And then, I know, thy lips would press My dim eye close, and body thrill, And give me quick a new caress, And cry, There, wanton, take thy fill!" And then, - but then, O shouldst thou take ODE VII. THE POET ADDRESSES THE LIPS OF HIS MISTRESS. DELICATE, half-open'd roses, Which discloses Loveliest mouth the gods have given, Why so coyly be denying When I'm dying To inhale your sweets of Heaven? Could my kisses of desire, By their fire, Wither up your virgin beauty? Goods we have enough for sparing To be sharing Is it not a solemn duty? Lips my lady makes so smiling For beguiling, Where the profit to deceive me ? If the smile that round you glances Kisses would do more, believe me. Think, your bloom and shape together Soon must wither. Odor gone, and dry the flower, Who the rivell'd leaves will gather? Than be gather'd and rejected! Were our sweets upon you lavish'd, Roses, true. No more I press me To possess ye, Better pleas'd your sweets to treasure Where they grow, than, rudely hasting To be tasting, Bruise your stem for selfish pleasure. Delicate, half-open'd roses, Which discloses Loveliest mouth the gods have given, Panting for your sweets of Heaven! ODE VIII. REGRET. O LOVELIEST of bowers! The stream beside thee flowing, The many-scented flowers About thy trellis growing, Bring back, with how much sadness! Was 't not when in the heaven When sombre grew the mountain, Upon thy seat I plac'd me, She listen'd to my story, And for the hues of even There glow'd a brighter heaven. Then long we seem'd attending The crickets' lazy chorus, The polish'd pebbles laving,) Her hand my own encloses, The while my arms enfold her, And timidly reposes Her head upon my shoulder, The dark hair o'er it streaming, Through which her eyes were gleaming. But tears rain'd down in sorrow, Her breast heav'd with emotion, And anxious thoughts beset her, But love soon dry'd the shower, That never more should screen us; And must the truest pleasure Each good we fain would treasure Soon waste; most soon the chiefest ? Where, ELLEN, are thy graces Thy worth? I see their places. O loveliest of bowers! The stream beside thee flowing, The many-scented flowers About thy trellis growing, ? Bring back, with too much sadness! |