And now ’tis dark and balmy night: Ten thousand lamps hang forth their light From high verandas, arches, bowers, Festooned with pendant wreaths of flowers. And glorious shines the summer green Of tree, and shrub, by that light seen; And delicate the rainbow dyes, Of every flower that odour sighs; And spirit-like the white-robed maids, That loiter ’mid the garden shades: There’s not a rhymester there that night But calls the scene Elysian quite, And, waxing sentimental on it, Thinks of Boccaccio and a sonnet; Or some bright isle of genii sprites, We read of in the “Arabian Nights;” Or some bright banquet which Watteau, With courtier pencil, loved to shew; Or, if excursive grow his fancies, He conjures up those old romances Where sorceress, for her favourite’s bliss, Would raise, by spells, a scene like this, Which chaster knight could, with one prayer And holy sign, dispense in air; Music from dusky ambush stole To witch with melody the soul, As wandering minstrels sung soft lays, Such as Moore writes, and Thalberg plays: And, oh! the voice hath wondrous power To melt, to move, at such an hour. As Mary walked with Deloraine, They paused, arrested by a strain, The notes were rich, and low, and sweet, Voice of a mind—nor all unmeet The words, of Love in ambuscade, Which Deloraine’s secret thoughts betrayed. “O! fair, surpassing fair thou art, Unconscious all—the Graces’ boast; What wonder myriads seek thy heart? But, Lady, I adore thee most! When others on thy beauty dwell, Hang on thy words, explore thine eyes, O, never earthly bard could tell What thoughts within my bosom rise. Let speechless Love, in sighs reveal That passion which the bolder vow; And let one thought of pity steal For him who never felt till now. Tell her, ye stars! thou winged air Breathe to her, Flora’s painted host, That I am true as she is fair— Though all _must_ love, I love her most!”