Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348. Various

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      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!”

      There stands an ancient castle

      On yonder mountain height,

      Where, fenced with door and portal,

      Once tarried steed and knight.

      But gone are door and portal,

      And all is hush’d and still;

      O’er ruin’d wall and rafter

      I clamber as I will.

      A cellar with many a vintage

      Once lay in yonder nook;

      Where now are the cellarer’s flagons,

      And where is his jovial look?

      No more he sets the beakers

      For the guests at the wassail feast;

      Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask

      For the duties of the priest.

      No more he gives on the staircase

      The stoup to the thirsty squires,

      And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift

      Receives, nor more requires.

      For burn’d are roof and rafter,

      And they hang begrimed and black;

      And stair, and hall, and chapel,

      Are turn’d to dust and wrack.

      Yet, as with song and cittern,

      One day when the sun was bright,

      I saw my love ascending

      With me the rocky height;

      From the hush and desolation

      Sweet fancies did unfold,

      And it seem’d as we were living

      In the merry days of old.

      As if the stateliest chambers

      For noble guests were spread,

      And out from the prime of that glorious time

      A youth a maiden led.

      And, standing in the chapel,

      The good old priest did say,

      “Will ye wed with one another?”

      And we smiled and we answer’d “Yea!”

      We sung, and our hearts they bounded

      To the thrilling lays we sung,

      And every note was doubled

      By the echo’s catching tongue.

      And when, as eve descended,

      We left the silence still,

      And the setting sun look’d upward

      On that great castled hill;

      Then far and wide, like lord and bride,

      In the radiant light we shone—

      It sank; and again the ruins

      Stood desolate and lone!

      Sing not thus in notes of sadness

      Of the loneliness of night;

      No! ’tis made for social gladness,

      Converse sweet, and love’s delight.

      As to rugged man his wife is,

      As his fairest half decreed,

      So dear night the half of life is,

      And the fairest half indeed.

      Canst thou in the day have pleasure,

      Which but breaks on rapture in,

      Scares us from our dreams of leisure

      With its glare and irksome din?

      But when night is come, and glowing

      Is the lamp’s attemper’d ray,

      And from lip to lip are flowing

      Love and mirth, in sparkling play;

      When СКАЧАТЬ