The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—
Musical flint-mills—swiftly played
By elfin hands—that, flashing round,
Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,
Gave out at once both light and sound.
Bologna stones that drink the sun;
And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wildfire run—
Corked up in crystal carefully.
Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes
That by their own gay light were eat up.
'Mong the few guests from Ether came
That wicked Sylph whom Love we call—
My Lady knew him but by name,
My Lord, her husband, not at all.
Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised
That he was coming, and, no doubt
Alarmed about his torch, advised
He should by all means be kept out.
But others disapproved this plan,
And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted,
Thought Love too much a gentleman
In such a dangerous place to light it.
However, there he was—and dancing
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing
At daybreak down to earth together.
And all had gone off safe and well,
But for that plaguy torch whose light,
Though not yet kindled—who could tell
How soon, how devilishly, it might?
And so it chanced—which, in those dark
And fireless halls was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.