 | Lucile |  |
XIII.
Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro,And rolls without ceasing, the great Yes and No:
Round this altar alternate the weird Passions dance,
And the God worshipp'd here is the old God of Chance,
Through the wide-open doors of the distant saloon
Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune;
And an indistinct music for ever is roll'd,
That mixes and chimes with the chink of the gold,
From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze,
Of figures for ever eluding the gaze;
For there the Ball bounds like a wanton gazelle
Pursued by a bee through a warm golden dell;
It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the glass,
And the weird words pursue it—Pair, Impair, et Passe!
Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams as encumber
With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber
Of some witch when she seeks, through a nightmare, to grab at
The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat.
| Lucile | |