THE ANGEL. 
It is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has been
taken! 
It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not
shaken! 
It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow! 
It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow! 
With fiendish laughter,
Hereafter,
This false physician
Will mock thee in thy perdition.

PRINCE HENRY. 
Speak! speak! 
Who says that I am ill? 
I am not ill!  I am not weak! 
The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o’er! 
I feel the chill of death no more! 
At length,
I stand renewed in all my strength
Beneath me I can feel
The great earth stagger and reel,
As if the feet of a descending God
Upon its surface trod,
And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel! 
This, O brave physician! this
Is thy great Palingenesis!

Drinks again.

THE ANGEL. 
Touch the goblet no more! 
It will make thy heart sore
To its very core! 
Its perfume is the breath
Of the Angel of Death,
And the light that within it lies
Is the flash of his evil eyes. 
Beware!  Oh, beware! 
For sickness, sorrow, and care
All are there!

PRINCE HENRY, sinking back. 
O thou voice within my breast! 
Why entreat me, why upbraid me,
When the steadfast tongues of truth
And the flattering hopes of youth
Have all deceived me and betrayed me? 
Give me, give me rest, oh rest! 
Golden visions wave and hover,
Golden vapors, waters streaming,
Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming! 
I am like a happy lover,
Who illumines life with dreaming! 
Brave physician!  Rare physician! 
Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission!

His head falls on his book.

THE ANGEL, receding. 
Alas! alas! 
Like a vapor the golden vision
Shall fade and pass,
And thou wilt find in thy heart again
Only the blight of pain,
And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition!

COURT-YARD OF THE CASTLE

HUBERT standing by the gateway.

HUBERT. 
How sad the grand old castle looks! 
O’erhead, the unmolested rooks
Upon the turret’s windy top
Sit, talking of the farmer’s crop
Here in the court-yard springs the grass,
So few are now the feet that pass;
The stately peacocks, bolder grown,
Come hopping down the steps of stone,
As if the castle were their own;
And I, the poor old seneschal,
Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. 
Alas! the merry guests no more
Crowd through the hospitable door;
No eyes with youth and passion shine,
No cheeks glow redder than the wine;
No song, no laugh, no jovial din
Of drinking wassail to the pin;
But all is silent, sad, and drear,
And now the only sounds I hear
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls,
And horses stamping in their stalls!