Part 8 (1/2)

In cla.s.sic beauty, cold, immaculate, A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands, Upon her brow deep chiseled love and hate, That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.

THE SIRENS.

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres' sonorous gold, And beckon naked beauty from the sea In arms and b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips of G.o.dly mold, Dark, strangling hair carousing to the knee.

In vain! in vain! and dull in unclosed ears To one loved voice sweet calling o'er the foam, Which in my heart like some strong hand appears To gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

THE VINTAGER.

Among the fragrant grapes she bows; Long, violet cl.u.s.ters heap her hands; About her satyr throats and brows Flush at her smiled commands.

And from her sun-burnt throat at times, As bubbles burst on new-made wine, A happy fit of merry rhymes Rings down the hills of vine.

From out one heart, remorseless sweet, She plucked the big-grape pa.s.sion there; Trod in the wine-press of her feet, It grew into despair:

Until she drained its honeyed must, Which, tingling inward part by part, Fierce mounted thro' her glowing bust And centered in her heart.

A STORMY SUNSET.

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Soul of my body! what a death For such a day of envious gloom, Unbroken pa.s.sion of the sky!

As if the pure, kind-hearted breath Of some soft power, ever nigh, Had, cleaving in the bitter sheath, Burst from its grave a gorgeous bloom.

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The majesty of clouds that swarm.

Expanding in a furious length Of molten-metal petals, flows Unutterable, and where the warm, Full fire is centered, swims and glows The evening star fresh-faced with strength, A s.h.i.+mmering rain-drop of the storm.

ON A DIAL.

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To-morrow and to-morrow Is but to-day: The world wags but to borrow Time that grows gray:-- Grammercy! time's but sorrow And--well away!

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