_Fest._ That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit, Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth Shall splendor sit upon thy name forever. Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: what care If lower mountains light their snowy phares At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not The source of day? Their theft shall be their bale: For after-ages shall retrack thy beams, And put aside the crowd of busy ones And worship thee alone--the master-mind, The thinker, the explorer, the creator! Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well The sheet of winding subterraneous fire Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last Huge islands up amid the simmering sea. Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou, Seeing I comprehend thee--I so simple, Thou so august. I recognize thee first; I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late, And though no glance reveal thou dost accept My homage--thus no less I proffer it, And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest. _Par_. Festus! _Fest._ I am for noble Aureole, God! I am upon his side, come weal or woe. His portion shall be mine. He has done well. I would have sinned, had I been strong enough, As he has sinned. Reward him or I waive Reward! If thou canst find no place for him, He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be His slave forever. There are two of us. _Par._ Dear Festus! _Fest._ Here, dear Aureole! ever by you! _Par._ Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! Some story, anything--only your voice. I shall dream else. Speak on! ay, leaning so! _Fest._ Thus the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth. Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee. _Par._ More, more; say on! _Fest._ And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.