VICTORIAN.

Why not?

HYPOLITO.

She was betrothed to one Bartolomé,

If I remember rightly, a young Gipsy

Who danced with her at Córdova.

The angels sang in heaven when she was born!

She is a precious jewel I have found

Among the filth and rubbish of the world.

I'll stoop for it; but when I wear it here,

Set on my forehead like the morning star,
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.

HYPOLITO.

If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 'T will be indeed a wonder.

VICTORIAN.

Out upon thee,

With thy unseasonable jests! Pray, tell me,

Is there no virtue in the world?

HYPOLITO.

Not much.

What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment;

Now, while we speak of her?

VICTORIAN.

She lies asleep,

And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.
Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast,
The cross she prayed to, e'er she fell asleep,
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,
Like a light barge safe moored.

HYPOLITO.

Which means, in prose,

She's sleeping with her mouth a little open!

VICTORIAN.

O, would I had the old magician's glass

To see her as she lies in child-like sleep!

HYPOLITO.

And would'st thou venture?

VICTORIAN.

Ay, indeed I would!

HYPOLITO.

Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected

How much lies hidden in that one word, now?

VICTORIAN.

Yes; all the awful mystery of Life!

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,

That could we, by some spell of magic, change
The world and its inhabitants to stone,

In the same attitudes they now are in,

What fearful glances downward might we cast

Into the hollow chasms of human life!

What groups should we behold about the death-bed,
Putting to shame the group of Niobe!

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells!
What stony tears in those congealed eyes!
What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks!
What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows!
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling!
What lovers with their marble lips together!

HYPOLITO.

Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love,
That is the very point I most should dread.

This magic glass, these magic spells of thine,
Might tell a tale were better left untold.

For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin,
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis,
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut,

Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love,

Desertest for this Glaucè.

VICTORIAN.

Hold thy peace!

She cares not for me. She may wed another,

Or go into a convent, and, thus dying,
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.

HYPOLITO (rising).

And so, good night! Good morning, I should say. (Clock strikes three.)

Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time Knocks at the golden portals of the day!

And so, once more, good night! We'll speak more largely

Of Preciosa when we meet again.

Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep,

Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass,

In all her loveliness. Good night!

VICTORIAN.

[Exit.

Good night!

But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

(Throws himself into the arm-chuir which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.)

Must read, or sit in reverie and watch

The changing color of the waves that break

Upon the idle seashore of the mind!

Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye?

O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom

Upon Olympus, making us immortal?

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake

grows

Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans,

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,
And make the mind prolific in its fancies?

I have the wish, but want the will, to act!
Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words.
Have come to light from the swift river of Time,
Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed,
Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore?
From the barred visor of Antiquity

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth,

As from a mirror! All the means of action-
The shapeless masses-the materials-

Lie everywhere about us. What we need
Is the celestial fire to change the flint
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear.
That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws
With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall.
The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel,
And begs a shelter from the inclement night.
He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand,
And, by the magic of his touch at once
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown,
It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed,
Rude popular traditions and old tales