Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, * TO SOME LADIES, ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. WHAT though, while the wonders of nature exploring, Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes, With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, Its spray, that the wild flower kindly bedews. 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, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure Το but a span ON RECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE HAST thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem 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? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is? 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: '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, 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, ΤΟ HADST thou lived in days of old, And thy humid eyes, that dance As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before Peeps the richness of a pearl. With a glossy waviness, Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny hair. Add too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd: With those beauties scarce discern'd, Of the little Loves that fly |