IDEN.

So then you are the man

Whom Stralenheim's in quest of?

WER.

I am not;

But being taken for him might conduct
So much embarrassment to me just now,
And to the baron's self hereafter-'tis

To spare both, that I would avoid all bustle.
IDEN. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my busines
Besides, I never should obtain the half

From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise
The country for some missing bits of coin,
And never offer a precise reward—

But this!-another look!

WER.

At day-dawn it is yours.

IDEN.

Gaze on it freely;

Oh, thou sweet sparkler!

Thou more than stone of the philosopher!

Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself!
Thou bright eye of the Mine! thou load-star of
The soul! the true magnetic Pole to which
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles!
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth! which sitting
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest

H

More worship than the Majesty who sweats

Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like

Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre!

Shalt thou be mine? I am, methinks, already
A little king, a lucky alchymist!—

A wise magician, who has bound the devil
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come,
Werner, or what else?

WER.

Call me Werner still,

You may yet know me by a loftier title.

IDEN. I do believe in thee! thou art the spirit
Of whom I long have dream'd, in a low garb.—
But come, I'll serve thee; thou shalt be as free
As air, despite the waters; let us hence,

I'll show thee I am honest-(oh, thou jewel!)
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds
Should overtake thee.-Let me gaze again!

I have a foster-brother in the mart

Of Hamburgh, skill'd in precious stones-how many Carats may it weigh?-Come, Werner, I will wing thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

STRALENHEIM'S Chamber.

STRALENHEIM and FRITZ.

FRITZ. All's ready, my good lord!
STRAL.

And

I am not sleepy

yet I must to bed; I fain would say

To rest, but something heavy on my spirit,

Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber,

Sits on me as a cloud along the sky,

Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself

'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man

And man, an everlasting mist;—I will

STRAL. I know not why, and therefore do fear more,

Because an undescribable--but 'tis

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired)

F

Changed, to day, of this chamber? for last night's

Adventure makes it needful.

FRITZ.

Certainly,

According to your order, and beneath

The inspection of myself and the young Saxon

Who saved your life. I think they call him "Ulric."
STRAL. You think! you supercilious slave! what

right

Have you to tax your memory, which should be

Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name
Of him who saved your master, as a litany

Whose daily repetition marks your duty—

Get hence! "you think," indeed! you who stood still
Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst I
Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside

The roaring torrent, and restored me to

Thank him—and despise you. "You think!" and

scarce

Can recollect his name! I will not waste

More words on you. Call me betimes.

FRITZ.

Good night!

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship

To renovated strength and temper.

[The scene closes.

GAB. (solus).

SCENE III.

The secret Passage.

Four

Five-six hours have I counted, like the guard
Of outposts on the never-merry clock:
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment
With every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell,
Though for a marriage feast it rings: each stroke
Peals for a hope the less; the funeral note
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection
In the grave of Possession; while the knoll
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo
To triple Time in the son's ear.

I'm cold

I'm dark-I've blown my fingers-number'd o'er And o'er my steps-and knock'd my head against Some fifty buttresses-and roused the rats

And bats in general insurrection, till

Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings