As Love one summer eve was straying,

  Who should he see at that soft hour

But young Minerva gravely playing

Her flute within an olive bower.

I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion

  That grave or merry, good or ill,

The sex all bow to his dominion,

  As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given

  To learned dames his smiles or sighs,

So handsome Pallas looked that even

  Love quite forgot the maid was wise.

Besides, a youth of his discerning

  Knew well that by a shady rill

At sunset hour whate'er her learning

  A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,—

  Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.—

For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,

  To Love seem always out of tune.

But long as he found face to flatter,

  The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;

As, weak or wise—it doesn't matter—

Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming,

  "How rosy was her lips' soft dye!"

And much that flute the flatterer blaming,

  For twisting lips so sweet awry.

The nymph looked down, beheld her features

  Reflected in the passing rill,

And started, shocked—for, ah, ye creatures!

  Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious.

  That graceless flute the Goddess took

And while yet filled with breath melodious,

  Flung it into the glassy brook;

Where as its vocal life was fleeting

  Adown the current, faint and shrill,

'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,

  "Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

* * * * *

An interval of dark repose—

Such as the summer lightning knows,

Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright

  The quick revealment comes and goes,

Opening each time the veils of night,

To show within a world of light—

Such pause, so brief, now past between

This last gay vision and the scene

  Which now its depth of light disclosed.

A bower it seemed, an Indian bower,

  Within whose shade a nymph reposed,

Sleeping away noon's sunny hour—

Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves

Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves,

And there, as Indian legends say,

Dreams the long summer hours away.

And mark how charmed this sleeper seems

With some hid fancy—she, too, dreams!

Oh for a wizard's art to tell

  The wonders that now bless her sight!

'Tis done—a truer, holier spell

Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell.

  Thus brings her vision all to light:—