Poems 1817 | Page 7

light?Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:?There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,?And oar'd himself along with majesty;?Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show?Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,?And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.
Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle?That in that fairest lake had placed been,?I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;?Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:?For sure so fair a place was never seen,?Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:?It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen?Of the bright waters; or as when on high,?Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.
And all around it dipp'd luxuriously?Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,?Which, as it were in gentle amity,?Rippled delighted up the flowery side;?As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,?Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!?Haply it was the workings of its pride,?In strife to throw upon the shore a gem?Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem.
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,?Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;?Without that modest softening that enhances?The downcast eye, repentant of the pain?That its mild light creates to heal again:?E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,?E'en then my soul with exultation dances?For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:?But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,?Heavens! how desperately do I adore?Thy winning graces;--to be thy defender?I hotly burn--to be a Calidore--?A very Red Cross Knight--a stout Leander--?Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.
Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;?Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,?Are things on which the dazzled senses rest?Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.?From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare?To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd?They be of what is worthy,--though not drest?In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.?Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;?These lures I straight forget,--e'en ere I dine,?Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark?Such charms with mild intelligences shine,?My ear is open like a greedy shark,?To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being??Who can forget her half retiring sweets??God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats?For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,?Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,?Will never give him pinions, who intreats?Such innocence to ruin,--who vilely cheats?A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing?One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear?A lay that once I saw her hand awake,?Her form seems floating palpable, and near;?Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take?A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,?And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
EPISTLES
"Among the rest a shepheard (though but young?Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill?His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill."
Britannia's Pastorals.--BROWNE.
TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,?And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;?Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view?A fate more pleasing, a delight more true?Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd,?Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd?To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.?The thought of this great partnership diffuses?Over the genius loving heart, a feeling?Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.
Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee?Past each horizon of fine poesy;?Fain would I echo back each pleasant note?As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float?'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,?Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:?But 'tis impossible; far different cares?Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian airs,"?And hold my faculties so long in thrall,?That I am oft in doubt whether at all?I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:?Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!?Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;?Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;?Or again witness what with thee I've seen,?The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,?After a night of some quaint jubilee?Which every elf and fay had come to see:?When bright processions took their airy march?Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.
But might I now each passing moment give?To the coy muse, with me she would not live?In this dark city, nor would condescend?'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.?Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,?Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find?Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic,?That often must have seen a poet frantic;?Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,?And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;?Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters?Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,?And intertwined the cassia's arms unite,?With its own drooping buds, but very white.?Where on one side are covert branches hung,?'Mong which the nightingales have always sung?In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof,?Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,?Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,?And where the bee