Part 138 (2/2)

So pledge me a b.u.mper--your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offered, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find.

Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!

In the mean time, a b.u.mper--your Angels, on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are _not_ Angels, why--let the flask fly-- We must be happy _all_ ways that we can.

Now nearly fled was sunset's light, Leaving but so much of its beam As gave to objects, late so blight, The coloring of a shadowy dream; And there was still where Day had set A flush that spoke him loath to die-- A last link of his glory yet, Binding together earth and sky.

Say, why is it that twilight best Becomes even brows the loveliest?

That dimness with its softening Touch Can bring out grace unfelt before, And charms we ne'er can see too much, When seen but half enchant the more?

Alas, it is that every joy In fulness finds its worst alloy, And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed, Is sweeter than the whole possest;-- That Beauty, when least shone upon, A creature most ideal grows; And there's no light from moon or sun Like that Imagination throws;-- It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks Even from a bright reality, And turning inly, feels and thinks For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bower, Now wandered thro' this fairy ground; And thus did Fancy--and champagne-- Work on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain, Now brightened in the gloom to belles; And the brief interval of time, 'Twixt after dinner and before, To dowagers brought back their prime, And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; And now along the waters fly Light gondoles, of Venetian breed, With knights and dames who, calm reclined, Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide-- Astonis.h.i.+ng old Thames to find Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river, With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver, That many a group in turn were seen Embarking on its wave serene; And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay, A band of mariners, from the isles Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, As smooth they floated, to the play Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:--

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy, Our home is on the sea; When Nature gave The ocean-wave, She markt it for the Free.

Whatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall, The island bark Is Freedom's ark, And floats her safe thro' all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, Behold yon sea of isles, Where every sh.o.r.e Is sparkling o'er With Beauty's richest smiles.

For us hath Freedom claimed, boy, For us hath Freedom claimed Those ocean-nests Where Valor rests His eagle wing untamed.

And shall the Moslem dare, boy, And shall the Moslem dare, While Grecian hand Can wield a brand, To plant his Crescent there?

No--by our fathers, no, boy, No, by the Cross, we show-- From Maina's rills To Thracia's hills All Greece re-echoes ”No!”

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind A minute come and go again, Even so by s.n.a.t.c.hes in the wind, Was caught and lost that choral strain, Now full, now faint upon the ear, As the bark floated far or near.

At length when, lost, the closing note Had down the waters died along, Forth from another fairy boat, Freighted with music, came this song--

SONG.

Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales, Gentle river, thy current runs, Sheltered safe from winter gales, Shaded cool from summer suns.

Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide.

Fenced with flowery shelter round; No rude tempest wakes the tide, All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come, When, wooed by whispering groves in vain, Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, To mingle with the stormy main.

And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pa.s.s Into the world's unsheltered sea, Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas, All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon, Resplendent as a summer noon, Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-- (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)-- Quadrille performs her mazy rites, And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;--

Working to death each opera strain, As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs thro' sacred and profane, From ”Maid and Magpie” up to ”Moses;”--[3]

Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, Till f.a.gged Rossini scarce respires; Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, And Weber at her feet expires.

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