Gather'd gay shapes that, underneath a breeze
Of music, handed him upon their knees
The wine of heaven in a cup of gold,
And still in soft melodious under-song
Hailing me Prince of Poland!--'Segismund,'
They said, 'Our Prince! The Prince of Poland!' and
Again, 'Oh, welcome, welcome, to his own,
'Our own Prince Segismund--'
Oh, but a blast--
One blast of the rough mountain air! one look
At the grim features--
(He goes to the window.)
What they disvizor'd also! shatter'd chaos
Cast into stately shape and masonry,
Between whose channel'd and perspective sides
Compact with rooted towers, and flourishing
To heaven with gilded pinnacle and spire,
Flows the live current ever to and fro
With open aspect and free step!--Clotaldo!
Clotaldo!--calling as one scarce dares call
For him who suddenly might break the spell
One fears to walk without him--Why, that I,
With unencumber'd step as any there,
Go stumbling through my glory--feeling for
That iron leading-string--ay, for myself--
For that fast-anchor'd self of yesterday,
Of yesterday, and all my life before,
Ere drifted clean from self-identity
Upon the fluctuation of to-day's
Mad whirling circumstance!--And, fool, why not?