A German Tradition.
by M.M. [Mary Margaret Busk].
Originally published in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine (William Blackwood) vol.25 #148 (Jan 1829).
The Master of the magic spell
Reclined upon the rocky shore,
And view'd the heaving billows' swell,
And listen'd to their hollow roar.
He sat in melancholy mood;
He gazed upon his mighty book,
And thought more joy attends the good,
Even in the lowliest, loneliest nook,
Than he, in all the wealth and pow'r
Gather'd from his forbidden art,
Could find in many a heavy hour
To still the yearnings of his heart.
Then earthly quiet, heav'nly bliss,—
Soft visions!—floated o'er his mind,
And in the ocean's dark abyss
To drown his book he half inclined.
When, to pervert his kindly will,
High sailing on a fleecy cloud,
The former pupil of his skill
Approach'd the Seer, thus taunting loud:—
"Ho! Teacher of my novice years,
Boasts yet thine art no wider range?
Know'st not that o'er the starry spheres
A science soars, deep, fearful, strange?
"Long bow'd I humbly at thy chair;
From thee imbibing mystic lore;
Now times are changed, I ride the air,
Whilst thou liest helpless on the shore."
The Master of the magic spell
Curl'd his pale lip in calm disdain;
His feats he heard the boaster tell;—
No further noticed words so vain.
"What, art thou silent, Master mine?
Yield'st thou to my superior might?
Or means that lurking sneer malign,
Me and my wizard power to slight?"
No answer yet vouchsafed the Sage,
As, deaf to these pretensions high,
He turn'd the mystic Runic page,
And scann'd each line with earnest eye.
"Cast that worm-eaten book aside,
A stronger charm to learn of me!
Scorn'st thou mine offer? Be't then tried
Whose science claims the mastery!"
"Forbear! forbear, presumptuous boy!"
Thus sternly, sadly spoke the Seer;
"Awake not wrath that must destroy
Even what compassion yet holds dear!"
Loud over sea and rocky strand,
The boaster's scoffing laugh is heard—
It ceases—Now he waves his wand,
Low muttering many a mystic word.
And yielding to th' enchantment's force,
The spirits of the tempest rise,
Sweep o'er the earth their whirlwind course,
Convulse the seas, obscure the skies.
The lightnings flash, the thunders roar,
The mountain billows threaten heaven;
The rock that stateliest guards the shore,
Yawns, to its base asunder riven.
The Seer, with pity-temper'd scorn,
Beheld the tempest's maddening rage,—
Beheld the rocky bulwark torn,—
Then heedful turn'd the Runic page.
The spell was found—some words he read,
Of fearfully resistless sway;
Words filling earth and heaven with dread,
Forcing the Powers of Hell t' obey!
The boaster's cheek is ashy pale,
Bristles his hair, his sight grows dim;
Senses, pulsation, breathing fail,—
Wild horror palsies every limb.
He lights unwilling on the shore,
He moves with slow, reluctant pace;
He strives forgiveness to implore;—
In vain!—The Seer averts his face.
Tow'rds that dread rock himself has riven,
Fruitlessly struggling 'gainst his fate,
He goes—by force unearthly driven—
Repentant of his taunts too late.
His foot has touch'd the rifted cave;—
"None, none shall thus control my will!"
Again he moves—into his grave!
One shriek—the rock has closed—All's still!
The storm is hush'd, bright shines the day,
The billows roll with gentle swell;
And, deeply sighing, turns away
The Master of the magic spell.