Untwine those ringlets! Ev"ry dainty clasp That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp That smiles to see men die.
Oh, cobra-curled! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw Night"s curtain o"er the landscape of thy hair!
I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law That dooms me to despair.
I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips, I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath!
I droop! I sink into my soul"s eclipse,-- I fall in love with death!
And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes, Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze That smites to dusk the skies.
Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee?
Hast thou no garland for this aching head That soon so low must be?
No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is _all_ forgot?
Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein Thou callst thy tresses! _I_ shall stay thee not-- My struggles were but vain!
But shall I see thee far beyond the sun, When the new dawn lights Empyrean scenes?
What matters now? I know the poem"s done, And wonder what the d.i.c.kens it all means!
_Anonymous_.
LINES BY A FOND LOVER
Lovely maid, with rapture swelling, Should these pages meet thine eye, Clouds of absence soft dispelling;-- Vacant memory heaves a sigh.
As the rose, with fragrance weeping, Trembles to the tuneful wave, So my heart shall twine unsleeping, Till it canopies the grave.
Though another"s smile"s requited, Envious fate my doom should be; Joy forever disunited, Think, ah! think, at times on me!
Oft, amid the spicy gloaming, Where the brakes their songs instil, Fond affection silent roaming, Loves to linger by the rill--
There, when echo"s voice consoling, Hears the nightingale complain, Gentle sighs my lips controlling, Bind my soul in beauty"s chain.
Oft in slumber"s deep recesses, I thy mirror"d image see; Fancy mocks the vain caresses I would lavish like a bee!
But how vain is glittering sadness!
Hark, I hear distraction"s knell!
Torture gilds my heart with madness!
Now forever fare thee well!
_Anonymous_.
FORCING A WAY
How many strive to force a way Where none can go save those who pay, To verdant plains of soft delight The homage of the silent night, When countless stars from pole to pole Around the earth unceasing roll In roseate shadow"s silvery hue, Shine forth and gild the morning dew.
And must we really part for good, But meet again here where we"ve stood?
No more delightful trysting-place, We"ve watched sweet Nature"s smiling face.
No more the landscape"s lovely brow, Exchange our mutual breathing vow.
Then should the twilight draw around No loving interchange of sound.
Less for renown than innate love, These to my wish must recreant prove; Nor whilst an impulse here remain, Can ever hope the soul to gain; For memory scanning all the past, Relaxes her firm bonds at last, And gives to candor all the grace The heart can in its temple trace.
_Anonymous_.
THY HEART
Thy heart is like some icy lake, On whose cold brink I stand; Oh, buckle on my spirit"s skate, And lead, thou living saint, the way To where the ice is thin-- That it may break beneath my feet And let a lover in!
_Anonymous_.
A LOVE-SONG BY A LUNATIC
There"s not a spider in the sky, There"s not a glowworm in the sea, There"s not a crab that soars on high, But bids me dream, dear maid, of thee!
When watery Phoebus ploughs the main, When fiery Luna gilds the lea, As flies run up the window-pane, So fly my thoughts, dear love, to thee!
_Anonymous_.
THE PARTERRE
I don"t know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses b.u.t.toning there.
It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end"s tip of her splendid nose.
Oh! I have envy of to be What gra.s.s "neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush.
But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for her hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers.
THE ENVOY I don"t know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses b.u.t.toning there.
_E.H. Palmer_