“The Last Token.”
A. D. 107.
(She speaks.)
One minute more of life! Enough to snatch
This flower to my bosom, and to catch
The parting glance and signal overhead
From one who sits and waits to see me dead.
One minute more! Enough to let him see
How straight the message fell from him to me,
And how, his talisman upon my breast,
I’ll face the end as calmly as the rest.—
Th’ impassive wall of faces seems to break
And shew one face aquiver for my sake * * *
How different death seems, with a hand that throws
Across the pathway of my doom a rose,
How brief and paltry life, compared to this
O’ertoppling moment of supremest bliss! * * *
Farewell! I feel the lions’ hungry breath,
I meet your eyes * * * beloved, this is death.
1878.
Raffaelle to the Fornarina.
(Sitting to him for a Madonna.)
Knot up the filmy strands of golden hair
That veil your breast, yet leave its beauties bare;
In decent ripples backward let it flow,
Smooth-parted sideways from your placid brow.
Unclasp the clinging necklace from your throat,
And let this misty veil about you float,
As round the seraphs of my visions swim
Faint, roseate clouds to make their radiance dim
And bearable to dazzled human eyes,
Uplifted in a rapture of surprise.
Lay off your armlets now, and cover up
With dark blue folds that shoulder’s dimpled slope;
Let naught appear to woo the grosser sense,
But ruling calm, and sacred innocence;
Subdue the pointed twinkle of your eye
Into a level, large serenity,
(Now comes the test) and let your mouth awhile
Be pressed into a faint, ascetic smile,
A pure reflection of the inward thought,
A chastened glow from fires celestial caught.
1878.
Chriemhild of Burgundy.
A Fragment.
In all the land was not a maid
Could match her beauty white and red;
No decent veil she need to wear,
Deep-mantled in her royal hair,
Dun ripples, shot all through and through
With fiery gold; her eyes were blue
And clearer than a Summer wave
That murmurs in some sunless cave,
And over them her brow shone white,
Like the first low star that pricks the night,
And under them her mouth did redden,
Like ripe red clover, honey-laden;
But white as pear-bloom was her chin,
An elvish dimple played therein;
Her breast stirred softly up and down
Beneath the folding of her gown
As if a bird were prisoned there
That fluttered for the outer air,
And round and comely was each limb,
As doth a royal maid beseem.
1878.