Was this the same enchanted air I breathed one little hour ago? Did all these purple roses blow But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair? Was it _this_ eve that some one said "Come out into the garden, Maud?" And while the sleepy birds o'erhead Chirped out to know who walked abroad, Did _we_ admire the plumey flowers On the wide-branched catalpa trees, And locusts, scenting all the breeze; And call the balm-trees our bird-towers? Did _we_ recall the "black bat Night," That flew before young Maud walked forth-- And say this Night's wings were too bright For bats'--being feathered, from its birth, Like butterflies' with powdered gold: Still talking on, from gay to grave, And trembling lest some sudden wave Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold, Should sweep the barriers of reserve, And whelm us in tumultuous floods Of unknown power? What did unnerve Our frames, as if we walked with gods? Unless they, meaning to destroy, Had made us mad with a false heaven, Or drunk with wine and honey given Only for immortals to enjoy. Alas, I only knew that late I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere; That now I felt the web of fate Close round me, with a mortal fear. If only once the gods invite To banquets that are crowned with roses; After which the celestial closes Are barred to us; if in despite Of such high favor, arrogant We blindly choose to bide our time, Rejecting Heaven's--and ignorant What we have spurned, attempt to climb To heavenly places at our will-- Finding no path thereto but one, Nemesis-guarded, where atone To heaven, all such as hopeful still, Press toward the mount,--yet find it strewn With corses, perished by the way, Of those who Fate did importune Too rashly, or her will gainsay. If _I_ have been thrust out from heaven, This night, for insolent disdain, Of putting a young god in pain, How shall I hope to be forgiven? Yet let me not be judged as one Who mocks at any high behest; My fault being that I kept the throne Of a JOVE vacant in my breast, And when APOLLO claimed the place I was too loyal to my Jove; Unmindful how the masks of love Transfigure all things to our face. Ah, well! if I have lost to fate The greatest boon that heaven disposes; And closed upon myself the gate To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses, On this intoxicating air, The witching influence of the moon, The poet's rhymes that went in tune To the night's voices low and rare; To all, that goes to make such hours Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy, With contrary fate-compelling power, The intended bliss;--'_twas June, not I_. LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.