No More Learning

This is no peasant--but, whate'er he be,
Tomorrow shall secure him and unfold.

_Ulric_. It will not please you, Sir, then to remain
With us beyond tomorrow?

_Stralenheim_. Nay--I do not say so--there is no haste.
And now I think again--I'll tarry here--
Perhaps until the floods abate--we'll see--
In the mean time--to my chamber--so--Good Night!
[_Exit with_ WERNER.

_Werner_. This way, Sir.

_Carl_. And I to mine: pray, where are we to rest? 230
We'll sup within--

_Ulric_. What matter where--there's room.

_Carl_. I would fain see my way through this vast ruin;
Come take the lamp, and we'll explore together.
_Josepha_ (_meeting them_). And I will with my son.

_Ulric_. Nay--stay--dear mother!
These chilly damps and the cold rush of winds
Fling a rough paleness o'er thy delicate cheek--
And thou seem'st lovely in thy sickliness
Of most transparent beauty:--but it grieves me.
Nay! tarry here by the blaze of the bright hearth:--
I will return anon--and we have much 240
To listen and impart. Come, Carl, we'll find
Some gorgeous canopy, and, thence, unroost
It's present bedfellows the bats--and thou
Shalt slumber underneath a velvet cloud
That mantles o'er the couch of some dead Countess.
[_Exit_ CARL _and_ ULRIC.

_Josepha_ (_sola_). It was my joy to see him--nothing more
I should have said--which sent my gush of blood
Back on my full heart with a dancing tide:
It was my weary hope's unthought fulfilment,
My agony of mother-feelings curdled 250
At once in gathered rapture--which did change
My cheek into the hue of fainting Nature.
I should have answered thus--and yet I could not:
For though 'twas true--it was not all the truth.
I have much suffered in the thought of Werner's
Late deep distemperature of mind and fortunes,
Which since have almost driven him into phrenzy:--
And though that I would soothe, not share, such passions,
And show not how they shake me:--when alone,
I feel them prey upon me by reflection, 260
And want the very solace I bestowed;
And which, it seems, I cannot give and have.
Ulric must be my comforter--his father's
Hath long been the most melancholy soul
That ever hovered o'er the verge of Madness:
And, better, had he leapt into it's gulph:
Though to the Mad thoughts are realities,
Yet they can play with sorrow--and live on.
But with the mind of consciousness and care
The body wears to ruin, and the struggle, 270
However long, is deadly----He is lost,
And all around him tasteless:--in his mirth
His very laughter moves me oft to tears,
And I have turned to hide them--for, in him,
As Sunshine glittering o'er unburied bones----
Soft--he is here. ----

_Werner_.