Page:The New Penelope.djvu/286

280 Like butterflies' with powdered gold:

Still talking on, from gay to grave,

And trembling lest some sudden wave

Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold,

Should sweep the barriers of reserve,

And whelm us in tumultuous floods

Of unknown power? What did unnerve

Our frames, as if we walked with gods?

Unless they, meaning to destroy,

Had made us mad with a false heaven,

Or drunk with wine and honey given

Only for immortals to enjoy.

Alas, I only knew that late

I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere;

That now I felt the web of fate

Close round me, with a mortal fear.

If only once the gods invite

To banquets that are crowned with roses;

After which the celestial closes

Are barred to us; if in despite

Of such high favor, arrogant

We blindly choose to bide our time,

Rejecting Heaven's—and ignorant

What we have spurned, attempt to climb

To heavenly places at our will—

Finding no path thereto but one,

Nemesis-guarded, where atone

To heaven, all such as hopeful still,

Press toward the mount,—yet find it strewn

With corses, perished by the way,

Of those who Fate did importune

Too rashly, or her will gainsay.

If I have been thrust out from heaven,

This night, for insolent disdain,

Of putting a young god in pain,