And still, at close of every strain,
I heard these burning words again--
"Oh, happy as the gods is he,
"Who listens at this hour to thee!"
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:--
SONG.
Oh, 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
Should wake from their rest;
'Tis the hour of all hours,
When the lute singeth best,
But the flowers are half sleeping
Till _thy_ glance they see;
And the husht lute is keeping
Its music for thee.
Yet, thou com'st not!
* * * * *
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.
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