Death was now lord of life, and at his word

Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred,
With measured wing now audibly arose

Throbbing through all things to some unknown close.
Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn,
And Work grew eager, and Device was born.

It seemed the light was never loved before,

Now each man said, "Twill go and come no more.'
No budding branch, no pebble from the brook,

No form, no shadow, but new dearness took
From the one thought that life must have an end;
And the last parting now began to send
Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss,
Thrilling them into finer tenderness.

Then Memory disclosed her face divine,

That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine
Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves,
And shows the presence that no sunlight craves,
No space, no warmth, but moves among them all ;
Gone and yet here, and coming at each call,
With ready voice and eyes that understand,

And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand.
Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed
Of various life and action-shaping need.

But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings
Of new ambition, and the force that springs
In passion beating on the shores of fate.
They said, 'There comes a night when all too late
The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand.

The eager thought behind closed portals stand,
And the last wishes to the mute lips press

Buried ere death in silent helplessness.

Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave,
And while the arm is strong to strike and heave,
Let soul and arm give shape that will abide
And rule above our graves, and power divide
With that great god of day, whose rays must bend
As we shall make the moving shadows tend.
Come, let us fashion acts that are to be,

When we shall lie in darkness silently.'

Leo.

ARMGART.

Various Characters.

Ay, my lady,

That moment will not come again: applause

May come and plenty; but the first, first draught !
Music has sounds for it-I know no words.
I felt it once myself when they performed
My overture to Sintram. Well! 'tis strange,

We know not pain from pleasure in such joy.

Armg.-O, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our
souls,

And when full being comes must call on pain
To lend it liberal space.

Armg.-How old are you?

Leo.

Armg.

Threescore and five.

That's old.

I never thought till now how you have lived.

They hardly ever play your music?

Leo (raising his eyebrows and throwing out his

Schubert too wrote for silence: half his work
Lay like frozen Rhine till a summer came
That warmed the grass above him. Even so !
His music lives now with a mighty youth.

Armg. Do you think yours will live when you are

dead?

Leo.-Pfui! The time was, I drank that home

brewed wine

And found it heady, while my blood was young:

Now it scarce warms me.

I am sober still, and say:

6

Tipple it as I may,

My old friend Leo,

Much grain is wasted in the world and rots ;

Why not thy handful ?’

Armg.

Strange! since I have known you

Till now I never wondered how you lived.

When I sang well-that was your jubilee.

But you were old already.

Leo.

Yes, child, yes :

Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life;
Age has but travelled from a far-off time

Just to be ready for youth's service.

It was my chief delight to perfect you.

Well!

Armg.-Good Leo! You have lived on little joys.

But your delight in me is crushed for ever.

Your pains, where are they now? They shaped intent Which action frustrates; shaped an inward sense Which is but keen despair, the agony

Of highest vision in the lowest pit.

The best intent

Grasps but a living present which may grow

Like any unfledged bird.—Armgart.

—0—

Sacraments

Are not to feed the paupers of the world.

-0

Your blessed public

Armgart.

Had never any judgment in cold blood—
Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise,
Till rapture brings a reason.-Leo.

What is fame

But the benignant strength of One, transformed To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come

As necessary breathing of such joy,

And may they come to me !—Armgart.

I hate your epigrams and pointed saws

Whose narrow truth is but broad falsity.

Armgart.

-0

Life is not rounded in an epigram,

And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid.

The Graf.

Truth has rough flavours if we bite it through.

The Graf.