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Magister–yea, Doctor–hight,

      And straight or cross-wise, wrong or right,

      These ten years long, with many woes,

      I’ve led my scholars by the nose,–

      And see, that nothing can be known!

      That knowledge cuts me to the bone.

      I’m cleverer, true, than those fops of teachers,

      Doctors and Magisters, Scribes and Preachers;

      Neither scruples nor doubts come now to smite me,

      Nor Hell nor Devil can longer affright me.

      For this, all pleasure am I foregoing;

      I do not pretend to aught worth knowing,

      I do not pretend I could be a teacher

      To help or convert a fellow-creature.

      Then, too, I’ve neither lands nor gold,

      Nor the world’s least pomp or honor hold–

      No dog would endure such a curst existence!

      Wherefore, from Magic I seek assistance,

      That many a secret perchance I reach

      Through spirit-power and spirit-speech,

      And thus the bitter task forego

      Of saying the things I do not know,–

      That I may detect the inmost force

      Which binds the world, and guides its course;

      Its germs, productive powers explore,

      And rummage in empty words no more!

      O full and splendid Moon, whom I

      Have, from this desk, seen climb the sky

      So many a midnight,–would thy glow

      For the last time beheld my woe!

      Ever thine eye, most mournful friend,

      O’er books and papers saw me bend;

      But would that I, on mountains grand,

      Amid thy blessed light could stand,

      With spirits through mountain-caverns hover,

      Float in thy twilight the meadows over,

      And, freed from the fumes of lore that swathe me,

      To health in thy dewy fountains bathe me!

      Ah, me! this dungeon still I see.

      This drear, accursed masonry,

      Where even the welcome daylight strains

      But duskly through the painted panes.

      Hemmed in by many a toppling heap

      Of books worm-eaten, gray with dust,

      Which to the vaulted ceiling creep,

      Against the smoky paper thrust,–

      With glasses, boxes, round me stacked,

      And instruments together hurled,

      Ancestral lumber, stuffed and packed–

      Such is my world: and what a world!

      And do I ask, wherefore my heart

      Falters, oppressed with unknown needs?

      Why some inexplicable smart

      All movement of my life impedes?

      Alas! in living Nature’s stead,

      Where God His human creature set,

      In smoke and mould the fleshless dead

      And bones of beasts surround me yet!

      Fly! Up, and seek the broad, free land!

      And this one Book of Mystery

      From Nostradamus’ very hand,

      Is’t not sufficient company?

      When I the starry courses know,

      And Nature’s wise instruction seek,

      With light of power my soul shall glow,

      As when to spirits spirits speak.

      Tis vain, this empty brooding here,

      Though guessed the holy symbols be:

      Ye, Spirits, come–ye hover near–

      Oh, if you hear me, answer me!

      (He opens the Book, and perceives the sign of the Macrocosm.)

      Ha! what a sudden rapture leaps from this

      I view, through all my senses swiftly flowing!

      I feel a youthful, holy, vital bliss

      In every vein and fibre newly glowing.

      Was it a God, who traced this sign,

      With calm across my tumult stealing,

      My troubled heart to joy unsealing,

      With impulse, mystic and divine,

      The powers of Nature here, around my path, revealing?

      Am I a God?–so clear mine eyes!

      In these pure features I behold

      Creative Nature to my soul unfold.

      What says the sage, now first I recognize:

      “The spirit-world no closures fasten;

      Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead:

      Disciple, up! untiring, hasten

      To bathe thy breast in morning-red!”

      (He contemplates the sign.)

      How each the Whole its substance gives,

      Each in the other works and lives!

      Like heavenly forces rising and descending,

      Their golden urns reciprocally lending,

      With wings that winnow blessing

      From Heaven through Earth I see them pressing,

      Filling the All with harmony unceasing!

      How grand a show! but, ah! a show alone.

      Thee, boundless Nature, how make thee my own?

      Where you, ye beasts? Founts of all Being, shining,

      Whereon hang Heaven’s and Earth’s desire,

      Whereto our withered hearts aspire,–

      Ye flow, ye feed: and am I vainly pining?

      (He turns the leaves impatiently, and perceives the sign of the

      Earth-Spirit.)

      How otherwise upon me works this sign!

      Thou, Spirit of the Earth, art nearer:

      Even now my powers are loftier, clearer;

      I glow, as drunk with new-made wine:

      New strength and heart to meet the world incite me,

      The woe of earth, the bliss of earth, invite me,

      And though the shock of storms may smite me,

      No crash of shipwreck shall have power to fright me!

      Clouds gather over me–

      The moon conceals her light–

      The lamp’s

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