bring to thee, mine own!

'I seek from greatest spirits,
From those of lower might,
Rainbow colors, depth of shadow,
Burning contrasts, dark and bright;
Rhythmed music, hues from Eden,
Floating through the heavenly bars;
Sages' wisdom, seraphs' loving,
Mystic glories from the stars--
That thou mayst be a Poet, richly gifted from above
To win thy father's fiery heart, and _keep_ his _changeful love_!'

Thou seest, dear father, that my mother does speak to me, and that I
remember, word for word, what she says to me; indeed I am telling you
no lie.

THE MAN (_leaning against one of the pillars of the tomb_). Mary! wilt
thou destroy thine own son, and burden my Soul with the ruin of both?...

But what folly! She is calm and tranquil now in heaven, as she was pure
and sweet on earth. My poor boy only dreams ...

GEORGE. I hear mamma's voice now, father!

THE MAN. From whence comes it, my son?

GEORGE. From between the two elms before us glittering in the sunset.
Listen!

'I pour through thy spirit
Music and might;
I wreathe thy pale forehead
With halos of light;
Though blind, I can show thee
Blest forms from above,
Floating far through the spaces
Of infinite love,
Which the angels in heaven and men on the earth
Call Beauty. I've sought since the day of thy birth

To waken thy spirit,
My darling, my own,
That the hopes of thy father
May rest on his son!
That his love, warm and glowing,
Unchanging may shine;
And his heart, infant poet,
_Forever be thine!_'

THE MAN. Can a blessed spirit be mad? Do the last thoughts of the dying
pursue them into their eternal homes?

Can insanity be a part of immortality?... O Mary! Mary!

GEORGE. Mamma's voice is growing weaker and weaker; it is dying away now
close by the wall of the charnel house. Hark! hark! she is still
repeating:

'That his love, warm and glowing,
Unchanging may shine;
And his heart, little poet,
_Forever be thine!_'

THE MAN. O God! have mercy upon our unfortunate child, whom in Thine
anger Thou hast doomed to madness and to an early death! Have pity on
the innocent creature Thou hast Thyself called into being! Rob him not
of reason! Ruin not the living temple Thou hast built--the shrine of the
soul! Oh look down upon my agony, and deliver not this young angel up to
hell! Me Thou hast at least armed wi