_Ber._ I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day, But do not overtoil thy brain. These themes Are dangerous things, and they who mastered most Have fallen at last but victims to their slaves. _Gia._ It is a glorious thing to fall and die The victim of a noble cause. _Ber._ Ay, true-- The man who battles for his country's right Hath compensation in the world's applause. The victor when returning from the field Is crowned with laurel, and his shining way Is full of shouts and roses. If he fall, His nation builds his monument of glory. But mark the alchemist who walks the streets, His look is down, his step infirm, his hair And cheeks are burned to ashes by his thought; The volumes he consumes, consume in turn; They are but fuel to his fiery brain, Which being fed requires the more to feed on. The people gaze on him with curious looks, And step aside to let him pass untouched, Believing Satan hath him arm in arm. _Gia._ Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels? No heroes but among the martial throng? Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped A sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names, Who lived and labored, died and were forgot, And after whom the world came out and reapt The field, and never questioned who had sown. _Ber._ I did not think of that. _Gia._ Now mark ye well, I am not one to follow phantom themes, To waste my time in seeking for the stone, Or chrystalizing carbon to o'erflood The world with riches which would keep it poor; Nor do I seek the elixir that would make Not life alone, but misery immortal; But something far more glorious than these. _Ber._ Pray what is that? _Gia._ A cure, sir, for the heart-ache. Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane-- Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrusted upward, like a bloody shield! On such an hour the experiment must begin. Come, thou shalt be the first to witness this Most marvelous discovery. And thou, My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower, And I will dream thou'rt lovelier 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 over-worked 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 humor; 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 deemed To walk, as thou hast said the people thought, Arm in arm with the high-souled 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._)