Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/46

34 Sure woman's heart is stony—can it be That I still live while this is all of thee? Where art thou, could my dearest leave His own fond here alone to grieve? So must the sad forsaken Lotus die When her bright river leaves his channel dry.

, dear, call again to mind How thou wast ever gentle, I was kind— Let not my prayer, thy prayer, be vain, Come as of old, and bless these eyes again! Wilt thou not hear me?—think of those sweet hours When I would bind thee with my zone of flowers. Those soft gay fetters o'er thee fondly wreathing, Thine only punishment when gently breathing In tones of love thy heedless sigh betrayed The name, dear traitor! of some rival maid; Then would I pluck a flowret from my tress And beat thee till I forced thee to confess, While in my play the falling leaves would cover The eyes—the bright eyes—of my captive lover. And then those words that made me, oh, so blest — "Dear love, thy home is in my faithful breast!" Alas, sweet words, too blissful to be true, Or how couldst thou have died, nor perish too?

Yes, I will fly to thee, of thee bereft. And leave this world which thou, my life, hast left— Cold, gloomy, now this wretched world must be. For all its pleasures came from only thee. When night has veiled the city in its shade Thou, only thou, canst soothe the wandering maid,