AN HISTORICAL TALE.


Night wanes apace!--The crowd are gone;
The lamps have ceased to glow;
And Cynthia's beams reflect upon
The placid lake below.

The song of mirth is heard no more;
No guests the goblet fill;
The banquet's revelry is o'er,
All--all is hush'd and still.

No more, amid the stately pile,
The dance afford's delight;
Nor tale, nor jocund sports beguile
The silent hours of night.

All seek the downy couch of sleep--
The host, and worthy guest;
The drowsy guards on duty keep,
And envy them their rest.

No minstrels strike th' enliv'ning string--
None blow the twanging horn;
The nightingale has ceas'd to sing,
And slowly breaks the morn.

The portals of the dappled East
Assume their bright array;