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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889


By William Wetmore Story (1819–1895)

[Born in Salem, Mass., 1819. Died in Italy, 1895. From Graffiti d’Italia. 1868.]

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 o’er 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—

The 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 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 the dream that has vanished

And the slumbering afternoon.

There, drowsing in golden sunlight,

Loiters the slow smooth Nile,

Through slender papyri, that cover

The wary 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 flashes 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.

There—leave me, and take from my chamber

That stupid little gazelle,

With its bright black eyes so meaningless,

And its silly tinkling bell!

Take him,—my nerves he vexes—

The thing without blood or brain,—

Or, by the body of Isis,

I’ll snap his thin neck in twain!

Leave me to gaze at the landscape

Mistily stretching away,

Where the afternoon’s opaline tremors

O’er the mountains quivering play;

Till the fiercer splendor of sunset

Pours from the west its fire,

And melted, as in a crucible,

Their earthy forms expire;

And the bald blear skull of the desert

With glowing mountains is crowned,

That burning like molten jewels

Circle its temples round.

I will lie and dream of the past time,

Æons of thought away,

And through the jungle of memory

Loosen my fancy to play;

When, a smooth and velvety tiger,

Ribbed with yellow and black,

Supple and cushion-footed

I wandered, where never the track

Of a human creature had rustled

The silence of mighty woods,

And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,

I knew but the law of my moods.

The elephant, trumpeting, started,

When he heard my footstep near,

And the spotted giraffes fled wildly

In a yellow cloud of fear.

I sucked in the noontide splendor,

Quivering along the glade,

Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,

Basked in the tamarisk shade,

Till I heard my wild mate roaring,

As the shadows of night came on,

To brood in the trees’ thick branches

And the shadow of sleep was gone;

Then I roused, and roared in answer,

And unsheathed from my cushioned feet

My curving claws, and stretched me,

And wandered my mate to greet.

We toyed in the amber moonlight,

Upon the warm flat sand,

And struck at each other our massive arms—

How powerful he was and grand!

His yellow eyes flashed fiercely

As he crouched and gazed at me,

And his quivering tail, like a serpent,

Twitched curving nervously.

Then like a storm he seized me,

With a wild triumphant cry,

And we met, as two clouds in heaven

When the thunders before them fly.

We grappled and struggled together,

For his love like his rage was rude;

And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck

At times, in our play, drew blood.

Often another suitor—

For I was flexile and fair—

Fought for me in the moonlight,

While I lay couching there,

Till his blood was drained by the desert;

And, ruffled with triumph and power,

He licked me and lay beside me

To breathe him a vast half-hour.

Then down to the fountain we loitered,

Where the antelopes came to drink;

Like a bolt we sprang upon them,

Ere they had time to shrink.

We drank their blood and crushed them,

And tore them limb from limb,

And the hungriest lion doubted

Ere he disputed with him.

That was a life to live for!

Not this weak human life,

With its frivolous bloodless passions,

Its poor and petty strife!

Come to my arms, my hero,

The shadows of twilight grow,

And the tiger’s ancient fierceness

In my veins begins to flow.

Come not cringing to sue me!

Take me with triumph and power,

As a warrior storms a fortress!

I will not shrink or cower.

Come, as you came in the desert,

Ere we were women and men,

When the tiger passions were in us,

And love as you loved me then!