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THE MASKED BALL.

(Assassination of King Gustavus of Sweden.)

A WHIRL of masks and dominos,
Mixed yellow, poppy, blue;

The dance went linked and winding,
As dances love to do.

In mellow thunder groaned the bass,
Clear, bird-like, chirped the flute;
And, whispering on the alcove bench,
The lover pressed his suit.

Flutters of blue and crimson,

Rustles of ribbon and silk,

The masks as black as midnight's brow,

The satin white as milk;

Such dark eyes reading others,

Such blue eyes dim with love,

As round and round the dance moved on, And red drums beat above.

Such soft cheeks glowing crimson,
Where spring and summer meet;
Such hands as soft to the grateful touch
As the down on the ermine's feet.
The dancers moved as swift and gay
As leaves the west winds drive,
The sound and the buzz of voices
Hummed like a new-formed hive.

A stir and cadence swelling high,
Soft murmurs sinking low,

And next a rush of strong-winged sounds,

That eddy to and fro—

Then from this wild abyss rose up

A song that cleft the air,

As from a rent cloud springs the lark
When winter skies grow fair.

'Tis Christmas, and the palace feast
Has reached the crowning joy;
The Chancellor, his care laid by,
Has grown again a boy.

The King, conspicuous o'er the rest,
Moved in a crimson mask,

Dressed as the prince of evil
Bent on a courtly task.