Heavy from broiderie; plumes of snow,
With the meteor-like eye that flash'd dark below;
And shining cuirass, and silver shield,
Told of warriors bound for some gallant field.
Then chang'd the scene to some festal room,
Where the steps were light, and the cheeks were bloom;
And dancers link'd each ivory hand
In the maze of the graceful saraband;
And the ruby wine cup fresh lustre shed,
As the lips that were quaffing it lent it their red.
Then it changed again to some orange grove,
Where a gentle cavalier whispered love;
And words were murmured so low, so clear,
That the nightingale paused in his song to hear.
"Now tell me where is this lovely strand,
I deemed not our earth such fairy land:
Is it our own fair queen of the main,
Or Italy's gardens, or sunny Spain;
Or is it some isle the Atlantic hides,
Like a treasured gem, 'mid its azure tides?"
"Now, out on thy guessing, canst thou not see?
I speak of the fair world of poesie."
