My friend hands me a coin of ancient stamp
As one that has passed current on the Nile.
'Tis slippery, as from Egyptian thumbs:
Green from fierce proving of the elements
Fire, air, & water: & from long lying there
In the unhealed earth; green as the slime
Of salt sea-rivers. Just so green a spot
The Crocodile must carry near his eye
In some dry corner. Egypt had a mint
Of Crocodiles. 'Twas she who coin'd their Queen.
Purged of its sin of devil-service now,
It lies within my hand, & I behold,
In marvelous distinctness, features traced,
Which no Egyptian thumbs could rub away,
Nor proving of the elements, water, air,
Fire, nor long lying in the unhealed earth.
For of Time's daughters this is verily one
That walks beside him, will not be at rest;
Laughs at pale ashes, keeps her blood & life
While there are poets in the land: (when they
Depart, mankind may put a nightcap on.)
Drunken she sent the sun to bed, & shrieked
In chorus with her women as he rose:
Earth danced beneath her, & has since been dull.
This crown'd Bacchante had the soul that's struck
Twixt sunlight & the grape: she had the heat
Of vestals madden'd by their sickly flame.
She had the ecstasy of those who hear
The interminable harmonies aloft.
A sister to the Poets, wonder not
They sing of her; rejoice in her; — she had
The sensual divination of delight,
Imperious will for pleasure, flushing zeal,
And appetite unquenchable — a force
Of full vitality radiant in her breast,
As beams the silver shield upon a star.
Spit at her, O philosopher! but own
That she had mastered of the Mystery
A measureless portion when she did display
The faith of animals in life bestowed;
Their joy of limb & eyesight, without which
Our groping senses are but worms in dust,
Dust in a coloured sheet!
But, was she lovely?
One scarce can meditate upon this coin
With any clearness; for the woman's name
Is buzz'd about by rhapsodists; her name —
It is an Epoch when the stars hung low
And were a robe about the naked world.
And torchfire in the darkness of the time
Was her small woman's hand. But, if we let
Our instinct for realities see day,
Though there is disenchantment, there's reward.
We dwarf humanity by miracles:
Impoverish it by making human Gods.
The Antiquarian Sentimentalist
Unto his counter would nail down this coin,
Proclaiming it a scandal on the Queen
And pointing to her history, how she sway'd
The blood of men: a moon of their life's heaven,
And therefore beautiful. Does he know men?
Beauty is a month's mistress; — hence a moon.
Could Beauty net the Julius who raged
In midnight Rome? Or Antonies compel
To homage to the death? We clutch her wings
And she no more is Beauty. Queen of boys
Not men, is this serene ascendant Light.
She has her faithful regiments in the boys.
Men ask for other qualities. Howl aloud,
You antiquarian sentimentalists!
Philosophy declares it; — and by my life!
No sooner is the fact revealed to me
Than the green coin shows vivid lineaments.
The features are half-hawkish: deep the eyes;
Not small, but deep: communicative to Brows
Long, very clearly marked; level & long.
She was no babbler, say those eyes; she flashed
Them, — living — when the spark illumined her
In gaieties of revel; & she read
More than she uttered. Likewise tell the lips.
They are close lips. She could look like a hag!
She had her hag-like moments when she breathed
Bitterness, scorching ear & sight, to melt
In softness when she would: — when politic.
Was Pleasure her hypocriscy? Oh, no!
But Policy was its twin-sister. Thus
She was divided & against herself
Before mankind: and thus she ruled one man.
Know you how these divisions counteract?
Throw for the large & win the little stake?
The nose is ravenous. It must have worn
Small majesty at Actium: spite & hate
And malice were its characters in flight: —
" If one of us must die, why, thou for me:"
The nose says that much. But, when Fortune shone,
It was a Royal feature & no more
The draggled eagle; a still mounting bird
Nearer & nearer to the blazing beams!
Dispenser of huge bounties, making wealth
Seem poverty; she grasped to give, & gave
That she might grasp. My antiquarian says
Her nose was Grecian — yea, Athene's nose!
My physiologist maintains it turn'd
Rich, Coptic nostrils to the sun, & was
A nose to which the French have given a name,
It being partly national, & which I
Would call a wren-tail nose. I cannot read
The historic writing by that sign.
Her neck? —
It thrusts the head forth like a serpent's head.
Reality & poetry unite,
That nervous neck once seen. Tis fair & smooth
But underneath the smoothness you perceive
A fulness of the veins. Her passions' quick
To pump up torrents of blood, obscuring brain
And drowning conscience — all, save Policy,
Which swims & gasps until the Deluge sinks.
And when it sinks, her heart is tenderly full
Sweetly regretful: of which mood she makes
Both vocal loveliness, & visible.
An actress, not an hypocrite. She feels
The moment: then she mints it.
Pray you, mark
Again the eyes; could such be slaves of love?
The slaves of love put arms about our breasts
But hang on us no chains. These are rare eyes,
That will look at you luminous, nor lose
A little of their meaning in their light.
They tell you Love's a Science, & she knows it,
She hath command of this fine Science, Love!
" My Chosen, come, adore me Antony,
" Come, as came Caesar. Others are more fair,
" Others are suppler. I alone fire men."
Think of those eyes at midnight at the feast!
She can give lightnings from those eyes, as were't
The dead sun flickering still. You might believe
A legend of her flying to the sun,
To drink his dying blood when out he lay
Scarlet along the desert's edge; too faint
To shake from off his breast the vampire bat.
Could Beauty reap such harvest if she sow'd?
There's more than Beauty in this possible hag.
— You call her Cleopatra? asks my friend.
No, not the Cleopatra of the Poets:
And yet the daughter of the Ptolemies.
'Tis she who in Life's goblet of Delight
Cast her strong soul, & drank it straightway off
And felt herself no loser. This is she.
As one that has passed current on the Nile.
'Tis slippery, as from Egyptian thumbs:
Green from fierce proving of the elements
Fire, air, & water: & from long lying there
In the unhealed earth; green as the slime
Of salt sea-rivers. Just so green a spot
The Crocodile must carry near his eye
In some dry corner. Egypt had a mint
Of Crocodiles. 'Twas she who coin'd their Queen.
Purged of its sin of devil-service now,
It lies within my hand, & I behold,
In marvelous distinctness, features traced,
Which no Egyptian thumbs could rub away,
Nor proving of the elements, water, air,
Fire, nor long lying in the unhealed earth.
For of Time's daughters this is verily one
That walks beside him, will not be at rest;
Laughs at pale ashes, keeps her blood & life
While there are poets in the land: (when they
Depart, mankind may put a nightcap on.)
Drunken she sent the sun to bed, & shrieked
In chorus with her women as he rose:
Earth danced beneath her, & has since been dull.
This crown'd Bacchante had the soul that's struck
Twixt sunlight & the grape: she had the heat
Of vestals madden'd by their sickly flame.
She had the ecstasy of those who hear
The interminable harmonies aloft.
A sister to the Poets, wonder not
They sing of her; rejoice in her; — she had
The sensual divination of delight,
Imperious will for pleasure, flushing zeal,
And appetite unquenchable — a force
Of full vitality radiant in her breast,
As beams the silver shield upon a star.
Spit at her, O philosopher! but own
That she had mastered of the Mystery
A measureless portion when she did display
The faith of animals in life bestowed;
Their joy of limb & eyesight, without which
Our groping senses are but worms in dust,
Dust in a coloured sheet!
But, was she lovely?
One scarce can meditate upon this coin
With any clearness; for the woman's name
Is buzz'd about by rhapsodists; her name —
It is an Epoch when the stars hung low
And were a robe about the naked world.
And torchfire in the darkness of the time
Was her small woman's hand. But, if we let
Our instinct for realities see day,
Though there is disenchantment, there's reward.
We dwarf humanity by miracles:
Impoverish it by making human Gods.
The Antiquarian Sentimentalist
Unto his counter would nail down this coin,
Proclaiming it a scandal on the Queen
And pointing to her history, how she sway'd
The blood of men: a moon of their life's heaven,
And therefore beautiful. Does he know men?
Beauty is a month's mistress; — hence a moon.
Could Beauty net the Julius who raged
In midnight Rome? Or Antonies compel
To homage to the death? We clutch her wings
And she no more is Beauty. Queen of boys
Not men, is this serene ascendant Light.
She has her faithful regiments in the boys.
Men ask for other qualities. Howl aloud,
You antiquarian sentimentalists!
Philosophy declares it; — and by my life!
No sooner is the fact revealed to me
Than the green coin shows vivid lineaments.
The features are half-hawkish: deep the eyes;
Not small, but deep: communicative to Brows
Long, very clearly marked; level & long.
She was no babbler, say those eyes; she flashed
Them, — living — when the spark illumined her
In gaieties of revel; & she read
More than she uttered. Likewise tell the lips.
They are close lips. She could look like a hag!
She had her hag-like moments when she breathed
Bitterness, scorching ear & sight, to melt
In softness when she would: — when politic.
Was Pleasure her hypocriscy? Oh, no!
But Policy was its twin-sister. Thus
She was divided & against herself
Before mankind: and thus she ruled one man.
Know you how these divisions counteract?
Throw for the large & win the little stake?
The nose is ravenous. It must have worn
Small majesty at Actium: spite & hate
And malice were its characters in flight: —
" If one of us must die, why, thou for me:"
The nose says that much. But, when Fortune shone,
It was a Royal feature & no more
The draggled eagle; a still mounting bird
Nearer & nearer to the blazing beams!
Dispenser of huge bounties, making wealth
Seem poverty; she grasped to give, & gave
That she might grasp. My antiquarian says
Her nose was Grecian — yea, Athene's nose!
My physiologist maintains it turn'd
Rich, Coptic nostrils to the sun, & was
A nose to which the French have given a name,
It being partly national, & which I
Would call a wren-tail nose. I cannot read
The historic writing by that sign.
Her neck? —
It thrusts the head forth like a serpent's head.
Reality & poetry unite,
That nervous neck once seen. Tis fair & smooth
But underneath the smoothness you perceive
A fulness of the veins. Her passions' quick
To pump up torrents of blood, obscuring brain
And drowning conscience — all, save Policy,
Which swims & gasps until the Deluge sinks.
And when it sinks, her heart is tenderly full
Sweetly regretful: of which mood she makes
Both vocal loveliness, & visible.
An actress, not an hypocrite. She feels
The moment: then she mints it.
Pray you, mark
Again the eyes; could such be slaves of love?
The slaves of love put arms about our breasts
But hang on us no chains. These are rare eyes,
That will look at you luminous, nor lose
A little of their meaning in their light.
They tell you Love's a Science, & she knows it,
She hath command of this fine Science, Love!
" My Chosen, come, adore me Antony,
" Come, as came Caesar. Others are more fair,
" Others are suppler. I alone fire men."
Think of those eyes at midnight at the feast!
She can give lightnings from those eyes, as were't
The dead sun flickering still. You might believe
A legend of her flying to the sun,
To drink his dying blood when out he lay
Scarlet along the desert's edge; too faint
To shake from off his breast the vampire bat.
Could Beauty reap such harvest if she sow'd?
There's more than Beauty in this possible hag.
— You call her Cleopatra? asks my friend.
No, not the Cleopatra of the Poets:
And yet the daughter of the Ptolemies.
'Tis she who in Life's goblet of Delight
Cast her strong soul, & drank it straightway off
And felt herself no loser. This is she.