An Old Tune. There is an air for which I would disown Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies ; A sad sweet air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone. Whene’er I hear that music vague and old— Two hundred years are ‘ mist that rolls away ’— The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day, An old red castle, strong with stony towers, The windows bright with many-coloured glass, Wide plains, and streamlets flowing among flowers, That wash the castle basement as they pass. In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her casement high, It may be that I knew and found her fair In some forgotten life long time gone by.