SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee, If to love thee be to prize Naught 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 a world to praise!

But say, while light these songs resound, What means that buzz 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 The mystic news, her hearer steals 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, oh 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 blusht consent Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in the air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown Of Ducal shape—but, oh, such gems! Pilfered from Peri diadems, And set in gold like that which shines To deck the Fairy of the Mines: In short, a crown all glorious—such as Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun Up in the bright orient hath begun To canter his immortal beam; And, tho' not yet arrived in sight, His leaders' nostrils send a steam Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light. What's to be done? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we: And when the day thus shines outright, Even dearest friends must bid good night. So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, Now almost a by-gone tale; Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, Now, by daylight, dim and pale; Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; Mothers who, while bored you keep Time by nodding, nod to sleep; Heads of hair, that stood last night Crépé, crispy, and upright, But have now, alas, one sees, a Leaning like the tower of Pisa; Fare ye will—thus sinks away All that's mighty, all that's bright: Tyre and Sidon had their day, And even a Ball—has but its night!