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Sepulchra Sepulta.

Yes, thy lady-love is kind;
Joy is laughing in her eye,
Welcome budding on her lip,
When thy footfall soundeth nigh.
But hast thou a jealous heart?
Canst thou mount another's throne?
Deem'st thou that fair smiling one—
Smiling now—is all thine own?
Hath she no sealed, solemn Past?
Hearts, like trees, have many springs:
Echo-like, despite her glee,
“Farewell” in her welcome rings.
Say, what means that sudden gloom?—
Thou art treading o'er a tomb.




  ― 172 ―
Turning glass to amethyst,
Through the goblets gleams the wine;
'Neath the lustres' golden light
Clustered faces blithely shine:
Met for Bacchic sacrament,
Sons of festal pleasure sit,
Trolling forth the merry song,
Flashing back the ready wit.
What to them is either Then,
Whilst they lip the luscious Now?—
Look again, and read the lines
Carved on each sham-jocund brow:
Their smiles but like grave-flowers bloom—
Every heart there is a tomb.

“Would you magnate's lot were mine,”
Thou, perchance, hast often sighed,
“Resting, canopied with state,
Moving, calm in regal pride!
Life for him is paved with gold,
Roses blossom at his call;
Would that I could share his lot—”
Murmurer, wouldst thou share it all?
What do those strange glances mean,
Peering from his troubled eyes,
Like the window-sprites that haunt
House where blood for vengeance cries?
Hidden crime still dreads its doom—
God's eye floods the blackest tomb!

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