Voices Of The Night

'The tender Grace of a day that is past.' The dew is on the roses, The owl hath spread her wing; And vocal are the noses Of peasant and of king: 'Nature' (in short) 'reposes;' But I do no such thing. Pent in my lonesome study Here I must sit and muse; Sit till the morn grows ruddy, Till, rising with the dews, 'Jeameses' remove the muddy Spots from their masters' shoes. Yet are sweet faces flinging Their witchery o'er me here: I hear sweet voices singing A song as soft, as clear, As (previously to stinging) A gnat sings round one's ear. Does Grace draw young Apollos In blue mustachios still? Does Emma tell the swallows How she will pipe and trill, When, some fine day, she follows Those birds to the window-sill? And oh! has Albert faded From Grace's memory yet? Albert, whose 'brow was shaded By locks of glossiest jet,' Whom almost any lady'd Have given her eyes to get? Does not her conscience smite her For one who hourly pines, Thinking her bright eyes brighter Than any star that shines - I mean of course the writer Of these pathetic lines? Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter, 'Time rolls his ceaseless course: 'The Grace of yore' may alter - And then, I've one resource: I'll invest in a bran-new halter, And I'll perish without remorse.