This strange mysterious noise betokens a farewell.

II

I love within your oblong eyes the verdant rays, My sweet! but bitter everything to-day meseems: And nought--your love, the boudoir, nor the flickering blaze, Can replace the sun that o'er the screen streams.

And yet bemother and caress me, tender heart!

Even me the thankless and the worthless one; Beloved or sister--unto me the sweets impart Of a glorious autumn or a sinking sun.

Ephemeral task! the beckoning the beckoning empty tomb is set!

Oh grant me--as upon your knees my head I lay, (Because the white and torrid summer I regret), To taste the parted season's mild and amber ray.

Sisina

Imagine Diana in gorgeous array, How into the forests and thickets she flies, With her hair in the breezes, and flushed for the fray, How the very best riders she proudly defies.

Have you seen Theroigne, of the blood-thirsty heart, As an unshod herd to attack he bestirs, With cheeks all inflamed, playing up to his part, As he goes, sword in hand, up the royal stairs?

And so is Sisina--yet this warrior sweet, Has a soul with compa.s.sion and kindness replete, Inspired by drums and by powder, her sway

Knows how to concede to the supplicants' prayers, And her bosom, laid waste by the flames, has alway, For those that are worthy, a fountain of tears.

To a Creolean Lady

In a country perfumed with the sun's embrace, I knew 'neath a dais of purpled palms, And branches where idleness weeps o'er one's face, A Creolean lady of unknown charms.

Her tint, pale and warm--this bewitching bride, Displays a n.o.bly nurtured mien, Courageous and grand like a huntsman, her stride; A tranquil smile and eyes serene.

If, madam, you'd go to the true land of gain, By the banks of the verdant Loire or the Seine, How worthy to garnish some pile of renown.

You'd awake in the calm of some shadowy nest, A thousand songs in the poet's breast, That your eyes would inspire far more than your brown.

Moesta et Errabunda

Oh, Agatha, tell! does thy heart not at times fly away?

Far from the city impure and the lowering sea, To another ocean that blinds with its dazzling array, So blue and so clear and profound, like virginity?

Oh, Agatha, tell! does thy heart not at times fly away?

The sea, the vast ocean our travail and trouble consoles!

What demon hath gifted the sea with a voice from on high, To sing us (attuned to an aeolus-organ that rolls Forth a grumbling burden) a lenitive lullabye?

The sea, the vast ocean our travail and trouble consoles!

Oh, carry me, waggons, oh, sailing-ships, help me depart!

Far, far, here the dust is quite wet with our showering tears, Oh, say! it is true that Agatha's desolate heart, Proclaimeth, "Away from remorse, and from crimes, and from cares,"

Oh, carry me, waggons, oh, sailing ships, help me depart!

How distant you seem to be, perfumed Elysian fields!

Wherein there is nothing but sunshine and love and glee; Where all that one loves is so worthy, and lovingly yields, And our hearts float about in the purest of ecstasy, How distant you seem to be, perfumed Elysian fields!

But the green paradise of those transient infantile loves, The strolls, and the songs, and the kisses, and bunches of flowers, The viols vibrating beyond, in the mountainous groves, With the chalice of wine and the evening, entwined, in the bowers, But the green paradise of those transient infantile loves.

That innocent heaven o'erflowing with furtive delight, Than China or India, is it still further away?

Or, could one with pityful prayers bring it back to our sight?

Or yet with a silvery voice o'er the ages convey That innocent heaven o'erflowing with furtive delight!

The Ghost

Just like an angel with evil eye, I shall return to thee silently, Upon thy bower I'll alight, With falling shadows of the night.

With thee, my brownie, I'll commune, And give thee kisses cold as the moon, And with a serpent's moist embrace, I'll crawl around thy resting-place.

And when the livid morning falls, Thou'lt find alone the empty walls, And till the evening, cold 'twill be.

As others with their tenderness, Upon thy life and youthfulness, I'll reign alone with dread o'er thee.

Autumn Song

They ask me--thy crystalline eyes, so acute, "Odd lover--why am I to thee so dear?"

--Be sweet and keep silent, my heart, which is sear, For all save the rude and untutored brute,

Is loth its infernal depths to reveal, And its dissolute motto engraven with fire, Oh charmer! whose arms endless slumber inspire!

I abominate pa.s.sion and wit makes me ill.

So let us love gently. Within his retreat, Foreboding, Love seeks for his arrows a prey, I know all the arms of his battle array.

Delirium and loathing--O pale Marguerite!

Like me, art thou not an autumnal ray, Alas my so white, my so cold Marguerite!