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ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL AND A COPY
OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES.
AST thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ?
Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain ?
Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, Embroider'd with many a spring-peering
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
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, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness
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,
TUNE-" Julia to the Wood-Robin."
STAY, ruby-breasted warbler, stay,
And let me see thy sparkling eye O brush not yet the pearl-strung spray Nor bow thy pretty head to fly
Stay, while I tell thee, fluttering thing,
When summer nights the dews bestow,
So when in youth the eye's dark glance
And when bleak storms resistless rove,
Even so the words of love beguile
Amid the gloom of grief and tears.
ODE TO APOLLO.
N thy western halls of gold,
With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.
Here Homer with his nervous arms
But, what creates the most intense surprise,
Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells,Enraptured dwells,-not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre
"Tis awful silence then again;
Expectant stand the spheres;
Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,
Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.
Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,
And each vibrates the string
That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.
A silver trumpet Spenser blows,
And, as its martial notes to silence flee,
From a virgin chorus flows
A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.
'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.
Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Calling youth from idle slumbers,
Rousing them from Pleasure's lair:
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the soul to pity and to love.
But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
The dying tones that fill the air,
And charm the ear of evening fair,
From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.