For every mood of a lady charms
When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair;
She speaks—and the murmur of talk is hushed,
And they throng around with expectant air:
“Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance—
Shall our sport take sober cast to-night?
And gathering under the fragrant limes,
Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright,
Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim,
Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?”