Classic Poem

Once more to Mona Lisa turned
Each asking eye — nor turned in vain
Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned
Bright o'er her cheek and died again,
Showed with what inly shame and fear
Was uttered what all loved to hear.
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay
Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that like a ray
Of southern sunshine seemed to float —
So rich with climate was each note —
Called up in every heart a dream
Of Italy with this soft theme: —