Under Cross and Crescent :: :: University of Virginia Library

At first, I deem'd some wind-blown spray,
Acacia, or jessamin,
Thro' open window wafted in,
All tremulous and quiv'ring lay
Upon the matting at my feet:

A second look. . . . Beheld at last
Oh, creature diabolical,
Whose lineaments zodiacal
Have yet an odd familiar cast,
Here, then, and in the flesh, we meet!

There is thy coat of plated mail,
Eight loathly legs with cloven feet,
Two lobster-claws that clasp and meet,

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Six-jointed, curved, Satanic tail,
Ending in poison-pouch and spear!

No colleague of the solar band
Save Leo, with tempestuous roar,
Had served to terrify me more
At dead of night, with none at hand
In this, my strait, to help or hear!

Doubtless to do some evil deed
Thou playest truant thus, thro' space
Descending from thy proper place
Betwixt the Scales and Archer-steed
And hiding underneath my chair!

Had I not spied thee lying low
I ween thou would'st have made me feel
Thy poison's pow'r, and in my heel
Planted thy sting, with which we know
Orion once was wounded there!

110

Now for the death that thou must die! . . .
To keep thy horrid form entire
I'll compass thee with coals of fire,
Until, for very agony,
Thou die'st of self-inflicted sting;

Thus shall I learn if false or true
The ancient legend! Or, for lack
Of coals, I'll plunge into thy back
A red-hot spear, and drown thee, too,
In something sharp and torturing;

Acetic acid, turpentine,—
Or might it not be best to boil
Or burn outright, in seething oil?
Or shall I steep thee deep in wine
Like Clarence, and thus seal thy doom?

Nay, far too kind such death would be
Creature unconscionably vile!
Simpler, to cork thee in a phial

111

Wherein all men may mock at thee
And turn it to thy living tomb!

But, first of all, to roof thee o'er
With tumbler overturn'd! . . . 'Tis done!
Now, bide thy time, accursèd one,
Whilst, like some grim Inquisitor,
I ponder on thy future fate,

Considering thee at mine ease
Out of thy venom's reach! . . . Aye, try
To scale those walls of crystal sky!—
Struggle and battle as you please!
In vain, in vain! Too late, too late!

What labour wasted on thy make!
And all for what? . . . That ev'ry hand
Should be against thee, in the land
That breeds thee, loathing! With the snake
Holding thee pest to crush and slay!

112

Hurl'd thus upon the Universe,
No option giv'n, no “by your leave,”
Some hidden purpose to achieve
Doubtless, tho' counted as a curse;—
Branded with murder from the day

When thou, in most unnatural wise,
Ere drawing thine accursèd breath,
Dost do thy mother unto death,
Who of her monstrous travail dies;
No loss, yet surely to thy shame,

Making thee seem more consummate
In crass malignity! . . . But, still,
Poor puppet of th' Eternal Will!
What pow'r had'st thou to mould thy fate
Or shape thy course for praise or blame?

Just a mere chance, it seems to me,
Prepost'rous as it may appear,—

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And thou had'st sat in judgment here
Whilst I, intern'd instead of thee,
Had struggled thus without avail.

I might have been a scorpion,
Crawl'd out my day in scaly thrall,
Dead to hope, faith, ambition, all
That mortals lean or count upon,
Just clasping pincers, curling tail,

And seeking that which most might feel
My venom'd sting by day or night;
A veritable Ishmaelite
On whose predestin'd head man's heel
Is ever ready to descend!

Now, how to show my thankfulness
That this is not? . . . Were I to spare
Thee, dusky captive, struggling there,
Thou would'st restrain thee none the less,
But strike at husband, child, or friend,

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Still, even Death, they say, is sweet
In lethal chambers, where you pass
From dreams to sleep, and 'neath this glass
Such peaceful end to thee I'll mete,
Then have thee neatly set and press'd;

Since, haply, had'st thou had thy way,
Thou might'st have chosen to have been
The Envoy of a mighty Queen,
And stood before me here to-day
Wearing a ribbon on thy breast!