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LONDON: March 15, 1835.

R. B.


AUREOLUS PARACELSUS, a student FESTUS and MICHAL, his friends. APRILE, an Italian poet.





SCENE.-Würzburg; a garden in the environs. 1512.

Paracelsus. Come close to me, dear friends; still
closer; thus!

Close to the heart which, though long time roll by
Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours,
As now it beats-perchance a long, long time-
At least henceforth your memories shall make
Quiet and fragrant as befits their home.
Nor shall my memory want a home in yours-
Alas, that it requires too well such free
Forgiving love as shall embalm it there!
For if you would remember me aright,
As I was born to be, you must forget

All fitful strange and moody waywardness
Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell
Only on moments such as these, dear friends!
-My heart no truer, but my words and ways
More true to it: as Michal, some months hence,
Will say,
"this autumn was a pleasant time,"
For some few sunny days; and overlook
Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves.
Autumn would fain be sunny; I would look
Liker my nature's truth: and both are frail,
And both beloved, for all our frailty.


Aureole !

Paracelsus. Drop by drop! she is weeping like a


Not so! I am content-more than content;
Nay, autumn wins you best by this its mute

Appeal to sympathy for its decay:

Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less

Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down,
Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit,
That apple-tree with a rare after-birth

Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among!
Then for the winds-what wind that ever raved
Shall vex that ash which overlooks you both,
So proud it wears its berries? Ah, at length,
The old smile meet for her, the lady of this


Sequestered nest!—this kingdom, limited
Alone by one old populous green wall
Tenanted by the ever-busy flies,
Grey crickets and shy lizards and quick spiders,
Each family of the silver-threaded moss—
Which, look through near, this way, and it
A stubble-field or a cane-brake, a marsh
Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now!
Fancy the crickets, each one in his house,
Looking out, wondering at the world--or best,
Yon painted snail with his gay shell of dew,
Travelling to see the glossy balls high up
Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps.

Michal. In truth we have lived carelessly and well. Paracelsus. And shall, my perfect pair!—each, trust me, born

For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed,
Is of one hue. For where save in this nook

Shall you two walk, when I am far away,

And wish me prosperous fortune? Stay: that plant
Shall never wave its tangles lightly and softly,
As a queen's languid and imperial arm

Which scatters crowns among her lovers, but
Shall be reminded to predict to me



Some great success ! Ah see, the sun sinks broad
Behind Saint Saviour's: wholly gone, at last!

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