These many waiting years I longed for gold,
Now must I needs console me with alloy.
Before this beauty fades, this pulse grows cold,
I may not love, I will at least enjoy!

Farewell, my Solitude of scented flowers,
Across whose glades the emerald parrots gleam,
Haunt of false hope, and home of wasted hours,
I am awake, at last,--Guard thou the dream!


On Pilgrimage


Oh, youthful bearer of my palanquin,
Thy glossy hair lies loosened on thy neck,
The "tears of labour" gem thy velvet skin,
Whose even texture knows no other fleck.

Thy slender shoulder strains beneath my weight;
Too fair thou art for work, sweet slave of mine.
Would that this idle breast, reversing fate,
A willing serf to love, supported thine!

I smell the savage scent of sun-warmed fur
Close in the Jungle, musky, hot and sweet.--
The air comes from thy shoulder, even as myrrh,
Would we were as the panthers, free to meet.