Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine? Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? And wear'st thou the shield of the famed Britomartis? What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, Embroider'd with many a spring-peering flower? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave? And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd; Full many the glories that brighten thy youth! I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 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, Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change, Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. So when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, Adieu! valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd, ΤΟ HADST thou lived in days of old, Of thy dark hair, that extends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. Peeps the richness of a pearl. Full, and round like globes that rise Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness With those beauties scarce discern'd, Round about with eager pry. Saving when with freshening lave, Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, Couldst thou wish for lineage higher At least for ever, evermore Will I call the Graces four. Hadst thou lived when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high, Tell me what thou wouldst have been? Of thy broider'd-floating vest Covering half thine ivory breast: Which, O Heavens! I should see, Has placed a golden cuirass there, Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested, Thy locks in knightly casque are rested: O'er his loins, his trappings glow Like the northern lights on snow. Alas! thou this wilt never do: Blood of those whose eyes can kill. TO HOPE. WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom, When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope! ethereal balm upon me shed, Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night, Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray. Should sad Despondency my musings fright, And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart: Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air! In the long vista of the years to roll, Let me not see our country's honour fade! O let me see our land retain her soul! Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shedBeneath thy pinions canopy my head! Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, And as, in sparkling majesty, a star Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud; Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar: So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. February, 1815. |