"Yes, as thou offerest joy upon the shrine121
Of some bright good, all human joys above,
So does my heart its altar seek in thine,
Content to bleed:—Thee, not myself, I love!"
Sighing, she ceased; and yet still seem'd to sigh,
As doth the wave on which the zephyrs die.
Then, as she felt his tears upon her hand,122
Sorrow woke sorrow, and her face she bow'd:
As when the silver gates of heaven expand,
And on the earth descends the melting cloud,
So sunk the spirit from sublimer air,
And all the woman rush'd on her despair.
"To lose thee—oh, to lose thee! To live on123
And see the sun—not thee! Will the sun shine,
Will the birds sing, flowers bloom, when thou art gone?
Desolate, desolate! Thy right hand in mine,
Swear, by the Past, thou wilt return!—Oh, say,
Say it again!"——voice died in sobs away!
Mute look'd the Augur, with his deathful eyes,124
On the last anguish of their lock'd embrace.
"Priest," cried the lover, "canst thou deem this prize
Lost to my future?—No, though round the place
Yon Alps took life, with all the dire array
Of demon legions, Love would force the way.
"Hear me, adored one!" On the silent ear125
The promise fell, and o'er the unconscious frame
Wound the protecting arm.—"Since neither fear
Of the great Powers thou dost blaspheming name,
Nor the soft impulse native in man's heart
Restrains thee, doom'd one—hasten to depart.
"Come, in thy treason merciful at least,126
Come, while those eyes by pitying slumbers bound,
See not thy shadow pass from earth!"——The priest
Spoke,—and now call'd the infant handmaids round;
But o'er that form with arms that vainly cling,
And words that idly comfort, bends the King.
"Nay, nay, look up! It is these arms that fold;—127
I still am here;—this hand, these tears, are mine."
Then, when they sought to loose her from his hold,
He waived them back with a fierce jealous sign;
O'er her hush'd breath his listening ear he bow'd,
And the awed children round him wept aloud.
But when the soul broke faint from its eclipse,128
And his own name came, shaping life's first sigh,
His very heart seem'd breaking in the lips
Press'd to those faithful ones;—then tremblingly,
He rose;—he moved;—he paused;—his nerveless hand
Veil'd the dread agony of man unmann'd.
Thus, from the chamber, as an infant meek129
The priest's slight arm led forth the mighty King;
In vain wide air came fresh upon his cheek,
Passive he went in his great sorrowing;
Hate, the mute guide,—the waves of death, the goal;—
So, following Hermes, glides to Styx a soul.