SCENE, A high-arched, narrow, Gothic chamber ·
Philosophy, and Law, and Medicine; And over deep Divinity have pored, Studying with ardent and laborious zeal; And here I am at last, a very fool,
With useless learning curst,
No wiser than at first!
Here am I - boast and wonder of the school;
Magister, Doctor, and I lead
These ten years past, my pupils' creed;
Winding, by dexterous words, with ease, Their opinions as I please.
And now to feel that nothing can be known! This is a thought that burns into my heart. I have been more acute than all these triflers, Doctors and authors, priests, philosophers; Have sounded all the depths of every science. Scruples, or the perplexity of doubt,
Torment me not, nor fears of hell or devil; But I have lost all peace of mind: Whate'er I knew, or thought I knew, Seems now unmeaning or untrue. Unhappy, ignorant, and blind,
I cannot hope to teach mankind. Thus robbed of learning's only pleasure, Without dominion, rank, or treasure, Without one joy that earth can give,
Could dog were I a dog — so live? Therefore to magic, with severe And patient toil, have I applied, Despairing of all other guide,
That from some Spirit I might hear Deep truths, to others unrevealed, And mysteries from mankind sealed; And never more, with shame of heart, Teach things, of which I know no part. Oh, for a glance into the earth! To see below its dark foundations, Life's embryo seeds before their birth And Nature's silent operations.
Thus end at once this vexing fever
Beautiful Moon! Ah! would that now,
For the last time, thy lovely beams Shone on my troubled brow!
Oft by this desk, at middle night, I have sat gazing for thy light,
Wearied with search, through volumes endless,
Alone — when thou, friend of the friendless, Camest smiling in, with soothing looks. Oh, that upon some headland height I now were wandering in thy light! Floating with Spirits, like a shadow, Round mountain-cave, o'er twilight meadow; And from the toil of thought relieved, No longer sickened and deceived, In thy soft dew could bathe, and find Tranquillity and health of mind.
Alas! and am I in the gloom Still of this cursed dungeon room?
Where even heaven's light, so beautiful,
Through the stained glass comes thick and dull;
'Mong volumes heaped from floor to ceiling, Through whose pages worms are stealing; Dreary walls, where dusty paper Bears deep stains of smoky vapour; Glasses, instruments, all lumber Of this kind the place encumber; All a man of learning gathers, All bequeathed me by my fathers,
Crucibles from years undated, Chairs of structure antiquated, Are in strange confusion hurled! Here, Faustus, is thy world- a world!
And dost thou ask, why in thy breast The fearful heart is not at rest? Why painful feelings, undefined, With icy pressure cramp thy mind? From living nature thou hast fled To dwell 'mong fragments of the dead; And for the lovely scenes which Heaven Hath made man for, to man hath given; Hast chosen to pore o'er mouldering bones Of brute and human skeletons !
This book, where secret spells are scanned, Traced by NOSTRADAM's own hand,
Will be thy strength and stay:
The courses of the stars to thee
No longer are a mystery;
The thoughts of Nature thou canst seek, As Spirits with their brothers speak. It is, it is the sunrise hour
Of thy own being; light, and power,
And fervour to the soul are given, As proudly it ascends its heaven. To ponder here, o'er spells and signs, Symbolic letters, circles, lines;
And from their actual use refrain, Were time and labour lost in vain :
Then ye, whom I feel floating near me,
Spirits, answer, ye who hear me !
[He opens the book, and lights upon the sign
Ha! what new life divine, intense, Floods in a moment every sense; I feel the dawn of youth again, Visiting each glowing vein ! Was it a god who wrote this sign? The tumults of my soul are stilled, My withered heart with rapture filled : In virtue of the spell divine,
The secret powers that nature mould, Their essence and their acts unfold
Am I a god? Can mortal sight Enjoy, endure this burst of light? How clear these silent characters! All Nature present to my view, And each creative act of hers - And is the glorious vision true?
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