Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal
Which witnesses your own and Michal's love!
I bade you not spare that! Forget alone
The honours and the glories, and the rest,
You seemed disposed to tell profusely out.
Fest. Nay, even your honours, in a sense, I 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,
Yes, yes; and Michal's face,
Still wears that quiet and peculiar light,
Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl?
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 Würzburg, from her lattice
Among the trees above, while I, unseen,
Sate conning some rare scroll from Tritheim's shelves,
Much wondering notes so simple could divert
My mind from study. Those were happy days!
Respect all such as sing when all alone.
Fest. Scarcely alone-her children, you may guess, Are wild beside her
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 when most secure
In our domestic peace, a certain dim
And flitting shade could sadden all; it seemed
A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning,
A sense of something wanting, incomplete-
Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided
By mute consent-but, said or unsaid, felt
To point to one so loved and so long lost.
And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears—
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!
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 remember,
These hands-nay, touch them, they are mine! Recall
With all the said recallings, times when thus
To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale,
Most glorious, are they not?
Something must be subtracted from success
So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly,
Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole,
You are changed-very changed! 'Twere losing nothing
To look well to it: you must not be stolen
From the enjoyment of your well-won meed.
Par. My friend! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt: By talking, not of me, but of yourself,
You will best gain your point.
Fest.
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: 3
And I am Death's familiar, as you know.
I helped a man to die, some few weeks since,
Warped even from his go-cart to one end—
The living on princes' smiles, reflected from
A mighty herd of favourites.
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 in spite of thick air and closed doors
God told him it was June; and he knew well,
Without such telling, harebells grew in June;
And all that kings could ever give or take
Would not be precious as those blooms to him.
Just so, allowing I am passing wise, ever
It seems to me much worthier argument
Why pansies, eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize
From violets, eyes that dream-(your Michal's choice? -
Than all fools find to wonder at in me,
Or in my fortunes: and be very sure
I say this from no prurient restlessness-
No self-complacency-itching to turn,
Vary, and view its pleasure from all points,
And, in this matter, willing other men
Should argue and demonstrate to itself
The realness of the very joy it tastes.
What joy is better than the news of friends
Whose memories were a solace to me oft,
As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight?
Yes, ofter than you wasted thought on me
* Citrinula (flammula) herba Paracelso multùm familiaris. DORN
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