By the happy breezes fanned See her stand,-- Blushing like a living rose, On her bosom swelling high If a fly Dare to seek a sweet repose. In those eyes which maiden pride Fain would hide, Mark how passion's lightnings sleep! And their glance is brighter far Than the star Brightest in heaven's bluest deep. O'er her limbs the glittering current In soft torrent Rains adown the gentle girl, As if, drop by drop, should fall, One and all From her necklace every pearl. Lengthening still the reckless pleasure At her leisure, Care-free Zara ever slow As the hammock floats and swings Smiles and sings, To herself, so sweet and low. "Oh, were I a capitana, Or sultana, Amber should be always mixt In my bath of jewelled stone, Near my throne, Griffins twain of gold betwixt. "Then my hammock should be silk, White as milk; And, more soft than down of dove, Velvet cushions where I sit Should emit Perfumes that inspire love. "Then should I, no danger near, Free from fear, Revel in my garden's stream; Nor amid the shadows deep Dread the peep, Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam. "He who thus would play the spy, On the die For such sight his head must throw; In his blood the sabre naked Would be slakèd, Of my slaves of ebon brow. "Then my rich robes trailing show As I go, None to chide should be so bold; And upon my sandals fine How should shine Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!" Fancying herself a queen, All unseen, Thus vibrating in delight; In her indolent coquetting Quite forgetting How the hours wing their flight. As she lists the showery tinkling Of the sprinkling By her wanton curvets made; Never pauses she to think Of the brink Where her wrapper white is laid. To the harvest-fields the while, In long file, Speed her sisters' lively band, Like a flock of birds in flight Streaming light, Dancing onward hand in hand. And they're singing, every one, As they run This the burden of their lay: "Fie upon such idleness! Not to dress Earlier on harvest-day!" JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. EXPECTATION. _("Moune, écureuil.")_ [xx.]