Come, thou shalt be the first to witness this
Most marvellous discovery. And thou,
My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower,
And I will dream thou 'rt Jovelier than ever.
Come, follow me. (TO BERNARDO.)

Ros. Nay, father, stay; I'm sure
Thou art not well; thine eyes are strangely lit;
The task. I fear, has overwork'd thy brain.

Gia. Dearest ROSALIA, what were eyes or brain Compared with banishment of sorrow? Come.

Ber. (aside to ROSALIA). I will indulge awhile this curious humour:

Adieu! I shall be with thee soon again.

Gia. (overhearing him). When Satan shall regain his wings, and sit

Approved in heaven, perchance, but not till then. Ber. What, "not till then!"

Gia. Shall he be worthy deem'd

To walk, as thou hast said the people thought,
Link'd with the mighty-soul'd philosopher :
And yet the people sometimes are quite right-
The devil's at our elbow oftener than
We know.

(He gives BERNARDO his arm, and they enter the laboratory.)
Ros. (alone). He never look'd so strange before;
His cheeks are suddenly grown pale and thin;
His very hair seems whiter than it did.
Oh, surely, 'tis a fearful trade that crowds
The work of years into a single day!
It may be that the sadness which I wear
Hath clothed him in its own peculiar hue.
The very sunshine of this cloudless morn
Seem'd but a world of broad, white desolation;
While in my ears small melancholy bells
Knoll'd their long, solemn, and prophetic chime.
But hark! a louder and a holier toll,
Shedding its benediction on the air,
Proclaims the vesper hour-Ave Maria!

[Exit ROSALIA. SCENE III-GIACOMO and BERNARDO discovered in the laboratory.

Gia. What sayst thou now, BERNARDO?

Ber. Is this the balm thou spak'st of?

Gia. Ay, sir, the same.

Ber. Oh, would that now my heart Were torn with every grief the earth hath known, Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold! Where didst thou learn the secret and from whom? Gia. From GEBBER down to PARACELSUS, none Have mention'd the discovery of this: The need of it was parent to the thought. [out? Ber. How long will these small crucibles hold Gia. A little while, but there are two beside, That when thy sense is toned up to the point, May then be fired, and when thou breath'st their fumes,

Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than that

Which HELEN gave the guests of MENELAUS.

(He places the two crucibles on the furnace.)
Now, Sir Alchemist,
Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure-
'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by St. John,
I'll turn philosopher myself, and do
Some good at last in this benighted world!
Now how like demons on the ascending smoke,
Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame,
Filling the room with a mysterious haze,
Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air,
Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms;
And every form is lit with burning eyes,
Which pierce me through and through like fiery
arrows!

The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seem
To stand upon a reeling deck. Hold, hold!
A hundred crags are toppling overhead.

I faint, I sink-now let me clutch that limb-
Oh, devil! It breaks to ashes in my grasp!
What ghost is that which beckons through the mist?
The duke! the duke! and bleeding at the breast!
Whose dagger struck the blow?

Enter GIACOMO.

Gia. Mine, villain, mine!

What! thou'st set the other two aburning:
Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last!
I should have done the deed-and yet 'tis well;
Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood!

Ber. Ha! is it so? Then follow thou!
Gia. My time

Is not quite yet; this antidote shall place
A bar between us for a little while.

(He raises a vial to his lips, drinks, and Angı is aside.)

Ber. (rallying). Come, give it me—
Gia. Ha, ha! I drain'd it all!

There is the broken vial.

Ber. Is there no arm

To save me from the abyss?

Gia. No, villain, sink!

And take this cursed record of thy plot,

(He thrusts a paper imo BERNARDO'S hand.) And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at The infernal gate!

(BERNARDO reads, reels, and falls.)

Gia. (looking on the body). Poor miserable dust! This body now is honest as the best,

The very best of earth, lie where it may.
My mantle must conceal the thing from sight;
for soon ROSALIA, as I bade her, shall
Be here. O Heaven! vouchsafe to me the power
To do this last stern act of justice. Thou
Who call'dst the child of JAIRUS from the dead,
Assist a stricken father now to raise

His sinless daughter from the bier of shame
And may her soul, unconscious of the deed,
Forever walk the azure fields of heaven!

Enter ROSALIA, dressed in simple white, bearing a small golden crucifix in her hand.

Ros. Dear father, in obedience, I have comeBut where's BERNARDO?

Gia. Gone to watch the stars;

To see old solitary Saturn whirl

Like poor IXION on his burning wheel-
He is our patron orb to-night, my child.

Ros. I do not know what strange experiment
Thou 'dst have me see, but in my heart I feel
That HE, in whose remembrance this was made,
(Looking at the cross.)
Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts.
Since vesper time-I know not how it was--
I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers.
Gia. Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heav'n.
Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine,
And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest.

(He looks upon the crucifix a while, and presses it to his lips.)

Ros. Pray, tell me, father, what is in the air? Gia. Seest thou the crucibles, my child? Now I'll drop a simple essence into each. [mark

Ros. My sense is flooded with perfume!
Gia. Again.

Ros. My soul, asudden, thrills with such delight,
It seems as it had won a birth of wings!
Gia. Behold, now when I throw these jewels in,
The glories of our art!

Ros. A cloud of hues

As beautiful as morning fills the air;

And every breath I draw comes freighted with
Elysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist,

In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room.
The very walls are melting from my sight,
And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead!
And on that gentle breeze did we not hear
The song of birds and silvery waterfalls?
And walk we not on green and flowery ground?
Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this:
The ducal gardens are not half so fair!
Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams,
Let us forever make our dwelling here.
Not lovelier in my earliest visions seem'd
The paradise of our first parents, fill'd
With countless angels whose celestial light
Thrill'd the sweet foliage like a gush of song.
Look how the long and level landscape gleams,
And with a gradual pace goes mellowing up
Into the blue! The very ground we tread
Seems flooded with the tender hue of heaven;
An azure lawn is all about our feet,
And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers.
Gia. Nay, dear ROSALIA, cast thy angel ken
Far down the shining pathway we have trod,
And sce behind us those enormous gates

To which the world has given the name of death;
And note the least among yon knot of lights,
And recognise your native orb, the earth!
For we are spirits threading fields of space,
Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars.
But now,
dear love, adieu!-a flash from heaven,
A sudden glory in the silent air-
A rustle as of wings, proclaims the approach
Of holier guides to take thee into keep.
Behold them gliding down the azure hill,
Making the blue ambrosial with their light!
Our paths are here divided. I must go
Through other ways, by other forms attended!

THE REALM OF DREAMS.

"The baseless fabric of a vision."

OFT have I wander'd through the realm of dreams,
By shadowy mountains and clear running streams,
Catching at times strange, transitory gleams
Of Eden-vistas, glimmering through a haze
Of floral splendour, where the birds, ablaze
With colour, streak'd the air like flying stars,
With momentary bars;

And heard low music breathe above, around,
As if the air within itself made sound—
As if the soul of Melody were pent
Within some unseen instrument,
Hung in a viewless tower of air,

And with enchanted pipes beguiled its own despair.
But stranger than all other dreams which led,
Asleep or waking, my adventurous tread,
Were these which came of late to me
Through fields of slumber, and did seem to be
Wrapp'd in an awful robe of prophecy. [boughs
I walk'd the woods of March, and through the
The earliest bird was calling to his spouse;
And in the shelter'd nooks

Lay spots of snow,

Or with a noiseless flow

Stole down into the brooks;

And where the springtime sun had longest shone
The violet look'd up and found itself alone.
Anon I came unto a noisy river,
And felt the bridge beneath me sway and quiver;
Below, the hungry waters howl'd and hiss'd,
And upward blew a blinding cloud of mist;
But there the friendly Iris built its arch,
And I in safety took my onward march.
Now coming to a mighty hill,

Along the shelvy pathway of a rill

Which danced itself to foam and spray,
I clomb my steady way.

It may be that the music of the brook
Gave me new strength-it may be that I took
Fresh vigour from the mountain air

Which cool'd my cheek and fann'd my hair;
Or was it that adown the breeze
Came sounds of wondrous melodies-
Strange sounds as of a maiden's voice
Making her mountain-home rejoice?
Following that sweet strain, I mounted still
And gained the highest hemlocks of the hill,

Old guardians of a little lake, which sent
Adown the brook its crystal merriment,
Blessing the valley where the planter went [tent.
Sowing the furrow'd mould and whistling his con-
Through underwood of laurel, and across
A little lawn shoe-deep with sweetest moss,
I pass'd, and found the lake, which, like a shield
Some giant long had ceased to wield,

Lay with its edges sunk in sand and stone,
With ancient roots and grasses overgrown;
But far more beautiful and rare
Than any strange device that e'er
Glitter'd upon the azure field

Of ancient warrior's polish'd shield,
Was the fair vision which did lie
Emboss'd upon the burnish'd lake,
And in its sweet repose did make

A second self that sang to the inverted sky.
Not she who lay on banks of thornless flowers
Ere stole the serpent into Eden's bowers;
Not she who rose from Neptune's deep abodes
The wonder of Olympian gods;

Nor all the fabled nymphs of wood or stream
Which bless'd the Arcadian's dream,
Could with that floating form compare,
Lying with her golden harp and hair
Bright as a cloud in the sunset air.
Her tresses gleam'd with many stars,
And on her forehead one, like Mars,
A lovely crown of light dispread
Around her shining head.

And now she touch'd her harp, and sung
Strange songs in a forgotten tongue;
And as my spirit heard, it seem'd
To feel what it had lived or dream'd
In other worlds beyond our skies-
In ancient spheres of paradise;
And as I gazed upon her face,
It seem'd that I could dimly trace
Dear lineaments long lost of yore
Upon some unremember'd shore,
Beyond an old and infinite sea,

In the realm of an unknown century.
For very joy I clapp'd my hands,
And leap'd upon the nearer sands!-
A moment, and the maiden glanced
Upon me where I stood entranced;
Then noiselessly as moonshine falls
Adown the ocean's crystal walls,
And with no stir or wave attended,
Slowly through the lake descended;
Till from her hidden form below
The waters took a golden glow,

As if the star which made her forehead bright
Had burst and fill'd the lake with light!
Long standing there I watch'd in vain—
The vision would not rise again.

Again, in sleep, I walk'd by singing streams,
And it was May-day in my realm of dreams:
The flowering pastures and the trees
Were full of noisy birds and bees;

And swinging roses, like sweet censers, went
The village children making merriment,
Follow'd by older people; as they pass'd,
One beckon'd, and I join'd the last.

We cross'd the meadow, cross'd the brook,
And through the scented woodland took
Our happy way, until we found
An open space of vernal ground;
And there around the flowery pole

I join'd the joyous throng and sang with all my soul!
But when the little ones had crown'd their queen,
And danced their mazes to the wooded scene
To hunt the honeysuckles, and carouse
Under the spice-wood boughs

I turn'd, and saw with wondering eye

A maiden in a bower near by,

Wreathed with unknown blossoms, such as bloom
In orient isles with wonderful perfume.
And she was very beautiful and bright;

And in her face was much of that strange light
Which on the mountain lake had bless'd my sight;
Her speech was like the echo of that song
Which on the hillside made me strong.
Now with a wreath, now with a coin she play'd,
Pursuing a most marvellous trade-
Buying the lives of young and old,
Some with fame, and some with gold!
And there with trembling steps I came,
But ere I ask'd for gold or fame,
Before I could announce my name,
The wreath fell wither'd from her head,
And from her face the mask was shed;
Her mantle dropp'd-and lo! the morning sun
Look'd on me through a nameless skeleton!

Again I stood within the realm of dreams,
At midnight, on a huge and shadowy tower;
And from the east the full moon shed her beams,
And from the sky a wild meteoric shower
Startled the darkness; and the night
Was full of ominous voices and strange light,
Like to a madman's brain; below
Prophetic tongues proclaiming wo
Echo'd the sullen roar

Of Ocean on the neighboring shore;
And in the west a forest caught the sound
And bore it to its utmost bound.

And then, for hours, all stood as to behold
Some great event by mighty seers foretold;
And all the while the moon above the sea
Grew strangely large and red-and suddenly,
Follow'd by a myriad stars,

Swung at one sweep into the western sky,
And, widening with a melancholy roar,
Broke to a hundred flaming bars,

Grating the heavens as with a dungeon door.
Then to that burning gate

A radiant spirit came, and through the grate
Smiled till I knew the angel, Fate!
And in its hand a golden key it bore
To open that celestial door.

Sure, I beheld that angel thrice;
Twice met on earth, it mock'd me twice;
But now behind those bars it beam'd
Such love as I had never dream'd,
Smiling my prison'd soul to peace
With eyes that promised quick release;
And looks thus spake to looks, where lips on earth
were dumb,

THE BRICKMAKER.

I.

LET the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.
In no stately structures skill'd,
What the temple we would build?
Now the massive kiln is risen-
Call it palace-call it prison;
View it well: from end to end
Narrow corridors extend-

Long, and dark, and smother'd aisles:
Choke its earthy vaults with piles
Of the resinous yellow pine;
Now thrust in the fetter'd Fire-
Hearken! how he stamps with ire,
Treading out the pitchy wine;
Wrought anon to wilder spells,

Hear him shout his loud alarms;
See him thrust his glowing arms
Through the windows of his cells.

But his chains at last shall sever;
Slavery lives not forever;
And the thickest prison wall
Into ruin yet must fall.
Whatsoever falls away
Springeth up again, they say;

Then, when this shall break asunder,
And the fire be freed from under,
Tell us what imperial thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a stately building-
Airy dome and column'd walls;
Mottoes writ in richest gilding

Blazing through its pillar'd halls.

In those chambers, stern and dreaded,
They, the mighty ones, shall stand;
There shall sit the hoary-headed

Old defenders of the land.

There shall mighty words be spoken,
Which shall thrill a wondering world;
Then shall ancient bonds be broken,
And new banners be unfurl'd.

But anon those glorious uses

In these chambers shall lie dead,
And the world's antique abuses,
Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger-
The old capitol must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall.

II.

Let the blinded horse go round Till the yellow clay be ground, And no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded

Till the heavy walls be risen,

And the fire is in his prison:

But when break the walls asunder,
And the fire is freed from under,
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple
To the heavens shall aspire;
And shall come the mighty people

To the music of the choir.

On the infant, robed in whiteness,
Shall baptismal waters fall,
While the child's angelic brightness
Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage
Forms that tremble-hearts that thrill-
To the door Death's sable carriage

Shall bring forms and hearts grown still! Deck'd in garments richly glistening,

Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle;
And the poor without stand listening,
Praying in their hearts the while.
There the veteran shall come weekly
With his cane, oppress'd and poor,
Mid the horses standing meekly,
Gazing through the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger--
The presumptuous pile must fall;

For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall.

III.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded:
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the hall with column'd chambers,
Starr'd with words of liberty,
Where the freedom-canting members
Feel no impulse of the free:
Not the pile where souls in error
Hear the words, "Go, sin no more!"
But a dusky thing of terror,

With its cells and grated door.
To its inmates each to-morrow
Shall bring in no tide of joy.
Born in darkness and in sorrow,
There shall stand the fated boy.
With a grief too loud to smother,

With a throbbing, burning head, There shall groan some desperate mother, Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,

Mark'd with honourable scars, Listening to some clanking fetter, Shall gaze idly through the bars:

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,

Though with thick oppression bowl; While the many, doubly erring,

Shall walk honour'd through the crowd.

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.
BETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wail,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway sull,
But a stranger's foot has cross'd the sill.
There is the barn-and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallow's throng,
And hear the peewee's mournful song;
But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.
There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watch'd the shadowy moments run
Till ny life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
Bu. the stranger's children are swinging there.
Taere bubbles the shady spring below,
with its bulrush brook where the haze's grow;
T'was there I found the calamus-root,
And watch'd the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing,
But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.
Oh, ye who dai'y cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have pass'd within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more!
Deal kind'y with these orchard trees;
And when your children crowd their knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirr'd their heart:
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall-
My heart still lingers with them all.
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still!

A SONG.

BRING me the juice of the honey fruit,
The large translucent, amber-hued,
Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit
The luxury that fills my mood.

And bring me only such as grew

Where rarest maidens tend the bowers, And only fed by rain and dew

Which first had bathed a bank of flowers. They must have hung on spicy trees I airs of far, enchanted vales, And all night heard the ecstasies

Of noble-throated nightingales: So that the virtues which belong

To flowers may therein tasted be,
And that which hath been thrill'd with song
May give a thrill of song to me.
For I wou'd wake that string for thee

Which hath too long in silence hung,
And sweeter than all else should be
The song which in thy praise is sung.

THE DESERTED ROAD.

ANCIENT road, that wind'st deserted Through the level of the vale, Sweeping toward the crowded market Like a stream without a sail; Standing by thee, I look backward,

And, as in the light of dreams, See the years descend and vanish Like thy whitely-tented teams. Here I stroll along the village

As in youth's departed morn; But I miss the crowded coaches, And the driver's bugle-hornMiss the crowd of jovial teamsters

Filling buckets at the wells, With their wains from Conestoga, And their orchestras of bells. To the mossy wayside tavern

Comes the noisy throng no more; And the faded sign, complaining, Swings unnoticed at the door; While the old, decrepit tollman,

Waiting for the few who pass, Reads the melancholy story

In the thickly-springing grass. Ancient highway, thou art vanquish'd; The usurper of the vale Rolls in fiery, iron rattle,

Exultations on the gale.

Thou art vanquish'd and neglected;
But the good which thou hast done,
Though by man it be forgotten,
Shall be deathless as the sun.
Though neglected, gray, and grassy,
Still I pray that my decline
May be through as vernal valleys
And as blest a calm as thine.