And who shall call your course without reward?
For, wherefore this repining at defeat,

Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes?
I urge you to forsake the life you curse,
And what success attends me?—simply talk
Of passion, weakness, and remorse; in short,
Any thing but the naked truth: you choose
This so-despised career, and rather praise
Than take my happiness, or other men's.
Once more, return!

Par.

And soon. Oporinus

Has pilfered half my secrets by this time:

And we depart by daybreak. I am weary,
I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes
My brain to-night . . .

Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus?
No flattery! One like you, needs not be told
We live and breathe deceiving and deceived.
Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts?
Me and my cant-my petty subterfuges-
My rhymes, and all this frothy shower of words-
My glozing self-deceit-my outward crust
Of lies, which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfair
Wrap the sound flesh ?-so, see you flatter not!
Why, even God flatters! but my friend, at least,
Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth

Against all further insult, hate, and wrong

From puny foes my one friend's scorn shall brand meNo fear of sinking deeper!

Fest.

No, dear Aureole !

No, no; I came to counsel faithfully :

There are old rules, made long ere we were born, By which I judge you. I, so fallible,

So infinitely low beside your spirit

Mighty, majestic !—even I can see

You own some higher law than ours which call
Sin, what is no sin-weakness, what is strength;
But I have only these, such as they are,

To guide me! and I blame you where they blame,
Only so long as blaming promises

To win peace for your soul; the more, that sorrow
Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me
So that I faint not under my distress.

But wherefore should I scruple to avow
In spite of all, as brother judging brother,
Your fate to me is most inexplicable:
And should you perish without recompense
And satisfaction yet-too hastily

I have relied on love: you may have sinned,
But
you have loved. As a mere human matter-
As I would have God deal with fragile men
In the end I say that you will triumph yet!

Par. Have you felt sorrow, Festus ?—'tis because
You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours !
Well thought on; never let her know this last
Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared
Insult me-me she loved; so grieve her not.

Fest. Your ill success can little grieve her now.

Par. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze ! Fest. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus ! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proofI cannot bear those eyes.

Par.

Nay, really dead?

Fest. 'Tis scarce a month...

Par. Stone dead!—then you have laid her Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know,

I can reveal a secret which shall comfort

Even you.
I have no julep, as men think,
To cheat the grave; but a far better secret.
Know then, you did not ill to trust your love
To the cold earth: I have thought much of it:
For I believe we do not wholly die.

Fest. Aureole ...

Par.

Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason

For what I say: I think the soul can never

Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see,
Very unfit to put so strange a thought

In an intelligible dress of words;

But take it as my trust, she is not dead.

you surely,

Fest. But not on this account alone? —Aureole, you have believed this all along?

Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes For Nuremburg, and hoping and despairing, As though it mattered how the farce plays out, So it be quickly played. 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 wellnigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Gray morning glimmers feebly—yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirred That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quenched 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 intrenched itself; But they are dead now-very blind and dead. He will drowse into death without a groan!

My Aureole-my forgotten, ruined 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-'tis much; but he will sure
Know me, and look on me, and speak to me
Once more-but only once! His hollow cheek
Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh
At his own state were just about to break

From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled, And yet I could not turn away. In truth,

They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed Resolved to live-to lose no faculty;

Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength,

Until they bore him to this stifling cell:

When straight his features fell-an hour made white

The flushed face and relaxed the quivering limb;
Only the eye remained 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 achievement, her sublime amends
For countless generations, fleeting fast
And followed by no trace ;-the creature-god
She instances when angels would dispute
The title of her brood to rank with them—
Angels, this is our angel!—those bright forms
We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones,
Are human, but not his: those are but men