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THERE was a gleam of jewels in the tent
Which one dim cresset lit—a baleful gleam
And from his scattered armour seemed to stream A dusky evil light that came and went. But from her eyes, as over him she bent,
Watching the surface of his drunken dream,
There shot a deadlier ray, a darker beam,
As with her scimetar she crouched above
While ever and anon she saw him move IIis red lascivious lips, and sniile beneath
His curled and scented beard, and inutter love.
Tule shores of Styx are lone for evermore,
And not one shadowy form upon the steep
Looms through the dusk, far as the eye can sweep, To call the ferry over as of yore ; But tintless rushes all about the shore
Have hemmed the old boat in, where, locked in sleep,
Hoar-bearded Charon lies ; while pale weeds creep With tightening grasp all round the unused oar. For in the world of Life strange rumours run
That now the soul departs not with the breath, But that the Body and the Soul are one ;
And in the loved one's mouth, now, after death, The widow puts no obol, nor the son,
To pay the ferry in the world beneath,
I HAD a dream of Lethe, of the brink
Of leaden waters, whither many bore
Dead, pallid loves, while others, old and sore, Brought but their tottering selves, in haste to drink. And, having drunk, they plunged, and seemed to sink
Their load of love or guilt for evermore,
Reaching with radiant brow the sunny shore
Oh, who will give me, chained to Thought's dull
Oh, who will rid me of the wasted years,
And each false hope, that mocking re-appears ?'
In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships,
fell Lie nestled in the ocean-flower's bell With Love's gemmed rings once kissed by now dead
lips And round some wrought-gold cup the sea-grass whips
And hides lost pearls, near pearls still in their shell,
Where sea-weed forests fill each ocean dell, And seek dim sunlight with their countless tips.
So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost hopes,
Beneath the now hushed surface of myself, In lonelier depths than where the diver gropes.
They lie deep, deep; but I at times behold In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy sbelf,
The gleam of irrecoverable gold.
(ON HEARING OF THE ILLNESS OF E. DE V.)
Hast thou then wrapped us in thy shadow, Death !
O Impotent ! O very Phantom I know,