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I see you, Austin-feel you: here's my hand,
Put yours in it-you, Guendolen, yours too!
You're lord and lady now-you're Treshams; name
And fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up.
Austin, no blot on it! You see how blood

Must wash one blot away: the first blot came
And the first blood came. To the vain world's eye
All's gules again: no care to the vain world,
From whence the red was drawn!


No blot shall come! Tresh. I said that: yet it did come. Should it come, Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me!

[Dies. Guen. [letting fall the pulseless arm.] Ah Thorold, we can but-remember you!





SCENE, Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541. FESTUS, PARacelsus.

Fest. No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Grey 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 stronghold 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 wast!
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! 'T is much
That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow,
And chafe his hands; 't is 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 prize-
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
Whom other men press round and kneel before;
Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind;
Higher provision is for him you seek
Amid our pomps and glories: see it here!
Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay!
God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that!
Even as I watch beside thy tortured child

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