Читать книгу Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348 - Various - Страница 6

Many weary days I suffer’d,

Sick of heart and poor of purse;

Riches are the greatest blessing—

Poverty the deepest curse!

Till at last to dig a treasure

Forth I went into the wood—

“Fiend! my soul is thine for ever!”

And I sign’d the scroll with blood.

Then I drew the magic circles,

Kindled the mysterious fire,

Placed the herbs and bones in order,

Spoke the incantation dire.

And I sought the buried metal

With a spell of mickle might—

Sought it as my master taught me;

Black and stormy was the night.

And I saw a light appearing

In the distance, like a star;

When the midnight hour was tolling,

Came it waxing from afar:

Came it flashing, swift and sudden;

As if fiery wine it were,

Flowing from an open chalice,

Which a beauteous boy did bear.

And he wore a lustrous chaplet,

And his eyes were full of thought,

As he stepp’d into the circle

With the radiance that he brought.

And he bade me taste the goblet;

And I thought—“It cannot be,

That this boy should be the bearer

Of the Demon’s gifts to me!”

“Taste the draught of pure existence

Sparkling in this golden urn,

And no more with baneful magic

Shalt thou hitherward return.

Do not dig for treasures longer;

Let thy future spellwords be

Days of labour, nights of resting;

So shall peace return to thee!”