Puslapio vaizdai


(The Song of Orpheus.)

THEN, on a Sardonyx, the man of Thrace,

The voice supreme that through Hell's portals stole,
With carved white lyre and head of god-like grace,
(Too soon, alas! on Hebrus' wave to roll !)
Played to the beasts, from a great elm-tree bole.
And lo! with half-shut eyes the leopard spread
His lissome length; and deer with gentle tread
Came through the trees; and, from a nearer spring,
The prick-eared rabbit paused; while overhead

The stock-dove drifted downward, fluttering.


(The Crowning of Silenus.)

NEXT came an Amethyst, the grape in hue.

On a mock throne, by fresh excess disgraced,

With heavy head, and thyrsus held askew,

The Youths, in scorn, had dull Silenus placed,

And o'er him "King of Topers" they had traced. Yet but a King of Sleep he seemed at best,

With wine-bag cheeks that bulged upon his breast, And vat-like paunch distent from his carouse. Meanwhile, his ass, by no respect represt,

Munched at the wreath upon her Master's brows.


(The Sirens.)

LASTLY, with " Pleasure" was a Beryl graven, Clear-hued,-divine. Thereon the Sirens sung. What time, beneath, by rough rock-bases caven, And jaw-like rifts where many a green bone clung, The strong flood-tide, in-rushing, coiled and swung. Then,-in the offing,—on the lift o' the sea,

A tall ship drawing shoreward, helplessly.

For, from the prow, e'en now the rowers leap Headlong, nor seek from that sweet fate to flee...

Ah me, those Women-witches of the Deep!



O, Love's but a dance,

Where Time plays the fiddle!

See the couples advance,―

O, Love's but a dance!

A whisper, a glance,—

'Shall we twirl down the middle?'

O, Love's but a dance,

Where Time plays the fiddle!

IT runs (so saith my Chronicler)
Across a smoky City;-

A Babel filled with buzz and whirr,

Huge, gloomy, black and gritty;

Dark-louring looks the hill-side near,

Dark-yawning looks the valley,

But here 'tis always fresh and clear, For here is 'Cupid's Alley.'

And, from an Arbour cool and green,
With aspect down the middle,

An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean,
Scrapes on an ancient fiddle;

Alert he seems, but aged enow
To punt the Stygian galley ;—

With wisp of forelock on his brow,
He plays-in 'Cupid's Alley.'

All day he plays,-a single tune!-
But, by the oddest chances,
Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon,

It suits all kinds of dances;

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