SCENE, _Salzburg: a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian._ 1541. FESTUS, PARACELSUS. _Fest._ No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Gray morning glimmers feebly: yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirred That fallen discolored mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside Was breaking, to the last they held out bright, As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; But they are dead now--very blind and dead: He will drowse into death without a groan. My Aureole--my forgotten, ruined Aureole! The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast! And now not one of those who struck thee down-- Poor glorious spirit--concerns him even to stay And satisfy himself his little hand Could turn God's image to a livid thing. Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow, And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure Know me, and look on me, and speak to me Once more--but only once! His hollow cheek Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh At his own state were just about to break From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled, And yet I could not turn away. In truth, They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed Resolved to live, to lose no faculty; Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength, Until they bore him to this stifling cell: When straight his features fell, an hour made white The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb, Only the eye remained intense awhile As though it recognized the tomb-like place, And then he lay as here he lies. Ay, here! Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded-- Her bravest champion with his well-won prize-- Her best achievement, her sublime amends For countless generations fleeting fast And followed by no trace;--the creature-god She instances when angels would dispute The title of her brood to rank with them. Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones, Are human, but not his; those are but men Whom other men press round and kneel before; Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; Higher provision is for him you seek Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay!