Then dash the brimming cup aside, And spill its purple wine; Take not its madness to thy lip-- Let not its curse be thine. 'T is red and rich but grief and woe Are in those rosy depths below. N. P. Willis. CLXVIII. THE LEPER. Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, Like an articulate wail; and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:-- "Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God! For He has smote thee with His chastening rod, And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. "Depart! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er. And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. "Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink. "And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.