Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/The New Persephone
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THE NEW PERSEPHONE.
"The Devil is dead; he died resigned—"
—Owen Meredith.
—Owen Meredith.
'THE Devil is dead," the bard hath said,
"And a woman now reigns in Hell,"
And her throne is builded on broken hearts;
And her robe is decked with the poisoned darts
That have done her work too well—too well.
"And a woman now reigns in Hell,"
And her throne is builded on broken hearts;
And her robe is decked with the poisoned darts
That have done her work too well—too well.
Her brow is as chaste as the starry waste
Of the heaven when night is young;
And her bosom's white is as pure as snow
When the sleety winds have ceased to blow,
And the wintry trees with frost are hung.
Of the heaven when night is young;
And her bosom's white is as pure as snow
When the sleety winds have ceased to blow,
And the wintry trees with frost are hung.
"A very queen!" you'd say, I ween;
But a wanton she is, at best,
Without the passion that prompts to sin;
But with the devilish power to win
From man the love that should make him blest.
But a wanton she is, at best,
Without the passion that prompts to sin;
But with the devilish power to win
From man the love that should make him blest.
Ah! strange it seems; but in my dreams—
'Twas, perhaps, in the days of old—
I have seen that face with its cold, proud eyes,
And the marble brow, and the cheeks' faint dyes,
And the brown hair backward rolled.
'Twas, perhaps, in the days of old—
I have seen that face with its cold, proud eyes,
And the marble brow, and the cheeks' faint dyes,
And the brown hair backward rolled.
Let the Devil sleep; let his demons weep
And wail o'er his senseless clay;
For that woman shall sit on the throne of Hell—
Oh! she'll manage its politics well—right well—
But the maggot, Remorse, will have his pay!
And wail o'er his senseless clay;
For that woman shall sit on the throne of Hell—
Oh! she'll manage its politics well—right well—
But the maggot, Remorse, will have his pay!