Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts Is the veil of a vestal severe; No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.
But fly to his region--lay open thy zone, And he"ll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom, as white as his own, Should not melt in the daybeam like him.
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O"er his luminous path will appear-- Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.
I stole along the flowery bank, While many a bending seagrape[1] drank The sprinkle of the feathery oar That winged me round this fairy sh.o.r.e.
"Twas noon; and every orange bud Hung languid o"er the crystal flood, Faint as the lids of maiden"s eyes When love-thoughts in her bosom rise.
Oh, for a naiad"s sparry bower, To shade me in that glowing hour!
A little dove, of milky hue, Before me from a plantain flew, And, light along the water"s brim, I steered my gentle bark by him; For fancy told me, Love had sent This gentle bird with kind intent To lead my steps, where I should meet-- I knew not what, but something sweet.
And--bless the little pilot dove!
He had indeed been sent by Love, To guide me to a scene so dear As fate allows but seldom here; One of those rare and brilliant hours.
That, like the aloe"s lingering flowers, May blossom to the eye of man But once in all his weary span.
Just where the margin"s opening shade A vista from the waters made, My bird reposed his silver plume Upon a rich banana"s bloom.
Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!
What spell, what magic raised her there?
"Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild, And bloomy as the dimpled child, Whose spirit in elysium keeps Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps.
The broad banana"s green embrace Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace; One little beam alone could win The leaves to let it wander in.
And, stealing over all her charms, From lip to cheek, from neck to arms, New l.u.s.tre to each beauty lent,-- Itself all trembling as it went!
Dark lay her eyelid"s jetty fringe Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge Mixt with its shade, like evening"s light Just touching on the verge of night.
Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid, Seemed glowing through the ivory lid, And, as I thought, a l.u.s.tre threw Upon her lip"s reflecting dew,-- Such as a night-lamp, left to shine Alone on some secluded shrine, May shed upon the votive wreath, Which pious hands have hung beneath.
Was ever vision half so sweet!
Think, think how quick my heart-pulse beat, As o"er the rustling bank I stole;-- Oh! ye, that know the lover"s soul, It is for you alone to guess, That moment"s trembling happiness.
[1] The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.
A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE.
Behold, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold; "Tis hallow"d by the touch of them Who lived in cla.s.sic hours of old.
Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, Upon her hand this gem displayed, Nor thought that time"s succeeding lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid.
Look, dearest, what a sweet design!
The more we gaze, it charms the more; Come--closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o"er.
Thou seest, it is a simple youth By some enamored nymph embraced-- Look, as she leans, and say in sooth Is not that hand most fondly placed?
Upon his curled head behind It seems in careless play to lie, Yet presses gently, half inclined To bring the truant"s lip more nigh.
Oh happy maid! Too happy boy!
The one so fond and little loath, The other yielding slow to joy-- Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both.
Imagine, love, that I am he, And just as warm as he is chilling; Imagine, too, that thou art she, But quite as coy as she is willing:
So may we try the graceful way In which their gentle arms are twined, And thus, like her, my hand I lay Upon thy wreathed locks behind:
And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, As slow to mine thy head I move; And thus our lips together meet, And thus,--and thus,--I kiss thee, love.
There"s not a look, a word of thine, My soul hath e"er forgot; Thou ne"er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor given thy locks one graceful twine Which I remember not.
There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon thy charmed senses dwell, Like songs from Eden sung.
Ah! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so-- And yet, thou witching girl,--and yet, To die were sweeter than to let The loved remembrance go.
No; if this slighted heart must see Its faithful pulse decay, Oh let it die, remembering thee, And, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away.
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
FROM BERMUDA.[1]
"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart, "One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, "The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear "I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."
"Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree, With a few, who could feel and remember like me, The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.
Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour, When friends are a.s.sembled, when wit, in full flower, Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus"s dew, In blossoms of thought ever springing and new-- Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there!
Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree, When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh,--such a vision as haunted me then I would slumber for ages to witness again.
The many I like, and the few I adore, The friends who were dear and beloved before.
But never till now so beloved and dear, At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here; And soon,--oh, at once, did the light of their smiles To a paradise brighten this region of isles; More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed, And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed.
Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2]
Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild, Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) Could boast such a l.u.s.tre o"er land and o"er wave As the magic of love to this paradise gave.
Oh magic of love! unembellished by you, Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue?
Or shines there a vista in nature or art, Like that which Love opes thro" the eye to the heart?
Alas, that a vision so happy should fade!
That, when morning around me in brilliancy played, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night Should still be before me, unfadingly bright; While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream, And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream.