The Cameo Bracelet.

By James R. Randall, of Maryland.

Eva sits on the ottoman there, Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, With just such a face, and just such an air, As Esther upon her throne.

She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed, And I watch her fingers float and flow Over the linen, as, thread by thread, It flakes to her lap like snow.

A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome, Out of the tears of the amethyst, And the wan Vesuvian foam.

And full on the bauble-crest alway-- A cameo image keen and fine-- Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday, And the lava-locks are thine!

I thought of the war-wolves on our trail, Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood; Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil, Drooped with a wizard flood

Till the surly blaze through the iron bars Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry-- And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars To the Column of July--

Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown-- For Eva was not on the ottoman there, By the Psyche carved in stone.

She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, With the incantation in her gaze, A lip of scorn--an arm of hate-- And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!"

Eva, the vision was not wild, When wreaked on the tyrants of the land-- For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child, With the dagger in your hand!