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Sure of Heaven as sure can be,

Spin him round and send him flying

Off to Hell, a Manichee?

VIII.

Or, my scrofulous French novel,
On gray paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel

Hand and foot in Belial's gripe :
If I double down its pages

At the woeful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages,

Ope a sieve and slip it in't?

IX.

Or, there's Satan !-one might venture

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave

Such a flaw in the indenture

As he'd miss till, past retrieve,

Blasted lay that rose-acacia

We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine...

'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ

Ave Virgo! Gr-r-r-you swine!

THE LABORATORY.

[Ancien Régime.]

I.

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,

May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy—

Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

II.

He is with her; and they know that I know

Where they are, what they do they believe my tears flow

While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the

drear

Empty church, to pray God in, for them! I am

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here.

III.

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,

Pound at thy powder,— I am not in haste!

Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,

Than go where men wait me and dance at the

King's.

IV.

That in the mortar · you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come !

And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,

Sure to taste sweetly, is that poison too?

V.

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,
What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!
To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,
A signet, a fan-mount, a filagree-basket!

VI.

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give

And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to

live!

But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head,

And her breast, and her arms, and her hands,

should drop dead!

VII.

Quick is it finished? The color's too grim! Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer !

VIII.

What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me

That's why she ensnared him: this never will free The soul from those strong, great eyes,― say, "no!" To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.

IX.

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought

Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would

fall,

Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

X.

Not that I bid you spare her the pain!

Let death be felt and the proof remain ;

Brand, burn up, bite into its grace

He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done?

morose,

XI.

Take my mask off! Nay, be not

It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee-
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

XII.

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,

You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you

will!

But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings

Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King s !

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