¥JL'\CaSU5 of 
 
 POLLOCK 
 DLNLSON 
 
Book, ' - ' • 
 
 Gopight W 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE PARACELSUS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
" It is in Paracelsus (the work that posterity will probably 
 estimate as Browning's greatest) that we must look for the 
 strongest proof of his sympathy with man's desire to know 
 and bend the forces of nature to his service." 
 
 Edward Berdoe 
 
THE PARACELSUS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 BY 
 
 CHRISTINA POLLOCK DENISON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE BAKER AND TAYLOR COMPANY 
 
 1911 
 
Copyright, 1911, by 
 The Baker & Taylor Co. 
 
 
 THE • PLIMPTON • PRESS 
 
 [ W D«o] 
 NORWOOD • MASS • U • S • A 
 
 ©CI.A293727 
 
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 I 
 
 5 
 
 TO YOU, DEAR 
 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK IS 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY 
 
 INSCRIBED 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 FOR a comprehensive understanding of 
 Robert Browning's poem "Paracelsus," 
 some knowledge of the man Paracel- 
 sus and his doctrines is necessary. In 
 an historical note and comment. Browning 
 says: "The liberties I have taken with my 
 subject are very trifling and the reader may 
 slip the foregoing scenes between the leaves 
 of any memoir of Paracelsus he pleases by 
 way of commentary." In all other respects I 
 leave this volume to speak for itself. For 
 valuable infoi:mation I wish to gratefully 
 acknowledge my obligation to Mr. Berdoe's 
 "Browning Cyclopedia," Mr. Wm. Sharp's 
 "Life of Robert Browning," Hartmann's 
 "History of Paracelsus," Erdmann's "His- 
 tory of Philosophy," and to some of the 
 Browning Society's papers. 
 
 January 4, 1911. 
 
 [vii] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Paracelsus, The Man 1 
 
 The Philosophy of Paracelsus ... 35 
 
 Note 59 
 
 Paracelsus, the Poem 65 
 
 General Review of the Poem bringing 
 
 out the most significant passages . 191 
 
 Glossary of Words and Allusions . . 233 
 
PARACELSUS, THE ^L\X 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 PHILIPPUS AUREOLUS THEOPH- 
 RASTUS BOMBAST, of Hohenheim, 
 known as Paracelsus (a name coined 
 for himself, apparently meaning to 
 imply that he was greater than Celsus), was 
 born in the year 1493, in the vicinity of 
 a place called Einsiedeln, a village some 
 leagues distant from the city of Zurich, in 
 Switzerland. His father, William Bombast, 
 of Hohenheim, was one of the descendants of 
 the old and celebrated family Bombast, and 
 they were called of Hohenheim, after their 
 ancient residence, known as Hohenheim, a 
 castle near the village of Plinnigen, in the 
 vicinity of Stuttgart, in Wurtemburg. He 
 was a relative of the Grand Master of the 
 Order of the Knights of St. John of these 
 times, whose name was George Bombast of 
 Hohenheim. He established himself, in his 
 capacity of a physician, near Einsiedeln; 
 and in the year 1492 he married the matron 
 
 [3] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 of the hospital belonging to the abbey of that 
 place, and the result of their marriage was 
 Theophrastus, their only child. It may be 
 mentioned that Paracelsus, in consideration 
 of the place of his birth, has also been called 
 Helvetius Eremita, and furthermore we 
 sometimes find him called Germanus, Suevus, 
 and Arpinus. 
 
 An old tradition says that Paracelsus was 
 emasculated in infancy by accident or by a 
 drunken soldier. The truth of this has not 
 been ascertained but by many people is 
 regarded as one of the calumnies invented by 
 his enemies. It is certain, however, that no 
 beard grew on his face, and his skull, which 
 is still in existence, resembles the formation 
 of a female rather that that of a male. He 
 is painted nowhere with a beard. His por- 
 trait, in life-size, can still be seen at Salzburg, 
 painted on the wall of his residence (Linzer 
 Street, No. 365, opposite the church of St. 
 Andrew). Other portraits of Paracelsus are 
 to be found in Huser's edition of his works, 
 and in the first volume of Hauber's "Biblio- 
 theca Magica." 
 
 The head of Paracelsus, painted by Kaul- 
 
 bach in his celebrated picture, at the Museum 
 
 at Berlin, called "The Age of Reformation," 
 — 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 is idealized and bears little resemblance to 
 the original. 
 
 In his early youth Paracelsus obtained 
 instructions in science from his father, who 
 taught him the rudiments of alchemy, sur- 
 gery, and medicine. He always honored the 
 memory of his father, and always spoke in the 
 kindest terms of him, who was not only his 
 father, but also his friend and instructor. 
 He afterwards continued his studies under 
 the tuition of the monks of the convent of 
 St. Andrew, situated in the valley of Savon, 
 under the guidance of the learned bishops, 
 Eberhardt Baumgartner, Mathias Scheydt, 
 of Rottgach, and Mathias Schacht, of Freis- 
 ingen. Having attained his sixteenth year, 
 he was sent to study at the University of 
 Basel. He was afterwards instructed by the 
 celebrated Johann Trithemius, of Spanheim, 
 abbot of St. Jacob, at Wurzburg (1461-1516), 
 one of the greatest adepts of magic, alchemy, 
 and astrology, and it was under this teacher 
 that his talents for the study of occultism 
 were especially cultivated and brought into 
 practical use. His love for the occult sciences 
 led him to enter the laboratory of the rich 
 Sigismund Fugger at Schwatz, in Tyrol, who, 
 like the abbot, was a celebrated alchemist, 
 
 [5] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 and able to teach to his disciple many a 
 valuable secret. 
 
 Later on, Paracelsus traveled a great deal. 
 He visited Germany, Italy, France, the 
 Netherlands, Denmark, Sweden, and Russia, 
 and it is said that he even went to India, be- 
 cause he was taken prisoner by the Tartars 
 and brought to the Khan, whose son he 
 afterwards accompanied to Constantinople. 
 Every reader of the works of Paracelsus, who 
 is also acquainted with the recent revela- 
 tions made by the Eastern Adepts, cannot 
 fail to notice the similarity of the two sys- 
 tems, which in many respects are almost 
 identical, and it is therefore quite probable 
 that Paracelsus, during his captivity in Tar- 
 tary, was instructed in the secret doctrine 
 by the teachers of occultism in the East. 
 The information given by Paracelsus in re- 
 gard to the sevenfold principles of man, the 
 qualities of the astral body, the earth-bound 
 elementaries, etc., was then entirely unknown 
 in the West. Paracelsus, moreover, wrote a 
 great deal about the Elementals, or spirits of 
 Nature, but in his description of them he 
 substituted for the Eastern terms such as 
 were more in harmony with the German 
 mythological conceptions of the same, for 
 
 _ 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 the purpose of bringing these subjects more 
 to the understanding of his countrymen, who 
 were used to the Western method of thought. 
 It is probable that Paracelsus stayed among 
 the Tatars between 1513 and 1521, because, 
 according to Van Helmont's account, he 
 came to Constantinople during the latter 
 year, and received there "The Philosopher's 
 Stone." 1 
 
 The Adept from whom Paracelsus received 
 this stone was, according to a certain aureum 
 vellus (printed at Rorschach, 1598), a cer- 
 tain Solomon Trismosinus (or Pfeiffer), a 
 countryman of Paracelsus. It is said that 
 this Trismosinus was also in possession of 
 the Universal Panacea; and it is asserted 
 that he had been seen still alive, by a French 
 traveler, at the end of the seventeenth 
 century. 
 
 ^"The Philosopher's Stone." This is not a stone in the 
 usual sense of the term, but an allegorical expression, mean- 
 ing the principle of wisdom upon which the philosopher who 
 has obtained it by practical experience (not the one who is 
 merely speculating about it) may fully rely on, as he would 
 rely on the value of a precious stone, or as he would trust to 
 a solid rock upon which to build the foundation of his (spirit- 
 ual) house. It is the Christ in man: divine love substan- 
 tialized. It is the light of the world; the very essence of 
 that of which the world has been created; it is not mere 
 spirit but substantial; for in the body of man is contained 
 the greatest of all mysteries. " Paracelsus, Greatest of the 
 Alchemists." Dr. Franz Hartmann. 
 
 m 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Paracelsus traveled through the countries 
 along the Danube, and came to Italy, where 
 he served as an army surgeon in the Imperial 
 army, and participated in many of the war- 
 like expeditions of these times. On these 
 occasions he collected a great deal of useful 
 information, not only from physicians, sur- 
 geons, and alchemists, but also by his inter- 
 course with executioners, barbers, shepherds, 
 Jews, gipsies, midwives, and fortune-tellers. 
 He collected useful information from the high 
 and the low, from the learned and from the 
 vulgar, and it was nothing unusual to see 
 him in the company of teamsters and vaga- 
 bonds, on the highways and at public inns — 
 a circumstance on account of which his 
 narrow-minded enemies heaped upon him 
 bitter reproach and vilifications. Having 
 traveled for ten years — sometimes exerci- 
 sing his art as a physician, at other times 
 teaching or studying alchemy and magic, ^ 
 according to the custom of these days — he 
 returned at the age of thirty-two again to 
 Germany, where he soon became very cele- 
 
 ^ Paracelsus says: "Magic and Sorcery are two entirely 
 different'things, and there is as much difference between them 
 as there is between light and darkness, and between white 
 and black. Magic is the greatest wisdom and knowledge of 
 the supernatural powers." 
 
 m 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 brated on account of the many and wonder- 
 ful cures which he performed. 
 
 In the year 1525 Paracelsus went to 
 Basel; and in 1527, on the recommendation 
 of (Ecolampadius, he was appointed by the 
 City Council a professor of physics, medicine, 
 and surgery, receiving a considerable salary. 
 His lectures were not — like those of his 
 colleagues — mere repetitions of the opinions 
 of Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna, the ex- 
 position of which formed the sole occupation 
 of the professors of medicine of those times. 
 His doctrines were essentially doctrines of 
 his own, and he taught them independently 
 of the opinions of others, gaining thereby the 
 applause of his students, and horrifying his 
 orthodox colleagues by his contravention of 
 their established custom of teaching nothing 
 but what could be well supported by old and 
 accepted authorities, irrespective of whether 
 or not it was compatible with reason and truth. 
 
 He held at the same time the office of city 
 physician, and in that capacity he offered a 
 resolution to the City Council of Basel, to the 
 effect that the apothecaries of that city should 
 be subjected to his supervision, and that he 
 should be permitted to examine whether or 
 not the compounders of medicine understood 
 
 — 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 their business, and to ascertain whether they 
 had a sufficient quantity of pure and genuine 
 drugs on hand so that he might prevent them 
 from asking exorbitant prices for their goods. 
 The consequence of this measure was, as 
 might have been expected, that he drew upon 
 himself the concentrated hatred of all the 
 druggists and apothecaries; and the other 
 physicians and professors, jealous of his suc- 
 cess in teaching medicine and curing diseases, 
 joined in the persecution, under the pretext 
 that his appointment as a professor at the 
 university had been made without their con- 
 sent, and that Paracelsus was a stranger, of 
 whom "nobody knew where he came from," 
 and furthermore that they did not know 
 whether or not he was "a real doctor." But 
 perhaps all these annoyances and vilifica- 
 tions would have had no serious consequences 
 if he had not made the members of the City 
 Council his enemies by writing a severe pub- 
 lication against a decision which he con- 
 sidered very unjust, and which was rendered 
 in favor of a certain Canonicus Cornelius of 
 Lichtenfels, whom he had saved from death 
 after the latter had been given up to die by 
 the other physicians, and who had acted very 
 ungratefully towards him. The consequence 
 
 [10] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 of his hasty action was, that he had to leave 
 Basel secretly and hurriedly in July, 1528, 
 to avoid unpleasant complications. 
 
 After this event Paracelsus resumed his 
 strolling life, roaming — as he did in his 
 youth — over the country, living in village 
 taverns and inns, and traveling from place 
 to place. Numerous disciples followed him, 
 attracted either by a desire for knowledge or 
 by a wish to acquire his art and to use it for 
 their own purposes. The most renowned of 
 his followers was Johannes Oporinus, who 
 for three years served as a secretary and 
 famulus to him, and who afterwards became 
 a professor of the Greek language, and a well- 
 known publisher, book-seller, and printer, at 
 Basel. Paracelsus was exceedingly reticent 
 in regard to his secrets, and Oporinus after- 
 wards spoke very bitterly against him on 
 that account, and thereby served his enemies. 
 But after the death of Paracelsus he regretted 
 his own indiscretion, and expressed great 
 veneration for him. 
 
 Paracelsus went to Colmar in 1528, and 
 came to Esslingen and Nuremburg in the 
 years 1529 and 1530. The "regular phy- 
 sicians" of Nuremburg denounced him a 
 quack, charlatan, and impostor. To refute 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 their accusations he requested the City Coun- 
 cil to put some patients that had been de- 
 clared incurable under his care. They sent 
 him some cases of elephantiasis, which he 
 cured in a short time and without asking any 
 fee. Testimonials to that effect may be found 
 in the archives of the city of Nuremburg. 
 
 But this success did not change the for- 
 tune of Paracelsus, who seemed to be doomed 
 to a life of continual wanderings. In 1530 we 
 find him at Noerdlingen, Munich, Regens- 
 burg, Amberg, and Meran; in 1531 in St. 
 Gall, and in 1535 at Zurich. He then went 
 to Maehren, Kaernthen, Krain, and Hongary, 
 and finally landed in Salzburg, to which 
 place he was invited by the Prince Palatine, 
 Duke Ernst of Bavaria, who was a great lover 
 of the secret arts. In that place Paracelsus 
 obtained at last the fruits of his long labors 
 and of a wide-spread fame. 
 
 But he was not destined to enjoy a long 
 time the rest he so richly deserved, because 
 already on the 24th of September, 1541, he 
 died after a short sickness (at the age of 
 forty -eight years and three days), in a small 
 room of the inn to the "White Horse," near 
 the quay, and his body was buried in the 
 graveyard of St. Sebastian. There is still a 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 mystery in regard to his death, but the 
 most recent investigations go to confirm the 
 statement made by his contemporaries, that 
 Paracelsus during a banquet had been 
 treacherously attacked by the hirelings of 
 certain physicians who were his enemies, 
 and that in consequence of a fall upon a 
 rock, a fracture was produced on his skull, 
 that after a few days caused his death. A 
 German physician, S. Th. von Soemmering, 
 examined the skull of Paracelsus, which, on 
 account of its peculiar formation, could not 
 easily be mistaken, and noticed a fracture 
 going through the temporal bone, which, by 
 reason of the age and frequent handling of 
 that skull, had become enlarged in size so as 
 to be easily seen, and that he believes that 
 such a fracture could only have been pro- 
 duced during the lifetime of Paracelsus, 
 because the bones of a solid but old and 
 desiccated skull would not be likely to sepa- 
 rate in that manner. 
 
 The bones of Paracelsus were exhumed in 
 the year 1572, at a time when the church was 
 repaired, and re-interred near the back side 
 of the wall that encloses the space in front 
 of the chapel of St. Philippi Neri, an exten- 
 sion of the church of St. Sebastian, where 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 his monument may be seen at the present 
 time. The midst of a broken pyramid of 
 white marble shows a cavity which contains 
 his picture, and above it is a Latin inscrip- 
 tion, saying: 
 
 PHILIPPI THEOPHRASTI PARACELSI QUI 
 TANTAM ORBIS FAMAM EX AURO CHYMICO 
 ADEPTUS EST EFFIGIES ET OSA DONEC 
 RURSUS CIRCUMDABITUR PELLE SUA 
 JON. CAP. XIX 
 
 Below the portrait are the following words: 
 
 SUB REPARATIONE ECCLESIAE MDCCLXXII 
 
 EX SEPULCHRALI TABE ERUTA HEIC 
 
 LOCATA SUNT 
 
 The base of the monument contains the 
 following inscription: 
 
 CONDITUR HIC PHILIPPUS THEOPHRAS- 
 TUS INSIGNIS MEDICINAE DOCTOR QUI 
 DIRA ILLA VULNERA LEPRAM PODAGRAM 
 HYDROPSIN ALIAQUE INSANABILIA COR- 
 PORIS CONTAGIA MIRIFICA ARTE SUSTULIT 
 ET BONA SUA IN PAUPERES DISTRIBU- 
 ENDA LOCANDAQUE HONORAVIT. ANNO 
 MDXXXXI. DIE XXIV. SEPTEMBRIS VITAM 
 CUM MORTE MUTAVIT 
 
 [14] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 Below this inscription may be seen the 
 coat of arms of Paracelsus, representing a 
 beam of silver upon which are ranged three 
 black balls, and below are the words: 
 
 PAX VIVIS REQUIES AETERNA SEPULTIS 
 
 A translation of the above inscription into 
 German may be seen on a black board on the 
 left side of the monument. The two latter 
 inscriptions have evidently been taken from 
 the original monument, but the one around 
 the portrait was added in 1572. 
 
 Thus were the earthly remnants of Para- 
 celsus disposed of. 
 
 Paracelsus left very few worldly goods at the 
 time of his death, but the inheritance which he 
 left in the shape of his writings is rich and im- 
 perishable. This extraordinary man — one of 
 the most remarkable ones of all times and all 
 peoples — found many enthusiastic followers; 
 but the number of those who envied and 
 therefore hated him was still greater. He had 
 many enemies, because he overthrew the cus- 
 tomary old-fogy ism of the orthodox physicians 
 and speculative philosophers of his age; he 
 proclaimed new, and therefore unwelcome, 
 ideas; and he defended his mode of thinking in 
 a manner that was rather forcible than polite. 
 
 us] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 One-sided culture could see in Paracelsus 
 nothing else but an enthusiast, a fanatic, and 
 noise-maker; his enthusiastic followers, on 
 the other hand, looked upon him as a god and 
 a monarch of all mysteries and king of the 
 spirits. It was his destiny to be misjudged 
 by his friends as well as by his enemies, and 
 each side exaggerated his qualities, the one 
 his virtues, the other his faults. He was de- 
 nounced and vilified by one set of ignora- 
 muses, and his qualities extolled by another, 
 and the two camps roused each other into a 
 frenzy by their inordinate praises and vile 
 denunciations, whose exaggerations were evi- 
 dent to every one but themselves. Those 
 historians who have criticised the character 
 of Paracelsus severely, forgot to take into 
 consideration the customs and fashions of 
 the time in which he lived, the character of 
 his surroundings, and his restless wanderings. 
 Now, as the battle of contending opinions has 
 ceased to rage, we may take a dispassionate 
 view of the past and, after studying his 
 works and the writings of his critics and 
 biographers, we will arrive at the conclu- 
 sion that he was one of the greatest and most 
 sublime characters of all times. His works 
 contain inexhaustible mines of knowledge. 
 
 [16] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 and an extraordinary amount of germs out 
 of which great truths may grow if they are 
 attended to by competent cultivators, and a 
 great deal that is at present misunderstood 
 and rejected will by future inquirers be 
 drawn to the light, and be cut into some of 
 the noblest blocks in the spiritual Temple of 
 Wisdom. 
 
 The writings of Paracelsus are especially 
 distinguished by the short and concise man- 
 ner in which his thoughts are expressed. 
 There is no ambiguity in his expressions, and 
 if we follow the roads which he indicated, 
 progressing at the same time along the path 
 of physical science, we shall find the richest 
 of treasures buried at the places that he 
 pointed out with his magic wand. 
 
 Paracelsus was a Christian in the true 
 meaning of that word, and he always at- 
 tempted to support the doctrines he taught 
 by citations from the Bible. He asks: 
 "What is a philosophy that is not sup- 
 ported by spiritual revelation? Moses did 
 not attempt to teach physics; he wrote in 
 a theological sense calculated to impress the 
 feelings and awaken the faith of the simple- 
 minded, and perhaps he may not have under- 
 stood physics himself. The scientist, unlike 
 
 [17] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 the theologian, does not put any trust in his 
 feelings, but believes only in his experiments, 
 because physical science deals with phe- 
 nomena and not with faith. The Hebrews, 
 moreover, did not know much about natural 
 science, and as a people they have always 
 been more ignorant than others in that re- 
 spect." 
 
 "Faith is a luminous star that leads the 
 honest seeker into the mysteries of Nature. 
 You must seek your point of gravity in God, 
 and put your trust into an honest, divine, 
 sincere, pure, and strong faith, and cling to 
 it with your whole heart, soul, sense, and 
 thought, full of love and confidence. If you 
 possess such a faith, God will not withhold His 
 truth from you, but He will reveal His works 
 to you credibly, visibly, and consolingly. 
 
 "Everything that happens takes place 
 through the will of the Supreme. Conscience 
 is the state which we have received from God, 
 in which we should see our own image, and 
 according to the dictates of which we should 
 act, without attempting to discover reasons 
 in the guidance of our life in regard to morals 
 and virtues. We should do that which our 
 conscience teaches, for no other reason but 
 because our conscience teaches it. He who 
 
 [18] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 does not burn himself will not be burned by 
 God, and God provided him with a con- 
 science into which he may put his implicit 
 trust. To learn from others, to accept the 
 opinion of others, to act in a certain manner 
 because others are acting in that way, is 
 temptation. Therefore faith into the things 
 of the earth should be based upon the Holy 
 Scripture and upon the teachings of Christ, 
 and it will then stand upon a firm basis. 
 Therefore we shall put the fundament and 
 the corner-stone of our wisdom upon three 
 principal points, which are: first. Prayer, or 
 a strong desire and aspiration for that which 
 is good. It is necessary that we should seek 
 and knock, and thereby ask the Omnipotent 
 Power within ourselves and remind it of its 
 promises and keep it awake, and if we do 
 this in the proper form and with a pure and 
 sincere heart, we shall receive that for which 
 we ask, and find that which we seek, and the 
 doors of the Eternal that have been closed 
 before us will be opened, and what was hidden 
 before our sight will come to light. The 
 next point is Faith: not a mere belief in 
 something that may or may not be true, but 
 a faith that is based upon knowledge, an 
 unwavering confidence, a faith that may 
 
 [19] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 move mountains and throw them into the 
 ocean, and to which everything is possible, 
 as Christ has Himself testified. The third 
 point is Imagination. If this power is prop- 
 erly kindled in our soul, we will have no 
 difficulty to make it harmonize with our 
 faith. A person who is sunk into deep 
 thought and, so to say, drowned in his own 
 soul, is like one who has lost his senses, and 
 the world looks upon him as a fool. But in 
 the consciousness of the Supreme he is wise, 
 and he is, so to say, the confidential friend 
 of God, knowing a great deal more of God's 
 mysteries than all those who receive their 
 superficial learning through the avenues of 
 the external senses; because he can reach 
 God through his soul, Christ through faith, 
 and attract the Holy Ghost through an ex- 
 alted imagination. In this way we may grow 
 to be like the Apostles, and to fear neither 
 death nor prison, neither suffering nor tor- 
 ture, neither fatigue nor hunger, nor any- 
 thing else." 
 
 But with all his piety Paracelsus was no 
 bigot. He was an enemy of hypocrisy, 
 ceremonial service, and pious ostentation. 
 He says: "If you pray publicly, to what 
 purpose will it serve? It will only be the 
 
 [201 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 beginning and the cause of idolatry, and 
 therefore it has been prohibited by Christ." 
 
 "Let us depart from all ceremonies, con- 
 jurations, consecrations, etc., and all similar 
 delusions and put our heart, will, and confi- 
 dence solely upon the true rock. We must 
 continually knock and remind the God (in 
 us) to fulfil His promises. If this is done 
 sincerely, without hypocrisy, with a true and 
 pious heart, we will then obtain that for 
 which we seek. The door will be opened for 
 us and that which is mysterious become re- 
 vealed to us." {Philosophia Occulta.) 
 
 "Salvation is not attained by fasting and 
 lip-prayer, neither by wearing a particular 
 kind of clothing, nor by beating one's self. 
 Such things are all superstition and the out- 
 come of hypocrisy. Christ says: *If you 
 wish to pray, do it not publicly; but go into 
 thy inner chamber.' To pray publicly is the 
 beginning of idolatry. If you pray pub- 
 licly, then will the common people see it 
 and imitate you, and they will fancy that if 
 they will only blab a great deal like you, 
 then will they be saved. Thus he looks 
 upon you as his example and follows you 
 instead of following Christ, who bids him 
 to pray in secret." (Liber Philosophioe.) 
 
 \n] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 "God from the beginning of the world has 
 created all things holy and pure and they 
 need not be consecrated by man. God is 
 Himself holy, and all that He made out of 
 His own will is holy likewise. It is for us, 
 by becoming holy, to recognize the holiness 
 of God in external nature." (Philosophia 
 Occulta.) During the time of the Reforma- 
 tion, when the mental atmosphere was in a 
 state of great commotion, when everybody 
 contended either for Luther or for the Pope, 
 Paracelsus stood above the quarreling parties, 
 and rejected all sectarianism, for he said: 
 "Among all sects there is none which pos- 
 sesses intellectually the true religion. We 
 must read the Bible more with our heart 
 than with our brains, until at some future 
 time the true religion will come into the 
 world.'* His sympathies, however, went 
 with the liberal Protestants, and he expressed 
 himself in regard to the action of Luther as 
 follows: "The enemies of Luther are to a 
 great extent composed of fanatics, knaves, 
 bigots, and rogues. Why do you call me a 
 * Medical Luther'? You do not intend to 
 honor me by giving me that name, because 
 you despise Luther. But I know of no other 
 enemies of Luther but those whose kitchen 
 
 [22] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 prospects are interfered with by his reforms. 
 Those whom he causes to suffer in their 
 pockets are his enemies. I leave it to Luther 
 to defend what he says, and I shall be respon- 
 sible for what I may say. Whoever is 
 Luther's enemy will deserve my contempt. 
 That which you wish to Luther you wish 
 also to me: you wish us both to the fire." 
 
 Such were the true characteristics of this 
 great man. The accusations brought against 
 him by his opponents show that his faults 
 have been so grossly exaggerated that the 
 very absurdity of the charges brought against 
 him renders such statements incredible and 
 harmless. He has been represented as a 
 drunkard, and this accusation has been based 
 upon a passage occurring in a letter which he 
 wrote to some students of the University of 
 Zurich, and in which he addresses them as 
 Combibones optimi. It seems, however, 
 more probable that the partnership in drink- 
 ing alluded to in this expression was meant 
 to refer to the *'wine" of wisdom rather than 
 to any more material liquid; moreover, the 
 contents of that letter are very serious and 
 pathetic, and show no indication of frivolity 
 or a love for debauch. It has also been ascer- 
 tained that Paracelsus up to his twentieth 
 
 [231 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 year never drank any intoxicating drinks, 
 and even if it should be found that he after- 
 wards drank wine, such a fact could easily 
 be explained by the general custom of these 
 times, according to which even the most 
 honorable and respected persons (Luther in- 
 cluded) were in the habit of "drinking each 
 other's health." If we, moreover, take into 
 consideration the quantity and quality of his 
 works, which were all written within a period 
 of time covering fifteen years, we may be 
 permitted to conclude that he could not have 
 accomplished such a work in a state of that 
 continual intoxication in which, according to 
 the statement of his enemies, he must have 
 remained. "Therefore," says Arnold, in his 
 "History of Churches and Heretics," "the re- 
 port is disproved by the fact that a man who 
 is a glutton and drunkard could not have 
 been in possession of such divine gifts." 
 
 Paracelsus says : " God has been so benevo- 
 lent as to put before our eyes the things 
 which we desire: good wines, beautiful 
 women, good food, and other treasures, and 
 He also protects in giving us the power to 
 abstain, so that we may not become victims 
 to intemperance. There is a marriage be- 
 tween two bodies: the tangible and the 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 intangible one (the soul), and the soul must 
 keep the carnal body temperate and prevent 
 it from taking more than its due measure. 
 If this is not done, then there will be a state 
 of adultery. {Par amir, II.) 
 
 Paracelsus has been accused of vanity and 
 boasting, and the fact is, that he was proud 
 of his own attributes and accomplishments; 
 but he did not glorify his own person, only 
 the spirit that exalted his soul. Seeing him- 
 self surrounded by ignorance, misjudged and 
 misrepresented, but conscious of his own 
 strength, he asserted his rights. He main- 
 tained that the value of the truths he taught 
 would be appreciated in due time, and his 
 prophecy has proved to be true. It was this 
 consciousness of his superior power that in- 
 spired him to exclaim: *'I know that the 
 monarchy (of mind) will belong to me, that 
 mine will be the honor. I do not praise my- 
 self, but Nature praises me for I am born of 
 Nature and follow her. She knows me and 
 I know her." 
 
 This language is not that of a boaster, but 
 rather that of a general who knows that he 
 will be victorious, when he writes: "After 
 me, ye Avicenna, Galenus, Rhases, Montag- 
 nana, and others! you after me, not I after 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 you, ye of Paris, Montpellier, Suevia, Meis- 
 sen, and Cologne; ye of Vienna and all that 
 come from the countries along the Danube 
 and Rhine and from the islands of the ocean ! 
 You Italy, you Dalmatia, you Sarmatia, 
 Athens, Greece, Arabia, and Israelita! Fol- 
 low me! It is not for me to follow you, 
 because mine is the monarchy. Come out 
 of the night of the mind! The time will 
 come when none of you shall remain in his 
 dark corner who will not be an object of 
 contempt to the world, because I shall be the 
 monarch and the monarchy will be mine." 
 
 This is not the language of vanity and self- 
 conceit. It is the language either of inspira- 
 tion or of folly, because extremes resemble 
 each other. Thus a man might speak who 
 imagines himself to be superior to others; 
 but thus also would he speak who is con- 
 scious of being far above the rest and who 
 floats in the light of the spirit while those 
 below him are groping in the darkness of 
 error. Paracelsus was proud of the spirit 
 that spoke through him; but personally he 
 was modest and self-sacrificing, and he well 
 knew that a man would be a useless thing if 
 he were not overshadowed by the spirit of 
 the Supreme. He says: "Remember that 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 God has put a mark upon us, consisting in 
 our shortcomings and diseases, to show to 
 us that we have nothing to pride ourselves 
 about, and that nothing comes within the 
 reach of our full and perfect understanding; 
 that we are far from knowing absolute truth, 
 and that our own knowledge and power 
 amounts to very little indeed." 
 
 Personal vanity and ostentation were not 
 the elements to be found in the character of 
 Paracelsus — they were the customs of the 
 physicians of that age; but it is a daily occur- 
 ring fact that he who exposes and denounces 
 the faults of others appears to the super- 
 ficial observer as boasting of his own superi- 
 ority, although no such motive may prompt 
 him. And as Paracelsus was not slow to 
 criticise the ignorance of the "learned," it 
 was necessarily supposed by the vulgar that 
 he looked upon himself as more learned than 
 all others, and they had not the capacity to 
 know whether or not he was justified in such 
 an estimate of himself. He was, however, 
 far superior in medical skill to all his col- 
 leagues, and performed apparently miracu- 
 lous cures among many patients that had 
 been pronounced incurable by the leading 
 doctors — a fact that has been proved by 
 
 [27] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 Erasmus of Rotterdam, a most careful and 
 scientific observer. Among such patients 
 were not less than eighteen princes, on whom 
 the best physicians had tried their arts and 
 failed. In his thirty-third year he was al- 
 ready an object of admiration for the laity, 
 and an object of professional jealousy for 
 the physicians. He also incurred the wrath 
 of the latter by treating many of the poorer 
 classes without pay, while the other phy- 
 sicians unrelentingly claimed their fees. The 
 most common reward for his labor was in- 
 gratitude, and this he earned everywhere, not 
 only in the houses of the moderately wealthy, 
 but also among the rich; for instance, in the 
 house of the Count Philippus of Baden, 
 whose case had been given up as hopeless by 
 his physicians. Paracelsus cured the Count 
 in a short time, who in return showed great 
 penuriousness towards him. Moreover, the 
 ingratitude of that prince caused great joy 
 to the enemies of Paracelsus, and gave them 
 a welcome opportunity to ridicule and slan- 
 der him more than ever. 
 
 Accusations of a different order are brought 
 against him, referring to the bluntness of his 
 style of writing, which was not always refined 
 or polite. It should, however, be remem- 
 
 [28 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 bered that such a style of speaking and writ- 
 ing was universally used at these times, and 
 objectionable expressions were adopted by 
 all, not excluding Luther, the great Reformer, 
 who, in spite of his genius, was a mortal man. 
 Paracelsus was a great admirer of Luther, 
 and even surpassed him in enthusiasm for 
 religious and intellectual freedom. Luther 
 seemed to him to be still too conservative. 
 He believed that such a gigantic revolution 
 in the world of mind could not be accom- 
 plished with meekness and condescension, 
 but that it required firmness, tenacity, and 
 an unbending will. He says of himself: "I 
 know that I am a man who does not speak 
 to everyone only that which might please 
 him, and I am not used to give submissive 
 answers to arrogant questions. I know my 
 ways and I do not wish to change them; 
 neither could I change my nature. I am a 
 rough man, born in a rough country; I have 
 been brought up in pine-woods, and I may 
 have inherited some knots. That which 
 seems to me polite and amiable may appear 
 unpolished to another, and what seems silk 
 in my eyes may be but homespun to you," 
 
 Great abuse has been heaped upon Para- 
 celsus by his enemies on account of his rest- 
 
 [29] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 less and roaming way of living. He acquired 
 his knowledge, not in the comfortable man- 
 ner in which the great majority of scientists 
 acquire theirs, but he traveled all over the 
 country on foot, and went wherever he ex- 
 pected to find something that might be use- 
 ful to know. He writes: "I went in search 
 of my art, often incurring danger of life. I 
 have not been ashamed to learn that which 
 seemed useful to me even from vagabonds, 
 executioners, and barbers. We know that a 
 lover will go a long way to meet the woman 
 he adores: how much more will the lover of 
 wisdom be tempted to go in search of his 
 divine mistress!" 
 
 He says: "The knowledge to which we are 
 entitled is not confined within the limits of 
 our own country, and does not run after us, 
 but waits until we go in search of it. No 
 one becomes a master of practical experience 
 in his own house, neither will he find a 
 teacher of the secrets of Nature in the cor- 
 ners of his room. We must seek for knowl- 
 edge where we may expect to find it, and 
 why should the man be despised who goes in 
 search of it? Those who remain at home 
 may live more comfortably and grow richer 
 than those who wander about; but I neither 
 
 [30] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 desire to live comfortably, nor do I wish to 
 become rich. Happiness is better than 
 riches, and happy is he who wanders about, 
 possessing nothing that requires his care. 
 He who wants to study the book of Nature 
 must wander with his feet over its leaves. 
 Books are studied by looking at the letters 
 which they contain; Nature is studied by 
 examining the contents of her treasure-vaults 
 in every country. Every part of the world 
 represents a page in the book of Nature, and 
 all the pages together form the book that 
 contains her great revelations." 
 
 So little has Paracelsus been understood by 
 the profane, that even to this day he is 
 accused of having advocated the very super- 
 stitions which his books are intended to 
 destroy. Far from advocating the super- 
 stitious practises of the star-gazers, he says: 
 "There are two Entia (Causes) active in man, 
 namely, the Ens Seminis and the Ens Vir- 
 tutis"; that is to say, the qualities which 
 man's physical constitution has inherited 
 from his parents, and the tendencies or in- 
 clinations and talents which he has developed 
 in a former state of existence — "but the 
 planets and stars neither build up his body, 
 nor do they endow man with virtues or vices 
 
 __ 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 nor with any qualities whatsoever. The 
 course of Saturn lengthens or shortens 
 nobody's life, and although Nero and Mars 
 were of the same kind of temperament, 
 nevertheless Nero was not the child of Mars, 
 nor Helena the daughter of Venus. If there 
 never had been any Moon in the sky, there 
 would be nevertheless people who partake 
 of her nature. The stars force us to nothing, 
 they incline us to nothing; they are free for 
 themselves and we are free for ourselves. It 
 is said that a wise man rules over the stars; 
 but this does not mean that he rules over 
 the influences which come from the stars in 
 the sky; but that he rules over the powers 
 which exist in his own constitution." 
 
 "We cannot live without sunshine and we 
 need the influences of the stars as much as we 
 need heat and cold, food and water; they 
 produce our seasons and ripen our fruits, but 
 man's body does not come from the stars, nor 
 is his character formed by them, and if there 
 never had been any planet on the sky, there 
 would be nevertheless some people of a mel- 
 ancholy disposition, others of a choleric 
 temperament, etc." 
 
 Paracelsus did not read or write much. He 
 says that for ten years he never read a book, 
 
 [32] 
 
PARACELSUS, THE MAN 
 
 and his disciples testify that he dictated his 
 works to them without using any memoranda 
 or manuscripts. On taking an inventory of 
 his goods after his death, a Bible, a Biblical 
 Concordance, a Commentary to the Bible, 
 and a written book on Medicine, were all the 
 books that could be found in his possession. 
 Even earlier than Luther he had publicly 
 burned a Papal bull, and with it the writings 
 of Galen and Avicenna. He says: "Read- 
 ing never makes a physician. Medicine is an 
 art and requires practical experience. If it 
 were sufficient to learn to talk Latin, Greek, 
 and Hebrew, to become a good physician, it 
 would also be sufficient for one to read Livius 
 to become a great commander-in-chief. I 
 began to study my art by imagining that 
 there was not a single teacher in the world 
 capable to teach it to me, but that I had to 
 acquire it myself. It was the book of Nature 
 written by the finger of God, which I studied 
 — not those of the scribblers, for each scribbler 
 writes down the rubbish that may be found in 
 his head; and who can sift the true from the 
 false? My accusers complain that I have not 
 entered the temple of knowledge through the 
 'legitimate door.' But which one is the truly 
 legitimate door.f^ Galenus and Avicenna or 
 
 [33] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Nature? I have entered through the door 
 of Nature; her light, and not the lamp of 
 an apothecary's shop, has illuminated my 
 way." 
 
 Great stress was laid by his accusers upon 
 the fact that he wrote the greater part of his 
 books and taught his doctrines in the German 
 language, and not, as was then customary, in 
 Latin. But this was one of his most impor- 
 tant acts; because in so doing he produced 
 a reformation in science similar to the one 
 that Luther produced in the Church. He 
 rejected the time-honored use of the Latin 
 language, because he believed that the truth 
 could as well be expressed in the language of 
 the country in which he lived. This daring 
 act was the beginning of free thought in 
 science, and the old belief in authorities began 
 to weaken. It is probable that Paracelsus 
 would never have attained his knowledge if 
 he had permitted his mind to be fettered 
 and imprisoned by the idle formalities that 
 were connected with a scientific education 
 at that time. 
 
 [34 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 ^yrX LTHOUGH the doctrine of the Mac- 
 m^ rocosm and the Microcosm was of 
 Jf Y primitive antiquity, and had even 
 been last emphasized by Raymond 
 of Sabunde, who had not remained unknown 
 to Paracelsus, yet it is only since and by 
 means of the latter that it was made the cen- 
 tral point of the whole of philosophy. He 
 designates nature as the sphere of philosophy, 
 and hence excludes from the latter all theol- 
 ogy. Not as though the two were antagonis- 
 tic, or as though theology were subordinated 
 to philosophy, but the works of God are 
 either works of nature or works of Christ; 
 the former are comprehended by philosophy, 
 the latter by theology. Accordingly philoso- 
 phy speaks as a pagan, and was already a 
 possession of the pagans; yet the philosopher 
 may be a Christian, for father and son are 
 compatible the one with the other. Philoso- 
 phy and theology are mutually exclusive, for 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 the instrument of the former is the natural 
 light, reason, and itself is a form of knowl- 
 edge; theology, on the other hand, is a form 
 of faith, meditated by revelation, reading of 
 the scriptures, and prayer. Faith surpasses 
 the light of nature, but only because it can- 
 not exist without natural wisdom, which, 
 however, can exist without faith. The latter, 
 therefore, is the greater. Philosophy has 
 nature for its sole and single object, is only 
 apprehended invisible nature, as nature, on 
 the other hand, is merely visible, actual 
 philosophy. Since philosophy is only the 
 science of the world, but the world is partly 
 the macrocosm which contains, partly the 
 microcosm which is man, the philosophy of 
 Paracelsus only contains what we are accus- 
 tomed to call cosmology and anthropology, 
 only that the two are never separated, and 
 some things which concern man, as will 
 shortly be seen, lie outside the sphere of 
 philosophy. 
 
 As no human work can be rightly appreci- 
 ated unless we know for what end it was 
 undertaken, so also in the case of creation 
 we must inquire after God's "intention." 
 It is of a twofold nature: God desires that 
 nothing may remain hidden, that everything 
 
 [38] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 may become visible and revealed; and sec- 
 ondly, that everything which He has founded 
 and left incomplete should come to com- 
 pleteness. Man carries out both purposes, 
 by knowing things and by carrying them to- 
 wards their destiny by transforming them; 
 on that account man is last in creation and 
 is God's proper intention, and the world is 
 only to be known inasmuch as philosophy 
 contemplates man as the world's final aim 
 and fruit, and searches in him as the book 
 from which nature's secrets may be read. On 
 the other hand, as the fruit can only be under- 
 stood from the seed, so man can only be 
 understood from that which preceded him, 
 that is, from the world. This circle cannot 
 appear fallacious to Paracelsus, who lays down 
 as a fundamental proposition that he only is a 
 philosopher who knows one thing in another. 
 Moses, too, relates that after all things had 
 been created out of nothing, for the creation 
 of man, an instrument was necessary. The 
 latter, the "limus terrae," is an extract and 
 a quintessence of all that was created before 
 man, and might just as well be called limus 
 mundi, since all creata are contained in it, 
 and therefore in man formed from it, and 
 can accordingly come out of it. This holds, 
 
 [39] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 not only of cold and fire, but also of the wolf 
 nature and the adder nature, and this being 
 so, men can with literal accuracy be called 
 wolves, etc. Since man is everything, there- 
 fore to him, as the center and point of all 
 things, nothing is impenetrable. But be- 
 sides the earth, the All comprehends the 
 heavens also, that is, the constellations or 
 the fundamental sidereal or ethereal powers, 
 which, themselves invisible, have their "cor- 
 pus" in the visible stars. Accordingly the 
 limus terrae and man formed from it are of 
 a double nature; first the visible, tangible, 
 earthly, and secondly the invisible, intangible, 
 heavenly, astral body. This latter is usually 
 called spiritus by Paracelsus; any one who 
 should translate this word by life-principle 
 or life-spirit, might found upon the usage 
 of Paracelsus, who instead of body and spirit 
 often says corpus and life, or also that the 
 spiritus is "the life and balsam of all corporal 
 things," of which none is created without 
 spiritus. Not only do men consist of a body 
 sprung from the elements, and the spirit 
 descended from the stars, so that they may 
 be called children of the marriage of those 
 two, but all beings, even those without sense, 
 live and are penetrated by the astral spirit; 
 
 [40] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 but all the rest are only fragments of that 
 which man is in completeness. In accord- 
 ance with a universal world-law, which Para- 
 celsus calls the foundation of his whole 
 philosophy, every creature yearns after that 
 out of which it has been created, partly to 
 maintain itself, for everything eats of its 
 own mother and lives on her, partly to return 
 to its original, for everything dies and is 
 buried in its father. Accordingly both the 
 component parts of man attract to them- 
 selves that from which they sprung as the 
 magnet attracts the iron; to hunger and 
 thirst, which induce the body to appropriate 
 the elements and transform them into flesh 
 and blood, there corresponds in the spirit 
 imagination, by means of which it nourishes 
 itself on the stars, gains sense and thoughts 
 which are its food. Imagination, as the 
 peculiar function of the spirit, is of the great- 
 est importance in the formation of seed and 
 fruit, in the generation and healing of dis- 
 eases; it is the means of the illuminatio 
 naturalis, makes the spirit capable of specu- 
 lation, etc. Hence, as all natural impulses 
 have their seat in the earthly body, so all 
 arts and all natural wisdom have theirs in 
 the sidereal body or life-spirit. They are 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 also similar to one another in that both pass 
 away; at death the body goes back to the 
 elements, the spirit is absorbed by the stars; 
 the latter takes place later than the former, 
 hence spirits can appear in the places to 
 which they are bound by imagination, but 
 they also die through the gradual dis- 
 appearance of their thoughts, sense, and 
 understanding. 
 
 To these two component parts, which to- 
 gether make man an animal, there is now 
 added the seat, not of the light of nature, but 
 of the eternal reason, the soul which springs 
 from God. This is the living breath which, 
 when God created Adam, He caused to be 
 added to the limus terrae, and. at the genera- 
 tion of each individual He causes to be added 
 to the seed, the extract of all the elemental 
 parts, and which at death, being eternal, 
 returns to the eternal. The soul, which is 
 essentially distinct from the spirit, and which 
 is related to its thoughts as a king to his 
 council, has its seat in the heart, with which 
 accordingly we ought to love God. It is so 
 related to the spirit that the latter may be 
 called its body, and itself the spirit's spirit. 
 Paracelsus moreover sometimes uses the word 
 spiritus in such a wide sense as to include 
 
 [421 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 both the spirit (of life) and the soul. It 
 is the result of a confusion between spirit and 
 soul when any one shifts to the power of the 
 elements or the stars the responsibility of an 
 individual's being good or evil. Whether he be 
 hot or cold depends on the former, whether 
 he be smith or builder on the latter, but 
 whether he be good or evil depends on the 
 soul alone, which God has left free, and in 
 the power of which He has left it to deter- 
 mine itself in one direction or another. As 
 regards the reasons which have induced God 
 thus to leave the soul to freedom, in which, 
 if it persists, it is miserable, whilst bliss con- 
 sists in entire submission to God, philosophy 
 has nothing to say. Indeed, all that con- 
 cerns that supernatural essence, the soul, 
 is defiled, when considered by the light of 
 nature. Through this triplicity of nature, 
 man is partly like to, partly surpassed by, 
 three other kinds of beings. He is nature, 
 spirit, and angel, unites in himself the prop- 
 erties into which the beasts, angels, and ele- 
 mental spirits (Saganae) are divided. These 
 latter, namely, which are named after the 
 elements to which they belong. Watermen 
 (Nymphs, Undines), Earthmen (Gnomes, 
 Pygmies), Airmen (Sylphs, Sylvans, Lemurs), 
 
 [43] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Firemen (Salamanders, Penates), have no 
 souls and are therefore often called Inani- 
 mata. Only by marriage with human beings 
 can they receive souls for themselves and 
 their children. As the body has its food in 
 the elements, the spirit in the stars, so the 
 soul has its food in Christ, who speaks to her 
 as the earth to her children: take, eat, this 
 is myself. The means of partaking of this 
 food is faith, which is so much more power- 
 ful and effects so much more than imagina- 
 tion, just because the soul is more than 
 the spirit. It is on that account frequently 
 contrasted as the sacramental with the 
 elemental. 
 
 As man by his three component parts 
 points to the elemental, the sidereal, and the 
 divine ("deal") world, the knowledge of 
 these three worlds is the condition of the 
 complete knowledge of man. Accordingly, 
 philosophy, astronomy, and theology are 
 given as the foundations on which the true 
 science of medicine rests. But Paracelsus, 
 besides that he was himself a physician, had 
 the further reason for referring to medicine, 
 that in the true physician he saw the ideal 
 of a scientific man, so much so that he says 
 that of all the arts and faculties, that of the 
 
 [44] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 physician was dearest to God. Very natu- 
 rally so, for the man whose task it is to inves- 
 tigate the nature of the highest thing in the 
 world and to further its well-being may well 
 look down on the rest. Besides the dignity 
 of its object, medicine may also pride itself 
 on something else: in it, namely, are united 
 the two elements which, according to Para- 
 celsus, belong to true science-speculation, 
 which without experience gives but "vain 
 phantasies" and experimentum, which never- 
 theless without science, as Hippocrates says, 
 is fallax and results in nothing but "experi- 
 mentler" (empirics), who deserve no prefer- 
 ence to many an old woman and barber : but 
 they combine to make a true experientia or a 
 plain demonstrative and obvious philosophy. 
 Without philosophic, astronomical, and theo- 
 logical knowledge the physician is not in 
 a position to decide which diseases are of an 
 earthly, which of a sidereal origin, and which 
 are visitations of God. But as the Theorica 
 causae coincides with the Theorica curae, he 
 runs the risk of attacking elemental diseases 
 with sidereal remedies, or vice versa, or also 
 of making attempts at natural healing where 
 they are out of place. 
 
 To these demands made of the physician 
 
 [45] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 are attached, as helps to their fulfilment we 
 might say, the representations of the three 
 sciences mentioned. First, as regards Phi- 
 losophy, that "mother of a good physician" 
 by it, astronomy being separated from it, it 
 is to be understood, the universal science of 
 nature, which treats of all creata which 
 existed before man. Paracelsus here goes 
 back to the final basis of all being, which he 
 finds in the "fiat" with which God brings to 
 an end His solitary existence, and which may 
 accordingly be called the prima materia, or 
 to the mysterium magnum, in which all 
 things were contained, not essentially or 
 qualitatively, but in the mode in which the 
 image to be carved out of it is contained in 
 the wood. Both names, however, are also 
 attributed to the product of the fiat, in 
 which it becomes materialized, the seed of all 
 things. The name yle, seldom used, and the 
 perpetually recurring yliaster or yliastron, as 
 a name for this first product of the divine, 
 creative power, will not surprise any one 
 who thinks on the hyle and hyleachim of 
 many Schoolmen. In these, as in a seed- 
 vessel (limbus), all things to come are con- 
 tained. Since He who uttered the fiat is 
 the Triune, also the formless primitive sub- 
 
 [461 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 stance is subject to the universal world-law 
 of triplicity; it contains three principles 
 which Paracelsus usually calls Salt, Sulphur, 
 and Mercury. That instead of these he also 
 uses balsamum, resine, and liquor, and his 
 express declaration as well, prove, that by 
 those terms we are not to understand the 
 corporeal substances salt, sulphur, and quick- 
 silver, but the primary powers (hence 
 "spirits," also materiae primae), which are 
 best reflected in our salt, etc. All corporeal 
 beings contain these principles, as for in- 
 stance what smokes in the wood is mercury, 
 what burns, sulphur, what remains in ashes 
 is salt, and in man, salt appears in the body, 
 sulphur in the soul, mercury in the spirit. 
 By sublimation, burning, and analysis of these 
 three, and by the fact that they combine in 
 different relationships, there arises the mani- 
 foldness of things, so that all things are con- 
 cealed in everything, one is their concealer, 
 the bodily and visible vessel. As it is by 
 cutting away the superfluous that the image 
 grows out of the wood, so it is by the way 
 of separation, Separatio, that the different 
 beings arise out of the Yliaster. And indeed 
 by such a separation there first arise the 
 elements, which four parts of the Yliaster 
 
 _ 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 are often themselves again called the four 
 (individual) yliastri. Paracelsus ceaselessly 
 contests the peripatetic-scholastic theory, 
 according to which the elements are com- 
 plexions of the primitive qualities of heat 
 and cold, etc. Partly because these quali- 
 ties, as accidents, require a substratum, 
 partly because each element has but one 
 chief quality. Not because they are com- 
 plexions, but because they are "mothers" 
 of things, are they elements. Moreover, 
 what held good of the three primae sub- 
 stantiae contained in them holds good also 
 of the elements: Elementum aquae is not 
 the water which we see, but the invisi- 
 ble mother of our water, who brings forth 
 this visible, less wet, substance we see — a 
 soul, a spirit. In the first separation the 
 elements ignis and aer combine in opposition 
 to the other two, and so there arises, there 
 the heavens, here the "globule" of the 
 earth, like the yolk of the egg swimming in 
 the white. In the former there are formed, 
 from the elementum ignis, the life-giving 
 mother of our (destroying) fire, the firmament 
 and the stars, including the transparent 
 heaven. In the latter again, the wet sepa- 
 rates itself from the dry, and sea and land 
 
 [48] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 arise. Within these four there now arise 
 out of the four elements, by means of the 
 Vulcanus indwelHng in them, which is not a 
 personal spirit, but a virtus, which is the 
 power of nature subject to man, individual 
 things, with the rise of which many errata 
 naturae slip in. (Consider here Aristotle's 
 nature, working demonically, but failing 
 of its end.) The products of the elements, 
 which are not of like kind with their parents 
 as are those of composite bodies, but "diver- 
 talla," are divided into perceptible, or the 
 above-mentioned elemental spirits and the 
 different beasts, and imperceptible, such as 
 metals which come from water, plants which 
 come from the earth, lightning which comes 
 from the heavens, rain which comes from the 
 air. The place of Vulcanus in the elements 
 is taken in each individual thing by the 
 "ruler" or "archeus," that is, its individual 
 natural power, by which things maintain 
 themselves and, especially in the expulsion of 
 disease, again establish themselves. The 
 earth also has its archeus, who among other 
 functions "measures the etnal or mineral 
 fire in the mountains, like the alchemists." 
 Man is distinguished from all other natural 
 beings by the fact that he does not belong to 
 
 [49] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 one element merely, but much rather, seeing 
 that he consists of them, all the elements be- 
 long to him, and so he does not live in but 
 on the earth. Because he is the extract of 
 all things, their "quintessence," he is there- 
 fore dependent on them, his spirit as well 
 as his body dies away without nourishment 
 from without. So likewise, he and his cir- 
 cumstances can only be known from the 
 study of the elements and nature in general, 
 and this is a fortunate thing for the sick, for 
 otherwise the physician would have to learn 
 their condition by experiment on the sick 
 themselves, which would be the death of 
 many. 
 
 The knowledge of water and earth only 
 supplies the letters for a judgment on the 
 earthly body of man. A judgment on his 
 life proper is conditioned by knowledge of the 
 stars, and accordingly Astronomy, the "higher 
 part" of philosophy, along with the philoso- 
 phy of the elements, is indispensable to the 
 physician. The heavenly and the earthly 
 world, as they consist of the same primal 
 substances, and as one Vulcan works in both, 
 ought not to be separated as they usually 
 are. The same thing which in heaven exists 
 as a star, exists on earth, but as a vegetable, 
 
 [so] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 and in the water, but there as a metal. To 
 him who clearly understands this and there- 
 by possesses the "ars signata," who does not 
 attribute the same name to different things 
 but such as express their individual nature, 
 the heavens become a "herbarium spirituale 
 sidereum," as he would have a stella Arte- 
 misiae, Melissae, etc. Our present knowl- 
 edge extends so far as to say that there must 
 be far more metals than the seven, which 
 are named on account of the number of the 
 planets. Naturally, what holds good of 
 water and earth must have its application 
 to man, their quintessence: there is nothing 
 in the heavens which is not in him. That 
 which is there Mars, and in the earth, iron, 
 is in man, gall. This point is important for 
 the diagnosis of disease and the choice of a 
 remedy. The two belong together, for where 
 we have the cause of the disease, there we 
 must seek the basis of cure. The aphorism 
 contraria contrariis does not mean that cold 
 is to be overcome by heat, but that sick- 
 ness is to be overcome by health, the harm- 
 ful effect of a principle by its beneficent 
 effect. Here also, if diseases were to be 
 designated according to their nature, we 
 would have to give up the old names, and 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 speak of martial and mercurial diseases, for 
 the stars are the principia morboriim. Cer- 
 tainly, in order to be able to do so, we 
 must not isolate man, but regard him from 
 the standpoint of the astronomer and astrol- 
 ogist, must recognize in the wind-storm the 
 accelerated pulse of nature, in the feverish 
 pulse of a sick man we must recognize an 
 inner storm, in the origin of stone in the 
 bladder the same process which gives rise 
 to thunder, etc. As, on the one hand, this 
 knowledge will place the physician in a po- 
 sition not to treat sidereal illnesses, like, e.g., 
 the plague, in which, just because it is such, 
 imagination plays so important a part, as if 
 they were the common elemental sort, so, on 
 the other hand, it will free him from the proud 
 folly of thinking that it is he who heals the 
 sick. Only nature does so, and his task is 
 to put away what hinders her from doing 
 so, to protect her from hostile foes. Another 
 expression for the same assertion is, that it is 
 the physician's duty to give opportunity to 
 the archeus, that is, the particular natural 
 force, to exercise its healing influence. As this 
 takes place by means of the remedy which 
 is put into the stomach, the stomach is often 
 designated as the special seat of the archeus. 
 
 [52] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 Both the higher and the lower part of phi- 
 losophy point to the basis of all things, hence 
 Paracelsus calls the light of nature the be- 
 ginning of Theology; he who has a correct 
 judgment in natural things will not "lightly 
 ponder" Christ and the Holy Scriptures. 
 Because he seriously believes that philoso- 
 phy must rest on theology as its corner-stone, 
 and further, because he regards Scripture as 
 the sole source of theology, he studied the 
 latter with great zeal. (Morhof claims to 
 have seen exegetical commentaries on Scrip- 
 ture in Paracelsus' own hand.) But since he 
 at the same time always contrasts theology 
 with knowledge, there is no need of going into 
 his theology further here. Reference must 
 be made to one subject, only because it is 
 closely inter-connected with his relation to 
 the scholastic philosophy : his attitude to the 
 Roman Catholic Church. When it is seen 
 that he names Wicklif along with Albert and 
 Lactantius among those who are predestined 
 to doctrine, that he entertains the highest 
 admiration for Zwingli, that he derides the 
 opponents of Luther, speaks disrespectfully 
 of the Pope, frequently expresses himself 
 against the mass, worship of saints, and pil- 
 grimages, one may be tempted to count him 
 
 ["53] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 quite as one of the innovators of his time. 
 And yet it would be incorrect to do so, for 
 against it there is his Mariolatry, his assur- 
 ance that he would have the useless fools 
 away from the mass, not the saints, etc. His 
 attitude might be compared with that of 
 Erasmus, whom moreover he regarded the 
 most highly of all the scholars of his time; 
 with more reason perhaps with those of the 
 mystics treated of above, who, without leav- 
 ing the Church of Rome, neglected those 
 points of her doctrine which were afterwards 
 attacked by the reformers. 
 
 If medicine were mere science and theory, 
 it would rest upon the three sciences just 
 characterized. But now Paracelsus lays the 
 greatest weight on the fact that it is an art 
 and praxis. He must therefore supply her 
 with directions and a technique as the fourth 
 pillar on which she rests. This is accordingly 
 afforded by Alchemy, by which is properly to 
 be understood every art of bringing about 
 transformations, so that the baker who 
 makes bread out of corn, the wine-presser 
 who makes wine out of grapes, is thereby an 
 alchemist, as is the archeus who changes food 
 into flesh and blood. With these changes 
 of things according to their character, there 
 
 [54] 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 is associated the alchemist in the nar- 
 rower sense, that is the chemist, who refines, 
 ennobles, and heals things, but just on that 
 account is the opposite of a magician. The 
 purest and most refined in everything is its 
 quintessence or (since this word should only 
 be used where an extract, like the limus 
 terrae, contains everything from which it 
 was extracted, without involving that any- 
 thing is withdrawn from the residuum), to 
 speak more exactly, its arcanum, its tincture 
 or elixir. As in the latter the thing is con- 
 tained with its force and quality without 
 foreign admixture, it is naturally the chief 
 task of medical alchemy to prepare quintes- 
 sences, arcana or tinctures. They are drawn 
 from metals, but also from things which 
 have life, from plants, and the more living 
 the thing is, the stronger the quintessence. 
 If it were possible to draw such an extract 
 from man without his death, that would give 
 the absolute cure. The "mummy" is an 
 approximation to it, but as it is mostly got 
 from the bodies of those who have died of dis- 
 ease, in the most favorable case from those 
 who have been executed, and therefore always 
 from the dead, it is not to be compared with 
 the former. As examples of such arcana 
 
 _ 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 after which we have to strive, Paracelsus cites 
 prima materia, lapis philosophorum, mercu- 
 rius vitae, and tinctura, for the attainment 
 of which he gives the methods. Here, as in 
 general with Paracelsus, it is hard to tell 
 where self-deception ceases and charlatanry 
 begins. He cannot be acquitted of either: 
 on the contrary, neither here nor in the case 
 of the famous recipe for the production of 
 the homunculus, is it possible to think of an 
 ironical jest. That in all his alchemistic 
 works he demands that the stars and their 
 constellations should be observed, that the 
 sun's crop and fallow season, that is summer 
 and winter, should be distinguished, is a 
 necessary consequence of the interdependence 
 of all things which he asserts. Amid all the 
 assertions which appear so fantastic, he is 
 never tired of warning his readers against 
 fantasies, and of demanding that nature her- 
 self should be allowed to point out the way. 
 But he not only regards it as such guidance 
 that an accidental experimentum teaches 
 how an herb has once operated, but also 
 when nature promises a certain definite effect 
 by means of the form of a plant taken as a 
 signature; and finally, when from the fact 
 that a beast can feed on, that is draw to itself, 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 
 
 that which is poison to us, we draw the in- 
 ference that this poison will draw away, that 
 is to itself, our wounds, we follow not our own 
 conceit but nature. He is entirely in earnest 
 that our knowledge is only the self -revelation 
 of nature, that our knowledge is but listen- 
 ing to her; and that he heard a great deal 
 from her is proved by his fortunate cures, and 
 by the fact that many of his fundamental 
 principles have maintained themselves to 
 this day. 
 
 [57] 
 
NOTE 
 
NOTE 
 
 PARACELSUS was written by Browning when he 
 was twenty-three years of age. It was begun 
 in the late autumn of 1834, and published in 
 the summer of the following year. 
 In the earlier edition of this, his first acknowledged 
 work (which he dedicated to his friend Count Amedee 
 de Ripert-Monclar, who suggested the subject to the 
 poet), this interesting and explanatory preface was 
 given: "I am anxious that the reader should not, at 
 the very outset, — mistaking my performance for one 
 of a class with which it has nothing in common, — 
 judge it by principles on which it was never moulded, and 
 subject it to a standard to which it was never meant 
 to conform. I therefore anticipate his discovery, that 
 it is an attempt, probably more novel than happy, to 
 reverse the method usually adopted by writers whose 
 aim it is to set forth any phenomena of the mind or the 
 passions, by the operation of persons and events; 
 and that, instead of having recourse to an external 
 machinery of incidents to create and evolve the crisis 
 I desire to produce, I have ventured to display some- 
 what minutely the mood itself in its rise and progress, 
 and have suffered the agency by which it is influenced 
 and determined, to be generally discernible in its effects 
 alone, and subordinate throughout, if not altogether 
 excluded; and this for a reason. I have endeavored 
 to write a poem, not a drama: the canons of the drama 
 
 [61 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 are well known, and I cannot but think that inasmuch 
 as they have immediate regard to stage representation, 
 the peculiar advantages they hold out are really such 
 only so long as the purpose for which they were at 
 first instituted is kept in view. I do not very well 
 understand what is called a Dramatic Poem, wherein 
 all those restrictions only submitted to on account of 
 compensating good in the original scheme are scrupu- 
 lously retained, as though for some special fitness in 
 themselves — and all new facilities placed at an author's 
 disposal by the vehicle he selects, as pertinaciously 
 rejected. It is certain, however, that a work like mine 
 depends on the intelligence and sympathy of the reader 
 for its success, — indeed, were my scenes stars, it must 
 be his cooperating fancy which, supplying all chasms, 
 shall collect the scattered lights into one constellation, 
 a Lyre or a Crown. I trust for his indulgence towards 
 a poem which had not been imagined six months ago; 
 and that even should he think slightingly of the present 
 (an experiment I am in no case likely to repeat), he 
 w\\\ not be prejudiced against other productions which 
 may follow in a more popular, and perhaps less diffi- 
 cult form." 
 
 From the last paragraph of this note it might fairly 
 be inferred that Browning wished to please generally, 
 and that he was aware of the difficulty of the popular- 
 ization of poetry written on similar lines to Paracelsus. 
 
 In choosing this subject for his first mature poem. 
 Browning was guided first of all by his intense sympa- 
 thy with the scientific spirit. Realizing as he did, long 
 before the scientific minds of our time, Paracelsus' true 
 worth, and recognizing the value of the noble work 
 done for mankind by him. Browning set himself the 
 glorious task of restoring to his proper place in the 
 scientific world this great benefactor of humanity. 
 
 Paracelsus' name had been covered with infamy by 
 
 [621 
 
NOTE 
 
 his enemies and biographers. Browning thrust aside 
 all pettiness of the physical, and laid bare to us the soul 
 of this great mystic. The mysticism associated with 
 the name of Paracelsus was probably another reason 
 for the choice of this subject. Browning was fond of 
 the mystical, and is acknowledged to be its subtlest 
 interpreter in the English language. 
 
 The poem, in five scenes, is in form a dialogue be- 
 tween Paracelsus and his friend Festus and his wife 
 Michal in the first scene, Aprile, an Italian poet, in the 
 second, and Festus only in the remaining scenes. 
 Through the personal media of these three incidental 
 characters, the vicissitudes of Paracelsus are brought 
 out. His career is traced from its noble outset at 
 Wiirzburg to its inglorious end in a hospital at Salzburg. 
 While these minor characters have little bearing on the 
 external action of the poem, they have all a distinct 
 individuality. Festus, Paracelsus' friend and adviser, is 
 a man of simple nature. His devotion to Paracelsus, 
 and his understanding and toleration of that great 
 restless spirit, make him an impressive and lasting 
 type. Michal is interesting as Browning's first sketch 
 of a woman — Pauline of course exists only in the 
 abstract. The portrait of gentleness and tenderness 
 that Browning paints for us in this character, once seen, 
 will always be remembered. 
 
 Aprile is a type of the poet's own poetical ideal — a 
 type of the artist, a soul immoderately possessed with 
 the desire to love as Paracelsus was with the desire 
 to know. 
 
 Paracelsus, though written in dialogue, was not in- 
 tended for a drama, as Browning stated in his note of 
 preface to the first edition. It might be classed as 
 epical rather than dramatic. It has been justly praised 
 as a serious historical study of the great German sci- 
 entist and mystic, and again for its philosophical ele- 
 
 [63] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 ment. Browning says, "I have endeavored to write a 
 poem," and it is from this its poetical side that it is 
 most important. 
 
 WiUiam Sharp in his "Life of Robert Browning" 
 says, *'When we read certain portions of 'Paracelsus' 
 and the lovely lyrics interspersed in it, it is difficult 
 not to think of the poet as sometimes, in later life, 
 stooping like the mariner in Roscoe's beautiful sonnet, 
 striving to reclaim 'some loved lost echo from the 
 fleeting strand.' But it is the fleeting shore of ex- 
 quisite art, not of the far-reaching shadowy capes and 
 promontories of the 'Poetic Land.'" 
 
 64 
 
PARACELSUS, THE POEM 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Born, May 7, 1812 
 Died, December 12, 1889 
 
PARACELSUS 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 AuREOLUS Paracelsus 
 
 Festus and Michal, his friends 
 
 Aprile, an Italian Poet 
 
 I. PARACELSUS ASPIRES 
 
 Scene. — Wurzhurg — a garden in the environs. 1512 
 
 Festus, Paracelsus, Michal 
 
 Par. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; 
 thus! 
 Close to the heart which, though long time roll by 
 Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours. 
 As now it beats — perchance a long, long time — 
 At least henceforth your memories shall make 
 Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. 
 Nor shall my memory want a home in yours — 
 Alas, that it requires too well such free 
 Forgiving love as shall embalm it there! 
 For if you would remember me aright — 
 As I was born to be — you must forget 
 All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness 
 Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell 
 Only on moments such as these, dear friends! 
 — My heart no truer, but my words and ways 
 
 [67 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 More true to it: as Michal, some months hence, 
 Will say, "this autumn was a pleasant time," 
 For some few sunny days; and overlook 
 Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves. 
 Autumn would fain be sunny — I would look 
 Liker my nature's truth; and both are frail. 
 And both beloved for all their frailty! 
 
 Mich. Aureole ! 
 
 Par. Drop by drop ! — she is weeping like a child ! 
 Not so! I am content — more than content — 
 Nay, Autumn wins you best by this its mute 
 Appeal to sympathy for its decay! 
 Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less 
 Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow 
 
 down. 
 Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit. 
 That apple-tree with a rare after-birth 
 Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among! 
 Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved 
 Shall vex that ash that overlooks you both, 
 So proud it wears its berries? Ah! at length. 
 The old smile meet for her, the lady of this 
 Sequestered nest! This kingdom, limited 
 Alone by one old populous green wall. 
 Tenanted by the ever-busy flies. 
 Gray crickets, and shy lizards, and quick spiders. 
 Each family of the silver-threaded moss — 
 Which, look through, near, this way, and it appears 
 A stubble-field, or a cane-brake — a marsh 
 Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now! 
 Fancy the crickets, each one in his house. 
 Looking out, wondering at the world — or best, 
 Yon painted snail, with his gay shell of dew. 
 Traveling to see the glossy balls high up 
 Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps! 
 
 Mich. In truth we have lived carelessly and well! 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Par. And shall, my perfect pair — each, trust me, 
 born 
 For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed. 
 Is of one hue. For where save in this nook 
 Shall you two walk, when I am far away. 
 And wish me prosperous fortune? Stay! . . . Whene'er 
 That plant shall wave its tangles lightly and softly, 
 As a queen's languid and imperial arm 
 Which scatters crowns among her lovers, you 
 Shall be reminded to predict to me 
 Some great success! Ah, see! the sun sinks broad 
 Behind St. Saviour's: wholly gone, at last! 
 
 Fest. Now, Aureole, stay those wandering eyes 
 awhile ! 
 You are ours to-night at least; and while you spoke 
 Of Michal and her tears, the thought came back 
 That none could leave what he so seemed to love: 
 But that last look destroys my dream — that look! 
 As if, where'er you gazed, there stood a star! 
 How far was Wiirzburg, with its church and spire. 
 And garden-walls, and all things they contain. 
 From that look's far alighting.? 
 
 Far. I but spoke 
 
 And looked alike from simple joy, to see 
 The beings I love best, shut in so well 
 From all rude chances like to be my lot. 
 That, when afar, my weary spirit, — disposed 
 To lose awhile its care in soothing thoughts 
 Of them, their pleasant features, looks, and words, — 
 Need never hesitate, nor apprehend 
 Encroaching trouble may have reached them too, 
 Nor have recourse to Fancy's busy aid 
 To fashion even a wish in their behalf 
 Beyond what they possess already here; 
 But, unobstructed, may at once forget 
 Itself in them, assured how well they are. 
 
 [6d\ 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Beside, this Festus knows, he thinks me one 
 
 Whom quiet and its charms attract in vain. 
 
 One scarce aware of all the joys I quit, 
 
 Too fiU'd with airy hopes to make account 
 
 Of soft delights which free hearts garner up: 
 
 Whereas, behold how much our sense of all 
 
 That's beauteous proves alike! W^hen Festus learns 
 
 That every common pleasure of the world 
 
 Affects me as himself; that I have just 
 
 As varied appetites for joy derived 
 
 From common things; a stake in life, in short. 
 
 Like his; a stake which rash pursuit of aims 
 
 That life affords not, would as soon destroy; — 
 
 He may convince himself, that, this in view, 
 
 I shall act well advised: and last, because. 
 
 Though heaven and earth, and all things, were at 
 
 stake. 
 Sweet Michal must not weep, our parting eve! 
 
 Fest. True: and the even is deepening, and we sit 
 As little anxious to begin our talk 
 As though to-morrow I could open it 
 As we paced arm in arm the cheerful town 
 At sun-dawn; and continue it by fits 
 (Old Tritheim busied with his class the while) 
 In that dim chamber where the noon-streaks peer 
 Half frightened by the awful tomes around; 
 And here at home unbosom all the rest 
 From even-blush to midnight; but, to-morrow! . . . 
 Have I full leave to tell my inmost mind? 
 We two were brothers, and henceforth the world 
 Will rise between us: — all my freest mind? 
 'Tis the last night, dear Aureole! 
 
 Par. Oh, say on ! 
 
 Devise some test of love — some arduous feat 
 To be performed for you — say on ! If night 
 Be spent the while, the better! Recall how oft 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 My wondrous plans, and dreams, and hopes, and fears. 
 
 Have — never wearied you . . . oh, no! . . . as I 
 
 Recall, and never vividly as now. 
 
 Your true affection, born when Einsiedeln 
 
 And its green hills were all the world to us. 
 
 And still increasing to this night, which ends 
 
 My further stay at Wiirzburg . . . Oh, one day 
 
 You shall be very proud! Say on, dear friends! 
 
 Fest. In truth? 'Tis for my proper peace, indeed. 
 Rather than yours; for vain all projects seem 
 To stay your course: I said my latest hope 
 Is fading even now. A story tells 
 Of some far embassy despatched to buy 
 The favor of an eastern king, and how 
 The gifts they offered proved but dazzling dust 
 Shed from the ore-beds native to his clime: 
 Just so, the value of repose and love, 
 I meant should tempt you, better far than I 
 You seem to comprehend — and yet desist 
 No whit from projects where repose nor love 
 Have part. 
 
 Par. Once more.? Alas! as I forbode! 
 
 Fest. A solitary briar the bank puts forth 
 To save our swan's nest floating out to sea. 
 
 Par. Dear Festus, hear me. What is it you wish? 
 That I should lay aside my heart's pursuit. 
 Abandon the sole ends for which I live. 
 Reject God's great commission — and so die! 
 You bid me listen for your true love's sake: 
 Yet how has grown that love? Even in a long 
 And patent cherishing of the selfsame spirit 
 It now would quell; as though a mother hoped 
 To stay the lusty manhood of the child 
 Once weak upon her knees. I was not born 
 Informed and fearless from the first, but shrank 
 From aught which marked me out apart from men: 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 I would have lived their life, and died their death. 
 
 Lost in their ranks, eluding destiny: 
 
 But you first guided me through doubt and fear. 
 
 Taught me to know mankind and know myself; 
 
 And now that I am strong and full of hope. 
 
 That, from my soul, I can reject all aims 
 
 Save those your earnest words made plain to me; 
 
 Now, that I touch the brink of my design, 
 
 When I would have a triumph in their eyes, 
 
 A glad cheer in their voices — Michal weeps. 
 
 And Festus ponders gravely! 
 
 Fest. When you deign 
 
 To hear my purpose . . . 
 
 Par. Hear it? I can say 
 
 Beforehand all this evening's conference! 
 *Tis this way, Michal, that he uses: first, 
 Or he declares, or I, the leading points 
 Of our best scheme of life, what is man's end. 
 And what God's will — no two faiths e'er agreed 
 As his with mine: next, each of us allows 
 Faith should be acted on as best we may: 
 Accordingly, I venture to submit 
 A plan, in lack of better, for pursuing 
 The path which God's will seems to authorize: 
 Well — he discerns much good in it, avows 
 This motive worthy, that hope plausible, 
 A danger here, to be avoided — there. 
 An oversight to be repaired: at last 
 Our two minds go together — all the good 
 Approved by him, I gladly recognize; 
 All he counts bad, I thankfully discard; 
 And nought forbids my looking up at last 
 For some stray comfort in his cautious brow — 
 When, lo! I learn that, spite of all, there lurks 
 Some innate and inexplicable germ 
 Of failure in my schemes; so that at last 
 
 [72] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 It all amounts to this — the sovereign proof 
 That we devote ourselves to God, is seen 
 In living just as though there were no God: 
 A life which, prompted by the sad and blind 
 Lusts of the world, Festus abhors the most — 
 But which these tenets sanctify at once; 
 Though to less subtle wits it seems the same. 
 Consider it how they may. 
 
 Mich. Is it so, Festus? 
 
 He speaks so calmly and kindly — is it so? 
 
 Par. Reject those glorious visions of God's love 
 And man's design; laugh loud that God should send 
 Vast longings to direct us; say how soon 
 Power satiates these, or lust, or gold; I know 
 The world's cry well, and how to answer it! 
 But this ambiguous warfare . . . 
 
 Fest. . . . Wearies so 
 
 That you will grant no last leave to your friend 
 To urge it? — for his sake, not yours? I wish 
 To send my soul in good hopes after you; 
 Never to sorrow that uncertain words, 
 Erringly apprehended — a new creed, 
 111 understood — begot rash trust in you. 
 And shared in your undoing. 
 
 Par. Choose your side: 
 
 Hold or renounce: but meanwhile blame me not 
 Because I dare to act on your own views. 
 Nor shrink when they point onward, nor espy 
 A peril where they most ensure success. 
 
 Fest. Prove that to me — but that! Prove you abide 
 Within their warrant, nor presumptuous boast 
 God's labor laid on you; prove, all you covet 
 A mortal may expect; and, most of all. 
 Prove the strange course you now affect, will lead 
 To^^its attainment — and I bid you speed. 
 Nay, count the minutes till you venture forth! 
 
 [731 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 You smile; but I had gathered from slow thought — 
 Much musing on the fortunes of my friend — 
 Matter I deemed could not be urged in vain: 
 But it all leaves me at my need: in shreds 
 And fragments I must venture what remains. 
 
 Mich. Ask at once, Festus, wherefore he should 
 scorn . . . 
 
 Fest. Stay, Michal: Aureole, I speak guardedly 
 And gravely, knowing well, whate'er your error. 
 This is no ill-considered choice of yours — 
 No sudden fancy of an ardent boy. 
 Not from your own confiding words alone 
 Am I aware your passionate heart long since 
 Gave birth to, nourished, and at length matures 
 This scheme. I will not speak of Einsiedeln, 
 Where I was born your elder by some years 
 Only to watch you fully from the first: 
 In all beside, our mutual tasks were fixed 
 Even then — 'twas mine to have you in my view 
 As you had your own soul and those intents 
 Which filled it when, to crown your dearest wish. 
 With a tumultuous heart, you left with me 
 Our childhood's home to join the favored few 
 Whom, here at Wiirzburg, Tritheim deigns to teach 
 A portion of his lore: and not the best 
 Of those so favored, whom you now despise, 
 Came earnest as you came; resolved, like you. 
 To grasp all, and retain all, and deserve 
 By patient toil a wide renown like his. 
 And this new ardor which supplants the old, 
 I watched, too; 'twas significant and strange. 
 In one matched to his soul's content at length 
 With rivals in the search for Wisdom's prize. 
 To see the sudden pause, the total change; 
 From contest, the transition to repose — 
 From pressing onward as his fellows pressed, 
 
 [74] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 To a blank idleness; yet most unlike 
 
 The dull stagnation of a soul, content, 
 
 Once foiled, to leave betimes a thriveless quest. 
 
 That careless bearing, free from all pretense 
 
 Even of contempt for what it ceased to seek — 
 
 Smiling humility, praising much, yet waiving 
 
 What it professed to praise — though not so well 
 
 Maintained but that rare outbreaks, fierce as brief. 
 
 Revealed the hidden scorn, as quickly curbed — 
 
 That ostentatious show of past defeat. 
 
 That ready acquiescence in contempt, 
 
 I deemed no other than the letting go 
 
 His shivered sword, of one about to spring 
 
 Upon his foe's throat; but it was not thus: 
 
 Not that way looked your brooding purpose then. 
 
 For after-signs disclosed, what you confirmed. 
 
 That you prepared to task to the uttermost 
 
 Your strength, in furtherance of a certain aim. 
 
 Which — while it bore the name your rivals gave 
 
 Their own most puny efforts — was so vast 
 
 In scope that it included their best flights. 
 
 Combined them, and desired to gain one prize 
 
 In place of many, — the secret of the world, 
 
 Of man, and man's true purpose, path, and fate: 
 
 — That you, not nursing as a mere vague dream 
 
 This purpose, with the sages of the Past, 
 
 Have struck upon a way to this, if all 
 
 You trust be true, which following, heart and soul. 
 
 You, if a man may, dare aspire to know: 
 
 And that this aim shall differ from a host 
 
 Of aims alike in character and kind. 
 
 Mostly in this, — to seek its own reward 
 
 In itself only, not an alien end 
 
 To blend therewith; no hope, nor fear, nor joy, 
 
 Nor woe, to elsewhere move you, but this pure 
 
 Devotion to sustain you or betray: 
 
 [tT] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Thus you aspire. 
 
 Par. You shall not state it thus: 
 
 I should not differ from the dreamy crew 
 You speak of. I profess no other share 
 In the selection of my lot, than this, 
 A ready answer to the will of God 
 Who summons me to be his organ: all 
 Whose innate strength supports them shall succeed 
 No better than your sages. 
 
 Fest. Such the aim, then, 
 
 God sets before you; and 'tis doubtless need 
 That he appoint no less the way of praise 
 Than the desire to praise; for, though I hold 
 With you, the setting forth such praise to be 
 The natural end and service of a man. 
 And think such praise is best attained when man 
 Attains the general welfare of his kind — 
 Yet, this, the end, is not the instrument. 
 Presume not to serve God apart from such 
 Appointed channel as He wills shall gather 
 Imperfect tributes — for that sole obedience 
 Valued, perchance. He seeks not that his altars 
 Blaze — careless how, so that they do but blaze. 
 Suppose this, then; that God selected you 
 To KNOW (heed well your answers, for my faith 
 Shall meet implicitly what they affirm) 
 I cannot think you dare annex to such 
 Selection aught beyond a steadfast will. 
 An intense hope, nor let your gifts create 
 Scorn or neglect of ordinary means 
 Conducive to success — make destiny 
 Dispense with man's endeavor. Now dare you search 
 Your inmost heart, and candidly avow 
 Whether you have not rather wild desire 
 For this distinction, than security 
 Of its existence; whether you discern 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 The path to the fulfilment of your purpose 
 Clear as that purpose — and again, that purpose 
 Clear as your yearning to be singled out 
 For its pursuer. Dare you answer this? 
 
 Par. {After a pause.) No, I have nought to fear! 
 Who will may know 
 The secret 'st workings of my soul. What though 
 It be so? — if indeed the strong desire 
 Eclipse the aim in me? — if splendor break 
 Upon the outset of my path alone. 
 And duskest shade succeed? What fairer seal 
 Shall I require to my authentic mission 
 Than this fierce energy — this instinct striving 
 Because its nature is to strive? — enticed 
 By the security of no broad course. 
 With no success forever in its eyes! 
 How know I else such glorious fate my own, 
 But in the restless irresistible force 
 That works within me? Is it for human will 
 To institute such impulses? — still less. 
 To disregard their promptings? What should I 
 Do, kept among you all; your loves, your cares. 
 Your life — all to be mine? Be sure that God 
 Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart! 
 Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
 Into the vast and unexplored abyss. 
 What full-grown power informs her from the first, 
 Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
 The silent boundless regions of the sky! 
 Be sure they sleep not whom God needs! Nor fear 
 Their holding light his charge, when every hour 
 That finds that charge delayed, is a new death. 
 This for the faith in which I trust; and hence 
 I can abjure so well the idle arts 
 
 These pedants strive to learn and teach; Black Arts, 
 Great Works, the Secret and Sublime, forsooth — 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Let others prize: too intimate a tie 
 
 Connects me with our God! A sullen fiend 
 
 To do my bidding, fallen and hateful sprites 
 
 To help me — what are these, at best, beside 
 
 God helping, God directing everywhere, 
 
 So that the earth shall yield her secrets up, 
 
 And every object shall be charged to strike, 
 
 Teach, gratify, her master God appoints? 
 
 And I am young, my Festus, happy and free! 
 
 I can devote myself; I have a life 
 
 To give; I, singled out for this, the One! 
 
 Think, think; the wide east, where old Wisdom sprung; 
 
 The bright south, where she dwelt; the hopeful north. 
 
 All are passed o'er — it lights on me! 'Tis time 
 
 New hopes should animate the world, new light 
 
 Should dawn from new revealings to a race 
 
 Weighed down so long, forgotten so long; so shall 
 
 The heaven reserved for us, at last receive 
 
 Creatures whom no unwonted splendors blind, 
 
 But ardent to confront the unclouded blaze 
 
 Whose beams not seldom blest their pilgrimage. 
 
 Not seldom glorified their life below. 
 
 Fest. My words have their old fate and make faint 
 stand 
 Against your glowing periods. Call this, truth — 
 Why not pursue it in a fast retreat. 
 Some one of Learning's many palaces. 
 After approved example; seeking there 
 Calm converse with the great dead, soul to soul, 
 Who laid up treasure with the like intent? 
 — So lift yourself into their airy place. 
 And fill out full their unfulfilled careers. 
 Unraveling the knots their baffled skill 
 Pronounced inextricable, true! — but left 
 Far less confused? A fresh eye, a fresh hand, 
 Might do much at their vigor's waning-point; 
 
 TtsI 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Succeeding with new-breathed and earnest force. 
 
 As at old games a runner snatched the torch 
 
 From runner still: this way success might be. 
 
 But you have coupled with your enterprise 
 
 An arbitrary self -repugnant scheme 
 
 Of seeking it in strange and untried paths. 
 
 What books are in the desert? writes the sea 
 
 The secret of her yearning in vast caves 
 
 Where yours will fall the first of human feet? 
 
 Has Wisdom sate there and recorded aught 
 
 You press to read? Why turn aside from her 
 
 To visit, where her vesture never glanced, 
 
 Now — solitudes consigned to barrenness 
 
 By God's decree, which who shall dare impugn? 
 
 Now — ruins where she paused but would not stay. 
 
 Old ravaged cities that, renouncing her, 
 
 She called an endless curse on, so it came — 
 
 Or, worst of all, now — men you visit, men, 
 
 Ignoblest troops that never heard her voice. 
 
 Or hate it, men without one gift from Rome 
 
 Or Athens, — these shall Aureole's teachers be! 
 
 Rejecting past example, practice, precept. 
 
 Aidless 'mid these he thinks to stand alone: 
 
 Thick like a glory round the Stagyrite 
 
 Your rivals throng, the sages: here stand you! 
 
 Whate'er you may protest, knowledge is not 
 
 Paramount in your love; or for her sake 
 
 You would collect all help from every source — 
 
 Rival or helper, friend, foe, all would merge 
 
 In the broad class of those who showed her haunts. 
 
 And those who showed them not. 
 
 Par. What shall I say? 
 
 Festus, from childhood I have been possessed 
 By a fire — by a true fire, or faint or fierce. 
 As from without some master, so it seemed. 
 Repressed or urged its current: this but ill 
 
 [79] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 Expresses what I would convey — but rather 
 
 I will believe an angel ruled me thus, 
 
 Than that my soul's own workings, own high nature. 
 
 So became manifest. I knew not then 
 
 What whispered in the evening, and spoke out 
 
 At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon. 
 
 Were laid away in some great trance — the ages 
 
 Coming and going all the while — till dawned 
 
 His true time's advent, and could then record 
 
 The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed, — 
 
 Then I might tell more of the breath so light 
 
 Upon my eyelids, and the fingers warm 
 
 Among my hair. Youth is confused; yet never 
 
 So dull was I but, when that spirit passed, 
 
 I turned to him, scarce consciously, as turns 
 
 A water-snake when fairies cross his sleep. 
 
 And having this within me and about me 
 
 While Einsiedeln, its mountains, lakes, and woods 
 
 Confined me — what oppressive joy was mine 
 
 When life grew plain, and I first viewed the thronged, 
 
 The ever-moving concourse of mankind! 
 
 Believe that ere I joined them — ere I knew 
 
 The purpose of the pageant, or the place 
 
 Consigned to me within its ranks — while yet 
 
 Wonder was freshest and delight most pure — 
 
 'Twas then that least supportable appeared 
 
 A station with the brightest of the crowd, 
 
 A portion with the proudest of them all! 
 
 And from the tumult in my breast, this only 
 
 Could I collect — that I must thenceforth die. 
 
 Or elevate myself far, far above 
 
 The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long 
 
 At once to trample on — yet save mankind — 
 
 To make some unexampled sacrifice 
 
 In their behalf — to wring some wondrous good 
 
 I'rom heaven or earth for them — to perish, winning 
 
 80] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Eternal weal in the act: as who should dare 
 Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud, 
 That, all its gathered flame discharged on him. 
 No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep: 
 Yet never to be mixed with men so much 
 As to have part even in my own work — share 
 In my own largess. Once the feat achieved, 
 I would withdraw from their officious praise. 
 Would gently put aside their profuse thanks: 
 Like some knight traversing a wilderness, 
 Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe 
 Of desert-people from their dragon-foe; 
 When all the swarthy race press round to kiss 
 His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield 
 Their poor tents, pitched among the sand-hills, for 
 His realm; and he points, smiling, to his scarf. 
 Heavy with riveled gold, his burgonet. 
 Gay set with twinkling stones — and to the east. 
 Where these must be displayed! 
 
 Fest. Good: let us hear 
 
 No more about your nature, "which first shrank 
 From all that marked you out apart from men!" 
 
 Par. I touch on that: these words but analyze 
 That first mad impulse — 'twas as brief as fond; 
 For as I gazed again upon the show, 
 I soon distinguished here and there a shape 
 Palm-wreathed and radiant, forehead and full eye. 
 Well pleased was I their state should thus at once 
 Interpret my own thoughts: — "Behold the clue 
 To all," I rashly said, "and what I pine 
 To do, these have accomplished: we are peers! 
 They know, and therefore rule: I, too, will know!" 
 You were beside me, Festus, as you say; 
 You saw me plunge in their pursuits whom Fame 
 Is lavish to attest the lords of mind; 
 Not pausing to make sure the prize in view 
 
 [811 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Would satiate my cravings when obtained — 
 
 But since they strove I strove. Then came a slow 
 
 And strangling failure. We aspired alike, 
 
 Yet not the meanest plodder Tritheim schools 
 
 But faced me, all-sufficient, all-content, 
 
 Or staggered only at his own strong wits; 
 
 WTiile I was restless, nothing satisfied. 
 
 Distrustful, most perplexed. I would slur over 
 
 That struggle; suffice it, that I loathed myself 
 
 As weak compared with them, yet felt somehow 
 
 A mighty power was brooding, taking shape 
 
 Within me: and this lasted till one night 
 
 When, as I sate revolving it and more, 
 
 A still voice from without said — "See'st thou not, 
 
 Desponding child, whence came defeat and loss.^ 
 
 Even from thy strength. Consider: hast thou gazed 
 
 Presumptuously on Wisdom's countenance. 
 
 No veil between; and can thy hands which falter 
 
 Unguided by thy brain the mighty sight 
 
 Continues to absorb, pursue their task 
 
 On earth like these around thee — what their sense 
 
 AMiich radiance ne'er distracted, clear descries.'^ 
 
 If thou wouldst share their fortune, choose their 
 
 life. 
 Unfed by splendor. Let each task present 
 Its petty good to thee. Waste not thy gifts 
 In profitless waiting for the gods' descent. 
 But have some idol of thine own to dress 
 With their array. Know, not for knowing's sake. 
 But to become a star to men forever. 
 Know, for the gain it gets, the praise it brings, 
 The wonder it inspires, the love it breeds. 
 Look one step onward, and secure that step.'* 
 And I smiled as one never smiles but once; 
 Then first discovering my own aim's extent, 
 WTiich sought to comprehend the w^orks of God, 
 
 [821 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 And God himself, and all God's intercourse 
 
 With the human mind; I understood, no less. 
 
 My fellow's studies, whose true worth I saw. 
 
 But smiled not, well aware who stood by me. 
 
 And softer came the voice — "There is a way — 
 
 'Tis hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued 
 
 With frailty — hopeless, if indulgence first 
 
 Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength: 
 
 Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's. 
 
 Apart from all reward?" And last it breathed — 
 
 "Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee. 
 
 Be sure, even to the end!" — I answered not. 
 
 Knowing Him. As He spoke, I was endued 
 
 With comprehension and a steadfast will; 
 
 And when He ceased, my brow was sealed His own. 
 
 If there took place no special change in me, 
 
 How comes it all things wore a different hue 
 
 Thenceforward? — pregnant with vast consequence — 
 
 Teeming with grand results — loaded with fate; 
 
 So that when quailing at the mighty range 
 
 Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste 
 
 To contemplate undazzled some one truth, 
 
 Its bearings and effects alone — at once 
 
 What was a speck expands into a star. 
 
 Asking a life to pass exploring thus. 
 
 Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul! 
 
 I see my way as birds their trackless way — 
 
 I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, 
 
 I ask not: but unless God send his hail 
 
 Or bhnding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow. 
 
 In some time — his good time — I shall arrive: 
 
 He guides me and the bird. In his good time! 
 
 Mich. Vex him no further, Festus; it is so! 
 
 Fest. Just thus you help me ever. This would hold 
 Were it the trackless air, and not a path 
 Inviting you, distinct with footprints yet 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Of many a mighty spirit gone that way. 
 You may have purer views than theirs, perhaps, 
 But they were famous in their day — the proofs 
 Remain. At least accept the hght they lend. 
 
 Par. Their light! the sum of all is briefly this: 
 They labored, and grew famous; and the fruits 
 Are best seen in a dark and groaning earth, 
 Given over to a blind and endless strife 
 With evils, which of all your Gods abates.'* 
 No; I reject and spurn them utterly. 
 And all they teach. Shall I still sit beside 
 Their dry wells, with a white lip and filmed eye. 
 While in the distance heaven is blue above 
 Mountains where sleep the unsunned tarns? 
 
 Fest. And yet 
 
 As strong delusions have prevailed ere now: 
 Men have set out as gallantly to seek 
 Their ruin; I have heard of such — yourself 
 Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen. 
 
 Mich. Nay, Festus, when but as the pilgrims faint 
 Through the drear way, do you expect to see 
 Their city dawn afar amid the clouds.? 
 
 Par. Aye, sounds it not like some old well-known 
 tale? 
 For me, I estimate their works and them 
 So rightly, that at times I almost dream 
 I too have spent a life the sages' way. 
 And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance 
 I perished in an arrogant self-reliance 
 An age ago; and in that act, a prayer 
 For one more chance went up so earnest, so 
 Instinct with better light let in by Death, 
 That life was blotted out — not so completely 
 But scattered wrecks enough of it remain. 
 Dim memories; as now, when seems once more 
 The goal in sight again: all which, indeed, 
 
 [84] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Is foolish, and only means — the flesh I wear. 
 The earth I tread, are not more clear to me 
 Than my belief, explained to you or no. 
 
 Fest. And who am I to challenge and dispute 
 That clear belief? I put away all fear. 
 
 Mich. Then Aureole is God's commissary! he shall 
 Be great and grand — and all for us! 
 
 Par. No, sweet! 
 
 Not great and grand. If I can serve mankind 
 'Tis well — but there our intercourse must end : 
 I never will be served by those I serve. 
 
 Fest. Look well to this; here is a plague-spot, here. 
 Disguise it how you may! 'Tis true, you utter 
 This scorn while by our side and loving us; 
 'Tis but a spot as yet; but it will break 
 Into a hideous blotch if overlooked. 
 How can that course be safe which from the first 
 Produces carelessness to human love.^^ 
 It seems you have abjured the helps which men 
 Who overpass their kind, as you would do. 
 Have humbly sought — I dare not thoroughly probe 
 This matter, lest I learn too much: let be. 
 That popular praise would little instigate 
 Your efforts, nor particular approval 
 Reward you; put reward aside; alone 
 You shall go forth upon your arduous task. 
 None shall assist you, none partake your toil. 
 None share your triumph — still you must retain 
 Some one to cast your glory on, to share 
 Your rapture with. Were I elect like you, 
 I would encircle me with love, and raise 
 A rampart of my fellows; it should seem 
 Impossible for me to fail, so watched 
 By gentle friends who made my cause their own; 
 They should ward off Fate's envy — the great gift, 
 Extravagant when claimed by me alone. 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Being so a gift to them as well as me. 
 If danger daunted me or ease seduced. 
 How calmly their sad eyes should gaze reproach! 
 
 Mich. O Aureole, can I sing when all alone. 
 Without first calling, in my fancy, both 
 To listen by my side — even I! And you? 
 Do you not feel this? — say that you feel this! 
 
 Par. I feel 'tis pleasant that my aims, at length 
 Allowed their weight, should be supposed to need 
 A further strengthening in these goodly helps! 
 My course allures for its own sake — its sole 
 Intrinsic worth; and ne'er shall boat of mine 
 Adventure forth for gold and apes at once. 
 Your sages say, "if human, therefore weak:" 
 If weak, more need to give myself entire 
 To my pursuit; and by its side, all else . . . 
 No matter! I deny myself but little 
 In waiving all assistance save its own — 
 Would there were some real sacrifice to make! 
 Your friends the sages tlirew their joys away. 
 While I must be content with keeping mine. 
 
 Fest. But do not cut yourself from human weal! 
 You cannot thrive — a man that dares affect 
 To spend his life in service to his kind. 
 For no reward of theirs, nor bound to them 
 By any tie; nor do so, Aureole! No — 
 There are strange punishments for such. Give up 
 (Although no visible good flow thence) some part 
 Of the glory to another; hiding thus, 
 Even from yourself, that all is for yourself. 
 Say, say almost to God — "I have done all 
 For her — not for myself!" 
 
 Par. And who, but lately. 
 
 Was to rejoice in my success like you? 
 Whom should I love but both of you? 
 
 Fest. I know not: 
 
 ^86^ 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 But know this, you, that 'tis no wish of mine 
 
 You should abjure the lofty claims you make; 
 
 Although I can no longer seek, indeed. 
 
 To overlook the truth, that there will be 
 
 A monstrous spectacle upon the earth, 
 
 Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees: 
 
 — A being knowing not what love is. Hear me! 
 
 You are endowed with faculties which bear 
 
 Annexed to them as 'twere a dispensation 
 
 To summon meaner spirits to do their will. 
 
 And gather round them at their need; inspiring 
 
 Such with a love themselves can never feel — 
 
 Passionless 'mid their passionate votaries. 
 
 I know not if you joy in this or no. 
 
 Or ever dream that common men can live 
 
 On objects you prize lightly, but which make 
 
 Their heart's sole treasure: the affections seem 
 
 Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste 
 
 Or die: and this strange quality accords, 
 
 I know not how, with you; sits well upon 
 
 That luminous brow, though in another it scowls 
 
 An eating brand — a shame. I dare not judge you : 
 
 The rules of right and wrong thus set aside. 
 
 There's no alternative — I own you one 
 
 Of higher order, under other laws 
 
 Than bind us; therefore, curb not one bold glance! 
 
 'Tis best aspire. Once mingled with us all. . . . 
 
 Mich. Stay with us, Aureole! cast those hopes away. 
 And stay with us! An angel warns me, too, 
 Man should be humble; you are very proud: 
 And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such! 
 He warns me not to dread a quick repulse. 
 Nor slow defeat, but a complete success! 
 You will find all you seek, and perish so! 
 
 Par. {After a 'pause.) Are these the barren first fruits 
 of my life.'^ 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Is love like this the natural lot of all? 
 
 How many years of pain might one such hour 
 
 O'erbalance? Dearest Michal, dearest Festus, 
 
 What shall I say, if not that I desire 
 
 To merit this your love; and will, dear friends. 
 
 In swerving nothing from my first resolves. 
 
 See, the great moon! and ere the mottled owls 
 
 Were wide awake, I was to go. It seems 
 
 You acquiesce at last in all save this — 
 
 If I am like to compass what I seek 
 
 By the untried career I choose; and then. 
 
 If that career, making but small account 
 
 Of much of life's delight, will yet retain 
 
 Sufficient to sustain my soul — for thus 
 
 I understand these fond fears just expressed. 
 
 And first; the lore you praise and I neglect. 
 
 The labors and the precepts of old time, 
 
 I have not slightly disesteemed. But, friends. 
 
 Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise 
 
 From outward things, whate'er you may believe: 
 
 There is an inmost center in us all. 
 
 Where truth abides in fulness; and around 
 
 Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
 
 This perfect, clear perception — which is truth; 
 
 A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
 
 Blinds it, and makes all error: and, "to know*' 
 
 Rather consists in opening out a way 
 
 Whence the imprisoned splendor may escape. 
 
 Than in effecting entry for a light 
 
 Supposed to be without. Watch narrowly 
 
 The demonstration of a truth, its birth. 
 
 And you trace back the effluence to its spring 
 
 And source within us, where broods radiance vast. 
 
 To be elicited ray by ray, as chance 
 
 Shall favour: chance — for hitherto, your sage 
 
 Even as he knows not how those beams are born. 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 As little knows he what unlocks their fount; 
 
 And men have oft grown old among their books 
 
 To die, case-hardened in their ignorance. 
 
 Whose careless youth had promised what long years 
 
 Of unremitted labor ne'er performed: 
 
 While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day, 
 
 That autumn loiterers just as fancy-free 
 
 As the midges in the sun, have oft given vent 
 
 To truth — produced mysteriously as cape 
 
 Of cloud grown out of the invisible air. 
 
 Hence, may not truth be lodged alike in all, 
 
 The lowest as the highest? some slight film 
 
 The interposing bar which binds it up. 
 
 And makes the idiot, just as makes the sage 
 
 Some film removed, the happy outlet whence 
 
 Truth issues proudly? See this soul of ours! 
 
 How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed 
 
 In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled 
 
 By age and waste, set free at last by death: 
 
 Why is it, flesh enthralls it or enthrones? 
 
 What is this flesh we have to penetrate? 
 
 Ohj not alone when life flows still do truth 
 
 And power emerge, but also when strange chance 
 
 RuflBes its current; in unused conjuncture. 
 
 When sickness breaks the body — hunger, watching. 
 
 Excess, or languor — oftenest death's approach — 
 
 Peril, deep joy, or woe. One man shall crawl 
 
 Through life, surrounded with all stirring things. 
 
 Unmoved — and he goes mad; and from the wreck 
 
 Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, 
 
 You first collect how great a spirit he hid. 
 
 Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, 
 
 Discovering the true laws by which the flesh 
 
 Bars in the spirit! We may not be doomed 
 
 To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest 
 
 Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God! 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 But elevate the race at once! We ask 
 
 To put forth just our strength, our human strength. 
 
 All starting fairly, all equipped alike, 
 
 Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted — 
 
 See if we cannot beat thy angels yet! 
 
 Such is my task. I go to gather this 
 
 The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed 
 
 About the world, long lost or never found. 
 
 And why should I be sad, or lorn of hope.'^ 
 
 Why ever make man's good distinct from God's? 
 
 Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? 
 
 Who shall succeed if not one pledged like me? 
 
 Mine is no mad attempt to build a world 
 
 Apart from His, like those who set themselves 
 
 To find the nature of the spirit they bore. 
 
 And, taught betimes that all their gorgeous dreams 
 
 Were only born to vanish in this life, 
 
 Refused to fit them to this narrow sphere. 
 
 But chose to figure forth another world 
 
 And other frames meet for their vast desires, — 
 
 Still, all a dream! Thus was life scorned; but life 
 
 Shall yet be crowned: twine amaranth! I am priest! 
 
 And all for yielding with a lively spirit 
 
 A poor existence — parting with a youth 
 
 Like theirs who squander every energy 
 
 Convertible to good, on painted toys. 
 
 Breath-bubbles, gilded dust! And though I spurn 
 
 All adventitious aims, from empty praise 
 
 To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps 
 
 Important, and concerns himself for me. 
 
 May know even these will follow with the rest — 
 
 As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep 
 
 Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore. 
 
 My own affections, laid to rest awhile. 
 
 Will waken purified, subdued alone 
 
 By all I have achieved; tUl then — till then . . . 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Ah! the time-wiUng loitering of a page 
 Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring 
 The stately lady's presence whom he loves — 
 The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat 
 Enwraps the queenly pearl — these are faint types ! 
 See how they look on me — I triumph now ! 
 But one thing, Festus, Michal ! — I have told 
 All I shall e'er disclose to mortal : say — 
 Do you believe I shall accomplish this? 
 
 Fest. I do believe! 
 
 Mich. I ever did believe! 
 
 Par. Those words shall never fade from out my 
 brain ! 
 This earnest of the end shall never fade! 
 Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal, 
 Two points in the adventure of the diver: 
 One — when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge? 
 One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl? 
 Festus, I plunge! 
 
 Fest. I wait you when you rise! 
 
 II. PARACELSUS ATTAINS 
 
 Scene. Constantinople. — " The House of a Greek 
 Conjurer." 1521 
 
 Paracelsus 
 
 Over the waters in the vaporous west 
 The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold, 
 Behind the outstretched city, which between. 
 With all that length of domes and minarets, 
 Athwart the splendor, black and crooked runs 
 Like a Turk verse along a scimetar. 
 There lie, thou saddest writing, and awhile 
 Relieve my aching sight. 'Tis done at last! 
 
 [91] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Strange — and the juggles of a sallow cheat 
 
 Could win me to this act! 'Tis as yon cloud 
 
 Should voyage unwreck'd o'er many a mountain-top 
 
 And break upon a molehill. I have dared 
 
 Come to a pause with knowledge; scan for once 
 
 The heights already reach'd, without regard 
 
 To the extent above; fairly compute 
 
 What I have clearly gained; for once excluding 
 
 My future which should finish and fulfil 
 
 All half-gains, and conjectures, and mere hopes — 
 
 And this, because a fortune-teller bids 
 
 His credulous enquirers write thus much, 
 
 Their previous life's attainment, in his book, 
 
 Before his promised secret, as he vaunts. 
 
 Make that life perfect: here, accordingly, 
 
 'Mid the uncouth recordings of such dupes, 
 
 — Scrawled in like fashion, lie my life's results! 
 
 These few blurred characters suffice to note 
 
 A stranger wandered long through many lands. 
 
 And reaped the fruit he coveted in a few 
 
 Discoveries, as appended here and there. 
 
 The fragmentary produce of much toil, 
 
 In a dim heap, fact and surmise together 
 
 Confusedly massed, as when acquired; himself 
 
 Too bent on gaining more to calmly stay 
 
 And scrutinize the little which he gained: 
 
 Slipt in the blank space 'twixt an idiot's gibber 
 
 And a mad lover's ditty — lies the whole! 
 
 And yet those blottings chronicle a life — 
 
 A whole life, — mine! No thought to turn to act. 
 
 No problem for the fancy, but a life 
 
 Spent and decided, wasted past recall. 
 
 Or worthy beyond peer. Stay, turn the page 
 
 And take its chance, — thus: what, concerning "life," ^, . 
 
 Does this remembrancer set down? — "We say f^ 
 
 [92] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 'Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.* 
 
 'Tis the mere echo of time; and he whose heart 
 
 Beat first beneath a human heart, whose speech 
 
 Was copied from a human tongue, can never 
 
 Recall when he was living yet knew not this. 
 
 Nevertheless long seasons come and go. 
 
 Till some one hour's experience shows what nought. 
 
 He deemed, could clearer show; and ever after 
 
 An altered brow, and eye, and gait, and speech 
 
 Attest that now he knows the adage true 
 
 'Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream."* 
 
 Aye, my brave chronicler, and this same time 
 As well as any: let my hour speak now! 
 
 Now! I can go no farther; well or ill — 
 
 'Tis done. I must desist and take my chance; 
 
 I cannot keep on the stretch; 'tis no back-shrinking — 
 
 For let the least assurance dawn, some end 
 
 To my toil seem possible, and I proceed 
 
 At any price, by any sacrifice: 
 
 Else, here I pause: the old Greek's prophecy 
 
 Is like to turn out true — "I shall not quit 
 
 His chamber till I know what I desire!" 
 
 Was it the light wind sung it, o'er the sea? 
 
 An end, a rest! strange how the notion, once 
 Admitted, gains strength every moment! Rest! 
 Where kept that thought so long? this throbbing brow 
 To cease — this beating heart to cease — its crowd 
 Of gnawing thoughts to cease! — To dare let down 
 My strung, so high-strung brain — to dare unnerve 
 My harassed o'ertasked frame — to know my place, 
 — My portion, my reward, my failure even. 
 Assigned, made sure for ever! — To lose myself 
 Among the common creatures of the world — 
 
 [93 1 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 To draw some gain from having been a man — 
 
 Neither to hope nor fear — to hve at length ! 
 
 Oh, were it but in failure, to have rest! 
 
 What, sunk insensibly so deep? Has all 
 
 Been undergone for this? Was this the prayer 
 
 My labor qualified me to present 
 
 With no fear of refusal? Had I gone 
 
 Carelessly through my task, and so judged fit 
 
 To moderate my hopes; nay, were it now 
 
 My sole concern to exculpate myself. 
 
 And lessen punishment, — I could not choose 
 
 An humbler mood to wait for the decree! 
 
 No, no, there needs not this; no, after all, 
 
 At worst I have performed my share of the task: 
 
 The rest is God's concern — mine, merely this, 
 
 To know that I have obstinately held 
 
 By my own work. The mortal whose brave foot 
 
 Has trod, unscathed, the temple-courts so far 
 
 That he descries at length the shrine of shrines. 
 
 Must let no sneering of the demons' eyes. 
 
 Whose wrath he met unquailing, follow sly 
 
 And fasten on him, fairly past their power. 
 
 If where he stands he dares but stay; no, no — 
 
 He must not stagger, faint and fall at last, 
 
 — Knowing a charm to baffle them; behold. 
 
 He bares his front — a mortal ventures thus 
 
 Serene amid the echoes, beams, and glooms! 
 
 If he be priest henceforth, or if he wake 
 
 The god of the place to ban and blast him there, - 
 
 Both well! What's failure or success to me? 
 
 I have subdued my life to the one end 
 
 Ordained life; there alone I cannot doubt, 
 
 That only way I may be satisfied. 
 
 Yes, well have I subdued my life! beyond 
 
 The obligation of my strictest vows. 
 
 The contemplation of my wildest bond, 
 
 [941 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Which gave, in truth, my nature freely up, 
 
 In what it should be, more than what it was — 
 
 Consenting that whatever passions slept. 
 
 Whatever impulses lay unmatured. 
 
 Should wither in the germ, — but scarce foreseeing 
 
 That the soil, doomed thus to perpetual waste. 
 
 Would seem one day, remembered in its youth 
 
 Beside the parched sand-tract which now it is. 
 
 Already strewn with faint blooms, viewless then. 
 
 I ne'er engaged to root up loves so frail 
 
 I felt them not; yet now, 'tis very plain 
 
 Some soft spots had their birth in me at first — 
 
 If not love, say, like love: there w^as a time 
 
 When yet this wolfish hunger after knowledge 
 
 Set not remorselessly love's claims aside; 
 
 This heart was human once, or why recall 
 
 Einsiedeln, now, and Wiirzburg, which the Mayne 
 
 Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm? 
 
 And Festus — my poor Festus, with his praise. 
 
 And counsel, and grave fears — where is he now? 
 
 Or the sweet maiden, long ago his bride? 
 
 I surely loved them — that last night, at least. 
 
 When we . . . gone! gone! the better: I am saved 
 
 The sad review of an ambitious youth. 
 
 Choked by vile lusts, unnoticed in their birth. 
 
 But let grow up and wind around a will 
 
 Till action was destroyed. No, I have gone 
 
 Purging my path successively of aught 
 
 Wearing the distant likeness of such lusts. 
 
 I have made life consist of one idea: 
 
 Ere that was master — up till that was born — 
 
 I bear a memory of a pleasant life 
 
 Whose small events I treasure; till one morn 
 
 I ran o'er the seven little grassy fields. 
 
 Startling the flocks of nameless birds, to tell 
 
 [95] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Poor Festus, leaping all the while for joy. 
 
 To leave all trouble for futurity, 
 
 Since I had just determined to become 
 
 The greatest and most glorious man on earth. 
 
 And since that morn all life has been forgot; 
 
 All is one day — one only step between 
 
 The outset and the end: one tyrant aim. 
 
 Absorbing all, fills up the interval — 
 
 One vast unbroken chain of thought, kept up 
 
 Through a career or friendly or opposed 
 
 To its existence: life, death, light and shade. 
 
 The shows of the world, were bare receptacles 
 
 Or indices of truth to be wrung thence. 
 
 Not instruments of sorrow or delight: 
 
 For some one truth would dimly beacon me 
 
 From mountains rough with pines, and flit and wink 
 
 O'er dazzling wastes of frozen snow, and tremble 
 
 Into assured light in some branching mine. 
 
 Where ripens, swathed in fire, the liquid gold — 
 
 And all the beauty, all the wonder fell 
 
 On either side the truth, as its mere robe; 
 
 Men saw the robe — I saw the august form. 
 
 So far, then, I have voyaged with success. 
 
 So much is good, then, in this working sea 
 
 Which parts me from that happy strip of land — 
 
 But o'er that happy strip a sun shone, too! 
 
 And fainter gleams it as the waves grow rough. 
 
 And still more faint as the sea widens; last 
 
 I sicken on a dead gulph, streaked with light 
 
 From its own putrifying depths alone! 
 
 Then — God was pledged to take me by the hand; 
 
 Now — any miserable juggler bends 
 
 My pride to him. All seems alike at length: 
 
 Who knows which are the wise and which the fools? 
 
 God may take pleasure in confounding pride 
 
 By hiding secrets with the scorned and base — 
 
 [961 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 He who stoops lowest may find most — in short, 
 I am here; and all seems natural; I start not 
 And never having glanced behind to know 
 If I had kept my primal light from wane, 
 Am thus insensibly grown — what I am ! 
 
 Oh, bitter; very bitter! 
 
 And more bitter. 
 To fear a deeper curse, an inner ruin — 
 Plague beneath plague — the last turning the first 
 To light beside its darkness. Better weep 
 My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone 
 In tears which burn! Would I were sure to win 
 Some startling secret in their stead ! — a tincture 
 Of force to flush old age with youth, or breed 
 Gold, or imprison moonbeams till they change 
 To opal shafts ! — only that, hurling it 
 Indignant back, I might convince myself 
 My aims remained as ever supreme and pure! 
 Even now, why not desire, for mankind's sake. 
 That if I fail, some fault may be the cause, — 
 That, though I sink, another may succeed? 
 O God, the despicable heart of us! 
 Shut out this hideous mockery from my heart! 
 
 'Twas politic in you, Aureole, to reject 
 
 Single rewards, and ask them in the lump; 
 
 At all events, once launched, to hold straight on: 
 
 For now 'tis all or nothing. Mighty profit 
 
 Your gains will bring if they stop short of such 
 
 Full consummation! As a man, you had 
 
 A certain share of strength, and that is gone 
 
 Already in the getting these you boast. 
 
 Do not they seem to laugh, as who should say — 
 
 *' Great master, we are here indeed; dragged forth 
 
 [97] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 To light: this hast thou done; be glad! now, seek 
 The strength to use which thou hast spent in getting!" 
 
 And yet 'tis surely much, 'tis very much. 
 
 Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts, 
 
 To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn 
 
 Arrive with inexhaustible light; and lo, 
 
 I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not! 
 
 While I am left with gray hair, faded hands. 
 
 And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all. 
 
 Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast? 
 
 Knowledge it seemed, and Power, and Recompense! 
 
 Was she who glided through my room of nights, — 
 
 Who laid my head on her soft knees, and smoothed 
 
 The damp locks, — whose sly soothings just began 
 
 When my sick spirit craved repose awhile — 
 
 God! was I fighting Sleep off for Death's sake? 
 
 God! Thou art Mind! Unto the Master-Mind 
 
 Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone! 
 
 All else I will endure: if, as I stand 
 
 Here, with my gains, thy thunder smite me down, 
 
 I bow me; 'tis thy will, thy righteous will; 
 
 I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die: 
 
 And if no trace of my career remain. 
 
 Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind 
 
 In these bright chambers, level with the air. 
 
 See thou to it! But if my spirit fail. 
 
 My once proud spirit forsake me at the last, 
 
 Hast thou done well by me? So do not thou! 
 
 Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed! 
 
 Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs, 
 
 And say — "I crushed him, lest he should disturb 
 
 My law. Men must not know their strength: behold. 
 
 Weak and alone, how near he raised himself!" 
 
 But if delusions trouble me — and Thou, 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Not seldom felt with rapture in thy help 
 Throughout my toil and wanderings, dost intend 
 To work man's w elfare through my weak endeavor — 
 To crown my mortal forehead with a beam 
 From thine own blinding crown — to smile, and 
 
 guide 
 This puny hand, and let the work so framed 
 Be styled my work, — hear me ! I covet not 
 An influx of new power, an angel's soul: 
 It were no marvel then — but I have reached 
 Thus far, a man; let me conclude, a man! 
 Give but one hour of my first energy, 
 Of that invincible faith — one only hour! 
 That I may cover with an eagle-glance 
 The truths I have, and spy some certain way 
 To mold them, and completing them, possess! 
 
 Yet God is good: I started sure of that. 
 
 And why dispute it now? I'll not believe 
 
 But some undoubted warning long ere this 
 
 Had reached me: stars would write his will in heaven. 
 
 As once when a labarum was not deemed 
 
 Too much for the old founder of these walls. 
 
 Then, if my life has not been natural, 
 
 It has been monstrous: yet, till late, my course 
 
 So ardently engrossed me, that delight, 
 
 A pausing and reflecting joy, 'tis plain, 
 
 Though such were meant to follow as its fruit. 
 
 Could find no place in it. True, I am worn; 
 
 But who clothes summer, who is Life itself .f* 
 
 God, that created all things, can renew! 
 
 And then, though after life to please me now 
 
 Must have no likeness to the past, what hinders 
 
 Reward from springing out of toil, as changed 
 
 As bursts the flower from earth, and root, and stalk? 
 
 What use were punishment, unless some sin 
 
 [99] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Be first detected? let me know that first! 
 (Aprile, from within) 
 
 I hear a voice, perchance I heard 
 
 Long ago, but all too low, 
 
 So that scarce a thought was stirred 
 
 If really spoke the voice or no: 
 
 I heard it in my youth, when first 
 
 The waters of my life outburst: 
 
 But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear 
 
 The voice, still low, but fatal-clear — 
 
 As if all Poets, that God meant 
 
 Should save the world, and therefore lent 
 
 Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused 
 
 To do his work, or lightly used 
 
 Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavor. 
 
 And mourn, cast off by him forever, — 
 
 As if these leaned in airy ring 
 
 To call me; this the song they sing. 
 
 "Lost, lost! yet come. 
 With our wan troupe make thy home: 
 Come, come! for we 
 Will not breathe, so much as breathe 
 Reproach to thee! 
 
 Knowing what thou sink'st beneath: 
 So we sank in those old years. 
 We who bid thee, come! thou last 
 Who, a living man, hast life o'erpast, 
 And all together we, thy peers. 
 Will pardon ask for thee, the last 
 Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast 
 With those who watch, but work no more — 
 Who gaze on life, but live no more: 
 And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak 
 God's message which our lips, too weak, 
 
 [1001 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Refused to utter, — shouldst redeem 
 
 Our fault: such trust, and all, a dream! 
 
 So we chose thee a bright birth-place 
 
 Where the richness ran to flowers — 
 
 Couldst not sing one song for grace? 
 
 Nor make one blossom man's and ours? 
 
 Must one more recreant to his race 
 
 Die with unexerted powers 
 
 And join us, leaving as he found 
 
 The world, he was to loosen, bound? 
 
 Anguish! ever and forever; 
 
 Still beginning, ending never! 
 
 Yet, lost and last one, come! 
 
 How couldst understand, alas. 
 
 What our pale ghosts strove to say. 
 
 As their shades did glance and pass 
 
 Before thee, night and day? 
 
 Thou wert blind, as we were dumb; 
 
 Once more, therefore, come, O come! 
 
 How shall we better arm the spirit 
 
 Who next shall thy post of life inherit — 
 
 How guard him from thy ruin? 
 
 Tell us of thy sad undoing 
 
 Here, where we sit, ever pursuing 
 
 Our weary task, ever renewing 
 
 Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave 
 
 Our powers, and man they could not save''* 
 
 Aprile enters. 
 
 A spirit better armed, succeeding me? 
 Ha, ha! our king that wouldst be, here at last? 
 Art thou the Poet who shall save the world? 
 Thy hand to mine. Stay, fix thine eyes on mine. 
 Thou wouldst be king? Still fix thine eyes on mine! 
 Par. Ha, ha! why crouchest not? Am I not king? 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 So torture is not wholly unavailing! 
 
 Have my fierce spasms compelled thee from thy lair? 
 
 Art thou the Sage I only seemed to be. 
 
 Myself of after-time, my very self 
 
 With sight a little clearer, strength more firm. 
 
 Who robs me of my prize and takes my place 
 
 For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect? 
 
 I scarcely trusted God with the surmise 
 
 That such might come, and thou didst hear the while! 
 
 Apr. Thine eyes are lusterless to mine; my hair 
 Is soft, nay silken soft: to talk with thee 
 Flushes my cheek, and thou art ashy-pale. 
 True, thou hast labored, hast withstood her lips. 
 The siren's! Yes, 'tis like thou hast attained! 
 Tell me, dear master, wherefore now thou comes t? 
 I thought thy solemn songs would have their meed 
 In after-time; that I should hear the earth 
 Exult in thee, and echo with thy praise. 
 While I was laid forgotten in my grave. 
 
 Par. Not so! I know thee, I am not thy dupe! 
 Thou art ordained to follow in my track. 
 Even as thou sayest, succeeding to my place. 
 Reaping my sowing — as I scorned to reap 
 The harvest sown by sages passed away. 
 Thou art the sober searcher, cautious striver. 
 As if, except through me, thou had searched or striven! 
 Aye! tell the world! Degrade me, after all. 
 To an aspirant after fame, not truth — 
 To all but envy of thy fate, be sure! 
 
 Apr. Nay, sing them to me; I shall envy not: 
 Thou shalt be king! Sing thou, and I will stand 
 Beside, and call deep silence for thy songs. 
 And worship thee, as I had ne'er been meant 
 To fill thy throne — but none shall ever know ! 
 Sing to me: for already thy wild eyes 
 Unlock my heart-springs, as some crystal-shaft 
 
 [102] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Reveals by some chance blaze its parent fount 
 After long time — so thou re veal's t my soul ! 
 All will flash forth at last, with thee to hear! 
 
 Par. (His secret ! my successor's secret — fool !) 
 I am he that aspired to know — and thou? 
 
 Ajyr. I would love infinitely, and be loved! 
 
 Par. Poor slave! I am thy king indeed. 
 
 Afr. Thou deem'st 
 
 That — born a spirit, dowered even as thou. 
 Born for thy fate — because I could not curb 
 My yearnings to possess at once the full 
 Enjoyment; yet neglected all the means 
 Of realizing even the frailest joy; 
 Gathering no fragments to appease my want. 
 Yet nursing up that want till thus I die — 
 Thou deem'st I cannot trace thy safe, sure march. 
 O'er perils that o'erwhelm me, triumphing. 
 Neglecting nought below for aught above. 
 Despising nothing and ensuring all — 
 Nor that I could (my time to come again) 
 Lead thus my spirit securely as thine own: 
 Listen, and thou shalt see I know thee well. 
 I would love infinitely . . . Ah, lost! lost! 
 O ye who armed me at such cost. 
 Your faces shall I bear to see 
 With your gifts even yet on me? — 
 
 Par. (Ah, 'tis some moonstruck creature after all! 
 Such fond fools as are like to haunt this den: 
 They spread contagion, doubtless: yet he seemed 
 To echo one foreboding of my heart 
 So truly, that ... no matter! How he stands 
 With eve's last sunbeam staying on his hair 
 Which turns to it, as if they were akin: 
 And those clear smiling eyes of saddest blue 
 Nearly set free, so far they rise above 
 The painful fruitless striving of that brow 
 
 [103] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 And enforced knowledge of those lips, firm set 
 
 In slow despondency's eternal sigh! 
 
 Has he, too, missed life's end, and learned the cause?) 
 
 Be calm, I charge thee, by thy fealty! 
 
 Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am. 
 
 Apr. I would love infinitely, and be loved. 
 First: I would carve in stone, or cast in brass. 
 The forms of earth. No ancient hunter, raised 
 Up to the gods by his renown; no nymph 
 Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree, 
 Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star, 
 Should be too hard for me; no shepherd-king, 
 Regal with his white locks; no youth who stands 
 Silent and very calm amid the throng. 
 His right hand ever hid beneath his robe 
 Until the tyrant pass; no law-giver; 
 No swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oils, 
 Given by a god for love of her — too hard ! 
 Each passion sprung from man, conceived by man. 
 Would I express and clothe it in its right form, 
 Or blend with others struggling in one form. 
 Or show repressed by an ungainly form. 
 For, if you marveled at some mighty spirit 
 With a fit frame to execute his will — 
 Aye, even unconsciously to work his will — 
 You should be moved no less beside some strong. 
 Rare spirit, fettered to a stubborn body. 
 Endeavoring to subdue it, and inform it 
 With its own splendor! All this I would do, 
 And I would say, this done, "God's sprites being made, 
 He grants to each a sphere to be its world, 
 Appointed with the various objects needed 
 To satisfy its spiritual desires; 
 So, I create a world for these my shapes 
 Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength!" 
 And, at their word, I would contrive and paint 
 
 [1041 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Woods, valleys, rocks, and plains, dells, sands, and 
 
 wastes. 
 Lakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering bed. 
 Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun; 
 And ocean-isles so small, the dog-fi^sh tracking 
 A dead whale, who should find them, would swim 
 
 thrice 
 Around them, and fare onward — all to hold 
 The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone — 
 Bronze labyrinths, palace, pyramid, and crypt. 
 Baths, galleries, courts, temples, and terraces. 
 Marts, theaters, and wharfs — all filled with men! 
 Men everywhere! And this performed in turn. 
 When those who looked on, pined to hear the hopes. 
 And fears, and hates, and loves which moved the 
 
 crowd, — 
 I would throw down the pencil as the chisel. 
 And I would speak: no thought which ever stirred 
 A human breast should be untold; no passions, 
 No soft emotions, from the turbulent stir 
 Within a heart fed with desires like mine — 
 To the last comfort, shutting the tired lids 
 Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away 
 Beneath the tent- tree by the way-side well: 
 And this in language as the need should be, 
 Now poured at once forth in a burning flow. 
 Now piled up in a grand array of words. 
 This done, to perfect and consummate all. 
 Even as a luminous haze links star to star, 
 I would supply all chasms with music, breathing 
 Mysterious notions of the soul, no way 
 To be defined save in strange melodies. 
 Last, having thus revealed all I could love. 
 And having received all love bestowed on it, 
 I would die: so preserving through my course 
 God full on me, as I was full on men: 
 
 [105] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 And He would grant my prayer — "I have gone 
 
 through 
 All loveliness of life; make more for me. 
 If not for men — or take me to thyself, 
 Eternal, infinite Love!" 
 
 If thou hast ne'er 
 Conceived this mighty aim, this full desire. 
 Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art 
 No king of mine. 
 
 Par. Ah me! 
 
 A'pr. But thou art here! 
 
 Thou didst not gaze like me upon that end 
 Till thine own powers for compassing the bliss 
 Were blind with glory; nor grow mad to grasp 
 At once the prize long patient toil should claim; 
 Nor spurn all granted short of that. And I 
 Would do as thou, a second time: nay, listen — 
 Knowing ourselves, our world, our task so great. 
 Our time so brief, — 'tis clear if we refuse 
 The means so limited, the tools so rude 
 To execute our purpose, life will fleet. 
 And we shall fade, and leave our task undone. 
 Rather, grow wise in time: what though our work 
 Be fashioned in despite of their ill-service. 
 Be crippled every way.f^ 'Twere little praise 
 Did full resources wait on our good will 
 At every turn. Let all be as it is. 
 Some say the earth is even so contrived 
 That tree, and flower, a vesture gay, conceal 
 A bare and skeleton framework: had we means 
 That answered to our mind! But now I seem 
 Wrecked on a savage isle: how rear thereon 
 My palace? Branching palms the props shall be. 
 Fruit glossy mingling; gems are for the east; 
 Who heeds them? I can waive them. Serpent's 
 scales, 
 
 [106] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Birds* feathers, downy furs, and fishes' skins 
 
 Must help me; and a Uttle here and there 
 
 Is all I can aspire to: still my art 
 
 Shall show its birth was in a gentler clime. 
 
 "Had I green jars of malachite, this way 
 
 I'd range them: where those sea-shells glisten above. 
 
 Cressets should hang, by right: this way we set 
 
 The purple carpets, as these mats are laid. 
 
 Woven of mere fern and rush and blossoming flag.'* 
 
 Or if, by fortune, some completer grace 
 
 Be spared to me, some fragment, some slight sample 
 
 Of my own land's completer workmanship, 
 
 Some trifle little heeded there, but here 
 
 The place's one perfection — with what joy 
 
 Would I enshrine the relic — cheerfully 
 
 Foregoing all the marvels out of reach! 
 
 Could I retain one strain of all the psalm 
 
 Of the angels — one word of the fiat of God — 
 
 To let my followers know what such things are! 
 
 I would adventure nobly for their sakes: 
 
 When nights were still, and still, the moaning sea, 
 
 And far away I could descry the land 
 
 Whence I departed, whither I return, 
 
 I would dispart the waves, and stand once more 
 
 At home, and load my bark, and hasten back, 
 
 And fling my gains before them, rich or poor — 
 
 "Friends," I would say, "I went far, far for them, 
 
 Past the high rocks the haunt of doves, the mounds 
 
 Of red earth from whose sides strange trees grow out. 
 
 Past tracks of milk-white minute blinding sand. 
 
 Till, by a mighty moon, I tremblingly 
 
 Gathered these magic herbs, berry and bud. 
 
 In haste — not pausing to reject the weeds. 
 
 But happy plucking them at any price. 
 
 To me, who have seen them bloom in their own soil. 
 
 They are scarce lovely: plait and wear them, you! 
 
 [107] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 And guess, from what they are, the springs that fed 
 The stars that sparkled o'er them, night by night, 
 The snakes that traveled far to sip their dew!" 
 Thus for my higher loves; and thus even weakness 
 Would win me honor. But not these alone 
 Should claim my care; for common life, its wants 
 And ways, would I set forth in beauteous hues: 
 The lowest hind should not possess a hope, 
 A fear, but I'd be by him, saying better 
 Than he his own heart's language. I would live 
 Forever in the thoughts I thus explored. 
 As a discoverer's memory is attached 
 To all he finds: they should be mine henceforth, 
 Imbued with me, though free to all before; 
 For clay, once cast into my soul's rich mine, 
 Should come up crusted o'er with gems: nor this 
 Would need a meaner spirit, than the first: 
 Nay, 'twould be but the selfsame spirit, clothed 
 In humbler guise, but still the selfsame spirit — 
 As one spring wind unbinds the mountain snow, 
 And comforts violets in their hermitage. 
 But master, poet, who hast done all this. 
 How didst thou 'scape the ruin I have met? 
 Didst thou, when nerving thee to this attempt. 
 Ne'er range thy mind's extent, as some wide hall, 
 Dazzled by shapes that filled its length with light, 
 Shapes clustered there to rule thee, not obey — 
 That will not wait thy summons, will not rise 
 Singly, nor when thy practised eye and hand 
 Can well transfer their loveliness, but crowd 
 By thee forever, bright to thy despair.'* 
 Didst thou ne'er gaze on each by turns, and ne'er 
 Resolve to single out one, though the rest 
 Should vanish, and to give that one, entire 
 In beauty, to the world; forgetting, so, 
 Its peers, whose number baffles mortal power? 
 
 [108] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 And, this determined, wert thou ne'er seduced 
 
 By memories, and regrets, and passionate love. 
 
 To glance once more farewell? and did their eyes 
 
 Fasten thee, brighter and more bright, until 
 
 Thou couldst but stagger back unto their feet. 
 
 And laugh that man's applause or welfare once 
 
 Could tempt thee to forsake them? Or when years 
 
 Had passed, and still their love possessed thee wholly; 
 
 When from without some murmur startled thee 
 
 Of darkling mortals, famished for one ray 
 
 Of thy so-hoarded luxury of light. 
 
 Didst thou ne'er strive even yet to break those spells. 
 
 And prove thou couldst recover and fulfil 
 
 Thy early mission, long ago renounced. 
 
 And, to that end, select some shape once more? 
 
 And did not mist-like influences, thick films, 
 
 Faint memories of the rest, that charmed so long 
 
 Thine eyes, float fast, confuse thee, bear thee off, 
 
 As whirling snowdrifts blind a man who treads 
 
 A mountain ridge, with guiding spear, through storm? 
 
 Say, though I fell, I had excuse to fall; 
 
 Say, I was tempted sorely: say but this. 
 
 Dear lord, Aprile's lord! 
 
 Par. Clasp me not thus, 
 
 Aprile! . . . That the truth should reach me thus! 
 We are weak dust. Nay, clasp not, or I faint! 
 
 A'pr. My king! and envious thoughts could outrage 
 thee! 
 Lo, I forget my ruin, and rejoice 
 In thy success, as thou! Let our God's praise 
 Go bravely through the world at last! What care 
 Through me or thee? I feel thy breath . . . why, tears? 
 Tears in the darkness — and from thee to me? 
 
 Par. Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn 
 To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both! 
 We wake at length from weary dreams; but both 
 
 [109] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear 
 Appears the world before us, we no less 
 Wake with our wrists and ankles jeweled still. 
 I, too, have sought to know as thou to love — 
 Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge. 
 Still thou hast beauty and I, power. We wake: 
 What penance canst devise for both of us? 
 
 Apr. I hear thee faintly . . . the thick darkness! 
 Even 
 Thine eyes are hid. 'Tis as I knew: I speak. 
 And now I die. But I have seen thy face! 
 O, poet, think of me, and sing of me! 
 But to have seen thee, and to die so soon! 
 
 Par. Die not, Aprile: we must never part. 
 Are we not halves of one dissevered world. 
 Whom this strange chance unites once more? Part? 
 
 never ! 
 Till thou, the lover, know; and I, the knower. 
 Love — until both are saved. Aprile, hear! 
 We will accept our gains, and use them — now ! 
 God, he will die upon my breast! Aprile! 
 
 Apr. To speak but once, and die! yet by his side. 
 Hush! hush! 
 
 Ha! go you ever girt about 
 With phantoms, powers? I have created such. 
 But these seem real as I! 
 
 Par. Whom can you see 
 
 Through the accursed darkness? 
 
 Apr. Stay; I know, 
 
 I know them: who should know them well as I? — 
 White brows, lit up with glory; poets all! 
 
 Par. Let him but live, and I have my reward! 
 
 Apr. Yes; I see now — God is the perfect Poet, 
 Who in creation acts his own conceptions. 
 Shall man refuse to be aught less than God? 
 Man's weakness is his glory — for the strength 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Which raises him to heaven and near God's self, 
 Came spite of it: God's strength his glory is, 
 For thence came with our weakness sympathy 
 Which brought God down to earth, a man like us. 
 Had you but told me this at first! . . . Hush! hush! 
 
 Par. Live! for my sake, because of my great sin. 
 To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words 
 And their deep import. Live! 'tis not too late: 
 I have a quiet home for us, and friends. 
 Michal shall smile on you . . . Hear you.?^ Lean thus. 
 And breathe my breath : I shall not lose one word 
 Of all your speech — no little word, Aprile! 
 
 Apr. No, no. . . . Crown me? I am not one of you! 
 'Tis he, the king, you seek. I am not one . . . 
 
 Par. Give me thy spirit, at least! Let me love, too ! 
 
 I have attained, and now I may depart. 
 
 III. PARACELSUS 
 
 Scene. A chamber in the house of Paracelsus at Basel 
 1526 
 
 Paracelsus, Festus 
 
 Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out! 
 
 Fest. True, true! 
 
 'Tis very fit that all, time, chance, and change 
 Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to face. 
 And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears. 
 Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred 
 By your long absence, should be cast away, 
 Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal 
 Of our affections. 
 
 Par. Oh, omit not aught 
 
 [111] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Which witnesses your own and Michal's love! 
 I bade you not spare that! Forget alone 
 The honors and the glories, and the rest. 
 You seemed disposed to tell profusely out. 
 
 Fest. Nay, even your honors, in a sense, I waive: 
 The wondrous Paracelsus — Life's dispenser. 
 Fate's commissary, idol of the schools. 
 And Courts, shall be no more than Aureole still — 
 Still Aureole and my friend, as when we parted 
 Some twenty years ago, and I restrained 
 As I best could the promptings of my spirit, 
 Which secretly advanced you, from the first. 
 To the preeminent rank which, since your own 
 Adventurous ardor, nobly triumphing. 
 Has won for you. 
 
 Par. Yes, yes; and Michal's face 
 
 Still wears that quiet and peculiar light, 
 Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl .^^ 
 
 Fest. Just so. 
 
 Par. And yet her calm sweet countenance. 
 
 Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing 
 Alone . . . Does she still sing alone, bird-like. 
 Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt 
 In flakes through that old leafy bower built under 
 The sunny wall at Wiirzburg, from her lattice 
 Among the trees above, while I, unseen. 
 Sate conning some rare scroll from Tritheim's shelves. 
 Much wondering notes so simple could divert 
 My mind from study. Those were happy days! 
 Respect all such as sing when all alone. 
 
 Fest. Scarcely alone — her children, you may guess. 
 Are wild beside her . . . 
 
 Par. Ah, those children quite 
 
 Unsettle the pure picture in my mind: 
 A girl — she was so perfect, so distinct . . . 
 No change, no change! Not but this added grace 
 
 [112] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 May blend and harmonize with its compeers. 
 And Michal may become her motherhood; 
 But 'tis a change — and I detest all change, 
 And most a change in aught I loved long since! 
 So, Michal . . . you have said she thinks of me? 
 
 Fest. O very proud will Michal be of you! 
 Imagine how we sate, long winter-nights. 
 Scheming and wondering — shaping your presumed 
 Adventures, or devising their reward; 
 Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope. 
 Though it was strange how, even when most secure 
 In our domestic peace, a certain dim 
 And flitting shade could sadden all; it seemed 
 A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning, 
 A sense of something wanting, incomplete — 
 Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided 
 By mute consent — but, said or unsaid, felt 
 To point to one so loved and so long lost. 
 And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears — 
 How you would laugh should I recount them now! 
 I still predicted your return at last. 
 With gifts beyond the greatest vaunt of all. 
 All Tritheim's wondrous troop; did one of which 
 Attain renowTi by any chance, I smiled — 
 As well aware of who would prove his peer. 
 Michal was sure some woman, long ere this, 
 As beautiful as you were sage, had loved . . . 
 
 Par. Far-seeing, truly, to discern so much 
 In the fantastic projects and day-dreams 
 Of a raw, restless boy! 
 
 Fest. Say, one whose sunrise 
 
 Well warranted our faith in this full noon! 
 Can I forget the anxious voice which said, 
 "Festus, have thoughts like these e'er shaped them- 
 selves 
 In other brains than mine — have their possessors 
 
 [113] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Existed in like circumstance — were they weak 
 As I — or ever constant from the first. 
 Despising youth's allurements, and rejecting 
 As spider-films the shackles I endure? 
 Is there hope for me?" — and I answered grave 
 As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser. 
 More gifted mortal. O you must remember. 
 For all your glorious . . . 
 
 Par, Glorious? aye, this hair, 
 
 These hands — nay, touch them, they are mine! Recall 
 With all the said recallings, times when thus 
 To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale. 
 As now. Most glorious, are they not? 
 
 Fest Why . . . why . . . 
 
 Something must be subtracted from success 
 So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly, 
 Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole, 
 You are changed — very changed! 'Twere losing 
 
 nothing 
 To look well to it: you must not be stolen 
 From the enjoyment of your well-won meed. 
 
 Par. My friend! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt: 
 By talking, not of me, but of yourself. 
 You will best gain your point. 
 
 Fest. Have I not said 
 
 All touching Michal and my children? Sure 
 You know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks 
 Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair; 
 And Aureole's glee when some stray gannet builds 
 Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope 
 Have I that he will honor, the wild imp. 
 His namesake! Sigh not! 'tis too much to ask 
 That all we love should reach the same proud fate. 
 But you are very kind to humor me 
 By showing interest in my quiet life; 
 You, who of old could never tame yourself 
 
 nil] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . . 
 
 Par, Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death, 
 Who blabs so oft the follies of this world: 
 And I am Death's familiar, as you know. 
 I helped a man to die, some few weeks since. 
 Warped even from his go-cart to on? end — 
 The living on princes' smiles, reflected from 
 A mighty herd of favorites. No mean trick 
 He left untried; and truly well nigh wormed 
 All traces of God's finger out of him. 
 Then died, grown old; and just an hour before — 
 Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes — 
 He sate up suddenly, and with natural voice 
 Said, that in spite of thick air and closed doors 
 God told him it was June; and he knew well. 
 Without such telling, hare-bells grew in June; 
 And all that kings could ever give or take 
 Would not be precious as those blooms to him. 
 Just so, allowing I am passing wise. 
 It seems to me much worthier argument 
 Why pansies, eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize 
 From violets, eyes that dream — (your Michal's 
 
 choice) — 
 Than all fools find to wonder at in me» 
 Or in my fortunes: and be very sure 
 I say this from no prurient restlessness — 
 No self-complacency — itching to turn. 
 Vary, and view its pleasure from all points. 
 And, in this matter, willing other men 
 Should argue and demonstrate to itself 
 The realness of the very joy it tastes. 
 What joy is better than the news of friends 
 Whose memories were a solace to me oft. 
 As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight? 
 Yes, ofter than you wasted thought on me 
 If you were sage, and rightly valued bliss! 
 
 __ 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 But there's no taming nor repressing hearts: 
 
 God knows I need such! — So you heard me speak? 
 
 Fest Speak? when? 
 
 Par. When but this morning at my class? 
 
 There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not. 
 Surely you know I am engaged to fill 
 The chair here? — that 'tis part of my proud fate 
 To lecture to as many thick-sculled youths 
 As please, each day, to throng the theater. 
 To my great reputation, and no small 
 Danger of Basel's benches, long unused 
 To crack beneath such honor? 
 
 Fest. I was there; 
 
 I mingled with the throng: shall I avow 
 I had small care to listen? — too intent 
 On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd 
 A full corroboration of my hopes! 
 What can I learn about your powers? but they 
 Know, care for nought beyond your actual state — 
 Your actual value; and yet worship you! 
 Those various natures whom you sway as one! 
 But ere I go, be sure I shall attend . . . 
 
 Par. Stop, o' God's name: the thing's by no means 
 yet 
 Past remedy! Shall I read this morning's work 
 — At least in substance? Nought so worth the gaining 
 As an apt scholar! Thus then, with all due 
 Precision and emphasis — (you, besides, are clearly 
 Guiltless of understanding a whit more 
 The subject than your stool — allowed to be 
 A notable advantage) . . . 
 
 Fest. Surely, Aureole, 
 
 You laugh at me! 
 
 Par. I laugh? Ha, ha! thank heaven, 
 
 I charge you, if't be so! for I forget 
 Much — and what laughter should be like! No less. 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 However, I forego that luxury. 
 Since it alarms the friend who brings it back. 
 True, laughter like my own must echo strange 
 To thinking men; a smile were better far — 
 So make me smile! If the exulting look 
 You wore but now be smiling, 'tis so long 
 Since I have smiled! Alas, such smiles are born 
 Alone of hearts like yours, or shepherds old 
 Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks. 
 Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven. 
 In earth a stage for altars, nothing more. 
 Never change, Festus: I say, never change! 
 
 Fest. My God, if he be wretched after all! 
 
 Par. When last we parted, Festus, you declared, 
 — Or did your Michal's soft lips whisper words 
 I have preserved.^ She told me she believed 
 I should succeed (meaning, that in the search 
 I then engaged in, I should meet success). 
 And yet be wretched: now, she augured false. 
 
 Fest. Thank heaven! but you spoke strangely! 
 could I venture 
 To think bare apprehension lest your friend, 
 Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find 
 Henceforth less sweetness in his own, awakes 
 Such earnest mood in you? Fear not, dear friend. 
 That I shall leave you, inwardly repining 
 Your lot was not my own! 
 
 Par. And this, for ever! 
 
 For ever! gull who may, they will be blind! 
 They will not look nor think — 'tis nothing new 
 In them; but surely he is not of them! 
 My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you — 
 Though all beside were sand-blind — you, my friend. 
 Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye, 
 Untroubled by the false glare that confounds 
 A weaker vision; would remain serene, 
 
 hit] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Though singular, amid a gaping throng. 
 
 I feared you, or had come, sure, long ere this. 
 
 To Einsiedeln. Well, error has no end. 
 
 And Rhasis is a sage, and Basel boasts 
 
 A tribe of wits, and I am wise and blest 
 
 Past all dispute! 'Tis vain to fret at it. 
 
 I have vowed long since that my worshipers 
 
 Shall owe to their own deep sagacity 
 
 All further information, good or bad: 
 
 And little risk my reputation runs. 
 
 Unless perchance the glance now searching me 
 
 Be fixed much longer — for it seems to spell, 
 
 Dimly, the characters a simpler man 
 
 Might read distinct enough. Old eastern books 
 
 Say, the fallen prince of morning some short space 
 
 Remained unchanged in feature — nay, his brow 
 
 Seemed hued with triumph: every spirit then 
 
 Praising; his heart on flame the while: — a tale! 
 
 Well, Festus, what discover you, I pray? 
 
 Fest. Some foul deed sullies then a life which else 
 Were raised supreme.? 
 
 Par. Good : I do well — most well ! 
 
 Why strive to make men hear, feel, fret themselves 
 With what 'tis past their power to comprehend.? 
 I would not strive now: only, having nursed 
 The faint surmise that one yet walked the earth, 
 One, at least, not the utter fool of show. 
 Not absolutely formed to be the dupe 
 Of shallow plausibilities alone; 
 One who, in youth found wise enough to choose 
 The happiness his riper years approve, 
 Was yet so anxious for another's sake. 
 That, ere his friend could rush upon a course 
 Mad, ruinous, the converse of his own. 
 His gentler spirit essayed, prejudged for him 
 The perilous path, foresaw its destiny, 
 
 nisi 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 And warned the weak one in such tender words. 
 
 Such accents — his whole heart in every tone — 
 
 That oft their memory comforted that friend 
 
 When rather it should have increased despair: 
 
 — Having believed, I say, that this one man 
 
 Could never lose the wisdom from the first 
 
 His portion — how should I refuse to grieve 
 
 At even my gain if it attest his loss, 
 
 At triumph which so signally disturbs 
 
 Our old relation, proving me more wise? 
 
 Therefore, once more reminding him how well 
 
 He prophesied, I note the single flaw 
 
 That spoils his prophet's title: in plain words 
 
 You were deceived, and thus were you deceived — 
 
 I have not been successful, and yet am 
 
 Most wretched: there — 'tis said at last; but give 
 
 No credit, lest you force me to concede 
 
 That common sense yet lives upon the earth. 
 
 Fest. You surely do not mean to banter me? 
 
 Par. You know, or (if you have been wise enough 
 To cleanse your memory of such matters) knew, 
 As far as words of mine could make it clear. 
 That 'twas my purpose to find joy or grief 
 Solely in the fulfilment of my plan, 
 Or plot, or whatsoe'er it was; rejoicing 
 Alone as it proceeded prosperously, 
 Sorrowing alone when any chance retarded 
 Its progress. That was in those Wiirzburg days! 
 Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate, 
 I have pursued this plan with all my strength; 
 And having failed therein most signally, 
 Cannot object to ruin, utter and drear 
 As all-excelling would have been the prize 
 Had fortune favored me. I scarce do right 
 To vex your frank good spirit, late rejoiced 
 By my supposed prosperity, I know, 
 
 [119] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 And, were I lucky in a glut of friends, 
 
 Would well agree to let your error live. 
 
 Nay, strengthen it with fables of success: 
 
 But mine is no condition to refuse 
 
 The transient solace of so rare a chance. 
 
 My solitary luxury, my Festus — 
 
 Accordingly I venture to put off 
 
 The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me, 
 
 Secure when he is by. I lay me bare, 
 
 Prone at his mercy — but he is my friend ! 
 
 Not that he need? retain his aspect grave; 
 
 That answers not my purpose; for 'tis like. 
 
 Some sunny morning — Basel being drained 
 
 Of its wise population, every corner 
 
 Of the amphitheater crammed with learned clerks, 
 
 Here (Ecolampadius, looking worlds of wit. 
 
 Here Castellanus, as profound as he, 
 
 Munsterus here, Frobenius there, — all squeezed, 
 
 And staring, and expectant, — then, I say, 
 
 'Tis like that the poor zany of the show. 
 
 Your friend, will choose to put his trappings off 
 
 Before them, bid adieu to cap and bells 
 
 And motley with a grace but seldom judged 
 
 Expedient in such cases : — the grim smile 
 
 That will go round! It is not therefore best 
 
 To venture a rehearsal like the present 
 
 In a small way? Where are the signs I seek. 
 
 The first-fruits and fair sample of the scorn 
 
 Due to all quacks? Why, this will never do! 
 
 Fest. These are foul vapors. Aureole; nought beside! 
 The effect of watching, study, weariness. 
 Were there a spark of truth in the confusion 
 Of these wild words, you would not outrage thus 
 Your youth's companion. I shall ne'er regard 
 These wanderings, bred of faintness and much study. 
 You would not trust a trouble thus to me, 
 
 120 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 To Michal's friend. 
 
 Par. I have said it, dearest Festus! 
 
 The maimer is ungracious, probably; 
 More may be told in broken sobs, one day. 
 And scalding tears, ere long: but I thought best 
 To keep that off as long as possible. 
 Do you wonder still? 
 
 Fest. No; it must oft fall out 
 
 That one whose labor perfects any work, 
 Shall rise from it with eyes so worn, that he 
 Of all men least can measure the extent 
 Of what he has accomplished. He alone. 
 Who, nothing tasked, is nothing weary too, 
 Can clearly scan the little he effects: 
 But we, the bystanders, untouched by toil, 
 Estimate each aright. 
 
 Par. This worthy Festus 
 
 Is one of them, at last! 'Tis so with all! 
 First, they set down all progress as a dream. 
 And next, when he, whose quick discomfiture 
 Was counted on, accomplishes some few 
 And doubtful steps in his career, — behold. 
 They look for every inch of ground to vanish 
 Beneath his tread, so sure they judge success! 
 
 Fest. Few doubtful steps? when death retires before 
 Your presence — when the noblest of mankind. 
 Broken in body, or subdued in mind. 
 May through your skill renew their vigor, raise 
 The shattered frame to pristine stateliness? 
 When men in racking pain may purchase dreams 
 Of what delights them most — swooning at once 
 Into a sea of bliss, or rapt along 
 As in a flying sphere of turbulent light? 
 When we may look to you as one ordained 
 To free the flesh from fell disease, as frees 
 Our Luther's burning tongue the fettered soul? 
 
 [121] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 When. . . . 
 
 Par. Rather, when and where, friend, did you get 
 This notable news? 
 
 Fest. Even from the common voice; 
 
 From those whose envy, daring not dispute 
 The wonders it decries, attributes them 
 To magic and such folly. 
 
 Par. Folly.' AVhy not 
 
 To magic, pray? You find a comfort doubtless 
 In holding, God ne'er troubles him about 
 Us or our doings: once we were judged worth 
 The devil's tempting ... I offend: forgive me. 
 And rest content. Your prophecy on the whole 
 Was fair enough as prophesyings go; 
 At fault a little in detail, but quite 
 Precise enough in the main; accordingly 
 I pay due homage: you guessed long ago 
 (The prophet!) I should fail — and I have failed. 
 
 Fest. You mean to tell me, then, the hopes which fed 
 Your youth have not been realized as yet? 
 Some obstacle has barred them hitherto? 
 Or that their innate . . . 
 
 Par. As I said but now, 
 
 You have a very decent prophet's fame, 
 So you but shun details here. Little matters 
 Whether those hopes were mad, — the aims they 
 
 sought. 
 Safe and secure from all ambitious fools; 
 Or whether my weak wits are overcome 
 By what a better spirit would scorn: I fail. 
 And now methinks 'twere best to change a theme, 
 I am a sad fool to have stumbled on. 
 I say confusedly what comes uppermost; 
 But there are times when patience proves at fault. 
 As now : this morning's strange encounter — you 
 Beside me once again! you, whom I guessed 
 
 [122] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Alive, since hitherto (with Luther's leave) 
 
 No friend have I among the saints at rest. 
 
 To judge by any good their prayers effect — 
 
 I knew you would have helped me ! — So would He, 
 
 My strange competitor in enterprise. 
 
 Bound for the same end by another path. 
 
 Arrived, or ill or well, before the time. 
 
 At our disastrous journey's doubtful close — 
 
 How goes it with Aprile? Ah, your heaven 
 
 Receives not into its beatitudes 
 
 Mere martyrs for the world's sake; heaven shuts fast: 
 
 The poor mad poet is howling by this time! 
 
 Since you are my sole friend then, here or there, 
 
 I could not quite repress the varied feelings 
 
 This meeting wakens; they have had their vent. 
 
 And now forget them. Do the rear-mice still 
 
 Hang like a fret-work on the gate (or what 
 
 In my time was a gate) fronting the road 
 
 From Einsiedeln to Lachen? 
 
 Fest. Trifle not! 
 
 Answer me — for my sake alone. You smiled 
 Just now, when I supposed some deed, unworthy 
 Yourself might blot the else so bright result; 
 Yet if your motives have continued pure. 
 Your earnest will unfaltering, if you still 
 Remain unchanged, and if, in spite of this. 
 You have experienced a defeat that proves 
 Your aims forever unattainable — 
 I say not, you would cheerfully resign 
 The contest — mortal hearts are not so fashioned — 
 But sure you would resign it ne'ertheless. 
 You sought not fame, nor gain, nor even love; 
 No end distinct from knowledge, — I repeat 
 Your very words: once satisfied that knowledge 
 Is a mere dream, you would announce as much. 
 Yourself the first. But how is the event? 
 
 [123] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 You are defeated — and I find you here ! 
 
 Par. As though "here" did not signify defeat! 
 I spoke not of my Uttle labors here — 
 But of the break-down of my general aims: 
 That you, aware of their extent and scope, 
 Should look on these sage lecturings, approved 
 By beardless boys, and bearded dotards, — these 
 As a fit consummation of such aims. 
 Is worthy notice! A professorship 
 At Basel! Since you see so much in it. 
 And think my life was reasonably drained 
 Of life's delights to render me a match 
 For duties arduous as such post demands, — 
 Far be it from me to deny my power 
 To fill the petty circle lotted out 
 From infinite space, or justify the host 
 Of honors thence accruing: so, take notice. 
 This jewel dangling from my neck preserves 
 The features of a prince, my skill restored 
 To plague his people some few years to come: 
 And all through a pure whim. He had eased the 
 
 earth 
 For me, but that the droll despair which seized 
 The vermin of his household, tickled me. 
 I came to see: here, driveled the physician 
 Whose most infallible nostrum was at fault; 
 There quaked the astrologer, whose horoscope 
 Had promised him interminable years; 
 Here a monk fumbled at the sick man's mouth 
 With some undoubted relic — a sudary 
 Of the Virgin; while some other dozen knaves 
 Of the same brotherhood (he loved them ever) 
 Were actively preparing 'neath his nose 
 Such a suffumigation as, once fired. 
 Had stunk the patient dead ere he could groan. 
 I cursed the doctor, and upset the brother; 
 
 [124] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Brushed past the conjurer; vowed that the first gust 
 
 Of stench from the ingredients just ahght 
 
 Would raise a cross-grained devil in my sword. 
 
 Not easily laid; and ere an hour, the prince 
 
 Slept as he never slept since prince he was. 
 
 A day — and I was posting for my life, 
 
 Placarded through the town as one whose spite 
 
 Had near availed to stop the blessed effects 
 
 Of the doctor's nostrum, which, well seconded 
 
 By the sudary, and most by the costly smoke — 
 
 Not leaving out the strenuous prayers sent up 
 
 Hard by, in the abbey — raised the prince to hfe; 
 
 To the great reputation of the seer, 
 
 Who, confident, expected all along 
 
 The glad event — the doctor's recompense — 
 
 Much largess from his highness to the monks — 
 
 And the vast solace of his loving people, 
 
 Whose general satisfaction to increase. 
 
 The prince was pleased no longer to defer 
 
 The burning of some dozen heretics. 
 
 Remanded 'till God's mercy should be shown 
 
 Touching his sickness, as a prudent pledge 
 
 To make it surer: last of all were joined 
 
 Ample directions to all loyal folk 
 
 To swell the complement, by seizing me 
 
 Who — doubtless some rank sorcerer — had endeavored 
 
 To thwart these pious offices, obstruct 
 
 The prince's cure, and frustrate Heaven, by help 
 
 Of certain devils dwelling in his sword. 
 
 By luck, the prince in his first fit of thanks 
 
 Had forced this bauble on me as an earnest 
 
 Of further favors. This one case may serve 
 
 To give sufficient taste of many such. 
 
 So let them pass: those shelves support a pile 
 
 Of patents, licenses, diplomas, titles, 
 
 From Germany, France, Spain, and Italy: 
 
 [125] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 Tliey authorize some honor: ne'ertheless, 
 
 I set more store by this Erasmus sent; 
 
 He trusts me; our Frobenius is his friend. 
 
 And him "I raised" (nay, read it) "from the dead." . . . 
 
 I weary you, I see; I merely sought 
 
 To show, there's no great wonder after all 
 
 That while I fill the classroom, and attract 
 
 A crowd to Basel, I get leave to stay; 
 
 And therefore need not scruple to accept 
 
 The utmost they can offer — if I please: 
 
 For 'tis but right the world should be prepared 
 
 To treat with favor e'en fantastic wants 
 
 Of one like me, used up in serving her. 
 
 Just as the mortal, whom the Gods in part 
 
 Devoured, received in place of his lost limb 
 
 Some virtue or other — cured disease, I think; 
 
 You mind the fables we have read together. 
 
 Fest. You do not think I comprehend a word: 
 The time was. Aureole, you were apt enough 
 To clothe the airiest thoughts in specious breath; 
 But surely you must feel how vague and strange 
 These speeches sound. 
 
 Par. Well, then: you know my hopes; 
 
 I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain; 
 That truth is just as far from me as ever; 
 That I have thrown my life away; that sorrow 
 On that account is vain, and further effort 
 To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing, 
 As useless: and all this was taught to me 
 By the convincing, good old-fashioned method 
 Of force — by sheer compulsion. Is that plain? 
 
 Fest. Dear Aureole! you confess my fears were just? 
 God wills not . . . 
 
 Par. Now, 'tis this I most admire — 
 
 The constant talk men of your stamp keep up 
 Of God's will, as they style it; one would swear 
 
 [126] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Man had but merely to uplift his eye. 
 
 To see the will in question charactered 
 
 On the heaven's vault. 'Tis hardly wise to moot 
 
 Such topics: doubts are many and faith is weak. 
 
 I know as much of any will of God's, 
 
 As knows some dumb and tortured brute what Man, 
 
 His stern lord, wills from the perplexing blows 
 
 That plague him every way, and there, of course. 
 
 Where least he suffers, longest he remains — 
 
 My case; and for such reasons I plod on. 
 
 Subdued, but not convinced. I know as Uttle 
 
 Why I deserve to fail, as why I hoped 
 
 Better things in my youth. I simply know 
 
 I am no master here, but trained and beaten 
 
 Into the path I tread; and here I stay, 
 
 Until some further intimation reach me. 
 
 Like an obedient drudge: though I prefer 
 
 To view the whole thing as a task imposed. 
 
 Which, whether dull or pleasant, must be done — 
 
 Yet, I deny not, there is made provision 
 
 Of joys which tastes less jaded might_^ affect; 
 
 Nay, some which please me too, for all my pride — 
 
 Pleasures that once were pains: the iron ring 
 
 Festering about a slave's neck grows at length 
 
 Part of the flesh it eats. I hate no more 
 
 A host of petty, vile delights, undreamed of 
 
 Or spurned, before; such now supply the place 
 
 Of my dead aims: as in the autumn woods 
 
 Where tall trees used to flourish, from their roots 
 
 Springs up a fungous brood, sickly and pale. 
 
 Chill mushrooms, colored like a corpse's cheek. 
 
 Fest. If I interpret well what words I seize. 
 It troubles me but little that your aims. 
 Vast in their dawning, and most likely grown 
 Extravagantly since, have baffled you. 
 Perchance I am glad; you merit greater praise; 
 
 [1271 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Because they are too glorious to be gained, 
 
 You do not blindly cling to them and die; 
 
 You fell, but have not sullenly refused 
 
 To rise, because an angel worsted you 
 
 In wrestling, though the world holds not your peer 
 
 And though too harsh and sudden is the change 
 
 To yield content as yet — still you pursue 
 
 The ungracious path as though t'were rosy-strewn. 
 
 'Tis well: and your reward, or soon or late. 
 
 Will come from Him whom no man serves in vain. 
 
 Par. Ah, very fine! For my part, I conceive 
 The very pausing from all further toil. 
 Which you find heinous, would be as a seal 
 To the sincerity of all my deeds. 
 To be consistent I should die at once; 
 I calculated on no after-life; 
 Yet (how crept in, how fostered, I know not) 
 Here am I with as passionate regret 
 For youth, and health, and love so vainly lost. 
 As if their preservation had been first 
 And foremost in my thoughts; and this strange fact 
 Humbled me wondrously, and had due force 
 In rendering me the more disposed to follow 
 A certain counsel, a mysterious warning — 
 You will not understand — but 'twas a man 
 With aims not mine, but yet pursued like mine, 
 With the same fervor and no more success. 
 Who perished in my sight; but summoned me 
 As I would shun the ghastly fate I saw. 
 To serve my race at once; to wait no longer 
 'Till God should interfere in my behalf. 
 And let the next world's knowledge dawn on this; 
 But to distrust myself, put pride away. 
 And give my gains, imperfect as they were. 
 To men. I have not leisure to explain 
 How since, a strange succession of events 
 
 [128] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Has raised me to the station you behold, 
 Wherein I seem to turn to most account 
 The mere wreck of the past, — perhaps receive 
 Some feeble glimmering token that God views 
 And may approve my penance: therefore here 
 You find me — doing most good or least harm: 
 And if folks wonder much and profit little 
 'Tis not my fault; only, I shall rejoice 
 When my part in the farce is shuffled through, 
 And the curtain falls; I must hold out 'till then. 
 
 Fest. 'Till when, dear Aureole? 
 
 Par. 'Till I'm fairly thrust 
 
 From my proud eminence. Fortune is fickle 
 And even professors fall: should that arrive, 
 I see no sin in ceding to my bent. 
 You little fancy what rude shocks apprize us 
 We sin: God's intimations rather fail 
 In clearness than in energy: 'twere well 
 Did they but indicate the course to take 
 Like that to be forsaken. I would fain 
 Be spared a further sample! Here I stand, 
 And here I stay, be sure, till forced to flit. 
 
 Fest. Remain but firm on that head; long ere then 
 All I expect will come to pass, I trust: 
 The cloud that wraps you will have disappeared. 
 Meantime, I see small chance of such event: 
 They praise you here as one whose lore, divulged 
 Already, eclipses all the past can show. 
 But whose achievements, marvelous as they be, 
 Are faint anticipations of a glory 
 About to be revealed. When Basel's crowds 
 Dismiss their teacher, I shall be content 
 That he depart. 
 
 Par. This favor at their hands 
 
 I look for earlier than your view of things 
 Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day 
 
 [129] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Remove the full half sheer amazement draws, 
 The novelty, nought else; and next, the tribe 
 Whose innate blockish dulness just perceives 
 That unless miracles (as seem my works) 
 Be wrought in their behalf, their chance is slight 
 To puzzle the devil; next, the numerous set 
 Who bitterly hate established schools, so help 
 The teacher that oppugns them, and o'erthrows, 
 'Till having planted his own doctrine, he 
 May reckon on their rancor in his turn; 
 Take, too, the sprinkling of sagacious knaves 
 Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue. 
 But seeks, by flattery and nursing craft. 
 To force my system to a premature 
 Short-lived development . . , Why swell the list? 
 Each has his end to serve, and his best way 
 Of serving it: remove all these, remains 
 A scantling — a poor dozen at the best — 
 That really come to learn for learning's sake; 
 Worthy to look for sympathy and service. 
 And likely to draw profit from my pains. 
 
 Fest. 'Tis no encouraging picture : still these few 
 Redeem their fellows. Once implant the germ. 
 Its growth, if slow, is sure. 
 
 Par. God grant it so! 
 
 I would make some amends: but if I fail. 
 The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge. 
 That much is in my method and my manner. 
 My uncouth habits, my impatient spirit, 
 Which hinders of reception and result 
 My doctrine: much to say, small skill to speak! 
 Those old aims suffered not a looking-off. 
 Though for an instant; therefore, only when 
 I thus renounced them and resolved to reap 
 Some present fruit — to teach mankind some truth 
 So dearly purchased — only then I found 
 
 [130] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Such teaching was an art requiring cares 
 And quaUties pecuHar to itself; 
 That to possess was one thing — to display, 
 Another. Had renown been in my thoughts. 
 Or popular praise, I had soon discovered it! 
 One grows but little apt to learn these things. 
 
 Fest. If it be so, which nowise I believe. 
 There needs no waiting fuller dispensation 
 To leave a labor to so little use: 
 Why not throw up the irksome charge at once? 
 
 Par. A task, a task! . . . 
 
 But wherefore hide from you 
 The whole extent of degradation, once 
 Engaged in the confession? Spite of all 
 My fine talk of obedience, and repugnance, 
 Docility, and what not, 'tis yet to learn 
 If when the old task really is performed. 
 And my will free once more, to choose a new, 
 I shall do aught but slightly modify 
 The nature of the hated one I quit. 
 In plain words, I am spoiled: my life still tends 
 As first it tended. I am broken and trained 
 To my old habits; they are part of me. 
 I know, and none so well, my darling ends 
 Are proved impossible: no less, no less. 
 Even now what humors me, fond fool, as when 
 Their faint ghosts sit with me, and flatter me. 
 And send me back content to my dull round.'* 
 How can I change this soul? — this apparatus 
 Constructed solely for their purposes. 
 So well adapted to their every want. 
 To search out and discover, prove and perfect; 
 This intricate machine, whose most minute. 
 Least obvious motions have their charm to me 
 Though to none else — an aptitude I seize, 
 An object I perceive, a use, a meaning, 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 A property, a fitness, I explain. 
 
 And I alone: — how can I change my soul. 
 
 And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked 
 
 Under that soul's dominion — used to care 
 
 For its bright master's cares, and quite subdue 
 
 Its proper cravings — not to ail, nor pine. 
 
 So the soul prosper — whither drag this poor. 
 
 Tried, patient body? God! how I essayed. 
 
 To live like that mad poet, for awhile. 
 
 To catch Aprile's spirit, as I hoped. 
 
 And love alone! and how I felt too warped 
 
 And twisted and deformed! what should I do. 
 
 Even tho' released from drudgery, but return 
 
 Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore, 
 
 To my old life — and die as I begun! 
 
 I cannot feed on beauty, for the sake 
 
 Of beauty only; nor can drink in balm 
 
 From lovely objects for their loveliness; 
 
 My nature cannot lose her first intent; 
 
 I still must hoard, and heap, and class all truths 
 
 With one ulterior purpose: I must know! 
 
 Would God translate me to his throne, believe 
 
 That I should only listen to his words 
 
 To further my own aims! For other men. 
 
 Beauty is prodigally strewn around. 
 
 And I were happy could I quench as they 
 
 This mad and thriveless longing, be content 
 
 With beauty for itself alone: alas! 
 
 I have addressed a frock of heavy mail. 
 
 Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights; 
 
 And now the forest-creatures fly from me. 
 
 The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more! 
 
 Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrives 
 
 I shall o'ertake the company, and ride 
 
 Glittering as they! 
 
 Fest. I think I apprehend 
 
 [132] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 What you would say: if you, in truth, design 
 To enter once more on the life thus left, 
 Seek not to hide that all this consciousness 
 Of failure is assumed. 
 
 Par. My friend, my friend, 
 
 I speak, you listen; I explain, perhaps 
 You understand: there our communion ends. 
 Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse? 
 When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state 
 We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft 
 The hot brow, look upon the languid eye. 
 And thence divine the rest. Must I lay bare 
 My heart, hideous and beating, or tear up 
 My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem 
 Enough made known? You! who are you, forsooth? 
 That is the crowning operation claimed 
 By the arch-demonstrator — heaven the hall. 
 And earth the audience. Let Aprile and you 
 Secure good places — 'twill be worth your while. 
 
 Fest. Are you mad. Aureole? What can I have said 
 To call for this? I judged from your own words. 
 
 Par. Oh, true! A fevered wretch describes the ape 
 That mocks him from the bed-foot, and you turn 
 All gravely thither at once: or he recounts 
 The perilous journey he has late performed. 
 And you are puzzled much how that could be! 
 You find me here, half stupid and half mad: 
 It makes no part of my delight to search 
 Into these things, much less to undergo 
 Another's scrutiny; but so it chances 
 That I am led to trust my state to you: 
 And the event is, you combine, contrast. 
 And ponder on my foolish words, as though 
 They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here — 
 Here, loathsome with despair, and hate, and rage! 
 Is there no fear, no shrinking, or no shame? 
 
 fl33l 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Will you guess nothing? will you spare me nothing? 
 Must I go deeper? Aye or no? 
 
 Fest. Dear friend . , . 
 
 Par. True: I am brutal — 'tis a part of it; 
 The plague's sign — you are not a lazar-haunter. 
 How should you know? Well then, you think it strange 
 I should profess to have failed utterly, 
 And yet propose an ultimate return 
 To courses void of hope: and this, because 
 You know not what temptation is, nor how 
 'Tis like to ply men in the sickliest part. 
 You are to understand, that we who make 
 Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end: 
 There is not one sharp volley shot at us, 
 W^hich if we manage to escape with life. 
 Though touched and hurt, we straight may slacken 
 
 pace 
 And gather by the way-side herbs and roots 
 To stanch our wounds, secure from further harm — 
 No; we are chased to life's extremest verge. 
 It will be well indeed if I return, 
 A harmless busy fool, to my old ways! 
 I would forget hints of another fate. 
 Significant enough, which silent hours 
 Have lately scared me with. 
 
 Fest. Another! and what? 
 
 Par. After all, Festus, you say well: I stand 
 A man yet — I need never humble me. 
 I would have been — something, I know not what; 
 But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl : 
 There are worse portions than this one of mine; 
 You say well! 
 
 Fest Ah! . . . 
 
 Par. And deeper degradation! 
 
 If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise. 
 And vanity, should become the chosen food 
 
 [134] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Of a sunk mind; should stifle even the wish 
 
 To find its early aspirations true; 
 
 Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath — 
 
 An atmosphere of craft, and trick, and lies; 
 
 Should make it proud to emulate or surpass 
 
 Base natures in the practices which woke 
 
 Its most indignant loathing once . . . No, no! 
 
 Utter damnation is reserved for Hell! 
 
 I had immortal feelings — such shall never 
 
 Be wholly quenched — no, no! 
 
 My friend, you wear 
 A melancholy face, and truth to speak. 
 There's little cheer in all this dismal work; 
 But 'twas not my desire to set abroach 
 Such memories and forebodings. I foresaw 
 Where they would drive; 'twere better you detailed 
 News of Lucerne or Zurich; or I described 
 Great Egypt's flaring sky, or Spain's cork-groves. 
 Fest. I have thought now: yes, this mood will pass 
 away. 
 I know you, and the lofty spirit you bear. 
 And easily ravel out a clue to all. 
 These are the trials meet for such as you. 
 Nor must you hope exemption: to be mortal 
 Is to be plied with trials manifold. 
 Look round! The obstacles which kept the rest 
 Of men from your ambition, you have spurned; 
 Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind them best. 
 Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought 
 Avails to awe, save these delusions, bred 
 From its own strength, its selfsame strength, dis- 
 guised — 
 Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole! Since 
 The rabbit has his shade to frighten him. 
 The fawn his rustling bough, mortals their cares, 
 And higher natures yet their power to laugh 
 
 [135] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 At these entangling fantasies, as you 
 
 At trammels of a weaker intellect. 
 
 Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts ! 
 
 I know you. 
 
 Par. And I know you, dearest Festus! 
 
 And how you love unworthily; and how 
 All admiration renders blind. 
 
 Fest You hold 
 
 That admiration blinds? 
 
 Par. Aye, and alas! 
 
 Fest. Nought blinds you less than admiration will. 
 Whether it be that all love renders wise 
 In its degree; from love which blends with love — 
 Heart answering heart — to love which spends itself 
 In silent mad idolatry of some 
 Preeminent mortal, some great soul of souls. 
 Which ne'er will know how well it is adored : — 
 I say, such love is never blind; but rather 
 Alive to every the minutest spot 
 Which mars its object, and which hate (supposed 
 So vigilant and searching) dreams not of: 
 Love broods on such : what then? When first perceived 
 Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change. 
 To overflush those blemishes with all 
 The glow of general goodness they disturb? 
 — To make those very defects an endless source 
 Of new affection grown from hopes and fears? 
 And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand 
 Made even for much proved weak? no shrinking-back 
 Lest, rising even as its idol sinks. 
 It nearly reach the sacred place, and stand 
 Almost a rival of that idol? Trust me. 
 If there be fiends who seek to work our hurt, 
 To ruin and drag down earth's mightiest spirits, 
 Even at God's foot, 'twill be from such as love. 
 Their zeal will gather most to serve their cause; 
 
 [1361 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 And least from those who hate, who most essay 
 
 By contumely and scorn to blot the hght 
 
 Which will have entrance even to their hearts; 
 
 For thence will our Defender tear the veil 
 
 And show within each heart, as in a shrine. 
 
 The giant image of Perfection, grown 
 
 In hate's despite, whose calumnies were spawned 
 
 In the untroubled presence of its eyes! 
 
 True admiration blinds not; nor am I 
 
 So blind: I call your sin exceptional; 
 
 It springs from one whose life has passed the bounds 
 
 Prescribed to life. Compound that fault with God! 
 
 I speak of men; to common men like me 
 
 The weakness you confess endears you more — 
 
 Like the far traces of decay in suns: 
 
 I bid you have good cheer! 
 
 Par. Prasdarb! Optirrie! 
 
 Think of a quiet mountain-cloistered priest 
 Instructing Paracelsus! yet, 'tis so. 
 Come, I will show you where my merit lies. 
 'Tis in the advance of individual minds 
 That the slow crowd should ground their expectation 
 Eventually to follow — as the sea 
 Waits ages in its bed, 'till some one wave 
 Out of the multitude aspires, extends 
 The empire of the whole, some feet perhaps. 
 Over the strip of sand which would confine 
 Its fellows so long time: thenceforth the rest. 
 Even to the meanest, hurry in at once. 
 And so much is clear gained. I shall be glad 
 If all my labors, failing of aught else. 
 Suffice to make such inroad, and procure 
 A wider range for thought: nay, they do this; 
 For, whatsoe'er my notions of true knowledge 
 And a legitimate success, may be, 
 I am not blind to my undoubted rank 
 
 [137] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 When classed with others: I precede my age: 
 And whoso wills, is very free to mount 
 These labors as a platform, whence their own 
 May have a prosperous outset: but, alas! 
 My followers — they are noisy as you heard. 
 But for intelligence — the best of them 
 So clumsily wield the weapons I supply 
 And they extol, that I begin to doubt 
 Whether their own rude clubs and pebble-stones 
 Would not do better service than my arms 
 Thus vilely swayed — if error will not fall 
 Sooner before the old awkward batterings 
 Than my more subtle warfare, not half learned. 
 
 Fest. I would supply that art, then, and withhold 
 Its arms until you have taught their mystery. 
 
 Par. Content you, 'tis my wish; I have recourse 
 To the simplest training. Day by day I seek 
 To wake the mood, the spirit which alone 
 Can make those arms of any use to men. 
 Of course, they are for swaggering forth at once 
 Graced with Ulysses' club, Achilles' shield — 
 Flash on us, all in armor, thou Achilles! 
 Make our hearts dance to thy resounding step! 
 A proper sight to scare the crows away! 
 
 Fest. Pity you choose not, then, some other method 
 Of coming at your point. The marvelous art 
 At length established in the world bids fair 
 To remedy all hindrances like these: 
 Trust to Frobenius' press the precious lore 
 Obscured by uncouth manner, or unfit 
 For raw beginners; let his types secure 
 A deathless monument to after- times; 
 Meanwhile wait confidently and enjoy 
 The ultimate effect: sooner or later. 
 You shall be all-revealed. 
 
 Par. The old dull question 
 
 [138] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 In a new form; no more. Thus: I possess 
 
 Two sorts of knowledge; one, — vast, shadowy. 
 
 Hints of the unbounded aim I once pursued: 
 
 The other consists of many secrets, learned 
 
 While bent on nobler prize, — perhaps a few 
 
 First principles which may conduct to much: 
 
 These last I offer to my followers here. 
 
 Now bid me chronicle the first of these. 
 
 My ancient study, and in effect you bid me 
 
 Revert to the wild courses just abjured: 
 
 I must go find them scattered through the world. 
 
 Then, for the principles, they are so simple 
 
 (Being chiefly of the overturning sort). 
 
 That one time is as proper to propound them 
 
 As any other — to-morrow at my class. 
 
 Or half a century hence embalmed in print: 
 
 For if mankind intend to learn at all. 
 
 They must begin by giving faith to them, 
 
 And acting on them; and I do not see 
 
 But that my lectures serve indifferent well: 
 
 No doubt these dogmas fall not to the earth. 
 
 For all their novelty and rugged setting. 
 
 I think my class will not forget the day 
 
 I let them know the gods of Israel, 
 
 Aetius, Oribasius, Galen, Rhasis, 
 
 Serapion, Avicenna, Averroes, — 
 
 Were blocks ! 
 
 Fest. And that reminds me, I heard something 
 
 About your waywardness: you burned their books. 
 It seems, instead of answering those sages. 
 
 Par. And who said that? 
 
 Fest. Some I met yesternight 
 
 With (Ecolampadius. As you know, the purpose 
 Of this short stay at Basel was to learn 
 His pleasure touching certain missives sent 
 For our Zuinglius and himself. 'Twas he 
 
 [139] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Apprised me that the famous teacher here 
 Was my old friend. 
 
 Par, Ah, I forgot; you went . . . 
 
 Fest, From Zurich with advices for the ear 
 Of Luther, now at Wittemburg — (you know, 
 I make no doubt, the differences of late 
 With Carolostadius) — and returning sought 
 Basel and . . . 
 
 Par. I remember. Here's a case, now. 
 
 Will teach you why I answer not, but burn 
 The books you mention: pray, does Luther dream 
 His arguments convince by their own force 
 The crowds that own his doctrine? No, indeed: 
 His plain denial of established points 
 Ages had sanctified and men supposed 
 Could never be oppugned while earth was under 
 And heaven above them — points which chance, or time 
 Affected not — did more than the array 
 Of argument which followed. Boldly deny! 
 There is much breath-stopping, hair-stiffening 
 Awhile; then, amazed glances, mute awaiting 
 The thunderbolt which does not come; and next, 
 Reproachful wonder and enquiry: those 
 Who else had never stirred, are able now 
 To find the rest out for themselves — perhaps 
 To outstrip him who set the whole at work, 
 — As never will my wise class its instructor. 
 And you saw Luther.? 
 
 Fest. 'Tis a wondrous soul! 
 
 Par. True: the so-heavy chain which galled mankind 
 Is shattered, and the noblest of us all 
 Must bow to the deliverer — nay, the worker 
 Of our own projects — we who long before 
 Had burst its trammels, but forgot the crowd. 
 We should have taught, still groaned beneath the load: 
 This he has done and nobly. Speed that may! 
 
 [140] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Whatever be my chance or my despair, 
 What benefits mankind must glad me too: 
 And men seem made, though not as I beheved. 
 For something better than the times produce: 
 Witness these gangs of peasants your new Hghts 
 From Suabia have possessed, whom Munzer leads. 
 And whom the duke, the landgrave, and the elector 
 Will calm in blood ! Well, well — 'tis not my world ! 
 
 Fest. Hark! 
 
 Par. 'Tis the melancholy wind astir 
 
 Within the trees; the embers too are gray. 
 Morn must be near. 
 
 Fest. Best ope the casement: see. 
 
 The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars. 
 Is blank and motionless : how peaceful sleep 
 The tree-tops all together! Like an asp. 
 The wind slips whispering from bough to bough. 
 
 Par. Aye; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree 
 By the hour, nor count time lost. 
 
 Fest. So you shall gaze: 
 
 Those happy times will come again . . . 
 
 Par. Gone! gone! 
 
 Those pleasant times! Does not the moaning wind 
 Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains 
 And bartered sleep for them.'* 
 
 Fest. It is our trust 
 
 That there is yet another world to mend 
 All error and mischance. 
 
 Par. Another world! 
 
 And why this world, this common world, to be 
 A make-shift, a mere foil, how fair soever. 
 To some fine life to come.'^ Man must be fed 
 With angel's food, forsooth; and some few traces, 
 Of a diviner nature which look out 
 Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him 
 In a supreme contempt for all provision 
 
 [141] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 For his inferior tastes — some straggling marks 
 
 Which constitute his essence, just as truly 
 
 As here and there a gem would constitute 
 
 The rock, their barren bed, a diamond. 
 
 But were it so — were man all mind — he gains 
 
 A station little enviable. From God 
 
 Down to the lowest spirit ministrant, 
 
 Intelligence exists which casts our mind 
 
 Into immeasurable shade. No, no: 
 
 Love, hope, fear, faith — these make humanity; 
 
 These are its signs, and note, and character; 
 
 And these I have lost ! — gone, shut from me forever. 
 
 Like a dead friend, safe from unkindness more! 
 
 See morn at length. The heavy darkness seems 
 
 Diluted; gray and clear without the stars; 
 
 The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves, as if 
 
 Some snake that weighed them down all night, let go 
 
 His hold; and from the east, fuller and fuller 
 
 Day, like a mighty river, is flowing in; 
 
 But clouded, wintry, desolate, and cold: 
 
 Yet see how that broad, prickly, star-shaped plant. 
 
 Half down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves. 
 
 All thick and glistening with diamond dew. 
 
 And you depart for Einsiedeln this day: 
 
 And we have spent all night in talk like this! 
 
 If you would have me better for your love. 
 
 Revert no more to these sad themes. 
 
 Fest. One favor. 
 
 And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved; 
 Unwilling to have fared so well, the while 
 My friend has changed so sorely : if this mood 
 Shall pass away — if light once more arise 
 Where all is darkness now — if you see fit 
 To hope, and trust again, and strive again; 
 You will remember — not our love alone — 
 But that my faith in God's desire for man 
 
 [ 142 ] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 To trust on his support (as I must think 
 
 You trusted) is obscured and dim through you; 
 
 For you are thus, and this is no reward. 
 
 Will you not call me to your side, dear friend? 
 
 IV. PARACELSUS ASPIRES 
 
 Scene. A House at Colmar, in Alsatia. 1528 
 
 Paracelsus, Festus 
 
 Par. (To John Oforinus, his secretary.) Sic itur ad 
 astra! Dear Von Visenburg 
 Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed. 
 And every honest soul that Basel holds 
 Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, 
 Just as though Liechtenfels had never set 
 So true a value on his sorry carcass, 
 And learned Putter had not frowned us dumb. 
 We live; and shall as surely start to-morrow 
 For Nuremburg, as we drink speedy scathe 
 To Basel in this mantling wine, suffused 
 With a delicate blush — no fainter tinge is born 
 I' th' shut heart of a bud : pledge me, good John — 
 "Basel; a hot plague ravage it, with Putter 
 To stop the plague!" Even so? Do you too share 
 Their panic — the reptiles? Ha, ha! faint through 
 
 thern^ 
 Desist for them! — while means enough exist 
 To bow the stoutest braggart of the tribe 
 Once more in crouching silence — means to breed 
 A stupid wonder in each fool again. 
 Now big with admiration at the skill 
 Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes; 
 And, that done, means to brand each slavish brow 
 
 [143] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 So deeply, surely, ineffaceably, 
 
 That thenceforth flattery shall not pucker it 
 
 Out of the furrow of that hideous stamp 
 
 Which shows the next they fawn on, what they are. 
 
 This Basel with its magnates one and all, 
 
 Whom I curse soul and limb. And now despatch. 
 
 Despatch my trusty John; and what remains 
 
 To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip 
 
 Are yet to be completed, see you hasten 
 
 This night; we'll weather the storm at least: to-morrow 
 
 For Nuremburg! Now leave us; this grave clerk 
 
 Has divers weighty matters for my ear, {Oporinus 
 
 goes out) 
 And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, 
 I am rid of this arch-knave that follows me 
 As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last 
 May give a loose to my delight. How kind. 
 How very kind, my first, best, only friend! 
 Why this looks like fidelity. Embrace me: 
 Not a hair silvered yet! Right: you shall live 
 Till I am worth your love; you shall be proud. 
 And I — but let time show. Did you not wonder? 
 I sent to you because our compact weighed 
 Upon my conscience — (you recall the night 
 At Basel, which the gods confound) — because 
 Once more I aspire! I call you to my side; 
 You come. You thought my message strange? 
 
 Fest. So strange 
 
 That I must hope, indeed, your messenger 
 Has mingled his own fancies with the words 
 Purporting to be yours. 
 
 Par. He said no more, 
 
 'Tis probable, than the precious folks I leave 
 Said fifty-fold more roughly. Well-a-day, 
 'Tis true; poor Paracelsus is exposed 
 At last; a most egregious quack he proves, 
 
 [1441 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 And those he overreached must spit their hate 
 
 On one who, utterly beneath contempt. 
 
 Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard 
 
 Bare truth; and at my bidding you come here 
 
 To speed me on my enterprise, as once 
 
 Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend? 
 
 Fest. What is your purpose, Aureole? 
 
 Par. Oh, for purpose. 
 
 There is no lack of precedents in a case 
 Like mine; at least, if not precisely mine, 
 The case of men cast off by those they sought 
 To benefit . . . 
 
 Fest. They really cast you off? 
 
 I only heard a vague tale of some priest. 
 Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim, 
 Knowing his life's worth best; and how the judge 
 The matter was referred to, saw no cause 
 To interfere, nor you to hide your full 
 Contempt of him; nor he, again, to smother 
 His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame 
 That Basel soon was made no place for you. 
 
 Par. The affair of Liechtenfels? the shallowest cause, 
 The last and silliest outrage — mere pretense ! 
 I knew it, I foretold it from the first. 
 How soon the stupid wonder you mistook 
 For genuine loyalty — a cheering promise 
 Of better things to come — would pall and pass; 
 And every word comes true. Saul is among 
 The prophets! Just so long as I was pleased 
 To play off the mere marvels of my art — 
 Fantastic gambols leading to no end — 
 I got huge praise; but one can ne'er keep down 
 Our foolish nature's weakness: there they flocked, 
 Poor devils, jostling, swearing, and perspiring, 
 Till the walls rang again; and all for me! 
 I had a kindness for them, which was right; 
 
 [145] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 But then I stopped not till I tacked to that 
 
 A trust in them and a respect — a sort 
 
 Of sympathy for them: I must needs begin 
 
 To teach them, not amaze them; "to impart 
 
 The spirit which should instigate the search 
 
 Of truth:" just what you bade me! I spoke out. 
 
 Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust, 
 
 Filed ofif — "the sifted chaff of the sack," I said, 
 
 Redoubling my endeavors to secure 
 
 The rest; when lo! one man had stayed thus long 
 
 Only to ascertain if I supported 
 
 This tenet of his, or that; another loved 
 
 To hear impartially before he judged. 
 
 And having heard, now judged; this bland disciple 
 
 Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems. 
 
 Spied error where his neighbors marveled most: 
 
 That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend. 
 
 Did it because my by-paths, once proved wrong 
 
 And beaconed properly, would commend again 
 
 The good old ways our sires jogged safely o'er. 
 
 Though not their squeamish sons; the other worthy 
 
 Discovered divers verses of St. John, 
 
 Which, read successively, refreshed the soul. 
 
 But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone, 
 
 The cholic, and what not : — quid multa? The end 
 
 Was a clear classroom, with a quiet leer 
 
 From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance 
 
 From those in chief, who, cap in hand, installed 
 
 The new professor scarce a year before; 
 
 And a vast flourish about patient merit 
 
 Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure 
 
 Sooner or later to emerge in splendor — 
 
 Of which the example was some luckless wight 
 
 Whom my arrival had discomfited, 
 
 But now, it seems, the general voice recalled 
 
 To fill my chair, and so efface the stain 
 
 [146] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSU3 
 
 Basel had long incurred. I sought no better — 
 Nought but a quiet dismissal from my post; 
 While from my heart I wished them better suited. 
 And better served. Good night to Basel, then! 
 But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe 
 Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them 
 The pleasure of a parting kick. 
 
 Fest. You smile: 
 
 Despise them as they merit! 
 
 Par. If I smile, 
 
 'Tis with as very contempt as ever turned 
 Flesh into stone: this courteous recompense; 
 This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit 
 To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache 
 At gangrened blotches, eating poisonous blains. 
 The ulcered barky scurf of leprosy 
 Which finds — a man, and leaves — a hideous thing 
 That cannot but be mended by hell fire, 
 — I say that, could you see as I could show, 
 I would lay bare to you these human hearts 
 Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since 
 Their pet nest and their never-tiring home. 
 O, sages have discovered we are born 
 For various ends — to love, to know : has ever 
 One stumbled, in his search, on any signs 
 Of a nature in him formed to hate? To hate.'' 
 If that be our true object which evokes 
 Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 'tis hate! 
 
 Fest. But I have yet to learn your purpose. Aureole! 
 
 Par. What purpose were the fittest now for me.'' 
 Decide! To sink beneath such ponderous shame — 
 To shrink up like a crushed snail — undergo 
 In silence and desist from further toil. 
 And so subside into a monument 
 Of one their censure blasted; or to bow 
 Cheerfully as submissively — to lower 
 
 [147] 
 
BROWNINGS PARACELSUS 
 
 My old pretensions even as Basel dictates — 
 To drop into the rank her wits assign me, 
 And Hve as they prescribe, and make that use 
 Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow — 
 Proud to be patted now and then, and careful 
 To practise the true posture for receiving 
 The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance. 
 When they shall condescend to tutor me. 
 Then one may feel resentment like a flame, 
 Prompting to deck false sj^stems in Truth's garb. 
 And tangle and entwine mankind with error. 
 And give them darkness for a dower, and falsehood 
 For a possession: or one may mope away 
 Into a shade through thinking; or else drowse 
 Into a dreamless sleep, and so die off: 
 But I, but I — now Festus shall divine! 
 — Am merely setting out in life once more. 
 Embracing my old aims! What thinks he now? 
 
 Fest. Your aims? the aims? — to know? and where 
 is found 
 The early trust . . . 
 
 Par. Nay, not so fast ; I say. 
 
 The aims — not the old means. You know what made 
 
 me 
 A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know 
 The when and the how: hardly those means again! 
 Not but they had their beauty — who should know 
 Their passing beauty, if not I? But still 
 They were dreams, so let them vanish: yet in beauty. 
 If that may be. Stay — thus they pass in song! 
 
 {He sings.) 
 
 Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes 
 
 Of labdanum, and aloe-balls 
 Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
 From out her hair: (such balsam falls 
 
 [148] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 
 From summits where tired winds are fain. 
 Spent with the vast and howUng main. 
 To treasure half their island-gain). 
 
 And strew faint sweetness from some old 
 
 Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud, 
 Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 
 And shred dim perfume, like a cloud 
 From chamber long to quiet vowed. 
 With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
 Moldering the lute and books among 
 Of queen, long dead, who lived there young. 
 
 Mine, every word ! — and on such pile shall die 
 My lovely fancies, with fair perished things. 
 Themselves fair and forgotten; yes, forgotten. 
 Or why abjure them? So I made this rhyme 
 That fitting dignity might be preserved: 
 No little proud was I; though the list of drugs 
 Smacks of my old vocation, and the verse 
 Halts like the best of Luther's psalms! 
 
 Fest But, Aureole, 
 
 Talk not thus wildly and madly. I am here — 
 Did you know all, indeed! I have traveled far 
 To learn your wishes. Be yourself again! 
 For in this mood I recognize you less 
 Than in the horrible despondency 
 I witnessed last. You may account this, joy; 
 But rather let me gaze on that despair 
 Than hear these incoherent words, and see 
 This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye! 
 
 Par. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime, 
 I am light-hearted now; what would you have.'^ 
 Aprile was a poet, I make songs — 
 'Tis the very augury of success I want! 
 
 [149] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 Why should I not be joyous now as then? 
 
 Fest. Joyous! and how? and what remains for joy? 
 You have declared the ends (which I am sick 
 Of naming) are impracticable. 
 
 Par. Aye, 
 
 Pursued as I pursued them — the arch-fool ! 
 Listen: my plan will please you not, 'tis like; 
 But you are little versed in the world's ways. 
 This is my plan — (first drinking its good luck) — 
 I will accept all helps; all I despised 
 So rashly at the outset, equally 
 With early impulses, late years have quenched: 
 I have tried each way singly — now for both! 
 All helps — no one sort shall exclude the rest. 
 I seek to know and to enjoy at once. 
 Not one without the other as before. 
 Suppose my labor should seem God's own cause 
 Once more, as first I dreamed, it shall not balk me 
 Of the meanest, earthliest, sensualest delight 
 That may be snatched; for every joy is gain, 
 And why spurn gain, however small? My soul 
 Can die then, nor be taunted "what was gained?'* 
 Nor, on the other hand, if pleasure meets me 
 As though I had not spurned her hitherto, 
 Shall she o'ercloud my spirit's rapt communion 
 With the tumultuous past, the teeming future. 
 Glorious with visions of a full success! 
 
 Fest. Success! 
 
 Par. And wherefore not? AVhy not prefer 
 
 Results obtained in my best state of being. 
 To those derived alone from seasons dark 
 As the thoughts they bred? When I was best — my 
 
 youth 
 Un wasted — seemed success not surest too? 
 It is the nature of darkness to obscure. 
 I am a wanderer: I remember well 
 
 [150] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 One journey, how I feared the track was missed, 
 
 So long the city I desired to reach 
 
 Lay hid; when suddenly its spires afar 
 
 Flashed through the circhng clouds; conceive my joy! 
 
 Too soon the vapors closed o'er it again. 
 
 But I had seen the city, and one such glance 
 
 No darkness could obscure: nor shall the present 
 
 A few dull hours, a passing shame or two. 
 
 Destroy the vivid memories of the past. 
 
 I will fight the battle out! — a little tired. 
 
 Perhaps — but still an able combatant. 
 
 You look at my gray hair and furrowed brow? 
 
 But I can turn even weakness to account: 
 
 Of many tricks I know, 'tis not the least 
 
 To push the ruins of my frame, whereon 
 
 The fire of vigor trembles scarce alive. 
 
 Into a heap, and send the flame aloft! 
 
 "WTiat should I do with age.^* so sickness lends 
 
 An aid; it being, I fear, the source of all 
 
 We boast of: mind is nothing but disease. 
 
 And natural health is ignorance. 
 
 Fest. I see 
 
 But one good symptom in this notable plan: 
 I feared your sudden journey had in view 
 To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes; 
 'Tis not so: I am glad. 
 
 Par. And if I pleased 
 
 To spit on them, to trample them, what then? 
 'Tis sorry warfare truly, but the fools 
 Provoke it: I had spared their self-conceit. 
 But if they must provoke me — cannot suffer > 
 
 Forbearance on my part — if I may keep 
 No quality in the shade, must needs put forth 
 Power to match power, my strength against their 
 
 strength. 
 And teach them their own game with their own arms — 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Why be it so, and let them take their chance! 
 
 I am above them hke a God — in vain 
 
 To hide the fact — what idle scruples, then. 
 
 Were those that ever bade me soften it. 
 
 Communicate it gently to the world. 
 
 Instead of proving my supremacy. 
 
 Taking my natural station o'er their heads. 
 
 Then owning all the glory w^as a man's. 
 
 And in my elevation man's would be! 
 
 But live and learn, though hfe's short; learning, hard! 
 
 Still, one thing I have learned — not to despair: 
 
 And therefore, though the wreck of my past self, 
 
 I fear, dear Piitter, that your lecture-room 
 
 Must wait awhile for its best ornament. 
 
 The penitent empiric, who set up 
 
 For somebody, but soon was taught his place — 
 
 Now, but too happy to be let confess 
 
 His error, snuff the candles, and illustrate 
 
 {Fiat experientia corpore vili) 
 
 Your medicine's soundness in his person. Wait, 
 
 Good Putter! 
 
 Fest. He who sneers thus, is a God! 
 
 Par, Aye, aj^e, laugh at me! I am very glad 
 You are not gulled by all this swaggering; you 
 Can see the root of the matter ! — how I strive 
 To put a good face on the overthrow 
 I have experienced, and to bury and hide 
 My degradation in its length and breadth; 
 How the mean motives I would^make you think 
 Just mingle as is due with nobler aims. 
 The appetites I modestly allow 
 May influence me — as I am mortal still — 
 Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant 
 My youth's desires: you are no stupid dupe; 
 You find me out ! Yes, I had sent for you 
 To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus! 
 
 [1521 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Laugh — you shall laugh at me! 
 
 Fest. The past, then, Aureole, 
 
 Proves nothing? Is our interchange of love 
 Yet to begin? Have I to swear I mean 
 No flattery in this speech or that? For you, 
 Whate'er you say, there is no degradation, 
 These low thoughts are no inmates of your mind; 
 Or wherefore this disorder? You are vexed 
 As much by the intrusion of base views. 
 Familiar to your adversaries, as they 
 Were troubled should your qualities alight 
 Amid their murky souls: not otherwise, 
 A stray wolf which the winter forces down 
 From our bleak hills, suffices to affright 
 A village in the vales — while foresters 
 Sleep calm though all night long the famished troops 
 Snuff round and scratch against their crazy huts: 
 These evil thoughts are monsters, and will flee. 
 
 Par. May you be happy, Festus, my own friend! 
 
 Fest. Nay, further; the delights you fain would 
 think 
 The superseders of your nobler aims. 
 Though ordinary and harmless stimulants. 
 Will ne'er content you . . . 
 
 Par. Hush! I once despised them. 
 
 But that soon passes: we are high at first 
 In our demands, nor will abate a jot 
 Of toil's strict value; but time passes o'er. 
 And humbler spirits accept what we refuse; 
 In short, when some such comfort is doled out 
 As these delights, we cannot long retain 
 The bitter contempt which urges us at first 
 To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast 
 And thankfully retire. This life of mine 
 Must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned: 
 I am just fit for that and nought beside. 
 
 [153] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 I told you once, I cannot now Enjoy, 
 
 Unless I deem my knowledge gains through joy; 
 
 Nor can I Know, but straight warm tears reveal 
 
 My need of linking also joy to knowledge: 
 
 So on I drive — enjoying all I can, 
 
 And knowing all I can. I speak, of course, 
 
 Confusedly; this will better explain — feel here! 
 
 Quick beating, is it not? — a fire of the heart 
 
 To work off some way, this as well as any! 
 
 So, Festus sees me fairly launched; his calm 
 
 Compassionate look might have disturbed me once. 
 
 But now, far from rejecting, I invite 
 
 What bids me press^the closer, lay myself 
 
 Open before him, and be soothed with pity; 
 
 And hope, if he command hope; and believe 
 
 As he directs me — satiating myself 
 
 With his enduring love: and Festus quits me 
 
 To give place to some credulous disciple 
 
 Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus 
 
 Has his peculiar merits. I suck in 
 
 That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration, 
 
 And then dismiss the fool; for night is come. 
 
 And I betake myself to study again. 
 
 Till patient searchings after hidden lore 
 
 Half wring some bright truth from its prison; my 
 
 frame 
 Trembles, my forehead's veins swell out, my hair 
 Tingles for triumph! Slow and sure the morn 
 Shall break on my pent room, and dwindling lamp. 
 And furnace dead, and scattered earths and ores. 
 When, with a failing heart and throbbing brow, 
 I must review my captured truth, sum up 
 Its value, trace what ends to what begins. 
 Its present power with its eventual bearings. 
 Latent affinities, the views it opens. 
 And its full length in perfecting my scheme; 
 
 [154] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 I view it sternly circumscribed, cast down 
 
 From the high place my fond hopes yielded it. 
 
 Proved worthless — which, in getting, yet had cost 
 
 Another wrench to this fast-falling frame; 
 
 Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow! 
 
 I lapse back into youth, and take again 
 
 Mere hopes of bliss for proofs that bliss will be, 
 
 — My fluttering pulse, for evidence that God 
 
 Means good to me, will make my cause his own; 
 
 See! I have cast off this remorseless care 
 
 Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free. 
 
 And my dim chamber has become a tent, 
 
 Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . . 
 
 Why do you start? I say, she listening here, 
 
 (For yonder's Wiirzburg through the orchard-boughs) 
 
 Motions as though such ardent words should find 
 
 No echo in a maiden's quiet soul. 
 
 But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast 
 
 With tears, her sweet hps tremble all the while! 
 
 Ha, ha! 
 
 Fest. It seems, then, you expect to reap 
 No unreal joy from this your present course. 
 But rather . . . 
 
 Par. Death! To die! I owe that much 
 
 To what, at least, I was. I should be sad 
 To live contented after such a fall — 
 To thrive and fatten after such reverse! 
 The whole plan is a makeshift, but will last 
 My time. 
 
 Fest. And you have never mused and said, 
 *'I had a noble purpose, and full strength 
 To compass it; but I have stopped half-way. 
 And wrongly give the first-fruits of my toil 
 To objects little worthy of the gift: 
 Why linger round them still? why clench my fault? 
 Why seek for consolation in defeat — 
 
 [155] 
 
B K O ^^' N I X G S PARACELSUS 
 
 In vain endeavors to derive a Wauty 
 
 From ugliness? Why seek to make the most 
 
 Of what no power can change, nor strive instead 
 
 With mighty effort to reiieem the p;vst. 
 
 And. gathering np the trciisures thus cast down. 
 
 To hold a steadfai^t course till I arrive 
 
 At their fit destination, and my own?" 
 
 You have never pondered thus? 
 
 Par. Have I. you ask? 
 
 Often at midnight, when most fancies come. 
 Would some such airy project visit me: 
 But ever at the end ... or will you hear 
 The same thing in a tale, a parable? 
 It cannot prove more tedious: listen then! 
 You and I, wiuidering over the world wide, 
 Chance to set foot up)on a desert coast: 
 Just as we cry. *'Xo human voice before 
 Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks!" 
 — Their querulous echo startles us: we turn: 
 What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea? 
 Some characters remain, tool While we read. 
 The sharp. SiUt wind, impatient for the la^^t 
 Of even this record, -wistfully comes and goes. 
 Or sings what we reci.^ver. mocking it. 
 This is the record: and my voice, the wind's. 
 
 {He si?:JS^ 
 
 Over the sea our galleys went. 
 With clea\ing prows in order brave. 
 To a speeding wind and a bounding wave — 
 
 A gallant armament : 
 Each bark built out of a forest-tree. 
 
 Left leafy and rough as first it grew. 
 And nailed all over the gaping sides. 
 Within and without, with black-bull hides. 
 Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
 
 [156] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 To bear the playful billows' game; 
 So each good ship was rude to see, 
 Rude and bare to the outward view. 
 
 But each upbore a stately tent; 
 Where cedar-pales in scented row 
 Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine: 
 And an awning drooped the mast below. 
 In fold on fold of the purple fine, 
 That neither noon-tide, nor star-shine, 
 Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad. 
 
 Might pierce the regal tenement. 
 When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
 We set the sail and plied the oar; 
 But when the night-wind blew hke breath 
 For joy of one day's voyage more. 
 We sang together on the wide sea. 
 Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; 
 Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
 Each helm made sure by the twilight star, 
 And in a sleep as calm as death. 
 We, the strangers from afar. 
 
 Lay, stretched along, each weary crew 
 In a circle round its wondrous tent. 
 Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, 
 
 And with light and perfume, music too: 
 So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past. 
 And at morn we started beside the mast. 
 And still each ship w^as sailing fast! 
 
 One mom, the land appeared ! — a speck 
 Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky — 
 "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check 
 
 The shout, restrain the longing eye!" 
 But the heaving sea was black behind 
 For many a night and many a day. 
 And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; 
 
 U57l 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 So we broke the cedar-pales away, 
 Let the purple awning flap in the wind, 
 
 And a statue bright was on every deck! 
 We shouted, every man of us. 
 And steered right into the harbor thus. 
 With pomp and paean glorious. 
 
 An hundred shapes of lucid stone! 
 
 All day we built a shrine for each — 
 A shrine of rock for every one — 
 Nor paused we till in the westering sun 
 
 We sate together on the beach 
 To sing, because our task was done; 
 When lo! what shouts and merry songs! 
 What laughter all the distance stirs! 
 What raft comes loaded with its throngs 
 Of gentle islanders? 
 "The isles are just at hand," they cried; 
 
 "Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping. 
 Our temple-gates are opened wide. 
 
 Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 
 "For the lucid shapes you bring" — they cried. 
 Ob, then we woke with sudden start 
 From our deep dream; we knew, too late. 
 How bare the rock, how desolate. 
 To which we had flung our precious freight: 
 
 Yet we called out — "Depart! 
 Our gifts, once given, must here abide: 
 
 Our work is done; we have no heart 
 To mar our work, though vain" — we cried. 
 
 Fest. In truth.? 
 
 Par. Nay, wait: all this in tracings faint 
 
 May still be read on that deserted rock. 
 On rugged stones, strewn here and there, but piled 
 In order once; then follows — mark what follows — 
 
 [158] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 *'The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung 
 To their first fault, and withered in their pride!" 
 
 Fest. Come back, then. Aureole; as you fear God, 
 come! 
 This is foul sin; come back: renounce the past. 
 Forswear the future; look for joy no more. 
 But wait death's summons amid holy sights. 
 And trust me for the event — peace, if not joy! 
 Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole. 
 
 Par. No way, no way : it would not turn to good. 
 A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss — 
 'Tis well for him; but when a sinful man, 
 Envying such slumber, may desire to put 
 His guilt away, shall he return at once 
 To rest by lying there? Our sires knew well 
 (Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons) 
 The fitting course for such; dark cells, dim lamps, 
 A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm; 
 No mossy pillow, blue with violets! 
 
 Fest, I see no symptom of these absolute 
 And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now. 
 This verse-making can purge you well enough. 
 Without the terrible penance you describe. 
 You love me still: the lusts you fear, will never 
 Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more! 
 Say but the word! 
 
 Par. No, no; those lusts forbid: 
 
 They crouch, I know, cowering with half-shut eye 
 Beside you; 'tis their nature. Thrust yourself 
 Between them and their prey; let some fool style me 
 Or king or quack, it matters not, and try 
 Your wisdom then, at urging their retreat! 
 No, no; learn better and look deeper, Festus! 
 If you knew how a devil sneers within me 
 While you are talking now of this, now that, 
 As though we differed scarcely save in trifles! 
 
 [159] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Fest. Do we so differ? True, change must proceed. 
 Whether for good or ill; keep from me, which! 
 God made you and knows w hat you may become — 
 Do not confide all secrets: I was born 
 To hope, and you . . . 
 
 Par, To trust: you know the fruits! 
 
 Fest. Listen: I do believe, what you call trust 
 Was self-reliance at the best: for, see! 
 So long as God would kindly pioneer 
 A path for you, and screen you from the world. 
 Procure you full exemption from man's lot, 
 Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext 
 Of your engagement in his service — yield you 
 A limitless license, make you God, in fact, 
 And turn your slave — you were content to say 
 Most courtly praises! What is it, at last. 
 But selfishness without example? None 
 Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours 
 Remained implied in it; but now you fail. 
 And we, who prate about that will, are fools! 
 In short, God's service is established here 
 As he determines fit, and not your way. 
 And this you cannot brook! Such discontent 
 Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once! 
 Affirm an absolute right to have and use 
 Your energies; as though the rivers should say — 
 "We rush to the ocean; what have we to do 
 With feeding streamlets, lingering in the marshes. 
 Sleeping in lazy pools?" Set up that plea. 
 That will be bold at least! 
 
 Par. Perhaps, perhaps! 
 
 Your only serviceable spirits are those 
 The east produces : — lo, the master nods. 
 And they raise terraces, spread garden-grounds 
 In one night's space; and, this done, straight begin 
 Another century's sleep, to the great praise 
 
 [160] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Of him that framed them wise and beautiful. 
 Till a lamp's rubbing, or some, chance akin. 
 Wake them again. I am of different mold. 
 I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him. 
 And done him service past my narrow bond, 
 And thus I get rewarded for my pains! 
 Beside, 'tis vain to talk of forwarding 
 God's glory otherwise; this is alone 
 The sphere of its increase, as far as men 
 Increase it; w^hy, then, look beyond this sphere? 
 We are his glory; and if we be glorious. 
 Is not the thing achieved? 
 
 Fest. Shall one Hke me 
 
 Judge hearts like yours? Though years have changed 
 
 you much. 
 And you have left your first love, and retain 
 Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways, 
 Yet I still hold that you have honored God; 
 And who shall call your course without reward? 
 For, wherefore this repining at defeat, 
 Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes? 
 I urge you to forsake the life you curse, 
 And what success attends me? — simply talk 
 Of passion, weakness, and remorse; in short, 
 Anything but the naked truth: you choose 
 This so-despised career, and rather praise 
 Than take my happiness, or other men's. 
 Once more, return! 
 
 Par. And soon. Oporinus 
 
 Has pilfered half my secrets by this time: 
 And we depart by daybreak. I am weary, 
 I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes 
 My brain to-night. . . . 
 Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus? 
 No flattery! One like you needs not be told 
 We live and breathe deceiving and deceived. 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts? 
 
 Me and my cant — my petty subterfuges — 
 
 My rhymes, and all this frothy shower of words — 
 
 My glozing, self-deceit — my outward crust 
 
 Of lies, which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfur 
 
 Wrap the sound flesh? — so, see you flatter not! 
 
 Why, even God flatters! but my friend, at least. 
 
 Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth 
 
 Against all further insult, hate, and wrong 
 
 From puny foes : my one friend's scorn shall brand me — 
 
 No fear of sinking deeper! 
 
 Fest. No, dear Aureole! 
 
 No, no; I came to counsel faithfully; 
 There are old rules, made long ere we were born. 
 By which I judge you. I, so fallible. 
 So infinitely low beside your spirit 
 Mighty, majestic! — even I can see 
 You own some higher law than ours which call 
 Sin, what is no sin — weakness, what is strength; 
 But I have only these, such as they are, 
 To guide me; and I blame you where they blame. 
 Only so long as blaming promises 
 To win peace for your soul; the more, that sorrow 
 Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me 
 So that I faint not under my distress. 
 But wherefore should I scruple to avow 
 In spite of all, as brother judging brother, 
 Your fate to me is most inexplicable: 
 And should you perish without recompense 
 And satisfaction yet — too hastily 
 I have relied on love: you may have sinned, 
 But you have loved. As a mere human matter — 
 As I would have God deal with fragile men 
 In the end — I say that you will triumph yet! 
 
 Par. Have you felt sorrow, Festus? — 'tis because 
 You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! 
 
 [162] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Well thought on; never let her know this last 
 Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared 
 Insult me — me she loved; so grieve her not. 
 
 Fest. Your ill success can little grieve her now. 
 
 Par. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze! 
 
 Fest, Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! 
 Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof — 
 I cannot bear those eyes. 
 
 Par. Nay, really dead? 
 
 Fest. 'Tis scarce a month . . . 
 
 Par. Stone dead ! — then you have laid her 
 Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, 
 I can reveal a secret which shall comfort 
 Even you. I have no julep, as men think. 
 To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. 
 Know then, you did not ill to trust your love 
 To the cold earth: I have thought much of it: 
 For I believe we do not wholly die. 
 
 Fest. Aureole . . . 
 
 Par. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason 
 
 For what I say: I think the soul can never 
 Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, 
 Very unfit to put so strange a thought 
 In an intelligible dress of words; 
 But take it as my trust, she is not dead. 
 
 Fest. But not on this account alone? you surely, 
 — Aureole, you have believed this all along? 
 
 Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, 
 While I am moved at Basel, and full of schemes 
 For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, 
 As though it mattered how the farce plays out. 
 So it be quickly played. Away, away! 
 Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize. 
 Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats. 
 And leave a clear arena for the brave 
 About to perish for your sport! — Behold! 
 
 [163] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 V. PARACELSUS ATTAINS 
 
 Scene. A cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian^ at 
 Salzburg. 1541 
 
 Festus, Paracelsus 
 
 Fest. No change! The weary night is well nigh 
 spent, 
 The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars 
 Gray morning glimmers feebly — yet no change! 
 Another night, and still no sigh has stirred 
 That fallen discolored mouth, no pang relit 
 Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, 
 Like torch-flame choked in dust: while all beside 
 Was breaking, to the last they held out bright. 
 As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; 
 But they are dead now — very blind and dead. 
 He will drowse into death without a groan! 
 
 My Aureole — my forgotten, ruined Aureole! 
 The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wert: 
 And now not one of those who struck thee down — 
 Poor, glorious spirit — concerns him even to stay 
 And satisfy himself his little hand 
 Could turn God's image to a livid thing. 
 Another night, and yet no change! 'Tis much 
 That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow. 
 And chafe his hands — 'tis much; but he will sure 
 Know me, and look on me, and speak to me 
 Once more — but only once ! His hollow cheek 
 Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh 
 At his own state were just about to break 
 From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat 
 swelled. 
 
 [164 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 And yet I could not turn away. In truth. 
 
 They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed 
 
 Resolved to live — to lose no faculty; 
 
 Thus striving to keep up bis shattered strength. 
 
 Until they bore him to this stifling cell: 
 
 When straight his features fell — an hour made white 
 
 The flushed face and relaxed the quivering limb; 
 
 Only the eye remained intense awhile, 
 
 As though it recognized the tomb-like place; 
 
 And then he lay as here he lies. 
 
 Aye, here! 
 Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded — 
 Her bravest champion, with his well-won meed — 
 Her best achievement, her sublime amends 
 For countless generations, fleeting fast 
 And followed by no trace; — the creature-god 
 She instances when angels would dispute 
 The title of her brood to rank with them — 
 Angels, this is our angel! — those bright forms 
 We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones. 
 Are human, but not his: those are but men 
 Whom other men press round and kneel before — 
 Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; 
 Higher provision is for him you seek 
 Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! 
 Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay! 
 
 God! Thou art Love! I build my faith on that! 
 Even as I watch beside thy tortured child. 
 Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him. 
 So doth thy right hand guide us through the world 
 Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? 
 How has he sinned? How else should he have done? 
 Surely he sought thy praise — thy praise, for all 
 He might be busied by the task so much 
 As to forget awhile its proper end. 
 
 [165] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer 
 
 That I should range myself upon his side — 
 
 How could he stop at every step to set 
 
 Thy glory forth? Hadst Thou but granted him 
 
 Success, thy honor would have crowned success, 
 
 A halo round a star. Or, say he erred — 
 
 Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe 
 
 him 
 In light and life! Thou art not made like us; 
 We should be wroth in such a case; but Thou 
 Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts, 
 Which come unsought, and will not pass away! 
 I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made 
 Light for me in the darkness — tempering sorrow. 
 So that it reached me like a solemn joy; 
 It were too strange that I should doubt thy love: 
 But what am I? Thou madest him, and knowest 
 How he was fashioned. I could never err 
 That way: the quiet place beside thy feet. 
 Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts; 
 But he — Thou shouldst have favored him as well ! 
 
 Ah! he wakes! Aureole, I am here — 'tis Festus! 
 I cast away all wishes save one wish — 
 Let him but know me — only speak to me ! 
 He mutters — louder and louder; any other 
 Than I, with brain less laden, could collect 
 What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look! 
 Is it talking or singing this he utters fast? 
 Misery, that he should j5x me with his eye — 
 Quick talking to some other all the while! 
 If he would husband this wild vehemence. 
 Which frustrates its intent! — I heard, I know 
 I heard my name amid those rapid words: 
 O he will know me yet! Could I divert 
 This current — lead it somehow gently back 
 
 [166] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Into the channels of the past ! — His eye, 
 Brighter than ever! It must recognize! 
 
 Let me speak to him in another's name. 
 
 I am Erasmus: I am here to pray 
 
 That Paracelsus use his skill for me. 
 
 The schools of Paris and of Padua send 
 
 These questions for your learning to resolve. 
 
 We are your students, noble master: leave 
 
 This wretched cell; what business have you here? 
 
 Our class awaits you; come to us once more. 
 
 (O agony! the utmost I can do 
 
 Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?) 
 
 I am commissioned ... I shall craze like him — 
 
 Better be mute, and see what God shall send. 
 
 Par. Stay, stay with me! 
 
 Fest. I will; I am come here 
 
 To stay with you — Festus, you loved of old; 
 Festus, you know, you must know! 
 
 Par. Festus ! Where's 
 
 Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly 
 The melodies I heard all night? I could not 
 Get to him for a cold hand on my breast. 
 But I made out his music well enough, 
 O, well enough! If they have filled him full 
 With magical music, as they freight a star 
 With light, and have remitted all his sin. 
 They will forgive me too, I too shall know! 
 
 Fest. Festus, your Festus! 
 
 Par. Ask him if Aprile 
 
 Knows as he Loves — if I shall Love and Know? 
 I try; but that cold hand, hke lead — so cold! 
 
 Fest. My hand, see! 
 
 Par. Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile! 
 
 We get so near — so very, very near! 
 'Tis an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down 
 
 [167] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Not when they set about their mountain-piHng, 
 But when another rock would crown their work! 
 And Phaethon — doubtless his first radiant plunge 
 Astonished mortals; though the gods were calm. 
 And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales! 
 
 Fest. And what are these to you? 
 
 Par. Aye, fiends must laugh 
 
 So cruelly, so well; most like I never 
 Could tread a single pleasure under foot. 
 But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling 
 To see me toil, and drop away by flakes! 
 Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail! 
 You that hate men and all who wish their good — 
 Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year. 
 One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn! 
 You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now. 
 Who will believe 'twas you that held me back.^ 
 Listen: there's shame, and hissing, and contempt. 
 And none but laughs who names me — none but 
 
 spits 
 Measureless scorn upon me — me alone. 
 The quack, the cheat, the liar — all on me ! 
 And thus your famous plan to sink mankind 
 In silence and despair, bj^ teaching them 
 One of their race had probed the inmost truth. 
 Had done all man could do, yet failed no less — 
 Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair .^^ 
 Ha, ha! why they are hooting the empiric, 
 The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed 
 Madly upon a work beyond his wits; 
 Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves 
 Could bring the matter to triumphant issue! 
 So pick and choose among them all, Accursed! 
 Try now, persuade some other to slave for you. 
 To ruin body and soul to work your ends: 
 No, no; I am the first and last, I think! 
 
 fl68l 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Fest. Dear friend; who are accursed? who has 
 
 done . . . 
 Par. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or 
 
 you, 
 
 Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed 
 
 By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? 
 
 Here stand my rivals, truly — Arab, Jew, 
 
 Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask 
 
 Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs. 
 
 And even this poor privilege, it seems. 
 
 They range themselves, prepared to disallow! 
 
 Only observe: why fiends may learn from them! 
 
 How they talk calmly of my throes — my fierce 
 
 Aspirings, terrible watchings — each one claiming 
 
 Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect 
 
 And sneeringly disparage the few truths 
 
 Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while 
 
 About my neck, their lies misleading me. 
 
 And their dead names browbeating me! Gray crew. 
 
 Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell. 
 
 Is there a reason for your hate? My truths 
 
 Have shaken a little the palm about each head? 
 
 Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards 
 
 Were bent on nothing less than being crowned 
 
 As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief. 
 
 To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect — 
 
 Galen, of Pergamos and hell; nay speak 
 
 The tale, old man! We met there face to face: 
 
 I said the crown should fall from thee: once more 
 
 We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: 
 
 Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge? 
 
 Fest. Peace, peace; ah, see! 
 
 Par. Oh, emptiness of fame 
 
 Oh, Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars ! 
 — Who said these old renowns, dead long ago. 
 Could make me overlook the living world 
 
 [169] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, 
 But stand no longer? What a warm light life 
 After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, 
 My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide 
 The juggles I had else detected. Fire 
 May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours! 
 The cave was not so darkened by the smoke 
 But that your white limbs dazzled me: Oh, white. 
 And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing! 
 I cared not for your passionate gestures then. 
 But now I have forgotten the charm of charms. 
 The foolish knowledge which I came to seek. 
 While I remember that quaint dance; and thus 
 I am come back, not for those mummeries. 
 But to love you, and to kiss your little feet. 
 Soft as an ermine's winter coat! 
 
 Fest. A sense 
 
 Will struggle through these thronging words at last, 
 As in the angry and tumultuous west 
 A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. 
 These are the strivings of a spirit which hates 
 So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up 
 The past to stand between it and its fate: 
 Were he at Einsiedeln — or Michal here ! 
 
 Par. Cruel ! I see her now — I kneel — I shriek - 
 I clasp her vesture — but she fades, still fades; 
 And she is gone; sweet human love is gone! 
 'Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels 
 Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day 
 Beside you, and lie down at night by you. 
 Who care not for their presence — muse or sleep — 
 And all at once they leave you and you know them! 
 We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now 
 I am not too secure against foul play: 
 The shadows deepen, and the walls contract — 
 No doubt some treachery is going on! 
 
 1170] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 'Tis very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile? 
 
 Have they left us in the lurch? This murky, loathsome 
 
 Death-trap — this slaughter-house — is not the hall 
 
 In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile! 
 
 There is a hand groping amid the blackness 
 
 To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you. 
 
 Poet? Hold on me for your life; if once 
 
 They pull you! — Hold! 
 
 'Tis but a dream — no more. 
 I have you still — the sun comes out again; 
 Let us be happy — all will yet go well ! 
 Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile, 
 That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed. 
 The value of my labors ascertained. 
 Just as some stream foams long among the rocks 
 But after glideth glassy to the sea. 
 So, full content shall henceforth be my lot? 
 What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice 
 Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask 
 How could I still remain on earth, should God 
 Grant me the great approval which I seek? 
 I, you, and God can comprehend each other. 
 But men would murmur, and with cause enough; 
 For when they saw me, stainless of all sin. 
 Preserved and sanctified by inward light. 
 They would complain that comfort, shut from them, 
 I drank thus unespied; that they live on, 
 Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy. 
 For ache, and care, and doubt, and weariness, 
 While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me. 
 And hid from them! — 'Twere best consider that! 
 You reason well, Aprile; but at least 
 Let me know this, and die! Is this too much? 
 I will learn this, if God so please, and die! 
 
 If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please! 
 
 [ 171 ] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 We are so weak, we know our motives least 
 
 In their confused beginning: if at first 
 
 I sought . . . But wherefore bare my heart to thee? 
 
 I know thy mercy; and already thoughts 
 
 Flock fast about my soul to comfort it. 
 
 And intimate I cannot wholly fail, 
 
 For love and praise would clasp me willingly 
 
 Could I resolve to seek them: Thou art good. 
 
 And I should be content; yet — yet first show 
 
 I have done wrong in daring! Rather give 
 
 The supernatural consciousness of strength 
 
 That fed my youth — one only hour of that 
 
 With thee to help — O what should bar me then! 
 
 Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's 
 
 creatures, 
 And yet he takes no pride in us! — none, none! 
 Truly there needs another life to come! 
 If this be all — (I must tell Festus that) 
 And other life await us not — for one, 
 I say 'tis a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, 
 A wretched failure. I, for one, protest 
 Against it — and I hurl it back with scorn! 
 
 Well, onward though alone: small time remains. 
 
 And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap 
 
 Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body 
 
 Will hardly serve me through: while I have labored 
 
 It has decayed; and now that I demand 
 
 Its best assistance, it will crumble fast: 
 
 A sad thought — a sad fate ! How very full 
 
 Of wormwood 'tis, that just at altar-service. 
 
 The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, 
 
 WTien glory dawns, and all is at the best — 
 
 The sacred fire may flicker, and grow faint, 
 
 And die, for want of a wood-piler's help! 
 
 [ 172 ] 
 
THE POEM, PAKACELSUS 
 
 Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul 
 Is pulled down in the overthrow : well, well — 
 Let men catch every word — let them lose naught 
 Of what I say; something may yet be done. 
 
 They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you! 
 All ruins — glorious once, but lonely now. 
 It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch 
 Beside your desolate fane; the arches dim, 
 The crumbling columns grand against the moon: 
 Could I but rear them up once more — but that 
 May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends, 
 Why should you linger here when I have built 
 A far resplendent temple, all your own.^* 
 Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile, 
 Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared 
 With better refuge for them, tongue of mine 
 Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is; 
 I would sit down in silence with the rest. 
 
 Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek 
 
 Contempt into my ear — my ear which drank 
 
 God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men, 
 
 I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes 
 
 Follow me sleeping, waking, praying God, 
 
 And will not let me even die: spare, spare me. 
 
 Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me 
 
 That horrible scorn; you thought I could support it. 
 
 But now you see what silly fragile creature 
 
 Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough. 
 
 Not Christ, nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved 
 
 From hate like this: let me but totter back. 
 
 Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep 
 
 Into my very brain, and shut these scorched 
 
 Eyelids, and keep those mocking faces out. 
 
 [173] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Listen, Aprile! I am very calm: 
 
 Be not deceived, there is no passion here, 
 
 Where the blood leaps Uke an imprisoned thing 
 
 I am calm; I will exterminate the race! 
 
 Enough of that: 'tis said and it shall be. 
 
 And now be merry — safe and sound am I, 
 
 Who broke through their best ranks to get at you; 
 
 And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile! 
 
 Fest. Have you no thought, no memory for me, 
 Aureole? I am so wretched — my pure Michal 
 Is gone, and you alone are left to me, 
 And even you forget me : take my hand — 
 Lean on me, thus. Do you not know me. Aureole? 
 
 Par. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? 
 As you say, 'tis an awful enterprise — 
 But you believe I shall go through with it: 
 'Tis like you, and I thank you; thank him for me, 
 Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire 
 Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint 
 Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them 
 A troop of yellow-vested, white-haired Jews, 
 Bound for their own land where redemption dawns! 
 
 Fest. Not that blest time — not our youth's time, 
 dear God! 
 
 Par» Ha — stay! true, I forget — all is done since! 
 And he is come to judge me: how he speaks. 
 How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true; 
 All quackery; all deceit! myself can laugh 
 The first at it, if you desire: but still 
 You know the obstacles which taught me tricks 
 So foreign to my nature — envy, and hate — 
 Blind opposition — brutal prejudice — 
 Bald ignorance — what wonder if I sunk 
 To humor men the way they most approved? 
 My cheats were never palmed on such as you. 
 Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me, 
 
 [174] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Impart the meagre knowledge I possess. 
 
 Explain its bounded nature, and avow 
 
 My insufficiency — whate'er you will : 
 
 I give the fight up! let there be an end, 
 
 A privacy, an obscure nook for me. 
 
 I want to be forgotten even by God! 
 
 But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me. 
 
 When I shall die, within some narrow grave. 
 
 Not by itself — for that would be too proud — 
 
 But where such graves are thickest; let it look 
 
 Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round. 
 
 So that the peasant at his brother's bed 
 
 May tread upon my own and know it not; 
 
 And we shall all be equal at the last. 
 
 Or classed according to life's natural ranks. 
 
 Fathers, sons, brothers, friends — not rich, nor wise. 
 
 Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived 
 
 Too much advanced before his brother men: 
 
 They kept him still in front; 'twas for their good. 
 
 But yet a dangerous station. It were strange 
 
 That he should tell God he had never ranked 
 
 With men: so, here at least he is a man!" 
 
 Fest. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear 
 Spirit, 
 Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth 
 Shall splendor sit upon thy name forever! 
 Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: w^hat care 
 If lower mountains light their snowy phares 
 At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not 
 The source of day? Men look up to the sun: 
 For after-ages shall retrack thy beams. 
 And put aside the crowd of busy ones. 
 And worship thee alone — the master-mind. 
 The thinker, the explorer, the creator! 
 Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes 
 With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well 
 
 [175] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 The winding sheet of subterraneous fire 
 Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last 
 Huge islands up amid the simmering sea! 
 Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused 
 Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou, 
 Seeing I comprehend thee — I so simple. 
 Thou so august! I recognize thee first; 
 I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late. 
 And though no glance reveal thou dost accept 
 My homage — thus no less I profiFer it. 
 And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest! 
 Par. Festus ! 
 
 Fest. I am for noble Aureole, God! 
 
 I am upon his side, come weal or woe! 
 His portion shall be mine! He has done well! 
 I would have sinned, had I been strong enough. 
 As he has sinned! Reward him or I waive 
 Reward! If thou canst find no place for him. 
 He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be 
 His slave for ever! There are two of us! 
 Par. Dear Festus! 
 
 Fest. Here, dear Aureole! ever by you! 
 
 Par. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! 
 Some story, anything — only your voice. 
 I shall dream else. Speak on! aye, leaning so! 
 Fest. Softly the Mayne river glideth 
 
 Close by where my love abideth; 
 
 Sleep's no softer: it proceeds 
 
 On through lawns, on through meads. 
 
 On and on, whate'er befall. 
 
 Meandering and musical. 
 
 Though the niggard pasture's edge 
 
 Bears not on its shaven ledge 
 
 Aught but weeds and waving grasses 
 
 To view the river as it passes. 
 
 Save here and there a scanty patch 
 
 f 1761 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Of primroses, too faint to catch 
 A weary bee . . . 
 Par. More, more; say on! 
 
 Fest. The river pushes 
 
 Its gentle way through stranghng rushes. 
 Where the glossy kingfisher 
 Flutters when noon-heats are near, 
 Glad the shelving banks to shun, 
 Red and steaming in the sun. 
 Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 
 Burrows, and the speckled stoat, 
 Where the quick sandpipers flit 
 In and out the marl and grit 
 That seems to breed them, brown as they. 
 Nought disturbs the river's way. 
 Save some lazy stork that springs, 
 Trailing it with legs and wings. 
 Whom the shy fox from the hill 
 Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 
 Par. My heart! they loose my heart, those simple 
 words; 
 Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch; 
 Like some dark snake that force may not expel. 
 Which glideth out to music sweet and low. 
 What were you doing when your voice broke through 
 A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed! 
 Are you alone here.^^ 
 
 Fest. All alone: you know me? 
 
 This cell? 
 
 Par. An unexceptionable vault — 
 Good brick and stone — the bats kept out, the rats 
 Kept in — a snug nook: how should I mistake it? 
 Fest. But wherefore am I here? 
 Par. Ah! well remembered: 
 
 Why, for a purpose — for a purpose, Festus ! 
 'Tis like me: here I trifle while time fleets, 
 
 [177] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return! 
 
 You are here to be instructed. I will tell 
 
 God's message; but I have so much to say, 
 
 I fear to leave half out: all is confused 
 
 No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time. 
 
 He would not else have brought you here: no doubt 
 
 I shall see clearer soon. 
 
 Fest. Tell me but this — 
 
 You are not in despair.'^ 
 
 Par. I? and for what? 
 
 Fest. Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared! 
 
 Par. What is it you would ask me with that earnest, 
 Dear, searching face? 
 
 Fest. How feel you, Aureole? 
 
 Par. Well! 
 
 Well: 'tis a strange thing. I am dying, Festus, 
 And now that fast the storm of life subsides, 
 I first perceive how great the whirl has been: 
 I was calm then, who am so dizzy now — 
 Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less 
 A partner of its motion, and mixed up 
 With its career. The hurricane is spent 
 And the good boat speeds through the brightening 
 
 weather; 
 But is it earth or sea that heaves below? 
 For the gulf rolls like a meadow, overstrewn 
 With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; 
 And now some islet, loosened from the land, 
 Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; 
 And now the air is full of up-torn canes. 
 Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks 
 Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, 
 All high in the wind. Even so my varied life 
 Drifts by me. I am young, old, happy, sad. 
 Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest. 
 And all at once: that is, those past conditions 
 
 [178] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Float back at once on me. If I select 
 
 Some special epoch from the crowd, 'tis but 
 
 To will, and straight the rest dissolve away. 
 
 And only that particular state is present. 
 
 With all its long-forgotten circumstance, 
 
 Distinct and vivid as at first — myself 
 
 A careless looker-on, and nothing more! 
 
 Indifferent and amused, but nothing more! 
 
 And this is death: I understand it all. 
 
 New being waits me; new perceptions must 
 
 Be born in me before I plunge therein; 
 
 Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak. 
 
 Minute by minute he is filling me 
 
 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. 'Tis 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 overmore. 
 Yet how can I refrain? 'Tis 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 
 
 [179] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 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 applause — 
 Where was it gone so long, being kept so well? 
 Then, the forefinger pointing as he speaks, 
 Like one who traces in an open book 
 The matter he declares; 'tis 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; ha, 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. 
 
 [180] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 Fest. I am dumb with wonder. 
 
 Par. Listen, therefore, Festus! 
 
 There will be time enough, but none to spare. 
 I must content myself with telling only 
 The most important points. You doubtless feel 
 That I am happy, Festus; very happy. 
 
 Fest. 'Tis no delusion which uplifts him thus! 
 Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin? 
 
 Par. Aye, pardoned! yet why pardoned.'^ 
 
 Fest. 'Tis God's praise 
 
 That man is bound to seek, and you . . . 
 
 Par. Have lived! 
 
 We have to live alone to set forth well 
 God's praise. 'Tis true, I sinned much, as I thought. 
 And in effect need mercy, for I strove 
 To do that very thing; but, do your best 
 Or worst, praise rises, and will rise forever. 
 Pardon from Him, because of praise denied — 
 Who calls me to Himself to exalt Himself? 
 He might laugh as I laugh! 
 
 Fest. Then all comes 
 
 To the same thing. 'Tis fruitless for mankind 
 To fret themselves with what concerns them not; 
 They are no use that way: they should lie down 
 Content as God has made them, nor go mad 
 In thriveless cares to better what is ill. 
 
 Par. No, no; mistake me not; let me not work 
 More harm than I have done! This is my case: 
 If I go joyous back to God, yet bring 
 No offering, if I render up my soul 
 Without the fruits it was ordained to bear. 
 If I appear the better to love God 
 For sin, as one who has no claim on him — 
 Be not deceived: it may be surely thus 
 With me, while higher prizes still await 
 The mortal persevering to the end. 
 
 [181] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 For I too have been something, though too soon 
 I left the instincts of that happy time! 
 
 Fest. What happy time? For God's sake, for man's 
 sake. 
 What time was happy? All I hope to know 
 That answer will decide. What happy time? 
 
 Par. When, but the time I vowed my help to man? 
 
 Fest. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable! 
 
 Par. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it — 
 I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. 
 Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul 
 Might learn from its own motions that some task 
 Like this awaited it about the world; 
 Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours 
 For fit dehghts to stay its longings vast; 
 And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her 
 To fill the creature full she dared to frame 
 Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, 
 Grow in demand, still craving more and more. 
 And make each joy conceded prove a pledge 
 Of other joy to follow — bating nought 
 Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretense 
 To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung 
 As an extreme, last boon, from Destiny, 
 Into occasion for new covetings. 
 
 New strifes, new triumphs: — doubtless a strong soul 
 Alone, unaided might attain to this. 
 So glorious is our nature, so august 
 Man's inborn uninstructed impulses. 
 His naked spirit so majestical! 
 But this was born in me; I was made so; 
 Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites. 
 The tumult of unproved desires, the unaimed 
 Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind. 
 Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears 
 Were saved me; thus I entered on my course! 
 
 [182] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 You may be sure I was not all exempt 
 
 From human trouble; just so much of doubt 
 
 As bade me plant a surer foot upon 
 
 The sun-road — kept my eye unruined mid 
 
 The fierce and flashing splendor — set my heart 
 
 Trembling so much as warned me I stood there 
 
 On sufferance — not to idly gaze, but cast 
 
 Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, 
 
 I stood at first where all aspire at last 
 
 To stand; the secret of the world was mine. 
 
 I knew, I felt (perception unexpressed, 
 
 Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 
 
 But somehow felt and known in every shift 
 
 And change in spirit — nay, in every pore 
 
 Of the body, even) — what God is, what we are. 
 
 What life is — how God tastes an infinite joy 
 
 In infinite ways — one everlasting bliss. 
 
 From whom all being emanates, all power 
 
 Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, 
 
 Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
 
 Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is He! 
 
 With still a flying point of bliss remote, 
 
 A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
 
 Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs 
 
 Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever! 
 
 The center-fire heaves underneath the earth. 
 
 And the earth changes like a human face; 
 
 The molten ore bursts up among the rocks. 
 
 Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright 
 
 In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds. 
 
 Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask — 
 
 God joys therein! The wroth sea's waves are edged 
 
 With foam, white as the bitten lip of Hate, 
 
 When in the solitary, waste, strange groups 
 
 Of young volcanoes come up, cyclops-like. 
 
 Staring together with their eyes on flame; — 
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride! 
 
 Then all is still: earth is a wintry clod; 
 
 But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 
 
 Over its breast to waken it; rare verdure 
 
 Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 
 
 The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, 
 
 Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; 
 
 The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with 
 
 blooms. 
 Like chrysahds impatient for the air; 
 The shining dorrs are busy; beetles run 
 Along the furrows, ants make their ado; 
 Above, birds fly in merry flocks — the lark 
 Soars up and up, shivering for very joy: 
 Afar the ocean sleeps; white fisliing-gulls 
 Flit where the strand is purple w4th its tribe 
 Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek 
 Their loves in wood and plain; and God renews 
 His ancient rapture! Thus he dwells in all, 
 From life's minute beginnings, up at last 
 To man — the consummation of this scheme 
 Of being, the completion of tliis sphere 
 Of life: whose attributes had here and there 
 Been scattered o'er the visible world before. 
 Asking to be combined — dim fragments meant 
 To be united in some wondrous whole — 
 Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
 Suggesting some one creature yet to make — 
 Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 
 Convergent in the faculties of man. 
 Power; neither put forth blindly, nor controlled 
 Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used 
 At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: 
 Knowledge; not intuition, but the slow 
 Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil. 
 Strengthened by love: love; not serenely pure, 
 
 [184] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant 
 
 Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds. 
 
 And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; 
 
 Love which endures, and doubts, and is oppressed. 
 
 And cherished, suffering much, and much sustained, 
 
 A blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, 
 
 A half -enlightened, often-checkered trust: — 
 
 Hints and previsions of which faculties, 
 
 Are strewn confusedly everywhere about 
 
 The inferior natures; and all lead up higher. 
 
 All shape out dimly the superior race. 
 
 The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false. 
 
 And Man appears at last: so far the seal 
 
 Is put on life; one stage of being complete, 
 
 One scheme wound up; and from the grand result 
 
 A supplementary reflux of light. 
 
 Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains 
 
 Each back step in the circle. Not alone 
 
 For their possessor dawn those qualities. 
 
 But the new glory mixes with the heaven 
 
 And earth: Man, once descried, imprints forever 
 
 His presence on all lifeless things; the winds 
 
 Are henceforth voices, in a wail or shout, 
 
 A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh — 
 
 Never a senseless gust now man is born! 
 
 The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts, 
 
 A secret they assemble to discuss. 
 
 When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare 
 
 Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat 
 
 Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph 
 
 Swims bearing high above her head: no bird 
 
 Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above 
 
 That let light in upon the gloomy woods, 
 
 A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top. 
 
 Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye: 
 
 The morn has enterprise — deep quiet droops 
 
 [185] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 With evening; triumph takes the sun-set hour. 
 
 Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn 
 
 Beneath a warm moon Hke a happy face: 
 
 — And this to fill us with regard for man. 
 
 With apprehension for his passing worth. 
 
 Desire to work his proper nature out, 
 
 And ascertain his rank and final place: 
 
 For these things tend still upward — progress is 
 
 The law of life — man's self is not yet Man ! 
 
 Nor shall I deem his object served, his end 
 
 Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth. 
 
 While only here and there a star dispels 
 
 The darkness, here and there a towering mind 
 
 O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host 
 
 Is out at once to the despair of night. 
 
 When all mankind alike is perfected, 
 
 Equal in full-blown powers — then, not till then, 
 
 I say, begins man's general infancy! 
 
 For wherefore make account of feverish starts 
 
 Of restless members of a dormant whole — 
 
 Impatient nerves which quiver while the body 
 
 Slumbers as in a grave? O, long ago 
 
 The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir, 
 
 The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech 
 
 Ruflfled the lip, and then the teeth were set. 
 
 The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand 
 
 clenched stronger. 
 As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; 
 The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! 
 But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, 
 Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast. 
 He shall start up, and stand on his own earth. 
 And so begin his long triumphant march, 
 And date his being thence — thus wholly roused. 
 What he achieves shall be set down to him! 
 When all the race is perfected alike 
 
 [186] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 As Man, that is: all tended to mankind, 
 
 And, man produced, all has its end thus far; 
 
 But in completed man begins anew 
 
 A tendency to God. Prognostics told 
 
 Man's near approach; so in man's self arise 
 
 August anticipations, symbols, types 
 
 Of a dim splendor ever on before. 
 
 In that eternal circle run by life: 
 
 For men begin to pass their nature's bound. 
 
 And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant 
 
 Their proper joys and griefs; and outgrow all 
 
 The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade 
 
 Before the unmeasured thirst for good; while peace 
 
 Rises within them ever more and more. 
 
 Such men are even now upon the earth. 
 
 Serene amid the half-formed creatures round, 
 
 Who should be saved by them and joined with them. 
 
 Such was my task, and I was born to it — 
 
 Free, as I said but now, from much that chains 
 
 Spirits, high-dowered, but limited and vexed 
 
 By a divided and delusive aim. 
 
 A shadow mocking a reality 
 
 Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse 
 
 The flitting mimic called up by itself. 
 
 And so remains perplexed and nigh put out 
 
 By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. 
 
 I, from the first, was never cheated so; 
 
 I never fashioned out a fancied good 
 
 Distinct from man's; a service to be done, 
 
 A glory to be ministered unto. 
 
 With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn 
 
 From laboring in his behalf; a strength 
 
 Denied that might avail him! I cared not 
 
 Lest his success ran counter to success 
 
 Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man. 
 
 And to man's glory, vowed I soul and limb, 
 
 [187] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, 
 
 I failed : I gazed on power till I grew blind — 
 
 On power; I could not take my eyes from that — 
 
 That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased 
 
 At any risk, displayed, struck out at once — 
 
 The sign, and note, and character of man. 
 
 I saw no use in the past: only a scene 
 
 Of degradation, imbecility — 
 
 The record of disgraces best forgotten, 
 
 A sullen page in human chronicles 
 
 Fit to erase: I saw no cause why man 
 
 Should not be all-sufficient even now; 
 
 Or why his annals should be forced to tell 
 
 That once the tide of light, about to break 
 
 Upon the world, was sealed within its spring; 
 
 I would have had one day, one moment's space, 
 
 Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim 
 
 To mastery o'er the elemental world 
 
 At once to full maturity, then roll 
 
 Oblivion o'er the tools, and hide from man, 
 
 What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child 
 
 Of after-days, wilt thou reject the Past, 
 
 Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure 
 
 By which thou hast the earth: the Present for thee 
 
 Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen 
 
 Beside that Past's own shade, whence, in relief. 
 
 Its brightness shall stand out: nor on thee yet 
 
 Shall burst the Future, as successive zones 
 
 Of several wonder open on some spirit 
 
 Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven; 
 
 But thou shalt painfully attain to joy. 
 
 While hope, and fear, and love, shall keep thee man! 
 
 All this was hid from me: as one by one 
 
 My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed. 
 
 As actual good within my reach decreased. 
 
 While obstacles sprung up this way and that, 
 
 [ 188 ] 
 
THE POEM, PARACELSUS 
 
 To keep me from effecting half the sum, 
 
 Small as it proved; as objects, mean within 
 
 The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least. 
 
 Itself a match for my concentered strength — 
 
 What wonder if I saw no way to shun 
 
 Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's! 
 
 In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, 
 
 A strange adventure made me know, One Sin 
 
 Had spotted my career from its uprise; 
 
 I saw Aprile — my Aprile there! 
 
 And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened 
 
 His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, 
 
 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 its present means. 
 
 And earnest for new power to set it free. 
 
 I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned; 
 
 And thus, when men received with stupid wonder 
 
 My first revealings, would have worshiped 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 
 
 [189] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, 
 
 Their prejudice, and fears, and cares, and doubts; 
 
 Which all touch upon nobleness, despite 
 
 Their error, all tend upwardly 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 once loved rashly; and shape forth a third, 
 
 And better tempered spirit, warned by both: 
 
 As from the over-radiant star too mad 
 
 To drink the light-springs, beamless thence itself — 
 
 And the dark orb which borders the abyss. 
 
 Engulfed 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 — 
 
 'Tis 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! 
 
 190] 
 
GENERAL REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
GENERAL REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 Paracelsus 
 
 The Poem 
 
 Paracelsus Aspires 
 
 Scene 1 
 
 PARACELSUS, a student, and pupil of 
 the learned Abbot Trithemius, resolves 
 to give up the monastery cell and an- 
 cient books, and go out into the world 
 to seek knowledge of a wider sort. On the 
 eve of his departure, he is talking with his 
 friends Festus and the latter 's wife Michal. 
 
 Par. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; 
 thus! 
 Close to the heart which, though long time roll by 
 Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours, 
 As now it beats — perchance a long, long time — 
 At least henceforth your memories shall make 
 Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. 
 Nor shall my memory want a home in yours — 
 Alas, that it requires too well such free 
 Forgiving love as shall embalm it there! 
 
 [193] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 For if you would remember me aright — 
 As I was born to be — you must forget 
 All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness 
 Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell 
 Only on moments such as these, dear friends! 
 — My heart no truer, but my words and ways 
 More true to it: as Michal, some months hence. 
 Will say, "this autumn was a pleasant time," 
 For some few sunny days; and overlook 
 Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves. 
 
 Michal weeps at this, and in the next few 
 lines that Paracelsus speaks, we have painted 
 for us a landscape of exquisite charm. 
 
 Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less 
 
 Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow 
 
 down, 
 Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit, 
 That apple-tree with a rare after-birth 
 Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among! 
 Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved 
 Shall vex that ash that overlooks you both, 
 So proud it wears its berries? Ah! at length. 
 The old smile meet for her, the lady of this 
 Sequestered nest! This kingdom, limited 
 Alone by one old populous green wall, 
 Tenanted by the ever-busy flies, 
 Gray crickets, and shy lizards, and quick spiders. 
 Each family of the silver-threaded moss — 
 Which, look through, near, this way, and it appears 
 A stubble-field, or a cane-brake — a marsh 
 Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now! 
 Fancy the crickets, each one in his house. 
 Looking out, wondering at the world — or best, 
 Yon painted snail, with his gay shell of dew, 
 
 [194] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 Traveling to see the glossy balls high up 
 Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps! 
 
 Both Festus and Michal are fearful of 
 Paracelsus' methods of gaining wider knowl- 
 edge; they advise him to seek it in the 
 conventional way and not to venture into 
 untried paths and places *' where God meant 
 no man should intrude." But Paracelsus 
 feels that these vast longings that fill his 
 soul are proof of a commission from God. 
 God's command must be fulfilled — new 
 hopes, new light dawn on him; he is set 
 apart for a great work. 
 
 Festus says: "Such the aim, then, God set 
 before you," presume not to serve him apart 
 from the appointed channel as he wills shall 
 gather imperfect tributes. 
 
 Paracelsus answers: "No, I have nought 
 to fear! Who will may know 
 
 The secret'st workings of my soul." 
 
 Be sure that God 
 Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart! 
 Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
 Into the vast and unexplored abyss, 
 What full-grown power informs her from the first. 
 Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
 The silent boundless regions of the sky! 
 
 Festus proves the true friend and cautious 
 adviser when he says, "Call this truth .^ Why 
 
 [195] 
 
BRO\^^NING S PARACELSUS 
 
 not pursue it in a fast retreat, some one of 
 Learning's many palaces after approved 
 example?" Then Paracelsus, in what is one 
 of the most pregnant passages of the poem, 
 is made to tell of the development in him- 
 self of cosmic consciousness.^ 
 
 And I smiled as one never smiles but once; 
 
 Then first discovering my own aim's extent, 
 
 Which sought to comprehend the works of God, 
 
 And God himself, and all God's intercourse 
 
 With the human mind; I understood, no less. 
 
 My fellow's studies, whose true worth I saw, 
 
 But smiled not, well aware who stood by me. 
 
 And softer came the voice — "There is a way — 
 
 'Tis hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued 
 
 With frailty — hopeless, if indulgence first 
 
 Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength: 
 
 Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's. 
 
 Apart from all reward?" And last it breathed — 
 
 "Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee. 
 
 Be sure, even to the end!" — I answered not. 
 
 Knowing Him. As He spoke, I was endued 
 
 With comprehension and a steadfast will; 
 
 And when He ceased, my brow was sealed His own. 
 
 If there took place no special change in me, 
 
 How comes it all things wore a different hue 
 
 Thenceforward ? — pregnant with vast consequence — 
 
 Teeming with grand results — loaded with fate; 
 
 * Cosmic consciousness or the enlargement of nature, is in 
 contradistinction to the sense consciousness. In religion, it 
 has been called the Baptism of the Holy Spirit. 
 
 Walt Whitman, who had developed this consciousness, 
 spoke of it in the same way : "All things wore a different hue — 
 Everything in nature seemed so much grander." 
 
 [196] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 So that when quaiUng at the mighty range 
 Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste 
 To contemplate undazzled some one truth, 
 Its bearings and effects alone — at once 
 What was a speck expands into a star. 
 Asking a life to pass exploring thus. 
 Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul! 
 I see my way as birds their trackless way — 
 I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, 
 I ask not: but unless God send his hail 
 Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow. 
 In some time — his good time — I shall arrive: 
 He guides me and the bird. In his good time! 
 
 His friends think this a delusion. Festus 
 
 says : 
 
 And yet 
 As strong delusions have prevailed ere now: 
 Men have set out as gallantly to seek 
 Their ruin; I have heard of such — yourself 
 Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen. 
 
 To which Paracelsus answers in what is 
 another and subtle passage of the poem : 
 
 Aye, sounds it not like some old well-known tale? 
 
 For me, I estimate their works and them 
 
 So rightly, that at times I almost dream 
 
 I too have spent a life the sages' way. 
 
 And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance 
 
 I perished in an arrogant self-reliance 
 
 An age ago; and in that act, a prayer 
 
 For one more chance went up so earnest, so 
 
 Instinct with better light let in by Death, 
 
 That life was blotted out — not so completely 
 
 But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, 
 
 [197] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Dim memories; as now, when seems once more 
 The goal in sight again: all which, indeed, 
 Is foolish, and only means — the flesh I wear. 
 The earth I tread, are not more clear to me 
 Than my belief, explained to you or no.^ 
 
 Festus advises him that one who dares 
 effect life's service to his kind, cannot thrive 
 if cut off from them, unbound by any tie. 
 That a being not knowing what love is, 
 would be a monstrous spectacle on earth 
 beneath the pleasant sun. He says: 
 
 You are endowed with faculties which bear 
 
 Annexed to them as 'twere a dispensation 
 
 To summon meaner spirits to do their will. 
 
 And gather round them at their need; inspiring 
 
 Such with a love themselves can never feel — 
 
 Passionless 'mid their passionate votaries. 
 
 I know not if you joy in this or no. 
 
 Or ever dream that common men can live 
 
 On objects you prize lightly, but which make 
 
 Their heart's sole treasure: the affections seem 
 
 Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste 
 
 Or die: and this strange quality accords, 
 
 I know not how, with you; sits well upon 
 
 That luminous brow, though in another it scowls 
 
 An eating brand — a shame. I dare not judge you : 
 
 The rules of right and wrong thus set aside. 
 
 There's no alternative — I own you one 
 
 Of higher order, under other laws 
 
 Than bind us; therefore, curb not one bold glance! 
 
 'Tis best aspire. Once mingled with us all. . . . 
 
 ^ This suggests Paracelsus' belief in the soul's past births. 
 
 [198] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 And Michal in her gentle way beseeches 
 him to give up such hopes and stay with 
 them, tells him he is too proud, and says: 
 "You will find all you seek, and perish so!" 
 Paracelsus protests that he does not lightly 
 disesteem the labors and precepts of old time 
 and the love they so much praise — that he 
 believes truth is within ourselves, that often 
 hemmed in as it is by the gross flesh "a 
 baffling and perverting carnal mesh." Know- 
 ing then consists in opening a way "where 
 the imprisoned splendor may escape." 
 
 He believes then that in discovering the 
 
 true laws by which the flesh accloys the 
 
 spirit and how the soul might be set free 
 
 alike in all, he was working, not against God, 
 
 but with Him. 
 
 See this soul of ours! 
 How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed 
 In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled 
 By age and waste, set free at last by death; 
 WTiy is it, jflesh enthralls it or enthrones? 
 What is this flesh we have to penetrate? 
 Oh, not alone when life flows still do truth 
 And power emerge, but also when strange chance 
 Ruffles its current; in unused conjuncture, 
 When sickness breaks the body — hunger, watching. 
 Excess, or languor — oftenest death's approach — 
 Peril, deep joy, or woe. One man shall crawl 
 Through life, surrounded with all stirring things. 
 Unmoved — and he goes mad ; and from the wreck 
 
 [199] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, 
 
 You first collect how great a spirit he hid. 
 
 Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, 
 
 Discovering the true laws by which the flesh 
 
 Bars in the spirit! We may not be doomed 
 
 To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest 
 
 Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God! 
 
 But elevate the race at once! We ask 
 
 To put forth just our strength, our human strength. 
 
 All starting fairly, all equipped alike. 
 
 Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted — 
 
 See if we cannot beat thy angels yet! 
 
 Such is my task. I go to gather this 
 
 The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed 
 
 About the world, long lost or never found. 
 
 And why should I be sad, or lorn of hope? 
 
 Why ever make man's good distinct from God's? 
 
 Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? ^ 
 
 He asks: 
 
 Do you believe I shall accomplish this? 
 Fest. I do believe! 
 Mich. I ever did believe! 
 
 ^ This brings out Paracelsus' belief in the divine principle 
 of man. He says, "The divine principle in man, which con- 
 stitutes him a human being, and by which he is eminently 
 distinguished from the animals, is not a product of the earth, 
 nor is it generated by the animal kingdom, but it comes from 
 God; it is God, and is immortal, because, coming from a 
 divine source, it cannot be otherwise than divine. Man 
 should, therefore, live in harmony with his divine parent, and 
 not in the animal elements of his soul. 
 
 "Man has an eternal Father, who sent him to reside and 
 gain experience in the animal principles, but not for the pur- 
 pose of being absorbed by them, because in the latter case 
 man would become an animal, while the animal principle 
 would have nothing to gain." 
 
 [200] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 Par. Those words shall never fade from out my 
 brain! 
 This earnest of the end shall never fade! 
 Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Miehal, 
 Two points in the adventure of the diver: 
 One — when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge? 
 One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl? 
 Festus, I plunge I 
 
 FesU I wait you when you rise! 
 
 Scene 2 
 Paracelsus Attains 
 
 Over the waters in the vaporous west 
 The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold. 
 Behind the outstretched city, which between. 
 With all that length of domes and minarets. 
 Athwart the splendor, black and crooked runs 
 Like a Turk verse along a scimetar. 
 There lie, thou saddest writing, and awhile 
 Relieve my aching sight. 'Tis done at last! 
 Strange — and the juggles of a sallow cheat 
 Could win me to this act! 
 
 The scene is laid in a Greek conjurer's 
 house at Constantinople, nine years later. 
 Paracelsus is mentally taking stock of the 
 gains and losses of the past nine years. He 
 has gained some knowledge, but on the 
 whole he has not accomplished what he had 
 hoped. He decides to learn by magic the 
 knowledge he sought, but failed to learn 
 otherwise. 
 
 [201] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 He can seek no longer; his overwrought 
 brain and overtasked body need rest, and he 
 will have it even in failure. He consoles 
 himself by thinking, at the worst he per- 
 formed his share of the task, that the rest 
 was God's concern, that he had subdued 
 his life to the one purpose whereto he had 
 ordained it. 
 
 There was a time 
 When yet this wolfish hunger after knowledge 
 Set not remorselessly love's claims aside; 
 This heart was human once, or why recall 
 Einsiedeln, now, and Wiirzburg, which the Mayne 
 Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm? 
 
 But love and strength are gone now, and 
 his life's one ambition, which has been all- 
 absorbing, has not been realized. 
 
 And yet 'tis surely much, 'tis very much. 
 Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts. 
 To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn 
 Arrive with inexhaustible light; and lo, 
 I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not! 
 While I am left with gray hair, faded hands. 
 And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all. 
 Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast? 
 Knowledge it seemed, and Power, and Recompense! 
 Was she who glided through my room of nights, — 
 Who laid my head on her soft knees, and smoothed 
 The damp locks, — whose sly soothings just began 
 When my sick spirit craved repose awhile — 
 God! was I fighting Sleep off for Death's sake? 
 
 [202] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 God! Thou art Mind! Unto the Master-Mind 
 
 Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone! 
 
 All else I will endure: if, as I stand 
 
 Here, with my gains, thy thunder smite me down, 
 
 I bow me; 'tis thy will, thy righteous will; 
 
 I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die: 
 
 And if no trace of my career remain, 
 
 Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind 
 
 In these bright chambers, level with the air, 
 
 See thou to it! But if my spirit fail. 
 
 My once proud spirit forsake me at the last, 
 
 Hast thou done well by me? So do not thou! 
 
 Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed! 
 
 Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs. 
 
 And say — "I crushed him, lest he should disturb 
 
 My law. Men must not know their strength: behold. 
 
 Weak and alone, how near he raised himself!'* 
 
 From within he hears a voice; it is that of 
 Aprile, the spirit of a departed poet who was 
 a lover of beauty and beauty alone — a soul 
 immoderately possessed with the desire to 
 love, as Paracelsus was with the desire to 
 know. 
 
 I hear a voice, perchance I heard 
 
 Long ago, but all too low, 
 
 So that scarce a thought was stirred 
 
 If really spoke the voice or no: 
 
 I heard it in my youth, when first 
 
 The waters of my life outburst: 
 
 But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear 
 
 The voice, still low, but fatal-clear — 
 
 As if all Poets, that God meant 
 
 Should save the world, and therefore lent 
 
 [203] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused 
 
 To do his work, or lightly used 
 
 Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavor. 
 
 And mourn, cast ofiF by him forever, — 
 
 As if these leaned in airy ring 
 
 To call me; this the song they sing. 
 
 "Lost, lost! yet come. 
 
 With our wan troupe make thy home: 
 
 Come, come! for we 
 
 Will not breathe, so much as breathe 
 
 Reproach to thee! 
 
 Knowing what thou sink'st beneath; 
 
 So we sank in those old years. 
 
 We who bid thee, come! thou last 
 
 Who, a living man, hast life o'erpast. 
 
 And all together we, thy peers. 
 
 Will pardon ask for thee, the last 
 
 Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast 
 
 With those who watch, but work no more — 
 
 Who gaze on life, but live no more: 
 
 And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak 
 
 God's message which our lips, too weak. 
 
 Refused to utter, — shouldst redeem 
 
 Our fault: such trust, and all, a dream! 
 
 So we chose thee a bright birth-place 
 
 Where the richness ran to flowers — 
 
 Couldst not sing one song for grace? 
 
 Nor make one blossom man's and ours? 
 
 Must one more recreant to his race 
 
 Die with unexerted powers 
 
 And join us, leaving as he found 
 
 The world, he was to loosen, bound? 
 
 Anguish! ever and for ever; 
 
 Still beginning, ending never! 
 
 Yet, lost and last one, come! 
 
 [204] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 How couldst understand, alas, 
 
 What our pale ghosts strove to say. 
 
 As their shades did glance and pass 
 
 Before thee, night and day? 
 
 Thou wert blind, as we were dumb; 
 
 Once more, therefore, come, O come! 
 
 How shall we better arm the spirit 
 
 Who next shall thy post of life inherit — 
 
 How guard him from thy ruin? 
 
 Tell us of thy sad undoing 
 
 Here, where we sit, ever pursuing 
 
 Our weary task, ever renewing 
 
 Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave 
 
 Our powers, and man they could not save!** 
 
 Paracelsus demands that Aprile acknowl- 
 edge him as king and do obeisance to him, 
 but Aprile refuses to acknowledge the king- 
 ship of one who knows not the beauties of 
 nature. 
 
 Paracelsus: 
 
 Be calm, I charge thee, by thy fealty! 
 
 Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am. 
 
 Aprile: 
 
 I would love infinitely, and be loved. 
 First: I would carve in stone, or cast in brass. 
 The forms of earth. No ancient hunter, raised 
 Up to the gods by his renown; no nymph 
 Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree, 
 Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star. 
 Should be too hard for me; no shepherd-king, 
 Regal with his white locks; no youth who stands 
 Silent and very calm amid the throng, 
 
 [205] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 His right hand ever hid beneath his robe 
 
 Until the tyrant pass; no law-giver; 
 
 No swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oils. 
 
 Given by a god for love of her — too hard ! 
 
 Each passion sprung from man, conceived by man. 
 
 Would I express and clothe it in its right form. 
 
 Or blend with others struggling in one form. 
 
 Or show repressed by an ungainly form. 
 
 For, if you marveled at some mighty spirit 
 
 With a fit frame to execute his will — 
 
 Aye, even unconsciously to work his will — 
 
 You should be moved no less beside some strong. 
 
 Rare spirit, fettered to a stubborn body, 
 
 Endeavoring to subdue it, and inform it 
 
 With its own splendor! All this I would do. 
 
 And I would say, this done, "God's sprites being 
 
 made. 
 He grants to each a sphere to be its world. 
 Appointed with the various objects needed 
 To satisfy its spiritual desires; 
 So, I create a world for these my shapes 
 Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength!'* 
 And, at their word, I would contrive and paint 
 Woods, valleys, rocks, and plains, dells, sands, and 
 
 wastes. 
 Lakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering 
 
 bed. 
 Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun; 
 And ocean-isles so small, the dog-fish tracking 
 A dead whale, who should find them, would swim 
 
 thrice 
 Around them, and fare onward — all to hold 
 The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone — 
 Bronze labyrinths, palace, pyramid, and crypt. 
 Baths, galleries, courts, temples, and terraces. 
 Marts, theaters, and wharfs — all filled with men ! 
 
 [206] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 Men everywhere! And this performed in turn, 
 When those who looked on, pined to hear the hopes. 
 And fears, and hates, and loves which moved the 
 
 crowd, — 
 I would throw down the pencil as the chisel, 
 And I would speak: no thought which ever stirred 
 A human breast should be untold; no passions. 
 No soft emotions, from the turbulent stir 
 Within a heart fed with desires like mine — 
 To the last comfort, shutting the tired lids 
 Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away 
 Beneath the tent-tree by the way-side well: 
 And this in language as the need should be. 
 Now poured at once forth in a burning flow. 
 Now piled up in a grand array of words. 
 This done, to perfect and consummate all. 
 Even as a luminous haze links star to star, 
 I would supply all chasms with music, breathing 
 Mysterious notions of the soul, no way 
 To be defined save in strange melodies. 
 Last, having thus revealed all I could love. 
 And having received all love bestowed on it, 
 I would die: so preserving through my course 
 God full on me, as I was full on men: 
 And He would grant my prayer — "I have gone 
 
 through 
 All loveliness of life; make more for me. 
 If not for men — or take me to thyself. 
 Eternal, infinite Love!'* 
 
 If thou hast ne*er 
 Conceived this mighty aim, this full desire. 
 Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art 
 No king of mine. 
 
 Paracelsus now realizes the error into 
 which they both fell, that they were halves 
 
 [207] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 of a dissevered world, and learning now in 
 what he failed, he feels that he has attained. 
 Paracelsus: 
 
 Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn 
 To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both! 
 We wake at length from weary dreams; but both 
 Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear 
 Appears the world before us, we no less 
 Wake with our wrists and ankles jeweled still. 
 I, too, have sought to know as thou to love — 
 Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge. 
 Still thou hast beauty and I, power. We wake: 
 What penance canst devise for both of us? 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 A Chamber in the House of Paracelsus 
 AT Basel, Five Years Later 
 
 Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out! 
 
 Fest True, true! 
 
 *Tis very fit that all, time, chance, and change 
 Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to face. 
 And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears. 
 Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred 
 By your long absence, should be cast away. 
 Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal 
 Of our affections. 
 
 Festus on his way from Wittenberg, where 
 he carried news to Luther, stops at Basel to 
 ask the pleasure of (Ecolampadius concern- 
 ing certain missives sent to him and Zuinglius. 
 
 [208] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 He learned from (Ecolampadius that the fa- 
 mous teacher at the University was his friend, 
 "the wondrous Paracelsus, life's dispenser, 
 fate's commissary, idol of the schools and 
 courts." Together they talk over the old 
 days at Wiirzburg. The only change is 
 Michal's added grace of motherhood. Fes- 
 tus speaks of his children and his hopes for 
 his boy whom he has named Aureole after 
 his friend. He tells Paracelsus how kind he 
 is in showing interest in his quiet life, "you, 
 who of old could never tame yourself to 
 tranquil pleasures." 
 Paracelsus answers: 
 
 Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death, 
 Who blabs so oft the folHes of this world: 
 And I am Death's familiar, as you know. 
 I helped a man to die, some few weeks since. 
 Warped even from his go-cart to one end — 
 The living on princes' smiles, reflected from 
 A mighty herd of favorites. No mean trick 
 He left untried; and truly well nigh wormed 
 All traces of God's finger out of him. 
 Then died, grown old; and just an hour before — 
 Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes — 
 He sate up suddenly, and with natural voice 
 Said, that in spite of thick air and closed doors 
 God told him it was June; and he knew well. 
 Without such telling, hare-bells grew in June; 
 And all that kings could ever give or take 
 Would not be precious as those blooms to him. 
 
 [209] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Festus has heard Paracelsus lecture from 
 his professor's chair; has seen the number of 
 eager listeners, has gathered from their faces 
 and murmurs full corroboration of his hopes 
 — his pupils worship him. Paracelsus ad- 
 mits his outward success, but confides to his 
 friend his disappointment and his misery. 
 
 He aspired to know God; he attained a 
 professorship at Basel. He has worked cer- 
 tain cures by drugs he has discovered; he has 
 patents, licenses, diplomas, titles from Ger- 
 many, France, Spain, and Italy, and that 
 which he values most of all, the acknowledg- 
 ment of his ability from Erasmus of Rotter- 
 dam. Yet he feels in all this the turning to 
 most account, the mere wreck of the past. 
 He says: 
 
 Well, then: you know my hopes 
 I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain; 
 That truth is just as far from me as ever; 
 That I have thrown my Hfe away; that sorrow 
 On that account is vain, and further effort 
 To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing, 
 As useless: and all this was taught to me 
 By the convincing, good old-fashioned method 
 Of force — by sheer compulsion. Is that plain? 
 
 He has fallen in his self-esteem; he is now 
 ambitionless. 
 
 "I simply know 
 
 [210] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 I am no master here, but trained and beaten 
 Into the path I tread." 
 
 He feels that he has preceded his age, and 
 has become intolerant of the teachings of 
 those who had worked on the same path 
 before him. He has burned in public the 
 books of Aetius, Oribasius, Galen, Rhases, 
 Serapion, Avicenna, Averroes.^ 
 Festus : 
 
 One favor. 
 And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved; 
 Unwilling to have fared so well, the while 
 My friend has changed so sorely: if this mood 
 Shall pass away — if Hght once more arise 
 Where all is darkness now — if you see fit 
 To hope, and trust again, and strive again; 
 You will remember — not our love alone — 
 But that my faith in God's desire for man 
 To trust on his support (as I must think 
 You trusted) is obscured and dim through you; 
 For you are thus, and this is no reward. 
 Will you not call me to your side, dear friend? 
 
 1 That modern science owes much to the labors and re- 
 searches of Paracelsus has been but lately understood. 
 
 [211 
 
browning s paracelsus 
 
 Scene 4 
 
 Two Years Later 
 
 Paracelsus to Johannes Oporinus, his sec- 
 retary: "Such is the way to immortahty ! " 
 
 Dear Von Visenburg 
 Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed. 
 And every honest soul that Basel holds 
 Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, 
 Just as though Liechtenfels had never set 
 So true a value on his sorry carcass. 
 And learned Piitter had not frowned us dumb. 
 We live; and shall as surely start to-morrow 
 For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe 
 To Basel in this mantling wine, suffused 
 With a delicate blush — no fainter tinge is born 
 I' th' shut heart of a bud : pledge me, good John — 
 " Basel; a hot plague ravage it, with Putter 
 To stop the plague! '* Even so? Do you too share 
 Their panic — the reptiles? 
 
 Paracelsus has been forced to leave Basel; 
 with his secretary he is at an inn at Colmar, 
 in Alsatia. He has sent for his friend Festus 
 to tell him of his exposure as an egregious 
 quack — about his being cast off by those 
 who lately worshiped him, and how when he 
 tried to teach, not amaze them ' to impart 
 the spirit which should instigate the secret of 
 truth," he found himself with an empty class- 
 room, how the faculty turned their backs on 
 
 [212] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 him when they found their conservative 
 methods interfered with, and how he had 
 saved the Hfe of a church dignitary, Liech- 
 tenfels by name, who not only refused to 
 pay his fee, but made Basel impossible for 
 him. Festus asks his plans for the future, 
 to which Paracelsus answers: 
 
 But I, but I — now Festus shall divine! 
 — Am merely setting out in life once more. 
 Embracing my old aims! What thinks he how? 
 
 The aims — not the old means. You know what made 
 
 me 
 A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know 
 The when and the how: hardly those means again! 
 Not but they had their beauty — who should know 
 Their passing beauty, if not I? But still 
 They were dreams, so let them vanish: yet in beauty. 
 If that may be. Stay — thus they pass in song! 
 
 {He sings.) 
 
 Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes 
 Of labdanum, and aloe-balls 
 
 Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
 From out her hair: (such balsam falls 
 Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 
 
 From summits where tired winds are fain. 
 
 Spent with the vast and howling main. 
 
 To treasure half their island-gain). 
 
 And strew faint sweetness from some old 
 Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud, 
 
 [2131 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 
 And shred dim perfume, like a cloud 
 From chamber long to quiet vowed. 
 With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
 Moldering the lute and books among 
 Of queen, long dead, who lived there young. 
 
 And so he is going to set out once more 
 with the old aims but not the same methods; 
 he is going to hve his Hfe out seeking knowl- 
 edge gained through joy, and believing joy 
 should be linked to knowledge. He acknowl- 
 edges his degraded appetites and his base 
 delights. Festus warns him that the de- 
 lights that supersede his nobler aims will 
 never content him. Paracelsus declares that 
 he has cast away all remorseless care that 
 clogged his spirit, born to soar so free, and 
 he sings the song: 
 
 Over the sea our galleys went. 
 With cleaving prows in order brave. 
 To a speeding wind and a bounding wave — 
 
 A gallant armament: 
 Each bark built out of a forest-tree. 
 
 Left leafy and rough as first it grew. 
 And nailed all over the gaping sides. 
 Within and without, with black-bull hides. 
 Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
 To bear the playful billows' game; 
 So each good ship was rude to see. 
 Rude and bare to the outward view. 
 
 But each upbore a stately tent; 
 
 [ 214 j 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 Where cedar-pales in scented row 
 Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine: 
 And an awning drooped the mast below. 
 In fold on fold of the purple fine, 
 That neither noon-tide, nor star-shine. 
 Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad. 
 
 Might pierce the regal tenement. 
 When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
 We set the sail and phed the oar; 
 But when the night-wind blew like breath 
 For joy of one day's voyage more. 
 We sang together on the wide sea, 
 Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; 
 Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
 Each helm made sure by the twilight star. 
 And in a sleep as calm as death. 
 We, the strangers from afar. 
 
 Lay, stretched along, each weary crew 
 Li a circle round its wondrous tent. 
 Whence gleamed soft hght and curled rich scent. 
 
 And with light and perfume, music too: 
 So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past. 
 And at morn we started beside the mast. 
 And still each ship was saihng fast! 
 
 One morn, the land appeared! — a speck 
 Dim trembhng betwixt sea and sky. 
 "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check 
 The shout, restrain the longing eye!" 
 But the heaving sea was black behind 
 For many a night and many a day. 
 And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; 
 So we broke the cedar-pales away. 
 Let the purple awning flap in the wind. 
 
 And a statue bright was on every deck! 
 We shouted, every man of us, 
 
 [215] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 And steered right into the harbor thus. 
 With pomp and paean glorious. 
 
 An hundred shapes of lucid stone! 
 
 All day we built a shrine for each — 
 A shrine of rock for every one — 
 Nor paused we till in the westering sun 
 
 We sate together on the beach 
 To sing, because our task was done; 
 When lo! what shouts and merry songs! 
 What laughter all the distance stirs! 
 What raft comes loaded with its throngs 
 Of gentle islanders? 
 "The isles are just at hand," they cried; 
 
 "Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping, 
 Our temple-gates are opened wide. 
 
 Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 
 For the lucid shapes you bring" — they cried. 
 Oh, then we woke with sudden start 
 From our deep dream; we knew, too late. 
 How bare the rock, how desolate, 
 To which we had flung our precious freight: 
 
 Yet we called out — "Depart! 
 Our gifts, once given, must here abide: 
 
 Our work is done; we have no heart 
 To mar our work, though vain" — we cried. 
 
 Festus, alarmed at his impiety, beseeches 
 him to renounce the past and give up the 
 future, and to return with him to Einsiedeln 
 and wait death amidst holy sights. Paracel- 
 sus declares that his lusts forbid such a thing, 
 that he feels sneering devils possess him. He 
 has sunken to the lowest depths. Festus 
 
 [216] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 advises him kindly and again asks him to 
 return to Einsiedeln with him; he tells him 
 of his wife's, Michal's, death, which seems to 
 rouse Paracelsus, and here he expresses his 
 belief in the immortality of the soul. 
 
 Par. Stone dead! — then you have laid her 
 Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, 
 I can reveal a secret which shall comfort 
 Even you. I have no julep, as men think. 
 To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. 
 Know then, you did not ill to trust your love 
 To the cold earth: I have thought much of it: 
 For I believe we do not wholly die. 
 
 Fest. Aureole . . . 
 
 Par. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason 
 
 For what I say : I think the soul can never 
 Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see , 
 Very unfit to put so strange a thought 
 In an intelligible dress of words; 
 But take it as my trust, she is not dead. 
 
 Fest. But not on this account alone? you surely, 
 — Aureole, you have believed this all along .f^ 
 
 Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews. 
 While I am moved at Basel, and full of schemes 
 For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, 
 As though it mattered how the farce plays out. 
 So it be quickly played. Away, away! 
 Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize. 
 Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats. 
 And leave a clear arena for the brave 
 About to perish for your sport! — Behold! 
 
 [217] 
 
browning s paracelsus 
 
 Scene 5 
 Paracelsus Attains 
 
 Salzburg, a cell in the hospital at St. Sebas- 
 tian, thirteen years later. 
 
 Paracelsus lies dying. His faithful friend 
 Festus is by his side, and as he watches, he 
 sends up this prayer: 
 
 God! Thou art Love! I build my faith on that! 
 
 Even as I watch beside thy tortured child. 
 
 Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him. 
 
 So doth thy right hand guide us through the world 
 
 Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? 
 
 How has he sinned? How else should he have done? 
 
 Surely he sought thy praise — thy praise, for all 
 
 He might be busied by the task so much 
 
 As to forget awhile its proper end. 
 
 Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer 
 
 That I should range myself upon his side — 
 
 How could he stop at every step to set 
 
 Thy glory forth? Hadst Thou but granted him 
 
 Success, thy honor would have crowned success, 
 
 A halo round a star. Or, say he erred — 
 
 Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him 
 
 In light and life! Thou art not made like us; 
 
 We should be wroth in such a case; but Thou 
 
 Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts. 
 
 Which come unsought, and will not pass away! 
 
 I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made 
 
 Light for me in the darkness — tempering sorrow. 
 
 So that it reached me like a solemn joy; 
 
 It were too strange that I should doubt thy love: 
 
 [218] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 But what am I? Thou madest him, and knowest 
 How he was fashioned. I could never err 
 That way: the quiet place beside thy feet. 
 Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts; 
 But he — Thou shouldst have favored him as well! 
 
 Paracelsus now wakens. Festus uses vari- 
 ous means to make himself known, and tries 
 to rouse physical consciousness. Paracel- 
 sus, in his semi-delirium, goes over the old 
 trouble at Basel; the scorn that was heaped 
 upon him when they called him quack, cheat, 
 and liar. He is still seeking love, but she 
 eludes him, "but she fades, still fades," 
 sweet human love is gone. He dreams of 
 Aprile. He prays God for one hour of the 
 supernatural consciousness of strength that 
 fed his youth to set his heart on God and 
 love. He now with a clearer consciousness 
 recognizes Festus, who assures him that God 
 will take him to his breast, and that splendor 
 shall sit upon his name on earth for ever. 
 Then Festus sings the song: 
 
 Softly the Mayne river glideth 
 Close by where my love abideth; 
 Sleep's no softer: it proceeds 
 On through lawns, on through meads. 
 On and on, whate'er befall. 
 Meandering and musical, 
 Though the niggard pasture's edge 
 Bears not on its shaven ledge 
 
 [219] 
 
browning's PARACELSUS 
 
 Aught but weeds and waving grasses 
 To view the river as it passes. 
 Save here and there a scanty patch 
 Of primroses, too faint to catch 
 A weary bee . . . 
 
 Par. More, more; say on! 
 
 Fest. The river pushes 
 
 Its gentle way through strangHng rushes. 
 Where the glossy king-fisher 
 Flutters when noon-heats are near. 
 Glad the shelving banks to shun, 
 Red and steaming in the sun, 
 Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 
 Burrows, and the speckled stoat. 
 Where the quick sand-pipers flit 
 In and out the marl and grit 
 That seems to breed them, brown as they. 
 Nought disturbs the river's way. 
 Save some lazy stork that springs. 
 Trailing it with legs and wings, 
 Whom the shy fox from the hill 
 Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 
 
 These simple words seem to arouse in 
 Paracelsus full consciousness: he wishes to 
 speak; he will arise, he will not speak from 
 a couch: 
 
 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; ha, trusty Azoth, leapest 
 Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? 
 This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls 
 
 [ 220 1 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 Be consecrate; this wretched cell become 
 
 A shrine; for here God speaks to men through me! 
 
 Then we have Paracelsus' dying speech 
 which has been said, and justly, to contain 
 some of the most beautiful passages in the 
 English language as well as a foreshadowing 
 of the science which to-day is dawning on 
 the horizon of humanity. 
 
 Par. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it — 
 I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. 
 Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul 
 Might learn from its own motions that some task 
 Like this awaited it about the world; 
 Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours 
 For fit delights to stay its longings vast; 
 And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her 
 To fill the creature full she dared to frame 
 Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, 
 Grow in demand, still craving more and more. 
 And make each joy conceded prove a pledge 
 Of other joy to follow — bating nought 
 Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretense 
 To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung 
 As an extreme, last boon, from Destiny, 
 Into occasion for new covetings, 
 
 New strifes, new triumphs: — doubtless a strong soul 
 Alone, unaided might attain to this. 
 So glorious is our nature, so august 
 Man's inborn uninstructed impulses. 
 His naked spirit so majestical! 
 But this was born in me; I was made so; 
 Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites. 
 The tumult of unproved desires, the unaimed 
 
 [221] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, 
 Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears 
 Were saved me; thus I entered on my course! 
 You may be sure I was not all exempt 
 From human trouble; just so much of doubt 
 As bade me plant a surer foot upon 
 The sun-road — kept my eye unruined mid 
 The fierce and flashing splendor — set my heart 
 Trembling so much as warned me I stood there 
 On sufferance — not to idly gaze, but cast 
 Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, 
 I stood at first where all aspire at last 
 To stand; the secret of the world was mine. 
 I knew, I felt (perception unexpressed, 
 Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 
 But somehow felt and known in every shift 
 And change in spirit — nay, in every pore 
 Of the body, even) — what God is, what we are. 
 What life is — how God tastes an infinite joy 
 In infinite ways — one everlasting bliss. 
 From whom all being emanates, all power 
 Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore. 
 Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
 Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is He! 
 With still a flying point of bliss remote, 
 A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
 Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs 
 Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever! 
 The center-fire heaves underneath the earth,* 
 
 * Of the passage beginning with this line and ending with 
 "His ancient rapture," Mr. Sharp, in his "Life of Robert Brown- 
 ing," says: ''And where in modern poetry is there a superber 
 union of the scientific and the poetic vision than in this mag- 
 nificent passage — the quintessence of the poet's conception 
 of the rapture of life." 
 
 In these lines, particularly in their close, is manifest the 
 
 [222] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 And the earth changes like a human face; 
 
 The molten ore bursts up among the rocks. 
 
 Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright 
 
 In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, 
 
 Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask — 
 
 God joys therein! The wroth sea's waves are edged 
 
 With foam, white as the bitten lip of Hate, 
 
 When in the solitary, waste, strange groups 
 
 Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like. 
 
 Staring together with their eyes on flame; — 
 
 God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride! 
 
 Then all is still: earth is a wintry clod; 
 
 But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 
 
 Over its breast to waken it; rare verdure 
 
 Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 
 
 The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost. 
 
 Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; 
 
 The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with 
 
 blooms. 
 Like chrysalids impatient for the air; 
 The shining dorrs are busy; beetles run 
 Along the furrows, ants make their ado; 
 Above, birds fly in merry flocks — the lark 
 Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; 
 Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls 
 Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe 
 Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek 
 Their loves in wood and plain; and God renews 
 His ancient rapture! Thus he dwells in all ,2 
 
 influence of the noble Hebraic poetry. It must have been 
 at this period that Browning conned over and over with an 
 exultant delight the simple but lordly diction of Isaiah and 
 the other prophets, preferring this Biblical poetry to that 
 even of his beloved Greeks. 
 
 2 The passage beginning here and ending with the line on 
 page 227, "Who should be saved by them and joined with 
 
 [223] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 From life's minute beginnings, up at last 
 
 To man — the consummation of this scheme 
 
 Of being, the completion of this sphere 
 
 Of life: whose attributes had here and there 
 
 Been scattered o'er the visible world before. 
 
 Asking to be combined — dim fragments meant 
 
 To be united in some wondrous whole — 
 
 Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
 
 Suggesting some one creature yet to make — 
 
 Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 
 
 Convergent in the faculties of man. 
 
 Power; neither put forth bhndly, nor controlled 
 
 Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used 
 
 At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: 
 
 Knowledge; not intuition, but the slow 
 
 Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil. 
 
 Strengthened by love: love; not serenely pure, 
 
 them," brings out so well Paracelsus' knowledge of the 
 Secret Doctrine, and his understanding of the cosmic order 
 of the universe. He says: "Man, as such, is the highest 
 being in existence, because in him Nature has reached the 
 culmination of her evolutionary efforts. In him are con- 
 tained all the powers and all the substances that exist in the 
 world, and he constitutes a world of his own. In him wis- 
 dom may become manifest, and the powers of his soul — good 
 as well as evil — may be developed to an extent little dreamed 
 of by our speculative philosophers." " In him are contained 
 all the Coelestia, Terrestria, Undosa, and Aeria" — that is to 
 say, all the forces and beings and forms that may be found 
 in the four elements out of which the Universe is constructed. 
 Man is the Microcosm containing in himself the types of all 
 the creatures that exist in the world, " and it is a great truth, 
 which you should seriously consider, that there is nothing in 
 heaven or upon earth which does not also exist in Man, and 
 God who is in heaven, exists also in man, and the two are 
 but One." "Man is a being and contains many beings within 
 his constitution; nevertheless he is only one individual. These 
 
 [2U] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant 
 
 Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds. 
 
 And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; 
 
 Love which endures, and doubts, and is oppressed. 
 
 And cherished, suffering much, and much sustained, 
 
 A blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, 
 
 A half-enlightened, often-checkered trust: — 
 
 Hints and previsions of which faculties. 
 
 Are strewn confusedly everywhere about 
 
 The inferior natures; and all lead up higher. 
 
 All shape out dimly the superior race, 
 
 The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false. 
 
 And Man appears at last: so far the seal 
 
 Is put on life; one stage of being complete, 
 
 One scheme wound up; and from the grand result 
 
 A supplementary reflux of light, 
 
 Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains 
 
 Each back step in the circle. Not alone 
 
 beings within him are himself, and yet they are not his true 
 self. They are many distinct lives within one life, and in the 
 same sense there are many deities in the world, but only one 
 God. Each man in his capacity as a member of the great 
 organism of the world can be truly known only if looked upon 
 in his connection with universal Nature, and not as a sepa- 
 rate being isolated from Nature. Man is dependent for his 
 existence on Nature, and the state of Nature depends on the 
 condition of mankind as a whole. If we know Nature, we 
 know Man, and if we know Man, we know Nature." " Whoever 
 desires to be a practical philosopher ought to be able to indi- 
 cate heaven and hell in the Microcosm, and to find everything 
 in Man that exists in heaven or upon the earth; so that the 
 corresponding things of the one and the other appear to him 
 as one, separated by nothing else but the form. He must be 
 able to turn the exterior into the interior, but this is an art 
 which he can only acquire by experience and by the light of 
 Nature, which is shining before the eyes of every man, but 
 which is seen by few." 
 
 [225] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 For their possessor dawn those quahties, 
 
 But the new glory mixes with the heaven 
 
 And earth: Man, once descried, imprints forever 
 
 His presence on all lifeless things; the winds 
 
 Are henceforth voices, in a wail or shout, 
 
 A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh — 
 
 Never a senseless gust now man is born! 
 
 The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts, 
 
 A secret they assemble to discuss. 
 
 When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare 
 
 Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat 
 
 Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph 
 
 Swims bearing high above her head: no bird 
 
 Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above 
 
 That let light in upon the gloomy woods, 
 
 A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, 
 
 Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye: 
 
 The morn has enterprise — deep quiet droops 
 
 With evening; triumph takes the sun-set hour. 
 
 Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn 
 
 Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: 
 
 — And this to fill us with regard for man, 
 
 With apprehension for his passing worth. 
 
 Desire to work his proper nature out, 
 
 And ascertain his rank and final place; 
 
 For these things tend still upward — progress is 
 
 The law of life — man's self is not yet Man! 
 
 Nor shall I deem his object served, his end 
 
 Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth. 
 
 While only here and there a star dispels 
 
 The darkness, here and there a towering mind 
 
 O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host 
 
 Is out at once to the despair of night. 
 
 When all mankind alike is perfected. 
 
 Equal in full-blown powers — then, not till then, 
 
 I say, begins man's general infancy! 
 
 [226] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 For wherefore make account of feverish starts 
 
 Of restless members of a dormant whole — 
 
 Impatient nerves which quiver while the body 
 
 Slumbers as in a grave? O, long ago 
 
 The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir. 
 
 The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech 
 
 Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set, 
 
 The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand 
 
 clenched stronger. 
 As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; 
 The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! 
 But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, 
 Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast. 
 He shall start up, and stand on his own earth. 
 And so begin his long triumphant march. 
 And date his being thence — thus wholly roused. 
 What he achieves shall be set down to him! 
 When all the race is perfected alike 
 As Man, that is: all tended to mankind, 
 And, man produced, all has its end thus far; 
 But in completed man begins anew 
 A tendency to God. Prognostics told 
 Man's near approach; so in man's self arise 
 August anticipations, symbols, types 
 Of a dim splendor ever on before. 
 In that eternal circle run by life: 
 For men begin to pass their nature's bound. 
 And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant 
 Their proper joys and griefs; and outgrow all 
 The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade 
 Before the unmeasured thirst for good; while peace 
 Rises within them ever more and more. 
 Such men are even now upon the earth. 
 Serene amid the half-formed creatures round. 
 Who should be saved by them and joined with them. 
 Such was my task, and I was born to it — 
 
 [227] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Free, as I said but now, from much that chahis 
 
 Spirits, high-dowered, but hmited and vexed 
 
 By a divided and delusive aim, 
 
 A shadow mocking a reahty 
 
 Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse 
 
 The flitting mimic called up by itself. 
 
 And so remains perplexed and nigh put out 
 
 By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. 
 
 I, from the first, was never cheated so; 
 
 I never fashioned out a fancied good 
 
 Distinct from man's; a service to be done, 
 
 A glory to be ministered unto, 
 
 With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn 
 
 From laboring in his behalf; a strength 
 
 Denied that might avail him! I cared not 
 
 Lest his success ran counter to success 
 
 Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man. 
 
 And to man's glory, vowed I soul and limb. 
 
 Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, 
 
 I failed : I gazed on power till I grew blind — 
 
 On power; I could not take my eyes from that — 
 
 That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased 
 
 At any risk, displayed, struck out at once — 
 
 The sign, and note, and character of man. 
 
 I saw no use in the past: only a scene 
 
 Of degradation, imbecility — 
 
 The record of disgraces best forgotten, 
 
 A sullen page in human chronicles 
 
 Fit to erase: I saw no cause why man 
 
 Should not be all-suflacient even now; 
 
 Or why his annals should be forced to tell 
 
 That once the tide of light, about to break 
 
 Upon the world, was sealed within its spring; 
 
 I would have had one day, one moment's space. 
 
 Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim 
 
 To mastery o'er the elemental world 
 
 [228] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 At once to full maturity, then roll 
 
 Oblivion o'er the tools, and hide from man. 
 
 What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child 
 
 Of after-days, wilt thou reject the Past, 
 
 Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure 
 
 By which thou hast the earth: the Present for thee 
 
 Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen 
 
 Beside that Past's own shade, whence, in relief. 
 
 Its brightness shall stand out: nor on thee yet 
 
 Shall burst the Future, as successive zones 
 
 Of several wonder open on some spirit 
 
 Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven; 
 
 But thou shalt painfully attain to joy. 
 
 While hope, and fear, and love, shall keep thee man! 
 
 All this was hid from me: as one by one 
 
 My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed. 
 
 As actual good within my reach decreased. 
 
 While obstacles sprung up this way and that. 
 
 To keep me from effecting half the sum, 
 
 Small as it proved; as objects, mean within 
 
 The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least. 
 
 Itself a match for my concentered strength — 
 
 What wonder if I saw no way to shun 
 
 Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's! 
 
 In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, 
 
 A strange adventure made me know. One Sin 
 
 Had spotted my career from its uprise; 
 
 I saw Aprile — my Aprile there! 
 
 And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened 
 
 His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, 
 
 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 its present means, 
 
 [229] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 And earnest for new power to set it free. 
 
 I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: 
 
 And thus, when men received with stupid wonder 
 
 My first revealings, would have worshiped 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; 
 
 Which all touch upon nobleness, despite 
 
 Their error, all tend upwardly 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 once loved rashly; and shape forth a third, 
 
 And better tempered spirit, warned by both: 
 
 As from the over-radiant star too mad 
 
 To drink the light-springs, beamless thence itself — 
 
 And the dark orb which borders the abyss. 
 
 Engulfed 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 — 
 
 [230] 
 
REVIEW OF THE POEM 
 
 'Tis 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! 
 
 [231] 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
 Notes to Scene 1 
 
 Wtirzburg : The capital of Lower Franconia, Bavaria, 
 situated on the Main. The University of Wtirzburg was 
 founded in 1403, but was soon discontinued, and was refounded 
 in 1582. It became noted especially for its medical depart- 
 ment. 
 
 Trithemius of Spanheim was abbot of WUrzburg, and was 
 a great astrologer and alchemist. 
 
 Einsiedeln: A town in the canton of Schwyz, Switzerland, 
 twenty-two miles east of Lucerne. It is one of the most 
 celebrated of pilgrim resorts. The monastery was founded in 
 the ninth century, and in 1294 received the standing of a 
 principality from the emperor Rudolph. In its portraits, 
 library, and material resources, the venerable monastery is 
 still rich. 
 
 Zwingli was a priest here in 1515-19, and not far from the 
 town is the house where Paracelsus was bom. Population 
 in 1888 was 8506. 
 
 Gier-eagle: A vulture. A bird mentioned in the author- 
 ized version of Leviticus xi. 18 (vulture in the revised ver- 
 sion), supposed to be the Neophron percnopterus. 
 
 The Stagirite: Aristotle, who was born at Stagira in 
 Macedon. 
 
 Notes to Scene 2 
 
 "A Turk verse along a scimitar." The Arabic, Persian, 
 and Turkish letters lend themselves well to decorative pur- 
 
 [235 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 poses. The Arabs use verses and quotations from the Koran 
 for decorating their homes, pottery, and arms, etc. 
 
 Arch-genethliac: A genethliac is a caster of nativities — 
 an astrologer. 
 
 Notes to Scene 3 
 
 Rhasis or Rhazes: Bom at Raj, Persia: died about 932. 
 An Arabian physician, author of an encyclopedia on medicine. 
 
 CEcolampadius: A Divinity Professor at Basel. 
 
 Castellanus: A French prelate who was bishop of Tulle 
 in 1539, of MaQon in 1544, and of Orleans in 1551. While 
 at Basel he was corrector of the press with Frobenius. 
 
 Munsterus: A Christian socialist connected with the 
 Peasants' War; executed 1525. 
 
 Frobenius was a famous printer at Basel. He was a friend 
 of Erasmus. 
 
 "Cross-grained devil in my sword." This famous sword of 
 Paracelsus was no laughing matter in those days, and it is 
 now a material feature in the popular idea of Paracelsus. 
 
 Bumbastus kept a devil's bird. 
 Shut in the pummel of his sword, 
 That taught him all the cunning pranks 
 Of past and future mountebanks. 
 
 Hudibras, Part II, Cant. 3. 
 
 The mysterious power of the sword was thought to be in 
 Azoth or " laudanum suum," which he usually carried with 
 him, and with which he worked wonderful cures. 
 
 "Sudary of the Virgin:" A handkerchief, relic of the Virgin 
 Mary. 
 
 Erasmus: Bom at Rotterdam about 1465: died at Basel, 
 1536. A famous Dutch classical and theological scholar and 
 satirist. He aimed to reform without dismembering the 
 Roman Catholic Church, and at first favored, but subse- 
 quently opposed the Reformation, and engaged in a contro- 
 versy with Luther. 
 
 [236] 
 
GLOSSARY OF WORDS 
 
 Proeclare! Optime/ Bravo! Well done! 
 
 Aetius: Bom at Amida, Mesopotamia: flourished about 
 500 A.D. A Greek writer, author of a medical work in six- 
 teen books (Latin translation, 1542). Though essentially a 
 compilation, it is one of the most valuable books of antiquity 
 on medicine. 
 
 Oribasius: Court physician of Julian the Apostate 
 (325-403). 
 
 Galen: Born at Pergamum, Mysia, about 130 a.d. A 
 celebrated Greek physician and philosophical writer. 
 
 Serapion: An Alexandrian physician. 
 
 Avicenna: The most celebrated Arabian physician and 
 philosopher. Surnamed "Prince of Physicians." Bom at 
 Afshena, Bokhara, 980: died at Hamadan, Persia, 1037. 
 
 Averroes: Bom at Cordova about 1120 or 1126. Died 
 at Morocco, 1198. A distinguished Spanish-Arabian philoso- 
 pher, physician, and commentator on Aristotle. 
 
 Zuinglius-Zwingli: A famous Swiss reformer; with Calvin 
 founder of the Reformed Church. Born, 1484: killed at the 
 battle of Kappel, 1531. 
 
 Carolstadius: A Professor of Divinity at Wittemberg, who 
 early joined Luther in the new religion. 
 
 Suabia: The name of an ancient duchy in the southwest 
 part of Germany. 
 
 Notes to Scene 4 
 
 Oporinus: Famulus and secretary for two years to Para- 
 celsus. He has been suspected of defaming his memory. 
 
 "Sic itur ad astra!" Such is the way to immortality. 
 
 Liechtenf els : A canon who was rescued in extremis by 
 the laudanum of Paracelsus, and who afterwards refused the 
 stipulated fee, and was supported in his meanness by the 
 authorities whose interference Paracelsus would not brook. 
 
 "Quid mrdta?" Why say more? 
 
 [237] 
 
BROWNING S PARACELSUS 
 
 Cassia: A coarse variety of cinnamon; cassia-bark. 
 
 Sandal-buds: The most important species of the sandal 
 tree is an evergreen twenty or thirty feet high, with the aspect 
 of privet. Its wood is very fragrant; it is systematically cul- 
 tivated in India, where it is used for making perfumes and for 
 medicinal purposes. 
 
 "Stripes of labdanum" or ladanum, is a resinous juice that 
 exudes from the Cestus ladaniferus, a shrub which grows in 
 Spain and Portugal, and from C. Creticus and C. salvijdius, 
 which grow in Crete, Syria, etc. An inferior sort is in long 
 rolls curled up. It is used in perfumery, and in fumigating- 
 pastils. 
 
 Aloe-balls : Aloes. There are several kinds known to com- 
 merce. The term here probably means the fragrant resin of 
 the agallochum; lign-aloes the usual meaning in the Bible. 
 
 Nard: Indian spikenard. An aromatic unguent prepared 
 from this plant. 
 
 "Sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten 
 shroud." The odors from the spices which embalm the 
 mummy. 
 
 Arras tapestry, specifically the use as hangings or 
 curtains. 
 
 Fiat experientia corpore vili. Let the experiment be made 
 on a body of no value (a hospital patient, e.g.!). 
 
 Notes to Scene 5 
 
 Salzburg: Capital of the crownland of Salzburg in Austria; 
 noted for its picturesque location. 
 
 "Jove strikes the Titans down:" In Greek mythology 
 a race of primordial deities, children of Uranus and Gsea 
 (Heaven and Earth). While they were of gigantic size and 
 enormous strength, after a terrible war they were overcome 
 by the thunderbolts of Zleus (Jupiter). 
 
 Phaeton: In Greek mythology the name of the sun-god 
 Helios; also the son of Helios and Prote. The latter obtained 
 
 [2381 
 
GLOSSARY OF WORDS 
 
 permission from his father to drive his chariot (the smi) 
 across the heavens, but being unable to check his horses, 
 nearly set the earth on fire, and was slain by Zeus with a 
 thunderbolt. 
 
 Persic Zoroaster or Zarathushtra: The founder of the 
 Perso-Iranian national religion, which prevailed at the time 
 of the Achsemenidae (559-330 B.C.), to the close of the Sas- 
 sanian dynasty (226-641 a.d.). The Zend-Avesta is the Zo- 
 roastrian bible. 
 
 [239 
 
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