"The air is languid with pleasure and love,
Lulling the senses to dreams Elysian,
Making life seem a glorious trance,
Full of bright visions of heaven,
Safe from the touch of reality,
Toil none—woe none—pain,
Wild and illusive as sleep-revelations.
Time to be poured like wine from a chalice
Sparking and joyous for aye,
Drain'd amid mirth and music,
The brows circled with ivy,
And the goblets at last like a gift
Thrust in the bossom of slumber.
"Thus are the people of Cyprus;
Young men and old making holiday,
Decking them daintily forth
In robes of Sidonian purple;
The maidens all beauteous, but wanton,
Foolishly flinging youth's gifts,
Its jewels—its richest adornment,
Like dross on the altar of pleasure;
Letting the worm of mortality
Eat out their hearts till they bear
Only the semblance of angels."
THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE,
OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[25]
TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES.
Continued from page 60.
BOOK THIRD.
We left young Rovero in despair, yielding to the stupefaction which overpowered him, just as the singer leaned over his bed to be assured that he was asleep. La Felina looked at him for some time in silence, with pity in her eyes. "Why does he love me?" said she; "what have I done? why should this poor lad love one who scarcely knew him?"
Rovero moved. "Heavens! is the effect of the narcotic over? Will he awaken?"