The bridal of Vaumond A Metrical Romance |
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 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XXII.
“My bands in many a darksome cave,Await my signal word;
Brief space shall see my standard wave,
And this fair isle the reptile's grave
Who dares deny its lord.
Yet, ere the whirlwind sweep its plain,
There is one lovely flower that fain
These hands would pluck away—
And taste its fragrance ere it fade;
Anon its beauties will be dead—
Perchance before its glory dies
The storm of vengeance shall arise
And bear it, where it may.
Mine is the monarch's fabled grasp—
Whate'er my hands unhallow'd clasp
Your care converts to gold;—
O gorgeous mockery of bliss!
My never-dying soul for this
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That fades upon this icy heart
Which hope that lur'd me did impart;
And all the stores of power and pride,
And beauty yielding at my side
For me are chill and cold!
Mine is your dæmon grasp—whate'er
It haply touches, it must sear—
To life and hope it may not beat
Wrapt in a venom'd winding sheet!
| The bridal of Vaumond | |