Tho thoftly wake the tide,
That not an ear, on earth, thall hear
But herth to whom we glide.
Ah, did we take for Heaven above
But half the painth that we
Take day and night for woman’th love,—
What angelth we thould be!”
So he sang the whole song through, dwelling upon the last word and lingering on the last note with his fingers on the chords of the instrument and his eyes fixed on the clouds in the sky, like one possessed; until Elfie awoke him with this criticism:
“It is very fine indeed, Mr. Billingcoo, only it would take a very powerful effort of imagination to transform this matter-of-fact steam-packet to a Venetian gondola. However, I really think we have the advantage of your gondolier. For we are gliding by the most beautiful scenery in the whole world, and he appears to have had nothing better in that way than narrow canals and high stone walls.”
“Mith Fielding, have you no thentiment at all?” pathetically inquired the injured minstrel.