I saw your blood upon his cheek,

Woman, woman;

The moon had marked his treacherous cheek, I marked his heart beside the creek,

Woman!

What! have you crushed the only flower,
Husband, husband!

Among our weeds the only flower?
Henceforward get you from my bower,

Husband!

I love you not; I loved but him,
Husband, husband;

In all the world I loved but him;

Not hell my love for Brenn shall dim,
Husband!

He's caught her by her jet-black hair;
Sorrow, sorrow!

He's bent her head back by the hair

Till all her throbbing throat lies bare-
Sorrow!

You knew me fiercer than the wolf,
Woman, woman;

You knew I well am named the wolf;

I shall both you and him engulf,
Woman.

Yet I to you was always kind,
Woman, woman;

To serpents only fools are kind;
Yet still with love of you I'm blind,
Woman.

I'll look no more upon your face,
Woman, woman;

These eyes shall never read your face,
For you shall die in this small space,
Woman!

He's laid his mouth below her chin, Horror!

That throat he kissed below the chin

No breath thereafter entered in:

Horror, horror!

CLEOPATRA'S DREAM.

W. W. STORY.

Here, Charmian, take my bracelets;
They bar with a purple stain
My arms. Turn over my pillows-
They are hot where I have lain ;
Open the lattice wider;

A gauze on my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odors

That over the garden blow.

I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay :

Ah me! the vision has vanished —

Its music has died away;

-

The flame and the perfume have perished

As this spiced aromatic pastille

That wound the blue smoke of its odor

Is now but an ashy hill.

Scatter upon me rose leaves,

They will cool me after my sleep; And with sandal odors fan me,

Till into my veins they creep.

Reach down the lute and play me
A melancholy tune,

To rhyme with a dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.

There, drowsing in golden sunlight,
Loiters the low, smooth Nile,
Through slender papyri, that cover
The sleeping crocodile ;

The lotus lolls on the water,

And opens its heart of gold, And over its broad-leaf pavement Never a ripple is rolled.

The twilight breeze is too lazy

Those feathery palms to wave,

And yon little cloud is as motionless

As a stone above a grave.
Ah, me! this lifeless nature
Oppresses my heart and brain;
Oh! for a storm and thunder-

For lightning, and wild, fierce rain!
Fling down that lute-I hate it!
Take rather his buckler and sword,
And crash them and clash them together,
Till this sleeping world is stirred.

Hark! to my Indian beauty-
My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers
That flash across the light.

Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,

How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings;

Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry, "Come, my love, come home!"
Shriek "Antony! Antony! Antony!"
Till he hears you even in Rome.