THOU whose soft and rosy hues
Mimic form and soul infuse;
Best of painters! come, portray
The lovely maid that's far away.
Far away, my soul! thou art,
But I've thy beauties all by heart.
Paint her jetty ringlets straying,
Silky twine in tendrils playing;
And, if painting hath the skill
To make the spicy balm distil,
Let every little lock exhale
A sigh of perfume on the gale.
Where her tresses' curly flow
Darkles o'er the brow of snow,
Let her forehead beam to light,
Burnished as the ivory bright.
Let her eyebrows sweetly rise
In jetty arches o'er her eyes,
Gently in a crescent gliding,
Just commingling, just dividing.
But hast thou any sparkles warm,
The lightning of her eyes to form?
Let them effuse the azure ray
With which Minerva's glances play,
And give them all that liquid fire
That Venus' languid eyes respire.
O'er her nose and cheek be shed
Flushing white and mellowed red :
Gradual tints, as when there glows
In snowy milk the bashful rose.
Then her lip, so rich in blisses!
Sweet petitioner for kisses!
Pouting nest of bland persuasion,
Ripely suing Love's invasion.

Then beneath the velvet chin,

Whose dimple shades a love within,

Mould her neck with grace descending,

In a heaven of beauty ending;

H

While airy charms, above, below,
Sport and flutter on its snow.
Now let a floating lucid veil
Shadow her limbs, but not conceal;
A charm may peep, a hue may beam,
And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.
Enough-'tis she! 'tis all I seek;
It glows, it lives, it soon will speak!

ODE XVII.

AND now with all thy pencil's truth,
Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!
Let his hair, in lapses bright,
Fall like streaming rays of light;
And there the raven's dye confuse
With the yellow sunbeam's hues.
Let not the braid, with artful twine,
The flowing of his locks confine;
But loosen every golden ring,
To float upon the breeze's wing.
Beneath the front of polished glow,
Front as fair as mountain-snow,
And guileless as the dews of dawn,
Let the majestic brows be drawn,
Of ebon dyes, enriched by gold,
Such as the scaly snakes unfold.
Mingle in his jetty glances,

Power that awes, and love that trances;
Steal from Venus bland desire,

Steal from Mars the look of fire,

Blend them in such expression here

That we by turns may hope and fear!

Now from the sunny apple seek

The velvet down that spreads his cheek;
And there let Beauty's rosy ray
In flying blushes richly play;
Blushes, of that celestial flame

Which lights the cheek of virgin shame.
Then for his lips, that ripely gem—
But let thy mind imagine them!
Paint, where the ruby cell uncloses,
Persuasion sleeping upon roses;
And give his lip that speaking air
As if a word was hovering there!
His neck of ivory splendour trace,
Moulded with soft but manly grace;
Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy,
Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy.
Give him the winged Hermes' hand,
With which he waves his snaky wand;

Let Bacchus then the breast supply,
And Leda's son the sinewy thigh.
But oh! suffuse his limbs of fire
With all that glow of young desire
Which kindles when the wishful sigh
Steals from the heart, unconscious why.
Thy pencil, though divinely bright,
Is envious of the eye's delight,
Or its enamoured touch would show
His shoulder, fair as sunless snow,
Which now in veiling shadow lies,
Removed from all but Fancy's eyes.
Now, for his feet-but hold-forbear-
I see a godlike portrait there;
So like Bathyllus !-sure there's none
So like Bathyllus but the sun!
Oh! let this pictured god be mine,
And keep the boy for Samos' shrine:
Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be,
Bathyllus then the deity!

ODE XVIII.

Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly,

Bring me wine in brimming urns,

Cool my iip,-it burns, it burns!

Sunned by the meridian fire,

Panting, languid, I expire!

Give me all those humid flowers,

Drop them o'er my brow in showers.

Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Every dewy rose I wear

Sheds its tears, and withers there.
But for you, my burning mind!
Oh! what shelter shall I find?
Can the bowl, or floweret's dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?

ODE XIX.

HERE recline you, gentle maid,
Sweet is this embowering shade;
Sweet the young, the modest trees,
Ruffled by the kissing breeze!
Sweet the little founts that weep.
Lulling bland the mind to sleep:
Hark! they whisper, as they roll,
Calm persuasion to the soul!

Tell me, tell me, is not this
All a stilly scene of bliss?
Who, my girl, would pass it by?
Surely neither you nor I
I!

ODE XX.

ONE day, the Muses twined the hands
Of baby Love with flowery bands;
And to celestial Beauty gave
The captive infant as her slave.
His mother comes with many a toy,
To ransom her beloved boy;
His mother sues, but all in vain!
He ne'er will leave his chains again;
Nay, should they take his chains away,
The little captive still would stay."
If this," he cries, "a bondage be,
Who could wish for liberty!

ODE XXI.

OBSERVE, when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours which at evening weep
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean's misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.

Then, hence with all your sober thinking!
Since Nature's holy law is drinking;

I'll make the laws of nature mine,

And pledge the universe in wine!

ODE XXII.

THE Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,
Was once a weeping matron's form;
And Progne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.

Oh that a mirror's form were mine,
To sparkle with that smile divine!
And like my heart I then should be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee!
Or were I, love, the robe which flows
O'er every charm that secret glows,

In many a lucid fold to swim,
And cling and grow to every limb!
Oh could I, as the streamlet's wave,
Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave!
Or float as perfume on thine hair,
And breathe my soul in fragrance there!
I wish I were the zone, that lies

Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow.
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh anything that touches thee !
Nay, sandals for those airy feet-
Thus to be pressed by thee were sweet!

ODE XXIII.

I OFTEN wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,

I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,

To Hercules I wake the lyre!
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That mad'st me follow glory's theme;
For thou, my lyre, and thou, my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And thou the flame shalt feel as well.
As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell!

ODE XXIV.

To all that breathe the airs of heaven,
Some boon of strength has Nature given.
When the majestic bull was born,
She fenced his brow with wreathed horn.
She armed the courser's foot of air,
And winged with speed the panting hare.