Imagini ale paginilor



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?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine
Of 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 famed
Britomartis ?

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
A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a chain :
And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare
Of charming my mind from the trammels of

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,
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
I too have my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless, and to soothe


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,
That thou of love an emblem art;
Yes-patient plume thy little wing,
While I my thought to thee impart.

When summer nights the dews bestow,
And summer suns enrich the day,
Thy notes the blossoms charm to blow,
Each opes delighted at thy lay.

So when in youth the eye's dark glance
Speaks pleasure from its circle bright,
The tones of love our joys enhance
And make superior each delight.

And when bleak storms resistless rove,
And every rural bliss destroy,
Nought comforts then the leafless grove
But thy sweet note-its only joy.

Even so the words of love beguile
When pleasure's tree no flower bears,
And draw a soft endearing smile

Amid the gloom of grief and tears.



N thy western halls of gold,
When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told
Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.


Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,
While the trumpets sound afar :

But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes


Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells

[ocr errors]

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;
Breathless the laurell'd peers,

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 quickly forward spring
The Passions-a terrific band-

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
Float along the pleased air,

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,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.

Feb. 1815.

« ÎnapoiContinuă »