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!
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 wingèd 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!
Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly,
Bring me wine in brimming urns,
Cool my lip,-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?
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!
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!
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!
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!
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.
She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, on the ocean's crystal mirror, Taught the unnumbered scaly throng To trace their liquid path along; While for the umbrage of the grove, She plumed the warbling world of love. To man she gave the flame refined, The spark of heaven-a thinking mind! And had she no surpassing treasure For thee, O woman, child of pleasure? She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes, That every shaft of war outflies! She gave thee beauty-blush of fire That bids the flames of war retire! Woman! be fair, we must adore thee; Smile, and a world is weak before thee!
ONCE in each revolving year, Gentle bird! we find thee here. When Nature wears her summer-vest, Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest; But when the chilling winter lowers, Again thou seek'st the genial bowers Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile, Where sunny hours of verdure smile. And thus thy wing of freedom roves; Alas! unlike the plumèd loves That linger in this hapless breast, And never, never change their nest! Still every year, and all the year, A flight of loves engender here; And some their infant plumage try, And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregned with fires, Cluster a thousand more desires; Some from their tiny prisons peeping, And some in formless embryo sleeping. My bosom, like the vernal groves, Resounds with little warbling loves; One urchin imps the other's feather, Then twin-desires they wing together, And still as they have learned to soar, The wanton babies teem with more. But is there then no kindly art, To chase these cupids from my heart? No, no! I fear, alas! I fear
They will for ever nestle here!
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