Yet heated how he longs to lave Lavishing his bosom upon My mantling water in the sun! Now hath he climbed beside the stone, With filmy lichen overgrown, Where small swift globes of water twinkle : There among the periwinkle Creeping, sidles with a shoulder Pressed upon the verdured boulder, Along a narrow ledge, to wet His shining head within the jet Of foam that skirts my clear cascade, All my close-clinging vision grew Half his form, and half his throat, Clear from crystalline that sways Moths aflame with crimson dyes, Lulls him in his water-wending. Why, boy-lover, tell me why Even I Am singing now thy lullaby! In thy jasmine throat meander Tender lines of dimple, And 'tis haunted where they wander, While the waters wimple, With a shy blue as from veins, Where soft throat subsiding wanes Into billowy bosom dreaming Faintly of the roses; Whose dim dream a bud discloses In the gleaming Undulating almond skin, Roses nascent soft therein. Ah! the quiet music of thy beauties undulating; palpitating: What breath from heaven was breathing behind the fairy flower, Whose ample one white petal thy body had for dower, Blowing so unerringly to mould thee as thou art, Even so waving waist and limb, and the snow about thy heart? And if my hands were ne'er to thrill, my beautiful, my boy, As they filled them with thy bosom, the treasure and the joy, Why along the ideal limit heaved thy delicate form, So, nor any otherwise, languid, white and warm? I flung me round him, I drew him under ; Father and mother, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful! Under the water, Cold and so pale! Could it be love made Beauty to fail ? Ah! me for mortals : In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Moving a mockery, Scorned of the day! Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Filled with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast! A LITTLE CHILD'S MONUMENT. I 1881. HON. RODEN NOEL. 1.-LAMENT. AM lying in the tomb, love, Lying in the tomb, Tho' I move within the gloom, love, Breathe within the gloom; Men deem life not fled, dear, Deem my life not fled, Tho' I with thee am dead, dear, I with thee am dead, O my little child! What is the grey world, darling, What is the grey world, Where the worm is curled, darling, The deathworm is curled ? They tell me of the spring, dear! Do I want the spring? Will she waft upon her wing, dear, The joy-pulse of her wing, Thy songs, thy blossoming, O my little child! For the hallowing of thy smile, love, The rainbow of thy smile, Gleaming for a while, love, Gleaming to beguile ! |