CCXL. FORESHADOWINGS. (THE STARS IN THE RIVER) THE mirrored stars lit all the bulrush spears, God shaped the shadows like a phantom boat Where sate her soul and mine in Doom's attire ; Along the lily-isles I saw it float Where ripples shook the stars to symbols dire; We wept-we kissed, while starry fingers wrote, And ripples shook the stars to a snake of fire. CCXLI. THE HEAVEN THAT WAS. (A sleepless night in Venice.) WHEN Hope lies dead—Ah, when 'tis death to live, O sleep to lend it; thine to quell or feed And bid Regret, the queen of hell, forgive. Yon moon that mocks me thro' the uncurtained glass The kiss, the breath, the flashing eyes, the swoon Of throbbing stillness: all the heaven that was! CCXLII. NATURA BENIGNA. WHAT power is this? what witchery wins my feet To peaks so sheer they scorn the cloaking snow, All silent as the emerald gulfs below, Down whose ice-walls the wings of twilight beat? What thrill of earth and heaven-most wild, most sweet What answering pulse that all the senses know, Comes leaping from the ruddy eastern glow Where, far away, the skies and mountains meet? Mother, 'tis' I once more: I know thee well, Yet that throb comes, an ever-new surprise! O Mother and Queen, beneath the olden spell Of silence, gazing from thy hills and skies! Dumb mother, struggling with the years to tell The secret at thy heart through helpless eyes! COXLIII. NATURA MALIGNA. THE Lady of the Hills with crimes untold And if a foot-print shone at break of day, My flesh would quail but straight my soul would say: 'Tis her's whose hand God's mightier hand doth hold. I trod her snow-bridge, for the moon was bright, When lo, she stood! . . . God bade her let me pass; And all my wondrous days as in a glass. COXLIV. THE DAMSEL OF THE PLAIN. CHILDE ROWLAND found a Damsel on the Plain, He kissed her mouth and through the world they sped, But, when long joys made love a golden chain, Between the devil and a deep dark sea He met a foe more soul-compelling still; A feathered snake the monster seemed to be, And wore a wreath o' the yellow daffodil. Then spake the devil: Rowland, fly to me: When murdered Truth returns she comes to kill.' |