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
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