THOMAS GORDON HAKE. THE SUN-WORSHIPPER. As a wild comet through the night she hies, Along the lower skies. Soon as the sun lifts up the morning haze 'Thee I adore, O Sun! this heart is thine! The sun-flowers turn to heaven as still she kneels, Not uttered yet, all utterance it reveals, 'Never, O Sun! till sinking in the west Thou risest where thy wondrous setting spreads, Silence has tongues; she hears a sister say, Yet she repeats her vow, her heart in pain, To draw some love from heaven, as from the well Across the hills of heliotrope she creeps, She sleeps; so still, not even her shadow veers Yet with the visage of the one she loves; All through her sleep in phantom light he moves, And still that face he bears. She sleeps, and with the beaming of a bride Yet why a tear, no sorrow shall betide: Though distant borne, his rays on her are shed; Shall in his light abide. She wakes up with the sun, but in his rise The cloud-slopes blossom still, but cold and lone; With speechless lips she questions the chill blaze: Trembling she sees the paleness of her face In those white clouds which now the sun surround, Who doth in heaven his spectral way retrace. Behold, the days brought back, the hours unwound, The angry sun unto the zenith bound And the pale moon replace! Perplexed, all lost, she staggers to the height From the lone steps at length she looks above: She lifts her arms, she falls upon the face In that divine embrace. THE SNAKE-CHARMER. THE forest rears on lifted arms A world of leaves, whence verdurous light There where those cruel coils enclasp An old man creeps from out the woods, O'er bamboos rotting where they fell; No moss-greened alley tells the trace Of his lone step, no sound is stirred, Of the swift snake and pilgrim snail. The old snake-charmer, - once he played Soft music for the serpent's ear, But now his cunning hand is stayed; He knows the hour of death is near. And all that live in brake and bough, All know the brand is on his brow. Yet where his soul is he must go : He crawls along from tree to tree. Weeds wove with white-flowered lily crops And in the froth-daubed rushes lie. There rests he now with fastened breath 'Neath a kind sun to bask in death. The pool is bright with glossy dyes A green death-leaven overlies Its mottled scum, where shadows play As the snake's hollow coil, fresh shed, Rolls in the wind across its bed. No more the wily note is heard From his full flute the riving air That tames the snake, decoys the bird, Worries the she-wolf from her lair. Fain would he bid its parting breath Drown in his ears the voice of death. Still doth his soul's vague longing skim The pool beloved: he hears the hiss |