"Close to my clasp!" the prophet cried, "Impart 65 To these iced veins the glow of youth once more; The healthful throb of one great human heart Baffles more fiends than all a magian's lore; Brave child----" Young arms embracing check'd the rest, And youth and age stood mingled breast to breast. "Ho!" cried the mighty master, while he broke 66 From the embrace, and round from vault to floor Mysterious echoes answered as he spoke; And flames twined snake-like round the wand he bore. And freezing winds tumultuous swept the cell, As from the wings of hosts invisible: "Ho! ye spiritual Ministers of all 67 The airy space below the Sapphire Throne, To the swift axle of this earthly ball-- Yea, to the deep, where evermore alone Hell's king with memory of lost glory dwells. And from that memory weaves his hell of hells;-- "Ho! ye who fill the crevices of air, 68 And speed the whirlwind round the reeling bark-- Or dart destroying in the forked glare, Or rise--the bloodless People of the Dark, In the pale shape of Dreams--when to the bed Of Murder glide the simulated dead,-- "Hither ye myriad hosts!--O'er tower and dome, 69 Wait the high mission, and attend the word; Whether to pierce the mountain with the gnome, Or soar to heights where never wing'd the bird; So that the secret and the boon ye wrest From Time's cold grasp, or Fate's reluctant breast!" Mute stood the King--when lo, the dragon-keep 70 Shook to its rack'd foundations, as when all Corycia's caverns and the Delphic steep Shook to the foot-tread of invading Gaul; Or, as his path when flaming AEtna frees, Shakes some proud city on Sicilian seas; Reel'd heaving from his feet the dizzy floor; 71 Swam dreamlike on his gaze the fading cell; As falls the seaman, when the waves dash o'er The plank that glideth from his grasp--he fell. To eyes ungifted, deadly were the least Of those last mysteries, Nature yields her priest. Morn, the joy-bringer, from her sparkling urn 72 Scatters o'er herb and flower the orient dew; The larks to heaven, and souls to thought return-- Life, in each source, leaps rushing forth anew, Fills every grain in Nature's boundless plan, And wakes new fates in each desire of man. In each desire, each thought, each fear, each hope, 73 Each scheme, each wish, each fancy, and each end, That morn calls forth, say, who can span the scope? Who track the arrow which the soul may send? One morning woke Olympia's youthful son, And long'd for fame--and half the world was won.