# Felicia Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 29 1831/The Necromancer

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 29, Pages 261-262
THE NECROMANCER,
BY MRS HEMANS.
Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please ?
Resolve me of all ambiguities?
Perform what desperate enterprises I will?
I'll have them fly to India for gold,
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all corners of the New-found World
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates.
Marlow's Faustus.
An old man on his deathbed lay, an old yet stately man;
His lip seem'd moulded for command, tho' quivering now, and wan;
By fits a wild and wandering fire shot from his troubled eye,
But his pale brow still austerely wore its native mastery.
There were gorgeous things from lands afar, strewn round the mystic room;
From where the orient palm-trees wave, bright gem and dazzling plume;
And vases with rich odour fill'd, that o'er the couch of death
Shed forth, like groves from Indian isles, a spicy summer's breath.
And sculptured forms of olden time, in their strange beauty white,
Stood round the chamber solemnly, robed as in ghostly light;
All passionless and still they stood, and shining through the gloom,
Like watchers of another world, stern angels of the tomb.
'Twas silent as a midnight church, that dim and mystic place,
While shadows cast from many thoughts, o'erswept the old man's face;
He spoke at last, and low and deep, yet piercing was the tone,
To one that o'er him long had watch'd, in reverence and alone.
"I leave," he said, "an empire dread, by mount, and shore, and sea,
Wider than Roman Eagle's wing e'er traversed proudly free;
Never did King or Kaiser yet such high dominion boast,
Or Soldan of the sunbeam's clime, girt with a conquering host.
"They hear me, they that dwell far down where the sea-serpent lies,
And they, th' unseen, on Afric's hills, that sport when tempests rise;
And they that rest in central caves, whence fiery streams make way,
My lightest whisper shakes their sleep, they hear me, and obey.
"They come to me with ancient wealth—with crown and cup of gold,
From cities roof'd with ocean-waves, that buried them of old;
They come from Earth's most hidden veins, which man shall never find,
With gems that have the hues of fire deep at their heart enshrined.
"But a mightier power is on me now—it rules my struggling breath;
I have sway'd the rushing elements—but still and strong is Death!
I quit my throne, yet leave I not my vassal-spirits free—
Thou hast brave and high aspirings, youth!—my Sceptre is for thee!
"Now listen I will teach thee words whose mastery shall compel
The viewless ones to do thy work, in wave, or blood, or hell!
But never, never mayst thou breathe those words in human ear,
Until thou'rt laid, as I am now, the grave's dark portals near."
His voice in faintness died away—and a sudden flush was seen,
A mantling of the rapid blood o'er the youth's impassion'd mien,
A mantling and a fading swift—a look with sadness fraught—
And that too pass'd—and boldly then rush'd forth the ardent thought.
"Must those high words of sovereignty ne'er sound in human ear?
I have a friend—a noble friend—as life or freedom dear!
Thou offerest me a glorious gift—a proud majestic throne,
But I know the secrets of his heart—and shall I seal mine own?
"And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love—
Oh! is not her full, boundless faith, all power, all wealth above?
Must a deep gulf between the souls—now closely link'd—be set?
Keep, keep the Sceptre!—leave me free, and loved, and trustful yet!"
Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply—
"Well hast thou chosen!—I blame thee not—I that unwept must die;
Live, thou beloved, and trustful yet!—No more on human head,
Be the sorrows of unworthy gifts from bitter vials shed!"