And shred dim perfume, like a cloud
From chamber long to quiet vowed,
With mothed and dropping arras hung,
Mouldering the lute and books among

Of queen, long dead, who lived there 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, indeed! I have travelled far
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

'Tis 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.

Pursued as I pursued them-the arch-fool!
Listen: my plan will please you not, 'tis 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 labour 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 why spurn gain, however small? My soul
Aan die then, nor be taunted "what was gained ?”
Nor, on the other hand, if pleasure meets me
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; conceive my joy!

Too soon the vapours closed o'er it 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 tired,
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, 'tis not the least
To push the ruins of my frame, whereon
The fire of vigour 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.

I see

Fest.
But one good symptom in this notable plan:
I feared your sudden journey had in view

To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes; "Tis not so: I am glad.

Par.

And if I pleased

To spit on them, to trample them, what then?
'Tis sorry warfare truly, but the fools
Provoke it I had spared 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-in vain

To hide 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 heads,
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!
Still, one thing I have learned—not to despair:
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 I am 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