Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/538

The life from their hearts in its richness was pressed

To secure this ambrosia divine.

'Tis as full of delight as the grapes were of juice,

Like their amethyst bloom is its hue;

It has drank from the sunlight its glory profuse,

It has drank from the roses their dew.

And yet it has stol'n all the gloom of the night,

And of Dian's sad eyes, o'er the hill

As they beam in their beauty forlornly yet bright,

And the mists in the valley grow chill.

In goblets of Juno's white lilies so sweet

It is served by the Gods to the few

Who can drink the top sparkles most bright and most fleet.

And still drink till the dregs are in view.

The ethereal bliss flowing; fast through each vein

The aromas of earth yielded up,

But the fire rising fast to the agonized brain

By Prometheus was mixed in the cup.

Who can bear the sweet anguish of Heaven's pure fire?

Who will drug his own soul with despair?—

The roses whose odors wake endless desire,

The poppies of dreams, who can bear?

If he seeks but the bliss that perfumeth the top,

If he seeks but its sweetness divine.

Let him leave it, for anguish and joy, drop for drop,

Are expressed in this exquisite wine.

The lips that have thrilled at the goblet flow fast

With a madness they cannot forbear :

The gods what they will of the future and past

Through these oracles boldly declare.

The chill of the caves where it cooled, and the glow

Of the hills where it grew, mingle up—

Who can bear, like a god, both its raptures and woe,

He shall quaff from the mystical cup.

THE TWO PICTURES.

A painter painted a picture for me,
 I know not whether with color or words,
Whether on canvas or air it might be—
 Whether I saw the vision or heard.
A picture it was, both wide and high.
 Nine-tenths of the world had a place therein:
The light was all in the rifted sky—
 Beneath, were the shadows of Want and Sin.

I saw — ah I what did I not see there
 That would sadden the soul to feel and know?
All bodily anguish and heart despair—
 And, far the worst, was the Spirit's woe:—
The baby who pined for milk and bread—
 The mother who watched it with tearless eyes—
The father who plotted first crimes in his head—
 The sister who fell when she thought to rise:

The laborer eating his mouldy crust
 In many a strange and dreary place.
Now by the roadside, crouched in the dust,
 Now in the mine, with a hueless face:
The widow dead at her daily work.
 With none to see but her wailing child—