XIII.

  Alas! of the hot fires that nightly fall,
  No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite,
  So he may never see beneath the wall
  That timid little creature, all too bright,
  That stretches her fair neck, slender and white,
  Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries
  Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night
  With song—­but, hush—­it perishes in sighs,
And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies!

XIV.

  She droops—­she sinks—­she leans upon the lake,
  Fainting again into a lifeless flower;
  But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake
  Her spirit from its death, and with new power
  She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower
  Of tender song, timed to her falling tears—­
  That wins the shady summit of that tower,
  And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears,
Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster’s ears.

XV.

  And, lo! the scaly beast is all deprest,
  Subdued like Argus by the might of sound—­
  What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest
  To magic converse with the air, and bound
  The many monster eyes, all slumber-drown’d:—­
  So on the turret-top that watchful Snake
  Pillows his giant head, and lists profound,
  As if his wrathful spite would never wake,
Charm’d into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty’s sake!

XVI.

  His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown,
  And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies,
  To drink that dainty flood of music down—­
  His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs—­
  And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies,
  His looks for envy of the charmed sense
  Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes,
  Stung into pain by their own impotence,
Distil enormous tears into the lake immense.

XVII.

  Oh, tuneful Swan! oh, melancholy bird! 
  Sweet was that midnight miracle of song,
  Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word
  To tell of pain, and love, and love’s deep wrong—­
  Hinting a piteous tale—­perchance how long
  Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake,
  What time disguised thy leafy mates among—­
  And no eye knew what human love and ache
Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break.

XVIII.

  Therefore no poet will ungently touch
  The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew
  Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such
  As human pain may wander through and through,
  Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue—­
  Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb’d,
  By magic spells.  Alas! who ever knew
  Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed,
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed?