67
O’er his bagpipes bends an hazel
Cheek, the son of southern lands,
And the whirling cymbals dazzle
In a black-eyed maiden’s hands.
Dressed in cloak of blue the piper,
On his hat are ribbands rosy,
His companion’s bust embellish
Many a brightly broidered posy,
Burn, allure with snaky lustre,
Languish those seductive eyes,
Stars Italian seem to cluster
’Neath their black-fringed canopies.
But oh! look! an ape all hoary,
Shows its teeth at the beholders
Sitting in a ball upon the
Blooming maiden’s sunny shoulders:
From his crouching body peeling
Flames a once embroidered vest,
From beneath his cap are stealing
Dreamy looks of vague unrest.
And he strangely fixes on me
Two mute ape-eyes interceding
To the well of tears within me,
Smites that glance so sickly pleading;
Hanuman, thy secret knowing,
I can feel thy fallen state,
And those tears so thickly flowing
From thine eyes, compassionate.
