VI. Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue spots where the ink has run, Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? Here's one stuck in his chapter six ! VII. How did he like it when the live creatures And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface VIII. All that life, and fun, and romping, All that frisking, and twisting, and coupling, While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping, And clasps were cracking, and covers suppling! As if you had carried sour John Knox To the play-house at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. IX. Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self! Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, sufficit! See the snug niche I have made on my shelf: A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day! THE LABORATORY. [ANCIEN RÉGIME.] I. Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, II. He is with her; and they know that I know Where they are, what they do they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here. III. Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, IV. That in the mortar-you call it a gum? Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, Sure to taste sweetly-is that poison too? V. Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, VI. Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give, VII. Quick-is it finished? The colour's too grim VIII. What a drop! She's not little, no minion like meThat's why she ensnared him: this never will free The soul from those strong, great eyes-say, "No!" To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. IX. For only last night, as they whispered, I brought fall Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all! X. Not that I bid you spare her the pain! XI. Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose, XII. Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, Ere I know it-next moment I dance at the King's! THE CONFESSIONAL. [SPAIN.] I. It is a lie their priests, their pope, Their saints, their . . . all they fear or hope II. You think priests just and holy men ! With flesh and blood like one of you, III. I had a lover-shame avaunt! This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt, Was kissed all over till it burned, By lips the truest, love e'er turned His heart's own tint: one night they kissed My soul out in a burning mist. |