He added that when frost sets in 'Tis needful that the blood Be warmed with flannels; one should have, Moreover, wholesome food. SOLOMON. Dumb are the trumpets, cymbals, drums and shawms to-night, The angel shapes engirdled with the sword, About the royal tent keep watch and ward, Six thousand to the left, six thousand to the right. They guard the king from evil dreams, from death. Behold! a frown across his brow they view. Then all at once, like glimmering flames steel-blue, Twelve thousand brandished swords leap from the sheath. But back into their scabbards drop the swords Of the angelic host; the midnight pain Hath vanished, the king's brow is smooth again; And hark! the royal sleeper's murmured words: "O Shulamite, the lord of all these lands am I, This empire is the heritage I bring, For I am Judah's king and Israel's king; But if thou love me not, I languish and I die." MORPHINE. Marked is the likeness 'twixt the beautiful And youthful brothers, albeit one appear Far paler than the other, more serene; Yea, I might almost say, far comelier Than his dear brother, who so lovingly Embraced me in his arms. How tender, soft Seemed then his smile, and how divine his glance! No wonder that the wreath of poppy-flowers About his head brought comfort to my brow, And with its mystic fragrance soothed all pain From out my soul. But such delicious balm A little while could last. I can be cured Completely only when that other youth, The grave, pale brother, drops at last his torch. Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born. SONG. Oft in galleries of art Thou hast seen a knight perchance, Eager for the wars to start, Well-equipped with shield and lance. Him the frolic loves have found, Robbed him of his sword and spear, And with chains of flowers have bound Their unwilling chevalier. Held by such sweet hindrances, Wreathed with bliss and pain, I stay, While my comrades in the press Wage the battle of the day. SONG. Night lay upon my eyelids, About my lips earth clave; With stony heart and forehead I lay within my grave. How long I cannot reckon, I slept in that strait bed; I woke and heard distinctly A knocking overhead. "Wilt thou not rise, my Henry? The eternal dawn is here; The dead have re-arisen, Immortal bliss is near." "I cannot rise, my darling, I am blinded to the day. Mine eyes with tears, thou knowest, Have wept themselves away." "Oh, I will kiss them, Henry, Kiss from thine eyes the night. Thou shalt behold the angels And the celestial light." "I cannot rise, my darling, My blood is still outpoured Where thou didst wound my heart once With sharp and cruel word."