Gargoyles

ROSA INFERNI. Ha ha! John plucketh now at his rose To rid himself of a sorrow ‘at heart. Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays unclose; Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart; And with blood for dew, the bosom boils; And a gust of sulphur is all its smell. And lo, he is horribly in the toils Of a coal-black giant flower of hell ! BrownineG, Heretic’s Tragedy, ix. I. Ross of the world! Ay, love, in that warm hour Wet with your kisses, the bewitching bud Flamed in the starlight; then our bed your bower Heaved like the breast of some alluring flood Whereon a man might sleep for ever, until Death should surprise him, kiss his weary will Into the last repose, profounder power Than life could compass. Now I tax my skill To find another holier name, some flower 38