And dying lays, whose long lost melodies

Still haunt old storied ruins everywhere,

Are dimly floating through the fragrant air—

I dream beneath the blooming apple trees:

A merry orchestra of nymphs and fays

Has gathered in the pine-tree's elfin shade,

With naiad shell and fairy reed and string,

While Minturn Peck the magic baton sways.

And when the band his "Rhymes and Roses," played,

The dryads' voices made the woodlands ring!

[Pg 33]

[Pg 33]

THERE'S NOTHING DARK ABOUT HER BUT HER HAIR

There's nothing dark about her but her hair!

Her liquid eyes, as blue as Grecian seas,

Affect me, like a moonlit southern breeze,

From off the fields of sweet magnolias rare;

Her sympathetic soul is pure and fair

And spotless as the petals of a rose:

Her gown is like a drift of northern snows—

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