The song was one by Sappho sung,
In the first love-dreams of her lyre,
When words of passion from her tongue
Fell like a shower of living fire.
And still, at close of every strain,
I heard these burning words again—
"Oh, happy as the gods is he,
"Who listens at this hour to thee!"
Once more to Mona Lisa turned
Each asking eye—nor turned in vain
Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned
Bright o'er her cheek and died again,
Showed with what inly shame and fear
Was uttered what all loved to hear.
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay
Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that like a ray
Of southern sunshine seemed to float—
So rich with climate was each note—
Called up in every heart a dream
Of Italy with this soft theme:—
SONG.
Oh, where art thou dreaming,
On land, or on sea?
In my lattice is gleaming
The watch-light for thee;
And this fond heart is glowing
To welcome thee home,
And the night is fast going,
But thou art not come:
No, thou com'st not!
'Tis the time when night-flowers
Should wake from their rest;
'Tis the hour of all hours,
When the lute singeth best,
But the flowers are half sleeping
Till thy glance they see;
And the husht lute is keeping
Its music for thee.
Yet, thou com'st not!
* * * * *
Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prankt in gay vest to which the flame
Of every lamp he past, or blue
Or green or crimson, lent its hue;
As tho' a live chameleon's skin
He had despoiled, to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clattering shells,
And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.
Close after him, a page—in dress
And shape, his miniature express—
An ample basket, filled with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reached this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master's feet,
Who, half in speech and half in song,
Chanted this invoice to the throng:—
SONG.
Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?—
We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;
Besides our usual fools' supply,
We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.
For reasoners here's a juggler's cup
That fullest seems when nothing's in it;
And nine-pins set, like systems, up,
To be knocked down the following minute.
Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?