On one of those sweet nights that oft

  Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling,

Beneath my casement, low and soft,

  I heard a Lesbian lover sing;

And, listening both with ear and thought,

These sounds upon the night breeze caught—

  "Oh, happy as the gods is he,

  "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung,

  In the first love-dreams of her lyre,

When words of passion from her tongue

  Fell like a shower of living fire.

And still, at close of every strain,

I heard these burning words again—

  "Oh, happy as the gods is he,

  "Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turned

  Each asking eye—nor turned in vain

Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned

  Bright o'er her cheek and died again,

Showed with what inly shame and fear

Was uttered what all loved to hear.

Yet not to sorrow's languid lay

  Did she her lute-song now devote;

But thus, with voice that like a ray

  Of southern sunshine seemed to float—

  So rich with climate was each note—

Called up in every heart a dream

Of Italy with this soft theme:—