_C. Hun_. Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin,[ax] Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet-- The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience---- _Man_. Patience--and patience! Hence--that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey! Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-- I am not of thine order. _C. Hun_. Thanks to Heaven! I would not be of thine for the free fame Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 40 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. _Man_. Do I not bear it?--Look on me--I live. _C. Hun._ This is convulsion, and no healthful life. _Man_. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years, Many long years, but they are nothing now To those which I must number: ages--ages-- Space and eternity--and consciousness, With the fierce thirst of death--and still unslaked! _C. Hun_. Why on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 50 _Man_. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?[128] It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, Innumerable atoms; and one desert, Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. _C. Hun_. Alas! he's mad--but yet I must not leave him. _Man_. I would I were--for then the things I see 60 Would be but a distempered dream. _C. Hun_. What is it That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? _Man_. Myself, and thee--a peasant of the Alps-- Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf, 70 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph! This do I see--and then I look within-- It matters not--my Soul was scorched already! _C. Hun_. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for mine? _Man_. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange My lot with living being: I can bear-- However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear-- In life what others could not brook to dream, But perish in their slumber. _C. Hun_. And with this-- This cautious feeling for another's pain, 80 Canst thou be black with evil?--say not so. Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked revenge Upon his enemies?