Of being sad in their fantastic trim.

The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain,--
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,

The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.


SUR L'HERBE.

"The abbe rambles."--"You, marquis,
Have put your wig on all awry."--
"This wine of Cyprus kindles me
Less, my Camargo, than your eye!"

"My passion"--"Do, mi, sol, la, si."--
"Abbe, your villany lies bare."--
"Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree
And fetch a star down, I declare."

"Let each kiss his own lady, then
The others."--"Would that I were, too,
A lap-dog!"--"Softly, gentlemen!"--
"Do, mi."--"The moon!"--"Hey, how d'ye do?"