University of Virginia Library

Three hours of study—and what gain thereby?
My brain is reeling to attach the sense
Of what I read, as a drunk mariner
Who, stumbling o'er the bulwark, makes a clutch
At the wild incongruity of ropes,
And topples into mud!

Good Aristotle!
Forgive me if I lay thee henceforth by,
And seek some other teacher. Thou hast been,
For many hundred years, the bane and curse
Of all the budding intellect of man.
Thine earliest pupil, Alexander—he
The most impulsive and tumultuous sprite
That ever spurned old systems at the heel,
And dashed the dust of action in the eyes
Of the slow porers over antique shards—
Held thee, at twenty, an especial fool.
And why? The grand God-impulse in his heart
That drove him over the oblique domain
Of Asia and her kingdoms, and that urged
His meteor leap at Porus' giant throat—
Or the sublime illusion of the sense
Which gave to Thais that tremendous torch
Whence whole Persepolis was set on fire—
Was never kindled surely by such trash
As I, this night, have heaped upon my brain!
Hence, vile impostor!

Who shall take his place?
What hoary dotard of antiquity
Shall I invite to dip his clumsy foot
Within the limpid fountain of my mind,
And stamp it into foulness? Let me see—
Following Salerno's doctrine, human lore
Divides itself into three faculties,
The Eden rivers of the intellect.
There's Law, Theology, and Medicine,
And all beyond their course is barren ground.
So say the Academics; and they're right,
If learning's to be measured by its gains.
The Lawyer speaks no word without a fee—
The Priest demands his tithes, and will not sing
A gratis mass to help his brother's soul.
The purgatorial key is made of gold:
None else will fit the wards;—and for the Doctor,
The good kind man who lingers by your couch,
Compounds you pills and potions, feels your pulse,
And takes especial notice of your tongue;
If you allow him once to leave the room
Without the proper greasing of his palm,
Look out for Azrael!

So, then, these three
Maintain the sole possession of the schools;
Whilst, out of doors, amidst the sleet and rain,
Thin-garbed Philosophy sits shivering down,
And shares a mouldy crust with Poetry!

And shall I then take Celsus for my guide,
Confound my brain with dull Justinian's tomes,
Or stir the dust that lies o'er Augustine?
Not I, in faith! I've leaped into the air,
And clove my way through æther, like a bird
That flits beneath the glimpses of the moon,
Right eastward, till I lighted at the foot
Of holy Helicon, and drank my fill
At the clear spout of Aganippe's stream.
I've rolled my limbs in ecstasy along
The self-same turf on which old Homer lay
That night he dreamed of Helen and of Troy:
And I have heard, at midnight, the sweet strains
Come quiring from the hill-top, where, enshrined
In the rich foldings of a silver cloud,
The Muses sang Apollo into sleep.
Then came the voice of universal Pan,
The dread earth-whisper, booming in mine ear—
“Rise up, Firmilian—rise in might!” it said;
“Great youth, baptised to song! Be it thy task,
Out of the jarring discords of the world,
To recreate stupendous harmonies
More grand in diapason than the roll
Among the mountains of the thunder-psalm!
Be thou no slave of passion. Let not love,
Pity, remorse, nor any other thrill
That sways the actions of ungifted men,
Affect thy course. Live for thyself alone.
Let appetite thy ready handmaid be,
And pluck all fruitage from the tree of life,
Be it forbidden or no. If any comes
Between thee and the purpose of thy bent,
Launch thou the arrow from the string of might
Right to the bosom of the impious wretch,
And let it quiver there! Be great in guilt!
If, like Busiris, thou canst rack the heart,
Spare it no pang. So shalt thou be prepared
To make thy song a tempest, and to shake
The earth to its foundation—Go thy way!”
I woke, and found myself in Badajoz.
But from that day, with frantic might, I've striven
To give due utterance to the awful shrieks
Of him who first imbued his hand in gore,—
To paint the mental spasms that tortured Cain!
How have I done it? Feebly. What we write
Must be the reflex of the thing we know;
For who can limn the morning, if his eyes
Have never looked upon Aurora's face?
Or who describe the cadence of the sea,
Whose ears were never open to the waves
Or the shrill winding of the Triton's horn?
What do I know as yet of homicide?
Nothing. Fool—fool! to lose thy precious time
In dreaming of what may be, when an act
Easy to plan, and easier to effect,
Can teach thee everything! What—craven mind—
Shrink'st thou from doing, for a noble aim,
What, every hour, some villain, wretch, or slave
Dares for a purse of gold? It is resolved—
I'll ope the lattice of some mortal cage,
And let the soul go free!

A draught of wine!
(Drinks.)
Ha! this revives me! How the nectar thrills
Like joy through all my frame! There's not a god
In the Pantheon that can rival thee,
Thou purple-lipped Lyæus! And thou'rt strong
As thou art bounteous. Were I Ganymede,
To stand beside the pitchers at the feast
Of the Olympian revel, and to give
The foaming cups to Hebe—how I'd laugh
To see thee trip up iron Vulcan's heels,
Prostrate old Neptune, and fling bullying Mars,
With all his weight of armour on his back,
Down with a clatter on the heavenly floor!
Not Jove himself dare risk a fall with thee,
Lord of the panthers! Lo, I drink again,
And the high purpose of my soul grows firm,
As the sweet venom circles in my veins—
It is resolved! Come, then, mysterious Guilt,
Thou raven-mother, come—and fill my cup
With thy black beverage! I am sworn to thee,
And will not falter!

But the victim? That
Requires a pause of thought—

I must begin
With some one dear to me, or else the deed
Would lose its flavour and its poignancy.
Now, let me see. There's Lilian, pretty maid—
The tender, blushing, yielding Lilian—
She loves me but too well. What if I saved
Her young existence from all future throes,
And laid her pallid on an early bier?
Why, that were mercy both to her and me,
Not ruthless sacrifice. And, more than this,
She hath an uncle an Inquisitor,
Who might be tempted to make curious quest
About the final ailments of his niece.
Therefore, dear Lilian, live! I harm thee not.
There's Mariana, she, mine own betrothed,
The blooming mistress of the moated grange,
She loves me well—but we're not married yet.
It will be time enough to think of her
After her lands are mine; therefore, my own,
My sweet affianced, sleep thou on in peace,
Nor dream of ruffian wrong. Then there's another,
That full-blown beauty of Abassin blood
Whose orient charms are madness! Shall she die?
Why, no—not now at least. 'Tis but a week
Since, at the lonely cottage in the wood,
My eyes first rested on that Queen of Ind!
O, she of Sheba was an ugly ape
Compared with Indiana!—Let her pass.
There's Haverillo, mine especial friend—
A better creature never framed a verse
By dint of finger-scanning; yet he's deemed
A proper poet by the gaping fools
Who know not me! I love him; for he's kind,
And very credulous. To send him hence
Would be advancement to a higher sphere—
A gain to him, no loss to poetry.
I think that he's the man: yet, hold awhile—
No rashness in this matter! He hath got
Acknowledgments of mine within his desk
For certain sums of money—paltry dross
Which 'tis my way to spurn. I've found him still
A most convenient creditor: he asks
No instant payment for his fond advance,
Nor yet is clamorous for the usufruct.
How if, he being dead, some sordid slave,
Brother or cousin, who might heir his wealth,
Should chance to stumble on those bonds of mine,
And sue me for the debt? That were enough
To break the wanton wings of Pegasus,
And bind him to a stall! Nor have I yet
Exhausted half his means; it may be soon
I shall require more counters, and from him
I may depend upon a fresh supply.
A right good fellow is this Haverillo—
A mine, a storehouse, and a treasury,
My El-Dorado and my Mexico—
Then let him live and thrive!

Are there no more?
O, yes! There's Garcia Perez—he's my friend,
And ever stood above me in the schools.
And there's that young Alphonzo D'Aguilar,
Proud of his Countship and Castilian blood,
He hath vouchsafed me notice, and I love him.
And there's Alonzo Olivarez, too,
That mould of Hercules,—he's near to kin
To Mariana, and his wealth accrues
Solely to her. I love him like a brother.
Be these my choice. I sup with them to-morrow.

Come down, old Raymond Lully, from the shelf,
Thou quaint discourser upon pharmacy.
Did not Lucretia—not the frigid dame
Who discomposed young Tarquin in her bower,
But the complete and liberal Borgia—
Consult thy pages for a sedative?
Ay—here it is! In twenty minutes, death;
The compound tasteless, and beyond the skill
Of any earthy leech to recognise.
Thanks, Raymond, thanks!

How looks the night? Thou moon,
That in thy perfect and perennial course
Wanderest at will across the fields of heaven!—
Thou argent beauty, meditative orb,
That spiest out the secrets of the earth
In the still hours when guilt and murder walk—
To what far region takest thou thy way?
Not Latmos now allures thee, for the time
When boy Endymion stretched his tender limbs
Within the coverture of Dian's bower,
Hath melted into fable. Wilt thou pass
To Ephesus, thy city, glorious once,
But now dust-humbled; and, for ancient love,
Make bright its ruined shafts, and weed-grown walls,
With molten silver? Or invite thee more
The still witch-haunted plains of Thessaly,
Where, o'er the bones of the Pharsalian dead,
Amidst the gibbering of the Lemures,
Grim women mutter spells, and pale thy face
With monstrous incantation? What! already
Shrink'st thou behind the curtain of a cloud
E'en at my looking? Then I know indeed
My destiny is sure! For I was born
To make thee and thine astral brethren quake,
And I will do it! Glide thou on thy way—
I will to rest—best slumber while I may!