She turns, and thinks; and, lost in wild amaze, Nor can thy flute, ALONSO, now excite, So soon to love and to be wretched too! Then stirs not, breathes not-on enchanted ground? Ceiba, and Indian fig, and plane sublime, Nature's first-born, and reverenced by Time! There sits the bird that speaks! there, quivering, rise Reigns there, and revels thro' the fragrant hours; Gem full of life, and joy, and song divine, 'Twas he that sung, if ancient Fame speaks truth, "Come! follow, follow to the Fount of Youth! I quaff the ambrosial mists that round it rise, Dissolved and lost in dreams of Paradise!" For there called forth, to bless a happier hour, It met the sun in many a rainbow-shower! Murmuring delight, its living waters rolled 'Mid branching palms and amaranths of gold! Evening a banquet-the ghost of Cazziva. THE tamarind closed her leaves; the marmoset Dreamed on his bough, and played the mimic yet. Fresh from the lake the breeze of twilight blew, And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew; When many a fire-fly, shooting thro' the glade, Spangled the locks of many a lovely maid, L L |