Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?
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, Embroider'd with many a spring-peering flower? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth! I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless and to soothe.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair
A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a chain:
And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, When lovely Titania was far, far away,

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,
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
I too have my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless, and to soothe.

ΤΟ

HADST thou lived in days of old,
O what wonders had been told
Of thy lively countenance,
And thy humid eyes, that dance
In the midst of their own brightness,
In the very fane of lightness;
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
Picture out each lovely meaning:
In a dainty bend they lie,
Like the streaks across the sky,
Or the feathers from a crow,
Fallen on a bed of snow.

Of thy dark hair, that extends
Into many graceful bends:

As the leaves of hellebore

Turn to whence they sprung before.
And behind each ample curl

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,

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;
Like twin water-lilies, born

In the coolness of the morn.

O, if thou hadst breathed then,
Now the Muses had been ten.

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
Than twin-sister of Thalia?

At least for ever, evermore

Will I call the Graces four.

Hadst thou lived when chivalry

Lifted up her lance on high,

Tell me what thou wouldst have been?
Ah! I see the silver sheen

Of thy broider'd-floating vest

Covering half thine ivory breast:

Which, O Heavens! I should see,
But that cruel Destiny

Has placed a golden cuirass there,
Keeping secret what is fair.

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested,

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:
O'er which bend four milky plumes,
Like the gentle lily's blooms
Springing from a costly vase.
See with what a stately pace
Comes thine alabaster steed;
Servant of heroic deed!

O'er his loins, his trappings glow

Like the northern lights on snow.
Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!
Sign of the enchanter's death;
Bane of every wicked spell;
Silencer of dragon's yell.

Alas! thou this wilt never do:
Thou art an enchantress too,
And wilt surely never spili

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,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,

Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him, as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair,
O let me think it is not quite in vain

To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope! ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

In the long vista of the years to roll,

Let me not see our country's honour fade!

O let me see our land retain her soul!

Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shedBeneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from Heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud; Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar:

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.

February, 1815.