THE SNOW-SPIRIT. TU POTES INSOLITAS, CYNTHIA, FERRE NIVES! Propert. Lib. i. Eleg. No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in Hercules' arms! The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, Their melody balm to the ear; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh And the Snow-Spirit never comes here! The down from his wing is as white as the pearl Thy lips for their cabinet stole, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the soul ! Oh fly to the clime, where he pillows the death, As he cradles the birth of the year; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here! How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O'er the brow of each irginal thorn! 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 day-beam like him! Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appearFly! my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here! Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ημιν. δ, τι μενονο με τη νήσω 8κ οιδα χρυση δ' αν προς χε εμε ονομάζει το. Philostrat. Icon. 17, Lib. 2. I STOLE along the flowery bank, While many a bending sea-grape* drank That wing'd me round this fairy shore! * The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West-Indies, VOL. II. 'Twas noon; and every orange bud To lead me, where my soul should meet- Blest be the little pilot dove! He had indeed been sent by love, One of those rare and brilliant hours, May blossom to the eye of man But once in all his weary span! Just where the margin's opening shade What spell, what magic rais'd her there! The Agave. I know that this is an erroneous idea, but it is quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poet to be "three removes from truth;" rgwares aro in$ abanderas. '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 And, stealing over all her charms, All trembling, as it went, with bliss! Her eyelid's black and silken fringe ON THE LOSS OF A LETTER INTENDED FOR NEA. Oh! it was fill'd with words of flame, Of many a nightly dream it told, When all that chills the heart by day, When soul and soul divinely meet, As virtue's self would blush to blame! How could he lose such tender words? Oh! fancy what they dar'd to speak; And I shall feign, shall fancy too. Some dear reply thou might'st have giv'n : Shall make that lip distil its dew In promise bland and hopes of heaven! |