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In this enlighten’d age too, since you have been
At last he will sit down in some foul puddle!
[To FAUst, who has seceded from the dance.
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.
It is all magic, poor deluded fool!
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.
But they are all dispersed—and, lo! she stands
Round her, which chill'd the burning noon with feal,
Making her but an image of the thought,
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 How many saw the beauty, power and wit Of looks and words which ne'er exchanied yet; But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn, As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn, And unprophetic of the coming hours, The matin winds from the expanded flowers Scatter their hoarded incense,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
The lamps which, half-extinguish’d in their haste,
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.
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 !
And Hell to Heaven.
third speAKER (a youth).
Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see,
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
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,
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.
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. - * + - +
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.
The vanes sit steady
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