From Lebedef
Theodora
“So thou art he who yesterday
Didst round the arena roam—
Thy rivals scourge? thy chariot smoked,
Reeking with bloody foam.
“Now thou art mine! Upon this couch
Recline and yield to me,
Until the morning’s rosy light
My palace windows see.”
“Ah, Theodora, ne’er before
Have I thy threshold passed;
Thy cups of gold amaze my sight,
Thy fretted ceilings vast.
“Yet I know all. Through our stern land
The talk of thee has sped;
How every night a new Elect
Appears beside this bed.
“How, till the dawn, with burning kiss
The lips of lovers sting;
While to the folds of Eastern stuffs
The Eastern odours cling.
“But I, a simple country clown,
A common clod, who sport
In games with Death, am all unused
To splendours of a Court.
“Thy pardon! But it seems to me
That burning Lust doth stream
In this blue odour’s upward curl,
From yon bright marble’s gleam.
“Nay, Theodora, let me go!
And keep thy whim’s reward
For nobles of the Bosphorus!
For slaves——”
“Enough! Ho, Guard!”