THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 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. 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 shrank 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; 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! My phial――――Ha! it thrills me,――I revive. “Aye,――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 eye,―― Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,―― Only his Maker would transcend his power! “This were indeed to feel The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,―― To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream! And death――――Aha! I reel,―― Dim,――dim,――I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,―― Cover 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.