Par. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze ! Fest. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus ! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof

I cannot bear those eyes.

Par.

Nay, really dead ?

Fest. 'Tis scarce a month...

Par. Stone dead!—then you have laid her
Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know,
I can reveal a secret which shall comfort
Even you. I have no julep, as men think,
To cheat the grave; but a far better secret.
Know then, you did not ill to trust your love
To the cold earth: I have thought much of it:
For I believe we do not wholly die.

Fest. Aureole ...

Par.

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.

Fest. But not on this account alone? you surely, -Aureole, you have believed this all along?

Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes For Nuremburg, and hoping and despairing, As though it mattered how the farce plays out, So it be quickly played. Away, away ! Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize,

Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats,
And leave a clear arena for the brave
About to perish for your sport!—Behold!

V.-PARACELSUS ATTAINS.

SCENE. A cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian, at Salzburg. 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 strong-hold 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 wert: 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! 'Tis much
That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow,
And chafe his hands—'tis 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 recognised 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 meed

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,
Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him,

So doth thy right hand guide us through the world
Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say?

How has he sinned?

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 to 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

Thy glory forth? Hadst Thou but granted him
Success, thy honour would have crowned success,

Or, say he erred,—

A halo round a star.
Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him
In light and life! Thou art not made like us;
We should be wroth in such a case; but Thou
Forgivest-so, forgive these passionate thoughts,
Which come unsought, and will not pass away!
I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made
Light for me in the darkness-tempering sorrow,
So that it reached me like a solemn joy;

It were too strange that I should doubt thy love:

But what am I?

Thou madest him, and knowest

How he was fashioned.

I could never err

That way the quiet place beside thy feet,
Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts;

But he-Thou shouldst have favoured him as well!

Ah! he wakes! Aureole, I am here-'tis Festus!
I cast away all wishes save one wish-

Let him but know me-only speak to me!
He mutters-louder and louder; any other
Than I, with brain less laden, could collect
What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look!
Is it talking or singing this he utters fast?
Misery, that he should fix me with his eye-
Quick talking to some other all the while!
If he would husband this wild vehemence,
Which frustrates its intent!-I heard, I know
I heard my name amid those rapid words :
O he will know me yet! Could I divert
This current-lead it somehow gently back
Into the channels of the past!—His eye,
Brighter than ever! It must recognise !

Let me speak to him in another's name.
I am Erasmus: I am here to pray
That Paracelsus use his skill for me.

The schools of Paris and of Padua send

These questions for your learning to resolve.