T he Summer Palace stood by night

Lit up in dazzling sheen,

The doors unfolded, and the pomp

Stirred in between;

—To a burst of royal music

Came the Queen.

Her eyes like stars of speedwell

Shone down the great saloon;

She came, and all before her

Knew it was June;

The passing of her presence

Was too soon.

The little curls around her head

Were all her crown of gold,

Her delicate arms drooped downward

In slender mould,

As white-veined leaves of lilies

Curve and fold.

All in white,—not ivory

For young bloom past away,—

Blossom-white, rose-white,

White of the May;

'Twixt white dress and white neck,

Who could say?

She moved to measure of music,

As a swan sails the stream;

Where her looks fell was summer,

When she smiled was a dream;

All faces bowing towards her

Sunflowers seem.

O the rose upon her silent mouth,

The perfect rose that lies!

O the roses red, the roses deep,

Within her cheeks that rise!

O the rose of rapture of her face

To our eyes!

The tall fair Princes smile and sigh

For grace of one sweet glance,

The glittering dancers fill the floor,

The Queen leads the dance;

The dial-hands to midnight

Still advance.

Dance down to the melting music!

Hark to the viols' strain!

Their notes are piercing, piercing,

Again, again;

The pulse of the air is beating

Throbs of pain.

Does the dancing languish slower?

Oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh;

In silver falling and calling,

They seek reply;

And the heart is sinking, sinking,

Why, ah why?

Oh, the high harp-strings resounding!

So long, so clear they are:

A cry is ringing in heaven

From star to star,

Rising sharper and fainter

From afar.

The Queen has danced from end to end;

Oh, the candles burn so bright!

But her blue eyes look far away

Into the night;

And the roses on her cheeks and lips

Have grown white.

Oh, why is the Queen so pale to-night?

And why does silence fall,

As one by one they turn to her,

Upon them all?

Whence comes that cold wind shivering

Down the hall?

The hour draws close to midnight,

The banquet board is spread;

The lamps are lit, the guests are set,

The Queen at the head:

For the feasting at kings' tables

Grace be said!

The shaded light of rubies

Streams from every part

Down the golden supper;—

Who is sick at heart?

Oh, hush! for the Queen is listening,

Lips apart.

She sits with wide and open eyes,

The wine-cup in her hand;

And all the guests are ill at ease,

Nor understand;

Is it not some enchanted

Strange far land?

The twelve long strokes of midnight

With clash and clang affright;

The rose-glow seems to darken

Before their sight;

But the Queen has swooned back heavily,

Cold and white.

They lifted her, a burden

Like broken lily-flowers;

They laid her on her own bed,

Within her bowers;

They mourned, and they tended her,

For six hours.

At the first hour after midnight,

The Queen nor spoke nor stirred;

At the second, by her bedside,

No breath they heard;

They said, "Is she living?"

At the third.

At the fourth hour they watched sadly

At her feet and her head;

At the fifth, standing idle,

No word they said;

At the sixth, "Bring candles

For one dead."

Swept low down across the East,

Through the morning grey,

A flock of white clouds swiftly,

Dim, far away;

Like a flight of white wings:—

What were they?

Through the palace suddenly,

Through every floor,

Wailed a wind and whistled,

Shook every door,

Rattled through the windows,

Then passed o'er.

And as they stood with tapers tall

Around the Queen, there came

A soft and far-off fluttering

Over her frame,

And from between her sleeping lips,

One faint flame.

They take her hand, they call on her,

She answers them likewise;

She sits upright, she looks around,

With her blue eyes,

And a smile as of thy secrets,

Paradise!

Winter is here, and has not brought

The Traveller of renown;

Why has he not come back again

To court and town?

Rumours and questionings pass

Up and down.

Is it only the wolves of the Northland

Know where his bones lie white?

Only the swans could tell us,

In southward flight?

Is it only the wind could whisper

To the night?

The Queen sits still and smiling,

She hears the talk prevail,

She speaks no word, she gives no glance,

She tells no tale;

In the golden shadow always

She is pale.

—-H. E. Hamilton-King.