JULIET AFTER THE MASQUERADE.
BY THOMPSON.
She left the festival, for it seem'd dim
Now that her eye no longer dwelt on him,
And sought her chamber,—gazed, (then turn'd away),
Upon a mirror that before her lay,
Half fearing, half believing her sweet face
Would surely claim within his memory place.
The hour was late, and that night her light foot
Had been the constant echo of the lute;
