Poems 1817 Part 2

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 sooth.

TO * * * *

Hadst thou liv'd 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 two 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 h.e.l.lebore 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 ankle lightly turn'd: With those beauties, scarce discrn'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 lillies, 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 liv'd when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high, Tell me what thou wouldst have been?

Ah! I see the silver sheen Of thy broidered, floating vest Cov'ring half thine ivory breast; Which, O heavens! I should see, But that cruel destiny Has placed a golden cuira.s.s 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 lilly'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 spill 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 moon-beams 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: Chace 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 shed-- Beneath 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_.

IMITATION OF SPENSER.

Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill; Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle s.p.a.ce, a sky that never lowers.

There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below; Whose silken fins, and golden scales' 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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?

G.o.d! 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.