FOR A PICTURE OF WATTEAU.

HERE the vague winds have rest;

The forest breathes in sleep,

Lifting a quiet breast;

It is the hour of rest.

How summer glides away!

An autumn pallor blooms

Upon the check of day.

Come, lovers, come away!

But here, where dead leaves fall

Upon the grass, what strains,

Languidly musical,

Mournfully rise and fall?

Light loves that woke with spring

This autumn afternoon

Beholds meandering,

Still, to the strains of spring.

Your dancing feet are faint,

Lovers: the air recedes

Into a sighing plaint,

Faint, as your loves are faint.

It is the end, the end,

The dance of love's decease.

Feign no more now, fair friend!

It is the end, the end.