 | Poems Lyrical and Dramatic |  |
138
AT ROME.
Death-pale the night waxes, and, red as in birth
While the young dawn comes forth from her wan mother-earth,
Saffron-stained is the close-curtained couch of the east:
Now heavy sleep severs the light lips of mirth,
And the rose-garlands fade with the fast-failing feast,
And the weak mourning woman with red scalded eyes
Sees the last star go out and the first lights arise,
As she sits among ashes upon the cold hearth,
The fettered soul weeping the soul new released.
While the young dawn comes forth from her wan mother-earth,
Saffron-stained is the close-curtained couch of the east:
Now heavy sleep severs the light lips of mirth,
And the rose-garlands fade with the fast-failing feast,
And the weak mourning woman with red scalded eyes
Sees the last star go out and the first lights arise,
As she sits among ashes upon the cold hearth,
The fettered soul weeping the soul new released.
139
“Queen Nature has dealt thee a lordlier dower
Than the peaches or passion-bloom clasping thy bower.
All the rills in thy temples are purple and fine
Like the delicate fibres that meet in a flower,
Or the slender blue veins that cross over and twine,
Ever beautiful flaws in the marble's white heart
Though they baffle and blemish the sculptor's fair art,
Or as rivulets viewed from a far-off watch-tower,
Or the thread-like thin tendrils that curl on the vine.
Than the peaches or passion-bloom clasping thy bower.
All the rills in thy temples are purple and fine
Like the delicate fibres that meet in a flower,
Or the slender blue veins that cross over and twine,
Ever beautiful flaws in the marble's white heart
Though they baffle and blemish the sculptor's fair art,
Or as rivulets viewed from a far-off watch-tower,
Or the thread-like thin tendrils that curl on the vine.
“The faint odours of jasmine come in with the dawn;
The sweet oleander shrubs flower on the lawn;
The trees put forth foliage, bronze, green, and gold;
And among and about them is grazing the fawn;
The silver-grey ash shivers not with the cold,
For the morning is warm as the throb in thy breast,
And the hot winds are panting with feverish unrest;
Summer-snow at the rose-root the rose-leaves lie strawn,
And the red rose is opening fold after fold.
The sweet oleander shrubs flower on the lawn;
The trees put forth foliage, bronze, green, and gold;
And among and about them is grazing the fawn;
The silver-grey ash shivers not with the cold,
For the morning is warm as the throb in thy breast,
And the hot winds are panting with feverish unrest;
140
And the red rose is opening fold after fold.
“The striped tiger-lily expands, and unfurls
Its orange vermilion-speckled curls;
With clusters of carmine the palace walls glow;
The myrtle-buds glitter like delicate pearls;
The fruit trees are sprinkled with prosperous snow;
And grapes hang in bunches of emerald fire
To kindle our cups with the juice of desire,
When the flutes and the dances of soft-singing girls
May awake in my bosom the heart's ebb and flow.
Its orange vermilion-speckled curls;
With clusters of carmine the palace walls glow;
The myrtle-buds glitter like delicate pearls;
The fruit trees are sprinkled with prosperous snow;
And grapes hang in bunches of emerald fire
To kindle our cups with the juice of desire,
When the flutes and the dances of soft-singing girls
May awake in my bosom the heart's ebb and flow.
“The chased silver flagons and patens outspread
The rich wine in the chalice of gold at my head,
From one to the other are flashing the morn
Through the rose-light and perfume that round us are shed,
And the painted Madonnas look haggard and worn
In their round aureoles; but the white Venus there
Takes the colour of youth from the crimsoning air,
As Pygmalion marvelled to see her wax red,
And a goddess of flesh from the marble was born.
The rich wine in the chalice of gold at my head,
From one to the other are flashing the morn
Through the rose-light and perfume that round us are shed,
And the painted Madonnas look haggard and worn
In their round aureoles; but the white Venus there
Takes the colour of youth from the crimsoning air,
As Pygmalion marvelled to see her wax red,
And a goddess of flesh from the marble was born.
141
Take a draught, lady mine, of the good tears of Christ
From this gold-bottomed goblet so daintily spiced,
That thy veins may throb fuller and flush thy pale cheek.
Though it chills the clear metal with cool waves well iced,
It can thrill with new life-throb the languid and weak.
I would drink from thy lips the red blush it will raise,
And draw through thy blood into mine the sweet blaze;
For the lust of old age must be charmed and enticed—
I would change key and crosier with youth for a week!
From this gold-bottomed goblet so daintily spiced,
That thy veins may throb fuller and flush thy pale cheek.
Though it chills the clear metal with cool waves well iced,
It can thrill with new life-throb the languid and weak.
I would drink from thy lips the red blush it will raise,
And draw through thy blood into mine the sweet blaze;
For the lust of old age must be charmed and enticed—
I would change key and crosier with youth for a week!
“It is good, is it not? to be loved of a Pope;
For when all common sinners are damned, as I hope,
I shall head my procession, good lemans and all,
And sweep up to heaven with crook, mitre, and cope;
And the angels shall come and shall go at my call,
While with swinging of censers and singing of mass
From my proud marble monument homeward I pass;
For the gate to the keys of St. Peter must ope,
And the bars at the touch of Christ's vicar must fall.
For when all common sinners are damned, as I hope,
I shall head my procession, good lemans and all,
And sweep up to heaven with crook, mitre, and cope;
And the angels shall come and shall go at my call,
142
From my proud marble monument homeward I pass;
For the gate to the keys of St. Peter must ope,
And the bars at the touch of Christ's vicar must fall.
| Poems Lyrical and Dramatic | |