For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar pleasure ON RECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES. HAST thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain? Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine? That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? And splendidly mark'd with the story divine Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? And wear'st thou the shield of the famed Britomartis ? What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd; I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark: 't is the work of a fay; And cruelly left him to sorrow and anguish. There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listen'd! The wondering spirits of Heaven were mute, And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glisten'd. In this little dome, all those melodies strange, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change, Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. So when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose. Adieu! valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd, HADST thou lived in days of old, Of thy dark hair, that extends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. Peeps the richness of a pearl. Downward too flows many a tress With a glossy waviness, Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny air. Add too the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ancle lightly turn'd: With those beauties scarce discern'd, Kept with such sweet privacy, That they seldom meet the eye Of the little Loves that fly Round about with eager pry. Saving when with freshening lave, PART II. Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, Will I call the Graces four. Tell me what thou wouldst have been? Ah! I see the silver sheen Of thy broider'd-floating vest Has placed a golden cuirass there, Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested, Thy locks in knightly casque are rested: O'er which bend four milky plumes, O'er his loins, his trappings glow 6 Alas! thou this wilt never do: Blood of those whose eyes can kill. TO HOPE. WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope! ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night, Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray, Should sad Despondency my musings fright, And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart: Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear |