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In this enlighten’d age too, since you have been
Proved not to exist!—But this internal brood
Will hear no reason and endure no rule.
Are we so wise, and is the pond still haunted
How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish
Of superstition, and the world will not
Come clean with all my pains !—it is a case
Unheard of:
The Gir-L.
Then leave off teasing us so.
I tell you, spirits, to your faces now,
That I should not regret this despotism
Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not.
To-night I shall make poor work of it;
Yet I will take a round with you, and hope
Before my last step in the living dance
To beat the poet and the devil together.


At last he will sit down in some foul puddle!
That is his way of solacing himself;
Until some leech, diverted with his gravity,
Cures him of spirits and the spirit together.

[To FAUst, who has seceded from the dance.
Why do you let that fair girl pass from you,
Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance 1

FAUST. A red mouse in the middle of her singing Sprang from her mouth. Mephistopheles. That was all right, my friend; Be it enough that the mouse was not gray. Do not disturb your hour of happiness With close consideration of such trifles. FAUST. Then saw I– MEPhIstoph ELEs. What 2 FAUSt. Seest thou not a pale Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? She drags herself now forward with slow steps, And seems as if she moved with shackled feet: I cannot overcome the thought that she Is like poor Margaret. MEPhISTOpiiri, E.S. Let it be—pass on— No good can come of it—it is not well To meet it—it is an enchanted phantom, A lifeless idol; with its numbing look, It freezes up the blood of man; and they Who meet its ghastly stare are turn'd to stone, Like those who saw Medusa.

Oh, too true!
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh cerpse
Which no beloved hand has closed, alas!
That is the heart which Margaret yielded to me—
Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoy'd :

It is all magic, poor deluded fool!
She looks to every one like his first love.
Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn
My looks from her sweet piteous countenance.
How strangely does a single blood-red line,

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The bride-maidens who round her thronging came, Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame, Envying the unenviable; and others Making the joy which should have been another's Their own by gentle sympathy; and some Sighing to think of an unhappy home: Some few admiring what can ever lure Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure Of parents’ smiles for life's great cheat; a thing Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.

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But they are all dispersed—and, lo! she stands
Looking in idle grief on her white hands,
Alone within the garden now her own ;
And through the sunny air, with jangling tone,
The music of the merry marriage-bells,
Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells:—
Absorb’d like one within a dream who dreams
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems
A mockery of itself—when suddenly
Antonio stood before her, pale as she.
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,
He lified his wan eyes upon the bride,
And said—“Is this thy faith !” and then as one
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun
With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise
And look upon his day of life with eyes
Which weep in vain that they can dream no more,
Ginevra saw her lover, and sorbore
To shriek or saint, and check'd the stifling blood
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued
Said–. Friend, if earthly violence or ill,
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will
Of parents, chance, or custom, time or change,
Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge,
Or wilder'd looks, or words, or evil speech,
With all their stings [ ] can impeach
Our love-we love not:-il the grave which hides
The victim from the tyrant, and divides
The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart
Imperious inquisition to the heart
That is another's, could dissever ours,
We love not.”—“What, do not the silent hours
Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal-bed
Is not that ring”—a pledge, he would have said,
Of broken vows, but she with patient look
The golden circle from her finger took,
And said—" Accept this tooen of my faith,
The pledge of vows to be absolved by death;
And I am dead, or shall be soon—my knell
Will mix its music with that merry bell:
Does it not sound as if they sweetly said,
• We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed ”
The flowers upon my bridal-chamber strewn
Wol serve un!...ded or my bier—so soon
a . . . . . . e. dying viole, wii. no de
Io e le. a 1...e. s.r.o.og pian asy
Had made her accells weaker and more week,
And quench'd the crimson life upon her cheek,
And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere

Round her, which chill'd the burning noon with feal,

Making her but an image of the thought,
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought
News of the terrors of the coming time.
Like an accuser branded with the crime
He would have cast on a beloved friend,
Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end
The pale betrayer—he then with vain repentance
Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence—
Antonio stood and would have spoken, when
The compound voice of women and of men
Was heard approaching; he retired, while she
Was led amid the admiring company
Back to the palace,—and her maidens soon
Changed her attire for the afternoon,
And left her at her own request to keep
An hour of quiet and rest —like one asleep

With open eyes and folded hands she lay, Pale in the light of the declining day.

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set. And in the lighted hall the guests are met; The beautiful looked lovelier in the light Of love, and admiration, and delight Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes. Kindling a momentary Paradise. This crowd is safer than the silent wood. Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude, On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine Falls, and the dew of music more divine Tempers the deep emotions of the time To spirits cradled in a sunny clime — How many meet, who never yet have met. To part too soon, but never to forget. ! How many saw the beauty, power and wit Of looks and words which ne'er exchanied yet; But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn, As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn, And unprophetic of the coming hours, The matin winds from the expanded flowers Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken From every living heart which it possesses, Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, As if the future and the past were all Treasured i' the instant:—so Gherardi's hall Laugh’d in the mirth of its lord's festival. Till some one ask’d—“Where is the Bride?” And then A bride's-maid went, and ere she came again A silence fell upon the guests—a pause Of expectation, as when beauty awes All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld: Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quell'd:For whispers pass'd from mouth to ear which drew The color from the hearer's cheeks, and flew Louder and swifter round the company; And then Gherardi enter'd with an eye Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud.

They found Ginevra dead! if it be death, To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath, With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, suff, and white, And open eyes, whose six’d and glassy light Mock'd at the speculation they had own'd. If it be death, when there is felt around A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare,

And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair
*rom the scalp to the ankles, as it were
Corruption from the spirit passing forth,
And giving all it shrouded to the earth,
And leaving as swift lightning in its flight
Ashes, and smoke, and darkness: in our night
Of thought we know thus much of death, no mote
Than the unborn dream of our life before
Their barks are wreck'd on its inhospitable shore.
The marriage-feast and its solemnity
Was turn'd 'o funeral pomp-the company
With heavy hearts and looks, broke up; nor they
Who loved the dead went weeping on their way
Alone, but sorrow mix'd with sad surprise
Loosen'd the springs of pity in all eyes,
On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain,
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again.

The lamps which, half-extinguish’d in their haste,
Gleam'd few and faint o'er the abandon'd feast,
Show'd as it were within the vaulted room
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom
Had pass'd out of men's minds into the air.
Some few yet stood around Gherardi there,
Friends and relations of the dead, and he,
A loveless man, accepted torpidly
The consolation that he wanted not,
Awe in the place of grief within him wrought.
Their whispers made the solemn silence seem
More still—some wept, [ ]
Some melted into tears without a sob,
And some with hearts that might be heard to throb
Leant on the table, and at intervals
Shudder'd to hear through the deserted halls
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flaine
Of every torch and taper as it swept
From out the chamber where the women kept;-
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold
Of pleasures now departed; then was knoll'd
The bell of death, and soon the prigsts arrived,
And findrag death their penitent had shrived,
Return'd like ravens from a corpse whereon
A vulture has just feasted to the bone.

And then the mourning women came— + + + + * +

the Dirge. Old winter was gone In his weakness back to the mountains hoar, And the spring came down From the planet that hovers upon the shore Where the sea of sunlight encroaches On the limits of wintry night; If the land, and the air, and the sea Rejoice not when spring approaches, We did not rejoice in thee, Ginevra ! She is still, she is cold On the bridal couch, One step to the white death-bed, And one to the bier, And one to the charnel—and one, O where 1 The dark arrow fled In the noon. Ere the sun through Heaven once more has roll'd, The rats in her heart Will have made their nest, And the worms be alive in her golden hair; While the spirit that guides the sun, Sits throned in his flaming chair, She shall sleep. * * 4.

Pisa, 1821.

CHARLES THE FIRST. A FRAGMENT. ACT I. SCENE I. The Pageant to [celebrate] the arrival of the Queen.

A PURSUIVANT. place, for the Marshal of the Masque !

First spreakER.
What thinkest thou of this quaint masque, which turns
Like morning from the shadow of the night,
The night to day, and London to a place
Of peace and joy
second speaker.

And Hell to Heaven.
Eight years are gone,
And they seem hours, since in this populous street
I trod on grass made green by summer's rain,
For the red plague kept state within that palace
Where now reigns vanity—in nine years more
The roots will be refresh'd with civil blood;
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven
That sin and wrongs wound, as an orphan's cry,
The patience of the great Avenger's ear.

third speAKER (a youth).

Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see,
Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden
By God or man;–’t is like the bright procession
Of skiey visions in a solemn dream
From which men wake as from a paradise, |
And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. |
If God be good, wherefore should this be evil? |
And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw
Unseasonable poison from the flowers
Which bloom so rarely in this barren world?
O, kill these bitter thoughts, which make the present
Dark as the suture —
* + + * + * + - -
When avarice and tyranny, vigilant fear,
And open-eyed conspiracy lie sleeping, |
As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts
Waken to worship him who giveth joys
With his own gift.

sr.cox D speaker. How young art thou in this old age of time ! How green in this gray world! Canst thou not think Of change in that low scene, in which thou art Not a spectator but an actor [ J The day that dawns in fire will die in storms. Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done; Before the whirlwind wakes, I shall have found My inn of lasting rest, but thou must still Be journeying on in this inclement air. * * * + * + * * First speAxer.


Is the Archbishop.

second sprakrit. Rather say the Pope. London will be soon his Rome: he walks As if he trod upon the heads of men. He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold;— Beside him moves the Babylonian woman Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow, Mitred adulterer! he is join'd in sin, Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge ANother citizen (lifting up his eyes). Good Lord! rain it down upon him. [ ] Amid her ladies walks the papist queen, As if her nice feet scorn'd our English earth. There's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Essex, and Lord-Keeper Coventry, And others who make base their English breed By vile participation of their honors

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SECOND speaker. Ay, there they are— Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows. Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan, Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, Who toil not, neither do they spin–unless It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. Here is the surfeit which to them who earn The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves The tithe that will support them till they crawl Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health Follow'd by grim disease, glory by shame, Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want, And England's sin by England's punishment. And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, Lo, giving substance to my words, behold At once the sign and the thing signified— A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts, Horsed upon stumbling shapes, carted with dung,

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KINGWhat, my Archy! He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears, Yet with a quaint and graceful license—Prithee For this once do not as Prynne would, were he Primate of England. He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot, Hung in his gilded prison from the window Of a queen's bower over the public way, Blasphemes with a bird's mind:—his words, like arrows Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit, Strike sometimes what eludes philosophy. Queen. Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence Ten minutes in the rain; be it your penance To bring news how the world goes there. Poor Archy! He weaves about himself a world of mirth Out of this wreck of ours.

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QUEEN. And the lion That wears them must be tamed. My dearest lord, I see the new-born courage in your eye Arm'd to strike dead the spirit of the time. + - - - + Do thou persist: for, faint but in resolve, And it were better thou had still remain'd The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like curs The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer! And opportunity, that empty wolf, Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions Even to the disposition of thy purpose, And be that temper'd as the Ebro's steel: And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace, And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, As w hen she keeps the company of rebels, Who think that she is fear. This do, lest we Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream Out of our worshipp'd state. + - + -


And if this suffice not, Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst They may lick up that scum of schismatics. I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring What we possess, still prate of Christian peace, As if those dreadful messengers of wrath, Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, Should be let loose against innocent sleep Of templed cities and the smiling fields, For some poor argument of policy Which touches our own profit or our pride, Where indeed it were Christian charity To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand : And when our great Redeemer, when our God Is scorn'd in his immediate ministers, They talk of peace:

Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now. - * + - +

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QUEEN. My beloved lord, Have you not noted that the fool of late Has lost his careless mirth, and that his words Sound like the echoes of our saddest fears 2 What can it mean? I should be loth to think Some factious slave had tutor'd him.


It partly is, That our minds piece the vacant intervals Of his wild words with their own fashioning; As in the imagery of summer clouds, Or coals in the winter fire, idlers find The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts: And partly, that the terrors of the time Are sown by wandering Rumor in all spirits;

And in the lightest and the least, may best Be seen the current of the coming wind.

QUEEN. Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts; Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy,–and you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamp'd on the heart by never-erring love; Liker than any Vandyke ever made, A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow.

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England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle,
Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave!
I held what I inherited in thee,
As pawn for that inheritance of freedom
Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile:–
How can I call thee England, or my country?
Does the wind hold 2

The vanes sit steady
Upon the Abbey towers. The silver lightnings
Of the evening star, spite of the city's smoke,
Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air.
Mark too that flock of fleecy-winged clouds
Sailing athwart St. Margaret's.


Hail, fleet herald Of tempest! that wild pilot who shall guide Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee, Beyond the shot of tyranny! And thou, Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm, Bright as the path to a beloved home, O light us to the isles of th' evening land! Like floating Edens, cradled in the glimmer Of sunset, through the distant mist of years Tinged by departing Hope, they gleam. Lone regions, Where power's poor dupes and victims, yet have never Propitiated the savage fear of kings With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew Is yet unstain'd with tears of those who wake To weep each day the wrongs on which it dawns; Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites Wrest man's free worship from the God who loves, Towards the worm who envies us his love; Receive thou young [. } of Paradise, These exiles from the old and sinful world! This glorious clime, this firmament whose lights Dart mitigated influence through the veil Of pale blue atmosphere; whose * keep green 517

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