1 Nor the soft sighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, though all unite,
Can touch my bosom with delight.
2 Not all the gems on India's shore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store,
Not all the power, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets claim ;
Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve,
To form one wish my soul can move.
3 Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor seek I Nature's charms in vain-
In lovely Stella all combine,
And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE.
WHAT hopes, what terrors, does this gift create,
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate!
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd to Venus by Melissa's hand),
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects a lover's prayer.
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain.
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
The unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads.
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart ;
Soon must this sprig, as you shall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.
Ar length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown'd in B-n's deathless strain?
Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace! might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre;
For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph! a Muse and Grace.
1 'Lady Firebrace:' daughter of P. Bacon, Ipswich, married three times— to Philip Evers, Esq., to Sir Corbell Firebrace, and to William Campbell, uncle of the Duke of Argyle.
O PEACE! and dost thou with thy presence bless
The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle;
Soothing with placid brow our late distress,
Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?
Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail
The sweet companions that await on thee;
Complete my joy-let not my first wish fail,
Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be, With England's happiness proclaim Europa's Liberty. O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see
That thou must shelter in thy former state; Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free; Give thy kings law-leave not uncurbed the great; So with the horrors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!
AT morn, at noon, at Eve, and Middle Night
He passes forth into the charmed air,
With talisman to call up spirits rare
From plant, cave, rock, and fountain.-To his sight
The husk of natural objects opens quite
To the core; and every secret essence there
Reveals the elements of good and fair;
Making him see, where Learning hath no light.
Sometimes above the gross and palpable things
Of this diurnal sphere, his spirit flies
On awful wing; and with its destined skies
Holds premature and mystic communings;
Till such unearthly intercourses shed
A visible halo round his mortal head.
The murtle (ension of supreme command. -
420 POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE PIECES
ON RECEIVING A LAUREL CROWN
FROM LEIGH HUNT
MINUTES are flying swiftly, and as yet
Nothing unearthly has enticed my brain
Into a delphic Labyrinth-I would fain
Catch an unmortal thought to pay the debt
I owe to the kind Poet who has set
Upon my ambitious head a glorious gain.
Two bending laurel Sprigs—'tis nearly pain
To be conscious of such a Coronet.
Still time is fleeting, and no dream arises
Gorgeous as I would have it—only I see
A Trampling down of what the world most prizes
Turbans and Crowns, and blank regality;
And then I run into most wild surmises
Of all the many glories that may be.
TO THE LADIES WHO SAW ME
CROWN'D
WHAT is there in the universal Earth
More lovely than a Wreath from the bay tree?
Haply a Halo round the Moon—a glee
Circling from three sweet pair of Lips in Mirth;
And haply you will say the dewy birth
Of morning Roses—riplings tenderly
Spread by the Halcyon's breast upon the Sea-
But these Comparisons are nothing worth—
Then is there nothing in the world so fair?
The silvery tears of April?—Youth of May?
Or June that breaths out life for butterflies?
No-none of these can from my favourite bear
Away the Palm—yet shall it ever pay
Due Reverence to your most sovereign eyes.
1 YE Nymphs whom starry rays invest,
By flattering poets given,
Who shine, by lavish lovers dress'd,
In all the pomp of Heaven.
2 Engross not all the beams on high,
Which gild a lover's lays,
But, as your sister of the sky,
Let Lycè share the praise.
3 Her silver locks display the moon,
Her brows a cloudy show,
Striped rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And showers from either flow.
4 Her teeth the night with darkness dyes;
She's starr'd with pimples o'er ;
Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar.
5 But some Zelinda, while I sing,
Denies my Lycè shines ;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.
6 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lycè makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.
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