Who, fix'd by love, at length was all her own, Oh Samian sage! whate'er thy glowing thought But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrill'd, To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee! But, by a throb to spirits only given, By a mute impulse, only felt in Heaven, We met-like thee the youthful vision smiled; But not like thee, when passionately wild, granted it was all his own, as he has not mentioned him among those ancients who were obliged to have recourse to the "coma apposititia."—L'Hist. des Perruques, chap. 1. Thou wakest the slumbering blushes of my cheek, Oh my beloved! how divinely sweet Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet! * Th' Elean god, whose faithful waters flow, With love their only light, through caves below, Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids, And festal rings, with which Olympic maids Think, when he mingles with his fountain-bride, *The river Alpheus; which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa. Και επι την Αρεθεσαν έτω τον Αλφειον νυμφαςολει· όταν εν ή των ολυμπιων ἑορτη κ. τ. λ. lib. 1. Each melts in each, till one pervading kiss 'Twas thus But, Theon, 'tis a weary theme, But no; no more-soon as to-morrow's ray I'll fly, my Theon, to thy burning breast, Thy lip shall teach me something more than dreams! THE SENSES. A DREAM. IMBOWER'D in the vernal shades, I saw the five luxurious maids, Many and blissful were the ways In which they seem'd to pass their hours- Inhaling all the soul of flowers; Like those who live upon the smell * Of roses, by the Ganges' stream, She fed her life's ambrosial dream! Another touch'd the silvery lute, Who hung beside her, still and mute, Circa fontem Gangis Astomorum gentem tantum viventum et odore quem naribus trahant. halitu PLIN. lib. vii. cap. 2. The nymph who thrill'd the warbling wire Would often raise her ruby lip, As if it pouted with desire Some cooling, nectar'd draught to sip. Nor yet was she who heard the lute But, oh! the fairest of the group Was one who in the sunshine lay, And oped the cincture's golden loop And still her gentle hand she stole And look'd the while as if her soul Another nymph, who linger'd nigh, And still as one's enamour'd touch |