But, master, poet, who has done all this, Didst thou ne'er gaze on each by turns, and ne'er And laugh that man's applause or welfare once Of darkling mortals, famished for one ray Of thy so-hoarded luxury of light, Didst thou ne'er strive even yet to break those spells, And prove thou couldst recover and fulfil Thy early mission, long ago renounced, And, to that end, select some shape once more? Say, I was tempted sorely Dear lord, Aprile's lord! Par. ; say but this, Clasp me not thus, Aprile!... That the truth should reach me thus ! We are weak dust. Nay, clasp not, or I faint! Apr. My king! and envious thoughts could outrage thee! Lo, I forget my ruin, and rejoice In thy success, as thou! Let our God's praise Go bravely through the world at last! What care Par. Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn Apr. I hear thee faintly. . . the thick darkness! Even Thine eyes are hid. 'Tis as I knew: I speak, But to have seen thee, and to die so soon! Par. Die not, Aprile: we must never part. Are we not halves of one dissevered world, Whom this strange chance unites once more? Part? never! Till thou, the lover, know; and I, the knower, We will accept our gains, and use them—now! Apr. To speak but once, and die! yet by his side. Hush! hush! Ha! go you ever girt about With phantoms, powers? I have created such, But these seem real as I! Par. Through the accursed darkness? Apr. Whom can you see Stay; I know, I know them: who should know them well as I? White brows, lit up with glory; poets all! Par. Let him but live, and I have my reward! Apr. Yes; I see now— God is the PERFECT POET, Who in creation acts his own conceptions. Shall man refuse to be aught less than God? For thence came with our weakness sympathy Michal shall smile on you . . . Hear you? Lean thus, ... And breathe my breath: I shall not lose one word Apr. No, no.. Crown me? I am not one of you! 'Tis he, the king, you seek. I am not one . . . Par. Give me thy spirit, at least! Let me love, too! I have attained, and now I may depart. III-PARACELSUS. SCENE-A chamber in the house of Paracelsus at Basil. 1526. PARACELSUS, FESTUS. Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out! True, true! Fest. Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal Of our affections. Par. Oh, omit not aught Which witnesses your own and Michal's love! I wave: And Courts, shall be no more than Aureole still— 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, |