The Azra.

AFTER HEINE.

Daily walked the fair and lovely
Sultan’s daughter in the twilight,—­
In the twilight by the fountain,
Where the sparkling waters plash.

Daily stood the young slave silent
In the twilight by the fountain,
Where the plashing waters sparkle,
Pale and paler every day.

Once by twilight came the princess
Up to him with rapid questions: 
“I would know thy name, thy nation,
Whence thou comest, who thou art.”

And the young slave said, “My name is
Mahomet, I come from Yemmen. 
I am of the sons of Azra,
Men who perish if they love.”

Good and Bad Luck.

AFTER HEINE.

Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,
  Long in one place she will not stay,
Back from your brow she strokes the curls,
  Kisses you quick and flies away.

But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes
  And stays,—­no fancy has she for flitting,—­
Snatches of true love-songs she hums,
  And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.

L’Amour du Mensonge.

After Charles Baudelaire.

When I behold thee, O my indolent love,
  To the sound of ringing brazen melodies,
Through garish halls harmoniously move,
  Scattering a scornful light from languid eyes;

When I see, smitten by the blazing lights,
  Thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glow
As the faint fires that deck the Northern nights,
  And eyes that draw me wheresoever I go;

I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech;
  A crown of memories, her calm brow above,
Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach,
  Ripe as her body for intelligent love.

Art thou late fruit of spicy savor and scent? 
  A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers? 
An Eastern odor, waste and oasis blent? 
  A silken cushion or a bank of flowers?

I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen
  To which no passionate secrets e’er were given;
Shrines where no god or saint has ever been,
  As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven.

But what care I if this be all pretense? 
  ’T will serve a heart that seeks for truth no more,
All one thy folly or indifference,—­
  Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore!

Amor Mysticus.

From the Spanish of Sor Marcela de Carpio.

Let them say to my Lover
  That here I lie! 
The thing of His pleasure,
  His slave am I.

Say that I seek Him
  Only for love,
And welcome are tortures
  My passion to prove.

Love giving gifts
  Is suspicious and cold;
I have all, my Beloved,
    When Thee I hold.

Hope and devotion
    The good may gain;
I am but worthy
    Of passion and pain.

So noble a Lord
    None serves in vain,
For the pay of my love
    Is my love’s sweet pain.