Gently, gently, glide I from the chamber.
When she opes her eyes, my own heart's darling,
And they rest upon my gift, with wonder
Will she muse, how such fine token ever
There should be, and yet her door unopened.
When to-night again I see my angel,
Oh, how she will joy, and twofold pay me,
For this tribute of my heart's devotion!
THE MUSAGETES.
Often in the winter midnight,
Prayed I to the blessed Muses—
"Here is not the red of morning.
Tardy is the day in breaking;
Light for me, ye blessed Muses,
Light the lamp of inspiration.
That its mellow ray may serve me,
'Stead of Phoebus and Aurora!"
But they left me to my slumber,
Dull, and spiritless, and torpid;
And the morning's lazy leisure
Ushered in a useless day.
Then when spring began to kindle,
Thus the nightingales I conjured —
"Sweetest nightingales, oh, warble,
Warble early at my window!
Wake me from the heavy slumber
That in magic fetters holds me!"
And the love-o'erflowing singers
Sang all night around my window
All their rarest melodies;
