Thou with my soul's abysmal dreams be blended, Lady Macbeth, in crime superb and splendid, A dream of Æschylus flowered in cold eclipse Of Northern suns! Thou, Night, inspire my passion, Calm child of Angelo, coiling in strange fashion Thy large limbs moulded for a Titan's lips! L'IDÉAL. HYMN TO BEAUTY Be thou from Hell upsprung or Heaven descended, Beauty! thy look demoniac and divine Pours good and evil things confusedly blended, And therefore art thou likened unto wine. Thine eye with dawn is filled, with twilight dwindles, Like winds of night thou sprinklest perfumes mild; Thy kiss, that is a spell, the child's heart kindles, Thy mouth, a chalice, makes the man a child. Fallen from the stars or risen from gulfs of error, Fate dogs thy glamoured garments like a slave; With wanton hands thou scatterest joy and terror, And rulest over all, cold as the grave. Thou tramplest on the dead, scornful and cruel, Horror coils like an amulet round thine arms, Crime on thy superb bosom is a jewel That dances amorously among its charms. The dazzled moth that flies to thee, the candle, Shrivels and burns, blessing thy fatal flame; The lover that dies fawning o'er thy sandal Fondles his tomb and breathes the adored name. What if from Heaven or Hell thou com'st, immortal Beauty? O sphinx-like monster, since alone Thine eye, thy smile, thy hand opens the portal Of the Infinite I love and have not known. What if from God or Satan be the evangel? Thou my sole Queen! Witch of the velvet eyes! Since with thy fragrance, rhythm and light, O Angel! In a less hideous world time swiftlier flies. HYMNE À LA BEAUTÉ. EXOTIC FRAGRANCE When, with closed eyes in the warm autumn night, I breathe the fragrance of thy bosom bare, My dream unfurls a clime of loveliest air, Drenched in the fiery sun's unclouded light. An indolent island dowered with heaven's delight, Trees singular and fruits of savour rare, Men having sinewy frames robust and spare, And women whose clear eyes are wondrous bright. Led by thy fragrance to those shores I hail A charmed harbour thronged with mast and sail, Still wearied with the quivering sea's unrest; What time the scent of the green tamarinds That thrills the air and fills my swelling breast Blends with the mariners' song and the sea-winds. PARFUM EXOTIQUE. XXVIII SONNET In undulant robes with nacreous sheen impearled She walks as in some stately saraband; Or like lithe snakes by sacred charmers curled In cadence wreathing on the slender wand.