There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,

  And lamps from every casement shown;

While voices blithe within are singing,

  That seem to say "Come," in every tone.

Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,

  My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;

Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason

  Should I the syren call obey.

And, see—the lamps still livelier glitter,

  The syren lips more fondly sound;

No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter

  To sink in your rosy bondage bound.

Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms

  Could bend to tyranny's rude control,

Thus quail at sight of woman's charms

  And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

  The nymphs their fetters around him cast,

And,—their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,—

  Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.

For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,

Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]

Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,

  But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.