Festus

may lie where they live⁠—
They shall not mix with her doom.
Where but within thine arms,
O sea, O sea?
Wherein she hath lived and gloried,
Let her rest be!
We will rise and will say to the sea,
Flow over her!
We will cry to the depths of the deep,
Cover her!
The world hath drawn his sword,
And bis red shield drips before him:⁠—
But, my country, rise!
Thou canst never die
While a foe hath life to fly;
Rise land, and gore him! Lucifer

Now get on land; and hie along
O’er forest copse, and glade;
We have but a league or two more to go
Before our journey’s made;
With speed that flings the sun into the shade!

Festus

See the gold sunshine patching,
And streaming and streaking across
The gray-green oaks; and catching,
By its soft brown beard, the moss.

Lucifer

Ah! here we get an open plain:
Here we’ll get down.
Away, good steeds! be off again!

Festus

We must be near to Town.
I am bound to thee for ever
By the pleasure of this day;
Henceforth we will never sever,
Come what come may.

IX

Scene⁠—A village feast. Evening.

	Festus, Lucifer and others.
Festus	It is getting dark. One has to walk quite close, To see the pretty faces that we meet.
Lucifer	A disagreeable necessity, Truly.
Festus	We’ll rest upon this bridge. I am tired. Yon tall slim tree! does it not seem as made For its place there, a kind of natural maypole?⁠— Beyond, the lighted stalls stored with the good Things of our childhood’s world, and behind them, The shouting showman and the clashing cymbal; The open doored cottages and blazing hearth⁠— The little ones running up with naked feet, And cake in either hand, to their mother’s lap⁠— Old and young laughing, schoolboys with their play-things, Clowns cracking jokes, and lasses with sly eyes, And the smile settling in their sunflecked cheeks, Like noon upon the mellow apricot;⁠— Make up a scene I can for once give in to. It must please all, the social and the selfish. Are they not happy?
Lucifer	Why, it matters not. They seem so: that’s enough.
Festus	But not the same.
Lucifer	Yet truth and falsehood meet in seeming, like The falling leaf and shadow on the pool’s face. And these are joys, like beauty, but skin deep.
Festus	Remove all such and what’s the joy of earth? ’Tis they create the appetite of life⁠— Give zest and relish to the lot of millions. And take the taste for them away⁠—what’s left? A dry ungainly skeleton of soul.
Lucifer	Power is aye above the soul and joy Below it. Pleasure men prefer to power.
	Children at play.
Festus	Play away, good ones!
Old Man	Pity the poor blind man!
Festus	Here is substantial pity.
Old Man	Heaven reward you!
Festus	Blind as the blue skies after sunset. Blind! And I am tired of looking on what is. One might as well see beauty never more, As look upon it with an empty eye. I would this, world were over. I am tired. Nought happens but what happens to one’s self; And all hath happened I have wished, and more. Our pleasures all pass from us, one by one, With that relief which sighing gives the heart, Though each sigh leaves it lower. It is sad To think how few our pleasures really are: And for the which we risk eternal good. There’s nothing that can satisfy one’s self, Except one’s self. Well, it is very sad, And by the time we come of age we have felt In one degree or other all that age Can offer. We have reaped our field ere noon. The rest is reproduction; sowing⁠—reaping⁠— Losing again. Toil and gain tire alike. We cannot live too slowly to be good And happy, nor too much by line and square. But youth is burning to forestall its nature, And will not wait for time to ferry it Over the stream, but flings itself into The flood, and perishes. And yet, why not? There is no charm in time as time, nor good. The long days are no happier than the short ones. ’Tis sometime now since I was here. We leave Our home in youth⁠—no matter to what end;⁠— Study⁠—or strife⁠—or pleasure, or what not: And coming back in few short years, we find All as we left it, outside; the old elms, The house, grass, gates, and latchet’s selfsame click: But lift that latchet⁠—all is changed as doom: The servants have forgotten our step, and more Than half of those who knew us know us not. Adversity, prosperity, the grave, Play a round game With friends. On some the world Hath shot its evil eye, and they are passed From honour and remembrance, and a stare Is all the mention of their names receives; And people know no more of them than of The shapes of clouds at midnight, a year back.
Lucifer	Let us move on to where the dancing is; We soon shall see how happy they all are. Here is a loving couple quarrelling. And there, another. It is quite distressing. See yonder. Two men fighting!
Festus	What avail These vile exceptions to the rule of joy?
Lucifer	Behold the happiness of which thou spakest! The highest hills are miles below the sky, And so far is the lightest heart below True happiness.
Festus	This is a snakelike world, And always hath its tail within its mouth, As if it ate itself, and moralled time. The world is like yon children’s merry-go-round; What men admire are carriages and hobbies, Which the exalted manikins enjoy. There is a noisy ragged crowd below Of urchins drives it round, who only get The excitement for their pains⁠—best gain perhaps: For it is not they who labour that grow dizzy Nor sick⁠—that’s for the idle, proud above, Who soon dismount, more weary of enjoying Than those below of working; and but fair. It is wretchedness or recklessness alone Keeps us alive. Were we happy we should die. Yet what is death? I like to think on death: It is but the appearance of an apparition. One ought to tremble; but oughts stand for nothing. I hate the thought of wrinkling up to rest; The toothlike aching ruin of the body, With the heart all out, and nothing left but edge. Give me the long high bounding feel of life, Which cries, let me but leap unto my grave, And I’ll not mind the when nor where. We never Care less for life than when enjoying it. Oh! I should love to die. What is to die? I cannot hold the