A hand Heaven made to succor the distress'd; Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, So that the waving of his plumes would be In shape, that sure no living man had thought Those smiling ladies, often turn'd his head The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall were pendent, Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated, The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted All the green leaves that round the window clamber, To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond From lovely woman: while brimful of this, Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, Are closing in the West; or that soft humming We hear around when Hesperus is coming. Sweet be their sleep. * TO SOME LADIES, ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. WHAT though, while the wonders of nature exploring, Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend: Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes, Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, Why linger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolling? 'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of 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, 't is a sweet and peculiar pleasure (And blissful is he who such happiness finds), To possess but a span of the hour of leisure In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. ON RECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES. HAST 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? That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? And splendidly mark'd with the story divine Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? And wear'st thou the shield of the famed Britomartis ? What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd; I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark: 't is 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, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change, Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 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, |