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Poem by William Allingham
A man there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote The fair to foul, the foul to fair; Purple nor ermine did he spare, Nor scorn the dusty coat. Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods, And even statues of the Gods Crumbled beneath its touch. Then angrily the people cried, 'The loss outweighs the profit far; Our goods suffice us as they are We will not have then tried.' And since they could not so prevail To check this unrelenting guest, They seized him, saying - 'Let him test How real it is, our jail! ' But, though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd, Its doings could not be o'erturned, Its undoings restored. And when to stop all future harm, They strew'd its ashes on the breeze; They little guess'd each grain of these Convey'd the perfect charm. North, south, in rings and amulets, Throughout the crowded world 'tis borne; Which, as a fashion long outworn, In ancient mind forgets.
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