Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/47

Rh And guide her trembling at the thunder's roar Safe through the darkness to her lover's door. In vain the wine-cup, as it circles by, Lisps in her tongue and sparkles in her eye, Long locks are streaming, and the cheek glows red, But all is mockery, Love—dear Love—is dead. The, sweet spirit, shall lament for thee. Late, dim, and joyless shall his rising be, — Days shall fly on, and he forget to take His full bright glory, mourning for thy sake. Say,, say, whose arrow now shall be The soft green shoot of thy dear Mango tree. The favourite spray which Köils love so well, And praise in sweetest strain its wondrous spell? This line of bees which strings thy useless bow Hums mournful echo to my cries of woe; Come in thy lovely shape and teach again The Köil's mate, that knows the tender strain. Her gentle task to waft to longing ears The lover's hope, the distant lover's fears. Come, bring once more that ecstasy of bliss. The fond dear look, the smile, and ah! that kiss! Fainting with woe, my soul refuses rest When memory pictures how I have been blest. See, thou didst weave a garland, love, to deck With all Spring's fairest buds thy neck; Sweet are those flowers as they were culled to-day, And is my form more frail than they? His pleasant task my lover had begun. But stern Gods took him ere the work was done; Return, my, at thy cry, One foot 's untinted with the rosy dye.