 | Phantasmagoria |  |
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The Red Divan.
The Red Divan, on Malebolge's Red-Hot Domes. —The description properly applies to “The City of Dis,” of which however Malebolge, with its rocks of iron-coloured granite, and indeed all the lower circles of the Inferno, may be regarded as a part.
Through many a court and corridor,
In gorgeous hues of crimson, ran
The reaches of the red divan,
As if a river, all of gore,
Should wind, from lurid span to span,
With reddish ripples oozing on
The verges of a blood-red shore.
On many a swarthy carmine couch
Lay snowy women by the score,
And, white on red, their deep flanks shone
O'er each luxurious ottoman.
Their tawny hair lies littered o'er
The blazing velvet, or they crouch
In white heaps on the floor.
In gorgeous hues of crimson, ran
The reaches of the red divan,
As if a river, all of gore,
Should wind, from lurid span to span,
With reddish ripples oozing on
The verges of a blood-red shore.
On many a swarthy carmine couch
Lay snowy women by the score,
And, white on red, their deep flanks shone
O'er each luxurious ottoman.
Their tawny hair lies littered o'er
The blazing velvet, or they crouch
In white heaps on the floor.
The shadows on the silken plush,
Like ruffling wind-streaks of a squall
On the smooth ocean, mark the wall
Where some curled golden head may brush
With amber swaths, that cling and crawl,
The soft and shaggy velvet nap,
Or where white heavy shoulders crush
The padded cushions with deep dint,
Or fingers plough a furrowing flush
Of five red scars. In each girl's lap
Lie heaps of roses, shaded all
With deepening hues of burning blush.
In blood-stone tanks of sombre tint
The sanguine fountains gush.
Like ruffling wind-streaks of a squall
On the smooth ocean, mark the wall
Where some curled golden head may brush
With amber swaths, that cling and crawl,
The soft and shaggy velvet nap,
Or where white heavy shoulders crush
The padded cushions with deep dint,
Or fingers plough a furrowing flush
Of five red scars. In each girl's lap
Lie heaps of roses, shaded all
With deepening hues of burning blush.
In blood-stone tanks of sombre tint
The sanguine fountains gush.
59
In vases rich red lilies tower
With leaves curled back in regal state,
Red passion-bloom, and orchids great;
And many a gorgeous tropic flower
Unfolds, vermilion plait on plait,
Its red robe like a cardinal's
Deep scarlet-purple garb of power;
And still, it seems, dark hyacinths
Drip with Adonis' mortal shower,
That shadowed forth at festivals
In olden time his murderous fate;
Proud roses make each bed a bower,
Heap all the urns, and 'neath the plinths
Of sculptured bronzes cower.
With leaves curled back in regal state,
Red passion-bloom, and orchids great;
And many a gorgeous tropic flower
Unfolds, vermilion plait on plait,
Its red robe like a cardinal's
Deep scarlet-purple garb of power;
And still, it seems, dark hyacinths
Drip with Adonis' mortal shower,
That shadowed forth at festivals
In olden time his murderous fate;
Proud roses make each bed a bower,
Heap all the urns, and 'neath the plinths
Of sculptured bronzes cower.
The curtains hang like sunset cloud,
As if dark mist and red fire wove
A screen of flame o'er each alcove;
Or like a murdered woman's shroud,
As if their folds and fringes clove
In sombre masses o'er a deed
That should be hidden; or like a proud
And heavy-hued imperial pall
That hides the tyrant from the crowd
That long to see his death-wounds bleed;
Or as in some basaltic cove
Red waves with shadowy troughs, not loud,
But smooth and silent, rise and fall,—
Black furrows ocean-ploughed!
As if dark mist and red fire wove
A screen of flame o'er each alcove;
Or like a murdered woman's shroud,
As if their folds and fringes clove
In sombre masses o'er a deed
That should be hidden; or like a proud
And heavy-hued imperial pall
That hides the tyrant from the crowd
That long to see his death-wounds bleed;
Or as in some basaltic cove
Red waves with shadowy troughs, not loud,
But smooth and silent, rise and fall,—
Black furrows ocean-ploughed!
60
And sometimes on the velvet plain,
Where noiseless feet glide to and fro
Upon the carpet soft as snow,
The crimson wears a deeper stain
And colours with an angry glow.
Here jealousy has left his brand,
Here wafted once its wind of pain
The ruby-hilted scimitar,
And sprinkled here an evil rain.
And on the wall on either hand,
But fainter there, a man may know,
Scarce with drawn brows and eyes astrain,
Some fainter splash, or slash, or scar
Upon the sombre grain
Where noiseless feet glide to and fro
Upon the carpet soft as snow,
The crimson wears a deeper stain
And colours with an angry glow.
Here jealousy has left his brand,
Here wafted once its wind of pain
The ruby-hilted scimitar,
And sprinkled here an evil rain.
And on the wall on either hand,
But fainter there, a man may know,
Scarce with drawn brows and eyes astrain,
Some fainter splash, or slash, or scar
Upon the sombre grain
Here hanging in the murky air,
As by the hue of coppery skies
Or midnight red with fire, the eyes
Are dazzled with a heavy glare,
Such as in hell with sudden surprise
On Malebolge's red-hot domes
And cupolas the man of sighs
Saw hovering, cast up from below,
A steam of many agonies
Exhaled by those accursèd homes.
E'en such a dusky crimson dyes
This home of lust and of despair
And flickers with a feverish glow
On limb, and breast, and hair.
As by the hue of coppery skies
Or midnight red with fire, the eyes
Are dazzled with a heavy glare,
Such as in hell with sudden surprise
On Malebolge's red-hot domes
And cupolas the man of sighs
Saw hovering, cast up from below,
A steam of many agonies
Exhaled by those accursèd homes.
E'en such a dusky crimson dyes
This home of lust and of despair
And flickers with a feverish glow
On limb, and breast, and hair.
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