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Spirits of Love! ye heard her name! Obey The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. Whether on clustering pinions ye are there, Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees, Or with fond languishment around my fair Sigh in loose luxuriance of her hair; O heed the spell, and hither wing your way, Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze!
Spirits! to you the infant Maid was given Formed by the wondrous Alchemy of Heaven! No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know, No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. A thousand Loves around her forehead fly; A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye; Love lights her smile-in Joy's red nectar dips His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled songStill, Fancy! still that voice, those notes prolong. As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls!
O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God! A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam: Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. When Twilight stole across the fading vale, To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale;
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!
As when the savage, who his drowsy frame Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
The skyey deluge, and white lightning's glare-
Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay,
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears, Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears; And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ, Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!
No more your skylarks melting from the sight
Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye leave Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve! Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze: Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, Till chill and damp the moonless night descend.
TO A YOUNG LADY,
WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear: No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye, And suffering Nature wept that one should die!†
Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast, Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the smallpox, and is buried in Rotherhithe churchyard. See Keate's Account.
† Southey's Retrospect.
When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed;
Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien
If these demand the impassioned Poet's care—