Till the earthly hour escapes you. O, believe me,
In your own bosom are your destiny's stars.
Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution,
This is your Venus! and the sole malignant,
The only one that harmeth you, is Doubt.
WALLENSTEIN.
And many a time I've told thee, Jupiter,
That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth.
Thy visual power subdues no mysteries;
Mole-ey'd, thou may'st but burrow in the earth,
Blind as the subterrestrial, who with wan,
Lead-colour'd shine lighted thee into life.
The common, the terrestrial, thou may'st see,
With serviceable cunning knit together
The nearest with the nearest; and therein
I trust thee and believe thee! but whate'er
Full of mysterious import Nature weaves,
And fashions in the depths—the spirit's ladder,
That from this gross and visible world of dust
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds,
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries—
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit———
These sees the glance alone, the unseal'd eye,
Of Jupiter's glad children born in lustre.
(He walks across the chamber, then returns, and,
standing still, proceeds.)
The heavenly constellations make not merely
The day and night, summer and spring, not merely
