Ay, do you not remember Envying his immunity of flight, As, rising from his throne of rock, he sail'd Above the mountains far into the West, That burn'd about him, while with poising wings He darkled in it as a burning brand Is seen to smoulder in the fire it feeds?

SEG.

Last night--last night--Oh, what a day was that Between that last night and this sad To-day!

CLO.

And yet, perhaps, Only some few dark moments, into which Imagination, once lit up within And unconditional of time and s.p.a.ce, Can pour infinities.

SEG.

And I remember How the old man they call'd the King, who wore The crown of gold about his silver hair, And a mysterious girdle round his waist, Just when my rage was roaring at its height, And after which it all was dark again, Bid me beware lest all should be a dream.

CLO.

Ay--there another specialty of dreams, That once the dreamer 'gins to dream he dreams, His foot is on the very verge of waking.

SEG.

Would it had been upon the verge of death That knows no waking-- Lifting me up to glory, to fall back, Stunn'd, crippled--wretcheder than ev'n before.

CLO.

Yet not so glorious, Segismund, if you Your visionary honour wore so ill As to work murder and revenge on those Who meant you well.

SEG.

Who meant me!--me! their Prince Chain'd like a felon--

CLO.

Stay, stay--Not so fast, You dream'd the Prince, remember.

SEG.

Then in dream Revenged it only.

CLO.

True. But as they say Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher Will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confess An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; One must beware to check--ay, if one may, Stifle ere born, such pa.s.sion in ourselves As makes, we see, such havoc with our sleep, And ill reacts upon the waking day.

And, by the bye, for one test, Segismund, Between such swearable realities-- Since Dreaming, Madness, Pa.s.sion, are akin In missing each that salutary rein Of reason, and the guiding will of man: One test, I think, of waking sanity Shall be that conscious power of self-control, To curb all pa.s.sion, but much most of all That evil and vindictive, that ill squares With human, and with holy canon less, Which bids us pardon ev'n our enemies, And much more those who, out of no ill will, Mistakenly have taken up the rod Which heaven, they think, has put into their hands.

SEG.

I think I soon shall have to try again-- Sleep has not yet done with me.

CLO.

Such a sleep.

Take my advice--'tis early yet--the sun Scarce up above the mountain; go within, And if the night deceived you, try anew With morning; morning dreams they say come true.

SEG.

Oh, rather pray for me a sleep so fast As shall obliterate dream and waking too.

(Exit into the tower.)

CLO.

So sleep; sleep fast: and sleep away those two Night-potions, and the waking dream between Which dream thou must believe; and, if to see Again, poor Segismund! that dream must be.-- And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death?

How if, I say, the senses we now trust For date of sensible comparison,-- Ay, ev'n the Reason's self that dates with them, Should be in essence or intensity Hereafter so transcended, and awake To a perceptive subtlety so keen As to confess themselves befool'd before, In all that now they will avouch for most?

One man--like this--but only so much longer As life is longer than a summer's day, Believed himself a king upon his throne, And play'd at hazard with his fellows' lives, Who cheaply dream'd away their lives to him.

The sailor dream'd of tossing on the flood: The soldier of his laurels grown in blood: The lover of the beauty that he knew Must yet dissolve to dusty residue: The merchant and the miser of his bags Of finger'd gold; the beggar of his rags: And all this stage of earth on which we seem Such busy actors, and the parts we play'd, Substantial as the shadow of a shade, And Dreaming but a dream within a dream!

FIFE.

Was it not said, sir, By some philosopher as yet unborn, That any chimney-sweep who for twelve hours Dreams himself king is happy as the king Who dreams himself twelve hours a chimney-sweep?

CLO.

A theme indeed for wiser heads than yours To moralize upon--How came you here?--

FIFE.

Not of my own will, I a.s.sure you, sir.

No matter for myself: but I would know About my mistress--I mean, master--

CLO.

Oh, Now I remember--Well, your master-mistress Is well, and deftly on its errand speeds, As you shall--if you can but hold your tongue.

Can you?

FIFE.

I'd rather be at home again.

CLO.

Where you shall be the quicker if while here You can keep silence.

FIFE.

I may whistle, then?

Which by the virtue of my name I do, And also as a reasonable test Of waking sanity--

CLO.

Well, whistle then; And for another reason you forgot, That while you whistle, you can chatter not.

Only remember--if you quit this pa.s.s--

FIFE.

(His rhymes are out, or he had call'd it spot)--

CLO.

A bullet brings you to.

I must forthwith to court to tell the King The issue of this lamentable day, That buries all his hope in night.

(To FIFE.) Farewell. Remember.

FIFE.

But a moment--but a word!

When shall I see my mis--mas--

CLO.

Be content: All in good time; and then, and not before, Never to miss your master any more.

(Exit.)

FIFE.

Such talk of dreaming--dreaming--I begin To doubt if I be dreaming I am Fife, Who with a lad who call'd herself a boy Because--I doubt there's some confusion here-- He wore no petticoat, came on a time Riding from Muscovy on half a horse, Who must have dreamt she was a horse entire, To cant me off upon my hinder face Under this tower, wall-eyed and musket-tongued, With sentinels a-pacing up and down, Crying All's well when all is far from well, All the day long, and all the night, until I dream--if what is dreaming be not waking-- Of bells a-tolling and processions rolling With candles, crosses, banners, San-benitos, Of which I wear the flamy-finingest, Through streets and places throng'd with fiery faces To some back platform-- Oh, I shall take a fire into my hand With thinking of my own dear Muscovy-- Only just over that Sierra there, By which we tumbled headlong into--No-land.

Now, if without a bullet after me, I could but get a peep of my old home Perhaps of my own mule to take me there-- All's still--perhaps the gentlemen within Are dreaming it is night behind their masks-- G.o.d send 'em a good nightmare!--Now then--Hark!

Voices--and up the rocks--and armed men Climbing like cats--Puss in the corner then.