There is a busy motion in the Heaven,
The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower,
Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle[34] of the moon,
Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light;
No form of star is visible!  That one
White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder,
Is from Cassiopeia, and therein
Is Jupiter.

          (A pause).

But now The blackness of the troubled element hides him! [He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly into the distance.]

COUNTESS (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand).

What art thou brooding on?

WALLENSTEIN.

Methinks,
If I but saw him, ’twould be well with me. 
He is the star of my nativity,
And often marvelously hath his aspect
Shot strength into my heart.

COUNTESS.

Thou’lt see him again.

WALLENSTEIN (remains for a while, with, absent mind, then assumes a livelier manner, and turning suddenly to the COUNTESS).

See him again?  O never, never again!

COUNTESS.

How?

WALLENSTEIN.

He is gone—­is dust.

COUNTESS.

Whom meanest thou, then?

WALLENST.

He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finish’d! 
For him there is no longer any future,
His life is bright—­bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be.  No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap;
Far off is he, above desire and fear;
No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets.  O ’tis well
With him! but who knows what the coming hour
Veil’d in thick darkness brings for us?

COUNTESS.

Thou speakest
Of Piccolomini.  What was his death? 
The courier had just left thee as I came.

[WALLENSTEIN by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to be silent.]

Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view,
Let us look forward into sunny days,
Welcome with joyous heart the victory,
Forget what it has cost thee.  Not today,
For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead;
To thee he died, when first he parted from thee.

WALLENST.

This anguish will be wearied down,[35] I know;
What pang is permanent with man?  From the highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself:  for the strong hours
Conquer him.  Yet I feel what I have lost
In him.  The bloom is vanish’d from my life;
For O! he stood beside me, like my youth,
Transform’d for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn. 
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanish’d—­and returns not.

COUNTESS.

O be not treacherous to thy own power. 
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify
Itself.  Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him,
The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold.