TO SOME LADIES, ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. WHAT HAT though, while the wonders of nature exploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend: Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes, With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, Its spray, that a wild flower kindly bedews. Why linger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolling? Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare? Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air. 'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, I see you are treading the verge of the sea: you just now are stooping And now! ah, I see it To pick up the keepsake intended for me. If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Heaven; And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending, The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given; It had not created a warmer emotion Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you; Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean, Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw. For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure, ON RECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES. H AST thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain ? Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? And wear'st thou the shield of the famed Britomartis ? What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, Embroider'd with many a spring-peering flower? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave? And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd; Full many the glories that brighten thy youth! I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless and to soothe. On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a chain : And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay; And cruelly left him to sorrow and anguish. There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listen'd! The wondering spirits of Heaven were mute, And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glisten'd. In this little dome, all those melodies strange, So when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose. Adieu! valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd, Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound H TO ADST thou lived in days of old, And thy humid eyes, that dance Of thy dark hair, that extends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. And behind each ample curl Peeps the richness of a pearl. Downward too flows many a tress With a glossy waviness, Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny hair. Add too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd: With those beauties scarce discern'd, Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; Like twin water-lilies, born In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, At least for ever, evermore Hadst thou lived when chivalry Tell me what thou wouldst have been? Of thy broider'd-floating vest Covering half thine ivory breast: Has placed a golden cuirass there, Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested, O'er his loins, his trappings glow Alas! thou this wilt never do: Thou art an enchantress too, |