And the only answer I got in the Hall
Was a glance of repulse from the belle of the Ball,
With a little ruffle of passion;
Though I had a right to ask, I am sure,
Who sent that tiara for her coiffure,
And that latest corsage of fashion.
Not those the jewels I gave her to wear,
Not those the drops that hung from her ear;
And my fever burned like a thirst in Sahara,
When that osprey swung above the tiara,
And I knew no wind, nor water, nor ice
Might cool this hell in Paradise.
II
THE EPIGRAPHER
His head was like his lore—antique,
His face was thin and sallow-sick,
With god-like accent he could speak
Of Egypt's reeds or Babylon's brick
Or sheep-skin codes in Arabic.
To justify the ways divine,
He had travelled Southern Asia through—
Gezir down in Palestine,
Lagash, Ur and Eridu,
The banks of Nile and Tigris too.
And every occult Hebrew tale
He could expound with learned ease,
From Aaron's rod to Jonah's whale.
He had held the skull of Rameses—
The one who died from boils and fleas.
Could tell how—saving Israel's peace—
The mighty Gabriel of the Lord
Put sand within the axle-grease
Of Pharaoh's chariots; and his horde
O'erwhelmed with water, fire and sword.
And he had tried Behistun Rock,
That Persian peak, and nearly clomb it;
His head had suffered from the shock
Of somersaulting from its summit—
Nor had he quite recovered from it.
From that time onward to the end,
His mind had had a touch of gloom;
His hours with jars and coins he'd spend,
And ashes looted from a tomb,—
Within his spare and narrow room.