26 
THE WIZARD WAY 
 
 
Mixed with fat of many a maid 
Slain by the inchauntments cold 
Of the witches wild and old. 
 
He had crucified a toad 
In the basilisk abode, 
Muttering the Runes averse 
Mad with many a mocking curse. 
 
He had traced the serpent sigil 
In his ghastly virgin vigil. 
Sursum cor !  the elfin hill, 
Where the wind blows deadly chill 
From the world that wails beneath 
Death’s black throat and lipless teeth 
There he had stood—his bosom bare— 
Tracing life upon the Air 
With the crook and with the flail 
Lashing forward on the gale, 
Till its blade that wavereth 
Like the flickering of Death 
Sank before his subtle fence 
To the starless sea of sense. 
 
Now at last the man is come 
Haply to his halidom. 
Surely as he waves his rod 
In a circle on the sod 
Springs the emerald chaste and clean 
From the duller paler green.