Hyperion | Page 6

to say; "Come up hither, and I will tell thee an old tale." Therefore he
alights, and goes up the narrow village lane, and up the stone steps, and
up the steep pathway, and throws himself into the arms of that ancient
ruin, and holds his breath, to hear the quick footsteps of the falling
snow, like the footsteps of angels descending upon earth. And that
ancient ruin speaks to him with its hollow voice, and says;
"Beware of dreams! Beware of the illusions of fancy! Beware of the
solemn deceivings of thy vast desires! Beneath me flows the Rhine, and,
like the stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins of the Past. I see myself
therein, and I know that I am old. Thou, too, shalt be old. Be wise in
season. Like the stream of thy life, runs the stream beneath us. Down
from the distant Alps,--out into the wide world, it bursts away, like a
youth from the house of his fathers. Broad-breasted and strong, and
with earnest endeavours, like manhood, it makes itself a way through
these difficultmountain passes. And at length, in its old age, its stops,
and its steps are weary and slow, and it sinks into the sand, and,
through its grave, passes into the great ocean, which is its eternity.
Thus shall it be with thee.
"In ancient times there dwelt within these halls a follower of Jesus of
Jerusalem,--an Archbishop in the church of Christ. He gave himself up
to dreams; to the illusions of fancy; to the vast desires of the human
soul. He sought after the impossible. He sought after the Elixir of
Life,--the Philosopher's Stone. The wealth, that should have fed the
poor, was melted in his crucibles. Within these walls the Eagle of the

clouds sucked the blood of the Red Lion, and received the spiritual
Love of the Green Dragon, but alas! was childless. In solitude and utter
silence did the disciple of the Hermetic Philosophy toil from day to day,
from night to night. From the place where thou standest, he gazed at
evening upon hills, and vales, and waters spread beneath him; and saw
how the setting sun had changed them allto gold, by an alchymy more
cunning than his own. He saw the world beneath his feet; and said in
his heart, that he alone was wise. Alas! he read more willingly in the
book of Paracelsus, than in the book of Nature; and, believing that
`where reason hath experience, faith hath no mind,' would fain have
made unto himself a child, not as Nature teaches us, but as the
Philosopher taught,--a poor homunculus, in a glass bottle. And he died
poor and childless!"
Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolzenfels to hear such a
homily as this, some persons may perhaps doubt. But Paul Flemming
doubted not. He laid the lesson to heart; and it would have saved him
many an hour of sorrow, if he had learned that lesson better, and
remembered it longer.
In ancient times, there stood in the citadel of Athens three statues of
Minerva. The first was of olive wood, and, according to popular
tradition, had fallen from heaven. The second was of bronze,
commemorating the victory of Marathon; and the third of gold and
ivory,--a great miracle of art, in the age of Pericles. And thus in the
citadel of Time stands Man himself. In childhood, shaped of soft and
delicate wood, just fallen from heaven; in manhood, a statue of bronze,
commemorating struggle and victory; and lastly, in the maturity of age,
perfectly shaped in gold and ivory,--a miracle of art!
Flemming had already lived through the oliveage. He was passing into
the age of bronze, into his early manhood; and in his hands the flowers
of Paradise were changing to the sword and shield.
And this reminds me, that I have not yet described my hero. I will do it
now, as he stands looking down on the glorious landscape;--but in few
words. Both in person and character he resembled Harold, the Fair-Hair
of Norway, who is described, in the old Icelandic Death-Song of
Regner Hairy-Breeches, as "the young chief so proud of his flowing
locks; he who spent his mornings among the young maidens; he who
loved toconverse with the handsome widows." This was an amiable

weakness; and it sometimes led him into mischief. Imagination was the
ruling power of his mind. His thoughts were twin-born; the thought
itself, and its figurative semblance in the outer world. Thus, through the
quiet, still waters of his soul each image floated double, "swan and
shadow."
These traits of character, a good heart and a poetic imagination, made
his life joyous and the world beautiful; till at length Death cut down the
sweet, blue flower,