Apr. Yes; I see now—God is the perfect Poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.

Had you but told me this at first! ... Hush! hush!

Par. Live! for my sake, because of my great sin, To help my brain, oppress'd by these wild words And their deep import. Live! 't is 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—one little word, Aprile.

Apr. No, no Crown me? I am not one of you!

...

'Tis he, the king, you seek. I am not one ...

Par. Thy spirit, at least, Aprile, let me love!...

I HAVE ATTAIN'D, AND NOW I MAY DEPART.

72

III. PARACELSUS.

Scene—A chamber in the house of Paracelsus at Basil.

1526.

Paracelsus, Festus.

Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out.

Fest.

True, true;

'T is very fit all time, and chance, and change
Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to face
And soul to soul—all cares, far-looking fears,
Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred

By your long absence, should be cast away,
Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal
Of our affections.

Par.

Oh, omit not aught

Which witnesses your own and Michal's own
Affection; spare not that! forget alone

The honours and the glories, and what not,

That you are pleased to tell profusely out.

Fest. Nay, even your honours in a certain sense.

The wondrous Paracelsus—the dispenser

Of life, the commissary of Fate, the idol

Of princes, is no more than Aureole still—
Still Aureole and my friend, as when we parted
Some twenty years ago, when I restrain'd

As I best could the promptings of my spirit,
which secretly advanced you from the first

To the pre-eminent 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 Würzburg, from her lattice

Among the trees above, while I, unseen,

Sate conning some rare roll 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...

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 mother-hood;

But 't is a change—and I detest all change,

And most a change in aught I loved long since:

But 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 Adventure, or devising your reward;

Shutting out fear as long as hope might be—

For it was strange how, even when most secure

In our domestic peace, a certain dim

And flitting shade could sadden all; it seem'd
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 felt no less, when traced,
To point to one so loved and so long lost;

Not but, to balance fears, were glowing hopes.

How you would laugh should I recount them now! I still predicted your return at last,

With gifts beyond the greatest of them 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 that long ere this some being,
As beautiful as you were brave, had loved . . .
Par. Far-seeing, truly, to discern as much
In the fantastic projects and day-dreams
Of a raw, restless boy.

Fest.

Oh no, the sunrise

Well warranted our faith in this full noon :

...

Have I forgotten the anxious voice that said