TO MADAME JUMEL

Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair,

Had I a god's re-animating breath,

Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air

Lethean and the eyeless halls of death,

Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair,

Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom,

And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.

Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust,

Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire;

Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust

Would light us back to glory and desire,

And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust;

Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame.

Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.

Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould

That lies on by-gone traffickings of state,

Transformed a moment by that head of gold,

Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate;

To “write the Constitution!”‘ twere a cold,

Dusty and bloomless immortality,

Without that last wild dying thought of thee.