With power; and while my foot is on the threshold Of boundless life--the doors unopened yet, All preparations not complete within-- I turn new knowledge upon old events, And the effect is ... but I must not tell; It is not lawful. Your own turn will come One day. Wait, Festus! You will die like me. _Fest._ 'T is of that past life that I burn to hear. _Par._ You wonder it engages me just now? In truth, I wonder too. What's life to me? Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen Music, and where I tend bliss evermore. Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a refined Delight to view those chances,--one last view. I am so near the perils I escape, That I must play with them and turn them over, To feel how fully they are past and gone. Still, it is like, some further cause exists For this peculiar mood--some hidden purpose; Did I not tell you something of it, Festus? I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt Away from me; it will return anon. _Fest._ (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice Complete with its old tones: that little laugh Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye, As though one stooped above his head to whom He looked for confirmation and approval, Where was it gone so long, so well preserved? Then, the forefinger pointing as he speaks, Like one who traces in an open book The matter he declares; 't is many a year Since I remarked it last: and this in him, But now a ghastly wreck!) And can it be, Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last That worldly things are utter vanity? That man is made for weakness, and should wait In patient ignorance, till God appoint ... _Par._ Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it! How could I fail to apprehend! You here, I thus! But no more trifling: I see all, I know all: my last mission shall be done If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture Hardly befits one thus about to speak: I will arise. _Fest._ Nay, Aureole, are you wild? You cannot leave your couch. _Par._ No help; no help; Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more! Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. My gown--the scarlet lined with fur; now put The chain about my neck; my signet-ring Is still upon my hand, I think--even so; Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth, leapest Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls Be consecrate, this wretched cell become A shrine, for here God speaks to men through me. Now, Festus, I am ready to begin. _Fest._ I am dumb with wonder.