There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,         And lamps from every casement shown;     While voices blithe within are singing,         That seem to say "Come," in every tone.     Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,         My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;     Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason         Should I the syren call obey.     And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,         The syren lips more fondly sound;     No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter         To sink in your rosy bondage bound.     Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms         Could bend to tyranny's rude control,     Thus quail at sight of woman's charms         And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?     Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,         The nymphs their fetters around him cast,     And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,--         Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.     For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,     Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]     Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,         But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.