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SONG.

281

SONG.

My goblet's golden lips are dry,
And, as the rose doth pine
For dew, so doth for wine
My goblet's cup;

Rain, O! rain, or it will die;
Rain, fill it up!

Arise, and get thee wings to-night,
Etna! and let run o'er

Thy wines, a hill no more,

But darkly frown

A cloud, where eagles dare not soar,

Dropping rain down!

T. L. Beddoes.

282

THE PHANTOM-WOOER.

THE PHANTOM-WOOER.

A GHOST, that loved a lady fair
Ever in the starry air

Of midnight at her pillow stood;
And with a sweetness skies above
The luring words of human love
Her soul the phantom wooed.

Sweet and sweet is their poison'd note,
The little snakes of silver throat

In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "Die, oh! die."

Young soul, put off your flesh, and come
With me into the silent tomb!

Our bed is lovely, dark, and sweet;
The earth will swing us, as she goes,
Beneath our coverlid of snows,
And the warm leaden sheet.

Dear and dear is their poison'd note,
The little snakes of silver throat
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "Die, oh! die."

T. L. Beddoes.

THE CARD-DEALER.

283

THE CARD-DEALER.

COULD you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet though its splendour swoon

Into the silence languidly

As a tune into a tune,

Those eyes unravel the coiled night
And know the stars at noon.

The gold that's heaped beside her hand,

In truth rich prize it were;

And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows
With magic stillness there;

And he were rich that should unwind

That woven golden hair. .

Around her, where she sits, the dance

Now breathes its eager heat; And not more lightly or more true

Fall there the dancer's feet

Than fall her cards on the bright board
As 'twere an heart that beat.

Her fingers let them softly through,

Smooth polished silent things;

And each one as it falls reflects
In swift light-shadowings,

Blood-red and purple, green and blue,
The great eyes of her rings.

280

FOR TITIAN.

FOR TITIAN.

THEN in a room he stood wherein there was
A marble bath, whose brimming water yet
Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass
Half full of odorous ointment was there set
Upon the topmost step that still was wet,
And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear,
Lay cast upon the varied pavement near.

In one quick glance these things his eyes did see,
But speedily they turned round to behold
Another sight, for throned on ivory

There sat a girl, whose dripping tresses rolled
On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold,
Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown
To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town.

Naked she was, the kisses of her feet
Upon the floor a dying path had made
From the full bath unto her ivory seat;
In her right hand, upon her bosom laid,
She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed
Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay
Dreaming awake of some long-vanished day.

Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep,
Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low,
Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep
Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow;
And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow,
As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame
Across the web of many memories came.

William Morris.

SONG.

281

SONG.

My goblet's golden lips are dry,
And, as the rose doth pine
For dew, so doth for wine
My goblet's cup;

Rain, O! rain, or it will die;
Rain, fill it up!

Arise, and get thee wings to-night,
Etna! and let run o'er

Thy wines, a hill no more,

But darkly frown

A cloud, where eagles dare not soar,
Dropping rain down!

T. L. Beddoes.

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