That siffles at the sedgy rim, Recalling days of former bliss, And the death-drops, that fall in showers, Seem honied dews from shady flowers. There is a rustle of the breeze And twitter of the singing bird; And his faint lips again are stirred : His eyes are swimming in the mist That films the earth like serpent's breath: And now, - as if a serpent hissed, The husky whisperings of Death Fill ear and brain - he looks around Serpents seem matted o'er the ground. Soon visions of past joys bewitch His crafty soul; his hands would set Death's snare, while now his fingers twitch The tasselled reed as 't were his net. But his thin lips no longer fill The woods with song; his flute is still. Those lips still quaver to the flute, In sudden fear of snares unseen The birds like crimson sunset swarm, Lizards dart up the feathery trees The wildered birds again have rushed As 't were to feed, on slanting wings While Music swims away in death Man's spell is passing to his slaves: The snake feeds on the charmer's breath, The vulture screams, the parrot raves, The lone hyena laughs and howls, The tiger from the jungle growls. Then mounts the eagle flame-flecked folds Belt its proud plumes; a feather falls: He hears the death-cry, he beholds The king-bird in the serpent's thralls, He looks with terror on the feud, And the sun shines through dripping blood. The deadly spell a moment gone Birds, from a distant Paradise, Strike the winged signal and have flown, Trailing rich hues through azure skies: The serpent falls; like demon wings The far-out branching cedar swings. The wood swims round; the pool and skies Have met; the death-drops down that cheek Fall faster; for the serpent's eyes Grow human, and the charmer's seek. A gaze like man's directs the dart Which now is buried at his heart. The monarch of the world is cold: To wind about its human prey. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. FROM 'SISTER ANNUNCIATA.'1 16 BUT ah the long ascent! It was enough At first to learn the patience that subdued My throbbing heart to its new quiet rule, The hope of Heaven that bore down earth's despair But these were comfort, and the craving grew As natural for them as the sick man's For the pain-soothing draught he learned perforce To be another self, to know no more The fine-linked dreams of youth, the flying thoughts The sweet unreal reveries, the gush Of voiceless songs deep in the swelling heart, Lie a dead part of me, but still a part, Oh evermore a part. I do not think There can be sin in that, in knowing it. I am not nursing the old foolish love Ah no, dear as it was even in its pain, I have trampled on it, crushed its last life out. It cannot breathe again, not if I tried To warm it at my breast, it is too dead And my heart has grown too cold; the Lord himself, I thank Him, has renewed it virgin-cold To give to Him. I do but recognize A simple truth, that that which has been lived, But yet it lives not with the present life. So, in this wise, I may unshamed perceive That the dead life, that the dead love, are still Have I slept? But no, I think I was in prayer A little heavy moment at the last; It is too chill for sleep. How strange and gray |