And make the mind prolific in its fancies! 
I have the wish, but want the will, to act! 
Souls of great men departed!  Ye whose words
Have come to light from the swift river of Time,
Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ bed,
Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? 
From the barred visor of Antiquity
Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth,
As from a mirror!  All the means of action—­
The shapeless masses, the materials—­
Lie everywhere about us.  What we need
Is the celestial fire to change the flint
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 
That fire is genius!  The rude peasant sits
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws
With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 
The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel,
And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 
He takes the charcoal from the peasant’s hand,
And, by the magic of his touch at once
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,
And, in the eyes of the astonished clown,
It gleams a diamond!  Even thus transformed,
Rude popular traditions and old tales
Shine as immortal poems, at the touch
Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard,
Who had but a night’s lodging for his pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame,
Which are the dreams of Love!  Out of the heart
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams,
As from some woodland fount a spirit rises
And sinks again into its silent deeps,
Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe! 
’T is this ideal that the soul of man,
Like the enamored knight beside the fountain,
Waits for upon the margin of Life’s stream;
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters,
Clad in a mortal shape!  Alas! how many
Must wait in vain!  The stream flows evermore,
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star,
Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 
Yes! she is ever with me.  I can feel,
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone,
Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel
The pressure of her head!  God’s benison
Rest ever on it!  Close those beauteous eyes,
Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name!

(Gradually sinks asleep.)

ACT II.

Scene I. —­ Preciosa’s chamber.  Morning.  Preciosa and angelica.

Prec.  Why will you go so soon?  Stay yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard
From hearts that shut against them with a sound
That will be heard in heaven.  Pray, tell me more
Of your adversities.  Keep nothing from me. 
What is your landlord’s name?

  Ang.  The Count of Lara.

Prec.  The Count of Lara?  O, beware that man! 
Mistrust his pity,—­hold no parley with him! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets
Than touch his gold.