THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
11 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ASMODEL. 
 
 
ALL down that star whose tender eyes 
 Were on thy bosom at thy birth ! 
Call, one long passionate note that sighs ! 
 Call, till its beauty bend to earth, 
Meet thee and lift thee and devise 
 Strange loves within the gleaming girth, 
And kisses underneath the star 
Where on her brows its seven rays are. 
 
Call her, the maiden of thy sleep, 
 And fashion into human shape 
The whirling fountains fiery and deep, 
 The incense-columns that bedrape 
Her glimmering limbs, when shadows creep 
 Among blue tresses that escape 
The golden torque that binds her hair, 
Whose swarthy splendours drench the air. 
 
She comes, she comes, the spirit glances 
 In quick delight to hold her kiss ; 
The fuming air shimmers and dances ; 
 The moonlight’s trembling ecstasies 
 
  C