LVI.

"The light white cloud swam over us. Anon
We heard the lion roaring in his den;

We saw the large white stars rise one by one,
Or, from the darkened glen,

LVII.

"Saw God divide the night with flying flame,
And thunder on the everlasting hills.

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became
A solemn scorn of ills.

LVIII.

"When the next moon was rolled into the sky, Strength came to me that equalled my desire.

How beautiful a thing it was to die

For God and for my sire!

LIX.

"It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,

That I subdued me to my father's will;

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,

Sweetens the spirit still.

LX.

"Moreover, it is written that my race

Hewed Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face Glowed, as I looked at her.

LXI.

She locked her lips: she left me where I stood:
"Glory to God," she sang, and past afar,
Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood,
Toward the morning-star.

LXII.

Losing her carol I stood pensively,

As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead.

"Alas! alas! 99

LXIII.

a low voice, full of care, Murmured beside me ; "Turn and look on me:

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair,

If what I was I be.

LXIV.

"Would I had been some maiden coarse and

O me! that I should ever see the light!

Those dragon eyes of angered Eleanor

Do hunt me, day and night."

poor!

LXV.

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust:

To whom the Egyptian: "O, you tamely died! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust The dagger through her side."

LXVI.

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,
Stolen to my brain, dissolved the mystery

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams
Ruled in the eastern sky.

LXVII.

Morn broadened on the borders of the dark,
Ere I saw her who clasped in her last trance
Her murdered father's head, or Joan of Arc,
A light of ancient France;

LXVIII.

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring.

LXIX.

No memory labors longer from the deep

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

LXX.

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compassed, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again!

But no two dreams are like.

LXXI.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,

Desiring what is mingled with past years,

In yearnings that can never be exprest

By signs or groans or tears;

LXXII.

Because all words, though culled with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet,

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart