_Par._ What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you, Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? Here stand my rivals; Latin, Arab, Jew, Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask Is, that the world enroll my name with theirs, And even this poor privilege, it seems, They range themselves, prepared to disallow. Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them! How they talk calmly of my throes, my fierce Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one claiming Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect And sneeringly disparage the few truths Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while About my neck, their lies misleading me And their dead names browbeating me! Gray crew, Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell, Is there a reason for your hate? My truths Have shaken a little the palm about each prince? Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards Were bent on nothing less than to be crowned As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect, Galen of Pergamos and hell--nay speak The tale, old man! We met there face to face: I said the crown should fall from thee. Once more We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge? _Fest._ Peace, peace; ah, see! _Par._ Oh, emptiness of fame! O Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars! --Who said these old renowns, dead long ago, Could make me overlook the living world To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, But stand no longer? What a warm light life After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide The juggles I had else detected. Fire May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours! The cave was not so darkened by the smoke But that your white limbs dazzled me: oh, white And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing! I cared not for your passionate gestures then, But now I have forgotten the charm of charms, The foolish knowledge which I came to seek, While I remember that quaint dance; and thus I am come back, not for those mummeries, But to love you, and to kiss your little feet Soft as an ermine's winter coat! _Fest._ A light Will struggle through these thronging words at last, As in the angry and tumultuous West A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. These are the strivings of a spirit which hates So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up The past to stand between it and its fate. Were he at Einsiedeln--or Michal here!