* * *
The fire is out, the dawn has come,
How chill the morning blows!
BALLADE OF DEAD FAVOURITES
IN Egypt where the strange kings lie
The queens of love are queens no more;
Old Rome has seen white Eros die;
Bright Eros wings from Hellas’ shore.
Lutetias’s amorists deplore
Her siren voices spent and dumb;
By Thames the light ones’ reign is o’er—
To what complexion have they come?
Salome’s dance is ended night,
With all the witcheries she bore;
Faustina’s laugh gives no reply
To Christian’s wail or lion’s roar.
Aspasia with charms ten score,
Phryne with sins a countless sum,
Poor specks of dust ’neath heaven’s floor—
To what complexion have they come?
Naught can Du Barry’s kisses buy.
The golden-lilied Pompadour
Can shake no kingdom with a sigh,
For all the vows her lovers swore.
These ate kings’ bread in days of yore;
To-day they crave not bite nor crumb,
With frolic Nell and Mistress Shore—
To what complexion have they come?
L’Envoi
LADIES, of frail degree and high,
When Mors turns down a callous thumb,
Sans charm, sans bloom, sans lustrous eye—
To this complexion must ye come.
