246.
246.
Ye mortals—wonder! I’m an elf,A strange, mysterious thing;More powerful than all the spritesWithin a magic ring.I speak—although I have no tongue—I speak, and thrill the soul;I sing—and many a song I’ve sungResounds, while ages roll.I am a weapon, strong and keen,All made of glittering steel;But human souls—not senseless flesh—My sharp two-edges feel.The greatest writer e’er was born—But, ah!—a thievish elf;For what I write is not, alas!Original with myself.I often take a cooling bath;But, like the Ethiop’s skin,When I have bathed, I’m blacker stillThan when I did begin!Most kind am I; I glad the heartOf many a wretched wight,And many a sufferer is by meTransported with delight.Most cruel I; I’ve pierced the soulWith cutting, burning darts;I’ve dashed the fondest hopes to earth,I’ve crushed the lightest hearts.Yet wise and powerful as I am,A very slave am I;I’m forced the mandates to obeyOf both the low and high.Now, witty brains, tell who this is,Who blesses and who curses;Who has no hands, yet still who isThe writer of these verses.
Ye mortals—wonder! I’m an elf,A strange, mysterious thing;More powerful than all the spritesWithin a magic ring.I speak—although I have no tongue—I speak, and thrill the soul;I sing—and many a song I’ve sungResounds, while ages roll.I am a weapon, strong and keen,All made of glittering steel;But human souls—not senseless flesh—My sharp two-edges feel.The greatest writer e’er was born—But, ah!—a thievish elf;For what I write is not, alas!Original with myself.I often take a cooling bath;But, like the Ethiop’s skin,When I have bathed, I’m blacker stillThan when I did begin!Most kind am I; I glad the heartOf many a wretched wight,And many a sufferer is by meTransported with delight.Most cruel I; I’ve pierced the soulWith cutting, burning darts;I’ve dashed the fondest hopes to earth,I’ve crushed the lightest hearts.Yet wise and powerful as I am,A very slave am I;I’m forced the mandates to obeyOf both the low and high.Now, witty brains, tell who this is,Who blesses and who curses;Who has no hands, yet still who isThe writer of these verses.
Ye mortals—wonder! I’m an elf,
A strange, mysterious thing;
More powerful than all the sprites
Within a magic ring.
I speak—although I have no tongue—
I speak, and thrill the soul;
I sing—and many a song I’ve sung
Resounds, while ages roll.
I am a weapon, strong and keen,
All made of glittering steel;
But human souls—not senseless flesh—
My sharp two-edges feel.
The greatest writer e’er was born—
But, ah!—a thievish elf;
For what I write is not, alas!
Original with myself.
I often take a cooling bath;
But, like the Ethiop’s skin,
When I have bathed, I’m blacker still
Than when I did begin!
Most kind am I; I glad the heart
Of many a wretched wight,
And many a sufferer is by me
Transported with delight.
Most cruel I; I’ve pierced the soul
With cutting, burning darts;
I’ve dashed the fondest hopes to earth,
I’ve crushed the lightest hearts.
Yet wise and powerful as I am,
A very slave am I;
I’m forced the mandates to obey
Of both the low and high.
Now, witty brains, tell who this is,
Who blesses and who curses;
Who has no hands, yet still who is
The writer of these verses.