The crown to ocean cast, That Schiller showed to us, Still under sea caught fast, Beams clear and luminous. A magic in that gaze Draws me, mad venturer! Thus mermaid's magic ways Drew Harold Haarfager. And all my soul unquelled Adown the gulf betrayed Dives, to the quest impelled Of some elusive shade. The siren fitfully Displays her body's gleam, Her breast and arms that ply Through waves of amorous dream. The water heaves and falls, Like breasts with passion's breath. The breeze insistent calls To me, and murmureth: _"Come to my pearly bed! My ocean arms shall slip About thee: salt shall spread To honey on thy lip!_ _Oh, let the billows link Above us! Thou shalt, warm, From cup of kisses drink Oblivion of the storm!"_ Thus sighs the glance that sweeps From out those sea-blue gates, Till heart down treacherous deeps The hymen consummates. THE TOREADOR'S SERENADE RONDALLA Child with airs imperial, Dove with falcon's eyes for me Whom thou hatest,--come I shall Underneath thy balcony! There, my foot upon the stone, I shall twang my chords with grace, Till thy window-pane hath shone With thy lamplight and thy face. Let no lad with his guitar Strum adown the bordering ways. Mine the road to watch and bar, Mine alone to sing thy praise. Let the first my courage brave. He shall lose his ears, egad! Who shall howl his love and rave In a couplet good or bad. Restless doth my dagger lie. Come! who'll venture its rebuff? Who would wear for every sigh Blood's red flower upon his ruff? Blood grows weary of its veins; For it yearns to be displayed. Night is ominous with rains. Haste, ye cowards, back to shade! On, thou braggart, else aroint! Well thy forearm cover thou. On! and with my dagger's point Let me write upon thy brow. Let them come, alone, in mass: Firm of foot I bide my place. For thy glory, as they pass, Would I slit each paltry face. O'er the gutter ere thy clear, Snowy feet shall be defiled, By the Rood! a bridge I'll rear With the bones of gallants wild. I would slay, thy love to wear, Any foe, yea, even proud Satan's very self to dare, So thy sheets became my shroud. Sightless window, deafened door! Wilt thou never heed my sounds? Like a wounded bull I roar, Maddening the baying hounds. Drive at least a poor nail then, Where my heart may hang inert. For I want it not again, With its madness and its hurt! NOSTALGIA OF THE OBELISKS THE OBELISK IN PARIS Distant from my native land, Ever dull with ennui's pain, Lonely monolith I stand, In the snow and frost and rain. And my shaft, once burnt to red In a flaming heaven's glare, Taketh on a pallor dead In this never azure air. Oh, to stand again before Luxor's pylons, and the dear, Grim Colossi!--be once more My vermilion brother near! Oh, to pierce the changeless blue, Where of old my peak upwon, With my shadow sharp and true Trace the footsteps of the sun!