Forgive but thou the crime of loving
In this heart more pride 'twill raise
To be thus wrong with thee approving,
Than right with all a world to praise!
* * * * *
But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buzz of whispering round,
From lip to lip--as if the Power
Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret (as we fling
Nuts among children) to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be
Thus scrambled for so wantonly?
And, mark ye, still as each reveals
The mystic news, her hearer steals
A look towards yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Masque,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair
As Love himself for bride could ask,
Sits blushing deep, as if aware
Of the winged secret circling there.
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman's restless brain pursues,
What mean these mystic whisperings?
Thus runs the tale:--yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty's light arrayed,
While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,
(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)
Is the bright heroine of our song,--
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We've missed among this mortal train,
We thought her winged to heaven again.
But no--earth still demands her smile;
Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.
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