Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DYING ALCHEMIST, by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DYING ALCHEMIST, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The night wind with a desolate moan swept by
Last Line: Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest!
Subject(s): Alchemy & Alchemists


THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by;
And the old shutters of the turret swung
Screaming upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stain'd 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 burn'd; and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd 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
Mutter'd 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 compress'd,
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 finish'd 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!

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 cannot be
Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free!
Would it not leap to fly,
Like a chain'd 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! Oh God! if I might only live!
My phial ------ 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 eye --
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-seal'd 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 -- 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.
The storm was raging still. The shutters swung
Screaming 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.

The fire beneath the crucible was out;
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashion'd 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.

And thus had pass'd from its unequal frame
A soul of fire -- a sun-bent eagle stricken
From his high soaring down -- an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wreck'd --
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest!





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