TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.
_Donington Park, 1802_
To catch the thought, by painting"s spell, Howe"er remote, howe"er refined, And o"er the kindling canvas tell The silent story of the mind;
O"er nature"s form to glance the eye, And fix, by mimic light and shade, Her morning tinges ere they fly, Her evening blushes, ere they fade;
Yes, these are Painting"s proudest powers, The gift, by which her art divine Above all others proudly towers,-- And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.
And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, In almost living truth exprest, This bright memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest;
While o"er the lovely look serene, The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek, that blushes to be seen.
The eye that tells the bosom"s truth;
While o"er each line, so brightly true, Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove, Blessing the touch whose various hue Thus brings to mind the form we love;
We feel the magic of thy art, And own it with a zest, a zeal, A pleasure, nearer to the heart Than critic taste can _ever_ feel.
THE FALL OF HEBE.
A DITHYRAMBIC ODE.
"Twas on a day When the immortals at their banquet lay; The bowl Sparkled with starry dew, The weeping of those myriad urns of light, Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power, At nature"s dawning hour, Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul.
Around, Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight From eastern isles (Where they have bathed them in the orient ray, And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled).
In circles flew, and, melting as they flew, A liquid daybreak o"er the board distilled.
All, all was luxury!
All _must_ be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles.
His locks divine Were crowned With a bright meteor-braid, Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine, Shot into brilliant leafy shapes, And o"er his brow in lambent tendrils played: While mid the foliage hung, Like lucid grapes, A thousand cl.u.s.tering buds of light, Culled from the garden of the galaxy.
Upon his bosom Cytherea"s head Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung Her beauty"s dawn, And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn, Revealed her sleeping in its azure bed.
The captive deity Hung lingering on her eyes and lip, With looks of ecstasy.
Now, on his arm, In blushes she reposed, And, while he gazed on each bright charm, To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole.
And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip The nectared wave Lyaeus gave, And from her eyelids, half-way closed, Sent forth a melting gleam, Which fell like sun-dew in the bowl: While her bright hair, in mazy flow Of gold descending Adown her cheek"s luxurious glow, Hung o"er the goblet"s side, And was reflected in its crystal tide, Like a bright crocus flower, Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour With roses of Cyrene blending,[1]
Hang o"er the mirror of some silvery stream.
The Olympian cup Shone in the hands Of dimpled Hebe, as she winged her feet Up The empyreal mount, To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount;[2]
And still As the resplendent rill Gushed forth into the cup with mantling heat, Her watchful care Was still to cool its liquid fire With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air The children of the Pole respire, In those enchanted lands.[3]
Where life is all a spring, and north winds never blow.
But oh!
Bright Hebe, what a tear, And what a blush were thine, When, as the breath of every Grace Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere, With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink, Some star, that shone beneath thy tread, Raising its amorous head To kiss those matchless feet, Checked thy career too fleet, And all heaven"s host of eyes Entranced, but fearful all, Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall Upon the bright floor of the azure skies; Where, mid its stars, thy beauty lay, As blossom, shaken from the spray Of a spring thorn, Lies mid the liquid sparkles of the morn.
Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, The worshippers of Beauty"s queen behold An image of their rosy idol, laid Upon a diamond shrine.
The wanton wind, Which had pursued the flying fair, And sported mid the tresses unconfined Of her bright hair, Now, as she fell,--oh wanton breeze!
Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow Hung o"er those limbs of unsunned snow, Purely as the Eleusinian veil Hangs o"er the Mysteries!
The brow of Juno flushed-- Love blest the breeze!
The Muses blushed; And every cheek was hid behind a lyre, While every eye looked laughing through the strings.
But the bright cup? the nectared draught Which Jove himself was to have quaffed?
Alas, alas, upturned it lay By the fallen Hebe"s side; While, in slow lingering drops, the ethereal tide, As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away.
Who was the Spirit that remembered Man, In that blest hour, And, with a wing of love, Brushed off the goblet"s scattered tears, As, trembling near the edge of heaven they ran, And sent them floating to our orb below?
Essence of immortality!
The shower Fell glowing through the spheres; While all around new tints of bliss, New odors and new light, Enriched its radiant flow.
Now, with a liquid kiss, It stole along the thrilling wire Of Heaven"s luminous Lyre, Stealing the soul of music in its flight: And now, amid the breezes bland, That whisper from the planets as they roll, The bright libation, softly fanned By all their sighs, meandering stole.
They who, from Atlas" height, Beheld this rosy flame Descending through the waste of night, Thought "twas some planet, whose empyreal frame Had kindled, as it rapidly revolved Around its fervid axle, and dissolved Into a flood so bright!
The youthful Day, Within his twilight bower, Lay sweetly sleeping On the flushed bosom of a lotos-flower;[4]
When round him, in profusion weeping, Dropt the celestial shower, Steeping The rosy clouds, that curled About his infant head, Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed.
But, when the waking boy Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky, O morn of joy!
The tide divine, All glorious with the vermil dye It drank beneath his orient eye, Distilled, in dews, upon the world, And every drop was wine, was heavenly WINE!
Blest be the sod, and blest the flower On which descended first that shower, All fresh from Jove"s nectareous springs;-- Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod, O"er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings The magic mantle of her solar G.o.d![5]
[1] We learn from Theopbrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly fragrant.
[2] Herac.l.i.tus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence.
[3] The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer than any other mortals; pa.s.sed their whole time in music and dancing, etc.
[4] The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotos. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sunrise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating this flower to Osiris, or the sun.
[5] The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated.
RINGS AND SEALS.
"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid, "The charm is broken!--once betrayed, "Never can this wronged heart rely "On word or look, on oath or sigh.
"Take back the gifts, so fondly given, "With promised faith and vows to heaven; "That little ring which, night and morn, "With wedded truth my hand hath worn; "That seal which oft, in moments blest, "Thou hast upon my lip imprest, "And sworn its sacred spring should be "A fountain sealed[1] for only thee: "Take, take them back, the gift and vow, "All sullied, lost and hateful now!"