Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/270

256 No twisted muscle, no contorted limb, No agony of flesh, have I yet drawn, That owed not its suggestion to some pang Of my pride crucified, my spirit racked, My entrails gnawed by the blind worm of hate, Engendered of oppression. That is past, But not forgotten; though to-night I please To yield to gentler influence, to own The strength of beauty and the power of joy, And welcome gracious phantasies that throng And hover over me in airy shapes. The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-night For mastery within me; ne’er before Have I been more the seer to whom God opes His cherub-guarded portals; ne’er before Have I been more the Spagnoletto, fired With noble wrath, with the consuming fever And fierce delight of vengeance. From this point I see her clearly—the auroral face A-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised; Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan, Whose wing-like movement stirs above her brow The fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heaven Around her breathed. He leads her midst the throng. So, they have gone ; but I will follow them, And watch them from afar. [Exit.