And now, my gentle hints to clear, ANACREONTIC. I FILLED to thee, to thee I drank, At length I bid an artist paint Behold how bright that purple lip Is blushing through the wave at me, Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine from thee! Go then, if she whose shade thou art No more will let thee soothe my pain Yet tell her, it has cost this heart Some pangs to give thee back again! Tell her, the smile was not so dear, With which she made thy semblance mine As bitter is the burning tear With which I now the gift resign! Yet go-and could she still restore, As some exchange for taking thee, Smile at me once, and then-adieu ! FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE. BLEST infant of eternity! Before the day-star learned to move, In pomp of fire, along his grand career, Glancing the beamy shafts of light From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, Thou wert alone, O Love! Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night, Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee! No form of beauty soothed thine eye, As through the dim expanse it wandered wide; No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, As o'er the watery waste it lingering died! Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, That latent in his heart was sleeping; O Sympathy! that lonely hour Saw Love himself thy absence weeping! But look, what glory through the darkness beams! Celestial airs along the water glide : What spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide So lovely? Art thou but the child Of the young godhead's dreams, That mock his hope with fancies strange and wild? Or were his tears, as quick they fell, Collected in so bright a form, Till, kindled by the ardent spell Of his desiring eyes, And all impregnate with his sighs, They spring to life in shape so fair and warm! 'Tis she! Psyche, the first-born spirit of the air : To thee, O Love! she turns, On thee her eye-beam burns: The blooming god-the spirit fair— Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine; And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn! TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER, ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES. Donington Park, 1802. To catch the thought by painting's spell, And o'er the magic tablet tell The silent story of the mind; O'er Nature's form to glance the eye, Her evening blushes, ere they fade; These are the pencil's grandest theme, Yet, yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, The sweet memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest; While o'er the lovely look serene, The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek that blushes to be seen, The eye that tells the bosom's truth; While o'er each line, so brightly true, She feels the value of thy art, A rapture nearer to her heart THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS TO A LAMP WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS. Martial, lib. xiv. epig. 39. "OH! love the Lamp" (my mistress said) The faithful Lamp that, many a night, Beside thy Lais' lonely bed Has kept its little watch of light! "Oft has it known her cheek to burn "Then love the Lamp-'twill often lead Yes-dearest Lamp! by every charm On which thy midnight beam has hung; The neck reclined, the graceful arm Across the brow of ivory flung; The heaving bosom, partly hid, The severed lip's delicious sighs, The fringe that from the snowy lid Along the cheek of roses lies: By these, by all that bloom untold, And long as all shall charm my heart, I'll love my little Lamp of gold, My Lamp and I shall never part! And often, as she smiling said, In fancy's hour thy gentle rays Shall guide my visionary tread Through poesy's enchanting maze ! Thy flame shall light the page refined Where still we catch the Chian's breath, Where still the bard, though cold in death, Has left his burning soul behind! Or o'er thy humbler legend shine, O man of Ascra's dreary glades! To whom the nightly warbling Nine Plucked from the greenest tree that shades Then, turning to a purer lore, 'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, "Swift, swift the tide of being runs, And Time, who bids thy flame expire, Will also quench yon heaven of suns!" Oh! then if earth's united power Pleasure! thou only good on earth! Our little hour resigned to thee- Then far be all the wisdom hence, At which the young, the panting soul Sweet Lamp! thou wert not formed to shed Thy splendour on a lifeless pageWhate'er my blushing Lais said Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, "Twas mockery all-her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ! |