To further my own aim!

For other men,

Beauty is prodigally strewn around,

And I were happy could I quench as they

This mad and thriveless longing, and content me
With beauty for itself alone: alas,

I have addressed a frock of heavy mail

Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights;
And now the forest-creatures fly from me,

The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more.
Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrive,

I shall o'ertake the company and ride

Glittering as they!

Festus.

I think I apprehend

What you would say: if you, in truth, design
To enter once more on the life thus left,
Seek not to hide that all this consciousness

Of failure is assumed!

Paracelsus.

My friend, my friend,

I toil, you listen; I explain, perhaps

You understand: there our communion ends.

Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse?

When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state
We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft

The hot brow, look upon the languid eye,
And thence divine the rest. Must I lay bare
My heart, hideous and beating, or tear up

My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem

Enough made known? You! who are you, forsooth? That is the crowning operation claimed

By the arch-demonstrator-heaven the hall,

And earth the audience.

Let Aprile and you

Secure good places: 't will be worth the while.

Festus. Are you mad, Aureole? What can I have said

To call for this? I judged from your own words.

Paracelsus. Oh, doubtless!

the ape

A sick wretch describes

That mocks him from the bed-foot, and all gravely
You thither turn at once: or he recounts
The perilous journey he has late performed,
And you are puzzled much how that could be!
You find me here, half stupid and half mad;
It makes no part of my delight to search
Into these matters, much less undergo
Another's scrutiny; but so it chances
That I am led to trust my state to you:
And the event is, you combine, contrast
And ponder on my foolish words as though
They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here—
Here, loathsome with despair and hate and rage!
Is there no fear, no shrinking and no shame?

Will you guess nothing? will you spare me nothing?
Must I go deeper? Ay or no?

Festus.

Dear friend ..

Paracelsus. True: I am brutal-'t is a part of it;

The plague's sign—you are not a lazar-haunter,

How should you know? Well then, you think it strange
I should profess to have failed utterly,
And yet propose an ultimate return

To courses void of hope: and this, because
You know not what temptation is, nor how
'T is like to ply men in the sickliest part.
You are to understand that we who make
Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end:
There is not one sharp volley shot at us,

Which 'scaped with life, though hurt, we slacken pace
And gather by the wayside herbs and roots

To staunch our wounds, secure from further harm :

We are assailed to life's extremest verge.

It will be well indeed if I return,

A harmless busy fool, to my old ways!

I would forget hints of another fate,

Significant enough, which silent hours
Have lately scared me with.

Festus.

Another

and what?

Paracelsus. After all, Festus, you say well: I am
A man yet: I need never humble me.

I would have been-something, I know not what ;
But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl.

There are worse portions than this one of mine.

You say well!

Festus.

Paracelsus.

Ah!

And deeper degradation!

If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise,

If vanity should become the chosen food.

Of a sunk mind, should stifle even the wish

To find its early aspirations true,

Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath

An atmosphere of craft and trick and lies;
Should make it proud to emulate, surpass

Base natures in the practices which woke
Its most indignant loathing once

Utter damnation is reserved for hell!

No, no!

I had immortal feelings; such shall never
Be wholly quenched: no, no!

My friend, you wear

A melancholy face, and certain 't is

There's little cheer in all this dismal work.

But was it my desire to set abroach

Such memories and forebodings? I foresaw

Where they would drive. 'T were better we discuss

News from Lucerne or Zurich; ask and tell

Of Egypt's flaring sky or Spain's cork-groves.

Festus. I have thought: trust me, this mood will pass

away!

I know you and the lofty spirit you bear,
And easily ravel out a clue to all.

These are the trials meet for such as you,
Nor must you hope exemption: to be mortal
Is to be plied with trials manifold.

Look round! The obstacles which kept the rest
From your ambition, have been spurned by you;
Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind them all,
Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought
Avails to awe save these delusions bred

From its own strength, its selfsame strength disguised,
Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole! Since
The rabbit has his shade to frighten him,

The fawn a rustling bough, mortals their cares,
And higher natures yet would slight and laugh
At these entangling fantasies, as you

At trammels of a weaker intellect,

Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts!
I know you.

Paracelsus. And I know you, dearest Festus!
And how you love unworthily; and how

All admiration renders blind.