Classic Poem

Think you, Magician, 'tis a little gift
With modulated fingertips to uplift
The lids of sense, and damp the murky fires
Which reek to blot the heaven of pure desires?
Can common air whereby we live and are,
Brayed in a torment of mechanic mazes,
Prove angel's diction, tongues alert with phrases
Stol'n from beyond the furthest star?
And all because the Master on a scroll
Ciphered the worth and height of his own soul.