Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, In all her loveliness. Good night! [_Exit._ _Vic._ Good night! But not to bed; for I must read awhile. (_Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees._) Must read, or sit in reverie and watch The changing color of the waves that break Upon the idle seashore of the mind! Visions of Fame! that once did visit me, Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, Juices of those immortal plants that blow Upon Olympus, making us immortal! Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, And make the mind prolific in its fancies? I have the wish, but want the will to act! Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words Have come to light from the swift river of Time, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ bed, Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? From the barred visor of antiquity Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth As from a mirror! All the means of action— The shapeless masses—the materials— Lie every where about us. What we need Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is Genius! The rude peasant sits At evening in his smoky cot, and draws With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. The man of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, And begs a shelter from the inclement night. He takes the charcoal from the peasant’s hand, And by the magic of his touch at once Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, And in the eyes of the astonish’d clown It gleams a diamond! Even thus transform’d, Rude popular traditions and old tales Shine as immortal poems, at the touch Of some poor houseless, homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night’s lodging for his pains. O there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from some woodland fount a spirit rises And sinks again into its silent deeps, Ere the enamor’d knight can touch her robe! ’Tis this ideal that the soul of man, Like the enamor’d knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the margin of Life’s stream; Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many Must wait in vain. The stream flows evermore, But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! Yet I, born under a propitious star, Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel The pressure of her head! God’s benison