THE ALCHEMIST. 
 
THIS POEM WAS INTENDED AS THE PROLOGUE TO 
A PLAY—AT PRESENT UNFINISHED. 
 
An old tower, very loft, on a small and rocky islet.  
In the highest chamber a man of some forty 
years, but silver-haired, looks out of the window.  
Clear starry night, no moon.  Chamber furnished 
with books, alchemic instruments, etc.  He gazes 
some minutes, sighs deeply, but at last speaks. 
 
Ph.  The world moves not.  I gaze upon the 
abyss, 
Look down into the black unfathomed vault 
Of Starland and behold—myself. 
The sea 
To give a sense of motion or of sound 
Washes the wall of this grey tower in vain ; 
 
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