She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And, on the ocean's crystal mirror,
Taught the unnumbered scaly throng
To trace their liquid path along;
While for the umbrage of the grove,
She plumed the warbling world of love.
To man she gave the flame refined,
The spark of heaven-a thinking min‹. !
And had she no surpassing treasure
For thee, O woman, child of pleasure?
She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes,
That every shaft of war outflies!
She gave thee beauty-blush of fire
That bids the flames of war retire!
Woman! be fair, we must adore thee;
Smile, and a world is weak before thee!
ONCE in each revolving year,
Gentle bird! we find thee here.
When Nature wears her summer-vest,
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest;
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours of verdure smile.
And thus thy wing of freedom roves;
Alas! unlike the plumèd loves
That linger in this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!
Still every year, and all the year,
A flight of loves engender here;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregned with fires,
Cluster a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping.
My bosom, like the vernal groves,
Resounds with little warbling loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
And still as they have learned to soar,
The wanton babies teem with more.
But is there then no kindly art,
To chase these cupids from my heart?
No, no! I fear, alas ! I fear
They will for ever nestle here!
THY harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my harp shall mourn.
'Twas not the crested warrior's dart
Which drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailèd steed,
Have made this vanquished bosom bleed ;
No-from an eye of liquid blue
A host of quivered cupids flew ;
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath this army of the eyes!
WE read the flying courser's name
Upon his side in marks of flame;
And by their turbaned brows alone
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark
Where Love has dropped his burning park!
As in the Lemnian caves of fire,
The mate of her who nursed Desire
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm ;
While Venus every barb imbues
With droppings of her honeyed dews;
And Love (alas the victim-heart!)
Tinges with gall the burning dart;
Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame,
The crested Lord of battles came;
'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed,
His spear with many a life-drop blushed!
He saw the mystic darts, and smiled
Derision on the archer-child.
"And dost thou smile ?" said little Love
"Take this dart, and thou mayst prove
That though they pass the breeze's flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."
He took the shaft-and oh! thy look,
Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took-
He sighed, and felt the urchin's art;
He sighed, in agony of heart,—
"It is not light-I die with pain!
Take-take thy arrow back again."
"No," said the child, "it must not be;
That little dart was made for thee!"
YES-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still;
But surely 'tis the worst of pain,
To love, and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, light of birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From beauty's cheek one favouring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven-
Forgive him not, indignant Heaven!
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,
Whose heart could pant, for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms!
And oh! the worst of all its art,
I feel it breaks the lover's heart!
'TWAS in an airy dream of night, I fancied that I winged my flight On pinions fleeter than the wind,
While little Love, whose feet were twined (I know not why) with chains of lead, Pursued me as I trembling fled;
Pursued and could I e'er have thought?-
Swift as the moment I was caught!
What does the wanton fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast
That you, my girl, have stolen my rest:
That though my fancy, for a while,
Has hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon dissolved the passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by love till now!
ARMED with hyacinthine rod,
(Arms enough for such a god,)
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,
My brow was chill with drops of dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hovered o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy plume,
Recalled me from my languid gloom;
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
STREW me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy,
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy;
Folding his little golden vest,
With cinctures, round his snowy breast,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
Swift as the wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal:
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the slumbering chill of death?
No, no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose, with blush of fire,
Upon my brow its scent expire;
And bring the nymph with floating eye,
Oh! she will teach me how to die!
Yes, Cupid! ere my soul retire,
To join the blest elysian choir,
With wine, and love, and blisses dear,
I'll make my own elysium here!
'Twas noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away:
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And waked me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air!
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bidd'st my blissful visions ily?"
O gentle sire!" the infant said,
"In pity take me to thy shed ;
Nor fear deceit : a lonely child,
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night-winds blow;
And, sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.
'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart!
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warmed his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child,
(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)
pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wandered so
That much I fear, the ceaseless shower
Has injured its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came!
"Fare thee well," I heard him say,
As laughing wild he winged away;
"Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relaxed my bow;
It still can send a maddening dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"
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