XXIX

As Cleopatra's pearl dissolved in wine,
Made her rich draught the boast of olden days,--
The shame and wonder of our meaner ways,
Who grudge the chalice to the very shrine;
So when thy love in this poor heart of mine
Dissolves its wealth, within my nature plays
A richer spirit, and my drooping bays
Sprout like the prophet's rod, and somewhat shine.
Like the Egyptian's draught, I trust to hold
My storied place amongst the men to be;
Not all alone, securely joined to thee,
In some dim fragment of a legend old:
Not for mere me the history shall be told,
But, precious pearl, for what was lost in me.