The ocean; all around the child await Some exclamation of amazement here: She coldly said, her long-lashed eyes abased, ‘Is this the mighty ocean? is this all!’ That wondrous soul Charoba once possessed, Capacious then as earth or heaven could hold, Soul discontented with capacity, Is gone, I fear, for ever. Need I say She was enchanted by the wicked spells Of Gebir, whom with lust of power inflamed The western winds have landed on our coast? I since have watched her in each lone retreat, Have heard her sigh and soften out the name, Then would she change it for Egyptian sounds More sweet, and seem to taste them on her lips, Then loathe them—Gebir, Gebir still returned. Who would repine, of reason not bereft! For soon the sunny stream of youth runs down, And not a gadfly streaks the lake beyond. Lone in the gardens, on her gathered vest How gently would her languid arm recline! How often have I seen her kiss a flower, And on cool mosses press her glowing cheek! Nor was the stranger free from pangs himself. Whether by spell imperfect, or while brewed The swelling herbs infected him with foam, Oft have the shepherds met him wandering Through unfrequented paths, oft overheard Deep groans, oft started from soliloquies Which they believe assuredly were meant For spirits who attended him unseen. But when from his illuded eyes retired That figure Fancy fondly chose to raise, He clasped the vacant air and stood and gazed; Then owning it was folly, strange to tell, Burst into peals of laughter at his woes. Next, when his passion had subsided, went Where from a cistern, green and ruined, oozed A little rill, soon lost; there gathered he Violets, and harebells of a sister bloom, Twining complacently their tender stems With plants of kindest pliability. These for a garland woven, for a crown He platted pithy rushes, and ere dusk The grass was whitened with their roots nipped off. These threw he, finished, in the little rill And stood surveying them with steady smile: But such a smile as that of Gebir bids To Comfort a defiance, to Despair A welcome, at whatever hour she please. Had I observed him I had pitied him; I have observed Charoba, I have asked If she loved Gebir. ‘Love him!’ she exclaimed With such a start of terror, such a flush Of anger, ‘I love Gebir? I in love?’ And looked so piteous, so impatient looked— And burst, before I answered, into tears. Then saw I, plainly saw I, ’twas not love; For such her natural temper, what she likes She speaks it out, or rather she commands. And could Charoba say with greater ease Bring me a water-melon from the Nile,’ Than, if she loved him, ‘Bring me him I love.’ Therefore the death of Gebir is resolved.” “Resolved indeed,” cried Myrthyr, nought surprised,