Volume 5 / Part 3 — FRAGMENT OF THE THIRD PART OF THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED.

When the merry bells are ringing, And the peasant girls are singing, And the early flowers are flinging Their odours in the air; And the honey bee is clinging To the buds; and birds are winging Their way, pair by pair: Then the earth looks free from trouble With the brightness of a bubble: Though I did not make it,10 I could breathe on and break it; But too much I scorn it, Or else I would mourn it, To see despots and slaves Playing o'er their own graves.

Mem. Jealous—Arnold of Cæsar. Olympia at first not liking Cæsar —then?—Arnold jealous of himself under his former figure, owing to the power of intellect, etc., etc., etc.

Arnold. You are merry, Sir—what? singing too? Cæsar.‍It is The land of Song—and Canticles you know Were once my avocation. Arn.‍Nothing moves you; You scoff even at your own calamity— And such calamity! how wert thou fallen20 Son of the Morning! and yet Lucifer Can smile. Cæs.‍His shape can—would you have me weep, In the fair form I wear, to please you? Arn.‍Ah! Cæs. You are grave—what have you on your spirit! Arn.‍Nothing. Cæs. How mortals lie by instinct! If you ask A disappointed courtier—What's the matter? "Nothing"—an outshone Beauty what has made Her smooth brow crisp—"Oh, Nothing!"—a young heir When his Sire has recovered from the Gout, What ails him? "Nothing!" or a Monarch who30 Has heard the truth, and looks imperial on it— What clouds his royal aspect? "Nothing," "Nothing!" Nothing—eternal nothing—of these nothings All are a lie—for all to them are much! And they themselves alone the real "Nothings." Your present Nothing, too, is something to you— What is it? Arn.‍Know you not? Cæs.‍I only know What I desire to know! and will not waste Omniscience upon phantoms. Out with it! If you seek aid from me—or else be silent.40 And eat your thoughts—till they breed snakes within you. Arn. Olimpia! Cæs.‍I thought as much—go on. Arn. I thought she had loved me. Cæs.‍Blessings on your Creed! What a good Christian you were found to be! But what cold Sceptic hath appalled your faith And transubstantiated to crumbs again The body of your Credence? Arn.‍No one—but— Each day—each hour—each minute shows me more And more she loves me not— Cæs.‍Doth she rebel? Arn. No, she is calm, and meek, and silent with me,50 And coldly dutiful, and proudly patient— Endures my Love—not meets it. Cæs.‍That seems strange. You are beautiful and brave! the first is much For passion—and the rest for Vanity. Arn. I saved her life, too; and her Father's life, And Father's house from ashes. Cæs.‍These are nothing. You seek for Gratitude—the Philosopher's stone. Arn. And find it not. Cæs.‍You cannot find what is not. But found would it content you? would you owe To thankfulness what you desire from Passion?60 No! No! you would be loved—what you call loved— Self-loved—loved for yourself—for neither health, Nor wealth, nor youth, nor power, nor rank, nor beauty— For these you may be stript of—but beloved As an abstraction—for—you know not what! These are the wishes of a moderate lover— And so you love. Arn.‍Ah! could I be beloved, Would I ask wherefore? Cæs.‍Yes! and not believe The answer—You are jealous. Arn.‍And of whom? Cæs. It may be of yourself,[252] for Jealousy70 Is as a shadow of the Sun. The Orb Is mighty—as you mortals deem—and to Your little Universe seems universal; But, great as He appears, and is to you, The smallest cloud—the slightest vapour of Your humid earth enables you to look Upon a Sky which you revile as dull; Though your eyes dare not gaze on it when cloudless. Nothing can blind a mortal like to light. Now Love in you is as the Sun—a thing80 Beyond you—and your Jealousy's of Earth— A cloud of your own raising. Arn.‍Not so always! There is a cause at times. Cæs.‍Oh, yes! when atoms jostle, The System is in peril. But I speak Of things you know not. Well, to earth again! This precious thing of dust—this bright Olimpia— This marvellous Virgin, is a marble maid— An Idol, but a cold one to your heat Promethean, and unkindled by your torch. Arn. Slave! Cæs.‍In the victor's Chariot, when Rome triumphed,90 There was a Slave of yore to tell him truth! You are a Conqueror—command your Slave. Arn. Teach me the way to win the woman's love. Cæs. Leave her. Arn.‍Where that the path—I'd not pursue it. Cæs. No doubt! for if you did, the remedy Would be for a disease already cured. Arn. All wretched as I am, I would not quit My unrequited love, for all that's happy. Cæs. You have possessed the woman—still possess. What need you more? Arn.‍To be myself possessed—100 To be her heart as she is mine.