A CHAPTER OF ANNUALS. 



495 



Sank down Ippolito is gone 

 Silence and death are left alone. 

 Once the sun with cleaving edge 

 Hath sunk below the ocean sedge, 

 And again with disk supine 

 Descends into the hoary brine. 

 Ippolito sits in the ancient chair, 

 Before him many a mystic sign 

 Of earth, of water, of fire, of air, 

 Each hath of potency a share: 

 Well he portion'd by his art, 

 To each element a part. 



Ippolito lifted the cover of lead 

 Forty hours the toad had been dead ; 

 The withered mandrake was its bed. 

 " Thou hast serv'd thy turn full well, 

 Thou told'st me what the stars could tell. 

 From the casement he let it (all, 

 Far below in the canal, 

 He listen'd as it fell. 

 Next with anxious care he drew, 

 The vessel fill'd with honey-dew, 

 The poison-drop had fallen through 

 Down the crystal clear, and lay 

 Like earth beneath the liquid day. 



" This is well I see at last 

 The bitterness of death is past. 

 Two-score hours, three, and seven, 

 Ere mortal flesh be mortal leaven ; 

 Three nights the pining soul doth come, 

 To watch beside its recent home, 

 Ere it rise to Heaven. 

 The blood shall trickle in the vein, 

 '1 he mind shall reassume the brain, 

 The soul shall move the heart again." 



Ippolito a powder threw 

 Swiftly into the honey-dew : 

 It creams it scintillates it glows 

 Crimson, orange, amber, blue, 

 Pure vivid sparkles rose. 



Ippolito smote his hands with glee, 



" Auspicious sign ! my thanks to thee, 



That bring'st such tidings unto me. 



My Isabella, rest awhile, 



No taint of death shall thee defile; 



Like a pestilential air 



Traversing a plain of snow, 



Gathering pureness it shall go 



O'er thy bosom fair. 



Soon, oh Nature ! in thy name, 



Death's gross earthly pow'r to tame, 



My Isabella will I claim." 



By this, the day was sunk in gloom, 

 Utter darkness filled the room, 

 Woven from the Stygian loom. 

 For, well I wis, so black a night 

 Earth's inmost centre could not hold, 

 Shutting out the lingering light 

 With such a triple fold. 

 Ippolito on his couch was lying, 

 But he could not sleep a wink, 

 Thought indistinct to thought replying ; 

 As two upon the opposing brink 

 Of a headling waterfall, 



Who to each other vainly call : 



So, turbid phrenzy rolled between, 



And would not let him think. 



Oh ! it were pitiful, I ween, 



The youth that moment to have seen. 



Hark ! what present form is near ? 



Is it fancy ? or is it fear ? 



The air is still and thick as slime, 



And a voice is in his ear, 



Unbreath'd, untongued, but close and clear, 



" List, Ippolito, 'tis time!" 



He sprang from his couch like a deer from 



its lair, 

 He felt with his hands, but nought was 



nigh ; 



Darkness, darkness, every where 

 Mark ; hark ! 'tis but his bristling hair, 

 And his tongue that crackled dry. 

 His very self was dread to him, 

 Silence before, beside, behind, 

 Molten lead in every limb, 

 Hideous silence in his mind ! 



Down he sank upon his chair, 



His body with ghastly dew o'erspread, 



From the sole of his foot to the crown of his 



hair, 



Such as bathes the dead ; 

 Nature's reply that none remain 

 Of tears, which ne'er shall flow again : 

 " I was a fool," at length he said, 

 " 'Twas but a voice by fancy made, 

 To the outward ear convey 'd. 

 'Tis time my work should be begun 

 Midway betwixt sun and sun." 



He struck the flint and in its flashes 



His face gleam'd whiter far than ashes ; 



Welcome was the taper's ray, 



He would have pray'd, but could not pray. 



Black and frowning as a pall, 



His giant shadow on the wall, 



Did the light pourtray ; , 



Arid every mystic form around, 



Skeleton or reptile strange, 



A huge and darken'd likeness found, 



With fantastic change. 



Closely wrapt, like guilt, he went, 



His step was heard in his descent ; 



And again with thickest gloom, 



Darkness fill'd the room. 



Ippolito stood at the mouth of the vault, 

 The rust-grown key is in the door; 

 What is it that makes him halt? 

 The very mother that him bore 

 Shakes her loose ashes in her shroud, 

 Her memory is in his breast full sore, 

 And her voice is crying loud ; 

 " Touch not the dead!" He takes no 



heed 

 'T were well his work were done with speed. 



Darkness fled from his garish lamp, 

 In the corner of the vault it lay, 

 Licking the fermented damp 

 From the forehead of decay. 



