THE CONFESSIONAL. I envy every bird that flies Into the far and clouded West: I think of thee-I think of thee! Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me? END OF PART I. THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 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 stained 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; Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy, and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye He drew a phial from beneath his head, I did not think to die Till I had finished what I had to do; I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through I felt-Oh God! it seemeth even now This cannot be the death-dew on my brow. |