To waltz with thee, my pretty belle,
To silver music's magic spell,
Was such a strange unmixed delight
That I had wished the merry night
Into eternity might swell.
* * * *
Terpsichore ne'er danced so well!
Can all the Graces in thee dwell?
My soul was raised to such a height
To waltz with thee.
Enchanting strains now rose, now fell,
Thy charms what raptures would compel!
Thy feet were winged, thy figure slight,
Thy winning tread, entrancing, light,—
What bliss to me that night befell,
To waltz with thee!
GEORGE B. ZUG. Amherst Literary Monthly.
~To Maude's Guitar.~
Sweet guitar, so old thou art
Thou seemest strange to modern eyes,
Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heart
The softest music hidden lies.
Whene'er thy strings with gentle hand
I lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords,
There comes a breath of foreign lands
That seems to sing soft Spanish words.
Was Caballero's passion deep
E'er sung to thy rich-chorded bass?
Didst ever break señora's sleep
By music 'neath her window-case?
Somewhere—sometime, a song was sung
By lover bold or maiden fair,
So sweet, thou hid'st it deep among
Thy soulful strings, and kept it there.