And, soon as night shall close the eye
Of heaven's young wanderer in the west;
When seers are gazing on the sky,
To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
Glide to the pillow of my love.
Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear!
Nor let her dream of bliss so near;
Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel
My sighs of fire in murmurs steal,
And I shall lift the locks, that flow
Unbraided o'er her lids of snow,
And softly kiss those sealed eyes,
And wake her into sweet surprise!
Or if she dream, oh! let her dream
Of those delights we both have known
And felt so truly, that they seem
Form'd to be felt by us alone!
And I shall mark her kindling cheek,
Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak
The murmur'd sounds so dear to love!
Oh! I shall gaze, till even the sigh,
That wafts her very soul, be nigh,
And when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest!
Sweet LAIS! what an age of bliss
In that one moment waits for me!
Oh sages!—think on joy like this,
And where's your boast of apathy!
Τετο δε τι εστι το πότον; πλανη, εφη.
HEY say that Love had once a book,
(The urchin likes to copy you,)
Where, all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.
'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line,
Or thought profane should enter there.
With fond device and loving lore,
And every leaf she turn'd was still
More bright than that she turn'd before!
Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,
And trembling close what Hope began.
A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again!
But, oh! there was a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more!
And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,
Would tremble for her spotless book!
For still she saw his playful fingers
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys;
And well she knew the stain, that lingers
After sweets from wanton boys!
And so it chanc'd, one luckless night
He let his honey-goblet fall
O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,
And sullied lines and marge and all!
In vain he sought, with eager lip
The honey from the leaf to drink, For still the more the boy would sip, The deeper still the blot would sink!
Oh! it would make you weep to see
The traces of this honey flood
Steal o'er a page where Modesty
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!
And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defac'd,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately trac'd!
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