"We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit, "And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die! "And there he died: and when I heard my name Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame. What else was left? look here!" (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish'd argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspick's bite.) "I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found She lock'd her lips: she left me where | Drew forth the poison with her balmy I stood : breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labors longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears; Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. MARGARET. I. O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, A golden bill! the silver tongue, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still he doth not move : His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, And a new face at the door, my friend, I will not even preach to you, TO J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." |