Look'd like a flight of ring-doves playing, And when, to shade the playful boy, 'Twas love beneath the veil of night! Soft as she smiled, he smiled again; They seem'd so kindred in their charms, That one might think the babe had then Just budded in her blooming arms! THE SNOW-SPIRIT. TU POTES INSOLITAS, CYNTHIA, FERRE NIVES? PROPERT. lib. 1. eleg. 8. No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, 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, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil No, no-thou wilt see what a moment it lasts, But fly to his region-lay open thy zone, O'er his luminous path will appear Fly! my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! *y 82 οιδα Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ήμιν. και ό, τι μεν όνομα τη χρυση δ' αν προς γε εμε ονομάζοιτο. PHILOSTRAT. Icon. 17. lib. 2. I STOLE along the flowery bank, While many a bending sea-grape* drank 'Twas noon; and every orange bud A little dove, of milky hue, I steer'd my gentle bark by him; * The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies. For Fancy told me, Love had sent This snowy bird of blandishment, To lead me, where my soul should meet I know not what, but something sweet! Bless'd be the little pilot dove! He had indeed been sent by Love, As Fate allows but seldom here: One of those rare and brilliant hours, Which, like the aloe's* lingering flowers, 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 briglit! oh, spirit fair! 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;” rgiraros AñO TYS αλήθειας. 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, All trembling, as it went, with bliss! Her eyelid's black and silken fringe Which pious hands have hung beneath! |