THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

THE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,
And the old shutters of the turret swung
Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

*

*

The fire beneath his crucible was low;
Yet still it burned, and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals
With difficult energy, and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips

Muttered a curse on death!

The silent room

From its dim corners mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell, and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,

He drew a phial from beneath his head,
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,
And with a shudder in his skeleton frame,
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself:-

I did not think to die

Till I had finished what I had to do;
I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through
With this my mortal eye;

I felt-Oh God! it seemeth even now

This cannot be the death-dew on my brow.

And yet it is-I feel

Of this dull sickness at my heart afraid;
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade;
And something seems to steal

Over my bosom like a frozen hand,

Binding its pulses with an icy band.

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

23

And this is death! But why

Feel I this wild recoil? It cannot be

Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free!
Would it not leap to fly,

Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call?
I fear I fear that this poor life is all!

Yet thus to pass away!

To live but for a hope that mocks at last-
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast,
To waste the light of day,

Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought,
All that we have and are-for this—for nought!

Grant me another year,

God of my spirit!—but a day-to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within!

I would know something here!

Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!

Vain-vain!-my brain is turning

With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,

And I am freezing-burning

Dying! Oh God! if I might only live!—

He were too glorious for this narrow sphere. Had he but time to brood on knowledge here— Could he but train his eye

Might he but wait the mystic word and hourOnly his Maker would transcend his

Earth has no mineral strangeTh' illimitable air no hidden wingsWater no quality in its covert springs,

And fire no power to change

power!

Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, Which the unwasting soul might not compel.

Oh, but for time to track

The upper stars into the pathless sky-
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye-

To hurl the lightning back

To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls— To chase Day's chariot to the horizon walls

The life-sealed fountains of my nature move-
To nurse and purify this human love-

To clear the god-like brow

Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down,
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one-

This were indeed to feel

The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream-
To live-Oh God! that life is but a dream!

Dim-dim-I faint-darkness comes o'er my eyeCover me! save me!-God of Heaven! I die!

"Twas morning, and the old man lay alone-
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,
Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild.
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.

The storm was raging still. The shutters swung
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind,