 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XX.
He spoke—“Black cor'd and juggling fiends,
Truce with your foolery!
Him, who on my behests attends,
On this night summon ye!
Till mine eternal judgment come
I am your lord, and this your home
Shall quake and bow to me!
121
Gall mingles with the surfeit sweet;
The ruddy fruit, with crimson stain,
Is fairest on Sicilia's plain;
Sweet its core, with red imbued,—
Highest, pleasure, bought with blood!
The meanest slave, for fancied wrong,
May bid his bravo vengeance seek—
The proudest noble, peers among,
Must stalk all-impotent along,
Controll'd by demons' conscience meek!
—She has escap'd—her wrongs to brawl,
And he must live—accurst of all—
Both with my fame and peace to sport—
One blow had cut the story short.”
| The bridal of Vaumond | |