Double flutes and horns resound As they dance the idol round; Jacob's daughters, madly reeling, Whirl about the golden calf. Hear them laugh! Kettledrums and laughter pealing. Dresses tucked above their knees, Maids of noblest families, In the swift dance blindly wheeling, Circle in their wild career Round the steer,-- Kettledrums and laughter pealing. Aaron's self, the guardian grey Of the faith, at last gives way, Madness all his senses stealing; Prances in his high priest's coat Like a goat,-- Kettledrums and laughter pealing. THE AZRA. AFTER HEINE. Daily walked the fair and lovely Sultan's daughter in the twilight,-- In the twilight by the fountain, Where the sparkling waters plash. Daily stood the young slave silent In the twilight by the fountain, Where the plashing waters sparkle, Pale and paler every day. Once by twilight came the princess Up to him with rapid questions: "I would know thy name, thy nation, Whence thou comest, who thou art." And the young slave said, "My name is Mahomet, I come from Yemmen. I am of the sons of Azra, Men who perish if they love." GOOD AND BAD LUCK. AFTER HEINE. Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls, Long in one place she will not stay; Back from your brow she strokes the curls, Kisses you quick and flies away. But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes And stays,--no fancy has she for flitting,-- Snatches of true love-songs she hums, And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting. L'AMOUR DU MENSONGE. AFTER CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. When I behold thee, O my indolent love, To the sound of ringing brazen melodies, Through garish halls harmoniously move, Scattering a scornful light from languid eyes; When I see, smitten by the blazing lights, Thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glow As the faint fires that deck the Northern nights, And eyes that draw me wheresoe'er I go; I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech; A crown of memories, her calm brow above, Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach, Ripe as her body for intelligent love. Art thou late fruit of spicy savour and scent? A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers? An Eastern odour, waste and oasis blent? A silken cushion or a bank of flowers? I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen To which no passionate secrets e'er were given; Shrines where no god or saint has ever been, As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven. But what care I if this be all pretence? 'Twill serve a heart that seeks for truth no more. All one thy folly or indifference,-- Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore! AMOR MYSTICUS. FROM THE SPANISH OF SOR MARCELA DE CARPIO. Let them say to my Lover That here I lie! The thing of His pleasure, His slave am I.