Sounding by fits upon the air,
Of parting pennies rung the knell;
Warned by that tell-tale of the hours,
And by the day-light's westering beam,
The young Iaenthe, who, with flowers
Half crowned, had sat in idle dream
Before her glass, scarce knowing where
Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair,
While, all capriciously, she now
Dislodged some curl from her white brow,
And now again replaced it there:--
As tho' her task was meant to be
One endless change of ministry--
A routing-up of Loves and Graces,
But to plant others in their places.
Meanwhile--what strain is that which floats
Thro' the small boudoir near--like notes
Of some young bird, its task repeating
For the next linnet music-meeting?
A voice it was, whose gentle sounds
Still kept a modest octave's bounds,
Nor yet had ventured to exalt
Its rash ambition to _B alt_,
That point towards which when ladies rise,
The wise man takes his hat and--flies.
Tones of a harp, too, gently played,
Came with this youthful voice communing;
Tones true, for once, without the aid
Of that inflictive process, tuning--
A process which must oft have given
Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound;
So pleased, among the joys of Heaven,
He specifies "harps _ever_ tuned."
She who now sung this gentle strain
Was our young nymph's still younger sister--
Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train
In their light legions to enlist her,
But counted on, as sure to bring
Her force into the field next spring.
Pages:
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598