English

Afterwards, she became
One of the world's chief rulers. Her fair name
Was praised in all the churches. God's priests pray'd
God to safeguard the mighty throne she made
Illustrious.
Three times, — in the hippodrome
Once, in the palace once, once 'neath the dome
O' the high cathedral, — the Estates took oath
After this fashion ... " Witness Christ! we both
Swear, on the Gospels Four, to guard the throne
Of our Liege Lady, Thine anointed one,
Irene, and swear also, bearing leal

That night,
Irene, ere the Porphyry Chamber (pale
With strife wherein to triumph is to fail)
She left triumphant, glancing back, — her glance
Fell casual on the conscious countenance
Of that white Christ upon the black cross spread,
Whose eyes, into the now-close-curtain'd bed
Erewhile down-gazing, had beheld why those
Tight draperies round it had been twitch'd so close.
And lo! where late those witnesses had been,
Instead of eyes, two gory sockets, seen
Thro' the red firelight, stopp'd her, stagger'd her,

That night,
In league with Hell, ere morning streak'd the skies,
Left all its darkness in the misused eyes
Of Constantine the Porphyrogenete:
— The shadow of a shadow, forced to fleet
Out of the glare that gave him in men's sight
The semblance of a substance once.

The arm'd Armenian on the guard that night
About the palace precincts somnolent,
Where, like a weary beetle, came and went
Across the flinty platform, — else dead-dumb —
The slumbrous city's desultory hum,
Heard, pacing drowsy-cold (his watch nigh done)
Beneath the stars, thro' shrivelling silence run
A sudden scream, fierce, devilish, agonized,
Of quintessential pain; and all surprised,
Started upon the watch, — waiting what sound
Should follow. But that dreadful cry, soon drown'd
In dreadful silence, response none uproused,

His white lips set
Fast with a formidable will, while yet
Storax, who turn'd and turn'd it slowly, scann'd
The reddening steel, Irene's rapid hand,
With restless finger o'er her pucker'd brow
Flitting, made airy crosses in a row.
Her eyes had settled sullenly upon
The superimpending image of God's Son:
And Habit, — that hard mock-bird of the mind,
Whose tongue, to chance-got utterance confined,
Memories by chance recaptured out of place
Set talking out of season, — to the Face
Mechanic response making, " If thine eye

She, reluctant to resign
To her own whelp that prey beneath her paw,
The bloody Empire, stealthily 'gan draw
The crimson curtain; with keen ear down-bent
To count the breathings, thick and indolent,
Of her recaptured cub: who, sleeping, smiled,
By visions lewd of folly and lust beguiled.
Anon, she beckon'd to the unshut door:
Whence, crafty-footed, down the glassy floor
Crept to her side (with wither'd features white
Bow'd o'er a trembling lamp) her parasite,
Storax, the lean-lipp'd, low-brow'd Logothete.

Turne the agayne o phebus fayre
Earths sole delight and heauens care
O turne thee to ye soutth o turne
Lest wee doe freeze whilest others burne.

Sest thou not how our cloudes doe weepe
And send there sorrowes to the deepe
Sest thou how fieldes and meads doe mourne/
Hast then fayre phebus to returne.

Least the sadd winters wrinkled face
Thrust into merry harvests place
Lest thou doe make our Earth for lorne,
Oh hast thee phebus to returne.

Soe maye our duller swaynes arise

Doe not repyine fayre sun to see these eyne
welcomer far then thyne
To see the beames of a moore glorius face
Shine one his natiue place
And ouerrun the to his Northerne lyne
fayre sonn doe not repyine
And yea thrise blessed bowers w ch longe agone
His cradle rocked one
W ch at the first that vitall breath did geue
whereby our worlde doth liue
Doe not inuie the spheres of heauen aboue
In his deare lyght and loue
whose presens vnder Arthures seate can frame

Be humble, — be resigned, — be penitent: —
Be God's thy will: — the spirit of prayer be thine;
The spirit of love: be with each chance content
That seems to fall out in th' appointed line
Of Providence. Let not thy soul repine,
Nor yield it e'er to fruitless retrospect.
Save when thou feel'st admonished from the shrine
Of awful conscience, that, by some neglect
Of thine, thou pay'st the fine for God's will by thee checked.

Be humble, — be resigned, — be penitent: —
Be God's thy will: — the spirit of prayer be thine;

I talk not of ecstatic vision! — no: —
Nor of conversion instantaneous speak:
Few, few gain such immunity below,
From thrall of flesh and blood, save him whose cheek
Contrition oft hath dewed with tear-drops meek:
'Tis a slow process in most hearts, to wean
Them so from this world's coil, that on them break,
With all the freshness of a real scene,
Those glories hid behind mortality's dim skreen.