12  
WHY JESUS WEPT. 
And yet (as before) 
I know I inherit 
The wit of the mage, 
The blood of the king, 
The age of the sage ! 
Ah !  all these sting 
Through me — this rage 
Is the strength of my blood, 
The heat of my body, 
The birth of my wit. 
To hell with the flood 
Of words !  Were I God, he 
Had made me as fit 
For all things as now, 
But added a brow 
Cool — O how cool ! 
Fool !  Fool !  Fool ! 
With a terrible laugh he springs out of sight down the crags. 
 
 
SCENE III 
 
 
SIR PERCY PERCIVALE, in the Hall. 
 
 
O the gloom of these distasteful tomes ! 
The horror of the secrets here discovered ! 
Wake, ye salamandrines ; sleep, ye gnomes ! 
Were those the sylphs that round me hovered