To know what rank (if rank at all)
'Mong reas'ning things to them should fall—
What sort of notions heaven imparts
To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts,
And how far Soul, which, Plato says,
Abhors restraint, can act in stays—
Might now, if gifted with discerning,
Find opportunities of learning:

As these two creatures-from their pout
And frown, 'twas plain-had just fall'n out;
And all their little thoughts, of course,
Were stirring in full fret and force ;-
Like mites, through microscope espied,
A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek,
The tempest of their souls to speak:
As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,
To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,
Even so this tender couple set
Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

I now have given (excuse the pun)
A vested interest in my heart.
Oh! ah! &c.

Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE.

What if, by fond remembrance led
Again to wear our mutual chain,
For me thou cutt'st Fitznoodle dead,
And I levant from Lady Jane.
Oh! ah! &c.

Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE.

Though he the Noodle honors give,
And thine, dear youth, are not so high,
With thee in endless waltz i'd live,
With thee, to Weber's Stop-Waltz, die!
Oh! ah. &c.

Thus round and round through life we'll go
[Exeunt waltzing.

WALTZ DUET.1

HE.

LONG as I waltz'd with only thee,
Each blissful Wednesday that went by,
Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee
Adorn'd a youth so blest as I.
Oh! ah! ah! oh!

Those happy days are gone-heigho

SHE.

Long as with thee I skimm'd the ground
Nor yet was scorn'd for Lady Jane,
No blither nymph tetotum'd round
To Collinet's immortal strain.

Oh! ah! &c.

Those happy days are gone-heigho!

HE.

With Lady Jane now whirl'd about,

I know no bounds of time or breath; And, should the charmer's head hold out, My heart and heels are hers till death.

Oh! ah! &c.

Still round and round through life we'll go.

SHE.

To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son,

A youth renown'd for waistcoats smart,

1 It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that this Duet is a parody of the often-translated and parodied ode of Horace, "Donec gratus eram tibi," &c.

While thus, like motes that dance away
Existence in a summer ray,
These gay things, born but to quadrille,
The circle of their doom fulfil-
(That dancing doom, whose law decrees
That they should live, on the alert toe,
A life of ups-and-downs, like keys

Of Broadwood's in a long concerto :-) While thus the fiddle's spell, within,

Calls up its realm of restless sprites, Without, as if some Mandarin

Were holding there his Feast of Lights, Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers, Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, Till, budding into light, each tree Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er,
As though the Spirits of the Air
Had tak'n it in their heads to pour

A shower of summer meteors there ;-
While here a lighted shrubb'ry led

To a small lake that sleeping lay, Cradled in foliage, but, o'erhead,

Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; While round its rim thero burning stood

Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, That shrunk from such warm neighborhood; And, looking bashful in the flood,

Blush'd to behold themselves so wedded.

Hither, to this embower'd retreat,

Fit but for nights so still and sweet;

Nights, such as Eden's calm recall
In its first lonely hour, when all

So silent is, below, on high,

That if a star falls down the sky, You almost think you hear it fallHither, to this recess, a few,

To shun the dancers' wild'ring noise, And give an hour, ere night-time flew,

To Music's more ethereal joys,
Came with their voices-ready all
As Echo, waiting for a call-
In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,
To weave their mingling minstrelsy.

And, first, a dark-eyed nymph, array'd—
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisa-with that braid
Of hair across the brow, and one
Small
gem that in the centre shone-
With face, too, in its form resembling
Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes,
Now lucid, as through crystal trembling,

Now soft, as if suffused with sighs-
Her lute, that hung beside her, took,
And, bending o'er it with shy look,
More beautiful, in shadow thus,
Than when with life most luminous,
Pass'd her light finger o'er the chords,
And sung to them these mournful words:-

Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle's shore at noonday glide,
Or, nightly, on her glist'ning sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody-
Now link'd their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,
Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear

But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paused, entranced, to hear,
And, for that day, deferr'd her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o'er th' Egean fling,
Beneath my casement, low and soft,
I heard a Lesbian lover sing;
And, list'ning both with ear and thought
These sounds upon the night-breeze caught-
"Oh, happy as the gods is he,
"Who gazes at this hour on thee !"

The song was one by Sappho sung,
In the first love-dreams of her lyre,
When words of passion from her tongue
Fell like a shower of living fire.
And still, at close of ev'ry strain,
I heard these burning words again—
"Oh, happy as the gods is he,
"Who listens at this hour to thee!"

SONG.

BRING hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying—
Here will I lay me, and list to thy song;
Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banish'd so long,
Chase them away-they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be wo again.

Sing on, thou mournful lute-day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanish'd, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group, that late, in garb of Greeks,
Sung their light chorus o'er the tide-

1 The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting.—Vasari, vol. vii.

Once more to Mona Lisa turn'd

Each asking eye-nor turn'd in vain ;
Though the quick, transient blush that burn'd
Bright o'er her cheek, and died again,
Show'd with what inly shame and fear
Was utter'd what all loved to hear.
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay

Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that, like a ray
Of southern sunshine, seem'd to float-
So rich with climate was each note-
Call'd up in every heart a dream
Of Italy, with this soft theme:-

SONG.

OH, where art thou dreaming, On land, or on sea?

In my lattice is gleaming

The watch-light for thee; And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: No, thou com'st not!

"Tis the time when night-flowers Should wake from their rest; "Tis the hour of all hours,

When the lute singeth best. But the flowers are half sleeping Till thy glance they see! And the hush'd lute is keeping Its music for thee.

Yet, thou com'st not!

Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prank'd in gay vest, to which the flame
Of every lamp he pass'd, or blue,
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue;
As though a live chameleon's skin
He had despoil'd to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clatt'ring shells,

And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on
Close after him, a page-in dress
And shape, his miniature express—
An ample basket, fill'd with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reach'd this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master's feet,

Who, half in speech and half in song, Chanted this invoice to the throng:

SONG.

WHO'LL buy?-'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?— We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;

Besides our usual fools' supply,

We've lots of playthings, too, for sages. For reasoners, here's a juggler's cup,

That fullest seems when nothing's in it; And nine-pins set, like systems, up,

To be knock'd down the following minute. Who'll buy?-'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make,

For bards to wear in dog-day weather; Or bards the bells alone may take,

And leave to wits the cap and feather Tetotums we've for patriots got,

Who court the mob with antics humble; Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, A glorious spin, and then-a tumble. Who'll buy, &c., &c.

Here, wealthy misers to inter,
We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;
While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver,
That, fast as they can wish, will caper.
For aldermen we've dials true,

That tell no hour but that of dinner;
For courtly parsons sermons new,
That suit alike both saint and sinner.
Who'll buy, &c., &c

No time we've now to name our terms,
But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,
This oldest of all mortal firms,

Folly and Co., will try to please you.
Or, should you wish a darker hue

Of goods than we can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. Who'll buy, &c., &c

While thus the blissful moments roll'd, Moments of rare and fleeting light, That show themselves, like grains of gold In the mine's refuse, few and bright; Behoid where, opening far away,

The long Conservatory's range, Stripp'd of the flowers it wore all day, But gaining lovelier in exchange, Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, A supper, such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!-blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced the march of appetite;
Deploy'd his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who play'd the dickens
With Rome and all her sacred chickens,
Put Supper and her fowls so white,

Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.

Now waked once more by wine-whose tide Is the true Hippocrene, where glide

The Muse's swans with happiest wing,
Dipping their bills, before they sing-
The minstrels of the table greet
The list'ning ear with descant sweet:-

"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 !

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVEE AND COUCHEE.

CALL the Loves around,
Let the whisp'ring sound

Of their wings be heard alone,
Till soft to rest
My Lady blest

At this bright hour hath gone.
Let Fancy's beams

Play o'er her dreams,

Till, touch'd with light all through,
Her spirit be

Like a summer sea,
Shining and slumb'ring too.

And, while thus hush'd she lies,

Let the whisper'd chorus rise

"Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright eyes."

But the day-beam breaks,

See, our Lady wakes!

Call the Loves around once more,
Like stars that wait

At Morning's gate,

Her first steps to adore.
Let the veil of night

From her dawning sight
All gently pass away,

Like mists that flee
From a summer sea,

Leaving it full of day.

And, while her last dream flies,

Let the whisper'd chorus rise

"Good morning, good morning, to our Lady's bright eyes"

SONG.

IF to see thee be to love thee,

If to love thee be to prize

Naught of earth or heav'n above thee,

Nor to live but for those eyes:

If such love to mortal given,

Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heav'n,

But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buz of whisp'ring 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 tow'rds yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Mask,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair

As Love himself for bride could ask,
Sits blushing deep, as if aware
Of the wing'd 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 array'd,
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 miss'd among this mortal train,
We thought her wing'd 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 proffer'd 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 blush'd consent. Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, housemaids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approved, and bless'd the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in th' air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Levo.

Holding, as if to drop it down
Gently upon her curls, a crown
Of Ducal shape-but, oh, such gems!
Pilfer'd 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 the bright orient hath begun
To canter his immortal team;

And, though not yet arrived in sight, His leader's 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,
Ev'n 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 air, that stood last night
Crépé, crispy, and upright,
But have now, alas! one sees, a
Leaning like the tower of Pisa;
Fare ye well-thus sinks away

All that's mighty, all that's bright;
Tyre and Sidon had their day,

And ev'n a Ball-has but its night!

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting, as readers, those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea, where the scene is laid, was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."-Vol. vi. p. 174.

T M

EVENINGS IN GREECE.

FIRST EVENING.

"THE sky is bright-the breeze is fair, "And the mainsail flowing, full and free