With Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing,
As though it matter'd how the farce plays out,
So it be quickly play'd. Away, away!

Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize,
Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats,
And leave a clear arena for the brave

About to perish for your sport . . . Behold!

V.—PARACELSUS ATTAINS.

Scene.—A cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian, at Salzburg. 1541.

Festus, Paracelsus.

Fest. No change! The weary night is well nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars The grey morn glimmers feebly—yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirr'd That fall'n discolour'd mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quench'd 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 intrench'd itself; But they are dead now—very blind and dead. He will drowse into death without a groan!

My Aureole; my forgotten, ruin'd 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.

Another night, and yet no change! 'Tis 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
Look'd all night long as though a creeping laugh
At his own state were just about to break

From the dying man: my brain swam and my throat
swelled, yet for all I could not turn away.

In truth, they told me how he seem'd at first
Resolved to live—to let no power forsake him;
Thus striving to keep up his shatter'd strength,
Until they brought him to this stifling cell:

At once his features fell—an hour made white
The flush'd face and relax'd the quivering limb;
Only the eye remain'd 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 production—all that makes amends

For countless generations, fleeting fast
And follow'd by no trace—the all-surpassing
Creature she cites when angels would dispute
The title of her brood to rank with them ..
Angels, this is our angel!—those bright forms
Are human, but not his: those are but men
Whom the rest press around and kneel before—
Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind;

Other provision is for him you seek.

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 sinn'd—how else should he have done ?

Surely he sought thy praise—thy praise, for all
He might be wedded to the task so well

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 him

Success, thy honour would have crown'd his triumph—

A halo round a star... Or say he err'd:

Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him

In light and life! Thou art not made like us :

We should be wrath

Wilt smile on him.

in such a case; but Thou

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 fashion'd. I could never err

That way the quiet place beside thy feet