_Albert._ And this place my forefathers made for men! This is the process of our love and wisdom To each poor brother who offends against us-- Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty? 110 Is this the only cure? Merciful God! Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt till changed to poison, 115 They break out on him like a loathsome plague-spot! Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks-- And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces at the clanking hour 120 Seen thro' the steaming vapours of his dungeon By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd By sights of ever more deformity! 125 With other ministrations thou, O Nature! Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, 130 Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But bursting into tears wins back his way, His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd 135 By the benignant touch of love and beauty. [_A noise at the dungeon-door. It opens, and OSORIO enters with a goblet in his hand._ _Osorio._ Hail, potent wizard! In my gayer mood I pour'd forth a libation to old Pluto; And as I brimm'd the bowl, I thought of thee! _Albert (in a low voice)._ I have not summon'd up my heart to give 140 That pang, which I must give thee, son of Velez! _Osorio (with affected levity)._ Thou hast conspired against my life and honour, Hast trick'd me foully; yet I hate thee not! Why should I hate thee? This same world of ours-- It is a puddle in a storm of rain, 145 And we the air-bladders, that course up and down, And joust and tilt in merry tournament, And when one bubble runs foul of another, [_Waving his hand at ALBERT._ The lesser must needs break! _Albert._ I see thy heart! There is a frightful glitter in thine eye, 150 Which doth betray thee. Crazy-conscienc'd man, This is the gaiety of drunken anguish, Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt, And quell each human feeling!