XV

     Like the snaky torch-flame white,
     Levelled as aloft it twists,
     She, her soaring arms, and wrists
     Drooping, struggles with the light,
     Helios, bright above all mists!

     XVI

     In his orb she sees the tower,
     Dusk against its flaming rims,
     Where of old her wretched limbs
     Twisted with the stolen power: 
     Ilium all the lustre dims!

     XVII

     O the bliss upon the plains,
     Where the joining heroes clashed
     Shield and spear, and, unabashed,
     Challenged with hot chariot-reins
     Gods!—­they glimmer ocean-washed.

     XVIII

     Thrice the Sun-god’s name she calls;
     Shrieks the deed that shames the sky;
     Like a fountain leaping high,
     Falling as a fountain falls: 
     Lo, the blazing wheels go by!

     XIX

     Captive on a foreign shore,
     Far from Ilion’s hoary wave,
     Agamemnon’s bridal slave
     Speaks Futurity no more: 
     Death is busy with her grave.

     The young usurper

     On my darling’s bosom
     Has dropped a living rosy bud,
     Fair as brilliant Hesper
     Against the brimming flood. 
     She handles him,
     She dandles him,
     She fondles him and eyes him: 
     And if upon a tear he wakes,
     With many a kiss she dries him: 
     She covets every move he makes,
     And never enough can prize him. 
     Ah, the young Usurper! 
     I yield my golden throne: 
     Such angel bands attend his hands
     To claim it for his own.

     Margaret’s bridal eve

     I

     The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     And which of the handsome young men shall it be? 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     My daughter, come hither, come hither to me: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Come, point me your finger on him that you see: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     O mother, my mother, it never can be: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     For I shall bring shame on the man marries me: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     Now let your tongue be deep as the sea: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     And the man’ll jump for you, right briskly will he: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     Tall Margaret wept bitterly: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     And as her parent bade did she: 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.

     O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee: 
     There is a rose that’s ready;
     Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe’s me! 
     There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.