IMITATION OF SPENSER. * * Now Morning from her orient chamber came Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle That in that fairest lake had placed been, I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile; Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen: For sure so fair a place was never seen Of all that ever charmed romantic eye: It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen Of the bright waters; or as when on high, Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky. And all around it dipp'd luxuriously Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, Which, as it were in gentle amity, Rippled delighted up the flowery side; As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem WOMAN! when I behold thee flippant, vain, E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances, A very Red Cross Knight-a stout Leander- Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair; Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast; Are things on which the dazzled senses rest Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare. From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot dare Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; These lures I straight forget,—e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark, To catch the tunings of a voice divine. Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being? Who can forget her half-retiring sweets? God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, Will never give him pinions, who intreats Such innocence to ruin,-who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear A lay that once I saw her hand awake, Her form seems floating palpable, and near : Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. I. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, II. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth : That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: |