The night-lamp's feeble flame burns low,
The trembling stars are looking through
The checkered lattice, and their light
Drops on the marble flooring bright
As Luna's beam on Northern night.
No flaunting silks, no stifling panes
Of crystal, or of varied stains,
Obstruct the broken rays that fall
In silver fretwork on the wall,
Where pearl with tortoise-shell combines
In a mosaic chaste and rare,
Bordered with wreaths of golden vines,
That seem outfloating on the air.