 | CLEOPATRA. The book of my lady |  |
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CLEOPATRA.
She lay in death before me, yet so calm—
So sweetly true each feature to the set
Of earliest nature, that I thought it sleep,—
The infant's slumberous sleep, whose gentle breath,
Scarcely articulate, on its young lips hangs,
Even as the zephyr, down among the leaves,
Reposing sweetly in the noontide ray.
Reclined upon a couch, whose draperies fell
Meetly about her, lay her gracile form.—
Disturb'd, in the last terror, ere she died,
Her robe had parted, and her soft white neck,
Gleamed through her shading tresses, which down fell,
As if to honour what they did not hide.
But, wandering to the half-concealed recess,
My eye fell on a slope that gently rose
Into a heaving billow, and there seem'd,
By sudden touch of nature, petrified—
As if the blood, 'til then, endued with life,
Grew cold when all was loveliest. How sweet—
How more than sweet, that picture! One blue vein
Skirted the white curl of the heaving wave,
As if a rainbow-tint had rested there—
While, farther on, and at its swollen height,
A ruby crest, borne upward by the swell,
Grew fix'd into a gem—a living gem—
One of those priceless gems for which men give
Their hearts, their lives, their worship, and then die,
Meetly, as having nothing more to give.
But, as in chide of nature's excellence,
And blotting this fair picture, so beyond,
So sweetly true each feature to the set
Of earliest nature, that I thought it sleep,—
The infant's slumberous sleep, whose gentle breath,
Scarcely articulate, on its young lips hangs,
Even as the zephyr, down among the leaves,
Reposing sweetly in the noontide ray.
Reclined upon a couch, whose draperies fell
Meetly about her, lay her gracile form.—
Disturb'd, in the last terror, ere she died,
Her robe had parted, and her soft white neck,
Gleamed through her shading tresses, which down fell,
As if to honour what they did not hide.
But, wandering to the half-concealed recess,
My eye fell on a slope that gently rose
Into a heaving billow, and there seem'd,
By sudden touch of nature, petrified—
As if the blood, 'til then, endued with life,
Grew cold when all was loveliest. How sweet—
How more than sweet, that picture! One blue vein
Skirted the white curl of the heaving wave,
As if a rainbow-tint had rested there—
While, farther on, and at its swollen height,
A ruby crest, borne upward by the swell,
Grew fix'd into a gem—a living gem—
One of those priceless gems for which men give
Their hearts, their lives, their worship, and then die,
Meetly, as having nothing more to give.
But, as in chide of nature's excellence,
And blotting this fair picture, so beyond,
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All human skill, to conjure, as it was,
Beyond all human power to look upon,
Looking, and not to love,—lay a small wound,
Just where the heart had loudest beat with life,
Dabbled with blood, that downward trickling yet,
Made rich and red that spotless drapery:—
A small fine stream: then from beneath her robe,
Crawl'd forth a venomous reptile, and it pass'd,
Over that place of rapture, which then seem'd
Instinct—like some foul, envious cloud,
Blotting the silvery sweetness of the sky.
Beyond all human power to look upon,
Looking, and not to love,—lay a small wound,
Just where the heart had loudest beat with life,
Dabbled with blood, that downward trickling yet,
Made rich and red that spotless drapery:—
A small fine stream: then from beneath her robe,
Crawl'd forth a venomous reptile, and it pass'd,
Over that place of rapture, which then seem'd
Instinct—like some foul, envious cloud,
Blotting the silvery sweetness of the sky.
| CLEOPATRA. The book of my lady | |