. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. well. With a ghastly smile he snatched it,And then his right hand felt THE PORTRAIT CLASPED IN SILVER. 195 For a poniards handle, which he pluckedFrom out of his rivals belt. But the scornful eyes of the otherHeeded nor weapon nor clasp, As his naked fingers grappled That throat in their deadly grasp ! The white-faced moon looked outFrom the riven clouds of night. And beheld the two men totteringOn the brink of a dizzy height. The fair mans fingers tightened,Till the dark eyes started wide ; But the dark man drove his poniardHome in the fair mans
. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. well. With a ghastly smile he snatched it,And then his right hand felt THE PORTRAIT CLASPED IN SILVER. 195 For a poniards handle, which he pluckedFrom out of his rivals belt. But the scornful eyes of the otherHeeded nor weapon nor clasp, As his naked fingers grappled That throat in their deadly grasp ! The white-faced moon looked outFrom the riven clouds of night. And beheld the two men totteringOn the brink of a dizzy height. The fair mans fingers tightened,Till the dark eyes started wide ; But the dark man drove his poniardHome in the fair mans side. One slip in the blood-stained heather,—One cry of a sharp despair,— Then over they rolled, and over, Down the face of the the sea-cliff bare ! One splash in the foaming water,—One sweep of the wave—and then The secret of love and hatredWas safe from the ears of men ! 196 THE PORTRAIT CLASPED IN SILVER. The white-faced moon gazed outFrom the riven clouds of night, And the portrait clasped in silver,Lay there on the rocky 197 THE DESERTED VILLA. A DEWY morn with sunlight on the hills ; Bees humming everywhere through thymeand sage;Her white mule in the stable ; and the cageOf singing linnets on the ; . . He sees the chamber door ajar.— Where is my Beatrice, my morning star ? Where does she linger, who was wont to riseWith bird and flower ? He pushes back the doorHer veil is gone, her missal on the floor. He calls, and calls again—no voice replies. Through all the empty rooms his footsteps stray Hour after hour. Noon burns itself away. The dead still heat of noon, when nothing stirsSave shrill circalas through the grass ; a threadOf water in the dried-up rivers bed, A cloud of road-dust twixt the vines and firs. He stares, in vain, along that roads white band, Crushing the oer-head jasmines with his hand. 198 THE DESERTED VILLA. Then golden sunset dripping down through boughs,And wide-horned oxen lowing to their rest,Blue shadows creepi
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookpublisherlondonbell, bookyea
