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,
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!
But sweeter hers who drives away
The reed-birds from the ricen sheaves.
My soul is bathed in song;—the dance
Is sweeter than the maiden’s kiss,
As half-receding steps advance
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.
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!