English

While thus the blissful moments rolled,
Moments of rare and fleeting light,
That show themselves, like grains of gold
In the mine's refuse, few and and bright;
Behold where, opening far away,
The long Conservatory's range,
Stript of the flowers it wore all day,
But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,
A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper! — blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced the march of appetite;

Who 'll buy? — 't is Folly's shop, who 'll buy? —
We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;
Besides our usual fools' supply,
We 've lots of playthings, too, for sages.
For reasoners here 's a juggler's cup
That fullest seems when nothing 's in it;
And nine-pins set, like systems, up,
To be knocked down the following minute
Who 'll buy? — 't is Folly's shop, who 'll buy?

Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prankt in gay vest to which the flame
Of every lamp he past, or blue
Or green or crimson, lent its hue;
As tho' a live chameleon's skin
He had despoiled, to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clattering shells,
And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.
Close after him, a page — in dress
And shape, his miniature express —

O H , where art thou dreaming,
On land, or on sea?
In my lattice is gleaming
The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing
To welcome thee home,
And the night is fast going,
But thou art not come:
No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers

Once more to Mona Lisa turned
Each asking eye — nor turned in vain
Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned
Bright o'er her cheek and died again,
Showed with what inly shame and fear
Was uttered what all loved to hear.
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay
Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that like a ray
Of southern sunshine seemed to float —
So rich with climate was each note —
Called up in every heart a dream
Of Italy with this soft theme: —

On one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o'er the Ægean fling,
Beneath my casement, low and soft,
I heard a Lesbian lover sing;
And, listening both with ear and thought,
These sounds upon the night breeze caught —
" Oh, happy as the gods is he,
" Who gazes at this hour on thee! "

The song was one by Sappho sung,
In the first love-dreams of her lyre,
When words of passion from her tongue
Fell like a shower of living fire.
And still, at close of every strain,

The group that late in garb of Greeks
Sung their light chorus o'er the tide —
Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,
Or nightly on her glistening sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody —
Now linked their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,
Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear
But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paused, entranced, to hear,
And for that day deferred her leap.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying —
Here will I lay me and list to thy song;
Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,
Chase them away — they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute — day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades! — see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

While thus, like motes that dance away
Existence in a summer ray,
These gay things, born but to quadrille,
The circle 'of their doom fulfil —
(That dancing doom whose law decrees
That they should live on the alert toe
A life of ups-and-downs, like keys
Of Broadwood's in a long concerto: — )
While thus the fiddle's spell, within ,
Calls up its realm of restless sprites.
Without , as if some Mandarin

HE .

Long as I waltzed with only thee,
Each blissful Wednesday that went by,
Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee
Adorned a youth so blest as I.
Oh! ah! ah! oh!
Those happy days are gone — heigho!

SHE .

Long as with thee I skimmed the ground,