HER step is soft as a fay's footfall,
And her eyes are wonderful founts of blue;
But I've seen that small foot spurning hearts,
And the soul that burns so strangely through
Those orbs of blue,
O! is't a human soul at all?
I never have gazed on their cloudless light,
But there came a chill to my blood and brain,
And their ominous beauty hath struck me dumb
With a secret and nameless pain:
Ay, blood and brain
Grew cold as with spells of a witch's blight.
Is't true? Call it be that a mortal frame
Of the tenderest mould, of the fairest grace,
May hold but a serpent's soul in sooth?
That the white and red of the daintiest face
May mask the trace
Of subtle guile, that shall wake to flame
And smite with the sting of a poisoned jest,
Or the sudden flashing of deadly scorn,
If it be, I know that your Charmian there,
In her fragile grace, is a Lamia, born
To blight the morn
Of the passion that clings to her faithless breast!
Why, look! As we speak, she has turned her wiles
On the gilded wooer her eyes had sought,
While you were steeped in the roseate gulf
Of a sweet, voluptuous thought:
Some loves are bought,
And you'll yearn in vain for her 'wildering smiles.
From this night forth, until placid and meek,
(Oh! meek as a saint, as an angel bland!)
With a faint rose flushing her brow and cheek,
She whispers, "Adieu! I must give my hand,
At the heart's command.
Win a worthier love; you hare only to seek!"
