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THE BAYADERE.
A brow like twilight's darkening line,
An eye like morning's first sunshine,
Now glancing through the veil of dreams
As sudden light at daybreak streams.
And richer than the mingled shade
By gem, and gold, and purple made,
His orient wings closed o'er his head;
Like that bird's, bright with every dye,
Whose home, as Persian bards have said,
Is fixed in scented Araby.
Some dream is passing o'er him now—
A sudden flush is on his brow;
And from his lip come murmured words,
Low, but sweet as the light lute chords
When o'er its strings the night-winds glide
To woo the roses by its side.
