Who could help but look with gladness On such beauty? though within, Deep within the beryl sadness Of those eyes, the serpent sin Coil?--When she hath placed her cheek Chilly upon his, and weak, With love longing and its madness, Is his will grown, then she'll speak: "Dost thou love me?"--"If surrender Is to love thee, then I love."-- "Hast no fear then?"--"In the splendor Of thy gaze who knows thereof? Yet I fear--I fear to lose Thee, thy love!"--"And thou dost choose Aye to be my heart's defender?"-- "Take me. I am thine to use." "Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly Home I give thee."--With fixed eyes, To the water's edge she slowly Drew him.... And he did surmise 'Twas her lips on his, until O'er his face the foam closed chill, Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy Rippled, rippled and was still. At Nineveh Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews. There was a princess once, who loved the slave Of an Assyrian king, her father; known At Nineveh as Hadria; o'er whose grave The sands of centuries have long been blown; Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars Than love her story:--How, unto his throne, One day she came, where, with his warriors, The king sat in the hall of audience, 'Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars, And, kneeling to him, asked, "O father, whence Comes love and why?"--He, smiling on her, said,-- "O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence Divine, is only soul-interpreted. But why love is, ah, child, we do not know, Unless 'tis love that gives us life when dead."-- And then his daughter, with a face aglow With all the love that clamored in her blood Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow, And, like Aurora's rose, before him stood, Saying,--"Since love is of the powers above, I love a slave, O Asshur! Let the good The gods have giv'n be sanctioned. Speak not of Dishonor and our line's ancestral dead! They are imperial dust. I live and love."-- Black as black storm then rose the king and said,-- A lightning gesture at her standing there,-- "Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!" And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form As some young god's. He, gathering up her hair, Wound it three times around his sinewy arm. Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone A semicircling light, and, dripping warm, Lifting the head he stood before the throne. Then cried the despot, "By the horn of Bel! This was no child of mine!"--Like chiselled stone Still stood the slave, a son of Israel. Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell, Shrieked, "Lust! I loved her! look on us and die!" Swifter than fire clove him to the brain. Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high,