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282

THE PHANTOM-WOOER.

THE PHANTOM-WOOER.

A GHOST that loved a lady fair
Ever in the starry air

Of midnight at her pillow stood;
And with a sweetness skies above
The luring words of human love
Her soul the phantom wooed.

Sweet and sweet is their poison'd note,
The little snakes of silver throat
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "Die, oh! die."

Young soul, put off your flesh, and come
With me into the silent tomb!

Our bed is lovely, dark, and sweet;
The earth will swing us, as she goes
Beneath our coverlid of snows,
And the warm leaden sheet.

Dear and dear is their poison'd note,
The little snakes of silver throat
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "Die, oh! die."

T. L. Beddoes.

THE CARD-DEALER.

283

THE CARD-DEALER.

COULD you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet though its splendour swoon
Into the silence languidly

As a tune into a tune,

Those eyes unravel the coiled night
And know the stars at noon.

The gold that's heaped beside her hand,

In truth rich prize it were;

And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows
With magic stillness there;

And he were rich that should unwind

That woven golden hair.

Around her, where she sits, the dance
Now breathes its eager heat;
And not more lightly or more true
Fall there the dancer's feet

Than fall her cards on the bright board
As 'twere an heart that beat.

Her fingers let them softly through,
Smooth polished silent things;

And each one as it falls reflects
In swift light-shadowings,
Blood-red and purple, green and blue,
The great eyes of her rings.

284

THE CARD-DEALER.

Whom plays she with? With thee, who lov'st
Those gems upon her hand;

With me, who search her secret brows;
With all men, bless'd or bann'd.
We play together, she and we,
Within a vain strange land:

A land without any order,

Day even as night, (one saith,)—
Where who lieth down ariseth not
Nor the sleeper awakeneth;
A land of darkness as darkness itself,
And of the shadow of death.

What be her cards, you ask? Even these:-
The heart that doth but crave

More, having fed; the diamond

Skilled to make base seem brave;
The club, for smiting in the dark;
The spade, to dig a grave.

And do you ask what game she plays!
With me 'tis lost or won;

With thee it is playing still; with him

It is not well begun;

But 'tis a game she plays with all

Beneath the sway o' the sun.

Thou seest the card that falls,-she knows

The card that followeth:

Her game in thy tongue is called Life,

As ebbs thy daily breath:

When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue

And know she calls it Death.

D. G. Rossetti.

YOUTH AND AGE.

285

YOUTH AND AGE

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!

When I was young?-Ah, woful when!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
How lightly then it flash'd along:
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!

286

YOUTH AND AGE.

O Youth! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known that Thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:

-That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudely be dismisst,
Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

S. T. Coleridge.

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