There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps Astronomer in the sun’s lucent orb Through his glazed optic tube yet never saw. The place he found beyond expression bright, Compared with aught on Earth, metal or stone; Not all parts like, but all alike informed With radiant light, as glowing iron with fire: If metal, part seemed gold, part silver clear; If stone, carbuncle most or chrysolite, Ruby or topaz, to the twelve that shone In Aaron’s breast-plate, and a stone besides, Imagined rather oft than elsewhere seen⁠— That stone, or like to that, which here below Philosophers in vain so long have sought; In vain, though by their powerful art they bind Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound In various shapes old Proteus from the sea, Drained through a limbec to his native form. What wonder then if fields and regions here Breathe forth elixir pure, and rivers run Potable gold, when, with one virtuous touch, The arch-chemic sun, so far from us remote, Produces, with terrestrial humour mixed, Here in the dark so many precious things