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| BENEATH the shade of orange-trees, | |
| Where streams with stilly murmurs run, | |
| ’T is sweet to breathe the fanning breeze, | |
| And watch the broad descending sun; | |
| |
| While youths and maids, a jocund throng, | 5 |
| With measured tinkling steps appear, | |
| And pour the sweet soul-lulling song, | |
| That melts and lingers on the ear. | |
| |
| How softly wild the maiden’s lay | |
| Whose pliant hand the rush-grass weaves! | 10 |
| But sweeter hers who drives away | |
| The reed-birds from the ricen sheaves. | |
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| My soul is bathed in song;—the dance | |
| Is sweeter than the maiden’s kiss, | |
| As half-receding steps advance | 15 |
| To picture love’s enchanting bliss. | |
| |
| Soft fall your voices, breathing kind | |
| The passion ne’er to be withstood, | |
| As raptured gestures slowly wind, | |
| To image pleasure’s melting mood. | 20 |
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| The gales of evening breathe; the moon | |
| Is glimmering through the leaves above: | |
| Ah! cease, dear maids, the mellow tune, | |
| And give the night to joy and love! | |
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