There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.

Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.