The Vampire.

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1857, 31 May 1884, Page 6

The Vampire.

I found a corpse, with golden hair, Of a maiden soven months dead ; But the face, with death in it, still was fair, And the lips with their love were red. Rose leaves on a snow-drift shed, Blood-drops by Adonis bled, Doubtless were not so red. I combed her hair into curls of gold And I kissed her lips till her lips were warm, And I bathed her body in moonlight cold, Till she grew to a living form : Till she stood up bold to a magic of old, And walked to a muttered charm — Life-like, without alarm. And she walks by me, aud she talks by me, Evermore, night and day ; For she loves me so, that, whenever I go, She follows me all the way — This corpse — you would almost say There pined a soul in the olay. Her eyes are so bright at the dead of night That they keep me awake with dread ; And my life-blood fails in my veins, and pales At the sight of her lips so red ; For her face is as white as the piller by night Where she kisses me on my bed ; All her gold hair outspread — Neither alive nor dead. I would that this woman'B head Were less golden about the hair ; I would her Hps were less red, And her face less deadly fair. For this is the worst to bear — How came that redness there ?

Tis my heart, be sure, she eats for her food; And it makes one's whole flesh creep To think that she drinks and drains my blood Unawares, when I am asleep. How else could those red lips keep Their redness so damson-deep ? There's a thought' likfjja serpent, slips Ever into my heart and head ; There are plenty of women, alive and human, One might woo if one wished, and wed) Women with hearts, and brains — ay, and lips Not so very terribly red. But to house with a corpse—and she so fair, With that dim' unearthly, golden hair, And those sad, serene, blue eyes, With their looks from who knows where, Which Death has made so wise, With the grave's own secret thereIs more than a man can bsar 1 It were better for me, ere I came nigh her, This oorpse — ere I looked upon her, Had they burned my body in flame and fire With a sorcerer's dishonor. For when the Deril hath made his lair, And lurks in the eyes of fair young woman (To grieve a man's soul with her golden hair, And break his heart, if his heart be human), Would not a saint despair To be saved by fast or prayer From perdition made so fair ?

— Lord Lytton.