[As if awakening from a reverie.

I am not in a dream, do not rave,
This is my right hand, this my sword--and these
Are written words. 'Tis true--it is no dream.
I am beloved, I feel I am beloved.

[Unable to contain himself, he rushes hastily through the room,
and raises his arms to heaven.

PAGE.
Follow me, prince, and I will lead the way.

CARLOS.
Then let me first collect my scattered thoughts.
The alarm of joy still trembles in my bosom.
Did I e'er lift my fondest hopes so high,
Or trust my fancy to so bold a flight?
Show me the man can learn thus suddenly
To be a god. I am not what I was.
I feel another heaven--another sun
That was not here before. She loves--she loves me!

PAGE (leading him forward).
But this is not the place: prince! you forget.

CARLOS.
The king! My father!

[His arms sink, he casts a timid look around, then
collecting himself.

This is dreadful! Yes,
You're right, my friend. I thank you: I was not
Just then myself. To be compelled to silence,
And bury in my heart this mighty bliss,
Is terrible!

[Taking the PAGE by the hand, and leading him aside.

Now here! What thou hast seen,
And what not seen, must be within thy breast
Entombed as in the grave. So now depart;
I shall not need thy guidance; they must not
Surprise us here! Now go.

[The PAGE is about to depart.

Yet hold, a word!

[The PAGE returns. CARLOS lays his hand on his shoulder, and looks
him steadily in the face.

A direful secret hast thou in thy keeping,
Which, like a poison of terrific power,
Shivers the cup that holds it into atoms.
Guard every look of thine, nor let thy head
Guess at thy bosom's secret. Be thou like
The senseless speaking-trumpet that receives
And echoes back the voice, but hears it not.
Thou art a boy! Be ever so; continue
The pranks of youth. My correspondent chose
Her messenger of love with prudent skill!
The king will ne'er suspect a serpent here.

PAGE.
And I, my prince, shall feel right proud to know
I am one secret richer than the king.

CARLOS.
Vain, foolish boy! 'tis this should make thee tremble.
Approach me ever with a cold respect:
Ne'er be induced by idle pride to boast
How gracious is the prince! No deadlier sin
Canst thou commit, my son, than pleasing me.
Whate'er thou hast in future for my ear,
Give not to words; intrust not to thy lips,
Ne'er on that common high road of the thoughts
Permit thy