has look'd on them all;
He has watch'd o'er the great, nor forgotten the small,
And at evening went forth on his journey so free.

II.

In the outskirts of the city,
Where the straggling huts are piled,
At a casement stood a pretty
Painted thing, almost a child.
"Greet thee, maiden!" "Thanks--art weary?
Wait, and quickly I'll appear!"
"What art thou?"--"A Bayadere,
And the home of love is here."
She rises; the cymbals she strikes as she dances,
And whirling, and bending with grace, she advances,
And offers him flowers as she undulates near.

III.

O'er the threshold gliding lightly
In she leads him to her room.
"Fear not, gentle stranger; brightly
Shall my lamp dispel the gloom.
Art thou weary? I'll relieve thee--
Bathe thy feet, and soothe their smart;
All thou askest I can give thee--
Rest, or song, or joy impart."
She labours to soothe him, she labours to please;
The Deity smiles; for with pleasure he sees
Through deep degradation a right-loving heart.

IV.

And he asks for service menial,
And she only strives the more,
Nature's impulse now is genial
Where but art prevail'd before.
As the fruit succeeds the blossom,
Swells and ripens day by day,
So, where kindness fills the bosom,
Love is never far away.
But he, whose vast motive was deeper and higher,
Selected, more keenly and clearly to try her,
Love, follow'd by anguish, and death, and dismay.

V.

And her rosy cheeks he presses,
And she feels love's torment sore,
And, thrill'd through by his caresses,
Weeps, that never wept before.
Droops beside him, not dissembling,
Or for passion or for gain,
But her limbs grow faint and trembling,
And no more their strength retain.
Meanwhile the still hours of the night stealing by,
Spread their shadowy woof o'er the face of the sky,
Bringing love and its festival joys in their train.

VI.

Lately roused, her arms around him,
Waking up from broken rest,
Dead upon her breast she found him,
Dead--that dearly-cherish'd guest!
Shrieking loud, she flings her o'er him,
But he answers not her