All presages and prophecies of doomGlimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom,And in the midst of that accursèd sceneA wolf sat howling on a broken tomb.
ELIXER VITAE.
Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) Sealed upon my senses with so deep A stupefaction that men thought me dead. The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; I saw mankind in dim procession sweep Through life, oblivion at each extreme. Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing. The generations came with dance and song, And each observed me curiously there. Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." Some said I was a saint, and some a bear— These all were women. So the young and gay, Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, Doddered at last on failing limbs away; Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, Fell into its abysses and were strangled. At last a generation came that walked More slowly forward to the common tomb, Then altogether stopped. The women talked Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; And one cried out: "We are immortal now— How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, And all men cried: "Decapitate the women,
