THE STORY OF BOON.
223
An angel; now, with no less awe,
But greater joy, I see thou art
A woman,"
Ah, they know not heart
Of man or woman, who declare
That love needs time to love and dare.
His altars wait,—not day nor name,
Only the touch of sacred flame.
But greater joy, I see thou art
A woman,"
Ah, they know not heart
Of man or woman, who declare
That love needs time to love and dare.
His altars wait,—not day nor name,
Only the touch of sacred flame.
The song, the dance, the play were done.
Oh, fatal triumph Choy had won!
Oh, hateful life she thought was sweet!
She knelt before the old king's feet,
A slave, a toy, a purchased thing,
Which to his worn-out sense might bring
Pleasure again of touch, of sight.
Doting, he named her "Chorm," "Delight,"
Decked her with jewels, gave her power,
And day and night, and hour by hour,
With hideous caresses sought
Joy in the thing which he had bought.
And hour by hour, and night and day,
Wasted poor Choy's young life away.
One thrilling voice, one glowing face,
One thought of such a love's embrace,
Haunted her thoughts, and racked her breast,
Robbed her of peace, robbed her of rest,
Made of her life such living lie,
Such torture, she but prayed to die.
Oh, fatal triumph Choy had won!
Oh, hateful life she thought was sweet!
She knelt before the old king's feet,
A slave, a toy, a purchased thing,
Which to his worn-out sense might bring
Pleasure again of touch, of sight.
Doting, he named her "Chorm," "Delight,"
Decked her with jewels, gave her power,
And day and night, and hour by hour,
With hideous caresses sought
Joy in the thing which he had bought.
And hour by hour, and night and day,
Wasted poor Choy's young life away.
One thrilling voice, one glowing face,
One thought of such a love's embrace,
Haunted her thoughts, and racked her breast,
Robbed her of peace, robbed her of rest,
Made of her life such living lie,
Such torture, she but prayed to die.
Months passed, and she knew not the name
Of him she loved. At last there came
Of him she loved. At last there came
