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Paracelsus 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

Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change!

Another night, and still no sigh has

That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang

Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body,

Like torch-flame choked in dust.

While all

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

And satisfy himself his little

Could turn God's image to a livid thing.

Another night, and yet no change! 'T is

That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow,

And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will

Know me, and look on me, and speak to

Once more—but only once!

His hollow

Looked all night long as though a creeping

At his own state were just about to

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

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

The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb,

Only the eye remained intense

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

For countless generations fleeting

And followed by no trace;—the

She instances when angels would

The title of her brood to rank with them.

Angels, this is our angel!

Those bright

We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones,

Are human, but not his; those are but

Whom other men press round and kneel before;

Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind;

Higher provision is for him you

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

Even as I watch beside thy tortured

Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him,

So doth thy right hand guide us through the

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

He might be busied by the task so

As half forget awhile its proper end.

Dost thou well,

Lord?

Thou canst not but

That I should range myself upon his side—How could he stop at every step to

Thy glory forth?

Hadst thou but granted

Success, thy honour would have crowned success,

A halo round a star.

Or, say he erred,—Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe

In light and life!

Thou art not made like us;

We should be wroth in such a case; but

Forgivest—so, forgive these passionate

Which come unsought and will not pass away!

I know thee, who hast kept my path, and

Light for me in the darkness, tempering

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

How he was fashioned.

I could never

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 wakens!

Aureole,

I am here! 't is Festus!

I cast away all wishes save one wish—Let him but know me, only speak to me!

He mutters; louder and louder; any

Than I, with brain less laden, could

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

Which frustrates its intent!—I heard,

I knowI heard my name amid those rapid words.

Oh, he will know me yet!

Could I

This current, lead it somehow gently

Into the channels of the past!—His

Brighter than ever!

It must recognize me!

I am Erasmus:

I am here to

That Paracelsus use his skill for me.

The schools of Paris and of Padua

These questions for your learning to resolve.

We are your students, noble master:

This wretched cell, what business have you here?

Our class awaits you; come to us once more!(O agony! the utmost I can

Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?)I am commissioned . . .

I shall craze like him.

Better be mute and see what God shall send.

Paracelsus.

Stay, stay with me!

Festus.                     I will;

I am come

To stay with you—Festus, you loved of old;

Festus, you know, you must know!

Paracelsus.                                   Festus!

Aprile, then?

Has he not chanted

The melodies I heard all night?

I could

Get to him for a cold hand on my breast,

But I made out his music well enough,

O well enough!

If they have filled him

With magical music, as they freight a

With light, and have remitted all his sin,

They will forgive me too,

I too shall know!

Festus.

Festus, your Festus!

Paracelsus.                      Ask him if

Knows as he Loves—if I shall Love and Know?

I try; but that cold hand, like lead—so cold!

Festus.

My hand, see!

Paracelsus.              Ah, the curse,

Aprile,

Aprile!

We get so near—so very, very near!'T is an old tale:

Jove strikes the Titans down,

Not when they set about their

But when another rock would crown the work.

And Phaeton—doubtless his first radiant

Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm,

And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales!

Festus.

And what are these to you?

Paracelsus.                             Ay, fiends must

So cruelly, so well! most like I

Could tread a single pleasure underfoot,

But they were grinning by my side, were

To see me toil and drop away by flakes!

Hell-spawn!

I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail!

Your cunning has o'ershot its aim.

One year,

One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn!

You should have curbed your spite awhile.

But now,

Who will believe 't was you that held me back?

Listen: there's shame and hissing and contempt,

And none but laughs who names me, none but

Measureless scorn upon me, me alone,

The quack, the cheat, the liar,—all on me!

And thus your famous plan to sink

In silence and despair, by teaching

One of their race had probed the inmost truth,

Had done all man could do, yet failed no less—Your wise plan proves abortive.

Men despair?

Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric,

The ignorant and incapable fool who

Madly upon a work beyond his wits;

Nor doubt they but the simplest of

Could bring the matter to triumphant issue.

So, pick and choose among them all, accursed!

Try now, persuade some other to slave for you,

To ruin body and soul to work your ends!

No, no;

I am the first and last,

I think.

Festus.

Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done…Paracelsus.

What have I done?

Fiends dare ask that? or you,

Brave men?

Oh, you can chime in boldly,

By the others!

What had you to do, sage peers?

Here stand my rivals;

Latin,

Arab,

Jew,

Greek, join dead hands against me: all I

Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs,

And even this poor privilege, it seems,

They range themselves, prepared to disallow.

Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them!

How they talk calmly of my throes, my

Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one

Its price of blood and brain; how they

And sneeringly disparage the few

Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the

About my neck, their lies misleading

And their dead names browbeating me!

Grey crew,

Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell,

Is there a reason for your hate?

My

Have shaken a little the palm about each prince?

Just think,

Aprile, all these leering

Were bent on nothing less than to be

As we!

That yellow blear-eyed wretch in

To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect,

Galen of Pergamos and hell—nay

The tale, old man!

We met there face to face:

I said the crown should fall from thee.

Once

We meet as in that ghastly vestibule:

Look to my brow!

Have I redeemed my pledge?

Festus.

Peace, peace; ah, see!

Paracelsus.                        Oh, emptiness of fame!

Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars!—Who said these old renowns, dead long ago,

Could make me overlook the living

To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed,

But stand no longer?

What a warm light

After the shade!

In truth, my delicate witch,

My serpent-queen, you did but well to

The juggles I had else detected.

May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours!

The cave was not so darkened by the

But that your white limbs dazzled me: oh, white,

And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing!

I cared not for your passionate gestures then,

But now I have forgotten the charm of charms,

The foolish knowledge which I came to seek,

While I remember that quaint dance; and thusI am come back, not for those mummeries,

But to love you, and to kiss your little

Soft as an ermine's winter coat!

Festus.                                   A

Will struggle through these thronging words at last.

As in the angry and tumultuous WestA soft star trembles through the drifting clouds.

These are the strivings of a spirit which

So sad a vault should coop it, and calls

The past to stand between it and its fate.

Were he at Einsiedeln—or Michal here!

Paracelsus.

Cruel!

I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;

And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!'T is only when they spring to heaven that

Reveal themselves to you; they sit all

Beside you, and lie down at night by

Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep,

And all at once they leave you, and you know them!

We are so fooled, so cheated!

Why, even nowI am not too secure against foul play;

The shadows deepen and the walls contract:

No doubt some treachery is going on.'T is very dusk.

Where are we put,

Aprile?

Have they left us in the lurch?

This murky

Death-trap, this slaughter-house, is not the

In the golden city!

Keep by me,

Aprile!

There is a hand groping amid the

To catch us.

Have the spider-fingers got you,

Poet?

Hold on me for your life!

If

They pull you!—Hold!                       'Tis but a dream—no more!

I have you still; the sun comes out again;

Let us be happy: all will yet go well!

Let us confer: is it not like,

Aprile,

That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed,

The value of my labours ascertained,

Just as some stream foams long among the

But after glideth glassy to the sea,

So, full content shall henceforth be my lot?

What think you, poet?

Louder!

Your clear

Vibrates too like a harp-string.

Do you

How could I still remain on earth, should

Grant me the great approval which I seek?

I, you, and God can comprehend each other,

But men would murmur, and with cause enough;

For when they saw me, stainless of all sin,

Preserved and sanctified by inward light,

They would complain that comfort, shut from them,

I drank thus unespied; that they live on,

Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy,

For ache and care and doubt and weariness,

While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me,

And hid from them.—'T were best consider that!

You reason well,

Aprile; but at

Let me know this, and die!

Is this too much?

I will learn this, if God so please, and die!

If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please!

We are so weak, we know our motives

In their confused beginning.

If at firstI sought . . . but wherefore bare my heart to thee?

I know thy mercy; and already

Flock fast about my soul to comfort it,

And intimate I cannot wholly fail,

For love and praise would clasp me

Could I resolve to seek them.

Thou art good,

And I should be content.

Yet—yet first showI have done wrong in daring!

Rather

The supernatural consciousness of

Which fed my youth!

Only one hour of

With thee to help—O what should bar me then!

Lost, lost!

Thus things are ordered here!

God's creatures,

And yet he takes no pride in us!—none, none!

Truly there needs another life to come!

If this be all—(I must tell Festus that)And other life await us not—for one,

I say 't is a poor cheat, a stupid bungle,

A wretched failure.

I, for one,

Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn.

Well, onward though alone!

Small time remains,

And much to do:

I must have fruit, must

Some profit from my toils.

I doubt my

Will hardly serve me through; while I have

It has decayed; and now that I

Its best assistance, it will crumble fast:

A sad thought, a sad fate!

How very

Of wormwood 't is, that just at altar-service,

The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke,

When glory dawns and all is at the best,

The sacred fire may flicker and grow

And die for want of a wood-piler's help!

Thus fades the flagging body, and the

Is pulled down in the overthrow.

Well, well —Let men catch every word, let them lose

Of what I say; something may yet be done.

They are ruins!

Trust me who am one of you!

All ruins, glorious once, but lonely now.

It makes my heart sick to behold you

Beside your desolate fane: the arches dim,

The crumbling columns grand against the moon,

Could I but rear them up once more—but

May never be, so leave them!

Trust me, friends,

Why should you linger here when I have builtA far resplendent temple, all your own?

Trust me, they are but ruins!

See,

Aprile,

Men will not heed!

Yet were I not

With better refuge for them, tongue of

Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is:

I would sit down in silence with the rest.

Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and

Contempt into my ear—my ear which

God's accents once? you curse me?

Why men, men,

I am not formed for it!

Those hideous

Will be before me sleeping, waking, praying,

They will not let me even die.

Spare, spare me,

Sinning or no, forget that, only spare

The horrible scorn!

You thought I could support it.

But now you see what silly fragile

Cowers thus.

I am not good nor bad enough,

Not Christ nor Cain, yet even Cain was

From Hate like this.

Let me but totter back!

Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which

Into my very brain, and shut these

Eyelids and keep those mocking faces out.

Listen,

Aprile!

I am very calm:

Be not deceived, there is no passion

Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing:

I am calm:

I will exterminate the race!

Enough of that: 't is said and it shall be.

And now be merry: safe and sound am

Who broke through their best ranks to get at you.

And such a havoc, such a rout,

Aprile!

Festus.

Have you no thought, no memory for me,

Aureole?

I am so wretched—my pure

Is gone, and you alone are left me now,

And even you forget me.

Take my hand—Lean on me thus.

Do you not know me,

Aureole?

Paracelsus.

Festus, my own friend, you are come at last?

As you say, 't is an awful enterprise;

But you believe I shall go through with it:'T is like you, and I thank you.

Thank him for me,

Dear Michal!

See how bright St.

Saviour's

Flames in the sunset; all its figures

Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive themA troop of yellow-vested white-haired

Bound for their own land where redemption dawns.

Festus.

Not that blest time—not our youth's time, dear God!

Paracelsus.

Ha—stay! true,

I forget—all is done since,

And he is come to judge me.

How he speaks,

How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true;

All quackery; all deceit; myself can

The first at it, if you desire: but

You know the obstacles which taught me

So foreign to my nature—envy and hate,

Blind opposition, brutal prejudice,

Bald ignorance—what wonder if I

To humour men the way they most approved?

My cheats were never palmed on such as you,

Dear Festus!

I will kneel if you require me,

Impart the meagre knowledge I possess,

Explain its bounded nature, and

My insufficiency—whate'er you will:

I give the fight up: let there be an end,

A privacy, an obscure nook for me.

I want to be forgotten even by God.

But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me,

When I shall die, within some narrow grave,

Not by itself—for that would be too proud—But where such graves are thickest; let it

Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round,

So that the peasant at his brother's

May tread upon my own and know it not;

And we shall all be equal at the last,

Or classed according to life's natural ranks,

Fathers, sons, brothers, friends—not rich, nor wise,

Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived"Too much advanced before his brother men;"They kept him still in front: 't was for their good"But yet a dangerous station.

It were strange"That he should tell God he had never ranked"With men: so, here at least he is a man."Festus.

That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit,

Unto his breast, be sure! and here on

Shall splendour sit upon thy name for ever.

Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: what

If lower mountains light their snowy

At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge

The source of day?

Their theft shall be their bale:

For after-ages shall retrack thy beams,

And put aside the crowd of busy

And worship thee alone—the master-mind,

The thinker, the explorer, the creator!

Then, who should sneer at the convulsive

With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as

The sheet of winding subterraneous

Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at

Huge islands up amid the simmering sea.

Behold thy might in me! thou hast

Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou,

Seeing I comprehend thee—I so simple,

Thou so august.

I recognize thee first;

I saw thee rise,

I watched thee early and late,

And though no glance reveal thou dost

My homage—thus no less I proffer it,

And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest.

Paracelsus.

Festus!

Festus.        I am for noble Aureole,

God!

I am upon his side, come weal or woe.

His portion shall be mine.

He has done well.

I would have sinned, had I been strong enough,

As he has sinned.

Reward him or I

Reward!

If thou canst find no place for him,

He shall be king elsewhere, and I will

His slave for ever.

There are two of us.

Paracelsus.

Dear Festus!

Festus.             Here, dear Aureole! ever by you!

Paracelsus.

Nay, speak on, or I dream again.

Speak on!

Some story, anything—only your voice.

I shall dream else.

Speak on! ay, leaning so!

Festus.                                                  Thus the Mayne

Where my Love abideth.

Sleep's no softer: it

On through lawns, on through meads,

On and on, whate'er befall,

Meandering and musical,

Though the niggard

Bears not on its shaven

Aught but weeds and waving

To view the river as it passes,

Save here and there a scanty

Of primroses too faint to catchA weary bee.

Paracelsus.

More, more; say on!

Festus.                     And scarce it

Its gentle way through strangling

Where the glossy

Flutters when noon-heats are near,

Glad the shelving banks to shun,

Red and steaming in the sun,

Where the shrew-mouse with pale

Burrows, and the speckled stoat;

Where the quick sandpipers

In and out the marl and

That seems to breed them, brown as they:

Nought disturbs its quiet way,

Save some lazy stork that springs,

Trailing it with legs and wings,

Whom the shy fox from the

Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.

Paracelsus.

My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words;

Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch:

Like some dark snake that force may not expel,

Which glideth out to music sweet and low.

What were you doing when your voice broke throughA chaos of ugly images?

You, indeed!

Are you alone here?

Festus.                     All alone: you know me?

This cell?

Paracelsus.           An unexceptionable vault:

Good brick and stone: the bats kept out, the

Kept in: a snug nook: how should I mistake it?

Festus.

But wherefore am I here?

Paracelsus.                          Ah, well remembered!

Why, for a purpose—for a purpose,

Festus!'T is like me: here I trifle while time fleets,

And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return.

You are here to be instructed.

I will

God's message; but I have so much to say,

I fear to leave half out.

All is

No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time.

He would not else have brought you here: no doubtI shall see clearer soon.

Festus.                            Tell me but this—You are not in despair?

Paracelsus.                         I? and for what?

Festus.

Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared!

Paracelsus.

What is it you would ask me with that

Dear searching face?

Festus.                      How feel you,

Aureole?

Paracelsus.                                              Well:

Well. 'T is a strange thing:

I am dying,

Festus,

And now that fast the storm of life subsides,

I first perceive how great the whirl has been.

I was calm then, who am so dizzy now—Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no lessA partner of its motion and mixed

With its career.

The hurricane is spent,

And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather;

But is it earth or sea that heaves below?

The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell,

With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore;

And now some slet, loosened from the land,

Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean;

And now the air is full of uptorn canes,

Light strippings from the fan-trees,

Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them,

All high in the wind.

Even so my varied

Drifts by me;

I am young, old, happy, sad,

Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest,

And all at once: that is, those past

Float back at once on me.

If I

Some special epoch from the crowd, 't is

To will, and straight the rest dissolve away,

And only that particular state is

With all its long-forgotten

Distinct and vivid as at first—myselfA careless looker-on and nothing more,

Indifferent and amused, but nothing more.

And this is death:

I understand it all.

New being waits me; new perceptions

Be born in me before I plunge therein;

Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak,

Minute by minute he is filling

With power; and while my foot is on the

Of boundless life—the doors unopened yet,

All preparations not complete within—I turn new knowledge upon old events,

And the effect is . . . but I must not tell;

It is not lawful.

Your own turn will

One day.

Wait,

Festus!

You will die like me.

Festus.'T is of that past life that I burn to hear.

Paracelsus.

You wonder it engages me just now?

In truth,

I wonder too.

What 's life to me?

Where'er I look is fire, where'er I

Music, and where I tend bliss evermore.

Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a

Delight to view those chances,—one last view.

I am so near the perils I escape,

That I must play with them and turn them over,

To feel how fully they are past and gone.

Still, it is like, some further cause

For this peculiar mood—some hidden purpose;

Did I not tell you something of it,

Festus?

I had it fast, but it has somehow

Away from me; it will return anon.

Festus.(Indeed his cheek seems young again, his

Complete with its old tones: that little

Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye,

As though one stooped above his head to

He looked for confirmation and approval,

Where was it gone so long, so well preserved?

Then, the fore-finger pointing as he speaks,

Like one who traces in an open

The matter he declares; 't is many a

Since I remarked it last: and this in him,

But now a ghastly wreck!)                            And can it be,

Dear Aureole, you have then found out at

That worldly things are utter vanity?

That man is made for weakness, and should

In patient ignorance, till God appoint . . .

Paracelsus.

Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it!

How could I fail to apprehend!

You here,

I thus!

But no more trifling:

I see all,

I know all: my last mission shall be

If strength suffice.

No trifling!

Stay; this

Hardly befits one thus about to speak:

I will arise.

Festus.              Nay,

Aureole, are you wild?

You cannot leave your couch.

Paracelsus.                               No help; no help;

Not even your hand.

So! there,

I stand once more!

Speak from a couch?

I never lectured thus.

My gown—the scarlet lined with fur; now

The chain about my neck; my

Is still upon my hand,

I think—even so;

Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth,

Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time?

This couch shall be my throne:

I bid these

Be consecrate, this wretched cell becomeA shrine, for here God speaks to men through me.

Now,

Festus,

I am ready to begin.

Festus.

I am dumb with wonder.

Paracelsus.                        Listen, therefore,

Festus!

There will be time enough, but none to spare.

I must content myself with telling

The most important points.

You doubtless

That I am happy,

Festus; very happy.

Festus.'T is no delusion which uplifts him thus!

Then you are pardoned,

Aureole, all your sin?

Paracelsus.

Ay, pardoned: yet why pardoned?

Festus.                                  'T is God's

That man is bound to seek, and you . . .

Paracelsus.                                            Have lived!

We have to live alone to set forth

God's praise. 'T is true,

I sinned much, as I thought,

And in effect need mercy, for I

To do that very thing; but, do your

Or worst, praise rises, and will rise for

Pardon from him, because of praise denied—Who calls me to himself to exalt himself?

He might laugh as I laugh!

Festus.                             But all

To the same thing. 'T is fruitless for

To fret themselves with what concerns them not;

They are no use that way: they should lie

Content as God has made them, nor go

In thriveless cares to better what is ill.

Paracelsus.

No, no; mistake me not; let me not

More harm than I have worked!

This is my case:

If I go joyous back to God, yet

No offering, if I render up my

Without the fruits it was ordained to bear,

If I appear the better to love

For sin, as one who has no claim on him,-Be not deceived!

It may be surely

With me, while higher prizes still

The mortal persevering to the end.

Beside I am not all so valueless:

I have been something, though too soon I

Following the instincts of that happy time.

Festus.

What happy time?

For God's sake, for man's sake,

What time was happy?

All I hope to

That answer will decide.

What happy time?

Paracelsus.

When but the time I vowed myself to man?

Festus.

Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable!

Paracelsus.

Yes, it was in me;

I was born for it—I,

Paracelsus: it was mine by right.

Doubtless a searching and impetuous

Might learn from its own motions that some

Like this awaited it about the world;

Might seek somewhere in this blank life of

For fit delights to stay its longings vast;

And, grappling Nature, so prevail on

To fill the creature full she dared thus

Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous,

Grow in demand, still craving more and more,

And make each joy conceded prove a

Of other joy to follow—bating

Of its desires, still seizing fresh

To turn the knowledge and the rapture

As an extreme, last boon, from destiny,

Into occasion for new coyetings,

New strifes, new triumphs:—doubtless a strong soul,

Alone, unaided might attain to this,

So glorious is our nature, so

Man's inborn uninstructed impulses,

His naked spirit so majestical!

But this was born in me;

I was made so;

Thus much time saved: the feverish appeties,

The tumult of unproved desire, the

Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind,

Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in

Were saved me; thus I entered on my course.

You may be sure I was not all

From human trouble; just so much of

As bade me plant a surer foot

The sun-road, kept my eye unruined

The fierce and flashing splendour, set my

Trembling so much as warned me I stood

On sufferance—not to idly gaze, but

Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt,

I stood at first where all aspire at

To stand: the secret of the world was mine.

I knew,

I felt, (perception unexpressed,

Uncomprehended by our narrow thought,

But somehow felt and known in every

And change in the spirit,—nay, in every

Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are,

What life is—how God tastes an infinite

In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss,

From whom all being emanates, all

Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore,

Yet whom existence in its lowest

Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he;

With still a flying point of bliss remote,

A happiness in store afar, a

Of distant glory in full view; thus

Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.

The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,

And the earth changes like a human face;

The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,

Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches

In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask—God joys therein.

The wroth sea's waves are

With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,

When, in the solitary waste, strange

Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,

Staring together with their eyes on flame—God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.

Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:

But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress,

Over its breast to waken it, rare

Buds tenderly upon rough banks,

The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,

Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;

The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with

Like chrysalids impatient for the air,

The shining dorrs are busy, beetles

Along the furrows, ants make their ado;

Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the

Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;

Afar the ocean sleeps; white

Flit where the strand is purple with its

Of nested limpets; savage creatures

Their loves in wood and plain—and God

His ancient rapture.

Thus he dwells in all,

From life's minute beginnings, up at

To man—the consummation of this

Of being, the completion of this

Of life: whose attributes had here and

Been scattered o'er the visible world before,

Asking to be combined, dim fragments

To be united in some wondrous whole,

Imperfect qualities throughout creation,

Suggesting some one creature yet to make,

Some point where all those scattered rays should

Convergent in the faculties of man.

Power—neither put forth blindly, nor

Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be

At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear:

Knowledge—not intuition, but the

Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil,

Strengthened by love: love—not serenely pure,

But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown

Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed

And softer stains, unknown in happier climes;

Love which endures and doubts and is

And cherished, suffering much and much sustained,

And blind, oft-failing, yet believing love,

A half-enlightened, often-chequered trust:—Hints and previsions of which faculties,

Are strewn confusedly everywhere

The inferior natures, and all lead up higher,

All shape out dimly the superior race,

The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false,

And man appears at last.

So far the

Is put on life; one stage of being complete,

One scheme wound up: and from the grand resultA supplementary reflux of light,

Illustrates all the inferior grades,

Each back step in the circle.

Not

For their possessor dawn those qualities,

But the new glory mixes with the

And earth; man, once descried, imprints for

His presence on all lifeless things: the

Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout,

A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh,

Never a senseless gust now man is born.

The herded pines commune and have deep thoughtsA secret they assemble to

When the sun drops behind their trunks which

Like grates of hell: the peerless cup

Of the lake-lily is an urn, some

Swims bearing high above her head: no

Whistles unseen, but through the gaps

That let light in upon the gloomy woods,

A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top,

Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye.

The morn has enterprise, deep quiet

With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour,

Voluptuous transport ripens with the

Beneath a warm moon like a happy face:—And this to fill us with regard for man.

With apprehension of his passing worth,

Desire to work his proper nature out,

And ascertain his rank and final place,

For these things tend still upward, progress

The law of life, man is not Man as yet.

Nor shall I deem his object served, his

Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth,

While only here and there a star

The darkness, here and there a towering mindO'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the

Is out at once to the despair of night,

When all mankind alike is perfected,

Equal in full-blown powers—then, not till then,

I say, begins man's general infancy.

For wherefore make account of feverish

Of restless members of a dormant whole,

Impatient nerves which quiver while the

Slumbers as in a grave?

Oh long

The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir,

The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered

Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set,

The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched stronger,

As it would pluck a lion by the jaw;

The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep!

But when full roused, each giant-limb awake,

Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast,

He shall start up and stand on his own earth,

Then shall his long triumphant march begin,

Thence shall his being date,—thus wholly roused,

What he achieves shall be set down to him.

When all the race is perfected

As man, that is; all tended to mankind,

And, man produced, all has its end thus far:

But in completed man begins anewA tendency to God.

Prognostics

Man's near approach; so in man's self

August anticipations, symbols,

Of a dim splendour ever on

In that eternal circle life pursues.

For men begin to pass their nature's bound,

And find new hopes and cares which fast

Their proper joys and griefs; they grow too

For narrow creeds of right and wrong, which

Before the unmeasured thirst for good: while

Rises within them ever more and more.

Such men are even now upon the earth,

Serene amid the half-formed creatures

Who should be saved by them and joined with them.

Such was my task, and I was born to it—Free, as I said but now, from much that

Spirits, high-dowered but limited and

By a divided and delusive aim,

A shadow mocking a

Whose truth avails not wholly to

The flitting mimic called up by itself,

And so remains perplexed and nigh put

By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam.

I, from the first, was never cheated thus;

I never fashioned out a fancied

Distinct from man's; a service to be done,

A glory to be ministered

With powers put forth at man's expense,

From labouring in his behalf; a

Denied that might avail him.

I cared

Lest his success ran counter to

Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man,

And to man's glory vowed I soul and limb.

Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed,

I failed:

I gazed on power till I grew blind.

Power;

I could not take my eyes from that:

That only,

I thought, should be preserved,

At any risk, displayed, struck out at once-The sign and note and character of man.

I saw no use in the past: only a

Of degradation, ugliness and tears,

The record of disgraces best forgotten,

A sullen page in human

Fit to erase.

I saw no cause why

Should not stand all-sufficient even now,

Or why his annals should be forced to

That once the tide of light, about to

Upon the world, was sealed within its spring:

I would have had one day, one moment's space,

Change man's condition, push each slumbering

Of mastery o'er the elemental

At once to full maturity, then

Oblivion o'er the work, and hide from

What night had ushered morn.

Not so, dear

Of after-days, wilt thou reject the

Big with deep warnings of the proper

By which thou hast the earth: for thee the

Shall have distinct and trembling beauty,

Beside that past's own shade when, in relief,

Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on

Shall burst the future, as successive

Of several wonder open on some

Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven:

But thou shalt painfully attain to joy,

While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man!

All this was hid from me: as one by

My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed,

As actual good within my reach decreased,

While obstacles sprung up this way and

To keep me from effecting half the sum,

Small as it proved; as objects, mean

The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least,

Itself a match for my concentred strength—What wonder if I saw no way to

Despair?

The power I sought for man, seemed God's.

In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die,

A strange adventure made me know, one

Had spotted my career from its uprise;

I saw Aprile—my Aprile there!

And as the poor melodious wretch

His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear,

I learned my own deep error; love's

Taught me the worth of love in man's estate,

And what proportion love should hold with

In his right constitution; love

Power, and with much power, always much more love;

Love still too straitened in his present means,

And earnest for new power to set love free.

I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned:

And thus, when men received with stupid

My first revealings, would have worshipped me,

And I despised and loathed their proffered praise—When, with awakened eyes, they took

For past credulity in casting

On my real knowledge, and I hated them—It was not strange I saw no good in man,

To overbalance all the wear and

Of faculties, displayed in vain, but

To prosper in some better sphere: and why?

In my own heart love had not been made

To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind,

To know even hate is but a mask of love's,

To see a good in evil, and a

In ill-success; to sympathize, be

Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings,

Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies,

Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts;

All with a touch of nobleness,

Their error, upward tending all though weak,

Like plants in mines which never saw the sun,

But dream of him, and guess where he may be,

And do their best to climb and get to him.

All this I knew not, and I failed.

Let

Regard me, and the poet dead long

Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a

And better-tempered spirit, warned by both:

As from the over-radiant star too

To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself—And the dark orb which borders the abyss,

Ingulfed in icy night,—might have its courseA temperate and equidistant world.

Meanwhile,

I have done well, though not all well.

As yet men cannot do without contempt;'T is for their good, and therefore fit

That they reject the weak, and scorn the false,

Rather than praise the strong and true, in me:

But after, they will know me.

If I

Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,

It is but for a time;

I press God's

Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late,

Will pierce the gloom:

I shall emerge one day.

You understand me?

I have said enough?

Festus.

Now die, dear Aureole!

Paracelsus.                        Festus, let my hand—This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend!

Aprile!

Hand in hand with you,

Aprile!

Festus.

And this was Paracelsus!

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Robert Browning

Robert Browning (7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose mastery of the dramatic monologue made him one of the f…

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