The World’s Tragedy

THE WHITE WIND. 65 Nay, touch me not. I am a virgin vowed — She lays her hand upon his arm. I am of royal race Most mortal proud — She kneels, kissing his robe. Spare me, sweet sir ! She pretends to stagger, and falls back upon the ground. Her robe falls from her. THE YOUTH I am a messenger. He disappears. MIRIAM Shaitan ! he slipped my grip. Is there no flood to drip Some icy liquor on this hell-scarred brow ? See ! The red star glows fainter now. All is a velvet heat of horror. Night Holds me in torture. Hark ! the lake Stirs in its sleep ; the ripples shake. — Oh for the wind ! Here naked will I lie And let its coolness bite into my blood.