And when the false moon steals away,
Or ere the chasing morn doth rise,
Oft, fearless, we our gambols play
By the fire-worm's radiant eyes.
And suck the honey'd reeds that swell
In tufted plumes of silver white;
Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell,
To sip the nectar of delight!
And when the shaking thunders roll,
And lightnings strike athwart the gloom,
We shelter in the cedar's bole,
And revel 'mid the rich perfume!
But chief we love beneath the palm,
Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf,
To hear, upon the midnight calm,
Sweet Philomela pour her grief.
To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,
Such blissful hours, were never known!
O fly with me my airy round,
And I will make them all thine own!
Adeline ceased to sing—when she immediately heard repeated in a low voice:
To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,
Such blissful hours, were never known!
and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M. Amand. She blushed and laid down the lute, which he instantly took up, and with a tremulous hand drew forth tones
That might create a soul,
Under the ribs of death: