loveliness, from whom,Primeval fount of grace, their livery came:Pattern of Seraphs! only worthy arkTo bear her God athwart the floods of time!

Lewis. Who dare aspire to her? Alas, not I!To me she is a doctrine, and a picture:—I cannot live on dreams.

Con. She hath her train:—There thou may’st choose thy love: If world-wide loreShall please thee, and the Cherub’s glance of fire,Let Catharine lift thy soul, and rapt with herQuestion the mighty dead, until thou floatTranced on the ethereal ocean of her spirit.If pity father passion in thee, hangAbove Eulalia’s tortured loveliness;And for her sake, and in her strength, go forthTo do and suffer greatly. Dost thou longFor some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness,Whose wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instinctsAlone keep sane?

Lewis. I do, I do. I’d liveAnd die for each and all the three.

Con. Then go—Entangled in the Magdalen’s tresses lie;Dream hours before her picture, till thy lipsDare to approach her feet, and thou shalt startTo find the canvas warm with life, and matterA moment transubstantiate to heaven.

Wal. Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to takeAn indigestion for a troop of angels.Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens,Where not a stringy head of kale is cutBut breeds a vision or a revelation.

Lewis. Hush, hush, Count! Speak, strange monk, strange words, and wakenLongings more strange than either.

Con. Then, if proved,As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love,Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soulAt length may soar: perchance—Oh, bliss too greatFor thought—yet possible!Receive some token—smile—or hallowing touchOf that white hand, beneath whose soft caressThe raging world is smoothed, and runs its courseTo shadow forth her glory.

Lewis. Thou dost tempt me—That were a knightly quest.

Con. Ay, here’s true love.Love’s heaven, without its hell; the golden fruitWithout the foul husk, which at Adam’s fallDid crust it o’er with filth and selfishness.I tempt thee heavenward—from yon azure wallsUnearthly beauties beckon—God’s own motherWaits longing for thy choice—

Lewis. Is this a dream?

Wal. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you!Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies,These male hysterics, by starvation bredAnd huge conceit? Cast off God’s gift of manhood,And, like 

 Prev. P 21/124 next