Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Like curls upon a rosy cheek!
Oh, Nea! why did morning break
The spell that so divinely bound me? Why did I wake? how could I wake
With thee my own, and heaven around me!
WELL-peace to thy heart, though another's it be,
And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for me!
To-morrow, I sail for those cinnamon groves,
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,
And, far from thine eye, oh! perhaps, I may yet
Its allurement forgive and its splendour forget!
Farewell to Bermuda, and long may the bloom
Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;
May spring to eternity hallow the shade,
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has stray'd!
And thou-when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam
Through the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy home,
Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and have told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to say-
Oh! think of the past-give a sigh to those times,
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes!
If I were yonder wave, my dear,
And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
My land of bliss, my fairy ground!
If I were yonder conch of gold,
And thou the pearl within it plac'd,
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embrac'd!
If I were yonder orange-tree,
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee,
To scent the most imploring air!
Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,
Give not the wave that rosy sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink
The soft reflection of thine eye.
That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
Upon the billows pour their beam
So warmly, that my soul could seek
Its Nea in the painted stream.
Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light!
Oh, my belov'd! where'er I turn,
Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes,
In every star thy glances burn,
Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.
I pray thee, on those lips of thine
To wear this rosy leaf for me,
And breathe of something not divine,
Since nothing human breathes of thee!
All other charms of thine I meet
In nature, but thy sigh alone;
Then take, oh! take, though not so sweet,
The breath of roses for thine own!
So, while I walk the flowery grove,
The bud that gives, through morning dew, The lustre of the lips I love,
May seem to give their perfume too!
No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
An island of lovelier charms;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
Like Hebe in Hercules' arms!
The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye,
Their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
And the Snow-Spirit never comes here!
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl Thy lips for their cabinet stole,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the soul!
Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death
As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!
How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,
And brightening the bosom of morn,
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil
O'er the brow of each virginal thorn!
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts,
Is the veil of a vestal severe;
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,
Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here!
But fly to his region-lay open thy zone,
And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,
Should not melt in the day-beam like him!
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet
O'er his luminous path will appear-
Fly! my beloved! this island is sweet,
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!
I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending sea-grape* drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That wing'd me round this fairy shore!
"Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs!
Oh for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!
A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,
And, light along the water's brim,
I steer'd my gentle bark by him;
The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.
For fancy told me, love had sent
This snowy bird of blandishment,
To lead me, where my soul should meet-
I knew not what, but something sweet!
Blest be the little pilot dove!
He had indeed been sent by love,
To guide me to a scene so dear,
As Fate allows but seldom here;
One of those rare and brilliant hours,
Which, like the aloe's lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man
But once in all his weary span !
Just where the margin's opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird repos'd his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.
Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!
What spell, what magic rais'd her there?
'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child,
Whose spirit in Elysium keeps
Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps!
The broad banana's green embrace
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace; One little beam alone could win
The leaves to let it wander in,
And, stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
In glowing pencillings of light,
All trembling, pour'd its radiance bright!
Her eyelid's black and silken fringe
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud, that closes
Dark on evening's heaven of roses!
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,
Such as, declining dim and faint,
The lamp of some beloved saint
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath!
BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem
Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
Who liv'd in classic hours of old.
Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
Upon her hand this gem display'd,
Nor thought that time's eternal lapse
Should see it grace a lovelier maid!
THERE's not a look, a word of thine
My soul hath e'er forgot;
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine
Which I remember not!
There never yet a murmur fell
From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering spell,
Upon my charmed senses dwell,
Like something heaven had sung
Ah! that I could, at once, forget
All, all that haunts me so-
And yet, thou witching girl!—and yet,
To die were sweeter, than to let
The lov'd remembrance go!
No; if this slighted heart must see
Its faithful pulse decay,
Oh! let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be
Consum'd in sweets away!
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