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:—