole gain 
 They want results — as if it were their fault ! 
 And you, with warmest wish to be my friend. 
 Will not be able now to simply say 
 " Your servant has performed his task — enough ! 
 " You ordered, he has executed : good ! 
 " Now walk the streets in holiday attire, 
 " Congratulate your friends, till noon strikes fierce, 
 " Tiien form bright groups beneath the Duomo's shade ! *' 
 No ! you will have to argue and explain. 
 Persuade them all is not so ill in the end, 
 Tease, tire them out! Arrive, arrive, Lucchese! ^ 
 
 Dom. Well, you will triumph for the Past enough. 
 Whatever be the Present's chance — no service 
 Falls to the ground with Florence ; she awaits 
 Her saviour, will receive hiln fittingly. 
 
 Lur. Ah, Braccio, you know Florence . . will she. 
 think you, 
 Receive one . . . what means " fittingly receive ? " 
 • — Receive compatriots, doubtless — I am none : 
 And yet Domizia promises so much ! 
 
 Brae. Kind women still give men a woman's prize 
 [ know not o'er which gate most boughs will arch,
 
 152 LURIA. 
 
 Nor if the Square will wave red flags or blu< 
 I should have judged, the fullest of rewards 
 Our State gave Luria, when she raade him chief 
 Of her whole force, in her best Captain's place. 
 
 Lur. That my reward ? Florence on my accouni 
 Relieved Ser Puccio ? — mark you, my reward ! 
 And Puccio's having all the fight's true joy — 
 Goes here and there, directs, may fight himself, 
 While I must order, stand aloof, o'ersee ! 
 That was my calling — there was my true place I 
 I should have felt, in some one over me, 
 Florence impersonate, my visible Head, 
 As I am over Puccio, — taking life 
 Directly from her eye ! — They give me you I 
 But do you cross me, set me half to work? 
 I enjoy nothing — but I will, for once ! 
 Decide, shall we join battle ? may I wait ? 
 
 Brae. Let us compound the matter ; wait tiD icon ; 
 Then, no arrival, — 
 
 Lur. Ah, noon comes too fast I 
 
 I wonder, do you guess why I delay 
 Involuntarily the final blow 
 As long as possible ? Peace follows it I 
 Florence at peace, and the calm studious heads 
 Come out again, the penetrating eyes ; 
 As if a spell broke, all's resumed, each art 
 You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile I 
 Gainst the glad heaven, o'er the white palace-front 
 The interrupted scaflFold climbs anew ;
 
 I.TTRTA. 
 
 153 
 
 The walls are peopled by the Painter's brush ; 
 
 The Statue to its niche a^vcends to dwell ; 
 
 The Present's noise and trouble have retired 
 
 And left the eternal Past to rule once more. — 
 
 You speak its speech and read its records plain, 
 
 Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your fiiend, 
 
 — But Luria — where will then be Luria's place ? 
 
 Dom. Highest in honour, for that Past's own sake, 
 Of which his actions, sealing up the sum 
 By saving all that went before from wreck, 
 Will range as part, with which be worshipped too. 
 
 Lur. Then I may walk and watch you m your streets 
 Leading the life my rough life helps no more. 
 So different, so new, so beautiful — 
 Nor fear that you will tire to see parade 
 The club that slew the lion, now that crooks 
 And shepherd-pipes come into use again ? 
 Foi very lone and silent seems my East 
 In its drear vastness — still it spreads, and still 
 No Braccios, no Domizias anywhei-e— 
 Not ever more ! — Well, well, to-day is ours ! 
 
 Dom. [to Brac] Should he not have been one of ua? 
 
 Lur. Oh, no 
 
 Not one of you, and so escape the thrill 
 Of coming into you, and changing thus,— 
 Feeling a soul grow on me that restricts 
 The boundless unrest of the savage heart I 
 The sea heaves up, htlngs loaded o'er the land, 
 Breaks there and buries it;3 tumultuous strength ;
 
 154 LUKIA. 
 
 Horror, and silence, and a pause awhile ; 
 
 Lo, inland glides the gulf-stream, miles away, 
 
 In rapture of assent, subdued and still, 
 
 'Neath those strange banks, those unimagined skiea I 
 
 Well, 'tis not sure the quiet lasts forever ! 
 
 Your placid heads still find our hands new work ; 
 
 Some minutes' chance — there comes the need of mine—" 
 
 And, all resolved on, I too hear at last. 
 
 Oh, you must find some use for me, Ser Braccio ! 
 
 You hold my strength ; 'twere best dispose of it ! 
 
 What you created, see that you find food for — 
 
 I fthall be dangerous else ! 
 
 Brae. How dangerous, Sir ? 
 
 Lur. Oh, there are many ways, Doraizia warns me. 
 And one with half the power that I possess, 
 Grows very formidable ! Do you doubt ? 
 Why, first, who holds the army . . . 
 
 Dom. While we talk 
 
 Mom wears, we keep you from your proper place 
 In the field !— 
 
 Lur, Nay, to the field I move no more I 
 
 My part is done, and Puccio's may begin ! 
 I cannot trench upon his province longer 
 With any face. — You think yourselves so safe ? 
 Why see — in concert with Tiburzio, now — 
 One could . . . 
 
 Dom. A trumpet 1 
 
 Lur. M/ L icchese at lust 1 
 
 ^rived, as sure as Florence stands ! your leave 1 
 
 [Springs mU
 
 LURIA. I'jj 
 
 Dom. How plainly is true greatne:^s charactered 
 By such unconsciousness as Luria's here, 
 And sliaring least the secret of itself I 
 Be it with head that schemes or hand that acts, 
 Such save the world which none but they could save, 
 Yet think whate'er they did, that world could do. 
 
 Brae. Yes : and how worthy note, that those same 
 
 great ones 
 
 In hand or head, with such unconsciousness 
 
 And all its due entailed humility, 
 
 Should never shrink, so far as I perceive. 
 
 From taking up whatever offices 
 
 Involve the whole world's safety or mishap, 
 
 Into their mild hands as a thing of course ! 
 
 The Statist finds it natural to lead 
 
 The mob who might as easily lead him — 
 
 The Soldier marshals men who know as much — 
 
 Statist and Soldier verily believe ! 
 
 "While we poor scribes . . . you catch me thinking, now, 
 
 That I shall in this very letter write 
 
 What none of you are able ! To it, Lapo ! 
 
 • [DoMiziA. goei 
 
 This last, worst, all affected childish fit 
 
 Of Luria's, this be-praised unconsciousness. 
 
 Convinces me : the Past was no child's play ; 
 
 It was a man beat Pisa, — not a child. 
 
 All's mere dissimulation — to remove 
 
 The fear, he best knows we should entertain. 
 
 The utmost danger was at hand. Is't written ?
 
 156 LURIA. 
 
 Now make a dupKcate, lest tliis should fail, 
 And speak your fullest on the other side. 
 
 Sec. I noticed he was busily repairing 
 My half-effacement of his Duomo sketch, 
 And, while he spoke of Florence, turned to it, 
 As the Mage Negro King to Christ the Babe. — 
 I judge his childishness the true relapse 
 To boyhood of a man who has worked lately, 
 And presently will work, so, meantime, plays: 
 Whence more than ever I believe in him. 
 
 Brae, [after a pause.'\ The sword ! At best, the 
 soldier, as he says, 
 In Florence — the black face, the barbarous name, 
 For Italy to boast her show of the age, 
 Her man of men ! — to Florence with each letter 1 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Dom. "Well, Florence, shall I reach thee, pierce thy 
 heart 
 Thro' all its safeguards ? Hate is said to help — 
 Quicken the eye, invigorate the arm, 
 And this my hate, made up of many hates. 
 Might stand in scorn of visible instrument. 
 And will thee dead : — yet do I trust it not. 
 Nor Man's devices, nor Heaven's memory
 
 LUBIA. 
 
 l/l? 
 
 0^ wickedness forgot on Earth so soon, 
 
 But thy own nature, — Hell and thee I trust, 
 
 To keep thee constant in that wickedness, 
 
 "Where ray revenge may meet thee : turn aside 
 
 A single step, for gratitude, or shame, — 
 
 Grace but this Luria, this wild mass of rage 
 
 That I prepare to launch against thee now, 
 
 With other payment than thy noblest found, — 
 
 Give his desert for once its due reward, — 
 
 And past thee would my sure destruction roll 
 
 But thou who raad'st our House thy sacrifice, 
 
 It cannot be thou wilt except this Moor 
 
 From the accustomed fole of zeal and truth ; 
 
 Thou wilt deny his looked-for recompense, 
 
 And then — I reach thee ! Old and trained, my sire 
 
 Could bow down on his quiet broken heart. 
 
 Die awe-struck and submissive, when at last 
 
 The strange blow came for the expected wreath ; 
 
 And Porzio passed in blind bewilderment 
 
 To exile, never to return, — they say. 
 
 Perplexed in his frank simple honest soul, 
 
 \s if some natural law had changed, — how else 
 
 Could Florence, on plain fact pronouncing thus, 
 
 Judge Porzio's actions worthy such an end ? 
 
 But Berto, with the ever-passionate pulse, 
 
 —Oh that long niglit, its dreadful hour on hour, 
 
 In which no way of getting his fair fame 
 
 From their inexplicable charges free, 
 
 Was found, save pouring forth the impat enl blood
 
 158 rxjRiA. 
 
 To show its colour whether false or no ! 
 
 My brothers never had a friend like me 
 
 Close in their need to watch the time, then speak, 
 
 . — Burst with a wakening laughter on their dream, 
 
 Say, Florence was all falseness, so false here, — 
 
 And show them what a simple task remained — 
 
 To leave dreams, rise, and punish in God's name 
 
 The City wedded to its wickedness — 
 
 None stood by them as I by Luria stand ! 
 
 So, when the stranger cheated of his due 
 
 Turns on thee as his rapid nature bids, 
 
 Then, Florence, think, a hireling at thy throat 
 
 For the first outrage, think who bore thy last, 
 
 Yet mutely in forlorn obedience died ! 
 
 He comes . . his friend . . black faces in the camp 
 
 Where moved those peerless brows and eyes of old I 
 
 Enter Lueia and Husain. 
 
 Dom. Well, and the movement — is it as you hope ? 
 'Tis Lucca? 
 
 Lur. Ah, the Pisan trumpet merely ! 
 
 Tiburzio's envoy, I must needs receive — 
 
 Dom. Whom I withdraw before ; yet if I lingered 
 You could not wonder, for my time fleets fast ; 
 The overtaking night brings such reward ! — 
 And where will then be room for me ? Yet still 
 Remember who was first to promise it, 
 A.nd envies those who also can perform ! [ Goet 
 
 Lur This trumpet from the Pisans ? —
 
 LTTRIA. 
 
 159 
 
 A very noble presence — Braccio's visage 
 Ou Puccio's body — calm and fixed and good ; 
 A man I seem as I had seen before — 
 Most like, it was some statue had the lace. 
 
 Lur. Admit him ! This will prove the last delay 1 
 
 Hus. Ay, friend, go on, and die thou going on 1 
 Thou heard'st what the grave woman said but now : 
 To-night rewards thee ! That is well to hear ! 
 But stop not therefore ; hear it, and go on I 
 
 Lur. Oh, their reward and triumph and the rest 
 They round me in the ears with, all day long ? 
 All that, I never take for earnest, friend ! 
 Well would it suit us, — their triumphal arch 
 Or storied pillar, — thee and me, the Moors I 
 But gratitude in those Italian eyes — 
 That, we shall get ? 
 
 Hus. It is too cold an air — 
 
 Our sun rose out of yonder mound of mist — 
 Where is he now ? So I trust none of them ! 
 
 Lur. Truly ? 
 
 Hus. I doubt and fear. There stands a wall 
 
 'Twixt our expansive and explosive race 
 And those absorbing, concentrating men I 
 They use thee ! 
 
 Lur. And I feel it, Husain ; ye3, 
 
 And care not — yes, an alien force like mine 
 Is only called to play its part outside 
 Their different nature ; where it3 sole use seems
 
 160 LURIA. 
 
 To fight with and keep off an adverse force 
 As alien, — which repelled, mine too withdraws ; 
 Inside, they know not what to do with me ; 
 So I have told them laughingly and oft, 
 But long since I prepared to learn the worst. 
 
 Hus. What is the worst ? 
 
 Lur. I will forestall them, lIusaiD 
 
 And speak my destiny, they dare not speak — 
 Banish myself before they find the heart I 
 I will be first to say, " The work rewards ! 
 " I know, for all your praise, ray use is over, 
 " So may it be ! — meanwhile 'tis best I go, 
 " And carry safe my memories of you all 
 " To other scenes of action, newer lands," — 
 Thus leaving them confirmed in their belief 
 They would not easily have tired of me ! 
 You think this hard to say ? 
 
 Has. Say it or not, 
 
 So thou but go, so they but let thee go ! 
 This hating people, that hate each the other, 
 And in one blandness to us Moors unite — 
 Locked each to each like slippery snakes, I say, 
 Which still in all their tangles, hissing tongue 
 And threatening tail, ne'er do each other harm ; 
 While any creature of a better blood. 
 They seem to fight for, wliile they circle safe 
 And nevar touch it, — pines without a wound, 
 Withers away befoi;e their eyes and breath. 
 See, thou, if Puccio come not safely out
 
 LURIA. 161 
 
 Of Braccio's grasp, this Braccio sworn his foe, 
 
 As Braccio safely from Dornizia's toils 
 
 Wiio hates him most! — But thou, the friend of all, 
 . Come out of them ! 
 
 Lur. The Pisan trumpet now ! 
 
 Has. Breathe free" — it is an enemy, no friend ! [ Goet 
 Lur. He keeps his instincts, no new culture mars 
 
 Their perfect use in him; just so the brutes 
 -Rest not, are anxious without visible cause, 
 
 When change is in the elements at work, 
 
 Which man's trained senses fail to appi-ehend. 
 
 But here, — he takes the distant chariot-wheels 
 
 For thunder, festal fire for lightning's flash, 
 
 The finer traits of cultivated life 
 
 For treachery and malevolence : I see ! 
 
 Enter Tibcrzio. 
 
 Lur. Quick, sir, your message. I but waiv your message 
 To sound the charge. You bring not ovenures 
 For truce? — I would not, for your General's sake, 
 You spoke of truce — a time to fight is come, 
 And whatsoe'r the fight's event, he keeps 
 His honest soldier's name to beat me with, 
 Or leaves me all himself to beat, I trust ! 
 
 Tib. I am Tiburzio. 
 
 Lur. ■ You ? 'Tis — ^yes . . Tiburzio . 
 
 Vou were the last to keep the ford i' the valley 
 From Puccio, when I threw in succcurs there 1 
 Why, I was on the heights — tliro' the defile 
 
 VOL. II. 11
 
 1 62 LUEIA. 
 
 Ten minutes after, when the prey was lost ; 
 You wore an open scull-cap with a twist 
 Of water-reeds — the plume being hewn away ; 
 While I drove down my battle from the heights, 
 —I saw with my own eyes ! 
 
 Til. And you are Luria 
 
 Who sent my cohort, that laid down its arms 
 In error of the battle-signal's sense, 
 Back safely to me at the critical time — 
 One of a hundred deeds — I know you ! Therefore 
 To none but you could I . . . 
 
 Lur. No truce, Tiburzio ! 
 
 Tib. Luria, you know the peril's imminent 
 On Pisa, — that you have us in the toils, 
 IJs her last safeguard, all that intercepts 
 , The rage of her implacablest of foes 
 From Pisa, — if we fall to-day, she falls. 
 Tho' Lucca will arrive, yet, 'tis too late. 
 You have so plainly here the best of it, 
 That you must feel, brave soldier as you are. 
 How dangerous we grow in this extreme, 
 Plow truly formidable by despair. 
 Still, probabilities should have their weight — 
 The extremest chance is ours, but, that chance failing, 
 You win this battle. Wherefore say I this ? 
 To be well apprehended when I add. 
 This danger absolutely comes from you. 
 Were you, who threaten thus, a Florentine . . 
 Lu,r. Sir, I am nearer Florence than her sons.
 
 LURIA. 163 
 
 I can, and tave perhaps obliged the State, 
 Nor paid a mere son's duty. 
 
 Tib. Even so ! 
 
 Were you the son of Florence, yet endued 
 With all your present nobleness of soul, 
 No question, what I must communicate 
 Would not detach you from her. 
 
 Lur. Me, detach ? 
 
 Tib. Time urges : you will ruin presently 
 Pisa, you never knew, for Florence' sake 
 You think you know. I have from time to time 
 Made prize of certain secret missives sent 
 From Braccio here, the Commissary, home — 
 And knowing Florence otherwise, I piece 
 The entire chain out, from these its scattered hnka. 
 Your trial occupies the Signory ; 
 They sit in judgment on your conduct now ! 
 "When men at home inquire into the acts 
 Which in the field e'en foes appreciate . . 
 Brief, they are Florentines ! You, saving them, 
 Will seek the sure destruction saviours find. 
 
 Lur. Tiburzio — 
 
 Tib. All the wonder is of course! 
 
 I am not here to teach you, nor direct. 
 Only to loyally apprise — scarce that. 
 This is the latest letter, sealed and safe, 
 A.S it left here an hour ago. One way 
 Of two thought free to Florence, I command.
 
 164 
 
 ^^URIA. 
 
 The {implicate is on its road : but this, — 
 Read it, and then I shall have more to say, 
 
 Lur. Florence! 
 
 Tif>' Now, were yourself a Florentine, 
 
 This letter, let it hold the worst it can. 
 Would be no reason you should fall away — 
 The Mother city is the mother still, 
 And recognition of the children's service 
 Her own affair ; reward — there's no reward ! 
 But you are bound by quite another tie ; 
 Nor Nature shows, nor Reason, why at first 
 A foreigner, born friend to all alike, 
 should give himself to any special State 
 More than another, stand by Florence' side 
 Rather than Pisa's— 'tis as fair a city 
 You war against, as that you fight for — famed 
 As well as she in story, graced no less 
 With noble heads and patriotic hearts, — 
 Nor to a stranger's eye would either cause, 
 Stripped of the cumulative loves and hates 
 Which take importance from familiar view, 
 Stand as the Right, and Sole to be upheld. 
 Therefore, should the preponderating gift 
 Of love and trust, Florence was first to throw, 
 Which made you hers not Pisa's, void the scale, — 
 Old ties dissolving, things resume their place 
 And all begins again. Break seal and read I 
 At least let Pisa offer for you now ! 
 And I, as a good Pisan, shall rejoice —
 
 LUEIA. 
 
 16d 
 
 rho' for myself I lose, in gaining you, 
 
 This last figlit and its opportunity ; 
 
 The chance it brings of saving Pisa yet, 
 
 Or in the turn of battle dying so 
 
 That shame should want its extreme bitterness. 
 
 Lur. Tiburzio, you that fight for Pisa now 
 As I for Florence . . say my chance were yours ! 
 You read this letter, and you find . . no, no ! 
 Too mad ! 
 
 Tih. 1 read tlie letter, find they purpose 
 
 When I have crushed their foe, to crush me : well ? 
 Liir. You, being their captain, what is it you do? 
 Tib. Why as it is, all cities are alike — 
 Pisa will pay me much as Florence you ; 
 I shall be as belied, whate'er the event, 
 As you, or more : my weak head, they will say. 
 Prompted this last expedient, my faint heart 
 Entailed on them indelible disgrace. 
 Both which defects ask proper punishment. 
 Another tenure of obedience, mine ! 
 You are no son of Pisa's : break and read ! 
 
 Lur. And act on what I read? What act were fit? 
 If the firm-fixed foundation of my faith 
 In Florence, which to me stands for Mankind, 
 — If that breaks up and, disemprisoning 
 From the Abyss ... Ah friend, it cannot be I 
 You may be very sage, yet . . all the world 
 Having to fail, or your sagacity, 
 You do not wish to find yourself alone.
 
 166 LURIA. 
 
 What would the world he worth? Whose love be sure? 
 The world remains — you are deceived ! 
 
 Tih. Your hand I 
 
 I lead the vanguard. — If you fall, beside, 
 The better — I am left to speak ! For me, 
 This was my duty, nor would I rejoice 
 If I could help, it misses its effect : 
 And after all you will look gallantly 
 Found dead here with that letter in your breast ! 
 
 Lur. Tiburzio — I would see these people once 
 And test them ere I answer finally ! 
 At your arrival let the trumpet sound : 
 If mine returns not then the wonted cry, 
 [t means that I believe — am Pisa's ! 
 
 Tih. Well! \_Goe$ 
 
 Lur. My heart will have it he speaks true ! My blood 
 Beats close to this Tiburzio as a friend. 
 If he had stept into my watch-tent, night 
 And the wild desert full of foes around, 
 I should have broke the bread and given the salt 
 Secure, and, when my hour of watch was done, 
 Taken my turn to sleep between his knees. 
 Safe in the untroubled brow and honest cheek. 
 Oh, world, where all things pass and nought abides, 
 Oh, life the long mutation — is it so ? 
 Is it with life as with tlie body's change ? 
 —Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass, 
 Nor manhood's strength can mate with boyhood's grac.tu- 
 Noi age's wisdom, in its turn, find strength,
 
 LURIA. 1 67 
 
 Hut silently the fii'St gift dies away. 
 
 And tbo' the new stays, never both at once ! 
 
 Life's time of savage instinct's o'er with me, 
 
 It fades and dies away, past trusting more, 
 
 As if to punish the ingratitude 
 
 With which I turned to grow in there new lights, 
 
 And learned to look with European eyes. 
 
 Yet it is better, this cold certain way. 
 
 Where Braccio's brow tells nothing, — Puccio's mouth. 
 
 Doraizia's eyes reject the searcher — yes — 
 
 For on their calm sagacity I lean, 
 
 Their sense of right, deliberate choice of good. 
 
 Sure, as they know my deeds, they deal with me. 
 
 Yes, that is better — that is oest of all ! 
 
 Sucli faith stays when mere wild belief would go ! 
 
 Yes — when the desert creature's heart, at fault 
 
 Amid the scattering tempest's pillared sands, 
 
 Betrays its steps into the pathless drift — 
 
 The calm instructed eye of man holds fast 
 
 By the sole bearing of the visible star, 
 
 Sure that when slow the whirling wreck subsides, 
 
 Tlie boundaries, lost now, shall be found again, — 
 
 The palm-trees and the pyramid over all. 
 
 tes: I trust Florence — Pisa is deceived! 
 
 Enter Braccio, Pdccio, and Domizia. 
 Brae. Noon's at an end: no Lucca? You must fight. 
 Lur. Do you remember ever, gentle friends, 
 I am no Florentine ? 
 Dom. It is yourself
 
 168 LURIA. 
 
 Who still are forcing U3 importunately, 
 
 To bear in mind what else we should forget. 
 
 Imt. For loss ! — For what I lose in being none ! 
 No shrewd man, such as you yourselves respect, 
 But would remind you of the stranger's loss 
 In natural friends and advocates at home. 
 Hereditary loves, even rivalships, 
 With precedents for honor and reward. 
 Still, there's a gain, too ! If you take it so, 
 The stranger's lot has special gain as well ! 
 Do you forget there was my own far East 
 I might have given away myself to, once. 
 As now to Florence, and for such a gift, 
 Stood there like a descended Deity ? 
 There, worship greets us ! what do I get here ? 
 
 \Show3 the letta 
 
 See ! Chance has put into my hand the means 
 Of knowing what I earn, before I work ! 
 Should I fight better, should I fight the worse, 
 With your crown palpably before me? see! 
 Here lies my whole reward ! Best know it now, 
 Or keep it for the end's entire delight ? 
 
 Brae. If you serve Florence as the vulgar serve, 
 For swordsman's pay alone, — break s^al and read ! 
 In that case, you will find your fuU desert ! 
 
 Lur. Give me my one last happy moment, friends ! 
 You need me now, and all the gratitude 
 This letter can contain will never balance 
 The after-feeling that your need's at end !
 
 LURIA. K9 
 
 This rnotnent . . Oh, the East has use with you 1 
 Its sword still flashes — is not flung aside 
 With the past praise, in a dark corner yet ! 
 How say you ? 'Tis not so with Florentines — 
 Captains of yours — for them, the ended war 
 Is but a first step to the peace begun 
 — He who did well in war, just earns the right 
 To begin doing well in peace, you know ! 
 And certain my precursors, — would not such 
 Look to themselves in such a chance as this, 
 Secure the ground they trod upon, perhaps ? 
 For I have heard, by fits, or seemed to hear. 
 Of strange occuri-ences, ingratitude, 
 Treachery even, — say that one of you 
 Surmised this letter carried what might turn 
 To harm hereafter, cause him prejudice — 
 What would he do ? 
 
 Dom. \Jiastihj.'\ Tiiank God and take revenge i 
 Turn her own force against the city straight, 
 And even at the moment when the foe 
 Sounded defiance . . . 
 
 [TiBCEZio's trumpet sminds in the, distance 
 
 Lur. Ah, you Florentines ! 
 
 So would you do ? Wisely for you, no doubt ! 
 My .'umple Moorish instinct bids me sink 
 The obligation you relieve me from. 
 Still deeper! [to Pi c] Sound our answer, I should say 1 
 A.nd thus: — [^tearing the paper J — The battle J Thj?( 
 solves every doubt I
 
 t'/O LUKIA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 AFTERNOON. 
 Mbccio, as makinc) a report to Jacopo. 
 
 Puc. And here, your Captain must report the rest 
 For, as I say, the main engagement over. 
 And Luria's special part in it performed, 
 How could subalterns -like myself expect 
 Leisure or leave to occupy the field 
 And glean what dropped from his wide harvesting? 
 I thought, when Lucca at the battle's end 
 Came up, just as the Pisan centre broke, 
 That Luria would detach me and prevent 
 The flying Pisans seeking what they found. 
 Friends in the rear, a point to rally by : 
 But no — more honourable proved my post! 
 I had the august captive to escort 
 Safe to our camp — some other could pursue, 
 Fight, and be famous ; gentler chance was mine— 
 Tiburzio's wounded spirit must be soothed I 
 He's in the tent there. 
 
 Jac. Ls the substance down ? 
 
 1 write — "The vanguard beaten, and both wingi 
 In full retreat — Tiburzio prisoner" — 
 And now, — " That they fell back and formed again 
 On Lucca's coming." — "Why then, after all, 
 'Tis half a victory, no conclusive one?
 
 LURIA, 171 
 
 Pui . Two operations where a sole had served. 
 
 Jac. And Luria's fault was — ? 
 
 Puc. Oh, for fault . . . not much 1 
 
 He led the attack, a thought impetuously, 
 —There's commonly more prudenco ; now. he seemed 
 To hurry measures, otlierwise well-judged ; 
 By over concentrating strength, at first, 
 Against the enemy's van, both sides escaped 
 That's reparable— yet it is a fault. 
 
 Enter Beaccio. 
 
 Jac. As good as a full victory to Florence, 
 With the advantage of a fault beside — 
 What is it, Puccio ? — that by pressing forward 
 With too impetuous . . . 
 
 Brae. The report anon ! 
 
 Thanks, Sir — you have elsewhere a charge, I know. 
 
 ^ [Pcccio^oji 
 
 There's nothing done but I would do again ; 
 Yet, Lapo, it may be the Past proves nothing. 
 And Luria has kept faithful to the end ! 
 
 Jac. I was for waiting. 
 
 Brae. Yes : so was not I ! 
 
 He could not choose but tear that letter — true ! 
 Still, certain of his tones, I mind, and looks — 
 You saw, too, with a fresher soul than I. 
 So, Porzio seemed an injured man, they say ! 
 Well. T have gone upon the broad, sure ground.
 
 172 LUKIA. 
 
 Enter Lukia, Puccio, and DoiirziA. 
 
 Lur. [to Puc] Say, at his pleasure I will see Tiburzio 
 All's at his pleasure. 
 
 Bom. \to Lur.] Were I not so sure 
 You would reject, as you do constantly. 
 Praise, — I might tell you what you have deserved 
 Of Florence by this last and crowning feat : 
 But words are vam ! 
 
 Lur. Nay, you may praise me now ! 
 
 I want instruction every hour, I find. 
 On points where once I saw least need of it ; 
 And praise, I have been used to do without. 
 Seems not so easy to dispense with now, 
 After a battle half one's strength is gone — 
 And glorious passion in us once appeased. 
 Our reason's calm cold dreadful voice begins. 
 All justice, power and beauty scarce appear 
 Monopolized by Flfl-ence, as of late. 
 To me, the stranger ; you, no doubt, may krow 
 Why Pisa needs must give her rival place ; 
 And I am growing nearer you, perhaps. 
 For I, too, want to know and be assured, 
 When a cause ceases to reward itself. 
 Its friend needs fresh sustainments ; praise is one. 
 And here stand you — you. Lady, praise ms well ! 
 But yours — (your pardon) — is unlearned praise : 
 To the motive, the endeavour, the heart's self. 
 Tour quick sense looks ; you crown and call aright
 
 LURIA. im 
 
 The soul of the purpose, ere 'tis shaped as act, 
 Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king ; 
 But when the act comes, stands for what 'tis worth, 
 — Here's Puccio, the skilled soldier; he's ray judge! 
 Was all well, Puccio ? 
 
 Puc. All was ... must be well : 
 
 If we beat Lucca presently, as doubtless . . . 
 — No, there's no doubt, we must — All was well done. 
 
 Lur. In truth ? But you are of the trade, my Puccio 
 You have the fellow-craftsman's sympathy ! 
 There's none knows like a fellow of the craft, 
 The all unestimated sum of pains 
 That go to a success the world can see ; 
 They praise then, but the best they never know : 
 — But you know ! — Oh, if envy mix with it, 
 Hate even, still the bottom praise of all, 
 Whatever be the dregs, that drop's pure gold ! 
 — For nothing's like it ; nothing else records 
 Those daily, nightly drippings in the dark 
 Of the heart's blood, the world lets drop away 
 Forever . . So, pure gold that praise must be ! 
 And I have yours, my soldier : yet the best 
 Is still to come — there's one looks on apart 
 Whom all refers to, failure or success ; 
 Wliat's done might be our best, our utmost work, 
 And yet inadequate to serve his need : 
 Here's Braccio, now, for Florence — here's our service — 
 Well done for us, is it well done for him ? 
 His chosen engine, tasked to its full strength
 
 174 LURIA. 
 
 Answers his end ? — Should he have chosen higher ? 
 Do we help Florence, now our best is done ? 
 
 Brae. This battle with the foregone services, 
 Saves Florence. 
 
 Jjur. Why then, all is very well ! 
 
 Here am I in the middle of my friends, 
 Who know me and who love me, one and all ! 
 And yet . . 'tis like . . this instant while I speak 
 Is like the turning moment of a dream 
 When . . . Ah, you are not foreigners like me ! 
 Well then, one always dreams of friends at home, 
 And always comes, I say, the turning point 
 When something changes in the friendly eyes 
 That love and look on you . . so slight, so slight . . 
 And yet it tells you they are dead and gone. 
 Or changed and enemies, for all their words, 
 And all is mockery, and a maddening show ! 
 You, now, so kind here, all you Florentines, 
 What is it in your eyes . . those lips, those brows . . 
 Nobody spoke it . . yet I know it well ! — 
 Come now — this battle saves you, all's at end, 
 Your use of me is o'er, for good, for evil, — 
 Come now, what's done against me, while I speak. 
 In Florence? Come! I feel it in my blood, 
 My eyes, my hair, a voice is in my ear 
 That spite of all this smiling and kind speech 
 You are betraying me ! What is it you do ? 
 Have it your way, and think my use is over ; 
 That you are saved and may throw off the mask —
 
 LURIA 175 
 
 Have it ray way, and think more work remains 
 
 Which I could do, — so show you fear me not, 
 
 Or prudent be, or generous, as you choose, 
 
 But tell me — tell me what I refused to know 
 
 At noon, lest heart should fail me ! Well ? That letter ! 
 
 My fate is known at Florence ! What is it ? 
 
 Brae. Sir, I shall not conceal what you divine : 
 It is no novelty for innocence 
 To be suspected, but a privilege: 
 The after certain compensation comes. 
 Charges, I say not whether false or true, 
 Have been preferred against you some time sincCj 
 Which Florence was bound, plainly, to receive, 
 And which are therefore undergoing now 
 The due investigation. That is all. 
 I doubt not but your itmoeence will shine 
 Apparent and illustrious, as to me. 
 To them this evening, when the trial ends. 
 
 Lur. My trial ? 
 
 Dom. Florence, Florence to the end. 
 
 My whole heart thanks thee ! 
 
 Puc. [to Brac] What is "Trial," Sir? 
 
 It was not for a trial — surely, no — 
 I furnished you those notes from time to time ? 
 I hold myself aggrieved — I am a man — 
 And I might speak, — ay, and speak mere truth, too, 
 And yet not mean at bottom of my heart 
 What should assist a — Trial, do you say ? 
 KoM should have told me !
 
 176 LURIA. 
 
 Dom. Nay, go w, go on ! 
 
 His sentence ! Do they sentence him ? What is it ? 
 The block? Wheel? 
 
 Brae. Sentence the:*e is none as yet, 
 
 Nor shall I give my own opinion heie 
 Of what it should be, or is like to be, 
 When it is passed, applaud or disapprove ! 
 Up to that point, what is there to impugn ? 
 
 Lur. They are right, then, to try me ? 
 
 Brae. I assert, 
 
 Maintain, and justify the absolute right 
 Of Florence to do all she can have done 
 in this procedure, — standing on her guard, 
 Receiving even services like yours 
 With utmost fit suspicious wariness. 
 In other matters — keep the mummery up ! 
 Take all the experiences of the whole world, 
 Each knowledge that broke thro' a heart to life, 
 Each reasoning which, to work out, cost a brain, 
 — In other cases, know these, warrant these. 
 And then dispense with them — 'tis very well ! 
 Let friend trust friend, and love demand its like, 
 And gratitude be claimed for benefits, — 
 There's grace in that — and when the fresh he« *..'-«±A, 
 The new brain proves a martyr, what of it ' 
 Where is the matter of one moth the more 
 Singed in the candle, at a summer's end ? 
 But Florence is no simple John or James 
 To l^ve his toy, his fancy, his conceit,
 
 LTTRIA 177 
 
 That he's the one excepted man by fate, 
 And, when fate shows him he's mistaken there, 
 Die with all good men's praise, and yield his place 
 To Paul and George intent to try their chance : 
 Florence exists because these pass away ; 
 She's a contrivance to supply a type 
 Of IMan, which men's deficiencies refuse ; 
 She binds so many, that she grows out of them — 
 Stands steady o'er their numbers, tho' they change 
 And pass away — there's always what upholds, 
 Always enough to fashion the great show ! 
 As, see, yon hanging city, in the sun. 
 Of shapely cloud substantially the same ! 
 A thousand vapours rise and sink again, 
 Are interfused, and live their life and die, — 
 Yet ever hangs the steady show i' the air 
 Under the sun's straight influence : that is well ! 
 That is worth Heaven to hold, and God to bless I 
 And so is Florence, — the unseen sun above, 
 Which draws and holds suspended all of us— 
 Binds transient mists and vapours into one, 
 differing from each and better than they alL 
 And shall she dare to stake this permanence 
 On any one man's faith ? Man's heart is weak, 
 And its temptations many ": let her prove 
 Each servant to the very uttermost 
 Before she grant him her reward, I say ! 
 
 Dom. Ani as for hearts she chances to mistake] 
 That are not destined to receive rsward, * 
 
 VOL. II. 12
 
 178 LURIA. 
 
 Tho* they deserve it, did she only know ! 
 — What should she do for these ? 
 
 Brae. What does she not 
 
 Say, that she gives them but herself to serve ! 
 Here's Luria — what had profited his strength, 
 When half an hour of sober fancying 
 Had shown him step by step the uselessness 
 Of strength exerted for its proper sake ? 
 But the truth is, she did create that strength, 
 Drew to the end the corresponding means. 
 The world is wide — are we the only men ? 
 Oh, for the time, the social purpose' sake, 
 Use words agreed on, bandy epithets^ 
 Call any man, sole Great and Wise and Good ! 
 But shall we, therefore, standing by ourselves, 
 Insult our souls and God with the same speech ? 
 There, swarm the ignoble thousands under Him— 
 What marks us from the hundreds and the tens ? 
 Florence took up, turned all one way the soul 
 Of Luria with its fires, and here he stands ! 
 She takes me out of all the world as him, 
 Fixing my coldness till like ice it stays 
 The fire ! So, Braccio, Luria, which is best ? 
 
 Lur. Ah, brave me ? And is this indeed the way 
 To gain your good word and sincere esteem ? 
 Am I the^ baited tiger that must turn 
 And fight his baiters to deserve their praise ? 
 Obedience has no fruit then ? — Be it so I 
 Do you indeed remember I stand here
 
 LURIA 1 ~y 
 
 The Captain of the conquering army, — mine — 
 With all your tokens, praise and promise, ready 
 To show for wliat their names were when you gave, 
 Not what yon style them now vou take away ? 
 If I call in my troops to arbitrate, 
 And in their first enthusiastic thrill 
 Of victory, tell them how you menace me — 
 Commending to their plain instinctive sense, 
 My story first, your commput afterward, — 
 Will they take, think you, part with you or me ? 
 When I say simply, I, tlie man they know. 
 Ending my work, ask payment, and find Florence 
 Has all this while provided .-ilently 
 Against the day of pay and proving words, 
 By what you call my sentence that's to come — 
 Will they sit waiting it complacently? 
 When I resist that sentence at their head 
 What will you do, my mild antagonist ? 
 
 Brae. I will rise up like fire, proud and triumphant 
 That Florence knew you thoroughly and by me, 
 And so was saved : "See, Italy," I'll sa>, 
 " The need of our precautions — here's a man 
 " Was far advanced, just touched on the reward 
 
 ■ Less subtle cities had accorded him — 
 " But we were wiser ; at the en^ comes this ! " 
 And from that minute all your strength will go— 
 The very stones of Florence cry against 
 The all-exacting, unendnring Luria, 
 
 Resenting her fir*t iUcrht probation thus,
 
 180 LTXEIA. 
 
 A.S if he, only, shone and cast no shade, 
 He, only, walked the earth with privilege 
 Against suspicion, free from causing fear — ■ 
 So, for the first inquisitive raother's-word, 
 He turned, and stood on his defence, forsooth 1 
 Reward? You will not be worth punishment ! 
 
 Lur. And Florence knew me thus ! Thus I have 
 lived, — 
 And thus you, with the clear fine intellect, 
 Braccio, the cold acute instructed mind, 
 Out of the stir, so calm and unconfused. 
 Reported me — how could you otherwise ! 
 Ay ? — and what dropped from you^ just now, more /er? 
 Your information, Puccio ? — Did your skill 
 And understanding sympathy approve 
 Such a report of me ? Was this the end ? 
 Or is even this the end ? Can I stop here — 
 You, Lady, with the woman's stand apart. 
 The heart to see with, not those learned eyv;. 
 . . I cannot fathom why you should destro}^ 
 The unofiending man, you call your fiid'jd— 
 So, looking at the good examples here 
 Of friendship, 'tis but natural I ask 
 Had you a further end, in all you spoke, 
 Than profit to me, in those instances 
 Of perfidy from Florence to her chiefs- 
 All I remember now for the first time ? 
 
 Dom. I am a daughter of the Traversa. 
 Sister of Porzio and of Berto both.
 
 1.URIA. 
 
 18J 
 
 I have foreseen all that has come to pass. 
 I knew the Florence that could doubt their faith, 
 Must needs mistrust a stranger's — holding back 
 Reward from them, must hold back his reward. 
 And I believed, the shame they bore and died, 
 lie would not bear, but live and fight against — 
 Seeing he was of other stufif". than they. 
 
 Liir. Hear them ! All these against one Foreigner 1 
 And all this while, where is in the whole world 
 To Ills good faith a single witness ? 
 
 Tihurzio [_who has entered during the preceding 
 dialogued Here ! 
 
 Thus I bear witness to it, not in word 
 But deed. I live for Pisa ; she's not lost 
 By many chances — much prevents from that 1 
 Her army has been beaten, I am here. 
 But Lucca comes at last, one chance exists. 
 I rather had see Pisa three times lost 
 Than saved by any traitor, even by you. 
 The example of a traitor's happy fortune 
 "Would bring more evil in the end than good 
 
 "oa rejects such ; save yourself and her! 
 • , in her name, resign forthwith to you 
 My charge, — the highest of her offices. 
 You shall not, by my counsel, turn on Florence 
 Her army, give her calumny that ground — 
 Nor bring it with you : be you all we gam. 
 And all she'll lose, a head to deck some bridge, 
 And save the crown's cost that should deck the head
 
 IS2 LUBIA. 
 
 Leave her to perish in her perfidy, 
 Plague-stricken and stripped naked to all eyes, 
 A proverb and a by-word in all mouths ! 
 Go you to Pisa — Florence is my place — 
 Leave me to tell her of the rectitude, 
 I, from the first, told Pisa, knowing it.. 
 To Pisa ! 
 
 Dom. Ah, my Braccio, are you caught i 
 Brae. Puccio, good soldier and selected man, 
 Whom I have ever kept beneath my eye. 
 Ready, as fit, to serve in this event 
 Florence, who clear foretold it from the first — 
 Thro' me, she gives you the command and charge 
 •She takes, thro' me, from him who held it late ! 
 A painful trial, very sore, was yours : 
 All that could draw out, marshal in array 
 The selfish passions 'gainst the public good — 
 Slights, scorns, neglects, were heaped on you to bear : 
 And ever you did bear and bow the head ! 
 It had been sorry trial, to precede 
 Your feet, hold up the promise of rewai-d 
 ^or luring gleam ; your footsteps kept the track 
 Thro' dark and doubt : take all the light at once ! 
 Trial is over, consummation shines ; 
 Well have you served, as well henceforth command ! 
 Puc. No, no . . I dare not . . I am grateful, glad ; 
 But Luria — ^you shall understand he's wronged — 
 And he's my Captain — this is not the way 
 We soldiers climb to fortune : think again !
 
 LURIA. 
 
 183 
 
 The sentence is not even passed, beside ! 
 r dare not . . where's the soldier could? 
 
 jTy^^ Now, Florence- 
 
 Is it to be ?— You will know all the strength 
 Of the savage — to your neck the proof must go ? 
 You will prove the brute nature ? Ah, I see ! 
 The savage plainly is impassible — 
 He keeps his calm way thro' insulting words. 
 Sarcastic looks, sharp gesture?— -"cas of which 
 Would stop you, fatiil to your finer sense : 
 ■^ut a he steadily advances, still 
 Without a mark upon his callous hide, 
 Tiu-o' the mere brushwood you grow angry with, 
 And leave the tatters of your flesh upon, 
 —You have to learn that when the true bar. cornea. 
 The thick mid forest, the real obstacle, 
 Wliich when you reach, you give the labour up, 
 Nor dash on, but lie down composed before, 
 — He goes against it, like the brute he is ! 
 It falls before him, or he dies in his course I 
 I kept my course thro' past ingratitude — 
 I saw — it does seem, now, as if I saw. 
 Could not but see, those insults as they fell, 
 — Ay, let them glance from off me, very Idie, 
 Laughing, perhaps, to think the qualitv 
 You grew so bold on, while you so despised 
 The Moor's dull mute inapprehensive mood, 
 Was saving you ; I bore and kept my course :
 
 184 LURIA. 
 
 Now real wrong fronts me — see if I succumb ! 
 Florence withstands me ? — I will punish her ! 
 
 At night my sentence will arrive, you say ! 
 
 Till then I cannot, if I would, rebel — 
 
 —Unauthorized to lay my office down, 
 
 Retaining my full power to will and do : 
 
 After — it is to see. Tiburzio, thanks ! 
 
 Go — ^you are free — join Lucca. I suspend 
 
 All further operations till to-night. 
 
 Thank you, and for the silence most of all ! 
 
 ^To BracJ] Let my complacent bland accuser go, 
 
 And carry his self-approving head and heart 
 
 Safe thro' the army which would trample him 
 
 Dead in a moment at my word or sign ! 
 
 Go, Sir, to Florence ; tell friends what I say — 
 
 That while I wait their sentence, theirs waits them ! 
 
 \_To DomJ] You, Lady, — you have black Italian eyes 
 
 I would be generous if I might . . Oh, yes — 
 
 For I remember how so oft you seemed 
 
 Inclined at heart to break the barrier down 
 
 Which Florence makes God build between us both. 
 
 Alas, for generosity ! this hour 
 
 Demands strict justice — bear it as you may ! 
 
 I must — the Moor, — the Savage. — pardon you ! 
 
 [ To PucJ] Puccio, my trusty soldier, see the:a forth !—
 
 LURIA. 185 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Enter PucciO and Jacopo. 
 
 Puc. "What Luria will do ? Ah, 'tis yours, fair Sir, 
 Your and your subtle-witted master's part. 
 To tell me that ; I tell you what he can. 
 
 Jac. Friend, you mistake my station ! I observe 
 The game, watch how my betters play, no more. 
 
 Puc. But mankind are not pieces — there's your fault! 
 You cannot push them, and, the first move made, 
 Lean back to study what the next should be, 
 In confidence that when 'tis fixed upon, 
 Y'ou'll find just where you left them, blacks and whites: 
 Men go on moving when your hand's away. 
 Y'ou build, I notice, firm on Luria's faith 
 This whole time, — firmlier than I choose to build, 
 Who never doubted it — of old, that is — 
 With Luria in his ordinary mind: 
 But now, oppression makes the wise man mad — 
 How do I know he will not turn and stand 
 And hold his own against you, as he may? 
 Su[)pose that he withdraws to Pisa — well,— 
 Then, even if all happens to your wish. 
 Which is a chance . . 
 
 Jac. Nay — 'twas an oversight,
 
 186 LURIA. 
 
 Not waiting till the proper waiTant came : 
 You could not take what was not ours to give. 
 But when at night the sentence really comes, 
 And Florence authorizes past dispute 
 Luria's removal and your own advance, 
 You will perceive your duty and accept ? 
 
 Puc. Accept what ? muster-rolls of soldiers' names ? 
 An army upon paper ? — I want men, 
 Their hearts as well as hands — ^and where's a heart 
 That's not with Luria, in the multitude 
 I come from walking thro' by Luria's side ? 
 You gave him to them, set him on to grow, 
 Head-like, upon their trunk, one blood feeds both, 
 They feel him there, and live, and well know why ! 
 — For they do know, if you are ignorant. 
 Who kept his own place and respected theirs, 
 Managed their ease, yet never spared his own. 
 All was your deed : another might have served— 
 There's peradventure no such dearth of men — 
 But you chose Luria — so they grew to him : 
 And now, for nothing they can understand, 
 Luria's removed, off is to roll the head — 
 The body's mine — much I shall do with it ! 
 
 Jac. That's at the worst ! 
 
 Puc. No — at the best, it is I 
 
 Best, do you hear ? I saw them by his side ; 
 Only we two with Luria in the camp 
 Are left that know the secret? You think that? 
 Hear what I saw : from rear to van, no heart
 
 LURIA. 18< 
 
 But felt the quiet patient hero there 
 
 Was wronged, nor in the moveless ranks an eye 
 
 But glancing told its fellow the whole story 
 
 Of that convicted i-ilent knot of spies 
 
 Who passed thro' them to Florence ; they might pass- ■ 
 
 No breast but gladlicr beat when free of them ! 
 
 Our troops will catch up Luria, close him round, 
 
 Lead him to Florence as their natural lord, 
 
 Partake his foi'tunes, live or die with him ! 
 
 Jac. And by mistake catch up along with him 
 Puccio, no doubt, compelled in self-despite 
 To still continue Second in Command ! 
 
 Puc. No, Sir, no second nor so fortunate ! 
 Your tricks succeed with me too well tor that ! 
 I am as you have made me, and shall die 
 A mere trained fighting hack to serve your end; 
 With words, you laugh at while they leave your mouth, 
 For my life's rules and ordinance of God ! 
 I have to do my duty, keep my faith, 
 And earn my praise, and guard against my blame, 
 As I was trained. I shall accept your charge, 
 A.nd fight against one better than myself, 
 And my own heart's conviction of his worth — 
 riiat, you may count on ! — just as hitherto 
 I have gone on, persuaded 1 was wronged. 
 Slighted, and all the terms we learn by rote,— 
 All because Luria superseded me — 
 Because the better nature, fresh-inspired, 
 Mounted above me to its proper place !
 
 188 LUKIA. 
 
 What mattered all the kindly graciousness, 
 
 And cordial brother's bearinc'? This was clear-— 
 
 I, once the captain, was subaltern now, 
 
 And so must keep complaining like a fool! 
 
 Go, take the curse of a lost man, I say ! 
 
 You neither play your puppets to the end. 
 
 Nor treat the real man, — for his realness' sake 
 
 Thrust rudely in their place, — with such regard 
 
 As might console them for their altered rank. 
 
 Me, the mere steady soldier, you depose 
 
 For Luria, and here's all that he deserves! 
 
 Of what account, then, are my services ? 
 
 One word for all : whatever Luria does 
 
 — If backed by his indignant troops he turns 
 
 In self-defence and Florence goes to ground,— 
 
 Or for a signal, everlasting shame. 
 
 He pardons you, and simply seeks his friends 
 
 And heads the Pisan and the Lucchese troops 
 
 — And if I, for you ingrates past belief, 
 
 Resolve to fight against a man called false. 
 
 Who, inasmuch as he is true, fights there — 
 
 Whichever way he wins, he wins fri' me. 
 
 For every soldier, for the common good ! 
 
 Sir, chronicling the rest, omit not this ! 
 
 As ihei/ (JO, enter Lcria and Husain. 
 Hus. Saw'st thou ? — For they are gone ! The world 
 lies bare 
 Before thee, to be tasted, felt and seen 
 Like what it is, now Florence goes away 1
 
 LtmiA. 18^ 
 
 rhou livest now, with men art man again I 
 Those Florentines were eyes to thee of old ; 
 But Braccio, but Domizia, gone is each — 
 There lie beneath thee thine own multitudes— 
 Sawest thou ? 
 
 Lur. I saw. 
 
 /7ms. Then, hold thy course, ray King 
 
 The years return. Let thy heart have its way I 
 Ah, they would play with thee as with all else ? 
 Turn thee to use, and fashion thee anew. 
 Find out God's fault in thee as in the rest? 
 Oh, watch but, listen only to these men 
 Once at their occupation ! Ere ye know, 
 The free great heaven is shut, their stifling pall 
 Drops till it frets the very tingling hair — 
 So weighs it on our head, — and, for the earth. 
 Our common earth is teiliered up and down, 
 Over and across — here shalt thou move, they say ! 
 
 Lur. Ay, Husain? 
 
 Hus. So have they spoiled all beside 1 
 
 %o stands a man girt round with Florentines, 
 Priests, graybeards, Braccios, women, boys and spies, 
 All in one tale, each singing the same song. 
 How thou must house, and live at bed and board. 
 Take pledge and give it, go their every way. 
 Breathe to their measure, make ihy blood beat time 
 With theirs — or — all is nothing — thou art lost — 
 A savage . . how shouldst thou perceive as they? 
 Feel glad to stand 'neath God's close naked hund !
 
 I DO LURIA. 
 
 Look up to it ! Why, down tliey pull thy neck, 
 Lest it crush thee, who feel'st it and wouldst kiss, 
 Without their priests that needs must glove it first. 
 Lest peradventure it should wound thy lip ! 
 Love AVoman ! Why, a very beast thou art ! 
 Thou must . . . 
 
 Lur. Peace, Husain ! 
 
 Hus. Ay, but, spoiling all 
 
 For all, else true, things substituting false. 
 That they should dare spoil, of all instincts, thine ! 
 Should dare to take thee with thine instincts up, 
 Thy battle-ardours, like a ball of fire, 
 And class them and allow them place and play 
 So far, no further — unabashed the while ! 
 Thou with the soul that never can take rest — 
 Thou born to do, undo, and do again. 
 But never to be still, — wouldst thou make war ? 
 Oh, that is commendable, just and right ! 
 Come over, say they, have the honour due 
 In living out thy nature ! Fight thy best — 
 It is to be for Florence not thyself! 
 For thee, it were a horror and a plague — 
 For us, when war is made for Florence, see, 
 How all is changed — the fire that fed on earth 
 Now towers to heaven ! — 
 
 Lur. And what sealed up so long 
 
 My Husain's mouth ? 
 
 Hus. Oh, friend, oh, lord — for me. 
 
 What am I ? — I was silent at thy side,
 
 LDUIA. 191 
 
 That am a part of tliee — It is thy hand, 
 
 Thy foot that glows when in the heart fresh blood 
 
 lioils up, thou hoart of me ! Now live again ! 
 
 Again love as tliou likest, hate as free ! 
 
 Turn to no Braccios nor Domizias now, 
 
 To ask, before thy very limbs dare move, 
 
 If Florence' welfare be concerned thereby ! 
 
 Lur. So clear what Florence must expect of me? 
 
 Hus. Both armies against Florence ! Take revengt. 
 Wide, deep — to live upon, in feeling now, — 
 And after, in remembrance, year by year — 
 And, with the dear conviction, die at last ! 
 She lies now at thy pleasure — pleasure have ! 
 Their vaunted intellect that gilds our sense. 
 And blends with life, to show it better by, 
 — How think'st thou? — I have turned that light on thecu 
 They called our thirst of war a transient thing; 
 The battle-element must pass away 
 From life, they said, and leave a tranquil world 
 — Master, I took their light and turned it full 
 On that dull turgid vein they sakl would burst 
 And pass away ; and as I looked on Life, 
 Still everywhere I tracked this, though it hid 
 And shifted, lay so silent as it thought, 
 
 hanged oft the hue yet ever was ihe same . 
 Why, 'twas all fighting, all their n(«bler life ! 
 All work was fighting, e^^ery harm — defeat, 
 And every joy obtained — «j* vi'Vc^ I 
 Be not their dupe I
 
 192 LURIA. 
 
 — Their dupe ? That hour is past 1 
 Here stand'st thou in the glory and the cahn ! 
 All is determined ! Silence for me now ! 
 
 [IIoSAiN goes 
 Lur. Have I heard all ? 
 
 Dom. [advancing from the lachground.'^ No, Luria, 
 I am here ! 
 Not from the motives these have urged on thee, 
 Ignoble, insufficient, incomplete, 
 And pregnant each with sure seeds of decay, 
 As failing of sustainraent from thyself, 
 — Neither from low i-evenge, nor selfishness, 
 Nor savage lust of power, nor one, nor all, 
 Shalt thou abolish Florence ! I proclaim 
 The angel in thee, and reject the spirits 
 Which ineffectual crowd about his strength, 
 And mingle with his work and claim a share ! 
 — Inconsciously to the augustest end 
 Thou hast arisen : second not in rank 
 So much as time, to him who first ordained 
 That Florence, thou art to destroy, should be- 
 Yet him a star, too, guided, who broke first 
 The pride of lonely power, the life apart. 
 And made the eminences, each to each, 
 Lean o'er the level world and let it lie 
 Safe from the thunder henceforth 'neath their anas— 
 So the iQW famous men of old combined, 
 And let the multitude rise underneath, 
 And reach them, and unite — so Florence grew I
 
 LTJRIA. 193 
 
 Braccio speaks well, it was well worth the price. 
 But when the sheltered Many grew in pride 
 A.nd grudged the station of the glorious ones, 
 Who, greater than their kind, are truly great 
 Only in voluntary servitude — 
 Time was for thee to rise, and thou art here. 
 Such plague possessed this Florence — who can tell 
 The mighty girth and greatness a. the heart 
 Of those so noble pillars of the grove 
 ^he pulled down in her envy ? Who as I, 
 riie light weak parasite born but to twine 
 Round each of them, and, measuring them, so live r 
 ftly light love keeps the matchless circle safe. 
 My slender life proves what has passed away ! 
 [ Kved when they departed ; lived to cling 
 To thee, the mighty stranger ; thou would'st rise 
 And burst the thraldom, and avenge, I knew. 
 I have done nothing ; all was thy strong heart : 
 But a bird's weight can break the infant tree 
 Which after holds an aery in its arms. 
 And 'twas my care that nought should warp thy spire 
 From risinc: to the height ; the roof is reached — 
 Break through and there is all the sky above ! 
 Go on to Florence, Luria ! 'Tis man's cause ! 
 Fail thon, and thine own fall is least to dread ! 
 Thou keepest Florence in her evil way, 
 Encouragest her sin so much the more — 
 And while tlie bloody past is justified. 
 Thou all the surelier dost work against 
 VOL. II. 13
 
 194 LURIA. 
 
 The men to come, the Lurias yet unborn, 
 Who, greater than thyself, are reached o'er thee 
 That giv'st the vantage-ground their foes require, 
 As o'er ray prostrate House thyself was't reached ! 
 Man calls thee — God shall judge thee : all is said, 
 The mission of my House fulfilled at last ! 
 And the mere woman, speaking for herself, 
 Reserves speech ; it is now no woman's time. 
 
 [DoMiziA goet 
 
 Lur. So at the last must figure Luria, then ! 
 Doing the various work of all his friends, 
 And answering every purpose save his own. 
 No doubt, 'tis well for them to wish ; for him — 
 After the exploit what is left ? Perchance 
 A little pride upon the swarthy brow. 
 At having brought successfully to bear 
 'Gainst Florence' self her own especial arms,— 
 Her craftiness, impelled by fiercer strength 
 From Moorish blood than feeds the northern wit- 
 But after ! — once the easy vengeance willed, 
 Beautiful Florence at a word laid low 
 — (Not in her Domes and Towers and Palaces, 
 Not even in a dream, that outrage !) — low. 
 As shamed in her own eyes henceforth forever. 
 Low, for the rival cities round to see, 
 Conquered and pardoned by a hireling Moor ! 
 ■ — For him, who did the irreparable wrong. 
 What would be left, his life's illusion fled, — 
 What hope or trust in the forlorn wide world ?
 
 LURIA. 195 
 
 How strange that Florence should mistake me so ! 
 How grew this? What withdrew her faith from me ? 
 Some cause ! These fretful-blooded children talk 
 Against their mother, — they are wronged, they say- 
 Notable wrongs a smile makes up again ! 
 So, taking fire at each supposed offence, 
 They may speak rashly, suffer for rash speech — 
 But what could it have been in a word or deed 
 That injured me ? Some one word spoken more 
 Out of my heart, and all had changed perhaps ! 
 My fault, it must have been, — for what gain they ? 
 Why risk the danger ? See, what I could do ! 
 And ray fault, wherefore visit upon them, 
 My Florentines ? The generous reverige, 
 I meditate ! To stay here passively, 
 Go at their summons, be as they dispose- 
 Why, if my very soldiers keep their ranks, 
 And if I pacify my chiefs, what then ? 
 I ruin Florence — teach her friends mistrust^ 
 Confirm her enemies in harsh belief — 
 And when she finds one day, as she must find, 
 The strange mistake, and how my heart was hers, 
 Shall it console me, that my Florentines 
 Walk with a sadder step, a gra/er face, 
 Who took me with such frankness, praised me so, 
 At the glad outset ! Had they loved me less, 
 They had less feared what seemed a change in me. 
 find after all, who did the harm ? Not they ! 
 How could they interpose with those old fools
 
 196 LDRIA. 
 
 In the council ? Suffer for those okl fools' sakes— 
 They, who made pictures of me, sang the songs 
 About my battles ? Ah, we Moors get blind 
 Out of our proper world where we can see ! 
 The sun that guides is closer to us ! There — 
 There, my own orb ! He sinks from out the sky ! 
 Why, there ! a whole day has he blessed the land, 
 My land, our Florence all about the hills, 
 The fields and gardens, vineyards, olive-grounds, 
 All have been blest — and yet we Florentines 
 With minds intent upon our battle here. 
 Found that he rose too soon, or else too late. 
 Gave us no vantage, or gave Pisa more — 
 And so we wronged him ! Does he turn in ire 
 To burn the earth, that cannot understand ? 
 Or drop out quietly, and leave the sky. 
 His task once ended ? Night wipes blame away : 
 Another morning from my East shall rise 
 And find all eyes at leisure, more disposed 
 To watch it and approve its work, no doubt. 
 So, praise the new sun, the successor praise ! 
 Praise the new Luria, and forget the old ! 
 
 \TaMng a j)hialfrom his bren.it 
 
 — Strange ! This is all I brought from my own La 'ad 
 
 To help me — P2urope would supply the rest. 
 
 All needs beside, all other helps save this ! 
 
 I thought of adverse fortune, battles lost, 
 
 The natural upbraidings of the loser, 
 
 And then this quiet remedy to seek
 
 LURIA. 197 
 
 At end of the disastrous day — [//e drinks. 
 
 'Tis sought ! 
 This was my happy triuraph-morning: Florence 
 Xs saved: 1 drink thi&, and ere night, — die ' — Strange I 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 LuRIA. PUCCIO. 
 
 Lur. L thought to do this, not to talk this : well 1 
 Such were my projects for the City's good, 
 To save her from attack or by defence. 
 Time, here as elsewhere, soon or late may take 
 Our foresight by surprise with chance and change ; 
 But not a little we provide against 
 —If you see clear on every point. 
 
 Puc. Most clear. 
 
 Lur. Then all is said — not much, if you count words 
 Yet foi an understanding ear enough. 
 And all that my brief stay permits, beside. 
 Nor must you blame me, as I sought to teach 
 My elder in command, or threw a doubt 
 Upon the very skill, it comforts me 
 To know I leave, — your steady soldiership 
 That never failed me : yet, because it seemed 
 V stranger's eye might haply note defect.
 
 198 LURIA. 
 
 Which skill, thro' use and custom, oyerlook^ 
 
 I have gone into the old cares once more. 
 
 As if I had to come and save again 
 
 Florence — that May — that morning ! 'Tis night now — 
 
 "Well— I broke oflP with ? . . . 
 
 Puc. Of the past campaign 
 
 You spoke — of measures to be kept in mind 
 For future use. 
 
 Lur. True, so . . . but, time — no time ! 
 
 As well end here : remember this, and me ! 
 Farewell now ! 
 
 Puc. Dare I speak ? 
 
 Lur. — The south o' the river- 
 
 How is the second stream called . . no, — the third? 
 
 Puc. Pesa. 
 
 Lur. And a stone's cast from the fording place. 
 
 To the East, — the little mount's name ? 
 
 Puc. Lupo. 
 
 Lur. Ay 1 
 
 Ay — there the tower, and all that side is safe ! 
 With San Romano, west of Evola, 
 San Miniato, Scala, Empoli, 
 Five towers in all, — forget not ! 
 
 Puc. Fear not me ! 
 
 Lur. — Nor to memorialize the Council now, 
 r the easy hour, on those battalions' claim 
 On the other side, by Staggia on the hills, 
 that kept the Siennese at check ! 
 
 Ptu:. One word—
 
 LUBIA. 199 
 
 Sir, I must speak ! That you submit yourself 
 To Florence' bidding, howsoe'er it prove, 
 And give up the command to me — is much, 
 Too much, perhaps : but what you tell me now, 
 Even will affect the other course you choose — 
 Poor as it may be, peril even that ! 
 Refuge you seek at Pisa — ^yet these plans 
 All militate for Florence, all conclude 
 Your formidable work to make her queen 
 Of the country, — which her rivals rose against 
 When you began it, — which to interrupt, 
 Pisa would buy you off at any price ! 
 You cannot mean to sue for Pisa's help, 
 With this made perfect and on record? 
 
 Lur. I — 
 
 At Pisa, and for refuge, do you say? 
 
 Phc. Where are you going, then ? You must decide 
 On leaving us, a silent fugitive. 
 Alone at night — you, stealing thro' our lines, 
 Who were this morning's Luria, — you escape 
 To painfully begin the world once more, 
 With such a Past, as it had never been ! 
 Where are you going ? 
 
 Jjur. Not so far, my Puccio, 
 
 But that I hope to hear, and know, and praise 
 (If you mind praise from your old captain yet) 
 Each happy blow you strike for Florence ! 
 
 Puc. — Ay, 
 
 But ere you gain your shelter, what may ccne ?
 
 200 LURIA. 
 
 For see — tho' nothing's surely known as yet, 
 
 Still . . truth must out . . I apprehend the worst. 
 
 If mere suspicion stood for certainty 
 
 Before, there's nothing can arrest the steps 
 
 Of Florence toward your ruin, once on foot. 
 
 Forgive her fifty times, it matters not ! 
 
 And having disbelieved your innocence, 
 
 How can she trust your magnanimity ? 
 
 You may do harm to her — why then, you will ! 
 
 And Florence is sagacious in pursuit. 
 
 Have you a friend to count on ? 
 
 Lur. One sure friend. 
 
 Puc. Potent ? 
 
 Lur. All potent. 
 
 Puc. And he is apprised ? 
 
 Lur. He waits me. 
 
 Puc. So ! — Then I, put in your place, 
 
 Making my profit of all done by you, 
 Calling your labours mine, reaping their fruit. 
 To these, the State's gift, now add this of yours — 
 That I may take to my peculiar store 
 All your instructions to do Florence good ; 
 And if, by putting some few happily 
 In practice, I should both advantage her 
 And draw down honour on myself, — what then ? 
 
 Lur. Do it, my Puccio ! I shall know and praise 1 
 
 Puc. Though, so, men say, " mark what we gain by 
 change 
 ■* — A Puccio for a Luria I "
 
 LURIA. 201 
 
 Lur. Even so ! 
 
 Puc. Then, not for fifty hundred Florences. 
 Would I accept one office save my own, 
 Fill any other than my rightful post 
 Here at your feet, my Captahi and my Lord I 
 That such a cloud should break, such trouble be, 
 Ere a man settle soul and body down 
 Into his true place and take rest forever ! 
 Here were my wise eyes fixed on your right hand, 
 And so the bad thoughts came and the worse words, 
 And all went wrong and painfully enough, — 
 No wonder, — till, the right spot stumbled on, 
 All the jar stops, and there is peace at once ! 
 I am yours now, — a tool your right hand wields 1 
 God's love, that I should live, the man I am, 
 On orders, warrants, patents and the like. 
 As if there were no glowing eye i' the world, 
 To glance straight inspiration to my bi-ain, 
 No glorious heart to give mine twice the beats! 
 For, see — my doubt, where is it ? — Fear ? 'tis flown I 
 And Florence and her anger are a tale 
 To scare a child ! Why, half a dozen words 
 Will tell her, spoken as I now can speak. 
 Her error, my past folly — and all's right. 
 And you are Luria, our great chief again ! 
 Or at the worst — which worst were best of all^ 
 To exile or to death I follow you ! 
 
 Lur. Thanks, Puccio ! Let me use the privilege 
 Vou grant me : if I still command you, — stay I
 
 202 LUEIA. 
 
 Remain here — my vicegerent, it shall bo, 
 
 And not successor : let me, as of old, 
 
 Still serve the State, my spirit prompting yours ; 
 
 Still triumph, one for both — There ! Leave me now' 
 
 You cannot disobey my first command ? 
 
 Remember what I spoke of Jacopo, 
 
 And what you promised to observe with him ! 
 
 Send him to speak with me — nay, no farewell — 
 
 You shall be by me when the sentence comes. 
 
 [Puccio goes. 
 
 So, there's one Florentine returns again 
 
 I 
 
 Out of the genial morning company. 
 
 r> 
 
 One face is left to take into the night. 
 
 Enter Jacopo. 
 
 Jac. I wait for your commands, Sir. 
 
 Xwr. "What, so soon ? 
 
 I thank your ready presence and fair word. 
 I used to notice you in early days 
 As of the other species, so to speak, 
 Those watchers of the lives of us who act — 
 That weigh our motives, scrutinize our thoughts ; 
 So, I propound this to your faculty 
 As you would tell me, were a town to take 
 . . That is, of old. I am departing hence 
 Under these imputations : that is nought — 
 I leave no friend on whom they may rebound. 
 Hardly a name behind me in the land. 
 Being a stranger ; all the more behoves
 
 LURIA. 203 
 
 That I regard how altered were the case 
 
 With natives of the country, Florentines, 
 
 On whom the like mischance sliould i'all ; the roots 
 
 O' the tree survive the ruin of the trunk — 
 
 No root of mine will throb — you understand. 
 
 But I had predecessors, Florentines, 
 
 Accused as I am now, and punished so — 
 
 The Traversari — you know more than I 
 
 How stigmatized they are, and lost in sliame. 
 
 Now, Puccio, who succeeds me in command. 
 
 Both served them and succeeded, in due time ; 
 
 He knows the way, holds proper documents. 
 
 And has the power to lay the simple truth 
 
 Before an active spirit, as I know yours: 
 
 And also there's Tiburzio, my new friend, 
 
 Will, at a word, confirm such evidence, 
 
 He being the chivalric soul we know. 
 
 I put it to your instinct — were't not well, 
 
 — A grace, though but for contrast's sake, no more,— » 
 
 If you who witness, aud have borne a share 
 
 Involuntary, in my mischance. 
 
 Should, of your proper motion, set your skill 
 
 To indicate . . that is, investigate 
 
 The reason or the wrong of what befell 
 
 Those fixmous citizens, your countrymen? 
 
 Nay — you shall promise nothing — but reflect. 
 
 And if your sense of justice prompt you — good! 
 
 Jac. And if, the trial past, their fame stand clear 
 To all men's eyes, as yours, my lord, tc mine^
 
 204 LUKIA. 
 
 Their ghosts may sleep in quiet satisfied ! 
 
 For me, a straw thrown up into the air, 
 
 My testimony goes for a straw's worth. 
 
 I used to hold by the instructed brain. 
 
 And move with Braccio as the master-wind ; 
 
 The heart leads surelier : I must move with you— 
 
 As greatest now, who ever were the best. 
 
 So, let the last and humblest of your servants 
 
 Accept your charge, as Braccio's heretofore, 
 
 And offer homage, by obeying you ! [Jacopo goe& 
 
 Lur. Another ! — Luria goes not poorly forth ! 
 If we could wait ! The only fault's with Time : 
 All men become good creatures — but so slow ! 
 
 Enter Domizia. 
 
 Lur. Ah, you once more ? 
 
 Dom. Domizia, that you knew 
 
 Performed her task, and died with it — 'Tis I ! 
 Another woman, you have never known. 
 Let the Past sleep now. 
 
 Lur. I have done with it. 
 
 Dom. How inexhaustibly the spirit grows ! 
 One object, she seemed erewhile born to reach 
 With her whole energies and die content. 
 So like a wall at the world's end it stood. 
 With nought beyond to live for, — is it reached ? 
 Ah'eady are new undreamed enei'gies 
 Outgrowing under, and extending further 
 To a new object ; — there's another world I
 
 LURIA. 205 
 
 Se<; ! I have told the pui-pose of ray life,— 
 'Tis praiiied — you are di'ciik'd, well or ill — 
 You iiiaich on Florence, or submit lo her — 
 INIy woik is done with you. your biow declares: 
 But — leave you ? 31ore of you seems yet to reach ! 
 I stay for what I just begin to see. 
 
 Lur. So that you turn not to the Past ! 
 
 Dom. You trace 
 
 Nothing but ill in it — my selfish impulse, 
 Which sought its ends and disregarded yours? 
 
 hur. Speak not against your nature : best, each keep 
 His own — you, yours — most, now, when I keep mine, 
 —At least, fall by it, having too weakly stood. 
 God's finger marks distinctions, all so fine, 
 We would confountl — the Lesser has its use, 
 Which, when it apes the Greater, is foregone. 
 I, born a Moor, lived half a Florentine ; 
 But, j)unished properly, can die a Moor. 
 Beside, there is what makes me understand 
 Your nature . . 1 have seen it — 
 
 Bom. One like mine ? 
 
 Lur. In my own East . . if you would stoop and help 
 My barbarous illustration . . it sounds ill — 
 Tet there's no wrong at bottom — rather, prai&e — 
 
 Dom. Well ? 
 
 Lur. We have creatures there, which if you saw 
 
 The first time, you wouid doubtless marvel at, 
 For their surpassing beauty, craft and strength. 
 Ajid tho' it were a lively moment's shock
 
 206 LCRIA. 
 
 Wherein you found the purpose of those tongues 
 
 That seemed innocuous in their hxmbent play, 
 
 Yet, once made know such grace required such guard. 
 
 Your reason soon would acquiesce, I think, 
 
 In the Wisdom which made all things for the best; 
 
 So take them, good with ill, contentedly — 
 
 The prominent beauty with the secret sting. 
 
 I am glad to have seen you wondrous Florentines, 
 
 Yet.. 
 
 Dom. I am here to listen. 
 
 Lur. My own East I 
 
 How nearer God we were ! He glows above 
 With scarce an intervention, presses close 
 And palpitatingly. His soul o'er ours ! 
 We feel Ilim, nor by painful reason know I 
 The everlasting minute of creation 
 Is felt there ; Now it is, as it was Then ; 
 All changes at His instantaneous will. 
 Not by the operation of a law 
 Whose maker is elsewhere at other work ! 
 His soul is still engaged upon his world — 
 Man's praise can forward it, Man's prayer suspend. 
 For is not God all-mighty ? — To recast 
 Tlie world, erase old things and make them new, 
 Wluit costs it Him ? So, man breathes nobly there I 
 And inasmuch as Feeling, the East's gift. 
 Is quick and ti-ansient — comes, and lo, is gone- 
 While Northern Thought is slow and durable, 
 Oh, what a mission was reserved for ine.
 
 LURIA. 207 
 
 WTio, born with a perception of tlie power 
 And use of the North's tlioiight for us of the East, 
 Should have stayed there and turned it to account, 
 Giving Tliouglit's character and permanence 
 To the too-transitory Feelings there — 
 Writing God's messages in mortal words ! 
 Instead of which, I leave my fated iield 
 For this where such a task is needed least, 
 Where all are born consummate in the art 
 I just perceive a chance of making mine, — 
 And then, deserting thus my early post, 
 I wonder that the men I come among 
 Mistake me! There, how all had understood. 
 Still brought fresh stutF for me to stamp and keep, 
 Fresh instinct to translate them into law 1 
 Me, who . . . 
 
 Dom. Who here the greater task achieve, 
 
 More needful even : who have brought fresh stuflf 
 For us to mould, interpret and prove right, — 
 New feelings fresh from God, which, could we know 
 O' the instant, where had been our need of them? 
 — Whose life re-teaches us what life should be, 
 What faith is, loyalty and simpleness. 
 All, their revealment taught us so long since 
 That, having mere tradition of the fact. 
 Truth copied falteringly from copies faint, 
 The early traits all dropped away, — we said 
 On sight of faith of yours, " so looks not faith 
 " We understand, described and taught before."
 
 208 LUEIA. 
 
 But still, the truth was shown ; and tho' at first 
 
 It suffer from our haste, yet trace by trace 
 
 Old memories reappear, tlie likeness grows, 
 
 Our slow. Thought does its work, and all's re-known. 
 
 Oh, noble Luria ! what you have decreed 
 
 I see not, but no animal revenge, 
 
 Xo brute-like punishment of bad by worse — 
 
 It cannot be, the gross and vulgar way 
 
 Traced for me by convention and mistake, 
 
 Has gained that calm approving eye and brow ! 
 
 Spare Florence after all ! Let Luria trust 
 
 To his own soul, and I will trust to him 1 
 
 Lur. In time ! 
 
 Dom. How, Luria ? 
 
 Lur. It is midnight now— 
 
 Ajid they arrive from Florence with ray fate. 
 
 Dom. I hear no step . . 
 
 Lur. I feel it, as you say I 
 
 Enter IIcsain. 
 
 Hus. The man returned from Florence ! 
 
 Lur. As I knew 
 
 Hus. He seeks thee. 
 
 Lur. And I only wait for him. 
 
 Aught else ? 
 
 Hus. A movement of the Lucchese troops 
 
 Southward — 
 
 Lur. . . . Toward Florence ? Have out instantly . 
 Ah, old use clings ! Puccio must care henceforth ! 
 In — quick — ^'tis nearly midnight I Bid him come I
 
 LURIA. 209 
 
 Enter Tibdrzio, Braccio, and PccciO. 
 
 Lur. Tiburzio ? — not at Pisa ? 
 
 'fib. I return 
 
 From Florence : I serve PLsa, and must tliiik 
 By such procedure I have served lier best. 
 A. people is but the attempt of many 
 To rise to the completer life of one — 
 A.nd those who live as models for the mass 
 Are singly of moi'e value than they all. 
 Such man are you, and such a time is this 
 riuit your sole fate concerns a nation more 
 riian its apparent welfare ; and to prove 
 i'our rectitude, and duly crown the same, 
 Imports it far beyond the day's event, 
 Its battle's loss or gain — the mass remains. 
 Keep but the model safe, new men will rise 
 To study it, and other days to prove 
 flow great a good was Luria's having lived. 
 [ might go try my fortune as you bade. 
 And joining Lucca, helped by your disgrace, 
 Repair our harm — so were to-day's work done; 
 But where were Luria for our sons to see ? 
 No, I look further. I have testified 
 '^Declaring my submission to your arms) 
 Ifour full success to Florence, making clear 
 Tour probity, as none else could: I spoke — 
 And it shone clearly ! 
 
 Lur. Ah — till Braccio spoke I 
 
 VOL. II. 14
 
 glO LURIA. 
 
 Brav. Till Braccio told in just a word the whole— 
 His old great error, and return to knowledge — 
 Whirh told . . Nay, Luria, / should droop the head, 
 I, whom shame rests with, yet I dare look up, 
 Sure of yo ar pardon now I sue for it, 
 Knowing you wholly — so let midnight end ! 
 Sunrise will come next! Still you answer not? 
 The shadow of the night is past away : 
 Our circlrng faces here 'mid which it rose 
 Are all that felt it, — they close round you now 
 To witness its completest vanishing. 
 Speak, Luria I Here begins your true career — 
 Look up to it I — All now is possible — 
 The glory and the grandeur of each dream — 
 And every prophecy shall be fulfilled 
 Save one . . (nay, now your word mu»t come at last" 
 — That you would punish Florence! 
 
 IIus. (pointing to Luuia's dead body.) That is done !-
 
 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY.
 
 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 PART FIRST, BKING WUAT WAS CALLED TIIP: POKTR f OP 
 
 cniAi'PiNo's life: and rAur second, its i'uose. 
 
 PART I. 
 Inside Lcitolfo's hoitse at Faenza. Chiappino, Edlalia.. 
 
 Eu. What is it keeps Luitolfo? Night's fast fiiUinp:, 
 •And 'twas scarce sunset . . . had the Ave-bell 
 Sounded before he sought the Provost's House ? 
 I tliink not : all he had to say would take 
 Few minutes, such a very few, to say ! 
 How do you think, Chia[)[)ino ? If our lord 
 The Provost were less friendly to your friend 
 Than everybody iiere professes hira, 
 I should begin to tremble — should not you ? 
 Why are you silent when so many times 
 I turn and speak to you ? 
 
 Ch. That's good! 
 
 Eu. You laugh f 
 
 Ch. Yes. I had fancied nothing that bears price 
 [n the whole world was left to call my own, 
 A.nd, may be, felt a little pride thereat: 
 Dp to a single man's or woman's love,
 
 214 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 Down to the right in my own flesh and blood, 
 
 Tliere's nothing mine, I fiincied, — till you spoke ! 
 
 — Counting, you see, as " nothing " the permission 
 
 To study this peculiar lot of mine 
 
 In silence; well, go silence with the rest 
 
 Of the world's good ! What can I say, shall serve ? 
 
 Eu. This, — lest you, even more than needs, imbitler 
 Our parting : say your wrongs have cast, for once, 
 A cloud across your spirit ! 
 
 C%- How a cloud ? 
 
 Eu. No man nor woman loves you, did you say ? 
 Ch. My God, were't not for thee ! 
 Eti. Ay, God remains, 
 
 Even did Men forsake you. 
 
 Ch. Oh, not so ! 
 
 Were't not for God, I mean, what hope of truth — 
 Speaking truth, hearing truth, would stay with Man ? 
 I, now — the homeless, friendless, penniless, 
 Proscribed and exiled wretch who speak to you, 
 Ought to speak trutii, yet could not, for my death, 
 (The thing that tempts me most) help speaking lies 
 About your friendship, and Luitolfo's courage, 
 And all our townsfolk's equanimity, — 
 Through sheer incompetence to rid myself 
 Of the old miserable lying trick 
 Caught from the liars I have lived with, — God, 
 Did I not turn to thee I it is thy prompting 
 [ dare to be ashamed of, and thy counsel 
 iVould die along my coward lip, I know —
 
 A SOUl/S TRAGKDT. 21. '^ 
 
 But 1 do turn to thee ! Tiiis craven tongue, 
 
 riiese features wliicli refuse the soul its way, 
 
 Reclaim Thou! Give me truth — truth, power to speak 
 
 —And after be sole present to approve 
 
 Tlie spoken truth! — or, stay, that spoken truth, 
 
 Wlio knows hut you, too, miglit approve ? 
 
 Eu. Ah, well- 
 
 Keep silence, then, Chiappino 1 
 
 Ch. You would hear. 
 
 And shall now, — why the thing we're pleased to style 
 My gratitude to you and all your friends 
 For. service done me, is just gratitude 
 So much as youi's was service — and no more. 
 I was born here, so was Luitolfo, — both 
 At one time, nmcli with the same circumstance 
 Of rank and wealth ; and both, up to this night 
 Of parting company, have side by side 
 Still fared, he in the sunshine — I, the shadow : 
 ""Why?" asks the world: " Because," replies the world 
 To its complacent self, " these playfellows, 
 Who took at church the holy-water drop 
 One from the other's finger, and so forth, — 
 "Were of two moods : Luitolfo was the proper 
 Friend-making, everywhere friend-finding soul. 
 Fit fur the sunshine, so it followed him ; 
 A happy-tem[)ered bringer of the best 
 Out of the worst ; who bears with what's past cure, 
 And i)Uts so good a face on't — wisely passive 
 ^'here action's fruitless, while he remedies
 
 216 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 In silence what the foolish rail against ; 
 A man to smooth such natures as parade 
 Of opposition must exasperate — 
 No nreneral "[auntlet-gatherer for the weak 
 Against the strong, yet over-scrupulous 
 At lucky junctures ; one Avho won't forego 
 The after-battle work of binding wounds, 
 Because, forsooth, he'd have to bring himself 
 To side with their inflictors for their leave ! " 
 — Why do you gaze, nor help me to repeat 
 What comes so glibly from the common mouth, 
 About Luitolfo and his so-styled friend ? 
 
 Eu. Because, that friend's sense is obscured . . , 
 
 Ch. I thought 
 
 You would be readier with the other half 
 Of the world's story, — my half! — Yet, 'tis true. 
 For all the world does say it ! Say your worst I 
 True, I thank God, I ever said "you sin," 
 When a man did sin : if I could not say it, 
 I glared it at him, — if I could not glare it, 
 I prayed against him, — then my part seemed over ; 
 God's may begin yet — so it will, I trust ! 
 
 Eu. If the world outraged you, did we ? 
 
 Ch. What's « me " 
 
 That you use well or ill ? It's Man, in me, 
 All your successes are an outrage to, 
 You all, whom sunshine follows, as you say ! 
 Here's our Faenza birthplace — they send here 
 A. Prtvost from Ravenna — how he rules,
 
 A SOUL'S TRAGKDY. 217 
 
 ¥"011 can at times be eloquent about — 
 
 ' Then, end his rule ! " ah yes, one stroke does that I 
 
 But patienre under wrong works slow and sure: 
 
 Must violence still bring peace forth ? He, beside, 
 
 Returns so blandly one's obeisance — ah — 
 
 Some latent virtue may be lingering yet, 
 
 Some human sympathy which, once excite, 
 
 And all the lump were leavened quietly — 
 
 So, no more talk of striking, for this time ! 
 
 But I, as one of those he rules, won't bear 
 
 These pretty takings-up and layings down 
 
 Our cause, just as you think occasion suits! 
 
 Enough of earnest, is there ? You'll play, will you? 
 
 Diversify your tactics, — give submission, 
 
 Obsequiousness and flattery a turn. 
 
 While we die in our misery patient deaths? 
 
 We all are outraged then, and I the first! 
 
 I, for Mankind, resent each shrug and smirk. 
 
 Each beck and bend, each . . all you do and are, 
 
 I hate ! 
 
 Eu. We share a common censure, then I 
 'TIS well you have not poor Luitolfo's part 
 Or mine to point out in the wide offence. 
 
 Ch. Oh, shall I let you so escape me, Lady ? 
 L'ome, on your own ground. Lady, — from yourself, 
 (Leaving the people's wrong, which most is mine,) 
 What have I got to be so grateful for? 
 These throo last fines, no doubt, one on the other 
 Paid bv Luitolfo ?
 
 218 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 Eu. Shame, Chiapi)ino ! 
 
 Cli. Shame 
 
 Fall presently on who deserves it most ! 
 Which is to see. He paid my fines — my friend, 
 Your pi'osperous smooth husband presently, 
 Then, scarce your wooer, — now your lover : well— 
 I loved you ! 
 
 Eu. Hold ! 
 
 Ch. You knew it, years ago ; 
 
 When my voice faltered and my eyes grew dim 
 Because you gave me your silk mask to hold — 
 My voice that greatens when there's need to curse 
 The people's Provost to their heart's content, 
 —My eyes, the Provost, who bears all men's eyes, 
 Banishes now because he cannot bear ! 
 Y"ou knew . . but you do your parts — my part, I ! 
 So be it ! you flourish — I decay ! All's well ! 
 
 Eu. I hear this for the first time ! 
 
 Ch. The fault's there 
 
 Then, my days spoke not, and my nights of fire 
 Were voiceless? Then, the very heart may burst 
 Yet all prove nought, because no mincing speech 
 Tells leisurely that thus it is and thus ? 
 Eulalia — truce with toying for this once — 
 A banished fool, who troubles you to-night 
 For the last time — Oh, what's to fear from me ? 
 You knew I loved you ! 
 
 Eu. Not so, on my faith ! 
 
 Tou were my now-affianced lover's friend —
 
 A soul's tragedy. 219 
 
 Catne in, went out with him, could speak as he ; 
 
 All praise your ready parts and pregnant wit ; 
 
 See how your words come from you in a crowd ! 
 
 Luitolfo's first to place you o'er himself 
 
 111 all that challenges respect and love — 
 
 Yet you were silent then, who blame me now I 
 
 I say all this by fascination, sure — 
 
 I am all but wed to one I love, yet listen — 
 
 It must be, you are wronged, and tliat the wrongs 
 
 Luilolfo pities . . . 
 
 Cli. —You too pity? Do! 
 
 But hear first what my wrongs are ; so began 
 This talk and so shall end this talk. I say, 
 Was't not enough that I must strive, I saw, 
 To crow so far familiar with vour charms 
 As to contrive some way to win them — which 
 To do, an age seemed far too little — for, see ! 
 We all aspire to Heaven — and there is Heaven 
 Above us — go there ! Dare we go ? no, surely ! 
 How dare we go without a reverent pause, 
 A crowinji less unfit for Heaven ? — Even so, 
 I dared not speak — the greater fool, it seems ! 
 Was't not enough to struggle with such folly, 
 But I must have, beside, the very man 
 Whose slight, free, loose and incapacious soul 
 Gave his tongue scope to saj whate'er he would 
 .—Must have him load me with his benefits 
 For fortune's fiercest stroke ! 
 
 Jkt. Justice to him
 
 220 A soul's tragedt. 
 
 That's now entreating, at his risk perhaps, 
 Justice for you ! Did he once call those acts 
 Of simple friendship — bounties, benelits ? 
 
 Cii. No — the straight course had been to call them 
 so— 
 Then, 1 had flung them back, and kept myself 
 Unhampered, free as he to \s'in the prize 
 We both souglit — but " tlie gold was dross," he said, 
 * He loved me, anu I loved him not — to spurn 
 'A trifle out of superfluity : 
 '' He had forgotten tie had done as much ! " 
 >o had not I ! — Henceforth, try as I could 
 To take him at his word, there stood by you 
 My benefactor — who might speak and laugh 
 And urge his nothings — even banter me 
 Befof. yoa — but my tongue was tied. A dream ! 
 Let's wake : your husband . . . how you shake at that I 
 Good — my revenge ! 
 
 Eu. "Why should I shake ? What forced, 
 
 Or forces me to be Luilolfo's biide ? 
 
 Ch. There's my revenge, that nothing forces you ! 
 No gratitude, no liking of the eye, 
 Nor longing of the heart, but the poor bond 
 Of habit — here so many times he came, 
 So much he spoke, — all these compose the tie 
 That pulls you from me ! Well, he [)aid my fines. 
 Nor missed a cloak from wardrobe, di-^h from ta^jle— 
 .—He spoke a good word to the Provost here^ 
 Held me up when nly fortunes tell away
 
 A socl's tkagedt. 221 
 
 — It had not looked so well to let rae drop — 
 
 Men take pains to preserve a tree-stump, even. 
 
 Whose boughs they played benealh — much more a friend 
 
 But one grows tired of seeing, after the first, 
 
 Pains spent upon impracticable stuff 
 
 Like rae : I could not change — you know the rest. 
 
 I've spoke my mind too fully out, for once, 
 
 This morning? to our Provost ; so ere ni"ht 
 
 I leave the city on pain of deatli — and now 
 
 On my account there's gallant intercession 
 
 Goes forwaid — tliat's so graceful ! — and anon 
 
 He'll noisily come back : tiie intercession 
 
 Was made and fails — all's over for us both — 
 
 'Tis vain contending — I had better go : 
 
 And I do go — and so to you he turns 
 
 Light of a load, and ease of that permits 
 
 His visage to repair its natural bland 
 
 Qlconomy, sore broken late to suit 
 
 My discontent : so, all are pleased — you, with him, 
 
 He with himself, and all of you with me 
 
 — Who, say the citizens, had done far better 
 
 In letting people sleep upon their woes, 
 
 If not possessed with talent to relieve them 
 
 When once they woke ; — but then I had, they'll say 
 
 Doubtless some unknown compensating pride 
 
 In what I did — and as I seem content 
 
 With ruining myself, why so should they be, 
 
 A-nd so they are, and so l)e with his prize 
 
 The dev'l, when he gets them speedily !
 
 222 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 Why does not joiir Luitolfo come ? I long 
 To don thi^ cloak and take the Lugo path. 
 ^ It seems you never loved me, then ? 
 
 Eu. Chiappino ! 
 
 Ch. Never? 
 
 Eu. Never. 
 
 Ch. That's sad — say what I might, 
 
 There was no helping being sure this while 
 You loved me — love like mine must have return, 
 r thought — no river starts but to some sea ! 
 And had you loved me, I could soon devise 
 Some specious reason why you stifled love, 
 Some fancied self-denial on your part, 
 Which made you choose Luitolfo ; so, excepting 
 J'rom the wide condemnation of all here. 
 One woman ! Well, the other dream may break ! 
 If I knew any heart, as mine loved you. 
 Loved me, tho' in the vilest breast 'twere lodged, 
 I should, I think, be forced to love again — 
 Else there's no right nor reason in the world! 
 
 Eu. " If you knew," sa}" you, — but I did not know— 
 Tiiat's where you're blind, Chiappino ! — a disease 
 Which if I may remove, I'll not repent 
 The listening to : you cannot, will not, see 
 How, place you but in every circumstance 
 Of us, you are just now indignant at, 
 You'd be as we. 
 
 Ch. I should be ? . . that, again 1 
 
 I, to my Friend, my Country and my Love, 
 Be as Luitolfo and these Faentines ?
 
 A soul's tragedy. 223 
 
 Eu. As we. 
 
 Ch. Now, I'll say something to remember I 
 
 1 trust in Nature for the stiible laws 
 Of Beauty and Utility — Spring shall plant, 
 And Autumn garner to the end of time : 
 I trust in God — the Right shall be the Right 
 And other than the Wrong, while He endures — 
 I trust in my own soul, that can perceive 
 The outward and the inward, nature's good 
 And God's — So — seeing these men and myself, 
 Having a right to si)e;di, thus do I speak : 
 I'll not curse . . . God bears with them — well may 1 — 
 But I — protest against their claiming me ! 
 I simply say, if that's allowable, 
 I would not . . broadly ... do as they have done — 
 — God curse this townful of born slaves, bred slaves, 
 Branded into the blood and bone, .<!laves ! Curse 
 Whoever loved, above his liberty, 
 
 House, land or life ! and ... [A knocking without 
 
 . . Bless my hero-friend, 
 
 Luitolfo ! 
 
 JHu. Ilow he knock? 
 
 Ch. The peril, Lady ! 
 
 " Chiappino, I have run a "i.-Jc ! My God ! 
 " How when I prayed the Provost — (he's my friend) — 
 " To grant you a week's respite of his sentence 
 "That confiscates your goods, and exiles you, 
 " lie shrugged his shoulder . I say, shrugged it! Yes 
 * And friglit of that drove all else from my bead.
 
 224 A SOULS TRAGEDY. 
 
 " Here's a good purse of sciidi — off with you ! 
 
 •' Lest of that shrug come — what' God only knows ! 
 
 "The scudi — friend, they're trash — no thanks, I beg— 
 
 " Take the North gate, — for San Vitale's suburb 
 
 " Whose double taxes you 'appealed against, 
 
 " In discomposure at your ill-success 
 
 '•Is apt to stone you : there, there — only go! 
 
 " Beside, Eulalia here looks sleepily — 
 
 ** Shake . . . oh, you hurt me, so you squeeze my wrist I " 
 
 —Is it not thus you'll speak, adventurous friend ? 
 
 [As he opens the door, Luitolfo rushes in, his garmentM 
 
 disordered. 
 
 Ell. Luitolfo ! Blood ? 
 
 Luit. There's more — and more of it 1 
 
 Eulalia — take the garment . . no . . you, friend ! 
 You take it and the blood from me — vou dare ! 
 
 Eu. Oh, who has hurt you ? where's the wound' 
 
 Ch. " Who," say /cu ? 
 
 The man with many a touch of virtue yet ! 
 The Provost's- friend has proved too frank of speech 
 And this comes of it. Miserable hound ! 
 This comes of temporizing, as I said ! 
 Here's fruit of your smooth speeches and fair looks I 
 Now see my way ! As God lives, I go straight 
 To the palace and do justice, once for all ! 
 
 Luit. What says he ? 
 
 Ch. I'll do justice on him I 
 
 Luit. Him 
 
 (Jh. The Provost.
 
 A soul's tragedy. 225 
 
 luit. I've just killed him ! 
 
 Eu. 0\\, my Godl 
 
 Liut. My friend, tliey're on my trace — they'll have 
 me — now ! 
 They're round him, bu>y with him : soon they'll find 
 He's past their help, and then they'll be on me ! 
 Chiappino ! save Eulalia . . I forget . . . 
 Were you not bound . for . . . 
 
 Ch. Lugo ! 
 
 Luit. Ah— yes— yes— 
 
 That was the point I prayed of him to change. 
 Well — go — be happy . . is Eulalia safe ? 
 They're on me ! 
 
 Ch. 'Tis through me they reach you, then 1 
 
 Friend, seem the man you are ! Lock arms — that's right, 
 Now tell me what you've done ; explain how you 
 That still professed forbearance, still preached peace, 
 Could bring yourself . . . 
 
 Luit. What was peace for, Chiappino ? 
 
 I tried peace — did that say that when peace failed 
 Strife should not follow ? All my peaceful days 
 Were just the prelude to a day like this. 
 I cried " You call me ' friend ' — save my true friend! 
 " Save him, or lose me ! " 
 
 Ch. But you never said 
 
 VTou meant to tell the Provost thus and thus ! 
 
 Luit. Why should I say it ? Wiiat else did I mean ? 
 
 Ch. Well ? lie persisted ? 
 
 Luit. . . Would so Older it 
 
 VOL. IL 15
 
 226 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 You shouM not trouble him too soon again — 
 I saw a mi^aning in his eye and lip — - 
 I poureil my heart's store of indignant words 
 Out on him — then — I know not. — He i-ef ^rted — 
 And I . . some staff lay there to hand — I think 
 He bade his servants thrust me out — I struck — 
 
 . Ah, they come ! Fly you, save yourselves, you two 
 The dead back-weight of the beheading axe ! 
 The glowing trip-hook, thumbscrews and the gadge ! 
 
 £u. They do come ! Torches in the Place ! Farewell— 
 Chiappiiio! You can work no good to us — 
 Much to yourself; believe not, all the world 
 Must needs be cui'sed henceforth 1 
 
 Ch. And you ? 
 
 Eu. I stay. 
 
 Ch. Ha, ha ! Now, listen ! I am master here ! 
 This was ray coarse disguise — this paper shows 
 My path of lligljt and j)hice of refuge — see — 
 Lugo — Argenta — past San Nicolo — 
 Ferrara, then to Venice and all's safe ! 
 Put on the cloak ! His people have to fetch 
 A compass round about. — There's time enough 
 Ere they can reach us — so you straightway make 
 For Lugo . . . Nay, he hears not ! On with ii — 
 Tlie cloak, Luitolfo, do you hear me? See — 
 He obeys he knows not how. — Then, if I must . . . 
 Answer me ! Do you know the Lugo gate ? 
 
 Eu. The northwest gate, over the bridge ! 
 
 Luit. I know.
 
 A soul's tuagedt. 227 
 
 Ch. Well, there— you are not frightened? All ray route 
 [3 traced in tliat — at Venice you'll escape 
 riieir power! Eulaliu — I am master here! 
 
 [Shouts from williout. lie pushes out Luitolfo, who 
 complies mechanically. 
 
 In lime ! nay, help me with him — So! — he's gone. 
 
 jKu. What have you done? On you, perchance, all know 
 The Provost's hater, will men's vengeance tall 
 As our accomplice . . 
 
 (JA, Mere accomplice? See I 
 
 [Putting; on Luitolfo 8 vest. 
 
 Now, Lady, am I true to my profession, 
 Or one of these ? 
 
 J<!u. You take Luitolfo's place? 
 
 C'/i. Die for him ! 
 
 £u. Well done ! ^ [Shouts increase. 
 
 Ch. How the people tarry. 
 
 I can't be silent . . I must speak . . or sing — 
 How natural to sing now ! 
 
 Eu. Hush and pray ! 
 
 We are to die — but even I perceive 
 'Tis not a very hard iliiiig so to die — 
 My cousin of the pale-blue tearful eyes, 
 Poor Cesca, sutFers more from one day's life 
 With the stern husband ; Tisb«i's heart goes forth 
 Each evening after tliat wild son of hers, 
 To track his thoughtless footstep thro' the streets — 
 How easy for them both to die like this 1 
 { am not sure that I could live as they.
 
 228 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ch. Here they come, crowds ! They pass the gate ? 
 Yes !— No !— 
 One torch is in the court-yard. Here flock all ! 
 
 Eu. At least Luitolfo has escaped ! — What cries ! 
 
 Ch. If they would drag one to the market-place, 
 One might speak thei'e ! 
 
 Eu. List, list ! 
 
 Ch. They mount the steps 
 
 Enter the Populace. 
 
 Ch. I killed the Provost ! 
 \_The Populace, speahin(j together.'] 'Twas Chiappina, 
 
 friends ! 
 Our saviour. — The best man at last as first ! 
 He who first made us see what chains we wore. 
 He also strikes the blow that shatters them, 
 He at last saves us — our best citizen ! 
 ' — Oh, have you only courage to speak now ? 
 My eldest son was christened a year since 
 " Cino " to keep Chiappino's name in mind — 
 Cino, for shortness merely, you observe ! 
 The City's in our hands. — The guards are fled — 
 Do you, the cause of all, come down — come down- 
 Come forth to counsel us, our chief, our king, 
 Whate'er rewards you ! Choose your own reward. 
 The peril over, its reward begins ! 
 Come and harangue us in the market-place ! 
 
 Eu. Chiappino ! 
 
 Ch. Yes . . I understand your eyes ! 
 
 Vou think I should have promptlier disowned
 
 A son's TUAGKDY. 229 
 
 f bis deed with its strange unforeseen success 
 
 In favour of Luitolfo — but the peril, 
 
 So far from ended, hardly seems begun ! 
 
 To-morrow, rather, when a calm succeeds, 
 
 We easily shall make him full amends : 
 
 And meantime . . if we save them as they pray, 
 
 And justify the deed by its effects ? 
 
 JEu. You would, for worlds, you had denied at once I 
 Ch. I know my own intention, be assured ! 
 
 All's well ! Precede us, fellow-citizens ! 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 The Market-place. Luitolfo in disguise mingling with the Popa' 
 lace assembled opposite the Provost's Palace. 
 
 Ist Bf/stander (To Luit.) You, a friend of Luitolfo's! 
 Then, your friend is vanished, — in all probability killed 
 on the night that his patron the tyrannical Provost was 
 loyally suppressed here, exactly a month a<ro, by our 
 illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour, and new 
 Provost that is like to be, this very morning, — Chiappino 1 
 
 Luit. He the new Provost ? 
 
 '2d. Up those steps will he go, and beneath yonder 
 pillar stand, while Ogniben, the Pope's Legate from 
 Ravenna, reads the new dignitary's title to the people, 
 accordinj; to established usasre. — For which reason, there 
 is the assemblage you inquire about. 
 
 Luit. Chiappino — the old Provost's successor ? Impos-
 
 230 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 sible ! But tell me of that presently — What I \vouJ<J 
 know first of all is, wherefore Luitolfo must so necessarily 
 have been killed on that memorable night ? 
 
 3d. You were Luitolfo's friend ? So was I — Never 
 if you will credit me, did there exist so poor-spirited a' 
 milk-sop ! He, with all the opportunities in the world, 
 furnished by daily converse with our oppressor, would 
 not stir a finger to help us : so when Chiappino rose ia 
 
 solitary majesty and how does one go on saying ? . . 
 
 dealt the godlike blow, — this Luitolfo, not unreasonably 
 fearing the indignation of an aroused and liberated people, 
 fled precipitately : he may have got trodden to death in 
 the press at the southeast gate, when the Provost's 
 guards fled thro' it to Ravenna, with their wounded 
 master, — if he did not rather hang himself under some 
 hedge. 
 
 Luit. Or why not simply have lain perdue in some 
 quiet corner, — such as San Cassiano, where his estate 
 was, — receiving daily intelligence from some sure friend, 
 meanwhile, as to the turn matters wei'e taking here . . . 
 how, for instance, the Provosl vas not dead after all, 
 only wounded . . or, as to-day's news would seem to prove, 
 how Chiappino was not Brutus the Elder, after all, only 
 the new Provost . . and thus Luitolfo be enabled to watch 
 a favourable opportunity for returning — might it not 
 have been so ? 
 
 Sd. Why, he may have taker that care of himself, 
 certainly, for he came of a cautious stock. — I'll tell you 
 dow his uncle, just such another gingerly treader oc
 
 A soul's tragedy. 231 
 
 tiptoes with finger on lip, — liow liu met his death in the 
 great pUigue-year : dico vobis ! Hearing that tlie seven- 
 teenth house in a certain street was .nfected, he calculates 
 to pass it in safety by taking plentiful broath, say, when 
 he shall aruive at the eleventh house ; then scouring by, 
 holding that breath, till he be got so far on the other 
 Bide as number twenty-three, and thus elude the danger. 
 — And so did he begin — but, as he arrived at thirteen, 
 we will say, — thinking to improve on his precaution by 
 putting up a little prayer to St. Nepomucene of Prague, 
 this exhausted so much of his lungs' reserve, that at 
 sixteen it was clean spent. — consequently at the fatal 
 seventeen he inhaled with a vigour and persistence 
 enough to suck you any latent venom out of the heart of 
 a stone — Ha, ha ! 
 
 Luit. \_Aside.'] (If I had not lent that man the money 
 he wanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was 
 attributable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may 
 conclude ! 
 
 3c?. Why, he had a house here, and a woman to 
 whom he was affianced ; and as they both pass naturally 
 to the new Provost, his friend and heir . . . 
 
 Luit. Ah, I suspected you of imposing on me with 
 your pleasantry — I know Chiappino better ! 
 
 \st. (Our friend has the bile ! after all, I do not dis- 
 like finding somebody vary a little this general gape of 
 admiration at Chiappino's glorious qualities — .) Pray, 
 bow much may you know of what has taken place in 
 Faenza since that memorable night ?
 
 232 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 Luit. It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiap 
 pino to have been by profession a hater of that very 
 office of Provost, you now charge him with proposing to 
 accept. 
 
 \st. Sir, I'll tell you. That night was indeed memor- 
 abre — up we rose, a mass of us, men, women, children — 
 out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant — we 
 were to defy the world : but, next gray morning, " What 
 will Rome say," began everybody — (you know we are 
 governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome.) 
 And quietly into the town by the Ravenna road, comes 
 on mule-back a portly personage, Ogniben by name, with 
 the quality of Pontifical Legate — trots, briskly thro' the 
 streets humming a " Our fremmre genies" and makes 
 directly for the Provost's Palace — there it faces you — 
 " One Messer Chiappino is your leader ? I have known 
 three-and-twenty leaders of revolts ! " (laughing gently 
 to himself) — " Give me the help of your arm from my 
 mule to yonder steps under the pillar — so ! And now, 
 my revolters and good friends, what do you want ? 
 The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your 
 woanded Provost — and, having had a little talk with 
 bim, I take on myself to come and try appease the 
 disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to 
 another method; 'tis I come, and not another, from a 
 certain love I confess to, of composing diffiirences. So, 
 do you understand, you are about to experience this 
 unheard-of tyranny from me, that there shall be no 
 beading nor hanging, no co'n^scation nor exile, — I insist
 
 A soul's tragi;dt. 233 
 
 on your ijimply pleasing yourselves, — and now, pray, 
 what does please you ? To live without any government 
 ntall? Or having decided for one, to see its minister 
 murdered by tlie fust of your body that chooses to find 
 himself wronged, or disposed for reverting to first prin- 
 ciples and a Justice anterior to all institutions — and so 
 will you carry matters, that the rest of the world must 
 ftt lengtii unite and put down such a den of wild beasts ? 
 As for vengeance on what has just taken place, — once 
 for all, the wounded man assures me he cannot con- 
 jecture who struck him — and this so earnestly, that one 
 may be sure he knows perfectly well what intimate 
 acquaintance could find admission to speak with him so 
 late that evening — I come not for vengeance tlierefore, 
 but from pure curiosity to hear what you will do next." 
 —And thus he ran on, easily and volubl}'-, till he seemed 
 to arrive quite naturally at the praise of Law, Order, and 
 Paternal Government by somebody from rather a dis- 
 tance : all our citizens were in the snare, and about to 
 be friends with so congenial an adviser ; but that Chiap- 
 pino suddenly stood forth, spoke out indignantly, and set 
 things right again . . . 
 
 Luit. Do you see ? — I recognize him there ! • 
 3d. Ay, but mark you, at the end of Chiappino's 
 ►ongest period in praise of a pure Republic. "And 
 by whom do I desire such a government should be 
 administered, perhaps, but by one like yourself?"— 
 returns the Legate — thereupon speaking, for a quartef 
 «f an hour together, on the natural and only legitimate
 
 234 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 government by the Best and Wisest — and it slionld 
 Beem there was soon discovered to be no such vast 
 discrepancy at bottom between this and Chiappino's 
 theory, place but each in its proper light — " Oh, are 
 you there ? " quoth Chiappino : — " In that, I agree," 
 returns Chiappino, and so on. 
 
 Luit. But did Chiappino cede at once to this ? 
 
 1st. Why, not altogether at once — for instance, he 
 said that the difference between him and all his fellows 
 was, that they seemed all wishing to be kings in one or 
 another way, — whereas what right, asked he, has any 
 man to wish to be superior to another ? — whereat, " Ah 
 Sir," answers the Legate, " this is the death of me, so 
 often as I expect something is really going to be revealed 
 to us by you clearer-seers, deeper-thinkers — this — that 
 your right-hand (to speak by a figure) should be found 
 taking up the weapon it displayed so ostentatiously, not 
 to destroy any dragon in our path, as was prophesied, 
 but simply to cut off its own fellow left-hand — yourself 
 get about attacking yourself — for see now ! Here are 
 you who, I make sure, glory exceedingly in knowing the 
 noble nature of the soul, its divine impulses, and so 
 forth ; and with such a knowledge you stand, as it were, 
 armed to encounter the natural doubts and fears as to 
 \hat same inherent nobility, that are apt to waylay us, 
 the weaker ones, in the road of Life, — and wlien we 
 look eagerly to see them fall before you, lo, round you 
 wheel, only the left hand gets the blow ; one proof of 
 the soul's nobility destroys simply another proof, quite
 
 A soul's tuagedt. 235 
 
 IS g(X)d, of the same, — you are found delivering an 
 opinion like this ! Why, what is this perpetual yearn- 
 ing to exceed, to subdue, to be better than, and a king 
 over, one's fellows, — all that you so disclaim, — but the 
 very tendency yourself are most proud of, and under 
 another form, would oppose to it, — only in a lower stage 
 of manifestation ? You don't want to be vulgarly 
 superiour to your fellows after their poor fashion — to 
 Lave me hold solemnly up your gown's tail, or hand you 
 an express of the last importance from the Pope, with 
 all these bystanders noticing how unconcerned you look 
 the while — but neither does our gaping friend, the 
 burgess yonder, want the other kind of kingship, that 
 consists in understanding better than his fellows this 
 and similar points of human nature, nor to roll under 
 the tongue this sweeter morsel still, the feeling that, 
 thro' immense philosophy, he does not feel, he rather 
 thinks, above you and me ! " — And so chatting, they 
 glided off arm in arm. 
 
 Luit. And the result is . . 
 
 \st. Why, that a month having gone by, the indomit- 
 able Cliiappino, maa-rying as he will Luitolfo's love — at 
 all events succeeding to Luitolfo's goods, — becomes the 
 first inhabitant of Faenza, and a proper aspirant to the 
 Provostship — which we assemble here to see conferred 
 on him this morning. The Legate's Guard to clear the 
 way ! lie will foUow presently ! 
 
 Luit. (withdnncing a little.) I undersu.nd the drift of 
 Eulalia's romra'.mications less than ever — yet she surelj
 
 236 A. soul's tragedy. 
 
 said, in so many woi'ds, that Chiappino was :n urgent 
 danger, — wherefore, disregarding her injunctions to con- 
 tinue in my retreat and wait the result of, what she 
 called some experiment yet in process — I hastened here 
 without her leave or knowledge — what could I else ?— 
 Yet if what they say be true . . if it were for such a 
 purpose, she and Chiappino kept me away . . . Oh, no, no! 
 I must confront him and her before I believe this of 
 them — and at the word, see ! 
 
 Enter Chiappino and Eulalia. 
 
 Eu. We part here, then ? The change in your prin- 
 ciples would seem to be complete ! 
 
 Ch. Now, why refuse to see that in my present 
 course I change no principles, only re-adapt them and 
 more adroitly ? I had despaired of what you may call 
 the material instrumentality of Life ; of ever being able 
 to rightly operate on mankind thro' such a deranged 
 machinery as the existing modes of government — but 
 now, if I suddenly discover how to inform these perverted 
 institutions with fresh purpose, bring the functionary 
 limbs once more into immediate communication w'ith, 
 and subjection to the soul I am about to bestow on thena 
 ... do you see ? Why should one desire to invent, so 
 long as it remains possible to renew and transform? 
 When all further hope of the old organization shall be 
 extinct, then, I grant you, it will be time to try and 
 create another. 
 
 Eu. And there being discoverable some hope yet is
 
 A soul's tragedy. CCV 
 
 (he hitherto much-abused old system of absolute govern- 
 ment by a Provost here, you mean to take your time 
 nbout endeavouring to realize those visions of a perfect 
 State, we once heard of? 
 
 Ch. Say, I would fain realize my conception of a 
 Palace, for instance, and that there is, abstractedly, but 
 a single way of erecting one perfectly ; here, in the 
 market-place, is my allotted building-ground ; here I 
 Btand without a stone to lay, or a labourer to help me, — 
 stand, too, during a short day of life, close on which the 
 night comes. On the other hand, circumstances suddenly 
 offer me . . turn and see it . . the old Provost's House to 
 experiment upon — ruinous, if you please, wrongly con- 
 structed at the beginning, and ready to tumble now — 
 but materials abound, a crowd of workmen offer their 
 services ; here, exists yet a Hall of Audience of originally 
 noble proportions, there, a Guest-chamber of symmetrical 
 design enough ; and I may restore, enlai-ge, abolish or 
 unite these to heart's content — ought I not rather make 
 the best of such an opportunity, than continue to gaze 
 disconsolately with folded arms on the flat pavement 
 iere, while the sun goes slowly down, never to rise 
 again ? But you cannot understand this nor me : it is 
 better we should part as you desire. 
 
 *^M. So the love breaks away too ' 
 
 Ch. No, rather my soul's capacity for love widens — 
 needs more than one object to content it, — and, being 
 better instructed, will not persist in seeing all the com- 
 Douent parts of love in what is only a single part, — ^nor
 
 238 A soul's tkagedt. 
 
 in finding the go many and so various loves, united in 
 the love of a woman, — finding all uses in one instru 
 ment, as the savage has his sword, sceptre, and idol, 
 all in one club-stick. Love is a very compound thing. 
 I shall give the intellectual part of my love to Men, the 
 mighty dead, or illustrious living ; and determine to call 
 a mere sensual instinct by as few fine names as possible. 
 What do I lose ? 
 
 Eu. Nay, I only think, what do I lose ! and, one 
 more word — which shall complete my instruction — 
 does Friendship go too ? — What of Luitolfo — the author 
 of your present prosperity? 
 
 Ch. How the author? — 
 
 Eu. That blow now called yours . . . 
 
 Ch. Struck without principle or purpose, as by a 
 blind natural operation — and to which all my thoughts 
 and life directly and advisedly tended. I would have 
 struck it, and could not. He would have done his 
 utmost to avoid striking it, yet did so. I dispute his 
 right to that deed of mine — a final action with him, 
 from the first etFect of which he fled away — a mere first 
 Btep with me, on which I base a whole mighty super- 
 structure of good to follow. Could he get good from it ? 
 
 Eu. So we profess, so we perform ! 
 
 Enter Ogkiben. Eulalia stands apart. 
 Ogni. 1 have seen three-and-twenty leaders of revolts! 
 —By your leave, Sir ! Perform ? What does the lady 
 Bay of Performing ?
 
 A sout/s tragedy. 239 
 
 kJJi. Only the trite .saying, that we must not trust 
 Profession, only Performance. 
 
 Ogni. She'll not say that, Sir, when she knows you 
 longer ; you'll instruct her better. Ever judge of men 
 by their professions ! For tho' the bright moment of 
 promising is but a moment and cannot be prolonged, 
 yet, if sincere in its moment's extravagant goodness, 
 why, trust it and know the man by it, I say — not by 
 his performance — which is half the world's work, inter- 
 fere as the world needs must with its accidents and 
 circumstances, — the profession was purely the man's 
 own ! I judge people by what they might be, — not are, 
 nor will be. 
 
 Ch. But have there not been found, too, performing 
 natures, not merely promising ? 
 
 Ogni. Plenty : Little Bindo of our town, for instance, 
 promised his friend, great ugly Masac;cio, once, " I will 
 repay you ! " — for a favour done him : so when his father 
 came to die, and Bindo succeeded to the inheritance, 
 be sends straightway for Masaccio and shares all with 
 him ; gives him half the land, half the money, half thf 
 kegs of wine in the cellar. " Good," say you — and i! 
 is good : but had little Bindo found himself possessor 
 of all this wealth some five years before — on the happy 
 night when Masaccio procured him that interview in 
 the garden with his pretty cousin Lisa — instead of 
 being the bci^gar he then was, — I am bound to believe 
 that in the warm moment of promise he would have 
 given away all the wine-kegs, and all the money, :»'i(J
 
 240 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 all the land, and only reserved to himself some hut on 
 a hill-top hard by, whence he might spend his life in 
 looking and seeing his friend enjoy himself : he meant 
 fully that much, but the world interfered ! — To our 
 business — did I understand you just now within doors ? 
 You are not going to marry your old friend's love after 
 all? 
 
 Gh. I must have a woman that can sympathize with> 
 and appreciate me, I told you. ■ 
 
 Ogni. Oh, I remember ! you the greater nature, 
 needs must have a lesser one ( — avowedly lesser — con- 
 test with you on that score would never do !) — such a 
 nature must comprehend you,' as the phrase is, accom- 
 pany and testify of your greatness from point to point 
 onward : why, that were being not merely as great as 
 yourself, but greater considerably ! Meantime, might 
 not the more bounded nature as reasonably count on 
 your appreciation of it, rather ? — on your keeping close 
 by it, so far as you both go together, and then going on 
 by yourself as far as you please ? So God serves us I 
 
 Ch. And yet a woman that could understand the 
 whole of me, to whom I could reveal alike the strength 
 and the weakness — 
 
 Ogni. Ah, my friend, wish for nothing so foolish ! 
 Worship your love, give her the best of you to see ; be 
 lo her like the Western lands (they bring us such strange 
 news of) to the Spanish Court — send her only your 
 lumps of gold, fans of featliers, your spirit-like birds 
 dnd fruits and gems — so shall you, what is unseen o'
 
 k SOULS TKAGEDT. 241 
 
 you, be supposed altogether a Paradise bj her, — ay these 
 Western lands by Spain — tho' I warrant there is filth, 
 red baboons, -Ugly reptiles, and squalor enough, which 
 they bring Spain as few samples of as possible. Do you 
 want your mistress to respect your body generally ? 
 OlTer her your mouth to kiss — don't strip off your boot 
 and put your foot to her lips ! You understand ray 
 humour by this time ? I help men to carry out their 
 own principle : if they please to say two and two make 
 five, I assent, if they will but go on and say, four and 
 four make ten ! 
 
 Ch. But these are my private affairs — what I desire 
 you to occupy yourself about, is my public appearance 
 presently : for when the people hear that I am appointed 
 Provost, tho' you and I may tliorouglily discern — and 
 easily, too — the right principle at bottom of such a move- 
 ment, and how my republicanism remains thoroughly 
 unaltered, only takes a form of expression hitherto com- 
 monly judged . . and heretofore by myself . . incompatible 
 with its existence . . when thus I reconcile myself to an 
 old form of government instead of proposing a new 
 one . . . 
 
 Ogm. Wiiy, you must deal with people broadly 
 Begin at a distance from this matter and say, — new 
 truths, old truths ! why, there is nothing new possible 
 to be revealed to us in the moral world — we know all 
 ive shall ever know, and it is for sirajjly reminding us, 
 by their various respective expedients, how we do know 
 ',his and the other matter, that men get called prophe' 
 VOL. II. 16
 
 2-12 A soul's tragedt. 
 
 poets, and the like. A philosopher's life is spent in 
 discovering that, of the half-dozen truths he knew when 
 a child, such an one is a lie, as the world states it in set 
 terms ; and then, after a weary lapse of years, and plenty 
 of hard thinking, it becomes a truth again after all, as he 
 happens to newly consider it and view it in a different 
 relation with the others — and so he restates it, to the 
 confusion of somebody else in good time. — As for adding 
 to the original stock of truths, — impossible ! — So you 
 Bee the expression of them is the grand business : — you 
 have got a truth in your head about the right way of 
 governing people, and you took a mode of expressing it 
 — which now you confess to be imperfect — but what 
 then ? There is Truth in Falsehood, Falsehood in 
 Truth. — No man ever told one great truth, that I know, 
 without the help of a good dozen of lies at least, generally 
 unconscious ones : and as when a child comes in breath- 
 lessly and relates a strange story, you try to conjecture 
 from the very falsities in it, what the reality was, — do 
 not conclude that he saw nothing in the sky, because he 
 assuredly did not see a flying horse there as he says, — so. 
 thro' the contradictory expression, do you see, men should 
 look painfully for, and trust to arrive eventually at, what 
 you call the true principle at bottom. Ah, what an 
 answer is there ! to what will it not prove applicable ! — 
 " Contradictions?" — Of course there were, say you ! 
 
 Ch. Still, the world at large may call it inconsistency, 
 and what shall I say in reply ? 
 
 Ogni. Why look you, when they tax you with tergiver
 
 A. soul's tragkdy. 243 
 
 eation or duplicity, yon may ans,vcr — you begin to pei^ 
 eeive that, wlien all's done and said, both great parties 
 in the state, the advocators of" change in the present 
 system of thing?, and the opponents of it, patriot and 
 anti-patriot, are found working together for the common 
 good, and that in the midst of their efforts for and against 
 its progress, the world somehow or other still advances 
 — to which result they contribute in equal proportions, 
 those who spent their life in pushing it onward as those 
 who gave theirs to the business of pulling it back — now, 
 if you fonnd the world stand still between the opposite 
 forces, and were glad, I should conceive yon— but it 
 Bteadily advances, you rejoice to see ! By the tide of 
 (<uch a rejoicer, the man who onl3' winks as he keeps 
 cunning and quiet, and says, " Let yonder hot-headed 
 fellow fight out ray battle ; I, for one, shall win in the 
 end by the blows he gives, and which I ought to be 
 giving" — even he seems graceful in his avowal, when ouf« 
 considers that he might say, " I sha-ll win quite as much 
 by the blows our antagonist gives him, and from which 
 he saves me — I thank the antagonist enually ! " More- 
 over, you must enlarge on the loss of the edge of party- 
 animosity with age and experience — 
 
 Ch. And naturally time must wear off such asperities 
 "—the bitterest adversai'ies get to discove-r certain points 
 of similarity between each other.' commop -■^vmpathies — 
 jo they not ? 
 
 Ogvi. Ay, had the young David but sate- first to dine 
 \>n I'is cheeses with the Philistine, he had soon tl'ii^overe<?
 
 244 A SOUL'S TRAGEDT. 
 
 en abundance of such common sympathies — He of Gath, 
 it is recorded, was born of a fither and mother, had 
 brothers and sisters like another man, — they, no more 
 than the sons of Jesse, were used to eat each other; 
 but, for the sake of one broad antipathy that had existed 
 from tlie beginning, David slung the stone, cut off the 
 giant's head, made a spoil of it, and after ate his cheese? 
 alone, with the better appetite, for all I can learn. My 
 friend, as you, with a quickened eyesight, go on discov- 
 ering much good on the worse side, remember that the 
 same process should proportionably magnify and demon- 
 strate to you the much more good on the better side — 
 and when I profess no sympathy for the Goliahs of our 
 time, and you object that a large nature should sympathize 
 with every form of intelligence, and see the good in it, 
 however limited — I answer, so I do — but preserve the 
 proportions of my sympathy, however finelier or widelier 
 I may extend its action. I desire to be able, with a 
 quickened eyesight, to descry beauty in corruption where 
 others see foulness only, — but I hope I shall also con- 
 tinue to see a redoubled beauty in the higher forms of 
 matter, where already everybody sees no foulness at all. 
 I must retain, too, my old power of selection, and choice 
 of appropriation, to apply to such new gifts . . else thej 
 only dazzle instead of enlightening me. God has hij 
 Archangels and consorts with them — tho' he made too, 
 and intimately sees what is good in, the worm. Observe, 
 I speak only as you profess to think and so ought t* 
 ipeak — I do justice to your own principles, that is all
 
 A SOUL'a TRAGEDY. . 245 
 
 Ch. Eu: you s'ery well know that the two parties do. 
 on occasion, assume each otlier's characteristics: what 
 more disgusting, for instance, than to see how promptly 
 the newly emancipated slave will adopt, in his own favour, 
 the very measures of precaution, which pressed soreliest 
 on himself as institutions of the tyranny he has just 
 escaped from. — Do the classes, hitherto without opinion, 
 get leave to express it ? there is a confederacy imme- 
 diately, from which — exercise your individual right and 
 dissent, and woe be to you ! 
 
 Ogni. And a journey over the sea to you ! — That is 
 the generous way. Say — emancipated slaves, the first 
 excess, and off I go! The first time a poor devil, who 
 has been bastinadoed steadily his whole life long, finds 
 himself let alone and able to legislate, so begins pettishly, 
 while he rubs his soles, ""Woe be to whoever brings 
 any thing in the shape of a stick this way," — you, rather 
 than give up the very innocent pleasui'e of carrying one 
 to switch flies with, — you, go away to everybody's 
 sorrow ! Yet you were quite reconciled to staying at 
 home while the governors used to pass, every now and 
 then, some such edict as " Let no man indulge in owning 
 a sti'^k which is not thick enough to chastise our slaves, if 
 need require." Well — there are pre-crdained hierarchic? 
 among ns, and a profane vulgar subjecied to a different 
 law altogtther — yet I am rather sorry you should see it 
 io clearly-— for, do you know what is to . . all but save 
 you at the Day of Judgment, all you JNIen of Genius ? 
 U is this — that, while you generally began by pulling
 
 2 16 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 down God, and went on -to the end of ycur life, in one 
 effort at setting up your own Genius in his place, — still, 
 the last, bitterest concession wrung with the utmost un- 
 willingness from the experience of the very loftiest of 
 you, was invariably — would one think it? — that ihe 
 rest of mankind, down to the lowest of the mass, stood 
 not, nor ever could stand, just on a level and equality 
 with yourselves. — That will be a point in the favour of 
 aU such, I hope and believe ! 
 
 Ch. Why men of genius are usually charged, I think, 
 with doing just the reverse ; and at once acknowledging 
 the natux-al inequality of mankind, by themselves par- 
 ticipating in the universal craving after, and deference 
 to, the civil distinctions which represent it. You wonder 
 they pay such undue respect to titles and badges of 
 superior rank ! 
 
 Orjni. Not I ! (always on your own ground and show- 
 ing, be it noted !) Who doubts that, with a Aveapon tc 
 brandish, a man is the more formidable ? Titles and 
 badges are exercised as such a vveapon, to which you 
 and I look up wistfully. — We could pin lions Avilh it 
 moreover, while in its present owner's hands it hardly 
 prods rats. Nay, better than a mere w-eapon of easy 
 mastery and obvious use, it is a mysterious divining rod 
 that may serve you in undreamed-of ways. — Beauty 
 Strength, Intellect — men often have none of these and 
 vet conceive pretty accurately what kind of advantages 
 they would bestow on the possessor. — You know at least 
 vrhat it is you make u]) your mind to forego and so can
 
 X soul's tragedy. 247 
 
 apply the fittest substitute in your power ; wanting 
 Beiiuly, you cultivate Good Humour, missing "Wit, you 
 get Kiclies ; but the mystic unimaginable operation of 
 that gold collar and string of Latin names which sud- 
 denly turned poor stupid little peevish Cecco of our town 
 into natural Lord of the best of us — a Duke, he is now! 
 there indeed is a Virtue to be reverenced ! 
 
 Ch. Ay, by the vulgar — not by Messere Stiatta the 
 poet, who pays more assiduous court to him than any- 
 body. 
 
 Ogni. What else should Stiatta pay court to? He 
 has talent, not honour and riches — men naturally covet 
 what thev have not. 
 
 C7i. No — or Cecco would covet talent, which he has 
 not, whereas he covets more riches, of which he has 
 plenty already. 
 
 ^Ogni. Because a purse added to a purse makes the 
 holder twice as rich — but just such another talent as 
 Stiatta's, added to what he now possesses, what would 
 that profit him ? Give the talent a purse indeed, to do 
 something with ! But lo, how we keep the good people 
 waiting. I only desired to do justice to the noble senti- 
 ments which animate you, and which you are too modest 
 to diily enforce. Come, to our main business : shall 
 v>'e ascend the steps ? I am ^oing to propose you for 
 Provost to the people ; they know your antecedents, and 
 ^•ill accept you with a joyftl unanimity ; whereon I con- 
 firm their choice. Rouse up ! you are nerving yourself 
 to an effort ? Beware the disaster of Messere Stiatta wo
 
 248 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 were talking of — who determining to keep an equal mind 
 and constant face on whatever might be the fortune of 
 his last new poem with our townsmen, — heard too plainly 
 " hiss, hiss, hiss," increase every moment, till at last 
 the man fell senseless — not perceiving that the por- 
 tentous sounds had all the while been issuing from 
 between his own nobly clenched teeth, and nostrils 
 narrowed by resolve ! 
 
 Ch. Do you begin to throw off the mask ? to jest 
 with me, having got me effectually into your trap ? 
 
 Ocjni. Where is the trap, my friend ? You hear what 
 I engage to do, for my part — you, for yours, have only 
 to fulfil your promise made just now within doors, of 
 professing unlimited obedience to Rome's authority in 
 my person — and I shall authorize no more than the 
 simple re-establishment of the Provostship and the con- 
 ferment of its privileges upon yourself — the only nof^el 
 stipulation being a birth of the peculiar circumstances 
 of the time. 
 
 C'h. And that stipulation ? 
 
 Ogni. Oh, the obvious one — that in the event of the 
 discovery of the actual assailant of the late Provost . . . 
 
 Ch. Ila! 
 
 Ogni. Why, he shall suffer the proper penalty, of 
 course; what did you expect? 
 
 Ch. Who heard of this ? 
 
 Ogni. Rather, who needed to hear of this? 
 
 Ch. Can it be, the popular rumour never reached
 
 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. 249 
 
 Ogni. Many more such rumours reach me, friend, 
 than I choose to receive : those which wait longest liave 
 best chance — has the present one suthcicntly waited? 
 Now is its time ibr entry with effect. See the good 
 people crowding about yonder palace-steps — which we 
 may not have to ascend after all ! — my good frieiids — 
 (nay, two or three of you will answer every purpose) — 
 who was it fell upon and proved nearly the death of your 
 late Provost? — his successor desires to hear, that L\s 
 day of inauguration may be graced by the act of prompt, 
 bare justice we all anticipate? "Who dealt the blow that 
 night, does anybody know ? 
 
 Luitolfo. [coming forward.'] I ! 
 
 AU. Luitolfo! 
 
 Luit. I avow the deed, justify and approve it, and 
 stand forth now, to relieve my friend of an unearned 
 responsibility. — Having taken thought, I am grown 
 stronger — I shall shrink from nothing that awaits me. 
 Nay, Chiappino — we are friends still — I dare say there 
 is some proof of your superior nature in this starting 
 aside, strange as it seems at first. So, they tell me, my 
 horse is of the right stock, because a shadow in the path 
 frightens him into a frenzy, makes him dash my brains 
 out. I understand only the dull mule's way of standing 
 Btockishly, plodding soberly, sufTering on occasion a blow 
 or two with due patience. 
 
 Eu. I was determined to justify my choice, Chiappmo ; 
 ;o let Luitolfo's nature vindicate itself. Henceforth we 
 are undivided, whatever be our fortune.
 
 250 A soul's tragedy. 
 
 Ogni. Now, in these last ten minutes of silence, what 
 have I been doing, deem you ? Putting the fmir-hing 
 Btroke to a homily of mine, I have long taken thought to 
 perfect, on the text "Let whoso thinketh he standeth 
 take heed lest he fall." To your house, Luitolfo ! — Still 
 silent, my patriotic friend ? Well, that is a good sign, 
 liowever ! And you will go aside for a time ? That is 
 better still. I understand — it would be easy for you to 
 die of remorse here on the spot, and shock us all, but 
 you will live and grow worthy of coming back to us one 
 day. There, I will tell everybody ; and you only do 
 right to believe you will get better as you get older ! All 
 men do so, — they are worst in childhood, improve in 
 manhood, and get ready in old age for another world. 
 Youth, with its Beauty and Grace, would seem bestowed 
 en us for some such reason as to make us partly en- 
 durable till we have time for really becoming so of 
 ourselves, without their aid, when they leave ua. The 
 sweetest child we all smile on for his pleasant want of 
 the whole world to break up, or suck in his mouth, 
 seeing no other good in it — would be rudely handled by 
 that world's inhabitants, if he retained those angelic 
 infantine desires when he has grown six feet high, black 
 and bearded: but, little by little, he sees fit to foi-ego 
 claim after claim on the world, puts up with a less and 
 less share of its good as his proper portion, — and when 
 the octogenarian asks barely a sup of gruel and a fire of 
 dry sticks, and thanks you as for his full allowance and 
 tight in the common good of life, — hoping nobody may
 
 A soul's tragedy. 251 
 
 murder liiin, — lie who bcizan by asking ami expecting 
 tlic whole of us to bow down in worship to liiui, — why 
 r say he is advanced, far onward, very far, nearly out of 
 sight like our friend Chiappino youder ! And now — (Ay, 
 good-bye to you ! He turns round the Northwest gate — 
 going to Lugo again? Good-bye!) — And now give 
 thanks to God, the keys of the Provost's Palace to me, 
 and yourselves to profitable meditation at home. I have 
 known Fowr-and-twenty leaders of revolts ! —
 
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