I cannot warn thee; every touch,
That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as much,
Oh! quite as much, as thou dost mine!
Yet stay, dear love-one effort yet-
A moment turn those eyes away,
And let me, if I can, forget
The light that leads my soul astray!
Thou sayest that we were born to meet,
That our hearts bear one common seal
O Lady! think how man's deceit
Can seem to sigh and feign to feel!
When o'er thy face some gleam of thought,
Like daybeams through the morning air,
Hath gradual stole, and I have caught
The feeling ere it kindled there:
The sympathy I then betrayed
Perhaps was but the child of art;
The guile of one who long hath played
With all these wily nets of heart.
Oh! thou hast not my virgin vow;
Though few the years I yet have told,
Canst thou believe I live till now
With Loveless heart or senses cold?
No-many a throb of bliss and pain
For many a maid my soul hath proved:
With some I wantoned wild and vain,
While some I truly, dearly loved!
The cheek to thine I fondly lay
To theirs hath been as fondly laid;
The words to thee I warmly say
To them have been as warmly said.
Then, scorn at once a languid heart
Which long hath lost its early spring;
Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,
And-keep the ring, oh! keep the ring.
Enough-now, turn thine eyes again;
What, still that look and still that sigh!
Dost thou not feel my counsel then?
Oh! no, beloved !—nor do I.
While thus to mine thy bosom lies,
While thus our breaths commingling glow,
"Twere more than woman to be wise,
'Twere more than man to wish thee so!
Did we not love so true, so dear,
This lapse could never be forgiven;
But hearts so fond and lips so near--
Give me the ring, and now-O heaven!
ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.
Μαργαριται δηλουσι δακρυων ῥοον.
Ap. Nicephor. in Oneirocritico.
PUT off the vestal veil, nor oh!
Let weeping angels view it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow,
And blush repenting through it.
Put off the fatal zone you wear;
The lucid pearls around it
Are tears that fell from Virtue there,
The hour that Love unbound it.
YES, if 'twere any common love
That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
Could wipe the faithless crime away!
But 'twas my doom to err with one
In every look so like to thee
That oh beneath the blessed sun
So fair there are but thou and she!
Whate'er may be her angel birth,
She was thy lovely, perfect twin,
And wore the only shape on earth,
That could have charmed my soul to sin!
Your eyes!-the eyes of languid doves
Were never half so like each other!
The glances of the baby loves
Resemble less their warm-eyed mother!
Her lip!-oh, call me not false-hearted,
When such a lip I fondly pressed;
was Love some melting cherry parted,
Gave thee half and her the rest!
And when, with all thy murmuring tone,
They sued half-open to be kissed,
I could as soon resist thine own,
And them, Heaven knows, I ne'er resist.
Then scorn me not, though false I be,
'Twas love that waked the dear excess:
My heart had been more true to thee,
Had mine eye prized thy beauty less!
WHEN I loved you, I can't but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it!
Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
Some witchery seems to await you:
To love you is pleasant enough,
And oh! 'tis delicious to hate you!
FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.
FILL high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name!
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim
On every bowl's voluptuous brim !
Give me the wreath that withers there;
It was but last delicious night
It hung upon her wavy hair,
And caught her eyes' reflected light! Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow; It breathes of Heliodora now!
The loving rosebud drops a tear
To see the nymph no longer here,
No longer, where she used to lie,
Close to my heart's devoted sigh!
WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA,
THAT Sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
Of her he loves-
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
That rapture moves.
Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,
Than when, in transport's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.
Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still!
'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!
Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ;
Oh! most to him
Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
Round misery's brim.
Yes-he can smile serene at death:
Kind Heaven! do Thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.
ODES TO NEA.
WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.
Nea Tupavvel.—Eurip. Medea, v. 967.
NAY, tempt me not to love again.
There was a time when love was sweet;
Dear Nea! had I known thee then,
Our souls had not been slow to meet !
But oh! this weary heart hath run,
So many a time, the rounds of pain,
Not even for thee, thou lovely one!
Would I endure such pangs again.
If there be climes where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfevered by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye
Should bring no more their bliss, their pain.
Or fetter me to earth again!
Dear absent girl! whose eyes of light,
Though little prized when all my own.
Now float before me, soft and bright
As when they first enamouring shone!
How many hours of idle waste,
Within those witching arms embraced,
Unmindful of the fleeting day,
Have I dissolved life's dream away!
O bloom of time profusely shed!
O moments! simply, vainly fled,
Yet sweetly too-for Love perfumed
The flame which thus my life consumed;
And brilliant was the chain of flowers
In which he led my victim-hours!
Say, Nea dear! couldst thou, like her,
When warm to feel and quick to err,
Of loving fond, of roving fonder,
My thoughtless soul might wish to wander,-
Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim,
Endearing still, reproaching never,
Till all my heart should burn with shame,
And be thy own more fixed than ever?
No, no-on earth there's only one
Could bind such faithless folly fast:
And sure on earth 'tis I alone
Could make such virtue false at last!
Nea! the heart which she forsook
For thee were but a worthless shrineGo, lovely girl, that angel look
Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. Oh! thou shalt be all else to me
That heart can feel or tongue can feign; I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,But must not, dare not love again.
Tale iter omne cave.-Propert. lib. iv. eleg. 8.
I PRAY you, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore
Where late we thoughtless strayed;
'Twas not for us, whom Heaven intends
To be no more than simple friends,
Such lonely walks were made.
That little Bay, where, winding in
From ocean's rude and angry din,
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