Fie, fie, Sephina! not in bed!
Crouched on the staircase overhead.
Like ghost she gloats, her lean hand laid
On alabaster balustrade,
And gazes on and on:
Down on that wondrous to and fro
Till finger and foot are cold as snow,
And half the night is gone;
And dazzled eyes are sore bestead;
Nods drowsily the sleek-locked head;
And, vague and far, spins, fading out,
That rainbow-coloured, reeling rout;
And, with faint sighs, her spirit flies
Into deep sleep ....
Come, Stranger, peep!
Was ever cheek so wan?
45
