And picture all that charm’d us there before
Ne’er shall my heart the fatal morn forget,
That bore the fair-ones from these seats so dear—
I see, I see the crowding litters yet,
And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear.
I see the maids with timid steps ascend,
The streamers wave in all their painted pride;
The floating curtains every fold extend,
And vainly strive the charms within to hide.
What graceful forms those envious folds enclose!