THE WHITE WIND. 
7I 
On rugs of fur and silk  
Broidered with curious device  
Of basilisk and cockatrice 
Upon the broad-woven scarlet marge.  
— God !  how this bosom boils with milk,  
Its veined radiance swelling — 
 
Ah !  the light grows — 
Back, from these splendid woes  
And joys obscure  
Into the squalid and impure  
House, and the filth indwelling ! 
 
She crawls within the hovel.