In spite of all, as brother judging brother, I have relied on love: you may have sinned, In the end-I say that you will triumph yet! Paracelsus. Have you felt sorrow, Festus?-'t is 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! Festus. Your ill success can little grieve her now. Paracelsus. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze ! Festus. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus ! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, I can reveal a secret which shall comfort To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love Festus. Aureole ! Paracelsus. 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. Festus. But not on this account alone? you surely. -Aureole, you have believed this all along? Paracelsus. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize, And leave a clear arena for the brave About to perish for your sport !-Behold! PART V. PARACELSUS ATTAINS. SCENE.-Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541. FESTUS, PARACELSUS. Festus. No change ! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars My Aureole-my forgotten, ruined Aureole ! The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast! And now not one of those who struck thee down- Could turn God's image to a livid thing. Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much 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 As though it recognized the tomb-like place, Ay, here! Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded Her bravest champion with his well-won prize Her best achievement, her sublime amends Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that. So doth thy right hand guide us through the world Wherein we stumble. How has he sinned? God! what shall we say? How else should he have done? Surely he sought thy praise-thy praise, for all He might be busied by the task so much As half forget awhile its proper end. Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer That I should range myself upon his side How could he stop at every step to set |