But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrilled,
When near a fount, which o'er the vale distilled,
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine,
That, oh!-'twas but fidelity in me,
To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee!
No aid of words the unbodied soul requires
To waft a wish, or embassy desires;
But, by a throb to spirits only given,
By a mute impulse, only felt in heaven,
Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies.
From soul to soul the glanced idea flies!
We met-like thee the youthful vision smiled;
But not like thee, when passionately wild,
Thou wak'st the slumbering blushes of my cheek,
By looking things thyself would blush to speak!
No; 'twas the tender, intellectual smile,
Flushed with the past, and yet serene the while,
Of that delicious hour when, glowing yet,
Thou yield'st to nature with a fond regret,
And thy soul, waking from its wildered dream,
Lights in thine eye a mellower, chaster beam!
Oh, my beloved! how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet !
The Elean god,' whose faithful waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have decked his billow, as an offering meet
pour at Arethusa's crystal feet!
Think, when he mingles with his fountain-bride,
What perfect rapture thrills the blended tide!
Each melts in each, till one pervading kiss
Confound their currents in a sea of bliss!
'Twas thus-
But, Theon, 'tis a weary theme,
And thou delight'st not in my lingering dream.
Oh! that our lips were, at this moment, near,
And I would kiss thee into patience, dear!
And make thee smile at all the magic tales
Of star-light bowers and planetary vales,
Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love,
In slumber's loom hath exquisitely wove.
But no; no more-soon as to-morrow's ray
O'er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away,
1 The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts throw offerings of different kinds during the to the fountain Arethusa, celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty |
I'll fly, my Theon, to thy burning breast,
And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest:
Then, if too weak, too cold the vision seems,
Thy lip shall teach me something more than dreams!
WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE, 28TH APRIL.1
WHEN freshly blows the northern gale,
And under courses snug we fly;
When lighter breezes swell the sail,
And royals proudly sweep the sky,
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
I stand, and as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
I think of her I love, and cry,
That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However warm I've twined about it!
And though your bosom beat with bliss,
I think my soul could live without it.
In short, I've learned so well to fast,
That, sooth my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last
To-do without you altogether!
THIS morning, when the earth and sky
Were burning with the blush of spring,
I saw thee not, thou humble fly!
Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing.
But now the skies have lost their hue,
And suuny lights no longer play,
I see thee, and I bless thee too
For sparkling o'er the dreary way.
Oh let me hope that thus for me,
When life and love shall lose their bloom,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,
To light, if not to warm the gloom!
THERE WAS a vase of odour lay
For many an hour on Beauty's shrine,
So sweet that love went every day
To banquet on its breath divine.
And not an eye had ever seen
The fragrant charm the vase concealed;
Oh Love! how happy 'twould have been,
If thou hadst ne'er that charm revealed!
But Love, like every other boy,
Would know the spell that lurks within;
He wished to break the crystal toy,
But Beauty murmured "twas a sin!'
which the-e fire-flies light up the woods at night en feu, nous rendant la vue de leurs beaux fruits The lively and unrarying illumination with sur les orangers voisins, qu'ils mettaient tout gives quite an idea of enchantment. 'Puis ces dorés que la nuit avait ravie,' etc. etc.-See mouches se développant de l'obscurité de ces l'Histoire des Antilles, art. 2, chap. 4, liv. 1.
arbres et s'approchant de nous, nous les voyions
But, Fanny, so unblest they twine,
That (Heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, Or shine but for a transient season! Whether the chain may press too much, Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flowerets touch,
And all their glow, their tints, are faded! Sweet Fanny, what would Rapture do,
When all her blooms had lost their grace? Might she not steal a rose or two
From other wreaths, to fill their place : Oh! better to be always free,
Than thus to bind my love to me.
THE timid girl now hung her head,
And, as she turned an upward glance,
I saw a doubt its twilight spread
Along her brow's divine expanse.
Just then the garland's dearest rose
Gave one of its seducing sighs-
Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose,
That ever looked in Fanny's eyes!
"The wreath, my life, the wreath shall be The tie to bind my soul to thee !'
AND hast thou marked the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
'Midst all the blisses, darling maid
Which thou canst give, and only thou?
Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
The endearing charms that round me twine
There never throbbed a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery, like mine!
When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid,
Again to close it on my breast!
Oh! these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel,
Yet, even in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possessed,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
Like me was loved, like me was blest!
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