WATTEAU, the carnival of ill.u.s.trious hearts, Fluttering like moths upon the wings of chance; Bright l.u.s.tres light the silk that flames and darts, And pour down folly on the whirling dance.

GOYA, a nightmare full of things unknown; The ftus witches broil on Sabbath night; Old women at the mirror; children lone Who tempt old demons with their limbs delight.

DELACROIX, lake of blood ill angels haunt, Where ever-green, o'ershadowing woods arise; Under the surly heaven strange fanfares chaunt And pa.s.s, like one of Weber's strangled sighs.

And malediction, blasphemy and groan, Ecstasies, cries, Te Deums, and tears of brine, Are echoes through a thousand labyrinths flown; For mortal hearts an opiate divine;

A shout cried by a thousand sentinels, An order from a thousand bugles tossed, A beacon o'er a thousand citadels, A call to huntsmen in deep woodlands lost.

It is the mightiest witness that could rise To prove our dignity, O Lord, to Thee; This sob that rolls from age to age, and dies Upon the verge of Thy Eternity!

THE SADNESS OF THE MOON.

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night Than a fair woman on her couch at rest.

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light, Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

Upon her silken avalanche of down, Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh; And watches the white visions past her flown, Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep, Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow, Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow Whence gleams of iris and of opal start, And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.

EXOTIC PERFUME.

When with closed eyes in autumn's eves of gold I breathe the burning odours of your breast, Before my eyes the hills of happy rest Bathed in the sun's monotonous fires, unfold.

Islands of Lethe where exotic boughs Bend with their burden of strange fruit bowed down.

Where men are upright, maids have never grown Unkind, but bear a light upon their brows.

Led by that perfume to these lands of ease, I see a port where many ships have flown With sails outwearied of the wandering seas;

While the faint odours from green tamarisks blown, Float to my soul and in my senses throng, And mingle vaguely with the sailor's song.

BEAUTY.

I am as lovely as a dream in stone, And this my heart where each finds death in turn, Inspires the poet with a love as lone As clay eternal and as taciturn.

Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows, My throne is in the heaven's azure deep; I hate all movements that disturb my pose, I smile not ever, neither do I weep.

Before my monumental att.i.tudes, That breathe a soul into the plastic arts, My poets pray in austere studious moods,

For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts, Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies, The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.

THE BALCONY.

Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses, O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire, Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses, The charm of evenings by the gentle fire, Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!

The eves illumined by the burning coal, The balcony where veiled rose-vapour clings-- How soft your breast was then, how sweet your soul!

Ah, and we said imperishable things, Those eves illumined by the burning coal.

Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm, And s.p.a.ce profound, and strong life's pulsing flood, In bending o'er you, queen of every charm, I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.

The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm.

The film of night flowed round and over us, And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet; I drank your breath, ah! sweet and poisonous, And in my hands fraternal slept your feet-- Night, like a film, flowed round and over us.

I can recall those happy days forgot, And see, with head bowed on your knees, my past.

Your languid beauties now would move me not Did not your gentle heart and body cast The old spell of those happy days forgot.

Can vows and perfumes, kisses infinite, Be reborn from the gulf we cannot sound; As rise to heaven suns once again made bright After being plunged in deep seas and profound?

Ah, vows and perfumes, kisses infinite!

THE SICK MUSE.

Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day?

Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, Upon thy brow in alternation play, Folly and Horror, cold and taciturn.

Have the green lemure and the goblin red, Poured on thee love and terror from their urn?

Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne?

Would that thy breast where so deep thoughts arise, Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs; Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave

In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave, When Phbus shared his alternating reign With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.

THE VENAL MUSE.