As the Being who made him,
Whose actions I ape.
Thou clay, be all glowing,
Till the rose in his cheek
Be as fair as, when blowing,
It wears its first streak!
Ye violets, I scatter,
Now turn into eyes!
And thou sunshiny water,

Of blood take the guise!
Let these hyacinth boughs
Be his long, flowing hair,
And wave o'er his brows,

As thou wavest in air!
Let his heart be this marble
I tear from the rock!
But his voice as the warble
Of birds on yon oak!
Let his flesh be the purest
Of mould, in which grew
The lily-root surest,

And drank the best dew!
Let his limbs be the lightest

Which clay can compound!
And his aspect the brightest
On earth to be found!
Elements, near me,

Be mingled and stirred,
Know me, and hear me,
And leap to my word!
Sunbeams, awaken

This earth's animation!
Tis done! He hath taken
His stand in Creation!
[Arnold falls senseless; his soul
passes into the shape of Achilles,
which rises from the ground;
while the Phantom has disappear-
ed, part by part, as the figure
was formed from the earth.

Arnold (in his new form). I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh life!

At last I feel thee! Glorious spirit!

garment,

Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, Which late you wore, or were?

Arnold. Who cares! Let wolves And vultures take it, if they will. Stranger. And if

They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say It must be peace-time, and no better fare Abroad i' the fields.

Arnold. Let us but leave it there, No matter what becomes on't.

Stranger. That's ungracious,

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be,
It hath sustained your soul full many a day.
Arnold. Aye, as the dunghill may con-

ceal a gem Which is now set in gold,as jewels should be. Stranger. But if I give another form, it

must be

By fair exchange, not robbery. For they

Who make men without women's aid, have long

Had patents for the same, and do not love Your interlopers. The devil may take men, Not make them,-though he reap the benefit Of the original workmanship:—and therefore

Some one must be found to assume the shape
You have quitted.

Arnold. Who would do so?
Stranger. That I know not,
And therefore I must.
Arnold. You!

Stranger. I said it ere

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. Arnold. True. I forget all things in the new joy

Of this immortal change.

Stranger. In a few moments

I will be as you were, and you shall see Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. Arnold. I would be spared this. Stranger. But it cannot be.

What! shrink already, being what you are, From seeing what you were?

Arnold. Do as thou wilt.

Stranger (to the late form of Arnold, ex-
tended on the earth).

Clay! not dead, but soul-less!
Though no man would choose thee,
An immortal no less

Designs not to refuse thee.
Clay thou art; and unto spirit
All clay is of equal merit.

Fire! without which nought can live;
Fire! but in which nought can live,

Save the fabled salamander,
Or immortal souls which wander,
Praying what doth not forgive,
Howling for a drop of water,

Burning in a quenchless lot:
Fire! the only element

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, Save the worm which dieth not, Can preserve a moment's form, But must with thyself be blent: Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter: Fire! Creation's first-born daughter,

And Destruction's threatened son, When Heaven with the world hath done: Fire! assist me to renew

Life in what lies in my view

Stiff and cold!

His resurrection rests with me and you!
One little, marshy spark of flame-
And he again shall seem the same;
But I his spirit's place shall hold!

An Ignis-fatuus flits through the wood, and rests on the brow of the body. The Stranger disappears: the body rises. Arnold (in his new form). Oh! horrible ! Stranger (in Arnold's late shape). What! tremblest thou?

Arnold. Not so

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape Thou lately worest?

Stranger To the world of shadows. But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou?

Arnold. Must thou be my companion? Stranger. Wherefore not? Your betters keep worse company. Arnold. My betters!

Stranger. Oh! you wax proud, of your new form:

I see,

I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too! That's well;

You improve apace:—two changes in an instant,

And you are old in the world's ways already. But bear with me: indeed you'll find me useful

Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce Where shall we now be errant ?

Arnold. Where the world

Is thickest, that I may behold it in
Its workings.

Stranger. That's to say where there is war
And woman in activity. Let's see!
Spain-Italy-the new Atlantic world-
Afric with all its Moors. In very truth,
There is small choice: the whole race are
just now

Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. Arnold. I have heard great things of

Rome.

Stranger. A goodly choice

And scarce a better to be found on earth, Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too;

For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion

Of the old Vandals are at play along
The sunny shores of the world's garden.
Arnold. How
Shall we proceed?

Strangers. Like gallants,on good coursers. What ho! my chargers! Never yet were better,

Since Phaeton was upset into the Po.
Our Pages too!

Enter two Pages, with four coal-black Horses.

Arnold. A noble sight!
Stranger. And of

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary,
Or your Kochlany race of Araby,
With these!

Arnold. The mighty stream, which
volumes high

From their proud nostrils,burns the very air: And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies,

wheel

Around their manes, as common insects

swarm

Round common steeds towards sunset.

Stranger. Mount, my Lord;

They and I are your servitors.

Our dark-eyed pages-what may be their names?

Stranger. You shall baptise them.
Arnold. What! in holy water?

Stranger. Why not! The deeper sinner, better saint.

Arnold. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons?

Stranger. True; the Devil's always ugly; and your beauty

Is never diabolical.

Arnold. I'll call him

Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright

And blooming, aspect, Huon; for he looks Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest And never found till now. And for the other And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not,

But looks as serious though serene as night, He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king Whose statue turns a harper once a day. And you?

Stranger. I have ten thousand names, and twice

As many attributes; but as I wear
A human shape, will take a human name.
Arnold. More human than the shape
(though it was mine once)

I trust.

Stranger. Then call me Cæsar.
Arnold. Why, that name

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne
By the world's Lords.

Stranger. And therefore fittest for The Devil in disguise since so you deem me,

Unless you call me Pope instead.
Arnold. Well then,

Cæsar thou shalt be. For myself, my name
Shall be plain Arnold still.

Cæsar. We'll add a title"Count Arnold:" it hath no ungracious sound,

And will look well upon a billet-doux.

Arnold. Or in an order for a battle-field. Casar (sings). To horse! to horse! my coal-black steed

Paws the ground and snuffs the air; There's not a foal of Arab's breed

More knows whom he must bear!
On the hill he will not tire,
Swifter as it waxes higher;
In the marsh he will not slacken,
On the plain be overtaken;
In the wave he will not sink,
Nor pause at the brook's side to drink;
In the race he will not pant,

In the combat he'll not faint;
On the stones he will not stumble,
Time nor toil shall make him humble;

In the stall he will not stiffen,
But be winged as a Griffin,
Only flying with his feet:

I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb,

Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no wall, Whate'er it now be); and Rome's earliest cement

Was brother's blood; and if its native blood
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red
As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear
The deep hue of the Ocean and the Earth,
Which the great robber-sons of Fratricide
Have made their never-ceasing scene of
slaughter

For ages.

Arnold. But what have these done, their far Remote descendants, who have lived in peace,

The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of Piety?

Cæsar. And what had they done, whom the old

Romans o'erswept?-Hark!

Arnold. They are soldiers singing A reckless roundelay, upon the eve Of many deaths, it may be of their own. Cæsar. And why should they not sing as well as swans?

They are black ones, to be sure.

Arnold. So, you are learn'd, I see, too.

Cæsar. In my grammar, certes. I Was educated for a monk of all times, And once I was well versed in the forgotten Etruscan letters, and-were I so mindedCould make their hieroglyphics plainer than Your alphabet.

Arnold. And wherefore do you not? Cæsar. It answers better to resolve the alphabet

Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman,

And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, Philosopher, and what not, they have built More Babels without new dispersion, than The stammering young ones of the Flood's dull ooze,

Who failed and fled each other. Why? why, marry,

Because no man could understand his neigh

bour.

They are wiser now, and will not separate For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, Their Shibboleth,their Koran, Talmud, their Cabala; their best brick-work wherewithal They build more—

Arnold (interrupting him). Oh, thou everlasting sneerer!

Be silent! How the soldiers' rough strain

seems

Softened by distance to a hymn-like cadence!
Listen!

Cæsar. Yes. I have heard the Angels sing.
Arnold. And Demons howl.

Cæsar. And Man too. Let us listen: I love all music.

Song of the Soldiers within.

The Black Bands came over

The Alps and their snow, With Bourbon, the rover,

They past the broad Po.
We have beaten all foemen,
We have captured a king,
We have turned back on no men,
And so let us sing!

Here's the Bourbon for ever!
Though penniless all,
We'll have one more endeavour
At yonder old wall.

With the Bourbon we'll gather
At day-dawn before
The gates, and together

Or break or climb o'er
The wall: on the ladder

As mounts each firm foot,
Our shout shall grow gladder,
And death only be mute.
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er
The walls of old Rome,

And who then shall count o'er
The spoils of each dome?
Up! up! with the lily!

And down with the keys!
In old Rome, the Seven-hilly,
We'll revel at ease.
Her streets shall be gory,
Her Tiber all red,
And her temples so hoary

Shall clang with our tread.
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon!
The Bourbon for aye!

Of our song bear the burthen!
And fire, fire away!
With Spain for the vanguard,
Our varied host comes?
And next to the Spaniard

Beat Germany's drums;
And Italy's lances

Are couched at their mother;
But our leader from France is,

Who warred with his brother.
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon!
Sans country or home,
We'll follow the Bourbon,

To plunder old Rome.
Cæsar. An indifferent song

For those within the walls,methinks,to hear. Arnold. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes

The General with his chiefs and men of trust. A goodly rebel!

Enter the Constable BOURBON, cum suis. Philibert. How now, noble Prince, You are not cheerful?

Bourbon. Why should I be so?
Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such

as ours,
Most men would be so.

Bourbon. If I were secure!

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant, They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery.

Bourbon. That they will falter is my

least of fears.

That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for Their chief, and all their kindled appetites To marshal them on-were those hoary walls Mountains, and those who guard them like the Gods

Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ;But now

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals.

Bourbon. Ah!

Welcome the bitter Hunchback! and his Master,

The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous,

And generous as lovely. We shall find
Work for you both ere morning.
Cæsar. You will find,

So please your Highness, no less for yourself. Bourbon. And if I do, there will not be a labourer

More forward, Hunchback!

Cæsar. You may well say so, For you have seen that back—as general, Placed in the rear in action-but your foes

Bourbon. That's a fair retort,

For I provoked it:- but the Bourbon's breast
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced
In danger's face as yours, were you the Devil.
Cæsar. And if I were, I might have saved
myself

The toil of coming here.
Phil. Why so?

Cæsar. One half

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord Will go to him, the other half be sent, More swiftly, not less surely.

Bourbon. Arnold, your

Slight crooked friend's as snake-like in his words

As his deeds.

Casar. Your Highness much mistake me. The first snake was a flatterer-I am none; And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. Bourbon. You are brave, and that's enough for me; and quick In speech as sharp in action—and that's more. I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' Comrade.

Casar. They are but bad company, your Highness;

And worse even for their friends than foes, as being

More permanent acquaintance.
Phil. How now, fellow!

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege
Of a buffoon.

Cæsar. You mean, I speak the truth. I'll lie-it is as easy: then you'll praise me For calling you a hero.

Bourbon. Philibert!

Let him alone; he's brave, and ever has Been first with that swart face and moun

tain-shoulder

In field or storm, and patient in starvation; And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence,

And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue
Is, to my mind, far preferable to
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration
Of a mere famished,sullen,grumbling slave,
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal,
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis,
With which he deems him rich.