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, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure To possess but a span of the hour of leisure 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 sun-beams that shine through a fountain? Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine? That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? 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, 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? S Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd ; On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay; Beneath its rich shade 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 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, ༩༡ ΤΟ HADST thou lived in days of old, O what wonders had been told And thy humid eyes, that dance Of the 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 |