Above the city hangs a limpid glare,
From hollow laughter's laden festal board:
Thou seest the lover fondling his adored--
Thou hearest music singing of her hair.
Thou seest the tryst that's neither here nor there.
Thou seest the gallant with his mocking sword,
And honor at his feet;--the miser's hoard,
And Lo! the music, sword, and tryst are there.
Say when has music breathed a song,
Encored so long as yonder jingling gold?
Say when do lover's wand'ring from the throng,
Turn wholly from the mart where love is sold?
Ah man! were gold where erst it did belong
Then love were winged music as of old.