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Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded
The road to death as to a festival;
And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded
With banner-folds of glory the dark pall.

Who will believe? Not I—for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life’s delightful dream;
I cannot spare the luxury of believing
That all things beautiful are what they seem;

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would, like the Patriarch’s, soothe a dying hour,
With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing,
As e’er won maiden’s lip in moonlit bower:

With look like patient Job’s eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird’s in air;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e’er clinched fingers in a captive’s hair!

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain,
Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree;
And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o’-mountain
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee!

And underneath that face, like summer ocean’s,
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart’s emotions,
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow—all save fear: