Poems 1817 | Page 7

chamber came,
And her first footsteps
touch'd a verdant hill;
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,

Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
Which, pure from mossy
beds, did down distill,
And after parting beds of simple flowers,
By
many streams a little lake did fill,
Which round its marge reflected
woven bowers,
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright
Vieing with fish of
brilliant dye below;
Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light
Cast
upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:
There saw the swan his
neck of arched snow,
And oar'd himself along with majesty;

Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
Beneath the waves like
Afric's ebony,
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 charm'd 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 coerulean 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,
Which fell
profusely from the rose-tree stem!
Haply it was the workings of its
pride,
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Outvieing all the buds
in Flora's diadem.
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish,
proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that
enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild
light creates to heal again:

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and

prances,
E'en then my soul with exultation dances
For that to love,
so long, I've dormant lain:
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and
tender,
Heavens! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning
graces;--to be thy defender
I hotly burn--to be a Calidore--
A very
Red Cross Knight--a stout Leander--
Might I be loved by thee like
these of yore.
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
To turn my admiration, though
unpossess'd
They be of what is worthy,--though not drest
In lovely
modesty, and virtues rare.
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.
EPISTLES
"Among the rest a shepheard (though but young
Yet hartned to his
pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill."

Britannia's Pastorals.--BROWNE.
TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a
brotherhood in song;
Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true
Than that in which the
brother Poets joy'd,
Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.
The thought of this great
partnership diffuses
Over the genius loving heart, a feeling
Of all
that's high, and great, and good, and healing.
Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee
Past each horizon of fine
poesy;
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note
As o'er Sicilian
seas, clear anthems float
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far
parted,
Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:
But 'tis
impossible; far different cares
Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian
airs,"
And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
That I am oft in doubt
whether at all
I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:
Or flush'd
Aurora in the roseate dawning!
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;

Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;
Or again witness what with
thee I've seen,
The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,
After a
night of some quaint jubilee
Which every elf and fay had come to see:

When bright processions took their airy march
Beneath the curved
moon's triumphal arch.
But might I now each passing moment give
To the coy muse, with
me she would not live
In this dark city, nor would condescend
'Mid
contradictions her delights to lend.
Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to
me be kind,
Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find
Some flowery
spot, sequester'd,