Page:The New Penelope.djvu/287

Rh How shall I hope to be forgiven?

Yet let me not be judged as one

Who mocks at any high behest;

My fault being that I kept the throne

Of a vacant in my breast,

And when claimed the place

I was too loyal to my Jove;

Unmindful how the masks of love

Transfigure all things to our face.

Ah, well! if I have lost to fate

The greatest boon that heaven disposes;

And closed upon myself the gate

To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses,

On this intoxicating air,

The witching influence of the moon,

The poet's rhymes that went in tune

To the night's voices low and rare;

To all, that goes to make such hours

Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy,

With contrary fate-compelling power,

The intended bliss;—&apos;twas June, not I.

LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.

Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless—

With less of radiance than the burnished tress,

Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold,

Kneaded together with the common mold!

Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges

Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;

Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast

From man's desire and quest—

Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery

That shrines thy history!