It is an eve that drops a heavenly balm, To lull the feelings to a sober calm, To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart; And smooth the troubled waters of the heart; To give a tranquil fixedness to grief, A cherished gloom, that wishes not relief. Torn is that heart, and bitter are its throes, That cannot feel on such a night, repose; And yet one breast there is that breathes this air, An eye that wanders o'er the prospect fair, That sees yon placid moon, and the pure sky Of mild, unclouded blue; and still that eye Is thrown in restless vacancy around, Or cast, in gloomy trance, on the cold ground; And still, that breast with maddening passion burns, And hatred, love, and sorrow, rule by turns. A lovely figure! and in happier hour, When pleasure laugh'd abroad from hall and bower, The general eye had deem'd her smiling face The brightest jewel in the courtly place: So glossy is her hair's ensabled wreath, So glowing warm the eye that burns beneath With so much graceful sweetness of address, And such a form of rounded slenderness; Ah! where is he on whom these beauties shine, But deems a spotless soul inhabits such a shrine? And yet a keen observer might espy Strange passions lurking in her deep black eye, And in the lines of her fine lip, a soul That in its every feeling spurned control. They passed unnoted--who will stop to trace A sullying spot on beauty's sparkling face? And no one deemed, amid her glances sweet, Hers was a bosom of impetuous heat; A heart too wildly in its joys elate, Formed but to madly love--or madly hate; A spirit of strong throbs, and steadfast will; To doat, detest, to die for, or to kill; Which, like the Arab chief, would fiercely dare To stab the heart she might no longer share; And yet so tender, if he loved again, Would die to save his breast one moment's pain.