University of Virginia Library

'Tis noon: the flags cling close on roof and spire,
The sun burns broad, a ball of living fire;
The sky is blue—celestial, summer-blue:
Here rise no sulphurous smokes to shroud its hue;
No clouds of pestilence, that mine and forge,
To blot out heaven and poison earth, disgorge.

Now comes the idler's hour. The beggar-bard
Takes his old quarters on the gay Boulevard;
Beneath the trees the Conjuror spreads his tools;
The Quack harangues his group of graver fools
In lofty lies, unruffled by the jar
Thrumm'd from his neighbour Savoyard's guitar;
Veil'd virgins beam, like Dian in a mist;
Philosophers show mites; she-tumblers twist;
Each the fix'd genius of some favourite tree,
Dryads and fauns of Gallic minstrelsy.
In double glories now, the broad Marchande,
Fire-eyed, her skin by Gascon summers tann'd,
Red as the kerchief round her coal-black hair,
Lays out her tempting trays of rich and rare;
Resistless ruby bands, delicious rings,
In genuine paste; the true wax coral strings,
Mingling with wonders of profounder art,
Woman's dear helps to mystify the heart;
Crisp auburn curls,—to hide th'obtrusive gray,
That stubborn hue, which yet will make its way;
Glass eyes, mouse eyebrows, teeth like studs of snow,
Grinning in grim good humour row by row;
Secrets so stiffly kept from upper air,
Yet here let loose, the sex's whole repair.
And here, in all the splendors of placard,
Beauty's last polishers, the rouge and fard!
Mysterious things! that, like the tricks of dreams,
Make what is seem not, while what is not, seems;
Deep witcheries! whose absence makes the fright,
Raising their ghosts at morn, their nymphs at night—
Soft potions! minister'd with softest skill,—
Yet used with desperate intent—to kill;
Obedient charms! that many a charming maid
Summons long after all the rest are laid!

The air grows furnace-hot; flag, awning, screen,
Peep endless from those lovely lines of green;
Yet Autumn has been there;—the russet tinge,
Deep purples, pearly grays, the poplars fringe;
And ever, in the distance some proud tower
Looks out in feudal beauty from its bower.
All a strange, mirthful, melancholy show;
Stately decay above, wild life below!
This is no city-scene. The tree, the tent,
The small, bright flags that break the line's extent;
The guns defiling down the central road,
The escort round the halted convoy strow'd,
The courier Cossack rushing in career
With low bent head, slack rein, and levell'd spear,
The clang within the lines, the measur'd tramp,
The mime and minstrel sounds,—is this a camp?
And this a hurrying army, that have made
Their forest-halt till noon's high blaze is staid;
To move with eve, to see the twilight's gray
Float on their banners many a league away;
At morn to spring to arms, at noon—be laid
Silent and pale—nor care for sun or shade?
It is a camp; a matchless host;—the breeze
That lets in sunlight through the heaving trees,
Flings into sudden splendour form and plume,
Like visions, flashing bright, then lost in gloom;—
Perpetual blaze of gem, and steel, and gold;
Russ helm, Hungarian mantle's broider'd fold,
Green Tartar-turban, Georgian orange shawl
O'er silver mail; deep sables of Ural;
Broad bosoms corsleted with cross and star;
Dark, haughty faces bronzed with glorious war,
Champions, that each a battle's strength has stood,
Chief caterers of the vulture's fearful food;
Now mingled,—mighty with one triumph more
Greatest and last,—Earth's day of war is o'er!