If I am ta’en, the faggot and the pile Await me! Horror! Rather would I dare, Like rash Empedocles, the Etna gulf, Than writhe before the slaves of bigotry. Where am I? If my mind deceives me not, Upon that common where, two years ago, An old blind beggar came and craved an alms, Thereby destroying a stupendous thought Just bursting in my mind—a glorious bud Of poesy, but blasted ere its bloom! I bade the old fool take the leftward path, Which leads to the deep quarry, where he fell— At least I deem so, for I heard a splash— But I was gazing on the gibbous moon, And durst not lower my celestial flight To care for such an insect-worm as he! How cold it is! The mist comes thicker on. Ha!—what is that? I see around me lights Dancing and flitting, yet they do not seem Like torches either—and there’s music too! I’ll pause and listen. _Chorus of_ IGNES FATUI. Follow, follow, follow! Over hill and over hollow; It is ours to lead the way, When a sinner’s footsteps stray— Cheering him with light and song, On his doubtful path along. Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark. There’s a crash, and a splash, and a blind man’s cry, But the Poet looks tranquilly up at the sky! FIRMILIAN. Is it the echo of an inward voice, Or spirit-words that make my flesh to creep, And send the cold blood choking to my heart? I’ll shift my ground a little— _Chorus of_ IGNES FATUI. Flicker, flicker, flicker! Quicker still, and quicker. Four young men sate down to dine, And still they passed the rosy wine; Pure was the cask, but in the flask There lay a certain deadly powder— Ha! his heart is beating louder! Ere the day had passed away, Garcia Perez lifeless lay! Hark! his mother wails Alphonzo, Never more shall strong Alonzo Drink the wine of Ildefronso! FIRMILIAN. O horror! horror! ’twas by me they died! I’ll move yet farther on— _Chorus of_ IGNES FATUI. In the vaults under Bursts the red thunder; Up goes the cathedral, Priest, people, and bedral! Ho! ho! ho! ho! FIRMILIAN. My brain is whirling like a potter’s wheel! O Nemesis! _Chorus of_ IGNES FATUI. The Muses sing in their charmed ring, And Apollo weeps for him who sleeps, Alas! on a hard and a stony pillow— Haverillo! Haverillo! FIRMILIAN. I shall go mad! _Chorus of_ IGNES FATUI. Give him some respite—give him some praise— One good deed he has done in his days; Chaunt it, and sing it, and tell it in chorus— He has flattened the cockscomb of Apollodorus! FIRMILIAN.