To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, 1 But, if through the course of the years which await me, 1806. TO M OH! did those eyes, instead of fire, For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, She fear'd that, too divine for earth, The skies might claim thee for their own: [In the private volume the two last stanzas ran"I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness, Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd; But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness, The last and the fondest I ever shall shed." Therefore, to guard her dearest work, These might the boldest sylph appal, But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 'Tis said that Berenice's hair In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. For did those eyes as planets roll, Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.1 1806. TO WOMAN. WOMAN! experience might have told me But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh memory! thou choicest blessing When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 1 "Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do intreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return."- SHAKSP. But how much cursed by every lover "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.” TO M. S. G. WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive; Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast, Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven! 1 The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb. Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, If I sin in my dream, atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient. TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 1 THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, Here I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave, Here I can trace ah, no! that eye, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. [Of this "Mary," who is not to be confounded with the heiress of Annesley, or Mary" of Aberdeen, all that has been ascertained is, that she was of an humble, if not equivocal, station in life, and that she had long light golden hair, "of which," says Mr. Moore," he used to show a lock, as well as her picture, among his friends."] Here I behold its beautecus hue; But where's the beam so sweetly straying, 1 Which gave a lustre to its blue, Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Save her who placed thee next my heart. She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast control. Through hours, through years, through time, 't will My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; In life's last conflict 't will appear, [cheer; TO LESBIA. LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged, - Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; Which gave a lustre to its blue, Love, only love, could e'er inspire.-First edit.] |