Oh, where art thou dreaming,

  On land, or on sea?

In my lattice is gleaming

  The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing

  To welcome thee home,

And the night is fast going,

  But thou art not come:

           No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers

  Should wake from their rest;

'Tis the hour of all hours,

  When the lute singeth best,

But the flowers are half sleeping

  Till thy glance they see;

And the husht lute is keeping

  Its music for thee.

            Yet, thou com'st not!

* * * * *

Scarce had the last word left her lip,

When a light, boyish form, with trip

Fantastic, up the green walk came,

Prankt in gay vest to which the flame

Of every lamp he past, or blue

Or green or crimson, lent its hue;

As tho' a live chameleon's skin

He had despoiled, to robe him in.

A zone he wore of clattering shells,

  And from his lofty cap, where shone

A peacock's plume, there dangled bells

  That rung as he came dancing on.

Close after him, a page—in dress

And shape, his miniature express—

An ample basket, filled with store

Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;

Till, having reached this verdant seat,

He laid it at his master's feet,

Who, half in speech and half in song,

Chanted this invoice to the throng:—