221
A SKETCH.
The fretted pannels gleamed with gold,
And gorgeous shewed that stately room;
The silken curtain's ample fold
Shone with the dyes of Persia's loom.
And there lay harp and lyre and lute,
To waken music's sweetest strain,
But all in that sad hour were mute—
Their witchery lost, their solace vain.
Without—the tall trees wooed the wind
Shading a smooth and spacious lawn,
And where the shrubs their branches twined,
Couched on the blossoms slept the fawn.
The wide verandah's colonnade
With rare and precious flowers was filled,
And every breeze that round them played
Their odorous scents in showers distilled.
