Con. Ah! poor worldlings! Little you dream what maddening ecstasies, What rich ideals haunt, by day and night, Alone, and in the crowd, even to the death, The servitors of that celestial court Where peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns, In whom all Eden dreams of womanhood, All grace of form, hue, sound, all beauty strewn Like pearls unstrung, about this ruined world, Have their fulfilment and their archetype. Why hath the rose its scent, the lily grace? To mirror forth her loveliness, from whom, Primeval fount of grace, their livery came: Pattern of Seraphs! only worthy ark To bear her God athwart the floods of time! Lewis. Who dare aspire to her? Alas, not I! To me she is a doctrine, and a picture:-- I cannot live on dreams. Con. She hath her train:-- There thou may'st choose thy love: If world-wide lore Shall please thee, and the Cherub's glance of fire, Let Catharine lift thy soul, and rapt with her Question the mighty dead, until thou float Tranced on the ethereal ocean of her spirit. If pity father passion in thee, hang Above Eulalia's tortured loveliness; And for her sake, and in her strength, go forth To do and suffer greatly. Dost thou long For some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness, Whose wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instincts Alone keep sane? Lewis. I do, I do. I'd live And die for each and all the three. Con. Then go-- Entangled in the Magdalen's tresses lie; Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips Dare to approach her feet, and thou shalt start To find the canvas warm with life, and matter A moment transubstantiate to heaven. Wal. Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take An indigestion for a troop of angels. Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens, Where not a stringy head of kale is cut But breeds a vision or a revelation. Lewis. Hush, hush, Count! Speak, strange monk, strange words, and waken Longings more strange than either. Con. Then, if proved, As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love, Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul At length may soar: perchance--Oh, bliss too great For thought--yet possible! Receive some token--smile--or hallowing touch Of that white hand, beneath whose soft caress The raging world is smoothed, and runs its course To shadow forth her glory. Lewis. Thou dost tempt me-- That were a knightly quest. Con. Ay, here's true love. Love's heaven, without its hell; the golden fruit Without the foul husk, which at Adam's fall Did crust it o'er with filth and selfishness. I tempt thee heavenward--from yon azure walls Unearthly beauties beckon--God's own mother Waits longing for thy choice-- Lewis. Is this a dream? Wal. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you! Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies, These male hysterics, by starvation bred And huge conceit? Cast off God's gift of manhood, And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone With snapping at the sham one in the water? What were you born a man for?