THE MAMELUKE

She was a queen.‘ Midst mutes and slaves,

A mameluke, he loved her.—— Waves

Dashed not more hopelessly the paves

Of her high marble palace-stair

Than lashed his love his heart's despair.—

As souls in Hell dream Paradise,

He suffered yet forgot it there

Beneath Rommaneh's houri eyes.

With passion eating at his heart

He served her beauty, but dared dart

No amorous glance, nor word impart.—

Taïfi leather's perfumed tan

Beneath her, on a low divan

She lay‘ mid cushions stuffed with down:

A slave-girl with an ostrich fan

Sat by her in a golden gown.

She bade him sing. Fair lutanist,

She loved his voice. With one white wrist,

Hooped with a blaze of amethyst,

She raised her ruby-crusted lute:

Gold-welted stuff, like some rich fruit,

Her raiment, diamond-showered, rolled

Folds pigeon-purple, whence one foot

Drooped in an anklet-twist of gold.

He stood and sang with all the fire

That boiled within his blood's desire,

That made him all her slave yet higher:

And at the end his passion durst

Quench with one burning kiss its thirst.—

O eunuchs, did her face show scorn

When through his heart your daggers burst?

And dare ye say he died forlorn?