Collected Works (Vol. II)

16 ORACLES Who knowest all, of under earth the king, Familiar healer of man’s suffering ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery! Who to the leper, even the cursed pariah, Hast taught by love the taste of heavenly fire! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Thou who on Death, thine old and strong leman, Begottest Hlape—a charming madwoman ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Who knowest in which caves of envious lands God has hid precious stones with jealous hands! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Thou whose clear eye discerns the arsenals deep, Where the small folk of buried metals sleep! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Whose broad hand hides the giddy precipice From sleepers straying about some edifice ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Whose skill makes supple the old bones, at needs, Of the belated sot, ’mid surging steeds! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Who taught frail man, to make his suffering lighter, Consoling, to mix sulphur with salt nitre ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery! © subtle complice, who as blatant Beast Brandest vile Croesus, him that pities least ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Whoin girls’ eyes and hearts implantest deep Lust for the wound, the twain that wound bids weep! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! Staff of the exiled, the inventor’s spark, Confessor of hanged men and plotters dark ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery! Adopted sire of whom black wrath and power Of God the Father chased from Eden Bower ! O Satan, have pity of my long misery ! FEMMES DAMNEES. Like pensive cattle couched upon the sand They turn their eyes to ocean’s distant ring ; Feet seek each other, hand desires hand, With languor sweet and bitter shuddering. Some, hearts love-captured with long whispering, Spell out the love of timorous childhood, Where habbles in deep dell the gentle spring, And dive among the young trees of the green wood. | Others, like sisters, slowly, with grave eyes, Cross the rocks filled with apparitions dim, Where Antony beheld, like lavers, rise The nude empurpled breasts that tempted him. Some, by the dying torch-light, call thy name, In the dumb hollow of old pagan fanes, To succour feverish shriekings of fierce flame, O Bacchus, soother of men’s ancient pains. Others, whose throat is thirsty for breast- blood, To hide a whip ’neath flowing robes are fain, Mingling in lonely night and darksome wood The foam of pleasure and the tears of pain. O virgins, demons, monsters, O martyrs ! Great souls contemptuous of reality ! Seekers fur the Infinite, satyrs, worshippers, Now mad with cries, now torn with agony ! You whom my soul has followed to your hell, Poor sisters, more beloved than wept by me, For your fierce woes, your lusts insatiable, And the urns of love that fill the hearts of ye!