To Some Ladies

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,I see you are treading the verge of the sea:And now! ah, I see it--you just now are stoopingTo pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotionThan the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you,Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the oceanWhich the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gemPure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?And splendidly mark'd with the story divineOf Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,Embroidered 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 aboundIn magical powers to bless, and to sooth.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fairA sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;And, warrior, it nurtures the property rareOf 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 luteWild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.

In this little dome, all those melodies strange,Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;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,And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd;Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,I too have my blisses, which richly aboundIn magical powers, to bless and to sooth.

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,O what wonders had been toldOf thy lively countenance,And thy humid eyes that danceIn the midst of their own brightness;In the very fane of lightness.Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,Picture out each lovely meaning:In a dainty bend they lie,Like two streaks across the sky,Or the feathers from a crow,Fallen on a bed of snow.Of thy dark hair that extendsInto many graceful bends:As the leaves of HelleboreTurn to whence they sprung before.And behind each ample curlPeeps the richness of a pearl.Downward too flows many a tressWith a glossy waviness;Full, and round like globes that riseFrom the censer to the skiesThrough sunny air. Add too, the sweetnessOf thy honied voice; the neatnessOf thine ankle lightly turn'd:With those beauties, scarce discrn'd,Kept with such sweet privacy,That they seldom meet the eyeOf the little loves that flyRound about with eager pry.Saving when, with freshening lave,Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;Like twin water lillies, bornIn the coolness of the morn.O, if thou hadst breathed then,Now the Muses had been ten.Couldst thou wish for lineage higherThan twin sister of Thalia?At least for ever, evermore,Will I call the Graces four.

Hadst thou liv'd when chivalryLifted up her lance on high,Tell me what thou wouldst have been?Ah! I see the silver sheenOf thy broidered, floating vestCov'ring half thine ivory breast;Which, O heavens! I should see,But that cruel destinyHas placed a golden cuirass there;Keeping secret what is fair.Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nestedThy locks in knightly casque are rested:O'er which bend four milky plumesLike the gentle lilly's bloomsSpringing from a costly vase.See with what a stately paceComes thine alabaster steed;Servant of heroic deed!O'er his loins, his trappings glowLike the northern lights on snow.Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!Sign of the enchanter's death;Bane of every wicked spell;Silencer of dragon's yell.Alas! thou this wilt never do:Thou art an enchantress too,And wilt surely never spillBlood of those whose eyes can kill.