The Chain of Lilies, and other poems By William Brighty Rands |
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Cousin Zenobia.
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 | The Chain of Lilies, and other poems |  |
Cousin Zenobia.
Cousin Zenobia braids her tresses
Silken-bright from an ample brow;
Has wicked eyes full of womanly guesses
Where truth may be found, and when, and how.
Silken-bright from an ample brow;
Has wicked eyes full of womanly guesses
Where truth may be found, and when, and how.
She moves in a music, sits in a splendour—
They say she is proud as Lucifer:
Foolish!—the heave of her breast is tender,
And the little children go to her.
They say she is proud as Lucifer:
Foolish!—the heave of her breast is tender,
And the little children go to her.
69
She plays, she broiders, she sings, she sketches,
Or teases, or talks to the old macaw—
Ah! does she think of luckless wretches
Making their bricks of bliss without straw?
Or teases, or talks to the old macaw—
Ah! does she think of luckless wretches
Making their bricks of bliss without straw?
A riddle she is of breathing glory;
Find me the answer, sage, I pray!
Sequel is there to her daily story?
What is the good of Zenobia?
Find me the answer, sage, I pray!
Sequel is there to her daily story?
What is the good of Zenobia?
Stay, I bethink me! No divining!
I trust in her beauty, and do not care;
There must be a use to so much shining—
Cousin Zenobia, braid your hair!
I trust in her beauty, and do not care;
There must be a use to so much shining—
Cousin Zenobia, braid your hair!
Live like a queen, to-day, to-morrow!
Draw happy breath as long as you may!
Where is the life-stream which willows of sorrow
Do not shadow at last on its way?
Draw happy breath as long as you may!
Where is the life-stream which willows of sorrow
Do not shadow at last on its way?
Over rough beds of sad surprises,
Our Zenobia's yet may flow;
And, unless its current fertilizes,
How should the borders so greenly show?
Our Zenobia's yet may flow;
And, unless its current fertilizes,
How should the borders so greenly show?
Pretty Zenobia! none shall whisper
Task-work to one so bright and fair,
Till your poet shall think to pluck down Hesper,
For lanthorn-light to an evening chare.
Task-work to one so bright and fair,
Till your poet shall think to pluck down Hesper,
For lanthorn-light to an evening chare.
| The Chain of Lilies, and other poems | |