I learned my own deep error; love's undoing Taught me the worth of love in man's estate, And what proportion love should hold with power In his right constitution; love preceding Power, and with much power, always much more love; Love still too straitened in his present means, And earnest for new power to set love free. I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: And thus, when men received with stupid wonder My first revealings, would have worshipped me, And I despised and loathed their proffered praise-- When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge For past credulity in casting shame On my real knowledge, and I hated them-- It was not strange I saw no good in man, To overbalance all the wear and waste Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born To prosper in some better sphere: and why? In my own heart love had not been made wise To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, To know even hate is but a mask of love's, To see a good in evil, and a hope In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; All with a touch of nobleness, despite Their error, upward tending all though weak, Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him. All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men Regard me, and the poet dead long ago Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third And better-tempered spirit, warned by both: As from the over-radiant star too mad To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself-- And the dark orb which borders the abyss, Ingulfed in icy night,--might have its course, A temperate and equidistant world. Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. As yet men cannot do without contempt; 'T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, Rather than praise the strong and true, in me: But after, they will know me. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast; its splendor, soon or late, Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day. You understand me? I have said enough! _Fest._ Now die, dear Aureole! _Par._ Festus, let my hand-- This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend! Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile! * * * * * _Fest._ And this was Paracelsus! STRAFFORD A TRAGEDY DEDICATED, IN ALL AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION, TO WILLIAM C. MACREADY LONDON, APRIL 23, 1837