PARACELSUS INSCRIBED TO AMÉDÉE DE RIPERT-MONCLAR BY HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND (continued 2)

Scene, Colmar in Alsatia: an Inn. 1528. Paracelsus, Festus. Par. (to Johannes Oporinus, his Secretary). Sic itur ad astra! Dear Von Visenburg Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed, And every honest soul that Basel holds Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, Just as though Liechtenfels had never set So true a value on his sorry carcass, And learned Pütter had not frowned us dumb. We live; and shall as surely start to-morrow For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe To Basel in this mantling wine, suffused A delicate blush, no fainter tinge is born I' the shut heart of a bud. Pledge me, good John— "Basel; a hot plague ravage it, and Pütter Oppose the plague!" Even so? Do you too share Their panic, the reptiles? Ha, ha; faint through these, Desist for these! They manage matters so At Basel, 't is like: but others may find means To bring the stoutest braggart of the tribe Once more to crouch in silence—means to breed A stupid wonder in each fool again, Now big with admiration at the skill Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes: And, that done,—means to brand each slavish brow So deeply, surely, ineffaceably, That henceforth flattery shall not pucker it Out of the furrow; there that stamp shall stay To show the next they fawn on, what they are, This Basel with its magnates,—fill my cup,— 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 For Nuremberg! Now leave us; this grave clerk Has divers weighty matters for my ear: [Oporinus goes out. And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, I am rid of this arch-knave that dogs my heels As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last May give a loose to my delight. How kind, How very kind, my first best only friend! Why, this looks like fidelity. Embrace me! Not a hair silvered yet? Right! you shall live Till I am worth your love; you shall be proud, And I—but let time show! Did you not wonder? I sent to you because our compact weighed Upon my conscience—(you recall the night At Basel, which the gods confound!)—because Once more I aspire. I call you to my side: You come. You thought my message strange? Fest. So strange That I must hope, indeed, your messenger Has mingled his own fancies with the words Purporting to be yours. Par. He said no more, 'T is probable, than the precious folk I leave Said fiftyfold more roughly. Welladay, 'T is true! poor Paracelsus is exposed At last; a most egregious quack he proves: And those he overreached must spit their hate On one who, utterly beneath contempt, Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard Bare truth; and at my bidding you come here To speed me on my enterprise, as once Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend! Fest. What is your purpose, Aureole? Par. Oh, for purpose, There is no lack of precedents in a case Like mine; at least, if not precisely mine, The case of men cast off by those they sought To benefit. Fest. They really cast you off? I only heard a vague tale of some priest, Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim, Knowing his life's worth best; and how the judge The matter was referred to saw no cause To interfere, nor you to hide your full Contempt of him; nor he, again, to smother His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame That Basel soon was made no place for you. Par. The affair of Liechtenfels? the shallowest fable, The last and silliest outrage—mere pretence! I knew it, I foretold it from the first, How soon the stupid wonder you mistook For genuine loyalty—a cheering promise Of better things to come—would pall and pass; And every word comes true. Saul is among The prophets! Just so long as I was pleased To play off the mere antics of my art, Fantastic gambols leading to no end, I got huge praise: but one can ne'er keep down Our foolish nature's weakness. There they flocked, Poor devils, jostling, swearing and perspiring. Till the walls rang again; and all for me! I had a kindness for them, which was right; But then I stopped not till I tacked to that A trust in them and a respect—a sort Of sympathy for them; I must needs begin To teach them, not amaze them, "to impart The spirit which should instigate the search Of truth," just what you bade me! I spoke out. Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust, Filed off—"the sifted chaff of the sack," I said, Redoubling my endeavors to secure The rest. When lo! one man had tarried so long Only to ascertain if I supported This tenet of his, or that; another loved To hear impartially before he judged, And having heard, now judged; this bland disciple Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems, Spied error where his neighbors marvelled most; That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend, Did it because my by-paths, once proved wrong And beaconed properly, would commend again The good old ways our sires jogged safely o'er, Though not their squeamish sons; the other worthy Discovered divers verses of St. John, Which, read successively, refreshed the soul, But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone, The colic and what not. Quid multa? The end Was a clear class-room, and a quiet leer From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance From those in chief who, cap in hand, installed The new professor scarce a year before; And a vast flourish about patient merit Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure Sooner or later to emerge in splendor— Of which the example was some luckless wight Whom my arrival had discomfited, But now, it seems, the general voice recalled To fill my chair and so efface the stain Basel had long incurred. I sought no better, Only a quiet dismissal from my post, And from my heart I wished them better suited And better served. Good night to Basel, 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, 'T is with as very contempt as ever turned Flesh into stone. This courteous recompense, This grateful ... Festus, were your nature fit To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache At gangrene-blotches, eating poison-blains, The ulcerous barky scurf of leprosy Which finds—a man, and leaves—a hideous thing That cannot but be mended by hell-fire, —I would lay bare to you the human heart Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since Their pet nest and their never-tiring home. Oh, sages have discovered we are born For various ends—to love, to know: has ever One stumbled, in his search, on any signs Of a nature in us formed to hate? To hate? If that be our true object which evokes Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 't is hate! Yet men have doubted if the best and bravest Of spirits can nourish him with hate alone. I had not the monopoly of fools, It seems, at Basel. Fest. But your plans, your plans! I have yet to learn your purpose, Aureole! Par. Whether to sink beneath such ponderous shame, To shrink up like a crushed snail, undergo In silence and desist from further toil, And so subside into a monument Of one their censure blasted? or to bow Cheerfully as submissively, to lower My old pretensions even as Basel dictates, To drop into the rank her wits assign me And live as they prescribe, and make that use Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow, Proud to be patted now and then, and careful To practise the true posture for receiving The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance When they shall condescend to tutor me? Then, one may feel resentment like a flame Within, and deck false systems in truth's garb, And tangle and entwine mankind with error, And give them darkness for a dower and falsehood For a possession, ages: or one may mope Into a shade through thinking, or else drowse Into a dreamless sleep and so die off. But I,—now Festus shall divine!—but I Am merely setting out once more, embracing My earliest aims again! What thinks he now? Fest. Your aims? the aims?—to Know? and where is found The early trust ... Par. Nay, not so fast; I say, The aims—not the old means. You know they made me A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know The when and the how: hardly those means again! Not but they had their beauty; who should know Their passing beauty, if not I? Still, dreams They were, so let them vanish, yet in beauty If that may he. Stay: thus they pass in song! [He sings. Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain. And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young. Mine, every word! And on such pile shall die My lovely fancies, with fair perished things, Themselves fair and forgotten; yes, forgotten, Or why abjure them? So, I made this rhyme That fitting dignity might be preserved; 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! I have travelled far, indeed, To learn your wishes. Be yourself again! For in this mood I recognize you less Than in the horrible despondency I witnessed last. You may account this, joy; But rather let me gaze on that despair Than hear these incoherent words and see This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye. Par. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime, I am light-hearted now; what would you have? Aprile was a poet, I make songs— 'T is the very augury of success I want! Why should I not be joyous now as then? Fest. Joyous! and how? and what remains for joy? You have declared the ends (which I am sick Of naming) are impracticable. Par. Ay, Pursued as I pursued them—the arch-fool! Listen: my plan will please you not, 't is like, But you are little versed in the world's ways. This is my plan—(first drinking its good luck)— I will accept all helps; all I despised So rashly at the outset, equally With early impulses, late years have quenched: I have tried each way singly: now for both! All helps! no one sort shall exclude the rest. I seek to know and to enjoy at once, Not one without the other as before. Suppose my labor 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 gain is gain, however small. My soul Can die then, nor be taunted—"what was gained?" Nor, on the other hand, should pleasure follow As though I had not spurned her hitherto, Shall she o'ercloud my spirit's rapt communion With the tumultuous past, the teeming future, Glorious with visions of a full success. Fest. Success! Par. And wherefore not? Why not prefer Results obtained in my best state of being, To those derived alone from seasons dark As the thoughts they bred? When I was best, my youth Unwasted, seemed success not surest too? It is the nature of darkness to obscure. I am a wanderer: I remember well One journey, how I feared the track was missed, So long the city I desired to reach Lay hid; when suddenly its spires afar Flashed through the circling clouds; you may conceive My transport. Soon the vapors closed again, But I had seen the city, and one such glance No darkness could obscure: nor shall the present— A few dull hours, a passing shame or two, Destroy the vivid memories of the past. I will fight the battle out; a little spent Perhaps, but still an able combatant. You look at my gray hair and furrowed brow? But I can turn even weakness to account: Of many tricks I know, 't is not the least To push the ruins of my frame, whereon The fire of vigor trembles scarce alive, Into a heap, and send the flame aloft. What should I do with age? So, sickness lends An aid; it being, I fear, the source of all We boast of: mind is nothing but disease, And natural health is ignorance. Fest. I see But one good symptom in this notable scheme. I feared your sudden journey had in view To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes. 'T is not so: I am glad. Par. And if I please To spit on them, to trample them, what then? 'T is sorry warfare truly, but the fools Provoke it. I would spare their self-conceit, But if they must provoke me, cannot suffer Forbearance on my part, if I may keep No quality in the shade, must needs put forth Power to match power, my strength against their strength, And teach them their own game with their own arms— Why, be it so and let them take their chance! I am above them like a god, there's no Hiding the fact: what idle scruples, then, Were those that ever bade me soften it, Communicate it gently to the world, Instead of proving my supremacy, Taking my natural station o'er their head, Then owning all the glory was a man's! —And in my elevation man's would be. But live and learn, though life 's short, learning hard! And therefore, though the wreck of my past self, I fear, dear Pütter, that your lecture-room Must wait awhile for its best ornament, The penitent empiric, who set up For somebody, but soon was taught his place; Now, but too happy to be let confess His error, snuff the candles, and illustrate (Fiat experientia corpore vili) Your medicine's soundness in his person. Wait, Good Pütter! 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; you Can see the root of the matter!—how I strive To put a good face on the overthrow I have experienced, and to bury and hide My degradation in its length and breadth; How the mean motives I would make you think Just mingle as is due with nobler aims, The appetites I modestly allow May influence me as being mortal still— Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant My youth's desires. You are no stupid dupe: You find me out! Yes, I had sent for you To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus! Laugh—you shall laugh at me! Fest. The past, then, Aureole, Proves nothing? Is our interchange of love Yet to begin? Have I to swear I mean No flattery in this speech or that? For you, Whate'er you say, there is no degradation; These low thoughts are no inmates of your mind, Or wherefore this disorder? You are vexed As much by the intrusion of base views, Familiar to your adversaries, as they Were troubled should your qualities alight Amid their murky souls: not otherwise, A stray wolf which the winter forces down From our bleak hills, suffices to affright A village in the vales—while foresters Sleep calm, though all night long the famished troop Snuff round and scratch against their crazy huts. These evil thoughts are monsters, and will flee. Par. May you be happy, Festus, my own friend! Fest. Nay, further; the delights you fain would think The superseders of your nobler aims, Though ordinary and harmless stimulants, Will ne'er content you.... Par. Hush! I once despised them, But that soon passes. We are high at first In our demand, nor will abate a jot Of toil's strict value; but time passes o'er, And humbler spirits accept what we refuse: In short, when some such comfort is doled out As these delights, we cannot long retain Bitter contempt which urges us at first To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast And thankfully retire. This life of mine Must be lived out and a grave thoroughly earned: I am just fit for that and naught beside. I told you once, I cannot now enjoy, Unless I deem my knowledge gains through joy; Nor can I know, but straight warm tears reveal My need of linking also joy to knowledge: So, on I drive, enjoying all I can, And knowing all I can. I speak, of course, Confusedly; this will better explain—feel here! Quick beating, is it not?—a fire of the heart To work off some way, this as well as any. So, Festus sees me fairly launched; his calm Compassionate look might have disturbed me once, But now, far from rejecting, I invite What bids me press the closer, lay myself Open before him, and be soothed with pity; I hope, if he command hope, and believe As he directs me—satiating myself With his enduring love. And Festus quits me To give place to some credulous disciple Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus Has his peculiar merits: I suck in That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration, And then dismiss the fool; for night is come, And I betake myself to study again, Till patient searchings after hidden lore Half wring some bright truth from its prison; my frame Trembles, my forehead's veins swell out, my hair Tingles for triumph. Slow and sure the morn Shall break on my pent room and dwindling lamp And furnace dead, and scattered earths and ores; When, with a failing heart and throbbing brow, I must review my captured truth, sum up Its value, trace what ends to what begins, Its present power with its eventual bearings, Latent affinities, the views it opens, And its full length in perfecting my scheme. I view it sternly circumscribed, cast down From the high place my fond hopes yielded it, Proved worthless—which, in getting, yet had cost Another wrench to this fast-falling frame. Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow! I lapse back into youth, and take again My fluttering pulse for evidence that God Means good to me, will make my cause his own. See! I have cast off this remorseless care Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free, And my dim chamber has become a tent, Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . . Why do you start? I say, she listening here, (For yonder—Würzburg through the orchard-bough!) Motions as though such ardent words should find No echo in a maiden's quiet soul, But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast With tears, her sweet lips tremble all the while! Ha, ha! Fest. It seems, then, you expect to reap No unreal joy from this your present course, But rather . . . Par. Death! To die! I owe that much To what, at least, I was. I should be sad To live contented after such a fall, To thrive and fatten after such reverse! The whole plan is a makeshift, but will last My time. Fest. And you have never mused and said, "I had a noble purpose, and the strength To compass it; but I have stopped half-way, And wrongly given the first-fruits of my toil To objects little worthy of the gift. Why linger round them still? why clench my fault? Why seek for consolation in defeat, In vain endeavors to derive a beauty From ugliness? why seek to make the most Of what no power can change, nor strive instead With mighty effort to redeem the past And, gathering up the treasures thus cast down, To hold a steadfast course till I arrive At their fit destination and my own?" You have never pondered thus? Par. Have I, you ask? Often at midnight, when most fancies come, Would some such airy project visit me: But ever at the end ... or will you hear The same thing in a tale, a parable? You and I, wandering over the world wide, Chance to set foot upon a desert coast. Just as we cry, "No human voice before Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks!" —Their querulous echo startles us; we turn: What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea? Some characters remain, too! While we read, The sharp salt wind, impatient for the last Of even this record, wistfully comes and goes, Or sings what we recover, mocking it. This is the record; and my voice, the wind's. [He sings. Over the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nailed all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game: So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view, But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning drooped the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor starshine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretched along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast. Now, one morn, land appeared—a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky: "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check The shout, restrain the eager 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 harbor thus, With pomp and pæan glorious. A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for every one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done. When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! "Our isles are just at hand," they cried, "Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping, Our temple-gates are opened wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms"—they cried. Oh, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we called out—"Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide. Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,"—we cried. Fest. In truth? Par. Nay, wait: all this in tracings faint On rugged stones strewn here and there, but piled In order once: then follows—mark what follows! "The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride." Fest. Come back then, Aureole; as you fear God, come! This is foul sin; come back! Renounce the past, Forswear the future; look for joy no more, But wait death's summons amid holy sights, And trust me for the event—peace, if not joy. Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole! Par. No way, no way! it would not turn to good. A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss— 'T is well for him; 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; 't is their nature. Thrust yourself Between them and their prey; let some fool style me Or king or quack, it matters not—then try Your wisdom, urge them to forego their treat! No, no; learn better and look deeper, Festus! If you knew how a devil sneers within me While you are talking now of this, now that, As though we differed scarcely save in trifles! Fest. Do we so differ? True, change must proceed, Whether for good or ill; keep from me, which! Do not confide all secrets: I was born To hope, and you ... Par. To trust: you know the fruits! Fest. Listen: I do believe, what you call trust Was self-delusion at the best: for, see! So long as God would kindly pioneer A path for you, and screen you from the world, Procure you full exemption from man's lot, Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext Of your engagement in his service—yield you A limitless license, make you God, in fact, And turn your slave—you were content to say Most courtly praises! What is it, at last, But selfishness without example? None Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours Remained implied in it; but now you fail, And we, who prate about that will, are fools! In short, God's service is established here As he determines fit, and not your way, And this you cannot brook. Such discontent Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once! Affirm an absolute right to have and use Your energies; as though the rivers should say— "We rush to the ocean; what have we to do With feeding streamlets, lingering in the vales, Sleeping in lazy pools?" Set up that plea, That will be bold at least! Par. 'T is like enough. The serviceable spirits are those, no doubt, The East produces: lo, the master bids,— They wake, raise terraces and garden-grounds In one night's space; and, this done, straight begin Another century's sleep, to the great praise Of him that framed them wise and beautiful, Till a lamp's rubbing, or some chance akin, Wake them again. I am of different mould. I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him And done him service past my narrow bond, And thus I get rewarded for my pains! Beside, 't is vain to talk of forwarding God's glory otherwise; this is alone The sphere of its increase, as far as men Increase it; why, then, look beyond this sphere? We are his glory; and if we be glorious, Is not the thing achieved? Fest. Shall one like me Judge hearts like yours? Though years have changed you much, And you have left your first love, and retain Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways, Yet I still hold that you have honored God. And who shall call your course without reward? For, wherefore this repining at defeat Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes? I urge you to forsake the life you curse, And what success attends me?—simply talk Of passion, weakness and remorse; in short, Anything but the naked truth—you choose This so-despised career, and cheaply hold My happiness, or rather other men's. Once more, return! Par. And quickly. John the thief Has pilfered half my secrets by this time: And we depart by daybreak. I am weary, I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes My brain to-night ... Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus? No flattery! One like you needs not be told We live and breathe deceiving and deceived. Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts, Me and my cant, each petty subterfuge, My rhymes and all this frothy shower of words, My glozing self-deceit, my outward crust Of lies which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfur Wrap the sound flesh?—so, see you flatter not! Even God flatters: but my friend, at least, Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth Against all further insult, hate and wrong From puny foes; my one friend's scorn shall brand me: No fear of sinking deeper! Fest. No, dear Aureole! No, no; I came to counsel faithfully. There are old rules, made long ere we were born. By which I judge you. I, so fallible, So infinitely low beside your mighty Majestic spirit!—even I can see You own some higher law than ours which call Sin, what is no sin—weakness, what is strength. But I have only these, such as they are, To guide me; and I blame you where they bid, Only so long as blaming promises To win peace for your soul: the more, that sorrow Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me So that I faint not under my distress. But wherefore should I scruple to avow In spite of all, as brother judging brother, Your fate is most inexplicable to me? And should you perish without recompense And satisfaction yet—too hastily I have relied on love: you may have sinned, But you have loved. As a mere human matter— As I would have God deal with fragile men In the end—I say that you will triumph yet! Par. Have you felt sorrow, Festus?—'t is because You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! Well thought on: never let her know this last Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared Insult me—me she loved:—so, grieve her not! Fest. Your ill success can little grieve her now. Par. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze! Fest. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof— I cannot bear those eyes. Par. Nay, really dead? Fest. 'T is scarce a month. Par. Stone dead!—then you have laid her Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, I can reveal a secret which shall comfort Even you. I have no julep, as men think, To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love To the cold earth: I have thought much of it. For I believe we do not wholly die. Fest. Aureole! Par. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason For what I say: I think the soul can never Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, Very unfit to put so strange a thought In an intelligible dress of words; But take it as my trust, she is not dead. Fest. But not on this account alone? you surely, —Aureole, you have believed this all along? Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basel, and full of schemes For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, As though it mattered how the farce plays out, So it be quickly played. Away, away! Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize, Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats And leave a clear arena for the brave About to perish for your sport!—Behold!

Scene, Salzburg: a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541. Festus, Paracelsus. Fest. No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Gray morning glimmers feebly: yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirred That fallen discolored mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside Was breaking, to the last they held out bright, As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; But they are dead now—very blind and dead: He will drowse into death without a groan. My Aureole—my forgotten, ruined Aureole! The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast! And now not one of those who struck thee down— Poor glorious spirit—concerns him even to stay And satisfy himself his little hand Could turn God's image to a livid thing. Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow, And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure Know me, and look on me, and speak to me Once more—but only once! His hollow cheek Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh At his own state were just about to break From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled, And yet I could not turn away. In truth, They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed Resolved to live, to lose no faculty; Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength, Until they bore him to this stifling cell: When straight his features fell, an hour made white The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb, Only the eye remained intense awhile As though it recognized the tomb-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 prize— Her best achievement, her sublime amends For countless generations fleeting fast And followed by no trace;—the creature-god She instances when angels would dispute The title of her brood to rank with them. Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones, Are human, but not his; those are but men Whom other men press round and kneel before; Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; Higher provision is for him you seek Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay! God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that. Even as I watch beside thy tortured child Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him, So doth thy right hand guide us through the world Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? How has he sinned? How else should he have done? Surely he sought thy praise—thy praise, for all He might be busied by the task so much As half forget awhile its proper end. Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer That I should range myself upon his side— How could he stop at every step to set Thy glory forth? Hadst thou but granted him Success, thy honor 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; It were too strange that I should doubt thy love. But what am I? Thou madest him and knowest How he was fashioned. I could never err That way: the quiet place beside thy feet, Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts: But he—thou shouldst have favored him as well! Ah! he wakens! Aureole, I am here! 't is Festus! I cast away all wishes save one wish— Let him but know me, only speak to me! He mutters; louder and louder; any other Than I, with brain less laden, could collect What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look! Is it talking or singing, this he utters fast? Misery that he should fix me with his eye, Quick talking to some other all the while! If he would husband this wild vehemence Which frustrates its intent!—I heard, I know I heard my name amid those rapid words. Oh, he will know me yet! Could I divert This current, lead it somehow gently back Into the channels of the past!—His eye Brighter than ever! It must recognize me! I am Erasmus: I am here to pray That Paracelsus use his skill for me. The schools of Paris and of Padua send These questions for your learning to resolve. We are your students, noble master: leave This wretched cell, what business have you here? Our class awaits you; come to us once more! (O agony! the utmost I can do Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?) I am commissioned ... I shall craze like him. Better be mute and see what God shall send. Par. Stay, stay with me! Fest. I will; I am come here To stay with you—Festus, you loved of old; Festus, you know, you must know! Par. Festus! Where's Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly The melodies I heard all night? I could not Get to him for a cold hand on my breast, But I made out his music well enough, O well enough! If they have filled him full With magical music, as they freight a star With light, and have remitted all his sin, They will forgive me too, I too shall know! Fest. Festus, your Festus! Par. Ask him if Aprile Knows as he Loves—if I shall Love and Know? I try; but that cold hand, like lead—so cold! Fest. My hand, see! Par. Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile! We get so near—so very, very near! 'T is an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down, Not when they set about their mountain-piling But when another rock would crown the work. And Phaeton—doubtless his first radiant plunge Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm, And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales! Fest. And what are these to you? Par. Ay, fiends must laugh So cruelly, so well! most like I never Could tread a single pleasure underfoot, But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling To see me toil and drop away by flakes! Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail! Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year, One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn! You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now, Who will believe 't was you that held me back? Listen: there 's shame and hissing and contempt, And none but laughs who names me, none but spits Measureless scorn upon me, me alone, The quack, the cheat, the liar,—all on me! And thus your famous plan to sink mankind In silence and despair, by teaching them One of their race had probed the inmost truth, Had done all man could do, yet failed no less— Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair? Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric, The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed Madly upon a work beyond his wits; Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves Could bring the matter to triumphant issue. So, pick and choose among them all, accursed! Try now, persuade some other to slave for you, To ruin body and soul to work your ends! No, no; I am the first and last, I think. Fest. Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done ... Par. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you, Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? Here stand my rivals; Latin, Arab, Jew, Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask Is, that the world enroll my name with theirs, And even this poor privilege, it seems, They range themselves, prepared to disallow. Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them! How they talk calmly of my throes, my fierce Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one claiming Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect And sneeringly disparage the few truths Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while About my neck, their lies misleading me And their dead names browbeating me! 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 prince? Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards Were bent on nothing less than to be crowned As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect, Galen of Pergamos and hell—nay speak The tale, old man! We met there face to face: I said the crown should fall from thee. Once more We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge? Fest. Peace, peace; ah, see! Par. Oh, emptiness of fame! O Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars! —Who said these old renowns, dead long ago, Could make me overlook the living world To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, But stand no longer? What a warm light life After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide The juggles 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 ermine's winter coat! Fest. A light Will struggle through these thronging words at last, As in the angry and tumultuous West A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. These are the strivings of a spirit which hates So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up The past to stand between it and its fate. Were he at Einsiedeln—or Michal here! Par. Cruel! I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek— I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades; And she is gone; sweet human love is gone! 'T is only when they spring to heaven that angels Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day Beside you, and lie down at night by you Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep, And all at once they leave you, and you know them! We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now I am not too secure against foul play; The shadows deepen and the walls contract: No doubt some treachery is going on. 'T is very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile? Have they left us in the lurch? This murky loathsome Death-trap, this slaughter-house, is not the hall In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile! There is a hand groping amid the blackness To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you, Poet? Hold on me for your life! If once They pull you!—Hold! 'T is but a dream—no more! I have you still; the sun comes out again; Let us be happy: all will yet go well! Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile, That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed, The value of my labors ascertained, Just as some stream foams long among the rocks But after glideth glassy to the sea, So, full content shall henceforth be my lot? What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask How could I still remain on earth, should God Grant me the great approval which I seek? I, you, and God can comprehend each other, But men would murmur, and with cause enough; For when they saw me, stainless of all sin, Preserved and sanctified by inward light, They would complain that comfort, shut from them, I drank thus unespied; that they live on, Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy, For ache and care and doubt and weariness, While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me, And hid from them.—'T were best consider that! You reason well, Aprile; but at least Let me know this, and die! Is this too much? I will learn this, if God so please, and die! If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please! We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning. If at first I sought ... but wherefore bare my heart to thee? I know thy mercy; and already thoughts Flock fast about my soul to comfort it, And intimate I cannot wholly fail, For love and praise would clasp me willingly Could I resolve to seek them. Thou art good, And I should be content. Yet—yet first show I have done wrong in daring! Rather give The supernatural consciousness of strength Which fed my youth! Only one hour of that, With thee to help—O what should bar me then! Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's creatures, And yet he takes no pride in us!—none, none! Truly there needs another life to come! If this be all—(I must tell Festus that) And other life await us not—for one, I say 't is a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, A wretched failure. I, for one, protest Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn. Well, onward though alone! Small time remains, And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body Will hardly serve me through; while I have labored It has decayed; and now that I demand Its best assistance, it will crumble fast: A sad thought, a sad fate! How very full Of wormwood 't is, that just at altar-service, The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, When glory dawns and all is at the best, The sacred fire may flicker and grow faint And die for want of a wood-piler's help! Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul Is pulled down in the overthrow. Well, well— Let men catch every word, let them lose naught Of what I say; something may yet be done. They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you! All ruins, glorious once, but lonely now. It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch Beside your desolate fane: the arches dim, The crumbling columns grand against the moon, Could I but rear them up once more—but that May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends, Why should you linger here when I have built A far resplendent temple, all your own? Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile, Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared With better refuge for them, tongue of mine Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is: I would sit down in silence with the rest. Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek Contempt into my ear—my ear which drank God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men, I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes Will be before me sleeping, waking, praying, They will not let me even die. Spare, spare me, Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me The horrible scorn! You thought I could support it. But now you see what silly fragile creature Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough, Not Christ nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved From Hate like this. Let me but totter back! Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep Into my very brain, and shut these scorched Eyelids and keep those mocking faces out. Listen, Aprile! I am very calm: Be not deceived, there is no passion here Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing: I am calm: I will exterminate the race! Enough of that: 't is said and it shall be. And now be merry: safe and sound am I Who broke through their best ranks to get at you. And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile! Fest. Have you no thought, no memory for me, Aureole? I am so wretched—my pure Michal Is gone, and you alone are left me now, And even you forget me. Take my hand— Lean on me thus. Do you not know me, Aureole? Par. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? As you say, 't is an awful enterprise; But you believe I shall go through with it: 'T is like you, and I thank you. Thank him for me, Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them A troop of yellow-vested white-haired Jews Bound for their own land where redemption dawns. Fest. Not that blest time—not our youth's time, dear God! Par. Ha—stay! true, I forget—all is done since, And he is come to judge me. How he speaks, How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true; All quackery; all deceit; myself can laugh The first at it, if you desire: but still You know the obstacles which taught me tricks So foreign to my nature—envy and hate, Blind opposition, brutal prejudice, Bald ignorance—what wonder if I sunk To humor men the way they most approved? My cheats were never palmed on such as you, Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me, Impart the meagre knowledge I possess, Explain its bounded nature, and avow My insufficiency—whate'er you will: I give the fight up: let there be an end, A privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God. But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me, When I shall die, within some narrow grave, Not by itself—for that would be too proud— But where such graves are thickest; let it look Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round, So that the peasant at his brother's bed May tread upon my own and know it not; And we shall all be equal at the last, Or classed according to life's natural ranks, Fathers, sons, brothers, friends—not rich, nor wise, Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived Too much advanced before his brother men; They kept him still in front: 't was for their good, But yet a dangerous station. It were strange That he should tell God he had never ranked With men: so, here at least he is a man." Fest. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit, Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth Shall splendor 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? Their theft shall be their bale: For after-ages shall retrack thy beams, And put aside the crowd of busy ones And worship thee alone—the master-mind, The thinker, the explorer, the creator! Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well The sheet of winding 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, And though no glance reveal thou dost accept My homage—thus no less I proffer it, And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest. Par. Festus! Fest. I am for noble Aureole, God! I am upon his side, come weal or woe. His portion shall be mine. He has done well. I would have sinned, had I been strong enough, As he has sinned. Reward him or I waive Reward! If thou canst find no place for him, He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be His slave forever. There are two of us. Par. Dear Festus! Fest. Here, dear Aureole! ever by you! Par. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! Some story, anything—only your voice. I shall dream else. Speak on! ay, leaning so! Fest. Thus the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth. Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee. Par. More, more; say on! Fest. And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. Par. My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words; Its darkness passes, which naught else could touch: Like some dark snake that force may not expel, Which glideth out to music sweet and low. What were you doing when your voice broke through A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed! Are you alone here? Fest. All alone: you know me? This cell? Par. An unexceptionable vault: Good brick and stone: the bats kept out, the rats Kept in: a snug nook: how should I mistake it? Fest. But wherefore am I here? Par. Ah, well remembered! Why, for a purpose—for a purpose, Festus! 'T is like me: here I trifle while time fleets, And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return. You are here to be instructed. I will tell God's message; but I have so much to say, I fear to leave half out. All is confused No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time. He would not else have brought you here: no doubt I shall see clearer soon. Fest. Tell me but this— You are not in despair? Par. I? and for what? Fest. Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared! Par. What is it you would ask me with that earnest Dear searching face? Fest. How feel you, Aureole? Par. Well: Well. 'T is a strange thing: I am dying, Festus, And now that fast the storm of life subsides, I first perceive how great the whirl has been. I was calm then, who am so dizzy now— Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less A partner of its motion and mixed up With its career. The hurricane is spent, And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather; But is it earth or sea that heaves below? The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; And now some islet, loosened from the land, Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; And now the air is full of uptorn canes, Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, All high in the wind. Even so my varied life Drifts by me; I am young, old, happy, sad, Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest, And all at once: that is, those past conditions Float back at once on me. If I select Some special epoch from the crowd, 't is but To will, and straight the rest dissolve away, And only that particular state is present With all its long-forgotten circumstance Distinct and vivid as at first—myself A careless looker-on and nothing more, Indifferent and amused, but nothing more. And this is death: I understand it all. New being waits me; new perceptions must 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. Fest. 'T is of that past life that I burn to hear. Par. You wonder it engages me just now? In truth, I wonder too. What's life to me? Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen Music, and where I tend bliss evermore. Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a refined Delight to view those chances,—one last view. I am so near the perils I escape, That I must play with them and turn them over, To feel how fully they are past and gone. Still, it is like, some further cause exists For this peculiar mood—some hidden purpose; Did I not tell you something of it, Festus? I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt Away from me; it will return anon. Fest. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice Complete with its old tones: that little laugh Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye, As though one stooped above his head to whom He looked for confirmation and approval, Where was it gone so long, so well preserved? Then, the forefinger pointing as he speaks, Like one who traces in an open book The matter he declares; 't is many a year Since I remarked it last: and this in him, But now a ghastly wreck!) And can it be, Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last That worldly things are utter vanity? That man is made for weakness, and should wait In patient ignorance, till God appoint ... Par. Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it! How could I fail to apprehend! You here, I thus! But no more trifling: I see all, I know all: my last mission shall be done If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture Hardly befits one thus about to speak: I will arise. Fest. Nay, Aureole, are you wild? You cannot leave your couch. Par. No help; no help; Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more! Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. My gown—the scarlet lined with fur; now put The chain about my neck; my signet-ring Is still upon my hand, I think—even so; Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth, leapest Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls Be consecrate, this wretched cell become A shrine, for here God speaks to men through me. Now, Festus, I am ready to begin. Fest. I am dumb with wonder. Par. Listen, therefore, Festus! There will be time enough, but none to spare. I must content myself with telling only The most important points. You doubtless feel That I am happy, Festus; very happy. Fest. 'T is no delusion which uplifts him thus! Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin? Par. Ay, pardoned: yet why pardoned? Fest. 'T is God's praise That man is bound to seek, and you ... Par. Have lived! We have to live alone to set forth well God's praise. 'T is true, I sinned much, as I thought, And in effect need mercy, for I strove To do that very thing; but, do your best Or worst, praise rises, and will rise forever. Pardon from him, because of praise denied— Who calls me to himself to exalt himself? He might laugh as I laugh! Fest. But all comes To the same thing. 'T is fruitless for mankind To fret themselves with what concerns them not; They are no use that way: they should 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 worked! This is my case: If I go joyous back to God, yet bring No offering, if I render up my soul Without the fruits it was ordained to bear, If I appear the better to love God For sin, as one who has no claim on him, Be not deceived! It may be surely thus With me, while higher prizes still await The mortal persevering to the end. Beside I am not all so valueless: I have been something, though too soon I left Following the instincts of that happy time. Fest. What happy time? For God's sake, for man's sake, What time was happy? All I hope to know That answer will decide. What happy time? Par. When but the time I vowed myself to man? Fest. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable! Par. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it— I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul Might learn from its own motions that some task Like this awaited it about the world; Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours For fit delights to stay its longings vast; And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her To fill the creature full she dared thus frame 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 naught Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung As an extreme, last boon, from destiny, Into occasion for new covetings, New strifes, new triumphs:—doubtless a strong soul, Alone, unaided might attain to this, So glorious is our nature, so august Man's inborn uninstructed impulses, His naked spirit so majestical! But this was born in me; I was made so; Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites, The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears Were saved me; thus I entered on my course. You may be sure I was not all exempt From human trouble; just so much of doubt As bade me plant a surer foot upon The sun-road, kept my eye unruined 'mid The fierce and flashing splendor, set my heart Trembling so much as warned me I stood there On sufferance—not to idly gaze, but cast Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, I stood at first where all aspire at last To stand: the secret of the world was mine. I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, But somehow felt and known in every shift And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are, What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss, From whom all being emanates, all power Proceeds; in whom is life forevermore, Yet whom existence in its lowest form Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he; With still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs Pleasure its heights 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 volcanos come up, cyclops-like, Staring together with their eyes on flame— God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ado; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews His ancient rapture. Thus he dwells in all, From life's minute beginnings, up at last To man—the consummation of this scheme Of being, the completion of this sphere Of life: whose attributes had here and there Been scattered o'er the visible world before, Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant To be united in some wondrous whole, Imperfect qualities throughout creation, Suggesting some one creature yet to make, Some point where all those scattered rays should meet Convergent in the faculties of man. Power—neither put forth blindly, nor controlled Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: Knowledge—not intuition, but the slow Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil, Strengthened by love: love—not serenely pure, But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; Love which endures and doubts and is oppressed And cherished, suffering much and much sustained, And blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, A half-enlightened, often-checkered trust:— Hints and previsions of which faculties, Are strewn confusedly everywhere about The inferior natures, and all lead up higher, All shape out dimly the superior race, The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false, And man appears at last. So far the seal Is put on life; one stage of being complete, One scheme wound up: and from the grand result A supplementary reflux of light, Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains Each back step in the circle. Not alone For their possessor dawn those 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, wailing or a shout, A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh, Never a senseless gust now man is born. The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts, A secret they assemble to discuss When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph Swims bearing high above her head: no bird Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above That let light in upon the gloomy woods, A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye. The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour, Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: —And this to fill us with regard for man, With apprehension of his passing worth, Desire to work his proper nature out, And ascertain his rank and final place, For these things tend still upward, progress is The law of life, man is not Man as yet. Nor shall I deem his object served, his end Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth, While only here and there a star dispels The darkness, here and there a towering mind O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host Is out at once to the despair of night, When all mankind alike is perfected, Equal in full-blown powers—then, not till then, I say, begins man's general infancy. For wherefore make account of feverish starts Of restless members of a dormant whole, Impatient nerves which quiver while the body Slumbers as in a grave? Oh, long ago The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir, The peaceful mouth disturbed; half uttered speech Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set, The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched stronger, As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast, He shall start up and stand on his own earth, Then shall his long triumphant march begin, Thence shall his being date,—thus wholly roused. What he achieves shall be set down to him. When all the race is perfected alike As man, that is; all tended to mankind, And, man produced, all has its end thus far: But in completed man begins anew A tendency to God. Prognostics told Man's near approach; so in man's self arise August anticipations, symbols, types Of a dim splendor ever on before In that eternal circle life pursues. For men begin to pass their nature's bound, And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant Their proper joys and griefs; they grow too great For narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade Before the unmeasured thirst for good: while peace Rises within them ever more and more. Such men are even now upon the earth, Serene amid the half-formed creatures round Who should be saved by them and joined with them. Such was my task, and I was born to it— Free, as I said but now, from much that chains Spirits, high-dowered but limited and vexed By a divided and delusive aim, A shadow mocking a reality Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse The flitting mimic called up by itself, And so remains perplexed and nigh put out By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. I, from the first, was never cheated thus; I never fashioned out a fancied good Distinct from man's; a service to be done, A glory to be ministered unto With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn From laboring in his behalf; a strength Denied that might avail him. I cared not Lest his success ran counter to success Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man, And to man's glory vowed I soul and limb. Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, I failed: I gazed on power till I grew blind. Power; I could not take my eyes from that: That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased At any risk, displayed, struck out at once— The sign and note and character of man. I saw no use in the past: only a scene Of degradation, ugliness and tears, The record of disgraces best forgotten, A sullen page in human chronicles Fit to erase. I saw no cause why man Should not stand all-sufficient even now, Or why his annals should be forced to tell That once the tide of light, about to break Upon the world, was sealed within its spring: I would have had one day, one moment's space, Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim Of mastery o'er the elemental world At once to full maturity, then roll Oblivion o'er the work, and hide from man What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child Of after-days, wilt thou reject the past Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure By which thou hast the earth: for thee the present Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen Beside that past's own shade when, in relief, Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on thee Shall burst the future, as successive zones Of several wonder open on some spirit Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven: But thou shalt painfully attain to joy, While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man! All this was hid from me: as one by one My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed, As actual good within my reach decreased, While obstacles sprung up this way and that To keep me from effecting half the sum, Small as it proved; as objects, mean within The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least, Itself a match for my concentred strength— What wonder if I saw no way to shun Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's. In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, A strange adventure made me know, one sin Had spotted my career from its uprise; I saw Aprile—my Aprile there! And as the poor melodious wretch disburdened His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, I learned my own deep error; love's undoing Taught me the worth of love in man's estate, And what proportion love should hold with power In his right constitution; love preceding Power, and with much power, always much more love; Love still too straitened in his present means, And earnest for new power to set love free. I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: And thus, when men received with stupid wonder My first revealings, would have worshipped me, And I despised and loathed their proffered praise— When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge For past credulity in casting shame On my real knowledge, and I hated them— It was not strange I saw no good in man, To overbalance all the wear and waste Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born To prosper in some better sphere: and why? In my own heart love had not been made wise To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, To know even hate is but a mask of love's, To see a good in evil, and a hope In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; All with a touch of nobleness, despite Their error, upward tending all though weak, Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him. All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men Regard me, and the poet dead long ago Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third And better-tempered spirit, warned by both: As from the over-radiant star too mad To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself— And the dark orb which borders the abyss, Ingulfed in icy night,—might have its course, A temperate and equidistant world. Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. As yet men cannot do without contempt; 'T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, 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 splendor, soon or late, Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day. You understand me? I have said enough! Fest. Now die, dear Aureole! Par. Festus, let my hand— This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend! Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile! Fest. And this was Paracelsus!