AUX CHEVEUX DE MA MAITRESSE.

THERE's a pallor of Eastern perfume hangs in your heavy hair;

There's a vision of fleet-winged corsairs cleaving the morning air;

They dance and wave in the meshes and flash in the pallid gleam,

As the waters flash in the sunlight, and billow about their beam.

There are lines of lazy camels pacing the sandy plain,

With the drowsy shout of the drivers urging them on amain;

While the yellow rays of the sunset burnish the winding maze,

Till driver, camel, and caravan fade in the golden haze.

There's a smell of myrrh and acacia, while serpents all glittering glide

Through the depths of your tortuous tresses flashing the sun from their side.

There are drops of red wine, drunk with sweetness,

that dampen the curl on your brow,

And the vine-leaf is twined o'er your temples 'neath the blaze of the pine-tree bough.

There is velvet, all crimson and golden, worked by a captive prince,

And visions of ebon and ivory, and visions of dolphin tints.

There are pearls from the purple waters that laugh at the noonday sun,

With corals that cost a kingdom and the life of the daring one.

And the sough of a slumberous sleep-wind and the sigh of a sobbing wave,

All mingled within those tresses the gods in their frenzy gave.

There's the hum of the busy city, the buzz of the whirling wheel,

Then the song of a prayer to heaven, with a fervor that angels feel.

And there's glitter and clash of armor, and the cries and groans of men,

Then the snow, with a tinge of life-blood, that covers the mountain fen.

There's the scurry of hastening footsteps, the gleam of a murderer's knife,

The anguish of aimless passion, the despair of a ruined life.

And these heavy tresses and ringlets that cluster over your neck

Are pitfalls for priest and people, yet little you care or reck;

For artless they writhe o'er your bosom and fall o'er your little hand,

And circle in endless circles my heart like an iron band.

Z.