TO FANNY. PHYSICIAN Nature! let my spirit blood! I come-I see thee, as thou standest there, Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, As brilliant and as bright, As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze! Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? What stare outfaces now my silver moon! Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; Let, let, the amorous burn But, pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. O! save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air, Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath ; Be like an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lily, temperate as fair; A warmer June for me. Why, this-you'll say, my Fanny! is not true: A feather on the sea, Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead? I know it—and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes flutt'ring for you every where, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home, Love, love alone, his pains severe and many: From torturing jealousy. Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; If not-may my eyes close, Love! on their lost repose. SONNETS. 1816. I. OH! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, When streams of light pour down the golden west, And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest The silver clouds, far-far away to leave All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve From little cares; to find, with easy quest, A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest, And there into delight my soul deceive. There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bierTill their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. II. TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN. FRESH morning gusts have blown away all fear Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. Lo! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown: Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand! |