Collected Works (Vol. II)

18 ORACLES Ill. Jesus ! recall Gethsemane afresh, Where thy simplicity his pity sought Who in his heaven heard, and mocked for nought, Coarse hangmen pierce with nails thy living flesh. IV. When on thy godhead spat the virulence Of scum of soldiery and kitchen-knaves ; When thou didst’ feel the thorns pierce bloody graves Within thy brain where Manhood burnt in- tense ; Vv. When thy bruised broken body’s horrid weight Racked thy stretched arms, that sweat and blood enow Coursed down the marble paleness of thy brow, Lift up on high, a butt for all men’s hate :— Vi. Dreamedst thou then of those triumphant hours When, that the eternal promise might abide, Thy steed a mild she-ass, thou once didst ride On roads o’erstrewn with branches and fresh flowers; Vil. When, thy heart beating high with hope and pride, Thou didst whip out those merchants vile with force, At last the master? Did not keen remorse Bite thy soul ere the spear had pierced thy side ? VII. I, certes, I shall gladly quit this hell Where dream and action walk not hand- in-hand ! May I use the brand and perish by the brand ! Saint Peter denied Jesus. He did well. GLOIRE ET LOUANGE, GLoRY and praise to thee, O Satan, in the height Of Heaven, where thou didst rule, and in the night Of Hell, where conquered, dost dream silently ! Grant that one day my soul ’neath Know- ledge-Tree Rest near thine own soul, when from thy forehead Like a new temple all its branches spread. THE FOUNT OF BI.OOD. SOMETIMES-I think my blood in waves ap- pears, Springs as a fount with music in its tears ; I hear it trickling with long murmuring sound, But search myself in vain to find the wound. Across the city, as in closéd meres, Making the pavements isles, it disappears ; In it all creatures’ thirst relief hath found ; All nature in its scarlet hue is drowned. I have often prayed these fickle wines to weep For one day Lethe on my threatening fear— Wine makes the ear more sharp, the eye more clear. I have sought in Love forgetfulness- and sleep— My love’s a bed of needles made to pierce, That drink be given to these women fierce ! LA BEATRICE. AS I one day to nature made lament In burnt-up lands, calcined of nutriment, Asin my musing thought’s vague random dart I slowly poised my dagger o’er my heart, I saw in full noon o’er my forehead form A deathly cloud far pregnant with the storm, That bore a flock of devils vicious Most like to dwarfs cruel and curious.