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THE DANCING GIRL.
A light and joyous figure, one that seems
As if the air were her own element;
Begirt with cheerful thoughts, and bringing back
Old days, when nymphs upon Arcadian plains
Made musical the wind, and in the sun
Flash’d their bright cymbals and their whitest hands.
These were the days of poetry—the woods
Were haunted with sweet shadows; and the caves
Odorous with moss, and lit with shining spars,
Were homes where Naiades met some graceful youth
Beneath the moonlit heaven—all this is past;
Ours is a darker and a sadder age;
Heaven help us through it!—’tis a weary world
The dust and ashes of a happier time.
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