There thou hast my chain—a ghastly token—
And this lock of thine I take with me.
Soon must thou decay,
Soon thou wilt be gray,
Dark although to-night thy tresses be!
XXVIII.
"Mother! hear, oh, hear my last entreaty!
Let the funeral-pile arise once more;
Open up my wretched tomb for pity,
And in flames our souls to peace restore.
When the ashes glow,
When the fire-sparks flow,
To the ancient gods aloft we soar."
THE PUPIL IN MAGIC.
I am now,—what joy to hear it!—
Of the old magician rid;
And henceforth shall every spirit
Do whate'er by me is bid;
I have watched with rigour
All he used to do,
And will now with vigour
Work my wonders too.
Wander, wander
Onward lightly,
So that rightly
Flow the torrent,
And with teeming waters yonder
In the bath discharge its current!
And now come, thou well-worn broom,
And thy wretched form bestir;
