That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, 'Why do you sigh, fair creature?' whisper'd he: 40 'Why do you think?' return'd she tenderly: 'You have deserted me;- where am I now? Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow: No, no, you have dismiss'd me; and I go From your breast houseless: aye, it must be so.' He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then! What mortal hath a prize, that other men May be confounded and abash'd withal, But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical, And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 60 Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, While through the thronged streets your bridal car Wheels round its dazzling spokes.' — The lady's cheek Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain Beseeching him, the while his hand she My presence in wide Corinth hardly known: My parents' bones are in their dusty urns Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, So canopied, lay an untasted feast Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, Came jasper panels; then, anon, there burst Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, 140 And with the larger wove in small intricacies. Approving all, she faded at self-will, And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still, Complete and ready for the revels rude, When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude. Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 'Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? Know'st thou that man?' Poor Lamia answer'd not. He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot What wreath for Lamia? What for Ly- Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal: More, more he gazed: his human senses Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch ! Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see! My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290 Fool!' said the sophist, in an under-tone Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost, He sank supine beside the aching ghost. "Fool! Fool!' repeated he, while his eyes still Relented not, nor moved; 'from every ill Of life have I preserved thee to this day, And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?' Then Lamia breathed death breath; the Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. |