II.
A Supper of Madame de Brinvilliers.
Small but gorgeous was the chamber
Where the lady leant;
Heliotrope, and musk, and amber,
Made an element,
Heavy like a storm, but sweet.
Softly stole the light uncertain
Through the silken fold
Of the sweeping purple curtain;
And enwrought in gold
Was the cushion at her feet.
There he knelt to gaze on her—
He, the latest worshipper.
From the table came the lustre
Of its fruit and flowers;
There were grapes, each shining cluster
Bright with sunny hours,—
Noon and night were on their hues.
There the purple fig lay hidden
Mid its wide green leaves;
And the rose, sweet guest, was bidden,
While its breath receives
Freshness from the unshed dews.
Nothing marks the youth of these—
One bright face is all he sees.
With such colours as are dying
On a sunset sky;
With such odours as are sighing,
When the violets die,
Are the rich Italian wines.
Dark and bright they glow together,
In each graceful flask,
Telling of the summer weather,
And the autumn task,
When young maidens stripped the vines.
One small flask of cold pale green,
Only one, he has not seen.
When She woke the heart that slumber'd
In a poet's dream,
Few the summers he had number'd,
Little did he deem
Of such passion and such power;
When there hangs a life's emotion
On a word—a breath—
Like the storm upon the ocean,
Bearing doom and death.
Youth has only one such hour;
And its shadow now is cast
Over him who looks his last.
