LVII

5 0 00

LVII

Then the magician solemnly ’gan to frown,

So that his frost-white eye-brows, beetling low,

Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown

Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:

Forth from his hood that hung his neck below

He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,

Touch’d a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow,

Charm’d into ever freezing, lay an old

And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold.