"But, oh! thy face! paler it seemeth now Than icy marble; and the serpent writhes Its rustling coils and twists its livid length, Hissing, above thee, pouring eternal pain.-- Oh, could I kiss the lips o'er which he swings! The lips that once touched living flame to mine! At which sweet thought, as some sick flower of drought At dreams of dew, my lips with longing ache! --Oh, could I gaze once more into thine eyes Whose starry depths outstarred the midnight heavens! Or see them laugh as golden morning laughs, Leaving her steps in roses on the hills, The peaks that wall the world and pierce the clouds; The hills, where once we stood, among the pines, The melancholy pines that plume the crags, And rock and sing unto the still fiords Like gaunt wild-women lullabying their babes! Then could I die e'en as the mortals die, And smile in dying!--But the serpent baulks Each effort to behold, or on loved lips To ease the torture of my soul's desire. Thy face alone is comfort to my gaze, Like some dim moon silvering through night and mist. --Now from their lairs again the monsters creep; I feel their ghastly touches, and their eyes Draw steadily nearer, wandering will-o'-the-wisps; The serpent strives to fang me as he swings; And in the cup's caked gold the venom swims, Seethes upward horribly to the horrible edge." She ceased. And then, heard through the echoing night, The chained god spoke, tumultuous violence And rage in every word. His utterance seemed Large as the thunder when it, rolling, plants,-- Heavy with earthquake and impending ruin,-- Seismic feet on everlasting seas And mountains silent with eternal ice. His eyes in hideous labor; and his throat, Corded and gnarled with veins of boisterous blood, A crag of fury; and his foaming lips, A maelstrom of rebellious agony, Of thwarted rage and wild, arrested wrath. Fierce vaunter of loud hate, one mighty fist, Convulsed with clenchment, in its gyve of ore, Headlong for battle-launching, at the gods Clutched mad defiance, madder blasphemy; Yet all unhurled and vain as mists of morn, Or foam, wind-wasted on the sterile sands Of rainy seas, when Ran, from whistling caves, Watching the tempest-driven dragon wreck, Already in her miser fingers feels The viking gold that has not yet gone down. Then all the cave again is dumb with night. He sees the spotted serpent writhe above; He sees the poison streaming towards his eyes. And now her cup is brimmed; but one more drop Will float the filth gray o'er the venomed edge. Into the river slowly flowing by Swiftly she pours the vitriol torture: scarce A tithe of time it takes, but in that time The reptile's vomit slimes his helpless face, Burns to the bone.... All his fierce muscles twist,