Ha! then you too have seen it; it is not,
O Heaven!—­is not delusion, this fond dream,
But even now it works, works bliss for her. 
Proceed, Sir ... you were saying ...  Sir, I list ... 
That in her eyes you saw angelic fire,
Pure from the dross, the dimming clouds of earth,
Deem’d now her frame ethereal, unakin
To earth’s clay-moulded fabrics—­such, perchance,
As entering heaven, might have left its dust
At the bright folding portals, sandal-like,
And thence, repassing in seraphic trance,
Still left unclaim’d the vesture at the gate!

Roger.

You glory in her weakness!  ’Tis too much—­
Rash man, beware, a bitter end will come.

Maurice.

I fain would think that study hath o’erwrought
Your heated brain to this short fever fit,
That soon may pass and leave your vision clear. 
In truth, I note strange changes in your mien—­
A wandering glance, quick, restless eagerness,
Rapt snatches of deep thought, wherein the mind
Seems cleaving heaven with wild extatic wings: 
Your cheeks are pale, and all your nervous frame
Thrills ’neath some strange enthusiastic touch. 
Lay by your books awhile, and breathe again,
As in those days gone by, the country air,
The sweet, calm country air, where perfume floats
Like love that finds no heart so godlike large
Can clasp it wholly in its one embrace,
But overflows creation with its bliss. 
Thus shall you quickly exorcise this madness,
And cleanse your brain of these pernicious dreams.

Oran.

This madness!  I bethink me of the past,
Of all the great and noble who have toil’d
Amid the deep dark mines of burning thought,
Wearing out life to quarry forth the Truth;
Of all the seers and watchers, early and late
Waiting with eager blood-hot eyes the light
Rising afar in some untrodden East,
Full of divine and precious influence,
Calling, like Mezzuin from his minaret,
The thankless world to worship and be glad;
Of all the patient thinkers of the earth
Who talk’d with Wisdom like familiar friends,
Until their voices unaccustom’d grew,
And men stared blankly at them as they pass’d: 
I do bethink me of them all, and know
How each walk’d through his labyrinth of scorn,
And was accounted mad before all men. 
But patience!—­Winter bears within its breast
The nascent seeds of golden harvest-time.

This only shall I tell you of my ways—­
Straying, now here, now there, ‘mid science’ wealth,
I have discover’d a vast hidden power—­
A power that perfected shall surely work
Great revolution in all human laws,—­
Where stop its courses I as yet know not;
’Tis to me like the sun, that all the day
Shines godlike in my vision, and, at night,
Though darkness hide its brightness, still, I feel,
Shines on in glory over other spheres;