"Drink the glad wine with me,
With me spend youth's gay hours;
Or a sighing lover be,
Or crown thy brow with flowers.
When I am merry and mad,
Merry and mad be you;
When I am sober and sad,
Be sad and sober too!"

--written however by no poet of modern days, but by Praxilla, in the
fifth century before Christ. Who would guess either that Moore's little
song was modelled on one written even earlier than the date of our story?

"As o'er her loom the Lesbian maid
In love-sick languor hung her head.
Unknowing where her fingers stray'd,
She weeping turned away and said,'
Oh, my sweet mother, 'tis in vain,

I cannot weave as once I wove;
So wilder'd is my heart and brain
With thinking of that youth I love.'"

If my space allowed I could add much more on this subject, but will
permit myself only one remark in conclusion. Lovers delighted in nature
then as now; the moon was their chosen confidante, and I know of no
modern poem in which the mysterious charm of a summer night and the magic
beauty which lies on flowers, trees and fountains in those silent hours
when the world is asleep, is more exquisitely described than in the