Untrodden before, untrodden since: 
Tedious land for a social Prince;
Halting, he scanned the outs and ins,
  Endless, labyrinthine, grim,
Of the solitude that made him wince,
    Laying wait for him.

By bulging rock and gaping cleft,
Even of half mere daylight reft,
Rueful he peered to right and left,
  Muttering in his altered mood:  160
’The fate is hard that weaves my weft,
    Though my lot be good.’

Dim the changes of day to night,
Of night scarce dark to day not bright. 
Still his road wound towards the right,
  Still he went, and still he went,
Till one night he espied a light,
    In his discontent.

Out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave,
Like a red-hot eye from a grave. 170
No man stood there of whom to crave
  Rest for wayfarer plodding by: 
Though the tenant were churl or knave
    The Prince might try.

In he passed and tarried not,
Groping his way from spot to spot,
Towards where the cavern flare glowed hot:—­
  An old, old mortal, cramped and double,
Was peering into a seething-pot,
    In a world of trouble. 180

The veriest atomy he looked,
With grimy fingers clutching and crooked,
Tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked,
  And a shaking, sharp, suspicious way;
His blinking eyes had scarcely brooked
    The light of day.

Stared the Prince, for the sight was new;
Stared, but asked without more ado: 
’My a weary traveller lodge with you,
  Old father, here in your lair? 190
In your country the inns seem few,
    And scanty the fare.’

The head turned not to hear him speak;
The old voice whistled as through a leak
(Out it came in a quavering squeak): 
  ’Work for wage is a bargain fit: 
If there’s aught of mine that you seek
    You must work for it.

’Buried alive from light and air
This year is the hundredth year, 200
I feed my fire with a sleepless care,
  Watching my potion wane or wax: 
Elixir of Life is simmering there,
    And but one thing lacks.

’If you’re fain to lodge here with me,
Take that pair of bellows you see—­
Too heavy for my old hands they be—­
  Take the bellows and puff and puff: 
When the steam curls rosy and free
    The broth’s boiled enough. 210

’Then take your choice of all I have;
I will give you life if you crave. 
Already I’m mildewed for the grave,
  So first myself I must drink my fill: 
But all the rest may be yours, to save
    Whomever you will.’

‘Done,’ quoth the Prince, and the bargain stood,
First he piled on resinous wood,
Next plied the bellows in hopeful mood;
  Thinking, ’My love and I will live. 220
If I tarry, why life is good,
    And she may forgive.’