The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman In three volumes |
 | I. |
|
|
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
|
| 1. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman |  |
Night.—A splendid, illuminated Palace.
MARGARITA.
MARGARITA.
Am I brought here to die? My prison open'd
Softly as to an angel's touch, and hither
Was I led forth among the breathing lutes
Of our blithe maidens, as to lure me on.
And still where'er I move, as from the earth,
Or floating in the calm embosoming air,
Sweet sounds of music seem to follow me.
I breathe as 'twere an atmosphere distill'd
From richest flowers; and, lest the unwonted light
Offend mine eyes, so late released from gloom,
'Tis soothed and cool'd in alabaster lamps.
Softly as to an angel's touch, and hither
Was I led forth among the breathing lutes
Of our blithe maidens, as to lure me on.
And still where'er I move, as from the earth,
Or floating in the calm embosoming air,
Sweet sounds of music seem to follow me.
I breathe as 'twere an atmosphere distill'd
From richest flowers; and, lest the unwonted light
185
'Tis soothed and cool'd in alabaster lamps.
And is it thus ye would enamour me
Of this sad world? Your luxuries, your pomps,
Your vaulted ceilings, that with fond delay
Prolong the harp's expiring sweetness; walls
Where the bright paintings breathe and speak, and chambers
Where all would soothe to sleep, but that to sleep
Were to suspend the sense of their soft pleasures;
They are wasted all on me: as though I trode
The parching desert, still my spirit longs
To spread its weary wings, and be at rest.
Oh, vainly thus would ye enhance my loss,
By gilding thus the transient life I lose!
Were mine affections dead to all things earthly
As to these idle flatteries of the sense,
My trial were but light.
Of this sad world? Your luxuries, your pomps,
Your vaulted ceilings, that with fond delay
Prolong the harp's expiring sweetness; walls
Where the bright paintings breathe and speak, and chambers
Where all would soothe to sleep, but that to sleep
Were to suspend the sense of their soft pleasures;
They are wasted all on me: as though I trode
The parching desert, still my spirit longs
To spread its weary wings, and be at rest.
Oh, vainly thus would ye enhance my loss,
By gilding thus the transient life I lose!
Were mine affections dead to all things earthly
As to these idle flatteries of the sense,
My trial were but light.
There's some one comes—
Is it the ruthless executioner?
Is it the ruthless executioner?
| The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman | |