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 comest 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 hushed lute is keeping Its music for thee.

Yet thou comcst not!

Scarce had the last word left her lip
When a light boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Pranked in gay vest, to which the flame
Of every lamp he passed, or blue,
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue;
As though a live cameleon'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 ou.
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 his 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.

Gay caps we here of foolscap make,
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,

And leave to wits the cap and feather.
Teetotums we've for patriots got,
Who court the mob with antics
humble;

Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,
A glorious spin, and then-a tumble.
Who'll buy, &c. &c.

Here, wealthy misers to inter,

We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper; While for their heirs we've quicksilver, That, fast as they can wish, will caper. For aldermen we've dials true

That tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new That suit alike both saint and sinner. Who'll buy, &c. &c.

No time we've now to name our terms, But whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,

This oldest of all mortal firms,

Folly & Co., will try to please you. Or should you wish a darker hue

Of goods than we can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) To Knavery's shop, next door, we'll send you. Who'll buy, &c. &c.

While thus the blissful moments rolled, Moments of rare and fleeting light, That show themselves like grains of gold In the mine's refuse, few and bright; Behold where, opening far away,

The long conservatory's range, Stripped of the flowers it wore all day,

But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,
A supper such as gods might share.
Ah, much-loved Supper!-blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced the march of appetite;
Deployed his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who played the
dickens

With Rome and all her sacred chickens,
Put Supper and her fowls so white,
Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.
Now waked once more by wine-whose
tide

Is the true Hippocrene, where glide
The Muse's swans with happiest wing,
Dipping their bills, before they sing-
The minstrels of the table greet
The listening ear with descant sweet:-

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE.

CALL the Loves around,
Let the whispering sound

Of their wings be heard alone,
Till soft to rest

My Lady blest

At this bright hour hath gone. Let Fancy's beams

Play o'er her dreams,

But say, while light these songs resound, What means that buz of whispering

round,

From lip to lip-as if the Power

Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret (as we fling
Nuts among children) to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be

Thus scrambled for so wantonly?
And, mark ye, still as each reveals

Her spirit be

Like a summer sea.
Shining and slumbering too.
And, while thus hushed she lies,
Let the whispered chorus rise-
Good evening, good evening, to our
Lady's bright eyes.'

But the day-beam breaks,
See, our Lady wakes!

Call the Loves around once more,
Like stars that wait
At Morning's gate,
Her first steps to adore,
Let the veil of night
From her dawning sight

All gently pass away,
Like mists that flee
From a summer sea,
Leaving it full of day.

And, while her last dream flies,
Let the whispered chorus rise-
'Good morning, good morning, to our
Lady's bright eyes.'

SONG.

IF to see thee be to love thee,

If to love thee be to prize Nought of earth or heaven above thee,

Nor to live but for those eyes:
If such love to mortal given,

Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,
"Tis not for thee the fault to blame,
For from those eyes the madness came.
Forgive but thou the crime of loving,

In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong, with thee approving, Than right, with all the world to praise !

A look towards yon enchanted chair, Where, like the Lady of the Masque, A nymph, as exquisitely fair

As Love himself for bride could ask, Sits blushing deep, as if aware Of the winged secret circling there, Who is this nymph? and what, O Muse, What, in the name of all odd things That woman's restless brain pursues,

What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale :-yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty's light arrayed,
While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,
(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service),
Is the bright heroine of our song,-
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We've missed among this mortal train,
We thought her winged to heaven again.

But no-earth still demands her smile; Her friends, the gods, must wait awhile. And if, for maid of heavenly birth,

A young Duke's proffered heart and hand

Be things worth waiting for on earth, Both are, this hour, at her command. To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,

For love concerns expressly meant, The fond proposal first was made,

And love and silence blushed consent. Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, housemaids, Turks, Hindoos) Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in th' air above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown