6. In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroisin seems, at once, to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretches out her arms to embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the visible sphere.
Remains unshaken. Dignity and grace Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, joined With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines Sublimest virtues and desire of fame,
Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark which fires
The souls of patriots; while his brow supports Undaunted valor, and contempt of death.
2. Serene he rose, and thus addressed the throng:- "Why this astonishment on every face, Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death Create this fear and wonder? O my friends! Why do we labor through the arduous paths Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil, Above the reach of human feet were placed The distant summit, if the fear of death Could intercept our passage. But in vain His blackest frowns and terrors he assumes To shake the firmness of the mind which knows That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woo;
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns, And looks around for happiness in vain.
3. "Then speak, O Sparta! and demand my life; My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame Is allowed to the many; but to die With equal luster is a blessing Heaven Selects from all the choicest boons of fate, And, with a sparing hand, on few bestows." Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed. Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused, Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven; A reverential murmur breathes applause.
NOTE.-AL' CHE MY was an imaginary and pretended science, much cultivated in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It was devoted to the transmutation of base metals into gold, to the finding of a universal remedy for diseases, and a universal solvent, or fluid that would dissolve all substances, as also to other attempts, now justly treated as ridiculous.
SOLILOQUY OF THE DYING ALCHEMIST.
1. THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by; And the old shutters of the turret swung, Creaking 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.
2. 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!
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, O God! it secmeth even now
This can not 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.
And this is death! But why Feel I this wild recoil? It can not 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 naught!
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! O God! if I might only live!
-Ha! it thrills me,-I revive.
Ay, were not man to die
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere! Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,- Could he but train his eyc,-
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,- Only his Maker would transcend his power!
Earth has no mineral strange,— Th' illimitable air no hidden wings,- Water no quality in covert springs,—
And fire no power to change,
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,—
And more, much more,-for now The life-sealed fountains of my nature move,— To nurse and purify this human love,— To clear the godlike 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,--O God! that life is but a dream! -Aha! I reel,-
Dim,--dim,-I faint,-darkness comes o'er my eye,~ Cover me! save me!- -God of Heaven! I die!
15. '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.
16. The storm was raging still. The shutter swung Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind, And all without went on,--as aye it will, Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 17. The fire beneath the crucible was out;
The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them, and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will. 18. And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire,--a sun-bent eagle stricken
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