Poems 1817 | Page 6

did

King Oberon languish,
When lovely Titania was far, far away,
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 listened; The wondering spirits of
heaven were mute,
And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft
glistened.
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;
Full many the glories
that brighten thy youth,
I too have my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.
TO * * * *
Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,
O what wonders had been told
Of
thy lively countenance,
And thy humid eyes that dance
In the midst
of their own brightness;
In the very fane of lightness.
Over which
thine eyebrows, leaning,
Picture out each lovely meaning:
In a
dainty bend they lie,
Like two streaks across the sky,
Or the
feathers from a crow,
Fallen on a bed of snow.
Of thy dark hair that
extends
Into many graceful bends:
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 air. Add too, the sweetness

Of thy honied voice; the neatness
Of thine ankle lightly turn'd:
With
those beauties, scarce discrn'd,

Kept with such sweet privacy,
That

they seldom meet the eye
Of the little loves that fly
Round about
with eager pry.
Saving when, with freshening lave,
Thou dipp'st
them in the taintless wave;
Like twin water lillies, born
In the
coolness of the morn.
O, if thou hadst breathed then,
Now the
Muses had been ten.
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
Than
twin sister of Thalia?
At least for ever, evermore,
Will I call the
Graces four.
Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry
Lifted up her lance on high,
Tell me
what thou wouldst have been?
Ah! I see the silver sheen
Of thy
broidered, floating vest
Cov'ring half thine ivory breast;
Which, O
heavens! I should see,
But that cruel destiny
Has placed a golden
cuirass there;
Keeping secret what is fair.
Like sunbeams in a
cloudlet nested
Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:
O'er which
bend four milky plumes
Like the gentle lilly's blooms
Springing
from a costly vase.
See with what a stately pace
Comes thine
alabaster steed;
Servant of heroic deed!
O'er his loins, his trappings
glow
Like the northern lights on snow.
Mount his back! thy sword
unsheath!
Sign of the enchanter's death;
Bane of every wicked spell;

Silencer of dragon's yell.
Alas! thou this wilt never do:
Thou art
an enchantress too,
And wilt surely never spill
Blood of those
whose eyes can kill.
TO HOPE.
When by my solitary hearth I sit,

And hateful thoughts enwrap my
soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal
balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.
Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out
the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,

And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the
moon-beams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend

Despondence far aloof.
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize
my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,

Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chace him away, sweet
Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens
night!
Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast
a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;
Let
me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance
around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or
relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out
sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed.

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's
honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her
freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual
brightness shed--
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in
plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her
head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on
wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some
gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So,
when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial
influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
February, 1815.

IMITATION OF SPENSER.
Now Morning from her orient